A suit and a cowl later, Harry entered Gringotts.
He went straight to the nearest teller with the shortest line, handing over the Gringotts summons without a word. The goblin at the counter whistled, summoning another goblin who quickly approached. He took the letter and motioned for Harry to follow.
They passed through an intimidating set of arches, which cleverly concealed a grand set of doors that almost blended with the walls. The goblin paused, tapping the door in a precise pattern.
"Ga-ru-duk," the voice from within growled.
The teller gestured for Harry to enter. Inside, the floor was a maze of intricate glasswork, with strong, clean lines that soared to the ceiling. In front of him was a large dais with a counter nearly as tall as he was. Seated upon the dais was the tallest goblin Harry had ever seen. He was not nearly as tall as Harry, but for a goblin, he was enormous. His muscles strained as he grimaced, and beady eyes stared at Harry without blinking.
The teller bowed deeply before him.
"Kenya-ma'na pottaa gildese akv gerds krain grim jumg," the goblin muttered, placing an envelope before the tall figure and leaving Harry standing there alone.
Harry swallowed hard. You are a Gryffindor, Harry. You can do this.
"Hello, I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you," Harry said, trying to muster a semblance of courage.
If anything, the goblin scowled even harder.
"Sharphook," the goblin replied, and with a jab of his finger, he directed Harry toward a corner where seats were allocated.
"Uh, thank you," Harry responded quietly, feeling increasingly out of his depth.
He wasn't sure what to expect from an old man's will, and the situation had been so abrupt. His decision to run had been impulsive, born from a simmering anger, but that didn't mean he'd willingly go back there, to that house… to bury his thoughts, his feelings. He'd always managed to find himself in heroic adventures—albeit terrifying ones—but this time… Cedric had died. A life had been lost.
The innocence he had clung to for so long seemed torn. He couldn't see magic in the same light, not like Hermione or Ron could. Not anymore.
"Hadrian Jameson Charles Potter," a deep voice growled.
Harry jumped, having been lost in his thoughts.
"Sorry?" he mumbled, shaking his head in embarrassment.
"Come, Potter," the goblin—Sharphook, he assumed—grimaced and beckoned Harry toward an unassuming set of doors.
Behind the doors waited another goblin. This one was the most scarred goblin Harry had ever seen. His face was ravaged, and the snarling mouth displayed an impressive set of sharpened teeth. Harry did his best not to stare, not wanting to appear rude, but that would be his luck, wouldn't it?
Below the dais, a plaque read: Grimjaw - Black Accounts. Simple and to the point.
"As you've likely realised by now, Mr. Potter," Grimjaw began with a grim voice, "I am in charge of the Black accounts. On behalf of my deceased client, Arcturus Black, you were summoned here. Before you ask any questions, however…" The goblin passed a letter to Harry.
Just as his fingers brushed against the envelope, Harry felt a sharp tug in his navel. Before he could react, he was promptly portkeyed out of the room.
The last sound he heard before his vision went black was the eerie laughter of the goblins.
When his vision returned, Harry was in a different place. It was an old manor, its charcoal walls lined with Greek pillars. The room he found himself in seemed to be an annex to an immense library. To his left was a peculiar device—an oddly shaped basin covered in runes Harry barely recognised.
Before he could inspect it further, a vial filled with clear, viscous fluid shimmered into view. It floated gently over the basin and dropped inside with a faint chime. A halo of light flickered, and smoke began to swirl, forming into a figure—a man with sharp grey eyes.
Harry felt a strange sense of unease, his mind slowly snapping into focus. Somewhere between cooking his best friend's owl and blindly trusting goblins (despite knowing everything in History of Magic pointed to not trusting them), Harry became painfully aware: he was not in control.
The magic surrounding him was invasive. He writhed on the floor, every vestige of him torn apart as he felt his very soul laid bare. There was nothing he could do about it—no spell, no counter-curse—he was helpless before whatever this magic was.
He regretted not being prepared for something like this. And he regretted a whole lot more as time passed, but it was all for nothing.
A few hours later, when Harry finally awoke, he realized the full extent of what had transpired. The person lying unconscious beside him… he, too, was as much Black as he was Potter. And in a more unsettling twist of fate, he was just as much Arcturus Black as Harry was.