A/N: Hello again everyone. Good to see that no-one ran at me with pitchforks and fire for my weird last chapter. I warn you now, this is sort of fillery, and so is the next chapter, although I suppose they both have semi-important things in them... Not that I can actually remember 100% what's in this chapter... Love you guys, see you on the flip side


Chapter 7 – Gringotts:

The first thing Harry saw was harsh, bright light, so he closed his eyes again.

Movement off to the side caught his attention, but he wasn't keen on opening his eyes again anytime soon, so he moved to sit up instead. At least, that's what he intended to do.

The moment he attempted to move his fingers pain shot through his body, causing his entire body to seize up. Despite his clenched teeth an achingly pained moan fought its way out.

Something brushed against his shoulder and he nearly screamed. It felt as though he were covered in a layer of fire; everything burned. Voldemort was dead now, he remembered that, so why couldn't they just let him die? It would be infinitely less painful!

"Potter!"

Harry's internal rambling monologue cut off abruptly and he hesitantly cracked open an eye at the brisk, annoyed voice somewhere near his head.

"Good, you are awake. I wasn't looking forward to dealing with another of your petty night terrors." The snarky voice continued, unsympathetic.

Internally Harry frowned – for he didn't dare try and move any of the muscles in his face – he knew that voice, but there was no reason for him to be hearing it now. Carefully, slowly, Harry opened both his eyes, fighting to ignore the pain that flared up even in his eyelids. This wasn't living; this was a daze of agony.

"I ought to leave you here to suffer in pain for weeks on end, because believe me, with the length of time you were under it will take longer than three days to heal. You're lucky I was there, or you would have bled out from the Dark Lord's final curse. Idiot boy."

Harry couldn't decipher whether the 'idiot' was affectionate or irritable. Probably annoyed. It would suit his character better than the alternative.

"I want answers," Snape informed him emotionlessly, waving a vial in Harry's line of sight, "That's the only reason I'm going to give this to you. The Headmaster told me to leave you be, and before you try and ask, no, he has no idea that you're laid up in bed, or that you've been comatose for the last two and a half days."

Without giving him a chance to really process what had been said Snape uncorked the vial and forced it between Harry's lips, pouring it down his throat, not caring as he coughed and spluttered, choking it down. It wasn't as foul as skel-e-grow, but it was up there. For a moment he almost empathised with what Snape must have had to go through over the years, but then he remembered who it was hovering over him, choking him and forcing him to move. The compassion quickly evaporated.

"Don't you dare whine. I'm not here to listen to your complaints. It's your own stupidity that landed you like this."

Harry felt that that was meant to be a reprimand, but he didn't care. He'd finally done what everyone had been expecting of him. Couldn't they just leave him in peace?

"First, I suppose it's only fair to tell you that yes, He is truly dead this time. I'm not sure how you managed it, because the Headmaster made it quite clear to me that it wasn't yet possible, since he hadn't collected or destroyed all of the Dark Lord's horcruxes."

"That's what they're called then?" Harry gasped out, throat scratchy from sleep and lack of use. Snape scowled at him, though it was a more thoughtful, scrutinising scowl than his usual I-despise-being-in-your-presence scowl.

"How did you know about them?"

"Destroyed 'em."

Even Harry's throat was burning, regardless of the slight numbness that had overtaken his limbs after the potion was forced down his throat. He needed a glass of water, but he highly doubted Snape would acquiesce to being his 'servant' for any reason other than if he was truly dying, and even then he decided, now that he was no longer required, Snape would rather watch him die.

"Fine then. Who told you about them, Potter?" Snape's beady black eyes were boring into him so intently that Harry passingly wondered if he were attempting legilimency, but as he felt no pressure against his shields there was no evidence suggesting it was anything other than his best intimidating stare.

Harry swallowed heavily, refusing to speak. There was no way he was going to incriminate Crowley, because then he would be incriminating himself. Just because demons were the stuff of myth and legend in the magical world it didn't mean he wouldn't be in trouble for openly consorting with one.

"Insufferable brat. Fine. Do not tell me."

If that was Snape whining, and Harry had to admit, it very well could be, then the world must be ending. Or Hell had frozen over. He sort of hoped it wasn't the second one, magically binding contract and all that.

"As much as I enjoy seeing you lying here, prone and suffering, I feel it is in both of our best interests for you to recover as quickly as possible, if only to avoid suspicion. Word hasn't gotten out yet about what you did, but when it does I doubt you'll want to be anywhere nearby. Which, as much as it pains me to do this, means I shall be leaving you with a supply of potions that will aid you in recovering from your bout of torture."

Harry blinked up at his old teacher, barely biting back the 'why' that wanted to be asked. The pain wasn't sufficient for him to die from, he realised that now, so simply doing what he was told for once would allow him to leave sooner rather than later. Though he was loathe to admit it, Snape was correct, he wanted to be nowhere near anyone, particularly Dumbledore, once word got around of Voldemort's death.

"Thank you," Harry whispered instead, staring up into cold, coal-coloured eyes. They blinked once, the only tell that what Harry said had surprised the older man. Scowl morphing back to irritated the potions master stood up and swept from the room, trademark black robes flaring out behind him.

Closing his eyes Harry tried to go back to sleep. He needed as much energy as he could get in order to get away from the Order without anyone noticing.


13th April 1998:

Four days after he first woke up from his apparent coma Harry decided it was time to go.

Climbing to his feet on still trembling legs – it wasn't as bad as it had been, but he certainly wouldn't be walking with much speed any time soon – he threw all of his possessions except for his books into his trunk, shrunk it, and put it in the pocket of his jeans.

His books went into the messenger bag he had begged Hermione to cast undetectable extension and feather-light charms on. They had become his life over the past year and he needed to know they were with him, that he could get to them at any time. His trunk just wasn't good enough – not to mention they wouldn't fit in there anyway.

Grimmauld Place was quiet, for once free of the constant sound of motion coming from downstairs. Whether or not that meant the house was unoccupied was a whole other question, but not one he was willing to find the answer to.

Checking once again that he had everything with him he pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, casting a shadow over his face to make it harder to recognise him – not that wizards were likely to want to pay much attention to anyone dressed as a muggle in Diagon Alley.

His knife, which had somehow found its way back to him, had been thoroughly cleaned and was back in its holster around his ankle; his gun was holstered around his waist, sitting under a disillusionment charm.

Satisfied, and stoically ignoring the fainter trembles that shot down his arms erratically, Harry wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the strap of his bag and clenched his eyes shut, twisting on the spot.


Apparating, as per usual, made Harry want to sit down, throw up and fall over all at once. It was not something he would miss once he was no longer able to do it, regardless of the convenience. Getting around on his own two feet was much easier on his body, and less likely to leave him with an impressive migraine.

Shaking it off – which he quickly realised was a bad idea, given the less than healthy state of his body – Harry checked his hood, readjusted the strap of his bag, and stepped out of the shadowed alleyway he had chosen to apparate into just down the street from the Leaky Cauldron.

It was risky, going from Muggle London, but it was risky coming out at all, full stop. People hated him and loved him, and if he ran into any of his old classmates he simply knew he would get mobbed. It would put a rather large dampener on his plans.

Walking briskly, eye twitching as pain jolted up his legs every time his feet hit the pavement, Harry slipped into the Leaky Cauldron, ignored the greeting called out by Tom the barkeep, and continued, mostly unnoticed, through to the brick wall which hid the entrance to Diagon Alley.

To Harry, it was almost funny how normal everything seemed in Diagon. The Hogwarts term was still in session, so the crowds were minimal, but there was no celebrating, only the ever-present slight fear hovering at the edge of their minds to mar their day.

Harry knew their mind-set, and he also knew the true reality. None of them mattered to him anymore; only his destination, the pristine building at the end of the Alley. Gringotts.

Despite his now somewhat prolonged exposure to the Wizarding World, Harry had yet to gain any insight into how the economy really ran, or even what might be his in possession of the bank. It wasn't that he was hoping for some untold fortune awaiting him in the depths of the bank, he simply wanted to know what was rightfully his, and what he could do with it in his absence.

Harry nodded at the perpetually scowling goblin just inside the main doors into the bank, earning himself an extra dark sneer. Inwardly Harry rolled his eyes; it was honestly appalling that goblins had been so conditioned to expecting dismissive, arrogant and rude behaviour from wizards that they were suspicious of every action.

Heading for the closest free teller Harry was surprised to note that the goblin he found himself in front of was the one goblin whom Harry had met beforehand.

"Griphook, I would like to speak to someone about my accounts," Harry said quietly to the goblin, still somewhat wary of the harsh-looking creatures. When Griphook stared down his long nose at Harry, in what Harry assumed was a scowl – it was hard to tell with goblins – he stuttered out a "Please," thinking that Griphook was displeased with him.

Silent, the goblin continued to stare for a moment longer, before stepping away from his spot and gesturing for Harry to follow him. Bewildered, Harry readily complied, following the goblin through a maze of corridors until he was certain that he would be lost for days trying to find his way out on his own – perhaps that was the point.

Eventually Griphook came to a stop before a rather extravagant set of double doors – not extravagant for goblins in general, just a bit showy, in Harry's opinion, for so far into the building and possibly underground – which had a golden nameplate stuck to them.

Ragnar, Inheritances.

And underneath that it read:

Black vault manager.

It wasn't exactly what Harry had been expecting, but then again, what did he know about banks? Absolutely nothing, not even about muggle establishments.

Griphook pushed open one of the doors and said something in what Harry supposed was the language of goblins, harsh, guttural sounds that he would hate to have to attempt to replicate. After receiving an equally harsh-sounding response Griphook ushered Harry inside and promptly left.

Goblins didn't have the greatest manners, but Harry supposed he could forgive them.

"Mister Potter," Ragnar greeted him, offering up what Harry assumed was a smile – all he knew was that he didn't want to be anywhere near those jagged teeth. "I had both not been expecting this and been waiting for your visit."

Harry blinked owlishly at the goblin, sinking into the chair before the desk.

What?

"Why were you expecting me? I hadn't even thought of coming here until this morning when I woke up."

Ragnar's vicious grin receded, transforming into an expression akin to the scowls Harry was more used to receiving from the goblins.

"I was waiting because you needed to come here in order to properly receive what was left to you in the late Lord Black's will."

For some obscure reason Harry felt Ragnar was annoyed with him, but Harry was beyond confused. Sirius had had a will? Sirius had left him something? Why hadn't anyone told him about that?

"I was unaware that Sirius had made a will," Harry admitted quietly. The look on Ragnar's face made him instantly wish he had kept his mouth shut.

"Gringotts sent you an owl informing you of the will reading. Are you telling me you never received it?" Ragnar snarled, beady eyes blazing. Of course, Harry realised, if something happened that might lessen the reputation of the bank the goblins probably had every right to be as furious as Ragnar appeared then.

"B-but, you know, the owl could have just gotten lost, right?" Even Harry knew how unlikely that was; Hedwig had never failed to deliver a letter, and the goblins wouldn't have any sub-par delivery owls.

"Intercepted, yes, but not lost."

Harry gulped nervously, although he knew that the glare Ragnar was sporting wasn't directed at him. Was it seriously that bad?

"Surely that, um, the l-letter, uh, couldn't you just tell me about it now?" Harry mentally cursed himself for allowing Ragnar's glare to draw a stutter from him, but he needed to get it out. He didn't want to be caught in the goblin's rage.

"You are correct, Mister Potter, however I will be initiating an investigation into this matter once you leave," Ragnar conceded, glare lessening some as he settled into a more business-like manner.

"Now, it would take time to retrieve the late Mister Black's will from the archives, where it was stored after the will-reading. Instead, I shall simply recite from memory what applies to you. He left you his vault, Number 12 Grimmauld Place and all its contents, and he made you his heir, making you the legal Head of the Black family. Had this been known to you at the time, it would have entitled you to an emancipation. As it is, you are already a legal adult, so the point is null."

"Wait, vault? He left me his vault? I have enough money as it is!" Harry protested suddenly, mind whirling. Emancipation? Heir? Freaking Grimmauld Place?

"Personal wealth not-with-standing, yes, Mister Black left you his vault. Some of the money from said vault was gifted to Mister Lupin, but the majority of it is still yours."

"But I don't- I- Ugh... I haven't got any use for what he's left me. I'm leaving the Magical World as soon as possible and I'm never coming back."

"Because Voldemort is dead?" Ragnar asked, sneer still in place – though there was a knowing look in his beady coal black eyes. Taking a deep breath Harry sunk further into the chair.

"How did you know that?" He asked. It wasn't accusing or suspicious, he just wanted to know if he should be worried.

"Tom Riddle also had a vault at Gringotts. It is key that we know when wizards come and go in order to know what to do with them." It was a vague answer, but it was all Harry needed to know. Only the goblins knew.

"That- Okay. Good." Thinking fast, Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair, tugging on the ends. "Can you- Can I, give Grimmauld to Remus Lupin?" He knew the werewolf cared for him, and he sort of owed him for forcing the ex-professor to put up with his moods and elusive, anti-social behaviour over the past few years.

"Yes, of course Mister Potter. Seeing as it is now yours you may do whatever you wish with it." Ragnar watched Harry curiously. Obviously he was aware of Lupin's status as a werewolf, and perhaps he was wondering why Harry would choose him to receive his things. Trust a goblin to judge your every move.

"Right, do that then please." Harry watched Ragnar pull a sheaf of parchment from some unseen drawer and set it upon the desk between them.

"You must sign the deed. I shall take care of the rest."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Awkwardly picking up the quill offered to him – he had gotten accustomed to writing with muggle pens again – Harry shuffled closer to the desk and scribbled down his chicken-scratch signature. His handwriting was a million times better with a pen – quills were undoubtedly harder to hold.

"So, ah, I want you to give him a key to Sirius's vault too. I know he won't accept it if I just sign the whole thing over to him, but at least that way if he needs to he can access the money." Harry didn't know why he felt the need to explain himself to the goblin, but it was all just pouring out; justification, he supposed, for his apparently unheard of behaviour.

"That can be arranged," Ragnar assured him, procuring another piece of parchment for Harry to produce his illegible signature on.

Vaguely overwhelmed Harry simply went through the actions dictated to him by the goblin, putting a possibly unwise amount of trust in Ragnar.

Noting Harry's discomfort Ragnar placed a small, intricately carved box on his desk and opened the lid so that its contents were facing him, rather than the distressed young man.

"Perhaps it would be prudent to conclude our meeting sooner rather than later," Ragnar suggested, voice softer than before, perhaps sensing the exhaustion that Harry felt, a consequence of marching on when in vicious pain.

"Yeah, sounds good," Harry echoed quietly, eyeing the box with a suppressed apprehension.

"These are your family rings," Ragnar informed Harry, seeing the question in darkened emerald eyes. "Proof of your status as Head of those families."

Harry physically recoiled in his seat. He didn't want any more responsibility thrust on to him, especially not in the Wizarding World!

"Why?" He muttered dejectedly, completely pushing his hood away from his head and looking up at the ceiling, as if answers were carved into it.

"You may not wish for them right now Mister Potter, but one day it may aid you to be able to show such a status. What is it you humans say? 'Better safe than sorry'?"

Lowering his gaze to the goblin Harry levelled him with an unimpressed stare.

"Sure…" He acquiesced, disbelievingly. Tentatively, Harry reached out and grasped the box, pulling it closer. Inside sat two signet rings, intricately detailed with the crests of the Black and Potter families, respectively. Harry hadn't even known he had a family crest. "I don't have to wear them, do I? I don't wear rings…"

"It would be wisest to keep them on your person," Ragnar pointed out, business-like once more.

"Mmm..." Hummed Harry, poking the Potter ring. Perhaps if he wore them around a chain...

Reaching under his shirt Harry pulled out the silver chain he had taken to wearing. Hanging from it already was a curious pendant, a symbol known only to Harry in this part of England. It was an anti-possession charm. With Crowley watching over him – or whatever it was that the demon was trying to play at by bloody well branding him – Harry wasn't sure if other demons would attempt it, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Not like he made a show of informing people about demons anyway.

"Can I just put them on here?" He asked Ragnar, eyes guarded as he noticed the way the goblin was scrutinising his charm.

"It is acceptable. First however, you must put the rings on your finger in order to claim them."

Puzzled, but seeing no reason not to comply, Harry removed the ornate rings from the decorative box and placed both of them on fingers on his left hand. For a moment nothing happened, and he felt a little silly, much as he had done when attempting the crossroads summoning, but then there was a pin-prick, a very slight, momentary pain, and the over-sized rings shrunk to fit securely to his fingers, his magic reaching out to coat them.

That might be a problem once he no longer had a magical signature, he mused distractedly as he pulled the rings off, setting them back in the box so that he could unclasp his chain. Once more Ragnar's eyes honed in on the charm, and Harry found it hard to ignore as he set about looping the cool metal through the rings – one on either side of the charm, to even it out.

When Harry put the chain back around his neck Ragnar's gaze shifted slightly, and Harry quickly brushed his hair down over his neck again. It was too late.

"Demons are nasty creatures Mister Potter, you would be wise not to show that to anyone, if you can at all avoid it," the goblin instructed him.

"I- yes... What? No. I don't want to know."

Unsettled, Harry shifted in his seat, one hand in his pocket, cradling his shrunken trunk. Goblins knew about demons. Goblins knew about Crowley, because there had been a deep, knowing look in Ragnar's eyes that accompanied his warning. Goblins knew about the supernatural.

And to be honest? That terrified Harry. It really did.


A/N: So, this might seem a little irrelevant, but I keep seeing the Crowley kiss when I scroll through my document that houses this lovely story, and I find I'm quite proud of it. It never ceases to amuse me, seeing those dramatic little sentences :P At least this is more interesting than my homework, so you don't have to worry about me abandoning it