CHAPTER 1: CRACKS IN THE ORDINARY

September 1st, 1985

The first day of primary school unfolded like a nightmare for Harry. He trudged into the classroom, his too-big shoes scuffing the linoleum, unaware of the humiliation awaiting him. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had never bothered to tell him his real name, leaving him stranded in a sea of ignorance. When the teacher—a kindly woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a soft voice—called out "Harry Potter" during attendance, the room fell silent. No hand went up. The other children, with their neatly combed hair and crisp uniforms, exchanged puzzled glances. Harry sat there, oblivious, his stomach twisting as the teacher's eyes scanned the room.

After ticking off every other name on her list, she turned to the last child unaccounted for—Harry, slouched at the back, his messy black hair half-covering his eyes. "And you, dear," she said gently, leaning forward with her clipboard, "what's your name?"

Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. "Freak," he mumbled, barely audible, his small hands fidgeting with the frayed hem of his oversized sweater.

The teacher's jaw dropped, her pen freezing mid-air. A ripple of laughter erupted from the class, sharp and mocking, like a flock of crows descending. Harry's cheeks burned as the sound drilled into him. The teacher blinked rapidly, her shock morphing into concern. She waved a hand to hush the giggles, then hurried to the classroom door, beckoning the principal—a stern man with a graying mustache—who'd been lingering in the hall.

"Mr. Hargrove," she whispered urgently, "this boy says his name is… Freak. But he's the only one left. He must be Harry Potter, born July 31, 1980, according to the roster."

The principal adjusted his tie, frowning deeply. "Let's sort this out," he muttered, stepping inside. "Young man," he addressed Harry, his voice firm but not unkind, "you're Harry Potter, correct?"

Harry stared at them, wide-eyed, the name sinking in like a stone dropped into a still pond. Harry Potter. Not Freak. A spark of anger flared within him, hot and unfamiliar. Why had Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon kept this from him? Why had they let him believe he was nothing more than a burden, a shadow in their pristine home on Privet Drive? The Dursleys had treated him worse than a stray dog—shoving him into the cupboard under the stairs, sneering at him like he was filth. And now, even here, at school, the snickers from his classmates and the awkward chuckles from the adults stung like salt in a fresh wound.

As the teacher resumed her lesson, Harry's mind churned. The world seemed stacked against him. No one had ever offered him a kind word at home, no friend had ever emerged from the blur of faces. Even now, the laughter lingered in the air, branding him as the oddity he'd always been told he was. But something shifted inside him—a quiet, fierce resolve. One day, he'd prove them wrong. He'd rise above the Dursleys' cruelty, above the jeers of these strangers. He'd make them regret every smirk, every kick, every hissed insult. And he'd start with the ones who'd raised him to believe he was less than human.

That afternoon, while Dudley sprawled on the couch glued to the flickering TV screen or terrorized the neighborhood kids with his gang, Harry found refuge in the school library. It was a small, dusty room, lined with sagging shelves and lit by a single buzzing bulb, but to Harry, it was a sanctuary. The librarian, Mrs. Jensen, was a wiry woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a bun and eyes that sparkled with quiet curiosity. She noticed Harry right away—his hunched shoulders, his cautious steps—and took an instant liking to him.

"Looking for something special?" she asked one day, peering over her half-moon glasses as Harry lingered near the fiction section.

Harry hesitated, then nodded shyly. "Books… about everything," he said softly. "I want to learn."

Mrs. Jensen smiled, a warm crinkle forming at the corners of her eyes. "Well, you've come to the right place. Let's start with this." She handed him a worn copy of The Hobbit, its cover faded but inviting. "And if you like that, I've got plenty more where it came from."

Day after day, Harry returned, devouring adventure tales, history books, and even a beginner's guide to self-defense he'd found tucked behind a stack of encyclopedias. Mrs. Jensen became his guide, pointing him to new titles, slipping him extra time when the bell rang. But outside the library's walls, the world was less kind. His isolation made him a target. Dudley's gang—hulking boys with mean grins—zeroed in on him, and soon, other kids joined the taunting, their jeers echoing across the playground.

Desperate to protect himself, Harry pored over the self-defense book, memorizing diagrams of blocks and throws. After a week of practicing alone in the Dursleys' cramped garden—dodging imaginary punches under the moonlight—he felt a flicker of confidence. It was time to face Dudley.

One gray afternoon, as the school day ended, Harry spotted Dudley and his cronies lounging near the swings, their laughter grating on his nerves. He clenched his fists, took a deep breath, and marched over.

"What do you want, Freak?" Dudley sneered, cracking his knuckles as his gang fanned out behind him, smirking.

Harry straightened, his voice trembling but steady. "I'm not scared of you anymore, Dudley. Next time you come after me, I'll fight back. I mean it."

Dudley's piggy eyes narrowed, then he threw his head back and guffawed. "Oh, that's rich!" he roared, slapping his thigh. "You hear that, lads? Freak thinks he's tough now!"

The gang doubled over, their laughter a wall of sound. "Yeah, real scary, Freak!" one of them jeered. "What're you gonna do, cry us to death?"

Harry's heart pounded, but he stood his ground. "I'm warning you—"

"Shut it," Dudley snapped, his grin vanishing. "You need a lesson, and we're bored stiff. Right, boys?"

"Too right," another thug chimed in, cracking his neck. "Let's have some fun."

Before Harry could react, Dudley lunged, his meaty fist swinging toward Harry's face. Instinct kicked in—Harry remembered the book's advice: redirect the force. He sidestepped, grabbed Dudley's arm, and yanked hard, flipping his cousin over his hip. Dudley crashed onto the playground's cracked asphalt with a yelp, his shoulder slamming down with a sickening crunch. For a fleeting second, Harry felt a rush of triumph, watching Dudley writhe in the dirt.

But the victory was short-lived. The gang roared in fury, and fists rained down on Harry from all sides. A punch slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Another caught his temple, stars exploding behind his eyes. He crumpled, curling into a ball as boots thudded into his ribs and back. Pain seared through him, sharp and relentless.

Dudley staggered to his feet, clutching his arm, his face twisted in rage. "You're dead for that, Freak," he snarled, waddling closer as his friends kept up the assault. "Hold him down—I want a piece of him."

Harry's mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood. His ribs screamed with every shallow breath, and panic clawed at his chest. He was trapped, helpless, seconds from something worse. In desperation, his gaze flicked upward, catching the jagged outline of the school's rooftop against the cloudy sky. Get me up there, he thought, willing it with every ounce of his being. Anywhere but here.

A deafening CRACK split the air, like a thunderclap out of nowhere. The world tilted, and suddenly Harry was sprawled on the cold, gritty roof, gasping for breath. Blood dribbled from his split lip, and his hands clutched his aching sides. Below, Dudley's voice boomed, furious and confused.

"Where'd he go?!"

"Dunno—he was right here!" one of the gang shouted.

"Find him!" Dudley bellowed. "I'm not done with him—drag him back!"

Harry lay still, his mind reeling. How had he gotten up here? It didn't matter—not now. He needed help. Wincing with every movement, he dragged himself to the roof's edge, then down the fire escape, each step a jolt of agony. He stumbled toward the library, the only place he felt safe.

Mrs. Jensen was shelving books when he staggered in, his face swollen, his shirt torn and streaked with blood. She dropped her stack with a gasp. "Harry! Good heavens—what happened?"

"I… fell off the swing," he lied weakly, swaying on his feet.

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and disbelieving. "Nonsense. You don't get bruises like that from a swing. Who did this to you?"

Harry shook his head, too exhausted to answer. Mrs. Jensen didn't press him. Instead, she grabbed her coat and steered him toward the door. "We're going to the hospital. Now."

At the local clinic, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as the nurse, a woman with soft brown curls and a calm demeanor, carefully lifted Harry's tattered shirt. His small frame trembled slightly, not from cold but from the ache radiating through his body. As the fabric peeled away, her breath caught in her throat. His torso was a patchwork of pain—fresh purple bruises bloomed across his ribs, while older marks lingered in sickly shades of yellow and green, mingling with faint scars that crisscrossed his skin like a map of silent suffering. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her training snapping into focus.

"This didn't come from a tumble," she muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she traced a particularly deep welt. She crouched to Harry's level, her voice softening. "Love, who's been hurting you? You can tell me—I'm here to help."

Harry's gaze dropped to the tiled floor, his matted hair falling over his forehead. He didn't answer, his silence a wall she couldn't breach. The nurse sighed, then stood briskly, her shoes squeaking as she crossed the room to a rotary phone on the desk. She dialed with purpose, her voice dropping to a hushed, urgent tone. "Yes, hello—this is Nurse Clara at St. Mary's Clinic. I've got an emergency case here, a boy named Harry Potter. I'm seeing signs of severe neglect, malnutrition, and what looks like prolonged physical abuse. We need someone from the Department of Education out here right away."

Harry sat on the crinkly paper of the examination table, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The words washed over him, distant and unreal, like rain pattering on a window he couldn't see through. For the first time, a fragile hope flickered in his chest. Could someone—anyone—care enough to pull him out of the shadows he'd lived in for so long?

September 17th, 1985

The days that followed turned Privet Drive upside down, much to the Dursleys' dismay. Harry hadn't come home after school that fateful day, and the absence gnawed at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia like a splinter they couldn't pluck out. Vernon paced the living room, his heavy footsteps thudding against the polished floor, while Petunia wrung her bony hands, her lips pursed so tight they nearly vanished.

"Where is that blasted boy?" Vernon growled, his mustache quivering as he yanked the curtains aside to glare at the empty street. "Dudley, get in here!"

Dudley shuffled in from the kitchen, a half-eaten biscuit clutched in his chubby fist. "What, Dad?" he mumbled, crumbs tumbling onto his sweater.

Vernon loomed over him, his face purpling. "What happened after school that day? You were with him last—out with it!"

Dudley shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the floor. "We… er, had a scrap on the playground. Me and the lads were just messin' with him, y'know? Then he just… disappeared. Poof! Gone! Dunno where he went."

Petunia let out a shrill gasp, clutching her pearls. "Disappeared? Vernon, what if someone saw? What if word gets out that we've been saddled with that… that freak all these years? The neighbors will talk! Your job at Grunnings—"

"Enough!" Vernon snapped, slamming a meaty fist on the coffee table, making the china teacups rattle. "If those nosy busybodies at the Department catch wind of this, our good name's finished. I'll not have my career tanked because of that unnatural little wretch!"

Their worst nightmare didn't wait long to materialize. The next morning, a sharp knock rattled the front door of Number Four. Petunia peeked through the peephole, her face draining of color. "Vernon," she hissed, "it's them!"

Vernon straightened his tie, puffing out his chest as he flung the door open. Two officers from the Department of Education stood on the stoop—a tall man with a clipped beard and a stern expression, and a woman whose sharp eyes seemed to pierce right through the Dursleys' façade.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley?" the man began, his voice steady and authoritative. "I'm Officer Daniels, and this is Officer Hale. We're here with an official warning from the court. Yesterday, your nephew, Harry Potter, was admitted to St. Mary's Clinic after an altercation at school. The medical staff found extensive bruising, scar tissue, and clear evidence of malnutrition—signs pointing to prolonged physical and mental abuse."

Petunia's hand flew to her mouth, but Vernon's face darkened to a dangerous shade of crimson. "That's preposterous!" he bellowed, jabbing a thick finger at the officers. "The boy's a liar—a sniveling, attention-seeking brat! We've done nothing but put a roof over his head!"

Officer Hale stepped forward, her voice icy. "Mr. Dursley, we don't take these matters lightly. This is your final warning. We'll be monitoring Harry closely—weekly visits to this house, starting now. One more hint of mistreatment, and you'll lose custody of both him and your son. Jail time's on the table too. He'll return in a few days once his injuries are treated. Good day." With a curt nod, they turned and strode back to their car.

The door slammed shut, and Petunia whirled on Vernon, her voice shrill with panic. "What are we going to do? They can't take our Dudley away!"

Vernon rubbed his temples, his jaw clenched. "Calm down, Petunia. We play nice for a bit—feed the brat, keep him quiet. Those fools will lose interest soon enough. Then, mark my words, I'll thrash that freakishness out of him once and for all. Ungrateful little toerag, dragging our name through the mud after all we've done—taking him in when no one else would!"

Meanwhile, Harry lay in a stiff hospital bed at St. Mary's, the antiseptic smell stinging his nose. Doctors bustled around him, setting fractured bones that had healed wrong years ago and prescribing ointments for his battered skin. They fitted him with new glasses—round lenses that actually let him see the world clearly for once—and ensured he got three hearty meals a day: porridge with honey in the morning, shepherd's pie at lunch, and warm broth with bread at night. Between treatments, he pored over books borrowed from the hospital's tiny library, his hunger for knowledge rivaling his appetite for food.

In the bed next to his, an older man with a grizzled beard and a twinkle in his eye struck up a conversation one afternoon. "You're a reader, eh?" he rasped, nodding at the stack of books on Harry's nightstand.

Harry glanced up, hesitant. "Yeah. I want to learn… everything I can."

The man chuckled, reaching under his pillow to pull out a slim, dog-eared volume. "Here, try this. It's about the mind—meditation, memory tricks, building a 'mind palace' to keep your thoughts sharp. Helped me plenty in my day."

Harry took it, running his fingers over the faded title: The Art of Memory. "Really? I can have it?"

"Keep it, lad," the man said with a wink. "You've got a spark—don't let it dim."

That night, though, sleep didn't come easy. The memory of Dudley's gang loomed large, replaying in jagged nightmares. The fists, the kicks, the crack—and then the impossible escape to the roof. How had he done it? Harry's mind drifted to other odd moments: the time he'd found himself atop a tree, fleeing Aunt Marge's snarling bulldog; the morning Vernon's orange juice glass shattered mid-rant about Harry's "no-good" parents; the night he'd unlocked his cupboard door after three days without food, driven by a gnawing hunger that felt alive inside him.

A pattern emerged. These things happened when he was desperate, when his emotions surged like a storm. Could he do it again—on purpose? His eyes landed on a ballpoint pen resting on a desk across the room. He focused, imagining he needed it, that his life depended on it. At first, nothing. He squinted harder, his chest tightening with effort. Then, slowly, the pen wobbled, lifted an inch, and shot toward him like an arrow. Harry snatched it mid-air, his reflexes honed from years of dodging Dudley's "Harry Hunting" games.

"Incredible," he whispered, turning the pen over in his hands. "What am I?"

Exhaustion hit him like a wave, his limbs heavy from the effort. He tucked the pen under his pillow and drifted off, dreams swirling with flying broomsticks, a shattered vase, and a blinding green flash he couldn't place.

Over the next two weeks, Harry returned to Privet Drive, his body still healing but his spirit ignited. He dubbed his strange gift "abilities"—not freakishness, but a talent, something uniquely his. He practiced in secret, levitating spoons in the dead of night or nudging books across his new bed in Dudley's second bedroom—a grudging concession from the Dursleys under the Department's watchful eye.

The Dursleys had retreated into a brittle, frosty silence—a welcome reprieve from the venomous barbs and backhanded slaps Harry had once endured daily. No longer did he kneel on the kitchen floor, scrubbing grease from tiles until his knuckles bled, nor did he hunch over the sink, washing dishes until his fingers pruned. Meals appeared on his plate with grudging regularity, though they remained pitiful shadows of Dudley's towering stacks of bacon and mash. Harry didn't complain. He seized every scrap of this newfound freedom, pilfering extra rolls from the breadbasket when Petunia's back was turned, slipping out to jog loops around the park until his lungs burned, and dropping to the floor of his room—Dudley's old second bedroom—for push-ups until his thin arms trembled with effort.

At school, while Dudley doodled crude caricatures or nodded off over his desk, Harry buried himself in textbooks, his pencil scratching furiously as he absorbed every word. Mrs. Jensen, the librarian, became his quiet champion, her eyes lighting up whenever he shuffled into her domain. "Another one already?" she'd say with a grin, sliding a novel or encyclopedia across the counter. "You're a marvel, Harry." Her praise fueled him, a rare warmth in a world that had long been cold. Slowly, the tide was turning. His body grew wirier, his mind keener, and beneath it all, his abilities—his secret strength—simmered, a hidden current ready to surge when the moment called.

May 5th, 1991

An eleven-year-old Harry Potter jogged through Privet Drive, the early Saturday sun casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. The years since that brutal first day of primary school had carved a better path, however uneven. The agents from the British Department of Education still checked in every fortnight, their clipboards and stern questions a shield against the Dursleys' worst impulses. No fresh bruises marred his skin, no new scars joined the old ones. Regular meals had filled out his frame—he almost passed for a normal boy now, save for the jagged lightning bolt scar etched above his brow.

School had become his proving ground. Top of his class, he'd turned his knack for academics into a small enterprise, offering to do homework for older students in exchange for a few crumpled pound notes. The money bought him extra sandwiches at the canteen, a secondhand jacket that actually fit, a growing stack of books, and—best of all—a monthly bus pass. That pass was his ticket to freedom, ferrying him to the sprawling libraries of central London, where he'd lose himself in aisles of knowledge for hours.

As he rounded the corner by Mrs. Figg's house, her nasal voice drifted through an open window, snagging his attention mid-stride. "Yes, Albus, the boy's looking much better these days! I see him out exercising nearly every afternoon—he's finally settling in with those relatives of his!"

Harry slowed, his trainers scuffing the pavement. He couldn't see who she was talking to—her living room was shrouded behind lace curtains—but he snorted under his breath. Settling in? Mrs. Figg, with her cloying cat stench and oblivious chatter, had no clue what it had taken to claw his way to this fragile peace.

Another voice crackled faintly, too muffled to pinpoint. "Well, he'll get his Hogwarts letter in a few months. Are you still set on Hagrid taking him to Diagon Alley? I'm not so sure it's wise. Picture Hagrid stomping through London to the Leaky Cauldron—he'll draw every eye in a mile! Harry's famous enough in our world without Muggles gawking too!"

The window snapped shut, cutting off the conversation. Harry froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. Hogwarts? Diagon Alley? Hagrid? The words spun in his head like leaves caught in a gust. And "magical world"—had he heard that right? His breath hitched as pieces of his life clicked into place like a long-lost puzzle. The Dursleys' hissed aversion to anything "unnatural," their refusal to utter the word "magic," the strange incidents he'd learned to control—vanishing from Dudley's gang, shattering Vernon's glass, unlocking his cupboard in a starving haze. Could there really be a hidden world out there, one he belonged to? Were his parents part of it too? It would explain the Dursleys' tight-lipped hatred, their venomous rants about his "worthless" mother and father.

He stood there, the May breeze tugging at his hair, weighing his options. Confronting the Dursleys was a fool's errand—they'd sooner lock him in the cupboard for good or worse. No, he needed answers elsewhere. This "Leaky Cauldron" and "Diagon Alley" were his leads. Tomorrow, he'd track them down and see what lay behind Mrs. Figg's cryptic words.

May 6th, 1991

Harry woke with the dawn, a restless buzz humming through him. He wolfed down a slice of dry toast—Petunia's stingy breakfast offering—then grabbed his hooded jacket, slung his battered backpack over one shoulder, and pocketed the last of his homework earnings: a handful of coins and a crumpled five-pound note. He slipped out before the Dursleys stirred, catching the first bus to central London.

The ride was a blur of familiar streets, but his plan ended at the depot. How do you find a place you've never heard of? He wandered the bustling pavement, dodging tourists and commuters, until a green sign caught his eye: Tourist Information Centre. Worth a shot.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee and pamphlets. A cheerful woman with a bobbed haircut looked up from her desk. "Hello, dear! How can I help you today?"

"Hi," Harry said, shifting his weight. "I'm looking for a place called the Leaky Cauldron. Do you know it?"

Her brow furrowed. "Leaky Cauldron? Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid." She turned to call over her shoulder. "Oi, Geoff, ever heard of a Leaky Cauldron?"

A wiry man with a graying ponytail poked his head from a back room, his eyes oddly distant. "Oh, aye," he drawled, drifting closer. "That'd be off Charing Cross Road, near the bookshops. Odd little spot—can't miss it if you're looking." He tilted his head at Harry. "Enjoy your stay in Britain, lad."

Harry blinked. "Er, I'm British. I live here."

Geoff nodded slowly, his gaze unfocused. "Course you are. Naturally… naturally…" He shuffled back to his desk, muttering to himself.

"Weird," Harry murmured, unease prickling his spine. Geoff's glassy stare lingered in his mind as he thanked the woman and left. Two more bus rides later, he stepped onto Charing Cross Road, scanning the storefronts. A towering bookshop loomed on one side, a record store blared tinny music on the other, and between them—almost invisible—was a narrow, grimy pub. A weathered sign creaked faintly: The Leaky Cauldron. Passersby streamed past, their eyes sliding over it as if it were a blank wall. Harry squinted, a strange certainty settling in his gut. He was the only one who could see it.

He pushed open the creaky door, stepping into a dim, smoky haze. The interior was a jumble of mismatched tables and flickering oil lamps, the air thick with the scent of ale and something earthier. Patrons in long robes and pointed hats chattered in low tones, their attire straight out of a storybook. Harry tugged his hood lower, his pulse quickening, and edged toward the bar.

A bald man with a gap-toothed grin leaned over the counter, wiping a glass. "Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron, lad! I'm Tom. What can I do for you?"

Harry hesitated, then pitched his voice low. "Morning, Tom. I'm… Dudley. I need to find Diagon Alley. Can you point me there?"

Tom's face brightened. "Diagon Alley, eh? First time? No trouble at all—follow me!" He waved Harry through a door behind the bar, leading him into a cramped courtyard walled with crumbling brick. "Watch this, now."

He pulled a slender stick—a wand?—from his apron and tapped a sequence on the wall: three bricks up, two across from a dented rubbish bin. Harry filed the pattern away in his mind palace, a trick from the hospital book, as the bricks shivered and parted, revealing a bustling alley beyond.

"There you go, young Dudley!" Tom said with a chuckle. "Happy shopping—pop back if you need anything!"

"Thanks, Tom," Harry replied, forcing a smile as he stepped through. Too easy. Either these magical folk were absurdly trusting, or some unseen barrier kept outsiders at bay. Either way, he was in.

The alley stretched before him, alive with color and noise. Families in flowing robes darted between shops, their arms laden with parcels. To his left, a sign boasted Potions & Apothecary, its window brimming with jars of wriggling things. To his right, Quality Quidditch Supplies displayed broomsticks—actual broomsticks—gleaming under glass. Quidditch? He'd never heard the word, but it sparked a thrill he couldn't name.

Ahead rose a majestic edifice of gleaming white marble, its broad steps stretching upward like an invitation to something grander. Flanking the entrance stood peculiar sentinels—short, wiry figures clad in armor, their pointed ears twitching beneath helmets. Goblins, Harry reckoned, straight out of a tale like The Hobbit, though these ones bore an air of menace rather than mischief. A polished bronze plaque caught his eye, engraved with bold letters: Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Below it, a grim verse warned of thieves and the dire fate awaiting those who dared to steal—a chilling promise of retribution etched in metal. A bank, of all places, felt like a logical first step in this bewildering new world. If his parents had been part of this magical realm, might they have stashed something here for him? And what sort of money did wizards even use?

Harry squared his shoulders, the weight of uncertainty pressing against his chest, and drew a deep, steadying breath. The steps seemed to hum beneath his feet as he ascended, each one echoing with the promise of answers. Inside, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of old parchment and polished stone. The vast hall stretched before him, its high ceiling lost in shadow, while the rhythmic scratch of quills filled the space like a chorus of whispers. Behind towering counters perched more goblins, their long, bony fingers dancing over ledgers, their sharp eyes glinting like coins in the dim light.

He approached the nearest one—a lean, wiry figure with a pinched face and eyes that gleamed with something unreadable. Harry cleared his throat, pushing back the hood of his cloak to reveal his mop of dark hair and the lightning-shaped scar he barely understood. "Excuse me, sir," he began, forcing his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his stomach. "I'd like to find out if my parents left anything for me here. I've only just discovered… well, all of this. The magical world, I mean. I'm trying to piece it together."

The goblin tilted his head, his gaze locking onto Harry's scar with an intensity that made the boy's skin prickle. A slow, jagged grin spread across the creature's face, revealing a row of uneven, pointed teeth. "Name?" he rasped, his voice like gravel underfoot.

"Harry Potter," he replied, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure the goblin could hear it.

The quill in the goblin's hand froze mid-scratch, ink dripping onto the ledger in a tiny black pool. A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall, heads turning as other goblins paused their work to glance his way. "Potter, you say?" the creature said, leaning forward until his long nose nearly brushed the counter. "Well, well… let's see what treasures await you."

"And who might you be, young wizard?" the goblin continued, his grin widening into something faintly sinister. "Do you carry a key?"

Harry swallowed, his mouth dry. "My name's Harry Potter, sir. I don't have a key, I'm afraid. My parents—they died when I was a baby. They didn't leave me anything, at least not that I know of."

The goblin's eyes flicked back to the scar, narrowing slightly. "You may find yourself mistaken, young wizard," he said, his tone laced with a strange delight. "If what you claim is true, your parents left you far more than nothing. But without a key—and too young yet to wield a wand—we must verify who you are before you can step near a vault."

"A wand!" Harry thought, a spark of excitement cutting through his nerves. That must've been the wooden stick Tom, the innkeeper at the Leaky Cauldron, had waved earlier. The idea of owning one sent a thrill racing through him—he'd need to get one soon. "Very well, sir," he said aloud, meeting the goblin's gaze. "Please, go ahead and verify my identity."

The goblin straightened, beckoning with a claw-like hand. "Follow me, Mr. Potter. I'll take you to Ragnok, the Potter account manager."

Harry's brow furrowed. Potter account manager? Did that mean something special? In the world he knew—the non-magical one—only the wealthiest or most important people had personal bankers. Maybe it was a good sign, a hint that his parents had been more than ordinary. He trailed the goblin through the bustling hall, dodging the curious stares of other creatures, until they reached a heavy oak door tucked into a corner. It creaked open to reveal a smaller, dimly lit office, its walls lined with shelves of dusty tomes and strange artifacts. Behind a wide desk sat another goblin, older and more weathered, his silver hair tied back in a thin braid. His eyes, sharp as daggers, studied Harry with keen interest.

"Welcome to Gringotts, young Mr. Potter," the goblin said, his voice deep and resonant. "May your gold flow freely and your enemies perish by your blade!"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the fierce greeting. What was he supposed to say to that? After a moment's hesitation, he decided to take a chance and mirror the sentiment. "Thank you, Account Manager Ragnok," he replied, hoping he'd gotten the name right. "May your gold multiply and your foes fall before you!"

Ragnok's lips twitched, and a low, rumbling chuckle escaped him. "Well said, lad! That alone tells me you must be the heir to the Potter line. Only the son of James Potter—and grandson of Lord Charlus—would return a goblin's blessing with such respect and quick wit."

"A goblin," Harry mused silently, filing the word away. So that's what they were called. Fascinating—and a little intimidating. He took a breath to steady himself, then leaned forward slightly. "Sir, could you tell me about the Potter vault? What's in it? What did my parents leave?"

Ragnok's grin faded into a more businesslike expression. "You have a trust vault, Mr. Potter, set up to provide for your needs. It replenishes itself annually, up to one thousand Galleons. Then there's the Potter Family vault—far larger, filled with heirlooms and wealth accumulated over generations. But that one you cannot touch until you come of age."

Harry tilted his head, curiosity bubbling up. "So, when I'm eighteen?"

"No, no," Ragnok corrected, flashing another toothy smile. "In the magical world, witches and wizards reach adulthood at seventeen. A year earlier than you might expect, eh?"

"Seventeen," Harry repeated softly, nodding. It was strange—everything here was strange—but he liked the sound of it. "Thank you, Account Manager Ragnok. Could I make a withdrawal from the trust vault today?"

"Of course, Mr. Potter," Ragnok said, snapping his fingers. "Griphook will take you down. Just a moment."

A younger goblin appeared at the door, his posture stiff and formal. "This way, Mr. Potter," he said, gesturing toward a narrow corridor. Harry followed, his mind buzzing with questions as they descended a winding stone staircase. The air grew colder, and soon they reached a rickety cart perched on a rail that vanished into a dark tunnel. Griphook climbed in, motioning for Harry to join him.

As the cart lurched forward, rattling along at a breakneck pace, Griphook spoke up. "The currency here might confuse you at first. There are seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. Simple enough once you get the hang of it."

Harry frowned, doing the math in his head as the cart jostled him side to side. "Wait—so that's… 493 Knuts in a Galleon?"

"Precisely," Griphook said, sounding mildly impressed. "And as for the exchange rate, one Galleon's worth about fifty pounds in your Muggle money."

"Fifty pounds!" Harry exclaimed, gripping the cart's edge as it took a sharp turn. That was a fortune compared to the measly coins he'd scrounged from the Dursleys' couch cushions. When they finally stopped, Griphook led him to a heavy vault door, its surface etched with runes. Inside, piles of gold Galleons glittered alongside stacks of silver Sickles and bronze Knuts. It was more money than Harry had ever dreamed of.

"I'll take some Galleons," Harry said, still dazed. Then, spotting a small display of enchanted items near the vault entrance, he added, "And that bottomless bag, please. I've got some shopping to do."

Griphook handed him the bag—a sleek, black pouch that swallowed coins without bulging—and smirked. "Wise choice, young wizard. You'll need it where you're headed."

Harry grinned, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Diagon Alley awaited, and with gold in his pocket and a wand on his mind, he felt ready to dive deeper into this strange, magical world.

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