The muted afternoon sun filtered reluctantly through the ash-grey clouds over Little Whinging, casting an anemic light upon the cobbled entryway of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger—eleven-year-olds in appearance, but far older in mind and memory—stepped inside with cautious deliberation. The familiar scent of burnt oak and hops greeted them, accompanied by the low rumble of conversation and the occasional magical spark igniting over a half-drunken glass. For the other patrons, it was an ordinary day; for Harry and Hermione, it marked the beginning of a more carefully constructed destiny.
A little over a month had elapsed since they had been cast backward through time—a convergence of sacrificial death and cosmic consequence. Now back in the summer before their first year at Hogwarts, the two had spent weeks quietly reacclimating to the world they once knew, carefully navigating the intersection of foreknowledge and restraint. Every action was measured, every word calculated. They had already deviated in small, unnoticeable ways, but this day was marked for something more significant.
They were accompanied by Rubeus Hagrid, the half-giant Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Despite the years that had passed in their original timeline, his booming voice, over-generous gestures, and enormous heart remained precisely the same. To Harry, it was oddly comforting.
"Blimey, Harry," Hagrid chuckled as they stepped into the courtyard, "still can't believe yeh didn't know a thing about yer folks. Best witch and wizard I ever met, they were. 'Specially yer mum. She had somethin' in her, that one—old magic, yeh know?"
Hermione's head snapped toward Harry, brows furrowed with the unmistakable twitch of a theory forming. Harry's eyes remained on the bricks as Hagrid tapped the sequence.
The wall rumbled and split open to reveal Diagon Alley in all its whimsical glory. The street sprawled before them like an open manuscript—each shop window a footnote, each signpost a hidden reference.
Gringotts stood at the far end like a bastion of arcane authority, its alabaster exterior gleaming despite the gloom. Harry gazed at it with layered memory—this would be his third time stepping inside, if one included timelines. But never before had he been prepared for what he might find.
Within the marble-clad interior, goblins moved like sentient calculations—precise, efficient, and unreadable. Bronze chandeliers flickered with floating flames as witches and wizards queued behind polished counters. Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid approached one such station, only for a goblin to break from protocol and stride directly toward them.
"Mr. Potter," the goblin said crisply. "I am Griphook, Senior Liaison of Vault Security. We have been expecting your arrival."
Hagrid's mouth opened and closed. "Expectin' him? I never made no appointment—"
"Vaults of a certain magical classification alert us when lineal claimants come of age," Griphook interrupted. "Our protocols include silent activation of ancestral enchantments. Mr. Potter's return to magical activity has awakened dormant claims."
Hermione blinked. "Magical bloodlines have auto-notification enchantments?"
"Indeed," Griphook replied. "Legacy lines such as the Emrys or Morrigan families require no formal declaration. The heir need only be alive and magical."
They were led into a corridor flanked by obsidian doors and inscribed stone. The air grew cooler as they descended, heavy with the scent of ancient metals and preserved enchantments.
"We are prepared to verify Mr. Potter's claim to the ancestral vaults," Griphook continued. "Please step forward and provide a drop of blood onto the Genealogical Charter."
A silvery scroll unfurled in midair, suspended by a mild levitation charm. Griphook handed Harry a ceremonial blade. He pricked his finger and let the droplet fall.
The scroll glowed with a muted aurum light. Names and titles materialized with gravitational slowness, coalescing into clear script:
Heir Apparent, House of Potter
Heir Presumptive, House of Black
Lineal Descendant, House of Emrys
Scion Elect, House of Morrigan
A tremor passed through Hermione as she read. "Emrys? As in Merlinus Ambrosius?"
Griphook nodded, his tone reverent. "The Emrys line has not been claimed in centuries. And the Morrigan—a matrilineal legacy of pre-Roman sorcery, steeped in prophecy, chaos, and shadow. It is not coincidence your mother bore such formidable magical talent."
Harry's hands curled into fists. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"
"As per Gringotts policy," Griphook replied, "vault identities connected to minor heirs are kept confidential unless a guardian or the heir specifically requests them. No such request was made until today."
A flash of his first visit with Hagrid surged through Harry's mind—the mad dash through Diagon Alley, the mountain of gold he'd never expected, the absentminded awe. No questions asked. No context given.
Hermione, ever composed, laid a hand on his shoulder. "We have it now. We use it. That's what matters."
Griphook stepped toward an arcane mechanism, embedding the scroll into its base. "Shall I grant you access to the sealed vaults?"
Harry exhaled slowly. "Yes. I want to see everything."
They descended deeper into the subterranean arteries of Gringotts, the cart hurling them through tunnels illuminated by flickering runes and phosphorescent moss. Each vault they passed whispered secrets of ages, but none more than the one that awaited them now.
As the iron doors parted at Griphook's touch, a low hum echoed forth. The chamber glistened with artifacts from a bygone epoch—scepters, grimoires, even a crystalline globe that shimmered with constellation-like maps.
Hermione's eyes widened. "Some of these relics belong in the Department of Mysteries."
"No," Griphook corrected. "The Department of Mysteries would kill to possess them. They belong here."
Harry stepped inside, and for the first time in this life—this second chance—he didn't feel like an orphan.
He felt like a legacy.
And that changed everything.