Categories > Books > Harry Potter

Going Legal

by daled73 20 reviews

Some people who have reached the breaking or tipping point in their lives “Go Postal” as the phrase has come to mean, and start killing everyone in sight. But there is a much colder, and cru...

Category: Harry Potter - Rating: PG - Genres: Angst,Crossover - Characters: Harry - Warnings: [?] - Published: 2014-03-23 - Updated: 2014-03-23 - 2031 words - Complete

5Original
Going Legal
By Dale Ravenclaw

You know the drill. “She” owns it all, W&H excepted, who perhaps own her. I own this plot.
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[/Some people who have reached the breaking or tipping point in their lives “Go Postal” as the phrase has come to mean, and start killing everyone in sight.

But there is a much colder, and crueler (!) way to deal with those who have caused you grief; IF you know where to go. Go Legal.


Sirius was dead. The idiot Headmaster condemned him to another summer in Hell, and in solitary to boot, but the overriding fact was Sirius was dead. The Headbastard had even kidnapped Hedwig on her first message run, claiming she was “too recognizable”, and vowing to send school owls every three days.

Harry Potter has been “stewing in his own juices” for a week when the Gringott’s owl arrived. It held out it message and Harry finally shook loose from the shock of getting a message, and took the document. The owl sat, awaiting a reply apparently.

Harry unfolded and read the letter, which explained that his Godfather had managed to leave instructions in the event of his unexpected death or disappearance. Apparently Padfoot had premonitions of what was afoot. Or he just didn’t trust the Headbastard any more than Harry did now. In any case, the letter explained that the Black Family had kept several law firms on retainer with the Goblins authorized to pay the annual fees from the Black Family vaults.

Going on the assumption that Harry was again on his own, Sirius advised him that he needed strong, competent, and (above all) independent legal counsel. People whom the name of Albus “W.T.F.” Dumbledore meant less than nothing, unless it meant “preferred target”. He had several choices available. If he had any reason to believe that he couldn’t escape fully from Dumbledore’s clutches, he might want to go with Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe. But if he wanted to truly bugger the old Bugger, and all of his “Plans”, then there was probably a better choice.

In his youth Sirius had been in a position, especially as Heir presumptive, to overhear some discussion between Lord Black and his father on family business, and that was where he head first heard of Wolfram & Hart. He had picked up on the barely suppressed glee that the very idea of turning “W&H” loose on someone had produced in all the Black cognoscenti who had been present.

In later years he had occasion to mention them to Charles Potter and he had been surprised that they were on retainer for House Potter as well.

W&H were held by the Potter’s to be a very powerful tool. Like all such tools, they were a danger to the hand that wielded them, if done carelessly, or in an unskilled fashion. But they were honorable, according to the particular exacting standards they abided by, and could be trusted, so long as their code was understood, and not taken lightly. Like a powerful medical potion, they were to be used in times of great need, when the dangers were outweighed by the powers they wielded.

In later years, Sirius continued, he had discovered that W&H were not an exclusively Wizarding World company, and were in fact far more involved in the mundane world than any other group he had knowledge of. He also learned that they were not JUST a law firm, though that was their primary axis. He had even learned that wizards of the “darker persuasion” often dealt with the W&H “Dept. of Internment Acquisitions”. Those of lesser breeding referred to it as “Graverobbers, Inc”.

At that point Harry had to put the parchment down and think for a few minutes. These folk, he supposed he should call them, sounded like a great foil for his various adversaries, including Fudge. From what Sirius was quietly telling him, Fudge was likely to become Chocolate Syrup in the face of this group.

After a short breather Harry resumed reading.

There were two modes of dealing with W&H when they accepted someone’s cause and then moved against you. Submission and Self-destruction were the only options they left open. By the time you knew they were on your trail, they had you painted into a corner with only those two doors to choose from.

And they were already paid for.

All Harry had to do was decide to use them and get in contact. A quick note to Bonebreaker, his Potter Family Manager, would set up an appointment with them and Gringotts would return a timed portkey to take him to their London offices.

Harry thought for all of four minutes before picking up a quill and writing out a response that he gave the owl that immediately departed. He was so, so tired of being the doormat for the Headbastard, for the Order, for the Ministry, for the whole Wizarding World to wipe their feet on as they ran over him with no concern for his desires, or even his life.

Having finally been able to do something, however small, for himself, Harry felt a great relief, and settled down in his unmade bed to take a nap.

He was awakened by the return of the Gringotts owl several hours later. The letter it carried indicated that an appointment was set up of 9AM the next morning, and the letter would serve as a round trip portkey into the Wolfram and Hart London Offices at 8:55 AM.

Thinking about the shabby state of his hand-me-down apparel, Harry decided to wear his school clothes and to take his wand and cloak with him. He knew he was venturing into new and uncharted territory, and he should be prepared for anything. He would also carry the few pound notes he had managed to hide from his Uncle under the floorboard, “just in case”.


8:50 AM the following morning found Harry dressed in the best clothes he had available, his chosen artifacts hidden on his person and the letter clutched tightly in his hands. On the dot of 8:55 the unmistakable jerk of the Portkey hit him, and he clung to the paper for dear life,

He arrived in an otherwise empty room, but a nicely dressed lady was standing by the closed door obviously awaiting him. He picked himself up off his knees where he had fallen on arrival, and blushed in embarrassment over his lack of grace in traveling. The lady didn’t seem to mind, and simply asked “Mr. Harry Potter?”

He managed to answer, and nod, without mumbling in his embarrassment, and followed her through the door into a hallway. That hallway lead through lushly furnished offices and spaces, so far as he could take time to see. Their brief trip ended at a polished rosewood door with the name “Linwood Murrow” set into it, in gold. It did not appear to be gold paint or gold leaf. Below in smaller letters were the words “Junior Partner”.

The lady escorting him opened the door into the most opulent space Harry Potter had ever seen in his life. It seemed there was to be no period of waiting, to establish a hierarchy of dominance between himself and Mr. Murrow.

Harry walked slowly into the office feeling the deep pile carpet cushion his every step. Mr. Murrow, he supposed, was sitting behind a desk that looked fit for the Prime Minister of the muggle United Kingdom, reading one of a small group of folders, which took up no significant part of the acres of polished hardwood that seemed to comprise the desktop.

Before he could reach the desk Mr. Murrow had put down the folder and stood to greet Harry, coming around the desk to extend his hand. Harry shook hands with him and hoped his eyes were not bulging too far out of his face. He was sure his Uncle’s house couldn’t actually fit into this office, but he kept feeling that it probably could, against all reason.

Mr. Murrow seated him in a finely finished leather client’s chair and returned to his side of the desk. Just at that moment Harry’s abused and empty stomach chose to embarrass him further by grumbling. The lady who had brought him in
quickly placed a small table beside him bearing tea, cakes, and assorted pastry items in his reach, and then disappeared. Harry never heard the door open or close.

Mr. Murrow picked up the open folder he had laid aside and glanced at it again for a moment.

“Mr. Potter. We have been wondering when you would choose to get in touch with us for some time, considering the many … irregular … circumstances you have found yourself embroiled in.”

Harry hoped his face didn’t show how shocked he felt at those opening lines. It seemed that while Dumbledore didn’t bother to keep track of what happened to him, or perhaps didn’t care, Somebody had been paying attention to his life.

“Your Godfather was in touch with us; as retainers to House Black for 400 years, he informed us that he was contemplating “loosing the dogs of war”, as he so colorfully put it, upon those who have been supposed to be seeing to your care and well being. In both worlds, as a matter of fact.”

“Since we are also retainers of House Potter, for 250 years, we are at your service, My Lord.”

The last was said with no trace of irony, nor any sense of laughing at his ratty estate. Mr. Murrow had even added the slow half bow that his sitting position allowed, without breaking eye contact with his client.

Harry swallowed and didn’t quite stammer, “What are you talking about, sir? I am nobody’s “Lord”.”

At that, Murrow’s eyes went from warm and welcoming, with a hint of questioning in them, to chips of obsidian ice. His jaw muscles, hidden under finely shaved and tended skin, suddenly tightened into knots of anger, and Harry shrank back fearfully. Whatever else he may have been, Linwood Murrow was not someone that anyone wanted to provoke, and his simple denial of the title had apparently angered the man.

Morrow’s manicured hands remained flat on the desk, He didn’t telegraph his anger by balling up fists. Only his face betrayed the volcanic anger his young client had unwittingly unleashed. Seeing the fear that was manifest on the face of the frail and abused young boy, Linwood mastered himself and consciously relaxed his face, but the eyes remained hard and cold.

“My Lord, no matter what you have been told, no matter what you believe, you are indeed a Lord, twice over, and in both realms. Those who have kept your ancestry and heritage from you will be dealt with, (and here a coldly Evil Smile™ appeared on his lips) and it will be my pleasure, as well as my duty, to see to that … personally.” The last word was somehow pronounced so that it seemed to blend into a cat’s purr, like he might have expected from McGonogall, if she were happy.

“So let us get the immediate matters cleared up.” He picked up several folders of different colors, and opened the first. “Since your eleventh birthday you have been both de facto and de jure Head of House Potter, and a “Lord” by courtesy, as you are emancipated by that fact, there being no legal Regent for your House.”

Opening the next folder he didn’t even bother to skim the papers contained in it. “You are Thane of Athol in the Peerage of Scotland and, yes, very much a Lord, of many people and much property there from.”

The next folder was opened. “You are Earl of Ross also, in the Peerage, and while that is a higher ranking, the Earldom only goes back for 700 years. The Thaneship (it would be a Barony, in England) goes back for 1100 years.

“May I say, Lord Potter, that representing you is going to be my personal pleasure, as well as my professional duty.”
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