CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Holidays
Two weeks had passed since Harry Potter returned from Hogwarts, and in that time, he had thrown himself deeply into the study of Voldemort's memories. Immersing himself in those fragmented pieces of the Dark Lord's mind, Harry sought to understand not just his enemy's skills but his strategies and weaknesses.
The first problem Harry tackled was the trace. Voldemort's memories hinted at a way to bypass it: by ensuring no magic was performed near the wizard's registered place of residence. Harry had been cautious, taking every step to ensure the Ministry wouldn't detect his plans. To add an extra layer of security, he decided to procure a second wand—a precaution in case his primary wand ever came under scrutiny.
When he returned to the Dursleys' house, he noticed an immediate change in their behavior. They had decided to pretend he didn't exist, avoiding him entirely. That suited Harry perfectly; their silence gave him the space he needed to focus.
Through Voldemort's memories, Harry came to understand the vast political complexities of the wizarding world. The Wizengamot, the great houses, the intricate web of alliances and influence—it was all crucial. Voldemort had underestimated the power of politics, relying on fear and domination. But Harry knew he could wield his fame and lineage as tools to build alliances and challenge Voldemort. He was already a household name, admired by many, and as the last surviving member of the Potter family, he had a powerful legacy to lean on.
But first, Harry needed to know exactly what he possessed. The last time he visited Gringotts, it had been a whirlwind trip with Hagrid, and he hadn't truly understood what he was entitled to. This time, he was determined to uncover the full extent of his inheritance and resources.
On a crisp morning two weeks after his return, Harry set off for London. He had pooled the last of his meager collection of Muggle money for the trip. Wearing his usual baggy, hand-me-down clothes from Dudley, he resolved that this would be the last time. No more oversized shirts or ill-fitting trousers—he would buy proper clothes that suited him.
The journey from Surrey to London took an hour and a half. The sights and sounds of the bustling city faded into the background as Harry focused on his purpose. By late morning, he stepped into the dimly lit Leaky Cauldron. The familiar creak of the wooden floor and the faint smell of ale greeted him as he entered.
"Ah, Harry Potter, the boy that lived! Come, join us, tell us how you beat that dark wizard in your school." called the barman, Tom, his wrinkled face lighting up with recognition.
The name sent a shiver down Harry's spine. Tom. For a brief moment, Voldemort's memories flickered in his mind, a dark reminder of who else bore that name. Shaking it off, Harry offered a polite smile.
"Hello Tom, maybe another time. Not staying long," Harry said quickly, cutting off Tom before he could launch into what promised to be a lengthy chat about Quirrell's defeat.
"Ah, well, you've had quite the year, haven't you? Sit down, lad; I'll—"
"Another time, Tom," Harry interrupted firmly, though not rudely. He was on a mission, and nothing would deter him.
With a quick nod to the barman, Harry stepped out into the small, enclosed courtyard behind the pub. He approached the familiar brick wall, raised his wand, and tapped the correct sequence. The bricks began to shift and rearrange themselves, the wall folding away to reveal the vibrant, bustling street of Diagon Alley.
A wave of determination washed over Harry as he stepped into the alley, the magical world coming alive around him. Witches and wizards bustled about, the shops teeming with life. Harry's gaze locked onto the towering white building at the far end of the street—Gringotts.
"And now it begins," Harry thought to himself, his resolve hardening as he started toward the wizarding bank. This was the first step in reclaiming control of his destiny.
The grand, imposing marble doors of Gringotts loomed before Harry as he stepped inside. The air was crisp with formality, and the faint sound of quills scratching against parchment echoed through the cavernous hall. The goblins behind their counters worked with a precision that spoke of centuries of tradition and authority. Harry's emerald eyes scanned the room until they landed on a familiar figure. He strode confidently to the nearest teller, a goblin whose sharp features and meticulous appearance marked him as Griphook.
"Hello, Griphook. How are you today?" Harry greeted with a polite smile. His tone carried a hint of familiarity and respect, something he had learned was key when dealing with goblins.
Griphook's sharp, dark eyes narrowed as he looked up at the young wizard. Surprise flickered across his face, but it was quickly masked. "Ah, young Mister Potter. I must admit, I am surprised you recognized me."
Harry's smile widened, his voice calm and assured. "Of course I did. That's why I called you by name."
"Indeed, Mister Potter. Indeed," Griphook said with a nod, his voice laced with approval. "Now, how may Gringotts assist you today?"
"I understand that Gringotts maintains records of all noble wizarding houses," Harry began, his words deliberate. "I wish to know the full details of House Potter—its assets, properties, and finances."
Griphook's sharp teeth gleamed in what might have been a pleased smile. "Very well," he said, his voice crisp. Turning slightly, he called, "Steelfang! Escort Mister Potter to his account manager."
A tall goblin with an even sterner countenance appeared promptly and gestured for Harry to follow. The two moved through winding corridors lined with doors bearing intricate plaques, the faint scent of parchment and wax lingering in the air. Finally, they stopped before a polished oak door engraved with the words Family Account Manager: Thornmark.
Steelfang knocked twice, the sound reverberating through the quiet hallway. A gruff voice from within responded, "Enter."
The door creaked open to reveal a spacious office dominated by a large desk of dark wood. Behind it sat an older goblin, his silvered hair and deeply etched features exuding experience and authority. He glanced up from a ledger with a sharp, appraising look.
"Ah, Mister Potter. It is good to see you," Thornmark greeted, his tone formal yet welcoming. "I am Thornmark, your family's account manager. Please, have a seat."
Harry inclined his head slightly and settled into the chair opposite the goblin. Thornmark's piercing gaze lingered on him for a moment before he said, "Now, Mister Potter, how may I assist you? I must admit, I did not expect to see you until your thirteenth birthday."
Harry's instincts, honed by his growing understanding of the wizarding world and Voldemort's memories, urged him to present himself with confidence and poise. "Of course, Thornmark," Harry said smoothly, his voice steady. "I wished to inquire about the current state of the Potter estate and its finances."
Thornmark nodded, reaching for a thick ledger on his desk. "Very well, let us begin. The current balance of vault 687, the primary Potter vault, is fifty thousand six hundred and twenty-five Galleons. This is largely due to some astute investments made by your grandfather, Fleamont Potter."
The goblin continued, flipping a page with clawed fingers. "In addition to the vault, your family owns several properties. The primary residence is Potter Manor, the ancestral home of your line. There is also Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow, though it is in need of significant repairs, due to the attack by the dark lord. These are the principal assets currently in your name."
Harry listened intently, absorbing the details. The balance was a small fortune, certainly, but Harry knew it wouldn't be enough for what he envisioned. He would need to expand his resources significantly if he was to prepare for the challenges ahead. As Thornmark finished speaking, Harry's mind was already calculating.
"Thank you, Thornmark," Harry said sincerely. Then, leaning forward slightly, he added, "There is one more thing. Most pure-blood families are connected through marriage or alliances, correct?"
Thornmark gave a short nod, his sharp gaze never leaving Harry's face. "That is correct, Mister Potter."
Harry continued; his tone measured. "Would it be possible to find out which families were allied with House Potter?"
The goblin's eyes glinted with understanding. "It is indeed possible. Such records are meticulously maintained. I shall arrange for a full report."
Harry nodded, satisfaction mingling with determination. "Thank you, Thornmark. It's time I understood my potential allies."
With that, Harry rose to his feet, ready to take the next step in building his foundation for the battles to come.
Thornmark reached into a well-organized file, pulling out a thick document. His clawed fingers deftly handed it to Harry, revealing a meticulously crafted family tree adorned with elegant script. The tree mapped out House Potter's connections to other noble families, with a second page listing the allied houses. Harry's eyes scanned the names until one stood out prominently: Alice Longbottom. Beside her name was an annotation that made his heart skip a beat: Harry Potter's Godmother.
Harry raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp with curiosity. "Can you tell me about my godparents?"
Thornmark's sharp eyes studied him briefly before he replied. "Certainly, young Potter. Your godmother, Alice Longbottom, was your mother's best friend. She married Frank Longbottom, and together they had a son, Neville Longbottom. Unfortunately," Thornmark's voice dropped to a graver tone, "after the fall of the Dark Lord, his supporters captured the Longbottoms. They were tortured to insanity and now reside in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."
Harry's breath hitched as a wave of shock coursed through him. He clenched his fists tightly under the desk, his knuckles whitening. This was new information, something Voldemort's memories had never shown him. It made sense now—this tragedy had occurred after the Dark Lord's initial fall, outside Voldemort's own scope of knowledge. Yet the knowledge left Harry simmering with anger, a deep and roiling fury that burned in his chest.
Voldemort and his followers had stolen more family from him. Not just Harry's family, but Neville's as well. As his mind churned, a realization crystallized: Neville was family. Blood or not, that connection mattered. Harry vowed silently to himself: he would look out for Neville. No one believed in the boy's potential, dismissing him as a squib or incompetent at magic. But Harry had plans. They would all see Neville's greatness by the time Harry was finished reshaping him into the wizard he was meant to be.
Thornmark's voice broke through Harry's storming thoughts. "Your godfather, Sirius Black, currently resides in Azkaban for the murder of Peter Pettigrew."
Harry's stomach dropped, though his face betrayed no emotion. Thornmark continued, detailing the tale of betrayal: how Sirius Black was blamed for selling out the Potters to Voldemort and subsequently killing Peter Pettigrew along with a dozen innocent Muggles. Harry sat still, his face an unreadable mask, but inside, he seethed. He already knew the truth.
His new instincts guided his thoughts with icy clarity. The memory of Peter Pettigrew's cowardly betrayal—selling his parents to Voldemort—played vividly in his mind. Another wave of rage crashed over him, though this time he kept it tightly controlled. First, Severus Snape had inadvertently painted a target on his family by delivering the prophecy to Voldemort. Then, Pettigrew, his father's so-called friend, had completed the act of treachery. Harry's trust in people felt thinner by the moment.
A chilling question whispered through his thoughts: could he trust anyone? If his parents' trusted friends had turned on them, what guarantee did he have that his own friends wouldn't do the same? The doubts crept in, subtle yet insidious. And yet...
Harry shook the thought off, focusing on a single anchor in his life: Daphne. Daphne had been a steadfast friend, his greatest ally through the chaos of the past year. She had never wavered in her loyalty, and Harry believed she would stand by him until the very end, just as Sirius had stood by his father. Sirius, who had tried to avenge his best friend by hunting down the real betrayer—Pettigrew.
"I appreciate the information, Thornmark," Harry said, his tone steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within him. He rose from his chair and added, "I'd like to withdraw some funds. One thousand Galleons should suffice."
Thornmark nodded crisply, summoning another goblin to retrieve the requested amount. Soon, a heavy pouch filled with gold coins was placed in front of Harry. He secured it with care, already calculating how it would support the next steps of his plans.
As he pocketed the money, Harry hesitated before asking, "One last thing. Is it possible for me to arrange a visit with Sirius Black in Azkaban? Technically, we're family."
Thornmark's expression was neutral, though there was a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. "That can be arranged, Mister Potter. For an extra cost, we can have one of our employees escort you and act as a guardian as you visit him. I will have the necessary paperwork prepared."
Harry inclined his head in thanks, his resolve firming. "Thank you, I will return at a later date when I am ready, Good day to you."
With that, Harry excused himself and exited the bank, stepping into the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley. The sunlight glinted off shop windows, and wizards and witches moved about with purpose, but Harry's focus was unwavering. His next stop was clear: Madam Malkin's. It was time to shed the hand-me-down rags of his past and don a wardrobe that reflected his ambitions and new mission. The first steps of his crusade were beginning.
Madam Malkin's voice was warm and familiar as Harry stepped into her shop, the soft chime of the bell marking his arrival. "Mr. Potter," she greeted with a bright smile, her measuring tape already hovering near her fingers as if anticipating his needs.
"Good afternoon, Madam Malkin," Harry replied politely, his tone calm yet confident. "I'd like to know if you have Muggle clothes in stock."
Her eyebrows rose slightly, a hint of surprise crossing her face. "Why yes, I do. Most wizards prefer to avoid Muggle shops, so I keep a modest range. It's not extensive, but it should suffice."
Harry nodded with a small, appreciative smile. "That'll do. Here's what I need: five T-shirts, five shirts, three casual robes, two formal robes, five formal Muggle suits, two pairs of jeans, three pairs of shorts, socks, three pairs of formal shoes, and three pairs of sneakers."
Madam Malkin blinked at the extensive list before regaining her composure. "Certainly, Mr. Potter. Let me gather everything." She moved efficiently, pulling items from shelves and racks while pausing to confirm sizes. For the suits, she measured him quickly, murmuring about his growth spurt as she adjusted them to fit slightly larger. Harry stood still, allowing her to work with professional precision.
When she returned with the final packages, Harry paid her without hesitation—90 Galleons for the lot—and gathered his neatly wrapped purchases. "Thank you, Madam Malkin," he said as he stepped out, the weight of the packages in his arms a reassuring reminder of the preparations he was making.
Harry's next stop was a specialized trunk shop further down Diagon Alley. He entered, greeted by the faint scent of polished wood and old enchantments. The shopkeeper, a wizened wizard with a monocle, approached. Harry explained his needs: a trunk that could shrink for easy concealment, had expanded compartments, elemental protection, and a charm to keep food fresh. The shopkeeper nodded knowingly and guided Harry to a display of high-quality trunks.
"This one," the shopkeeper said, tapping a sleek, dark-wood trunk. "Perfect for your needs. Durable, discreet, and highly versatile."
Harry inspected it closely before agreeing. He paid the hefty price without flinching, then carefully transferred his newly purchased clothes into the trunk. With a simple touch, he activated the shrinking charm, slipping the now pocket-sized trunk into his robes. It was barely noticeable, hidden from prying eyes and safe from the Dursleys' interference.
His final destination loomed ahead: Ollivander's. Harry hesitated briefly outside the shop, steeling himself. He didn't want the enigmatic wandmaker to glean too much about his plans, but he also knew a second wand was essential. Resolved, he pushed open the door, the soft tinkle of the bell announcing his arrival.
"Welcome back, Mr. Potter," Ollivander's voice drifted from behind a shelf, his pale eyes gleaming as he appeared behind the counter. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Harry inclined his head politely. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. I need a new wand."
The old man tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. "And what of your original wand, Mr. Potter? It is still functional, I presume? Or has it begun to fail you?"
Harry met Ollivander's piercing stare, his Occlumency shields sliding smoothly into place. "My wand is perfect, thank you. This is for... other purposes."
A faint chuckle escaped Ollivander. "Ah, I see. After your encounter with that mad, dark wizard, Quirrell, it's understandable that you would want a wand that could not be traced by the ministry." His voice held no judgment, only a keen curiosity. "Very well, Mr. Potter. I shall assist you."
He guided Harry to the back of the shop, shelves upon shelves of wand boxes stretching endlessly. They began the process of testing wands, but none felt right. Finally, Ollivander halted, his expression thoughtful. "It seems I'll need to craft something unique for you. Please, select your materials."
Harry ran his hands over the wood samples, his fingers lingering on a piece of ancient yew. "This one," he said decisively. Turning to the cores, he chose two: a Hungarian Horntail dragon heartstring and a basilisk heartstring.
Ollivander's eyebrows rose at the second choice. "A basilisk heartstring is rare and controversial—most wandmakers shy away from using it. But," he added with a small smile, "well luckily for you, I am not most wandmakers."
He instructed Harry to return in two hours, and Harry left to wander Diagon Alley, buying a modest lunch and observing the bustling crowd. He also took this time to stock up on all of his favorite foods, all stored safely in his new trunk. When the time was up, he returned to find Ollivander hunched over a workbench, carefully sanding down a short wand.
"Ah, Mr. Potter, welcome back, and just in time too," Ollivander greeted, straightening. He held up the finished wand with a reverence that bordered on awe. "Behold, the Warrior's Wand. Yew wood, nine and a half inches, with dual cores—Hungarian Horntail dragon heartstring and basilisk heartstring. It is unyielding, suited for precise and focused casting, and reflects the fierce, stubborn nature of the dragon."
Harry took the wand, and as his fingers closed around it, a warmth pulsed through him. He knew instantly—it was perfect.
"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander, this is perfect, I am speechless," Harry said sincerely.
The wandmaker's expression turned serious. "A word of caution, Mr. Potter: do not display this wand in official capacities. Use your original wand for such purposes. This one is... unregistered and, technically, doesn't exist."
Harry nodded, appreciating the discretion. He paid Ollivander 80 Galleons but added an extra 20 as a silent incentive to keep this transaction private.
With the wand secured, Harry stepped out into the late afternoon light of Diagon Alley, his preparations complete. It was time to head back to Privet Drive, though his mind was already racing ahead, strategizing for the challenges to come.
The return journey to Surrey from London was as monotonous as the dreary streets rolling past the bus windows. Harry barely registered the curious glances from passengers. His baggy, ill-fitting clothes—hand-me-downs from Dudley—made him stand out, but he refused to care. The weight of his purchases, shrunk and hidden in his pocket, was a comforting reminder of the progress he had made that day. By the time he arrived at Privet Drive, the late afternoon sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban neighborhood.
Harry slipped into the house silently, avoiding any encounters with the Dursleys. His years of practice made it easy to move unnoticed. Once inside, he climbed the stairs and entered his "new" room—Dudley's old bedroom, now his by circumstance rather than any act of kindness. The sight of the oversized furniture, once cramped with Dudley's toys, was a stark reminder of how little had truly changed. The room might have been bigger than the cupboard under the stairs, but it still felt like a hand-me-down, much like the clothes he wore.
His jaw clenched as he looked around. They had kept him in that cupboard for years, forcing him to sleep surrounded by brooms and cleaning supplies, while this perfectly functional room had always been available. The injustice of it all simmered under his skin. But Harry wasn't the same boy who had meekly accepted their treatment. No, things were different now. If the Dursleys thought they could continue to treat him like a second-class citizen, they were sorely mistaken. He had no intention of staying here longer than necessary.
Harry's thoughts turned to Sirius Black, his godfather, the one person who could offer him something resembling a real home. The man was in Azkaban, imprisoned for a crime Harry knew he hadn't truly committed. Yes, Sirius had killed Peter Pettigrew, but Harry now understood the context—it had been vengeance, not betrayal. Sirius had avenged James, his fallen brother in all but blood, and was now paying the price for it.
The thought of Sirius languishing in that hellish prison stirred something fierce in Harry's chest. Clearing his godfather's name became another task on his growing list of priorities. If he succeeded, perhaps he could finally have the father figure he'd always longed for—a protector, an ally, someone who truly cared for him. The image of Sirius standing beside him, free and smiling, was a beacon of hope that Harry clung to.
His mental list grew longer as he sank onto the lumpy bed, his green eyes hardening with determination. Hunt the Horcruxes. He already knew where they were; Voldemort's memories had seen to that. Build alliances, form an army, and create a network of influence in the wizarding world. He needed to be strategic, to fight with intelligence rather than brute force. Taking down Death Eaters couldn't be about blind revenge—it had to send a message. Voldemort's followers had to see their master as fallible, someone who could be beaten.
Then there was the basilisk at Hogwarts, a creature Harry now understood wasn't the mindless monster it had been made out to be. The serpent had been used by Voldemort, manipulated into committing murders, and Hagrid had paid the price for its actions. Harry's memories confirmed that Tom Riddle had framed Hagrid for Myrtle's death all those years ago. Exonerating Hagrid became another item on Harry's to-do list. He owed the kind-hearted giant that much.
It was going to be a busy year at Hogwarts, no doubt about that, but Harry found himself looking forward to it. He thrived on purpose, on having goals to achieve. The obstacles ahead didn't intimidate him—they fueled his resolve.
But for now, there was a more immediate task: his visit to Azkaban. The thought of seeing Sirius, of speaking to him face-to-face, filled Harry with equal parts anticipation and trepidation. He would need to tread carefully, to present his case in a way that might offer Sirius some hope. And perhaps, in doing so, Harry could begin to piece together the semblance of a family he had always yearned for.
The sun dipped lower outside the window, casting the room in a warm, golden light. Harry's resolve solidified as he prepared for the challenges ahead.