Chapter 7: Chapter 6
Summary:
the long, long awaited Inheritance Test
Notes:
and by long i mean that it took me two days to edit and it's 12k words. ENJOY!
also the hawk has they them pronouns because i said so and Fuck JKR you stupid terf i loathe that you wrote one of my favourite stories of all time and I am taking said story back it's mine now i shall save little Harry from the revolting muggles as many times as i can
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
If it hadn't been for the hawk, Harry would have probably panicked much more than he already was, and much earlier as well, but the soft scratching on his scalp was soothing and pulled him out of his musings.
So, instead of spiralling and worrying about every possible little thing that could go wrong, and historically things always went wrong with him and there were too many things that could go very wrong indeed and would cause him to be sent back to Privet Drive where things would be even worse and wasn't that a can of worms he wanted to stay 20 meters away from; instead of all that, Harry just focused on the rhythmic sound of his hair being teased by the hawk's beak, silently wishing he knew their name to properly thank them.
If it hadn't been for their and Rotgard's insistence he'd still be stuck in the middle of Aunt Petunia's kitchen, after all.
Suddenly, the door handle turned just after a minute or so, even if Harry's mind had raced faster than his heart and he had already thought about all the different ways he could be kicked out of the bank and the magical world he had just discovered, vowing to himself to do everything right to fit in and remain there.
The hawk immediately flew inside in a fluttery of wings and shiny armour and Mr Anouk had to duck down a bit to avoid the collision with the impatient bird.
He then smiled kindly at Harry and motioned for him to enter.
And, closing his eyes and gathering a deep breath, he did.
"Heir Potter, I am duty bound to introduce you formally to Master Silverfang Longsword, European War General of the Great Goblin Nation," the guard said once he was in the room, bowing his head deeply and tapping his spear soundly on the floor, before leaving quietly, shutting the door behind himself.
And then there were three.
Harry, with his borrowed rucksack and his hair askew and his rumpled clothes. The hawk, perched regally and casually munching on some snacks. And Master Silverfang Longsword, the man responsible for upturning Harry's life, hopefully for the better.
The goblin in question was seated behind a massive desk that was easily the fanciest and most expensive thing he had ever been around, even when he couldn't see the tiny details properly, and was looking at Harry with a curious gleam in his dark eyes, hidden away by round glasses. He appeared much older than Mr Anouk had, with his white hair and knobbly hands, but there was a much more powerful aura around him.
Harry could hear the whispers of battles and blood that rolled off of him, getting the confirmation he needed that this was indeed the same goblin
that had written to him.
He felt just like the ink in the letter had.
Harry was at a loss.
He had thought deep and hard about what would have happened once he finally met the goblin, but in that moment he had completely forgotten all his speeches and plans to make a good impression.
One thing was imagining something happening, creating an idea inside one's mind and planning for contingencies.
Another was it actually happening.
Harry had spent his entire life wishing upon wells and never getting them granted. It was a lot to take in.
Looking at the goblin, Harry realised he did not know how to introduce himself properly or what to say to the man who was responsible for sending him the letters that had opened his eyes to the truth and for taking him away from Privet Drive in such a swift move. There was nothing like that in the books he had read. He even had no idea what the gestures and the bowing and the spear tapped on the floor had meant.
Not that he had a spear to tap on the floor. Which, probably, was a good thing, since he thought the goblins might have been a bit upset if he had brought a weapon with him inside their bank.
But it would feel incredibly rude to remain speechless, with his mouth agape like a dumb fish, so he took a deep breath and put his fist to his heart like he had done with Mr Anouk and bowed as deeply as he could, trying not to get toppled by the rucksack.
"I am Harry Potter, sir," he said quietly as he straightened, adjusting the straps on his back as his cheeks heated up under the scrutiny. He really, really, really wanted to make a great first impression on the General. He might have already messed up with the letters, he reasoned bitterly, so he had to try extra hard to succeed.
"Well, Harrison James Potter, apparently" he added, trying to sound certain and proper, once the man kept silently looking at him, not enjoying the quiet for the first time in his life, "but I don't really know about that part. I've always been just Harry."
He did not want to add how he had never been "Just Harry", since he didn't know his own name for the longest time, believing it to be either "boy" or "freak" or a combination of both. He didn't think the man who radiated such a powerful energy would appreciate the way his relatives had treated him, after all, and they had other and more important things to talk about.
Still, he would have rather not thought about the Dursleys, nor speak about them. Not if he could help it.
"I am honoured to meet you, General Silverfang Longsword, sir," he finished, bowing once again for good measure.
He didn't know if there was such a thing as "excessive bowing" and swore then and there to swallow an etiquette manual once he was done at the bank. If the way he had been addressed in the letters was correct, there might be a bit more propriety in his future and it was always a good thing to be prepared.
He really hoped he had done everything right, though, and hadn't offended the General, who was still staring silently at him.
Yet his eyes were kind, his posture was relaxed, and he had a small smile on his face, which did put Harry at ease, despite the number of scars visible on the General's face and arms. Which Harry did not stare at or focus on, since he knew firsthand how painful and embarrassing it was to be gawked at for one's scarring.
What he did search for, though, was the man's attitude: despite his calm stance, Harry could feel a storm brewing under his skin, or at least that was what felt like, and he wasn't sure if it was aimed towards him or not.
Not that it mattered, he always knew to expect the worst and he knew better than to be fooled by pleasantries and kind appearances.
More than once Dudley had tried to play nice with him, only to then hurt him worse than usual, setting a new record for his cruelty.
Finally, the General spoke, seemingly satisfied with what he had witnessed: "Heir Potter, well met," he said, his voice gravelly and somehow thick with relief. At what, Harry didn't know. "Would you like to sit?" he asked after another moment of silence, watching Harry expectantly and curiously.
Which made sense, even in his slightly panicked mind, since he had remained rooted on the spot by the door and had no idea of what to do.
The problem was that, even if he wanted to sit, he felt a bit embarrassed.
The chair in front of the desk, if it could be called a chair and not an absolute masterpiece of art and crafting, was probably the most inviting piece of furniture he had ever seen. But it was probably the most expensive one as well. It was made of dark wood inlaid with golden details and had blood-red cushions that seemed comfortable beyond imagination, even more comfortable than the mattress Aunt Petunia had bought for Dudley a few months before, since he had purposefully spilt juice all over his old one and had thrown a tantrum at the prospect of not getting something newer, and was claimed to be "the epitome of comfort".
Harry had sat on top of it once only, when he was cleaning Dudley's room as he was out playing with his friends, and he had to agree with the advertisement: it was like staying amongst the clouds indeed.
And the chair the General was offering him seemed to be even more so!
But he wasn't exactly used to chairs in general.
At school, of course, he sat on them, even if they had old ones made of wood that were very sturdy and uncomfortable and that Harry always fidgeted on top of, getting reprimanded often for his constant moving yet unable to stay still.
But, other than there, he wasn't used to using them.
Aunt Petunia always shrieked at him whenever he touched one of her precious chairs to reach the high shelves. And Uncle Vernon would always hit him whenever he tried to sit at the dinner table, even if that was more about the audacity of believing he was allowed to dine at their fancy table, even when he cooked all their food, than it was about the arrangement of the furniture.
The only exception, really, was when Aunt Marge visited and forced him at the table. For some reason, she wanted him there with them all, even if it was just to easily insult him in close proximity, with no escape, or to force him to give his own food away to Dudley or, even worse, to one of her demonic dogs. On those occasions, he had to dig out the old and broken chair that was relegated to the attic, with one of its legs torn in half and barely standing.
Harry was lucky he didn't weigh as much as Dudley, otherwise the old wood would have broken under his bum. Which in hindsight would have probably been better, given the alternative was remaining at their fancy dinner table, unable to eat and targeted by their remarks.
Therefore, Harry felt overall ashamed to even look at the chair, even with his nicest clothes on.
He couldn't even begin to comprehend what the punishment would have been if he even did so much as dirtied it.
And, if Uncle Vernon was to be believed, he ruined everything he touched.
But the General had a kind smile on his face and pointed encouragingly to the chair, even if it could not be called a chair and instead be considered a full throne with how beautiful it was, so Harry gathered his courage and did as he was told.
"Thank you, sir," he whispered as he tried to will away the blush that was undoubtedly spreading on his face.
He knew the picture he was painting very well, the one of a smaller than normal freaky kid who was hyperactive and disrespectful, with his feet dangling in the air while avoiding eye contact. His headmaster had berated him about his lack of a proper posture more than once, but it never seemed to click naturally to him.
So, Harry tried to straighten his shoulders as best as he could and behave like the proper young man the goblin believed him to be. After all, if the letters were to be believed and Harry desperately wanted to believe them, he was some sort of nobility and he was used to playing the role of someone he was not, even if he usually used that ability to hide himself into corners and shadows, unseen.
He was also really good at pretending to be alright.
But the General didn't seem to truly buy his act.
His eyes softened in the way he had always seen grandparents do for their own grandchildren, whenever they skimmed their knees in the playground or complained about something as they walked around Little Winging, causing Harry's heart to ache. He had always watched those interactions from afar, with jealousy creeping up his spine.
"How are you doing, child?" he asked kindly, after squaring Harry up and down and giving him the idea that it was best not to lie nor omit anything.
Not that Harry was particularly fond of lies. More often than not he told the truth, but with time he had learnt that it made very little difference to most situations: if someone had already made their minds up about him, nothing he said could change that.
Omission, on the other hand…
"I am well, sir, thank you for asking," he said, rolling his shoulders and shoving down a wince of pain at the action.
It would have done him no good to show that he was anything less than fine. Dudley had a strict policy of "if you flinch, you get double," which he shared with his own father, so Harry was used to remaining as still as a salt statue, slowly crumbling at the edges yet unmoving at the same time.
Besides, it wasn't technically a lie after all: he was far, far away from Privet Drive, undiscovered and, if he played his cards right, might never have to return there.
He was more than well, actually.
He was ecstatic!
A fond smile appeared on the General's face as Harry perked up at the thought, and he seemed satisfied enough with his answer to change the topic of discussion.
He began fiddling with papers on his desk, sighing heavily at the sheer amount of them that cluttered the space, before grabbing Harry's missive. He ran his hands soothingly over the wood and tapped his fingers a couple of times to a rhythm Harry didn't know, before raising his eyes up at him again.
"I am certain you have many questions, Heir Potter."
"Harry's fine," he rushed to say, a bit uncomfortable with the knowledge that he might be something more than what he had always believed. His relatives had always tried to push him down, he was very well aware of that and tried not to resent them for it, but he had grown accustomed to being a nobody.
Suddenly under a spotlight, he couldn't help but want to hide.
And, if his gut was telling the truth, alongside the voice that begged to return home, even if that had never been his real home, the moment he left the bank he would not be able to blend into the shadows any longer.
So he tried to remain "Just Harry" a bit more, even if he had never been "Just Harry" to begin with.
"I… I do have questions," he added then, trying to sound resolute instead of tiny and scared.
He had dozens of questions. He had more questions the hawk had feathers and more questions the General had scars and more questions the Bank had gold, probably. The bank seemed to have a lot of gold, given that they could spare it to decorate their furniture and engrave their doors.
He had no idea where to start, though.
Magic was, apparently, very real indeed, and he did not want to sound stupid, or, worse, ungrateful, by asking about it. Goblins were also very, very real, since he was pretty sure he wasn't dreaming, and he did not want to offend the General, who had been so kind to him so far, by asking the wrong question. He had no idea who his parents were, didn't even know their first names in fact, so he couldn't directly ask about them, no matter how much he wanted to.
He had dozens of questions and could not ask a single one, either because he had no idea how to or because he was scared to do so.
The story of his life, truly.
The old General took pity on him with a single glance, undoubtedly reading Harry's silent panic that was probably written all over his face, and spoke up, breaking him out of his mental breakdown: "Why don't we start with answering the one you had in your letter, shall we?"
He couldn't help himself from nodding eagerly his assertion, causing the General to laugh softly with him, visibly pleased by his antics.
Harry was then startled by an absurd revelation, one that he was positive should have never come in the first place, if he was a normal person with normal circumstances: it was the first time since he had memory that someone had laughed with him and not at him.
It was a deeply unsettling thought, one that he shelved at the back of his head and decided he would ignore, either for now or forever.
"You inquired about my hawk," the General began, petting said bird who was perched proudly at arm's length, "His name is Beaky and I thank you for taking care of him for me."
The hawk, Beaky, then went to bite at their companion's finger with an indignant squawk, causing the man to lean conspiratorially over the desk and murmur: "Between me and you, he's got a bit of a temper."
Beaky retreated back, as if to disagree vehemently to the best of their abilities, and stared expectantly at Harry, as if he should do something.
What, exactly, he had no idea.
Instead, he just blushed a bit at the praise and hoped he wouldn't stutter and further embarrass himself. "It was nothing, truly. And they've been very polite so far with me, and patient I suppose. I'm really sorry for how upset they were after the travel, though. They didn't like it much, I think."
He suppressed the shiver that crept up his spine at the memory of the coin-induced journey. He hadn't liked it much either and, if he were to return back to Surrey with the same meaning, he would have rather walked all the way than taking that enchanted whirlpool once more.
If it truly was how a sock felt inside the washer, it was a good thing Aunt Petunia always made him handwash them, then.
"No, Portkey travelling is not entirely without its faults, I agree with you," the General laughed, finally putting a name to the coin. Knowing what it was called made it easier to avoid, Harry reasoned as the goblin in front of him stopped petting Beaky almost abruptly, looking between him and the hawk curiously: "They, you say?"
Beaky emitted a high squawk of approval, sounding happy and, for whatever reason, seen.
The General resumed his previous action of running his fingers over their feathers with a small smile on his face, before turning appreciatively to Harry once more. "I must thank you for informing me, otherwise I would have continued in my error," he said sincerely as the hawk nuzzled his fingers playfully, shooting Harry a look of gratitude, "At least now I know why they were constantly biting me. Could you discern if they like their current name or if they would change it? I am afraid I have grown quite accustomed to calling them that, given my grandson had named them that many years ago now."
Harry looked at the quite happy hawk, trying to figure out what was being asked of him. But he simply couldn't.
It wasn't like with snakes and reptiles, who replied earnestly and amused to his queries.
The ants that lived near Aunt Petunia's favourite bush had seemed to understand him when he asked them if they could please avoid destroying the roses and remain in the garden, instead of trekking into the kitchen, since he had disliked the smell of the poison Uncle Vernon had brought to get rid of the ones that had arrived inside and had then kept in the cupboard right by Harry's sleeping head. "In case the fumes cure you of your freakishness, boy," he had snared when he put the open box in there and had removed it only when Dudley had taken it to actively feed it to the stray cat that wasn't under Mrs Figg's domain.
The very same cats of Mrs Figg were probably amongst the most intelligent creatures in Privet Drive, since they always helped Harry find his way back when he was lost and would occasionally bring him little gifts when he was sad or hurt. But they too did not reply and quite often they didn't even listen to him, considering one of them broke into his Uncle's car and tore the seats apart with his claws after being expressively told not to retaliate on his behalf.
Harry stared intensely at the hawk, trying to understand why he had had the feeling of wrongness when the General had called them a "him" but came up with nothing.
Animals did listen to him, most of the time, and he could understand their intentions, often. But other than that, he was pretty much useless.
"I think Beaky suits them," he said, unwilling to share his defeat with the goblin who was already aiding him so much. Besides, it was true, in some way: the hawk had preened at the name, after all. "But I cannot hear the birds' replies when I talk to them, so I don't really know."
He had intended it to be an afterthought, not really something to be properly discussed. He was certain all the beings with magic could speak with the animals and he was just the poor idiot who couldn't do it properly. After all, in most storybooks lions and wolves and ravens and even dragons spoke.
Harry did not expect the General to look at him with wonder in his eyes.
"You can speak with other animals?"
The question had been spoken breathlessly, as if it was an impossible feat and a marvellous one at that.
But to Harry, it sounded like a normal thing that someone with magic could do.
"Well, I think so?" came an unsure reply, since Harry had no way of truly knowing where his imagination stopped and his apparent magic started. "I always speak with animals, I guess," he added, cutting himself off before he could say something more incriminating like "the cats from a few houses down bring me fruit when I tell them I haven't eaten in more than three days" or "there is a vicious squirrel at the park that always tosses acorns at my cousin's head when he is being a bully". Or, worse, "they keep me company because I am unwanted and no one will talk to me."
Some things were best remained unsaid, after all.
Eventually, he picked his train of thought back: "Not that they ever reply, but sometimes I feel like they can understand me and I them."
Then, he hesitated one moment more, gathering his courage to ask the question that had eaten him alive more than once: "I can talk freely with reptiles, though. Is that weird?"
He still remembered the only time he had told someone of his ability.
There was a little garden near the library at Little Winging.
He had spent so many days there, that he knew all of the flowers that grew outside as well as all the books that lived inside. One of the nicest librarians always asked if he wanted to help file books and fix the chairs and rewarded him with a bonbon for his effort, calling him a "fine and handsome young man," and he decided, one day, to pick some flowers for her.
There he had met Viridian, a tiny rattlesnake that was too young to be poisonous, or at least that was what she said. He had called her Viridian because her scales were an impossible shade of green and she, in return, called him Emerald, since that was the colour of his eyes. He still wasn't being called "Harry" at school and, by the time it started, Viridian had known him longer than the obnoxious teachers anyway, so he allowed her to continue calling him Emerald, because it made him feel all warm inside.
With time, as he grew bit by bit, so did she. And, after a few months, she was discovered by one of the not-so-nice librarians. The man had shrieked at the sight in front of him, of Harry-Emerald seated in between the bushes with a book in his hands, reading out loud to Viridian who was perched on his shoulders.
Animal control had been called immediately and Harry tried to explain to the grown-ups that she was not dangerous, that she had promised him she would never bite anyone, that she was his friend. But the adults did not care for the ramblings of a snotty child who was dressed in rags, and they took her away, since she was "too dangerous and poisonous".
The librarian sat him down inside with a mug of tea and told him, in no uncertain words, that while he might have developed a kinship with the snake, although "how you managed to it's insane, it was a rattlesnake, boy, they're really deadly!", there was no way they could have understood each other. "Just because you were hissing like a snake doesn't mean you speak snake, doesn't it?" the librarian had said with an extreme aura of superiority, looking at Harry as if he was just a stupid boy hellbent on wasting his precious time.
It would have made sense, he supposed, if only Harry was hissing when he spoke with Viridian. But, in truth, he was speaking rather plainly with her, in a way he had never been able to express himself at his relatives' or at school. He was speaking freely with her, that was the only difference he could think of, even if both of them had a bit of a lisp around the "s" sound, elongating it. But he had believed it to be her accent and he felt natural to copy her way of speaking.
So, he was speaking normally.
Only, the librarian believed him not to. And so did all the other grown-ups.
Uncle Vernon had swooped in and used the usual excuse, "He's got too much imagination for his own good, this wicked boy. Constantly with his head in the ruddy clouds, he is, and doesn't think proper. Between me and you, I've been asking the wife to have him checked, he's too weird to be normal and I don't want anything he's got to spread to my own little one." And, back at Privet Drive, Harry had been punished for causing such a ruckus and for attracting so much attention to his freakishness.
"Maybe that snake should've bitten you," he had said hauntingly after he was done as Harry struggled to get back up and into his cupboard, "we'd been rid of you, freak!"
From that day on, Harry kept his countless little conversations with all sorts of reptiles hidden.
He didn't know what had possessed him to admit one of his most coveted secrets to the General, but the words were out in the air with no way of taking them back.
And, while he mentally prepared to be shunned away and ridiculed and punished, the old goblin's face broke out in a blinding smile.
"Not at all, little one!" the General said happily, eyes shining with excitement, "It is a high honour to be able to do so, not everyone is capable of such innate magic. Unfortunately, here in Britain, there is quite the stigma around it, since the most recent Parsel speaker, that is the name of the language, Parseltongue, was a terrible individual. But in most parts of the world, it is a rare talent indeed. I believe in India and in East Asia it is more common, and you might find information about your ability there."
Harry was immediately taken aback by the reaction and the sheer amount of information he had just received.
He had been led to believe that he was either possessed by a demon or downright insane for his conversations with Viridian, and was actively labelled as "evil" by Dudley and his gang for being different. And there the General was, telling him it was a "high honour" and not something to be ashamed or afraid of.
He bit his cheek as hard as he could to refrain from doing something as idiotic as crying in front of the goblin who was being so kind to him, all too well aware that tears could be a sign of weakness and could easily get adults to be disgusted of him.
"You must be full of surprises!" the General exclaimed happily, writing something down on a piece of parchment paper with a long grey quill, "Tell me, do you have other talents?"
Harry was stumped once more.
He really couldn't think of anything he ever did that was worthwhile or could be considered a talent by the General. He was just an average kid who knew better than to expose himself or believe himself to be something he was not.
Yes, he was intelligent, but he always had to dumb himself down and hide his achievements, lest he got beaten at the hands of both father and son for the crime of better grades. Yes, he had occasionally made something appear out of thin air or float to him from time to time, or change things to suit his needs better, but he had just assumed it to be his imagination and, in a world where magic was very real, it wasn't something out of the ordinary anyway. Yes, he did manage to regrow his hair and fix his bones and heal his bruises all too quickly to be normal, but that was probably his freaky body's doing. Yes, he was sometimes able to gather the emotions of the people around him, but that was probably a defence mechanism, since an angry Uncle Vernon could be felt a mile way and was best to be left untouched.
All in all, he didn't believe himself to be special enough nor talented enough.
And so he told the General: "I don't know," he stammered out, trying not to cringe at how pathetic he sounded. If Dudley had been in his shoes, he would have talked himself up skyscrapers. But he wasn't Dudley and he really, really didn't want to be like him in the slightest. "I mean, I'm nothing special, am I? And if magic is real, which it is, I am certain it is now, then I'm probably average at best?"
The General gave him a long pensive look, almost as if Harry was a puzzle he was having a hard time understanding. "I wouldn't say average," he admitted kindly, and Harry was washed by an immediate craving for a relieving pipe smoke that he figured came from the goblin himself, "but maybe we can rehash this topic once you are more aware of your abilities and heritage."
"Yes, please."
He was one step closer to truly finding out who or what he was and he suddenly couldn't wait any longer.
"Very well," and with that the General opened one of his drawers and took out a silver dagger and a roll of parchment that was very similar to the papyruses he had seen in pictures in history class.
Harry couldn't help but wonder, for the umpteenth time, what was up with the magical community that had people write with bird feathers and ink and rolls of paper. That did not look very comfortable.
Not that it mattered: if it took him away from the Dursleys, he would have gladly lived as a 14th century monk.
"This here is an enchanted parchment, embedded with a potion that detects the magic in your blood, as well as the vaults and properties that are tied to it," he explained carefully, unrolling the paper and laying it flat on his desk, "In my first letter, I had explained to you that we would have done several tests to ensure your identity, but given that I had specifically linked both Beaky and my last letter, as well as the Portkey, to you and you alone, I believe we can easily skip that part. Besides, everything will be explained in the Inheritance Test anyway. It is done primarily to find all your abilities, like the Parseltongue, as well as familial magic that might float in your veins. We can discuss the Vaults and Properties and other monetary issues afterwards, as I have no doubt this is about to be one of my most interesting reads and I do not want to bore you yet with those issues. Any questions?"
Again, Harry had about half a dozen of those.
Firstly, though, he wanted to know how exactly he was supposed to pay for the test, since in his treasure box he had a little over 20 pounds and he did not know how much a galleon was.
But he was rather afraid that the General would refuse to allow him to take the test, if he knew how penniless he was, so he shoved his anxiety down. Perhaps he'd be able to work off his debt, he reasoned.
He was used to working, after all.
"What is familial magic?" he asked instead, unable to stop himself.
Everything with the word family was always a punch to the gut.
The General seemed to understand his unease and put on a comforting smile, diving into the explanation kindly: "Familial magic is one of the most ancient and powerful ways wixen protected themselves. Back before they congregated and formed their own world, your kind kept close to themselves and passed traditions and spells amongst their kins. While everyone could learn these abilities, the familial magic ensues a somewhat deeper and innate understanding of it. For example, a language can be taught, but if one is born in France it will be easier for them to speak French. And familial magic is not something that can be conquered or acquired, one must be born with this talent and it passes from parent to child, to then be honed with experience. Some children are more susceptible to the familial magic than others and some abilities have laid dormant inside their lines, as the blood only shows those that are active and ready to be nurtured."
He then proceeded to drum his fingers on the piece of parchment he had written on already, as if contemplating something, while Harry allowed his words to sink in.
Perhaps some of his quirks and freakiness were hereditary, after all. He wondered whether his dad could speak to snakes or whether his mum could understand what the animals wanted.
"For instance," the General broke him out of the mental image of a woman who did not resemble Aunt Petunia much but shared her blood nonetheless talking to little bluebirds, "the familial magic of what I assume is your primary line, the Potter Magic, was all about the art of the mind. It was said, in the days of olde, that the most impenetrable places were our banks and the minds of the members of the Potter family. Nowadays that ability is taught to keep a mind closed off from outsiders, but I remember reading about how it is much more profound than that. For instance, you might find clearing your mind when you have tumultuous emotions easy or you might be considered what the muggles call an "empath", meaning someone who understands other's feelings deeply."
Harry thought about how it was quicker to get lost in sadness and anger sometimes, but how he also managed to always bring himself back from feeling too much. His relatives did not seem to be able to stop themselves from reacting, not in the way he did, and most of his teachers had at least commented on how he was well-behaved and "so calm and collected, you wouldn't tell from his behaviour in class that he was a tiny vandal."
So, yes, he was able to clear his mind indeed, but he never considered that ability to be as unusual as the rest of him.
As for the other aspect of his apparent "familial magic," he wasn't quite sure.
He was able to gather other's emotions to a certain extent. He could tell when Aunt Petunia was sad and would be silent all day, until Dudley came back home to cheer her up, or when she was angry and would lash out at all the tiny things Harry did, even if they weren't wrong. He could tell when Dudley was jealous or simply bored, but that was mostly based on how he treated him, since a jealous Dudley did not stop hurting him until he was satisfied. He could tell when Uncle Vernon would finish three drinks at dinner by the way he entered the front door and he could tell how many bruises he would acquire by which colour his face and neck turned in anger.
But being able to tell all their moods, and subsequent actions, was quite different than understanding them.
"Maybe the first one, I suppose. But I didn't think it was anything unusual."
The General clapped his hands with a wide smile on his face: "Well, then, here you have another special talent, Heir Potter! That makes two already, which is more than the average wix has."
He then winked almost conspiratorially, which caused Harry to start giggling at the absurdity of the entire situation.
Him? More than average? He must have been dreaming!
But, if that was the case, he really didn't want to wake up.
"Shall we proceed with the Inheritance Test?"
He nodded eagerly: "Yes please, General Master Silverfang Longsword sir!" he said all in one go, already bracing himself to have his blood drawn.
He did not know exactly what went down at a GP office, having never been inside one, but Aunt Petunia always made a spectacle when they returned back home after Dudley had to have some bloodwork or a vaccination, baking him a special cake and calling him her "brave little soldier." For his part, Dudley always recounted the experience as something traumatic and horrible and entirely painful, but he probably exaggerated it.
Harry really hoped he wouldn't have his entire arm slashed open by a hot knife or a tube shoved down his nose to empty out his stomach, but he was ready to face any trouble, just to get some answers at least.
"General is fine, Harry, there is no need to list all my names and titles," the old goblin chuckled patiently, taking up the silver dagger and offering its handle to him, "Now, if you could please prick your index finger gently with the sharp point. Try not to cut yourself too much and do be careful, as it is very sharp indeed."
Harry couldn't help himself but stare at the dagger now fully in his hands.
That was it? All he had to do was prick his fingers like some Sleeping Beauty? Where was the screaming, where was he supposed to be in so much pain he fainted, where was the need to have someone hold him down because he was trashing and kicking?
He realised, hopefully for the last time since he didn't want to have anything to do with them anymore, that Dudley Dursley and his entire gang had no idea of what pain truly was.
Harry silently did as he was told, barely touching the tip of the dagger before blood began to swell on his finger.
"Very well done, Harry, very well done indeed," the General said softly, edging the parchment closer to him, "Could you please let three drops fall onto the paper?"
As soon as the red touched the parchment, it was immediately absorbed and lines appeared on the page.
Harry was so mesmerized at the sight that he almost didn't hear the sounds of appreciation that came out of the General's mouth, nor could feel really when the blood disappeared from his finger and the tiny would closed up magically.
He had, after all, for the first time in his life, dealt with magic willingly, instead of unintentionally.
The coin could be considered an emergency and all the other instances in his seven years of life were accidental, but this one, purposefully pricking his finger so that some magic could tell him his life, it was the first real instance he had used magic freely.
It was weirdly intoxicating.
Harry really couldn't wait to find out more about what he could do. And finally do it without fears or restrictions.
"That's it, child, you have done a splendid job! And such a brave young man too. You didn't even flinch at the pain. If I didn't know you were a wix, I would have assumed you being part goblin!"
He was almost in a trance as he watched line after line appear on the paper, as the red swirled around the page and composed word after word.
And, in his state, he almost didn't register the words that came out of his mouth.
"Thank you, but it didn't hurt at all, I'm used to much worse."
He immediately slapped a hand over his lips, making himself smaller on the chair as best as he could. He hadn't meant to say that out loud, but the thought had lived in his mind for years.
He had once scraped his knee, as all children did at some point, during PE class, when one of Dudley's friends pushed him around, and the teacher had been in a frenzy around him, putting a bandage over it and asking him if it hurt too much. Apparently, it was a deeper gash that was normal and the teacher was worried that he wouldn't have been able to walk properly due to it. But Harry had said it was alright, because it was, and still the man wasn't really convinced and kept an eye on him for the full hour.
Once the class was over, the teacher had returned back to him and asked how he was faring, and he had to bite his cheek down to avoid replying with the truth, telling him that he could barely feel the pain. That whatever had happened to his knee was nothing compared to the way his head throbbed and his side ached. It wasn't comparable to how slowly some bruises faded and stopped tormenting him.
But he knew that, if he truly admitted that a scraped knee was in no way similar to the pain of being tossed down the stairs, trouble might arise. And Uncle Vernon had always told him that he was already more trouble than he was worth.
So he always kept his mouth shut, learnt how to hide bruises and bumps and winces.
Except, his mind had never been so engrossed with something that he forgot his training, just as he had done then.
"What do you mean, Harry?" the General asked cautiously, his eyes slitting. Harry could feel anger radiate off of him, he had that sort of look about him that angry people always did and he knew better than to indulge it. Some things were best avoided, after all.
So, he quickly thought of an appropriate excuse for his stupid words: "It's just… I'm very clumsy! Yes, I am. I am so clumsy that I always bump into tables and doors and… that's why I'm used to it."
If it was one of his teachers, or a neighbour, or any other adult in Harry's life, they would have bought the lie and moved on with their days.
The old goblin, with his own scars and the kind grandfatherly smile, hadn't.
"I want you to know that you are safe in here," he said instead, all of the anger of a moment before vanishing and being replaced by palpable worry that Harry could almost taste. It was faintly coppery, if he focused on it, or perhaps that came from biting his cheek too hard. "Everything you decide to share with me, will remain between the two of us. I do not believe you to be clumsy enough to be able to develop a high pain tolerance."
He could feel his heart pounding inside of his chest and tears swell in his eyes out of fear, but managed to keep both hidden as he looked at the dark desk, ignoring everything else.
"I don't want to cause any trouble, sir," he said finally, swallowing down all of his emotions in a way he now knew was natural and magical at the same time, because he was both natural and magical.
"And I believe you and can confidently say you will not cause nor be in any trouble," the General fired back immediately, honesty dripping off of his words as concern became so thick in the air it could almost choke him. Then, as quickly as that wave had come, it faded, leaving behind calmness that allowed Harry to raise his eyes up at the old goblin, who sighed deeply and removed his glasses. "You know, one of my granddaughters came here the other day, with a terribly scuffed arm. She told me that she had been pushed by one of the other children in her class. I ask you, do you think her to be clumsy? I know how cruel children can be, Harry."
There was something caring in the General's voice, something Harry had heard rarely in adult's voices that made him want to confide in him and tell the truth. But he knew that, if he told the truth, the moment he stepped foot back in Little Winging, he would have to pay for more than a simple disappearance.
The General seemed to understand his hesitation: "I wrote in my last letter that I will do my best to remove you from the care of those careless relatives of yours and I keep my promises," he said and Harry truly believed him.
It was surprising how trusting he was being with an unknown man, a goblin of all people. Someone who he had not even believed to be read a week before.
"Sometimes adults are cruel too," he whispered, barely hearing his own words. It was almost as if another had said them, but a weight lifted from his chest regardless.
"That was a very intelligent and courageous thing to admit," the old goblin said a bit sadly, "I would like for you to simply nod your head in answer, please. Are your guardians cruel to you?"
The muscles moved out of their own volition.
Harry just hoped the man would not make a big deal out of the situation. The only times he had told someone about how the Dursleys treated him, they had all blown it out of proportion and Harry didn't think he had enough time for something like that, especially since his own blood had stopped twirling around the parchment and had settled down.
And, it seemed, for once in his life, his prayers were answered.
The General coughed twice and then his voice returned calm and collected, if only with some heavy hints of concern that were not easy to hide: "Thank you for telling me. I believe that a trip to our finest healers will be best as soon as we are done with this test."
And that was it.
Harry looked up immediately at that, completely disbelieving what had just happened.
While he was hoping for the situation to not take up all their appointment time, he was expecting something!
Every time he told someone about the Dursleys, they either kicked up a fuss, telling him that it was impossible for someone "as kind as your relatives" to be as cruel or vicious or downright evil as he seemed to paint them to be, or they immediately called the family in question, demanding answers and then returning with a completely different attitude, reproaching Harry about the lies he was spreading.
The very few times someone had fully believed him, they had been left empty-handed, as he could not offer proof of their malevolence, not in any way that could be tangible.
His bones healed too fast, after all.
How come almost six years of teachers and neighbours and well-wishing strangers paled in comparison to one old goblin General who was so understanding it made him want to cry, Harry thought bitterly.
"Let's see what we have here," the General said, dissolving all the tension in one swift move and beginning to read what looked to be a very long piece of parchment indeed.
Almost an entire minute passed, before the goblin broke out in a blinding grin, showing Harry his teeth as excitement permeated the air. He had never seen someone be this happy or this excited about anything that concerned him.
"For all the gold in our mines, this is the most spectacular reading I have ever done indeed!"
There was nothing Harry could have done to stop the blood from rushing to his cheeks.
He had never received that many compliments in his life. In fact, he could almost count the people who had praised him easily with his fingers. What he could do was remember them all, especially since they had been few and quite well-paced in between each other, most coming from the mouths of teachers who were impressed by his brain before his relatives could spread their poison and label him a delinquent.
And, in his memories, edged between the joy of the moment and the sorrow of what he already knew would come, was the knowledge that none of those compliments had sounded as genuine as the old goblin General did.
Thankfully, the General did not linger too long, undoubtedly sensing his embarrassment, and passed him the parchment.
"Do you want to know what all this gibberish means?" he asked after a moment, as Harry furrowed his brows and tried to make sense of what was on the paper on his own.
Some words, like "Father" and "Mother" and "Title" were pretty straightforward and self-explanatory, even if he could not recognise anything other than his own surname, but others like "Occlumency" and "Slytherin" and "Metamorphmagic" truly weren't.
"Yes, sir, please," and with that, laid the parchment flat on the desk, anxious to know every little secret he hadn't known he had.
And, given the length of the paper, there were many little or not-so-little secrets indeed.
"Where would you like to start?"
And wasn't that a loaded question?
On one hand, Harry wanted to know everything, too much perhaps. He still had many, many questions that he would have to answer on his own time, not wanting to impose on the kindness the General was offering. But the roll in between them could probably be only explained by the goblin himself, although he doubted he wouldn't find all the missing details inside various books.
He wondered if there was a magical library, somewhere outside the halls of the bank. He would have definitely checked that out as soon as he could, but first he needed to know at least some basics.
For example, he needed confirmation that the names written in his own blood were indeed his parents. And he needed to know what had happened to them, since he didn't believe Aunt Petunia's tale in the slightest.
Yet he didn't want to waste too much of the General's time, so he had to be very strategic. He knew that, even if they offered to, adults might not want to dive deep down into details, especially if it was something they believed to be either incredibly easy or common knowledge.
And Harry had a weird feeling at the bottom of his stomach telling him that the topics he wanted to discuss were indeed very common knowledge.
"Why don't we start at the beginning, alright?" the General asked, once again taking pity on Harry's embarrassment and discomfort and making the situation better without much fanfare, "As you can read here, on the first line is your full name, which is indeed Harrison James Potter and on the second line are your parents' names."
Harry swallowed thickly, blinking back tears: he could finally put names to the faceless ideas that floated inside his head. He finally had something more than "Your mother was my sister and she married a freak like her and then they both died, leaving you to us like an unwanted present."
"So, those two, James Fleamont Potter and Lily Potter neé Evans, they are my parents," he couldn't help himself from asking, tracing the letters.
The General gave him a sorrowful smile and made a box of tissues appear out of thin air, startling Harry and causing him to grab one, if anything to be able to just twist it in between his hands and give them something to do other than shake.
"That is correct."
"So, the James in my name… is it from him?"
A thunder of emotions appeared on the General's face at his question, causing Harry to cringe inwardly and out of reach. Fury, pure and unadulterated, was written all over his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. Even his glasses seemed to gleam menacingly.
Then, as swiftly as it had come, it disappeared, leaving behind sorrow and concern and a deep sadness.
"Indeed it is," he began explaining, his voice even and calm, "As you can see here his middle name was Fleamont, due to your grandfather. It is a wixen tradition to pass down the father's name to the first boy and the mother's name to the first girl. Of course, if a child realises that they do not feel comfortable with their name and how they are perceived, they can easily change that."
Harry nodded, imagining a much older version of himself next to an older version of himself. In his mind, both his grandfather and father, who he had never met and had already cried about many times, had the same skin and the same hair as he did. The eyes, he knew, he had taken from his mother, because Aunt Petunia had once yelled at him to close them, since she didn't "feel like staring straight at the ghost of my dead sister" whenever she looked at him.
"May I ask why you did not know your father's name?" the General asked, breaking him out of his reverie.
He simply shrugged in return, not really wanting to cover for the Dursleys. Besides, he had already admitted something much more incriminating about his relatives and was desperately trying to ignore the consequences he knew were to come.
"My aunt refused to call them by name or to tell me about them. All I know is that they were both freaks like me and that they were drug addicts who died in a car crash."
That seemed to shock the General, who took a few deep breaths, probably attempting to wash his anger away: "I am sorry for the way your guardian treated you and refused to share your parents with you."
"It's alright," Harry said, because it truly was. He had always believed that the picture Aunt Petunia had painted of them was far away from the truth and, given the terrifying expression on the General's face, he was almost completely sure that all the little things she had told him about them were lies or, at the very least, worsened versions of the truth.
"Who are these two people below them?" he then asked, wishing to change the heavy topic.
The General gave him a long look, before he shifted his gaze to the names he was pointing at: "They are your godparents," he replied earnestly, and Harry was struck with the wondrous idea that maybe he could contact them and see if they could help him somehow.
Only to be shut down as the old goblin resumed talking: "I am afraid neither Sirius Orion Black nor Alice Marie Longbottom neé Fortesque are available to take custody of you, though, which is probably why you were sent to live with your relatives."
Of course, since when did things work out for him, after all?
Nevertheless, Harry was not going to be deterred by unavailable guardians and other personal tragedies, and was more than ready to move on to the long list of "Magical Abilities," if his eyes had not caught something interesting just below the name of his apparent godfather.
"What does "blood adoption" mean?"
The General's eyes bulged so comically wide he might have resembled one of the cartoon characters he had once watched from the keyhole of his cupboard. "I beg your pardon?" he all but sputtered, roaming the page quickly.
"Here, it says: "Blood adoption fulfilled during the full moon in October 1980," right under this Sirius' name," he said, pointing out the line of text and shifting the paper closer to the goblin, who grabbed it with greedy hands and all but shoved his nose right onto the ink.
It might've been a funny scene if the General didn't cut such an imposing and scary figure, with murder clearly written on his face. Who was he going to kill was a mystery to Harry, though.
"I apologise," he said through gritted teeth, furiously scribbling something on a small piece of parchment and shoving it inside a tiny tube that disappeared into the floor, "I must have skipped it when I first read, I was much more interested in the rest. Unfortunately, I do not have enough information to answer your question, but I promise you we will resume the discussion on your godfather as soon as I know more myself."
"Oh," was all Harry could say dumbly, starstruck at how easy it seemed to be for the General to deal with things. And also a bit relieved that he hadn't been yelled at for asking the wrong question. "It's okay, I'm sorry I asked."
The General's face immediately contorted in sympathy and he quickly reassured him: "Nothing to be sorry about, child, in fact I believe I should apologise both for my outburst and for missing that key point of the reading. You have done a spectacular job at being patient with this old goblin so far, much more than any other child I've had here in the six years I've been working as Master of this Office. Not to mention the parents! You can trust me on this, there is no one more impatient than the parents, as if they do not know exactly where their children come from."
"Why would the parents be impatient?" he asked, figuring that a parent would know exactly who their child was, where they came from and whatnot. After all, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always bragged about Dudley's accomplishments, embellishing as they went.
Harry just figured all parents would be like them, albeit with more desirable traits and fewer punishments to their unwanted nephews.
"Well, it has mainly to do with the familial magic running its course into the blood of their heirs. With time and generations, it can get diluted, and can awaken at any moment in the descendance or can lay dormant. Besides, two lines of familial magic may not work properly with each other, which more often than not means the child of their union does not inherit the magic. And, since the Heirship and Lordships are contingent on strong familial magic, you can understand how its lack might influence a family."
He suddenly remembered the first letter the General had sent him, where it explained how they would see if the familial magic would accept him, and turned a bit green around the gills. The parchment was quite long and the General had been impressed, which meant some magic must have chosen him.
Right?
"I believe I have never encountered a child more polite than you, not even my own grandchildren, who I am helping raise, show me this amount of respect," the old goblin claimed, causing him to blush even deeper and squirm on the very soft cushion. He was pretty sure his face did resemble it in colour, considering how much his cheeks were burning under the constant praise.
"Thank you, sir."
"You are most welcome," sending Harry a quick reassuring smile and looking at the roll once more, "Now, down here you will find the familial lines we discussed about and next to that are written the innate abilities that your blood carries, due to the familial magic. Do you understand what it all means?"
Harry stared at the countless words, wanting to commit them all to memory.
That was all him.
Who he was. What he could do. Even where he came from, if he could trace back ancestors and family lines.
None of it made sense to him, who until a few moments before didn't even know his parent's names.
"Not really," he replied sheepishly, trying and failing to not think badly about his relatives who surely knew something and had kept it all hidden behind lies and hurtful words and locked cupboard doors.
The General smiled comfortingly at him once more: "It's quite alright, I don't mind explaining. I was right when I told you that you were full of surprises, you know?" he said mischievously, before slipping his glasses further down his nose and peering down at the parchment, undoubtedly calculating the proper path to explain what was written. "Here, let's go one by one. Pay no mind to all this "noble" and "ancient" business, as it is going to be more confusing for you at this point. I have no doubt you will be able to research the topic once you have settled better inside the wizarding world."
Harry itched for a piece of paper and a pen, ready to jot down everything he might need, but for now he was content listening to everything. There would come a time for notes and deep dives into his own family history, after all.
So, instead, he listened with rapt attention, burning each word into his brain.
"Let's follow the order the magic wrote them in, starting with those you have a direct Heirship, and Lordship, claim.
The first family name is, of course, Potter, from your paternal line. As you can see, next to it is "Natural Occlumency," which is most commonly known as the art of keeping one's mind closed, although it is an improper definition, as I've already explained. I believe your abilities might venture far beyond this meagre description and there must be a book somewhere to help you access it completely. And you must promise me to be well-versed in the theory before venturing to practise Occlumency, since every art of the mind can be dangerous when used improperly.
Then, also for the paternal line, we have the Peverell family name. Theirs, and yours now, is a line that was believed long lost. The last wix capable of holding the familial magic died over three centuries ago, if I'm not mistaken. And while there were still remaining children bearing the name, it died out since none of them had been accepted by the "Necromantic Affinity" that we have written here. I assure you, Harry, it is nothing to be afraid of, even if the name can be quite daunting. Necromancy is the art of the dead and most, due to their own ignorance, believe it to be terrifying and evil, even if it is a magic like the others. There might be books stored inside one of the Peverell vaults that do explain things a bit better than I ever could, though, so I suggest you read them all before venturing further.
In fact, you should read about all your many abilities, to be able to understand and then use them.
Now, onto your mother's side of affairs. Through her blood, you are a direct descendent of the Emrys-Pendragon line, which also has been considered lost since ages of old. You might have heard of them in the non-magical world, I believe the stories of King Arthur are quite the popular tale there while, on the magical side of the world, Merlin is usually the preferred character. From there stems your "Parselmagic," with the ability to communicate with reptiles. Merlin himself was a notorious Dragon Lord. And I do not know anything about this "Magic Sensitivity" that is also part of that familial magic, but I suppose it might make you more susceptible to lay lines and magic waves. Again, I believe it has been quite a while since those abilities were active and naturally flowing amongst wixen community. We goblins have a similar concept where a few of our own are able to witness the grand threads of magic herself, perhaps it might be something similar. I do not think your mother had access to an Inheritance Test when she was younger, since my predecessors were rather lass with their work, and the Vaults might have remained closed the longest, but I shall aid you in finding the proper documentation of your talents.
And to end the Houses you have a direct claim to their seats and titles, is Slytherin. I admit I am a bit stumped, since the past Lord, or rather Heir since he was never accepted by the magic fully despite his blood claim and never took the mantle up, was quite the controversial figure and one whose past is intertwined with yours. I believe their familial magic to be Parselmagic as well, which must be why the magic chose you as its Heir and eventual Lord, considering you are already a Parsel Speaker through blood. The title does not come from blood, but rather by direct magic, as you can read here: "Right of Conquest." For this family line, I would once more recommend you to do a very thorough research, again considering your personal history, which I do not believe myself to be the right person to divulge.
Now, onto a slightly happier note, the familial magics that do not bear down Heirships: from your paternal side you have this "Nature Affinity" from the Patel familial magic, which I believe must come from your grandmother, Euphemia Devi Potter, neé Patel. The familial magic recognises you as a holder but not as a Heir, since it might come from a secondary line. I believe her family to originally have moved in England from India, to study at Hogwarts, which must have meant leaving behind relatives who have a stronger claim to the magic. Perhaps you could reconnect with those, since although they're distant, they are still relatives of yours. And magical ones at that.
And, finally, through both your father's grandmother and your godfather, who blood adopted you apparently, which is absurd considering the events and I shall find the truth of the matter, you have access, although we cannot know to which extent without a magical evaluation, to the ability of House Black, known as the art of Metamorphosis, or more commonly "Metamorphmagic". It is quite the useful trick, since it allows to change to some extent one's exterior and appearance. And it might be useful during your schooling, as it makes the subject of Transfiguration somewhat easier. At the moment I do not know who the Heir to House Black is, or rather I know and find it hard to believe and it is another topic I will have to research thoroughly before I give you valid answers, but the current Lord is quite old and lives in isolation due to illness. Regardless, I believe sending him a letter might be of order, since you have officially been declared by magic one of his kin and he might appreciate it. And I there are two cousins of your godfather who married into other families, but remain Black nonetheless. One of them was here a few weeks ago, for her son's Inheritance Test and Heirship rings, if you wish to have around someone of your own age."
To say that Harry was speechless would have been an understatement.
He had arrived at the Bank desperately hoping he might find something worthwhile and might be able to find a solution to his Dursley problem, but he also wasn't expecting much, already thinking about ways he could pay off the debt he would undoubtedly have with the goblins for his test.
He was not expecting finding people related to him whom he might contact, even if they were all the way in India or somewhere else in the world and even if they were related through a godfather he had no memory of, and, most importantly, he had not expected the sheer number of vaults under his name.
To a boy who believed himself to be alone in the world and utterly penniless, it was all too much.
He dared a single glance down the page, before his eyes ran back to where the General was pointing.
Definitely too much.
"Are you alright, Harry?"
He tried to rake his brain for a satisfying answer.
Was he?
He had spent his entire life, since his parent's deaths, being constantly ridiculed and underappreciated and isolated. He had been alone and bullied and hurt. And there were people, out there outside the walls of the bank, that shared his blood. He was part of their families, shared their magic.
Yet, for such a bright thought, it stung a lot. These relatives had never tried to reach him. They were out there with free access to magic and they had never contacted him. If he could have found out about them through an old goblin and three drops of his blood, so might have they. And they didn't.
He was still alone.
Regardless, none of it mattered: he had magic and, hopefully, money. He knew he wasn't a freak. And he knew his parents' names.
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
"I think so," he whispered eventually, not daring to raise his eyes to the General's, in case the tears finally came, "It's just… a lot."
"I can only imagine. Would you like some time to think it all through?"
He shook his head slowly: he would have needed weeks to have it all sink in, but he doubted he would be given more than a couple of minutes. But he wasn't sure he'd be able to dwell on the topic of "Vaults" and "Properties" and whatnot. "I'm sorry, I don't know," he said, biting his lips as anxiety crept up his spine.
He really, really, really didn't like not knowing things.
He knew his hands were shaking only once the General put one of his own on top of them. He hadn't even realised the old goblin had risen from his chair and made his way next to him until the man was standing close to Harry and giving a reassuring smile. He had a metal leg, Harry realised absentmindedly, watching as closely as he could the lines that ran through the plaque, seemingly depicting a battle of sorts.
It would have been entirely too much in character for the General to have a painting of how he lost his leg on his own prosthetic, Harry thought with amusement.
"It's alright, child," he said in a soft and comforting voice, so at odds with his appearance of a war-hardened warrior, "I gave you a lot of information in a very short time."
Then, as suddenly as the heavy moment had arrived, it disappeared.
The General thumped his metal cane on the ground, pulling Harry's attention back to him and out of his all-encompassing thoughts: "Perhaps we might take that trip to the healer now, since I undoubtedly believe they might need to keep you overnight and it might give you a chance to rest"
"Overnight?!" he all but shrieked, his vocal cords straining at the sound of disbelief that came out of his mouth. He couldn't remain there overnight, he had already tried his luck enough by sneaking out. He didn't even know how long it had been since he had arrived at the bank and didn't know how long the Dursleys would remain out, but he knew better than to test fate. He should run along and return to Privet Drive as soon as he could, the voice in the back of his head whispered traitorously and he was more than a little inclined to follow through with its suggestion. "I can't stay any longer, let alone overnight, I should be back at my relative's house, I don't know when they'll be back and Uncle Vernon will be upset if I'm not there and if the food's not done and…"
Panic seized him up and his vision began blurring more than usual.
Once more, one of the General's hands clasped his, this time a bit more forcefully than before.
"Harry, take a deep breath and hold it in for a moment for me," he all but ordered and he obeyed, already dreading the consequences of his pathetic outburst. "That's it, that's good, child. Now, I promised you would not be back with them, didn't I?"
He simply nodded, not trusting his mouth to speak.
Harry wanted to tell him that he knew promises were not really meant to be kept, at least when they were done to him.
His teachers always promised to treat them all fairly, yet a few conversations with the Dursleys changed their minds and they gave up their hopes for him. His favourite librarian had promised she'd try to find out if there was something to be done about the way his relatives treated him and, once he came back to the library, she had acted as if she had never met him. He was pretty sure his aunt had promised she'd be better, once, but then locked him in the cupboard and left him there.
Promises were meaningless.
Yet he somehow believed the General's.
"Well, I meant that completely," he said with a slight hint of mirth in his tone, clearly trying to cheer him up, "You are staying with us at Gringotts for as long as our healers deem appropriate and will not return back to your relatives once you're completely healed. And so mote be it! Don't be afraid, Harry, everything will be more than fine."
"We have to stay at Privet Drive," the voice at the back of his head said nastily and desperately. Harry chose to ignore it in favour of looking into the General's eyes, choosing to trust him.
He got up from the chair and nodded once, ready to face the storm that would undoubtedly come his way.
"Alright, I'm ready."