A/N – Okay, so this is my first attempt at writing a Harry Potter fanfic. I strive for quality, and so if you see a problem or issue with my story, or simply have a suggestion for improvement, let me know. There are a few things that are absolute, and suggestions to change them will not be considered. Harry will use dark magic, Harry will NOT be gay, and there will not be character bashing of any kind. Harry might like or dislike some characters more than others, but there will be no absurd OOCness. I will also not reveal what the end result of Harry's usage of dark magic will be, because that is essentially a main facet to the plot of the story. In later chapters, there will be utterly excessive and yet glorious amounts of violence, so if you're under 18, don't continue reading, as I will not interrupt my story or reveal plot elements to warn readers when it's going to start happening. Two more things – first, there is one major cliché in this chapter, in that Harry goes to Gringotts and he has "Family Vaults". Sorry, I just couldn't resist. Second, this story will take place mostly in Hogwarts, and Harry will not have miraculous levels of power with no explanation. I've noticed a trend, in that a lot of authors make Harry arbitrarily older and thus make him arbitrarily more powerful, thus leading to more action and excitement. Well, Harry is in school still, and if you want to see him get powerful, you're going to have to take the journey with him. I'll do my best to have his training go at a quick pace and not be too boring, but it WILL be a major element in this story. With that said, enjoy the story!
Blood red eyes burned into his mind, an unrelenting gaze filled with pure hatred and malice. Their thin, catlike irises were rimmed by a fine line of black, and were narrowed in the fearsome likeness of a snake. The scar on his head throbbed in agony.
Harry Potter.
The eyes slowly morphed, blurring along the edges until they turned into the sad, mournful eyes of his friends. Unshed tears hung glistening, and their gazes filled with the bitter taste of betrayal. Why? They seemed to ask. Why did you fail us? Slowly, the images of his friends began to fade until they were nothing but wispy shadows, and then, nothing.
You're mine, Harry Potter.
Out of the shadows came Bellatrix's mad, cackling laughter. It reverberated all around him, everywhere, it was everywhere!
I'm going to kill you, Harry Potter.
I killed Sirius Black! The gleeful sound of her laughter served as background noise as Sirius slowly, inevitably, fell into the Veil. His hair waved gracefully in the nonexistent breeze, the ghost of his last smile still on his face. I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!
Harry Potter.
The anger, the hatred, it all burned together and formed into a single, shouted CRUCIO!
Harry Potter!
NO!
With a jolt, Harry Potter woke up, and floundered about in his incredibly tangled sheets for a few moments before he finally calmed down. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, and his scar burned uncomfortably on his forehead.
Warily, he climbed out of bed, images from the dream slowly fading from his mind. While not exactly commonplace, Harry was no stranger to such dreams. For you see, Harry Potter of Number 4 Privet Drive was not your typical fifteen-year-old wizard. As a baby, he somehow managed to survive a killing curse from a Dark Lord so feared and powerful, people refused to even utter his name – Voldemort. On that fabled Halloween night so many years ago, James and Lily Potter were betrayed by a man whom they believed to be their friend by the name of Peter Pettigrew. On that night, Voldemort went to Godrics Hollow and single-handedly killed both James and Lily Potter, but when he turned his wand on the one-year-old Harry Potter, his killing curse backfired and destroyed his body, reducing him to a form less than the most lowly spirit and leaving Harry with naught but a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Harry Potter was hailed as a hero of the magical world, but alas, he grew up far away from fame and magic, and instead was forced to live with his bitter Muggle (non-magical) relations, the Dursleys. Harry Potter grew up in a very unhappy home, and never knew love nor friendship. However, all of that changed when he received a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on his eleventh birthday, and Harry was spirited away into a world of magic and adventures. As he grew older, Harry Potter accomplished many amazing feats, usually with the help of his best friends Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. The older he got, the darker his adventures became, and the reality of war and his place in it became apparent.
Pettigrew (otherwise known as Wormtail) knew that Voldemort was looking for the Potters and their newborn son, and knew he would be rewarded handsomely in return for his betrayal. However, he did not know why, for that information was a closely guarded secret, a secret that could now be found splashed over the cover of the Daily Prophet – Harry Potter – The Chosen One? Harry and his friends discovered, deep in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, that there was indeed a prophecy, one that foretold of Voldemort's demise at the hands of Harry Potter. While useful, this information had a very steep cost, one that Harry was not fully prepared to pay. The ordeal at the Ministry lead to the death of Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, at the hands of his deranged cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange. Although Harry was able to prevent Voldemort from learning the full contents of the prophecy, and exposed the Dark Lord's resurrection to the public, he blamed himself and his rash actions for the death of the one man who he had ever truly seen as family. All over a prophecy, one headmaster Dumbledore had not seen fit to inform him about.
For you see, Prophecies are an ancient and arcane art, and are subject to the capriciousness of free will. Many prophecies are never fulfilled, and are lost to the ever-changing threads of time. When Voldemort went to kill Harry Potter all those years ago, it was to put an end to the baby who he believed could one day grow to defeat him. However, Voldemort did not know the full prophecy, and so did not know that by seeking Harry Potter out, he was marking him as his equal, and setting the prophecy into motion.
Whether by Prophecy, or Fate, or Coincidence, or their very Natures, Harry Potter and Voldemort became inextricably linked, and neither of them will ever rest while the other still draws breath. The seemingly unassuming fifteen, soon to be sixteen, year old was embroiled in a war that had lasted two generations, and if the prophecy was true, it was up to him to end it.
Hedwig gave an angry screech, and rattled her wings against the bars of her cage. Uncle Vernon had, once again, locked her cage and forbidden Harry to let her out. Although, Harry strongly suspected that after a week or two of dealing with her noise, Uncle Vernon would cave-in and allow her back out.
"Don't look at me like that, girl, you know there's nothing I can do," Harry said, although he felt guilty all the same. He understood what it felt like to be locked up, the reminders of which were the cat-flap installed in his bedroom door, and the five (currently unlocked) locks on his door.
She gave him a reproachful glare, and turned her head away. She was having none of it.
With a sigh, Harry looked at his watch and checked the time. It was 5am Saturday morning, of June 25th, 1996. Harry strained his ears, and sure enough, the faint rumblings of Uncle Vernon's snores could be heard in the next room. The sun had not yet peaked over the horizon, but the sky was already a murky blue color, rather than black. It was the start of Harry's summer holidays, although the term 'holiday' was used a bit loosely in his case. He was one of very few teenagers who would actually prefer to be at school than on holiday, because being on holiday meant he had to spend more time with his wretched relatives, the Dursleys. Ron and Hermione had promised to write to him this summer, but he wasn't sure how much they'd be able to tell him about the happenings of the wizarding world. The war was in full force, and yet Dumbledore seemed to think that here, at the Dursley's, was the safest place for him…
Harry's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch at the thought of the headmaster. For, as much as Harry blamed himself, he couldn't help but partly blame Dumbledore for the events of last year. If Dumbledore had just told him what the Order had been guarding, he never would've rushed into the Department of Mysteries, and Sirius would still be alive. And Sirius would've never rushed off to the Ministry if Dumbledore hadn't kept him cooped up in Grimmauld Place all the time.
But Sirius would've wanted to go down fighting, his inner voice reminded him.
Still, he thought, still…
Harry's stomach gave another unpleasant lurch, reminding him that he hadn't eaten for several hours. Harry shrugged on an old t-shirt, a jacket, some worn khakis, and a pair of trainers before grabbing his wand and stowing it in his jacket pocket. With Voldemort at large, he wasn't taking any chances. Harry turned to Hedwig and promised that she'd be out of there soon enough before quietly tiptoeing downstairs. The Dursleys wouldn't notice if he grabbed some food, but if he woke them up this early in the morning, there'd be hell to pay.
Absentmindedly, Harry made himself some toast and poured a glass of juice. The stark difference between the dark, sterile kitchen of the Dursleys to the bustling warmth of Hogwarts sent a pang of longing through Harry's chest. He hated it here, with the pristine lawns and the shiny cars and the neighbors who ushered their children along every time he passed them on the sidewalk. "Don't look at him," they would always whisper, afraid that their precious children could somehow be infected by his hooliganism by a mere glance. The Dursleys had successfully convinced everyone that he went to St. Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, which made him the official eyesore of the neighborhood.
Still, it was unlikely that anyone would be up and about at this hour, and Harry had nothing better to do, so after washing up the dishes he went outside. Last night's chill still lingered in the crisp morning air, and the Dursleys' perfectly manicured grass was weighed down by a heavy layer of dew. Harry internally exalted at the sense of freedom he felt being out of the Dursleys' house, even surrounded as he was by a street filled with identically stuffy houses. Harry couldn't help but wonder how Sirius felt all of those months trapped inside dark and dreary Grimmauld Place. Thinking of such things made his eyes prickle and his chest ache, something he'd had enough of, thank you very much. Harry refused to wallow, and needed to do something to keep his mind off of Sirius.
So without further ado, he took off running, blocking all thoughts and emotions from his mind except for the mindless automatic process of left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot... Harry ran, and ran, and when his legs started aching and his breaths became heavy and pained, he ran some more. Harry had always been good at running, and it had certainly come in handy all those years when Dudley's favorite sport was Harry Hunting. Harry hadn't gone running in a while, but he quickly fell into a familiar rhythm, trusting his body to know what to do. Any thoughts that might have drifted into Harry's head were ruthlessly squashed by his overwhelming sensation of bodily discomfort. The sun slowly crept above the horizon, but Harry took no notice, as consumed as he was in his mechanical endeavor. Suburban houses became one giant blur as Harry padded across the familiar streets of a place he loathed to call his home. Sweat leaked out of him at every pore, but still he kept going, going, going, until he had made an entire loop around Little Whinging. It was only until he started getting closer to Privet Drive that he slowed down, his body trembling and shaking, but his mind clear as a bell.
However, as fate would have it, Harry's peace was to be short-lived. Whether by coincidence, chance, or some subconscious pull that he himself was unaware of, Harry stopped at the worst possible place imaginable.
As he took deep, gulping breaths that did nothing to alleviate the burning in his chest, Harry looked around and noticed a cheerful street sign proclaiming him to be at Wisteria Walk. With a growing sense of dread, he slowly turned his head and saw the alleyway that led to Magnolia Crescent, the alleyway where he had been attacked by dementors just last year, and the alleyway where he had first seen Sirius, all those years ago. Harry let out a scream of frustration, and collapsed down onto the curb. He sat with his head in his hands, futilely trying to keep the thoughts away and the tears from falling. He realized, with no small amount of irony, that this was also the same place on the curb where the Knight Bus had almost run him over. To think, it could've all been over that fateful night, killed in a car accident. The Dursleys would've been proud to have him die in such a mundane, ordinary way. Harry truly hated this place, he wished he could just go back to the wizarding world, just for a moment…
Before Harry realized what he was doing, he was pulling his wand out of the inner pocket of his jacket. Surely, a little excursion couldn't hurt, right? Harry knew that it was risky, beyond risky, especially with Voldemort alive and out for his blood, but dammit, he wasn't a child anymore, and had the right to go wherever he pleased. Standing up from the curb, Harry looked around nervously, feeling very much like a kid about to steal candy from a grocery store, despite his justifications. After reassuring himself that there was nobody around and smoothing his hair over his forehead, Harry cautiously lifted his wand in the air, and almost dropped it in surprise at the monstrously loud "BANG!" that announced the arrival of the Knight Bus.
Before he could even gather his wits, a short, freckly teenaged boy stepped out of the bus and gave what sounded to be a very poorly rehearsed speech.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, offering transportation to stranded witches and wizards since 1866! My name is Bill Wadsworth and I'll be your attendant this evenin…morning! Just name the price, I mean, place, and we'll name the price!"
"Leaky Cauldron," said Harry gruffly, walking into the bus. The less he talked with Bill, the less chance there was he'd be recognized.
"Right-oh! That'll be 11 sickles, Mr…?"
"Dursley," said Harry, rummaging through his pockets. He felt like an idiot for not remembering that he needed money to ride the bus. By chance, he found a single galleon in the front pocket of his jacket, and shoved it into Bill's hands. This excursion had come very close to ending before it had even begun. Already, Harry felt a growing sense of apprehension and anger, wondering why in the world he made such a stupid, reckless decision.
Bill, oblivious to his passenger's dark mood, responded perkily, "Alrighty! Ern, we got another one for the Leaky Cauldron, might as well head there after we drop off Ms. Wiltshire at Tottinghead."
Ern, if he heard Bill, gave no sign of it, and with another BANG! the bus was careening along the English countryside. Harry barely had enough time to grasp the handrail, and even then, he almost buckled to his knees.
"Aye, it's a bit of a bumpy ride, a bit surprising for people when it's their first time riding. But you know, we get some celebrities in here sometimes! Why, I heard that Harry Potter himself rode the bus once, right Ernie?" asked Bill excitedly. Harry nervously flattened down his bangs again, fiercely hoping that this Stan Shunpike clone wouldn't guess who he was.
"Don't be saying things like that Bill, it's bad for business! Now keep yer trap shut!" hollered Ernie from the front. Apparently, the war had already changed all sorts of things, the bus driver's demeanor included.
Bill gave Harry a conspiratorial wink before making the "shh!" gesture over his lips. If Harry wasn't so nervous, he might have found the whole thing humorous. When the bus came to a lurching, grinding stop, a stern-looking woman stood up and walked briskly out of the bus, clearly relieved to be on solid ground once again. Bill counted out Harry's change and handed it to him, right before the bus gave another obnoxious BANG! and started bowling through the cramped alleyways and congested streets of downtown London.
"Alright, you and Mrs. Bagshot are next. I'll just go make sure the old gal is awake," said Bill, trotting off further down the bus. Harry thought it'd be a miracle if anybody ever managed to sleep on the Knight Bus, but when Harry saw Mrs. Bagshot, he understood Bill's concern. She was so old, her eyes were milky and her skin was the texture of a dried-up raisin. As the Knight Bus finally came to halt outside the dingy looking pub that was the Leaky Cauldron, Harry allowed Mrs. Bagshot to leave first before following her at a sedate pace. He didn't want to appear over-eager to leave, and the best way to blend in and not look like he was hiding something was to just act natural.
When Harry walked into the Leaky Cauldron he saw Mrs. Bagshot take a seat one of the tables, but she was the only one there besides Tom the barkeep, who rushed over to her enthusiastically to take her order. Apparently, the Leaky Cauldron wasn't doing business like it used to. Harry made his way to the back as unobtrusively as possible, and sighed in relief when he tapped the bricks to get into Diagon Alley.
His relief, however, was short lived. It became quite apparent to Harry that the state of the Leaky Cauldron was by no means unique – everywhere he looked, there were shops with boarded up windows and seedy vendors trying to peddle their wares to the scant number of shoppers scurrying from shop to shop as quickly as possible. One of the shoppers met his gaze and looked quickly away, but not before Harry could recognize what emotion her eyes held – fear. These people were afraid.
Cautiously, Harry made his way down the streets, flattening his bangs nervously once more. Harry wanted to get out of here, and silently cursed himself once again for his impulsiveness. He figured if he was going to do anything, he needed to get money first. He couldn't even ride the Knight Bus back without 5 more sickles, and he didn't fancy asking Tom to use the floo for free since he would undoubtedly have to reveal his identity. So, with newfound determination, he started heading towards Gringotts. Harry hoped that most people would just assume he was a muggleborn due to his distinctly muggle clothes and not pay too much attention to him. It was easy for him to get to Gringotts quickly due to the near-emptiness of the streets, and very soon Harry was trotting up the bronze steps into the grand marble building.
Harry walked straight up to the teller, who briskly asked him what his business was today here at Gringotts. Nervously, Harry cleared his throat, and said "Harry Potter to withdraw money from my vault." He looked around, and it didn't appear as if anybody was listening.
The goblin studied his face intently, and then barked out, "And would you happen to have your Key, sir?"
Harry shook his head no, and the goblin grimaced in distaste. "Due to certain circumstances, we would need blood proof of your identity. Follow me into the back, and we can do the test now."
Harry didn't exactly know what the goblin meant by certain circumstances or blood proof, but it sounded rather ominous. He didn't fancy bleeding himself in front of these goblins, but the Hermione-esque part of his brain reminded him that he was stranded and needed money from his vault if he wanted to head back. With strong reservations, he nodded, and the teller motioned for him to follow.
After walking down a short corridor of marble, the goblin led Harry to a door that opened into another corridor of marble. Finally, they stopped at a door, and the goblin knocked three times. The door swung open, admitting them into a small, circular room that was made of some sort of black crystal. Two other goblins stood waiting in the room, one of them holding a wicked looking silver dagger.
"Here you are, Mr. Potter. Gabgok and Hoddic will explain the situation to you," said the bank teller briskly, before turning around and heading back down the corridor. Goblins could be quite nasty, that's for sure.
"Mr. Potter, it has come to our attention that you are the sole benefactor of the will of the late Sirius Black," began one of the goblins unceremoniously, presumably Gabgok. "He named you his magical heir, and heir to the House of Black. In order to be legally recognized of the new owner of all of Sirius Black's fortunes and estates, as well as the fortunes and estates of the House of Black, we need to do a blood test to ascertain your identity."
Harry froze, unable to understand for a moment what Gabgok was talking about. Shock flooded his veins, and never had he understood the actuality of Sirius' death so starkly. Sirius was dead, gone. He had left everything to Harry, because he wasn't alive to own it anymore. Harry felt a strong lump form in his throat, but he absolutely refused to break down here, in a public place, in front of two random goblins. He was confused, for a moment, as to why exactly Sirius had left everything to him. Then he realized, of course, Sirius would never leave his money for his Voldemort-worshipping family members. Naming Harry was the logical choice. However, there was another, larger part of Harry that swelled with joy and heartbreak at the fact that Sirius left everything to him because he truly did think of him as a son. Harry did his best to quell the surge of emotions, but it was with a slight tremor in his voice that he responded "This is all quite sudden, I just came here to make a withdrawal."
"Of course, Mr. Potter, but surely you didn't think we bleed every client that walks in that forgets their key, now, did you?" smarmily remarked the other Goblin, presumably Hoddic, in a way that made it quite clear what he thought of Harry's intellectual capabilities.
In all honesty, Harry didn't know what to think. This entire thing, from the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley to Gringotts, was one colossally impulsive mistake that seemed to magnify with every decision he made. Harry never thought he'd ever admit it to himself, but he almost wished he had just stayed at the Dursleys. By now, Aunt Petunia must've woken up for her early morning cleaning and noticed he was gone, but hopefully she'd just assume he was prowling around the neighborhood doing what lazy good-for-nothing teenaged boys do. Harry wondered if the Order was aware of his absence, or if there had been a guard at his house at all, before noticing the growing looks of impatience on the goblins' faces.
"Can't I just make a withdrawal without claiming the contents of the will today?" asked Harry, still incredibly shocked and growing more wary of the entire process, especially considering the wicked looking dagger still clutched in the hands of Gabgok, who was sporting an identically wicked grin.
"But of course, Mr. Potter, you would just have to pay us 500 galleons for the inconvenience of preparing the ritual room on such short notice, and then refusing to submit blood evidence even when you're already here and highly capable of doing so. And, of course, there's the small possibility of any of Mr. Black's relatives showing up to claim the contents of the will, the rights to which you would forfeit should you refuse the test," replied Gabgok as cheerfully as goblins were capable of being.
"Wait, why would me wanting to postpone the test have any impact on the will whatsoever?" questioned Harry, feeling remarkably like he had been backed into the corner. He did not want to have to deal with this. Having to face the reality of Sirius' death was enough trauma for one day, in Harry's opinion.
"Because, Mr. Potter," responded Hoddic silkily, "since you came to Gringotts in person, you automatically bound yourself to the formal rules and etiquettes of inheritance that we here at Gringotts have upheld since the Middle Ages. Had you not come in, the contents in the will would have passed to you automatically, with nary a complication. However, since you did come in, you implicitly agreed to uphold the ancient customs, an agreement that, if broached, would forfeit your claim to the will."
Harry was internally fuming, and some of his anger must have shown on his face because the goblin's insincere smiles grew even larger. "This entire bloody thing is ridiculous! I just wanted to make a withdrawal so I could head back home!" he spat, mentally cursing these wretched goblins and the absurdity of Goblin law.
"It's tradition," replied the Goblin smoothly, taking great delight in Harry's frustration.
Harry had absolutely no desire to own anything from the House of Black, a family that Sirius himself detested for their belief in blood supremacy and their devotion to the dark arts. However, Harry had even less desire to see any money fall into the hands of Sirius' more deranged family members. The thought of Bellatrix Lestrange cackling merrily as she strolled through Grimmauld Place with galleons falling from her fingertips was enough for Harry to make up his mind, and so with little hesitation he said "Alright, I'll do the test. What exactly do I have to do?"
"Excellent, Mr. Potter, you've made a very wise decision," complimented Hoddic as if he were talking to a small child that had solved a particularly difficult math problem. "All you need to do is stick out your right arm."
"My right arm? But what…" began Harry, reflexively stretching out his arm as if to examine it. However, before he had time to complete his sentence, Gabgok was upon him, the wicked silver dagger slashing neatly through his forearm.
"What the bloody hell! You can't just…!" spluttered Harry, grasping at his arm that was now spurting far more blood than was entirely natural. He immediately felt woozy, and for one crazy moment, he wondered if he was going to die.
"Yes, the magic of the blade hastens your blood flow until the required amount of blood has been spilt on the floor, which should be about… now," said Hoddic airily, and with a start, Harry looked down to see that his flesh was stitching itself together. Within a few seconds, his arm had completely healed, with neither a scratch nor scar to mark where he had been cut open moments before. However, Harry still felt lightheaded, and when his head stopped buzzing after a few moments, he looked up to see that the black crystal (of which the room was comprised) was glittering eerily. Harry watched incredulously as his blood slowly, gelatinously, oozed its way across the floor and up the wall on its own accord. It looked frightfully similar to cherry syrup, and eventually, the blood began to form letters that glowed scarlet on the obsidian stone. After a minute or so, the process was finally over, and Harry was left staring at the words "Harry James Potter."
"Very well, Mr. Potter, your identity had been confirmed," said Gobgak professionally, as if he hadn't just sliced Harry's arm a few minutes ago. "If you'll follow Hoddic, he'll summarize your new accounts and present the will to you, should you desire it."
"What…how in the world did that just happen?" said Harry in gross fascination, still unable to understand how his flesh had mended and his blood had moved on its own without any sort of spell.
"Mr. Potter, when it comes to blood magic, and dare I say, the darker aspects of magic, rest assured that you are woefully ignorant of their usefulness and capabilities," Hoddic replied, not bothering to hide his condescension. "There is no other branch of magic in which the boundaries are so distorted, and thus, no other branch that holds as many seemingly impossible possibilities. Now, if you'll follow me…"
Wordlessly, Harry followed him, suddenly grateful to be finally leaving the macabre room and returning to some level of normalcy. Harry, who had faced Voldemort in person and lived to tell the tale, could honestly admit to himself that he was unnerved. Somehow, he felt betrayed, as if his own blood had partaken in some despicably evil act. The words "Harry James Potter" still burned brightly behind his eyes, and unwittingly, his mind flashed to the burning letters "I am Lord Voldemort" that were the anagram of Tom Marvolo Riddle. The similarities were eerie, and Harry involuntarily shivered once before clamping down on that train of thought. I'm nothing like him, he thought fiercely. I didn't enjoy that. But such a distinction gave him no small degree of comfort.
"In here, Mr. Potter," gestured Hoddic to yet another door. This time, when Harry opened it, it was with some relief that he saw that it was just a normal office. "Now, first things first, if you'd like I can show you the late Mr. Sirius Black's will. He created it purely for legal purposes, and if you're looking for some sort of sentimental last message, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere."
Mutely, Harry shook his head no, not wanting to spend any more time here than he absolutely had to.
"Very well, then the next order of business is a summary of your new accounts," continued Hoddic. "Your personal vault originally contained 1,342 galleons, 214 sickles and 67 knuts. The contents of Mr. Sirius Black's vault have been transferred to your personal vault, and his vault has been closed with his death. Mr. Black's vault held 8,534 galleons, 123 sickles and 91 knuts at the time of his death, along with an assortment of female undergarments."
Harry couldn't hold back a snort. Hoddic glared at him nastily, but continued as if Harry hadn't done anything. "Now, you may access these funds at any time since they were the personal funds of Sirius Black. He also left you an unplottable property, but since it is indeed unplottable, I have no idea where it is."
Harry nodded, and immediately understood that Sirius had left him Grimmauld Place.
"However, the matter of the House of Black vault is a bit more complicated," admitted Hoddic, his ever-present sneer growing even more pronounced. "It holds an addition 11,378 galleons, 45 sickles, and 13 knuts, along with an assortment of preserved muggle scalps dating back to 432 BC, and a collection of old wands from deceased Black family members. The contents of the vault legally belong to you; however, to physically gain access to the House of Black vault, you must be accepted by the family ring. It is a unique peculiarity of the House of Black, and there are only a handful of other family vaults in Gringotts with similar protective measures. Should you be accepted by the family ring, you would be able to enter the vault, but much like your House of Potter vault, you cannot withdraw anything until you turn seventeen."
Bemused, Harry responded "I never knew I had a House of Potter vault."
"As we have already ascertained, Mr. Potter, there are a number of things you don't know," said Hoddic rather nastily. Harry was getting fed up with all the insults, but by this point, knew that arguing with the goblin would be useless, and just stayed quiet. "As it is, the House of Potter vault is mostly empty, and contains only 15 galleons, 12 sickles and 19 knuts, along with some furniture and robes that have been in there for several generations."
Harry repressed a shudder – the furniture and robes must be ancient. An image of Ron dressed in his horribly frilly dress robes came unbidden into his mind, and Harry was rather unsuccessful at turning his laughter into a sudden, hacking cough. He gestured vaguely at Hoddic to continue.
"I have the Black family ring with me here," said Hoddic, fetching an elaborate stone box from a drawer and presenting it to Harry. It looked like it was made of jade, with carved snakes along the edges and glittering emeralds and onyx stones inlaid throughout. It was exactly the sort of dark, gaudy thing Harry would have expected from the House of Black. Hoddic opened the box, and inside was a rather simple silver ring with an enormous black onyx, on the surface of which were the words "Tourjous Pur" in microscopically small emeralds.
"All you need to do is try it on," said Hoddic, being unusually helpful, which immediately put Harry on his guard. Nevertheless, seeing no reason to delay, Harry grabbed the ring and pushed it onto his pointer finger. For a second, nothing happened, and Harry let out a sigh a relief that there would be no more surprises. However, all of a sudden Harry felt a sharp prick, and without warning, the ring started vibrating and burned a bright scarlet red, scorching his finger in the process. With reflexes born of many years of quidditch, Harry snatched the ring off his finger and tossed it onto the table, where it smoldered for a bit before growing still.
Glaring at Hoddic, Harry managed to bite out "And I'm sure I was supposed to know that would happen as well?"
"Well, Mr. Potter, I am curious what you thought would happen if you put on a ring for a family whose motto is "Tourjous Pur," said Hoddic, who seemed to be in very good humor. "The Blacks pride themselves on blood purity, so it's very logical that they'd have a protection on the family ring preventing anyone who isn't a Black, or indeed, anyone who isn't a pureblood, from wearing it."
Harry did indeed wonder why he was so surprised, and intensely wished he could use magic so he could blast the Black ring to smithereens. His finger had a very noticeable and very painful burn mark, and a small dribble of blood leaked from where the ring had pierced his skin. At that moment, Harry understood just what Sirius meant when he said that his family members were 'the worst sort of blood supremacists.' The thought of using their gold to help fight Voldemort sent a rush of vindictive pleasure through Harry, and a plan came unbidden into his mind. "So, you're saying the vault is legally mine, but I just can't go into it?"
"Indeed, Mr. Potter, I believe that is the conclusion we've reached. Although you're always welcome to try on the ring again," offered Hoddic, who seemed a bit too pleased at the idea.
"Well then, I'd like the contents of the House of Black vault transferred to the House of Potter vault," said Harry succinctly.
After a moment's pause, Hoddic managed to say, "Excuse me, Mr. Potter?" The goblin clearly hadn't anticipated this turn of events.
"Here, I'll explain this slowly so that you can understand," said Harry viciously, feeling enormously gratified when Hoddic bared his teeth in his ugliest grimace yet. "If I legally own the money, then I can transfer it wherever I damned well like, even if I can't use it until I'm seventeen. Therefore, I'd like it transferred to my House of Potter vault, which I can't use until I'm seventeen anyway. Surely, an institution as prestigious as Gringotts should be able to handle such a simple matter as a transfer. Oh, and I'd also like a copy of my House of Potter vault key, just for security purposes, as I'm sure you understand, and a 100 galleon withdrawal, which is the only reason why I came to this illustrious institution in the first place."
Hoddic stared at Harry silently for a few moments, and Harry got the distinct impression that he was reevaluating his initial appraisal. After several more long seconds of silence, Hoddic finally said, "I'll call someone to take you down to your vault."
Harry left Gringotts whistling cheerfully, inordinately pleased for someone who had just been stabbed, bled, and burnt in the span of an hour. A bright orange pouch sat nestled in his pocket, and it jangled enticingly with every step he took. He made it about halfway down the bronze steps before his mind registered the wayward glances being thrown his way by a rather large group of people. It was possible that they were just perplexed by his good mood, but it was equally possible that they were beginning to realize who he was. Harry gave the nearby onlookers what he hoped to be a winning grin, before all but sprinting down the rest of the steps and into the nearest shop, which happened to be a small seedy bookstore at the intersection of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley.
A dingy little brass bell rung out, announcing his entrance to the shop. Harry peered around, but he seemed to be the only person in the bookstore. The group of people outside was slowly disbursing, and Harry let out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. Around him, a selection of old, battered books were piled and stacked haphazardly onto a number of crooked, mismatched bookshelves that were falling apart in some places. A smell of mold and old food lingered in the air, and the wooden floorboards creaked angrily with every step he took. Nevertheless, Harry felt compelled to be a bit polite, and called out, "Hello? Is anybody there?"
Silence. Unnerved, Harry turned to leave, but a book crammed into the bookshelf nearest to the door caught his eye. Harry could only see the first half of the cover, which read "What Your Hogwarts Teachers – " Intrigued, Harry picked up the book, and saw that the second half read " – Never Taught You." Its pages were bent and clearly earmarked in some places, and there was a disgusting yellow stain on the back cover next to a tag declaring the price to be 3 sickles. Harry opened the book, looking for a Table of Contents, but there wasn't one to be found. With 100 galleons in his pocket, he supposed he could spend the money, even if the book ended up being a total waste of his time. Harry walked to what he supposed was the sale counter, and instead of an attendant, found a scribbled handwritten note that said "Out doing things. Leave money on desk."
Feeling generous, Harry fished out a galleon and tossed it onto the counter before walking out of the shop. He had spent way too much time in Diagon Alley, and it was time to get back. Harry, mimicking the other shoppers, walked briskly through the alley, keeping his gaze down so as to avoid any eye contact. He made it to the Leaky Cauldron in record time, and marched through the pub before Tom could so much as get out a "Good morning!" Once he was outside in muggle London, Harry thrust his wand into the air, this time not jumping when the telltale BANG! of the Knight Bus rang through the busy streets. Harry cringed as the bus almost steamrolled over an elderly man , only to contort itself at the last moment.
"Hello there, I'm Bill Wadsworth and welcome to the Knight Bus! We've been picking up stranded… Oh, it's you again!" said Bill happily.
Harry once again flattened his bangs before climbing aboard the bus, putting a galleon into Bill's hand with a grunted "Keep the change."
Bill looked thrilled to receive so large of a tip, and perked up even more than Harry thought was possible. Harry almost found himself missing Stan Shunpike. "Oh wow, thanks! Where to, Mr. Dursley? We'll head straight there!" said Bill, earning a scoff from Ernie in the front.
"Same place you picked me up. Little Whinging," instructed Harry. He grabbed onto the rail, and sure enough, an instant later a BANG! rocked through the bus, that was now zooming down rows and rows of identical looking suburban houses.
Ernie, abandoning the most cardinal rule of driving, turned all the way around in his seat, scrutinizing Harry critically. Suddenly, Harry felt very stupid, because it was highly likely that Ernie remembered picking up a young Harry Potter at this exact spot a few years back. And, if Harry admitted it to himself, he hadn't changed all that much in his appearance.
After a few moments, and a few instances where entire houses jumped out of the way of the driverless 3-ton death machine, Ernie turned away. Harry couldn't be certain, but he could've sworn he saw Ernie give him a slight wink.
Suddenly, the bus came to a gut-wrenching stop, and Bill announced, "Here we are, Mr. Dursley! We hope you enjoyed your trip on the Knight Bus!" Harry gave him a curt nod before clambering out of the bus. By the position of the sun shining merrily into his eyes, Harry assumed that it was around 8 or 9am, which meant that both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were aware of his absence. He trudged the last few streets to Privet Drive, and it was with no small amount of trepidation that he walked up the steps and onto the stoop of #4. He opened the door, only to find all the Dursleys seated at the table having breakfast. All three turned to look at him at once, and Harry found some dark amusement at the speed with which Vernon's face turned a bright shade of red.
"BOY! JUST WHAT SORT OF MISCHIEF WHERE YOU UP TO?" bellowed Vernon, banging his hand on the table and causing little specks of egg to fly into the air.
"Leaving at all hours of the day without a word, I won't have it, I tell you!" shrilled Petunia, who was absently cleaning up all the pieces of egg that Vernon had sent flying.
Dudley, who had outgrown most of his baby fat and turned it into bulky muscle through a new-found love of boxing, turned in his seat to watch his favorite spectacle. His watery blue eyes shined with glee at seeing Harry being yelled at.
"Look, I'm sorry, I just couldn't sleep and went out for a walk," said Harry apologetically. "I would've told you where I was but I didn't want to wake you." More like he wouldn't have let his relatives know where he actually was even if they tortured him half to death, but he decided to keep that fact to himself.
Vernon seemed moderately appeased, as evidenced by his face returning to its normal coloration, but Petunia wasn't done with him yet. "Well since you're late to breakfast, you're not going to get any. Also, since I had to cook breakfast, you're going to have to make lunch and dinner! And the garden needs weeding!" she barked, beginning to clear the plates off of the table.
Harry, knowing a dismissal after many long years of dealing with the Dursleys, mumbled a "Yes Aunt Petunia," and headed up to his room.
It was going to be a long day.
A/N Okay, so there's chapter one. Not much has happened so far, but dramatic changes will be happening next chapter. Please review!