8.
I put the newspaper down. The news itself was interesting - someone had broken into Gringotts vault 713, which of course had already been found to be emptied. More than that, they'd gotten back out without being caught, which was sort of supposed to be impossible.
But I was distracted. There was something I'd been thinking about a lot lately.
I'd already checked the bylaws, and since I had no legal wizarding guardian, I could change my name anytime I wanted to. And I did want to. I had an idea of changing my name in reflection of the new person I'd become.
Yet I had mixed feelings about getting rid of the name my parents had given me.
But I associated the name Harry James with that tragic orphan abuse victim who didn't know himself. And that wasn't me anymore.
At last, I texted Poppy and Minerva. "I want to change my name," the text said simply.
I looked through countless books, comparing and weighing different names. At last, deciding I liked music, and I also liked Christmas and winter, I chose my new name: Quintus Noel. Quintus Noel Potter.
As I sat down across from the legal expert in my bedroom, the piece of parchment to sign to change my name before me, Minerva spoke. She and Poppy were standing worriedly on either side.
"You know, Harry, that once you do this the wizarding world will positively explode," she said, reserved.
I signed my name and sat back.
"Let the exploding begin," I said. "And it's Quintus now."
I looked up at her and smirked.
I don't know who leaked it, but soon it was all over the newspapers:
Harry Potter Changes Name!
Harry Potter is Now Quintus Noel!
Harry Potter Re-Enters Wizarding World with a Splash!
Minerva got me a press agent, a neat and dapper man with slicked back brown hair named Mr Mason, who advised me in concern: "You're going to have to do an interview, and it's going to have to be with Rita Skeeter. I would advise you to give her something honest but juicy - something to sink her teeth into that won't hurt you too much. Otherwise, just smile for the cameras; you're a charming little kid. They'll do the rest."
So I sat down across from Rita Skeeter in the Daily Prophet office in the Alleys. Her acid green quill spun across the page as she spoke to me. She had blonde curls, a heavily jawed face, jeweled spectacles, long crimson nails, and penciled-on eyebrows.
I disliked her on sight, but revealing that would do me no good.
"So, Harry - or it's Quintus now, isn't it? Rebelling against your saintly parents? Feeling a little… er… parental pressure?" She smirked at me and I could see the quill already scribbling away.
"I feel family pressure, but not in that area," I said, smiling slightly. Rita paused, and so did her acid green quill. "I do not have a particularly good relationship with the relatives who raised me, and my old name reminds me of - well - of them. Of growing up under their control. I've decided to free myself from that. That's what the new name means."
I'd practiced this speech several times, right down to the pause and the "well." It was working. Rita's pen was rewriting.
"Your relatives are controlling, Quintus? You don't like them very much?"
"They don't like me. They're not… particularly fond of magic." Understatement of the century.
"They're magic-prejudiced! The great Boy Who Lived was raised by magic hating Muggles! So do you have anything you'd like to say to Albus Dumbledore, who I know placed you with your relatives?"
"I decline to comment," I said reservedly, another thing Mr Mason had advised me about.
It didn't matter. Rita Skeeter's eyes were gleaming. She had her story.
After that, I just talked about my excitement to go to Hogwarts and my ambition to be "someone great, in spite of my relatives," and I had her.
We took a picture at her Daily Prophet desk. I gave a small smile, my new look on full display, casual wear robes and pendant and all.
The picture was splashed all over newspapers and magazines, all across the Internet, with emblazoned captions like, Boy Who Lived Hates Muggle Family! And, Boy Who Lived Was Raised by Magic Haters! One said: Boy Who Lived Hates His Family - And We Totally Understand.
Of course, many people threw poison on the image of Albus Dumbledore, but my declining to comment just made me look more polite in this new, sympathetic light. And in any case, he'd defeated a Dark wizard; his image could survive the fall.
Soon, everyone was either commenting on how cute I was, or commenting on how Rita chose to describe me. She decided to go with an easygoing feel, how I'd agreed to simply meet her at her reporter's desk in Diagon, had brought a coffee, was quiet and polite and nicely dressed.
I became the boy from a dark family who was determined to be a great wizard anyway. That was the image I had chosen to go for - with much counseling from Minerva, Poppy, and Mr Mason.
It was even true.
Poppy gave me one thorough physical before I was due to go to Hogwarts, just to be sure nothing could be found lacking in the first. She'd been giving me supplemental potions for a couple of months, to fill out my scrawny figure, and she said, pleased, "They seem to be working perfectly. You're wonderfully healthy!"
"Now, here is your ticket onto the Hogwarts Express," said Minerva seriously, handing me an envelope with a ticket inside. "It leaves from Kings Cross Station in London at 11 AM on September first. It waits for no one, so don't be late. Have your trunk and cat carrier ready, but you can change into your school robes on the train. Understand?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you. Thank you, both of you. I'll see you at Hogwarts." I looked up at them solemnly.
They smiled. "See you at Hogwarts, Quintus."
I went downstairs to my family on the afternoon of August thirty-first.
"I've changed my name," I said quietly on the staircase. "It's now Quintus Noel Potter."
They stared up at me, caught off guard, from the living room.
"I know you haven't approved it," I said, robotic, emotionless. "You didn't need to.
"I leave early tomorrow morning to go to Hogwarts. Goodbye."
I turned to go back up the stairs. It looked almost for a moment as if they were going to say something, but they never did. We missed each other.
It was a good metaphor for our entire relationship, actually.
