Dusk deepened over Hogwarts, and the lake outside the castle reflected a deep purple sky.
Deep inside the castle, in the Gryffindor Common Room, a warm fire crackled, and scarlet sofas and golden tapestries made the whole room bright and comfortable.
Tonight, however, the atmosphere was clearly rather different from usual.
About twenty Gryffindor students crowded into the common room, all heatedly discussing something.
Harry Potter himself was surrounded in the middle, with several rolled-up copies of the Daily Prophet and a pile of scattered letters in front of him, all delivered by owls that afternoon.
His face was slightly flushed, clearly a little embarrassed by all the attention.
Ron sat beside him, holding a letter and reading it over and over in disbelief:
"Harry, this letter came from Devon, from a witch you don't know at all. She says here..."
"'Dear Harry, it breaks my heart to hear how difficult the past eleven years have been for you. If you need any help, please be sure to let me know.'"
"She even enclosed a Galleon!"
"I've got one here too." Seamus held up a letter. "He's a retired Auror, and he thinks... er... 'those Muggle relatives ought to be locked up in Azkaban.'"
"He's asking Harry whether he wants him to go and have a 'talk' with the Dursleys."
"That's going a bit far," Neville said quietly, holding a toad.
"I got two letters too, both asking whether Harry really lived in a cupboard. How would I know? I've only known Harry for two weeks."
Fred and George stood in front of the fireplace, flanking Harry.
Fred cleared his throat and announced in a seemingly formal tone, "Ladies and gentlemen, our Chosen One, Mr. Harry Potter, now has an autobiography of his very own-"
George chimed in, "That's right, the true protagonist-"
Fred said, "-the Chosen One who came out of the cupboard!"
"Fred!" Hermione stood up in the corner, also holding a copy of the Daily Prophet, a trace of displeasure in her voice.
"You can't joke about someone else's experiences like that."
"Oh, Hermione, relax." George waved a hand. "We're celebrating for him."
"Think about it. An eleven-year-old boy has actually had an autobiography published in the Muggle world. Isn't that worth a joke?"
"He didn't write that book!" Hermione stressed. "Someone called Allen Vane wrote it."
"And none of you have even read it. You're just repeating things the newspaper took out of context."
"Exactly!" Ron tossed his letter aside. "I haven't read it either. But what the paper said was sensational enough."
Harry helplessly opened his mouth. "All right, you win. But there must be plenty in the book that even I don't know about."
"Besides, I don't even know where to buy it. How could I have gone and written an autobiography?"
Frowning, Hermione opened the Daily Prophet to its front page, where the headline remained strikingly conspicuous.
"The question is, how does this author know so much about you?" She looked at Harry in puzzlement.
Just then, Percy Weasley came down the dormitory stairs, a Prefect Badge pinned to his chest and a newspaper in his hand as well.
"I think the impact of this affair has gone well beyond what many people imagined." Percy pushed up his glasses.
"The front-page article in the Daily Prophet shows that a great many people in the Wizarding World are following this. And apparently S.P.U.W. has already begun taking legal action."
"What's S.P.U.W.?" Neville asked.
"The Society for the Protection of Underage Wizards' Rights," Percy replied. "An independent organization dedicated to the circumstances of underage wizards."
"They take this very seriously, and their chair apparently has a lot of connections in the Wizengamot."
Harry felt a headache coming on. He had only been at Hogwarts for two weeks, and had thought he had finally escaped the shadow of the Dursley family and could begin living a relatively normal life.
Instead, he had found himself frequently drawing attention because of his lightning scar after entering the Wizarding World, and now the entire Wizarding World was discussing his childhood.
"I just want to go to school in peace," Harry muttered, so quietly that only Ron beside him could hear.
Ron patted his shoulder. "Mate, if you've really had an autobiography published in the Muggle world, I'm afraid you can forget about having any peace for the rest of your life."
Fred bounded over from the fireplace and draped an arm over Harry's shoulders. "Excellent! From now on, you're Gryffindor's 'Philosopher's Stone boy.'"
"Exactly! Though, er, what's the Philosopher's Stone?" George cut in.
"You two!" Hermione shouted again.
"All right, all right, I'll stop." Fred raised his hands in surrender.
"But seriously, Harry, what exactly is in that book? Aren't you curious at all?"
"Very," Harry said honestly. "But I have no way of reading it either. I can't exactly run off to the Muggle world to buy a book right now."
"Perhaps I could have a copy sent to you," Hermione said at once. "My parents live in the Muggle world. I'll write and ask them to buy one and send it here."
"Although, apparently bookshops in the Muggle world have already sold out."
"Sold out?" Ron's eyes widened. "A book about Harry has sold out in the Muggle world? Have those Muggles gone mad?"
"That means it really is a brilliantly written book," George remarked. "The pity is, those Muggles have no idea that everything in it is true."
"If they knew, it'd probably scare them out of their minds." Fred grinned.
Neville hesitantly raised a hand. "Then... if everything in the book is true, does that mean the author is a wizard too? How else could he know so much about the Wizarding World?"
Fred leaned back against the fireplace and said thoughtfully, "Whatever the case, this has given me a new interest in the Muggle world."
"Imagine a book about the Wizarding World being passed around the Muggle world, and Muggles reading it and searching everywhere for 'Platform Nine and Three-Quarters'..."
"I heard from Madam Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks that there have been loads more Muggles outside the Leaky Cauldron lately, taking pictures everywhere."
"That's right." George nodded. "She said Tom was complaining about those Muggles hanging around outside the pub every day."
"Wait-" Percy interrupted them both, looking stern. "How did you get to Hogsmeade?!"
"Er, well..."
Meanwhile, in an office at the Ministry of Magic, the atmosphere was nowhere near as relaxed.
Quildon strode back into his office, the door slamming shut behind him.
He took off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair, then dropped into an armchair, rubbed his face with both hands, and let out a long breath.
"Fudge, that bas..." He forcibly swallowed the rest.
He had just returned from the Minister's Office, where Fudge had spent nearly twenty minutes berating him, spittle flying.
"The entire Wizarding World is laughing at us!" Fudge had waved both hands, his face flushed red. "A book about the Wizarding World has sold tens of thousands of copies in the Muggle world, and our Ministry of Magic was the last to know!"
"Now the Daily Prophet's headlines are mocking us every day!"
"Do you know how many letters I received from other countries' Ministries of Magic this morning?"
"They're all asking, 'What exactly is the Great Britain Ministry of Magic doing?'"
Quildon had only been able to stand there with his head lowered and take the scolding, unable to offer a single word in rebuttal.
Fudge had continued roaring, "I don't care how you do it! You must find that author, immediately!"
"Find him, then make him stop writing, and cut off every channel for printing and distribution!"
"That's the only way we can stop any more of the Wizarding World's secrets from leaking!"
"But, Minister-" Quildon had barely opened his mouth before he was interrupted.
"No buts! This is your responsibility! If this reaches the International Confederation of Wizards, we'll both be in serious trouble!"
Quildon took a deep breath. Recalling the scene, he raked irritably at his already somewhat disheveled hair.
The office was quiet for a moment. He pressed the bell at the corner of his desk, and a silver voice-transmitting disc rose from its surface.
"Weatherby," he said to the disc. "Come in."
A few seconds later, the office door opened, and Weatherby hurried in with a stack of parchment documents in his arms.
"Head, the preliminary investigation results are in." He placed the documents on Quildon's desk.
Quildon picked up the top sheet and glanced at the title: "Progress report on the investigation into the Muggle book Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone."
"Get to the point."
Weatherby cleared his throat. "Our people went to the publisher-Bloomsbury Publishing-and found the editor responsible for the book, a middle-aged man named Barry Cunningham."
"What did he say?"
"Cunningham said that a literary agent named Christopher Little brought him the manuscript."
"Little runs a small literary agency. After signing the book, he went straight to Cunningham."
Quildon narrowed his eyes. "And how did Little get the manuscript?"
"Little said the manuscript appeared on his desk among a large pile of submissions."
"He claimed he didn't know who put it there or how it arrived. There was only an address on the back of the manuscript."
"13 Baker Street," Quildon said coldly. "I already know."
Weatherby froze for a moment. "You've already found it?"
"I already had the Magical Address Registry check. There's no number thirteen on Baker Street. That address is fake."
Weatherby swallowed. "Er... we continued investigating Little's background."
"He's an ordinary Muggle, fifty-seven years old. He's been a literary agent for twenty years, and his business includes fantasy and children's literature..."
"Stop!" Quildon interrupted harshly. "I don't want a Muggle's life story!"
"Right now, all I want is every piece of information about Allen Vane!"
"Do you understand?!"