Dobby apparated them directly into the waiting room of the first solicitor’s office with enough precision that Harry barely had time to steady himself before a sharply dressed receptionist looked up from her desk.
The office itself occupied the upper floor of an old brick building hidden between two perfectly ordinary London shops.
The interior leaned heavily toward “respectable old wizarding establishment,” with dark wooden walls, brass lamps, shelves full of legal tomes, and enough framed certifications to make Harry wonder whether solicitors measured competence by available wall space.
“Mr.
Potter,” the receptionist greeted calmly, showing absolutely no surprise at the identity of her very famous twelve-year-old client.
“Solicitor Wren will see you shortly.”
Harry nodded politely while Dobby remained standing beside him in full butler mode, posture straight.
The older wizard entered a few minutes later.
Solicitor Wren looked exactly how Harry imagined an elderly political lawyer would look: silver-haired, thin, severe-faced, and carrying the permanent expression of a man who had spent forty years arguing with idiots for a living.
“Mr.
Potter,” Wren greeted with a slight inclination of the head.
“Please, come in.”
The meeting itself started promisingly enough.
The solicitor clearly knew his field.
His understanding of Ministry politics, Wizengamot procedure, guardianship law, and old magical family structures was impressive enough that Harry quickly understood why the man had such a strong reputation.
He also very obviously disliked Albus Dumbledore.
That part had been included in Dobby’s research report.
Wren had lost a major Wizengamot dispute against Dumbledore back in 1986 and had never entirely forgiven him for it.
Normally, Harry would not care much about personal grudges.
Unfortunately, the longer the conversation continued, the more Harry realized the man’s bitterness still actively influenced his judgment.
“Your current situation is delicate,” Wren explained while adjusting his spectacles.
“Legally speaking, obtaining full emancipation at your age would be extremely difficult even under favorable conditions.”
Harry had expected that much.
“However,” Wren continued, “there are alternative paths available.
Guardianship transfer being the most viable.”
Harry leaned back slightly in his chair.
“And who exactly would become my guardian?”
Wren folded his hands together calmly.
“A magical relative would be preferable.
The Wizengamot favors blood continuity in family matters.”
Harry resisted the urge to sigh.
Pureblood nonsense, just what he wanted to hear…
The thing was, wizarding Britain’s upper social circles resembled one massive interconnected family tree held together through centuries of marriages, alliances, and questionable decision-making.
Even though the Potters had not been part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight for nearly a century, they still possessed connections to many old families.
That exclusion itself had been mildly hilarious in retrospect; Harry had read about it recently while studying magical history.
His grandfather, Henry Potter—called Harry by his friends, which Harry was fairly sure was where his own name came from—had publicly condemned the Ministry during the First World War for refusing to help Muggles caught in the conflict.
Combined with the unfortunate crime of “Potter” being too common a surname among Muggles, the family ended up excluded from the Sacred Twenty-Eight list.
Which sounded less like a tragedy and more like proof his great-grandfather possessed functioning morals.
Still, blood relations remained.
His grandmother Euphemia Potter had been born a Longbottom, making James Potter and Frank Longbottom second cousins.
There were likely dozens more distant connections scattered throughout wizarding Britain.
Harry disliked the entire concept on principle.
And more importantly, solicitor Wren seemed almost eager about the possibility of opposing Dumbledore.
Harry understood the feeling.
Really, he did.
But there was a difference between wanting justice and treating Harry’s life as an opportunity to settle an old score.
By the time the meeting ended, Harry already knew he would not hire him.
Competent?
Absolutely.
Trustworthy with Harry’s future?
Not enough.
The second appointment of the day went catastrophically differently.
Advocate Pipworth turned out to be enormous.
Not fat exactly, just broad in every conceivable direction, with a booming voice, wild grey hair, and the general energy of a retired war veteran who solved most problems through volume and stubbornness.
Harry liked him immediately.
Harry had originally included the appointment out of pure curiosity after hearing that detail in Dobby’s report.
He had not expected Pipworth to cheerfully confirm it.
“…You actually bit him?” Harry asked, trying very hard not to laugh.
Pipworth coughed awkwardly into his tea.
“Well, in fairness, the bastard thoroughly deserved it.”
Halfway through explaining the case, the older wizard became increasingly animated.
Apparently the Ministry official in question had spent three straight hours deliberately obstructing proceedings, insulting Pipworth’s client, and abusing procedural loopholes purely out of spite.
“And then,” Pipworth declared dramatically, pointing a biscuit for emphasis, “the man smirked at me.”
Harry lost the battle against laughter.
“That was the final straw?”
“You understand me completely.”
Honestly, Harry did.
Pipworth seemed like a great guy, but unfortunately, despite being entertaining, Pipworth himself admitted the problem before Harry even raised it.
“You need someone careful,” the advocate said bluntly.
“Your case involves Dumbledore, the Ministry, guardianship law, and potentially half the political establishment paying attention.
I’ve got the backbone for it, certainly, but not the patience.”
Harry appreciated the honesty.
The man had enough courage to bite a Ministry official, but he drew the line at legally wrestling Albus Dumbledore and the British government simultaneously.
The third meeting went better.
Not “hired!”
But better.
Advocate Selwyn was a middle-aged witch with sharp eyes, immaculate robes, and a reputation for handling inheritance and political disputes.
Unlike Wren, she maintained equal distance from both so-called “Light” and “Dark” factions inside the Ministry, which Harry respected immediately.
Their conversation remained professional from beginning to end.
No grandstanding, no obvious hidden agendas and no barely concealed vendettas.
She listened carefully while Harry explained his concerns regarding guardianship, legal independence, financial control, and personal safety.
And yet something felt wrong.
Not malicious, she was professional and did not seem to harbor any grudge or ill will toward him.
Just… incompatible.
Selwyn believed deeply in procedure, in institutions, in legal frameworks functioning correctly if approached properly enough.
Under different circumstances, Harry might have appreciated that, but Harry’s entire life stood as proof that systems could fail catastrophically while everyone involved convinced themselves they were acting reasonably.
Dumbledore had placed him with abusive relatives “for the greater good.”
Mrs.
Figg had watched his childhood while apparently deciding that starvation and emotional neglect were perfectly normal.
The Ministry itself had thrown Hagrid into Azkaban because they needed a scapegoat.
Harry no longer trusted systems simply because they were official.
By the time the third appointment ended, exhaustion had begun creeping into him.
Finding a lawyer, Harry realized, was not actually difficult.
Wizarding Britain had plenty of competent legal professionals.
Finding one capable enough, discreet enough, ruthless enough, and trustworthy enough to place Harry Potter’s future in their hands?
That was proving far more complicated.
Harry’s fourth and final appointment of the day was scheduled after lunch, and by that point, his brain already felt mildly melted from hours of legal terminology, so Harry decided he deserved a break.
The lawyer’s office happened to be located in Muggle London, which gave Harry the perfect excuse to disappear into the city for a while before the appointment.
He ended up eating at a small café tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop along a crowded street.
The place smelled pleasantly of coffee, sugar, and fresh bread, while soft music played quietly in the background beneath the murmur of conversations.
Harry sat near the window with lunch in one hand and a comic book in the other.
Specifically: She-Ra.
A few days earlier, Harry had stumbled across a second-hand fair in a small Muggle town while exploring with Dobby and Hedwig.
What started as casual browsing quickly turned into Harry buying a concerning amount of completely unnecessary things: Books, board games, old magazines, a chess set, several comics,…
An entire gramophone alongside a collection of classical music records had been by far the most expensive purchase and totally worth every penny.
Dobby had nearly ascended from happiness upon receiving those.
Harry still was not entirely sure whether the elf genuinely enjoyed sophisticated elegant things or simply believed a proper butler should enjoy sophisticated elegant things.
Either way, Dobby now carried himself with the dramatic dignity of a Victorian butler while listening to orchestral music inside a magical tent in rural Wales. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
As long as Dobby was happy, Harry didn’t really mind having classical music playing in the background almost all the time.
He turned another page of the comic while eating.
The foreign memories inside his head still made Muggle entertainment feel strangely nostalgic despite technically never experiencing most of it himself.
Weirdly enough, Harry was beginning to enjoy that.
After finishing lunch, he wandered through the streets to kill time.
London bustled around him with constant movement and noise.
Cars passed endlessly through crowded roads while people hurried along sidewalks carrying shopping bags and briefcases.
It felt normal.
Refreshingly normal.
No one stared at his scar.
No one whispered Harry Potter under their breath.
To the people around him, he was just another kid wandering through the city.
Harry bought an overpriced ice cream from a street vendor, and then he purchased a recipe book after spotting an entire section dedicated to elegant dinners and pastries.
Dobby would absolutely love it.
He also bought Hedwig a small enchanted toy from a magical pet shop hidden discreetly between two ordinary storefronts.
The toy resembled a silver ball with fluttering fake wings designed specifically for magical birds.
Hedwig would either adore it or stare at him with offended dignity for daring to imply she needed a toy.
There would be no middle ground.
Eventually, Harry made his way toward the final appointment.
The building itself was sophisticated and elegant: Dark polished wood lined the walls while deep crimson carpets muffled footsteps completely.
The lighting remained low and warm, giving the entire office an oddly intimate atmosphere despite its obvious wealth.
It looked less like a law office and more like the kind of place where rich people quietly sold souls.
Which, honestly, might not be far from reality.
Mister Crowley had one of the strangest reputations Harry encountered during his research.
The man accepted controversial clients almost exclusively: dark wizards, political extremists, and corrupt businessmen.
People very obviously guilty of crimes.
If someone possessed enough money and enough desperation, Anthony J.
Crowley would apparently represent them without blinking.
His legal fees were astronomical, and his win record was terrifying.
According to several whispered comments Dobby found during his research, Crowley had a habit of winning cases that logically should have been impossible.
Morally speaking, Harry was not entirely comfortable with the man.
But morality mattered less to Harry right now than freedom did.
If making a deal with the devil got him out from under Dumbledore’s control and kept him away from the Dursleys permanently, Harry was perfectly willing to compromise.
Which was, in hindsight, an incredibly unfortunate line of thinking.
The receptionist led Harry toward the inner office before quietly opening the door.
“Mr.
Potter,” she announced smoothly.
“Mr.
Crowley will see you now.”
Harry stepped inside.
The office was spacious but dimly lit, illuminated mostly by amber lamps and the soft glow of London visible through enormous windows behind the desk.
And seated behind that desk—
Was not what Harry expected.
The man looked perhaps in his forties, with carefully styled short red hair and sharp features that somehow managed to appear both elegant and vaguely dangerous at the same time.
He wore an immaculate dark suit and sunglasses despite being indoors, which honestly should have looked ridiculous, instead, somehow, the man made it seem perfectly natural.
A slow theatrical smile spread across his face as Harry entered.
“Harry Potter,” the man greeted warmly, voice smooth as silk and entirely too amused.
“What an absolute pleasure.”
Then he rose gracefully from his chair and extended a hand.
“Anthony J.
Crowley.”
***
“Careless Whisper.”