hello! hope you're all doing well 3

very, very excited with this chapter because there's finally some *stuff* happening, ykwim? idk man, i'm just pleased that things are taking shape outside my head haha

the whole thing just,,really got away from me bc i remembering starting this with the fear that i would have no idea what to write and ending w this mammoth chapter that just—refused to stop lol

anyway, got lots to say in the end notes so i'll stop here but i truly hope you enjoy it! leave me a comment with your thoughts 3

Harry stepped into the marble-tiled foyer of Gringotts with a grimace on his face. Walking down Diagon Alley had been an experience he had no wish to repeat anytime soon, but knew he'd have to if things went the way he was hoping. He'd dressed in his rattiest clothes (which, considering he'd been wearing Dudley's castoffs for over a decade and a half now, were quite something ) with a baseball cap pulled down low over his brow to hide the scar. The disguise had worked a little too well, based on the wide berth everyone had been giving him. It reminded him uncomfortably of being in Privet Drive and a part of Harry couldn't help but wonder if he was doomed to this spectrum of either fanatical devotion on one end or suspicion and hatred on the other for life.

"Yes?" A stern voice spoke from somewhere above him, making him jump as he realised he'd somehow reached the front of one of the lines.

"I—uh, I'm Harry Potter," he whispered, head ducked low, sending furtive glances at the crowd scattered around the room. "Can I speak to my account manager, please?"

One hairless eyebrow raised pointedly. "I see. Please take a seat there. A clerk will be with you shortly. He will escort you to Senior Manager Nagnok's office." And just as abruptly as he'd started the conversation, he ended it as well.

Harry blinked at the brusqueness, before quietly making his way over to the benches lining the wall on the far right. It didn't take long before another goblin—this one dressed in a simple, surprisingly muggle, outfit of trousers and formal shirt—came up to him.

"Harry Potter?"

"Yes, hello." He stood up, nodding in both greeting and agreement.

"Come with me."

Harry easily kept pace with the goblin as they made their way through a back door, straight into a narrow corridor lined with brightly lit torches. They didn't go too far, only around four or five down until they stopped in front of one. The clerk knocked twice in sharp succession before turning around and leaving. Harry almost wanted to call for him but stopped himself in time by imagining the sheer indignity of it—faced down a dragon on nothing but an inflammable piece of wood and suddenly he's scared of a dimly lit passage and a bank employee? Ridiculous.

"Come in." A stern voice calls from inside. Harry hastily wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans before turning the doorknob to a practically decorated office. Right in the middle of it was a large table covered in papers and folders, with whom he assumed was Nagnok sitting behind it.

"Er, hello Mr. Nagnok ," he said. "I hope you're doing well?"

"Mhm. What brings you to Gringotts this fine morning, Mr. Potter?" So, no interest in small talk, then. That's fine, Harry can respect that.

"Right—I, uh, I was—To be honest, I didn't know where else to go," Harry confessed, dropping into the proffered chair with a sigh. "I'm…not sure if Gringotts keeps up with the Daily Prophet—"

"I assure you we do, Mr. Potter," Nagnok interjected, slightly frostily, "considering we're subjects of Magical Britain just as you wizards are." Harry winced; not two minutes in and he'd already put his foot in it. Way to go.

"Um, yes, sorry I didn't mean to—Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, there's this…smear campaign going on. It's as if the Ministry itself is responsible for it. That can't be—surely they can't just do that?"

"Print what they want, you mean?"

"Yes—there have to be some kind of laws, aren't there? Libel, slander, defamation, anything really," Harry said.

"Well, you're not..entirely wrong, Mr. Potter," Nagnok admitted. "There are some…relatively lesser known laws that are applicable in this situation. Of course, considering Gringotts doesn't deal in the field of legal consultation, I'm afraid that's all I can help you with on the matter."

Harry just knew that Nagnok wasn't telling him the entire truth—he definitely knew what to do, but there was also—something in his tone. A breadcrumb, a faint trail just waiting to be picked up on. The almost expectant look on his account manager's face only cemented his thoughts.

"Well, could you…perhaps…direct me to someone that does deal in legal consultation?" he asked instead, slightly hesitant.

The pleased look on Nagnok's face eased something in Harry as well as made him want to sigh at the theatrics of it all. God forbid the goblins ever make anything too easy for the wizards.

"Well, yes. We tend to keep a list of referrals on hand for almost any field our clients are interested in," he said smoothly. "The Potter family has, historically, patronised the legal firm 'Armitage & Shellworth' located in the business district Vertic Alley, though never on retainer. We can provide the owl details for you to contact them. I'm sure you'll be pleased to know their quality of work hasn't declined in the years since but of course, if you're unhappy with the firm, there are a number of others that can be made available to you."

Harry blinked at the onslaught of information. Armitage and Shellworth, huh? He couldn't lie—the knowledge that the Potters, his family , had used their services in the past had almost instantly sealed the deal for him. Surely any option they went with would be a decent choice? Nonetheless, he accepted the contact details and went ahead with his next concern.

This one, Harry was ashamed to admit, only hit him recently when he'd heard a conversation between Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon the other day while preparing breakfast.

"20 years I've given them and this is how they try to repay me?" Uncle Vernon's voice thundered from the living room, loud enough that Harry could hear every word quite clearly from where he was frying eggs in the kitchen.

"Vernon—" Aunt Petunia tried, attempting to be comforting but not quite hitting the mark.

"No, Pet, I don't want to hear it," he almost shouted. "They're slashing my pension, and why? So what if there's 'internal change in leadership' and a modification of company policy'? Haven't we worked hard all this time? This is my life's earning, for the love of god!"

"You're sure they're actually going through with it, then?"

"Of course I am! The company letter in my office spells it out quite clearly. It's a travesty, Petunia. Not just for us, but Dudley, too. What will I leave him in the will now, huh? When we'll barely be able to keep ourselves afloat?" Harry raised an eyebrow at that. Interesting that Uncle Vernon planned on supporting Dudley as a grown adult. He wasn't sure any kind of pension, even the original amount for whatever it was worth, would've been enough for something like that. Dudley had…extravagant tastes.

"Surely it's not that bad, Vernon," Aunt Petunia chided, brow furrowing in concern exactly antithetical to her words.

"You say that now, Petunia, but we'll see what happens when we have exactly nothing for our son because we had to sell our house and everything we own just to stay fed and alive," he muttered bitterly, and quite dramatically in Harry's opinion. The Dursleys were quite comfortably upper middle class, in his estimation. He couldn't see any instance in which they'd be forced onto the streets, not unless something drastic happened.

His relatives' ridiculousness aside, the conversation did trigger something in his brain, though. His own parents' will. Surely, they would've had one? Harry realised that it wasn't exactly…common for someone so young to prepare for death but the war they were in would've surely realigned some of their priorities, no?

(Of course, in the event that they did plan ahead, Harry can't think of a single reason why he wouldn't have known about it. Before Hogwarts at least made sense, since he couldn't see his Aunt or Uncle caring enough to discuss something like that with him, not when they were so comfortable lying about everything else. Hell, it was perhaps a good thing they didn't because Harry couldn't see them becoming aware of his vault ending positively, in any scenario. But after? Should it not have been the first thing he be made aware of?)

So that was next on his agenda. Enquiring after his parents' wills,to find out if they even existed .

"Mr. Potter…" Nagnok started, eyeing him speculatively. "May I ask why you're asking this now, four years after being introduced to our world?"

Harry's cheeks heated at a reminder he didn't need. He very well realised there was…a lot that he should've done that he hadn't. Not all of it could be blamed on him—multiple near death experiences along with literally everything else happening to him in a brand new world made for a very, very hectic time with little time for technicalities such as this—but with time, he'd come to accept his own blame in the situation.

He'd grown complacent , used to his circumstances. ( Coward , a small but powerful part of his brain whispered, making him cringe away) Never bothered to care, to look behind the illusion, move past the smoke obscuring his vision. And it's come back to bite him now, has it not?

He was ashamed of himself, but not enough to hide again . Harry might be slow, but he was never stupid. If this course of action had even the slightest possibility of success, then it was crucial that he go through with it, feelings of guilt and shame notwithstanding.

"Due to…reasons, I haven't been able to so far, Mr. Nagnok," he replied delicately. Just because he was feeling sorry for himself didn't mean he needed to blurt it all out to a stranger. Never mind that he's never done that before and didn't care for starting now; he also did not want to give any ammunition to the goblins, who were ruthless on the best of days and absolutely uncharitable on the worst. He had no wish to tempt fate. "But I'd like to know now, if that's possible?"

As expected, Nagnok's face wrinkled indignantly. "Of course it's possible, Mr. Potter, I was just making sure that's what you would like. It's not beyond teenagers to make rash choices."

Ouch . A cruel, but fair, play on his account manager's behalf. He'd poked their competency and they'd gone straight for the jugular in return. He smiled in apology and though it probably didn't do anything, it did move the conversation along.

"While we are primarily a bank, we do offer other services such as will-readings and basic legal consults. This is, of course, to protect and manage our assets. Your parents, Lord and Lady Potter, did in fact leave a will apiece in the custody of Gringotts. If you wish to access them, please sign this acknowledgement and I'll get them for you," Nagnok said formally. Harry wondered if they had an officially prescribed script to read out for every interaction or if some goblins just enjoyed the dramatics of it all. Nagnok certainly seemed the type to gain some joy at the expense of a wizard.

"I'd like to see them, please," he said, leaning forward to sign the proferred parchment (thankfully with a normal quill this time). He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, even through the emotions slowly seeping into his mind like a trickle of water down the tap. It was only when Nagnok exited through the door that he let himself feel them.

There was—so much going on that he instinctively focused on the easiest one; anger.

Anger at Gringotts for keeping his parents' wills in their care and never once telling him.

Anger at all the adults who were supposed to take care of him, for not even bothering to ask him if he wanted this.

Anger at the sheer unfairness of the world—how is it that he had so much—fame, money, status—but not one thing he actually wanted ? All he'd ever asked for, his entire life, was a family. Or, in the absence of that, at least a connection to one. Harry was so— so desperate that he'd settle for almost anything. The year when Professor Lupin had given him those little bits and pieces of his parents, he'd never cherished anything more. Sirius' stories of his mum and dad were utterly priceless to him.

In third year, whenever he'd been surrounded by a dementor, Harry focused more on the fact that he could hear their voices than the fact that every second in contact with the foul creature increased his risk of losing his soul. It didn't matter, nothing mattered—not as long as he could hear his father yell about taking him and running, his mother pleading- arguing with Voldemort. That they were seconds away from death was so irrelevant in the moment that it didn't hit him until a few seconds after it was all over. Every. single. time . The silence left in the wake of the dementors' onslaught gave him ample time to come back down to reality—where he was nothing but an orphan, infamous for all the wrong reasons, wanting nothing more than to live his life peacefully and failing at even that.

Being able to have this—even if it was irrevocable evidence of their deaths (and the final nail in the coffin of all his desperate childhood wishes to be whisked away from the Dursleys by his parents)—was terrifying . And….not exciting, exactly, but something close to it. Harry could feel a little bolt of energy zapping down his spine, tingling down to his toes, at the thought of what he was about to see. He wouldn't just find out about all the technical details, no. He would have something his parents had written, poured a bit of themselves into, in his hands. Just the thought of it was a little overwhelming and he was afraid that he'd either start sobbing or burst into a fit of accidental magic when he actually got to hold the will.

Fortunately, that didn't happen.

Unfortunately, what did happen was arguably worse.

Because Nagnok walked into the room only a few seconds later, with a steel box that looked quite heavy in his hands. Closer inspection showed deep engravings, runes perhaps, carved into the sides and top of it, which was embedded with little coloured stones.

"Er, is that—?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Potter, that you will have to wait a little longer before you can gain possession of Lord and Lady Potter's wills." Nagnok smiled, teeth glinting razor-sharp. "I'm sure a few days is nothing for you."

Harry's teeth gritted in an attempt to keep the retort from escaping. He hadn't forgotten his earlier anger but he was trying not to get kicked out of Gringotts, definitely not before he'd finished his work. "And why's that, Mr. Nagnok?"

"It seems like your parents instituted a legal procedure for anyone wanting to read the wills, even for family. It is a common measure, even more so during times of war, to keep enemies and saboteurs away, you understand."

"However," he continued, "I did come across this box addressed to you. It's a blood-bound safe; opens only for members of the same bloodline, and was used to store confidential missives."

Anything Harry could've said in response to the disappointment of not reading his parents' wills was overshadowed by this new, un-prepared for addition. A safe? From his parents ? For him?

He was so overcome with emotion at the thought that he couldn't even form the words to ask for it, one just able to reach out one trembling hand in request. Thankfully, Nagnok decided not to needle him anymore and immediately handed it over. Before he could think of how to open it, a knife—handle first—was presented to him. Without a second thought, Harry slashed a rather deep cut into the meat of his index finger. A few drops splashed right in the center of the box's lid, making it sizzle ominously, and he stuck the digit in his mouth before opening it with his free hand.

The contents of the box were simple. One thick, high quality envelope lying innocuously amidst velvet lining. In thick, blocky letters so similar to his own were the words:

To our darling Harry

Harry sat down on his bed with a heavy thud. It spoke to the extremely run down quality of it that his backside hurt more from the impact than the mattress. But he wasn't thinking about that, no. His attention was all on the envelope clutched gently in his hand. He hadn't let go of it once, except to put it in his backpack during the tube ride back—and even then he'd worn it in front, one hand constantly holding onto his precious cargo.

The second he'd seen the hauntingly familiar writing, he knew he couldn't stay in Gringotts anymore. Nothing was more important than reading whatever was inside this, and he sure as hell wasn't going to do it sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a sterile bank office. Privet Drive might not be home , but it was still the only place he could reasonably call his in some capacity, and that's exactly where he decided he would do it.

Stopping himself from tearing the top open was an exercise in self-restraint he'd never had to use before—it was agony , looking at the creamy off-white material taunting him with its presence.

Look, I'm here, right in front of you, and you still can't read me.

Bastard.

But he was here now, there were no chores to be done—thank god because he was not in the mood to scrub dishes or weed a garden and if that's what he'd been made to do when this was waiting for him, then by god, the Dursleys wouldn't have escaped intact—and everyone in the house was asleep.

With trembling fingers, he carefully, so carefully , broke the wax seal open—silently marvelling at the sheer opulence of it; not just the fact that it was an actual seal , but the ornate coat of arms displayed on it as well—unable to contain the sharp of intake of breath when he realises there's more than just letters in there.

Photographs .

Not a lot, perhaps half a dozen, but more than enough for Harry who stared down at them with large, enraptured eyes.

From what he could gauge, it seemed like they were all taken during the time his parents had gone into hiding. It showed the three of them in heartbreakingly normal situations—in one, Harry was stuffing his mouth with a fist full of mashed banana and his dad had a resigned smile on his face in the background. Another, he's in his mum's arms, being rocked back and forth while her lips are moving (what he wouldn't give to be able to hear her, but no, mustn't be too greedy, that way lies ruin ).

The third is a sneaky photograph; his dad had him clutched tight in his arms, pressed close to his chest, eyes closed and a look of desperate grief lining his face, so potent that he could feel the echo of it in his own heart. Harry wondered if something had happened or if it was due to the general state of affairs. Right after learning of the prophecy, perhaps?

The last two are happier, thankfully (or is it?). Normal family photos, like one would find hanging on the wall or taped to one's wallet. Mum, dad, him…and Sirius—an addition that startled him a little, though it shouldn't have. If Harry was a stranger, he would be hard pressed to identify the parents in the dynamic. All three of them were looking at him with identical expressions of love and adoration; Sirius holding him, mum tickling his sides, and dad pulling funny faces. Harry doesn't think he's ever seen a single photo of himself at this age, definitely not with his family around him, and it clawed inside him in a way that he was almost glad to feel. It hurt , but he couldn't bring himself to stop looking.

Harry didn't know how long he spent staring at the pictures. It was only when something wet splashed on the image of his mum tickling him that he snapped out of his daze. Hastily wiping the tear away lest anything get ruined, he carefully tucked the photographs back in the envelope, replacing it with the letter. Letters . He looked at the cover of the envelope once again.

Darling Harry.

The two words seemed almost taunting, running on repeat in his mind; he couldn't stop staring at it, but what was inside was calling to him even more fervently. Slowly, delicately, he unfolded the first letter, written in the same hand.

Prongslet , it read

If you're reading this, then we failed.

I failed.

Nothing I say will ever be able to make up for it, and I won't expect it to. You deserve more, better, than platitudes in a letter. But it's all I have and if there's anything you take from this letter, my darling, let it be this: You are so, so loved, Harry. Your mum and I—we were absolutely, unconditionally in love with you. Nothing ever shined brighter than your smile, than you.

I wasn't sure what I'd write in this letter—how do you even address your son from beyond the grave? No one ever writes a manual for that. I'm not sure I want there to be one, either. But now that i'm here, putting quill to parchment, all I can think of is that it isn't fair . I don't know if I have the right to say that when you are the one who has to read this but I'm just—so angry that this is what it's come to.

We were supposed to have all the time in the world. There is so much I want to teach you, talk to you about—one letter (or hundred) won't be enough.

So I'll do this differently, then. If things go even a little bit as they should, then you would be reading this on your eleventh birthday, with Padfoot peeking over your shoulder in a not very subtle attempt at giving you space. So, for the nine birthdays so far, I'll write nine things I've always wanted you to know.

When you find your people, cling to them. Tight. Leave not a single inch of space. Nothing is worth losing them, not pride nor ego. Invest in a good broom and take care of it like you would your own child. You're putting your trust in a flying piece of wood, be appropriately cautious. (And maybe…wear a helmet…and some knee pads…and elbow pads…) Don't be afraid to be yourself. Never shrink to accommodate others. They don't deserve it. Be wary of any and all Malfoys, baby. They're not to be trusted. Speak up for yourself without any fear of what others will think. Our world is ruthless and you have to stay three steps ahead of it at all times. Take care of Sirius for me, please? He puts up a tough front but he's really just a huge softy. He'll need someone to look out for him and there's no one better than you, kiddo. We'll be proud of you no matter what you choose to do in life. So if you could do anything, then choose something that's deer to you. Save your first and last bites for a loved one. Be happy, so happy that we can hear it from up here.

I love you. We love you.

Dad

Without even pausing to think about what he'd just read, Harry opened the next one with mechanical hands and a numb heart. This one was written in a messy, almost indecipherable script, and he devoured the words just as quickly as the previous one.

Little One

As I'm writing this, you're sleeping in your little cot right in front of me, hugging your stuffed stag more tightly than anyone could've expected you to. I hope you hold on to that, baby, both the stag and the strength. Your life won't be easy—it kills me to have to write that, because it shouldn't be like this. It should've been better. That's what we were all fighting for, to give you a better, a perfect , future.

You'll always be my little man, Harry, even if I'm not there. Don't ever forget that. Your parents are always behind you, in everything you choose to do. You don't ever have to doubt that we won't support you. If you don't believe me, then you can ask Sirius or Remus. They'll have more than enough tales about our inability to say no to you, I'm sure. (Should I be a little afraid that I've managed to open this can of worms? I don't know, but I have enough faith in you that you won't misuse it)

I'm not sure what else I can write here that your dad hasn't already, kid. Always an overachiever, that one. You should know that about them before you catch one for yourself—they'll always get there before you, always . Don't even bother trying, save your energy for more profitable endeavours.

And Harry? Be kind, but firm. Don't bend down to anyone. Be happy, even if you've to burn everything down to the ground for it. Put yourself before everyone else with no guilt or shame. You deserve it. You deserve the world.

I love you so much, my darling. You've been the greatest joy of my life. We're so proud of you.

Mum

Once again, Harry didn't know how long he just…sat there, feeling a maelstrom of intense emotions whirling inside him. A severe ache was forming in the back of his head, and his eye had started twitching around the time his dad called him Prongslet. Prongslet, because his father was a huge dork. Prongslet . Harry didn't even think that could be a name, let alone that he was called it.

He didn't know what to do with this, with any of this. The fact that he was being publicly smeared by an entire government, or that he was now supposed to employ legal counsel at the age of fourteen to help his illegally incarcerated godfather, or that he had letters from his dead fucking parents that he was supposed to receive three years ago—letters that he was reading alone, with no one to even show them to, in a house that hated him with relatives who wanted him to leave and never come back. He didn't know how to deal with the terrifyingly hot rage flowing through him—he'd never felt anything similar before. One wrong move and the Dursley house could go down in flames. At least, that's what it felt like.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Somehow, against Harry's will and without his knowledge, the single dramatic drop had turned into an even more dramatic torrent of tears that flowed unrelentingly down his cheeks. The letters scrunched as his hands fisted around them, face screwing up in a supreme effort to not break down sobbing. Not only did it feel…slightly humiliating to cry from just a few words on paper, but he could not afford to wake the Dursleys up. Definitely not when he was so vulnerable and the last moments of his parents were right there in front of him. There was no telling what they'd do and no guarantee what he'd do in such a scenario.

Harry buried his face in the crook of his elbow, stifling the howl that wanted to erupt. His dad was right, it wasn't fair. Why did it have to be this way? Why is it that he has to read letters from his parents, stuck in a house full of people that hate him, while those who supposedly don't have made no efforts to reach him.

Not for the first time in his life, Harry wished fervently that he could close his eyes tight and wake up in the middle of his parents, enclosed in their arms. Every time that he'd done this so far, he was able to picture two blobs—only acquiring a shape after Christmas of first year—but not this time. This time, the only feeling he was left with was a faint echo of melancholy and grief. A feeling of emptiness in one corner of his chest.

It didn't matter how long he stayed like that, eyes squeeze shut to the point of pain, praying and praying and praying . No one came. He was still alone. And that's how he fell asleep—clutching two pieces of parchment that held the broken pieces of his heart.

The next morning, bright and early, he sends a brief, polite, and professional letter to Armitage and Shellworth.

It was time.

Oscar Armitage, one half of Armitage and Shellworth, was having an incredibly dull day at work.

There were no new cases to be dealt with, the most exciting thing he had on his to-do list was filing the paperwork for the previous one, and he was all alone in the office.

Just when he was thinking if he could get away with an (almost criminally) early lunch break—it was only 10AM—a beautiful snowy owl flew in through the open window to perch on the edge of his desk. And though she was actually below his eye level, she somehow gave off the impression of looking down her nose at him , instead of the other way around. There was a roll of parchment attached to one leg, which she extended in his direction with a stern hoot. (He didn't even know owls could be that expressive, great Merlin)

Well. This ought to be interesting.

With that thought in mind, he placed a bowl of water and some treats in front of the owl, cautiously untied the parchment, and sat back to read the messy scrawl.

Mr. Armitage

I was referred to you by my account manager, Nagnok. There are a number of issues I am in need of a solicitor for, starting with the Prophet articles, and I was hoping that you might be willing to meet with me to discuss the same. If yes, then any time/date that you wish for would be alright with me. You can send a reply with my owl, Hedwig. Please note other forms of communication would not be able to reach my place of residence at this time.

Harry Potter

Oscar's eyebrows shot up as he reached the end. Harry Potter . Of course he knew who that was, there wasn't a soul in the Wizarding World who didn't. What he was most intrigued by was the fact that he was looking for a solicitor, badly enough to get referred by Gringotts who didn't usually do that for just anyone. That part was telling in itself.

And the Prophet articles. He certainly knew what the boy was talking about. There had only been a few so far but even he could see, despite not knowing anything more than the average public, that there was a generous amount of, uh, creative liberty being taken with the content.

It was interesting that Potter could, too. In his experience, children usually didn't notice, or care, enough about things like that. So to see him doing not just that but going as far to enquire about his legal options (which is what, presumably, he was writing for) and the hinting at other things he needed a solicitor's assistance with?

There was no way Oscar wasn't taking the case, whatever it ended up being. Even if the meeting turned out to be a bust, or Potter ended up being the delusional, insufferable child the Prophet insisted on, it couldn't be worse than taking 10AM lunch breaks, surely.

So he took out a fresh roll of parchment, monogrammed with the firm's initials, and drafted his own response.

Mr. Potter

Thank you for reaching out to us. I would be happy to meet with you on Monday, 11AM, to discuss this further. Please revert immediately if you would like to reschedule.

Regards

Oscar E. Armitage

Senior Solicitor

Armitage and Shellworth

i've been…worried recently that what i'm writing here is a little *too* self indulgent and OOC, along with the fear that i think all gen writers have at some point—how to capture sustain interest w/o character driven romance? i've some lovely friends in this community who've disabused me of the notion but it still…niggles, yeah? i don't want anyone reading this to get bored. for that reason, please be kind to me 🙈 i always welcome constructive criticism but ultimately, this is a 'write what u want to see in the world' fic.

besides all that sappiness, here's a few thoughts:

- the letter plot line literally came out of nowhere. i had absolutely zero intention of adding anything like that but—james and lily just really wanted to assert their presence, ykno?br /

- on that note, first time writing letters and i know exactly how cheesy it is but i tried very hard to give distinctive voices, so hope that came through?br /

- it's important to me that harry be allowed to *feel* things, from sadness to guilt to shame, yes but most importantly—anger. he's had an unreasonably tough life someone needs to be getting up in arms about it. this entire chapter is an exercise in that. i want him to be an angry young man fed up with his lot in life, and be moved enough to *do* something about it. move from apathy to action, if you will.