Chapter 2

When Harry awoke the next morning he was feeling refreshed and better than he had in a long

time. It took him a moment to realize where he was. He was lying in a soft and comfortable bed.

This was hardly the norm for the summer months. He was used to his lumpy mattress in

Dudley's second bedroom, which was always cold or humid and stuffy.

Comfort was completely foreign at the Dursleys. Until he came to Hogwarts, he never had his

own bed and never slept in luxury. He'd used a child's cot in his cupboard and then a rickety old

bed in Dudley's second bedroom that has mainly been used for old toys. The bed at The Three

Broomsticks was as good as the one at Hogwarts, probably using magic to help its occupant

drift off to sleep.

Once he realized where he was, Harry jumped out of bed and rushed into the adjoining

washroom to take advantage of another luxury-his own shower. Since he was not allowed hot

water or long showers with his relatives and it was not easy to find time for them in a crowded

shared lavatory in a boys' dorm, the chance to clean off the grime from days of yard work

seemed like absolute bliss. Harry was not any more obsessed with cleanliness than the next

bloke, but even he was tired of having dirt caked on his sunburnt skin.

There was not much to be done about his clothes for now though. He had his Hogwarts

uniforms and Dudley's castoffs, all of which were wrinkled, covered in mud and grass, stains,

and holes. This along with the fact that they were many sizes too large for him made them

uncomfortable to wear at the best of times, but he was afraid they would just make him stand

out all the more in the wizarding world. He had slept in an old t-shirt, which fit him like a

nightshirt because it went to his knees.

Harry had seen other kids with catalogs from the stores in Diagon Alley but he had never bought

clothing from there before. The first year Hagrid had led him in only buying what was on the

school list and the second year Molly Measley had bought his school things, with Harry's funds

of course. At school, he had his uniforms but for the first time, it seemed inadequate. Harry dug

around in his trunk for a spare bit of parchment and a broken quill and wrote a request for a

catalog from Madam Malkin. He handed it to Hedwig and she flew out the open window.

When Hedwig returned a few minutes later, she had a magical catalog. Harry had seen them a

few times. They were made from parchment, but colorful. The pictures in them moved like in all

wizard photographs. He was instructed to tap his wand to the item he wanted and say the size

and color. Hia magical signature would be recorded, and his vault and Gringotts would be

drafted to pay. Harry was tempted to order a whole new wardrobe, but since he had never

received an accounting of how much gold he had, he restrained himself and ordered two robes

and a pair of boots. The catalog said they would resize it to fit.

Skeptical, Harry sat and waited, and after mere moments a velvet box appeared with the shop's

logo emblazoned on the lid. Harry removed the lid and tried on one of the robes. It was large,

but quickly shrunk to a perfect fit. Grinning, he took out the boots but looked down at the holes

in his socks before he put them on. He turned back to the catalog and flipped through until he

found the socks, and ordered three pairs. They popped into the box in moments. They were

smooth and soft to the touch. As soon as he put them on with the boots, he felt like a wizard.

Now Harry had another matter to attend to. According to Fudge, his room had been paid for by

a mysterious benefactor. Harry had spent two years learning not to trust everyone in the

wizarding world. He decided that the first thing to do was to go to the source of information,

which seemed to be Gringotts Bank itself.

Taking one of his last pieces of parchment from his ramshackle trunk, Harry scribbled a letter to

give to Hedwig. He would miss her company, but it had to be done. If he was not going to trust

anyone, he had to decide who to trust first.

"Here girl, give this to Ron, quick as you can," he told the owl, stroking her feathers.

Feeling a sense of loss as Hedwig dove out the open window, Harry stood there for a while

before he left for the bank. Many things had changed since he first came to the wizarding world,

but Hedwig was still his friend. She had been his first friend, and even though she was not

human he felt a connection to her. He did not really understand what that meant because no

one had really explained to him about wizards and familiars. It was a connection he knew he felt

though.

Dressed like a wizard, Harry walked across Diagon Alley into Gringotts. Alone, the place gave

him a creepy feeling. Harry was used to having to fend for himself. He had a feeling this

mysterious guardian who had paid for his room was Professor Dumbledore, and half expected

the elderly headmaster to appear at any time to explain what was going on.

Although Harry had looked upon the older wizard as a Merlin-like grandfatherly presence in his

life at first, he was beginning to question that lately. There were too many unanswered

questions. Harry knew that he had been left with his aunt and uncle when he was a baby and

that Voldemort had killed his parents. His meeting with the shade of Voldemort at the end of last

year had been unsettling, to say the least. It had left him with more questions than answers.

That and the fact that Dumbledore had repeatedly refused to let him stay at school during the

summer and insisted he return to the protection of his non-magical family made Harry doubtful.

This family, as far as Harry could tell, was no protection at all. They had hated Harry for as long

as he could remember and they hated magic more. Why should he stay with them? What

protection did this house and his mother's family give him that he could not get somewhere

else? Harry was going to look into it. He was no longer taking Dumbledore's word for it. If there

was another way to keep this protection, Harry was going to find it.

Besides, as far as Harry was concerned his aunt might have taken him in but she had just cast

him out. If that was what the protection depended on, he probably did not have it anymore. He

was a sitting duck. He had always fended for himself and he could keep doing that.

With this newfound resolve deep inside him, Harry walked into the bank and up to the counter.

"I'd like to speak to my account manager, please," he said, in as clear a voice as he could

manage.

The goblin behind the counter peered down at him. "Do you have your key?"

"Yes," Harry held it up.

The goblin nodded and stepped down, then walked behind the counter. Harry followed him on

the other side. He stayed put as the goblin talked to another one, who disappeared down a long

hallway and then returned with a goblin Harry recognized from his first time in the bank.

"I am Griphook," he said. "You have your key, Mr. Potter?"

Harry nodded and held it up for inspection. The goblin waved him back and Harry followed him

down the long hallway into a small room about as big as a cubicle. Griphook closed the door.

"How can we help you, Mr. Potter?" Griphook asked. "You did not come to access your vault?"

"No," Harry shook his head. "I have a lot of questions. About me. About my family. No one has

ever told me anything. I want to know about my parents. Did they leave a will? Who is my legal

guardian? Do my Muggle relatives have custody of me? Who has access to my vault? How

much money do I have?"

Harry realized he had been running off with questions so he stopped. Griphook's expression

had never changed. Harry had a sinking feeling he was never going to get an answer to any of

them. Maybe he had come to the wrong place. Maybe there were no answers to be had.

"Why have you never asked these questions before?" Griphook finally asked.

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "There wasn't time. I was always being watched. I have never

had a chance to come here alone." He paused. "Or I guess I never tried."

The goblin made a sound that might have been disgust or humor.

"I'm here now," Harry said. "And I want to know."

"Your key is your proof of identity," the goblin continued, "I am your account manager. Your

parents' will was filed with Gringotts but never read because it was sealed. I can bring you

statements of the trust accounts and your heir accounts."

"Sealed?" Harry demanded. "Why was it sealed?" For some reason, nothing had penetrated his

brain as much as that information.

Griphook did not respond.

"Who sealed it?" Harry asked.

"That information is not in our records," Griphook responded carefully. "It was done by wizards."

Puzzled and irritated and getting nowhere, Harry asked, "How do I get a copy of the will?"

Griphook's expression changed, and Harry thought he almost looked pleased. "There is one in

the Potter vault."

"Oh," Harry thought that seemed simple enough. "Good. I would like to read it then."

Griphook seemed to shrug. He snapped his fingers and a roll of parchment appeared in front of

Harry. Harry almost expected it to be dusty or look aged, but it was perfect. He stared at it. This

was his parents' will. He had wanted to know what was in this for a long time. Now that it was in

front of him, he seemed afraid to touch it.

"Tap it with your wand," Griphook said.

Harry did so. The parchment unfurled and hovered in the air in front of him and suddenly he

could hear his parent's voices, one at a time.

"This is the last will and testament of James Potter …

… and Lily Potter …"

As the voices continued, Harry was lost. He had seen his parents in photographs and in the

Mirror of Erised, but he never thought he would hear their voices again. He thought he could

almost remember them, from that time when he had been a baby. It was such a fleeting

memory.

The will began with a list of small bequeaths mostly to people Harry had not heard of. He

thought one name, Sirius Black, sounded familiar. It could not be the same person from the

newspapers. Harry had been surprised to see the man's face in both muggle and wizard media

reports as an escaped prisoner. How could it be possible that his parents had not only known

him but known him well enough to leave him something?

"And finally, we leave the remainder of our estate, vaults, and property, to our son and sole heir

Harry James Potter. Custody of our heir must go to his godfather, Sirius Black …"

"What?" Harry cried. "I have a godfather? And he's an escaped prisoner?"

"Continue listening," Griphook said calmly.

"Harry's mind was reeling and he barely heard the will continue saying that under no

circumstances should Harry go to the custody of Petunia Dursley. There were other details but

Harry was numb."

"He's a felon," Harry said. "I couldn't have gone to him anyway if he was in prison."

"He is not now," Griphook pointed out.

"Well, no," Harry said. "But what happened to him? What did he do?"

"It is wizard business," Griphook scoffed. "But know this. Just because he went to prison does

not mean that he belonged there."

Harry stared at him. His mind was reeling from the new information. Obviously, Griphook knew

more than he was letting on.

"Where is he now?" Harry demanded. "If he is innocent, why is he on the run?"

"Tell me, young Mr. Potter," Griphook said slowly. "What do you know of wizard justice?"

"Oh," Harry said, thinking back to Hagrid and last year when he had been hauled off to Azkaban

just because it looked bad that there was no suspect. And before that, when Riddle had framed

him so easily and gotten him expelled.

"I see you have some experience with it," Griphook said.

"So if Sirius Black is my guardian, how do I contact him?" Harry asked. "He's on the run!"

Griphook said nothing.

"He's been in contact with the bank," Harry said. "He must have been. He has access to his

accounts if he was able to pay my bill at the Leaky Cauldron. You have to get in touch with him

for me!"

"Mr. Potter, are you sure that you want to get in contact with him?" Griphook asked calmly. "After

all, he could be dangerous."

"I don't think so," Harry said. "My parents would not have trusted him if he was dangerous. At

this point, I can either trust my parents or someone like Cornelius Fudge. I think I know who

better to trust."