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The Starlord - Chapter - 47
🕑 Added 2025-10-02 16:56:02 +0000 UTCThe aftermath of Harry’s interview came faster than anyone expected.
For days before, newspapers across Europe and America had painted him as selfish, a boy turning away from the sick. But the moment his words hit print—his raw honesty about Privet Drive, the cupboard, the punishments, the abandonment—the tide turned.
Every international paper ran headlines in big, bold type:
“The Boy Who Lived Speaks”
“Not a Savior, but a Survivor”
“Wizarding Britain Lied to Us?”
Letters came pouring into Hogwarts. Apologies from strangers. Sympathy from families. Some even sent gifts, small tokens of support. Others admitted they had once judged him harshly, but now saw him differently.
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, watching owl after owl drop parchment and packages in front of him. He didn’t even open most of them—just stacked them aside. But Hermione and Neville exchanged looks of relief.
“See?” Neville said, trying to sound cheerful. “Told you it was worth telling your story.”
Harry shrugged. “They change their minds too fast, Neville. Yesterday they hated me, today they cry for me. Tomorrow they’ll hate me again.”
Hermione leaned in. “Maybe. But at least now they know. That matters.”
If Harry’s mail overflowed with apologies, Dumbledore’s office overflowed with anger.
Howlers screamed on his desk daily. Piles of furious letters stacked high beside the Sorting Hat. Many accused him of lying, of misleading the entire wizarding world.
Neville had explained it to Harry bluntly the night before:
“Harry… Dumbledore told everyone that you were raised well. That you were safe, happy, with loving guardians. The entire world believed him. And now your interview proves it was false.”
Harry had laughed bitterly at that. “So the great Albus Dumbledore is finally facing the truth. About time.”
One morning, as the Great Hall bustled with students and owls swooped in with letters, whispers filled the air. A group of Ravenclaws huddled over a French newspaper, gasping. A Beauxbatons girl shook her head at the article in Le Sorcier Mondial.
“Can you believe it?” one boy muttered. “They say Dumbledore covered it all up.”
“Covered what up?” another asked.
“That Harry lived in a cupboard. That he was half-starved.”
Across the hall, Slytherins smirked cruelly. “Maybe that explains his temper,” one sneered. “Raised like a dog.”
Harry ignored them, pushing his eggs around his plate. But he couldn’t ignore the sight of Dumbledore at the Head Table. The old wizard looked pale, weary. His mail sack overflowed, yet again, with angry red howlers.
One erupted mid-meal:
“HOW DARE YOU, DUMBLEDORE, LIE TO US ABOUT THE BOY WHO LIVED! YOU LET HIM ROT IN A CUPBOARD, YOU OLD FOOL!”
The voice boomed through the Hall. Students gasped. Dumbledore’s face remained calm, but his eyes flickered with something close to shame.
Harry caught his gaze across the room. For a brief second, their eyes locked—blue meeting green. Harry didn’t look away. This time, Dumbledore did.
Later, in the common room, Hermione whispered urgently. “Harry, this changes everything. People don’t judge you anymore—they judge Dumbledore. They’re questioning his choices.”
Neville nodded slowly. “And if the world stops trusting Dumbledore… who do they look to instead?”
Harry smirked faintly, though his eyes were cold. “Not my problem. I told the truth. If the truth burns down their faith in him, maybe it deserved to burn.”
Hermione bit her lip. “Still, you’ve set off something bigger than you realize.”
Victor, who had come to join them, gave his slow, deliberate nod. “Harry has given world a reason to doubt their idol. Once doubt begins, it does not end easily.”
The Wizengamot chamber was filled to capacity. Plum-robed witches and wizards shuffled restlessly, parchments rustling as the Chief Scribe read out the reason for the emergency assembly: the matter of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
For decades, he had held three posts at once: Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. It had seemed natural—who else had the wisdom, the reputation, and the influence? But Harry Potter’s recent revelations had shaken faith.
Amelia Bones stood. Her voice carried firm and cold.
“It is not healthy for our world when one man holds so much power unchecked. Dumbledore may be wise, but he cannot be omnipresent. The case of young Harry Potter proves this beyond doubt. The boy was abused for years, while Dumbledore—his supposed guardian—did nothing. And it was not out of ignorance, but out of neglect.”
Gasps echoed in the chamber.
Cornelius Fudge, sweat glistening at his temples, adjusted his bowler hat.
“The people demand accountability. We cannot explain why, when James and Lily Potter were murdered, this Wizengamot did not place the boy in a proper wizarding household. Many families offered. Yet somehow, Dumbledore forced his will upon us. He must answer for it.”
At last, the tall figure of Dumbledore rose from his bench. His beard flowed, his half-moon spectacles caught the torchlight.
“I never sought power for power’s sake,” he said softly. “I accepted the roles because others urged me to. As for Harry, I believed—perhaps wrongly—that his protection lay best with his mother’s blood. My judgment may have been flawed, but my intent was not.”
Murmurs spread, but there was no warmth in them.
Lady Marchbanks, oldest member of the Wizengamot, slammed her staff.
“Intent does not feed children, Albus. Intent does not comfort a boy locked in a cupboard. You had the authority to intervene, yet you did nothing.”
It came swiftly. The proposal was laid down:
That Dumbledore be removed from the post of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.
That Dumbledore also be removed from the post of Supreme Mugwump.
He may retain the post of Headmaster of Hogwarts, as the school is not under the Wizengamot’s direct authority.
The roll call vote began. One by one, voices echoed: “Aye.” “Aye.” “Aye.”
Only a handful murmured “Nay.”
When the tally was complete, it was overwhelming. Dumbledore stood stripped of two of the three titles that had defined his life for decades.
Dumbledore remained very still as the gavel struck. He inclined his head once.
“So be it. May you find someone else to shoulder these burdens.”
He turned, robes sweeping, and left the chamber in silence.
The news spread like Fiendfyre. The Daily Prophet headline the next morning roared:
“DUMBLEDORE FALLS – Wizengamot Strips Titles Amid Potter Scandal”
Letters poured into the Ministry—some celebrating, some furious, many stunned. International newspapers seized the story gleefully. In Paris, in Berlin, in Stockholm, headlines mocked Britain’s “overreliance on one wizard.”
And for Harry, sitting in the Gryffindor common room with the paper in hand, there was only one thought:
The world is finally seeing Dumbledore for what he is. Not infallible. Not untouchable. Just another man who failed me.
The impact of Harry’s interview hadn’t ended with sympathy or apologies. It had cracked open something deeper: outrage
Every morning, owls swarmed the Great Hall carrying not just letters, but packages. Brightly wrapped boxes, carefully tied with ribbons, colorful envelopes stuffed with small tokens—every bench of Gryffindor table was flooded.
Neville blinked at the sight one morning. “Blimey, Harry. You could open a shop with all this.”
Harry gave a tired look at the mountain of gifts in front of him. “I don’t want them.”
Hermione leaned forward, adjusting the pile so it wouldn’t topple into his porridge. “They’re trying to make up for it, Harry. They’re horrified at what you said in the interview. About… never getting real presents.”
“Yeah,” Harry muttered bitterly. “Outrage comes cheap, doesn’t it? Where was all this when I was shoved into a cupboard, eating scraps?”
Susan Bones, passing by, stopped awkwardly. “Harry… some of these people mean well.”
“I don’t care,” Harry said flatly. “If they mean well, they’ll mean it when I’m not in the headlines.”
That evening, back in the Gryffindor common room, Neville found Harry sitting with the unopened packages piled around him.
Neville asked quietly, “What are you going to do with all of it?”
Harry tapped his chin. “Send it to the Ministry.”
Hermione, who had been hovering nearby, looked startled. “The Ministry?”
“Yes. Let them give it to the orphaned kids. Children who actually need a reminder that someone cares.”
Neville’s eyes lit up. “That’s… brilliant, Harry.”
Hermione softened. “It is. But you know what this will do?”
Harry smirked, tossing a letter into the fire. “Yes. It’ll make the Ministry look like idiots. Because the Boy Who Lived didn’t keep his presents. He gave them away, while the Ministry never lifted a finger to check if he was being abused.”
Hermione sighed but nodded slowly. “And once again, you make the Ministry look like fools.”
The backlash was immediate. Headlines screamed across Britain and Europe:
“Harry Potter Sends Gifts to Orphans – Ministry Silent”
“The Child They Failed Now Does Their Job”
“Boy Who Lived, Boy Who Gives”
Cornelius Fudge slammed a copy of the Daily Prophet down on his desk. “This is a disaster! He’s making us look incompetent!”
Dolores Umbridge, seated primly nearby, tutted in her saccharine voice. “The boy is… manipulative, Minister. Turning sentiment against us with simple theatrics.”
Fudge’s face turned red. “Theatrics or not, the people are eating it up! Now he’s not some rebellious brat—he’s an abused child, one we should have protected. They blame Dumbledore, yes, but they’re blaming the ministry too!”
At Hogwarts, Dumbledore could feel the shift as well. The mail for him had not stopped.
Harry had noticed the Headmaster looked older, more tired, his eyes dimmer each passing day. Once the world’s unquestioned leader, now he was seen as the man who left Harry to rot in a cupboard.
In the corridors, Harry overheard students whispering.
“Did you hear? It was Dumbledore who placed him with those relatives.”
“Why didn’t he check? Why didn’t anyone check?”
“Harry should have been the most protected child alive!”
When Harry passed, students still shrank away from him. Fear lingered. But now, fear was mixed with guilt.
That night, by the fireplace, Hermione looked at Harry seriously.
“You’ve changed everything,” she said softly.
Harry glanced at her. “I never wanted anyone's sympathy.”
“Not sympathy,” Hermione corrected gently. “You forced the world to look at the truth. And they can’t unsee it. Not anymore.”
Neville, polishing his new wand, added, “And they’ll never forget it, Harry. Even if they try.”
Harry leaned back, staring into the flames. For once, there was no bitterness in his tone. Just quiet certainty.
“Good.”
The Wizengamot chamber had rarely been so noisy. Ministers, officials, and old pureblood lords bickered openly, parchment and quills scattered across the benches. The reason was singular: Harry Potter.
Cornelius Fudge banged his gavel.
“Order! Order in the chamber! We cannot allow this—this boy—to continue shaping policy by accident!”
Amelia Bones, sitting straighter than most, cut across him.
“Then perhaps we ought to stop failing at our jobs. The truth is out now. Children like Potter fell through the cracks because we had no system in place. That will change.”
Murmurs rippled.
Dolores Umbridge simpered, “Minister, surely we needn’t—”
“Enough, Dolores!” Fudge snapped, sweat beading his brow. “The people demand action, and by Merlin we will give it to them. We will not have our government mocked by every paper from Paris to Prague!”
Within days, the Ministry announced the creation of a new department: the Department for Magical Child Welfare.
The Daily Prophet headline was bold:
“Never Again: Ministry to Protect Wizarding Children from Abuse”
The new branch had a sweeping mandate:
Inspect magical children raised in Muggle homes to ensure they were safe.
Remove those living in abusive conditions.
Establish a new orphanage solely for magical children, funded by the Ministry.
Redirect the gifts Harry Potter sent toward those orphans, ensuring they had food, clothes, toys, and books.
At breakfast, Neville set the Prophet down on the table.
“Look at this, Harry! They’re creating a whole new department… because of you!”
Hermione’s eyes shone. “This is incredible. Do you realize what this means? No magical child will ever go through what you went through.”
Harry chewed his toast slowly, frowning. “They’re not doing it for the children. They’re doing it to save face.”
Susan Bones, who had cautiously rejoined their table, nodded reluctantly. “Maybe. But even if their reasons are selfish… the results are good. Children will be safer.”
Harry finally allowed himself a small smirk. “Then let’s see if they keep their word.”
The announcement sparked a frenzy of recruitment. Posters were plastered across Diagon Alley:
“Protect the Next Generation! Join the Magical Child Welfare Office Today!”
“No child left unprotected!”
Witches and wizards with backgrounds in Healing, Law Enforcement, and even Muggle Studies were hired. For the first time, Aurors were tasked not with fighting dark wizards, but with interviewing Muggle families, checking cupboards, attics, and even basements for hidden children.
Plans for the orphanage advanced quickly. The Ministry purchased an abandoned estate on the outskirts of London, expanding it magically to house hundreds of children. Wards were layered to keep out Muggles, Dark wizards, and even overzealous reporters.
Fudge toured the half-renovated halls, followed by flashing cameras.
“This will be a beacon of hope! A safe haven for every young witch and wizard abandoned or mistreated. And let the world know: Britain protects her own!”
Behind him, Umbridge whispered, “And let the world also know who to thank for this, Minister.”
But Amelia Bones muttered under her breath, “They’ll thank Potter. They’ll always thank Potter.”
Harry sat by the fire in the Gryffindor common room as Neville read the paper aloud.
“They’re naming the orphanage ‘The Haven.’ That’s… actually nice.”
Hermione smiled faintly. “It’s poetic.”
Harry stared into the flames. “If it means no kid will ever be locked up for having magic, then good. But they can keep their speeches. I don’t need them.”
Neville placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You already did more than anyone else ever could. You gave them no choice but to act.”
Harry didn’t reply. But deep down, he allowed himself one rare thought—perhaps, just this once, something good had come from all the pain.
