Dusk deepened over Hogwarts, and the lake outside the castle reflected a sky of dark purple.
Deep within the castle, in the Gryffindor common room, a warm fire crackled merrily.
Scarlet sofas and golden tapestries made the entire room look bright and comfortable.
But tonight, the atmosphere was clearly different from usual.
About twenty Gryffindor students were crammed into the common room, all of them discussing something heatedly.
Harry Potter himself was surrounded in the very centre.
In front of him lay several rolled-up copies of The Daily Prophet, along with a pile of scattered letters.
They had all been delivered by owls that afternoon.
His face was slightly red.
Clearly, all the attention around him was making him rather embarrassed.
Ron sat beside him, holding a letter in his hand and reading it over and over with an expression of disbelief.
“Harry, this letter came from Devon.
Some witch neither of us knows says…”
[Dear Harry, I heard that the past eleven years have been very difficult for you, and my heart aches terribly.
If you need any help, please be sure to tell me.]
“She even put in a gold Galleon!”
“I’ve got one here too,” Seamus said, holding up a letter.
“This one’s from a retired Auror.
He thinks… er… ‘those Muggle relatives ought to be locked up in Azkaban.'”
“He asks whether Harry wants him to go and have a ‘talk’ with the Dursleys.”
“That’s a bit much,” Neville said softly, clutching a toad in his hands.
“I got two letters too.
Both of them were asking whether Harry really lived in a cupboard.
How would I know?
I’ve only known Harry for two weeks.”
Fred and George stood in front of the fireplace, one on each side of Harry.
Fred cleared his throat and announced in a seemingly formal tone, “Ladies and gentlemen, our very own Savior, Mr.
Harry Potter, now has an autobiography of his own—”
George picked up smoothly, “That’s right, the true protagonist—”
Fred continued, “—the Savior Who Came Out of the Cupboard!”
“Fred!” Hermione stood up from the corner, also holding a copy of The Daily Prophet, her tone carrying a trace of dissatisfaction.
“You shouldn’t joke about someone else’s experiences like that.”
“Oh, Hermione, relax.” George waved a hand.
“We’re celebrating for him.”
“Think about it.
An eleven-year-old boy has a whole autobiography published in the Muggle world.
Doesn’t that deserve a joke or two?”
“He didn’t write that book!” Hermione emphasized.
“It was written by someone called Allen Wayne.”
“And none of you have even read the book.
You’re only repeating the bits the papers took out of context.”
“Exactly!” Ron tossed the letter in his hand aside.
“I haven’t read it either.
But what the paper said is already shocking enough.”
Harry opened his mouth helplessly.
“All right, you win.
But the book must contain plenty of things even I don’t know about.”
“Besides, I don’t even know where to buy it.
How am I supposed to have written an autobiography?”
Hermione frowned as she unfolded the front page of The Daily Prophet.
The headline on it was still glaringly eye-catching.
“The problem is, how does this author know so much about you?” she asked, looking at Harry in confusion.
Just then, Percy Weasley came down from the dormitory stairs.
His prefect badge was pinned to his chest, and he too had a newspaper in his hand.
“I believe the impact of this matter has already exceeded many people’s expectations,” Percy said, pushing up his glasses.
“The front-page article in The Daily Prophet shows that a great many people in the wizarding world are paying attention to this.
has already begun taking legal action.”
“What’s S.P.U.W.?” Neville asked.
“The Society for the Protection of Underage Wizards,” Percy replied.
“A civil organization dedicated to the welfare of underage witches and wizards.”
“They’re very serious.
And it’s said that their chairwoman has many connections in the Wizengamot.”
Harry felt a headache coming on.
He had only been at Hogwarts for two weeks.
He had originally thought he had finally escaped the shadow of the Dursleys and could begin living a somewhat normal life.
In the end, after arriving in the wizarding world, he had already been constantly stared at because of the lightning scar on his forehead.
And now the entire wizarding world was discussing his childhood.
“I just wanted to go to school quietly,” Harry muttered, so softly that only Ron beside him could hear.
Ron patted him on the shoulder.
“Mate, if you really have an autobiography out in the Muggle world, I’m afraid you can forget about being quiet for the rest of your life.”
Fred hopped over from the fireplace and slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders.
“Excellent!
From now on, you’re Gryffindor’s very own ‘Philosopher’s Stone Boy.'”
“Right!
Though, er, what exactly is the Philosopher’s Stone?” George cut in.
“You two!” Hermione shouted again.
“All right, all right, I’ll stop.” Fred raised both hands in surrender.
“But seriously, Harry, what exactly is written in that book?
Aren’t you curious at all?”
Harry answered honestly, “Very curious.
But I’ve no way to read it.
It’s not like I can run off to the Muggle world to buy a copy right now.”
“Maybe I can help you get one sent here,” Hermione said immediately.
“My parents live in the Muggle world.
I can write to them and ask them to buy a copy and post it.”
“Though, come to think of it, I hear Muggle bookshops are already sold out.”
“Sold out?” Ron’s eyes widened.
“A book about Harry is sold out in the Muggle world?
Have those Muggles gone mad?”
“That only proves the book must be genuinely exciting,” George commented.
“Shame those Muggles have no idea everything in it is real.”
“If they knew, they’d probably lose their minds,” Fred said with a grin.
Neville hesitantly raised a hand.
“Then… if everything in the book is true, doesn’t that mean the author is a wizard too?
How else could he know the wizarding world so clearly?”
Fred leaned back against the fireplace, looking thoughtful.
“Whatever the case, this whole thing has given me a new interest in the Muggle world.”
“Imagine it, a book about the wizarding world being passed around in the Muggle world, and Muggles reading it before running about searching for ‘Platform Nine and Three-Quarters’…”
“I heard Madam Rosmerta from the Three Broomsticks say there have been loads of Muggles taking photographs outside the Leaky Cauldron lately.”
“That’s right.” George nodded.
“She said Tom’s been complaining that those Muggles keep wandering around outside the pub every day.”
“Wait—” Percy interrupted them with a stern expression.
“How did you two get to Hogsmeade?!”
“Er, well…”
At that moment, in an office at the Ministry of Magic, the atmosphere was nowhere near as relaxed.
Quilden strode back into his office, and the door slammed shut behind him.
He took off his coat and tossed it onto the back of a chair, then dropped heavily into the armchair and rubbed his face with both hands before letting out a long breath.
“That bloody Fudge—”
He forcibly swallowed the rest of the sentence.
“The entire wizarding world is laughing at us!” Fudge had roared then, waving both hands, his face flushed red.
“A book about the wizarding world has sold tens of thousands of copies in the Muggle world, and the Ministry of Magic was the last to know!”
“Now The Daily Prophet is mocking us on its front page every day!”
“Do you know how many letters I received this morning from the Ministries of Magic in other countries?”
“They’re all asking, ‘What exactly is the British Ministry of Magic doing?'”
At the time, Quilden could only stand there with his head lowered and take the scolding.
He could not refute a single word.
Fudge had continued roaring, “I don’t care how you do it!
You must find that author.
Immediately!”
“Find him, then make him stop writing.
Cut off every printing and distribution channel!”
“That is the only way we can prevent the secrets of the wizarding world from leaking further!”
“But, Minister—” Quilden had only just opened his mouth before he was cut off.
“No buts!
This is your responsibility!
If this matter reaches the International Confederation of Wizards, both of us will be in serious trouble!”
Quilden took a deep breath.
Remembering the scene just now, he irritably ran his fingers through his already rather messy hair.
The office was quiet for a moment.
Then he pressed the bell at the corner of his desk, and a silver communication dish rose from the surface.
“Weatherby,” he said into the dish.
“Come in.”
A few seconds later, the office door opened, and Weatherby hurried in with a stack of parchment files in his arms.
“Director, the preliminary investigation results are ready.”
He placed the files on Quilden’s desk.
Quilden picked up the top sheet and glanced at the title:
[Investigation Progress Report Regarding the Muggle Book Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.]
“Get to the point.”
Weatherby cleared his throat.
“Our people went to the publishing house—Bloomsbury Publishing, and found the editor in charge of this book, a middle-aged man named Barry Cunningham.”
“What did he say?”
“Cunningham said the manuscript was brought to him by a literary agent named Christopher Little.”
“Little runs a small literary agency.
After signing this book, he went straight to Cunningham.”
Quilden narrowed his eyes.
“How did Little get the manuscript?”
“Little said the manuscript appeared on his desk together with a pile of submissions.”
“He claims he doesn’t know who put it there or how it arrived.
The only thing left on the back of the manuscript was an address.”
“13 Baker Street,” Quilden said coldly.
“I already know.”
Weatherby froze.
“You’ve already checked it?”
“I’ve already had the Magical Address Registry look into it.
There is no Number 13 on Baker Street.
That address is fake.”
Weatherby swallowed.
“Er… we continued investigating Little’s background.”
“He’s an ordinary Muggle, fifty-seven years old, and has been a literary agent for twenty years.
His business scope includes fantasy and children’s literature…”
“Stop!”
Quilden cut him off harshly.
“I’m not interested in a Muggle’s life story!”
“What I want to know right now is everything about Allen Wayne!”
“Do you understand?!”