Chapter Text
Everything was fine until the black cat rang the door bell and spoke to Aunt Petunia.
Well, it wasn’t fine. In fact, this summer was on track to be the absolute worst by far. Harry knew Uncle Vernon was one more disturbed sleep from locking him in his room until September, and only the threat of wizards watching them at all hours of the day and night kept him from doing so, but every man has his limits. And Uncle Vernon was already very, very close to his.
Oh yes, it had certainly helped him along to that precipice when Dumbledore himself showed up early that first Monday morning before his Uncle had even finished his tea. Dressed in vibrant orange robes, he spoke to his Aunt and Uncle in their perfectly normal dining room about the imminent threat of Voldemort and how important it was for them to limit their summering to the British Isles at least, so he could have his allies keep an eye on them.
Harry couldn’t help a snort at that. No better way to guarantee they would flee the country as soon as Harry started fifth year than to tell them they'd be watched by wixen every moment they stepped outside the house.
Then Dumbledore had taken him aside in the sitting room and implored him to stay where it was safest and keep "close to the comfort of his family". Harry was stunned by the seemingly authentic softness to the Headmaster's voice.Did he listen to me at all when I told him about my relatives?
Dumbledore went on to assure him that he would post trusted friends to watch the neighborhood for suspicious sorts, but Harry wouldn’t see them. They were just a contingency plan. Just to be safe. Harry tried to capture the man's eyes, to look into his face and check that Dumbledore was really asking him to willfully stay close to the Dursleys all summer when the man finished with a tired plea.
Dear boy, please try to hold back on your propensity to wander. The blood wards may only protect you in this house.
And then the man vanished without waiting for Harry’s reply.
Dumbledore’s abrupt disappearance and distracted gaze led him to believe the man must be extremely busy rallying the resistance against Voldemort, so at first, he did his best to follow Dumbledore’s directions. Looking back on that day, Harry could only roll his eyes at himself. The prospect of a magical guard had seemed dangerous, exciting really. He might be sidelined for now, but at least he had some kind of connection to the wizarding world just beyond his doorstep.
And, stupidly, he assumed that the watchers might make his relatives go easier on him.
Some nights, when Harry woke up sweating and wheezing, hand clamped over the new pink scar on his arm, he wondered if the watchers could hear his screams like his Uncle could. Surely not. Wouldn’t they do something if they could hear him crying out, night after night? They wouldn't necessarily know he was having nightmares. For all they knew, Uncle Vernon could be whipping him bloody.
But as the early days of summer wore on, Harry was convinced that the wizards watching him were blind and deaf. This year, the adjustment to life in the muggle world was much harder for him to stomach. Harry found himself cringing every time Mrs. Number 3 glared at him through her window blinds when he took a break in the yard, or Mr. Number Seven double-checked that his car was locked when Harry was walking to the park. It was humiliating to be brought so low by his muggle neighborhood in front of a magical audience.
But when no oddly-dressed witch or wizard appeared to ask are you okay? Is this normal? I saw you haven’t had water all afternoon, take a break with me, his humiliation gave way to impatience. That devolved into hopelessness and then bitter, slightly insane cynicism.
When Dudley’s gang successfully cornered him in the woods behind the old playground, Harry fully gave up on his so-called guards. Obviously they were not here to help him. He walked all the way home with blood caked around his face, daring them to do something, but nobody stepped out from the shadows. At the end of the third week of summer, he was mentally giving the bird to everyone in Privet Drive, wixen and muggle alike.
It’s because it’s me, Harry thought, sitting in his room at night with Hedwig. He preened her feathers with a diamond stylus from his potions kit. He ached all over from the beating by Dudley's gang, layered on top of his general exhaustion from being in the sun all day, but inside he felt numb and hollow. Harry didn’t even have it in him to be disappointed. Who was going to help him, really? The only people that wanted to help couldn’t (Hermione, Ron) or they were on secret missions for Dumbledore and out of reach (Sirius, Remus, Hagrid).
As he reflected on his sorry state of affairs, he came to a realization. Harry’s greatest sin was that he stood out in both worlds. To Privet Drive, Harry was that ungrateful orphan, torturing his relatives with his snarky attitude, unruly hair, darker skin, and conniving (quiet) disposition. To the Wizarding World, he was the returned hero, rich, powerful, brash, the center of attention at every turn. He was simultaneously someone who didn’t need help and someone who didn’t deserve help. In the end, he was on his own.
What must they think? He wondered, craning his head up to stare at the slice of night sky through his window. Are they like everyone else, believing what they see? What they hear? Even when I’m right in front of them?
He refused to subscribe to the Prophet, but Hermione often included clippings that covered the aftermath of the tournament and Fudge’s assurances that Dumbledore was a politically motivated liar. Harry laughed himself silly over a quote from Lucius Malfoy that stated, “Dark magic has been all but stamped out from our society, but for men who’ve seen the fog of war, the past never really leaves the present.”
It was disturbing to read so many different opinions about himself in the newspaper. Now that he had fallen out of favor, the paper was quick to point out how young he was. “Boy-Who-Lived Cracked! Too young to stand up to the pressure? Anonymous classmates weigh in.”
He really could do nothing but laugh when he read the headlines. Hermione warned him to reign in his temper every letter - don’t take them seriously, they don’t know what they’re talking about, keep a cool head Harry - but he was having the opposite problem. Harry agreed with a lot of what they said. He felt cracked. He was too young. That tournament never should have happened to him.
But he couldn’t say that to her. Not in a letter. Maybe not ever. He loved Hermione, but he just could not stomach the idea of her trying to fix him if he told her how he was feeling.
At least at Privet Drive, everyone left him well enough alone. I must be insane if I’m sort of glad to be here, he thought bitterly, laying his head down on his thin pillow. He just wanted to turn his brain off. He didn’t want to his friends to try to make him feel better. The only thing that would really help him would be to get on his broom and fly…
But he couldn’t fly. It wasn’t even worth thinking about.
Rest wasn’t forthcoming either - his nightmares made sure of that. And try as he might, slaving away in the house and yard wasn’t enough to tire him out every day.
I just need something more vigorous, like one of Oliver’s training plans but on the ground.
Just before he went to sleep, he had an idea.
“Aunt Petunia…” Harry approached her tentatively in the spotless kitchen the next day. Aunt Petunia roughly set her floral tea pot on the counter, clearly drawing a long breath through her thin nose before she turned to look at him.
Who does she see? Part of him wondered. Does she hate me like Snape does, because of my father? Because he took her sister away? Did she and mum ever get along?
He drove the thought away and steeled himself. “I’m done with my chores. Do you want me to do anything else before I go to the library?”
Her long fingers tapped in thought, the painted nails lightly ringing against the china. He kept his gaze down - hopeful, but not too eager. She was having a garden party this afternoon and wouldn’t want him in the house anyway, but it had been a long time since he asked to go to the library.
“Fine. But don’t cause trouble there. I don’t want you stuck inside all summer, skulking around.” She shooed him away with a disgusted flick of her head.
Harry grinned and snatched the dark green bookbag he’d placed at the bottom of the stairs. It was Dudley’s cast-off, so one of the straps was ripped, but it would work for him. He didn’t have a library card, so he wouldn’t be able to check out books anyway.
In it, he packed a pen from one of the drawers of his desk, labeled with the old Grunning’s logo, a primary school notebook that was still mostly blank, a few snacks he’d saved from the train, and most precious of all - a ratty black wallet with nearly fifty pounds inside.
The library was about fifteen minutes from his house on Privet Drive, in the opposite direction of the park where Dudley’s gang liked to lurk. It was built inside an old finishing school, so it was rather grand. It used to be a stuffy old place where he could hide in the children’s section for a few hours, but in the intervening years it had changed. Harry gazed at the brightly colored signs and patterned carpets, marveling at how modern it looked. A young woman smiled at him as he walked in, an act so startling that he actually walked into one of the alarm detectors.
“You okay, hon?”
She’s American, he realized with a start. She doesn’t know who I am.
“Sorry - er, yeah, I’m okay…” he quickly dipped his head and power walked to main shelves. After thoroughly embedding himself in the shelves, he set about remembering how muggle libraries organized the stacks and found the sports section.
Hours later, he thumped his head on the table in defeat. He’d read about nearly every sport known to mankind, but he didn’t find something he could practice by himself in the muggle world. All kinds of track-type sports appealed to him, but the minute he started running through the neighborhood someone would call the police.
Other solitary sports required equipment, or ranges, or special training. He considered a gymnastics book the longest, thinking about the uneven bars at the park, but Piers Polkiss lived across the street. He would phone Dudley the second he saw him trying to front flip.
After a snack break, he decided not to waste his time out of the house and browsed the library to satisfy his curiosity. He flipped through one surprisingly digestible psychology book about nightmares, a book called the Art of War that wasn’t what he expected, but read a few chapters of all the same, and finally a popular children’s series he remembered classmates reading in primary. It was about dragons, and he enjoyed comparing the author’s attempt to describe ideal hatching conditions and the coloration of the dragons against what he knew to be real.
Nearing six o’clock, he put his books away and passed the American woman at the desk again. She offered him a huge smile that he returned mutedly. Just before the exit, he saw there was a cart loaded with books parked near the doors. A sign declared: Free - Courtesy of Friends of the Library.
“Take as many as you like!” the librarian piped up, her voice carrying easily through the silent building. “I’m taking the lot to charity on the weekend.”
Harry bobbed his head, already scanning the well-worn spines. He took a copy of The Hobbit with half the cover missing, something he’d heard even students at Hogwarts mention, and was about to turn around and leave with his prize when a tall, hardcover spine caught his eye. Convict’s Meditation.
Thinking of Sirius, he pulled it out. Convict’s Meditation: Discovering Peace and Freedom inside a Cell.
Harry took that one too.
The rest of the week passed at a slug’s pace. Harry baited Dudley’s gang into Harry Hunting once, just to give himself an excuse to run, but none of them had his stamina or speed. Dudley was raging mad about losing him and trampled a patch of dahlias in the back garden in revenge, which earned Harry a day locked in his room with no food.
Normally he would chafe at being stuck inside, but this time it was a relief. He casually read the first chapter of the Convict book to see what it was about and ended up losing the entire day to it.
It was the autobiography about a man named Ivan Seres who was sentenced to thirteen years in prison for violent robbery when he was eighteen. He’d had a long childhood of juvenile crime - petty theft, joy riding, smoking pot.
I knew I was nothing but trash. I was a destined lifer, like my father’d been. But something happened when I turned nineteen…a volunteer who came to teach us convicts how to read and do our numbers asked me if I wanted to try and finish school. When I laughed at him and asked why on earth I’d do that, he asked me a question. “You can be anyone you want when you get out. Who will that person be?”
Until that minute, prison seemed like an inevitability. I may get out for a time, but ultimately I’d always come back to concrete walls and locked doors. There’s pride in prison that goes hand-in-hand with self-hatred. But prison is also a place where you can’t lie to yourself. And I learned that I hated being locked in a cage. I was constantly dreaming to be free, but that dream was nothing but an empty blue sky to me. I never thought about what being free could mean.
That simple question turned my world on its head. For the first time in my life, I started to wonder who I was, who I could become, and how I could do it. I started to believe in the future.
Every chapter was a personal essay, interwoven with accounts from his childhood as well as jaw-dropping stories about prison Harry could scarcely believe were true. Ivan learned to meditate while exploring different religions and described how it helped him check his legendary temper enough to actually back down from fights without losing respect. He detailed the significance of his physical workouts and how connecting to his body helped him reconcile how little he could control in jail. And there was a terribly sad chapter where he described his father's death. The judge denied him leave because there was no one on the outside to organize a funeral. That one didn’t have any advice, Harry just felt his anguish like his own.
Where are my parents even buried? Harry wondered, letting the book slide shut. Realizing he didn’t know brought painful tears to his eyes.
Harry finished the book by sunset. When he was done, he held it close to his chest, closed his eyes, and started to breathe deeply and let go of all the thoughts in his head, trying to emulate Ivan’s meditations.
He adopted a new routine. Ivan described meditating while working his menial prison jobs, so Harry tried to do the same practice. He also attempted to recreate the fitness regimen Ivan described, an hour-long routine of pushups, sit ups, squats, knee drives, and more, but after three days of that on top of his regular chores, Harry almost passed out walking down the stairs.
This isn’t going to work, Harry thought, retreating to drink from the bathroom tap. I’m going to hurt myself.
The boy stared at his reflection. He hadn’t turned the light on, but even in this half-light he could see that his eyes looked less bloodshot, less haunted. His body was sore, but in the last three days he'd slept better than he could ever remember.
I can't stop when it’s working, he thought. He tapped his foot anxiously, thinking about his rapidly dwindling supply of snack foods when suddenly he had an assuredly stupid idea. Several of Ivan's stories centered on him learning how to communicate with people who seemed to hate hate him simply for existing.People are basically decent, even if they like to be cruel to hide their decency.
Decided, Harry padded uneasily down the stairs and found his aunt preparing her lunch in the kitchen.
Harry gathered his courage.
“Aunt Petunia,” he said, standing placidly in doorway, “The eggs in the fridge are old. Can I please boil them to eat? I've been working every day in the garden and almost fainted just now. I know I don't eat much but-“
Aunt Petunia’s face flushed a bright pink. “After we let you live under our roof, taking up DUDLEY’S ROOM all - summer!” She whirled on him. “Now you're asking me for the food out of our precious fridge when we risk our home, our lives, our sanity taking you in every year?! OUT!”
His body wanted to flee, but Harry forced himself to stay still. “Aunt Petunia,” he said, forcing his voice to stay quiet. “Please. I’m doing everything you ask of me. I just need a little more to eat. I can’t live like this. I'll get sick.”
His aunt drew back, two spots of color high on her cheeks. “You greedy freak. You torture Dudley and yet you expect me to wait on your hand and food? He was just telling me that-“
“I have never hurt Dudley,” Harry asserted, making eye contact. See me, he pleaded mentally. Just look at me for once. “And I never would. Aunt Petunia, I will make the eggs myself. There’s only three of them left and we have to buy more anyway. Please.”
The doorbell rang, freezing his Aunt’s hand before it could grasp the heavy china plate under her sandwich. Her mouth twisted. “We’re not done here,” she hissed fiercely as she pushed past him. Harry took a long breath and eyed the open bag of bread. Before he could overthink it, he darted forward and took two slices from the bag, eating them as quickly as possible.
“We don’t - hello? What-" his Aunt’s voice cut off.
Harry froze, mouth still full. The front door closed.
He swallowed the bread painfully and grasped for the nearest weapon-coming up with a long whisk. He readied himself, knees slightly bent, listening to utter silence. Silencing charm, part of him thought. He took a tiny step closer to the door to just as a tall black cat trotted into the kitchen.
Harry stared at it, but the cat paid him no mind. Cautiously, he edged forward and peered down the hall. Aunt Petunia stood with her hand splayed out, mouth agape, frozen in place. Petrified.
“I just froze her a little,” a raspy voice said from behind him. Harry swung around with the whisk, heart beating frantically in his chest. The cat was up on the kitchen counter, lapping up some of the steaming tea in Aunt Petunia’s mug. Harry glanced frantically around the room, but it was empty.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a nip of whiskey, would you?” The cat said. A strangled yelp popped out of his mouth. He clapped one hand over his mouth and stared at the cat’s face, which had definitely spoken like a human being.
The cat swiped one paw over its muzzle and looked straight at Harry. A simple, perfect white circle of fur interrupted an otherwise totally black coat. It wasn’t the average ally cat either - though lanky, it was well-cared for and didn’t carry the soft stomach of Mrs. Figg’s felines.
An animagus? He wondered. But they can’t talk. The cat looked obviously from the whisk in his hand to his face.
“Hey…you know what?" The cat grinned at him, sending a shiver down his spine. "This reminds me of that old joke! Have you ever heard the one about the druid, the mage, and the wizard?”
Harry pressed his back into toaster oven as he watched the cat’s mouth move and actual words come out. Harry had seen all colors of magical creatures, but this was just disturbing. The cat bared his teeth and let out a low growl that could be a its attempt at a laugh.
“Cat’s can’t laugh,” Harry blurted, feeling wildly unstable.
The cat half-closed its eyes and rolled them. Harry’s hand itched for his wand, but it was upstairs. Stupid! Surely if I was in danger one of my watchers would know by now, right? But what if this cat did something to them like it did to Aunt Petunia? How did it even get through the wards if it means to hurt me? What if-
The cat gave him an unimpressed side-eye and continued to talk, breaking through the din in Harry’s head. “A wizard, a mage, and a druid argue about who can find them the safest place to hide from the ever-expanding threat of muggle empire. The druid takes them to a glen in the highlands, protected by a ring of stones older than the language that they speak. This place is protected by lady magic herself, he says. Any wixen or magical creature amongst these stones can be guaranteed a peaceful rest. The druid gestures to the sky, But our kind does not like to be trapped to one place, and only a small number can stay here at a time. It is a shelter as temporary as the full moon.
The mage takes them to a cave protected by an ancient waterfall. The cave is lined with thousands of years carvings and runic wards. The mage says, This place has been a home for fae and wix when they are most in need. Generation upon generation has prevailed here. For as long as these rituals are upheld, no one with ill-intent can come inside. The mage strokes his ring of power with a sigh, But it is not our way to live forever in a sacred state, so no one could make a home in here.
The wizard twirls his mustache, eager to show up his friends. He apparates them outside his house just on the edge of a muggle village. I have created new spells that keep out anyone I do not strictly invite. Those who seek me will never find me. Those who betray me can be struck from my dossier and barred from entry. No foe can enter, no muggle can perceive it. And the door requires my unique wand to open or close. Because a wand is tied to the wizard who wields it, these spells can be used by anyone all over our island. We could even protect whole towns with it.
His friends test the new wards and express their amazement. The wizard’s pride gets the better of him and he boasts, The way of wizards is muchbetter than a desolate field or a musty old cave, wouldn’t you say?
The mage frowns but allows the wizard’s slight, for he knows the man is a powerful fool. But the druid has less patience. He smiles so as not to let his true feelings show and asks, Your way is very powerful indeed. Can you demonstrate these spells to us, so we can see what it’s like to be barred from entry?
The wizard proudly agrees and walks into his house. The druid begins to whistle, feeling the magic in the earth and air, and fixes a point of attachment to his friend’s wand. Though the wand is loyal to the wizard, the wood never forgot the ash tree from which it was cut, and the druid whistles the song of the ash to tempt it away. Just as the house in front of them disappears from both their memory and their sight, the druid tugs the wand straight through the wards and into his hand.
Is that Wizard’s wand? the mage asks curiously. Where did he go?
The druid shrugs,A wizard without his wand is just magician pulling coins from his ears.
The cat stared at Harry in expectant silence.
“Ha ha,” the teen laughed uncertainly, bewildered. Was that supposed to be a joke?
The cat’s eyes swiveled down to his hands. Harry flushed, “Yeah, well, statute of secrecy and all that.” The cat merely cleaned one ear. Am I really arguing with this - this -
“What…who are you?”
“Finally, an intelligent question,” the creature groused. “I’m-“
“OUT! GET THAT FILTHY THING OUT OF HERE!” Aunt Petunia burst into the room, broom in hand, and whacked Harry with it.
“Aunt Petunia wait!” He shouted, blocking more blows.
“I DON’T WANT IT IN HERE!” She punctuated every word with a sharpthwackof the broom. She was paler than he’d ever seen her and seemed unwilling to even look at the cat on their counter. “I WON’T HAVE IT IN MY-“
“Shut up you ogre,” the cat sneered and flicked its tail, silencing her. For a moment, Harry didn’t know what his Aunt would do, but she surprised him by fixing the cat with a determined glare and hefting the broom up to swing.
“No, no, none of that.” The cat narrowed his eyes and Aunt Petunia froze in place again.
“You can’t do magic here,” Harry said quickly, though he was secretly enjoying this disaster. “I’ll get a letter, I’ll be expelled.” Unless this is a delusion of my starved mind. Maybe I should grab some leftover ham while she’s frozen.
The creature rolled its eyes again. “Oh really? I dare you to cast a spell right now. Are you hopeless without that deadwood of yours, or do you have a bit of druid in you?”
“What?”
“Dare you,” The cat licked its lips, staring at him intently. “Do some magic. See if you get a letter.”
This is stupid, Harry thought, wrestling with curiosity over common sense. I don’t even know what this is. This could be a dark creature. It’s just attacked my aunt. It…it…
Well. His aunt wasn’t hurt. Certainly, freezing her wasn’t any worse than what Hagrid did to Dudley…and the cat had been talking for a long time but there wasn't a letter here for the first bit of magic it did. That was odd, wasn’t it? When Dobby cast the over charm, his warning letter came almost immediately.
Just when he was gearing up to go upstairs and fetch his wand, the cat-thing laughed. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look. Just keep in mind what I said for later. Now, didn’t you ask who I am? I’m John.”
Harry blinked. “Really?”
The cat held his gaze for a beat. “No. But, you humans love to name things, so you can call me that. It’s better than ‘Mr. Nibbles’ or ‘Onyx’ or-”
“Sooty,” Harry supplied. The cat scowled.
“What are you?” Harry asked in bald fascination.
“That’s rather rude to ask,” John spat, “How would you feel if someone asked you that before they even offered their name?”
Harry frowned at how logical that was. “Um…well, I’m Harry. Potter. Uh. I’m a wizard. Wait…how did you get in here? Aren’t there wards? Were you sent by Dumbledore?”
John snorted and flicked his tail. “You’re rather slow, aren’t you? You’re slow and a wizard who doesn’t read his mail. The goblins turned up snake eyes on this one.”
“I always read my mail!” he snapped indignantly, and then caught up to what John had said. “Goblins?”
“Yes, of Gringotts? Heard of it? You’re rather overdue for your appointment.”
“What appointment?” Merlin, this cat could out-snark Snape.
“Indeed.” John nodded sagely, “I was hired by Gringotts to investigate why you weren’t responding to your mail. It seems there’s a powerful ward set on your person, you should consider a mailbox. Heard of those?”
“A mailbox?” he asked doubtfully. “Like at the post office? But there aren’t any-“
The cat sighed, “You’re hopeless. This is why I hate talking to kids. You’re know-it-alls who don’t know anything.”
John leapt off the counter and trotted past his Aunt. “Get your wand, wizard-boy. I’m taking you to Gringotts.”
“I can’t leave!” Harry protested, although the prospect of adventure was intoxicating. He could feel excitement building in him. How could he resist such a strange invitation? And was he really mad enough to snub Gringotts? “It’s not safe. I’m being hunted, you know. And I’m being watched.”
“Yes,” John hissed, rubbing his flank along Aunt Petunia’s legs. “You’re being watched by a stinking drunk. He’s asleep in those hydrangeas across the street. If I return you before dusk, he’ll be none the wiser.”
Harry almost snorted. Of course his body guard wasn’t guarding a thing.
But still…Should I really go with some strange cat creature I don’t know? I thought that nothing that can hurt me could get past the blood wards…but how do I know that for sure?
He licked his lips, “Where’s your proof?”
John shook his little head and sniffed, “I am a legate of Gringotts, acting as messenger and farrier. In my company, no harm will come to you, no eyes perceive you, no minds notice you are gone.” A faint chime echoed in Harry’s head. The cat had made a magical oath. “You are a wizard, not a trained monkey in a cage. And not even a monkey would be fool enough to spurn the goblins after they went through all this trouble to hire me…”
Well, when you put it that way, Harry thought, hurrying upstairs to fetch his wand. He’d brought the whisk, which he left on his bed. If I’m going to Diagon, I may as well do some shopping. He stuffed his invisibility cloak into his school bag, changed into slightly more respectable clothes, grabbed his money bag, and pocketed his wand. He noisely clambered down the stairs where he found John sniffing at Dudley’s old trainers.
Harry glanced down the hall where Aunt Petunia was still poised with the broom. “What about my Aunt?”
“I’ll put her to sleep. She’ll think she laid down due to a migraine and forget all about this. I wish she was a muggle,” John let out a whining sigh, “I don’t even have to enchant them, they just forget about what they saw. Ready?”
“Hang on - my aunt’s not a-"
“Say bye!” John wiggled his haunches and launched at his chest, suddenly growing to the size of tiger, claws out. Harry screamed and teetered backwards, anticipating crashing into the wall, and then-
“Welcome to Gingotts,” John said casually from behind.
Harry clutched his chest and doubled over, gasping. He thought - John was huge but now he was just…a normal cat. And he didn’t fall, he didn’t even feel a touch, it was like he stumbled backward through a curtain and…
They were standing in a grand foyer, surrounded by squat, glittering furniture. A goblin holding a black halberd stood in front of a pair of white marble doors, glaring at them.
“What did you do?” the Gryffindor gasped accusingly. “I’ve never heard of travel like that. It wasn’t apparition!”
“Trade secret,” John replied haughtily. “You humans can’t do it. Follow me.” He trotted out of the foyer, leading him away from the marble doors and to a much more reasonable oak door. It swung open before either of them could touch it.
Harry stepped into a small office. A great portion of the floor was taken up by a glowing white circle etched into the ground with a waist-high gold altar in the center. Flameless braziers lined the walls, each cupping a glowing chunk of shimmering, white stone. Harry did a double take to the ritual circle and, yes, the white material in the floor seemed to glow as well.
“Greetings, Heir Potter.” Harry jumped. A grizzled goblin was seated at the desk. He gestured to the leather wing-backed chair in front of him. “Take a seat. You may remain at your pleasure.” It took a second for Harry to catch on that the goblin was speaking to John. The black cat hopped up on the corner of the desk and folded his paws.
“It pleases me to stay for now,” John replied.
The goblin nodded. He had a lion’s mane of grizzled white hair framing his craggy face. He only had one eye, and in the empty socket was a gleaming emerald. “Heir Potter, I assure you this legate of Gringotts is bound by oaths of secrecy, and no business of your house shall be repeated by either of us without your leave.”
Harry sat gingerly, eyes going from the cat to the goblin. “Er, thank you - sir?”
The goblin made a horrible face. Perhaps it was a polite smile. “Witheraxe,” he growled, gesturing to himself.
“Witheraxe,” Harry repeated, careful to keep a respectful tone. “Um, John said I have a ward on my person that prevents me from getting mail. I apologize sir - er, Witheraxe,” Merlin, how are you supposed to address goblins? “I don’t know anything about a ward.”
“Most unusual. Such a sophisticated mail ward must be keyed to an individual’s magic…” The goblin stroked his braided goatee and looked to John, “What else did you find?”
“He seems to be totally ignorant, so you’ll be wanting a spear through your skull by the time we’re done.” John raised his backleg to itch his shoulder. “Oh, did you mean other wards? No, kid’s got nothing on him besides the mail shield. I think it could be tied to an object in the house. Probably some jewelry or a family heirloom, should be pretty easy to find considering he’s house-less and in the muggle world.”
“Interesting,” the goblin said, scratching his chin. “That means our usual policy of not sending mail to Hogwarts students has set us back. We can, of course, provide you with a ward-breaker’s services for a reasonable fee,” the goblin grinned at him, and Harry smiled uneasily back.
“Yeah - um - what in Merlin’s name is going on?” Harry fisted his hands in his pants, “I don’t know anything about wards or being 'house-less' or anything about Gringotts beyond the obvious. I know I have a trust vault. That’s about it. I’ve never received mail from the bank about anything else.”
The goblin’s face dropped into a serious scowl. “See?” John gloated, “Don’t you hate humans?”
“Yes, they can be most difficult,” Witheraxe grumbled. “Heir Potter, I cannot answer all your questions, because I simply do not know what has gone on outside these walls. I can explain the terms to you so you will understand, and give you a full accounting of your business with Gringotts. But once you leave this place, you shall be striking out on your own. A word of advice?” Harry nodded mutely. “We goblins have a saying about the business of wizards. It goes,” he snarled out some words in Gobbledegook. “It means, roughly, a wizard’s word is a spell. The promises you’ve been made, perhaps even things you’ve agreed to, are nothing but a story, a temporary bit of magic, Heir Potter. We goblins know that truth is written in history, in stone, and in blood. Wizards don’t always respect these things, and so you often must take what they say with a grain of salt.”
Feeling oddly chastised, Harry carefully took his backpack off and set it on the ground at his feet. Settling in, he took a deep breath.
“Okay. Tell me what I need to know.”
The goblin reached under his desk and took out a black box. “On October 31st of last year, the key to Vault 635 appeared in that rune circle, along with this Lord ring. In accordance with the laws of magic, Goblin and Wizarding treaties, and the ancestral powers of House Potter, you are recognized as Lord Apparent of the House of Potter. As Lord, you will be capable of claiming your title, properties, and associated rights and seats as you are owed within the governing council of the British Wizarding World. Your status affords you access to the Potter Family Vault, and you shall receive quarterly statements from me, the Potter Accounts Manager, from here forward.”
Harry felt his body go weak. Withereaxe said it all without ceremony or pomp, rather like he was reading from a contract. The goblin opened up the box in his hand and a gold ring with a large diamond glittered at him.
“What…how?" What happened on October 31st…?The Goblet of Fire! Understanding crashed down over him. The Goblet recognized him as a worthy candidate to participate in the Tournament and somehow that triggered the magic in Gringotts to accept him as Lord Potter.
Harry started to laugh uncontrollably. What didn’t that damn tournament do to ruin my life? First it turned Ron against me, then I had to fight for my life three times, and now I’m inheriting a Lordship of all things. What does any of this even mean?
“Heir Potter?”
Harry’s head was spinning. He was vaguely aware that he wasn’t laughing anymore, but he couldn’t stop his breath from coming in quick and shallow. He gripped the leather chair with all his might and tried not to sick up in front of Witheraxe.
“Breathe, Heir Potter.” Steam condensed on his face. He turned his head away, trying to force his body into compliance, but his muscles just wouldn’t work. The steam filled his nose and throat again, and with it came the calming scent of lavender. Harry took one deep breath. Then another.
“Drink, Heir Potter,” the cup pressed lightly against his lips. He sipped lightly, expecting heat and instead getting gentle warmth. He took a longer sip, breathing deeply through his nose. It tasted like warm milk and cinnamon, with the deep undercurrent of potion base at the back of his throat.
After another sip, he managed to sit upright and focus on his surroundings again. Witheraxe had come to the front of the desk. He leaned on a wicked platinum staff, watching him carefully.
“I’m sorry,” Harry rasped, too exhausted to put much feeling into the words. “It’s just a shock.”
“It’s no bother, Heir Potter,” Witheraxe said and slowly made his way around his desk. “Take your time. Consider your questions.”
Harry worked the new knowledge over in his head again, coming back to the question of how this happened. “It must have been the Goblet, right?" Witheraxe nodded, sitting heavily in his chair. "But I thought I was only chosen by the Goblet of Fire because my name was entered under a fake school…it didn’t have a choice.”
“That is not how the Goblet of Champions works,” Witheraxe sneered, his single black eye rolling. “If you were not strong enough to compete, you would not have been chosen at all.”
“Oh,” Harry uttered, feeling stupid. “Did the Goblins make it?”
John smirked. Witheraxe huffed, “A Goblin made it. One of our greatest masters.”
Harry felt deeply uncomfortable not to have known that. He drank from the cup again. It was not really a cup, it was a large stone tankard. The more he drank, the more present and rested he felt. He resisted the urge to ask what the drink was.
The glinting diamond caught his eye. Harry set the tankard on the ground and leaned closer to it.
Witheraxe held out the box with the ring. “You are eight months delayed by unavoidable circ*mstance, but Gringotts and magic can wait no more.” The goblin placed the ring box in his hand, “Claim your Lordship.”
“Lordship…” Harry breathed, examining the ring. It wasn’t really a ring, he realized. The diamond was suspended over a slow swirl of liquid gold. He reached out with his wand hand to touch the gem.
The gold bubbled and popped, surging over his skin. It was cold, but when the band formed around his middle finger it warmed, sending a wave of heat and power up his arm.
He sighed contentedly at the feeling that bloomed in his chest and watched the diamond nestle in the wide face of the ring. Tiny words formed around it, all in latin. He couldn’t quite make out the letters in this light.
“Lord Potter,” Witheraxe murmured.
Did my dad wear this ring? He wondered, turning it around in his hand.
“The Potter grimoire details the history and enchantments of the ring. Every family is different. From my examination, it appears to have some standard elements of protection - it will warm against a danger in your hand, so it is standard to always drink with your wand arm. It will key in to any wards and spells established by your blood, often unlocking doors or chests left by your ancestors without a spell. It likely has other inherent enchantments, you will have to see for yourself in the grimoir.”
“Potter grimoire,” Harry repeated. Something tight in his chest was close to snapping. I didn’t even know there was a family vault. What else is in there? “Why am I just learning about this now?”
Witheraxe’s mouth turned down. “Gringotts is not privy to the decision of wizards. I can only tell you what we had assumed - that you were receiving your mail. As Heir to the Noble House of Potter, we have sent you quarterly statements covering transactions and investment gains that affect your trust vault. It is assumed that your guardians would have kept those letters for you. They can only be opened by the addressee, you see.”
“You sent me reports even when I was a baby?” Harry asked. Maybe Aunt Petunia complained and that’s why they set a mail ward…
Witheraxe clicked his teeth, “It is our custom. As there are no other survivors of your house, we had no other option. Your godfather would have been able to open and read them, technically, as he was blood-bound in his oath to protect and care for you. But he would not have been able to do business with your accounts without your express signature.”
Harry nodded. “So…who else was notified when I was recognized as a Lord, or whatever?”
“When you were chosen to compete by the Goblet of Champions, or Fire as you have also heard it called, magic recognized you as a worthy contestant for the ritual games. Doing so triggered other rituals, rituals normally set into action by your seventeenth birthday. This is part of the treaties between goblin and wizard-kind. Peaceful transitions of power in wixen households and the continuation of family lines was once a source of great turmoil in your world, and the Goblin Confederation oversees them all now as a neutral body. To answer your exact question…” Witheraxe tapped the table, “As an Heir, you normally need a ceremony to take full control of your family vault, typically conducted by the head of the family who then notifies your government. However, magic only needs you to be recognized that you are fully capable of wielding magic in the name of your family. In this case, the cup stood in for your coming of age ceremony. A natural ritual is rare, but not unheard of. In these cases, only Gringotts is notified. To claim your rights in your ministry, you will need to speak to the relevant office. Might I suggest the employ of a solicitor…”
Harry worried his lip, stunned that this could have all happened without anyone knowing. “But, what would have happened if I didn’t have the ceremony? Any ceremony?”
“You would have remained Heir Potter, until such a time as you were recognized as worthy of your title by magic. It probably would have been triggered by your seventeenth birthday, or shortly after you completed any NEWTs which often prove magical worth enough to please the ritual.” Witheraxe held up one clawed hand to stave off more questions, “I recommend you take further questions about wizarding customs to the bookshop or your betters. I do not know the intricacies of such things.”
“Would…would my family grimoire have an explanation?” Suddenly, Harry very much wanted to be down in the vaults.
“I do not know,” Witheraxe growled, “Perhaps. Lord Potter, though this is a confusing time, we have a most urgent matter to discuss. Your mail ward is an interference to your business with Gringotts. How would you like to remedy it?”
“Er,” Harry didn’t suppose the Dursley’s would appreciate a goblin cursebreaker traipsing through their house. Then there was the problem of the blood wards… “John mentioned a - uh - mailbox? Would that work?”
Witheraxe nodded curtly. “That will do. Write to me with the address as soon as you receive it.” He reached into the top drawer and pulled out a creamy white card, “This is my private mailbox. You may use this address to set an appointment at any time.”
Harry nodded, tucking it into his pant’s pocket.
“Next, we will discuss the history of your business with Gringotts, seeing as you’ve never received our correspondence. Then we will talk investment strategy…” The goblin placed a thick sheaf of parchment on the table, grinning. Harry gulped.
Nearly two hours, a hearty goblin lunch, and a trip to his family vault later, Harry stumbled back into the foyer where they’d appeared. John stretched out on the floor, exposing his fluffy belly. “Took you long enough,” he groused. Witheraxe had kicked him out when he started snoring through an explanation of pound-to-galleon conversion fees.
Harry ran his fingers through his hair and tugged at the knots, wishing he had more time. He could only be inside his vault for about fifteen minutes, so he had to run about the huge, cavernous rooms just to get a sense of what was there and prepare for a future visit. There were four antechambers attached to the main vault, one full of gold, gems, and rare artifacts in cases, two filled with furniture, and the last with paintings and sculptures. The main room was lined with bookshelves, desks, and tall glasses cases of clothing, artifacts, even saddles. But Harry had no time to look through the tantalizing shelves of books and journals, nor through what appeared to be his parents’ Hogwarts trunks. He grabbed some gold, a dark brown leather jacket he’d found in a rack of robes, and two books - An Auror’s Guide to Self Defense, 1978, and Godric’s Playground: A Tour Through his Family Estate.
Harry sat down on the nearest wrought-iron bench, decorated with a detailed sculpture of a dragon breathing fire. John’s tail twitched. “I have to get you home, kid,” he said, unimpressed. “Chop chop.”
“Can you take me back here tomorrow? I still need to get my mailbox.” Harry said.
John shook his head, “Weren’t you listening? You’re considered an emancipated adult now. Take the Knight Bus!”
“Don’t you know who I am?” Harry deadpanned. “I can’t just get on the Knight Bus.”
“Mmm, and you can’t apparate yet, can you?”
Harry shook his head, massaging his temples. Maybe I can take the train to London this weekend…wear a hat…but how do I lose the tail?
A tiny weight prodded his knee. “Alright wimpy wix, stand up and suck it in. I’ll help.” Annoyance evaporated as Harry looked down at the strange cat, who had sat up next to him on the bench. “But I have engagements tomorrow. Let’s go on Sunday.”
“Okay,” Harry grinned, doing as the cat said. “Can you not traumatize my aunt please?”
John snorted and wiggled his haunches. “No promises, kid,” then he leapt at Harry’s chest again and a second later they were back at Privet Drive.
“That never gets easier…” Harry rubbed his chest and tried to calm his racing heart.
“I’ll see you soon,” John yowled. Then he vanished into thin air.
Privet Drive was absolutely silent. It was now the late afternoon, just before Uncle Vernon was due to come home from work. Dudley wouldn’t be back before dinner. Harry checked the front door, the hallway, and the kitchen for signs of a magical disturbance. The broom was laying on the ground, so he picked it up and put it back in the cupboard. He tried not to look too long inside.
Quietly, Harry cleaned his Aunt’s dishes and dried everything so he could put them back in their proper place. Then, without a care in the world, he made himself a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich and ate it over the sink.
It’s nice right here, he thought idly, watching wind sway the poplar trees in the garden. I wonder what my parents’ garden looked like.
Witheraxe had mentioned properties. There was a drawer of deeds in the vaults, along with leather-bound sheafs of parchment filled with documents, records, and letters collected and stored by his ancestors. Harry could leave this place now, anytime he wanted. He could have a home of his own.
A home for Sirius and I, he thought.
The hope in him was still small, but it gave him warmth and energy he hadn't felt in along time.Despite the ring on his finger and all he learned today, Harry didn’t quite believe that it could be true. Part of him wondered how not even Dumbledore could know that he was considered an adult wizard now. Maybe he didn’t want me to know, Harry thought, idly licking his fingers. I suppose all this power might encourage some of my ‘reckless behavior’.
Then again, Dumbledore had left him to be protected by a drunk. So, maybe the man wasn’t as omnipotent as Harry believed.
Harry finished his sandwich and looked down in the sink where a layer of crumbs scattered over the shining stainless steel he’d scrubbed countless times. His palm found his holly wand.
“Evanesco,” he whispered, watching the evidence of his crime vanish.
Harry stood there in front of the back window for a long time, waiting. But no letter ever came.
