Twenty levels down, and Harry was beginning to wonder if the goblins of Gringotts had delved too deep… and too greedily. The mining cart hurtled onward, its grip on the rails more metaphorical than literal.

  His ears popped. Then popped again. And again.

  The wind slapped harder than an offended Veela. Harry would know.

  Careening around a hairpin bend that laughed in the face of physics, Harry felt his stomach attempt an emergency ejection. Only years of Wronsky Feints kept the Full English from splattering across the cavern walls.

  The cart juddered to a stop. A well-concussed Harry spilled out of the rickety menace, his wobbling legs struggling to maintain his perpendicular relationship with the rapidly spinning ground.

  His goblin escort looked on, wholly unfazed by the unholy descent they had, in Harry’s mind, just survived together. The traitor.

  Apparently, to Goblin A, it was just Tuesday.

  Harry, meanwhile, was reconsidering several of his life choices.

  It’s no wonder the little blighters are always so pissy.

  After generously granting Harry a full second to internalize the fresh trauma, the goblin turned and strode away. He led Harry down a corridor of dark granite filled with air that hadn’t touched the surface since the last rebellion.

  A dozen suits of goblin-sized armour flanked the corridor, the mirrored plates glinting in the torchlight. Their gauntlets locked around axes better suited to trolls than goblins.

  Compensating for something?

  Runes spiraled across the plates in intricate coils of Gobbledygook. The language, that is. The creators were obviously devotees of classic goblin military doctrine: If an axe doesn’t solve the problem, try a bigger one.

  One of the suits cackled, a shrill keening echoing out of the metal husk.

  They reminded him of Hogwart’s own armoured defenders, just shorter… and a bit less hinged.

  Err… We thought of that first, right?

  The goblin escort trudged up to a towering slate door, seizing an oversized wrought-iron knocker and hammering it against the stone.

  Gong. Gong. Then nothing.

  The silence lingered. Harry glanced down at the goblin.

  Maybe it didn’t know the secret knock?

  Suddenly, hundreds of blue runes ignited across the door in a pulsing cascade. The double doors swung wide, shifting on unseen hinges, revealing a cavernous chamber dominated by a massive window.

  Beyond the glass, the minecart system of Gringotts sprawled in a dizzying web of tracks and stone, glimmering under enchanted lanterns.

  OK, fine. I stand corrected. That is a view.

  Obsidian tables jutted from the floor like volcanic islands, each buried beneath teetering towers of parchment and haphazard piles of relics. Jewels, blades, and ancient oddities lay scattered like spare change. They looked fit for a museum, but were apparently rather old hat.

  Along one wall, absurdly tall filing cabinets reached for the distant ceiling, their scale beggaring belief, even by wizarding standards. A ladder on wheels leaned against them, and halfway up, a goblin was bent over, half-swallowed by an open drawer.

  Harry’s escort cleared his throat. “Senior Director Grimfang.”

  The goblin hauled himself from the drawer, peering down over half-moon spectacles and a nose crooked enough to make Dumbledore envious. His waistcoat was pinstriped and meticulously tailored, though creased where he’d clearly spent the morning buried in paperwork.

  Muttonchops framed a square jaw. His shaggy eyebrows twitching as he adjusted his spectacles with the tip of one ink-stained claw. Coal-black eyes flicked to Harry, already dissecting him before he’d spoken a word.

  He didn’t bother to glance at the escort.

  “Yes, Borgdo, what is it?”

  The chaperone stiffened. “It’s Bogrod, sir.”

  He gave a noncommittal hum, his gaze already drifting back toward the cabinet. “That’s what I said. Now, get on with it. Time is money, Bogdor.”

  Harry glanced at Bogrod, the name ‘Weatherby’ bubbling up unbidden. He looked back to Grimfang, dangling several metres up the ladder, and swapped the muttonchops for a toothbrush moustache.

  There was an undeniable resemblance to Barty Crouch.

  Cousins, maybe?

  Bogrod’s breath hitched, but he soldiered on. “This wizard has requested a meeting. He claims to know the location of a hidden cache of our silver.”

  That got Grimfang’s full attention.

  His head snapped in Harry’s direction, zeroing in with unsettling intensity. Harry felt like prey. Without a word, the goblin hopped off the ladder, grabbing the rails and descending at alarming speed.

  Grimfang hit the ground running, his feet pattering against the stone like a wind-up toy let loose.

  In the span of a few seconds, he’d dashed behind the enormous obsidian desk, straightened his robes, and folded his hands like he’d been there all along.

  “Approach!” he barked, beady eyes peering down at Harry.

  · · ·

  Harry withdrew a folded scrap of parchment from his coat and set it on the desk. No preamble. No theatrics. These were goblins. Small talk was worse than an insult and just shy of a declaration of war.

  Grimfang’s gaze flicked to it. His ears twitched, but his hands remained still.

  In goblin negotiations, the first to show weakness tended to end up with their head on the proverbial spike. Violent metaphor, but that’s goblins for you.

  Fortunately, Harry had learned that a successful goblin negotiation was just like fishing. Bait the hook, float it by them, and wait.

  They always bite.

  “I found a site,” Harry said, tapping a finger against the paper. “Unplundered. And most relevant for you, containing a cache of goblin-wrought silver.”

  Grimfang’s claw flexed, the tap of his nail against the desk slowing for half a beat.

  Hook.

  Grimfang adjusted his spectacles. “And you, a wizard, are what… offering to return our stolen property out of the goodness of your heart?”

  Harry smirked. “Of course not. I’m offering you first claim on any goblin-wrought items you can prove ownership of. Everything else is mine.”

  Grimfang exhaled slowly, his ink-stained claw tapping against the desk. This time, there was a rhythm to it. Deliberate. Thoughtful. “And legal access?”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Line.

  “That’s your end,” Harry said, flicking a hand. “Keep it legal, stamped and sealed. Send an observer and a cursebreaker. If they’re not complete bellends, they can stay.”

  Grimfang’s expression was unreadable, but his head tilted just slightly, the movement slow, considering. “And if you decide to sell the artefacts?”

  Harry didn’t miss a beat. “You get right of first refusal. Match the price, it’s yours.”

  The goblin remained silent, but his fingers curled inward, resting lightly against the desk instead of tapping. A clear sign he was ready to bite.

  And sinker.

  Harry let the pause linger before adding, almost as an afterthought, “There’ll be a full academic series. Field notes, ward schematics, conservation logs. One of your specialists will be listed as co-author.”

  Grimfang looked at him blankly.

  He shrugged lightly. “It’s what I do.”

  Nodding, Grimfang still didn’t touch the parchment. His lips pressed together slightly, a flicker of something in his gaze, calculation, maybe.

  “And that’s it?” he asked, voice edged with curiosity. His ears twitched as he leaned forward slightly, fingers back to tapping. “Tell me, wizard, what is it you really want?”

  Harry reached forward and flicked the parchment open with one finger, revealing a formal petition, inked with his name, requesting the reopening of a long-sealed vault.

  “It was sealed centuries ago,” he said. “A vault, long abandoned, but still under your jurisdiction.”

  Grimfang’s fingers stopped entirely. His eyes flicked between the document and Harry’s face.

  Harry held his gaze steady.

  “The Peverell Vault,” he said smoothly. “I want it reopened. And I want it recognised as mine.”

  Grimfang looked from the parchment to Harry, then leaned back in his seat. “Gringotts can’t be bought. We don’t just reopen a family’s vault without… strong corroborating evidence.”

  He peered at Harry over his spectacles, about as subtle as a stampede of Erumpent. “Would you happen to have any family heirlooms or documents to support your claim?”

  Ah yes, the classic “we can’t be seen being bought.” Plausible deniability, coming right up.

  Harry returned a beatific smile. “But of course, Director. I wouldn’t dare come before you empty handed. My family has been searching to reclaim our lost relics for generations, same as yours.”

  He reached into his mokeskin pouch, feeling through its depths as the goblins watched with quiet interest.

  He withdrew a jet-black tetrahedral shard, no larger than a standard die, setting it on the desk. As the light struck its surface, a golden shape gleamed within: A straight vertical line, wrapped in a circle, and enclosed in a triangle.

  The sign of the Deathly Hallows.

  “And our persistence paid off.”

  Grimfang’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned forward, nearly lying across his desk to get a closer look.

  “I daresay,” he murmured, adjusting his spectacles, “if you can prove its authenticity, this would be more than sufficient for Gringotts to back your claim. However, should it not, alternative compensation will be required to move forward with this deal, wizard.”

  His gaze sharpened as he snapped his fingers. “Brodog, fetch our Master Appraisers! If this proves authentic, we’ll have busy days ahead of us.”

  Bogrod’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t protest. “Yes, Director,” he said in a flat, resigned tone, turning on his heel and marching out of the office at speed.

  · · ·

  Harry trotted down the stairs of Gringotts with the vault deal sealed, plans already forming in his head. The goblins were securing the site, and from memory, the wards weren’t anything he couldn’t handle with the right tools. A quick shopping trip, a bit of enchanting, and he’d have everything ready.

  It’s as easy as setting the date, colouring by numbers, and Bob’s your uncle.

  Soon, he’d be the new holder of the long-sealed Peverell vault. From there, claiming the Lordship was feasible, and then he’d really be somebody.

  Amusing, really. Spent years running from fame, now I’m scheming to get it back.

  But influence was its own kind of power. Recognition opened doors. With the right name and allies behind him, he might blunt Voldemort’s rise, or at least slow the world’s descent into the same tragic spiral.

  Best not to count on Voldemort’s victory being put on hold due to another infanticide gone wrong.

  Harry tucked the goblin-signed parchment into his inner coat pocket. He intended to cut through the Alley and disappear to complete his prep work, but the sound of voices chanting together made him pause. It was rhythmic and raw, punctuated by the buzz of spell-touched megaphones.

  A small crowd had formed ahead, gathered around a makeshift podium at the centre of the neighbouring square. Placards floated lazily overhead, charmed to display bold script.

  “WORK WITHOUT FEAR”

  “MAGIC FOR ALL”

  “PUREBLOOD JOBS ≠ WIZARD JOBS”

  An older witch stood at the front, voice crackling over mild Sonorus, giving a rousing, if shaky, speech about employment equality and workplace protections for Muggleborns and squibs. It wasn’t rousing oratory. It was loud and urgent. Maybe a bit tired.

  But not defeated.

  Harry started to drift past, until a headline caught his eye at the nearby kiosk. A folded Prophet sat half-open, the subheadline peeking through:

  “NEW MOTION SEEKS TO RESTRICT MUGGLEBORN ENTRY INTO KEY MINISTRY ROLES”

  He stepped closer, digging into his pocket for a sickle.

  A flyer brushed his hand.

  “Morning, sir,” came a familiar voice. “Hope you’ll give it a look.”

  Harry blinked.

  Mr. Weasley?

  Arthur Weasley was barely into his twenties, though his bright ginger hair was already thinning at the crown. His cheeks were flushed from exertion, but his eyes were bright and his smile hopeful.

  For a few moments, Harry stared. He saw his Mr. Weasley in Arthur, but they weren’t quite the same.

  Arthur carried himself the same way. A man with a quiet kind of decency that didn’t ask for credit. But the years hadn’t worn him down yet. Harsh truths and quiet tragedies hadn’t carved themselves into his face.

  Not like they would.

  Noticing that Arthur’s smile was starting to go brittle, Harry shook off the thought and took the parchment with a smile and a nod of thanks.

  It was hand-drawn and uneven.

  The ink was smudged, but the message was clear: “THE MINISTRY WORKS FOR EVERYONE—OR IT WORKS FOR NO ONE.”

  Arthur moved on without waiting for a response, weaving through the crowd, eager to hand out more.

  Harry watched him go.

  This was the man who had opened his home without hesitation. Who had treated him like family when he hadn’t known what that word meant.

  Of course he was here, standing beside people who needed it, asking nothing in return.

  That was just who Arthur Weasley was.

  A good man, and a decent one.

  Harry folded the leaflet carefully and slipped it into his coat.

  “Back off!” someone shouted.

  The sound of the square had shifted.

  Rising tension bled into the crowd, spreading out from points of contact with newly arrived counter-protestors. The cadence of the chants broke. New voices rose as purebloods jeered from the edges. Anger was sparking as tempers began to boil over.

  Aurors stood off to the side, still and unmoved, their arms crossed. One yawned.

  Not good. The whole situation is a powder keg, and it’ll just take a spark to set this whole thing off.

  Harry scanned instinctively, taking in exits, cover, and chokepoints.

  That’s when he saw her.

  Arabella Figg, looking to be in her early 20s, stood near the front of the crowd. She had no wand.

  Obviously.

  She stood before a growing group of pureblood bigots, holding a sign that read “WE MATTER TOO”. This could go very wrong.

  A crack of spellfire split the air.

  Someone screamed.

  And chaos ensued.

  Smelling blood, the counter-protestors began flinging one spell after another into the crowd. None of it looked lethal, instead, they seemed meant to humiliate and dehumanize.

  Arabella was one of many squibs targeted, now dancing and laughing uncontrollably as the panicking crowd began to jostle around her. Others now sported pig’s tails and other demeaning and dangerous human transfigurations.

  A large man charged the purebloods, clearly enraged. He succeeded in knocking one or two of them on their asses.

  For his efforts, he was met with a rainbow of spellfire.

  He was blasted to the ground, his body crumpling as he convulsed, face twitching, skin blooming with purple boils.

  The crowd panicked, surging in every direction as they desperately looked for an escape.

  Arabella vanished beneath this wave of bodies.

  Harry moved.

  He pushed through the side of the crowd, wand low. A subtle shield to part the bodies. Another charm to lift Arabella from the ground before she was trampled. She flailed once in the air, still giggling madly as she clutched her sign like a lifeline.

  He set her down near the edge of the alley behind a vendor’s stall. A shielding charm shimmered to life between her and the chaos.

  By the time he turned back, it was already over.

  The square was broken.

  Signs trampled. The podium shattered. A pink doll with one eye missing lay near a bench, forgotten.

  The Aurors finally moved, slowly, directing stragglers to disperse.

  No arrests were made.

  No statements were taken.

  Like it was just another day.

  Looking down, Arabella sat there, tears and snot streaming down her face, even as a forced smile beamed and laughter burst out of her.

  Harry cast the counterspell.

  Arabella wailed.