Chapter Text
Harry could hardly believe it, when it all sank in.
He wasn’t expelled. He wasn’t even getting punished. He’d inflated Aunt Marge, and the Ministry wouldn’t even give him a slap on the wrist. But that wasn’t the best part.
There were still three weeks until school began, and he would be spending them in Diagon Alley. Alone. Unsupervised — at least, as unsupervised as the thirteen year-old saviour of the wizarding world could get — allowed to do whatever he pleased, as long as he stayed within the confines of the alley. No teachers keeping an eye on him ‘for his own safety’, no Dumbledore with his annoyingly knowing gaze, no Mrs Weasley herding him around like one of her own. Not even Ron and Hermione. He could go where he liked, and not have to explain his actions to anyone.
He’d never had such freedom before. Harry couldn’t wait to make the most of it.
.-.-.-.-.
For the first few days, Harry didn’t push the boundaries. He spent most of his time sat at a sunny table sat outside Fortescue’s, doing his homework with a tall ice cream sundae at his side, charmed not to melt too quickly. It was a nice change from doing it under his blankets in the dead of night — and it let him see if anyone was actually keeping an eye on him. It was a perfect spot to people-watch, to keep track of anyone who might linger too long or look his way too often. He was noticed — of course he was noticed, he was Harry Potter — but no one seemed to be following him. Even when he left the ice cream parlour and went to explore, he couldn’t see anyone keeping watch. He stuck to places he would be expected to go, of course. Quality Quidditch Supplies, Flourish and Blotts, Gambol and Japes’. Normal haunts for a thirteen year-old wizard.
Only after he’d finished all his homework, and made absolutely sure that he wasn’t being secretly supervised, did Harry start to widen his exploration. In the past, when he’d been to Diagon Alley, whichever adult was with him had just wanted to get school supplies and get out as quickly as possible. Honestly, Harry didn’t blame them, especially when he was with the whole Weasley family. But Diagon was so much bigger than he’d thought it was. There were all kinds of side-alleys with small shops and vendor stalls. Sure you could buy potion supplies, and spellbooks, and brooms — you could also buy enchanted jewellery and elaborate sweets and bespelled household objects, and a million other things in between. It made sense, Harry supposed; wizards didn’t have a lot of places to shop, and you couldn’t just conjure everything you needed. Diagon was like the biggest shopping centre wizards could go to. And it was all open to him, now.
Harry couldn’t resist. With a bag of assorted sweets from Sugarplum’s in hand, he meticulously scoured every inch of the alley from one end to the other, determined to uncover all its hidden joys. He bought a practice snitch at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and a self-inking quill from Scribbulus Writing Instruments. He spent almost an hour in the back of the Magical Menagerie, talking to the snakes and telling himself he couldn’t take them all home with him. He bought a new pair of glasses at a small stall next Madam Primpernelle’s — indestructible, self-adjusting prescription, with weather-repellent charms. Harry’s prescription hadn’t been adjusted since he’d first got his glasses aged seven, and he’d forgotten what it was like to actually see clearly.
After a while, wandering the alley made his heart ache. All these new and wondrous things were items he probably would have grown up with, had he been raised in a wizarding family. No wonder Ron didn’t care about the alley; it was all old hat to him. He wondered if Hermione had ever come here without them, and done the same thing he was doing now. He doubted it — she would’ve talked his ear off about it if she had. But how could she not be curious? There were so many incredible things; things he would buy, if he had anywhere to put them. He imagined the look on Aunt Petunia’s face if he were to start filling his room with magical posters and enchanted clocks and a statue of a dragon that really breathed fire.
If he ever went back to Aunt Petunia. Minister Fudge might’ve said they were alright with taking him back at the end of the school year, but Harry doubted they were happy about it. Then again, he didn’t really have any other options.
As he browsed the shelves of Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment, Harry absently daydreamed about what his bedroom might look like in a wizarding house — his parents’ house. Would it look more like Ron’s? He snorted to himself; hopefully far less orange than Ron’s.
But would he have a favourite quidditch team, with posters on the wall? A shelf full of spellbooks, with little moving figurines on the ledges? A fancy perch for Hedwig, with a self-filling water bowl? Bedsheets that changed colour when they needed washing? (You really could get everything in Diagon Alley).
He pushed the thought away, biting his lip against the unexpected swell of emotion. Desperate for a distraction, he turned his gaze to the display in front of him.
Wand Holsters, for the canny witch or wizard — never worry about losing your wand again!
They were thin leather tubes, with straps to secure them at each end. They came in several different lengths and colours; at first Harry thought it was to adjust for the length of the wand, but upon reading the description realised they were either for the forearm or calf, depending on your preference. Apparently they would accept wands of any length, even if they were longer than the holster itself.
He glanced down at his wand, sticking out of the pocket of his jeans. His mind flashed back to all the times he’d dropped it, or had it fall out of his pocket, or not had a comfortable pocket to stick it in. Perhaps buying one of these holster things wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Harry kept reading the description. Each holster had in-built invisibility charms, and an anti-summoning ward once it had bonded with its owner. It claimed to keep the wand safe and accessible at all times — apparently, they were what aurors used on the job. Harry grinned to himself. That sounded pretty cool, if he was honest.
His grin faltered when he checked the price tag, and glanced inside his rapidly diminishing coin purse. He muttered a curse under his breath. “Why did I buy that stupid quill?” he hissed quietly, scowling.
Turning away from the wand holsters with slumped shoulders, Harry froze. He was in Diagon Alley — Gringotts was right around the corner. He had heaps of gold that his parents had left him. He just had to go get it!
He left the shop with a spring in his step, making a beeline for the enormous white building at the end of the street. One of the desks was open when he arrived, and the goblin manning it glanced down his long, crooked nose at Harry. “How may I be of assistance?” he asked in a low, slightly croaky voice.
“I’d, uh, like to withdraw some money from my vault, please,” Harry requested, refusing to let his nerves get the better of him. He wondered if it was like a muggle bank account, where you could just get the money without having to go to the vault itself. He didn’t fancy going on one of those mine carts right now. Every time since, someone else had withdrawn money for him. “Oh, uh, Harry Potter. The Potter vaults,” he added belatedly. The goblin’s eyes flicked up to his forehead, as peoples’ often did when he said his name.
“Vault key?” the goblin asked. Harry’s spirits fell. He didn’t have his key! Mrs Weasley was the last person to have it, he thought, but he was pretty sure she gave it back to Dumbledore when she was done.
“Oh. I, um, don’t have my key on me. Is that… a problem?”
“We can confirm your identity in other ways,” the goblin assured him. “But it requires your consent to a scan of your magic.”
Harry hesitated for a second. A scan sounded fairly harmless. People probably did it all the time; surely they didn’t carry their vault keys with them everywhere? “Okay, that sounds fine. I consent.”
The goblin nodded, then snapped his fingers and waved his hand towards Harry. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and he hummed, frowning. He snapped and waved a second time, frown growing deeper. Harry’s stomach churned. “Is there something wrong?”
“May I speak to you privately, Mr Potter?” the goblin asked, leaning back in his chair and pursing his lips. “There is a matter I wish to bring to your attention.”
Immediately, Harry’s brain conjured the worst; there was something wrong with his magic, or he wasn’t actually Harry Potter, or the goblins refused to let him in anymore. He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking as he followed the goblin across the bank and into a corridor, where he was led into a small private room. The goblin gestured to a chair, and Harry sat. “One moment, please.”
The goblin left Harry alone in the room, but only for a couple of minutes. Those minutes felt like a lifetime as he waited, scenarios chasing each other around his mind, each more dire than the last.
When the goblin returned, it was with a second goblin at his side. This one looked older, with wispy white hair and a deeply lined face. “This is Gorrak, Mr Potter. He’s one of our senior staff, and specialises in inheritance claims and family magic.”
Harry wondered if goblins shook hands. When none was offered to him, he merely nodded, twisting his fingers anxiously in the hem of his t-shirt. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gorrak. Can I ask… what am I doing here?”
“Do you consent to a scan of your magic?” Gorrak asked, bypassing all pleasantries. Harry blinked.
“I— yes, I consent.” If the goblins were planning to hurt him, they probably wouldn’t ask consent first.
Gorrak raised his hands, and his fingertips glowed with a faint silver light as he ran them over the air a foot in front of Harry. If Harry concentrated, he could feel a sort of… tingle, faint on his skin, making the hair on his arms stand up. Gorrak lowered his arms, scowling. “Wizards.” He spat the word like a curse, sharing an unreadable look with his colleague. “Farlig, did Mr Potter have anyone with him when he spoke to you?”
“No, sir,” the other goblin, Farlig, replied promptly. “He was alone.”
“What’s the matter?” Harry interrupted, cheeks turning red as both goblins turned to look at him. “Something’s wrong. Am I okay? Is my magic okay?”
Gorrak eyed him speculatively. “Mr Potter, can you recall any time in which you have been the recipient of any sort of long-term enchantment, or ritual magic?”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Ritual magic?” he repeated, bewildered. “No, not that I know of. Why?” Had someone cursed him?
“I expected as much. The block is so deeply ingrained, you were probably just a baby when it was set.” Gorrak’s muttered words were more to himself than Harry, but Harry caught them anyway, and froze.
“Block?” he repeated. His pulse thudded in his ears. “Are you— am I— I don’t understand.”
Gorrak met his gaze unflinchingly. “Mr Potter, I regret to inform you that there is a rather severe block on your magical core, entirely restricting your access to your family magics.”
The words echoed in Harry’s head.
“Family magics? What does that mean?” He’d never heard of such a thing.
Gorrak took the seat opposite him, a serious expression on his face. “Family magics, Mr Potter, are the magics passed down through wizarding families for generations. They are tied to your individual magical core, but are a separate part of it — they pass certain gifts or talents down family lines, and every wizarding parent will pass on some level of family magics to their children. Even muggleborn parents. In your case, however, the magics are of one of the oldest lines in wizarding Europe. They are an enormous part of your core, and without them you will be refused any inheritance or heirships, as well as any family gifts you may naturally possess.”
Harry blinked, not sure he understood correctly. “So they’re just… gone?” he asked, panic rising in his gut. Gorrak shook his head.
“They are still there, Mr Potter. They are merely inaccessible to you. Can I assume you were unaware of any blocks or limitations placed on your magical core?”
“I had no idea. Who— Voldemort?” He’d said the block had been placed when he was a baby. Could it have come from the attack?
“Unlikely,” Gorrak replied. “The ritual undertaken for this sort of block takes several hours to complete. From what I understand of your… history, the Dark Lord Voldemort would not have had time for such magic.”
Harry felt sick. Someone he trusted — someone his parents had trusted, enough to leave their baby with them for several hours — had placed a block on his magic. “Is it— am I in danger? Will it hurt me?”
“Currently, it is causing you no issue but a slight drain on your magical core. You have an impressively strong core for someone so young, Mr Potter, so it’s likely you haven’t noticed the difference. However, as the heir to the Potter line among others, should you come of age while still under the influence of the block, you will be unable to claim your rightful seats on the Wizengamot, or any of your inherited properties. You would also come to harm when your magical core fully matures, as the block required to restrain your family magic also does not allow your magical core to expand in any way.”
“I have seats on the Wizengamot?” Harry spluttered, eyes wide. Wasn’t that the wizarding government? How could he possibly have access to that?
“Not yet, Mr Potter, but you will once you come of age. The Noble and Most Ancient house of Potter has been part of the Wizengamot since its inception, and it is your birthright. You may also hold other seats — with the political climate in the last few decades, several ancient houses have lost their immediate heir, and the title has had to find other avenues in the family tree. I am unsure just how many families you are inheriting magic from, but with that in mind, this block could be restricting a truly astounding amount of magic within you. The backlash upon your coming of age would likely be severe, and explosive.”
For several moments, Harry sat in silence, letting the goblin’s words sink in. It all felt like some sort of nightmare.
Eventually, Gorrak cleared his throat. “Mr Potter, if you would consent, I would like to check you for any other spells or enchantments on your person. This may not be the only thing done to you.”
“There could be more?” Harry scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Right, of course, this is me we’re talking about. There’s always more.” He shook his head with a derisive snort. “I consent. If there’s any magic on or in me that isn’t mine, I want to know about it.” His skin crawled like he could feel unfamiliar hands touching him, gripping his magical core and twisting.
“Please empty your pockets and remove your glasses, and any other enchanted items you may possess,” Gorrak requested. Harry took a few moments to do as asked, then stood somewhat awkwardly with his hands at his sides. He’d never had so much as a medical check-up, let alone a magical one. What was he supposed to do? “Keep still, this will only take a moment.”
Gorrak murmured something in a language Harry didn’t recognise — Gobbledegook, probably — and a strange prickling feeling washed over Harry from head to toe. He resisted the urge to flinch away. Gorrak said something again in his language, but from Farlig’s reaction in the corner it was probably an expletive of some kind. “Someone has done you a great wrong, Mr Potter,” Gorrak declared. Harry’s heart sank.
“Am I dying?” he asked flatly. It would be just his luck if after all his run-ins with Voldemort, he was due to die from some slow-acting curse or something. Gorrak barked out a laugh.
“No faster than the average wizard,” he assured. “However, the block is not the only magic acting against you. There’s some kind of spell, I’ve never seen it before but it looks more recent, perhaps two or three years old, and it’s familiar. The same magic that belongs to whoever blocked your family magics.”
Slowly, pieces started to come together in Harry’s mind, dread gathering in his belly. “And what does this spell do?”
“I can’t be entirely positive, Mr Potter. If I were to guess, I would say it is something to do with your behaviour. It appears to encourage impulsiveness — or limit rational thinking. Something along those lines. Perhaps with the side-effect of making you more suggestible, easily influenced. Whoever cursed you wanted you to trust without reason, and act without thinking, no doubt to leap head-first into all those dangerous situations I’ve heard rumour of. It’s an incredibly powerful compulsion spell, Mr Potter; I’m amazed you have any sort of self-restraint whatsoever.”
Harry could only think of one person who would have means and opportunity to perform both the magic block and the compulsion spell, and the answer made his heart clench.
Dumbledore.
His parents would have trusted the headmaster with their baby, even alone for several hours. And even if they hadn’t, there was the time after their death, before Aunt Petunia found Harry on her doorstep — he couldn’t have been there all night, he would’ve frozen to death. Dumbledore was easily powerful enough to put the compulsion spell on Harry when he started at Hogwarts, too. He always seemed to be up to something — gently nudging Harry in certain directions, playing everyone around him like puppets and alway seeming to know more than he should. Making Harry impulsive and easily influenced was one thing, but what did Dumbledore stand to gain from limiting his family magic?
He didn’t want to believe it, but it was the only thing that made sense.
“I’m afraid that’s not the only thing,” Gorrak continued, as if Harry wasn’t suffering enough. “Though this is probably less of a surprise. There’s heavy residue of dark magic, situated around your scar. Unfortunately, this is not familiar to me, though I can have a team research it if you wish, and with any luck they will figure out how to remove it. No one has survived the killing curse until you, Mr Potter — that magic is foreign to both wizards and goblins. I cannot remove it, and am reluctant to attempt such in case it harms you. As it stands, it does not seem to be doing you any damage.”
Relief flooded Harry — that one was less worrying. He had always assumed there was something strange about his scar, since it never truly healed. Curse residue would make sense. If it wasn’t hurting now, they might as well leave it alone.
“But what about the block, and the spell? Can they be removed?” he asked tentatively, his gut churning at the prospect of having to live with the limit on his magic forever, like some sort of ticking time bomb. Seventeen felt like ages away, but it wouldn’t be far off.
“They can,” Gorrak confirmed. Harry sighed in relief, shoulders slumping. “Farlig, please guard the door.” The lock clicked, and Farlig stood in front of the door with his shoulders squared, his jaw set. “Mr Potter, if you wouldn’t mind standing.”
When Harry stood, Gorrak snapped his fingers, and the chair he’d just been sat in turned into a low bed, like the kind in a doctor’s office. “Please lie down on your back.” Harry did, heart racing. Letting a goblin he’d only just met perform magic on him made his survival instinct snarl, but he refused to spend any longer with a block on his magic. Besides, what was he going to do, write to Dumbledore about it? Not after everything he’d discovered today!
“This may hurt, Mr Potter.” That was all the warning Gorrak gave before he began chanting. It again was in an unfamiliar language, and as soon as the chant started up Harry’s body began to glow white, his skin growing warm. He gripped the edges of the bed, forcing his eyes to remain open, even when the sensation turned sharp. A cry escaped his lips — it felt almost like something was sucking at him. No, biting. Like a creature had sunk their teeth in and refused to let go, while Gorrak was pulling it out of his body. Above his heart, the glow turned darker, and Harry watched in horror as a ball of black magic began to form above him. The ball grew bigger and bigger, Gorrak’s forehead glistening with sweat as he chanted and moved his hands, fighting against the foreign magic in Harry’s body.
Harry couldn’t have said how long he was on the table for, but eventually Gorrak’s chanting grew louder, and he wrenched his hands up high, sending the ball of black magic careening away from Harry and towards a crystal Harry had just noticed on the desk. The crystal turned from white to black in an instant, and the glow around Harry faded. “You may sit up, Mr Potter,” Gorrak declared, sounding breathless. Harry did so. The goblin sank into the chair opposite, leaning heavily on one elbow. “Whoever placed those curses certainly did not want to give up without a fight, but it is done. I took the liberty of retaining samples of the magic — should you reach a time where you wish to press charges against an individual, this can be used to compare magical signatures and prove guilt.”
Gorrak looked him in the eye, and it was clear the goblin also had a good idea of who placed the spells. Harry grimaced. “Thank you.” He didn’t know if he’d ever need it, but it was good to know it was there. “I… how can I tell if the spells have been replaced? Or something new put on me?”
“Wizard magic is different to goblin magic. Most wizarding detection spells wouldn’t pick up on something like that,” Gorrak informed him. “However, I believe there are books explaining how to learn to recognise your own magic, and see any signs of alteration. In future, should you ever have concerns, any Gringotts goblin would be happy to perform a scan of your magic. Congratulations, Mr Potter; your family magics are strong and healthy, despite their tampering.”
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He might have been imagining things, but if he concentrated he felt… lighter. Like he’d been wearing weights, and suddenly they were gone, his magic buzzing faintly under his skin. “If I were you,” Gorrak continued, “I would be very careful when doing magic for the next few months, while your body adjusts to having access to its full magic reserve. You may find new spells come easier to you, and old spells a little more… forceful, for a while.”
“Right,” Harry murmured, nodding. He’d have to test that once he got back to Hogwarts. It wouldn’t do to suddenly be exploding things all over the place, especially if Dumbledore was keeping an eye on him.
“While you are here, Mr Potter, might you be interested in taking a Line Test?” Farlig spoke up from his place at the door. “As we explained earlier, some family lines have since died out, and heirs are turning up in all sorts of unexpected places. Most purebloods take the test before they begin schooling — you’ll want to know the breadth of your inheritance long before you come of age.”
He hadn’t realised that inheritance and family lines were such a big deal in the wizarding world, but then he thought about how Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins talked about their families, and even how people spoke about the Weasleys. A family name seemed to hold a lot of information about a person, to purebloods. Perhaps there was more to it than just tradition and prejudice.
“What do I have to do?” he asked warily. Farlig strode across to the desk and rifled through a drawer, coming out with a square of pale purple parchment.
“Just three drops of blood on this, Mr Potter,” he explained. “The results are entirely confidential.”
Well, that didn’t sound so bad. Harry approached the desk, accepting the small knife from Farlig’s hand and pricking his finger, dripping blood onto the parchment. It began to glow. With a snap of his fingers, Farlig healed the small cut, offering Harry a toothy smile.
At the top of the parchment, black ink began to form words.
Harry James Potter. Parents: James Charlus Potter, Lily Juliette Evans-Potter
Harry hadn’t known either of his parents’ middle names, and his heart clenched. After all the shocks of the day, he felt a small measure of relief knowing that at least this part of his life wasn’t a lie. He truly was the son of Lily and James Potter.
There was a beat, then more words appeared.
Blood Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter
Again, not a surprise. He expected that to be the end of it, but the parchment continued.
Named Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
His mind automatically flashed to the man in the newspaper, Sirius Black, with his gaunt face and wild hair. What a funny coincidence; it was a fairly common surname, after all.
Blood Heir to the Ancient House of Peverell
That was a name he’d never even heard before. Who were the Peverells?
Conquering Heir to the Ancient House of Slytherin
Harry choked. Heir of Slytherin? How could that possibly be? What did it mean, conquering heir?
He waited for a moment, to see if the parchment would throw anything else at him. Several long seconds went by without any more ink appearing, and Farlig cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Mr Potter,” he declared. “Four very respectable houses. I’ll update our records and have the vault ownership adjusted accordingly.”
“It’s been a long time since someone claimed the Slytherin vaults, Mr Potter,” Gorrak murmured, looking thoughtful. “How very interesting.”
“How is that possible?” Harry croaked, eyes wide.
“When an ancient family line dies out, or the last remaining heir becomes ineligible to hold the position, heirship can be transferred in multiple ways. In this case, when you defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort — believed to be the previous blood heir to the Slytherin line — you ended the line, and the magic deemed you a suitable replacement. You must share blood somewhere with Salazar Slytherin, but within pureblood families that isn’t uncommon. The Slytherin family magic is unique, in that it has certain requirements for an heir — less about bloodlines, and more about magical strength and purity. The Dark Lord, when he entered this bank as a youth and took a line test, was an ineligible heir for the Slytherin line. No doubt his core was already tainted with too much dark magic for the family magics to accept him.”
“But wasn’t Salazar Slytherin a dark wizard?” Confusion was plain in Harry’s voice, and Gorrak chuckled roughly.
“Your wizarding history books aren’t quite as accurate as your people believe, Mr Potter,” he remarked. “Salazar Slytherin was no true dark wizard. His father, Septimus, was. We believe that Salazar himself changed the conditions of inheritance in the face of his father’s twisted magical core. The practice of what most wizards now consider to be dark magic was, back then, fairly neutral casting. Instead, it refers to what you now see as the blackest arts. The Dark Lord must have started some truly awful things at a very young age to have rendered his core ineligible.”
Opening his mouth, Harry almost asked why they didn’t just tell the wizards the truth, if they knew the real history of Salazar Slytherin. Then he thought about the attitude most wizards had towards goblins and other creatures, and his jaw clicked shut. No one would believe them if they tried.
“So what does all this mean for me? Being heir to all these houses?”
“At present, not as much,” Gorrak explained. “You will be unable to take on your full responsibilities until you are of age. However, heirs to ancient bloodlines play an important role in wizarding culture — you are the future of your people, Mr Potter. It is your job to preserve and uphold your family magics, as well as prepare yourself to enter the Wizengamot when the appropriate time arrives. I suggest you contact other family heirs and discuss the role with them; I’m afraid goblins know little in the ways of wizard culture.” He leaned back in his chair. “The confirmation through the Line Test will also allow you access to any vaults under the names of these families, though I’m afraid due to your age you cannot access many of them without a guardian. I can have a portfolio assembled of your vaults and properties and sent to you within the week.”
“If I may, Mr Potter,” Farlig cut in. “It may also benefit you to research independently what it means to be the heir to houses as old as yours. There are no doubt many books on the subject. Of course, you can always choose to reject your Wizengamot seats and any adjacent responsibilities, but they would continue to be held by your proxy. I believe that is currently Headmaster Dumbledore.”
At the thought of Dumbledore being responsible for his family name, something inside Harry hardened. “No,” he said immediately. “I’ll take my place. I’ll learn.” He didn’t entirely know what all this entailed yet, but he knew one thing for sure — he didn’t want Dumbledore making decisions on his behalf. Not now, and not when he was seventeen.
“Excellent choice, Mr Potter,” Farlig murmured approvingly. “Should the goblins of Gringotts be able to assist, please do contact us.”
“You’ve already done more than I ever expected,” Harry replied, head still spinning with everything he’d learned. “I— how much do I owe you, for all this?” It occurred to him belatedly that the gold-driven species were unlikely to do such a kindness for free. Farlig and Gorrak shared a smirk.
“We will take the necessary expenses from your vault and owl you the bill, Mr Potter,” Gorrak informed him. “I shall send it alongside your portfolio. I will also send recommendations for an account manager, and perhaps some investments if that is your wish. The money in those vaults has languished since the fall of the Dark Lord Voldemort, if not longer — seeing it back in circulation would make goblin-kind very happy indeed.”
If there was one thing Harry had learned from being forced to live with Vernon Dursley, it was that investing money in the right things was very important. “I would appreciate that, Gorrak. Thank you.”
“It is our pleasure, Mr Potter. Now,” Farlig said, clasping his hands in front of him. “I believe you originally came here to withdraw money from your vault?”
