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The Starlord - Chapter - 65
🕑 Added 2025-11-17 15:48:02 +0000 UTCThe British wizarding world had always been a factory of gossip — but this time, Harry’s off-handed remark in the Three Broomsticks was twisted, stretched, butchered, and smeared across every pub, fireplace, and breakfast table in the country.
It began with a whisper.
Then it became a rumor.
Then it became poison.
And by the time it reached the desks of the Daily Prophet, it was a full-blown accusation.
HARRY POTTER FLEEING BRITAIN?
"BOY-WHO-LIVED REFUSES TO DEFEND HIS MOTHERLAND," SOURCES SAY
The article went further — far further than anything Harry had ever implied.
According to the Prophet:
Harry Potter didn’t want to fight for Britain.
Harry Potter was “afraid” Voldemort might return.
Harry Potter resented being called the Boy-Who-Lived.
Harry Potter was running to Sweden because he wanted “a life of luxury while his people suffered.”
Harry Potter had supposedly “betrayed the memory of his parents.”
The article conveniently forgot the months they spent calling him unstable.
It forgot their own smear campaign.
It forgot how cruelly they had mocked him and Dumbledore.
Now, they needed a scapegoat.
And Harry was their favorite.
The very next morning, Harry woke to the sound of dozens of wings beating against the windows at Grimmauld Place.
Harry had barely stepped outside his room before the first owl collided directly with his chest, dropping a letter wrapped in green ribbon.
“Master Harry…” Winky whispered, peeking from behind the wall. “More owls… dozens… more than dozens…”
Harry tore the letter open.
TRAITOR.
HOW DARE YOU ABANDON US?
YOUR PARENTS MUST BE SPINNING IN THEIR GRAVES.
YOU ARE NO SON OF JAMES AND LILY POTTER.
His jaw tightened.
Another owl slammed into the window.
Then another.
Five more circled the house like vultures.
Dobby appeared with a crack, ears pinned back in murderous rage. “Master Harry! They insult you! They— they want to hurt Master Harry with words! Dobby wants to burn them all!”
Harry forced a slow breath. “No. They’re idiots, Dobby. Just sheep repeating whatever the Prophet writes.”
“But—!” Dobby’s ears twitched. “But they say Master Harry is coward! Master Harry who killed basilisk! Master Harry who fought shadows! Master Harry who—”
Harry lifted a hand.
Dobby fell silent.
“Enough. I don’t care what they think.”
He really didn’t.
But the cold fury in his chest said otherwise.
With a flick of his fingers, the Force rippled outward — a silent, invisible pulse that traveled through the house’s wards.
Every window shimmered.
Every door glowed.
A new barrier formed — an owl-ward — a dome that deflected any incoming owl, bouncing them harmlessly away.
Outside, dozens of owls let out confused screeches as they ricocheted off the invisible shield and scattered.
Winky clapped her hands. “Master Harry clever! No owl can bother Master Harry now!”
“Good,” Harry muttered. “Let them write whatever they want. I’m done letting these people crawl into my life.”
He walked to the dining room, cloak swaying behind him. As he sat at the long wooden table, Dobby placed tea and toast in front of him — though the elf was still trembling with anger.
“Master Harry should not read any of those filthy letters,” Dobby hissed. “Dobby will burn them before Master sees.”
Harry shook his head. “No. Keep them. They’ll be useful to show Sirius.”
Useful to show what Britain really was — ungrateful, fickle, blind.
Hours later, more owls crashed outside the wards, sliding helplessly onto the pavement. The sky above Grimmauld Place was practically black with feathers.
Neville and Hermione arrived by Floo, both pale and frantic.
Hermione shoved a copy of the Prophet into his hands before he could speak.
“Harry, did you see this?”
Neville added angrily, “My gran was furious — but not at you. She said the Prophet always does this when they need a new villain.”
Harry smirked darkly. “Good. Let them try. I’m not their hero.”
He tossed the newspaper onto the table where it slid across the wood like a venomous snake.
Hermione sat down, voice trembling. “Are you okay?”
Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes cold and unreadable.
“I’m not angry,” he said softly.
Hermione blinked. “You’re… not?”
Harry’s lips curled — not into a smile, but something sharper.
“No. I’m disappointed.”
He tapped the newspaper with a single finger.
“They expect me to fight their battles after this? To save people who would gladly watch me burn? They think I care about their approval?”
His eyes — dangerously calm — lifted to meet theirs.
“Let them hate me. Let them fear me. I owe this country nothing.”
Neville swallowed hard, a chill running down his spine.
Dobby nodded fiercely. “Yes! Master Harry owes them nothing! Nothing!”
Winky shivered. “Winky thinks… Winky thinks Britain forgets who protects them.”
Harry’s voice dropped into a whisper — soft, lethal.
“Let them forget. It’ll make what’s coming easier.”
He stood, the lights flickering as the Force rippled around him. His cloak whipped behind him as he walked back toward the basement stairs.
“And soon, I will leave this world to its fate.”
The torches dimmed as he descended below, leaving his friends in stunned silence.
Upstairs, dozens of owls screeched helplessly outside the wards —
voices of a nation that no longer understood the boy
who would one day abandon their sky altogether.
Sirius Black was not a subtle man.
He did not quietly observe the Daily Prophet’s attack on Harry.
He did not wait for explanations.
He did not try to reason with idiots.
The moment the news reached him — properly, unfiltered, and dripping with lies — Sirius reacted exactly as one would expect from a man who once escaped Azkaban on sheer willpower:
He went to war.
Not with wands.
Not with hexes.
But with money — and political leverage.
Sirius burst into the Swedish Ministry office so fast that two aurors dropped their quills.
“Where is Director Vinterholm? I need him now.”
His voice echoed like thunder.
Remus chased behind him, breathless. “Pads—slow down—”
Sirius slammed a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the desk. “LOOK at this! LOOK WHAT THEY’RE DOING TO HIM!”
The Swedish officials read the headline:
“HARRY POTTER BETRAYS BRITAIN — FLEES RESPONSIBILITY”
Their faces twisted into disgust.
Sirius jabbed a finger at the paper. “This is why I left Britain! This is why I brought Harry here! And now those parasites are trying to twist his life too.”
Director Vinterholm straightened his glasses. “We can… discuss political asylum?”
Sirius smirked dangerously. “Not just asylum. Citizenship. Full rights. Immunity from British interference.”
The director blinked. “That is… difficult.”
Sirius folded his arms. “I’m one of the richest wizards in Europe.
I’m dating one of your department heads.
I’m also the reason your dragon reserve survived last year’s wildfire.”
The room went silent.
Sirius leaned forward.
“You want Harry Potter to be Swedish?
I’ll make it worth your while.”
Back in Grimmauld Place, Dobby delivered the news with his usual theatrics:
“Master Harry! Master Sirius is making Master Swedish! He is conquering the Scandinavian government!”
Harry blinked. “He’s what?”
Dobby grabbed Harry’s arm. “Come now! Portkey ready! Sweden wants you!”
Harry stared at the ceiling. “Merlin’s saggy— fine. I’m coming.”
Minutes later, Harry activated the portkey —
and the world spun.
He landed inside a polished hall of the Swedish Magical Immigration Office, where Sirius and Remus were waiting at a large desk stacked with paperwork.
Sirius grinned. “SURPRISE!”
Harry sighed. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely helpful,” Sirius corrected. “Sit. Sign. Smile. Become Swedish.”
Harry dropped into the chair as an official slid parchment toward him.
“Mr. Potter, by request of Lord Sirius Black and under joint special protocol, you are being offered immediate Swedish citizenship.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “No tests? No interviews?”
The official deadpanned. “You are a powerful wizard. We consider that… sufficient qualification.”
Sirius laughed hard.
Harry stared at the parchment.
He didn’t want Swedish citizenship.
He didn’t want a new nationality.
He didn’t want to leave Britain forever.
But the truth was harder:
Britain didn’t want him.
Britain wanted a weapon.
Or a villain.
Or a scapegoat.
Nothing in between.
Sirius placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “This isn’t running away, pup. This is protection. They can’t control you anymore. They can’t demand things from you. They can’t legally drag you back into their mess.”
Remus nodded quietly. “Think of it as… armor. The kind you’ve needed for a long time.”
Harry studied the quill.
“Fine,” he said quietly.
And he signed.
The official stamped the parchment with a glowing seal.
“Congratulations,” he said with a respectful bow.
“Harry Potter — Swedish citizen.”
Sirius cheered. “WELCOME TO THE LAND OF DRAGONS AND GOOD CHEESE!”
Harry… simply exhaled.
He didn’t feel joy.
He didn’t feel sorrow.
He felt free.
Not from Britain —
but from its expectations.
Sirius grinned at him. “So, ready to move in permanently? We can set up a training wing—”
Harry shook his head.
“No, Sirius. I’m not staying here.”
Sirius blinked. “What?”
Harry folded the parchment and placed it inside his cloak.
“I’ll stay in Britain. In Grimmauld Place. I have some unfinished business there.”
Sirius smirked. “You’re still the same stubborn brat.”
Harry smiled faintly. “You wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t.”
Dobby appeared beside him, saluting.
“Master Harry is now citizen of Sweden! Dobby shall update all files!”
Winky clapped. “Master Harry important now!”
Harry chuckled.
“Let’s go home.”
As they returned to Grimmauld Place, Harry whispered to himself:
"Let them try to trap me now.
I am no one’s pawn.
Not anymore."
The leak came faster than Fiendfyre and spread twice as fast.
No one knew who started it —
some said a Swedish clerk bragged in a pub,
others blamed a Ministry spy,
and a few insisted Rita Skeeter’s ghost was crawling through fireplaces.
But by sunrise, the entire Wizarding World of Britain woke up to the same headline:
HARRY POTTER ABANDONS BRITAIN
THE BOY-WHO-LIVED BECOMES SWEDISH CITIZEN
Chaos erupted.
Not outrage.
Not celebration.
Not even anger.
Just raw, unfiltered panic.
In the Minister’s office, Cornelius Fudge had to be given three Calming Draughts just to stop him from hyperventilating.
“HE CAN’T— HOW COULD— WE NEED HIM!” Fudge cried, pacing wildly. “We’re supposed to protect him, not — not bully him out of the country!”
His Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge, fanned herself rapidly.
“But Minister, we… we didn’t exactly treat him kindly. The Prophet— well—”
“THE PROPHET WORKS FOR US!” Fudge shouted. “And it has chased away our most valuable… DEFENSE!”
He collapsed into his chair, muttering, “This is a disaster. An absolute catastrophe… If another Dark lord emerged, and we have no Harry Potter— what do we DO?!”
Umbridge nervously adjusted her bow. “Minister, perhaps we could send him a letter… apologizing?”
Fudge glared. “A letter? A LETTER? He’s SWEDISH now!”
He buried his face in his hands.
“We’ve lost him.”
The staff meeting was nearly as frantic.
Minerva McGonagall held the newspaper with trembling hands. “We failed him,” she whispered. “All these years… we truly failed the boy.”
Snape muttered, “Potter always had a talent for dramatics.”
“Severus,” McGonagall snapped sharply, “this is not the time.”
Snape looked away, jaw tight.
He didn’t look smug.
He looked… thoughtful.
Flitwick squeaked nervously, “But what does this mean? If the Dark Lord returns— and he might— who will stop him?”
Hagrid sniffed loudly in a corner, blowing into a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth. “We shoulda protected him better… after all he’s been through…”
Dumbledore sat silent at the head of the table.
Eyes closed.
Hands steepled.
Expression unreadable.
Finally, he spoke.
“We have reaped what we sowed,” he said quietly. “We expected too much from a child. We demanded loyalty without giving it. And now the boy has found his own path.”
McGonagall’s voice cracked. “Albus… what do we do now?”
Dumbledore looked toward the window, gaze distant.
“We pray,” he said. “Because if Voldemort returns… Britain now stands without its savior.”
