Welcome back! I've decided to give myself an early birthday present by posting a new chapter for you! No, I won't tell you how old I am (going to be), but I will admit to having legally had adult drinks on more than one occasion.

So for everyone who jumps straight to the newest chapter, in addition to renumbering (but not changing the chapter TITLES of) most of the previous posts for my own sanity, I added something that I actually think you should check out: 'Chapter 3: Permission Granted' now has a much better explanation for how soul leeches come to be, which has always been my personal head-canon on how HJP became an 'accidental' Horcrux. It also ties directly into a slight addition to the first memory 'shown' in 'Chapter 6: A Trip Down Memory Rhodes.' I'm not sure it's really relevant to anything else, but I thought you all might like to know.

I also want to thank you, iGorila13. This chapter was originally going to begin where the italics end, but your review helped me realize that none of the readers are in my head, and thus don't always know what's going on in my head. (Though you're more than welcome to guess, if you dare... *snort* I've been watching too many suspense/thriller movies.) And that sometimes, even I don't know what's going on in there either.

That being said, I really hope that, if something confuses you, you reach out in a review or a PM. I can't promise that I'll answer directly, in either a reply or an AN - the answer may tie into an upcoming plot point - but it may help me make the story better. And that's part of why, every time I post a new chapter, I also update the previous ones. (I could never be a professional author; I'd always be finding ways I could have made it better and publishing version 82.6 within 3 years.)

Also, if anyone could please suggest a chapter TITLE for this one that works well for all three sections (separated by 'MWUMWUMWU'), I will forever be grateful. Right now, it's all three section titles in one, and a little wordy.

The italicized section is a dream, and thus may or may not be accurate to what actually 'happened.' (In case it doesn't fit with 'facts' in the future, I don't have to completely change it.) Assume, for the time being, that it is mostly true.

Originally posted: 2 Feb 2022

Previous updates: 17 Mar 2022

Most recent update: 17 Apr 2022

~"Good afternoon, Heiress Potter," the Goblin greeted as the thirteen-year-old girl was led into the office. "I am Bloodrock. Your actual Accounts and Vaults Manager, Gorthunk, is unavailable today."

"I didn't know I had a manager," she said with a surprised blink. "Is he all right?"

"He is mourning the loss of his father," Bloodrock explained dispassionately.

Heather nodded in sympathy. "If you see him, would you please tell him I'm sorry for his loss?"

A flash of emotion crossed Bloodrock's eyes, but it was gone before she could identify it. "I will do so. As I am just your substitute Manager for the day, I cannot make any big changes, even with your approval. Nor can I allow you to take anything from any of your vaults except your trust vault."

"I knew there must have been more than just the one," she grumbled. The Goblin tilted his head to show his bemusement. "I got the impression, from too many people, that my parents were incredibly wealthy, not just well off. Why can't I take anything from the other vaults?"

The Goblin's sneer gave Snape's a run for its money in malice. "We had to do it for your financial protection. The long-time manager for your family before Gorthunk allowed someone unauthorized to access your vaults. This human knew the ins and outs of our system at the time, and only wanted to remove items. Our leader, Ragnok, found out, before too much was taken. He then ordered that the only transactions allowed for any accounts primarily controlled, according to wizarding standards, by you and your family, are deposits, until you come of age, and even then withdrawals could only be made by you after a blood test to validate your claim and in person only. The only exception made was for your trust account." His visage softened into a smirk. "But that doesn't mean that you can't enter the family vaults and investigate your possessions."

Heather grinned back mischievously. "The Goblins taught Salazar Slytherin everything he knew, didn't they?"

"He may have been considered an ally of the bank," Bloodrock hedged, nodding, as he led her to the carts.

As she had previously, she enjoyed the thrilling ride through the caverns. After about two minutes, the Goblin slowed the cart and, as it rolled to a stop, nowhere near a vault of any kind, he turned to her, an idea for a prank lighting his eyes. She knew the look well; she and the twins shared it too many times. "How would you like to help me fluster some of our more… esteemed customers?"

"Does it involve you making this cart go faster than should be possible and me screaming in apparent terror as we go flying past them?" she grinned back, her cheeks hurting at the thought of sanctioned shenanigans in the hallowed 'halls' of Gringotts.

"Yes, yes it does," Bloodrock smirked. "Has anyone ever told you it's rude to read another's mind?"

"I learned my morals on that point from Snape and Dumbledore. They always seem to be able to do so, anyway," she retorted. The Goblin nodded in understanding. "I have one condition for my participation: if they're here, I wanna scare the Malfoys."

Draco and Lucius were, indeed, visiting their vault at that time, and they were among the 'esteemed customers' that the Goblin was referring to. The blonde prats ended up falling into one another as Bloodrock and Heather screamed past them, literally. The pair in the cart, upon reaching the family vault, nearly laughed themselves sick; Bloodrock's colleagues, who had the misfortune of accompanying the assorted bigots, had the much more difficult task of not revealing their amusement.

Over the next two weeks, the Potter heiress, once she had finished her homework under the watchful eye of Mr Fortescue, spent as long as she could in the bank, with either Bloodrock or Gorthunk as chaperone, reading her mother's diary. She turned to ask Gorthunk a question (notably, what the bloody hell had her father been thinking when he tried to Transfigure four beetles into The Beatles) and saw she was in the Burrow, at the kitchen table. Her body felt sluggish, a feeling she often equated with Molly Weasley's cooking.

"There you are, dear," the red-haired woman cooed, sickly sweet. "How are you? We were worried, after we sent you the cake, that you weren't falling for Ronnie. Now that you're here, I can make sure you stay topped up."

"Topped up?" Her mind wasn't usually this foggy either, she reflected.

"Well, yes," Molly shrugged. She stood at the stove, stirring whatever concoction was in the pot – Heather was absolutely positive it wasn't stew – and looked at the teen over her shoulder. "I've always wanted one big, happy Weasley family. And with the Potter fortune, we can afford to be. See, the Headmaster and I set up a traditional betrothal contract shortly after your second birthday. You're to marry Ronnie before you turn 17, and we get control of your vaults at Gringotts, aside from the books, of course. Those will go to the Granger bint. You and Ronnie won't have any need for those, after all."

"You're going to drug me, force me into a loveless marriage, and squander a heritage that isn't yours – for what?" Heather's temper took over, and she dragged her body up.

"The influence of the Girl-Who-Lived," came a voice from the hall. Ron slowly walked in, grinning sinisterly. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back into the chair.

"Imagine," said Hermione, as she materialized behind him, "just what your family's journals could do to further our goals for the Greater Good."

Ron looked at his mother. "Is that Forgetfulness Potion done yet? Can't have her blabbing to the school or the press, you know."

"Yes," Molly sighed. "It's just too bad that we can't give her both that and the love potion at the same time. Last time we tried, she started convulsing. Would have died, if not for Albus ordering Severus to save her."

Heather couldn't have hidden her horror if someone paid her to do so with the Crown Jewels.

"And we don't get our due," Granger chimed in, "unless you're married to her, and she has a kid before she dies."

"I know," Weasley griped. "I wish she would stop figuring this out. Having to potion her up all the time gets old."

"Would the two of you hold her for me?" the red-haired harpy asked. "I don't trust her not to try to escape."

She held a vial of orange sludge that, if Heather's memory served, in no way resembled the description of Forgetfulness Potion she'd read. Granger, Weasley, and his mother grinned maniacally, the woman creeping ever closer. The boy held her arms behind the chair, tightly enough that she worried her shoulders would be dislocated; the girl with bushy brown hair pinched her nose and forced her jaw open. The human Howler slowly dribbled the sludge down her throat as Heather tried to break free –

Long practice kept the screams in the back of her throat. Heather sat up, gasping, as she tried to quell her terror. She wasn't sure how she could partially relive memories that weren't currently in her head; maybe having watched it was enough? She wrapped her arms around her knees, seeking a parody of the comfort she'd felt earlier in Tony's arms.

Tony – now that was an idea. He'd told her that morning that, if she wanted something, all she had to do was ask for it. He hadn't turned her away earlier; in fact, he'd pulled her to him before she could ask. Gathering her Gryffindor courage, she crept out of her room and cautiously opened the door to his. It was empty.

Then she remembered how he'd called the workshop his 'favorite place in the house.' She shut his door and walked back through the living room. As she reached the stairs, a snort startled her, and she turned quickly, relaxing when the moonlight allowed her to recognize Rhodey's sleeping form. Sighing softly, she continued downward. Through the glass door, she saw him working at the table, his back to her. She walked in hesitantly, trying to figure out the best way to get his attention.

"Sir," said a disembodied, mechanized voice, "Miss Potter has entered, and she appears agitated."

"Who said that?" she demanded, panicking. Her right hand reflexively fisted around her imaginary wand, the real one lying ever so helpfully under her pillow.

"Easy, Glinda," Tony said, raising his hands as he rolled away from the table. "That's JARVIS, my A.I. I'll explain later," he promised when she stared at him blankly. "He can't hurt you."

"Never trust anything that can think for itself," Heather quoted Arthur Weasley, her voice falsely level, "if you can't see where it keeps its brain." Her eyes darted around suspiciously.

Cautiously, slowly, giving her every chance to stop him, he took her hands in his. "I'm sure that's good advice in the magical world, but, in the non-magical world, it usually means there's a computer chip–" He stopped as he actually looked at her.

Heather mentally smacked herself. Of course, Tony Stark, with all his technological know-how, would have a super-advanced computer.

"What are you wearing?"

She blinked at the non-sequitur. "My pajamas."

"Hand-me-downs from Dumbo?" he sneered. If she hadn't been subjected to Snape's so often, she'd have been impressed.

"Dudley," she corrected quietly, not suppressing her smirk.

Tony froze. "Those were your cousin's? Your male cousin's?" he demanded icily. Her shiver, though noticed, went unmentioned. "Before you went to Pig Snorts, or whatever the hell your magic school is called, did you ever have any clothing that didn't belong to Baby Shamu first?"

The only reason she didn't run from him was because he still, gently but unrelentingly, held her hands. "I'm sure my mum and dad–" His snarl stopped her flippant response in its tracks. "My panties," she reluctantly admitted.

"Right," he snapped. "JARVIS, lights out once we're upstairs. You, little missy, are gonna show me every last piece of your 'wardrobe.' Right now."

"What? Why?"

"Why?" he repeated incredulously. "Did you seriously – Because I'm not letting you walk around in rags! I'll gladly get you anything you want, but first, I gotta know what you need."

"I can pay for it," she protested.

"That's nice," he growled. "I'm buying. Don't argue with me about this, Gemstone. Save your money. I can buy you all three wardrobes in full tomorrow and still not spend all the interest I earned today."

"Why would I need three wardrobes?"

"Summer, winter, and spring/autumn," he ground out, still holding her hand as he climbed the stairs. "And that's just the staples. Fashion changes not only every year, but every season – different colors, different styles…" Rhodey didn't stir as they passed him. "Don't worry, I'm not saying you gotta wear haute couture all the time, but definitely for charity galas and award ceremonies, and you can't be pictured in the same dress twice – that's a massive faux pas." He flicked on the light and pushed her into her room. Sitting on the bed without closing the door, he motioned toward the dresser and closet. "Show me. Everything, gattina, every last stitch that's not on your body right now."

Considering the nightmare she'd had earlier, her stubborn streak was never going to outlast his that night. Her shoulders slumped. Deciding to get the most embarrassing over with first, she handed him the panties.

"These look like they're older than you," Tony observed dispassionately, examining them. "I'm pretty sure they're more prayer than cloth at this point." He poked a hole through the material, encountering nearly no resistance.

"I can't get any more on my own, or they'll take all my money," Heather whispered, flushing with shame. "Aunt Petunia has refused to get me more since I got my Hogwarts letter, and Wizarding underwear is awkward and old-fashioned. At least to me. Maybe I just need to get used to it, but I've never wanted to."

"Pick a pair for tomorrow," he said, eyes flashing in anger. "Obviously not these. Throw the rest in the corner. We'll get rid of all the rags later. Bras?"

She shook her head. "Don't need them. We're all taught a spell that…" Her face went even redder. "Well, even though we're technically not allowed to use magic over the holidays, the teachers actually tell us that that particular spell is completely exempted, since they doubt any unmarried female would dress in front of others, underage or not."

Tony was turning pink, too. "Fabulous. One less thing."

None of her Muggle clothes passed muster, not that that was surprising; full of holes and stains, worn through, and large enough to fit two of Andre the Giant, every last item her relatives had given her ended up in the corner. The dress she'd worn to the Yule Ball that past Christmas was a keeper; it was a beautiful *emerald green* satin that perfectly matched her eyes, with an Audrey Hepburn neckline and just enough material in the floor-length skirt to flow around her effortlessly as she walked. (He'd stepped outside so she could try it on, and immediately decided that she just had to wear it at her first event.) Four hand-knit sweaters in perfect condition found themselves on the junk pile; he understood why when she explained who had sent them. Her socks and nearly-destroyed trainers joined the ever-growing pile, but Tony agreed that her dragonhide boots (Hebridean Black, she informed him) could pass for normal leather. Finally, they reached her uniforms. The cloaks that acted as coats and jackets, the pleated skirts and white button-up blouses, while not exactly fashionable, wouldn't stick out in the non-magical world. The over-robes and school ties, though, had to go.

Exhausted, she closed the closet and leaned against the door. Tony's head drooped. "All right, Gemstone. This isn't a complaint, but why did you come down to the shop? I doubt it was 'cause you wanted to have that fashion show."

"Nightmare," she whispered, confirming his suspicion. "And I just – I… when the memories freaked me out earlier, you held me and it made me feel safe. For the first time I can ever remember."

"And you wanted me to hold you again," he nodded in comprehension. She blushed, embarrassed again. He grinned warmly. "Get comfy, kitten. Just let me get ready for bed, and I'll be back." When he returned, he turned off the light, left the door open again, and walked to the far side of the bed. As he laid back, he found a head of long, black hair on his chest. "No more nightmares tonight, hmm?" he murmured as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, never admitting to her that he'd been in the workshop to avoid similarly unpleasant dreams of his own.

MWUMWUMWU

"Do you know how to braid?"

The spoon paused on its way to Tony's mouth. "What?"

"Do you know how to braid?" Heather repeated, brushing her hands over her uniform skirt. "I don't, at least not my own hair. And I don't just want it back today, if we're still going shopping. I want it controlled."

"Uh, I've… never tried?" He resumed eating his Rice Krispies while staring at her. Jenny's *wine red* tank top was perfect on her, especially with her white button-up covering her shoulders; he'd have to convince her to get something in that color.

"You're nowhere near as intimidating in a staring contest as Hedwig," she giggled, getting her own bowl of cereal at his silent direction.

He drained half his mug of coffee in one go. "Who's Hedwig, again?"

"My owl." Heather sat down next to him and continued quietly, "My familiar. Or maybe more accurately, I'm her chick. I'm sure she'll make her way over eventually. She's incredibly smart. I think you two will get on famously. No jokes, please," she begged immediately. "My godfather likes to make the obvious pun based on his name, Sirius."

Tony shuddered. "Yeah, that would get old quickly. Ask Rhodey. I've seen him braid Jenny's hair before. Don't know if he's ever tried while hung over, though. And that's if you can wake him up."

"Ugh," came a moan from the living room. "Tony, you sadistic little shit, turn off the fucking light!"

"That's the sun, platypus," Tony deadpanned back, perversely louder than he needed to be. Payback was a bitch, and he'd smugly use the older man's words against him today if questioned. "I'm honored that you think I have that kind of pull–"

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

Rhodey's groan had Heather smirking, remembering all too many occasions when the Weasley twins and Seamus Finnegan were hung over and she, with a similar outlook to her soulmate's, had taken them to task in the Common Room. Somehow, they preferred her quietly emphatic scoldings to Granger's ear-splitting rages. Then again, Granger usually followed through on her threat to tell their mothers, and no one enjoyed hearing Molly Weasley's deafening rants. Heather came up with more creative and effective punishments – her best was in collaboration with McGonagall and featured the hung-over twins walking into the Great Hall to moon Snape at dinner. (Instant week-long detention. And they didn't get drunk for a month – the best Granger had managed was the next night, and they'd only abstained because Oliver Wood would have killed them if they'd been hung over for a game) She grabbed the bottle of Advil from the counter (too many Quidditch after-parties in Gryffindor Tower had taught her the value of being prepared for the next morning) and poured a cup of black coffee, bringing both to the military man. "Do you want some water, too?" she whispered. Unlike her housemates, Rhodey, at least, was of-age; extra volume would be cruel.

"No." He glared, but accepted the metaphoric olive branch.

When she got back to the kitchen, she muttered to Tony, "Should we go over more of the contract?"

"Not now," he replied at the same volume. "Rhodey'll start moving in a few minutes. I told him about us being soulmates, but I think the contract should stay secret for as long as possible. No one would accept it in this day and age without knowing about magic; and that's like, national security clearance, practically, from what you and Philips were saying. It's just not worth the headache."

After Rhodey was finally awake, Tony convinced his friend that they needed to take Heather clothes shopping. It didn't take much; one shirt and her sneakers provided enough evidence for the lieutenant to agree. To show how impressed he was, Rhodey suggested having a bonfire that night to get rid of them. "No need for those crimes against fashion to take up valuable room at the dump," he reasoned ferociously as he pulled the teen's unruly locks into the requested plait with ease.

"We're cooking out, then?" Tony grinned. "Steak or burgers, little gem?"

She froze. "Uh, whichever… you prefer?"

Rhodey, still fighting off the last of his hangover, looked at her without comprehension. "That sounded like you've never had either."

Panic-stricken, Heather glanced at Tony, who met her eyes squarely. "She probably hasn't," he replied as casually as he could. "You've seen what they made her wear. What makes you think they gave her good food? Steak, honey bear? We can grab some potato salad on the way home. And stuff for s'mores. I haven't had s'mores in ages. Oooh, that sounds like a delicious reward for surviving today's shopping trip. All in favor, say, 'Aye.' Aye!"

"Aye!" Rhodey voted.

"I…" Heather drawled, "have no idea what just happened…"

MWUMWUMWU

For the second night in a row, Tony woke to terrified, pain-filled screams, and he hurried to Heather's room. White, through some subterfuge between Seneca Hope and Britain's St Mungo's Hospitals, had gotten her hands on the teen's medical records from Hogwarts. Included in the girl's file were the school nurse's notes about the practicalities of treating her. White interpreted the nurse's meaning as, 'treating Heather Potter is much easier on all involved if medical personnel stick her to the bed to enforce compliance.' Unfortunately, the healer didn't take into account that Vernon Dursley had tied her up on many occasions so she couldn't fight back or run away when he belted her.

Each of the last two nights had seen Heather drinking a potion called Skele-Gro, after White had vanished half her rib cage; apparently, her time with her relatives had prevented her often-cracked and -broken ribs from healing correctly and completely. Her thrashing and screaming left Tony with mixed feelings: on the one hand, the potion had run its course and her ribs, at least, were fully healed; on the other, without the pain of regrowing bones, she had fallen asleep and thus was reliving the memories that Philips had returned right before the first treatment.

He woke her carefully. "Please, Professor, I don't want to," she mumbled, trying unsuccessfully to get away from him, swatting at him awkwardly.

"Gemstone," he sighed, carding her hair. "You're safe. It's a memory you're seeing."

She opened sleep-glazed eyes and looked around. "No Lockhart?"

"No Lockhart," he confirmed, to her obvious relief. "How do you feel?"

"Ugh," she moaned. "Can you let me up? Please, Tony? I know Healer White gave you a way to deactivate the Sticking Charm, and I need the loo." When he didn't answer immediately, she bargained, "I promise I'll be a good girl and come right back and lay down–"

"Gimme a minute, doll face," he chuckled. "When you started screaming, I was more interested in waking you up than searching for the damn trinket in the living room." Finding the specially-charmed ceramic aardvark next to the TV, he brought it with him and set it on the nightstand.

"Oh, stars above, thank you," Heather gasped as she rolled off the bed and rushed to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she stumbled back in and crawled under the covers. "Did I wake you?" she asked nervously.

"Nope," Tony lied easily. "I just came up from the workshop to get ready for bed." She nodded, curling onto her side. "Saw you limping on your way back…"

"Just twisted my ankle," she yawned, sleepily reaching for his hand.

He studied her for a second. "You wanna sleep? Or you wanna talk about the contract?"

"We covered all of it the last two nights," she half-whined. "We know everything we can know about it without talking to the Goblins. I want to sleep. Stay, please? You keep the nightmares away."

He thought the same about her. "How about a compromise?" he offered instead. "My bed is more comfortable."

"Mm-kay," she agreed, her eyes closed.

Tony chuckled; he was reasonably sure she was already asleep. Without hesitation, he picked up the teen, resting her head on his shoulder, and walked to his own room next door. He laid down on his back; Heather sprawled across his torso. He relaxed in a way that he hadn't done earlier that night or the night before. "Tomorrow, you meet the bots," he muttered as his eyes drifted shut, "and then we'll figure out how to handle that damn contract."