I stare at the ceiling, tracing the old stone arches with my eyes. The air is thick with the scent of aged parchment and something faintly herbal, like dried plants crushed into dust. The walls loom around me, tall, unyielding, solid in a way that makes my stomach twist. Everything feels too real.

Hogwarts.

I'm at Hogwarts.

A laugh tries to bubble up, dry and a little bit hysterical, but I bite it back. If I start, I might not be able to stop. The sheer absurdity of the situation wraps around my thoughts, over and over, twisting itself into something manic. I should be dead. I should be in Valhalla or one of the other halls of the gods, I should be in Hel if none of them wished to host me or Hell if my christian friends were right.

I exhale slowly, letting my body sink into the mattress. The sheets are soft, the pillows comfortable, but none of it helps. My mind refuses to shut up. My thoughts keep looping back, picking apart the impossible, searching for some kind of logic in a world where logic doesn't belong.

My friends are going to roast the hell out of me when they find out I died making the Staff of Zeus. Assuming they even get to find out.

A ridiculous thought, but it sticks. Fuck, they better burn me on a pyre and throw a party. If they don't do what I wanted, I'm haunting them forever.

The idea almost makes me laugh, but the moment passes. Instead, I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and breathe deep. I am here, in a world that shouldn't exist, wearing the face of a boy who was fiction in my world. And Dumbledore thinks I'm him. That last part should be more alarming than it is.

I glance toward the bedside table, where a pair of round glasses sit, unassuming and plain. I hate that I need them, but now my vision refuses to cooperate without them. Small, stupid things keep throwing me off—the way my hands move, the weight of my body, the simple act of breathing. It's wrong, I'm in the body of a speccy knobby eleven year old, I have so many things to fix about it, luckily magic should let me fix my eyes and grow my hair out easily.

And then there's the scar.

I reach up, fingers brushing the jagged, branching lines cutting down through my forehead and past my eye. The skin is raised, humming faintly beneath my touch, like something alive is slumbering just beneath the surface. I pull my hand away, frowning. I like the scar but the feeling is unsettling.

My thoughts drift, pulling me back to earlier.

-HP-
-HP-
-HP-

Dumbledore had sat across from me, his expression gentle, but his eyes were far too knowing, too old. His voice carried that same careful softness, the kind meant to soothe something fragile.

"I am so terribly sorry, my boy. Your relatives… did not survive the incident."

There had been a pause, a weighted silence where I was supposed to react.

I hadn't.

"A gas explosion," he had continued, fingers steepling in front of him. "A tragic accident. The house was destroyed entirely, and there was… significant collateral damage. The force of the blast, I'm afraid, was quite devastating."

I had watched him carefully, dissecting the way he chose his words.

Not no survivors. Not no one else was harmed. Just… significant collateral damage. That was deliberate.

I could've pressed him for more, but what would be the point? The Dursleys were dead. I hadn't liked them, I was glad they were gone, unlike Harry I probably would have killed them myself. And now they were gone.

Nothing to mourn.

"Your injury," Dumbledore had added, gaze flicking to my face, "was a result of the explosion. A piece of metal, perhaps—shrapnel from the destruction. It… aggravated your old scar, I'm afraid."

Aggravated was one way to put it. The damn thing had split wide open.

Still, I'd found myself mumbling, "Bet Petunia went down to that frying pan she swung at me."

Dumbledore had paused, lips pressing together like he wasn't sure if he should acknowledge that or let it slide.

He let it slide.

Good.

I sigh, rubbing at my face again.

Any weirdness in my reactions? My speech? My attitude?
 Trauma.

Dumbledore thinks I'm grieving, disoriented, suffering from the aftermath of something impossible. And that works just fine for me.

Let him rationalize whatever he wants.

For now, I just have to keep it together.

Hogwarts is my home now.

That's what Dumbledore had said. "You'll be safe here. You may remain at Hogwarts as long as you need."

No foster care. No orphanage. No immediate threat of being shipped off somewhere unknown. Just me, a castle, and a hell of a lot of magic.

I should feel relieved. Instead, I just feel… adrift.

I turn my head, eyes settling on the soft glow of candlelight against the stone walls. Tomorrow, I'll be heading to Diagon Alley.

Hagrid is coming to take me.

Hagrid.

Gods, how the hell am I supposed to react to him? He's going to be huge, and I have to play along like he's just… Hagrid. Not a character from a book. Not a figment of fiction.

Everything is happening too fast.

I exhale slowly, forcing my body to relax, to accept what's happening even if my mind refuses to.

Shit. I've been talking like an American.

I freeze, realization slamming into me like a brick wall.

Dumbledore didn't comment on it—maybe because he was too distracted—but it's only a matter of time before someone notices.

British slang, sentence structure, accents. I need to find a way to explain it.

Brain damage? Disoriented from the attack?

Something.

I shake my head, pressing my face into the pillow. I'll figure it out tomorrow.

For now…

For now, I should explore the castle. I should get up, test my limits, walk through the halls of Hogwarts just to prove to myself that this is real.

The thought lingers, growing stronger.

I will.

I'll get up.

I'll move.

I'll—

The bed is so soft.

Softer than any I've ever slept in. The warmth settles deep into my bones, my body melting into the mattress, the weight of exhaustion finally dragging me under.

-HP-
-HP-
-HP-

I wake slowly, awareness dragging me up through layers of fog. The first thing I register is warmth—soft sheets, thick blankets, the kind of deep comfort that I don't think I've ever felt before. My body wants to sink back into it, let sleep pull me under again, but my brain refuses to cooperate.

Hogwarts.

The thought slides into place, sluggish but certain. I pry my eyes open, taking in the same tall stone arches, the candlelit sconces flickering against the walls. Nothing's changed. It wasn't a dream.

I sit up, rolling my shoulders, stretching experimentally. My body feels fine. Too fine. I expected soreness, bruises, some sign that I'd survived a gas explosion—but there's nothing. No aches, no lingering stiffness.

That doesn't make sense.

Dumbledore told me it was a gas explosion—a freak accident, a disaster with "significant collateral damage." He'd given me some excuse about shrapnel splitting my scar open, and I'd nodded along, let him assume I was too dazed to question it. But now that I'm thinking about it properly…

Was it really just a gas explosion?

Magic is real. Accidental magic is a thing. And I don't know what this body is capable of. If I panicked—if I lost control—could Harry have caused it?

The thought lingers, but I push it away. I have no way of knowing, and even if I did, what would I do with that information?

A noise pulls my attention toward the door. Heavy footsteps.

I sit up properly, pushing down the nerves that are entirely too loud for something as simple as a door opening. The handle shifts, the hinges creak, and then—

Hagrid steps inside.

And holy shit, he's huge.

No. Bigger than huge.

I knew he was big. I knew it. I read the damn books. But knowing and seeing it in person are two different things, and it's all I can do to keep my mouth from dropping open.

Broad as hell, towering over me, taking up half the damn room—he doesn't look like he should be able to fit through the door, but he does, somehow, a massive presence wrapped up in layers of rough, fur-lined fabric.

And then he grins.

"Mornin', Harry! Good ter see yeh awake!"

His voice is loud, deep, and warm, and so unmistakably Hagrid that it knocks the breath from my lungs for an entirely different reason. I don't know what I was expecting, but this—this feels like something slamming into place.

Real.

Too real.

I swallow past whatever the hell is happening in my throat and manage, "Morning."

If Hagrid notices how stiff I sound, he doesn't mention it. He's already moving across the room, easily the biggest person I've ever seen, and gods, I've fought guys twice my size in my last life, but Hagrid? Hagrid could fold me in half and not even notice.

"Professor Dumbledore told me yeh were up an' doin' alright!" He chuckles, grabbing a chair that honestly looks way too small for him. "Thought I'd come an' check on yeh before we head out fer the day. Gotta get yeh yer school things, after all."

Right. Diagon Alley.

That knocks the last of the sleep from my brain. Diagon Alley. Gringotts. Ollivanders. Magic, real magic, just waiting for me outside these castle walls.

Hagrid keeps talking, his words familiar—almost exactly what I remember from the books, save for the details about the Dursleys. No 'smashin' down the door of some shack on a rock' this time. Just me, sitting in a too-comfortable bed, listening to a man I'd once thought was fictional.

I'm pretty sure I make a noise, something caught between a laugh and an exhale, and it must sound like agreement because Hagrid beams. "We'll be Floo-in' straight there, mind, since we don't need ter stop at the Leaky Cauldron. Professor Dumbledore reckons best not ter drag yeh through more attention than necessary."

Thank the gods for that. The last thing I need is Tom staring at me like I'm some kind of living legend before I've even figured out how to not talk like an American.

Speaking of—shit, how am I going to explain that?

I barely have time to start panicking before Hagrid is standing again, already ushering me toward the door. "C'mon, best be gettin' a move on. Got a lot ter do today!"

A lot to do. Right. Diagon Alley. Magic. A part of me—the same part that's still losing its mind over Hagrid existing—starts buzzing with excitement.

I push the thought of my awkward American accent aside for the moment, but the weight of my glasses starts to annoy me. They feel too big on my face—unfamiliar, like they're going to slip off any second. They sit crooked, and I can already feel them digging into the bridge of my nose. It's such a trivial thing, but the discomfort gnaws at me, reminding me that I don't belong here. My mind knows this is Hogwarts, but my body... my body still doesn't feel like it should be in this too-small form. It's weak, fragile—so different from how I remember my body in the other life. Everything is a little too stiff, too young.

But there's no time to think about it.

I follow him out of the room, pushing down the nerves, pushing down the fact that I should be way more freaked out than I am.

One thing at a time.

-HP-
-JP-
-HP-

Hogwarts is real.

Magic is real.

And I'm about to launch myself through a fireplace and come out somewhere completely different.

The thought alone sends a thrill of excitement running up my spine.

I stand in front of the massive stone fireplace, staring into the ashes as Hagrid scoops up a handful of powder from a small velvet pouch. My pulse kicks up, not from nerves, but from the sheer, unfiltered rush of knowing this is actually happening.

I don't hesitate.

I step forward, ashes tickling my nose as Hagrid offers me a handful of Floo Powder. It's cool and fine in my palm, like powdered metal, and the moment it touches my skin, it seems to almost seems to pulse in anticipation.

"Jus' remember ter speak clearly," Hagrid reminds me. "And don' go movin' about while yer travellin'—otherwise, yeh might end up in the wrong fireplace."

I nod, barely listening. My grin won't leave my face.

The excitement is a livewire beneath my skin.

I throw the powder down at my feet, and the fire roars higher, swallowing me whole.

And then—

Motion.

The world tilts and suddenly I'm spinning. The flames blur around me, streaks of green light rushing past, the sensation like being shot through a tunnel of roaring wind and flickering shadows. The rush of it is impossible, incredible—like the moment before a fight, like freefall, like every sharp-edged thrill I've ever chased.

My laugh bursts out of me, bright and wild, lost in the whirlwind.

It should be terrifying. It's not.

It's exhilarating.

With one last rush of heat, the motion slams to a halt, and I feel the ground lurch beneath me. My feet hit solid stone, my knees bend to absorb the impact, and I stumble only slightly before straightening up, grinning like an idiot.

I made it.

I just traveled through a damn fireplace.

Adrenaline buzzes through my veins, and before I even get a chance to take it all in, a massive weight slams into my back.

Hagrid.

"Oof—sorry 'bout that, Harry—bit of a tight squeeze fer me!"

I stagger slightly under the force of a literal half-giant landing behind me, but I barely register it. Because—

Diagon Alley.

I whirl around, taking it all in at once.

The street is alive with movement, noise, and magic.

Buildings stack higher than they should be able to, signs twist and shimmer with enchanted lettering, and the sheer density of color and sound is overwhelming in the best way. There's no clean, orderly grid like in Muggle cities—Diagon Alley is chaotic, twisting, built without rhyme or reason.

People bustle past in robes of every shade, their arms loaded with parchment, books, cauldrons. The air is thick with the scent of fresh ink, potion smoke, and something warm and spiced from a nearby cart. A group of tiny children in too-big robes dart past, laughing, their wands sparking in excitement as their parents call after them.

Magic isn't hidden here.

It's everywhere.

And for the first time since I woke up in this body, something in me settles.

This isn't some fragile illusion. This isn't a dream waiting to collapse.

It's real.

And it's mine.

I tilt my head back, taking a deep breath, letting the rush of it sink into my bones. The glass storefronts reflect the swirling golden glow of magic, shopkeepers wave their wands to adjust floating displays, and something inside me thrums with the certainty that I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I turn back to Hagrid, grinning. "That was amazing."

The half-giant lets out a booming chuckle. "Aye, Floo travel takes some gettin' used to! But yeh handled it better'n most first-timers!"

Hell yeah, I did.

I roll my shoulders, still feeling the residual charge of adrenaline and magic beneath my skin. My body is smaller, weaker than what I'm used to, but that doesn't change the fact that magic is real and I'm standing in the middle of it.

I barely notice when Hagrid nudges me forward.

"C'mon now, lot ter do! First stop—Gringotts!"

I nod, still grinning, and let him steer me toward the massive white-marble bank that looms over the rest of the Alley.

The sheer size of it is impressive—towering columns, gold-engraved doors, a level of grandeur that practically screams old money.

And as we step closer, I finally glance down at myself, my mood dipping slightly.

My reflection catches in a shop window, and my grin falters.

Messy black hair, small frame, these damn glasses sliding down my nose.

The excitement dulls at the edges, because no matter how much magic is in the air, I'm still trapped in the wrong body.

I shove the thought aside.

Focus. Magic first. Existential crisis later.

Flanking either side of the entrance stand two goblins in immaculate silver plate armor etched in gold, their gleaming halberds held upright in a formal posture. Short swords hang at their waists, hilts polished and bejeweled.

I slow my pace slightly, eyes drifting over the masterfully crafted armor. I recognize quality when I see it. This wasn't slapped together by some amateur blacksmith.

The halberds are just as well made, their axe-like blades wickedly curved, a stabbing spike extending from the top and a hammer on the back end, gold scroll work tracing across the entire weapon.

I can't help but admire it.

I wonder how much it would cost to have a sword made for me.

And—if the armor would actually hold up to spellfire.

Would it be like in the stories, deflecting curses? Or would magic simply burn straight through it, the way fire melts wax?

The thought sticks with me as I shift my gaze to the doors, my attention finally settling on the engraved warning.

I slow my pace slightly, eyes tracing the words, speaking them softly under my breath.

Enter, stranger, but take heed, of what awaits the sin of greed.
For those who take, but do not earn, must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours…
Thief, you have been warned, beware—of finding more than treasure there.

A thoughtful hum rises in my throat. I wonder if I can do better than Harry with a break in.

Hagrid chuckles beside me, catching my gaze. "Aye, Gringotts don' mess about when it comes ter security. Come on, Harry, best not keep the goblins waitin'."

The moment I step past the great bronze doors, my first thought is immediate.

Ah, banks, home of the Jews.

The goblins are everywhere.

Not just standing guard, but hunched over desks, poring over ledgers and parchment, counting out stacks of gold and gems with long, clawed fingers. Some are hunched over weighing rubies on delicate brass scales, while others meticulously scribe down figures in ledgers as thick as spellbooks. The whole place hums with the quiet, constant motion of wealth being measured, traded, and stored.

The interior of Gringotts is even more grandiose than I expected.

The marble floor gleams under the light of floating crystal chandeliers, casting fractured patterns of gold and white across the walls. The vaulted ceiling stretches impossibly high, lined with more flickering enchanted lamps that glow with a soft, eerie blue.

I glance around, taking in the sheer scale of wealth in this room alone.

Not just the treasures being counted, but the goblins themselves. Their suits are finely tailored, dark and pressed with crisp lines, their gold-rimmed spectacles glinting under the candlelight. There's no question about it—this is their kingdom.

And we're just guests.

Hagrid clears his throat beside me. "Right, this way, Harry—best not ter gawk too much."

I tear my eyes away from a particularly feral-looking goblin inspecting a massive sapphire under a jeweler's loupe and nod, following him toward the front desk.

Hagrid leads me toward one of the larger counters, nodding to a goblin seated behind the high desk. The goblin looks old, even by goblin standards—his skin a deep shade of greenish-gray, sharp wrinkles cutting across his face like carved stone. Gold rings glint on his fingers, and a single monocle is perched over one narrow eye.

His sharp gaze flicks toward me instantly.

I don't miss the way his eyes narrow slightly as they land on my scar.

"Name?" His voice is rough, clipped, and professional.

"Harry Potter," I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

A flicker of something—*interest? calculation?—passes across his expression before he gestures toward Hagrid. "And you are?"

"Rubeus Hagrid, here on behalf of Professor Dumbledore. Young Harry's got business in his family vault."

The goblin—whose nameplate reads Ragnok—lets out a small grunt and extends one hand expectantly. Hagrid rummages around in his coat before pulling out a small, ancient-looking gold key and setting it down on the counter.

The goblin barely glances at it before plucking it up with two fingers, examining it like it personally offended him.

"Everything appears in order," Ragnok mutters, before snapping his fingers sharply.

Another goblin immediately steps forward from the shadows—a younger one, lean and sharp-featured, with keen golden eyes and a crisp black suit.

"Grimclaw," Ragnok says without looking up. "Escort Mr. Potter to Vault 687."

Grimclaw bows slightly, his movements effortlessly smooth.

"Follow me," he says, turning on his heel and walking briskly toward a side corridor.

Hagrid nudges me forward, and I fall into step behind the goblin, glancing around as we pass by other wizards handling their banking. Some look like old money—proud, arrogant types dressed in elegant robes—while others carry an air of barely concealed desperation.

But no one is paying attention to me.

They should be.

I am Harry Fucking Potter.

A smirk tugs at my lips before we step through a smaller arched doorway, leading into a dimly lit tunnel lined with iron tracks.

The moment I see the small, rickety-looking cart waiting on the tracks, I already know I'm going to love this.

Grimclaw barely gives us time to brace before he hops in and motions for us to follow.

I jump in without hesitation, barely settling into the cold metal seat before the cart lurches forward.

Then—

It drops.

The air rips past me as we shoot downward, the tunnel blurring into streaks of black and gold as the cart careens down the steep incline. My stomach flips, but instead of panic, all I feel is a wild rush of exhilaration.

Holy shit, this is fast.

I can barely hear Hagrid's startled yelp over the roaring wind as the cart twists violently, shooting through narrow passages, sharp turns, and what feels like a nearly vertical drop. The weightless sensation is thrilling, like riding a roller coaster without the safety bars, and I can't help the breathless laugh that slips out.

We rocket through the underground vault tunnels, passing massive stone doors, twisting iron bridges, and glowing blue lanterns. At one point, we speed past a deep underground chasm, the faint glimmer of something moving in the darkness below.

A dragon?

I don't get the chance to confirm, because the cart swerves sharply again, throwing me sideways before coming to an abrupt, gut-wrenching stop.

Vault 687.

I practically bounce out of the cart, still feeling the residual thrill in my veins, while Hagrid climbs out behind me looking decidedly less enthused.

"Ugh—never liked these damn carts," he mutters, rubbing his stomach.

I grin, brushing off my shirt. "That was incredible. Do I have to be rich to ride that whenever I want, or—?"

Grimclaw gives me a flat look.

"The carts are not a service for entertainment, Mr. Potter."

I shrug. "Shame." Would make them some good money.

Grimclaw approaches the heavy iron door, running his long fingers over intricate goblin-forged engravings. With a practiced motion, he inserts the small golden key into the lock.

The door doesn't simply swing open.

It melts away, rippling like liquid metal before vanishing entirely, revealing a chamber stacked with gleaming golden coins, shining silver, and thick bronze Galleons.

My money.

It takes me a second to process the sheer amount of wealth sitting right in front of me.

I step forward, eyeing the mounds of gold, the glittering reflection of candlelight dancing across the treasure.

"Bloody hell," I breathe, running my fingers over a single cool gold coin before glancing at Grimclaw.

"Was my family lords or something? Look at all this money." Was the fanon trope real in other words.

Grimclaw doesn't react, but I hear Hagrid let out a short chuckle behind me.

"Aye, the Potters are an old family, but yeh won't get access to any of that old stuff 'til you turn seventeen. Now, let's get goin'. Not lookin' forward to that cart again."

I take one last glance around before grabbing my pouch and scooping in handfuls of coins, feeling the weight of real gold in my palm. Hagrid helps me and chuckles.

"The gold ones are Galleons," he explained.

"Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms."

This isn't just numbers on a bank statement.

This is real.

And it's mine.

And unlike Harry I will use this.

As Grimclaw seals the vault behind me, I step away, still turning a Galleon over between my fingers.

Magic and money.

Yeah.

I could get used to this.

The cart lurches forward, and I don't even try to hide the grin that spreads across my face.

We're heading back up now, retracing the wild metal tracks through the twisting caverns of Gringotts. The cold air whips at my face as we climb and dip and twist, the momentum sharp and jarring—but I love it.

The thrill shoots through me again, a clean, electric feeling that cuts through all the weirdness and weight of everything else. For just a moment, I'm not a stranger in the wrong body dumped into a world of fiction.

I'm just a guy racing through an underground vault system on a magically self-driving rollercoaster.

Hagrid groans behind me. Again. Poor guy.

As the cart rounds another tight corner, my thoughts flick back to the vaults we passed.

Not mine.

The other one.

Vault 713. The Stone.

No one mentioned it. Hagrid had not brought it up. I didn't see it opened. Which means… they've already moved it.

Which makes sense. Dumbledore isn't dumb. But damn if it doesn't itch at me. The Philosopher's Stone—immortality and infinite gold. Every greedy part of me sings at the thought of it.

Not like I'd ever get my hands on it. But it's out there. And knowing that? That's enough to stir a kind of hunger I only felt momentarily stir in my old world.

I sit back in the cart as it banks upward in a sharp incline, vault doors rushing past in a blur.

That kind of power... I would have it.

We rattle toward the end of the tunnel, light blooming ahead.

When the cart finally screeches to a halt at the main platform, I swing my legs out and hop off, feet landing steady on the cool stone floor.

And immediately I'm reminded that I'm short now.

I glance up at Hagrid, who towers above me like a moving mountain, and feel a flicker of irritation burn in my chest. It's not jealousy—it's just the fact that I used to be taller. Older. Stronger. And now I have to tilt my head back just to make eye contact with someone.

It grates.

Hagrid doesn't seem to notice. He just pats his coat and starts back toward the marble hall without looking. "Tha's the worst of it over, lad. Let's get yeh sorted with supplies."

I follow him, tucking the pouch of Galleons securely inside my robes, my mind still racing.

Lordship.

I'd asked the goblin—half a joke, half a probe—"Was my family lords?"

And while he didn't give me a straight answer, the way Hagrid cut in with that little "you won't get access to that old stuff 'til you're seventeen" said everything I needed to hear.

The fanon's real. At least a little.

Titles. Land. Magic that doesn't just come from wands.

I let the idea settle in my chest like a seed ready to sprout.

No need to rush it. I've got time.

We pass the rows of desks again, goblins scribbling and weighing and handling fortunes with the same care a sculptor might give to chiseling marble. Wizards and witches come and go—some radiating power, others looking like they barely scraped together enough Knuts for a loan.

But me? I walk out of Gringotts with gold in my pocket, a vault of my own, and the knowledge that this isn't just Rowling's shallow world.

HALL OF HEROES

Savage

Friendly Ghost