Harry shook himself. He could waste time at the Dursleys. For now, he had plans to execute.
He hadn't had all that long with Croaker. At first, the old unspeakable had been planning to send himself back and had been mainly interested in hearing what Harry knew before he did so. When the plan had changed, they'd been focused on the very particular tasks of catching Pettigrew and Crouch and making sure Voldemort couldn't resurrect himself.
Beyond that, most of his advice had been very general, though he had made a few more specific recommendations.
'First off kid, I could hardly believe it when I cast the spell, but you're seriously malnourished, and don't tell me it's just from the last year. Some of this is long term. You've been short on food a lot in life. When you're back, take the Rematuration Concoction and get it fixed while you're young enough that it still can be. And second, for Merlin's sake, find out exactly how much money you've got, look into what might be helpful to own, and buy as much of it as you can afford.'
Harry had only been to Gringotts three times before, and only once by himself, the summer before third year. He'd got his galleons and got out. He was aiming, now, for something a good deal more thorough, and he didn't want to look like a child or a muggle ragamuffin. The Hogwarts house-elves had worked wonders, it was true, on the stains and tears in Dudley's hand-me-down clothing. As much of the clothing had been nice to start, it hadn't ended up looking too bad, in Harry's opinion. A bit threadbare, yes, and often ill-fitting, but not only had he grown, but he'd tried various Shrinking and Sizing Charms in dead hours over the years, and not to no good effect. He didn't reckon he looked godawful in them. Better, perhaps, than wearing his Hogwarts robes and advertising his youth like a badge.
Or maybe not, but then, he doubted the goblins cared. He was only procrastinating.
Harry was shortly in the lobby of Gringotts, the ceilings high vaulted, hook nosed goblins at every counter. He was wearing his best muggle clothes.
"Hello," said Harry, approaching a goblin at random. "I don't know what I'm about here, but I'd like a summary of all my money. And, er, anything else. If there is anything else." He was thinking, mainly, of paperwork. Sirius had had a will. Perhaps his parents had too. It might be nice to read it, just too see how they'd phrased things and who they'd been close enough to to leave things to.
"Name?" said the goblin, not looking up from its work.
"Harry Potter."
The goblin looked up at him, interest in its beady eyes. "You'd like to speak to your account manager?" the goblin said.
"I guess?" said Harry.
After a pinprick, a signature, and a wave of his wand, Harry was in small room with small chairs and a small table that Harry had to hunch around. It was clearly a room the goblins used for having meetings with wizards, but they had just as clearly designed it exclusively for goblins, so that the wizards must do their best to accommodate themselves.
"So," said the goblin, who'd introduced herself as Pullyrip. "The Potter account. Yes, I assure you, Gringotts has been doing its best by it. Not that you'd have much other place to take your money if we hadn't, but there it is. Everything to the letter of the contract. You have some questions, is that right?"
"Yes," said Harry. "How much money do I have?"
"What do you mean, how much money?" the goblin asked.
"How much is in there?"
Giving him a puzzled look, the goblin said, "Your Expenditures Vault is maintained at a value of one-thousand and nineteen galleons, eight-hundred and eleven sickles, and nine-hundred and sixty-seven knuts, to be topped up, as needed, at the first of each month. Value, however, is not required to be expressed in precise coinage. Seventeen sickles may do for a galleon, for instance."
Harry stared at the goblin blankly. As he sorted out the goblin's words, questions gradually penetrated the blankness. "I'm sorry," said Harry. "Topped up from where?"
The goblin's beady eyes widened, and then it opened its mouth wide, as if it were preparing to fit its jaws around a too-fat sandwich. It wasn't a human expression, except, perhaps, how one might look mid-guffah, but something in it spoke to Harry of excitement.
"You guardian hasn't told you anything, has he?" said the goblin.
"Er, not really."
The goblin whistled, very high and shrill, and there were quickly two more goblins in the room, all making the same expression. Harry feared they'd decided he was an easy mark and had decided to take him for everything he was worth, but they seemed more caught up in the idea that Albus Dumbledore had 'failed in his fiduciary duty.'
"I'm only 13," said Harry. "It's fine if he hasn't told me yet. What do you mean by income?"
"Your father received the Order of Merlin, First class, following his death. As his dependent, you receive a monthly stipend until you reach the age of 17, and then there's the profits from your stakes and rents."
"My what?"
And then the goblins showed him his account, all there on parchment, and not too hard to puzzle out with their help.
He owned pieces of companies, most prominently Sleakeazies, a magical hair care company he was vaguely aware of, but there were others on the list.
"I own the Daily Prophet!?" said Harry, astounded.
"You own less than one percent of The Daily Prophet," Pullyrip corrected.
He owned a bit of quite a few things he'd heard of, including the Nimbus company, and of quite a few he'd never heard of, like Pep-Pot Plants, and they all brought in money. And then there were the buildings he rented out.
Two houses, one in Hogsmeade, and one in Cokeworth, which he'd never heard of. And two buildings which appeared to be shops, one in Diagon Alley, and one in magical Dublin. There was upkeep, insurance and taxes, Gringotts fees, and a trust fee of eleven galleons a month.
"What's this?" said Harry, pointing to the fee.
Baring its teeth, the goblin said, "Dumbledore's cut. The max he can assign himself as guardian under Gringotts rules."
Harry shrugged. He wasn't pleased, but eleven galleons a month wasn't all that much, and he was sure Dumbledore was putting it to good use. After every cost and fee, he still had a monthly income of over two-hundred and seventy galleons per month. Ar first, that struck him as a ridiculous sum of money — was he rich? — but then he remembered that the Weasleys had spent most of 600 galleons on a trip to Egypt. Sweets and books were all very well, but from what Harry had heard Uncle Vernon grumble about, he guessed money didn't go so far as you expected once you had a house, a family, and bills to pay.
Regardless, all his fears that buying useful equipment would bankrupt him vanished.
Looking further at the account, it seemed that on the months that he didn't spend the whole sum (which was every month) the remainder was automatically rolled over into buying more small pieces of companies. And as far as his expenditures went, there were more than he remembered making. He felt a flash of indignation until he looked closer and saw the memos and dates and realized what they were for.
The recent withdrawal for 'necessaries' must be the expanded bag and the vanishing box. The withdrawal from September of his first year for 'broomstick' must've been for his Nimbus 2000. And then, those six sickles paid for 'room and board' the summer before his second year must be for the Weasleys. Only six sickles. It wasn't as if they'd got rich off of it. He doubted that it had even fully covered the cost of the food he'd eaten and the floo powder he'd used. He'd have given them more than that if he'd thought they'd take it.
None of it was wrong. He just thought he ought to have known.
One of the goblins Pullyrip had called in said, "Gringotts would be happy to place your fiscal guardianship into more trustworthy hands."
Harry gave them a look. He might not know anything about his account, but he hadn't taken five years of History of Magic for nothing. As a rule, Goblins enforced contracts to the letter, and they didn't lie about contracts. But they were very deceptive and were happy to shaft you with every little clause they could.
Harry said, "Do I look like I was born yesterday? Eleven galleons a month is a cheap price to be able to hold eleven galleons a month over Albus Dumbledore."
The goblins' expressions turned, though he couldn't guess what their new expressions meant.
"And what are these?" asked Harry, pointing to another parchment. "I have four vaults?"
"The Potters chose to have a separate Expense Vault and Family Vault. The Family Vault keeps valuables, most likely. We'd be happy to take inventory."
Harry looked suspiciously at them. "That's alright," he said. "I'll look at it myself. Now about the other two?."
"This one is small — your guardian took it out for you under name and placed a few items shortly after Mr and Mrs Potter's deaths, being unable himself to enter the Family Vault. The last is for your mail."
Harry blinked. "What mail?"
"Letters, birthday, Christmas and Halloween presents, well-wishes. Gringotts would be happy to sort them out from the various poisons and cursed objects."
Harry marveled that there were such things. He never would've guessed it on his own, but it made perfect sense. He imagined Uncle Vernon's response to a parliament of owls coming by every July 31st to cover Number 4 Privet Drive in presents and cards for the Boy-Who-Lived. Poisons and cursed objects, however, made a less pleasant image.
"How much?" asked Harry.
"Standard fees for the identification and disposal of cursed objects," Pullygrip said.
His eyes narrowed. He didn't know what standard fees were, but they might add up. "Maybe later," said Harry. "Today I want to visit my Expense Vault, the little vault where Dumbledore put my things, and the Family vault."
He didn't know what he'd find there, but he was interested. Momentos of his parents, perhaps. Harry said, "Before we go, I heard I can buy potions through Gringotts without anyone knowing. Could I get a Rematuration Concoction and thirty doses of Wit-Sharpening Potion? Anonymously?"
Pullygrip bared her teeth. "Forty galleon charge."
"Forty?!"
"It's a lot of Potions," the goblin said.
"That's still too much!" He talked them down to twenty, and the potions were shortly ordered, and Harry was headed down on a cart. To his surprise, Pullyrip herself was manning the cart, even though he'd got the impression she was an important goblin.
They stopped first at the vault where Dumbledore had left a few things. It had a simple oak door, and when it was opened, proved to be more closet than vault. It was barely large enough to stand in, and inside was only a single wood box.
Harry took the lid off and began to unpack it. As he did, his hands shook. Crystal glasses, a photo album, two wands. A pair of round lensed, bronze framed spectacles. Jewelry and cufflinks. Loose crystals, and polished stones, as if one of his parents had had a rock collection. Several leather bound books, and a journal filled with neat writing.
The blasted cottage at Godric's Hollow had been left mostly as was, but he'd seen their graves. There'd been a funeral, and at some point, someone must've gathered a few valuables and personal effects, and Dumbledore had put them here.
He didn't want to open the album or read the journal or his knees or in front of a goblin, so he put it all back in the box and put the box in his bag.
"I'd like to close that vault," Harry said. "Won't need it anymore."
"Eight galleon cancellation fee."
"Eigh- How much do I pay in rent for the vault anyway?"
"12 knuts a month."
"That's nothing then. I'm not paying to cancel. What if I just stopped paying the monthly?"
"You could do that," said the goblin.
"What happens if I do?" Harry asked suspiciously.
The goblin bared her teeth. "Debt. With interest."
He shook his head. They got back on the cart and went to his Expense Vault — what he'd always thought was his only vault — where Harry loaded up on galleons and sickles for his shopping trip.
After that, they went down and down, perhaps as deep into Gringotts as the Philosopher's Stone had been. The door to the Potter Family Vault was wide and thick, made of bright bronze and black iron. After a brief rigamarole with blood and a wave of his wand, it opened with a welcoming creak, but beyond he could see little.
The front of the vault was blocked by a hedge of boxes wood-backed furniture too high for Harry to see over, nevermind the goblins. A short aisle led around, and, presumably, through.
"I ought to go in with you," said Pullygrip. "Check for traps."
The goblin, however, made no move to cross the threshold. She seemed to be waiting for some sign or signal from Harry, but as she waited, her eyes scanned the boxes avidly.
"That's alright," said Harry. "I'll go in by myself. You wait outside."
Harry went in, and the great door closed behind him. He was not dropped into darkness, but nor were there lamps or candles. Rather, a light came up around the Chamber as if dawn were all around.
Coming around the wall, he found a large space filled with treasures: brilliant robes, racks of wands, cases of books, bright mirrors, dark wardrobes and chairs. On one wall was a poster for Sleakeazy's Hair Potion, and next to the poster-
"Great Scott, Euphy, look, there's a boy!"
Harry stumbled. He would've fallen if he hadn't caught himself on a box.
On the wall next to the poster were two portraits, one of a man and one of a woman, both with full silver hair. They were both in the same garden, and as he watched, the woman moved into the man's frame to take a better look at him.
"Who are you then?" said the man. "A grandson? Do we have a grandson after all?"
"I, I-" said Harry.
"You're scaring the poor boy," said the woman, in an Irish lilt. She smiled kindly at Harry. "Did our James plant you with his candle?"
"I, what?"
"Yes, you do look like him, I'm almost sure of it. Legitimate, or by-blow?"
"L-legitimate," said Harry, taking her meaning. He would've been screaming mad if it'd been asked by anyone else than who he guessed she must be.
"With Lily?"
"Yes!" shouted Harry, now too mortified for full sentences.
"Good. She seemed nice enough. Stay together, did they?"
"Yes!"
"Poor girl."
The man chuckled. "Please do excuse dear Euphy. It's been some time since she's had any sport. Now, would your name be Egbert by any chance? No?" He clucked his tongue. "Seems James lost another round. What is your name then?"
"Harry James Potter," he choked out.
The woman said, "And We're Euphemia and Fleamont Potter. He's the Fleamont. I take it we're your grandparents?"
This was too much for Harry. He'd been dreaming of letters and perhaps some old jewelry. He couldn't tell if he was happy, sad, or even angry at what he'd found instead. He sat on a chest and took deep breaths.
How had he been enraptured by the Mirror of Erised when there was this?
When he looked up, sadness was in their eyes. Fleamont said, in a much soberer tone than before. "How old are you, young man?"
"Thirteen."
"Thirteen, and we've never seen you before. Thirteen, and we didn't see you grow up, ourselves hung in pride of place in the parlor. Thirteen, and unless I miss my guess, you had no idea who we were.
"Tell me, grandson. What happened to our son?"
So there was that. Death, and the telling and the hearing of it. He'd got a good deal of practice with both, and he'd learned that he preferred not to see the hearer's eyes. He kept his gaze on his shoes and spoke in a bland tone, as if they were events in a book and had nothing to do with him. "Voldemort broke in one night, quite suddenly. James Potter didn't have his wand on him, so he tried to hold him off by hand. Well. After that was over, Voldemort went upstairs. Lily Potter didn't have her wand on her either, but he wasn't interested in killing her. He tried to kill me though instead, there in my cradle, but she wouldn't move aside. She died sacrifically, which placed a powerful countercharm on me. When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at me, it rebounded on him. He's been like a ghost ever since. James got an Order of Merlin for it, First Class.
"Or that's what I've been told. It doesn't seem to be bollocks. I can remember it a little when dementors are near, and what I remember squares with it."
If he'd ever wondered if portraits could grieve, he had his answer. He wandered away to give them their space, examining the rack of wands. Thirty-one wands in total, all labelled with little tags showing wood, core, and who they'd belonged to.
Fleamont cleared his throat. Voice still thick, he said, "I suppose you can't stay down here forever, young man. You must've come for a purpose."
"Just to see," said Harry. "I had no idea what I'd find. But I'd like to take you two up with me, if you don't mind."
"Of course," said Fleamont. "James put us in here just after we quickened. He was afraid if he kept us in a house, we'd get burned down along with it if he and Lily were attacked. But if the war is over, we'd be quite happy to leave this old vault, along with anything else you take a fancy to."
"What all is it?" asked Harry.
A very great deal, but mainly books, furniture, and more books. When Fleamont Potter had made his fortune with the founding of Sleakeazy's Hair Tonic, he'd set his sights on having the undisputed best personal library in Magical Britain, and if he'd never quite got there, he'd certainly moved into contention, and most of the less essential books had been packed up to save them from the war.
"Anything on occlumency?" Harry asked.
There was. There were book on occlumency, on history, on possession and spirits and finding things. Books on Arithmancy, Runes and soul magic. Books on every topic he'd hoped to find books on but one.
They had very little on dark magic, and nothing at all on the ways a dark wizard might anchor himself to life. They were disturbed by his asking.
"Voldemort's still out there," Harry said, "clinging meanly to life. And he means to kill me if he can. What else is here?"
He put the books he wanted in his bag, and moved on, searching the vault shelf by shelf, box by box. Most wasn't any good for him. Much of the library, for instance, was fiction, poetry and songbooks, and they had as well magical devices he'd never heard of, and when he was told their purpose, found he had no use for. But there were others. Sneakoscopes, foeglasses, protective necklaces and bracelets, and a tent that, while old, was still in excellent condition. The inside was a sort of ski-lodge with four bedrooms, only a little smaller than the Dursley's house.
Harry laughed bitterly as he bagged it all, for it was nearly everything he'd wished he'd had on the Horcrux Hunt, and much of what he'd been planning to buy. And then he found what he'd desired most desperately of all.
A set of knives and daggers were displayed together near the wand rack, and Harry bagged one that Euphy said would make cutting ingredients for potions as easy as could be. "And those ones at the bottom are goblin made. Be sure the goblins don't see them on you if you take them out. They become quite churlish about it."
"Goblin made?" mouthed Harry.
There were, as best he knew, three things that could destroy a horcrux. Fiendfyre, basilisk venom, and goblin made weapons. He'd had none of the three, but here in this vault…
Only, would these thin, narrow daggers really cut it against one of Voldemort's Horcuxes? It must need to be a special goblin-forged weapon, like the sword of Gryffindor, for instance, not just any goblin dagger. Otherwise, Dumbledore would surely have slipped him one sixth year.
"They have very strange ideas on ownership, goblins. Now that Fleamont and I have died, they'll think the daggers should go to whoever made them now that we're dead, or the children of the makers if the makers are dead."
Nodding, Harry put them all in his bag. He grabbed several of the wands and set them in as well.
Looking with some concern at his selections, Fleamont said, "Who did you come with?"
"No one. Dumbledore's my magical guardian, and he lets me be pretty independent."
"Really?" said Fleamont. "Facing the goblins on your own? What have they got you to agree to?"
Harry told them. Fleamont stroked his beard, and Euphemia laughed.
"You were fleeced on the potions. Five galleons at most, unless things have changed more than I think. As for the empty vault, simply tell them that you don't wish to renew the contract. It'll close up at the end of the year."
"The lad didn't do too badly though," said Fleamont, consideringly. "Not many that age would've escaped so lightly."
Harry thought that that was mainly because they'd been trying to cosy up to him to start, but he didn't say so.
"You'll want to be careful when you go back up," continued Fleamont. "They'll take you for every knut they can, and they can be quite persuasive, goblins. It's difficult to deal with them if you haven't read the contract. Be sure to demand your own copy, and read it through, twice mayhap. Don't agree to anything else until you have."
Harry nodded, thinking he might not mind being fleeced if it got him what he wanted faster. Fleamont gave him more advice regardless, until Euphemia said, "Enough. He's got the gist. He's not going to get any readier listening to you talk. Harry, you'll want those two trunks, I imagine. They were James' and Lily's."
Two large trunks, polished smooth. One was much like his own, made of light oak and devoid of ornamentation except for the letters LJE carved roughly into the top. The other was dark gold sandalwood bound in red leather. Harry rushed to them, and burned his fingers trying to open them.
Euphemia chuckled, "Now, be careful. They didn't want anyone else opening those, you know. Lily's password was Ignis Nox. James's was Mordicant. Choices they thought were quite thrilling when they were about your age, but later embarrassed them. James's especially is quite nice. Not technically allowed at Hogwarts, in fact, but when has that stopped anyone?"
"Ignis Nox," Harry whispered, and Lily's trunk popped open.
It was quite neat. Old textbooks and notebooks are in careful stacks, and quills had been placed in vials that had been placed together into the student's pewter cauldron. There were careful stacks of pictures too. He picked one up and saw Lily posing in front of Black Lake with a girl he didn't recognize.
The overall impression was of a school-life lovingly packed away, to be taken out and savoured at some later date. He swallowed, put the picture back, and closed the lid.
"Mordicant," he whispered, moving next to James'.
It was much the same, but a fair deal less organized. Not so messy as Harry's often was, but the stacks were haphazard, notebooks mixed into the stack of books, quills lost into the tcracks. There were Quidditch medals and an old broomstick.
There was also, looking closely, a black dial with the numbers zero through seven listed on it. The dial was set to Zero, and Harry turned it to One.
Suddenly, he was looking at the inside of a different trunk. It was full of what looked like half the contents of Zonko's joke shop. Biting Boomerangs, dungbombs, frog spawn soap, Darkness Powder, sugar quills, whinging tableware, and more he didn't know. Mixed in were more practical items like a penknife, a potions kit, and a bracelet that looked perfectly normal on the outside, but proved on closer inspection, to be a sneakoscope strung out into the form of a bracelet on the inside.
"Oh, that," said Euphemia, seeing it. "I wonder why James stopped wearing it — he made it himself, and he was quite proud of it. Instead of making a noise, it warns you of untrustworthiness by temperature along your wrist. He mainly used it to know when his friends were trying to play a trick on him."
"I can say why," said Fleamont. "He said in a war, there were always secrets and deceptions going on around him, and wearing it became more distraction than use."
Harry quickly put it on. The sneakoscope bracelet was cool against his wrist. He felt a ponce to be wearing a gold bracelet all covered in runes, but all his heart was focused on just how useful it might prove.
He turned the dial again. The next trunk was made of furniture. He could pull the trunk out, and he'd have a wardrobe, a bookcase, and a vanity.
The trunk after was empty but for an old camera, a load of wizarding photographs, several nice rocks, and a few odds and ends. The next was clothing, a box of Sleakeazy's hair care, and various more toiletry supplies. The next was dead empty, and then…
"There's a flat down here," Harry said in a strangled tone.
"I wouldn't call it a flat," said Euphy. "That makes it sound as if we spoiled our boy. It's just a bedroom and a loo. And it's detachable, by the way. James used to take the flat out, fold it up into a little box and take it with him wherever he liked."
Harry lay back. This was too much. Ever since he could remember, he'd longed to hear of his parents. And ever since Hagrid had told him, he'd clung tightly to ever scrap of knowledge, every mean photograph and heirloom, as rare, precious, irreplaceable objects.
But all along, there had been an underground sea of them.
None of that mattered though, he reminded himself. The important part was that he had tremendous resources that would help him in his tasks.
"Hey," he said to the portraits. "Any advice on choosing a spare wand?"
"Yes. How the two wands get on with each other is at least as important as how you get on with the spare."
Nodding, Harry took out the two wands from his bag, and the spectacles came with them, handle caught around a wand. Before he could put it back, Fleamont said, "Oh, the Potter spectacles. Go ahead, put them on."
Hesitantly, he did so. The frames adjusted to fit his head. At first the world was terribly blurry, than clearer, then blurry again, then clear, then not so blurry as before, as if the lenses were finding just the right spot for him. Eventually, it settled down, and the vault was clear as crystal, more detailed in shape and colour than it had been before in his old spectacles, and quite a few things had not quite a glow, but a strange short of leafy or metallic shine he'd never seen before.
"Quite expensive spectacles, those," said Fleamont. "The best that money can buy. Imported from Japan, you know. They can see through invisibility cloaks with a little effort, and more features besides. Not allowed in lessons or in Quidditch, so James needed other pairs for that."
He thought of Dumbledore's spectacles. Yet another thing he'd been hoping to buy, and he'd owned it all along. That shopping trip was getting rapidly shorter and cheaper, satisfied with hand-me-downs instead.
They were able to tell him which wand was James's, and which was Lily's. He found James' energetic and changeable. He could use it, probably, but his wand didn't get on with it well, like two boys both pushing for center stage.
Lily's suited him better, and there was no strange frission of competition when he held it to his own wand.
He moved to the rack, though, holding all those wands. Harry tried several wands. One, a rather thick wand that was light in colour, gave off a pleasant warm feeling in his hand. Hickory and North American horned serpent fang, the label said.
"Owned by my Uncle Alphaline," said Fleamont. "He was quite the traveler."
Harry put it aside, favouring Lily's.
"Go ahead, try it out," said Euphy. "There's no restriction against underage magic in Gringotts."
Harry frowned. "You're sure I won't get in trouble?"
Euphy rolled her eyes. "What are they teaching children these days? The Goblin Nation does not care for the laws of wizards, nor do they allow country-wide wards such as the trace to operate in their domain."
Harry had actually got that impression from Professor Binns. As little as he'd learned in that class, he had picked up that after contractual issues, the main causes of the goblins wars had come down to goblin independence.
He flicked the wand, and his wand tip lit. A larger wave, and he silently summoned a book to himself. And then, "Expecto Patronum!"
The silver stag raced out the wand and pranced around the room, fading only when he let it.
"Oh, bravo!" said Fleamont. They were both clapping. "You're thirteen?"
Harry shrugged assent. "Just finished third year. I was born July 31st."
They were clearly proud and impressed, as well they might be if he were really thirteen. The undeserved praise made him uncomfortable, and he moved through more of the vault. The main find was four omnioculars that had been top of the line when they'd been bought, and two pairs of reading spectacles.
"You don't need them," said Fleamont. "Not with the spectacles you're already wearing. But they speed up your reading by about a third, your skimming by three or four times over, and your scanning by ten or eleven. All your Professor at Hogwarts have a pair, you may depend on that. Useful for marking essays, I'm sure."
That would come in handy. He imagined Hermione's reaction and decided he ought to get pairs to Hermione and Ron as early in the summer as possible.
He put some of it in his bag, and the rest, including Lily's entire trunk and the two portraits, into James' trunk.
"You'll be alright down there?" Harry called into the flat inside James' trunk.
"Perfectly alright, I assure you. We're looking forward to seeing your home, grandson!"
Harry closed the lid, queasy and teary all at once. Then he lay back on the trunk for a moment, gathering himself.
It was easy to think that only people mattered, that everything that happened came down to their choices, but he knew the terrible power in objects. A jumper could be the difference between a beautiful night wandering beneath the stars and a few hours of cold misery. If you had to a dig a hole, a shovel was the difference between scrabbling with your hands until they were bloody, and finishing it in a bracing ten minutes. And that was no less true for magical devices.
He was now fabulously equipped. That might not be enough to beat Voldemort on its own, but it went a long way. There was something else to that he couldn't put his hands on.
But there was no use being overwhelmed. It was getting late, and the Pullygrip was likely getting bored.
Indeed, the goblin was tapping a foot when he came out, and she cast a long, curious eye at James' trunk, which was lighter in his arms than it should've been.
"I have something to discuss when we get back up top," Harry said.
The goblin looked eager, and the cart went fast. He was shortly in the too-small office again, now with James' oddly light trunk next to him. Five goblins watched him from across the table. Two hadn't been there last time, and looked more important than Pullygrip.
"The Potter account," the goblin began, "could be-
Harry reached into his bag and set a goblin dagger on the table.
The head goblin broke off immediately, sucking air through his teeth. "You wish to bargain with us with our own property?" he hissed.
"No. It's yours. My family just rented it, right? I'm no thief. Take it." And he set the other three on the table with it. "These ones too."
The head goblin twitched, and the daggers disappeared. He was staring at Harry now, with dark, gimlet eyes that pierced him as surely as Dumbledore's ever had.
Harry said, "I want to be an honourable wizard, one whom goblin nation can depend on to live up to his contracts. And there's something else I want to buy. A goblin weapon, fairly small. Not flashy, but of the highest quality, forged to oppose dark magic and dark artifacts of the highest level. If it could shred Voldemort's soul on contact, that would make it even better."
The goblins were silent. There was no eye contact between them, but he was sure they were communicating somehow. Trying to decide how much of a fool he was, probably.
The head goblin said, "We shall sell it to you for ninety-nine galleons."
Remembering what Fleamont had said about dealing with goblins, Harry said, "Ninety-nine? Show me rates and contracts. Ten galleons is more like-
"Do not bargain, human," the head goblin cut him off with a hiss. "What you ask is worth thousands. We would sell it to you for a trifle." His eyes were intense, and the ears of the other goblins were twitching.
Harry felt much as he had on Potterwatch. It was as if he were on a hilltop, wind all about, storm overhead, lightning thrilling down to touch Earth, and anything could happen. It was no time for bargaining. "Ninety-nine galleons then," Harry said. "But there's something else. People keep trying to kill me, you see. I'd like it to say with another person of my choice until my tasks are complete. Oh, speaking of which, I figure I ought to make a will before I leave."
He had stunned them again. They were all making the same open-mouthed, jaw-jutting expression, but it wasn't a human expression, and he had no idea what it meant.
"As you say, human," said the head goblin. "The dagger will got your heir, if your destiny is undone. It shall take us some weeks to produce the weapon of which you speak."
They shook hands, and Harry sat down to write a will, goblins as his witnesses.
He left a thousand galleons to the Weasley twins, a thousand to Ron, a thousand to Mrs and Mr Weasley, a thousand to Lupin, and a thousand to Hagrid. After consideration, he left five-hundred to Ginny, who must feel as if they hardly knew each other, a hundred to each of Dean, Seamus and Neville, and a hundred to Percy, who, stuffy as he'd been, had at least tried to be a good prefect — he couldn't even remember the other one's name.
He left everything else to Hermione, confident she'd put it to good use.
"One last thing," said Harry. "I knew I need to send thirty-two galleons to the Improper Use of Magic office. Can I do that from here?"
He could. The goblins took a two-percent fee, and Pullygrip brought out the Potions he'd ordered.
"Apothecary instructions," she said gruffly, pointing to a sheet of parchment on top. "Don't go complaining to us if you don't follow them."
It was dark by the time Harry left Gringotts, bag over his shoulder, James' expensive trunk hanging easily from one hand. Several goblins watched him go from the steps of Gringotts, their eyes dark and inscrutable. He felt their gazes on his back even after he knew he must be long out of sight. He hoped he was just imagining that the goblins had been acting strangely. Maybe that was dead normal for them. He had shaken off the feeling by the time he reached the Leaky Cauldon.
Coming in through the bricks, he read the apothecary's note and uncertainly asked Tom for enough food to fill three.
While waiting, he measured himself against a wall, leaving a thin grey line.
He feast was brought up to his room, and he stuffed himself to the gills with milk and cheese, roast beef and spinach, shepherd's pie, sausage and mustard greens.
When he was so full he could hardly move, he waited, and ate a little more, and, stomach protesting at the thought, he dug the Rematuration Concoction from the carton of potions. It was golden yellow, like apple juice, and it caught the light strangely, shimmering in a way that doubtless had to do with his new spectacles.
He sniffed, made a face, and swallowed it in one go.
It tasted like pine needles, and his stomach rebelled. His feared he'd overdone it and would vomit up everything he'd just eaten, but after a moment, his stomach stopped heaving quite so violently, and he lay on his bed, stacking the pillows high, stomach gurgling and groaning, his mind busy amid the discomfort, lacking the energy to look through his parents' things or do anything else.
/
The moment Hermione died, Harry could think again.
But he'd always been that way, hadn't he? He couldn't see around corners, not with the help of a thousand mirrors. He couldn't do anything until he had to do everything, and then it was too late to do more than something, and something was never enough.
"Dobby!" he shouted, dashing to Hermione. She was still, as if she were sleeping, but her eyes were open. They stared at the ceiling and didn't move. Her skin was warm and unmarred, but there was no doubt, no question, that the spell had worked.
He grabbed the wand, and Dobby appeared in the room just as he got an arm around Snape.
"Take us out of here!" shouted Harry.
Wide-eyed but quick to respond, Dobby grabbed by Harry by the elbow and snapped his fingers. An instant, and they were in a meadow of new grass, a ring of budding trees all around.
"Episkey!" said Harry, pointing his wand at the leaking wound on Snape's head. His voice was shaking, tears and snot running down his throat, and he had to incant the spell several times before the bleeding stopped. Perhaps there was greater damage deeper in, but that would be Snape's problem.
"Ennervate."
Snape came too slowly, then all at once. He took in Dobby and Harry with a blink and a glare. His dark eyes glittered with their usual malevolence, but his first gritted words were, "There is a Taboo upon the Dark Lord's name, the one which people fear to utter. In that cottage it may have been well to say, but if you say it out here, snatchers will surround you in a moment, too many to fight."
Harry nodded sharply.
Snape looked around. "Where's the girl?" he asked.
Harry didn't say anything.
"Dead, isn't she, from what you said. You should join her."
Harry gulped. He was tempted to. Perhaps he even should. But he couldn't, not yet. "In a little while. But let me be distraction first. Let me occupy while you do what else you can."
Snape's voice rose. "Did you miss the part where you have to die?"
"And I will. Soon. He won't get the truth about you out of me, if that's what you're worried about. I've learned too much of wandless magic to be taken alive again."
Snape didn't answer. His eyes were on his wand in Harry's hand.
Harry handed it over. Snape raised it at Harry. Harry put a hand on Dobby's shoulder to stop him from interfering, waiting to see what Snape would do.
He stared at Harry, straight in the eyes. If it was legilimency, Harry couldn't feel it. But there was no need to look in his mind to see what he was thinking. He knew he was crying. Great wracking sobs he hardly noticed. He could not think of them, only of Hermione casting that spell, of Mad-Eye dead, of Ron Imperiused. Fury was in him, of a sort he'd never felt. There was no shouting to it.
"What would you do with what remained of your miserable life?" Snape asked.
"For starters, I'll make fair use of the Severing Curse you invented. But for that, I'll need a wand."
Snape nodded slowly and lowered his wand. "You'll want a Wizarding Radio, to know some of what's happening."
That made sense. Harry said, "Hermione killed herself. I had to leave her body." That bar in her head had probably included a tracker. "Could you take care of her? I don't want her thrown on a rubbish pile."
"The dead are dead," said Snape. "If you want to make trouble, if you want to occupy him, start some killing of your own."
"Then get me that wand," Harry said. "and I'll go hunting."
"This elf is trustworthy?" Snape asked.
"Dobby is trustworthy!" Dobby piped up. "Dobby will do everything he can against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"
"Then I'll call him when I've found you a wand. He'll deliver it."
There seemed nothing else to say. Snape turned away, but paused. "Burned or buried?" he asked.
"What?"
"Hermione Granger. Did she want to be burned or buried?"
"Buried," answered Harry. They'd never talked about that, but it was his guess. It felt right.
Snape spun on his heel and disapparated with a crack.
Harry shook. Whatever Hermione had thought, there wasn't a shred of greatness in him. He could do nothing but make mistakes. And this too would doubtless fail.
But he would make them wish he hadn't tried.
"Dobby, we're leaving. Then I want you to do whatever you can to make me untrackable. After that, steal me a gun and a knife."
/
This chapter feels bit boring and pat to me besides. But the family vault isn't some miracle or unlikely plot device. It's a storage locker holding the normal detritus of a well-to-do family. The stuff with the goblins is less justified. But I promise you, Harry isn't some prophesied goblin hero. They have their own hearts, and they're reacting to what he's doing.
I'm unsure about the Snape and Harry flashback at the end as well. I had a version of it that felt right, but I realized I needed to add some things in, and I'm not sure if it felt right again after.
I hope everyone had a lovely Valentine's day. I spent a lovely afternoon picnicking on a green hill, listening to the cows moo and watching the hawks and ravens spar. I first asked her out on Valentine's Day of two years ago, so it's an extra special day for us. Yes, I'm bragging.
Should be another upload next week.
