Disclaimer: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I don't own anything, neither do you.

AN: I appreciate your reviews, just so you know, especially ones that tell me exactly what you like, dislike or are not sure about - it really, truly helps, and on top of that, it's fascinating for me to read. Thanks for that, by the way – the whole reading thing :)

Chapter 3: Of Goblins and Gifts

Shocking his relatives into doing as he asked was a success – they had dropped him off at a street corner in downtown London, no questions asked; rather zombie-ish dazed looks on their faces. Hopefully the psychological trauma wouldn't ruin their trip to the zoo. Taking one last look at his handy-work, Harry could not help but let out a ferocious grin as the Dursley's car faded into the bustle of automobiles, pedestrians, fog, and exhaust.

Now, most ten-year-olds would be quite intimidated, stranded on a street corner, surrounded by unfamiliar clamour and imposing structures of impressive height, not knowing where they were going – but Harry wasn't, for he had a plan, a brilliant one. He'd never practiced Rhabdomancy before, but had once carved some select runes on a stick he found in the garden just in case. Apparently, the gods of fate had been smiling on him that day…for once. Normally Harry wouldn't pay any mind to a simple, boring practice like Rhabdomancy, because simple and boring was no fun at all, and definitely not his style - but now he was glad he had done his research, for it would certainly come in handy for finding what he needed. Steeling himself, he marched purposefully out of the crowd, finding a bare spot on the sidewalk and crouching down. He placed one end of the stick on the sidewalk, holding the other between his palms; and with one quick jerking motion, he spun the stick like a top, waiting for it to topple over, pointing him in the direction he needed to go.

In hindsight, he would realize, it probably appeared absurdly surreal to bystanders – a scrawny, messy-haired youth in clothes twice his size, plodding down a sidewalk in London, stopping ever so often to crouch down and spin a stick. It was the only way, however, and Harry had easily concluded that the benefits of looking like an absolute nutter outweighed any cons.

It was ere long that his stick led him down Charring Cross Road. The street was bursting with life, patrons exiting and entering the plethora of business buildings that stalwartly walled the bustling street and sidewalks. While crowded, however, Harry was able to navigate through the crowd quite easily, not at all feeling like human sandwich meat as he had a few blocks down. At the next street corner, as he had traversed another block, he once again crouched down and spun his stick, finding it pointing across the street. He waited for the next light, and skipped across the crosswalk eagerly, stopping to spin the stick again on the other side. This time, however, the stick shook with anticipation, pointing Harry down the sidewalk, toward some old, greyish shops. With wide eyes and a grin, Harry picked up the stick, feeling it tug him toward one of the buildings, a rustic, ruddy looking structure between a bookstore and a record store. He couldn't see well into the windows, but sounds of life faintly emanated through the heavy wooden door – what he could see clearly, though, was the sign hanging above the door, reading, The Leaky Cauldron.

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, not suspicious at all."

He paused briefly, licking his lips with anticipation – but taking a deep breath, he hesitated no more as he opened the door and crossed over the threshold, stepping for the first time into the Wizarding World.

He found himself in what appeared to be a dingy old pub, dimly lit by several lanterns in the corners and hanging from iron frames chained to the ceiling, the furniture of worn wood, polish and paint fading, and the walls covered with paintings and odd images of all sorts. Only a few patrons sat at the tables, off in a far corner, some enjoying a scrumptious looking meal, others sipping a mug of…well, Harry didn't really know – it was not the smell of normal ale that wafted through the warm atmosphere of the pub. Now, Harry didn't know why his stick had led him to a pub of all places – perhaps he drew the runes wrong, or maybe it broke that one time Dudley touched it. He shook his head – no, he had a good feeling, and considering he spent most of his life without such feelings, he was sure his luck would hold – and gathering his courage, stepped up toward the counter, where a bald, elderly man was attentively towelling a mug.

"Er…excuse me."

The man's head snapped up, his wide, peering eyes meeting Harry's bright emerald ones. He took a moment to cast his glance around the pub. "My dear boy, where are your parents?" Harry noticed that the poor man barely had any teeth – one would think wizards would by safe from dental trouble, but apparently not.

Harry frowned. "Dead."

The man winced, a look of sympathy crossing over his face. "Oh, oh dear."

Harry had the decency to look a little sheepish – it wasn't the man's fault, after all; he couldn't have known. "Uh…never mind that. You see, I need to shop for school supplies." He held up his Hogwarts letter, which he had stuffed in his pocket. He didn't know what else to say.

The man's eyes flashed with recognition. "Off to Hogwarts? You'll be needing to visit Diagon Alley, then. Tell me, boy, what're you called? I'm Tom, see, the owner of this fine establishment."

Harry shook the offered hand. "Harry Potter, sir. It's a pleasure."

The man's nigh toothless mouth fell open, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. "Good Lord, is this — you're—? Bless my soul." He scurried around the counter to shake Harry's hand again, this time with far more vigour. "Harry Potter… what an honour. Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

"Y-you know me?" Harry asked uneasily, suddenly recalling how Jean had shown similar recognition when he heard his name. "What do you mean, welcome back?"

Tom's voice dropped, his eyes wide with bewilderment. "You mean…you don't know?"

"Know what?" Harry's voice had come very near to snapping; he was frustrated, very frustrated. Why did everyone seem to know more about him than he did?

"Mr. Potter," Tom began slowly, carefully, "You do not know what happened the night your parents died?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "They died in a car crash."

A look of horror passed over Tom's face, as he looked over the pub, and back to Harry, "Follow me."

Tom led Harry around the corner, ushering him through a thick wooden door, into a tiny backyard, populated by only a rickety trashcan and an unevenly cobbled brick wall. He turned toward Harry, "I don't know who told you that, Mr. Potter, but your parents were murdered, by You-Know-Who."

Harry shook his head, scowling. "No, I don't know who."

"We do not speak his name," said Tom nervously, looking at him strangely, "The darkest wizard of all time. Started a war, he did, and your parents fought against him. He came for them one night, ten years ago."

"A dark lord?" Harry asked skeptically, "Like Sauron? Or Darth Vader?"

Tom blinked. "I'm afraid I've never heard of a dark lord with such a name."

"Never mind. So my parents, they were wizards to?"

"Oh, of course Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded, then frowned suspiciously. "Wait…if…You-Know-Who…" he began unsurely.

Tom nodded.

"Killed them, then why am I still alive?"

"Why, Mr. Potter, that's why you're famous – you're the one who stopped the dark lord!"

"I was a baby!" Harry remarked flatly.

"Yes, yes you were – that's what was so amazin'! He cast the killing curse at you, unblockable, that one, and it bounced right off you and onto him!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "There must be a better explanation than that."

Tom only shrugged.

He'd have to look into that later - someone would have to have a more educated opinion. He shook his head and sighed. "Right. Well, thanks for telling me." He frowned in deep thought. "I'm famous, then?"

"Oh, yes, very. You're the Boy-Who-Lived!"

Harry rolled his eyes, again. He was coming to believe that wizards really weren't all that clever. "Right…then, it shouldn't be too hard to find someone who will lend me money?"

Tom's eyes bugged out. "Why would you need to do that? Your parents wouldn't leave you without anything, Mr. Potter. The Potter family inheritance belongs to you!"

Harry's eyes widened. "I have money!"

"Of course! The goblins at Gringotts, you go to them."

"Goblins? Gringotts?"

"The wizarding bank. You'll find it in Diagon Alley, with just about anything else. Down to the right, I do believe."

There were goblins...who ran a bank...called Gringotts...in a diagonally..? Diagonally what? "What...?" he began, but then the realization hit him. "Diagon Alley! Diagon Alley? Did they name it on purpose?"

"I should think so, Mr. Potter. Rather hard to name something not on purpose. To get it in, just touch the brick three up and two across from the trash can."

Harry nodded gratefully (though he still wasn't entirely clear on what a Diagon Alley was…perhaps it was slanted), smiling slightly at the elderly man. "Thank you, Tom."

"Oh, you are welcome any time, Mr. Potter. It was an honour, an honour."

Not quite knowing what to say to that, Harry turned to the brick wall, reaching up cautiously to tap the brick. For a split second, he wondered if he had not done it properly, but then, the bricks moved, dancing apart in an intricate pattern, the complexity but a faint reflection of what lay beyond. Apparently, Diagon Alley was a shopping district.

That much was obvious. The 'alley's' sides were lined seamlessly with shop after shop, bustling adults and children alike, the cobblestone street beneath them barely visible. The whole place had a rather antique feel to it, everything crafted of polished glass and neatly worked wood, which complemented the archaic clothing style that seemed to be commonplace for wizards. Dresses and long coats of fine velvet and silk seemed to slip in and out of stores and through crowds, leading Harry to believe that there was not, in fact, some cosplay event going on; rather, wizards liked to dress in anything reminiscing on the late Renaissance period to the fashion at the turn of the century.

Harry chided himself, however, on being so easily distracted – shopping and gawking could wait. He needed to find Gringott's. Tom had said that it was to the right, so stick in hand, Harry veered right, slipping into the crowd as the brick wall shuffled shut. Fortunately for Harry, the street was not as crowded as it had appeared from his original vantage point, and he was left with enough room to maneuver easily as he searched for anything resembling a bank. "If I was a goblin and I built a bank what would it look like?" It was a nonsense question, really, seeing as Harry had never even met a goblin, but it helped him feel as though he had some direction as to where he was going, as he struggled to see over fellow pedestrians, scanning the alley for something 'bank-ish.' His search, however, suddenly came to a halt. "If I was a goblin, I would make my bank big, imposing, and white." For sure enough, before him, stood a great white building, labeled with the stark, deeply carven letters, 'GRINGOTTS BANK.'

Purposefully, belying his nervousness, he strode up the whitewashed steps to the bank, glancing down at the short, humanoid creatures ushering him in, their ears pointed and long and their eyes black and beady. So those were goblins. They weren't as intimidating as he thought they'd be - oh well. Pushing open the heavy, polished wooden doors, Harry found another set of silver doors inside, at which he paused to read an inscription at the entrance:

Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.

Harry grinned at the short soliloquy. "Brilliant, I like that. It would make a good song."

Entering the bank, Harry's eyes went wide as he observed the vast rows of busy tellers, all manned by more of the small, leering creatures, which he assumed were goblins. The floor was of smooth, polished marble, the hall lit by brightly shining, yet cobwebbed crystal chandeliers. Harry scanned the hall, eyes coming to rest on one of the unoccupied tellers.

Trotting up to the goblin, who was busy at work, he looked over the counter, trying to make eye contact with the preoccupied creature beyond. "Er, excuse me?"

The goblin glanced up at him expectantly.

"I, uh, my parents, I think they left something here for me."

The goblin simply looked unimpressed.

Harry sighed and went on, "They're names were James and Lily Potter…"

The goblin's eyes widened with recognition, and Harry rolled his eyes. Even the goblins knew about him. "Key?"

Harry felt hear rise up in his face. "I, er, don't have one. My guardians, they're muggles, you see…"

The goblin quirked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Instead, he turned around and called, "Griphook!"

Another goblin appeared, stalking through one of the swinging doors beside the teller and looking up at the other goblin.

"Mr. Potter wishes to access his account, but is without a key. I trust you will take care of him?"

Griphook glanced between the two, but then nodded, beckoning for Harry to follow him.

Meanwhile, Harry's mind was reeling as he recalled the poem at the entrance. Was he in trouble? Did they think he was imposter? What would they do with him? What did the goblin mean by 'take care of him'?

Griphook had led Harry out of the hall through an arched doorway, into an office-like room, furnished with only a desk and two chairs, gilded with gold. Griphook made his way to the chair behind the desk, reaching into one of the drawers. Harry watched with fascination which quickly morphed into horror as Griphook withdrew a small golden basin, and then an ornate dagger and placed them on the desk.

"Now Mr. Potter…"

"Please, don't kill me!"

The goblin looked at him with overt amusement. "I'm not going to kill you, Mr. Potter. That would mean losing a potentially valuable customer."

Harry gulped audibly. "Oh." "That's the only reason, then?" "Th-then, what's the dagger for?"

Griphook gestured for Harry to take a seat, which he reluctantly did. "As you are not in possession of your key, we must take a special blood test to affirm your identity."

Harry nodded. That was reasonable. "So, I just cut myself and drip some blood into the bowl."

Griphook dipped his head in acquiescence, pushing the two items toward Harry.

Without flinching, Harry sliced the dagger through his left index finger, watching in awe as the blood dribbled from his finger, falling into the basin, moving of its own accord and tracing his name, Harry James Potter, over the shimmering gold. "Brilliant."

Griphook nodded appreciatively. "It is goblin magic – it cannot be fooled by wizarding magic."

Harry perked up at this. "What's the difference between goblin magic and wizard magic? Except, er, the obvious…"

Griphook cast him an amused but reprimanding look. "Now, everything seems to be in order. Firstly, you can have a new key commissioned if you so wish, after which the old one will be null."

Harry blinked. "Where is my old key?"

Griphook frowned and reached into the desk, pulling out a rather thick file, flipping through it with expert ease. "Last we checked, it was in the possession of one Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's eyes flashed with recognition. "The Hogwarts headmaster! Wait, why does he have my key?"

Griphook shook his head. "That, I do not know. Nothing can be done about it, except the creation of a new key."

"Huh...oh well. How long will that take?"

Griphook grinned greedily. "That depends on how much you're willing to pay."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "And that would depend on how much is in my vaults."

"Oh, believe me, Mr. Potter, you have more than enough." He reached into the file with a glint in his eye, retrieving a single sheet of parchment, handing it to Harry.

Vault 687: Potter Trust Fund – open
15,000 Galleons

Vault 708: Potter Family Vault – restricted entry until July 1997 (note: current heir's majority)
4,576,082 Galleons
Potter Family Artifacts (private, uncatalogued)
Potter Family Estates (private, uncatalogued)

Vault 711: Black Family Vault – tentative claim (note: in light of paternal grandmother's blood, as well as Black Heir's Will, unapproved)
7,790,455 Galleons
Black Family Artifacts (private, uncatalogued)
Black Family Estates (private, uncatalogued)

Harry gaped at the page, looking up at Griphook faintly. "Wh-what is the exchange rate between Galleons and Pounds?"

"Four point eighty-seven pounds per Galleon."

"I'm rich…" Harry gasped, a gleeful giggle escaped him. "I'm rich!" He grinned at Griphook. "Take as much as you need from my trust fund to make sure the key is ready in about two hours."

Griphook grinned back, and nodded, taking down some notes.

"Just one thing, though…"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I understand the first two; the trust fund is mine, and I can't access the family vault until I'm seventeen…"

Griphook nodded.

"But what about Vault 711? What does tentative claim mean?"

Griphook glanced at the page, and then at something in his file. "James Potter's mother was one Dorea Potter nee Black. Under normal circumstances, this would give you no claim, but Sirius Black, the last heir of the Black family was listed as your godfather, and bequeathed the entire vault and all adjacent estates to you."

"Then why is my claim tentative?" Harry cringed, hating how greedy he was sounding – apparently, the goblin was rubbing off on him.

"Sirius Black was convicted as an accomplice in James and Lily Potter's murder, and is currently in Azkaban."

The colour drained from Harry's face instantly. "What's Azkaban?"

"The most secure wizarding prison in the world."

"S-so," Harry began, his voice wavering, "My godfather…he's the reason my p-parents…are d-dead?"

"That's what they say," replied Griphook, his voice devoid of sympathy.

Harry looked up, and frowned uneasily. "That's what they say? What about the evidence?"

"I'm afraid I know little of the matter, save for the fact that Sirius Black received no trial."

"What!" Harry cried, outraged.

"After the war, the Ministry of Magic was very eager to capture all the Death Eaters. All suspected of war crimes were thrown in prison without a trial."

Harry supposed the Ministry of Magic was the magical government – it made sense, after all. "Death Eaters?"

"The Dark Lord's followers."

Harry nodded, sinking into his chair. His godfather, a convicted Death Eater? Was he really? Would a trial have shown otherwise? Was there any way to push a trial? He shook his head – he had other matters to take care of. "Right…thank you sir. I'm afraid I'm new to all of this."

"Of course, Mr. Potter. You may call me Griphook, though, as that is my name."

Harry smiled amiably. "Then I'm Harry, to you."

The goblin frowned. "Harry."

Harry nodded eagerly, then went on, "Now, about withdrawing some money from my vault."

Griphook nodded. "There is one matter that we must first attend to."

"Oh?"

"Two years ago, a man by the name of Jean Alliette left something in our care, requesting that we give it to you at our earliest convenience." Griphook reached into the desk, retrieving a neatly folded envelope, and handing it to Harry.

Harry, whose heart rate had accelerated rapidly upon hearing his cousin's name, took the envelope with care, opening it slowly, with trepidation, hard pressed to keep his hands from shaking as he read:

Dear Brat,

Yes Harry, that means you. Now, I thought I'd get straight to the point – if you're reading this, then I'm probably dead. Right, bad way to start a letter, but it had to be done. You see, Harry, that's the reason I came to find you – I'm dying of a rare disease (no, it can't be cured, even with magic), and I needed someone to carry on the family legacy; our bloodline is spread all across Europe (you'll probably meet a few Seers in your life time), but only in a few does the blood of the Pythia still run strong. You looked that up, right? Well, the Pythia originally got their power from Apollo, as you probably know. What you might not know, is that Apollo was the reincarnation of the Egyptian god Thoth – look him up some time. So, in case you didn't know the connection between the two, the Alliette's are descended from what the muggles call Gypsies. Now, you might be thinking 'I'm not a Gypsy!' but I did some research, and it turns out your maternal grandmother was, a squib actually, so my whole cousin theory, it checks out.

Since our family is kind of…scattered, only one person ever gets the family inheritance per generation – it's up to the previous heir to pass it on to the next. I chose you, Harry. So you get everything that's been passed down from true Seer to true Seer over the years. Admittedly, it's not much, mostly books, but I added some stuff of my own for you – my record collection, my favourite t-shirt, my phone book (some hot girls from LA, New York, Barcelona, Port au Prince, etc. in it), and some other treats. You'll find all the stuff in a shrunken trunk in the envelope; a simple Engorgio charm should unshrink it, and a password will open it. I'll let you guess the password on your own.

Now, down to the tricky stuff. As a true Seer, you'll be pretty talented at most forms of divination, I should think. Here's the thing, though: since you get your power from the gods, namely Apollo, not from you're magical core, the gods can screw around with it. Usually, they mind their own business, since no one worships them anymore…but be careful nonetheless. Another thing you'll need to watch out for is prophecies – most weaker Seers will not remember making prophecies…I have a feeling you will, though. Prophecies are tricky things – if I had my way, they'd all be destroyed, and no one would have anything to do with them. But they exist – here's the thing though, they don't have any power until someone besides the Seer hears them. Keep that in mind.

Now then, some advice, little cousin, words of the wise: first, always charge when you give a reading. I don't care if it's a damn palm-reading – nothing's bought for free in this world, brat, take advantage of that. Next, don't tell anyone about this Seer stuff; if you want to practice on someone else, do it in disguise, or something clever like that. Seers are pretty rare, but Seers who have real control over their abilities, well, there's only about one per generation. We keep to ourselves and mind our own business; that's the best policy (don't listen to anyone who tells you it's honesty). And don't tell anyone you can speak to snakes, either – it has a bad stigma here in Britain. Also, don't try to enlarge the trunk until you get to school – underage magic is restricted (well, the stuff you do with a wand, anyway), and trust me, getting arrested really isn't that great, even though it gives you a chance to screw around with the government.

Lastly, Harry, listen closely – the next few years are not going to be easy for you…hopefully your instincts have told you as much. I meant what I said, Harry; you are a good kid, and I wish I had longer to know you. But don't expect me to come back as a ghost. I'm not that desperate. Anyway, do well, kid, make me proud. I have faith in you, and I'm proud to call you family.

Keep it real,

Jean Alliette.

P.S.
Don't mention my name to anyone. I, uh, tend to piss off whoever I meet, in fact, I think the goblins are the first ones I've met who can stand the sight of me. So, if you don't want people out for your blood, don't mention my name. Can't have you dying too, after all.

If anyone would have entered Griphook's office at that moment, they no doubt would have been surprised to find the goblin awkwardly patting a crying Harry Potter on the back.

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