Gringotts' marble floor echoed hollowly with the steps of a young teen, messy black hair and green eyes marked the heir of the Potter family and Snaptooth sat up with interest, his black eyes shining with triumph. Years, Gringotts had waited; years of patiently waiting for the teen in front of him to step out from under the shadow of Albus Dumbledore. Years of gnashing teeth and frustrated growls as people took the Potter heir for granted and extorted every last Knut from underneath the child; and now, finally, Harold Potter had arrived in Gringotts; free of escort.

Snaptooth gestured to his aid to collect Griphook, and beckoned the young Potter heir to his counter. "You are late, Mr. Potter."

Harry's eyes widened in shock, late? For what? Confusion must have shown on his face because Snaptooth smirked, baring sharp teeth, and turned to Griphook, who had arrived in the intervening minutes.

"Mister Potter to see you, sir," Snaptooth informed his superior before returning to his books and ledgers. The Malfoy account was showing signs of financial strain and it would be up to Snaptooth the balance Lord Malfoy's books and bring about prosperity to the declining family once more.

Griphook beckoned Harry after him without a word and escorted the youthful heir to his office. "I do not know if you remember, Mister Potter, but I was the goblin who guided you to your trust vault two years ago," Griphook informed the teen gravely as he sat behind a tall desk in a black leather chair. Harry was seated across from him on another black leather chair sized for adult humans, his feet swinging a good foot above the ground as he slumped in the chair.

"Yes," Harry stammered, confused. "I know; that is, I remember Mister Griphook." Harry flushed in embarrassment. Harry didn't wear surprise well, it seemed.

"Do you know why you are here today, Mister Potter?" Griphook asked, ignoring the child's incorrect address for now. Mister Potter's education in the intricacies of goblin folklore and customs would have to wait for another day.

"No, sir," Harry did indeed look very lost, his green eyes wide and surprised as he watched the goblin across from him grimace with distaste. "Have I done something wrong, sir?" Harry asked, remembering Hagrid's grave warning to him two years ago.

"Not the friendliest of creatures, goblins."

"No Mister Potter; unless of course you have been receiving our correspondence these past five years and have been ignoring Gringotts?" The goblins statement was phrased as a question as he watched the teen shake in his hard leather chair.

Harry's eyes widened, "no, sir!" He was quick to assure Griphook, shaking his head fervently.

"It is as we feared then," Griphook mused. "The last of the Potter's has been compromised."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. "Compromised, sir?"

"Indeed," Griphook agreed, not explaining himself for the moment. It would not do to worry the child unduly. Not until he had all the necessary information, that is. Griphook's eyes gleamed brightly with savage triumph, Harry's unwitting denial had opened up the bank's ability to investigate the matter regarding stolen funds and the management of Albus Dumbledore of the Potter heir's estate.

"Sir, what is going on?" Harry asked timidly, worrying about the nature of the goblins' smile which did not bode well at all for the receiver.

Griphook met Harry's gaze squarely, not an ounce of emotion crossing his alien features. "I have not been entirely honest with you, Mister Potter, and I would ask your forgiveness and your leniency in explaining."

Griphook waited for Harry's assent before he began weaving his tale.

"Twelve years ago, days before your parents' murder, your father, Lord James Potter met with me and left me with specific instructions. Upon your arrival at Gringotts bank on your eleventh birthday, should you be unaccompanied by anyone known to associate with Mister Albus Dumbledore, I was to take you aside and have you sign emancipation papers and gift you with your rightful title as Lord Potter."

Here Griphook paused, pressing a button on his desk which brought a timid house-elf with a tray of glasses filled with all manner of beverages. Griphook picked up a small tumbler filled with amber liquid, his eyes humorous as they met Harry's bewildered gaze. "Please, Mister Potter, refresh yourself."

Once Harry had done so, Griphook continued in his grave tone.

"Naturally, we both know that this did not come to pass, indeed we at Gringotts were distressed to note your attire, bearing, and the fact that you did not hold your vault key." Griphook paused again, his jaw rippling with the power of his rage. "It was clear to us that you had not been brought up well." At Harry's attempt to protest, Griphook held up one clawed hand. "Let me finish, Mister Potter."

Harry nodded, his eyes filled with mulish anger. He was not nearly as ill-bred as Dudley!

"As I was saying," Griphook shot a chastened Harry a dark look. "Upon your arrival, you were not as we expected and I failed to remove you from the half-giant's care-"

Harry gasped in shock, "Hagrid's a giant?!"

Griphook refused to deign such a foolish question with an answer and continued: "Then in your second time in visiting us here at Gringotts, once more I failed to remove you from the attendance of Dumbledore's lackeys. Instead, I watched you walk away both times without speaking with you at all. Indeed, I failed to even indicate that there was more waiting for you here."

Griphook's clawed left hand spasmed into a tight fist while his right hand cracked the fragile glass of the tumbler that he quickly set down; shooting Harry an apologetic glance. "My apologies, Mister Potter, for this deficiency in completing your late father's wishes. I only ask for a moment to explain my actions."

Harry felt that nothing had been made clearer to him and so gestured to Griphook to do as he desired, hoping that something would make sense soon.

"Both times," Griphook said. "I dared not raise suspicions with Hogwarts' headmaster and both times I felt that you were not ready for the burden I am to ask you to bear." Griphook reached into his desk and pulled out a thick envelope of aged parchment, the wax seal on the back was blood red and had a strange triangular symbol etched into it. "This is for you, from Lord James Potter on the occasion of your eleventh birthday, now two years late. Yet I fear that I cannot delay this day any longer, and for this, Mister Potter, I beg your forgiveness."

At this, Griphook slipped from his chair and handed Harry the heavy envelope. "Do not bear your father too much ill-will, had he survived he would have taught you the contents of this letter when he thought you were ready. As it is," Griphook sighed heavily. "Circumstances prevented this from happening."

Harry stared after the cryptic goblin in confusion, knowing only that whatever it was that his father had been caught up in had been prevented by the Headmaster of Hogwarts; something that confused Harry greatly. Griphook watched Harry for a moment longer before bowing his head slightly and exiting the room, leaving Harry alone and suddenly afraid of the contents of the letter.

xXx

Harry cracked open the seal, tracing the lines of the strange triangle design before he did so. Two lines sharply descending from a single point and a third joining them in a downward curve fading towards the middle. The two bottom corners flared out in a lopsided square and beneath the curve of the third line, there was a fourth line, triangulating in the middle and then sweeping outwards to run parallel to the squared edges of the triangle. Harry dismissed the strange design from his mind as the first swirling lines of his father's letter edged into view.

To my dearest Son, Harold James Potter

I write this letter to you on the occasion of my death and your eleventh birthday. If, for any reason, Griphook is late in giving you this, I can only hope that it is because of extenuating circumstances and not because Griphook dares to break the treaty between Gringotts and the Potter Family.

Before I speak of the reasons for this letter, know that I love you, my Son, and Heir. You are the light of my, and your mother's, life; nothing you could do would ever gain our disapproval, not even should you desire to join the so-called Dark. Know that you bear no blame for our deaths and that what we did was because we felt it was right. Never doubt that.

The Potter Family is one of a great legacy, Harry, I doubt that Headmaster Dumbledore has deigned to fill you in on our illustrious history which spans centuries. The first of our line who bore the name Potter, was Henry Porteur, a Roman wizard in the court of Arthur Pendragon with the title of Royal Enchanter later they made acclaims to power through, William the Conqueror, later William the First of England.

The Potter's anglicised our last name during the 12th century, a time of great reformation and the time of Georg Porteur IV, later George Potter the fourth; a squib knight during the Crusades under King Richard the First, known also as the Lion-Hearted or Godric Gryffindor to the wizarding population. George was the first Potter to meet Al Mualim of Masyaf in 1176, but he was not the last. In 1190 George sent his wizarding son, Richard Potter, the first of the Potter line to learn under Al Mualim as an assassin and as a secret knowledge keeper of the newly instated English Assassin Order.

It was then the Potter Family gained family Magic in Storm and Battle Magic ( Charms, Transfiguration, Defense, Potions, and Runes in those skills we are unmatched sadly because of a curse I could not use them).

Until this moment the Templar Order had run roughshod over the British Monarchy, and it was Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury and a Knight Templar, who ordered the death of Richard the first so that King John, the first and last of his name, might fall beneath the weight of the rebelling Barons and sign the Magna Carta which limited Monarchical power.

Upon the death of King John, the Assassin Order of England rose up and quietly suppressed Louis of France's attempts to seize power and installed King Henry under the King-Regent William Marshal who had married Elizabeth Potter, sister of Richard, in 1208.

From there, the Potter Family has had a controlling interest in the English Monarchy with several of our Daughters marrying into the Royal Lines. Indeed, our current Queen is the thrice great-granddaughter of my own great-granduncle George Potter the seventh, the second son of Edward Potter the sixth, who married his youngest daughter into the Denmark Royal family at the behest of King William the fifth.

As you can see, you have the most illustrious of lineages to uphold and I entrust the following with you to reveal only at your discretion to those who hold your fullest trust and even then, under oath.

As I have previously stated, our Family is one of the oldest and noblest throughout England, holding ties to the Royal Lines of several countries but this is not our greatest treasure and our greatest curse. Within a private vault that I have not shown your mother for fear of her judgment, I have placed the heirlooms of Sir Richard Potter, the first of our Order.

Upon your thirteen birthday, you will descend into Gringotts itself and avail yourself upon the knowledge that your childhood is at an end. From here on out you will uphold the honor of our family and carry the burden that all Potter's must bear.

You will be the hand that stays the Light.

You will be the reigns that check the Dark.

You will be the eyes that watch for corruption.

You will be the voice of reason.

You will be the mind that knows every secret and every thought.

Yours will be the duty to safeguard the nation.

You, Harold Potter the Third, will carry the arms, the armor, and the honor of the Assassin Order and you will do so with pride and fidelity.

Speak of this to no one, my son, it is not for them to know; and as you read these words, remember to honor our Creed:

Stay thine blade from the flesh of one whom is innocent of all wrong-doing.

II. Hide thyself in plain sight; no greater sin is there to be seen doing our sacred work.

III. Never compromise the Brotherhood.

Unto the arms of the Brotherhood I now send you, and remember, that no matter what, your mother and I are proud of you my Son, my brother in arms, my Heir. Forever and always know that I love you, my Son,

Thy Father and Lord,

James Potter, second of his name.

Lord of the Most Ancient and Honourable House of Potter

Lord Commander of the Assassin Order

xXx

Harry reread the letter three times over, absorbing the incredible contents with an increasingly heavy heart. He could tell no one of the contents; Harry trusted no one nearly enough to expose his familial secret. A secret his mother had been unaware of.

Harry considered folding the letter up and keeping it, instead, his father's warning rang out in his mind and with gritted teeth, Harry tossed the letter into the fireplace, a candle quickly following.

Harry's eyes were suspiciously wet when Griphook returned, and the goblin raised his eyebrows at the cheerfully crackling fireplace that had certainly not been lit when he had left two hours ago. Knowledge flooded his mind at the sight of Harry's empty hands and shaking shoulders. The child had chosen the protection of his family's secrets over the sentimentality of his father's words.

The first words he had known from his father since the man's death twelve years prior.

Truly, Griphook thought to himself, Harold James Potter the Third was a true son of the Lionhearted; a true Gryffindor indeed.

"What do you wish to do, Mister Potter?" Griphook asked the thirteen-year-old boy.

Harry scowled at his shaking hands and the goblin watched with calm eyes as the boy squared his shoulders and stood, suddenly aging ten years in as many minutes.

Harry James Potter was no longer.

Harold James Potter the Third, Lord of the Most Ancient and Honourable ( Another name of Utmost Ancient and Most Noble) Potter House and future Master of the Assassin Order, however, was here to stay.

xXx

Harold stood in the doorway of his father's private vault, green eyes observing the neatly stacked piles of silver and gold coins that framed a tall manikin mantled in white and red over dark leather armor.

"Mister Potter, your signet ring rests on the plinth before your forebears' armor." Griphook directed, his voice carefully modulated as he watched the teen. Harold had changed in the intervening hours since arriving at Gringotts earlier that morning.

Harold crossed the floor, noting that Griphook remained behind and so missed the many, many sets of armor that stood behind the piles of gold and silver. Each set was named and Harold made to read each name, only to feel his feet freeze to the cold stone floor.

Getting the message loud and clear, Harold turned to the plinth and let his eyes rest upon the heavy gold ring, noting that the strange triangle symbol from his father's letter was sunk into the soft metal. Harold picked the ring up and set it on his right index finger, feeling the metal band tighten cruelly about his digit momentarily before slacking once more, apparently satisfied.

Harold had just begun to relax when pain erupted in his hand and sparked up his arm like an inferno; boiling his blood and crumbling his very bones. Harold let out a harsh scream, falling to his knees, and watched in horror as blood gushed over his bony hand to pool at his knees.

Images raced into his mind with all the weight of a battering ram and Harold choked on his tongue as he both bit back a second scream and tried to swallow at once.

An eagle soared over a city of sand, stone, and withered trees...

Colorful people milled around, the assassin crouched above, his eyes intent on his target...

A rush of heat...

Sticky blood flowering across the palms of his hand, staining his robe...

Hiding in plain sight...

Soldiers screaming for answers that would never come...

Spurring his horse into a flat gallop...

Reaching his destination...

It was cold, wet, and dreary...

A grey-stoned castle towered above his head...

Lights flicker in the stained glass windows, a man at prayer before a foreign God...

The feeling of flesh giving way beneath his cold, steel blade...

Running, always running...

Hiding...

Harsh breathing, heat pooling in his stomach...

The hilt of his sword is heavy in his hand, his muscles ache, a flash of a red cross on a white field...

Heat...

Sand...

Grass...

The smell of summertime, honeysuckle, and dew...

The scream of battle, chaos all around, where was his target...

Harold sat upright, gasping in shock.

The rush of images had been overwhelming; the smells, the sounds, and the feeling of hunting, running, hiding had ensnared his senses.

Harold stared at his unmarred hand, the heavyweight of the Potter signet ring winked at him on his unharmed index finger and Harold felt his mind rebel at what he had just seen. Had that really happened?

Nihil est; Omnia licet...

Harold blinked in shock, the motto of the Potter Clan, of the Assassin Order; Harold's eyes hardened, he would not forget.

Standing, Harold made his way hesitantly to the back of the vault, and they're hanging on a manikin was his father's armor and a white mantle with darker grey edging and a dark brown sash. His father's sash was similar to George the fifth's, both men had worn brown sashes. Only Richard the first wore a scarlet sash, the fabric had not faded in the intervening years and Harold was very partial to the color.

However beside his father's manikin stood a bare white robe, unmarked by any color denoting rank or title. This was Harold's, he was certain of it. Harold strode forwards and touched the white fabric, marveling at the smooth texture only to yelp in surprise as the robe shuddered and twisted beneath his fingers.

Within seconds the unmarked robe stood on its pedestal with an emerald green sash about its chest and waist. Harold frowned at the strange happenings; magic? It must be, what else could cause manikins to change and sashes to appear?

Beneath the newly adorned robe was a plaque that simply stated:

Harold James Potter the Third, Lord of the Potter Family

xXx

The Leaky Cauldron was busy that afternoon, yet Harold saw none of it; his heart was heavy as he traipsed up the stairs, a bag slung over his shoulder filled to the brim with books. The time for ignorance, Harry determined, was well and truly over. According to his father's decree, he was a man now and that meant he had to take responsibility for his own actions.

Harold stamped into his room, shucking his cloak, bag, and robes onto a nearby table before seating himself upon the bed and tugging his shoes off. Standing once more, Harold grabbed the shoulder bag and set it on the duvet cover, gripping the straps tightly.

Despite everything he had seen today, everything he had read, received, and done; opening this bag felt as though it would be an irretrievable step forwards towards an unknowable destiny.

Harold gripped the edges of the bag firmly, a frown furrowing his brow deeply, and with a deep breath, Harold tore the book open. There was no going back now…

Chapter Text

It is the year 1216 and our King, John I has died from a wasting illness after thirteen years of war and rebellion. The Kingdom has been thrown into chaos and the Duke Louis, son of the French King, dares to challenge the rightful English King, Henry III, who is defended to the last by the King-Regent William Marshall. The past year has been spent battling the pretender back to the City of London...

Harold groaned and rubbed his eyes, he had spent the past day and a half reading his family's history and despite his dedication, he was still only up to Lord Richard Potter I. Richard had been the court wizard for King Richard I, King John I, and King Henry III; a term that spanned close to sixty years and had covered some of the more interesting periods of history.

As it was, Harold found the current conflict being described to be an incredibly dull affair; the rebellion of the Barons and the war waged by the French King's son had caused King John to sign the Magna Carta, a document that had not only restricted the Monarchical powers but also paved the way for the Statute of Secrecy in 1689.

Harold sighed and flopped backwards, he was tired and bored of reading dry and dusty tomes that had very little in the way of actual useful knowledge. At least, to Harold's mind. Harold cast a dark look at the book that rested beside his head. It smelled of must, dust, and mold. It was nauseating.

Sighing once more, Harold kicked himself upright and shoved his shoes on; if he wasn't going to get any reading done, he could at least do something useful. Shouldering his robe and cloak, Harold bounded downstairs after locking his room and stashing his books beneath the ratty clothes given to him by the Dursleys. It wouldn't do for the Potter secrets to be found out by someone other than Potter's blood.

Diagon Alley was bustling with crowds and crowds of people; the pre-school rush had shopkeepers and shop-assistants running around like headless chickens; their frantic expressions not exactly filling Harold with any kind of confidence in their abilities to help him.

Tired of standing unattended in Madam Malkin's, Harold ducked into Gringotts to speak with the nearest teller and receive information regarding other stores that sold clothing and affect; despite being an adult in the eyes of his family line he was still very much a child within his own and the eyes of the general public.

Snaggletooth was waiting for him in the entryway and was swift to guide him to Griphook's office. The Master Goblin's desk was clear of all paperwork and Harold was suspicious of his motives. Upon his hand, his signet ring warmed and the air shimmered before his eyes, bleeding colors across his vision and lighting up Snaggletooth and Griphook a bright blue, leaving Harold with the belief that both goblins were his allies; although he could not have said how he knew to interpret the colors so.

Snaggletooth bowed Harold into the office, his dark eyes briefly flicking upwards to meet Griphook's sharp gaze before sliding from the office as though he had never been. Harold took his seat, noting for the first time, just how luxurious Griphook's office was.

Darkly paneled walls gleamed a rich mahogany and his desk was made of teak or some other dark, a hardwood that cost as much as his Uncle's house to import from the Americas. Sconces that gleamed a bright gold held fires of white flame that flickered cleanly and without the greasy, oily smell one would expect and the floor was carpeted in rich fabrics that held all the colors of the rainbow without appearing gaudy. All in all, it was a beautiful office.

"Welcome back, Lord Potter," Griphook greeted him carefully, directing him to seat himself in the adult-sized chairs before the great desk that the Goblin Master sat behind. "I have some business to address with you, at your leisure, if today does not suit then perhaps tomorrow?"

Harold considered the goblin, despite knowing the creature was trustworthy and an ally to him and his family, Harold had yet to actually receive a verbal indication that this… knowledge… was indeed correct; and yet, to indicate otherwise could be construed as a grave and previous insult to both Griphook and the Goblin Nation. Which was not something he wished to do before learning his way around the family politics.

"Address away, Master Griphook," Harold stated finally. "I have nothing pressing today." His tongue sufficiently mangled by the magic of his Lord's ring, Harold found himself glaring at the gaudy jewelry in consternation.

Griphook chuckled darkly, "I remember that expression from your own Father during his sixteenth year. That ring is not only a legacy and mark of a Lord, Mister Potter, but is also imbued with dangerous and dark magics that shape and change a man into the expected figure that his Family needs him to be." Griphook looked contemplatively at the ring that sat innocently on the young Potter's finger and smirked nastily, "magics that have long since forbidden by the Ministry as evil and cruel.

"But then," here Griphook's cruel smile widened until Harold was actively gripping the arms of his chair so as not to flee at the sight. "Your Ministry has ever hated that which it cannot understand or cannot control."

Harold gulped, feeling more a child than ever before, and inched away from the grinning goblin. "Understood, Master Goblin," Harold nodded hastily, his face a picture of uneasiness.

The Goblin's smile almost softened, appearing less cruel in the white light of the sconces and Harold settled deeper into to his seat and tried to appear older and wiser than he was. Griphook observed all this with an approving eye. Since the young Potter Lord's ascension, Harold had acted and comported himself with all the gravitas awarded to his station and thus far, had brought nothing but pride to his House and Name. Time would tell if Harold continued in this manner or if the shine wore off his new station and whether Gringotts would have to reconsider their stance as beneficiaries and allies of the Assassin Order. Goblin's held no fondness for the Templar Order, but nor did the Goblin Nation enjoy parlaying with humans who failed to respect Tradition and Magick as they ought.

"It is my displeasure to be the bearer of bad tidings, My Lord," Griphook relented as the young Potter Lord began to - not quite fidget in his chair, but look increasingly discomforted. For all that the boy had a magical ring that guided his words, acumen, and actions; Lord Harold Potter was precisely that, a boy.

Harold's brow furrowed in confusion, "bad tidings?"

"Quite," the goblin agreed gravely, "there has been a break out in Azkaban prison. A human names Sirius Black, a Peer of yourself and your father, as well as one of Lord Potter's closest friends, has escaped."

"Sirius Black?" Harold questioned, "he was a friend of my Father's?"

"Indeed, Lord Potter," Griphook said. "Lord Sirius Black of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is a Peer of the Realm and is descended from the original Briton's of the Isles. This particular Sirius is the third of his name, named after his great-grandfather, and is your own father's third cousin, thrice removed through Dorea Potter née Black, who is Sirius Black's second cousin, twice removed through his Father, Lord Orion Black."

Harold screwed up his face, trying to puzzle that overload of information out. Cousins that were first cousins were directly related through their parents' siblings. Second times removed meant that it was their great-aunts and great-uncles and grandparents that were siblings. Three times removed meant great-great-grandparents that were siblings. Depending on birth order and generations, second and third cousins could be related purely through marriage. Sirius Black was related to James Potter through their great-great-grandparents, Dorea Potter née Black for James Potter and whoever else for Sirius Black.

"Right," Harold said slowly, "so Sirius Black is what, the last of his Name currently and Lord of his House?"

Griphook inclined his head, impressed that the young Potter Lord had kept up with the deluge of genealogical information. "Quite so," the goblin agreed, "Lord Sirius Black, should he ever be cleared of the charges against his name. Current Ministerial rulings provide that a felon cannot hold a seat upon the Wizengamot and thus cannot hold a Peerage title until such time as the person in question either prove their innocence or is capable of standing trial and being declared innocent of wrongdoing - regardless of whether that declaration is true or not. There is not, nor has there ever been, a requirement for those of Peerage to tell the truth under potion or spell compulsion as it was deemed too dangerous to familial secrets and knowledge."

Harold couldn't help but bristle at that tidbit of information. To know that truth had no place within the judicial system ran against the grain of everything that his teachings at primary school had taught him. Muggles placed high expectations upon their judicial and legislative systems as being above corruption and exemption. Regardless of how rich and powerful a person was.

"That doesn't sound fair," Harold observed.

Griphook bared his pointed teeth in a very unpleasant grin, "not for those not of the Peerage its not; it is, however, exceptionally useful for those who are of the Peerage and who have jobs that… require less restrictive forms of governance to operate."

Harold frowned at that before his eyes widened in understanding. The Potter's were a very old, very powerful family that we're judge, jury, and executioner of people who operated outside the bounds of the legal system; but in doing so, the Potter family also were required to act outside of what many would consider ethical or moral.

"I see," Harold said faintly, understanding that perhaps the system was rigged towards the pureblooded factions that contained idiots like Malfoy, but that system would also protect and serve him in his goals as protector and guide for the Wizarding world. "But that doesn't explain how a Peer of the Realm ended up in prison or why this is "bad tidings" for myself."

Griphook steeled himself, knowing better than to think that the young Wizard before him would react with anything less than fury at his next words. "Because, Lord Potter," Griphook replied with all the bluntness his kind was known for, "Sirius Black was the Secret Keeper for your parents' hideout during the war and proceeded to give that secret to the Dark Wizard known as Voldemort."

Harold froze in his seat, his instinctive desire to lash out and scream and kick and cry until he was exhausted and Gringotts was nothing more than rubble, locked down by the Heritage Magick in the Ring on his finger. The band of the Ring tightened until it felt like constrictive ice and Harold was kept from reaction by sheer force of the Ring's Will. As the pressure about his finger lessened, Harold had to look down to check and see that his finger was still attached to his body. He felt as though he had just run a marathon - and yet, he hadn't moved a muscle in the ten minutes of silence and Griphook was eyeing him carefully as though expecting him to blast into the stratosphere in rage.

"I," Harold rasped coldly, "see."

Griphook shuddered at the look on the young Potter Lord's face. He would most certainly not enjoy meeting the young man on a dark street in the dead of the night. Perhaps Gringotts would uphold their Charter with the Potters. Griphook couldn't say the same for the Blacks. Harold James Potter would - was a dangerous enemy to have.

"Well," Harold said eventually, noting that the goblin was both not looking him in the eye and utterly refusing to be the first to speak. Harold almost likened it to prey-response that he'd heard about on an old BBC documentary at primary school once; except that Griphook was a goblin and goblin's didn't get scared. Certainly not by children. "Thank you for the information, Griphook-"

"Lord Potter," Griphook hastened, fear for the young Lord overriding his good sense; Griphook was perhaps overly attached to the Potter Line, but he had also guided the last six generations through their journeys and thus knew his clients better than most goblins would deign to. "There is more."

Harold raised an eyebrow, "more?"

"Sir," the goblin said without thinking and taking a more familiar approach in his directive, "Sirius Black was not only the Secret Keeper of your parents' safety, but was also listed as your Godfather. Gringott's has all the paperwork to prove that Mister Black would have been charged with your care, had he not been incarcerated."

Harold stilled once more. "Godfather?" He murmured, "in every sense of the word?"

"Lord Potter?"

"There was a tradition amongst the Longbottoms, Blacks, and Potter's to foster their children amongst themselves as well as ensure impartial guardianship of children should the worst happen during times of conflict. Arcturus Black the first devised a ritual whereupon a parent could name a godparent for the child, should the parents die prematurely. This ritual requires blood and magic and is irreversible." Harold lectured, remembering that he had read this information not six hours previously, "equally, it prevents the godparent carrying out any action that may harm the parents or child wilfully."

Griphook shuffled through the papers on his desk, having been prepared should the Potter Lord require proof of his words. "In Loco Parentis?" Griphook inquired, his black eyes gleaming with the new knowledge and understanding.

"A term that has since been appropriated by schools the world over," Harold agreed.

"We have paperwork that details Sirius Black's guardianship which has been titled In Loco Parentis," Griphook explained, holding up the sheet of vellum that was signed in blood at the bottom. Two names. The first as the assigned was Sirius Black; the second as the witness, James Potter.

Harold read the sheet and shrugged faintly, "it looks to be correct," he admitted, "however, my knowledge is barebones at the minute. I've been playing catch up but there is only so much I can do with the time I have."

Griphook nodded shortly, "Gringotts may have something for the constraints of time, for a small fee," and here, Griphook grinned rather viciously. "I will also make inquiries regarding the trial of one Sirius Orion Black and see about clearing his name. If you are correct about this ritual, there will be a great many Families that will be very unhappy that one of the Peerage was incarcerated on false charges."

Harold smirked in approval. "Now, about that 'something'?"

Griphook's smile, which already vicious, turned bloodthirsty, "tell me, Lord Potter, what do you know of the Animus ?"

Confuse Harry shook his head.

Griphook grins '' The Animus is a device that allows you to go back in time reliving your ancestors past ''.

Stun Harry nods '' I'll do it ''.

Grinning Griphook says '' Good then we will use 2 of the Potters 10 Favors to allow you to use the Animus we gain in a raid ''.

xXx

Harold Potter stepped inside Twilfit and Tatting's Tailors with knowledge of his Ancestors turns out he came from a Family of Bankers, Merchants, Generals, Knights, Enchanters, Cursebreakers, Warders, Aurors, Hunters, Potion makers, and Duelists plus a single connection to Crafter of Spells and Weapons entering the accompaniment of a delicate tinkle of the shop-bell. The inside was dark and almost dingy, barring the overhead chandelier that illuminated the store with a soft golden glow. Bolt upon bolt of fabric was stacked on shelves, in cupboards, and under tables. The Store appeared to be empty and Harold wandered from bench to bench running his fingers over velvets and brocade and lace, marveling at the designs and colors.

A dull thud of a boot upon wooden floors heralded the arrival of a pale-faced young man with keen brown eyes and rectangular eyeglasses rimmed with gold. His white, collared undershirt was tucked into a pair of thick woolen trousers of hunter green, which were in turn tucked into calf-high, pointed-toe boots made of a deep brown leather. The man wore a charcoal grey waistcoat and the thin gold chain of a pocket watch could be seen trailing from his pocket to the fastening of his third pewter button.

"Good afternoon, sir," the young man greeted Harold with a quiet yet firm voice, "my name is Jeffery Twilfit, how may I help you today?"

Harold indicated his current attire, "I require a new wardrobe. Price is of no consequence."

Mister Twilfit's eyes lit up behind his glasses and he smiled a bit beyond what might be considered customer-service polite. "Very good, sir, do you have any requirements that I need to know about?"

"I attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and will require new school robes as well as everyday robes and underclothes," Harold replied, noting how the young man's eyes gleamed at such a sale passing through his doors. "I also require a new pair of black leather school shoes as well as boots of every day out of schoolwear, in addition to a pair of formal shoes - preferably leather and Acromatula."

Mister Twilfit smiled at Harold, "very good, sir," and still smiling, Mister Twilfit gestured for Harold to climb atop a slight dais that was perhaps too wide to be called a stool.

Harold stood still and calm atop the dais and allowed Mister Twilfit to take his measurements down on a piece of parchment that seemed magically connected to the tape measure that Mister Twilfit was wielding with competent ease; although Harold was hard-pressed not to blush when the tailor bent down to take his inseam. It seemed a tad improper, however, Mister Twilfit made no fuss despite his client's obvious discomfort. When Mister Twilfit stepped backward, tucking the measuring tape into his pocket and plucking the parchment and quill from the air, he looked up at Harold and smiled.

"A full wardrobe will take a minimum of three days to complete, sir," Mister Twilfit told him calmly, knowing better than to ask for more because most wizarding folk prized expediency over quality. "Do you have preferences for color?"

Harold stepped down and settled his cloak back around his shoulders, noting, not for the first time, how the hem drifted a good two inches off the ground. It would appear, that at long last, Harold was growing taller. "Take as long as you need, I'd rather quality than speed," Harold stated, amused by the obvious relief that colored the tailor's face at his words. "Additionally, three new cloaks would be appreciated. It would appear that I have grown out of mine."

"Excellent choice, sir," Mister Twilfit said, making a note of Harold's additional request. "As to your color preferences?"

Harold smirked, "aside from my Hogwarts robes, of which I am Housed in Gryffindor; I would prefer my everyday wear to be in dark greys and emerald greens."

"All the better to bring out your eyes, sir," Mister Twilfit jibed humorously, a smile parting his lips in appreciation for his client's easy decision making. "May I suggest more than three pairs of shoes, sir? You may find the weather turning in Scotland and ruining your shoes, otherwise."

"A good suggestion, Mister Twilfit," Harold agreed as he straightened his shoulders, lifting his head.

"Well, Mister Potter," Mister Twilfit said with a quirk of his mouth that said he'd known who Harold was the entire time, "I will see you in a week."

Harold barely blinked in surprise and instead smiled deviously, "indeed you will, Mister Twilfit," he murmured, before exiting the store and blinking at the sunlight that nearly blinded him.

It was late afternoon and the sun had sunk to just above the rooftops, marking the hour closer to seven pm than one, when he had entered Gringotts. Harold slipped through the loosely knotted crowds of wizards and witches that drifted along Diagon Alley, making his way back to Gringotts to pick up the items he hired a personal shopper to buy for him of which included both Muggle and Magical wardrobes and 21 Seven Compartment each of them with a 7 room Apartment, Potion Lab, Library, Dueling Room the others were personalize with his own having a Portrait Room, Pool, and 10 Arce Island.

Today had gone well.

Chapter Text

Harold descended from his room with his wands of which he now had four of which 3 were new wands 1 Aspen and Thunderbird 2 Cypress and Basilisk Venom and the 3 were Blackthorn and Therstal Tail Feather. Heading down the stairs of the Leaky Cauldron on August 26th he discovers that the Weasley family had overtaken the downstairs common area. The trio of hags that more often than not breakfast in the nook nearest to the window of Muggle London, looked severely put out by this turn of events. The chaos that the elder sons of Clan Weasley, of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Weasley, was prevalent and subject to high pitched screeches from their Mother, Missus Molly Weasley. Fred and George, the twins, were the main cause for the disruption and were equally heedless in their mother's scolding. Percy, meanwhile, was both trying to restrain himself and the twins while also profusely apologizing to the proprietor and innkeeper, Tom Selwyn.

Harold came to a rest beside his best friend, Ron, and side-eyed the boy with a sour expression. Ron was making no move to aid his mother or to scold the twins and for Harold, who had spent the past two months instilling himself with all the pride and knowledge of his deeply historical family, couldn't help but sneer in disgust and disapproval.

"Ron," Harold said just low enough that only Ron could hear him, "shouldn't you be helping, Missus Weasley?"

Ron nearly jumped a foot in the air, "bloody hell, Harry!" Ron cursed, "what are you bloody well playing at?"

"Ronald Weasley!" Missus Weasley shouted from clear across the room, "mind your language, young man!"

"Sorry, Mum," Ron muttered, clearly embarrassed.

The distraction worked, however, as Harold watched the twins settle down and join him and Ron by the staircase. Twin grins stretched from ear to ear beneath mops of bright red hair. Fred and George topped Harold and Ron by half a foot; although they were stockier more than the lanky build that Ron had, and Harold didn't doubt that one day Ron would be the tallest of them all. Harold himself was on par with Ron, albeit perhaps a tiny bit shorter. Not that he was willing to grant it.

"Harry!" Fred - or was it George - cried.

"Pleasure to see you again, old boy!" George - or perhaps Fred - agreed loudly.

"How have you been?" Both twins said in unison, grabbing a hand each of Harold's and shaking so hard that Harold's arms nearly jerked from their sockets.

"Boys, boys!" Mister Weasley's voice cut across the hubbub as he entered from the back doorway with Ginny and Hermione trailing along behind him. "Leave Harry alone!"

Which Fred and George did, still grinning widely as they looked on the dark-haired third year. "Yes Dad, sorry Dad!" The twin redheads chorused, utterly unrepentant.

Mister Weasley clapped Harold on the shoulder and inquired after his health, barely waiting for a reply before he ducked off to check on his wife, looking concerned for her wellbeing as she sat in a chair and attempted to recoup after the insanity that was wrangling the twins. Harold waved at Hermione and Ginny, who gave him a stunned once over, surprised by his obviously tailored clothes. Ron's expression had turned sour at the sight and Harold gritted his teeth but made no apology as he led the two youngest Weasley's and Hermione towards a table up the back of the pub.

"Hermione, how are you?" Harold inquired as they were all seated and he gestured for butterbeer to be delivered to their table. Harold knew that Tom would add the drinks to his tab that Griphook would settle upon his return to Hogwarts.

"I'm good, how are you?" Hermione returned with a bright smile. She looked happier than Harold had seen her in a long time; more tanned too. Hermione's hair though, remained as curly and wild as ever. It was good to see her again.

Harold nodded, "I'm well, thank you." He turned to Ron and Ginny with a smile as Tom dispensed their drinks onto the table with a faint bow. "Ron, Ginny?"

Ginny blushed brightly, still not quite over the events at the end of her first year. The sight of Harry with mud and blood all over him had not detracted from how much he had looked like a knight of old; and now, here he was dressed in a grey suit so dark it looked almost black with a white shirt and a deep, emerald green tie wound around his neck. Her knight in Hogwarts robes had grown into a gallant young nobleman. "Good, Harry," Ginny whispered, not quite able to speak in front of him yet.

Ron merely grunted, green envy coloring his gaze as he took in the waistcoat his friend was wearing. Harry was a kid, he should look like he was playing dress-up, but he didn't. It suited him, the latest wizarding fashion; and Ron was bitterly jealous. Ron's own clothing was careworn and a little bit threadbare; having gone through several sets of bodies before landing on his bed. Moreover, he wore muggle clothing. A pair of dusty blue jeans and a ratty top that once might have been black but had long since faded to a dull kind of grey that looked more than a little lackluster beside Harold's own clothing. Ron glanced down at his sneakers and grimaced again. There was a hole over his right big toe and the uppers were bound tightly to the bottoms on his left with vast amounts of thick sellotape.

The four friends whiled away the next half hour comparing their holidays and Harold made sure to barely mention his but for the brief tale of his visit to the tailor and that he'd already purchased his school books for the next year while also mentioning he got all of them a gift. Hermione took up most of the conversation, as she tended to do, gleefully expounding on her trip to France and the excitement that she'd felt visiting the Parisian magical quarter. Ginny listened to all of this with a smile on her face, even as she chipped in about her and Ron's visit to Egypt, telling a fascinated Harold and Hermione all about the tombs that the old wizards had created and what her older brother, Bill, did as a curse breaker. Even Ron got into the spirit of the moment, smirking as he spoke of all the nasty curses that the ancient Egyptians had used, lingering over the description of one particular curse that resulted in one having two heads. Hermione's nose had wrinkled at that, but Harold had pressed Ron for further details.

That, more than anything else, had put the smile back on Ron's face and leeched the worst of the green glint from his eyes.

When Mister Weasley had come over to round them up for their shopping expedition, Ron and Harold had continued to discuss the various curses and jinxes that Bill had told Ron about; both boys perhaps a bit fixated on the gory nature of it all. Rolling their eyes at boys being boys, Hermione and Ginny had flounced off with Missus Weasley for new robes, leaving the two thirteen-year-old boys to their own devices. Percy, being the oldest, had been cautioned to be careful and had long since disappeared; although Harold thought he'd spotted the older boy arm in arm with a pretty witch in blue robes near Gringotts, a lovelorn expression on his pale freckled face. Meanwhile, Fred and George had darted off, with their alarmed father on their heels, to Zonko's joke shop, leaving Ron and Harry alone.

Ron, who was pretty damn sure that his Mum would buy his school books, dragged Harold off to look at the new Firebolt broomstick, both boys drooling over the sleek lines and the promise of reaching well over 300km/per hour. The broom had been released in time for the school holidays back in June and while Harold had seen it since he'd arrived at the alley back in July, of course, he brought himself and every Quidditch team Brooms with new Practice Brooms being Nimbus 1800. Ron had yet to clap eyes on it. Twenty minutes later, Missus Weasley had them both by the ear and dragged them off to get fitted for school robes, and Harold's vocal protests about how he'd already bought his fell on deaf ears.

By the time dinner time arrived, Harold had somehow managed to avoid doubling up on his school robes and books, but had still walked out with extra reading for defense and charms to Mister Weasley's blatant approval. Harold was still puzzling out why that look of pride had him feeling all warm and fuzzy inside; after all, he barely knew Mister Weasley at all. Ron, who hadn't taken Harold's change of heart with his studies any better than he'd taken Harold's change in fashion, had disappeared into his room with a huff. Harold wondered, with no small amount of trepidation, how Ron would take the news that he'd signed up for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes come this next school year. Though Harold had remained in Care of Magical Creatures as well, not just for Ron's support, but because the subject could come in useful at a later date.

Dinner that Night Harry gave each of them their Trunk and Backpack of course they tried to give them back but Harry managed to pull a trick on them pointing out it would be an insult if they didn't accept the trunks and Backpacks both of which were expanded.

Inside the Parents, Trunk was a Gifter for 100,000 Galleons and a Note saying no takebacks and to buy each new Clothing and on themselves.

Using their newfound gold they did plus with advice from Harry who was doing the same invested into the same Muggle Companies that Harry was apart of and since there was 30 Muggle Companies and 20 Wizarding Companies Arthur the gold was pretty much gone with only 40 Galleons left over.

As Harry owns the Daily Prophet with 65% thanks to the Goblins buying stocks he manages to force the Newspaper to print the Truth with Rita Skeeter being Paid to go After Death Eaters and the Government individuals with the task of showing the world any and all corruption and crimes.

xXx

September First dawned bright and early. Harold, who had long since packed his school trunk with everything he'd need for the coming school year, waited the two hours it took for Clan Weasley to get organized; by which point, the two ministry appointed drivers were long since fed up with everything and making low rude comments about everyone but Harold. The cars that sat on the curb out front of The Leaky Cauldron were a pair of sleek Lexus sedans. Both were colored glossy black with an indiscreet Ministry Insignia painted on the front doors in glittering gold and silver that appeared to be enchanted in some way. The insides, once the Weasley's, Harold, and Hermione all clambered in, were also enchanted. How else could nine passengers plus drivers and two auror guards possibly fit inside?

The drive to Kings Cross was swift, as much like the Knight Bus, the Ministry Cars were capable of sliding through narrow gaps, traversing staircases, and were clearly invisible to the Muggle eye. Ron and Ginny both spent entirely too much time playing with the various buttons that controlled the automatic windows and the screen that separated the front of the car from the back; while Harold could see Fred and George in the car behind them chatting eagerly to Auror McKinnon sitting across from them. Missus Weasley appeared to be as unable to control the twins now as she had been yesterday in the Inn.

Arriving on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, Harold found himself escorted onto the train by Auror Haywood, who kept a firm hand on his shoulder as the auror guided Harold to a mostly empty compartment. Once there, Auror Haywood settled himself outside the compartment door with a steely-eyed glare. There would be no visit from Malfoy this year; even Ron and Hermione struggled to slide past the Auror. Across from the three thirteen-year-olds was a careworn man in tattered robes; a battered trunk with peeling letters inscribing his name across the front was sat in the rack above his head.

"Professor R. J. Lupin?" Ron asked slowly, taking in the new professor with suspicious eyes. "Doesn't look like much, does he?"

Hermione huffed her disapproval even as Harold inclined his head in agreement. " No, but he was one of my dad's best friends ''.

Stunned Remus silently his mind was blown that Harry remembered him.

Ron surprised went silent.

Harold lifted his shoulders in a shrug, earning a spark of disapproval from the ring on his finger. Gritting his teeth, Harold turned to lift his, Ron's, and then Hermione's trunks onto the racks over their heads with Ron's help while Hermione took a seat beside the apparently sleeping professor. Harold noticed as he did so, the appearance of the second auror beside Haywood, and both men stood with their backs to the door, clearly intending to guard Harold until he arrived at Hogwarts later that evening.

"You'd think they'd just take me straight to Hogwarts and save themselves the trouble," Harold murmured to Ron, who nodded his agreement as the sharp whistle of the Hogwarts Express rang out through the station, signaling the last call for boarding. Outside, Ron could see his parents waving at the train and he waved back, glad to be heading back to school again. Harry and Hermione waved as well, calling their goodbyes through the gap of the window. Outside the door, Auror Haywood rapped sharply on the glass, indicating that they had to close the window again. Bitterly, Harold did so, exchanging a grim look with his friends.

"Any idea why they're so worried?" Hermione asked, a frown furrowing her brow in confusion.

"Sirius Black," Harold replied dryly, earning a twitch from Professor Lupin, giving lie to his slothfulness. Harold's hand drifted to his pocket where he kept his wand even as he continued. Beside him, Ron had also noticed the twitch at Black's name and Harold's reaction. Harold was warmed by the sight of Ron pulling out his own wand and resting it lightly on one leg, the tip casually pointing at the Professor Beneath them, the wheels of the train chunk-chunk-chunked as they left the platform behind them, beginning their journey.

Hermione missed the subtle byplay, too busy trying to understand Harold's enigmatic quip. "What's Serious Black?"

"Who," Ron corrected and his ears turned pink as Harold turned to him with some surprise. "Overheard Mum and Dad talking about him last night in the common room. I left Scabber's rat tonic down there after dinner. They said he was crazy; that he killed twelve people with a single curse."

"It was said that he was the secret Keeper" Harold revealed in a dark tone of voice. Across from him, Lupin shuddered in his seat and Hermione gasped dramatically.

"Your parents were under a fidelius charm?" Hermione asked.

Harold blinked, "what's a fidelius charm?"

Hermione perked up. "It's a really difficult spell. It takes two people to cast correctly and enormous amounts of power to get it right. But you can hide anything with it. It keeps things like houses secret in the soul of the secret keeper, like Black. Only the secret keeper can reveal the secret and only in writing. You can't say the secret out loud. It's really impressive magic. Your parents must have been incredible at magic, Harry."

Harold leaned back in his seat, absorbing that information. It was unlikely that Hermione was wrong, although how she'd come across such information, Harold didn't know; but then, Hermione was always doing a little bit of light reading' alongside her regular studies. So it didn't entirely surprise him to learn that she knew some more esoteric magics that others mightn't be entirely familiar with. But that bit about the secret being held in the soul… that didn't sound entirely legal. Even Professor Quirrell had spoken of Soul Magic as abhorrent, as wrong; and he'd been Lord Voldemort in disguise.

"That," Harold paused to recollect himself, "that bit about hiding the secret in the soul; that doesn't sound exactly legal, Hermione."

Hermione bit her lower lip. "It wouldn't be, but it comes under the protective charms act that was passed at the end of the First World War when it looked like Grindelwald was more than just a rebellious, muggle-hating fanatic."

Ron's eyes sparked as if recalling something. "I know about that! My grandfather, Septimus, was apparently the one who helped pass that law. Him and Charlus Potter," here Ron turned to Harold and grinned, "your great-uncle Harry. Weasley's and Potter's have a bit of a history of working together; though I think your Dad and my Dad weren't exactly super close friends. I think Charlus married a Black like Grandfather Weasley though, so it's not surprising that they were friends. Their wives were probably sisters."

"Black, like Serious Black?" Hermione asked sharply.

Ron rolled his eyes, clearly disgusted at the thought of being related to a mass murderer like Black even if it was only distantly. "Oh yeah, definitely. All the super old wizarding families are interrelated. The only reason the Potter's aren't members of the sacred Twenty Eight are because Henry Potter pissed off Cantankerous Nott over some-such wizengamot hoo-hah thingy-majig."

Hermione was staring at Ron in clear surprise. "Ron, how- why do you know this?" She asked, her eyes wide as she stared at the redhead opposite her, "you've never been one for learning; ever!"

Ron shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, it's a bit interesting, innit?" Harold had a wry, bemused smile spread across his face as Ron shifted in his seat. "Look," Ron burst out, "this is our history, alright? And Great Aunt Muriel was big on family history. Used to bash about it at the dinner table every Easter and Christmas - loves the high Christian holidays, Great Aunt Muriel does, used to absolutely take over the house for them. She's the family Matriarch; her word is the law. Dad's the Weasley Clan Lord now that Great Uncle Billius is dead, but he's not really one for politics. Dad's the youngest son; he wasn't exactly raised for it. Bill - my older brother, remember? - he's the one who's going to be in charge of the family when Dad dies but he's rubbish with history and would really rather just run about and play explorer with the goblins; and Charlie's not much better, what with his love of dragons. And Percy wants to be the Minister for Magic which means he can't be family head - it's the law, and Fred and George are useless. So that just left me, because Ginny will marry out of the family. But me, I well." Here Ron took another deep breath and let it out slowly, "I'm sort of learning the family lore? Because someone has to. And Great Aunt Muriel, well. She's the last of the old guard in our family. We have some cousins, but none of them are from the mainline, so really, it's just me; and Bill, when he finally comes back home."

Harold nodded in deep thought at that while Hermione looked stunned. "But you make it sound like you're some kind of aristocrat!" Hermione exclaimed.

Harold snorted, "that's because he is, Hermione. The Sacred Twenty Eight make up the High Council of the Wizengamot, of which, the Chief Warlock - who is currently Dumbledore - presides over. Of course, the High Council also has several seats that are currently inactive. Potter is one; so is Goldstein, Wood, and uh, Fitzroy, I think."

Ron was nodding in agreement. "Right, so, The High Council is made up of thirty-two seats with the Chief Warlock being the tie-breaking vote. If you ever get to see the Wizengamot in action, the High Council are the ones in sable, which is plain black, known as pureblood black by most people; the Chief Warlock will be in purpure; it's a kind of dark purplish-red, but not quite maroon. Then you have the Lower Council, which is made up of elected officials from the public, they have a maximum term capacity of six years. They dress in red robes, technically it's called gules; but it's a really bright red, not to be confused with auror red, which is duller, like the robes Haywood and McKinnon are wearing out there." Ron gestured through the glass window of the door to where their auror guard stood.

"The colors come from heraldry," Harold added in, seeing Hermione's confusion at the expounding of the colors. "See, colors in heraldry are related to planets and gods-"

"Planets only," Ron interjected, "we don't acknowledge heathen gods."

Harold shot Ron a look, "you can't ignore history like that," Harold retorted, remembering the passage from his book where his many times great-grandfather had written the reasoning behind the Wizengamot, Ministerial, and Healer colors. Purple, red, and black were the three colors seen as noble by wizards with the two major parties in the lower house using gold or silver to align themselves as progressives or conservatives. The High Council was purportedly above such distinctions, but most fell within the line of progressive or conservative because of how human nature worked. To divorce the choice of colors from the once rampant worship of Ancient Roman gods was to completely ignore their origin. "Purpure was chosen for the Chief Warlock because he's the leader of the Wizengamot and the messenger of the people; purple is inherently tied to the Roman god Mercury, who was the messenger of the gods!"

Ron's teeth gritted stubbornly, "there is only one god," Ron denied forcefully, "everyone knows that."

Harold blinked in surprise, not having realized that Ron was deeply religious. Oh, sure, the Weasley family said grace at every meal and there was religious iconography in their house, but the Dursley's had crucifixes up over their mantel too; given to them by Vernon's great-aunt, who was a fairly wealthy widow, who'd been married to a bishop pretty high up within the Anglican diocese. Vernon only kept the "ruddy bible bashing relic" up there so that Great Aunt Edna would leave her wealth to him when she passed; which given she was nearly 80 and childless, was likely to happen sooner rather than later. Particularly given that Marge was Edna's least favorite niece. Harold hadn't considered that Ron and the Weasleys had actually paid more than lip service to the church.

"I didn't know you were a Christian," Hermione commented, equally as surprised as Harold. "But I don't understand what any of this has to do with Serious Black."

Ron blinked rapidly, "uh, right," he said, turning to Harold as he tried to remember what they'd been on about before they'd stumbled down the path of ministerial colors and roles. "What were we talking about?"

"Secret keepers," Hermione prompted her mind ever like a steel trap.

"Right," Harold agreed. "Right, so Sirius Black was my parents' secret keeper and he betrayed them to Voldemort."

Ron flinched, "don't say the name!"

"Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing," Hermione retorted loudly, "Professor Dumbledore keeps telling us that. You should listen to him, Ron."

Ron sneered, "well that's great for Dumbledore, but he's not the one with a family that died when they said that name, is he?"

Hermione's mouth dropped open in shock. "People died? From saying a name?"

"Of course they did!" Ron partially cried, arms thrown up in frustration. Not for the first time either; there had been a couple of times where Ron had been surprised by either Harold or Hermione's lack of knowledge about the wizarding world. It was almost like Ron had forgotten that they were muggles raised sometimes. "What, did you think the entire wizarding world collectively lost its head and decided to fear a bloody name, did you? Grindelwald did heaps more damage than You-Know-Who, but you don't see us flinching when you say his name, do you? Course not; You-Know-Who put a bloody Taboo on his name, so whenever said his name, it alerted him and he'd be able to apparate to their side and kill them. It's like a- a- whaddya call it, um, a, a homing beacon!, Dad called it, said it could get him past even the strongest wards, like a portkey but not, because most portkeys will bounce off really strong wards, you see."

Harold and Hermione looked sick. "He did that?" Hermione whispered.

"Yeah," Ron said heavily, apparently weary from his little rant and now just tired. Ron shook his head and rubbed a hand along a cheek, "s'not just him though; all his Death Eaters used it. Bet Sirius Black was in on it too. Dad said he was You-Know-Who's right-hand man, you know."

Harold felt queasy. "I heard he was named my godfather." The words felt hollow now, sick in the way that they rose bile from his belly into his throat. Harold couldn't believe, sometimes, the horrors that the wizarding world had suffered underneath Voldem- You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters.

Ron spun around to look at Harold in shock. "Blimey, mate," Ron gasped, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Harold whispered, feeling faint. "Yeah, me too."

"How could you parents…" Hermione trailed off in shock. "What were they thinking?"

Harold turned to her, feeling suddenly so very disconnected from everything around him. "I don't know," he told her from what felt like a very long way away. "I. I just don't know, Hermione."

In the Silence, Harold says '' I also learn he never had a trial ''.

Jumping Ron Pales as he was a Noble a Peer thrown in jail without a trial was horrifying, for Hermoine it was disbelief that someone could be sent to prison without a trial but for Remus, it was massive learning that Sirius never had a trial made his chest beat with the hope that he was innocent.

Silence fell over their compartment as the Hogwarts Express barrelled out from the last grips of London's outer suburbs and shot them through the first of the neatly ordered fields of Oxford. They would have another five and a half hours of travel left. High above the scarlet steam train, the sun shone down brightly upon green fields and Harold wondered just what was in store for him this year. Everything felt so strange. Almost as though he stood on the precipice of a very large drop and Harold had no knowledge of what awaited him at the bottom.

xXx

Nurse Pomfrey met them in the Entrance Hall, Professor McGonagall hard on her heels as Harold was all but hauled into the castle proper between his auror escorts. All around him students stopped and stared; some even pointed. Malfoy, who stood near Flint and Higgs of the Slytherin quidditch team, had the gall to laugh; silver eyes shining with malicious glee. Behind the Aurors and Harold, Ron and Hermione followed in their wake, their expressions bleeding fear from Harold's violent reaction to the dementors on the train. Professor Lupin had long since disappeared into the Great Hall, Haywood having shaken him off the moment they'd arrived at Hogsmede station. The burly auror appeared more than a little displeased to have failed his Ministerial mandate so badly and Auror McKinnon kept shooting Auror Haywood glances, as if to ensure that his fellow auror wouldn't do something stupid.

"Potter!" Nurse Pomfrey called out as she spotted the teen being carried between a pair of Aurors, "in here, quickly now," she beckoned the trio, hustling them into a side room where a desk had been transfigured into a temporary cot. It was here that Harold was set down and Haywood rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, preventing the young teen from getting to his feet again.

"Sit, Potter," Haywood ordered, his voice grating like gravel underfoot.

Nurse Pomfrey waved her wand in a series of complex motions over Harold's head, lighting him up in pinks, blues, and golds, checking each individual system thoroughly. Under McKinnon's curious eye, Nurse Pomfrey had a nearby self-writing quill make annotations on a piece of parchment about Harold's state of health. Meeting McKinnon's gaze, Nurse Pomfrey tilted her head to the door. "Keep everyone out," she told him softly with a hint of steel beneath her voice, "I've not had a chance to make a thorough study of Mister Potter's health before; the Headmaster has always prevented it. I'll not be wasting a chance like this while I have it."

Auror Haywood straightened and narrowed his eyes. "Why would Heir Potter require a thorough examination, Madam Pomfrey?"

Nurse Pomfrey shot Auror Haywood a level look. "Surely, Ernest, you've heard what's been happening here at Hogwarts the past few years. Teachers disappearing, monsters in the hallways, and children being petrified."

"I thought those were exaggerations," Auror Haywood observed, his hand tightening on Harold's shoulder, thumb digging into the meat painfully. Harold bore the pain stoically; missing the glance of significance that passed between both Nurse Pomfrey and the Auror at the sight of a thirteen-year-old wearing deliberate harm so calmly. With lips compressed white from tension, Auror Haywood released Harold and turned his back on the Nurse and her patient. "No one will stop you, Madam, by all means, continue," the Auror bade her.

Auror McKinnon nodded shortly and sharply in agreement before stationing himself outside the door, glaring at any and all students who dared to slow in an attempt to see past the Auror and through the wood of the door; hoping to catch a glimpse of Potter on his sickbed. Ron and Hermione had both been chivvied off by Professor McGonagall, who recognized the expression on McKinnon's face as being one of unrelenting determination. They would see Harold once Nurse Pomfrey was assured of his health and welfare. Inside the room, Harold was bombarded by spell after spell as a deeply comprehensive history of his health and physical defects was compiled by the school nurse.

With a grim expression, Nurse Pomfrey began to make a list of potions that the young Potter would need to take in order to reverse some of the damage done to him during his neglectful childhood. It would be a strict regimen, but Nurse Pomfrey was sure that it would work. Harold, upon receiving the first of the twelve potion collections that he would take as part of his recovery for the rest of the year, grimaced but did as he was told. Making a mental note to send a letter to Griphook at his first chance. His account manager would be furious to learn that Dursley's periodic starvation of his client had resulted in stunted growth and malnutrition, among other health problems. Harold suspected that he'd likely need mind healing as well and Griphook would be able to organize that as well. Fainting when confronted with dementors would likely spell his destruction and soullessness after all; and considering his family's line of work, Harold couldn't have that.

As Madam Pomfrey left Auror Haywood lean down and asks '' Was what you said about Sirius Black true''?

Nodding Harry whisper '' I didn't mention it to the two but Griphook my Account Manager found out Sirius was my Bonded Godfather meaning ''.

Cursing Haywood whispers '' He couldn't have betrayed your family ''.

Nodding Harry again whispers '' Yes, plus the family I was with it was mention in my will that I was never supposed to go to them ''.

Paling even farther Haywood asks '' Did he know ''?

Shaking his head Harry says '' No seems Dumbledore was never told ''.

Sighing in Relief Haywood whispers '' Until we found out the truth we will stay with you ''.

Pleased Harry nods then he looks up as Madam Pomfrey walked back in and handed a Copy of the Medicinal sheet to Auror Haywood who reads it paling instantly he asks '' Do you want them to pay for their crimes ''?

Nodding Harry says '' Work with Griphook to have a complete list of their crimes... but whatever you do... don't let Dumbledore take custody ''.

Hearing it the Two Aurors nod while Madam Pomfrey swore to keep him out of it.

Taking a breath Madam Pomfrey knew she was about to have a fight on her head says '' But you Mister Potter will need to stay for a week to start rebuilding your bones ''.

Grimacing Harry nodded then he pulled out 5 Trunks and asks'' Madam Pomfrey I brought Nevile Longbottom, the 3 chasers, and Oliver Wood 5 Trunks can you please give them their gifts ''?

Nodding Madam Pomfrey hands Harry a Potion and says '' Go to sleep I'll tell your professors your condition and give the Trunks to them now go to sleep ''.

Draining it down Harry groans as he leans back on the Hospital Bed and falls asleep.

Auror Haywood staring at the bed who couldn't even last five minutes he asks '' How long will he be out ''?

Grimacing Madam Pomfrey answers '' 2 Days at least hope for the full week so he can finish healing ''.

Nodding the two went to sit on a desk when Madam Pomfrey waved her wand turning Harry Bed into a Real bed and giving him two more Pillows then she Conjures 2 More Beds and says '' Sleep in those I'll send a Message to Amelia ''.

Getting smiles the two watch her leave then Auror Haywood got up and whispers '' We never should have allowed Dumbledore to take our Lord Commander son ''.

Grimacing Mckinnon nods his agreement each of them how pleased they were assigned the task of Training and protecting the Lord Commander's son and the Destintied child.

Staring at the boy the two notice the ring eyebrows raise they could feel the magic pouring off it stuns Auror Haywood whispers '' The Potters were a Powerful family according to the power I'm reading they now have 700 Votes out of the now 2100 from the former 300 out of 2100 ''.

Shocked the two realize Harry must have Combined all his inheritance together into House Potter, smart this would allow him to make the other lines branch of House Potter allowing the house to rule over them as their liege and them their bannermen.