Note: Hi everyone! A bit of a longer chapter here, but still short compared to most people's, I know. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think either way, I'd love to just hear even one person's thoughts on what I've written so far :)
Chapter 4
Harry didn't stop running for quite a while.
Out of breath and lightly sweating even in the early fall weather, he finally peeked back and began to calm down, not seeing his pursuer anywhere.
He took a deep breath.
Where was he, now?
He looked around.
Men and women - wizards and witches - walked by him in a constant bustling flow.
Stout buildings lined the cobbled street, products along windows for all to see.
Harry realized, perhaps too late, that although he had planned for the cab fare here and back, he definitely did not have the money to buy the items on the list attached to the letter.
His face reddened with anger - directed at himself. He should have thought of this, expected it, planned for it. He had promised himself he would change; that he would grow and become something better, but he had already failed and set himself back.
But maybe the trip was not yet surely in vain.
Harry gazed towards the end of the street, where a towering building of white marble stood, large doors guarded on each side by stout and strange-looking creatures. Above the doors, gleaming gold lettering spelt out-
"Gringotts Wizarding Bank."
Harry spoke the name quietly and curiously.
His parents had been magical. Maybe, just maybe, through the grand doors of the grand white bank, there was a vault under the name "Potter".
The short, humanoid creatures by the doors bowed as Harry walked inside.
Unsure of himself, Harry bowed back.
Flame-lit lanterns lined the walls of the marble hall. A hundred or more of the creatures Harry had seen outside sat on high stools lining a long counter, counting coins and writing notes.
Witches and wizards along the counter spoke with the creatures, filling the hall with a constant quiet murmur.
A tall man walked quickly by Harry, arms linked with a shorter, auburn-haired woman.
"Miserable goblins," the man grumbled, more to himself than to his partner, "Making up all sorts of services and fees again…"
So they're goblins, Harry thought, nodding to himself.
He froze.
Wait. Goblins?
He whirled back around to look for the couple that had walked by, but they were gone. Disbelief at the existence of a mythical creature, a goblin, began to set in, despite having seen the creatures earlier and already knowing that the magical world was diverse and strange.
Shaking his head to clear the thousands of curious and inquisitive thoughts welling up in his mind, Harry turned back and walked up to the nearest open teller.
The goblin behind the counter didn't look up.
Harry cleared his throat loudly.
"Ah, hello," growled the goblin, feigning surprise at seeing Harry. "What can I do for you today?"
"Hi," Harry replied, nervously, "I just wanted to ask whether my family had an account with your bank that I could access, Mr…"
Harry's voice trailed off, not seeing any nametag or nameplate with the goblin's name. He fought to keep a blush off his face, and hoped that his little slip wasn't too big of a deal - he wasn't at all used to talking to people, let alone a mythical creature in a world he was completely new to.
"My name is Gornuk, young wizard," the goblin responded, looking somewhat taken aback at Harry's pleasantly polite yet shy demeanor, "And I don't think you would have access to your parents' vault, even if they had one registered with us, unless they have given you express permission. Now, if you want, you can ask them for a signed letter of consent, or better yet, to come here in person-"
"I understand, Mr. Gornuk, sir," Harry interrupted, immediately reddening for having cut in so rudely, "But my parents have been dead for a long time."
The goblin eyed Harry with something akin to pity. He took a brief pause, then sighed.
"What is your surname, young wizard?"
Harry was relieved at not having been immediately denied, or worse, kicked out.
"My name's Harry Potter, sir."
Perhaps in his relief, however, he had spoken a little too loud.
Or perhaps the bank had coincidentally hushed at the exact moment he had spoken.
Whatever had happened, the outcome was the same - every eye up and down the bank turned towards him, and he felt as if the air had been sucked out of the hall.
He knew that his story had become famous after the fateful Halloween so many years ago where Voldemort was vanquished, but he had not expected this response.
The hall remained in silent shock for a second, then another, before chaos befell it like a dam bursting under pressure.
It seemed as if every hand yearned to shake his, as if each person had to welcome him back and express their gratitude in earnest, as if he was spectacular, remarkable, a saviour, a hero.
He hated it.
It was so unfair - the man named Voldemort had already stolen his family, and left him all alone, without love or light or even a dream.
He had learned the truth. He had found the world in which he truly belonged, one that had been hidden from him for so many long and dark years.
He had received a chance for a fresh start, to begin anew, to be Harry and not the useless delinquent that tarnished the Dursley name.
Who were these strangers, these witches and wizards who had not known how he'd lived, how he'd suffered, how he'd cried and cursed his parents for leaving him to the darkness under the stairs, to decide who he was?
It seemed he would never be just Harry.
And so he sat up straight, and smiled, and shook their hands, and heard their thanks, and accepted their welcomes, and what little of a dream he had made for himself crumbled into dust.