Harry shook the offered hand carefully.
Crowley’s grip was firm without being overpowering, warm despite the cool atmosphere of the office.
Up close, the man felt even stranger somehow.
Not threatening exactly, but unsettling in the way certain animals were unsettling when they stayed too still while watching you.
Predatory.
Though perhaps that impression came mostly from the sunglasses.
Who wore sunglasses indoors and still managed to look elegant instead of ridiculous?
“Please, sit,” Crowley said smoothly, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk before settling back into his own with lazy grace.
“Now then, Harry Potter.
Let’s discuss why the most famous child in Britain has decided he requires legal representation in secret.”
The amusement in his tone was light, but Harry suspected very little escaped the man’s notice.
Harry sat down cautiously.
Unlike the previous offices he had visited, Crowley’s did not feel sterile or institutional.
The room had personality.
Shelves packed with books leaned slightly out of alignment, expensive liquor sat beside stacks of legal documents, and a deeply unhealthy-looking plant occupied the space near the windows, appearing to survive entirely out of spite.
The office smelled faintly of old paper, polished wood, and something sharp Harry could not identify.
Crowley folded his hands together.
“You requested confidentiality before even scheduling the appointment,” he observed.
“That generally means one of three things: family dispute, political scandal, or murder.”
Harry blinked.
“…I haven’t murdered anyone.” He very carefully did not add this year out loud.
Though, admittedly, Harry was still a bit unclear on whether what had happened to Professor Quirrell counted as murder, accidental magical backlash, or something else entirely.
In Muggle terms, he was pretty sure it qualified as self-defence.
“Good,” Crowley replied immediately.
“Murder cases are tedious, everyone gets terribly emotional.”
Harry stared at him for a moment and Crowley smiled pleasantly.
Harry still could not tell whether the man was joking, probably safer not to ask.
After signing the magically binding confidentiality contract, Harry explained the situation.
Not everything.
Definitely not the system, future memories, or accidental magical soul bonds.
But enough.
He told him about the Dursleys, the neglect, the desire for independence, his concerns regarding Dumbledore’s authority over his life, and the fact that he currently lived in a magically expanded tent somewhere in Wales.
Crowley listened without interruption, occasionally asking sharp, precise questions that cut directly toward useful details instead of emotional comfort.
When Harry finished speaking, the solicitor leaned back slightly in his chair.
“Well,” Crowley drawled, “that’s certainly a disaster.”
Harry almost smiled.
“You’re asking for emancipation,” Crowley continued.
“Which is ambitious.”
Harry frowned slightly.
“So impossible?”
“Oh no,” Crowley replied lightly.
“Impossible things are much more entertaining.”
The man tapped elegant fingers against the armrest thoughtfully.
“At fifteen or sixteen, full emancipation would be entirely realistic under your circumstances.
Wealthy heir, orphan, public figure, war hero, politically symbolic… the Wizengamot would grumble dramatically and then approve it anyway.”
Harry exhaled slowly.
“But I’m not fifteen.”
Crowley tilted his head slightly.
“Exactly, you are twelve.”
“Almost thirteen,” Harry muttered automatically, definitely not pouting.
“My birthday’s in three weeks.”
For one second, Crowley’s entire expression softened, and he made a faint sound in the back of his throat.
“Aww—” He caught himself instantly.
Crowley straightened in his chair, one hand coming up to adjust his glasses.
“Right,” he said smoothly, as if nothing had happened at all.
“Terribly ancient, then,”
Harry snorted despite himself.
The solicitor’s mouth twitched upward slightly before returning to business.
“Full emancipation at your age would be… difficult.
Not entirely impossible, mind you.
Wizarding Britain adores symbolism and dramatic exceptions almost as much as it adores gossip.
Still, the odds are unpleasant enough that I would not advise relying on it.”
Harry leaned forward slightly.
“What are the alternatives?”
“Now there’s the interesting question.”
The solicitor rose smoothly from his chair and wandered toward the windows overlooking London.
“Magical Britain does not technically require full emancipation for a minor to gain substantial legal autonomy,” he explained.
“The law is older than the Ministry itself in some areas, which means it contradicts itself constantly.”
That sounded extremely believable given what Harry knows about the wizarding world.
“You are already an unusual case,” Crowley continued.
“You possess independent wealth, inherited property rights, public standing, and no living parents.
You are also, inconveniently for the Ministry, considered a national hero.”
Harry grimaced slightly at that description.
Crowley ignored it.
“With the correct legal pressure, it becomes entirely possible to secure limited independent status: the right to choose residence, control over personal finances, authority regarding education, healthcare, contractual agreements, and daily guardianship.”
Harry’s eyes widened slightly.
“That’s possible?”
“Oh, certainly,” Crowley replied.
“Rare, complicated, and politically annoying, but possible.”
Hope stirred carefully in Harry’s chest.
That sounded far better than he expected.
“Of course,” Crowley added casually, “we can’t pursue that directly.”
Harry blinked.
“…Why not?”
The solicitor turned toward him again, expression thoughtful behind his dark glasses.
“Because if we openly pursue moderate independence from the beginning, the Wizengamot will negotiate downward immediately.
Bureaucracies love compromise almost as much as they love looking important while accomplishing very little.”
Realization slowly dawned on Harry.
Crowley smiled wider.
“We ask for full emancipation,” he said pleasantly.
“Aggressively.
Publicly if necessary.
We force them into a defensive position, make them panic, make them argue against giving Harry Potter complete legal freedom…”
Then the smile turned sharp enough to cut glass.
“…and while they congratulate themselves for denying your emancipation, we obtain everything you actually need.”
Harry stared at him for several seconds.
This man was terrifying.
He was competent, manipulative and probably ethically questionable in at least twelve different ways.
But for the first time all day, Harry finally felt confident sitting across from a lawyer.
“I like this plan,” he admitted carefully.
“Of course you do,” Crowley replied.
“It’s an excellent plan.”
Crowley looked at him from across the desk with the relaxed confidence of someone who already knew how the conversation would end.
It was slightly irritating.
“So,” he drawled, sounding entirely smug, “are you convinced, or need time to think it over?”
Harry did not even hesitate.
“I want you as my lawyer.”
Crowley smiled slowly, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“Yes, that does sound like the sensible decision.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
Still, as they shook hands again, he could not entirely shake the bizarre feeling that he had just entered some dangerous supernatural agreement.
Which was ridiculous.
Then again, someone in the foreign memories once described lawyers as “the devil’s advocates,” so perhaps the feeling made sense.
A quiet knock interrupted the moment.
The secretary entered carrying a tray loaded with pastries, hot chocolate, and coffee before placing everything neatly on the table between them.
Harry immediately reached for the hot chocolate.
Crowley, meanwhile, calmly took the cup of espresso.
Harry stared at him.
“Isn’t it a bit late for coffee?”
Crowley looked mildly offended.
“My dear boy,” he said with the seriousness of a man defending sacred principles, “it is never too late for espresso.”
Harry suspected the man’s bloodstream contained approximately eighty percent caffeine, possibly more.
The pastries, at least, were excellent.
Crowley slid the contract across the desk while Harry ate.
Unlike the other solicitors, Crowley’s agreement was concise, brutally clear, and refreshingly free of manipulative wording disguised as legal language, which made Harry trust it more.
Still, Harry read the entire thing carefully.
Then read it again.
And a third time.
The foreign memories in his head had filled him with an instinctive distrust toward contracts involving suspiciously charismatic men.
Crowley watched the process with visible amusement.
“You’re cautious,” he observed.
“Always a healthy attitude when dealing with solicitors.”
Harry still could not tell when this man was joking.
Eventually, Harry reached the payment section after reading everything else several times over.
He frowned.
That was unexpectedly reasonable.
Everything Dobby uncovered during his research suggested Anthony J.
Crowley charged outrageous fees even by wizarding standards.
Several rumors claimed the man once bankrupted a wealthy pureblood patriarch through legal expenses alone.
And yet the numbers Harry currently saw were almost normal.
Expensive, certainly, but nowhere near the monstrous amounts he expected.
Harry looked up suspiciously.
“I thought your fees were supposed to be terrifying.”
Crowley took a slow sip of espresso.
“They usually are.”
“…Then why aren’t they?”
The solicitor waved a dismissive hand.
“Oh, several reasons.
Irritating the Ministry is always entertaining, Dumbledore’s inevitable reaction should be spectacular, and politically speaking, representing Harry Potter in an independence case creates very interesting future connections.”
Harry narrowed his eyes slightly.
That sounded like nonsense, or rather, partially true nonsense carefully arranged to avoid the actual answer.
Crowley met his gaze calmly from behind dark glasses and Harry understood.
This man was actually decent, not a saint, but decent.
Decent enough to recognize Harry as a recently abused child attempting to legally separate himself from manipulative adults.
Enough not to exploit that.
The realization settled strangely in Harry’s chest.
Crowley looked like the sort of man who would sell cursed artifacts behind a nightclub, but underneath the dramatics and sarcasm, there was something unexpectedly decent hidden in the mess.
Like a snake wearing expensive sunglasses and pretending very hard not to care about people.
Harry looked back down at the contract.
Read it one final time and signed.
The parchment shimmered faintly gold for a brief moment as the magic sealed the agreement.
[Quest Complete!]
[Find Legal Representation]
Objectives Completed:
Locate competent solicitor ✔
Establish legal partnership ✔
Avoid catastrophic manipulation ✔
Rewards:
+300 EXP
Crowley leaned back in his chair with visible satisfaction.
“Well then,” he said smoothly, “this should be an absolute nightmare for everyone else involved.”
Harry snorted into his hot chocolate.
The solicitor rose from his seat and adjusted his jacket.
“To celebrate,” he said lightly, “I believe dinner is in order.”
Harry blinked.
“Dinner?”
“You do consume food, yes?”
“…Yes.”
“Excellent.
A shared interest already.”
Harry found himself smiling despite everything.
After spending the entire day drowning in legal consultations, dinner sounded wonderful.
“Marvelous,” Crowley said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
They left the office together a few minutes later, stepping out into the cool London evening beneath glowing streetlights and distant traffic.
Harry spotted the car waiting by the curb.
A Bentley with polished black paint that gleamed beneath the city lights with the sort of effortless elegance that would have made Uncle Vernon green with envy.
Crowley noticed him staring.
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” he said, sounding genuinely fond.
Harry glanced from Crowley to the car.
He was not entirely certain why the solicitor spoke about the Bentley with the fondness most people reserved for spouses.
And, frankly, he was a little afraid to ask.
***
I need a few more so the story can be ranked
***
Follow Luke’s journey in Skyrim