y'all. guys. i just-can i pause everything for a second to thank every single person who's reading this? i dont know if i have the words to express how fucking incredible it is to see people commenting on this fic, telling me what they liked, sharing their theories for what'll happen, becoming invested in not just harry's story but also the OCs i've created. it's absolutely bonkers, i swear. i never, in my wildest dreams, anticipated this kind of reaction and i know i keep repeating myself with this but i really cant get over the love and support i've gotten with this. so just, thank you. thank you so much.
with that unnecessarily sentimental beginning lol i present to u chapter 5! we have some more worldbuilding, a lot of oscar, some nice personal growth for harry and another major plot point being established. sirius plays a major role despite still not being here (boo). as with all these chapters, i love this one and i hope u do as well. from the next chapter onwards, the gaps between my prewritten stuff are gonna get larger so i hope i'm able to catch up and fill those in without taking too much time bc im honestly way too excited to share what i've got.
so, all that verbal assault aside, i hope you like this. happy reading!
(23.03.23)
Harry stood on the edge of the sidewalk, back pressed to the wall, and hands fisted in his pockets. He could feel the rough edges of the secondhand leather wallet he'd bought himself—a new beginning, for all the money he never got to carry before—and the clink of the galleons he'd stuffed beside it. Of course, he wouldn't need any of those, not in the Muggle world but…better safe than sorry?
He refused to admit to himself that it was because of the safety it carried; the sense of belonging it gave him. Didn't want to admit that kind of attachment.
Harry had been standing in this exact position for more than five minutes now, and he was sure that had he been in any place other than the dead center of London, he'd have had the cops called on him for- for loitering or being a public nuisance or something equally stupid.
Nothing like a kid having a panic attack on the road to ruin your daily commute, of course.
Finally, after giving himself the fourth pep talk of the evening, Harry unglued himself from the brick wall. It was getting quite ridiculous and he had to get a move on if he wanted to be back before Uncle Vernon got home. Sneaking out might've been easy but the same could not be said for sneaking in .
Nodding decisively, he made his way over to the thrift store he'd been eyeing for quite a while now.
"Hello!" A cheery voice greeted, making him jump.
"Hi," he blinked, looking at the clerk behind the counter. They had an unnervingly large smile on their face—Harry didn't even know Londoners could be that expressive—looking at Harry expectantly.
"What can I help you with, today?"
"Er-," Harry's eyes darted around the shop—it looked much larger on the inside with its seemingly endless rows of clothes. No two pieces looked the same and the longer Harry stood there, trying to articulate what he wanted (did he even know it himself?) the more overwhelmed he felt.
What he settled on was this:
"I'd like a new wardrobe, please."
A couple of tiring, but productive, hours later, Harry exited the shop with a number of bags weighing down his arms. The clerk - Miles - had been a huge help on sorting through what Harry really needed and what he thought he did, so the whole experience wasn't as stressful as it could've been.
Walking down the street, Harry spotted an ice cream van and grinned—for once he had the money, and time, to buy himself a treat-besides, he deserved one for putting up with the whirlwind of the day, didn't he? So he went up to the van, ordered himself a double vanilla, and sat at the curb- careful to tuck his bags behind his legs.
As he methodically made his way through the ice cream—sides first, then steadily inward until he got to the center—he kept thinking about the events of the afternoon. He hadn't planned to go shopping. Hadn't ever considered a need for it, really- not with everything that kept happening in his life. The clothes he had—oversized, slightly ripped, but ultimately functional —were enough for him. They might not make him look attractive, or even particularly good about himself, but they covered him well enough and didn't get him stuck with an indecency charge. That was all he needed, really.
Besides, the point became even more moot when he started Hogwarts. The robes they had to wear over everything meant that he didn't think about what he wore under them, and no one expected the highest caliber of sleep clothes, anyway, did they?
So why, then, this sudden, urgent, need for a shopping spree?
Gringotts.
Or more specifically, having a meeting with the goblins at Gringotts where he constantly felt off balance, slightly too out of place. He didn't realise it in the moment— too busy dealing with the revelations of his parents, his wealth and the power he held that had been denied to him so far—but after, when he'd had time to sit down, breathe , think over everything that had happened, Harry was able to realise that one of the reasons why he felt so uncomfortable was because he was out of place.
He didn't belong in such an opulent place, not in his hand-me-downs that were fraying at the seams and been patched up more than its fair share in the years of use they'd seen. Harry's taped-up sneakers squeaked against the marble floors, his equally taped-up glasses barely able to keep his wide eyes in check as he stared at his surroundings, the high ceilings adorned with chandeliers, the intricately engraved wooden paneling on Nagnok's desk. Harry hadn't paid much attention the first time he'd stepped foot in the bank- his mind was already overwhelmed with everything he'd seen so far, all the displays of magic settling in a corner of his brain until he'd been too saturated to really take in the stately beauty of Gringotts. After that first year, he'd never gone back- Mrs. Weasley would take care of things for him, and that was that.
So walking into the place after a few years of settling into the Wizarding World, with an actual purpose instead of his jaw hanging around his knees and passively taking in what was being shown to him, was a very different experience.
By which he meant: Harry had never felt as inadequate, or as embarrassed before.
Which was really saying something considering his upbringing with the Dursleys, but hey, he found new lows to reach every day, didn't he?
Harry remembered the crisp suits all the goblins were wearing, how Nagnok seemed to take up more space than anyone else in the room, human or otherwise, in his perfectly tailored three piece with a pocket watch gleaming from the pocket of his waistcoat. His expensive, not-broken-not-taped-up-not-ill-prescribed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, making Harry feel especially small when he looked down his nose at him.
Harry had fumbled his way through the meeting, somehow, because it was important and he hadn't had any other choice. He didn't realise what was making him uncomfortable at the time, just that something was.
It wasn't until his meeting with Oscar Armitage that the point was really driven home for him.
Because for the second time in a week, he was sitting across from an impeccably dressed person, in a professional setting, and feeling like he'd claw out of his own skin at how out of place he looked . Mr. Armitage's carpets were in better condition than Harry's clothes at the time - clothes, it is important to note, that he'd done his best to clean, mend, and press. He'd chosen the best outfit he'd owned—not that the bar wasn't very low there—and it was still nowhere near enough.
So he'd made up his mind. This wouldn't go on, anymore, not when he had a plan in mind. His summer had only just begun, his to-do list was getting longer by the day and walking around in clothes tantamount to rags would only put him back.
He was trying to use his name and fame here, not tear it all down into nothingness.
The first step to that was looking good. So new clothes and proper prescription glasses it was.
With that final thought lodged firmly in mind, Harry bit into the last of his cone and wiped his hands with the tissue. He got up, threw the used paper into the bin, hooked the shopping bags onto his elbows once again, and made his way home- happier, lighter—both wallet-wise and heart-wise—and more settled.
The moment he entered No. 4, however, all the positive emotions that he'd managed to accumulate instantly shriveled up and died a short death.
"And where have you been, boy?" His Aunt's shrill voice greeted him before he'd even closed the doors.
"I told you, I had some work today," Harry replied, head down as he focused on getting the numerous locks.
"Work—," she spluttered, "Does work include all those shopping bags hanging off you?"
Not having anything else to occupy him any longer, Harry finally looked at his Aunt. Her eyes were narrowed, lips pursed, and she didn't look any different than she ever had before.
No, what was different was Harry this time. In his little walk of freedom—what else could it be called when he had things to call his own , bought with his own money , for the first time in his life?—back to the house, he'd realised that he didn't need to be a doormat anymore, not if he went about things a bit more strategically.
"Yes," he answered simply.
Aunt Petunia blinked, slightly incredulously, not having expected an answer like that. After a few seconds of silence, where neither of them broke, she pulled herself up taller, crossed her arms across her chest.
"And just where would you get the money for this work of yours?" she asked righteously, suspicion dripping off her tongue as easy, as thoughtless as breathing. Harry would be upset if he wasn't so used to it. He was the resident criminal of Little Whinging, after all.
"Just because you think my dad was a useless layabout doesn't actually mean it was true," Harry said. Aunt Petunia blinked. "You can say he was a drunk wastrel all you want but my parents cared about me enough to make sure I would be taken care of for my whole life."
And then, in a whisper, "I know they did."
And he did, didn't he? His entire life Harry was fed the cruelest of lies about his parents, about why he was an orphan. He'd lost count of how many times he'd been told that his parents had gotten themselves killed to get away from him; that he's the reason why they're not here anymore. Harry had stopped includinghis parents, the two strangers he couldn't even picture in his mind, in any family-related activities the school asked of them. After one disastrous attempt, he'd never bothered to include the Dursleys in anything. Harry had always, without fail, been incredibly conscious of the fact that he was alone, and that he was unlovable. If even his own parents , who gave birth to him, didn't want him, then who would?
Of everything the Dursleys did to him-and there was no dearth of horrors there-perhaps the most unforgivable was making him believe that his parents didn't love him.
Because not only was it wrong , it was also an absolute disservice to his parents who died for him. Who stood in front of the foulest of all evils, back straight and spirit unbroken, and refused to step away. Who centred their entire lives, and death, around their son. Around Harry .
Harry doesn't know if he would've ever discovered the depth of their devotion for him if it hadn't been for those letters, that one chance encounter with a piece of his past waiting patiently for him. He thinks of how he was in the beginning of the summer, simmering with rage and impatience, unable to think straight or act right. He thinks, even further back, of the apathy that had been clinging to him for the past so many years. His inability to look past the smoke, to care about what was happening to him.
He thinks about an existence like that for the rest of his life and even Merlin wouldn't have had the power to stop the wave of disgust and chilling fear that rose in him like a tidal wave at the mere thought.
It's that -that it was the Dursleys who planted and nurtured the seeds of these behaviours in him, the knowledge that he could've gone on living like that, had it not been for what was basically a cosmic fluke -that which made him talk back to Aunt Petunia in a way he'd never dared before. It's not that he's suddenly not terrified of his relatives-because he is, perhaps always will be-but now he has more to live for, to fight for.
He has his parents' memory, their deaths, to honor. He has a living godfather to protect and support. He's not just a freak anymore, nor is he only Harry Potter The Boy Who Lived-he's somewhere in between and nothing could make him happier.
Harry took a deep breath as he looked into the mirror. Now that he'd used his recent financial independence (and understanding) to get some new clothes that actually fit him instead of hanging off him like he was a clothes rack, it made—a huge difference, to be honest.
He actually looked like something other than a malnourished stick, for one. Of course, It didn't hurt that the summer had just started. The Dursleys hadn't had the time to get rid of his Hogwarts-gained weight so far. There was quite a bit of definition he'd built through Quidditch that definitely went unnoticed under his usual rags. Most of all, though, Harry felt confident . He'd never known how big a difference wearing something that fit you properly could make, but he knew his entire bearing and walk had changed. He held himself straighter, his shoulders didn't droop so much. Most importantly, he wasn't trying to hide from the world.
And it definitely helped now that he was trying to do so many things at once. Walking into Gringotts or other offices looking like he was homeless right off the bat wouldn't have done him any favours, not on top of his young age. He knew part of his problems with the people of Privet Drive stemmed from his reputation—started by Dudley, but exacerbated by his own scruffy appearance. He couldn't have done anything about it then, but that wasn't the case now, and he was taking full advantage of it.
(He'd already noticed a few appreciative glances sent his way in the few days since he'd updated his wardrobe. Some of the older people who'd only ever glared at him had progressed to confused neutrality as well)
Today, he was dressed in a pair of black trousers, with a simple button down and a round neck sweater thrown on top. Casual, but smart. He needed it because he had another meeting with Mr. Armitage—top of the agenda was discussing Sirius' options, something Harry was very nervous about, admittedly. Out of everything he was doing, all that he'd talked to Mr. Armitage about needing help with, this was the most important thing for him.
Harry—needed Sirius, he realised that as far back as that night , before everything went to shit. He didn't…think about it, there was too much going on and with Pettigrew's escape and Sirius going back on the run, it felt too painful at the time. But now that he was actually doing something—understanding his position, figuring out his finances, meeting a lawyer, discussing options —he could actually bring himself to consider what it would be like.
A world where Sirius was free .
Where he wasn't on the run anymore, didn't have to stay hidden or turn into Padfoot just so he didn't get chucked into prison or get Kissed .
Where Harry could, maybe, live with him.
(Where he'd finally have someone who loved him)
But he wasn't thinking that far ahead yet, no. That would just be—getting his hopes up for no reason. Harry didn't even know if his current plan would work out, if it would help Sirius or make things worse. And if, by some miracle it did, then there was no guarantee it would mean him living with the man. That was—a whole other can of worms, and Harry was going to take this one step at a time.
With a determined nod at his reflection in the mirror (and resolutely ignoring the bruises under his eyes), he gave himself one last once-over, deemed it as best as he could look, and with his backpack slung over one shoulder, exited the room.
It was as he reached the last step that an unpleasant voice reached his ears. Dammit. He'd been hoping to escape without a confrontation, but guess it wasn't his lucky day.
"And just where do you think you're going?"
He turned around, as slow as humanly possible, to face the scowling face of Aunt Petunia. He sent a quick thanks to the puberty gods for the recent growth spurt. He was quite sick of having to look up at her, thank you very much.
"Out, Aunt Petunia," he replied politely .
"This isn't a guest house for you to be in and out as you please at all times of the day."
"I finished my chores for the week, and I'll be back before Dudley does, at least," Harry retorted, already sick of the conversation. Plus, he didn't want to be late , not today of all days.
"The nerve—," she started indignantly, before stopping midway. Presumably, she realised that the look on Harry's face meant he wasn't budging anytime soon and she'd have to share the same air with him more than strictly necessary if she wanted to get him to stay at home. Which, obviously, wasn't happening.
"Make you sure you're back before Vernon. I'm sure you wouldn't want him to learn of your little excursions, yes?" is what she went with, ultimately.
Harry took a deep breath so he didn't end up snapping at her—that would've been counterproductive—and just nodded in response, not even bothering with verbal communication. Uncle Vernon had been blissfully unaware of his little daytime trips so far, and he didn't quite know why Aunt Petunia was essentially covering for him, but he wasn't gonna look the gift horse in the mouth. Anything that made his life easier these days, no matter how minute, he'd take it.
Quickly, before she could find a new complaint to lob at him (or god forbid, a new chore ), he tugged his shoes on and nearly ran out the front door.
"Christ, that was close," he muttered as he walked over to an abandoned alleyway a few minutes away from No. 4. As he got closer, he unzipped his backpack and brought out the baseball cap he stuffed in there for this exact reason. With one hand, he carefully tugged it on, making sure his scar was covered, and with the other, held his wand up in midair, angling it towards the dead end of the alleyway so he didn't accidentally flash anyone.
One. Two. Three. Four. Fi—
There .
A rough bang sounded across the area as a bus rapidly slid to a stop right in front of him. Harry, anticipating the haphazard entrance, had already stepped a safe step back.
"Where to?" the conductor—not Stan, who was on vacation—asked him after he'd gotten on.
"The Leaky, thanks," Harry replied, already gathering the change from his pocket. He'd taken this route so often now he knew the process by heart (and a part of him was very giddy at the fact. Because it was a tangible sign of how things were different. He'd never been able to just roam around like that before. Not in the muggle world, and definitely not in the wizarding world like he'd been doing the past couple weeks)
"Cheers, mate."
Ten incredibly bumpy minutes later (where Harry, as he did every time he rode this thing, asked himself why he hadn't decided to go for a normal, not-death-defying, muggle tube ride instead) he was deposited in front of the Leaky Cauldron.
With a big fortifying breath—both to regain what he'd lost during the trip, and to steel himself—he walked in and without raising his head, went straight for the entrance to the Alley. No need to tempt fate, just yet.
Although he'd only been here a few times, the brick pattern was engraved into muscle memory and it was no time before he was standing in front of Armitage and Shellworth for the second time that month. .
"Right, let's do this then," he breathed out.
"Mr. Armitage," he greeted the older man who was leaning against his desk, looking down at a piece of parchment in his hand.
"Oh, Harry! Good to see you." They shook hands briefly. "And please, call me Oscar, I insist."
"Er- sure, Oscar," Harry replied, somewhat awkwardly, trying to get used to that level of informality with a man he'd only met twice now.
Mr. Ar— Oscar smiled gently at him, as if he understood. He made his way around the desk and sat down, gesturing with a hand for Harry to do the same.
"So, Sirius Black." Though they hadn't known each other for long, Harry greatly appreciated his habit of coming straight to the point. "You're sure you want to start with that case first, then? Because I have to tell you, it's probably going to be the most complicated one…won't be done so quickly, either."
Harry nodded firmly, "I've thought about this. The Dursleys, well, I've lived with them all these years and another couple won't make any difference. The Prophet—I got used to their shi- excuse me, crap , and as long as we keep working on it on the side, I think it's more than enough. Besides, Sirius deserves to be first priority for once."
Oscar didn't reply to that immediately, only scrutinised him with an intensity that made him want to hunch in on himself (something he resisted, but only just). Finally, after a moment that seemed like it went on forever, he looked away, focusing on his parchment again with a nod.
"Alright, let's get to it then," he said, briskly, "I've made a little list of things we need to tackle, but I think the first thing we need to discuss is how you want to go about it."
"Go…about it?"
"There's two broad options for us here. Either we take the long route—a full blown one with all the bells and whistles which would…take a month or two, probably more, or the short route, where we use some technicalities and a few loopholes to get your godfather off in a few days."
Harry's first, immediate instinct was to go for the second option. Why wouldn't he when it got him to Sirius faster? It could potentially solve their Dursley problem as well. But he forced himself to stop, really consider the options being presented to him. If it was that easy, then Oscar wouldn't have given him the choice like that. He'd have opened with the shortcut, but he didn't, and there had to be a reason for that.
So, with nails digging into his palm to ground himself, he asked, "Could you—what would be the advantages of either method? Which one would be best, do you think?"
He felt like he'd made the right decision then, no matter how hard it initially was, when he saw the approving glint in Oscar's eyes. It almost seemed like the older man was testing him? (Would he have failed if he'd gone with his first instinct? Did he expect that sort of a reaction?)
"I'm going to be honest with you here. I'm not sure if you'll like it, but the longer method is the way to go, in my professional opinion," Oscar admitted, one hand reaching up to adjust his glasses as he spoke.
Harry deflated slightly at that. A large part of him was expecting that answer (after all, when had things ever been easy for him?) but it was still a blow to hear it. Just once , he wished for the solution to be simple, straightforward, but no, apparently even that was too much to ask for.
"Alright. Can't say I'm surprised. Why do you say that?"
One of Oscar's eyebrows rose at that, as if surprised at his easy acquiescence (how did Harry tell him he was resigned to this kind of bullshit by now?) but he answered easily enough, "The shorter method, for lack of a better word, is manipulative . It's going to take advantage of the Ministry's own incompetence and the loopholes that already exist in our criminal law. What we'll go in with is the absence of due process—the fact that Sirius was only supposed to be held in a temporary lock up until he got a trial, and only if he was convicted, should he have been sent to Azkaban. That there were a couple—very vital— steps skipped in between basically gives us the right to argue for unlawful detainment, therefore overturning the Kiss on Sight order, and the guilty verdict after that. Considering, well, there was never a verdict in the first place. Does that make sense?"
Harry nodded slowly, trying to understand to the best of his ability, "We're basically arguing on the basis of process, rather than Sirius' guilt or anyone's actions. Which would really just be a clear win, since he didn't get a trial, nothing was done by the book, and anyone would agree it was a miscarriage of justice. But, it would be harmful to Sirius in the long run, won't it?"
"That's…exactly it, actually." Oscar sounded surprised , like he wasn't expecting Harry to make that connection and, well, he wanted to be offended but could he really? He could see where the man was coming from.
"I'm not just a pretty face, you know."
"Oh no—of course not, I—"
"I'm only joking with you, Oscar, really, it's okay," Harry cut in quickly, biting back his laughter at the panicked look that had suddenly appeared on the otherwise composed face.
"I—well, if you say so," was the hesitant response.
"You were saying…about the shortcut?" Harry prompted.
"Ah, yes," Oscar coughed lightly, "It would actually be quite easy to go that route, truth be told. And I can almost definitely guarantee that we'd be successful too, because we have all the grounds to win a case on a technicality. But, it would have two major consequences. First, it would make an enemy out of the Ministry and all its allies. You—might have realised it but our esteemed Minister doesn't like being made a fool of, which is really what will happen if we do this—never mind it was Bagnold's cabinet that dropped the ball on the whole thing—and he could really make life difficult for you and your godfather after that.
But more importantly, atleast in my opinion, not going for a trial would make it almost impossible for Mr. Black to live anywhere. He would still be considered a mass murderer and escapee, only with the added stain of escaping rightful justice on top of that. People don't look favourably on that sort of thing, not if they think someone used influence or money or loopholes to unjustly escape their punishment, particularly not in such a blatantly visible mockery of the system. That kind of a situation would be an even worse disservice to Mr. Black—not just letting people go on believing him guilty of something he didn't do, but to add something like this top of that."
Harry had had the same thought, even before Oscar spelled it out for him. He was thinking of a future where Sirius couldn't step out without being heckled or targeted or cursed, because everyone believed the worst of him and the truth was never revealed. How was that a better life than what he was going through currently? Hell, it would be worse , because Sirius would have to live with a lifelong reminder of-of all this. He would never get a break, never be able to rebuild his life.
Harry couldn't do that to him, no matter how much he wanted Sirius free as soon as possible, or how badly he wanted to leave the Dursleys. Sirius deserved to have his life back—so he could walk down the streets without worrying about being caught, and people didn't consider him guilty of such heinous crimes anymore. Which meant they'd have to go with the trial—
"Harry?" A concerned voice startled him out of his musings and he looked up into Oscar's worried face.
"Sorry, I was, uh, I think I got a little ahead of myself there," Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He had a habit of doing that sometimes—going fifteen steps forward without taking the next one.
"So, what do you think—?"
"Oh, no, I agree. There's no point getting Sirius' name cleared if we don't also prove his innocence along with it, beyond a shadow of a doubt. If that takes a bit longer then, well, none of us have anywhere pressing to be," he shrugged.
Oscar clapped his hands together, "I'm very happy you said that—I was hoping you would, because it truly is the smarter option to go with. Of course, ultimately, I would've deferred to you if you wanted to go through with this one, but it wouldn't have helped anyone."
"I might not be super happy about it, but this is Sirius' life and reputation at stake. Getting away from the Dursleys—I've got to think beyond my own wants at that point," Harry looked down at his hands as he said that. It was—a little too personal, especially for a man he'd just met once before, but he needed him to know what Harry's priorities here were.
All of this, everything he was doing, it was for Sirius. He wanted—he needed to do something for the man who'd given up everything for him. Sirius loved him so unconditionally, always tried his best to be there for Harry, and even if he was a little ticked off with the man at the moment, that didn't mean he forgot everything Sirius had done for him, the comfort and safety he brought with him.
So even though he knew Sirius didn't think that way, Harry wanted to do something to pay him back, to thank him.
Hence, this.
"Right. So. Route 2. That's the trial, right? What do we need for that?"
"Well, there's two parts to that. Before the trial itself, the Kiss on Sight order needs to be revoked, and we need to be in constant communication with the DMLE for that," Oscar replied, looking at his parchment as he did, "Our goal is to have Amelia Bones—that's the head of the department—on our side before we even get to the Wizengamot. It shouldn't be too hard, because she's thankfully not in Fudge's pocket, and is relatively more fair than most others."
"Do you think I should Owl her? It might sound better coming from me," Harry offers, thinking about what a pitiable picture he makes right now. Surely, a young, orphaned boy's plea would be received favourably? If nothing else, it would definitely raise questions about why he wanted justice for someone that supposedly led to his family's deaths.
"I…was going to do it, but if you could, that would be fantastic, yes," Oscar replied with raised eyebrows, once again looking unexpectedly surprised. "You could give her better information, and really bring in the emotions too."
Harry snorted. Emotions . Sure, why not. He'd already come this far, what was the harm in going all the way?
Director Bones
I hope this letter reaches you in good health. I'm writing to you to request a meeting with you at your convenience, but preferably before the new term starts on September 1st. I would like to talk to you about the Sirius Black case-I'm sure you can understand why I have a personal interest in the situation and so far, I've been kept mostly isolated from everything. I'd like to change that and I've been told that you are the person to contact to do so.
Please send your reply back with Hedwig, my owl, because I've found that most other methods of contacting me fall suspiciously short. Thank you.
Regards
Harry Potter
a few notes here:
- i wrote most of this chapter months ago, and before i'd written the stuff before it, so there's some continuity errors. i wont listen all of them, ofc, but just know that anywhere harry references something that didnt explicitly happen (like the money convo at gringotts), pls just fill in the gaps w ur imagination lol. i tried covering most of it up in editing but oh /
- sirius shows up next chapter! this is 100% confirmed news bc i've kinda planned out how i want the next couple chapters to look like and we're gonna have the last of the ootp timeline recap + GP + sirius from the next one. i am,,,,so excited for it i literally cannot tell y'all bc the godfather-godson relationship is literally the entire reason i started this fic ykno? i have so many scenes w the two of them written/planned that i am VIBRATING to /
- the bit about clothing and confidence and perception in the beginning is something i love 3 everything im trying to do in these chapters is build a solid characterisation for harry that includes the good and the bad, but most importantly, shows his growth. clothes are a big part of that for /
- stan is on vacation solely so i dont have to attempt his accent lol i despair for the moment hagrid enters the conversation hehebr /
- idk but im just...really proud of the way the legal proceedings r taking place in this because there's just...so many notes and background and planning going into every single line of it and just. idk. very plot-y ykno? and it's only gonna increase from here.
there's so much more i want to talk about this, but nothing new there-i always have way too much to say lol so i'll just stop here but i really, really hope u liked it. tell me what u thought in the comments!