Something metallic buzzed past Harry’s ear.

  He didn’t flinch. It wasn’t a curse, just one of the hummingbirds.

  It rose up, joining the whirring storm, a low drone humming through the ruins.

  A gust rolled in, curling through the ridge with the bite of peat and frost. Gorse rustled on the slopes beyond, scrubby and wind-battered. At the edge of the valley, the faint line of a Roman road cut through the heather like an old scar, half-swallowed by the land.

  Exactly as he remembered it. It had been his first.

  Some places stick with you.

  The snitch-sized clockwork birds darted overhead in tight arcs, too fast for the eye to follow. They flitted from point to point, brass-and-silver bodies catching the early light before darting off again.

  Between bursts of motion, each hovering pause brought a bright pulse, runes flickering briefly before fading. They stitched the air in overlapping arcs, gradually outlining the containment field.

  A large dome.

  Harry tracked one zipping along the dome’s curve. The hyperactive little sods needed minding, else they tended to wander off and cause mischief.

  Seemed they were still on task for the moment.

  Somewhere behind him, the crunch of two pairs of boots on the rocky soil marked Gringotts’ observers.

  Best not to dawdle about, I’ve an audience to wow.

  His hand jerked, pulling him forward.

  He looked down and adjusted his grip on the ley-compass just as it gave a second, insistent tug.

  He smiled. His trusty partner hadn’t forgotten.

  The weathered brass casing was warm. Etched runes vibrated faintly against his palm. Inside, the mercury pooled westward, then shaped itself into a finger, pointing toward something just beyond the dome’s boundary.

  Bingo.

  A weathered stone pushed through the earth, edges rounded by time. It still held the faint trace of an inscription, Latin and half-faded, carved in a steady, deliberate hand. Just past it, a column slumped against the dirt, its fluted surface cracked but unmistakably Roman.

  This had been a border fort, once. One of Rome’s northernmost outposts, perched along the Gask Ridge, a silent watchtower against the Caledonians.

  Now, only the bones remained. Scattered stonework and exposed foundations were the last traces of the Romans’ overreach into the inhospitable highlands.

  Slowly crumbling. Ground down by time and frost.

  In matters of siege, Time remained undefeated.

  A lot of bother for bugger-all, if you ask me.

  Harry slipped the compass back into his coat and reached into his mokeskin. His fingers found the cool brass of a sapper, heavy in hand. Its surface was etched with deep-cut runes.

  The others were already in place: twelve spikes hammered into the ground, forming a ring just outside the wardline.

  This was the final one.

  He braced the sapper against the earth, then grabbed the hammer.

  Clang!

  Clang!

  It bit deep. Runes flared in a circle around the sapper, then faded.

  The clockwork birds flitted overhead, their bell-toned chirps shifting in pitch.

  They love this part.

  Harry flicked his wand. The sappers hummed.

  Golden lines burst from each spike, shooting outward and linking to every other. A web of crisscrossed light formed a lattice, encasing the barrier like a second skin.

  Harry raised his wand. The golden web pulsed.

  The sappers’ runes flared in perfect synchronicity, and the warded dome responded, resisting for a moment. Then the latticework sank and melded into the barrier.

  No fireworks. No noise.

  The wards simply sank into the earth like a receding tide, vanishing as if they had never been.

  Harry watched the last traces of the protective shell dissolve.

  The silence held for a moment, broken only by the faint whirr of the birds’ advance.

  Behind him, Bogrod grunted. "A serviceable job, wizard.”

  Harry glanced over his shoulder.

  The goblin stood near the edge of the ruins, watching with sharp, considering eyes. Beside him, a tall, grizzled man stood in expedition leathers, arms crossed.

  Reg Killoway, one of Gringotts’ most trusted curse breakers.

  Reg let out a low whistle. "Never seen that technique before."

  Harry shrugged, tucking his wand away. "Most people break wards with all the subtlety of a mountain troll."

  The curse-breaker huffed a laugh. "Aye, the old-timers used to make the place a right shambles just getting the wards down. Not wrecking the site is a bonus.” A few moments passed, with Reg’s gaze slowly scanning the exposed site, “You do tidy work, eh kid?"

  Harry dusted his hands off, unconcerned. He turned back to the two, a glimmer in his eye.

  "I’m the cautious, methodical type. Always have been."

  · · ·

  The insistent scratching of quill on parchment followed Harry through the ruins.

  He glanced back. The quill hovered at his shoulder like a court scribe, tilting in the air as if weighing its next stroke, then darted back into furious scrawling. Lines etched themselves across the parchment, forming a precise sketch of the fort’s remains.

  The wind, once a howling force atop the ridge, was dulled into a steady hush within the walls.

  The remains lay exposed to the sky. The dry-stone walls held fast, but anything wooden had long since vanished, claimed by time or by scavengers.

  Probably both.

  The ground was uneven, a patchwork of exposed masonry and wind-blown debris. Some slabs were clear, smoothed by time. Others lay half-buried beneath sediment and wreckage.

  A trilling chime pierced the quiet.

  Harry turned. One of the birds hovered, wings a blur of brass and silver. Above it, a spectral cyan flame flickered, marking a discovery.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Reg’s voice carried a note of grudging curiosity as he stepped up beside Harry, arms crossed. "Clever little bastard, innit?"

  Bogrod, for his part, watched the bird with sharp goblin eyes, tracking its movements. "Goblin work?"

  Harry shook his head as he stepped past the empty mustering ground, toward the long rows of raised stone slabs

  "Dwarf, actually," he said, shooting the Goblin a sly sidelong glance.

  Bogrod’s lip curled, biting down on his knee-jerk response, settling for a tight, “I see, how… open-minded”

  The quill paused mid-stroke, turning to Bogrod and… glaring? Hard to say. Having made Its point, it darted back into motion, almost frantic to make up for lost time.

  The curse-breaker let out a short huff. "Wouldn’t mind having a flock of those on some of my digs. Where can I get a set of my own?"

  Harry adjusted his grip on the ley-compass, watching as another bird circled low over a smaller stone structure, a violet flame wavering above it. "Can’t get them off the shelf, I’m afraid."

  "How unfortunate." Bogrod’s tone was dry.

  Harry didn’t respond. The results spoke for themselves.

  He paused to recollect his excavation of this place in the future. It was a by-the-book example of an old Roman border fort. He couldn’t think of anything unusual about this site in particular.

  The quill hovered impatiently, drifting closer to Harry’s shoulder, nib twitching expectantly, silently pressuring him to hurry up.

  Harry got the message.

  Stepping through the threshold, his boots scraped against uneven stone. The space inside was broad and orderly, lined with rows of raised slabs. The ghost of wooden supports lingered along the walls, their discolouration the only sign of a structure that had long since rotted away.

  Harry crouched, pressing a hand into the dirt and scattered debris between two bunks. Beneath his palm, something solid, just below the surface. He swept aside dried leaves and loose rubble, fingers closing around a small, crumbling leather pouch.

  Coins spilled into his palm, dull with age, though the emperor’s likeness still stood out in the silver. A hard-lined profile, the laurel crown pressing into his curls.

  Domitian. The last Flavian.

  Paranoid, cruel, and dead by assassination. Not one of Rome’s finest.

  It was silver denarii, a soldier’s wage.

  Next to the pouch, half-buried in a shallow patch of compacted earth, rested a pair of lopsided bone dice.

  He turned one of the familiar cubes over between his fingers, then gave them a casual roll onto the nearest flat stone. The moment they landed, the air shifted. Subtle, but noticeable if you knew what to look for.

  Both dice had landed on sixes. Harry grinned.

  We won a few wagers together, eh?

  The curse-breaker let out a short bark of laughter. "Weighted?"

  "Better: enchanted." Harry picked them back up, loosely curling his fingers around them. The dice knocked softly against each other as he gave them a slow shake.

  The familiar rattle was oddly comforting.

  Bogrod peered at them with mild interest. "An enterprising Legionnaire, you think?"

  "Standard issue, I’m sure." Opening his palm, Harry gave the dice one last look, then slipped them into his pocket. His hand lingered for a moment, then gave a slight pat.

  The quill gave a triumphant little flourish, scratching down a final note with a sharp flick before floating further down the barracks.

  Nearby, another bird let out a sharp, rhythmic click, its glowing marker hovering near the far wall.

  Not much more was present here, just remnants of a soldier’s daily life on Rome’s farthest flung border.

  The barracks had been functional. Spartan. A place for sleep, food, and little else.

  Not exactly the romantic sword and sandal life the muggles play in the theatres.

  The birds continued their sweep, but Harry already knew what they would find. He let them work. It was just nice to be back where he felt at home… digging in the dirt, far removed from the rest of the world.

  · · ·

  Harry slid open the wooden writing tablet, its casing cracked but still intact. The wax inside was badly scored, the Latin pressed in hurried, uneven strokes.

  He flipped through, reading the final messages.

  "No response from Londinium. Runners sent south. No word."

  "Commander dead. No reinforcements. Breaking camp."

  Harry grinned as he channelled Binns:

  And so the tides of Roman expansion ebb.

  He set the tablet aside for cataloguing, his eager scribe swooping in, already scribbling down its contents.

  All that remained was the armoury. In their haste to depart, the surviving officers had left some rather valuable treasures behind. Likely, they hadn’t been trusted with knowledge of the vault.

  He dusted off his gloves and nodded to the next doorway. “Armoury’s through here.”

  Bogrod pushed ahead, the pull of Goblin-silver quickening his steps. Reg and Harry were just a step behind.

  As the others fanned out, Harry lingered. It was like walking through his own memory, a living time capsule. The sights, the nerves, the person he'd been then.

  This was exactly the same as last time.

  But he wasn’t.

  There was no true pressure this time. It was more a working holiday than anything. If he’d thought to pack lunch, it could’ve been a picnic.

  The ring of metal on stone echoed as Harry set aside a pilum he’d been inspecting. The shaft was long splintered, though the iron tip remained intact, dark with age but untouched by rust. A preservation charm, still holding after nearly two thousand years.

  The pile of sorted weapons grew. It was neatly arranged: gladii stacked together, shields leaning against the wall, javelins placed in a row. Organized and methodical, all the easier to catalogue later.

  Some items were practical, standard issue, the kind of gear any auxiliary would have carried.

  Others were something more.

  Bogrod turned a gladius in his hands, running a thumb along the engraving near the guard. The blade was still sharp, the enchantment woven into the steel maintaining the keen edge beneath his fingers.

  One of these things is not like the other.

  Roman craftsmanship favoured function over form. This blade did not.

  Harry stepped closer, catching the marking near the base.

  Goblin script.

  He didn’t bother reacting. This was just a taste.

  The armoury was different from the rest of the fort.

  It wasn’t worn down by time or picked over. Weapons had been pulled from racks, shields stacked hastily rather than arranged for storage. Not truly forgotten, but not able to be taken.

  But it was all basic, standard issue gear.

  Harry glanced at the abandoned stacks of javelins, the half-prepared shields, the swords left untouched.

  "That everything?" Bogrod asked, dissatisfaction dripping from his tone.

  “Just about,” Harry said, as Bogrod’s face started to turn an interesting shade of puce. “Except for the vault, of course.”

  As Bogrod’s eyes bulged, Reg let out a snicker. “I like you, kid.”

  Bogrod recovered with a sniff, “Yes, how… amusing.”

  Harry gave him a cheeky grin and flicked his wand, sending a pulse through the room. Magic rippled outward, skimming over empty racks, stacks of spears, the dented remains of a ballista mount, then hitting resistance.

  The back wall.

  They all moved toward it, Harry running a hand along the reinforced iron panel set into the stone. It wasn’t even a heavily warded vault, just a simple locked strongbox.

  Bogrod stepped up beside him, tapping a claw against the frame. "So, this is what we came for, wizard?"

  Harry nodded. “This is it.”

  Reg stepped forward. "You want the honours, or shall I?"

  "I’ve got it," Harry murmured.

  The lock was mechanical, not magical.

  Old Roman work, somewhat crude by modern standards, but reliable. It didn’t take long. Just a simple spell any first year would know. A shift of tumblers, a precise push, and the mechanism gave with a solid click.

  If it can grant access to the Philosopher’s Stone, why wouldn’t it open a vault?

  To be fair to the Romans, Alohamora hadn’t been created yet, but that didn’t make it any less amusing.

  The door creaked open, dust shifting as the still air inside met the outside world for the first time in centuries.

  Harry stepped in, wandlight reflecting off of rows of polished silver.

  Blades, spearheads, helmets stacked in careful order.

  All Goblin-wrought.

  Bogrod let out a slow breath and murmured something in gobbledygook.

  Harry grinned.

  Reg muttered, "A right, bloody jackpot, this is."

  · · ·

  The mottled key slid across the obsidian desk, iron scraping against the glass.

  Harry plucked it up, giving it a quick inspection.

  The engraving was deep, worn smooth at the edges, but the crest of the Hallows remained sharp enough to catch the lamplight. This was the original, a key that hadn't been used in centuries.

  He slipped it into his pocket.

  The Senior Appraiser clasped his hands behind his back. "It is confirmed. Two-hundred and Twenty-four authentic pieces, to be returned to the appropriate families." His voice was clipped. "The assessment is complete."

  Grimfang watched, fingers splayed motionlessly against the desk. "A pleasure doing business with you, Peverell. If you… come across information on any more of my people's lost silver, do let me know. I’ll ensure it is worth your while."

  Like “losing” a certain cup from the LeStrange vault, perhaps?

  Harry inclined his head. "Naturally. I'll be in touch if the opportunity presents itself. I look forward to our future cooperation."

  He rose, adjusting his coat. He had what he came for.

  With the family vault key in hand and the Resurrection Stone in pocket, it was time to pay the Ministry a visit.

  House Peverell had been absent for far too long.