CHAPTER – 12 THE BLACK INHERITANCES
Harry sighed, realizing that he was stuck with Kreacher for the time being. He didn't have the energy to argue with the house-elf, especially when he was about to attend a gathering where he needed to maintain some semblance of composure. He had to admit, though, that he was curious about the event Sirius had insisted he attend.
"Fine, Kreacher," Harry conceded, "but try to behave yourself. I don't need any trouble tonight."
Kreacher gave a sly grin, revealing crooked yellow teeth. "Kreacher will be on his best behavior, Master's half-blood."
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. He knew better than to underestimate the cunning of house-elves, especially one as peculiar as Kreacher. With a final glance in the mirror to make sure he looked presentable, he followed the elf out of his room and down the grand staircase of Grimmauld Place.
As they descended into the lower levels of the house, Harry couldn't help but wonder what kind of event he was about to attend. Sirius had been vague about the details, mentioning only that it was a gathering of pure-blood families and that it was important for Harry to be there. He had also insisted that Harry wear the formal attire and had provided him with the watch and wand holster.
The lower levels of the house were dimly lit, and the air felt heavy with the weight of ancient secrets. Portraits of grim-faced Black ancestors lined the walls, their eyes following Harry's every move. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into something far more significant than he had anticipated.
Finally, Kreacher led him into a dimly lit room where several other house-elves were busy preparing a long, elegant dining table. The table was adorned with fine china, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery. At the head of the table sat Sirius, dressed in a similarly formal attire, though he looked slightly uncomfortable in it.
"Harry, you made it!" Sirius exclaimed, standing up to greet him.
Harry nodded, taking in the sight of his godfather. Sirius looked more like a member of the aristocracy than the rebellious and carefree man Harry had come to know. It was strange seeing him in this new light, and Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of disconnection.
Sirius led him to the table, where they took their seats. The other chairs around the table remained empty, and Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding.
"Harry," Sirius began, his voice lowered, "this gathering is important. It's a meeting of pure-blood families, and they need to see you here. It's all part of the plan to change their perspective on you."
Harry nodded, understanding the significance of the event. He had always been an outsider in the wizarding world, and now he was being thrust into the heart of pure-blood society. It was a role he had never expected to play, but he was willing to do whatever it took to help Sirius and the Order of the Phoenix.
As the house-elves continued to set the table, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to step into a world filled with secrets, intrigue, and old grudges. It was a world he had only glimpsed in the pages of history books and the stories of his friends, and now he was about to become a part of it.
With a deep breath, Harry prepared himself for whatever lay ahead, determined to face it with the same courage and determination that had seen him through so many challenges before.
Sirius was probably downstairs, so it came as no surprise that he had instructed Kreacher to notify him about preparing for the evening. After all, straightforward orders like these were less likely for a crafty house-elf like Kreacher to twist to his advantage.
In any case, Harry wasn't interested in keeping his godfather waiting.
"And you've already conveyed the message," he snapped. "This is my room, so leave."
Kreacher's oversized, drooping ears sagged even more. "This is Master Regulus's room. Master's half-blood is not fit to shine Master Regulus's shoes," the elf declared. His tone took a somber turn. "But the blood-traitor Master returned home and changed everything. He gave orders to poor Kreacher. Now, Master's half-blood thinks he owns this house." His voice began to quiver. "Oh, what would my dear Mistress think!"
Then, the wailing began.
Loud and piercing.
"You're not fooling anyone with that act," Harry coldly retorted. If Hermione had witnessed his mistreatment of a house-elf, she would have given him a stern lecture. "This is my room. Now stop this nonsense and get out. Before I make you."
The wails ceased, and Kreacher's ears perked up.
"If Master's half-blood wasn't Master's godson, and if Kreacher wasn't forced to show Master's half-blood any courtesy, Kreacher would like to see the half-blood try, filth!" he spat.
Harry narrowed his eyes at him.
This… this was highly unusual behavior for an elf. Admittedly, he had limited exposure to house-elves and their customary conduct. Dobby, eccentric and well-meaning, was a bit eccentric, while Winky was often inebriated from consuming too much butterbeer. He had interacted with a few Hogwarts house-elves, and despite their idiosyncrasies, they were consistently helpful, going out of their way to ensure the students at the castle were taken care of.
Kreacher, on the other hand, was a different story.
There was an almost primal, unrestrained hostility emanating from him. A visceral animosity, if you will. Harry had always felt that Kreacher harbored a deep-seated loathing, one that went beyond the mere necessity of resenting a half-blood master—although that was certainly a convenient excuse.
But why?
Why was Kreacher this way?
Reaching out with his magical senses, Harry detected the elf's aura. To his astonishment, Kreacher possessed a significant amount of Power, denoted by a capital 'P'. Harry had a vague recollection of Dobby effortlessly knocking Lucius Malfoy aside with a snap of his fingers, but he hadn't truly comprehended the immense potential house-elves had. Additionally, it usually required direct contact for Harry to sense someone's aura, yet he could perceive Kreacher's aura from across the room.
This led him to a chilling revelation.
Kreacher was no ordinary house-elf. He was a formidable, potentially lethal entity. What was such a creature doing within the House of Black? And, more importantly...
"Kreacher," Harry said sternly, "why are you here?"
The elf's ears drooped again. "Because Master wished for Kreacher to be here."
"Sirius wanted you to inform me to get ready. He didn't intend for you to engage in conversation or provoke me. You could have simply placed my robes on the bed and vanished to wherever elves like you go. But you didn't," Harry pressed. "So I'll ask again. Why are you here?"
Then, something remarkable occurred.
Kreacher's entire demeanor sagged, and Harry observed—truly observed. It was uncanny, the way those large, bulbous eyes seemed to pierce through his physical form and delve into his very soul. They analyzed, verified, and validated.
"Master is planning to take Master's half-blood into the family," Kreacher snarled. "A filthy half-blood, from a family of fools, taken into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Harry Potter can pretend all he wants, but Kreacher has seen his face. Kreacher knows what he is. A demon!"
Harry struggled to process the elf's words. What did Kreacher mean by "take Master's half-blood into the family"? And why was he calling Harry a demon?
"Wait, what do you—"
Pop!
In the blink of an eye, Kreacher had disappeared, leaving Harry to grapple with his perplexing words.
Harry remained in silence, his breathing steady, before he finally sighed and turned to face the mirror.
"Never a dull moment around here," he muttered to himself as he adjusted his bowtie. "Not a single one."
"My word," Sirius gasped playfully, his arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. "Who is this devilishly handsome fellow?"
"I, um..." Harry stammered, feeling somewhat awkward in his formal attire. Over the past week, he had gradually become accustomed to life in the Black House as Sirius's godson. That meant no more cooking, sweeping, or laborious chores like he had endured at 4 Privet Drive. Instead, Sirius had gone out of his way to ensure Harry had everything he could possibly need—new shirts, jeans, sweatpants, boots, even bundles of underwear and socks. His old trunk had been replaced with a more sophisticated model that featured expansion charms and protective enchantments.
And that was just the surface.
Every evening before supper, he would sit down and share stories about his time at Hogwarts with the other Marauders. Harry pretended not to notice when Sirius downplayed Pettigrew's role and emphasized James Potter's contributions instead. In return, Harry would recount tales of his own experiences at Hogwarts, though he couldn't help but wince when he remembered how most of those stories ended—with him in a hospital bed, especially near the end of the school year. Sirius seemed eager to learn about Harry's life before Hogwarts, but he hadn't pressed the matter.
Not even once.
It was a small thing. Almost inconsequential. But to Harry, it meant the world.
However, none of that alleviated the fact that he felt overdressed for the evening.
"I feel like a pompous twit," he grumbled, fiddling irritably with his collar. "Even worse, I feel like Malfoy."
"It's not about being a twit, Harry," Sirius reassured him as he approached. "People respond to how we present ourselves. And you look very stylish. Handsome and noble, every inch a member of House Black." He paused, taking a step back to give Harry a thorough once-over. "Yup. You resemble your father so strikingly that it's uncanny, except for the eyes. Those are all Lily."
Sparkling tears threatened to well up in Sirius's eyes. "I— James would have been so proud to see you like this."
Harry understood that Sirius meant it as a compliment, but a part of him wished that Sirius had chosen different words. Hearing Snape liken him to his father was comforting, but only because Snape was a loathsome git
Sirius, however, likened him to James Potter as a form of praise. It served as a stark reminder that all of this—the grand house, the familial atmosphere, the elegant attire, and the life he had been offered—wasn't truly his. He was only receiving it because James Potter had designated Sirius Black as his godfather. He didn't genuinely belong here. He was a Potter, at best a guest in the House of Black. He was—
"Exactly as anticipated."
Harry blinked, thrown off by Sirius's sudden statement. "What are you talking about?"
Sirius smiled knowingly at him. "I'm talking about you, Harry. You're feeling uncomfortable, like you don't belong here. Am I right?"
Harry faltered. "How did you—can you read my mind or something?"
"Would you believe me if I said you talk in your sleep?"
"…"
"Yeah, I didn't think you'd fall for that one," Sirius sighed. "My ancestors were, well, high-strung, egotistical individuals who believed the entire world was theirs to command. Not a bad outlook on life, but it wasn't worth the trouble it brought."
"So... what did they do? Some kind of ward?"
"Anyone who isn't a Black will constantly have this nagging feeling that they don't belong in the manor. Their brain fills in the rest."
Harry frowned. This magic that manipulated emotions oddly reminded him of dementors. How they made him sink into despair, feel depressed, and hear echoes of his mother's desperate pleas to Voldemort to spare him.
"The magic gives you a subtle emotional push. It triggers your brain to question 'why am I feeling this way.' Your own mind then conjures images, memories, and streams of thought that align with that emotion."
Sirius's smile faded, and deep lines etched his face, making him resemble a Black even more.
"It becomes a vicious cycle. Once you start feeling it, it amplifies the emotion, making it seem even more genuine, as if it originated from your own thoughts."
Harry regarded his godfather incredulously. "So you're saying this magic can make me feel a certain way, even enough to dictate my actions?"
"If executed skillfully, yes. That's why Legilimency, the art of mental intrusion, is generally frowned upon. It didn't help that Voldemort used it extensively during the last war. That's how I lost my cousin to him."
"Bellatrix," Harry murmured. He had often heard Sirius speak of his dear cousin, who had transitioned from a ruthless yet charismatic young woman into a raving, homicidal maniac.
It made him wonder. When he had first passed through the magical barrier behind the Leaky Cauldron four years ago, everything about the magical world had seemed glorious, beautiful, and wondrous. Even now, it retained that aura. Yet, it felt as if that was just a facade concealing the haunting, maddening truths lurking beneath. Sinister, manipulative strings that hid in the darkest corners, revealing a world not as free as he had once believed. Not everything was as clean-cut as "swish-and-flick"; some things were genuinely insidious, like the dark arts and this Mind Magic.
His wand seemed to vibrate with agreement.
Yes, yes, I know.
"On the bright side, emotive magic isn't everyone's forte. That's why most witches and wizards turn to potions and elixirs. Snape should be covering some of those this year in Potions," Sirius remarked, his expression souring at the mention of the greasy-haired professor. "Anyway, let's get going."
Harry shot him an incredulous look. "Don't be cryptic. Where are we going, and why do I need..." He gestured at his tuxedo, "this?"
Sirius grinned mischievously. "Gringotts. We're heading to the bank."
"For a bank trip dressed like this?"
"Well, there could be a party afterward if you'd like. Do you have a girl—or two—you'd like to invite?"
Harry simply rolled his eyes. "Where's Andromeda?"
"Wow, that's unexpected," Sirius teased, wiggling his eyebrows. "Going for older women now, Harry?"
Harry rolled his eyes again. "Isn't she joining us at Gringotts?"
"She... can't," Sirius admitted, his tone turning more serious. "Our business today is private, and she has work to attend to. But don't worry, I'll be sure to let her know that her absence was sorely felt."
"SIRIUS..." Harry blushed, looking like a ripe tomato.
"Or you can stop being grumpy and get on with it. Besides, you'll never feel this gloominess again."
"Uh, what exactly do you mean by—"
"Nope. Nothing. No more talks or suffering from grumpy-old-wizard syndrome. Time to be off on our way." Sirius flamboyantly turned around and marched toward the Floo. "You coming?"
Harry stood there for a moment, contemplating the bizarre turn his life was taking.
"HARRY?"
"Alright, I'm coming!"
Gringotts, the snow-white, multi-story edifice, loomed as the most impressive structure in the entire shopping district. It surpassed all the shops on either side, a grand construction made of pure white marble, housing the one and only magical bank of Wizarding Britain, as well as a multitude of other services known to only the magical elite.
And it was entirely managed by goblins: snarky, calculating, and notoriously greedy.
Beneath the alabaster marble facade lay subterranean caverns that plunged deeper than one would think possible, each housing magically sealed vaults where the wizarding elite stored their vast wealth in galleons and treasured artifacts.
Harry was well-acquainted with this bank. His introduction to the wizarding world had commenced with a visit to one of its vaults: Vault 713.
Emerging from the Floo with Sirius closely following, Harry found himself facing the imposing bank building. For security reasons, a public Floo connection was installed outside the bank's outer gates. Given the turbulent history of conflicts between wizards and goblins, it was likely implemented as a security protocol.
But considering his experiences, the truth probably held even stranger twists.
Walking up the stairs with his godfather, they passed through the large bronze doors and entered a vast antechamber that led into a lengthy corridor toward the bank's main entrance. Goblins dressed in metal scale mail lined both sides of the corridor, armed with spears and javelins, most likely enchanted.
Beyond the inner doors lay a grand entrance hall that Harry found oddly familiar. Rows of counters flanked either side, each manned by a goblin teller. At the far end of the room, the head goblin's desk was prominently placed. Two more doors were positioned on either side of the desk, leading deeper into the bank, while even more doors were scattered behind the counters, hinting at additional passageways that led to... well, who knew where.
With this many doors, Harry wouldn't be surprised if one of them somehow led back to the Black House, Hogwarts, or perhaps even the Dursleys' home.
...Alright, maybe that last one would be a stretch.
A few witches and wizards bustled about, some standing in line at the counters, others chatting with the tellers, and a few occupying the benches near the entrance. Harry quickly followed his godfather as they made their way toward the head goblin's desk.
"Sirius Black," Sirius announced firmly as they reached the desk. "I believe I am expected."
The teller's eyes flashed with recognition. "Very well," he replied in a raspy voice, reaching for a thin steel bell on the desk. Two guards, resembling the ones stationed outside, immediately positioned themselves behind the pair. The teller then met Sirius's gaze once more. "The usual protocols, Mister Black."
Sirius nodded and, without hesitation, followed the two guards. Harry hurriedly matched their pace as they entered a side corridor and continued onward.
Goblins, Harry mused, were a unique breed. They controlled more gold than the ten wealthiest nations combined, both magical and non-magical. This massive wealth didn't belong to the goblins; it was wizarding gold. Yet, these creatures turned a substantial profit by operating the magical banking system. Given their significant power, some wondered what would prevent them from using their formidable security systems to turn against the wizards who often treated them with disdain. What would stop them from bankrupting the entire wizarding world with a single ruthless maneuver?
The answer was simple: nothing.
Small wonder there had been so many goblin rebellions in the past.
Harry had visited Gringotts only twice before. The first time had been with Hagrid, and he had been too overwhelmed and starstruck by the magical world to fully grasp anything. The second visit had been marked by embarrassment as he had furtively pocketed a handful of galleons while Mrs. Weasley struggled to extract a single galleon from the corners of their vault.
This time, however, his mind was alert, and he noticed details. He pondered whether the Potter family had a similar setup to the Blacks. Numerous questions swirled in his mind, but he hoped to have them sorted out before the day ended.
Harry sat beside his godfather in a mostly Spartan room filled with files—bundles upon bundles of tightly-knit papers. A single goblin, elderly with whiskers beneath his cheeks, sat at the desk, adjusting his glasses frequently as he perused the folder's contents.
A bank job, Harry concluded, was not something he aspired to do. He would take potions classes with Snape any day over this.
"What can Gringotts do for you today, Mister Black?" inquired the goblin, his tone lacking the customary wizardly titles and respect.
"Important and profitable matters," Sirius replied.
"Rash words to use with a goblin, Mister Black," the Overseer, whose nametag revealed his name as Ripclaw, responded. He exposed two rows of yellowish fangs. "I acknowledge your grandfather's influence in teaching you our customs, but your recklessness makes you vulnerable."
"I'm aware," Sirius said, reclining comfortably in his chair. "But before any drastic measures are taken, I have some business propositions to discuss. And a few immediate requirements."
"Such as?"
"Starting with an ancestry test," Sirius said, inclining his head in Harry's direction. "For my godson and ward."
"An inheritance ritual," Ripclaw mused, his brows furrowing as he gave Harry a thorough once-over. His eyes briefly flitted to the scar on Harry's forehead before moving away. "Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. May I inquire about the need for such a ritual?"
"Recognition."
Ripclaw's eyes widened slightly, and his jagged, yellowed teeth were visible as he processed Sirius's request. "Gringotts does not have an inheritance record for Harry Potter. Are you suspecting that illegitimacy was involved in his conception?"
"Goblin!" Sirius snapped, his patience wearing thin. "I pay you for services rendered in gold, not for unsolicited advice. State your price or objections clearly, and let us proceed."
The goblin's nostrils flared, and he appeared ready to retaliate, but then he seemed to remember his role as a bank representative. He slowly relaxed, though the tension in the room remained palpable. "Very well, who shall bear the cost for the ancestry test?"
"The Black Family Vaults," Sirius replied, relenting on this point to expedite the process.
"I strongly recommend against that," Ripclaw stated, his tone less confrontational but still unwavering.
"If this is a matter of cost—"
Before Sirius could continue, the goblin silenced him with an intense stare, the same strange hunger glinting in his eyes. "Do not presume to educate me about finance, wizard. I am a goblin. You do not have to coerce me into accepting gold."
Sirius stiffened slightly, but he maintained his composure.
"However," Ripclaw's demeanor shifted slightly, "I am also the Overseer of the Black family. It is my duty to ensure the family's interests are protected."
"I don't understand," Sirius replied, his voice composed despite the tension in the room. "Are you suggesting against conducting an inheritance ritual? Against me utilizing my funds at Gringotts today?"
The goblin's eyes bulged, and his lips twisted in a sour expression. "…Yes."
"Why?" Sirius pressed, his patience wearing thin.
"The Black family gold may not be used for frivolous purposes. Sponsoring the inheritance ritual for a half-blood would be considered 'frivolous' according to the policies set by the previous Lord Black, Arcturus Sirius Black."
"But I am the new Lord Black!" Sirius countered, his frustration mounting.
"Not officially recognized by the Wizengamot, you aren't," Ripclaw stated firmly. "Until then, all fiscal policies will adhere to the wording dictated by the previous Lord of House Black."
"Fine!" Sirius finally relented, clearly exasperated. Harry couldn't help but wonder if this level of confrontation was common between goblins and wizards. "Take the required funds from my personal vault, then. I insist on obtaining Harry's complete genealogy. I trust my vault contains sufficient funds for this purpose?"
The goblin's eyes glinted with avarice as he licked his lips. "Indeed, it does. Do you have any other matters of business to discuss?"
"Yes, indeed," Sirius replied. "I wish to formally adopt my godson and ward, Harry James Potter, into the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. He shall bear the Black name with pride, enjoy the protection of my ancestral home, and be granted all the privileges befitting someone of his station."
The goblin's eyes widened in disbelief. "You want to adopt a half-blood—"
"Yes," Sirius interrupted firmly.
"With full rights to—"
"Yes."
"Request denied."
Sirius's frustration was palpable, and Harry sensed that if the situation continued in this manner, it could lead to disastrous consequences. Damage control was becoming increasingly vital.
Seizing his godfather's arm, Harry shook his head. "Sirius, if there are any concerns—"
"It's nothing, Harry," Sirius brushed aside his worries, his focus still fixed on the goblin. "Do you think it's wise to provoke me like this, Ripclaw? The Wizengamot will convene for an emergency session in three weeks."
"Then I propose delaying this request for three weeks," Ripclaw responded, his smile revealing sharp teeth. "Gringotts will gladly consider your request once you assume the title of Lord Black." He theatrically closed his books with a resounding thud. "If that's all, Mister Black, Gringotts will send an owl when the inheritance ritual is ready. Expect us in... at least three weeks."
Harry sighed. He wasn't well-versed in political subtleties, but even he could tell that the goblin was playing with Sirius at this point. And judging by his godfather's demeanor, it seemed like he was ready to confront the goblin. Harry glanced at the Overseer, then at Sirius, then back at the goblin, before preparing to speak—
"With all due respect, goblin," Sirius replied calmly, his face completely composed, "you and your kind might not fully comprehend my situation. When I mentioned needing the inheritance ritual, I meant today. Not in three weeks."
Ripclaw rhythmically tapped the table with a claw-tipped finger, calculatingly staring at Sirius. "Requests for inheritance rituals must be submitted a minimum of four weeks in advance. Unless, of course, a family's Lord requests it, which you are not. At least, not for the next three weeks."
Sirius grinned. For a brief moment, he was thankful that his godfather was by his side. "I may not bear the title of Lord Black, but I am the Master of Number 12, Grimmauld Place—the same house where my great-ancestor Phoebus Black stored his entire collection of goblin-forged armaments after humiliating Ragnok the Second during the 1713 goblin rebellion. I assume you're familiar with your people's history?"
The tapping ceased.
"That's correct. Phoebus's blood now flows through me, his descendant. And now, neither you nor your kind are welcome in my home, in any way, shape, or form."
The goblin flinched, his clawed fingers leaving grooves in the marble table.
"In case you weren't aware, goblin," Sirius continued in a falsely cheerful tone, "I'm currently renovating my house, which means getting rid of all my excess belongings. I've heard that Borgin over at Borgin and Burkes offers reasonable rates for goblin-forged silver. I wonder if he's open right now—"
"Stop!" Ripclaw raised a hand in surrender. "If Gringotts can be convinced to perform the inheritance ritual today—"
"Now."
"—Now," the goblin reluctantly agreed, "will you swear, upon your blood and position as owner of the Black Vaults and Master of 12 Grimmauld Place, to not sell those armaments to anyone except Gringotts?"
Harry watched as a faint smile briefly crossed his godfather's face, then vanished just as quickly. For some reason, he felt like Sirius had just successfully pulled off a prank. "I'd love to, Ripclaw, but I must decline. To make such a commitment, I need to be officially recognized as Lord Black, the owner of the Black Vaults. Perhaps we can revisit this matter in three weeks' time…"
Ripclaw jumped onto his chair.
Harry drew his wand.
Sirius didn't flinch. Instead, he chuckled. "Unless, of course, Gringotts has a mechanism in place to update my grandfather's outdated policies?"
Ripclaw ground his teeth, glaring at Sirius with intense and unfiltered hatred. "I'll... I'll see what I can do. Wait here."
After he rushed out of the office, silence reigned for several seconds, only broken when Harry finally snorted in relief. "That," he murmured at last, "was the most impressive thing I've ever witnessed."
His godfather smirked, giving him a slight nod.
"So, what comes next?"
"Harry, we have a world of intriguing possibilities ahead of us…"
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