“Dobby, did you know the wizarding world didn’t have lawyers until about sixty years ago?”
Harry’s voice drifted lazily through the living room while he sat curled sideways in the window nook of the Birmingham flat, surrounded by books, newspapers, and parchment notes.
Rain tapped softly against the large windows overlooking the street below while the warm scent of tea and pastries filled the apartment.
Across the room, Dobby looked up from organizing freshly purchased bookshelves.
“I did discover that during my research, young master,” the elf replied proudly.
“Until the case of Scamander versus MACUSA in 1926, the magical world had no equivalent to modern legal advocates.”
Harry hummed thoughtfully while flipping through another old newspaper clipping.
“That whole situation was insane,” he muttered.
“An Obscurial murders a Muggle politician in New York, MACUSA panics because the Americans absolutely refuse admitting an Obscurus hid under their noses, and suddenly Newt Scamander becomes the perfect scapegoat because he travels around with dangerous magical creatures.”
Dobby nodded solemnly.
“Indeed.
Mr.
Scamander was accused of using one of his creatures to commit the murder and threaten the International Statute of Secrecy.”
“Which was nonsense,” Harry said immediately.
“The man practically adopted every dangerous magical creature he came across.
Half his career was basically ‘No, please stop trying to kill the misunderstood monster.'”
Harry liked Newt Scamander a lot from everything he had read so far about him.
“Mr.
Scamander apparently did not even know what a lawyer was,” Dobby continued.
“One of his Muggle acquaintances, one Mr.
Jacob Kowalski, if I recall correctly, insisted he seek legal counsel and eventually introduced him to Mister Fall, a solicitor who just happened to be a wizard living in the Muggle World.”
Harry snorted
“He was very lucky.”
“Exceptionally so,” Dobby agreed.
“A legal professional familiar with both magical and Muggle systems proved decisive in the case.
Mister Fall successfully dismantled MACUSA’s accusations and demonstrated Mr.
Scamander’s innocence publicly.”
Harry leaned back slightly against the cushions.
“And then magical governments worldwide collectively realized, ‘Wait, having professionals whose entire job is understanding laws might actually be useful.'”
The entire thing still amused him.
The wizarding world truly possessed an astonishing ability to lag behind normal civilization by several centuries while remaining weirdly smug about it.
Dobby adjusted a stack of books carefully before tilting his head.
“May Dobby ask why the young master suddenly developed an interest in wizarding legal history?”
Harry’s expression shifted into something more thoughtful.
Instead of answering immediately, he reached toward the small pile of newspapers beside him and unfolded one particularly fragile copy.
The article dated back to the original Scamander VS MACUSA trial.
A moving photograph occupied the center of the front page: One man stood tall and lean with messy brown hair and tired hazel eyes.
Beside him stood a slightly shorter man with long red hair, sharp features, and black sunglasses.
Newton Scamander and his lawyer, Mr.
Fall.
Harry held the paper upward.
“Don’t you think Mister Fall looks a lot like Crowley?”
Dobby blinked and leaned closer.
The resemblance was undeniable: the same jawline, mouth, and unsettling elegant features, even the sunglasses they had yet to see Crowley without.
The man in the photograph looked older, the clothing more old-fashioned, the posture less theatrically dramatic than Crowley tended toward, but still—
Dobby’s eyes widened slightly.
“They do resemble each other incredibly so,” he admitted.
“Perhaps they are relatives?”
“Maybe.”
Harry stared thoughtfully at the moving photograph while Mister Fall adjusted his coat with familiar lazy elegance.
“Family resemblance can be quite powerful,” Dobby continued warmly.
“Young master resembles his father very greatly.”
Harry smiled at that.
He had heard the comparison constantly these past days.
From his parents, his grandparents, ancestors, and so on.
Many generations of Potter men do seem to copy each other’s features with frightening efficiency.
Still…
Something about Crowley bothered him.
Not in a dangerous way exactly, in a there is definitely far more happening here than he will ever admit sort of way.
The man has a lot of secrets.
Ever since the awakening of his angelic transformation, Harry had searched for answers, but none of the magical books he read mentioned angels as real beings.
Not one.
Ancient grimoires, dark creature encyclopedias, religious magical theory, and mythological studies.
Every source classified angels as purely Muggle inventions: symbolic figures from non-magical religions, imaginary beings with no basis in reality.
Which would have sounded very convincing if Harry himself had not literally transformed into one.
Each time he closes his eyes, Harry remembers the feeling of those wings unfolding behind him, the holy light pouring through his body.
He is certain that power had not come from the system.
It came from him, or from something inside him.
Even his parents knew nothing.
That still felt surreal enough that Harry occasionally needed to stop and process it properly.
His parents.
Through Echo of the Departed, Harry had summoned Lily and James almost daily since the estate incident.
Sometimes they talked for hours.
Other times, they simply stayed together watching television or quietly sharing each other’s presence, almost pretending they had not been separated for more than a decade.
And on several occasions, his parents even helped tutor him in different subjects.
It still felt miraculous every single time.
Still, his dad possessed absolutely no knowledge regarding angelic bloodlines or supernatural ancestry within the Potter family, and neither did his mum regarding her family.
Harry even summoned several older ancestors searching for answers, and nothing, as far as every Potter in magical Britain knew, angels did not exist, which created a rather awkward problem considering Harry was increasingly certain he was not entirely human.
Merlin, he really wanted to.
If anyone knew the truth, it was probably the lawyer.
Unfortunately, Crowley had made one thing abundantly clear: His private life remained private.
Harry, with much frustration, respected that.
Lily had looked incredibly proud upon hearing that particular detail during one of their conversations.
According to her, respecting emotional boundaries counted as evidence her son was “growing into such a thoughtful young man,” which led to several minutes of her fussing over her baby boy, much to Harry’s embarrassment and secret joy.
Having parents remained overwhelming.
“What sort of birthday cake would young master prefer?”
Harry blinked; he completely forgot about his birthday.
He is turning thirteen tomorrow.
He had never really celebrated birthdays properly before.
Hagrid gave him his first cake two years ago, but beyond that, birthdays mostly existed as unpleasant reminders that he had no one who would want to celebrate with him, no one who cared for him or loved him.
Dobby’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“There are many excellent possibilities,” Dobby said.
“Chocolate gateau, layered strawberry sponge, black forest cake, treacle cake, lemon cream cake, velvet cake, honey cake, cheesecake—”
“Dobby,” Harry interrupted weakly, already overwhelmed.
The elf paused immediately, and Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Truly… any cake is fine.”
Harry was not used to this, to people caring about his birthday, planning things for him, or wanting him happy simply because they loved him.
Dobby stared at him for several long seconds, and his expression softened into something painfully fond.
“Young master,” he said gently, “that is not how birthdays are supposed to work.”
Harry looked down, embarrassed for reasons he could not fully explain.
Dobby stood up with bright eyes.
“Very well,” the elf declared with confidence.
“Dobby shall simply have to make several kinds.”
Dobby ignored Harry’s protest and swiftly took a notebook and began listing ingredients.
***
Anthony J.
Crowley sat in the waiting room of St.
Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, one long leg crossed elegantly over the other, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest, dark glasses perfectly in place despite the bright lighting overhead.
Around him floated the familiar atmosphere unique to hospitals everywhere: exhaustion, anxiety, boredom, and the faint scent of disinfectant.
A witch nearby sneezed sparks every few seconds into a handkerchief while an elderly wizard argued bitterly with a potted plant attempting to bite him.
Across the room, a young man whose ears had transformed into cauliflower heads whimpered softly into a magazine.
Crowley ignored all of them, and several people glanced his way occasionally; some looked curious and others wary.
One particular elderly witch kept staring at him with undisguised lust.
Crowley sighed and adjusted his glasses.
Honestly, hospitals made him uncomfortable.
Too much pain concentrated in one place, too much helplessness, too many reminders that humans broke far more easily than they deserved.
His gaze drifted idly across the waiting room.
Then stopped.
Ah.
There it was.
That smell.
Crowley wrinkled his nose faintly.
Sin always possessed a certain… texture to it.
Most humans carried little bits naturally.
Petty cruelties.
Lies.
Jealousy.
Small selfishnesses.
Nothing unusual.
Humanity would collapse entirely without minor sins.
But occasionally—
Occasionally someone truly rotten walked into a room.
The man sitting near the far corner looked utterly ordinary at first glance.
Middle-aged, respectably dressed, nervous in the twitchy guilty sort of way.
Crowley could practically taste the filth dripping off him: abuse, violence, children.
The demon’s expression cooled instantly.
Slowly, Crowley lowered his glasses just enough for the man to see his eyes, not the ordinary human brown eyes, but his real ones: yellow demonic eyes.
For one single heartbeat, the man looked directly into the snake-like demonic eyes… and Hell looked back.
The reaction was immediate: the man went pale so quickly it bordered on supernatural, and shortly after came the terror.
He stumbled backward out of his chair with a strangled scream while staring directly at Crowley.
“No—NO—”
The waiting room erupted into confusion instantly.
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO—”
The man collapsed onto the floor sobbing hysterically.
“THEY WOULDN’T STOP CRYING—”
Several healers rushed forward towards him.
“I HID THEM—”
“Oh Merlin—”
“I DIDN’T WANT TO HURT THEM—”
Crowley looked at him calmly.
Honestly, humans usually did most of the work themselves once confronted properly.
He stood smoothly while the man continued screaming confessions through hysterical sobbing as mediwitches attempted to restrain him.
No one paid Crowley the slightest attention anymore, just how he preferred it.
The demon walked leisurely down the corridor toward the private offices section of the hospital as chaos continued behind him.
A blond wizard waited outside one particular office door near the end of the hall.
Edward Tonks looked exactly like the sort of healer patients trusted instinctively: warm green eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a composed posture radiating competence.
He also looked deeply exhausted in the way all medical professionals did and the moment he spotted Crowley approaching, Tonks sighed.
“…What did you do this time?” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Crowley placed one hand dramatically against his chest.
“Edward, I’m wounded.”
Tonks glanced briefly toward the distant sounds of panic still echoing through the corridor, then looked back entirely unimpressed.
“Mm.”
Crowley grinned lazily.
He liked Edward; he was competent, intelligent, and sensible enough not to ask certain questions.
Rare qualities in any century.
After brief pleasantries, Tonks gestured toward the nearby office.
“Poppy’s waiting inside.”
“Wonderful.”
“She’s confused,” Tonks added dryly.
“Lawyers don’t usually request private medical consultations involving Hogwarts students.”
Crowley’s smile sharpened slightly.
“Yes, well.
Exceptional circumstances.”
Tonks studied him carefully for a moment and sighed.
“She is a wonderful woman, Crowley, and an even greater healer.” He stated.
“Have that in mind.”
“I will.”
Crowley pushed open the office door.
Madam Poppy Pomfrey sat waiting behind a large desk stacked with parchment files and medical charts.
The Hogwarts matron looked exactly as Harry described her: kind, tired, and strict.
Behind her tired eyes, there was much kindness; he could tell she was a genuinely good person just by gazing into her eyes.
The moment Crowley entered, suspicion crossed her face.
“Mister Crowley,” she greeted politely.
“Edward mentioned you wished to discuss a student matter?”
Crowley closed the door behind himself.
“I represent Harry Potter.”
That got her attention and Poppy straightened.
“…I see.”
“I require access to Mister Potter’s medical history during his years at Hogwarts.”
Her expression hardened at once.
“Medical records are confidential.”
“Ordinarily, yes.” Crowley sat calmly across from the desk.
“However, given current legal proceedings regarding Mister Potter’s guardianship, living conditions, and overall welfare, those records have become directly relevant.”
Poppy blinked, confused.
“…Legal proceedings?”
Crowley watched her carefully.
Interesting, he thought, Dumbledore had not informed her.
The solicitor folded his hands neatly.
“I need full documentation concerning every visit Mister Potter has made to the infirmary,” he said evenly.
“Dates.
Injuries.
Causes.
Treatments administered.
Any concerning patterns you may have observed.”
Poppy’s confusion deepened into alarm.
“Why would Harry—” She stopped abruptly as realization slowly began dawning on her.
Crowley noticed the exact moment it happened.
Harry had told him about all his visits to the infirmary, about how Madam Poppy never asked questions regarding how he got hurt.
Crowley had already realized that, after years of working in a school where magical accidents were practically inevitable, she had likely grown accustomed to simply treating whoever arrived at her doors without interrogating them too closely.
Reckless young witches and wizards constantly injured themselves in absurd and often unbelievable ways.
At some point, she must have stopped questioning the stories entirely and focused instead on fixing the damage.
Which meant she had probably never given much thought to Harry’s visits specifically.
Not to the frequency.
Not to the injuries themselves.
Not to the circumstances surrounding them.
But now that she had started thinking about it… the patterns were becoming impossible to ignore.
Poppy looked genuinely unsettled now.
Crowley’s voice softened.
“The well-being of that young man is currently at stake.”
And perhaps, he added silently to himself with profound irritation, the well-being of his very likely little brother, or more precisely, the reincarnation of one of his countless siblings.
The thought still sounded ridiculous.
Unfortunately, Crowley was becoming increasingly certain it was also true.
Poppy remained silent for several long moments, then she asked quietly:
“Is Harry in danger?”
Crowley considered the question.
“…Constantly,” he answered honestly.
The matron flinched faintly.
“I am not asking you to betray your ethics, Madam Pomfrey,” Crowley continued calmly.
“Quite the opposite.
If you genuinely care for your students—and I believe you do—then I need your cooperation.”
Poppy looked away briefly toward the office window, and Crowley could practically see the memories surfacing one after another behind her eyes: Harry being too thin and small, too accustomed to pain, all the injuries and wounds, the timing,…
The realization settled heavily across her face.
“Oh,” she whispered softly.
Finally, Poppy Pomfrey looked back toward Crowley with the grave expression of a healer realizing a child under her care may have been failed far more severely than she allowed herself to see before.
Then quietly she asked:
“…What exactly do you need?”
***
Author’s Note: And so, we start Volume 2.