Shortly after Crowley vanished from the flat in blatant violation of several known magical laws, Harry did what had become the most important part of his days: he summoned his parents.
The living room filled with light as Harry activated Angel Mode, dark wings unfurling behind him while white spread through strands of black hair.
Even after weeks, the transformation still felt strange in a bizarre way, as though another piece of himself awakened each time he called upon that power.
“Echo of the Departed,” Harry whispered smiling.
“James Potter.
Lily Evans Potter.”
Two figures emerged from the shimmering light.
Lily appeared first, red hair glowing warmly beneath the morning sunlight filtering through the windows after the morning rain had stopped, green eyes immediately softening the moment they landed on Harry.
Beside her, James Potter materialized with the same effortless energy Harry remembered from their previous meetings, messy black hair already refusing to behave despite death doing wonders for most grooming issues.
The moment they fully appeared, both smiled.
“Happy birthday, Harry,” Lily said gently.
James grinned broadly.
“Thirteen already.
Merlin, I’m old.”
“I missed you, Mum, Dad.”
Lily’s expression melted instantly.
James looked emotional for half a second before recovering dramatically.
“Oh brilliant,” he declared.
“Now Lily’s going to cry again.”
“I am not—”
“You absolutely are.”
“Our son is growing up!”
“Our son is literally getting taller every time we see him.”
Harry laughed helplessly, his parents argue almost everytime he summoned them together and is always about little things: James calling her emotional, Lily saying this or that team of Quidditch is lame, James telling a particular jucy story of his days as Hogwarts number 1 menace,…
After a few more moments of arguing with her husband, Lily hugged him and kissed his forehead, wishing him once more a happy birthday.
Despite having done this many times already over the past weeks, despite summoning them almost daily whenever his mana reserves allowed it, Harry still felt overwhelmed every single time.
This is real, not a dream or the Mirror of Erised taunting him with impossible wishes.
His parents were here: he could touch them, talk to them, and be held by them.
It still feels unreal, like a dream he doesn’t want to be woken from.
Harry buried his face briefly against Lily’s shoulder while James wrapped both arms around them.
In his parents’ arms, Harry felt wanted, safe, and loved.
It was a precious feeling he would never get tired of.
Keeping both Lily and James summoned corporeally drained mana incredibly fast, and even after all the training he has been doing these past weeks, he could only sustain both simultaneously for several minutes.
Lily eventually pulled back slightly just to cup Harry’s face between her hands.
“How are your studies going?”
James groaned immediately.
“Lily, he’s thirteen today.”
“And?”
“It’s his birthday.
He shouldn’t even be thinking about homework.”
“I’m asking how his studies are going, James, not assigning him an essay.”
“Same thing.”
“He’s intelligent and responsible—”
“Exactly,” James cut in triumphantly.
“Which means somebody has to encourage terrible life choices occasionally.”
Harry snorted.
“You two are ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Lily agreed immediately.
“Absolutely,” James said proudly.
They resumed bickering while Harry listened, leaning back against the sofa, smiling despite himself.
He loved this.
Merlin, he loved this.
He loved normality of it, the warmth, the casual affection.
Once upon a time, Harry would have given absolutely anything simply to know what his parents sounded like.
During first year, Hagrid’s photo album had become his greatest treasure because for the first time Harry could actually see their faces moving and smiling.
Then came the Mirror of Erised.
Harry still remembered sitting before that mirror night after night unable to look away from the impossible image of his family surrounding him.
Even knowing it was an illusion, even understanding it was dangerous, the temptation had been unbearable.
But this…
This surpassed that.
Now he could hug and speak with them.
He can listen to James complain about Quidditch players while Lily fussed over whether Harry slept enough.
Dobby, naturally, documented everything.
The elf darted enthusiastically around the room, snapping photo after photo.
At one point, James actually posed dramatically beside the Firebolt while pretending to cry.
Harry laughed so hard he nearly lost focus on the transformation.
Over the past few weeks, Dobby had taken dozens of photographs of them together.
The flat now contained framed moving pictures scattered across shelves and tables, each one capturing small moments of domestic happiness: Lily Potter reading beside him, James Potter teaching him card tricks, the three of them squeezed together on the sofa laughing at something beyond the frame.
Harry loved those photographs, which created a problem because eventually people will visit his flat and he cant exactly have photos of him with his dead parents around.
Harry absolutely did not intend to reveal Echo of the Departed publicly unless forced.
The ability to summon the dead, especially corporeally, would terrify half the magical world and attract the other half in very dangerous ways.
Sooner or later, he would need to remove the photographs from places visitors might see them.
The thought saddened him.
Still, once the estate house was finished, things would become easier.
Ashford Estate was enormous, isolated, and heavily protected.
The only people allowed there would be those Harry trusted completely.
So there, he could keep every photograph without worry.
Compared to the ruined castle and the other abandoned buildings around the estate, the cottage remained in remarkably good condition.
Unfortunately, that still translated into weeks of exhausting repairs.
Harry and Dobby had rebuilt nearly everything: repairing damaged walls, installing new plumbing, fixing broken windows—the list seemed endless.
Some tasks caused far more trouble than others.
In particular, the electrical systems nearly drove Harry insane.
Magical Britain’s relationship with technology remained non-existent at best.
Most purebloods treated electricity the way medieval peasants treated astronomy: vaguely suspicious and probably unnecessary.
Other magical societies proved far more sensible.
Japan especially fascinated Harry.
During the 1960s, Japanese magical researchers successfully developed methods allowing technology and magic to coexist stably, eventually creating an entire field called Magitech.
The books Harry imported on the subject were both brilliant and horrifyingly complicated.
Understanding instructions and actually applying them turned out to be very different things, Harry learned painfully after electrocuting himself countless times during the installation.
Dobby, surprisingly enough, considering he had grown up serving a pureblood family, learned about wiring far faster than Harry did.
Harry had spent his entire childhood in the Muggle world, yet somehow the magical house-elf understood electricity better than he did.
That stung his pride a little.
Thankfully, the cottage was finally nearing completion, and Harry planned to move there in the next few days, which left him with a bittersweet feeling in his mouth.
The Birmingham flat had become the first place in Harry’s life that genuinely felt like home—a place filled with warmth, laughter, and people waiting for him to return.
But staying there long-term posed risks.
Too much attention surrounded the emancipation case, and it was only a matter of time before the address leaked.
Ashford Estate, meanwhile, had become one of the safest locations in Britain.
Crowley had personally layered advanced wards across the entire property over the past week: anti-intrusion protections, detection wards, layered concealments, defensive enchantments—
And most importantly, a Fidelius Charm protecting the cottage itself.
***
Professor Minerva McGonagall rarely lost patience.
Decades of teaching impulsive children armed with magic, poor judgment, and alarming creativity had cultivated in her a level of restraint most people considered nearly supernatural.
That restraint was currently being tested.
“Albus,” she said, standing before the Headmaster’s desk with rigid posture and tightly folded arms, “I am asking you plainly.
What exactly do you know about Harry Potter’s childhood?”
The office fell quiet.
Fawkes watched silently from his perch while silver instruments clicked and whirred softly atop nearby tables.
Beyond the tall windows of the circular office, summer rain rolled across the Hogwarts grounds beneath a darkening sky.
Behind the desk, Albus Dumbledore sighed tiredly.
He looked older today, not exactly weak but tired in a way that settled deep into his posture and eyes, as though the weight of decades pressed a little heavier upon him with each passing year.
“Very little,” he admitted honestly after a moment.
Minerva frowned immediately.
“Very little?”
“I arranged for Arabella Figg to keep watch over him while he grew up,” Albus explained calmly.
“Her reports indicated that Harry was fed, clothed, and generally cared for.
The Dursleys clearly favored their own son over him, but unfortunately that was hardly unexpected given Petunia’s feelings regarding magic.”
Minerva stared at him, and after a few moments, she asked:
“And that satisfied you?”
Albus looked up from behind his half-moon spectacles.
“It did not satisfy me,” he corrected gently.
“But it reassured me sufficiently that Harry was not in any danger.”
Minerva’s lips thinned sharply.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly across the mountains.
“With all due respect, Albus,” she said carefully, “children raised in loving homes do not seek legal emancipation at thirteen years old.”
Albus remained silent.
“That boy,” Minerva continued more firmly, “is resilient to a fault, stubborn enough to challenge Voldemort head-on, and so forgiving it borders on absurdity at times.
Harry Potter does not strike me as a child prone to dramatics or rebellion merely for attention.”
A shadow crossed her expression.
“He would not reach this point without reason.”
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers folding together thoughtfully.
“I believe Harry is frightened and overwhelmed,” he said at last.
“The events of this past year were exceptionally traumatic even by Hogwarts standards.
The Chamber of Secrets, the attacks, the pressure of the finals on top of all…”
His expression softened.
“He is still only a child, Minerva.”
Minerva did not miss the genuine concern in his voice, and that was the frustrating part: Albus truly cared for Harry.
She had never doubted that but caring for someone and understanding them were not always the same thing.
“I think,” Dumbledore continued, “that Harry has spent the summer isolated with his thoughts and fears while under tremendous emotional strain.
This legal action…” He sighed softly.
“I do not believe he fully understands the consequences.”
“And you think speaking with him will solve everything?”
“I believe,” Albus answered, “that once Harry calms down and we speak properly, much of this can be resolved.”
There was no condescension or dismissal in his tone; he genuinely believed what he was saying.
That perhaps Harry was spiraling after the Chamber of Secrets incident.
That stress and fear and uncertainty had driven him toward impulsive decisions.
And perhaps, Minerva admitted privately, under ordinary circumstances, that might have been true.
But this was Harry.
Harry, who walked into danger repeatedly with terrifying determination.
Harry, who endured things most adults would crumble beneath and remained kind afterward.
Harry, who never asked for help unless absolutely desperate.
For him to file for emancipation…
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Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Minerva looked at the Headmaster for several long moments before finally inclining her head stiffly.
“If you say so, Albus.” She did not sound convinced, and truthfully, she was not.
After leaving the office, Minerva reached into one pocket of her robes and withdrew a neatly folded letter.
The parchment already looked slightly worn from how many times she had reread it over the past hours.
Anthony J.
Crowley.
Harry Potter’s solicitor.
The letter itself remained impeccably polite, professionally worded, yet deeply unsettling.
As Mister Potter’s solicitor, I would appreciate arranging a meeting regarding his years under Hogwarts’ care, particularly concerning his wellbeing, academic environment, and overall treatment as a student.
Minerva stared at the signature briefly and sighed
She had gone to Albus’ office in search of answers regarding her student, but Albus had left her with more questions than answers.
Perhaps someone else would bring some light into this mess.
Her steps redirected automatically toward the infirmary wing.
Halfway there, she encountered Severus Snape striding through the corridor toward the Headmaster’s office with his usual dramatic billowing cloak and bitter expression.
“Severus.”
He stopped smoothly.
“Minerva.”
She hesitated briefly before asking—
“Have you heard anything regarding Harry Potter’s emancipation case?”
Snape’s mouth twisted instantly.
“Potter is behaving theatrically, as expected.
An attention-seeking brat much li—” He stopped abruptly.
Minerva had not said a single word; she merely looked at him, daring him to finish the sentence.
Snape’s lips flattened into a thin line.
“…Never mind,” he muttered.
The exchange ended there.
Minerva continued toward the infirmary, feeling very unimpressed.
Honestly, sometimes Severus allowed his bitterness toward James Potter to cloud his judgment so thoroughly it became embarrassing.
Poppy Pomfrey looked more exhausted than usual when Minerva entered the hospital wing.
The healer sat behind her desk surrounded by organized stacks of medical files while several quills scribbled notes automatically nearby.
The moment she saw Minerva, however, something in her expression shifted.
“Minerva.”
“Poppy.”
After brief pleasantries, Minerva placed Crowley’s letter onto the desk between them and Poppy’s face immediately darkened with recognition.
“So he contacted you, too.”
Minerva sat across from her.
“You already met him.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Poppy exhaled heavily.
Then, after several moments of silence—
“He asked for Harry’s medical records.”
Minerva blinked.
“…What?”
Poppy explained the meeting in detail.
His questions, his concerns, the way he framed everything, and most importantly, the realization that followed afterward.
“He made me look at it properly,” Poppy admitted, her voice carrying unmistakable guilt now.
“All of it.”
Minerva felt dread settling slowly into her stomach.
Poppy reached toward one nearby file and opened it.
“First year alone included severe burns, lacerations, concussions, malnourishment, and repeated injuries.”
Minerva McGonagall closed her eyes briefly.
Merlin.
Poppy Pomfrey continued.
“Second year was worse.”
Minerva’s chest tightened painfully.
“How did we miss this?” she whispered.
“Because we didn’t want to see it.
The hero of the Wizarding World being abused?
How absurd does that sound?” Poppy Pomfrey let out a bitter laugh.
Minerva thought of her conversation with Albus earlier.
Harry was fine.
Fine.
The thought felt almost cruel now.
Another thought surfaced immediately afterward.
Arabella Figg.
That woman was responsible for monitoring Harry’s wellbeing all these years.
Minerva’s expression darkened.
She would very much like to speak with Mrs.
Figg herself.
Upon returning to her office later that evening, Minerva sat at her desk while rain battered the castle windows outside and for several long moments, she simply stared at the parchment before her.
Then, she picked up her quill and began writing a response to Anthony J.
Crowley accepting his request for a meeting.