Chapter 3: Chapter 2

Summary:

a letter can't hurt you, right?

Notes:

"how did it end?" by Taylor Swift was the song I listened to most while writing this chapter. Discretion is advised

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Harry hadn't been able to open that crimson envelope for hours. And around dinner time it had begun to bother him, curiosity strangely eating him from the inside.

He was a very patient boy.

He had once, on his first week ever of elementary, waited for Uncle Vernon to pick him up from his first and only extracurricular activity that his school offered. One of his teachers had realised that he could carry a tune while they were in class, before Dudley and his friends could swoop in and ruin everything like they always did, and she had signed him up for the school choir on the spot, commenting that maybe a place where he could meet different children would do him some good, so his day had ran a bit longer than Dudley's. But the bigger boy could not wait up for the extra hour the activity took, nor was he signed up for anything else, so Uncle Vernon had come and picked him up on time, promising the choir teacher he'd swing by later to "get the rascal, not that he really deserves the trip."

In the end, Harry had patiently waited for four hours, learning to read music and finding out that it was a fun thing to know and do, especially when he pressed the piano keys and a different sound came out of each. And his uncle came to pick him up only after the fifth call from his teacher, and even then only after she had threatened to call child services.

Needless to say, he never had another extracurricular and, when it was Dudley's turn to stay longer at the school, he took to waiting equally patiently, engrossing himself in work and books and trying to avoid his cousin's gang, never truly fancying spending time with them, even without their ringleader.

Harry had tried to ask what these "child services" were, already imagining wielding the all-powerful weapon that had made his uncle come around and, for a few fleeting days, made things run smoothly in their household and made them treat him slightly better, but Aunt Petunia had just shut him up with a hard look and a backhanded smack for his "insolence", which in turn made Harry stop asking.

Moral of the story, though, was that Harry was very patient.

Too patient sometimes.

He was also very good at secrecy, used to sneaking food in his cupboard, saving it for a "rainy day" as adults called them, and used to be around unnoticed and unheard and generally invisible. He preferred it that way, since he would be used as target practice or as a punching bag whenever he was seen, especially if he wasn't supposed to be seen.

Hiding a letter from his relatives and waiting until it was safe to read it was not a hard task. A hard task was trying to stop himself from crying inside of his cupboard while in pain, or making himself smaller than he already was to be ignored, or even cleaning the entire house spotlessly while still being told it wasn't clean enough.

Compared to his daily life, it truly was nothing.

But the curiosity was taking hold of him the longer he waited and suddenly he couldn't any longer.

The whole ordeal had been curious, which piqued his interest in a way things he couldn't understand did. Then there was the fact that the whole thing had felt like sparks and fresh air and, weirdly, happiness. And then there was the tiny detail of it all happening on his birthday.

Nothing ever happened on his birthday.

Especially nothing good.

Dudley's had been just over a month prior to his and, as always, it had been a huge spectacle. His relatives had organised a party and invited all the members of his gang and they all enjoyed some good "Harry Hunting" before diving into the food and presents. Harry had even gotten a tiny piece of cake, but that was mainly due to the fact that one of the other parents thought it curious for him to not have any, so Aunt Petunia just shoved a paper plate into his hands and commented that he was a "fussy picky eater who will eat nothing I provide, I swear I'm at my wits end trying to find something he'll eat, so not as well behaved as my Dudders dear!"

Never mind that Harry had quite literally eaten out of the bin on multiple occasions while "Dudders dear" had tossed an entire meal out of the window because he had burnt his tongue on hot food despite his parents' reminders that the food was, indeed, very hot.

Harry wasn't very certain Aunt Petunia knew what a picky eater was, but he knew better than to correct her, especially in front of others. Besides, she had allowed him to eat the cake, while Uncle Vernon would have probably said something to prevent him from even touching a single plastic plate.

Regardless, during Harry's seventh birthday, just like the previous 5 ones he had celebrated in the Dursley household, nothing of the sort had happened. He had not received a single gift, he had not gotten a cake, he had not had his friends around. Perhaps the last one was for the best, since he did not have friends to begin with. He had also not been told "Happy birthday!" a single time, nor a single "Good job!" when he presented breakfast, lunch and then dinner to his relatives, nor when he did all his chores and polished the entire house like he was told to.

If anything, Uncle Vernon had been disappointed with his omelettes and had tossed him around like a ragdoll.

All he had gotten was a weird and curious letter.

And several more bruises to add to his collection, but he didn't want to count those as "things he had received" and more along the lines of "things he suffered in silence from".

So when the day was over and he had been locked into his cupboard for the night, finally free from Dudley's vexing and Aunt Petunia's disdain and Uncle Vernon's punishments, that was when he finally took the crimson envelope out.

The poor thing was no longer crisply new, but rather crumpled and quite sad, and Harry could relate to it.

The various feelings that the letter radiated had not dimmed in the slightest. In fact, the rush of importance that came from it had amplified somewhere between him cleaning the kitchen after lunch and beginning to mop the living room floor, so much that it almost made him stop his chores just to read it.

But he held on tight to his schedule, biting his cheek to avoid being distracted by the sudden emotion, knowing that changes were not good unless they were approved. And, even then, they might not be good, for his relatives could change their minds at each and every moment, while he should stick to what he was allowed and not complain.

For he should be grateful for all he was allowed.

But, in the safety and comfort of his tiny cupboard, he could do all he wanted.

It was his kingdom, his reign, his space.

Aunt Petunia did not pry inside, twisting her nose at the sight of the dingy room. Uncle Vernon could not fit into the door, yelling at him to come out instead. Dudley too didn't really fit and he too twisted his nose at everything "Harry", having taken the worst out of his parents.

And Harry was just glad for the tiny little sliver of privacy.

Gingerly and gently, he ran his fingers over the precise letters, still wondering what they meant and who they came from. He wondered if inside he would find an answer to the thousand questions that swirled around his head, an explanation to all the whys and hows he had. He wondered why everything about the envelope felt fresh and sparkling, and kind yet brutal.

He pried the seal open, careful not to tear it in the slightest. Even if it was only an envelope, it was still the fanciest thing he had ever held, so he was treating it as the treasure it was, at least in his eyes.

Dudley would have probably torn it to bits if he had found it, whether or not Harry's name was etched on it.

Inside, surprisingly, was a letter.

Harry could consider himself shocked, truly.

If his headmaster could read his thoughts, he would definitely be berated for being "too sarcastic, young man, it is entirely unbecoming and such a vile trait!" If Uncle Vernon could hear his thoughts, he would definitely punish him for being a brat and impertinent and a waste of space.

Once, Aunt Petunia had heard one of his sarcastic remarks, made when he thought he was alone and unheard, and she had stopped in her tracks, mentioning with a broken voice how it must have been genetic, the way he was disrespectful, since his "poor excuse of a father" was always disrespectful as well.

It had probably been the only time she had mentioned his dad alone and unprompted. And without saying something too unkind, since he could hear the faint hints of sadness inside her voice as she spoke.

The letter was in the same crimson colour as the envelope, feeling thick and powerful and strict and purposeful. The ink was the same as the outside, with neat strokes of what he would assume to be a fountain pen.

He ran his hands through the letters before reading them, swirling images of pipe smoke and grey feathers appearing in his mind as he did so.

And then, with his eyes seeing far beyond the little space of his cupboard, far beyond the completely normal neighbourhood he was forced to live in, he began reading.

Heir Potter,

I write to you on behalf of the Great Goblin Nation and on business from our Bank, Gringotts, in its offices in London.

I, General Rotgard Longsword of the Silverfang Clan, Master Goblin of the Office for Hereditary Affairs, request your presence to discuss matters of importance regarding your status and title, which are improperly held by others, as well as the matter of your Vaults and Inheritance.

Our Office, as the name explains, deals with those sorts of familial affairs, with the stipulation of wills and the delivery of inheritances, as well as Heirships and Lordships procedures. We dwell in family businesses and have recently expanded our repertoire, offering Heirs the proper tools to streamline their ascensions to Lords as well as offering Lords encouragement and support in their affairs in the Ministry.

Since you have come of age to accept your Heirship, I have taken the liberty of already addressing you with the title, given you are, unfortunately, the last of your line. Although we shall see if the familial magic accepts you as its Heir and, eventually once you come of age and reach magical maturity, Lord, but I am certain we shall not have issues regarding it. After all, the Potter Line has always been strong.

An Inheritance Test will clear everything and will take place in my offices with the standard pricing of 17 galleons. Anything else you might require during your visit will be added to the bill.

I will be expecting you and your magical guardian to arrive at the Bank either Monday or Wednesday, between the hours of 15 and 17.

If you or your magical guardian are unable to attend on these dates, I suggest you send an owl to communicate a different arrangement, and I will try to accommodate it.

Once you reach our Bank, you shall simply show this letter to any teller and they will direct you and your magical guardian to my office without issues.

If an issue does arise, you should feel free to acknowledge it in front of me and I shall try to resolve it with haste. After all, it would be a bad omen to start our partnerships on the wrong side of a wand, as you wixen tend to say.

Once you arrive, we shall conduct several tests to confirm your identity, as I am certain you understand the weariness around your name, and as it is Gringotts' procedure. Everyone can access a key, you must understand.

I am faithful we could start a very productive partnership between yourself, or your eventual proxy, and the Goblin Nation, in the form of the Gringotts Bank. Your ancestors certainly did, and we Goblins are truly ecstatic at the prospect of working with such an esteemed member of your society again.

I shall see you before the end of the week, Heir Potter.

And, as such, I bid you Farewell.

Rothard Longsword of the Silverfang Clan

Master Goblin of the Office for Hereditary Affairs and General of the Goblin Armies

Harry reread the letter three times, straining his eyes in the faint light his tiny and broken lightbulb gave him.

Singularly, he could understand each word, even if a few were a bit hard and technically out of his reading age, but he had been far out of what the school believed to be his reading age for a while. The librarians had even stopped batting their eyes whenever he read something that was deemed "too grown-up for you, it doesn't even have pictures!"

Together, each sentence and then the entire letter, they made no sense whatsoever.

There was again the whole "Heir" thing, which was insane on many levels. He definitely would have to research it in the library as soon as he got the chance, simply because it would bug him forever if he didn't. The "Lordship" part was equally mindboggling. Lords were nobles and, as far as Harry was concerned, neither he nor his relatives had any "blue blood" in them. They wouldn't be stuck living in Little Winging of all places if they were! "Productive partnership" and "Weariness around your name" were the craziest combination of words that he had ever read, and he had read his fair share of crazy combinations.

In addition with having to bring his "magical guardian", that was the last straw that broke the camel's back.

His relatives were fervently adamant that magic did not exist and Uncle Vernon had beat that word out of his vocabulary years ago. And he doubted he would have liked to bring his guardians anywhere, especially if it was around goblins, even if wasn't sure they were real or simply an added bonus to the cruel joke that had just taken place.

Because that was the only logical and realistic conclusion.

The entire ordeal had not been a figment of his imagination, the feelings he had felt were too powerful for having only dreamed of them all and the letter was a very real and heavy thing in his hands. But it had to be a very, very, very cruel joke that was being pulled on him.

Someone, somewhere, for he did not believe Dudley and his gang to be intelligent enough to pull off something like that and for Uncle Vernon was too busy to even pay him any real mind outside from when he stood in front of him and for Aunt Petunia was too disgusted by him and too dull to do anything as remotely creative as the letter, not to mention armouring a hawk of all things, someone had to have pulled a terribly mean prank on him.

There was no other explanation.

Someone in the world had to hate Harry just enough to get his hopes up high, on his birthday nonetheless, and shatter them down with empty words that would earn him severe punishments if he did share them with his guardians.

It didn't matter that a surreal hawk had delivered them, it didn't matter if the envelope and paper felt true and real and magic. It didn't matter how much he wanted to believe the whole thing to be true.

It was a prank.

It had to be.

So he did what every logical being would have done: stuffed the letter back into its envelope and hid it behind his meagre possessions, deciding it wasn't worth letting his tiny heart break over it.

And he was going to keep it instead of throwing it away because it didn't really matter the level of cruelness that the joke had reached, since it was the fanciest thing Harry had ever received regardless. Not to mention, the only thing in his possession that had his full name written on it, even if the "Heir" and "James" parts were still a big mystery to him.

And if there was a very tiny part of his brain that told him that it might be real and that he should hold onto it, then that was just the wishful thinking of a child who desperately trying not to be disappointed.

Nevertheless, trying to shove down his emotions and trying not to feel lost, Harry laid down on his worn mattress, feeling the springs poke into his side as he cuddled himself to sleep, and he tried to swallow down the immense wave of sadness that washed over him.

It was a cruel prank.

And Harry hated to be the butt of the joke