Summary: Morgan was ever so surprised to be ripped away from his world and into one where he was known as Harry Potter, all for a tournament with a death toll so high it had been rightfully discontinued? Clearly there was more to it, but he first had someone to find.
Pairing: Harry/Tom Riddle|Voldemort
Beta: —
Spoilers:Harry Potter (series)
Warnings: slash, canon mangling, dimension travel, identity hopping
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes:
1. Title comes from the Young Wizards series by Diane Duane. Big Bad is referred to as Fairest and Fallen more than once. I think. If I'm remembering right.
2. 5k chapters. It just didn't lend well to my present 10k preference.
3. Obviously, lots of changes to canon. This is more pre-slash than slash, but there is some vague Harry/Tom action, so I'm showing it as a pairing.
4. The idea for this came in at around the same time as Control Issues (which sparked Tweak, and then this, though this one is a different take on certain oddities found in that story). I'm only just now getting around to doing anything with it after the initial start a year ago.
5. Yes, yes, I get the part where memories would not quite come across that way in a pensieve. I don't give a fuck. Really. I'm not required to give a fuck. I'm not being paid to give a fuck.
6. Not trying for, uh, high realism here. I just want the idea out of my head and onto the page.
7. Written: 2019 08 18 - 2020 08 20. Initial assembly: 2020 08 20.
"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum."
Viktor Krum rose from the Slytherin table and slouched up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.
"Bravo, Viktor!" boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. "Knew you had it in you!"
The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.
"The champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore, "is Fleur Delacour!"
The girl who so resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms.
When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next…
And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.
"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"
Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers' table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.
"Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—"
But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.
The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.
Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out—
"Harry Potter."
For a long moment nothing happened, and then, a swirling vortex of light appeared near the Goblet of Fire, in the open space in front of it. From it came a man with longish dark hair, dressed as a pure-blood of some wealth, and appeared to be very startled by his change in circumstances if his initial defensive posture meant anything.
The hall was deathly silent for another long moment, and then whispers started up. Pointing, speculative looks, and louder talk followed.
Ω
Morgan, who had been enjoying a quiet evening with his Sponsored, found himself ripped away by a swirling vortex of light, which had the effect of confusing and alarming him, and his Sponsored to shout in alarm and struggle to reach him in time to hold fast to him, to no avail.
He was deposited in a place he knew well, the Great Hall of Hogwarts, to a scene he had no idea how to react to. He ignored the whispering that sprang up and eyed the jeweled casket in front of him, upon which rested a roughly-hewn wooden goblet. There was a ghost of a memory in his head, about something he had read up on at one point, but he could not quite put his finger on it.
"Well," Dumbledore said. (At least Morgan recognized him, though he did not know in what capacity the man was employed at present.) "Through the door, Harry," he said, turning slightly and indicating the one at the back right.
Morgan frowned. Who Harry was was a mystery, but clearly the old man thought he was this Harry person. Given the sheer number of people in the Great Hall, it was probably not the best time to quibble over his identity. "Why am I here?" he asked.
Dumbledore frowned back, though only slightly. "Your name came out of the Goblet of Fire."
'The bloody Goblet of Fire?' he thought. 'Is that what this thing is? Granted, I've not been in the UK for ages, but I would think I'd have heard something about another tournament being held. That's big news, alarming news. Why would anyone put my name in it? Are they that upset about how I treated my Sponsored?'
He shook his head and headed off through the indicated door and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him.
The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear.
Three young people were grouped around the fire. One, a dark-haired male, was hunched up and brooding, leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. The second, also a dark-haired male, stood with his hands behind his back, and wore the accent colours of Hufflepuff. The third, a female with a sheet of long, silvery hair, looked over when he entered.
"What is it?" she said. "Do zey want us back in ze Hall?"
Morgan arched a brow and moved to stand against the wall.
There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and a portly man entered the room. "Extraordinary!" he muttered. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen … lady," he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. "May I introduce—incredible though it may seem—the fourth Triwizard champion?"
Broody straightened up; his face darkened as he surveyed Morgan. Hufflepuff looked nonplussed. He looked from Portly to Morgan and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Portly had said. Silvery, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, "Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman."
"Joke?" Bagman repeated, bewildered. "No, no, not at all! Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"
"At what point were we introduced that you would have permission to use a given name?" he asked pointedly, staring at the portly man.
Bagman startled in place, making his belly shimmy, and he cast an uncertain look at Morgan. Broody's thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Hufflepuff was still looking politely bewildered.
Silvery frowned. "But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," she said contemptuously to Bagman. " 'E cannot compete. 'E is clearly not a student."
"Well … it is amazing," said Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and aiming a strained smile at Morgan. "His name's come out of the goblet … I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It's down in the rules, you're obliged … Ha—Mr Potter—will just have to do the best he—"
The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by a humorless-looking bureaucrat, a Slavic-looking man, an enormous lady (who might well be a half-giant) in satin, a starched and prim older woman, and a sallow-skinned man with oily black hair. Morgan could hear the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before the door was closed.
"Madame Maxime!" said Silvery at once, striding over to what was presumably her headmistress. "Zey are saying zat zis man is to compete also!"
Maxime drew herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black satin-covered bosom swelled. "What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" she said imperiously.
"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said the Slavic man. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?" He gave a short and nasty laugh.
"C'est impossible," said Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Silvery's shoulder. " 'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most unjust."
"At what point did I become a Hogwarts student?" he said. "I was dragged here against my will and I don't even know who this Harry person is."
He was, of course, ignored, but given his experiences during his seven years at Hogwarts that was not unexpected. He also knew it was likely that Dumbledore had excellent mental shields, so he did not bother to attempt to slip into the man's mind.
"It's no one's fault but Potter's, Karkaroff," said the greasy-haired man softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to insert himself into this tournament just so he can make a—"
"Thank you, Severus," said Dumbledore firmly, and the man went quiet, though his eyes still glinted malevolently through his curtain of greasy black hair.
Dumbledore looked at Morgan, who stared right back.
"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asked calmly.
"One, I did not, I was dragged here against my will. Two, I don't know who this Harry is you think I am. Three, I am most certainly not a student at Hogwarts. Four, I don't recall giving anyone here permission to address me in such a familiar manner. Five, who was so imbecilic as to start up the Triwizard Tournament again? Does the recorded death toll mean nothing to you people?"
The greasy-haired man made a soft noise of impatient disbelief in the shadows. Unfortunately, a quick test of his mind showed he had shields, but Morgan thought he had been subtle enough not to have been noticed.
"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" cried Maxime.
Greasy started shaking his head, his lip curling.
"Or Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake somehow," said Maxime, shrugging.
"It is possible, of course," said Dumbledore politely.
"Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make any mistakes!" said Starched-and-Prim angrily. "And really, what nonsense! This man barely even looks like James, for one thing, and he's clearly too old to be Harry."
"Mr Crouch … Mr Bagman," said Slavic, his voice unctuous once more, "you are our—er—objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"
Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at the bureaucrat, presumably Mr Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in a curt voice.
"We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."
"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Slavic and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.
"I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," said Slavic. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."
"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," said Bagman. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out—it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament—"
"—in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"
"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from near the door. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?" The newcomer limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk owing to the peg leg he sported. The man looked as if he had been on the wrong side of a muggle woodchipper, and the enchanted eye he was wearing was more than a little creepy.
"Convenient?" said Karkaroff. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."
"Don't you?" said Moody quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."
"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!" said Madame Maxime.
"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," said Karkaroff, bowing to her. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards—"
"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," growled Moody, "but … funny thing … I don't hear him saying a word…"
Morgan's brow went up again. Considering he had not heard the door open and close again or the swell of voices from students who might still be out there, this Moody must have slipped in with the others and remained concealed. He would have heard his earlier statements, though he was correct in that Morgan had yet to actually complain about his inclusion. Given how he had been ripped away from his life, it was entirely possible his original name had been Harry Potter, and that meant something to these people. What he was unsure of was whether it was some form of forced time travel or something else.
"Why should 'e complain?" burst out Silvery, stamping her foot. " 'E 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money—zis is a chance many would die for!"
Morgan rolled his eyes slightly. Right, because the honor of the school he did not attend was clearly of such importance to him, never mind the utter fortune of a thousand galleons. He had far more than that in his emergency stash he always kept on him.
"Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it," said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.
An extremely tense silence followed these words. Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, "Moody, old man … what a thing to say!"
"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," said Karkaroff loudly. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."
"Imagining things, am I?" growled Moody. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet…"
Boy, was he? A surreptitious charm told him that the date was 31 October 1994, which was mind-boggling. It had been 1947 before he had been dragged into this madness. That placed him in his 70s, depending on how things went, as his birth year was 1922.
"Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?" said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.
"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" said Moody. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament… I'm guessing they submitted Potter's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category…"
'So quick to put forth a theory,' he thought. 'This one bears watching. Hopefully he won't have mental shields, or only poor ones.'
"You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody," said Karkaroff coldly, "and a very ingenious theory it is—though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you'll understand if we don't take you entirely seriously…"
"There are those who'll turn innocent occasions to their advantage," Moody retorted in a menacing voice. "It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff—as you ought to remember…"
"Alastor!" said Dumbledore warningly.
Moody fell silent, though still surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction—Karkaroff's face was burning.
"How this situation arose, we do not know," said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do…"
"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr—"
"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."
Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn't the only one either. Greasy looked furious, Karkaroff livid.
Bagman, however, looked rather excited. "Well, shall we crack on, then?" he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"
Mr Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. "Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes … the first task…"
He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, the man looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin.
"The first task is designed to test your daring," he told Morgan and the three students, "so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard … very important… The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.
"The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."
Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore.
"I think that's all, is it, Albus?"
"I think so," said Dumbledore, who was looking at Crouch with mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"
"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," said Crouch. "It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I've left young Weatherby in charge… Very enthusiastic … a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…"
'To the Ministry, this late at night?' he thought.
"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" said Dumbledore.
"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" said Bagman brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"
"I think not, Ludo," said Crouch with a touch of impatience.
"Professor Karkaroff—Madame Maxime—a nightcap?" said Dumbledore.
But Maxime had already put her arm around Silvery's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Morgan could hear them both talking very fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Broody, and they, too, exited, though in silence.
"Cedric, I suggest you head to your common room," said Dumbledore, smiling at him. "I am sure Hufflepuff is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."
Cedric nodded and wandered out, which left Morgan.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said. "We shall have to see about getting you Sorted and—"
Morgan shook his head. "Once again, you presume … Albus. I am no student for you to Sort. It is entirely possible I am bound to this death trap of a tournament, but you are in no position to dictate anything to me."
"How dare you show such disrespect, Mr Potter!" Starched said.
"Minerva, please," Dumbledore said.
He glanced at the woman and said, "Disrespect toward me is repaid with disrespect," before turning to Dumbledore. "I would appreciate if you would provide me with a complete set of the rules for this tournament, so that I may go over them. Surely you have already done so for your students, so they would know exactly what they were signing up for. It should be no trouble for you to present a copy to me."
Dumbledore's brow crinkled briefly before smoothing out. "Harry Potter is fourteen years old, and certainly the age for a student."
"And I am twenty-five, not the age for a student," he rebutted. "I have long since completed the required education."
"Where, might I ask?"
"You may ask, but I will not answer, as I suspect you will immediately seek to gain information about me, information that is none of your business." He honestly wondered at what point, if ever, one of them would actually ask what his name was if he claimed not to answer to Harry Potter. "Besides, given the way you talk, I would be Sorted into a House and placed with the fourth years, which is ludicrous. If I had been hidden away somewhere you could not find, and you had not heard of me, surely I would have been placed with first years. After all, you cannot expect a person to learn years of education in a few short weeks."
The expression that flitted across the headmaster's face said that was his exact plan.
Greasy was scowling in the background, clearly holding himself back from spitting venom at someone, presumably him.
"I will contact you after I've had a chance to speak with Gringotts," he said, then hastened off before anyone could stop him. He flitted off through the Great Hall, out into the entrance hall, and exited the castle. A very strong disillusionment charm covered his passage down to the gates and through them, so he could get beyond the wards and apparate to Diagon Alley.
The bank was open from what he could see, but he went to the Leaky Cauldron instead to get a quick meal and secure a room for the night. The fellow who ran the place, Tom, informed him that Gringotts was open at all hours, which was heartening. At least that had not changed. He thanked him, accepted a key, then headed for the bank.
As it was so late for there to be few customers, it was no trouble to arrange to speak with someone with more authority than a teller. He was led off to an office and invited to take a seat.
"What can Gringotts do for you?"
"I was just dragged to Hogwarts from another country entirely as a competitor in the Triwizard Tournament they're holding there," he said. "They seem to be under the impression that my name is Harry Potter. And, generally speaking, if one wants reliable knowledge of heritage, one goes to Gringotts rather than rely on wizards."
The goblin's brow shuffled up. "And what name do you know yourself by?"
"Morgan Linfred Chiswell, branch member of the House of Potter. Fleamont Potter treated me as a nephew. When I was dragged away, to be dumped at Hogwarts, it was 1947."
The goblin's other brow shuffled up to match the first. "I see, Mr Chiswell. Yes, we can do the heritage test."
"What fee?"
"Fifty galleons."
He snorted. "That's highway robbery. Ten." After a spirited round of haggling they settled on twenty-five.
"Very well," the goblin said. "I am Irongut. Let me get what is necessary."
He nodded and the goblin shuffled off to a side room of the office.
Irongut was back shortly thereafter and placed a glass bottle, a tiny cauldron, a quill, and some parchment on his desk. The contents of the bottle went into the cauldron before he said, "Please add your blood to the cauldron, Mr Chiswell. Seven or more drops will be sufficient."
Everything matched up to what he remembered going through when he was eleven, so he nodded, cut his left hand on the sharp edge jutting out from the cauldron, and dripped in blood. The goblin absentmindedly healed him before stirring the cauldron with a glass rod, then dipped the quill in.
It took some time for the quill to imbibe the potion, but when it had Irongut placed it on the parchment. The quill acted on its own, writing out a fair amount of information, which the goblin checked before pushing the parchment his way.
Morgan picked it up and had a read. The results showed that he was somehow both Morgan Linfred Chiswell, pure-blood son of Edward and Sophia Hartwell (where Edward was the bastard son of an illicit affair between Henry Potter and pure-blood Megara Hartwell), and Harry James Potter, greater half-blood son of James and Lily Potter (where James was the son of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter).
"This is disturbing," he said, looking up again as he placed the parchment on the desk.
"Why Chiswell?"
"Uncle Fleamont was unhappy that I resided in a muggle orphanage prior to the usual heritage test at Gringotts for all incoming students, and worried I had taken in too much of the muggle ways. My surname comes from where I was originally found, which was Chiswell Street, but Uncle Fleamont decided to give me a Potter Family middle name, after our ancestor."
Irongut presented a mildly confused expression before saying, "The usual heritage test? We do no such tests unless asked. It seems clear to me that you were in a somehow different version of this world. There is no other explanation for the two separate identities and parentage, plus the differences we have already uncovered."
"Well, according to the results I should have ownership of whatever assets Harry Potter has. As I have no intention of staying at Hogwarts, under the long nose of Dumbledore, what options do I have as to housing? Or will I need to purchase a home for myself? I rather doubt I can return from whence I came."
"At the moment…" Irongut got back up to fetch something from the side room, then sat down and paged through the contents of a folio volume. "Any properties were destroyed during the war, so you shall need to purchase something. That will take some time for me to look into. As for vaults, there is the trust vault, the main Potter vault, and an artifact vault."
He furrowed his brow. "Were all keys recalled?"
"Ah, apparently Albus Dumbledore has a key to the trust vault."
"That is unacceptable," he said. "Please recall it as quickly as possible. Are there records of him taking funds?"
"None listed," Irongut said.
"Well, that's good. I would like—actually, is this trust vault maintained over time to be reused for each heir or…?"
"It is maintained."
"Then I could, for now, move the contents to the main vault. I see no point in worrying about use of that when I am an adult. Are the main and artifact vaults keyed or do they use blood?"
"Blood."
"Excellent. When the trust key is reclaimed, it can either go in the main vault, or you can keep it safe, whichever is bank policy. I see no reason to hold onto it myself."
Irongut nodded.
"I rented a room at the Leaky Cauldron. If you would send an owl when you have information on a possible property, I would appreciate it. Address it to Morgan Chiswell. I don't doubt word will spread from Hogwarts about my alternate identity, but I have been Morgan Chiswell my entire life. So long as that would not cause issues with me accessing the main or artifact vault, I see no particular reason to change things."
"I will do so. I can provide a certified copy of your identity as Harry James Potter. I can do the same for Morgan Linfred Chiswell, but as you were born in 1922 you would be seventy-three by our calendar, and you clearly are not. You still have every right to that identity."
"I am twenty-five years old," he said. "I'm not sure what that one spell would show, but I assume twenty five as those are the number of years I have lived. Well, I shall be on my way and await your owl. I have taken up enough of your time as it is. Please add the heritage parchment to the file, if you would."
"Of course, Mr Chiswell."
Morgan wandered back out of the bank and returned to the Leaky Cauldron, where he ordered and paid for a butterbeer, then headed up to his room. As an afterthought he tweaked his post wards to prevent getting any post for Harry Potter, just in case.
He would need to part with a fair amount of gold just to obtain books and such, history. He would also need to return to the bank purely to visit the artifact vault. That might have any number of books procured by the Potter family, any or all of which could be useful.
Back at the bank, unbeknownst to him as he set up wards for his stay, Irongut had scurried off to hold a meeting with bank officials.