Chapter Text
Once Harry has made his way back to Granger and Weasley's compartment, it only takes a little bit of time to arrive at King's Cross Station.
He takes Hedwig's cage in one hand and his beaten trunk in the other. He hugs the gaggle of Weasleys and Granger goodbye and tells them that his relatives expect him at the curb as fast as possible. They buy the excuse with minimal fuss and let him go. - Upon further reflection, it's ridiculous that they let him leave that easily. Given what happened over that summer, it makes his blood boil. Just letting him go back to an abusive family without question…
Harry wonders how he hadn't seen all the signs before. If Mad-Eye were still dead, he'd be turning in his grave.
Idiots, the whole lot of them, Harry thinks derisively while weaving through the crowds of students and their families. He steps through the barrier, releases Hedwig and tells her to find him in two days' time. He hurries to the curb, waving down a cab: Harry's relatives aren't expecting him, after all. He knows that his aunt is aware of the term ending that day, but he'd rather avoid ever seeing her again.
Last he'd seen her, she'd been shaped by fear and her jealousy had been worn down by a terrible grief and the grind of time. – The Petunia Dursley of now is a caricature of envy and spite, nothing more. Despite how they'd seen eye-to-eye for those few moments, he doesn't think he wants a repeat performance of the in-between. Not with Vernon and Dudley thrown into the mix, one a hateful man and the other a boy shaped by his parents into a despicable human being.
His first proper order of business back in time, as recommended by the entity he's become the alleged Master of, is acquiring the assistance of Britain's Gringotts branch in Diagon Alley. Then, fixing his genuinely abysmal eyesight and sourcing one or two new magical foci through Knockturn Alley, as well as a hidden residence off of Dumbledore's radar, perhaps even in the mundane parts of London, much like the Black townhouse was. Is. (This is hard.)
Everything that comes after has less to do with his ultimate goal of living freely and unburdened by war, and more with becoming acquaintanced with the culture of the magical world, having been denied this opportunity once before already.
A cab pulls into park next to him. Harry ducks into the back seat and lets the cabby deal with his trunk. He looks over his shoulder and locks eyes with none other than Narcissa Malfoy. The Lady of the Malfoy family is calmly meeting his eyes, elegantly inclining her head in a gesture of respect that Harry has seen his pureblood year mates make a thousand times before.
Hesitating a moment, he mirrors the gesture. There's an amused uptick to Lady Malfoy's lips that tells him he must have made some kind of mistake, but it's not a demeaning one. At least he hopes that's the case. He wouldn't want to make an enemy of the woman who'd risked more than her life for him.
The cabby yanks open the driver's door, settling behind the wheel. He draws Harry's attention, who buckles up when prompted.
"Now lad, where to?"
Harry smiles, the curl of his lips satisfied at last.
***
The next day, Harry pulls a worn baseball cap over his unruly hair, throwing one of his blank Hogwarts day robes overtop Dudley's raggedy hand-me-downs. He eyes the, well, rags with distaste. That's got to change, but it's a bit low on his priority list right now.
Best get going, then.
Harry hurries out of the mundane inn he'd checked into, crossing the street and walking two blocks in record time. He's dying to get this over with.
The first few seconds in the Leaky Cauldron are the most harrowing. Harry prays that no one pays him any attention, that no one recognizes him. - None do. For once, luck is with him instead of against him. Tom, the shopkeeper and the one person most likely to recognize him, barely even looks away from a pretty young witch of Veela descent when he enters.
Internally rolling his eyes at the abysmal security of the more-or-less official entrance to the magical shopping district, Harry slinks out the back door on the heels of an old couple. No one spares him a second glance, even when he slips into the crowd of shoppers.
He carefully keeps his head down when he spots the familiar profile of a Ravenclaw prefect who might just be Penelope Clearwater - Percy Weasley's (ex?) girlfriend. And she's not the only student checking out the Alley before the prices hike up in response to the start of the school shopping season.
Focus now widened to avoid familiar faces, Harry beelines through the crowds, enjoying the push and pull of humans moving from one place to the next. It's very different to what he last saw of the Alley - a desolate place plastered with wanted posters and fear permeating the air, a sense of death and decay everywhere you looked. Harry is determined not to let it come that far. He shudders just remembering it, ultimately finding solace in the lively atmosphere surrounding him.
Finally, he arrives at the steps of the polished marble building that is Gringotts, calmly meeting the eyes of the guards. He has, after all, not done anything like breaking in or freeing a dragon in this time - yet. Who knows what his future now holds that he is the one holding the reigns of his fate? The thought is exhilarating.
He climbs the white steps slowly, nodding at the two scarlet-and-golden garbed goblin security guards watching the going-ons of passersby with narrowed eyes. Passing another set of guards and doors, he arrives in the marble hall and patiently waits for a teller to have time for him. He people-watches in the meantime, perking up when he catches sight of Professor Sinistra only a few desks along.
"Next!" Dutifully, he follows the lit-up veins in the marble floor, mimicking ore veins and quite handily guiding him to the next unoccupied desk. - There are approximately a hundred of them in the hall, so this system is a clever way of minimising the need for additional employees.
"What is your business with Gringotts?", the teller asks as Harry stops in front of him, peering down at him over the rim of his silver glasses. His long yellowed nails, surely sharp enough to draw blood, glimmer in the sunlight streaming in through the skylight.
"I would like to speak with my account manager if they are available at this time." He figures there's nothing wrong with being polite.
The teller sneers, pointed teeth on full display. "Key," he demands.
Harry dies a little as he explains that his key is being held by someone other than him. – And if he thought that Voldemort's gaze was intimidating, it had nothing on this teller.
The goblin snaps his fingers, nails impressively not hindering the motion. A runner immediately comes up to the desk and hears what the teller whispers to him with nary a glance in Harry's direction. It might be contempt for idiot wizards or just a lack of curiosity, Harry doesn't know.
"Lead this customer to Ironclaw's office and perform a check first thing," the teller says, pointedly looking at Harry when he mentions the check. He has nothing to hide, however, so that look doesn't bother him in the same way it would have when they broke into Gringotts on May 1, 1998.
"Thank you," Harry says to the teller and turns to hurry after the quick-footed runner. He's led to one of many off-shooting doors and then through what seems like an endless maze of doors and even more corridors until they're in a corridor lined with heavy bronze doors that don't appear to have any visible doorknobs or mechanisms to open them.
The runner knocks on the seventh door down left, opening the door in the same breath by means Harry cannot make out for the life of him. The runner announces him with a derisive glance: "Unidentified wizard. Check, then relay to account manager."
Harry doesn't need any more invitation and doubts he would get any, so he walks into the tastefully decorated office space, a younger but still austere-looking goblin sitting behind a mahogany desk surrounded by bookshelves filled with what must be an endless wealth of rare knowledge. His fingers itch to look through them but he reasons to himself that it would lend itself to making a very wrong first impression.
"Have a seat, wizard," the goblin he presumes to be Ironclaw drawls, gesturing to the dragonhide armchair opposite his desk. Gingerly, Harry follows the instruction and promptly stows his trusty second-hand baseball cap away. To the backdrop of the bronze door closing by itself, he brushes his fringe away from that thrice-damned curse scar adorning his forehead like the world's most annoying cattle brand.
"I deeply apologise for the deception, Master Ironclaw," Harry demurs softly when Ironclaw's chilling reddish brown eyes reminiscent of a young Tom Riddle darken in comprehension.
He watches as Ironclaw slowly steeples his fingers, nails painted black. His pin-striped suit is immaculate and neatly pressed. It doesn't fail to make Harry feel utterly shoddy and underdressed. It's one thing to know it, and another to live it.
"Talk, wizard spawn," Ironclaw says, eyes flashing. They're angry but calculating when they meet his.
"Right," Harry gulps, trying and failing not to feel like a little kid with his hands caught in the cookie jar. It's not helped by the way his feet aren't even brushing the floor. "I needed momentary anonymity, and I figured since I am not impersonating anyone or aiming to steal, you could eventually come to forgive me."
"Interesting theory," the goblin says, stone-faced. Harry can't get a good read on him, but he is fairly sure that this goblin is deeply annoyed with him and already thoroughly done with the day.
"You understand that we must confirm your identity either way, yes?" Ironclaw's tone is flat. Harry hurriedly nods.
"I wasn't trying to get around this, I swear. I just needed to get somewhere that's not as public as the teller's hall." Ironclaw, reaching for a drawer and pulling it open, halts for but a second and then continues the movement.
Wordlessly, the goblin holds out a small ornate knife blade-first. It seems to resemble the one Harry saw down in the antechamber in the Chamber of Secrets, down to even the same colour of the handle. Maybe the one at Hogwarts is goblin-made?
Harry takes the knife and watches as an innocent-looking sheet of parchment is placed on the edge of the desk in easy reach of both parties. He has to squint to make it out, but a faint dotted line indicates where the drops of blood are supposed to go.
Even while long since desensitized to the idea of hurting himself to gain something, he hesitates when his left index finger is about to be sliced into. He furrows his brow and looks at the watching Ironclaw. "The blood is only used for this test right here, yes? After it's completed, it goes magically inert?"
The goblin sneers, so Harry figures he's committed some kind of faux pas. And then it dawns on him and he wishes he'd just gone along with it. Before he can stutter an apology or make more of a jerk of himself, Ironclaw huffs at him and nods.
Filled with remorse, Harry presses his lips together and easily pricks his fingertip with the knife. After three drops have hit the line, the wound seals itself just like it did at Hogwarts after thirteen. Harry wonders about this and the volume of blood each procedure required, and figures it must be related to both of those numbers being magical: Unlucky thirteen and the Trinity.
Harry hands the blade back, handle first, and watches with rapt attention as Ironclaw rotates the parchment to face himself, reading the results with a raised eyebrow. He looks up and scans a disquieted Harry from head to toe, mouth set in a stern line. After what feels like an eternity, he puts the paper into a manila-looking folder and sets it aside in an empty black tray.
"You are who you appear as. Now, why did you come here, so concerned about anonymity?" Ironclaw steeples his fingers again, reddish eyes staring at Harry like a bird of prey ready to swoop towards their next meal.
Harry takes a deep breath and outlines his wants and needs, Ironclaw listening with progressively more gleaming eyes.
***
To the uninformed, magical law seems like an amalgamation of ancient laws made by even more ancient people who have lost all touch with reality. Looking closer, however, reveals how much is steeped in numerous magic-imbued traditions long lost but still at least vaguely observed. As such, laws like that cannot simply be changed by man. It's the most common issue that the uninformed run into.
As such, even in Harry's special case, a majority of what he wants to get done can only be done once he's turned thirteen, as that is the age an adolescent's magic and emotions first stabilise to a degree that typically prevents accidental magic. Thus, the wixen reaches a semblance of maturity. In theory. (Exhibit A, B and C: Ronald Weasley.)
Therefore, by law, he cannot claim ownership over any of his inherited vaults and lands - and titles, and seats on the Wizengamot, which is just.. crazy to think about - before he reaches that age and his magical signature gets keyed into his position as the heir.
(Turns out, Voldemort very much had a point about being the Heir of Slytherin.)
But best of all, the exact second he turns thirteen, he is eligible to file for his emancipation - and that is something Harry very desperately cannot wait to do. There isn't all that much he can legally do until then, be it his birthday or emancipation, but he can prepare for it all he wants. Ironclaw has been very helpful in that regard.
Before leaving Ironclaw to his usual workload and preparations for Harry's birthday in four weeks, the goblin (who turned out to be the Potter Account Manager) provides him with a money pouch that draws straight from the vault his parents set aside for his personal use. Per Harry's request, he doesn't invalidate the errant vault key and agrees to alert him to movement during his next appointment.
Armed with his money, he is quick to draw the hood of his robe up and wanders into Knockturn Alley on light feet. He walks past the hag selling fingernails he remembers from his actual second year until he eventually reaches a small hole-in-the-wall potioneer shop he's heard Professor Snape recommend to a glasses-wearing little Slytherin boy way back when. That boy had come back the next year without his glasses and Harry had played with the idea a long while until he had discovered the shop to be in Diagon's darker sister alley.
But now, he enters Ignocius' Cellar with a wandless misdirection charm on his lips that will ensure that he remains undisturbed for this visit. His face will also become near impossible to recall when the shopkeep tries to. It's an important safeguard even if this is still a rather innocuous excursion in the grand scheme of things. Still, it simply cannot reach the ears of Dumbledore and his cohorts.
An invisible bell chimes when he pushes open the stained glass door. It has a pretty design of potion phials that shimmer and change colour in the light. It's a rare spot of colour in the dark, perpetually overcast alley.
A pale young woman looks up from behind the register, a private little smile blooming on her face. Harry gets the feeling that she is familiar to him, maybe a recent Hogwarts graduate or a later Death Eater. No matter, though. He's not here for any of that.
"Boy," the woman says, slanted brown eyes open in their calculation as she looks him up and down. "What do you need of me?"
Neither Harry nor her bother introducing themselves. They're here for business, after all.
"My eyes need to be corrected. You were recommended." He's not shy about pretending to be a Slytherin. That's what he could have been, what he would have been had he not been introduced to unfair biases by his oh-so-precious first-ever friend.
The shopkeeper tilts her head in consideration, drawing her wand from the folds of her robes. It's a pinkish wood he doesn't think he's seen before. With an unceremonious swish and flick, an opaque flask rises from a shelf to his right and floats over to her.
"And that will be all, young one?" The woman's question is shrewd. She bends to take an empty vial from below her desk and shows it to him. He steps forward and takes it, inspects it. He doesn't see anything wrong with it and his wordless, wandless charms are limited. He will have to trust Professor Snape's opinion.
"Yes. I assume you do not need my prescription?" Her throaty laugh makes him feel like an idiot.
"You're amusing," she says simply and fills some of the lilac potion from the opaque flask into the vial he'd inspected and deemed safe enough. Her wand rests behind her ear like he's seen Luna do so often. Her smile is placid but Harry doesn't think for one second that he is the most dangerous person in the room. No, that dubious honour belongs to her .
"Come here, boy," she instructs. He feels uncomfortably reminded of that one time when he was eight and Aunt Marge had decided that he should be treated like one of her dogs. Dudley had thought it hilarious. That Christmas, he'd been so elated to get a present… only for all his naive hopes to get dashed under the cruel heel of his non-blood aunt. – She'd graciously gifted him a dog collar.
Despite the uncomfortable memories, Harry steps forward and barely aborts the instinctive grab for his wand when one of the shopkeeper's hands snaps out lightning-fast, cradling his jaw with sharp nails that feel threatening. She taps against his closed lips and winks at him.
(He is left seriously wondering if that's why she's still alive with this kind of customer service, but he figures that she's pretty enough. The idea of her dragging a Lord or Lady by their cravat is an amusing one either way. – The amusing mental image is the only thing prohibiting him from snapping at her fingers, consequences be damned.)
Harry opens his mouth and swallows the cloyingly sweet liquid that gets poured down his throat. When the last dregs of it have dripped into his mouth like viscous honey, she releases her grip and lets him step back. The opaque flask returns to its place and the emptied vial floats off to somewhere he cannot see. - He hadn't even seen her pull her wand from its resting place.
He doesn't like being manhandled like this. He's sure his glare communicates as much, though she only giggles. He wonders if anyone has ever told her how ineffective it is to hide a splitting Cheshire grin behind a dainty hand.
"Side effects?" Harry asks instead of voicing any of his numerous questions. His throat feels fuzzy.
She smiles and shakes her head. "So long as you are not addicted to Dreamless Sleep or Pepper-Up, none." She trails off meaningfully and raises an eyebrow. That move, right then, makes him sure she is of Slytherin House. No one gets as good at raising one eyebrow as they do. There must be lessons on it.
"No to either."
"Hm, if you say so." Her smile is indulgent before it abruptly sharpens. She claps her hands together and then holds out her left one, palm up, waiting. "Twenty-five galleons, even."
He sighs through his nose and grabs the money bag Ironclaw had given him. He was told that he only had to stick his hand in and think of the amount he wanted to withdraw. And et voilà, twenty-five galleons stacked on top of each other rest on his palm until they're unceremoniously snatched up by the young witch.
"Pleasure doing business with you, love," she says, smile infinitely more knowing than it's been for the entire encounter. It's at that precise second that he realises his hood is pooling around his neck, probably having slipped down when she manhandled him into taking the corrective potion.
Blood rushes in his ears and he's sure she can watch him realise what she's talking about in real-time, just going by the rapid pallor of his skin.
"It's Jiahui Zhang, boy wonder. Secret for secret, yes? Now get going little lion boy, I'm sure you'll want to visit Saoirse's Eclectics before turning in for the day." It feels a lot like an olive branch being offered, but the olive branch is sharpened to a point and very dangerous if taken wrongly. He figures that's the intention.
"Thank you," he says, stiffly. He pockets his decrepit glasses after he notices his vision blurring when he turns to the exit.
Zhang's chuckles follow him onto the street. He dispels the misdirection and gripes internally about the failed attempt at protecting his identity. He draws up his hood once more and sets off to find the shop Zhang recommended.
***
Two weeks pass in a blink between starting on his summer homework and doing what Granger would have called some light reading back in first year, all about the world he's been living in like a clueless fool.
It's nothing short of eye-opening, especially the manuals written for new arrivals to the magical world – it's, apparently, a standard bit of reading for students and their families previously unaware of magic; students like him . – Except, no one ever bothered to mention this to him. Not Hagrid, not McGonagall, not even Remus when he noticed how much Harry'd been struggling with basic magical concepts. Granted, the latter two could be somewhat excused given that they weren't the ones who got him his letter in the first place… but it still stings that they thought he'd read all this and just chose not to care for some reason.
Neither Granger nor Seamus nor anyone mentioned this bit of information to him. It's sobering. What must everyone have thought about him, flaunting his obliviousness like he's too good to care about his own culture? No wonder Professor Snape thought him like James Potter, arrogantly strutting down the castle corridors and thinking he knew how the world worked.
Of course, then, Dumbledore could have mentioned it to him at any time he pleased; he knew, as he always did, how Harry lived with his relatives. What kind of hell he was being 'raised' in. But, maybe, Dumbledore thought it didn't matter in the first place given that Harry would be dying before long. That he wouldn't need it, wouldn't live long enough for it to matter, so he shouldn't waste his time and resources.
All for the Greater Good, of course. (Harry's so sick of it all.)
His reading isn't only going towards making him bitter about his past and some parts of his renewed life; rather, he's educating himself enough to finally be able to rely on his own knowledge rather than what Granger and Weasley deigned to share with him.
Still, the sheer breadth of topics he needs to start learning about almost makes him cry when the reality hits him. How is he supposed to do this, all in one summer? All without anyone noticing until it's too late and they can't hide away all the answers to his questions? He is keenly aware that he needs help, but utterly stumped as to how to obtain it. He puts it off and works through volumes of texts as fast as he can, no matter how much they make him yawn sometimes. He'd originally wanted to dedicate this summer to studying all of his classes from the ground up as if he were a first-year again, but those plans have to be put on hold until the next holidays.
Resolved to make the best of it, Harry figures he ought to mail a letter to his blood relatives to inform them of his changed summer plans: To hell with bloody Arabella Figg, squib-spy extraordinaire, and her army of Kneazles. She can report to Dumbledore all she wants, they won't find him if he changes his location every few days.
(It's exhausting and Harry wants it to stop. He wants someplace he can stay for however long he wants. He yearns to live on his schedule, not by the whims of people who do not care for him.)
Mind made up, Harry pens a letter addressed to his aunt. He tells her he's staying at a friend's house and won't be by for the summer. He tells her that it might be a while before she sees him again, if ever. Despite how she has treated him all his life, it hurts to let go of that connection to his own flesh and blood.
No matter what he'd always said, some part of him had always held out hope that things would change. That things would get better, that the Dursleys would come to cherish him or tolerate him, at the very least.
But, in the end, they're the Dursleys and Harry is a remnant of the Potters. They were never meant to even share the same living space.
***
Aunt—
This is Lily's son writing you.
I am informing you that I won't be by this summer. In all likelihood, we will never see each other again, as you and your husband have no doubt dreamt of for a long time now.
In case you find a shred of compassion or worry in your heart, I will tell you that I am spending this summer and all the ones after, with a friend. This means that I will be in a safe place for the first time since your sister and brother-in-law died eleven years ago.
Since this is the first and also last time I can direct honest words at you without censure, I will be frank:
I know that I wasn't the only one that lost family that day in 1981. I know that, in some ways, you blame me. I might even agree with you, sometimes, depending on the day. If I hadn't been born, maybe Lily would still be alive; maybe she wouldn't. We will never know.
Fact is, some people out there believed her to be lesser because of her birth, just like you believe the neighbours in 7 Privet Drive to be freaks because of the love they hold for each other. I agree with neither.
You meet with the neighbourhood women in the community centre and talk over tea and cakes about how unnatural they are. How they have to leave, how no one wants them around, how they weren't invited, how they are going to corrupt the local youth. – In essence, the people who killed your sister, my mother, aren't all that different from you and the neighbourhood women. You can think of that what you want, but I hope you understand what I mean to say.
And now, I want you to consider that you are twenty-one again. Your husband and you were blessed by a little boy. And suddenly, for things you cannot control, you are being hunted by men and women far more resourceful, far more powerful and radical than you. The only thing you can do is hide.
And you do, thinking you can trust your best friends with not only your life but that of your family as well; but you shouldn't have, for you cannot. They betray you. You don't know it until it's too late.
And now, I want you to think about two years ago out at sea in that drafty hut. Sleeping peacefully, borderline afraid for a whole week and month and finally safe. And then someone breaks into your home, threatening what is most dear to you: your only child.
Do you remember?
Do you remember the way you felt when that man aimed his weapon at your son and you knew you were at his mercy? Do you remember, the way your husband tried to shield you? How you then tried to shield your child?
That's Halloween 1981. That's how your sister died. That's how I lost my father and mother and any chance at a happy childhood. They died in Godric's Hollow, all in a few minutes.
Do you think for one second, that if the roles were reversed, Lily would have done to Dudley as you did to me?
I hoped for a long time that you would come to love me, as Lily would have loved Dudley like her own, but I see now that it was a futile hope. People that make a child think his name is 'boy' or maybe 'freak', they're not nice people with any capacity for love outside of themselves.
You didn't have to be my mother, Petunia, you just had to be my aunt. And you weren't.
I don't think I will ever be able to forgive you for that.
—Harry
***
Harry finds that writing letters to people who have wronged or misled him can be quite cathartic and promptly buys a never-full journal with some mean defensive measures at a quaint stationary shop behind Mulpepper's. He chooses a black leather journal that he later finds to resemble Tom Riddle's diary quite nicely.
(It makes him smirk just thinking of Dumbledore's reaction to seeing him write in it.)
He writes proper letters too, mainly for appearance's sake. They're always curt and to the point, almost illegible and penned on torn scraps of parchment to give the illusion of urgency.
Those that he cares about, like that letter to Luna, or the ones aimed at the Malfoys, Greengrass sisters, Professor Snape… they're afforded an unprecedented amount of care for one Harry Potter. He doesn't doubt that all of them save perhaps Luna will check and recheck the sender and use spells to try and verify the authenticity. – It's what any sensible person would do, presented with his rather out-of-character actions.
Given the very nature of Harry's deception, it's impossible to receive replies if anyone even bothered to write back, so he waits impatiently for his thirteenth birthday and pretends that it doesn't make his heart ache to see the news break that Sirius Black has escaped the fortress of Azkaban.
***
In the blink of an eye and simultaneously for such a long time Harry wonders why he's not grown old and wrinkly yet, it's July 28. There's still no word out that the Ministry has lost track of their so-called saviour, but there's been an increase in Auror patrols along Diagon that has Harry practically confined to the muggle side of London.
The public assumes the increased Auror presence is to ensure their safety, but Harry knows better. After all, they weren't there in the summer of his first life. He mourns Fortescue's Ice Cream, but makes do with the occasional bout of sightseeing and buying an everyday wardrobe that's not handed down to him by the Dursleys or Weasleys: It feels like freedom.
He visits a hairdresser and spins them a tale of wanting to surprise his mother for her birthday with a new haircut, how he's saved up a lot of his pocket money to make it work. The employees coo over him and express heartfelt sympathies when he says he got his scar in the car accident that killed his father; an hour later he leaves with an artfully arranged fringe falling over his forehead and a sucker in his mouth that tastes like sweet success.
That's the day when Hedwig fails to return to him.
A scant few hours later, Harry is a wreck. He wants his beautiful companion back so bad it aches, having lost her once before is enough to make the pain ramp up until it's near unbearable. He doesn't know what he'd do if she'd died in this lifetime too. He doesn't know what's worse – her dying in his defence, or her dying where he doesn't know her fate.
By the time his birthday rolls around, he is beside himself with worry and on the verge of sucking up his delusions of freedom in a world hell-bent on shackling him. If it means being separated from who he knows to be his familiar, he doesn't need his freedom quite so badly after all.
Harry is shaking under the cover of his invisibility cloak as he enters Diagon at the heels of a much younger Oliver Wood and what must be his family. He skirts the edge of the considerable crowd and makes his way to the marble steps of Gringotts, largely undisturbed. – He's lucky the people shopping are used to being trodden on or receiving elbows from unidentifiable people hurrying past.
He knows that the Hallow aspect of the invisibility cloak would mask him even for the eyes of the security goblins, but he decides that's too much of a risk. Even for Harry Potter, risk taker extraordinaire, some things must remain unattempted. Riding an enslaved dragon out of Gringotts was enough excitement regarding that building to last him until death and beyond.
Decision made, he slips out from under the cloak a few steps to the side of Gringotts and hopes the lack of glasses and different hairstyle will disguise him enough for the few seconds he needs to get to his appointment.
They do.
By chance or by design he doesn't know, but he is intercepted by the same runner as the one that led him to Ironclaw's office on his first visit. Harry is glad to be out of the teller's hall, especially once he spots the unmistakable figures of the Malfoy family being led down a different corridor with Professor Snape accompanying them. He doesn't want to meet them under these circumstances. – Or any, really, that wasn't set in motion by himself.
Ironclaw is already waiting for him, despite Harry pointedly making sure to arrive a couple minutes before the scheduled time. The account manager is watching his entry with a severe air around him, sitting behind that imposing mahogany desk of his. The air of hesitant camaraderie they'd built on Harry's previous visit seems to have evaporated into thin air.
"Mister Potter," the goblin greets, face largely unreadable. Harry doesn't know whether that's a good or bad thing. He decides to err on the side of caution and quickly recalls the traditional greetings as depicted in The New Wixen's Guide to Understanding Gringotts And Goblin Culture.
Following those instructions to the letter, Harry walks to the dragonhide armchair without further prompting. "Manager Ironclaw, may your coffers ever overflow," he greets, respectfully inclining his head.
"May your enemies tremble at the sound of your name," the goblin replies automatically, on rote. Then he blinks, measured and slow. That same slowness is present when he inclines his head to Harry. The boy is so pleased that he did the right thing, though hesitant to show it, – It may come across as arrogance , – that he doesn't even bother trying to decipher Ironclaw's actions.
When Ironclaw rests his hands on the surface of the desk with an exaggerated, very deliberate motion, Harry immediately snaps to attention. Those reddish eyes bore into his own unflinchingly and make him wonder if goblins possess some form of legilimency.
"Last time you were here," Ironclaw says, drawing out the syllables, "you merely took a minor identity test to prove the veracity of your claims." He indicates a familiar manila folder sitting in front of him.
"I remember," he agrees, nodding. He hadn't gotten to see the results, but what could they possibly entail that would be surprising? He thinks he has a pretty good grasp on what's going to appear on such a test.
"Today is your thirteenth birthday. As is custom, you will be subject to a full identity test: entailing not only your biometrics but also a detailed depiction of your family line going as far as cousins once removed - within reason."
With how the magical world works, that might just be everyone in my grade, Harry thinks dryly.
"If I may interrupt, who will have the necessary clearance to look at these results after we're finished here?" Harry thinks it's a reasonable question, but the mocking look Ironclaw levels at him has him second-guessing himself.
"Myself, of course, as well as the Branch Manager and other relevant Account Managers - if to a lesser degree, as pertains to them individually. And then, only those you clear for it."
"Thank you for answering my question, Manager Ironclaw." Harry still thinks it's a valid question. It's not like he has anyone else he can ask these things just yet. It doesn't hurt to be polite, though. Especially when it's about the exceedingly proud race of goblins.
"Continuing, I dare say it will clear up inconclusive results on the preliminary test you took a month ago." Harry stills. Ironclaw's answer is blunter than the proverbial knife suddenly threatening his throat.
Who knows what he carried with him to the past? What information does his blood now hold? His soul retaining some parts of the previous timeline would have, does make sense… but that's a very different thing to his body. He thought he'd reset the timeline, not regressed his body along with it.
"Such as?" He feels a little numb. He doesn't know what Ironclaw saw, an entire month ago. Goblin's loyalties first lie with the goblin nation and not the customers of their bank. Integrity is important to them, but not more so than their king. – Harry has no way to know what he knows or who he's told.
"Your age," Ironclaw says, watching his every move.
Well. That's certainly not ideal.
If it were anything else, Harry could see him getting out of this with some bizarre explanation, but his blood-verified age? Hardly a chance. Not with how everything is stacked against him.
Harry purses his lips. The entity he has tentatively come to call "Death" in the privacy of his mind, it mentioned the goblins. It said to ally with them. It didn't say anything about trusting them with a secret like this. Then again, he is quite done with people commandeering his actions like puppeteers pulling marionette strings.
"My older consciousness was sent to my younger body," Harry says, gesturing down his thirteen-year-old body. "It usurped the less-developed consciousness of this body's true age."
Ironclaw's eye twitches. It's a minuscule movement, but Harry thinks it's way harder to spot the Snitch during heavy rainfall as a glasses-wearing Seeker.
"I see," the goblin says, tone carefully measured. He's looking at him as if he's about to sprout wings and fly off. "We weren't aware that you are developing rituals like so." That's the royal we, meaning the illustrious Goblin Nation– and the royal you. Suddenly, Harry is representing an entire race. How fun.
"They're not," Harry says shortly; he's starting to get a bit annoyed. They've already gotten off-track and he's only been here for a couple minutes. "I had outside help."
The staring contest between reddish brown and emerald green is not one Ironclaw could ever hope to win. Harry is not going to crack first. He's a war veteran in the body of a pre-pubescent boy: Few things can truly get to him anymore.
Ironclaw looks away first, down at that accursed manila folder. He taps at it with his sharp nails, clearly thinking. Then he looks up and meets his eyes again. Harry waits him out, even if it wears on his limited patience.
"Be that as it may, we will now proceed with the test." Ironclaw pulls out the same ritual knife he'd given Harry before. "Seven drops, exactly, in the middle of this parchment. It's treated to prevent the blood from being lifted after drying. Further, it is impossible to replicate this parchment through common wixen methods."
Receiving the elaborate knife handle-first, Harry brushes his thumb over the thick waxy-looking sheet Ironclaw has pushed to the middle of the mahogany desk. He's never seen anything like it before. It feels weird to the touch, a bit like Dudley's hideous yellow raincoat.
Harry takes a moment to think about proper sanitation and blood poisoning before he decides that since the blade at least is goblin-made silver, it's hardly a real issue. Used to this by now, he pricks the side of his left ring finger and squeezes the wound over the middle of the parchment as indicated by Ironclaw.
Seven drops of his lifeblood are absorbed into it, after which the injury does not seal itself like he's become accustomed to. He hurries to pull his hand away before he can mess it up through his carelessness. He doesn't want to know how expensive parchment with properties like this is.
They sit in silence as the parchment discolours and slowly forms a crest in the middle of the sheet. Harry frowns when he recognizes it. That's not what he expected.
"What…?" The question slips out from between numb lips. He feels removed from his body as if he's a bystander watching two brooms crash. As if he is back to walking to his own execution on two shaky legs.
"Were you not aware of this?" Ironclaw's clipped, matter-of-fact tone is as unwelcome as the Black family crest looking back at him.