Gringotts had always felt different from the rest of the wizarding world.
Older. Stronger. Untouched by the games of lesser men.
But today?
Today, Harry sat in the heart of it, healed, whole, and changed.
Magic hummed beneath his skin, sharp and ancient, coiling in the air like a serpent awaiting its master's command. Death's presence was constant—lingering at his side, watching, waiting.
And the goblins?
The goblins had been waiting too.
Ragnok sat across from him, the parchment in front of him glowing with truths buried beneath lies.
"You are healed," Ragnok said, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. "The next matter is your accounts."
Harry exhaled slowly, leaning back. "Let me guess," he drawled. "Dumbledore's been helping himself."
Ragnok bared his teeth. "For years."
Harry clenched his jaw, but forced himself to stay calm. "How much?"
Ragnok placed another parchment in front of him.
Harry's blood ran cold.
Millions of Galleons.
Lands, properties, rare artifacts—stolen.
Dumbledore had taken everything he could reach.
But that wasn't the worst part.
No.
The worst part was the contract.
A marriage contract.
Signed. Sealed. Approved by the Ministry.
Between him—Harry James Potter-Peverell-Slytherin—and Ginerva Molly Weasley.
And if the contract was fulfilled?
Every vault. Every property. Every single thing Harry owned—
Would transfer to her.
To the Weasleys.
To Dumbledore.
Harry's magic roared inside him, surging so violently that the torches on the walls flickered, the air in the room growing thick with something uncontrollable.
Ragnok smirked. "I take it you're displeased."
Harry let out a slow breath, forcing his power under control. He smirked. Sharp. Cold. Lethal.
"Oh," he murmured, voice deceptively light. "That contract is about to become very invalid."
And that was when the doors slammed open.
Theo stormed in first.
He was furious.
Harry had barely registered the crackle of his magic, the sharp danger in his dark eyes before he was standing over him, fingers gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"You. Are. An. Idiot."
Harry blinked. "Good to see you too."
Theo's eye twitched. "Three months, Harry." His voice was low, trembling with the sheer force of his restraint. "Three. Bloody. Months."
Harry sighed. "I wasn't exactly having a vacation, Theo."
Theo's fury didn't lessen. If anything, it darkened.
Then—
A slow, amused chuckle.
And stepping into the room, calm and composed, was Theo's father.
Lord Nott.
His sharp, elegant features were unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were assessing, cold, and—oddly—approving.
Harry tensed instinctively.
Nott tilted his head. "So," he murmured, voice silky, "this is the boy my son refuses to shut up about."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"
Lord Nott's lips curled into a smirk. "Not in the slightest."
Theo wasn't amused. He turned on his father. "I didn't bring you here for that."
Lord Nott chuckled. "No, I suppose you didn't." His gaze flicked back to Harry, and this time, his smirk vanished.
"You were nearly killed."
Harry hated the way something cold twisted in his stomach at those words.
He forced a lazy grin. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Theo exhaled sharply. "And it won't be the last if you keep being a bloody reckless moron."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm fine—"
"You almost died."
The weight of those words settled between them.
Harry met Theo's gaze, something unspoken passing between them.
This wasn't just anger.
This was fear.
Fear that Theo hadn't felt in years.
Fear that only Harry could cause.
Harry's smirk softened slightly. "I'm here."
Theo swallowed hard, then let out a sharp breath. "Yeah. Well. Try not to make a habit of it."
Lord Nott, watching all of this, finally sighed. "Well, now that we've established that you're alive, perhaps we should discuss something a bit more… productive."
His gaze flickered to the goblins.
"Tell me," he drawled, lips curling, "how much, exactly, has Dumbledore stolen?"
Harry smirked.
And just like that—
The game had changed.
Gringotts had always felt different from the rest of the wizarding world.
Older. Stronger. Untouched by the games of lesser men.
But today?
Today, Harry sat in the heart of it, healed, whole, and changed.
Magic hummed beneath his skin, sharp and ancient, coiling in the air like a serpent awaiting its master's command. Death's presence was constant—lingering at his side, watching, waiting.
And the goblins?
The goblins had been waiting too.
Ragnok sat across from him, the parchment in front of him glowing with truths buried beneath lies.
"You are healed," Ragnok said, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. "The next matter is your accounts."
Harry exhaled slowly, leaning back. "Let me guess," he drawled. "Dumbledore's been helping himself."
Ragnok bared his teeth. "For years."
Harry clenched his jaw, but forced himself to stay calm. "How much?"
Ragnok placed another parchment in front of him.
Harry's blood ran cold.
Millions of Galleons.
Lands, properties, rare artifacts—stolen.
Dumbledore had taken everything he could reach.
But that wasn't the worst part.
No.
The worst part was the contract.
A marriage contract.
Signed. Sealed. Approved by the Ministry.
Between him—Harry James Potter-Peverell-Slytherin—and Ginerva Molly Weasley.
And if the contract was fulfilled?
Every vault. Every property. Every single thing Harry owned—
Would transfer to her.
To the Weasleys.
To Dumbledore.
Harry's magic roared inside him, surging so violently that the torches on the walls flickered, the air in the room growing thick with something uncontrollable.
Ragnok smirked. "I take it you're displeased."
Harry let out a slow breath, forcing his power under control. He smirked. Sharp. Cold. Lethal.
"Oh," he murmured, voice deceptively light. "That contract is about to become very invalid."
And that was when the doors slammed open.
Theo stormed in first.
He was furious.
Harry had barely registered the crackle of his magic, the sharp danger in his dark eyes before he was standing over him, fingers gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"You. Are. An. Idiot."
Harry blinked. "Good to see you too."
Theo's eye twitched. "Three months, Harry." His voice was low, trembling with the sheer force of his restraint. "Three. Bloody. Months."
Harry sighed. "I wasn't exactly having a vacation, Theo."
Theo's fury didn't lessen. If anything, it darkened.
Then—
A slow, amused chuckle.
And stepping into the room, calm and composed, was Theo's father.
Lord Nott.
His sharp, elegant features were unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were assessing, cold, and—oddly—approving.
Harry tensed instinctively.
Nott tilted his head. "So," he murmured, voice silky, "this is the boy my son refuses to shut up about."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"
Lord Nott's lips curled into a smirk. "Not in the slightest."
Theo wasn't amused. He turned on his father. "I didn't bring you here for that."
Lord Nott chuckled. "No, I suppose you didn't." His gaze flicked back to Harry, and this time, his smirk vanished.
"You were nearly killed."
Harry hated the way something cold twisted in his stomach at those words.
He forced a lazy grin. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Theo exhaled sharply. "And it won't be the last if you keep being a bloody reckless moron."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm fine—"
"You almost died."
The weight of those words settled between them.
Harry met Theo's gaze, something unspoken passing between them.
This wasn't just anger.
This was fear.
Fear that Theo hadn't felt in years.
Fear that only Harry could cause.
Harry's smirk softened slightly. "I'm here."
Theo swallowed hard, then let out a sharp breath. "Yeah. Well. Try not to make a habit of it."
Lord Nott, watching all of this, finally sighed. "Well, now that we've established that you're alive, perhaps we should discuss something a bit more… productive."
His gaze flickered to the goblins.
"Tell me," he drawled, lips curling, "how much, exactly, has Dumbledore stolen?"
Harry smirked.
And just like that—
The game had changed.