Harry Potter woke up on the morning of his thirteenth birthday and discovered that he was once again front-page news.
Rain fell softly beyond the apartment windows while Harry sat curled into the corner of the sofa still wearing pajamas and clutching a mug of hot chocolate Dobby had made earlier.
Hedwig perched nearby atop the bookshelf, watching Dobby flutter nervously around the kitchen preparing enough food for a small royal banquet.
Spread across Harry’s lap rested that morning’s Daily Prophet.
And right there, occupying nearly half the front page beneath dramatic headlines sat his own face, or rather, several pictures of his face from various ages.
One photograph showed baby Harry wrapped in blankets, another displayed eleven-year-old Harry entering Diagon Alley looking overwhelmed and very small and skinny, drowning in oversized clothing, the largest moving image appeared more recent, probably taken before the second year, showing Harry awkwardly trying to avoid cameras outside Flourish and Blotts.
The headline read:
THE BOY-WHO-LIVED FILES FOR EMANCIPATION
Underneath, in smaller but no less dramatic lettering:
What Is Happening With Harry Potter?
Harry sighed.
“Rita Skeeter,” he muttered.
Of course it was Rita Skeeter.
The article itself, however, could have been worse, actually, much worse
Harry reread several paragraphs thoughtfully while sipping his hot chocolate.
Rita had not painted him negatively, quite the opposite.
The article leaned heavily into mystery and public concern rather than criticism.
It questioned what circumstances could possibly drive Harry Potter—the child celebrated for surviving Voldemort and recently credited with ending the Chamber of Secrets incident—to seek legal independence at thirteen years old.
The piece repeatedly emphasized how little the magical world truly knew about him.
Harry Potter had spent his childhood completely absent from magical society.
Everything the public supposedly knew about him came from biographies written without his knowledge, consent, or participation, and since entering Hogwarts, the mystery surrounding the Boy-Who-Lived had only deepened.
Not even statements regarding the incident inside the Chamber of Secrets had ever been released publicly.
Headmaster Dumbledore remained characteristically discreet, while Harry Potter himself—despite two years inside the magical world—had yet to grant a single formal interview or make a public appearance.
The article continued:
“For twelve years, Harry Potter has remained both Britain’s greatest symbol and greatest mystery.
Raised entirely outside magical society until starting Hogwarts, the Boy-Who-Lived entered our world carrying expectations few adults could bear, let alone a child.”
“Now, after yet another year involving life-threatening danger at Hogwarts and rumors surrounding the mysterious reopening of the Chamber of Secrets, Harry Potter has filed for emancipation from his guardians.”
“Why?”
“Neither Hogwarts professors nor Headmaster Albus Dumbledore have released official statements regarding the matter.”
“As journalists, we must of course respect the privacy of a young wizard navigating extraordinary circumstances.
Nevertheless, the questions remain.”
“What brought Harry Potter to this point?”
“And perhaps more importantly…”
“What exactly is happening to our national hero?”
Harry lowered the paper.
“…I genuinely can’t decide whether this is good or bad.”
Sitting at the dining table, Crowley sipped his second espresso of the day.
Well, second in Harry’s flat.
Harry was fairly certain the solicitor had consumed at least one or two more beforehand.
At this point, he was almost one hundred percent convinced Crowley had more coffee than blood running through his veins.
Knowing him, the man was probably composed of two-thirds caffeine and one-third liquor.
“It’s both,” the solicitor replied lazily.
“You really think this helps?”
“This case was always going to be public,” he said more seriously.
“You’re Harry Potter.
There was never any realistic scenario where the press ignored a legal emancipation case involving the Boy-Who-Lived.”
Harry grimaced.
“Wonderful.”
“The trick isn’t preventing publicity, it’s controlling the narrative before someone else does.” Crowley’s mouth twisted into something that, in Harry’s humble opinion, looked far less like a smile and far more like a threat.
Harry looked back at the newspaper.
The article portrayed him as mysterious instead of arrogant or spoiled, which, considering what he knew from Future Harry’s experiences with the press, was practically a miracle.
“If the public starts viewing you as an ungrateful brat throwing a tantrum against his guardians, the case becomes infinitely more difficult politically.” He tapped one finger lightly against the table.
“Public sympathy matters and, fortunately,” he continued pleasantly, “your information regarding Miss Skeeter proved extremely useful during negotiations.”
Harry stared at him flatly.
“Negotiations.”
“Yes.”
“You blackmailed her.”
Crowley looked offended.
“I prefer the term mutually beneficial agreement.”
“You threatened to expose that she is an unregistered Animagus.”
“I merely implied certain truths might accidentally find their way toward the Ministry under unfortunate circumstances while encouraging journalistic responsibility.”
Harry snorted despite himself.
Honestly, Rita deserved it.
The woman transformed into a beetle to spy on private conversations.
Harry felt zero guilt.
Besides, the article worked; people reading this would ask questions rather than immediately dismiss him as an ungrateful child throwing a tantrum.
“Concern creates scrutiny.” Crowley took another sip of coffee.
“Outrage creates sides.
We do not want sides yet.”
Harry understood that if the public decided he was simply a spoiled, famous child rebelling against authority, the case would become significantly harder.
And their greatest obstacle remained obvious.
“Dumbledore,” Harry winced.
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
Objectively speaking, Dumbledore’s reputation was almost untouchable.
For decades, the man had practically held magical Britain together on his own.
He is a war hero, a political leader at home and abroad, and is widely acknowledged as the greatest wizard alive.
Defeating someone like that would not be easy.
Crowley hummed softly.
“And unlike many powerful men, he actually earned most of it.”
Harry looked down at the newspaper.
Despite everything… despite the anger, the neglect, the secrets… Harry still did not truly hate Dumbledore.
Crowley studied him for a moment before sighing softly.
“You can be upset with someone without believing them evil, Harry.”
Harry blinked slightly.
Damn annoying perceptive lawyer.
Before Harry could respond, Dobby arrived carrying a truly absurd amount of food balanced precariously: fresh croissants, cinnamon pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausages, fruit salads, and more.
Harry stared at the huge amount of food being put on the dining table.
“…Dobby, there is enough food to feed an entire Quidditch team here.”
Dobby looked quite proud.
“It is the young master’s birthday.” He said as if that explained it.
“…” Harry honestly had no idea what to say to that.
Dobby truly had no self-control when it came to spoiling him.
Crowley chuckled as he reached for a croissant.
Harry joined him at the table, muttering about Dobby being ridiculously extra sometimes.
All of them ate breakfast together after Harry finally managed to convince Dobby to sit with them, saying that since it was his birthday, he should get at least one wish.
Dobby had been unable to refute that logic.
The conversation stayed pleasantly light during the meal.
Harry had finally watched one of the James Bond films the previous evening, much to Crowley’s delight.
Unfortunately, Harry’s review of “It was alright” had been interpreted as a personal attack.
Crowley immediately launched into a passionate defense of the franchise while Harry argued that he simply preferred fantasy over spy films.
Harry blushed slightly after hearing how ridiculous that sounded out loud.
“An angel-blooded wizard preferring fantasy…” Crowley murmured with obvious amusement, reaching out almost instinctively to ruffle Harry’s hair.
He paused afterward, looking faintly startled by the gesture himself before withdrawing his hand.
For a little while, Harry managed to forget about court cases, mysterious angelic ancestry, and every other insane thing happening in his life, and simply enjoyed the moment.
After finishing breakfast, Crowley stood up.
“I would love to remain here avoiding responsibility,” Crowley said smoothly, “but I have several people to intimidate for your benefit.”
Harry was only half certain Crowley was joking.
“Thanks.
For the article too.”
Crowley paused near the doorway, his expression softened slightly, and he smiled genuinely.
“Happy birthday, Harry.”
The sincerity caught him entirely off guard, but before Harry could respond, Crowley abruptly produced a large rectangular box seemingly from nowhere and shoved it directly into Harry’s arms.
Harry nearly dropped it from surprise.
“What—” He looked up, and Crowley was gone.
He hadn’t walked away, nor had he apparated away.
He had simply vanished.
The flat had anti-apparition wards — strong ones, personally installed by Crowley himself — yet not a single ward reacted in the slightest.
Harry stared blankly at the spot where Crowley had stood moments earlier.
“…Right,” he muttered slowly.
He shouldn’t be surprised by Crowley ignoring the laws of magic by now.
Honestly, the man just kept getting more mysterious by the day.
Harry glanced down toward the box resting in his arms.
Hedwig landed atop the table and pecked impatiently at the gift wrapping while Harry carefully untied the ribbon.
The moment he opened the box, Harry froze and forgot how breathing worked for several seconds.
Resting inside dark velvet lining lay a broomstick.
Sleek black wood polished to near mirror brightness, elegant aerodynamic design, silver runic detailing across the handle—
“No way.” Harry’s eyes widened.
A Firebolt.
Not merely the best broom currently in existence but the best racing broom ever made.
Harry stared at it in complete stunned silence while his heart nearly exploded out of his chest.
His Nimbus 2000 had shattered during the fight against Edith weeks ago, but between cursed estates, angelic awakenings, legal battles, and existential crises regarding his species, replacing it had not exactly ranked high on his priorities.
Crowley bought him a Firebolt.
“Oh my God!” Harry yelled, startling Hedwig so badly she gave him an offended look he completely ignored in favour of the broom.
Slowly, almost reverently, Harry lifted it from the box.
The broom felt perfect in his hands — light, sleek, and powerful in a way his old Nimbus had never been.
It was, without question, the best birthday present he had ever received.
A small card slipped loose from beneath the handle and drifted to the floor.
Harry caught it mid-air and unfolded it carefully.
The message contained only two lines written in Crowley’s elegant handwriting.
Try not to crash this one into any ancient creatures.
—Crowley
***
By noon, nearly every magical household in Britain had heard about Harry Potter’s emancipation case.
The Daily Prophet sold out twice before lunchtime.
Owls flew frantically between homes carrying copies to relatives and friends while witches and wizards gathered in cafés, apothecaries, Ministry offices, and Diagon Alley shopfronts discussing the article with the feverish intensity only the British magical public could achieve when simultaneously shocked, concerned, and catastrophically nosy.
Which, admittedly, described them most days.
Today simply involved more Harry Potter than usual.
Inside the Leaky Cauldron, excitement buzzed through the crowded pub like wildfire.
Tom the barman barely managed to keep up with orders while every occupied table argued over the newspaper spread between beer mugs and half-eaten lunches.
“A thirteen-year-old filing for emancipation?” one wizard exclaimed loudly near the fireplace.
“That’s insane!”
“Not impossible though,” said a witch while adjusting her spectacles.
“There are precedents for emancipation in special cases.”
“Yes, but Harry Potter?”
Several younger witches nearby leaned closer excitedly.
“I’m telling you,” one whispered dramatically, “something happened at Hogwarts.” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“Obviously something happened at Hogwarts,” her friend replied.
“Something always happens at Hogwarts.”
“No, I mean something serious.
Did you see the bit about the Chamber of Secrets?”
That immediately reignited half the tavern because the Chamber incident remained the year’s greatest unresolved mystery.
Officially, the attacks stopped and the monster disappeared.
And somehow Harry Potter stood at the center of it all despite no one publicly explaining how.
Rumors had already spread wildly before Rita’s article and now they multiplied.
Some insisted Harry fought the Heir of Slytherin personally.
Others claimed Dumbledore and several Aurors resolved matters while Harry merely happened to be nearby.
One particularly drunk wizard loudly insisted Harry Potter controlled the monster himself before being shouted down by three different tables simultaneously.
At Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, the witches browsing dress robes discussed the article with scandalized fascination.
“That poor child,” one older witch murmured sympathetically while examining fabric.
“Imagine growing up under that much pressure.”
Another sniffed sharply.
“He’s famous, and fame goes to children’s heads.”
“Or perhaps,” Madam Malkin interjected dryly from nearby, “children do not usually seek legal emancipation unless something has gone terribly wrong.”
That quieted the conversation slightly because, beneath the gossip and speculation, an uncomfortable realization slowly spread through magical Britain: children generally did not try separating themselves legally from their guardians without reason.
At the Ministry of Magic, productivity collapsed almost entirely across several departments.
“The Prophet says he never gives interviews.”
“Have you seen the clothes he wears?
He might as well be swimming in them.”
“He looked thin last September.”
“Children are often thin.”
“Not that thin.”
Elsewhere, within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, several Aurors argued loudly enough to attract complaints from neighboring offices.
Kingsley Shacklebolt read the article twice in silence before folding the newspaper carefully beside his untouched tea.
Across from him, Alastor Moody snorted harshly.
Moody had technically retired several years earlier, yet much to the constant exasperation of Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour, the former Auror could still be found lurking around the department more often than not.
The younger Aurors—especially Nymphadora Tonks, who loudly insisted everyone call her Tonks—had started referring to him as the living ghost haunting the office.
“About bloody time someone started asking questions.”
Kingsley glanced sideways.
“You think there’s truth to it?”
Moody’s magical eye spun wildly across the room.
“I think,” the retired Auror growled, “that child’s been nearly killed every bloody year since entering Hogwarts.”
An uncomfortable silence followed, and Kingsley didn’t argue his words.
Even among Dumbledore supporters, Harry Potter’s school years looked increasingly more alarming when listed consecutively.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor had been possessed by Voldemort during Harry’s first year at Hogwarts, and the Chamber of Secrets Incident occurred during his second.
Whatever had happened beneath the school the previous year remained classified, but enough whispers circulated afterward to leave people uneasy.
Inside Flourish and Blotts, a group of Hogwarts students gathered around a newspaper near the schoolbooks section.
“Harry filed for emancipation?” Dean Thomas said incredulously.
Seamus Finnigan looked equally shocked.
Several of the students looked deeply unsettled because, unlike most of magical Britain, they actually knew Harry.
You do not spend ten months a year together at a boarding school without learning at least a little about someone.
They remembered Harry practically inhaling food during first year, the awful oversized clothes, the way he reacted strangely whenever adults raised their voices, and the fact that he never once said anything positive about returning home for the summer.
Standing slightly apart from the group, Neville Longbottom fidgeted nervously with his wand, uncertain whether he should join the conversation or simply remain quiet.
Inside The Burrow, the Weasleys were equally shocked.
While Molly Weasley and Arthur Weasley discussed the article downstairs in the kitchen, the children gathered inside the twins’ bedroom.
Ron Weasley remained unusually quiet while rereading the article for the fifth time.
He was Harry’s best friend.
He had heard Harry complain about his relatives before, had seen how they locked him inside his room the previous summer, but he had never truly stopped to think about it.
And now memories he had barely paid attention to at the time began resurfacing one after another: the way Harry flinched at raised voices, how he stiffened whenever Ron or Hermione hugged him before slowly melting into it as though he was not used to affection, Harry had always been smaller than the other boys in their year, but he was so thin during the first year that Ron could easily see his ribs whenever they changed clothes,…
Ron’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, and he lowered his head, avoiding his siblings’ eyes.
“…I think,” he said, “we may not know as much about Harry’s life as we thought.”
Ginny Weasley remained silent, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, while the twins exchanged gazes.
Meanwhile, far away in the countryside, one owl dropped the newspaper directly onto Lucius Malfoy’s breakfast table.
The aristocrat unfolded the newspaper, and by the second paragraph, he nearly crushed the paper in his hand.
Narcissa watched him across the table.
“Lucius?”
His expression darkened steadily while reading.
Unlike most of magical Britain, Lucius immediately recognized exactly what this meant: emancipation proceedings meant investigation, and investigation meant scrutiny, and scrutiny surrounding Harry Potter inevitably risked dragging attention toward the Chamber incident, toward the diary.
Toward things Lucius very much preferred remained buried.
Across from him, Draco looked up curiously from his own breakfast.
“Potter’s in the papers again?”
Lucius folded the newspaper sharply.
“Yes,” he said coldly.
“Unfortunately.”
Elsewhere, inside Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall stared at the Daily Prophet from behind her desk with growing disbelief, then concern, and finally guilt.
Once the initial shock faded, one awful thought began surfacing repeatedly in her mind.
She had visited Privet Drive before.
Years ago, she had told Albus Dumbledore that they were the worst type of Muggles imaginable.
And despite that she had never once checked on the boy.
Minerva’s expression tightened.
Her gaze shifted toward another letter resting atop the desk, one from one Anthony J.
Crowley.
***
Author’s Note: The storm is gathering.
The trial is the heart of this volume, and I hope I can do it justice.
Regarding Hermione: she is currently in France with her family, and news of Harry’s emancipation case has not spread internationally yet, which is why her reaction does not appear in this chapter.