Chapter 2: Bring Forth thy Magic
Hadrian Cheatham and Hadrian Roben were wizard gentlemen, refined and well bred, and also avid pleasure seekers who garnered satisfaction in certain forms of entertainment some would consider either horrific or simply obnoxious, depending on the person's point of view. They had met at Hogwarts when sorted within the same House of Ravenclaw, sharing a great many things beyond their given name and a dormitory room for seven years.
Both wizards born as the ninth month comes, they were among the eldest of their generation, graduating from Hogwarts in seventy-nine. Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine, that is. A shared desire for riches and comfort meant they had to study hard to achieve a highly remunerated Mastery of the Magical Arts, which in turn spurred competition among the already study-oriented Ravenclaws and made them fight for the highest grades and Hogwarts positions. Neither made Head Boy, however, due to what they termed unfair advantages given to a Hufflepuff.
Their families weren't millennial but did share a presence in the latest four centuries of magical history at least, and they spent their youth reaping the benefits of an enlightened magical society that understood its role as guides for the lesser beings known as Muggles. By slowly and subtly nudging the leadership of Muggle Britannia in the right direction for centuries, wizards and witches of the Isles had enjoyed a degree of freedom and safety seldom reached after the Statues of Secrecy were first enacted.
The charm unravelled and broke, however, when proponents of a more active and visible leadership by wizards over Muggles began taking matters on their own hands, bypassing local Ministries and Councils, which eventually led to an strengthening of restrictions placed over the magical population to avoid such blatant disclosure of the existence of magic, which in turn led to even greater discontent and distrust against Muggleborns and Half-bloods.
Being denied the sport of Muggle Hunting, although Hadrian and Hadrian always kept the lower humans they hunted alive and Obliviated them after their fun, was reason enough to start associating with fellow witches and wizards who, like them, disliked the Ministry for Magic and its policies.
That's when Cheatham and Roben finally discovered their true calling: making money by handling all manner of requests by wizards who wished for a return to the better days.
So after decades managing shady gold transactions, pushing forward biased resolutions while bypassing Ministry hurdles, helping hide assets and people from both sides of different conflicts and, although both wizards shivered at the thought and vowed on their magic never to speak of the incident again, procuring information for You-Know-Who himself, who spared their lives only because of their usefulness, right through their narrow red door in walked The-Boy-Who-Lived.
"So what now?" the scrawny boy asked.
"Well Mr Potter. First and foremost, it comes to my attention that you seem to suffer from a ... language impairment typical of the lower echelons of society. And your attire is also an indication that you have spent a long time living among Muggles, am I correct?"
Harry tilted his head to the left. "Fuck off! I'll talk what way I wanna talk, 'n I dunno what you mean 'bout nurgles?"
The shorter Hadrian sighed and, with experience gleamed from decades of handling unsavoury characters, took over the interview. "What he means is Muggles. The inferior humans that have no magic, and the reason we are so secretive about our world."
"Huh... If we're inferior, than how come you're the ones hidin'?"
"No, no, Mr Potter, you misunderstand me. You are most decidedly not a Muggle. And as to your conclusion, well, I must concede that perhaps their having a numerical advantage over us does force wizards into hiding, as you say."
Roben had no resentment against the boy in front of him, for his destruction of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did bring an end to a conflict that was doing more harm than good to Magical Britain, although it slowed down their office work and, subsequently, their revenue. On the other hand, Cheatham had a bone to pick against the Potter family and would most certainly pilfer as much gold from the uneducated whelp in front of him as he could.
The book over which Harry had dropped his blood suddenly popped away, vanishing into thin air and he wondered when he might be able to do that himself, before thinking about what Peter had told him. "This bloke I met said I've killed a Lord Dunno-What. That true?"
"That is correct, Mr Potter. You-Know-Who was defeated by you, ten years ago."
"I dunno who..."
"He means the Dark Lord," Roben said in a very low hush.
Harry put a blank face, then shrugged. "So, 'bout any money I've got 'n this Hogwarts stuff. Can you help me out or what?"
Tall and fat Cheatham smiled and rubbed his hands, "Of course we can, for a ... reasonable fee."
"A tenth of what my family left me in bearer instruments 'n currency, minus what I'll need for payin' school 'n other obligations. Your job'll be to tell me who I am, find out who's supposed to care for me but never did, 'n make sure nobody knows 'bout me while I lay low."
Whatever the Hadrians were expecting from the ignorant whelp, it wasn't such a clear mandate and a detailed payment offer that, while unknown in nominal value, knowing the amount of family ties to extinct families from before the 1666 Spattergroit Plague of which the only surviving Potter was a beneficiary, would be quite substantial. However they weren't in the business of handling borderline and sometimes quite illegal requests for no reason.
"One third plus our hourly fee, Mr Potter," rebated Cheatham.
Standing up, Harry picked his toolbox and bag, and turned to leave. "Thanks for your time."
"Twenty-five percent!"
"Ta ta!" said Harry and extended an arm to the door handle.
"Twenty!"
"I'll tell the bloke who said you'd be able to help, just how much you're chargin' people nowadays..."
"Fifteen and we'll cut our hourly fees in half!"
"Deal. But you'll find me a teacher for this magic shite 'n find a way to show me around without anyone knowin'. Free o' charge!" he rebated, looking over his shoulder while the old woman behind the desk looked back and forth between the boy and her bosses.
Harry dropped his gear by the door and sat on the comfortable sofa, crossing his leg over his knee and asking for something to drink before retelling the brief history of his life. The old lady then shrieked "Waxball!" and a loud popping sound like that of a gunshot sounded, sending the boy to the ground in a defensive posture.
"Nothing to worry about, it's merely a house-elf," Roben explained in a patronizing voice.
The round and obese-looking greenish creature waddled towards the wizards and bowed very low, his large belly touching the floor before his pointy nose. Harry recovered and sat back on the sofa, looking at the thing and wondering how much he had to learn about this new world.
"Water, Mr Potter?"
Harry looked up at Roben as if he were offering manure, "Make it a cold ale. It's the middle o' the soddin' summer, innit?"
"Dear Merlin, this child is a savage!" exclaimed Cheatham, who settled back on a leather couch. Roben, however, simply smirked and whispered something to the fat thing waiting in the middle of the room. The house-elf disappeared and returned seconds later with a pint of butterbeer and two glasses of cognac.
Sipping the cold drink and approving of this new flavour, Harry began with his earliest memory, the yellow room. The yellow room was cold and bright, and beeping sounds mixed with a steady dripping had awoken him. He didn't really know much at that time except for yes and no, the names of a few colours, what cold and hot meant, simple things like that.
He felt sore all over in that yellow room, his head was bandaged and he had tubes running into his arm, something both Hadrians found to be barbaric. Harry then explained that he was found on the doorstep of a hospital, bleeding to death, and that his feet didn't match any birth registration anywhere in England so he was later placed in an orphanage, waiting for adoption. Sighing, Harry had to explain that it's usual practice to have a stamp of a baby's foot for identification. Neither Hadrian understood why, though.
Because he had no name, Harry had been named by the paediatrician who first took care of him as John Green. He learned to hate that name later on, as his first adoptive family reacted badly to things that usually happened around him. Floating toys and exploding light bulbs were enough to bring forth a man's most primal defence against the unknown: violence.
Thankfully he didn't last long with those people, because after the monthly Children's Services visitors confirmed his mistreatment the family was stripped of his guardianship. He was placed in another orphanage and soon adopted by another family, where he became the youngest of four. The small, scrawny child soon became target practice for his older brothers.
By this time Cheatham had narrowed his eyes and had the same calculating face he'd sported earlier in the day, while Roben simply shook his head, voicing his belief that Muggles were animals that had been left unchecked for too long.
Again Harry was taken away when he was six or seven years old, because he'd somehow knocked the older boys out when they were punching him, and the foster parents decided young John Green was incompatible with their way of life.
A new foster family soon took him in, but his refusal to answer to the name of John and his general rebelliousness coupled with further episodes of unexplainable events, as well as his constant talk of invisible beasts, garden creatures and crawling pests only Harry could see, had frightened the very religious family to the degree that they would drop him a plate of food by his bedroom door and run away screaming bloody murder.
"I decided it was enough o' that shite, so I ran away 'n been travellin' all over the place 'til last week," Harry said, finishing his tale.
"Madam Thicknesse, would you please fetch Mr Binns at the Historians Guild and bring him here? Tell him a ... surprise awaits him," Roben asked the old lady by the desk, who stood up to a shelf, touched a small paperweight in the shape of a miniature stack of books and vanished into thin air.
"I'm so gonna love magic," whispered Harry.
"Hadrian, I will ask Oxley Onionsupple to draft an agreement and make it binding. We are dealing with greater issues than a simple inheritance here."
"I agree. We should also ask for Mr Flobberhirm and, with your permission Mr Potter, resolve your status within our community. You are underage, meaning you need a guardian--"
"Fuck no! I'm gonna make me own decisions, deal was--"
"Please Mr Potter, you misunderstand me. You need a guardian, however he or she does not necessarily have to be, shall we say, breathing regularly?"
Harry paused to think. "D'you mean a stiff?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"A corpse, some dead bloke you'll tie to me, so me decisions are me own, but with this dead guy's signature?" Harry tried to clarify.
Smiling broadly, Roben nodded affirmatively and walked back to his office, leaving Harry alone to witness yet another weirdness. Cheatham was now kneeling in front of the fireplace with his entire head stuck into the flames! He shook his own head, long black hair flailing back and forth.
To Harry's astonishment, a second after Cheatham finally plucked his face from the flames, a man stepped out of it! He was definitely going to love magic!
"As I understand, you require total secrecy and have agreed to a monetary remuneration for several specified services from Cheatham & Roben," said the oddly dressed man who immediately sat in front of him, without so much as a greeting.
Barely waiting for Harry to say yes, the man pulled a stick similar to the one Peter the rat-man had on him and, with a wave, made a tall stack of yellow paper appear on the coffee table. This was going to be a very long day.
The following morning, deep into the Scottish Highlands, a small bearded creature wearing lederhosen and a leather hat rode a smoky grey giant salamander up the hill. It stopped in front of an ancient iron gate flanked by stone boars, and declared himself. "Dwarf Delivery for 'Eadmaster Albus Dumbledore!"
The gates swung open and the dwarf kicked the salamander forward, speeding up to the double gates where a hunched, bald, grumpy looking man holding a dripping mop waited. The man allowed the dwarf inside and escorted it around the castle towards a statue of a gargoyle.
"I've got a package for Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore!" yelled the small being, who jumped back as the gargoyle moved to reveal a moving staircase.
The addressee, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sat behind his broad desk, contemplating the four feet tall pile of parchment in front of him, waiting for his signature. He sighed and plucked another lemon drop from his fish bowl while allowing the dwarf to enter.
Albus Dumbledore had been anxious and pensive for days, hoping against hope that the Enchanted Quill had written an Invitation Letter to one eleven year old boy in particular, one little boy he'd lost many years ago, because of his own carelessness. Harry Potter had to be alive somewhere, for Albus refused to believe Magic would let Darkness roam the Earth unfettered.
The grumpy creature walked into the headmaster's office, straightened his leather pants and cleared his throat. "He who was once thought lost,
This invitation will gladly accept.
Rat and pigeon his hideout found,
For his past he came back to hound."
"That's the song, here's the delivery. Goodbye!" yelled the dwarf after dropping a sealed parchment and a sack of gold on the table and extending a tiny hand, palm side up. When no tip came, it huffed, turned around and closed the door behind him.
Snickering and shaking his head, Albus picked the thick roll of parchment and frowned, noticing the crest of Cheatham & Roben on the coal black wax seal. "Who could be using the Hadrians' disreputable services for such simple matters as a Hogwarts-- Sweet mother of Merlin!"
Reading the page again, Albus sighed and slumped against his chair, letting the parchment fall all over his beard. If this was real, should he be happy that Harry Potter had replied and was alive, or should he be worried the boy had fallen prey to such venomous pair of dark wizards? Or was this some convoluted plot to actually extract information from him about Harry, although he had none at all?
One month he would have to wait. One month and he'd have closure, closure on a mistake that weighed him greatly ever since that Christmas day in 1981. He knew he shouldn't have visited, but Albus pained for leaving Harry in the uncaring hands of these worst sort of Muggles, as Minerva had said. "How right she was," he whispered and continued to remember.
Had he not visited, that retched family would have at least kept the boy with them. Albus had cast a simple compulsion spell on the letter he left on top of little Harry, small enough that the Ministry wouldn't detect it, the purpose of which was to make the Dursleys keep the boy living with them. Unfortunately he tied spell to what he believed would be an everlasting power, that of love for family, failing to consider how much hate and resentment the compulsion to house Harry against Vernon and Petunia's desires would cause.
The moment the old wizard had knocked on the Dursleys door, their hatred increased yet another notch. He was unceremoniously refused entry and told, in no uncertain terms, that they wanted no freaks visiting ever again, or else they would drop the boy in the nearest trash bin. Albus didn't dare casting another compulsion and risk revealing his presence in Little Whinging to other wizards and witches who might lead Death Eaters to Harry, and left.
Four years later, when the little boy was old enough to be spending time outside the house, or at the very least should have been seen going to school, his watcher Arabella Figg reported never seeing little Harry. Ever.
Taking a risk, Albus had then visited again expecting to find a five year old Harry living in number four Privet Drive, only to be refused entry and be categorically told that nobody with that name had ever lived there. Justifying his actions as defence of a threatened wizard, he pushed his way inside and Legillimenced the annoying Muggle.
"How could you!" exclaimed Albus as he left the turbulent mind of a fearful and insecure man, filled with mundane desires and self hatred. "By all that is sacred, how could you!"
The powerful wizard had witnessed the obese Muggle shaking and hurting a defenceless year and a half baby to make him stop crying, pure hatred in his soul. And then he felt the panic rising on Vernon's mind, as he realized the boy was almost dead. The Muggle had hauled the bloodied bundle into his vehicle, dropping him on the door of a nearby hospital in the middle of the night, and driven away.
Albus couldn't understand how a human being could ever achieve such cruelty, and yet he was painfully reminded of other humans, wizards actually, who revelled in the pain and subjugation of others: Pureblood Fanatics, Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort.
Searching the hospital in Greater Whinging was futile. He couldn't find any information about a maimed baby found at the witch's hour in the middle of Winter four years before then. Muggles had too feeble memories. Albus had been desperate and had nowhere to turn. How could he face his colleagues and tell them he had caused Harry Potter's disappearance? What would the magical world's reaction be to such news? No, he couldn't risk it, he would have to bear that burden in secret and continue searching for 'the one with the power he knows not' by himself.
Returning to the present, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, unrolled the signed reply by one Harry J Potter and paused over his guardian's name. "How can this be? Last I remember, Herman had been engaged in a fool's errant chasing the Manticore of Mount Parnassos thirty years ago. Alas, perhaps he's surprised us all and returned alive!"
Sighing, he added the document to his growing parchment pile, and then popped another lemon drop in his mouth. It tasted bitter, much like his current mood.
Harry had a full month to get up to speed on his magic, the Hadrians had stashed him in a seven bedroom, four bathroom flat, something so luxurious he'd never seen anything like it in his whole life. Dark wooden panelling, gold fittings everywhere, lamps that sprung to life by themselves, paintings that moved and talked to you! Of course, after the events of the previous day, Harry shouldn't have been impressed, but there he was admiring the etched dragons swirling all over the vaulted ceiling while having breakfast prepared by Waxball the house-elf and waiting for them to collect him.
Onionsupple had been very professional yesterday, actually explaining each and every detail of the twelve magically binding contracts he'd finally signed with Cheatham & Roben, even if they were contrary to the Hadrians' interests. Cheatham had become very angry when Harry refused to continue and threatened to leave if the clause on family magic disclosure wasn't removed; Harry wanted what was his for himself and nobody else.
Settling back on the comfortable chair, Harry chuckled at the looks he'd received when he pulled a fiery-red quill from his bag and cut his palm again, dipping it in his blood and signing the first contract they finished negotiating. He then learned that it was a phoenix feather, and when he let the old lady Thicknesse, the Ministry records keeper Flobberhirm, Onionsupple the barrister, Binns the historian and the Hadrians know he'd pulled it from the wand belonging to the wizard that had killed his parents, all six adults shuddered and almost fell off their seats.
After that, even Cheatham had become more attentive and receptive to his demands.
On the other hand, Harry didn't know what to think of Binns. He was a middle-aged wizard wearing a long moustache and unevenly cropped hair sticking on all directions, that kept leering at Harry as if he was ready to pounce and rape him. His information about the magical world and the Potter family, however, was very interesting and backed by several books, documents and blood tests they poured over until after lunch.
"I'm gonna have to feed on somebody's effin' blood at this rate," he mumbled and hissed at the cuts in his left hand. Harry had refused to let anyone wave his or her magic stick at him, even after they swore it was to heal his wounds.
With the family history and the parchment to prove it, Binns and Flobberhirm managed to pull all required strings, well oiled after almost a century of Cheatham's and Roben's influence in the Ministry, to quietly and quickly update Harry's status as a magical citizen of Britain, and gain access to his inheritance and political rights as Head of Family, although under responsible adult guardianship.
Harry shuddered at the memory of the ... thing ... that Roben had brought from his office to be his guardian. "What in the name o' the Queen's tits is that?!" he'd yelled and jumped on the couch, trying to get away.
"This, Mr Potter, is what you so vehemently requested. Your ticket to independence," explained Roben as if telling a five year old what a spoon is for. "You see, as Mr Binns explained, words are powerful in our world. Magic can and will turn against you if you fail to heed it, or deliberately bend or break an oath."
"What's that gotta do with the freaky bugger, then?"
"Savage, I tell you," mumbled Cheatham.
"This Homunculus is, for most magical purposes, a wizard. Then again as you so colourfully pointed out, it isn't," Roben said and grabbed one of the little form's arms, waving at Harry with it. "Herman Joseph Plotslip shall be placed back under a stasis charm after he signs your guardianship, but will be available to sign anything you request of him at a later date."
"HJ Plotslip? That freaky thing's gonna share me full initials?!"
"Coincidences happen, dear," said Binns. "Or maybe not..."
"The important issue, Mr Potter, is that as was required by you, his magical signature alone isn't enough, only both of yours are binding and valid for magical documents until you become of age, including banking with your currently inaccessible vaults. And the magic from the easily controllable Homunculus will be indistinguishable from that of a real wizard guardian," added Flobberhirm.
A knock on the door distracted Harry from his memories of yesterday and he walked to open the door. There stood the Hadrians, the taller one scowled at him while the shorter beamed a smile, inviting him to join them in the quest for "that most magical of items, Mr Potter. Your wand!"
"Hold it, I've gotta take a rat out first," he said and unlocked the toolbox where Peter was still kept. "Behave, rat-face. We're goin' out."
Wormtail squeaked a pitiful squeak, and climbed to Harry's shoulder.
The group of two adults plus one child, and a rat, climbed downstairs and entered the shady, smelly and generally unsavoury Knockturn Alley, headed towards an even darker area. Harry had been fitted with a large cloak to conceal his face, which also sported a notice-me-not charm, to keep him as invisible as possible.
Soon they reached a boarded-up shop, stood to the side and Cheatham tapped a small symbol with the tip of his wand. A slit appeared and two beady eyes looked from it quickly before disappearing, and the sealed door cracked open.
"In we go," said Roben and took a step inside, with Harry behind him and finally Cheatham.
"Tonguepuller! We come for a wand."
From behind bars a creature looked up at the wizards, and then straight at Harry, who gulped at the scarred face of an almost bald thing with long ears, spindly fingers and the most repulsive brownish pointy teeth. "For the infant?" the thing asked.
"Yes. Sir, please allow the goblin to examine your left hand," Roben asked, taking a side glance at the other Hadrian.
Harry eyed the creature behind the bars wearily and, while fingering the handle of his dagger, offered his left hand. The goblin then took a bejewelled item and ran it through Harry's wounded palm, which began to emit puffs of smoke.
"What trickery is this?" asked Tonguepuller, eyeing Harry carefully.
"Show him the feather, sir." They'd agreed not to say Harry's name in public.
"What, this?" he asked, pulling the quill he'd made with his free hand.
"Wand core!" the goblin exclaimed, and tried to reach for the phoenix feather like a crazed monkey reaching for a banana. However Harry was much quicker and, pulling his left hand from the goblin's grip, drew his dagger, swung and sliced.
"Mine to keep, bitch..." growled Harry, pressing the blade against the extended arm belonging to the goblin. "Try again 'n it won't be your arm I'll cut, but your throat!"
Making some rather unpleasant noises and baring its teeth, the goblin wrestled his arm back and walked to the side, looking for something. "Keep your peace, Master Wizard. A wielder of great power must wield a great wand, Tonguepuller shall have one here, or rob a worthy grave for one."
Harry looked at the Hadrians asking for an explanation, but none came. Wormtail, meanwhile, was feeling restless. He knew of rumours about scavengers hunting for wands inside dead wizards' graves, but he'd always thought it was nonsense, yet here he was in front of a goblin grave-robber who provided wands to those who wished to remain anonymous at all costs.
"Why didn't I know of this place?" Peter wondered. He could've gotten a wand of his own after losing his in the explosion of Potter's hovel, and then after the brat had disarmed him, he would've killed him with it! "Oh well, hindsight and all that..." In fact, because he was the Potter's Secret Keeper, he could always return there to search for his wand some time, perhaps after choking Harry to death in his sleep. "Yes, that's a good plan."
"Wake up, rat! You've been starin' at me, 'n I don't like it."
Squeak!
"Three wands, of which only one shall do. First, Anacletus Moody, 1755, Head Auror of the Realm, Hero of the Battle of the Rhein. Swish and flick, please, Master Wizard."
Harry reached for the handle and felt a ... liquid sensation snaking up his hand and forearm. He then did as told and waved his wand, flicking it at Tonguepuller the goblin. That motion signalled Tonguepuller's last breath, unfortunately for him.
A loud crack and a splattering sound later, the goblin's head was nowhere to be seen, and a nauseated Harry stood pointing a wand at the now goblin-less space behind the bars. "Fuck! Is it really dead?"
"Savage! Give that here, child!" yelled Cheatham, who was looking in disgust at the splattered bits and pieces of goblin brain all over the room.
"He said to flick it! It ain't my fault the bugger didn't dodge..."
"Merlin's cauldron, Mr Potter! You certainly did a number on our wands supplier," Roben commented, raising himself over the counter to look at the mess.
Harry picked the other two wands from the counter and stomped out of the boarded shop, barely noticing Wormtail trembling and relieving himself on his shoulder, with an astounded short Hadrian trailed by a very angry, second and larger Hadrian fingering the wand Harry had flicked as well as the goblin-made bejewelled contraption.
"Wanker goblin... How was I s'possed to know me flick had to be away from him?"
Roben steered Harry down the alley while he continued muttering and cursing the goblin's ancestry and guided him towards a blank stretch of decaying brick wall, where the Hadrians waved their wands around and then began searching the wall, tapping it here and there while muttering some gibberish under their breath. Moments later, the ground began to swirl and an elaborate white marble round staircase appeared on the ground.
While not surprising any longer, Harry still whistled at the display of magic. "Where we goin'?"
"To appraise the true extent of your wealth, Mr Potter. After you," Cheatham gestured for Harry to descend and he followed, behind them Roben waved his wand and closed the entrance to the posh stairs.
Harry perked up at this, he'd been excited about receiving money, but after learning so much from Binns about the magical world and his own history and family in particular, he wondered how many wonderful trinkets and magic knowledge he might have access to! He still felt no connection to his parents at an emotional level, but perhaps once he finds out why he'd been left for dead in a hospital door soon after surviving and destroying Lord What's-His-Name, he might be able to come to terms with them.
Binns had been furious when the Hadrians and Harry told him the Boy-Who-Lived's true life history, in fact Harry feared the bloke was going to hug and kiss him back then, but it seems the official story among wizards was that their saviour was living like a pampered prince behind an unbreakable safety wall.
When Harry asked who came up with that tale or how everyone knew of his supposed fate, he was taught that magic could easily make one forget who and how, leaving behind only the knowledge of what. In sum, witches and wizards needed to trust in the honour of their peers, for anything and everything they know and do can be influenced or modified by various magical means. Which explains how useful a carefully worded magic oath or contract is.
The group continued to descend in silence, and despite the more than adequate illumination Harry picked the rat on his shoulder and squeezed, not risking to loose his parents' murderer in a moment of distraction. If he hadn't enough money to pay for Hogwarts and the services of Cheatham & Roben, at least he could offer Peter the Rat to them or to the Ministry, for a reward or something.
After another twenty or so steps, they walked under an ornate archway and stood before a double door decorated with a pair of carved human skulls whose lower jaws bit on a crossed wand and dagger. "Welcome to Skullsnatchers Gentlemen's Club, Mr Potter. May I remind you first, that you are our guest here and, due to your upbringing, your speech and behaviour will be frowned upon within these walls, your fame being irrelevant."
"What d'you mean--"
"Please do not take this as a personal insult, it is merely a circumstance of your life... One we might be able to help you with, if you wish," Roben said, looking straight at Harry.
Fuming and cursing the uptight bastards, but knowing his life had been turned around and backwards ever since those owls delivered his Hogwarts letter, Harry said he'd try to speak as well as possible, and follow their lead inside their fancy club. "Fine, I'll mind me talk-- I mean, mind my speech and follow your example. See? I won't even scratch me balls!"
Cheatham raised his arms to the ceiling and shook his head, while Roben simply smiled and jammed his wand into one of the skulls' right eye socket, making it shriek and cackle. At once the wooden door swung open and a creature Harry could now recognize as a house-elf bowed low, holding a silver tray with a folded parchment note on it.
The Hadrians read the note and nodded absently, asking for Harry to follow them. He stepped into a round room where a uniformed man asked for their cloaks and hats; he looked disgusted at the rat perched on Harry's shoulder, and then horrified at his clothes beneath the loaned cloak.
"Come, our fellow wizard awaits by the Smoking Room."
Harry followed the wizards, looking at everything he could lay eyes on, until they were swiftly approached by an old man wearing a fez hat and a golden monocle. "Good morning Hadrian, you as well Hadrian, how do you do?" the man greeted and bowed his head at all three of them, tipping the unusual hat.
"Good morning Horatio, all is well, thank you. May I introduce you to our guest and client?"
"Mr Potter, meet Mr Greengrass, honourable member of the Wizengamot and holder of the Chair of Aquilo within the Octagon of the Winds," presented Roben.
As the formal introduction ended, Greengrass looked down at Harry and sniffed, lifting his nose high in the air as if smelling something foul. "Dear me, you were quite accurate in your description Hadrian."
Gritting his teeth, Harry bit back a few insults and simply kept his gaze locked on the clear blue eyes that continued to judge him. Wormtail, however, was quite curious about the Head of the Greengrass family, who'd never pledged his allegiance to the Dark Lord despite all the glory he promised to bring to the wizarding world.
"Tell me, young Mr Potter, how confused is your feeble Muggle-infected mind by all the magic around you? Are you about to panic and deny its might or will you meekly surrender to the will of your betters, in the same fashion of your dead simpleton parents?" asked the monocled man, bending forward and challenging Harry.
"Me life's me own 'n I won't ever be anyone's stooge, sir!" grunted Harry, fingering the handle of his blade. "Oh, 'n if you wanna see me magic at work, check out the freakin' headless goblin wand-dealer upstairs."
Greengrass straightened up and smiled, still keeping eye contact with the small urchin in front of him. "Strong words from a brute. Although I sense your unrefined power, young Mr Potter, do you possess the will to better yourself, to become that which is expected of you?"
Harry kept looking up at the irritatingly stuck-up wizard and reined in his thoughts. The murdering rat on his shoulder had told him he was the cause of Lord Whatever's death, the Hadrians had bent over backwards to work for him but were admittedly very shady individuals, and the entire magical society claimed he was some big-wig hero. Had he just landed the opportunity of a lifetime? Or was he poised to become a puppet to wizards like these?
"Speak the truth, 'n I'll respect you. Teach me, 'n I'll learn. Cross me ... 'n you'll die."
While the wizards digested Harry's words, Peter squeaked and cursed himself for his misfortune. "Why, of all bloody wizards in all of bloody Britain, did I have to meet Harry bloody Potter?!" The boy was a menace to wizardkind if left to learn magic without boundaries, he'd shape this world to suit him, that's for sure. Harry had the power to do it, he saw the magic dancing in his eyes when he snapped the Dark Lord's wand, and that power had to be trained and controlled.
Did Peter have enough leverage to control and submit Harry Potter to his will? Was he even willing to try? He was toying with the idea of killing the brat at first chance, but then again the boy could be kept alive and be made useful until Lord Voldemort returned.
Wormtail continued to pay attention to the three wizards as they sat around a low table, a house-elf bringing them plates of cheese and ham, a pint of butterbeer as well as two glasses of cognac and a warm firewhiskey over greensleaf flame for Greengrass.
"Mr Potter, first and foremost, we shall conduct our business," the monocled wizard said, "which pertains to these usually unobtainable records. Please understand that there are some in our vast society who would ... frown upon our means, and I must stress that my name never leaves your lips."
"I've only been out for a drink today with my handlers, Hadrian and Hadrian. Never saw a man wearin' a funny red hat," Harry said with a smile.
"Good. Since I am a gentleman above all, I cannot in good conscience open this Last Will and Testament, but I will answer any inquiries and present the sum of your worth afterwards, for unless your inheritance is revoked by unforeseen stipulations, Gringotts has provided an accurate statement."
Taking the roll of parchment in his hands, Harry noticed a double seal and a series of ribbons hanging from it, as well as a golden stamp of sorts with the name Dumbledore scribbled across it. He looked at Cheatham and Roben for confirmation and, with a nod from them, tore the seals open and spread the document on the table, holding it by the edges with his glass of ale and a heavy ashtray.
"In January the First of the Year of our Lord 1,981 we, James Tiberius and Lily Marie Potter, of sound mind and able magic, declare our will be done in regards to inheritance of our worldly possessions.
That in the event of one our deaths, our surviving married partner shall inherit all titles and properties, and obligations as Head of Family. When none survives, all titles shall pass to the eldest of our heirs and properties shall be distributed equally among them. Should one or more of our heirs be not of adulthood, guardianship and representation shall be offered in order of preference to Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black or Frank Longbottom. In the event of refusal or inability to perform such duties, a competent guardian shall be pursued under guidance from the Ministry for Magic.
The words swam in Harry's eyes and he couldn't make much heads or tails of it; all he understood was that for some reason the Headmaster of Hogwarts had been named as his guardian. Was this the man that left him nameless in the doorstep of a Muggle hospital, almost dead? If not, was it any of the others?
He must have been too obvious, because Greengrass coughed and gained his attention. "If you are wondering who your guardian should have been, and why you found yourself abandoned among Muggles, Mr Potter, I fear that information has been impossible to attain. However, since yesterday Hadrian has provided you with a suitable guardian and all the parchmentwork has been ... magically filed in all the appropriate places, you shouldn't worry about your current status."
"What of this Albus blok-- Albus person, why was his name on the will?" Harry asked.
"Mr Dumbledore had it sealed. To the best of my knowledge, he might have accepted initial responsibility for you, yet all I found was an obscured transfer of guardianship dated November the first of 1981, the day after your defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"Obscured to prevent anyone from finding our client's whereabouts?" Roben guessed, to which Greengrass nodded and Cheatham voiced his own thoughts.
"In a way it was for the best. Mr Potter was and probably is a target of You-Know-Who's followers to this day."
"Ain't that right," Harry snorted and glanced subtly at the agitated rat on his shoulder. On that subject, he wondered if he'd have to keep watching his back everyday from now on, "There many of those Lord Whatever followers around?"
The Hadrians thought for a second and Roben was about to answer when Greengrass raised a hand. "A greater number than you would ever have me acknowledge in public. Our Minister for Magic would tell you there are none left out of Azkaban, however I know for certain some of my esteemed Wizengamot colleagues have allowed themselves to be branded as farm animals. Frankly disgusting."
"Improper breeding always shows," commented Cheatham, waving a hand as if to dismiss some annoying bug in front of his face.
"What's Asskebum?" Harry asked, drinking the last of his ale and clicking his fingers. A house-elf popped next to him and he waved his empty mug.
"The Isle of Azkaban is a wizarding prison, Mr Potter. The second man named in your parents' will, he betrayed them and was sentenced to life in Azkaban for murdering Peter Pettigrew."
"Murdering a man named Peter Pettigrew, huh?" said Harry, who had grabbed the white rat with lightning speed, squeezing him tightly. "You say this Peter Pettigrew is supposed to be dead?"
"He was a known friend of your family, and he's not supposed to be dead. He is dead. All that was found in the scene was his little finger," explained Roben while wiggling his own very small pinkie.
The Smoking Room at Skullsnatchers had become a very stifling place for the aforementioned Peter Pettigrew. He could feel the walls closing in on him and, worse of all, he could almost feel an imaginary cold metal blade cutting on his neck. Wormtail knew he was doomed the moment Greengrass had spoken his name.
He began to think furiously on an escape plan, but he was now in the bowels of some club he'd never heard about, deep beneath Knockturn Alley and surrounded by wizards with wands! Not to mention a psychotic Harry Potter and his bloody dagger. "I should've faked my name!" he scolded himself, which sounded like a pitiful squeak to the human wizards around him.
"Let's say he ain't, I mean isn't dead. How much is Peter Pettigrew worth alive?"
"It would exonerate Black of his murder, and perhaps clarify the mystery of your survival. Other than that, he wouldn't be worth a single Knut."
"That worthless, huh?" he grumbled and ran a finger along the rat's spine with his free hand, squeezing the murderer a little further with the other.
"Speaking of worth, Mr Potter, shall we move forward to discuss the extent of your wealth?"
Harry's eyes sparkled at the mention of money, he'd be able to live as he wished instead of bunking inside filthy buildings and stealing from other people to survive. "Of course," he said, mimicking the stuck-up accent Greengrass used.
They rolled up the Potter Will and unrolled a few pages of parchment, written in very tight and small block letters. Harry was used to squinting and guessing details he couldn't really see from afar, and although his instincts never let him down, he could only do so far with written words. He sat back with a huff and took his frustration on Peter the Rat, lifting him by the tail and dunking his head into the third cold butterbeer the house-elf had brought him.
The rat kept sputtering and twitching until a cough from Greengrass called for Harry's attention. "We are in civilized company, Mr Potter. Please put the animal down?"
"You people are no fun... 'Sides, I won't be able to read it," he said, pointing at the parchment.
"How do you mean? Are you ... illiterate?"
"I dunno, I mean I don't know what litter-eight means, but I can't read stuff so small, 'n I don't really read good enough..."
"Spectacles," the Hadrians said in unison and glared at each other, something Harry found funny and even Greengrass managed to crack a smile at the situation.
"Your hereditary titles shall be claimed in Muggle fashion, within the walls of London Tower as is custom. Unfortunately the Ministry for Magic has refused acknowledgement of these since before the turn of the century, however they will command enough respect within the right circles."
"As for your land ownership," continued Greengrass, "there are eleven listed properties. Five are located in the British Empire and six elsewhere. Of the first five, three are within the Isles, the first of which has no value since the building is either destroyed or uninhabitable, one is a manor located in London proper that has been vacant for decades and another is farming land up North. The following two are a manor in Shimla, Indian Western Himalayas, and a seaside resort in Tasmania."
Harry thought his eyeballs were about to spring out of their sockets, but the old wizard soldiered on with his report. "Your six remaining properties are mostly productive farming and mining in the Central Andes, in Southern Siberia, the Ruhr in Germania and Tuscany, Italy. The other two are small land masses in the Aegean and the Caribbean."
"I've got a fuckin' island?!"
"A pair of small land masses, Mr Potter... Please contain yourself!"
Making a silly victory dance that consisted of throwing Peter high up into the air, twirling on his feet and then catching the falling rat again, Harry finally looked at the annoyed and disapproving faces around him and sat back down, clicking his fingers for yet another cold ale.
"The document also details your liquid assets, which are quite conservative and dwindling rapidly because of the inactive productive properties. There is a separate vault for your Hogwarts expenditure as well, and here we arrive at the most interesting part of your assets: heirlooms."
"Her who's?"
"Heirlooms, Mr Potter! I am a patient man, however you are grating my nerves. And no more brewed beverages, you are underage for Merlin's sake!"
"Sod off! I've been livin' on me own 'n feedin' meself since I's seven years old, you don't get to tell me what to do!" he said and then sighed, rubbing his face. Harry wasn't so dumb as to ignore the fact these wizards were, for all he knew, his best option at understanding the world of magic. Not only that, the Hadrians were resourceful and crafty, handling his wishes in anonymity and granting him the means to achieve the freedom he wanted, while this Greengrass fellow seemed to belong to a higher sphere of wizards.
Harry felt he was in with the big sharks, and didn't want to blow his chances. "I'm sorry sir. You've been a pro and I do wanna belong to your ... world o' magic. I want to be a better wizard than my parents were, and I will become what I'm expected to be. This I promise you all on my life 'n magic!"
No wizard remained oblivious to the green fire dancing inside the little boy's eyes or the golden light sealing his oath. Harry Potter had just taken his first step into controlling his magical power.
Notes:
1.- The Aquilo is one of the four winds (North, East, South and West) as named by the Romans, who of course inherited the original Greek belief. There are also deities for N.E., S.E., N.W. and S.W. winds.