Harry Potter and the HQL - Chapter - 13

The late summer sun spilled warm golden light through the tall windows of Highgarden’s east wing, casting long, glowing beams across a sea of parchment, open books, and softly humming quills. In the heart of this organized chaos sat Harry Potter, cross-legged on a plush velvet chair in his private study, one hand holding open a thick volume on Ancient Runes, and the other scribbling notes in a tattered leather-bound notebook.

Stacks of textbooks for the upcoming school year surrounded him like miniature towers—The Monster Book of Monsters, heavily chained and occasionally rattling from beneath a locked trunk; Intermediate Transfiguration, half-read and bookmarked with a sugar quill; and his newly issued book on Magical Creatures, which currently lay open on the page about hippogriff etiquette.

It was quiet in Highgarden that morning—Sirius had gone to Diagon Alley for last-minute errands, and Remus had promised to return later in the evening with updates from their broom workshop in Hogsmeade. That left Harry to his favorite pastime during the last week before school:

Reading ahead.

He flipped another page in the Ancient Runes textbook and sighed.

“This is ridiculously simple,” he muttered.

The text detailed the most basic translation matrices, like turning common Futhark into phonetic English using a sequence grid. Harry, who’d been reading runic grimoires and deconstructing Norse war wards for fun since last year, found himself frowning with boredom.

“Should’ve expected this,” he said aloud. “Hogwarts curriculum is meant for third-year beginners. And I’ve been reading rune theory since I was seven…”

Still, he carefully copied the tables and marginal notes—just in case the exam questions were less about creativity and more about rote method.

He leaned back and stared at the next book on his list: Fantastic Beasts of Northern Europe, one of the recommended texts for Care of Magical Creatures. That was one elective he was genuinely excited about.

“At least that class won’t be dull,” Harry mumbled, flipping it open.

The section he turned to was about thunderbirds, giant birds that could generate storms when agitated. Harry raised a brow as he read through their territorial behavior, calming methods, and how wandless magic sometimes influenced their moods.

“Fascinating,” he whispered, pulling out a fresh roll of parchment. “Definitely not the kind of beast you want Fred and George testing their pranks on.”

As the wind gently fluttered the sheer curtains and birds chirped outside, Harry moved from runes to defense, then from defense to enchantment theory. He didn’t follow a structured schedule—he read whatever interested him, whether it made sense or not. To him, magic wasn’t something to be boxed into chapters or school periods.

It was a living thing.

Just as Harry was noting down a spell theory about layered enchantments on broom bristles, there was a polite knock on the study door.

“Come in,” Harry said, not looking up.

The door creaked open and Norky entered with a tray floating beside him.

“Master Harry, lunch is ready in the solarium, and Master Sirius told Norky to remind you to eat this time.”

Harry chuckled. “Tell Sirius I appreciate his concern. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Norky nodded, ears flopping a little. “Norky will set the table, sir.”

Once the elf vanished, Harry glanced at the massive grandfather clock near the window. Only then did he realize he had been reading for five straight hours.

As he began putting away the books, Harry paused at the sight of his open Ancient Runes text again.

He ran a finger down the spine and murmured, “Maybe I should’ve picked Arithmancy instead. At least it might’ve been more challenging…”

But something inside him, something deeply curious and methodical, still clung to the runes. He wanted to master every detail—even if the school syllabus was behind him.

“Maybe I’ll ask Professor Babbling if she has any extra materials,” Harry mused. “No harm in learning ahead.”

And with that, he gathered his notes, packed the parchment neatly into his school satchel, and left the study behind for now.

He had one week left.

One week until he returned to Hogwarts.
One week to prepare, train, and maybe relax—
Because something told him this year was going to be unlike any other.


The smell of roast chicken, buttered leeks, and garlic bread drifted through the halls, and the long dining table in the west veranda was already set with silver goblets and polished plates.

Harry, dressed in a soft grey jumper and black slacks, was flipping through a Quidditch magazine when he heard the familiar sound of boots on marble—a light pair and a heavier, impatient stride. A moment later, the study door swung open.

“Oi, pup!” came the unmistakable voice of Sirius Black, grinning like a rogue, followed by Remus Lupin, wearing a brown traveling cloak and looking tired but content.

Harry stood up with a smile. “You’re both late.”

Sirius raised a hand in surrender. “Blame Remus. He kept giving gold to goblins who didn’t even ask for it.”

Remus rolled his eyes as he set down his bag. “I was paying wages. You know, like respectable business owners do?”

Harry laughed. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s sit before Rosley declares a strike.”

As they sat down and Rosley began serving generous helpings of roast and vegetables, Remus turned to Harry, his expression alight.

“I have news, and you’ll want to hear this.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, slicing into his roast. “Good or bad?”

“Very good,” Remus said, smiling as he leaned back. “The Practice Broom? It’s a hit. Orders are flying in faster than we can keep up. We’ve got shipments heading to Japan, Canada, Spain, even South Africa. I’ve had to double the production team in Hogsmeade.”

Sirius raised his goblet. “To the genius of Harry Potter—designing the world’s safest flying broom.”

Harry blushed slightly. “I just wanted kids to stop breaking arms.”

Remus nodded. “Well, you’ve done that—and more. The adjustable speed, height lock, and range limiter are revolutionary. Parents are thrilled, and more importantly, the Department of Magical Transport in several countries have already certified it as the ‘official training broom for underage flyers.’”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait—official?”

“Official,” Remus confirmed. “You’ve built a legacy with that one, Harry.”

Sirius smirked as he sipped his butterbeer. “Of course, now everyone’s wondering what you’ll make next. The Prophet had a tiny blurb about it yesterday—‘The Boy Who Lived and the Broom to Follow.’”

Remus nodded. “That’s not all. I’ve had five agents come to the office just this week asking for exclusives on your next broom. And I received a letter—hand-delivered—by a member of the Montrose Magpies, no less, asking for a prototype.”

Harry put down his fork. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Remus said. “They heard you’re working on a professional-grade model and want to be the first to test it. They’re not the only ones—Brazil’s national team sent an inquiry. They’re offering Galleons just for a look at the specs.”

Sirius leaned forward, grinning. “So, heir of Black and international broom baron in the making. When’s the launch?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m… still working on it. I want it to be perfect. Something that outclasses even the Firebolt.”

Remus smiled. “Then take your time. But be ready. The world is watching.”

As dessert—treacle tart and chocolate eclairs—was brought out, the mood shifted to quiet conversation. Outside, the stars began to glimmer across the enchanted dome covering Highgarden’s west lawn.

Harry leaned back in his chair, looking at the two men who had become more than mentors—they were his family. “It’s kind of strange,” he said softly. “This started as a fun project. Just making brooms for fun. And now it’s…”

“A legacy,” Remus said simply.

Sirius raised his goblet again. “To legacy. To progress. And to making sure no kid has to ride a Cleansweep that tries to kill them.”

They laughed.

And as the moon rose high above Highgarden, Harry knew the days ahead would be full—of magic, of innovation, and of responsibility. But tonight, for once, it was enough to be together, at home.


The sky over Diagon Alley was clear, with streaks of morning sunlight slicing through wisps of mist that curled around the tops of the old shops. The air buzzed—not with the usual last-minute school shopping frenzy—but with the crackling anticipation of something much bigger.

It was nearing 11 o'clock, and the enchanted posters all over the Alley bore the same message in bold flaming script:

"THE FUTURE OF FLYING — STAR BROOMSTICK COMPANY’S LATEST MODEL UNVEILED TODAY AT 11AM"

Despite the lingering fear Bellatrix Lestrange had spread with her escape from Azkaban—the moving portraits of her still snarling threats from every alley wall—people came. Even the posters couldn’t quiet the curiosity of witches, wizards, reporters, and Quidditch fans who flooded the cobbled streets. Some tried to avoid looking at the posters entirely, muttering counter-charms to silence her screaming voice.

"The Dark Lord sees all... his servants still walk among you..."

But the crowd ignored her.

Because today, Harry Potter was revealing a broomstick that was rumored to rival the Firebolt.

As Harry stepped into the Alley from the Floo inside Flourish and Blotts, the sound of chattering voices and the occasional pop of a camera hit him instantly.

He straightened his robes, adjusted his satchel, and took a deep breath.

“There he is!” someone shouted.

“Harry!”

He turned to see Fred and George Weasley, both tanned and grinning after their trip to Egypt, standing outside the Star Broomsticks shop. They looked thrilled.

“Harry, mate!” Fred called. “Back from the sands, ready for showtime!”

“You would not believe the brooms we saw in Egypt,” George added. “One had wings. Actual wings.”

“Also exploded on landing,” Fred whispered loudly.

Harry laughed and walked over. “Glad you’re both back. How’s the model set up?”

“Window's ready,” George said, nodding toward the covered glass display framed by polished brass. “Neville’s inside making final adjustments. And—heads up—we’ve got half the Prophet staff loitering around.”

At the stroke of 11, a small glowing countdown charmed into the window ticked down from 10. A hush settled across the crowd, broken only by the occasional flutter of Bellatrix’s shrieking poster.

3... 2... 1...

With a whispered spell and a flick of Harry’s wand, the velvet covering the window dissolved into sparks, revealing the Starlord.

Gasps erupted from the crowd.

The broom floated gently above a rotating silver platform. Its frame was a sleek obsidian-black, etched with precise silver runes. The shaft tapered into a stylized handle shaped for professional grip. But the most mesmerizing feature was the tail—an intricate, fanned array of enchanted bristles that glowed with a flickering orange flame-like aura, almost like a comet’s trail captured in wood and spellwork.

The name "STARLORD" hovered above it in fiery script.

Reporters surged forward as enchanted quills started scribbling furiously.

“Mr. Potter, is it true this broom uses kinetic spell pulses for stabilization?”

“How does the Starlord compare to the Firebolt in a dive curve?”

“Is the tail-glow aesthetic, or does it serve aerodynamic function?”

Harry stood proudly next to the window, answering patiently, confidently.

“The Starlord is still in refinement, but yes—it has kinetic bristle pulse technology, which helps stabilize at high speeds, especially in unpredictable wind conditions. The glow is primarily aesthetic—though it aids in broom tracking for televised games.”

“It’s designed with professional Quidditch in mind,” Neville added, stepping beside him. “Speed and responsiveness are its core. But we’re also layering in a degree of enchantment resistance—to prevent sabotage mid-match.”

Fred chimed in with a grin, “And the handle has three grip sizes you can magically swap depending on hand size or flying style. It’s like the broom chooses the rider.”

A few Quidditch scouts from foreign leagues pushed their way forward, eyeing the Starlord carefully.

“Is there a waiting list?” one asked. “We’d like to register interest for pre-order.”

“We’re accepting inquiries, not orders—yet,” Harry said carefully. “The Starlord will enter production after Christmas. Until then, we’re perfecting every part.”

As the reveal wound down, the crowd still lingered, some pressing to get closer views of the broom, others scribbling notes or taking pictures. Even a few young Hogwarts students stared in awe, whispering excitedly.

Inside the shop, Harry stood back from the window with Fred, George, and Neville, exhaling deeply.

“It feels real now,” he said quietly.

Neville grinned. “It is real.”

“We’ve done good,” George said, slapping him on the back.

Fred raised a butterbeer from a cooling tray behind the counter. “To the Starlord. And to the boy who lived… and then built a broom better than the Firebolt.”

They clinked bottles, and Harry smiled—not because of the fame or the attention, but because something he’d built, something he created, was about to take flight into the world.