The mind healer's office didn't feel like the rest of Gringotts.

It was quiet, yes, but warm in a way nothing else in the bank had been. No marble. No iron-bound doors. Just a thick wool rug, a low-burning fire, and walls lined with spell-stabilised bookshelves that hummed faintly with charmwork. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and parchment.

Harry stood in the doorway until the goblin ushered him forward.

A woman rose from her chair—middle-aged, dark robes, steel-rimmed glasses low on her nose. Her hair was plaited neatly back, and her eyes didn't miss a thing.

"Mr Potter," she said. "I'm Healer Alithea Roen. Thank you for coming. You may call me Alithea, if you prefer. Or Healer Roen—whichever feels more comfortable."

Harry shrugged. "Healer's fine."

"As you like. Please—sit where you feel most at ease."

There was no desk. Just two chairs angled toward one another, with a worn blanket draped over the back of one. Harry chose the other.

Roen didn't sit immediately. She moved slowly, methodically, as if aligning her movements with the wards in the room. When she did sit, she didn't speak at once—and that, Harry noticed, was new. Most adults filled silence too quickly. She let it sit between them like breath, steady and unbothered.

Eventually: "Have you ever spoken with a mind healer before?"

Harry shook his head. "No."

"Well," she said, voice calm but deliberate, "let me be very clear about what today is—and isn't."

He looked up.

"I'm not here to fix you. I'm not here to pick you apart, or tell you what you ought to feel. My role is to determine whether you are capable—emotionally and magically—of making certain decisions about your inheritance and protection. We're not diagnosing you. We're *listening to you.*"

Harry nodded once.

"You'll also hear me ask whether you feel safe. Whether you've been harmed. Whether there are protections you should have had but didn't. If you choose to continue, we will report to Gringotts and your prospective magical guardian. That information will not be passed to Hogwarts, the Ministry, or any other entity—unless *you* authorise it."

Harry's jaw clenched. "What if I don't?"

"If you don't proceed with a guardian, the memory of this session may be sealed under confidentiality protocols. No one but Gringotts will retain the record."

He nodded, once. His chest felt tight.

Roen softened slightly. "So. With that in mind—can you tell me why you're here?"

He didn't speak right away. His gaze drifted to the fire. The warmth flickered across the carpet, but it didn't reach inside him.

"Because I've never had a choice about anything," he said eventually. "And this time, I do."

Roen inclined her head. No interruption. Just quiet understanding.

"Yesterday," she said after a pause, "you found out you're heir to two magical houses. That your finances were being accessed without your knowledge. That your placement with your relatives had no legal standing. That you've spent years being lied to. That's a lot. How are you feeling?"

Harry gave a short, humourless laugh. "Angry."

"At who?"

He didn't hesitate. "My aunt and uncle, my cousin, Dumbledore. Dobby, Lucius Malfoy, and whoever was involved in making decisions about my life, I don't know. I'm just angry. "

Roen didn't blink. "Tell me why."

So he did.

Not in order. Not neatly. But he told her.

About the cupboard. About being starved and hit and punished for things he couldn't control. About the silence. About the things he learnt not to ask for. About the bruises. The hunger. The names.

About how he'd arrived at Hogwarts and thought—maybe—finally—someone would notice. And how no one ever did.

About Professor Quirrell and the Stone. About nearly dying. About the mirror and the voices in the back of his head. About his scar burning.

About the basilisk. The blood on the walls. Being called a Parselmouth and watching everyone back away.

About Ron and losing him—even briefly—and how quickly the loneliness came back.

About Dumbledore, who never asked. Who never stopped him from going back. Who watched and *let it happen.*

Roen said nothing while he spoke. She didn't interrupt. She took a few notes, but mostly, she listened.

When he stopped, he didn't look at her. He stared at the flame again, waiting for her to judge him.

She didn't.

"You've been neglected," Roen said softly. "By the Muggle guardians who raised you—and by your magical caretakers who allowed it."

Harry didn't move.

"I won't soften the language," she continued. "What you've described is consistent with long-term emotional abuse, physical neglect, institutional gaslighting, and magical endangerment."

Harry blinked. "That's… a lot of words."

"Yes," she said. "But they're accurate. And they belong to you now. Because what happened to you wasn't normal. And it wasn't okay."

He looked down at his hands. They were steady.

"Am I… safe to do the genealogy test?" he asked.

Roen didn't answer right away. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, calm and precise.

"You are," she said. "Magically, emotionally—yes. You are stable enough to receive the results, and grounded enough to act on them."

She watched him closely.

"But I won't pretend it's simple. This isn't just about bloodlines. It's about who's been lying to you, and how deep those lies go. But it could also help you. Truly help."

Harry frowned slightly. "How?"

"The ritual will confirm everything you've been denied: your family, your inheritance, your magical legacy. It can break concealments, expose contracts, and put control back in your hands."

He nodded slowly.

"And it may give you answers about your placement. Why no one came. Why no one stopped it."

That landed hard.

He sat back in his chair. "Right."

Roen didn't press. She let him breathe.

Then, gently: "You're not the only one going through it, you know."

Harry looked up.

"Hermione," Roen said. "Her record flagged an international adoption seal. It's likely her test will be… complicated."

Harry stiffened slightly. "She only just found out."

"I know," Roen said. "And so does she. She's been brave. But she doesn't know what it will show either."

Harry looked at the fire again. "What if it's something awful?"

Roen didn't flinch. "Then you will both deal with it. Together or apart—but with truth. Not lies."

There was a long silence.

"She's not trying to hurt me," he said quietly. "But what if… what if it does anyway?"

Roen nodded. "Sometimes the truth hurts. But hiding it always does."

Harry's fingers twisted in his sleeve. "It's not her fault. Whatever it is, it's not her fault."

"No," Roen agreed. "But you're allowed to have feelings about it. And still stand by her."

He was quiet again.

Then: "I want to. I just—" He swallowed. "I've never had someone like her before. Someone who actually… sees me."

Roen smiled, soft but real. "Then hold on to that. And remember it, even if things get complicated."

Harry exhaled.

"All right," he said. "I want to do the test."

Roen sat quietly for a long moment, quill paused above her parchment.

"I have to ask you this directly," she said gently. "Do you believe you need a magical guardian?"

Harry didn't answer straight away.

He stared at the fire—not lost in it, exactly, but thinking. Weighing something.

"I've been alone a long time," he said eventually. "Even at school. Even with friends."

Roen didn't rush him. She let the quiet stretch, patient and unjudging.

Then: "Have you given any thought to who you might want as a magical guardian?"

Harry nodded once. "I want someone who doesn't answer to Hogwarts. Or the Ministry. Someone outside all that."

"A protective position," Roen said. "Not parental."

"Exactly."

She reached over to a low side table and retrieved the parchment he'd seen yesterday. Two names, elegantly scripted in enchanted ink.

"Clarisse Marchand. Elijah Dorne. Both approved under international magical law. Both cleared to act under ICW treaties. Either would be legally able to challenge any standing magical authority over you—including Albus Dumbledore."

Harry read the names again. "Clarisse is the one who works with displaced magical children?"

Roen nodded. "She's a heritage consultant for the ICW. Has experience in high-stakes magical legacy cases. Brilliant, exacting. Very direct."

He tapped the second name. "And Elijah?"

"Former enforcement. Worked magical protection during the last war. Focuses now on restorative care—especially for children with disrupted magical development. Quiet, but sharp."

Harry nodded slowly. "So he knows what this kind of thing looks like."

"He's lived it," Roen said.

Harry sat back. "They're not British."

"No," Roen said. "And that's a benefit, frankly. No local political ties. No allegiance to Hogwarts. Their first loyalty is to you."

Something about that—*to you*—made Harry's throat ache.

Roen saw it.

"You don't need to decide today," she said. "But if you choose to proceed, a magical guardian can act in several ways. They would be able to: review your vaults and titles, act as a barrier between you and any magical claimants, represent your interests at the Wizengamot if required, monitor your magical development, and—should it become necessary—secure your immediate extraction from any hostile magical environment."

Harry blinked. "Extraction?"

"Removal. Protection. Relocation. Guardianship gives them the authority to prioritise your safety—even against standing institutions."

He looked down at the parchment again.

"And what if I don't choose?"

"Then Gringotts can act as temporary proxy," Roen said. "But without an individual to speak for you personally, decisions will be made more slowly—and less flexibly."

He nodded again. "I want to meet them both."

Roen smiled—only slightly, but it was there. "That's wise."

Harry hesitated. "Do you think I can actually trust them?"

She paused, then said, "I think you've learnt what happens when you're forced to trust people who haven't earned it. These two were chosen because they've earned that trust before, perhaps in far worse circumstances."

That helped.

He looked up, finally. "And the test?"

Roen's tone was clear. "You're ready. If you want to do it tomorrow, you can."

Harry breathed in, deep and slow. "All right."

She didn't press for more. Just nodded and made a note in her file.

Then, softly: "You've done well, Harry. Most adults wouldn't have managed half as much. You have the right to be angry—but you also have the right to *choose* what comes next."

He nodded.

"I think I'd like to."