Chapter 1
"Mister Barton, though your nephew has continued to excel in his academics, he has remained an infrequent disturbance within this school, instigating several brawls and showing little concern for societal values most adhere to. Unfortunately, his attendance in August will be necessary once again. As he has not yet reached adulthood, and one conviction still on record, his tuition will remain covered by the state." The headmaster of St. Brutus's spoke to Vernon without regard to Harry's presence, which would have been irking had the delivery of the sentence not been exactly what both Harry and Vernon desired.
"I see," Vernon started. Harry could tell it was an effort for the whale of a man to sound devastated. "I, we that is, the family, had hoped we would be able to have him back for good - but if it's the judgment of the state?"
"It is," came the direct reply from the Headmaster.
"Alright. I suppose we will make do with the time we are given, and for that – I thank you, Headmaster Buckley." A coughing fit distracted the Headmaster from Vernon's insincerity well enough, but to Harry it remained plain as day.
"Mister Barton," the Headmaster said, finally directing his attention to the youngest man in attendance, "you've already packed your things as directed?" Harry nodded affirmatively. "Good, then you are given leave for the summer months and are due back here on August 15th, no later than six in the evening, or a warrant will be issued for your detainment. Do you understand?"
"I do, Headmaster," came the succinct reply.
"And you, Mr. Barton, you also understand the necessity of his attendance here at the aforementioned date?"
"Yes sir, I do."
"Very well, have a nice vacation gentlemen. I've other appointments I must attend to."
The dismissal was brusque but the relatives took it in stride, rising quickly from their chairs and each taking the headmaster's hand in a firm grip before departing the room side by side.
"Glad to see you remain enough of a fuck-up to stay here and away from us, boy," Vernon's deep voice stated matter-of-factly.
"I do it for me," Harry replied with only a taste of the true vitriol he felt standing next to his uncle. "Soon as you tossed me to St. Brutus my care for your preference was rinsed."
"As long as our goals align, boy, I'll not care for whom you do what you do. I've had enough of your presence already. The drive to London will be hellish, but as long as I don't see you until August 15th I'll take you there as per our usual arrangement."
"I've had enough of you too uncle. When we reach the first tube station I'll trek."
The kind of laughter reserved for enemies was the last sound he got from the larger man. Nothing more was said on the walk to the car, nor on the drive to the outskirts of the city, nor even as Harry stepped out of the vehicle while it was stopped at city light one block from the tube station.
Harry stood out on the corner of the street for a moment, lighting up a cigarette, his first in hours, and forced himself to remain with his back turned away from his uncle's car as it sped away.
"Good to see ya again Harry." The deep voice which delivered the statement didn't seem to fit the lanky man with the baby face, but Harry had long become used to that particular oddity.
"Safe, Jack," the smaller boy responded. "You have an open room for let? I'll need one for three months." Harry fully expected a room to be available despite the summer tourist months being upon the city. After all, the inn was not in the choicest area of town.
"Of course Harry, for ya I'd remove a patron." The offer was insincere, both knew it, but it was delivered smartly with a smile and a false air of truth. Both men stared at each other briefly before breaking into laughter.
"You've gotten better at that Jack, if I didn't know you didn't mean a single word of what you just said I may have just believed it."
"Why thank yeh, Harry, you're too kind. I've been practicing that delivery for weeks. Knew yeh'd be back, ya see."
Harry wavedd off the comment. "Of course, I'm not going to stay with my fam, am I? Anyway, what's the rate, Jack, still got the studio for two-eighty?"
"Nicely done, Harry boy, but not quite suave enough, ya know the rate was three-ten last summer, and you're lucky it hasn't gone up. Purely 'cause I like yeh, ya know." Another award winning smile flashed Jack's stereotypical British pearly whites.
An exaggerated sigh came from the younger boy. "Can't blame me for trying, now can you Jack? Oh well. Three-ten will be manageable. Can I pay in weekly installments again? And as usual I'll need a day or two to get the first week's rent." He shrugged.
"Sure thing Harry, I know you're good for it. But be sure not to tell me where it comes from, I don't want to know. And nothing illegal in the room, don't need the constables coming round here. Bad for business, ya know."
"Right Jack, you make it sound as if London's finest weren't in the neighborhood incessantly. Anyway, could I get the key, this stuff is getting heavy."
"Righto, here yeh are. Number twenty-one, same as last time I believe. Let me know if there are any issues." Both men laughed again knowing that you got exactly what you paid for.
Sleight of hand. It can be trained, of course, most things can, but the greats are born with it. Most are never aware. After all, bar becoming a stage magician there are few reasons to explore such dexterity. For the average street urchin and petty thief, however, sleight of hand is the difference between survival on one's own and survival at the mercy of the government. Even for the best, however, there were risks – and mistakes.
Harry was hesitant to claim he was good at any particular thing, for he was of two opinions on the matter: One, there was always someone better, and two, why let anyone know what your strengths are? Among those few he had traveled with in the past though, Harry was known as one of the best. In a fraction of a second of contact he could have a victim's wallet, keys, and sunglasses in his possession. Standing behind a victim on the Underground, he could purloin a wallet, remove a card, and replace the wallet with the victim being none the wiser.
With the ability to support himself alone, the smart money was placed on Harry staying out of the hands of the state. But the smart money did not fully understand Harry's situation. While he was often away from his relatives' house, he did still return there to sleep most nights. His aunt and uncle, viewing their nephew as a burden and not caring about his future, called the police after discovering several questionable items in his possession. So it was that Harry Barton generated a criminal record.
His relatives used his record to remove the burden from their house and place it on the state, and Harry soon after was enrolled at St. Brutus'. It was at the end of the schooling year that Harry and his uncle set up his current living arrangements.
It was odd, perhaps, that a child of nearly sixteen would prefer to live at a boarding school for the 'Incurably Criminal,' but Harry found the arrangement most convenient. He had access to resources he would be hard pressed to provide for himself while at school. Despite being a prison of sorts the school had managed to acquire a truly remarkable teaching staff, many of whom were in the later stages of life and viewed the position as service to the community.
Harry was well-liked by the majority of the schoolteachers, and applied himself fully to the lessons taught. He knew, unlike many of the other students of the school, that no sustainable future lay in his career as a petty thief, and unlike some of the students, had the mental aptitude to overcome his situation.
He was suspected by several of his teachers to have an eidetic memory, and he worked tirelessly to downplay his true intelligence and fly under the radar. In truth, Harry did not believe that anyone could have a truly photographic memory, but he supposed that he was indeed somewhat of a savant. His mental recall of anything he read was well above average and the speed at which he could absorb text was unmatched by any other he had met. These natural talents had served him well thus far both at his school, where he was able to draw on the practical experience of his teachers to augment his understanding of a subject, as well as during the summer, when he practically lived at the British Library.
That was, in fact, where he was headed to at the current moment. Harry used the opportunities provided to him on the Metropolitan Line of the Underground to purloin near one hundred quid from a variety of passengers, taking care not to liberate too much from any one person. The trip was not long, less than an hour, and soon Harry stepped onto the platform at the St. Pancreas tube station, a few minutes walking distance from his destination.
"Pet, darling, I believe this would be for the best."
"I don't know Vernon, without having seen him for these last few years I find it hard to hate him now. We've already gotten away with enough as far as he's concerned... why stir the pot?"
"Love, I know that you don't see him when I do, but take it from me, the boy is a menace. He's probably out there now looking for a way to harm us, or Dudley. Who knows what he could do?"
"We've kept that all from him Vernon. He doesn't know. He couldn't! Could he?"
Vernon took his wife's hands in his own, his meaty digits covering her own frail ones. "Pet, we don't know. If we do this, he can't find us. He won't have any legal recourse or assistance."
Petunia looked away from her husband of eighteen years. "You're right, of course, she relented. But -" She paused to gather her thoughts. "But I worry. I get the feeling that we should have handled this differently from the beginning. I've been having dreams of my sister -"
She was cut off by a growl from Vernon's throat. "Your sister is gone, as is her husband. We've outsmarted the whole of their kind, Petunia. You needn't worry about them any longer. He is our last remaining link, and I think that it's time that link is purged."
Looking up into the eyes of her husband, Petunia nodded her acceptance. Sitting at the nearby table she signed a form covered in legalese. Turning the page over, she signed another, and another, and kept at it until a cleared table was left in front of her.
"It's done," she stated simply. 'I hope Lily can forgive me.'
An aging woman sat in a small office within the boundaries of London proper. Looking down at the pages sitting in front of her she sighed sadly. She could not fault the family terribly. After all, children made their own choices and sometimes just had to be let go. But it was doubly depressing when a child who was afforded every opportunity the state could give could not turn his or her life around. This child was provided a family, relatives no less, a stable home environment, and presumably love and affection. And yet, he had fallen into a life of crime and had become uncontrollable, running away from his relatives the day he had returned home from St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.
She stamped the department's approval to rescind the adoption and caregiver status the Bartons previously had. The forms were filed and the woman began filling a form to legally have young Harry Barton's name changed back to that of his parents. Potter.
As the stamp came down on the piece of paper, forces beyond the understanding of the clerk went to work. Small alerts started to flash in two London locations and north in the Scottish highlands. Only one of these soundless alarms was attended to as short green-skinned arms reached out an up towards files which had remained untouched for fifteen years.
Two weeks had passed since his departure from St. Brutus' and Harry had delved deep into a variety of subjects he had studied in school. Mathematics was among his favorite pastimes, to the incredulity of his classmates, and he often worked with the maths professor at St. Brutus' to advance himself beyond the material commonly taught at school. Language was another. Though he often spoke with a bit of an accent from his street-living past, Harry was entreated by his professors to learn proper English too. The ability to posh-up his speech had served him well on plenty of occasions.
History, however, was his biggest vice. It was also the one which he consistently scolded himself over. There was, after all, very little practical application of that particular interest and Harry was, if nothing else, a practical young man.
Which is why, at that very moment, Harry cursed as he looked over at the time, 11:58pm. He had started reading his current book at around eight, and now he had indulged in the history of the Americas for nearly four hours. Where had the time gone?
Harry smiled as he closed his book and got up off the lumpy mattress that had served as his bed so far this summer. Glancing at the stack of books on the small desk the room came furnished with he decided to take a quick break from reading and to shower before starting the next.
His shower was a brief, shivering ordeal due to the property's miserly water heaters that only warmed water in the mornings. Toweling off quickly, Harry stepped back into the main room, immediately alert to a strange scratching noise. His senses on edge, he darted a glance towards the door, the probable origin of the sound.
The scratching grew louder as he crept closer, but it soon became clear the noise was not coming from beyond the door. The sound seemed to shift slightly to the left, drawing Harry towards the small window. The alley outside was pitch-black, and Harry strained to see what might be causing the commotion.
As he took the final steps to the window, the scratching abruptly stopped. Peering into the darkness, he saw nothing that could explain the eerie noise. Driven by curiosity, Harry unlatched the window. With a small grunt, he slid the glass pane up, letting the cool night air into his room.
Before he could lean out to investigate further, a large object hurtled into the room, striking him in the chest and flapping wildly in his face.
Swinging wildly at what was obviously some kind of bird Harry backpedaled away from the window and collapsed back onto his bed before realizing the bird was no longer seemingly attacking him. Looking around wildly he saw the assaulter sitting regally upon the edge of the desk. Gripped in its claws was a letter.
'What in the name of all that's holy is going on here?' He thought briefly before once again standing and slowly approaching the large – Harry now recognized it as an owl – on his desk.
After a short staring match, which the owl won, Harry, questioning his sanity, asked the owl, "Is that for me?" He pointed at the letter and the owl answered with several quick nods of its head.
It was at that moment that Harry came to the conclusion he had indeed lost his grip on reality. Perhaps he was in a dream, an incredibly realistic one indeed, but a dream nonetheless. There was no possibility that an owl could possibly either recognize or comprehend the question Harry had asked, yet alone formulate a gestural response which could be correctly interpreted by the teen. As if determined to prove him wrong, the owl cocked its head to the side, looking for all the world like it wanted to ask what was taking the bespectacled boy so long.
Harry closed his eyes, shook his head slightly and let out a quick sigh before taking the four steps to the owl and reaching for the letter. The bird released the correspondence with nary a hoot and as soon as the letter had been delivered jumped into the air – once again startling Harry – and flew out the window as though it had never been there. The raven-haired teen would have no doubt attempted to convince himself it had all been a figment of his imagination had he not been holding an envelope.
Sliding his finger under the flap to open the letter Harry reached into the envelope and pulled out a piece of – 'Parchment?'
Lord Potter, the letter began, and Harry's jaw dropped. "Someone having a laugh?" he wondered aloud. 'And who would know that name?' he added to himself before continuing on.
It has come to our attention that you have not until this moment been contacted by our bank and we are at this time striving to correct any and all mistakes regarding this issue. You have, as a valued client, our apologies for these previous oversights and we will, of course, keep you informed of our findings as the investigation continues.
Included in this packet are summaries of your accounts held here at the Diagon Alley branch of Gringotts Bank, your investment account summaries, and general bank information. We greatly appreciate your understanding in regards to this matter.
Gringotts Bank of Diagon Alley
Head, Department of Customer Retention
Ripgott Skullsplitter
'What kind of name is that?' Harry asked himself as he shuffled the first page to the back of the pile of sheets and browsed the next.
Lord Potter,
If requested we are able to provide account statements of the last fourteen years as they have not registered as successfully delivered to your person through our mail department. I am able to tell you, however, that the only activity during this time were interest payments to both trust accounts. The vaults of your parents have remained inactive since June, 1981.
We are currently in the process of having both your parents vaults liquidated to the Potter Family Vault per standard banking procedures as it is your main account remaining with the bank. Also, because of the irregularities regarding your situation we are attempting to reclaim the balance of your mother's account with us from the ministry. As of this moment we have not yet met with success but we have every hope of recovering these assets for you as soon as possible.
I recommend that you come down to our institution at your earliest convenience in order to speed any process along which will require your physical presence, such as a full inventory of your family vault. We would also require your presence to determine if any other vaults have fallen to you in the years since the bank has had last contact with your family.
Gringotts Bank of Diagon Alley
Head, Family Account Management
Nibgit Axegrinder
It occurred to him that he was no longer thinking that this was a joke, or a prank. How could it be? It was far too intricate. Something strange was going on to be sure, after all, who used an owl to deliver correspondence? However, the whole thing seemed to ring true to Harry, a gut feeling that clashed with his rational mind. Yet, as he pondered the situation a bit longer, it made a sort of sense. His parents had died early, yes, but surely they had some possessions that would be passed on. He had always thought that such things would have gone to his relatives, but perhaps they had not. Maybe that was part of the reason his relatives despised him so. Did they know about his inheritance?
The questions continued to fly through his mind as he turned to the page detailing his inherited investments.
Summary of Investments:
Harry scanned a listing of companies and stock held. Some of the companies listed he was familiar with, and it seemed as though either his father or mother had been seen a great future in technology. Also listed were some raw commodities, crude oil and platinum standing out as having generated high returns over the last two decades.
Lord Potter,
Your investments represent a significant amount of capital and have not been managed since the death of your parents. We at Gringotts would like to speak to you in person as soon as is convenient so that this may be rectified. Additionally, we are currently working to gather all necessary statements of your investments to be delivered as soon as they are compiled. We hope to have this information out to you by Sunday, June 17th, 1995.
Gringotts Bank of Diagon Alley
Head, Family Investments Management
Bogrod Metalshaper
The phrase "significant amount of capital" drew Harry's eyes and both brows raised in anticipation. It was not likely, in his mind, that such wording were be used for any nominal amount of money. Convinced now that something was afoot, something that clearly was beneficial to him, Harry eagerly drew the last piece of parchment to the top of the pile.
Dear Valued Client, the letter began, far more generic than either before it.
We here at Gringotts Bank are pleased to have your business. As the premier bank servicing Great Britain we offer our clients a wide range of benefits unmatched throughout the Isles. We would like to extend an invitation to you to meet with a personal financial adviser at our Diagon Alley location in London or our Weavers District location in Dublin. We have included for your convenience directions from your current location to our closest branch.
Gringotts Bank
Head, Gringotts Bank, London
Ragnar Coppersmelter
Harry looked below and to his absolute astonishment a map with a dot labeled "You are here" sat at his exact location. From there a series of lines and arrows wound through the London streets and stopped on Charing Cross Rd. Below the map was another small series of instructions.
Enter Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron. If unsure how to proceed, ask for assistance from the Leaky Cauldron staff, they will provide you with any help you require. The bank is located at the end of the Alley. Alternatively, floo to 'Gringotts, Diagon Alley' and you will be brought directly to the branch entrance hall.
Harry's mind raced at a million miles a minute. How, exactly, was this map provided? Who knew he was here? Was this a joke? A scam? If so, it was incredibly intricate. And what exactly were these names? The surnames could be English, but to have four names so odd working at the same institution was unlikely, in Harry's opinion. And the given names were even stranger. German, perhaps? Or maybe more eastern? And floo? What exactly was meant by that odd word? Was it a taxi company? And what was with the owl? Who uses an owl for message delivery? Obviously Gringotts, but Harry simply could not imagine a company that would use such a seemingly unreliable carrier. It was all so baffling.
With a shrug Harry skimmed the letters once more before setting them down upon the desk. He needed answers, and there was only one place to go for them it seemed. Tomorrow he would go to this Leaky Cauldron, and find out the truth behind these matters. If it was anything like what he expected he imagined tomorrow would be the most interesting day of his life thus far.
He could not have begun to imagine just how interesting it would be.
Harry rose early, as was his custom, the clock flashing 5:03am on the nightstand. Throwing some clothes on after a quick shower Harry grabbed his wallet and the parchments from the night previous and left the hotel room, locking the door behind him. It did not take long to board the tube and travel to the Tottenham Court Road Station. Exiting the station he walked south along Charing Cross Road, following the instructions on the map.
It was a walk of minutes to come across what had to be the Leaky Cauldron. Harry stared at it openly, cigarette in hand. It looked to be an incredibly dilapidated building, walled with timber, of all things, and with a mud-brick chimney happily spouting smoke, nestled between a used book store and a record shop. The few pedestrians around seemed to not notice the building there at all, shifting their gazes immediately from on shop to the other and skipping over the Cauldron entirely.
Nervousness rose from Harry's stomach. Something odder than he had expected was happening here. There was no reasonable explanation for such a shop located in the middle of a shopping district. Strange shops could be found throughout the city, to be sure, but the building exteriors were mostly homogenous throughout London, especially in regards to connected storefronts. And yet, the Leaky Cauldron sat between the record and book stores splitting what should have been connected storefronts in twain.
As Harry stood across from the Leaky Cauldron, he noticed the door open and the strangest man imaginable exit. He wore a purple - Dress? Bathrobe? - and was smoking what appeared to be a foot long corncob pipe. A majestic beard swept down to his chest and his long silver hair ended somewhere down mid-back. Harry closed his eyes and shook his head to make sure he was not imagining the man. He heard a distinct 'POP' and opened his eyes in alarm. The man was gone.
More concerned about his sanity now than when he had been looking at the old man Harry gathered his courage and crossed the street towards the structure. Above the doorway Harry spotted a picture of what had to be a cauldron with a hole in its bottom, leaking green liquid onto a fire. 'Leaky Cauldron indeed,' he thought with a nervous smile.
Opening what by all rights should have been an immensely heavy wooden door was surprisingly easy and Harry was afforded his first look inside the building. The Leaky Cauldron exuded a rustic, old-world charm that immediately transported visitors to a fantastic setting. The predominantly wooden interior was heavily worn, with dark beams crisscrossing the low ceiling and ancient wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. The scent of aged timber and the faint aroma of past meals lingered in the air, creating a cozy, albeit slightly musty, atmosphere.
The focal point of the inn was the large bar that dominated one side of the room. Crafted from solid oak, it bore the marks of decades of use and was polished to a dull sheen. Behind the bar, shelves were lined with an eclectic array of bottles and jars, their contents varying from familiar spirits to mysterious concoctions. A doorway at the back of the bar seemed to lead to the kitchen; a warm glow emanated and the sound of clinking pots and pans could be heard.
To the left of the bar, a well-worn staircase ascended to the upper floor. Its wooden steps were smoothed by countless footsteps, and the banister was polished from years of use. It lead, presumably, to rooms for let.
This early, the Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty, the quiet stillness only broken by the occasional crackle from the hearth. Through the half-open door of the kitchen, a glimpse a man could be seen.
Passing through the tavern Harry exited the back door and found himself in a courtyard facing a brick wall. Atop the wall was a sign exclaiming 'Welcome to Diagon Alley.'
Harry sighed. A dead end, and a sign there to mock him. He had been so sure no one could have pulled such an elaborate prank. He would have to find the one who had put it all together. He did not yet know if he would congratulate the perpetrator or strangle him. Turning back into the tavern he was about to walk out the front door and leave it all behind when he remembered a line from the parchments delivered the night previous.
If unsure how to proceed, ask for assistance from the Leaky Cauldron staff, they will provide you with any help you require.
Skeptical, but loathe to leave any stone unturned Harry approached the bar. Leaning over the counter he scanned the bar area and did not see any attendant. Walking down to the far end he noticed a sign posted on one of the columns.
Use me for assistance.
Below the sign was – Harry blinked in incomprehension – a giant red clown nose. Could anything possibly become queerer? Shaking his head for what must have been the tenth time that morning he reached out and gently squeezed the vanity object and was immediately forced to cover his ears at the loud 'AOOOOOGAAA' released.
By the time Harry had recovered his senses he was ready to flee with all haste that could be afforded. He was stopped dead, however, by the appearance of a balding man with a slight hunch and hobble. His face, lined with wrinkles, bore a kind yet weary expression.
"Hello good sir," the man eyed Harry's clothing with what seemed like understanding.
"Hi, bruv," Harry returned without any of his usual eloquence.
"Am I correct in thinking that you be requiring assistance in entering the Alley?"
Harry wondered how the man knew this, but answered in the affirmative.
"If you would just follow me? I'll have the pathway opened right quick." He hobbled over towards the back door Harry had just re-entered from with a gesture that indicated Harry should come with. Entering the courtyard the older man continued towards the brick wall over which the sign was placed. Harry stayed back at the door, wary of his unfamiliar surroundings. He watched as the old man took some sort of polished stick – a conductor's wand? - out of his pocket and began to tap bricks in a pyramidal pattern which Harry instinctively memorized.
Nothing could have prepared Harry's logical mind for what happened next. The brick wall began folding away from its center, one brick folding into another until a portal had opened beyond, revealing an alley full of shops. Several pedestrians, were also dressed in the same strange clothing the man, he had been sure until now he had hallucinated, had been wearing. He looked at the bartender in shock.
"That's buki," Harry spoke incredulously.
The bartender just laughed. "You got a strange way of speaking. Must be new to the world of magic, eh boy? Strange, since you look much older than eleven. You'll find all your answers in the Alley. Should you need assistance, feel free to ask any shop owner you meet. They'll be happy to explain things to you." The man opened the door as Harry stepped over towards the entrance to Diagon Alley, reeling with what he had just been told.
Magic? MAGIC? Who, what, when, why, HOW? Harry swayed on his feet. "Wait, chief!" he cried out before the barkeep shut the door. "Can you tell me how to get to Gringotts?"
The older man opened the door again and looked out at the teen. "Here to see the goblins, eh lad? Well, easy enough. Gringotts is the white marble building at the end of the Alley. Just follow the path and don't diverge, you can't miss it."
With that, the old man turned back inside and shut the door. Harry literally felt his heart thumping ever faster in his chest. GOBLINS?! What had he fallen into? Taking a few deep breaths to calm his pulse and nerves, Harry stepped into Diagon Alley. The brick portal way closed behind him.
An incredible volume of shops loomed before him. To his right was a shop labeled as an Apothecary which had signs outside advertising moonthistle at Seven Sickles a bundle and nightshade at One Galleon Two Sickles per bouquet. Harry immediately recognized the unfamiliar words as the currency values he was unfamiliar with. It seemed that his inheritance was shaping up to be quite the fortune indeed.
He continued walking past shops, drawing some stares from the passersby – wizards and witches? - as he went. He supposed that his blue jeans and t-shirt stood out amongst the robes all the others seemed to favor. He noticed a bookstore that did not seem to have opened so early in the morning and vowed to return there as soon as monetarily possible. Ahead he spotted what had to be Gringotts Bank and Harry slightly sped his walking. Another minute brought him before the rather imposing structure. Eight giant marble columns supported the high portico and Harry felt as though he was entering the British Museum as he walked up to the grand entrance.
Off to the side of the entrance was a lyrical admonition against thievery and Harry wisely decided to keep his hands to himself whilst in the confines of the bank. Reminding himself that goblins ran the bank he steeled his nerves and took his first steps into an enormous lobby. To his left was a row of fireplaces, for what purpose Harry could not even begin to postulate, at the rear of the bank were several offices, presumably for personal bankers and financial advisers. Several hallways jutted off the back wall. To his right were teller windows, ten of them, only three of which were manned – goblinned? - at this early hour.
As Harry got his first look at the creatures he suppressed any reaction his face may have normally showed. They were odd looking creatures, green skin in various shades of darkness and somewhat differently proportioned than most humans. They were much shorter, for one, but they also seemed to have slightly longer arms and a thicker torso than most people Harry had met. While Harry imagined that the three goblins at the teller station were doing their best to be inviting Harry could not help but feel that the smiles on their faces were of the type one gives when inviting an enemy into a trap.
"Umm, hello," Harry began as he approached the closest of the three goblin tellers.
"Welcome to Gringotts this morning, how may I assist you?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Harry started, and he watched as the goblin barely concealed his irritation. Deciding he needed to elaborate, Harry continued. "I received notice from your branch that there were some irregularities with my account, and that I should present myself to your branch at my earliest convenience. I have the documentation sent to me if that would help any?"
The goblin nodded and reached out to take the documents from the teen. Browsing through them Harry thought he saw a small amount of surprise on the creature's face, but it could easily have been his imagination, as when the goblin raised his head back up no emotion was present at all. Boredom, if anything, was all that was reflected upon that verdant visage.
"Lord Potter," the goblin spoke, "Nibgit Axegrinder has left instructions that if you were to arrive you be escorted down to Family Account Management. If you do not mind waiting a moment, I will summon someone to lead you to the correct offices."
Harry simply nodded his assent and the goblin made a few curious gestures on a tablet placed at his teller window. Small runic designs appeared briefly before fading from view. Within a minute, another of the small green creatures walked up to the window and did a quick once over of Harry.
"Griphook," the teller began, "Lord Potter here needs to be escorted to Family Account Management. If you could show him the way and let Nibgit know he is here?" The goblin named Griphook simply nodded to his colleague.
"Lord Potter, if you would follow me?" Griphook turned and walked towards hallways at the back end of the bank. The goblin moved rather rapidly for something of its short stature, though Harry's longer stride easily kept him close. The pair turned and winded down a labyrinthine path and eventually came to a door labeled with the department of their destination. Griphook opened the door and led Harry into a small waiting room that had several offices attached. Each was filled by a goblin that seemed engrossed in paperwork.
"Lord Potter, if you would wait a moment while I let Nibgit know you are here?"
"Not a problem." came the immediate response.
Taking a deep breath Harry reminded himself that this, more than any situation he had been in before in his life, required more class than he had yet demonstrated. Harry decided that it was time to bring out a bit more of the 'poshness' he had drilled into himself the previous summer while 'working' in West Brompton. Several minutes passed before Griphook returned with a goblin who looked far older than the guide.
"Lord Potter, this is Nibgit Axegrinder, Department Head. Nibgit, this is Lord Harry Potter." Griphook introduced the two to each other and Harry stuck his hand out in greeting. Both goblins stared at him oddly and Harry lamely retracted his hand, clearly unfamiliar with greeting customs of the Wizarding world.
'So much for a classy introduction,' Harry thought forlornly.
"Lord Potter," the elder goblin began, his voice ran like sandpaper over Harry's ears, "I am very glad to have finally met your acquaintance, though I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances." The goblin spread his arms, palms open and facing up in a gesture seeking forgiveness.
"Nibgit, I must confess confusion regarding the situation, and why it is unpleasant. It was not until yesterday that I knew about any of this," he gestured around, indicating magic as a whole, rather than simply the bank accounts the two were speaking of, "and I've found myself rather overwhelmed thus far. Your letter mentioned some irregularities with my accounts, but again I must confess I have little idea as to what they could be."
"Understandable, Lord Potter. Please, have a seat." The two had migrated into Nibgit's personal office, alone now, and Harry took the seat across the financier's desk. "I have been very busy the last few weeks, Lord Potter, since we first discovered these irregularities on June 3rd."
Harry recognized the date as two days after he had left St. Brutus' for the summer holidays. There was nothing yet to suggest there was any connection between the two events, but he could not help but feel that they were related and immediately asked of the goblin, "What exactly happened on June 3rd to make the bank aware of the situation?"
Nibgit bared his teeth in what Harry supposed could pass as a smile, if a somewhat predatory one, in recognition of his client's obviously keen intelligence. "You suddenly came back onto the radar, to use a muggle term, my Lord." Harry took the new word in stride, connotation spelling out its definition as clear as crystal and merely sat, waiting for the goblin to continue with his explanation. Nibgit's grin spread wider.
"The specifics are still being somewhat worked out, but we do know the general gist of what has occurred at this point, after exhaustive digging through muggle records. On January 11th, 1986, a couple months after of the 4th anniversary of your parent's deaths, you were adopted. Your relatives effected an official, legal, name change to Harry Barton. You indicated that you are new to the world of magic as of yesterday, so forgive me if I am incorrect, but I assume you do not know the significance of a name as it ties in with magic?" Harry nodded that the goblin was correct in his assessment.
"Lord Potter, a true name is incredibly powerful. Many of our spells, which control such things as census and message delivery, are focused exclusively upon a true name. When yours was changed in the muggle adoption process, though it was not a magical process, it was a legal one, and magic itself recognized the change. Thus, you disappeared completely from our world.
"The magical world is somewhat – illiterate - when it comes to the muggle world. Though there was a paper trail for those that would have cared to look, those that did search had little clue where to begin. I must confess that our bank only recently familiarized itself with common muggle practices after having recognized the immediacy of the need. Also, as I have explained, a name is something very important within the magical world. We do not effect complete name changes here. Had you been adopted by a magical family named Barton, you would have taken two family names as Harry Barton-Potter. This would have left at least a piece of your "true name" of Harry Potter intact. The magics we rely upon would still have functioned.
"Two weeks ago, emancipation papers were filed with the muggle ministries. As part of what appears to be a complete disownment, your name has been reverted to Harry Potter in the muggle world and you have once again appeared in our ledgers."
"The Bartons emancipated me?" He questioned briefly. The goblin nodded affirmatively. "That means they have likely informed the government that I have run away, which means there will be a warrant out for my arrest." The goblin confirmed this as well with another nod of his head.
"I have no desire to back to my school right now, Nibgit," Harry admitted, "and even less interest in adding another felony to my record."
"Lord Potter," the goblin began, "I, too, have no desire to see you return to the muggle world. There are many things that we are capable of through the use of magic and it is my belief that you would be better served to stay in this world. You have a sizable inheritance, one which you could live comfortably on for many years yet, available to you. You would be able to use these years to bring yourself up to date, as it were, on this world, and to find yourself a niche in Wizarding Britain. Or, if it is your wish, another Wizarding community in another country around the world."
"If I wanted to pursue the route you just described, Nibgit, what steps would you suggest?"
"I am glad you have asked, Lord Potter. Very glad indeed. What I recommend first and foremost is that you indulge our bank with a heritage test. This will prove, unequivocally, your identity and right to the accounts detailed in our correspondence. It will also, I suspect, reveal several other vaults which have fallen to you through the eradication of other bloodlines. Once taken, we will be able to assess your true worth, liquid and non. I suspect that there are a number of suitable properties which have fallen to you at which you would be able to take up residence."
Harry nodded his understanding. "Is there anything barring me from taking this test today, Nibgit?"
"Have you copulated within the last twenty-four hours?"
Two blinks were all that betrayed his confusion and embarrassment before Harry responded negatively.
"Then we can proceed now, if you would like?"
"I would." Harry sat and watched as the department head scratched out more runic symbols on a pad identical to the one the teller had used on the main floor. Griphook re-appeared several minutes later and Nibgit asked that Harry follow him to the ritual room, and thanked Harry for his prompt response in helping to correct Gringott's oversight.
"How does this heritage ritual work, Griphook?" Harry inquired of his guide. "I assume it analyzes blood in some fashion to determine genetic lines?"
"An astute guess, Lord Potter," the goblin responded, "but that is not how the ritual determines identity. A creature's magic has a unique, taste, to it, for lack of a better descriptor. Family magics are passed down through bloodlines, and through blood, yes, but in order to determine heritage, your magic itself must be tested.
"You may have surmised from your brief contact with our world that it is not as densely populated as is the one from which you come." Harry nodded in acceptance of this and Griphook continued, "It was decided by the British Ministry of Magic in the 1600's that the Wizarding and muggle economies must remain separate. The main reasoning for this was that the muggle birthrate began to far outpace that of wizards, and the Ministry feared losing its income to muggle and squib inheritors."
"My apologies, Griphook. I understand muggle to mean any non-magical person, but what exactly is a squib?" Griphook wavedd his hand dismissing the apology.
"I should have been more leery of my choice of words, Lord Potter, knowing that you are just being introduced to our world. A squib is one that has been born of magical parents, but has no magical talent of one's own. A squib is more likely to produce progeny with magical ability than a muggle."
"Are squib births common?" Harry inquired.
"More common than we may know, Lord Potter. Squibs are for the most part considered a stigma for those that fashion themselves pure-blood magical families. Though it was made illegal over two centuries previous, it is widely rumored that infanticide is still practiced amongst many families when it is determined a newborn lacks ... talent."
Harry sneered in disgust before bringing the conversation back to its original track. "How does this ritual analyze my magic, if indeed I have any?"
Griphook gave a short bark which Harry took as a laugh. "Lord Potter, I assure you that you have ability, though it may not have manifested in ways which you have perceived as unusual. For one, the owl which delivered your letter relied upon the interaction of magic and your true name to find you. Had you not had talent, the letter would have been undeliverable. But to answer your question, we will take several drops of your blood – as you recall I mentioned that magic is passed through blood – and will place them into an artifact crafted for this specific purpose.
"The Basin has been crafted with runic structures that recognize the patterns and… taste... of family magic. It will be able to tell us to which families you are in the line of succession. If any of those families show without an heir, or if the bank is able to determine that your right to succession supersedes the current heir's, then those assets will come under your control."
"I understand," Harry voiced as they approached a large set of double doors. Griphook produced a large iron key, which he used to open the room ahead and gestured for Harry to follow him inside.
The room itself was not large, as Harry had expected from the size of the entryway. In fact, it was little more than an alcove behind the doors. It was a highly ornate room, almost claustrophobic in its intimacy. Each wall was intricately carved with layers of what Harry presumed was magical symbolism. Ancient runes and arcane glyphs intertwined in a mesmerizing dance of lines. The carvings seemed to glow faintly, casting an otherworldly light that lent the room a mystical atmosphere.
In the center of the alcove stood the Basin, a plain yet deeply enigmatic object. Its simplicity was deceptive, for its surface was a tapestry of runes upon runes, etched so densely that they overlapped in a chaotic yet purposeful way. The engravings were so intricate that the Basin seemed bottomless, an abyss of ancient knowledge and untold magic. The very air around it felt charged with energy, as if the Basin itself was a conduit to unfathomable depths of power and history.
Above the Basin, the ceiling arched in a dome, adorned with celestial symbols that seemed to pulse and shift in the dim light. It was a room that demanded reverence, a hidden sanctuary where the boundaries between the mundane and the mystical blurred into insignificance. Harry found himself mesmerized by those designs for the briefest of moments before forcibly dragging his attention back to his goblin guide.
Griphook now held a dagger in his hand and gestured for Harry to offer his palm, which the raven-haired boy did. Harry squashed the natural grimace as the blade painlessly ran across his palm, beckoning the blood necessary for the ritual. Griphook finished the cut and held the dagger vertically over the Basin, measuring out five drops of blood from its tip before stepping back and allowing the Basin to work its magic.
As the first of the droplets came into contact with the stone construct, the runes Harry had noticed prior to the ritual suddenly came alive with light. They flashed in a seemingly random pattern before suddenly morphing into a series of shapes. A winged lion flashed by, as did a mounted knight, a shield crossed with a maul, a snake, and a variety of other forms which Harry was not quick enough to identify. This show lasted less than a minute, and the Basin suddenly went inert. Unable to help peering into the Basin, Harry noticed the drops of blood that had been measured out into it had disappeared.
"Very impressive, Lord Potter," Griphook chimed. "The bank will have to review my memory of this, of course, but I did recognize several sigils of family lines of which you are likely an inheritor. We will, of course, let you know what we have discovered."
Harry nodded, suddenly realizing that the Basin had revealed his inheritance by shaping the runes on its surface into family coats of arms. "Thank you Griphook. I have the utmost faith in the bank's doing so."
Griphook looked inordinately pleased with his response.
"Thank you, Lord Potter. Your faith shall not be misplaced." He bowed his head slightly before continuing. "Now, shall we return to Nibgit? He will have much to speak with you about."
"If you think that is best, then lead on."
The two filled the walk back to Nibgit's office with idle chatter, Harry throwing out questions about Wizarding currency and economy, and Griphook proving very adept at fielding them.
As they returned to Family Account Management Griphook once again left to inform Nibgit of their arrival. Both goblins returned momentarily and Harry was once again invited back into the Head of the division's office. Bidding farewell to Griphook he once again entered Nibgit's office and sat in the chair across from the old goblin's desk.
"Lord Potter," he began, "the Heritage Ritual has confirmed your identity with unimpeachable authority. It is time that we discuss your full inheritance from the Potter line." He sat back as if settling in for a long conversation as Harry hoped against hope that this world would provide him haven from the Bartons and his criminal record, and the ability to make his own way in the world.
