Summary: The summer after fifth year, Harry goes rogue. A clash of wills! Money/creature inheritances! Independent!Harry and our favourite blond – in other words, an AU mesh of fanfiction's finest plots. Slow lead up and a fair bit of angst at first. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: All characters, original stories et cetera are not mine (like, at all) and are the property of JK Rowling and anyone else who has purchased the rights to distribute/publish/etc. I can't even claim the basic plot lines as my own. Please don't sue me.
Warnings: character death, angsty Harry, mature themes, swearing, bad attempts at humour, British spelling, SLASH, and much, much more!
Author's Note: I'm halfway through this story (already 50,000 words deep my god) and have a general idea of where it's going but am mostly just having fun writing. I'll update about once or twice a week once done proofreading. I don't have an editor/beta for this story so all mistakes are my own and would definitely appreciate any feedback and spelling/grammatical corrections! :)
Postcards from Pennsylvania
Chapter 1: There's No Place Like Home
Harry watched in despondent apathy as England passed by the window of his uncle's car. London had blurred into small towns and countryside long ago and Little Winging lay not far away. He had tuned out his uncle's grumbling, noting that the man certainly seemed disturbed by the Order's warning at Station 9 ¾ but his reaction was more infuriated than cowed. Harry couldn't care less.
Harry stared blankly ahead, drawn to the repetitive echoes in his subconscious calling out for his attention. Insane laughter filled his mind and he closed his eyes, trying to meditate. Clear your mind, you imbecilic child! Harry's eyes snapped open in horror and he breathed deeply through his nose, trying to calm his shaky nerves.
Finally, after hours of torturous silence interspersed with his uncle's mutters, Vernon Dudley's belching car pulled into the driveway of No. Four Private Drive. Harry carefully stepped out of the vehicle and glanced at the withering house. From the overgrown lawn to the chipping weather boards, it was obvious the house attends had been abandoned since his last summer holiday – a fact that no doubt deeply disgusted his relatives.
"Now the windows boards won't be washed and you'll be allowed to live off our life and blood willy nilly," Vernon harshly muttered under his breath, grinding his teeth with frustration. Harry assumed the man was still agonising that he couldn't exploit his nephew for domestic slavery.
Harry gingerly took Hedwig's cage out of the car, smiling softly at her chirping as she braced herself against the movement. His trunk followed behind Hedwig, thankfully charmed with a potent featherweight charm prior to leaving Hogwarts especially considering Vernon didn't lift a finger to aid his young charge.
Once they slipped into the front entrance, the door slammed shut with a dramatic bang and Harry was pressed against the wall by his uncle's beefy fist.
"You leave that ruddy bird in the damn room, you hear me? No fucking noise, no fucking bird shit – I don't want a goddamn peep out of either of you, you hear?" Vernon snarled venomously, spittle splattering both Harry and Hedwig with ferocity.
"Yes, sir," Harry answered compliantly, eyes unfocused as they held steady over his uncle's shoulder. Never make eye contact. Harry now understood with clarity.
"That's better, you little shit," Vernon gloated victoriously, pleased with his nephew's submissiveness. "Now those blokes you call friends aren't going to find out about anything, you hear? Nothing. You clean the goddamn house, you wash the fucking sheets, you tidy the fucking garden, and no one hears a damn thing."
Harry finally turned his attention to his uncle with little interest, normally bright green eyes dulled and hands twitching as he refrained from wiping the spit globs on his cheek. "I don't need to say anything, Uncle Vernon, because they're always watching," Harry crooned softly. Harry didn't need make empty threats – not when it came to this.
Vernon let go of Harry as if burnt, clenching his fists with barely suppressed rage and trembling in purple faced fury.
"Go to your room," the man gritted out, beady eyes darting around the entrance hall in paranoia.
Harry ducked his head in deference and dragged his belonging up the stairs.
Harry had lived in No. Four Private Drive long enough to know the habits of the neighbourhood. Dusk approached with a heavy haze and vehicles drove in from the city centre, lining up along the street and turning into their respective driveways like a movie set. Suited men piled out of the cars and walked straight into their houses, downtrodden souls with little to live for other than their well-groomed yards, iron pressed ties and comfortably middle-class sedans.
It had been two nights spent poorly at No. Four Private Drive since his homecoming, as he oft thought to himself with bitter amusement. Having to do nothing at his relative's house was once a dream but it had now become a curse. Harry spent the days focusing on clearing his mind, obsessively meditating until he nearly passed out from exhaustion and hunger. At six pm sharp, he sat at the window and watched the ritual of returning workers with dissatisfaction, not quite understanding why he fought so hard to protect these hollow shells of people.
Harry bid his time, knowing that a member of the Order watched him just outside his view, and plotted to break free.
It had been seven days since Harry had returned from Hogwarts and almost three weeks since he returned from the Ministry. Sirius' loss was felt like a missing limb, cauterised poorly and weeping from infection. Harry couldn't even think the man's name without feeling physical pain sweep his being, ripping his breath away and cramping his chest in vice-like agony.
Harry had sent Hedwig to the Burrow that morning, declaring that she was too bored and too restrained at his relative's and wouldn't they please take care of her? A few gallons for bird food and treats he had sent would surely be appreciated and Harry didn't expect a response; Dumbledore insisted on an embargo of communication while Harry lay shipwrecked in Suburban Hell.
The sun had set a few hours before and the heat had finally begun to abate, Little Winging sighing a collective breath of relief. Windows were thrown open to enjoy the cool breeze down the street, but Harry kept his re-barred window tightly shut. His dim bedroom light had been left off for a few hours now and he quietly mediated in peace as he waited for his little wrist watch from childhood to chime.
At exactly nine o'clock, his little digital watch beeped as programmed and Harry jumped up from his position on the floor. An invisibility cloak was quickly curled around Harry's shoulders and he slipped through his bedroom door, wandlessly unlocked with ease half a second before. Four seconds past nine o'clock, he descended the staircase silently and seven seconds past nine, he had slipped through the front door.
Harry wandlessly cast a noiseless charm on his sneakers, wand tucked carefully in the folds of his robes, and sprinted down the road towards freedom.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the sun rose on the platform of Little Whinging's train station. The morning train rolled noisily into the station and he rose from his cramped position on the gritty tiles. Carefully wrapped in his invisibility cloak, he snuck past the Monday morning flock attempting to bustle their way onto the commuter train and pulled himself onto the high luggage racks with a loftiness acquired by years of Quidditch training and a pinch of Harry Hunting.
The train to London was painfully uncomfortable, but Harry had learned to enjoy less and was out of the opening doors in a flash once the bulk of the crowd has disembarked. Finding the Leaky Cauldron was a chore, but getting in was easy as the early morning wizarding drunks stumbled through the muggle entrance and allowed Harry an opportunity to slip in sight unseen. Once inside, he carefully whispered past the bar and, in what felt like seconds, stood in the great entrance hall of Gringotts Bank.
Getting the goblins' attention while invisible was a little more difficult, but approaching a teller and waving a key in the air (with seemingly no hand attached) appeared to do the trick.
The key was snatched out of the air and the offending goblin sneered in his general direction, jerking his head in a 'come here' motion. Harry followed the scowling creature past the guards and into the gated entrance of the vault carts.
Once sure he could disrobe the cloak without causing a scene, Harry carefully pulled it off and nodded thankfully at the goblin. It merely sneered coldly once more in response and handed him off to the nearest escort. A few muttered words and the teller goblin toddled off and returned with a goblin that Harry recalled from his first visit to Gringotts.
"Mr. Potter," growled the new goblin and Harry gazed down at the vicious creature. "I will be your escort. I am –"
"Griphook, yes. We met a few years ago," Harry interrupted politely, extending his hand to shake.
The goblin merely bared pointy teeth at the proffered appendage and gestured towards the rickety wooden bucket that was to be their ride into the bank's depth. Harry acquiesced, withdrawing his hand quickly and climbing into the cart.
The ride was shorter but more vicious than he recalled from his experience with Hagrid and he wondered if the vaults were moved regularly. Though, to be honest, Harry really didn't care much as long as he could access his gold when needed.
The ride came to a shuddering halt in front of large, dragon smelted iron door. The duo climbed out the cart, which abruptly shot off without notice.
"Mr. Griphook," Harry whispered with soft deference, waiting for his escort to turn to him in response. "May I request conversion of gallons to muggle pounds?"
The goblin grinned, or rather a frightening mockery of one, and nodded. "For a fee," it intoned lecherously.
"Of course," Harry agreed instantly, not wanted to contradict the creature's ferocious gold lust inspired by bank fees.
Upon opening the doors to his vault, Harry was once again reminded that he held the fortune of House Potter in his fingertips. Piles of gold, silver, and jewels leaned to and fro, as if carelessly dropped there by generations before. A thought struck him – and though tasteless, his gut encouraged him to speak.
"Mr. Griphook, would you know if my parents or the Potters as a whole… Left a will?"
Griphook slowly turned to face Harry in the vault, still standing as guard by the iron doors, and narrowed beady eyes at his charge.
"You received notice of vive voce, announcement of the wills, last year and week past did you not?" Griphook growled impatiently.
Harry blinked in surprise. "No, Mr. Griphook. I'm afraid I did not and have not received correspondence from this bank before," he answered carefully, not sure what the goblin meant.
Griphook glared at him, both wizard and goblin sizing the other up for a tense moment, then he growled irritably and waved Harry off. "Finish your deeds, then we speak, Mr. Potter."
Harry nodded and went back to collecting gallons.
Less than a quarter hour later saw Harry sitting in a dark, dank meeting room in the depths of Gringotts Bank, sitting at a decaying wood table. Griphook and an unintroduced goblin of stature muttered angrily in the corner of the room, leaving Harry to quietly meditate. He had become much better at slipping into the mindset of Occlumency, somehow advancing much faster while away from Hogwarts. Though, to be fair, Harry knew it probably had to do with the fact his mind wasn't being broken into on a constant basis.
"Mr. Potter," the unknown goblin suddenly announced. Harry pulled himself out of his haze and tiredly nodded at the goblin to continue. "I am Reinfeng, administrator of wills, wishes and trusts at Gringotts."
"Thank you for meeting me today," Harry replied softly, hoping his poorly groomed etiquette skills would appease the sour faced creature.
"Hmph," the goblin replied, obviously unimpressed. "Griphook has informed me of your lack of communication regarding Gringotts. We find this highly concerning, especially since Griphook is the administrator of your family estate as well as your personal trust. Griphook has been sending you quarterly reports since you reopened the Potter Vault five years ago."
Harry gaped at the goblin in incomprehension.
"You must understand Gringotts takes customer security very seriously," Reinfeng murmured dangerously and Harry nodded rapidly. "Griphook has informed me that you responded to the vive voce invitation last year and the week last, but merely declined attending or sending a representative to the reading of the wills, thus abolishing your right to receive."
Harry tipped his head in confusion. This seemed to irritate the goblins even more.
"Do you understand?" Griphook demanded.
"I'm afraid I don't," Harry whispered softly, ashamed of his lack of understanding of wizarding culture.
"This heir is mongrel," Reinfeng snapped at Griphook, whose hand shot up to silence his companion.
"He is a child still," Griphook responded ferociously and Reinfeng bitterly shut his mouth, looking away.
"We will cease attempts to communicate with you via owl regarding important, private documents," Griphook informed Harry firmly. "But we will continue with basic, falsified bank statement you should have been receiving as to not alert your interceptor. We will retain all statements and letters of true reflections of your accounts and activities onsite and will provide these to you only upon request. Do you agree?"
Harry nodded once more and sighed silently, tired of being yanked around by the demanding bankers.
"Vive voce is the reading of wills, of which the heir of an estate or estates has the right to upon fifteen years of age and should the inheritor agree, they will be declared an emancipated minor and adult in the eyes of Wizarding Law. Declining to attend forfeits rights to any contents of the will. You were alerted of the collective Potter will reading last year, nearly to the date, but obviously this was not received by you and a falsified response was given to decline. A missive was sent to you more than a week ago and once more a falsified response of declination was provided," Griphook growled in his gravelly voice.
Harry stared at the goblin in numbing shock.
"In the case of the Potter will, this will not affect your inheritance as your failure to attend merely meant your inheritance was placed in a trust for future Potter generations, only to be distributed to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry should the last of the Potter line become deceased without an heir. The Black will, however, would have seen your inheritance lost."
"Black… Will?" Harry choked out suddenly, his heart stopping for a moment and then returning to life with a war-drum tempo.
"Yes," Griphook stated ruthlessly, clearly tiring of the conversation. "The reading of the will of Heir Sirius Orion Arcturus Black will commence in four days."
Harry began to tremble and clamped his hands down on either elbow, crossing his arms across his chest in an attempt to contain himself.
"I," Harry began and stopped as his voice cracked. "I would like to attend. Please," he added helplessly.
"Your attendance has been marked," Griphook stated shortly, getting up to rise.
"But – but what if the person intercepting my mail attends as well?" Harry asked quickly.
Griphook and Reinfeng, who had hung back in the shadows until now, looked at one another appraisingly.
"We could read the will now on a special condition release," Reinfeng began slowly. "For a fee, you see." The proffered smirk was slimier than Harry had ever seen but he held onto the offer like a lifeline.
"Of course, anything," Harry begged while gripping the table hard enough to drive splinters into his fingers, suddenly feeling more emotions in that moment than he had in nearly a month.
Harry was desperate to hear the words of his godfather, to hear final words instead of watching him fall wordlessly, laughingly through the veil. Gold and money and estate be damned – Harry knew he was invited to hear the vive voce of the will as Sirius mentioned him directly and a hollow, broken part of his soul would give anything to be able to hear Sirius speak to him once more.
"Two hours, Mr. Potter," Griphook answered firmly. "The fees will be charged to your vault."
"Two hours," Harry agreed breathlessly and then he was whisked out of the room, a handful of gallons instantly converted into more pounds than he'd ever seen, and sent to fend for himself in Diagon Alley as he awaited the last Will and Testament of Sirius Black.