Stargate Reclamation (Harry Potter/Stargate)

Harry was startled awake the next morning, sitting up quickly and looking around in a confused haze. The sunlight coming in from the room's singular, large window, washed away the green light in his mind that had followed him out of his dreams. It took a moment, but Harry recalled everything that had happened the night before — being found by Hagrid and basically kidnapped by the friendly giant, and then meeting Tom the barkeep, who owned the Leaky Cauldron, where he'd stayed the night.

The warm, comfortable bed he'd slept in was trying to lull him back to sleep, and Harry debated letting it; he didn't feel overly rested, as proven by the long yawn that escaped him, stretching his mouth painfully wide. This wasn't the bed's fault — it had been wonderful, a major upgrade from the small cupboard beneath the stairs. No, Harry was exhausted because his slumber had been haunted by the usual nightmare, as he'd known it would be.

It would've been impossible for Harry to have a peaceful sleep after what Hagrid had told him. His mind had been working furiously up to the moment he'd finally drifted off, trying to piece together everything he knew to figure out how a scar — an admittedly strange scar — made him famous. Harry tried harder than he had in years to discern new information from his nightmare, but as always, there was nothing to be found.

What Harry needed to do was find Hagrid and force the giant to continue the conversation he'd avoided last night. Harry was ready to leave the moment his feet touched the floor, having never changed out of his clothes, or even taken his shoes off. He clutched his bag full of money, not trusting that it'd still be here if he left it behind. One last check had him sticking his hand inside, feeling about until it bumped into something cold and hard — the revolver. Good, it was still there too. Harry hoped he wouldn't need it, but better to be safe than sorry.

"Morning, lad! You look quite tired," said a voice suddenly.

Harry whirled around, ready to unleash his telekinesis, but the room was empty besides himself.

"Over here, lad," said the voice, drawing Harry to a plain mirror hung on the wall by the door. From its reflective surface, Harry saw for the first time the large, black bags under his eyes.

"Hello?" he said.

"What's up, lad? Never seen a talking mirror before?"

Harry frowned, being reminded of how he'd missed out on magic for so many years. "No, I haven't."

"Oh, well, now you have," said the mirror. "Anyway, as I was saying — looking quite knackered there, aren't you. Was the bed subpar? I can log a complaint with housekeeping if you want."

The mirror sounded rather eager about doing that. What problem could a mirror possibly have with housekeeping? Does it not get cleaned enough or something?

"No, it's alright…" replied Harry, more than a tad wary about the talking mirror, and how it had been there the entire night, watching him sleep.

Letting out a disappointed groan, the mirror fell silent and didn't speak again, probably sulking. Harry hightailed it out of the room, wondering what other random objects might've been watching him. A shudder raced down his spine. Thank God he hadn't stripped down for a shower.

Knocking loudly on the door across the hallway, Harry waited for Hagrid to open up. When nothing happened, he knocked again, this time listening closely for any signs of movement within. Whether it was due to magic or not, no sounds came from within, and by his fourth knock, Harry was quite sure that Hagrid wasn't inside.

"Where the hell are you Hagrid?"

Harry definitely wasn't going to wait in his room for Hagrid to come back, not with that freaky mirror in there. Retracing his steps, he made his way to the stairs and back down to the ground floor, but unlike last night, a few of the tables had people sitting at them.

'Witches and wizards,' Harry thought, looking over them all as he stepped down the stairs.

They were all adults, or they looked it anyway, and except for the robes they wore, they seemed pretty normal. That was until Harry saw what some of them were doing. One man was reading a newspaper with actual moving pictures on it, whilst a woman one table over was knitting what looked like a massive pair of socks, though what was unusual about this was how the needles floated above the table, working without the woman touching them. Something Harry didn't see though was a three-metre-tall half-giant sitting at the bar or any of the tables.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Harry's attention was captured by an elderly couple chatting to one another. They must've been sixty years old, by Harry's guess, maybe older.

"Can you believe it, Earl?" said the woman. "Almost that time of year again — kids running off to Hogwarts. How I remember our days there!"

Earl responded, shaking his head. "Your memory's going, Esther. We weren't at Hogwarts together."

"Are you sure? I swear I remember us taking strolls around the lake."

"That was your first husband, love," came Earl's deadpan response.

"Oh," giggled Esther, unbothered by her partner's deep sigh. "Well, it's bound to be exciting for everyone this year. Harry Potter's going to be starting, isn't he. Said so in the daily prophet last week, it did."

"Really — already? Wow, where's all the time gone?" said Earl.

Harry inhaled sharply, but thankfully the couple were too engrossed in their conversation to notice him. Making sure that his hair covered his scar, and keeping his head pointed to the floor, Harry made his way to a table in the back. Less than a minute after he'd sat down, Tom came bustling out of a door carrying plates full of wonderfully smelling food. As he put the last plate down, he noticed Harry and rushed over wearing a wide smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," greeted Tom.

Harry looked around in panic. Luckily, no one had heard Tom say his name. "Hello, Tom."

"How was the room?" asked Tom excitedly. "I do hope it was to your liking. I'd have prepared something more if we knew you were—"

"It was great, Tom. Really great," Harry interrupted, not wanting anyone to glance around at them, curious about the barkeep's behaviour. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

"Think nothing of it, sir. It was my honour to have the great Harry Potter stay at my little old inn. Would you like some breakfast? We do everything here — sausages, eggs, bacon, beans — you'd love the beans."

Harry said yes solely to get the man to stop talking and leave. But then he remembered something he wanted to ask. "Wait a minute, Tom. Have you seen Hagrid about?"

"Oh, yes. He left a while ago — didn't tell me where he was going. I'm sure he'll be back soon though."

Tom then left to get Harry his requested toast. Glancing around, Harry could hardly believe that no one heard their conversation; everyone was too busy doing their own thing. The woman had almost finished her socks, and the elderly couple were now arguing about how long they'd been married. Esther thinking it had been 47 years, whilst Earl insisted it had actually been 74 years. They were much older than Harry had guessed.

A door opened on the far side of the room and from it walked in Hagrid, waving to those few who shouted his name in greeting. Noticing Harry, Hagrid pushed aside tables to make his way over.

"Mornin'," he said, sitting down as best he could in the much too small chair. "Sleep well?"

"Yes," Harry lied. "Did you? I knocked on your door, but you were already gone."

"Aye, that's me. Neve' could stay in bed — too much teh do in the mornin'. Thought I'd let yeh sleep in though — got in late, didn't we."

"What have you been doing, Hagrid? Surely you haven't been to Hogwarts and back."

Hagrid threw his head back and laughed. "Heaven's no! Been talkin' with Professor Dumbledore, I have. Needed to find out wha' teh do today. Closest floo that'd fit meh head fer a call was down in … well … yeh don't need teh know where."

Harry was glad Hagrid's hulking body blocked him from view, because it meant he could show the half-giant his full annoyed expression without fear of being noticed by the other patrons. Why was it Hagrid's choice what Harry should or shouldn't know?

Before Harry could say anything more, Tom returned with a tray full of toasted bread, and an assortment of jams, jellies, and whatever else could be put on toast. "Hello, Hagrid, and here you go, Mr. Potter. Please do let me know if you need anything else."

"Actually, Tom," called Hagrid, stopping Tom from leaving. "Could I have a word real quick? Thanks."

After telling Harry to eat up because they had a busy day ahead of them, Hagrid left with Tom to talk about something. It had to have something to do with whatever Hagrid had discussed with Dumbledore, which meant it must have something to do with Harry. Yet another thing that was being kept from him. It was beginning to feel just like when he was with the Dursleys, when they refused to tell him anything.

Harry hadn't taken a single bite of toast by the time Hagrid returned, not that the jolly giant noticed. Hagrid sat down again and took half the tray of toast in one of his giant hands, stuffing it into his mouth in one go. Harry patiently waited, but it became clear that Hagrid wasn't going to say anything.

"What was that about, Hagrid?" he asked.

"Oh, right — sorry. Meh stomach's been beggin' for food all mornin'." Hagrid took a towel-sized handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. "Well, I explained everythin' to Professor Dumbledore, yeh know, about las' night and yeh not wantin' to go back to the Dursleys. He's decided it would be alright fer you to stay here until Hogwarts starts, at the Leaky Cauldron."

"So, that's why you needed to speak to Tom," said Harry through gritted teeth, pushing down his anger from again being told what he could do.

"Aye," said Hagrid, brushing crumbs he'd missed out of his beard. "Tom says it's fine fer you to stay. He's real excited about it too. Said yeh can keep the room you slept in las' night. Ain't that nice of him?"

"Indeed", agreed Harry.

In honesty, Harry wasn't opposed to staying at the Leaky Cauldron; the room and bed had been nice, but he'd have to do something about that mirror — take it down, or destroy — either worked. He just hoped that staying here wouldn't limit his freedom. From what he'd learned so far, it didn't seem like Hagrid would be all that keen about letting him wander about London alone. Harry wouldn't put it past the half-giant to ask Tom to keep an eye on him.

Hagrid finished the toast and jams very quickly, then stood up, brushing his hands on his coat. "Right, come on, Harry. Bes' we get going to buy yer school things."

"Wait, Hagrid," called Harry. "I actually wanted to continue our conversation from last night. I've got so many questions, and you said you'd tell me."

"And I will, don' worry. But yeh'll have to wait till later. We need teh beat the rush, otherwise the alley will packed, and doin' yer shoppin' will be nigh impossible."

Harry didn't get chance to counter as Hagrid began taking long strides towards the door he'd entered from. In an attempt to catch up, Harry ran after the half-giant, which took him right past the elderly couple again. Esther looked up, straight at Harry's face, who realised he wasn't making any attempt to conceal his forehead scar.

"Ooh, look here, Earl," she said excitedly, and Harry thought he'd been discovered for sure. "This boy looks the right age, don't you think? Are you by chance going to be starting at Hogwarts this year, young man?"

"Er — yeah," said Harry, nodding his head, trying to make his fringe fall over his scar.

"How exciting," said Esther, delighted. "Here to do your shopping, are you? Yes, yes — how fun! Bet you can't wait to get your own wand. Make sure you take good care of it, and it will do the same for you, won't it, Earl."

Instead of agreeing, Earl looked and spoke rather exasperatedly. "This you remember, Esther? But not the time I took you to the Unicorn reserve in France?"

Harry managed to slip away as they descended into another argument, centred around Earl's desire to get his wife's mind checked out by a healer. Heart racing, Harry couldn't imagine how much harder it would be to keep his identity hidden in an alley full of people. He really didn't want to attract attention, or be swarmed by a ton of people he didn't know.

Harry hurried to catch up to Hagrid, who had gone through the door already, when he noticed another wizard coming down the stairs wearing a long, floppy hat. An idea struck him, and for the first time, Harry wanted to speak to Tom the barkeep.

{ ϟ }

"Over there's where yeh'll find everythin' yeh need for potions, and here's where yeh can buy yer school robes. Madam Malkin's always busy this time of year — bes' get yer order in as soon as yeh can. Oh — you see that — that's Florean's parlour. Makes top notch ice cream does Florean, top notch."

Harry nodded along, as he'd been doing since they entered the alley — Diagon Alley, according to Hagrid. This was definitely the place Petunia had been talking about. Hagrid was having fun pointing out all the different shops lining the long street, particularly his favourite ones, like the Magical Menagerie; a decent sized shop full of animals. And Eeylops Owl Emporium, a place focused around owls — who'd have guessed that? Harry had locked eyes with a stunning snowy owl through the window, but was then dragged away by Hagrid.

Harry was content to let Hagrid complete his tour, even if the giant tended to hurry past the shops Harry was the most interested in, such as Flourish and Blotts. What kinds of magic might he find in all those books? Stacked taller than Hagrid himself. Anyway, despite how eager Harry was to dive right in, he followed Hagrid diligently, knowing that he'd have all the time in the world to explore.

It was Harry's first stroke of luck in a long time that the entrance to Diagon Alley was right behind the Leaky Cauldron, where he'd be staying for at least a month before going to Hogwarts. He could spend every day up until the first of September in the alley, from dawn till dusk if he wanted to.

Just then, a couple of kids, younger than Harry by a few years, barged past him. Harry scowled, watching them run up to a shop with broomsticks of all things in its front window.

"Wow! It's the Nimbus 2000!" one said loudly.

"I saw one in action at the last Puddlemere match!" said the other, pressing his face against the glass. "It was the fastest broom out there by a mile! Wish my family could afford one."

"Maybe you could save up for one? It'd only take you 30 years."

Both kids laughed. Harry looked at the broom in question, doing his best to ignore the absolute ridiculousness of flying brooms — not to mention how stereotypical it was. How much did it cost? How much did anything cost? Glancing down to his bag full of money, would it be enough for everything he'd want to buy?

"Mind yeh hat, Harry," said Hagrid suddenly, taking a break from pointing out shops.

Harry turned sideways, reaching up to correct his hat and make sure it was covering his scar. It must've moved when he avoided those kids.

"Smart idea," continued Hagrid, "asking Tom for that hat. Don' wanna be swarmed now, do we."

"No, we don't," agreed Harry. That was the whole reason he'd asked Tom if he had a hat Harry could borrow; to hide his most defining feature — his scar. "Hagrid, how much is everything going to end up costing? I have some money, but not a lot of it."

Hagrid erupted into laughter, as if that's exactly what Harry had. "That's why our first stop is Gringotts — the wizard's bank. D'yeh think yeh parents didn't leave yeh anything?"

"I have no idea," said Harry shortly. "I know hardly anything about them."

"Ah — right — well, they left yeh a little somethin', so don't go worryin' about money. Here we are."

They came upon the biggest building in the entire alley, made of sparkling white marble, with thick columns standing tall. It's great doors seemed built with someone of Hagrid's size in mind, as they actually looked normal when the half-giant walked through them. Following behind, Harry noticed the armoured guards besides the door, each holding vicious battle axes. They were smaller than the kids from earlier.

"Goblins," muttered Hagrid. "Nasty little buggers. Don't ever get yerself on their bad side — they hold grudges forever — and hate wizarding folk."

"Then why are they here? There's witches and wizards all over the place," said Harry.

"They run the bank — I know, I know — it doesn't make much sense, but they're bloody good at handlin' gold. More important, they're good at keepin' it safe. Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob the place with 'em in charge."

The guards snarled and snapped as they got closer, trying to scare them. It worked on Hagrid, who hurried his way into the bank. Harry just stared back, unflinching; they were like the bullies he'd dealt with his entire life. He'd never backed down to them, and he wasn't going to back down to these creatures either.

The inside of the bank was as impressive as the outside. The lobby was a cavernous, marble hall lined with tall desks, each of which had a goblin sat behind them, scribbling away with long, fancy quills. There were witches and wizards as well, standing in orderly lines before the desks, waiting patiently as the goblins did their best to pretend they weren't there.

"Isn't there any electric in here?" Harry asked Hagrid, eyeing the various candles about, like back in the Leaky Cauldron. There was no modern equipment either, like an ATM machine.

"It don' work properly with magic," explained Hagrid, who took them up to one of the farthest desks, where an extremely wrinkled goblin sat counting shiny coins. They didn't look like normal pound coins either.

"Morning," started Hagrid, but the goblin didn't look up. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's vault, please."

"And does Mr. Harry Potter have his key?" drawled the goblin.

Harry didn't know whether to be relieved that it didn't care about his apparent fame, or offended with how dismissive it was treating them. He was erring on the latter side, frowning at the diminutive thing.

"Got it here somewhere…" Hagrid dug around his pockets, eventually coming out with a tiny, golden key. Harry hadn't thought the goblin meant a literal key, but he stood corrected as Hagrid handed it over. The goblin took it without a word, proceeding to examine it with an aged, single-eye magnifying glass.

Harry leaned up to get close to Hagrid. "What would happen if the key was fake?"

"Nothin' pretty," said Hagrid, going slightly pale.

It took the goblin another minute before it was satisfied that the key was genuine. "Seems to be in order… I will have someone take you down to the vault."

"There's one more thing," added Hagrid, taking another item from his coat. "I've got this letter from Professor Dumbledore, about you-know-what in vault 713."

This was the first time Harry was hearing about this. He wouldn't be finding out either as the goblin silently read the letter, nodding to Hagrid, and calling for another one of its kind.

"Griphook!" Another goblin came over, awaiting instruction. "Take them to vaults 687, and 713."

"Yes, sir. Come along — don't fall behind."

Griphook took them towards a door leading off from the hall. Harry was going to ask Hagrid what was so important about this thing in vault 713, but knew the giant wouldn't have told him. They came out into a passageway carved straight through stone, none of the marble architecture from before was present. Bright torches burned on the walls, illuminating various decorations, if they could be called that.

Swords, axes, spears — practically any weapon Harry could think of was hung up on the walls. Some of them were stained along the blade, showing that they'd been used, but how recently, and to do what were the real questions. It was as they were about to turn a corner that Harry stopped, a faint buzzing in his mind drawing him closer to one of the displays.

Between a particularly brutal looking war hammer and a sharp halberd, were three items that looked very out of place. Two long staffs with oval-shaped heads, and fanned club bottom ends, but it was the third that made the buzzing grow the closer Harry got. It was a golden glove-like item that looked to wrap around the wearer's forearm like a ribbon, and there was a red gem that laid where the palm would go. In comparison to everything else, they seemed tame, but who knows what magical properties they had — the glove specifically.

Harry reached out, the buzzing in his head increasing in intensity the closer he got to the glove. It felt similar to when he'd use telekinesis, except it was like the item was able to call back to him, communicate with him even. He swore too that as his hand got closer, the red gem began glow.

"Wizards that dawdle in these passages tend to get lost — some are never found."

The scratchy voice snapped Harry out of his trance-like state. He pulled back his hand, turning to find Griphook standing there smiling viciously, but there was no Hagrid in sight.

"Do you desire to meet such an end, young wizard?" continued Griphook, and Harry had a feeling the goblin desperately wanted him to answer yes. Instead, Harry looked back at the three strange items.

"What are these things?" he asked, noticing that the glow had disappeared from the glove's gem.

"They were recovered on one of many curse-breaker digs in Egypt," said Griphook, though he didn't sound enthusiastic about explaining so. "Their functions are a mystery, and their worth is minimal, but they belong to goblin kind nonetheless. Attempting to steal them away would be most … unwise."

"Good thing I wasn't planning on stealing them then, isn't it?" retorted Harry, disliking the goblin's tone.

"A good thing indeed," said Griphook. "Come, and do not fall behind this time. I will not return for you a second time."

Harry sent the golden glove one last look before following after Griphook, the buzzing decreasing until it vanished completely, as if it was never there. Not long after, they found Hagrid waiting at a rail-cart.

"Harry!" exclaimed Hagrid, breathing a sigh of relief. "Don' go wanderin' off in a place like this."

"I'm fine, Hagrid," came Harry's reply, climbing into the cart behind both Griphook and Hagrid. No sooner than he sat down did it speed off along the rails, doing twists and turns, going upside down and backwards at stupid speeds. At last, it slowed to a stop, allowing an annoyed Harry to step out, and a green-faced Hagrid to do the same.

"First stop, vault 687. The Potter Trust vault," said Griphook.

The goblin took Harry's vault key from Hagrid and inserted it into a keyhole so small that Harry could barely see it in the vault's fortified, steel door. The sounds of various gears turning, and moving mechanisms preceded the door swinging open on its own. Gold, silver, and bronze light shined within.

"What … What is this?" stammered Harry.

Inside the vault were piles and piles of gold, silver, and bronze coins. Although the vault wasn't massive — about the size of the room he slept in at the Leaky Cauldron — it was full, almost bursting.

"Told you yer parents didn't leave yeh with nothin'," said Hagrid gleefully.

"This can't all be mine," said Harry, struck frozen in disbelief. "How much is there?"

Griphook spoke up from the entrance. "The equivalent of 5000 Galleons can be found in this vault, split amongst Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. There is substantially more in the primary Potter vault."

Confused by the currency, Harry asked Hagrid quickly, trusting him more than the Goblin. A single Galleon was the same as 17 Sickles, and one of those was same as 29 Knuts — making up the gold, silver, and bronze coins in that order. But that still meant little to Harry. What were they worth compared to normal money? It didn't matter right now anyway; with this amount in his trust vault and more to come in the primary vault, Harry was rich.

Oh, how Harry loved the irony. One of the Dursley's main complaints was how much it cost to take care of him, not knowing that his parents had left him with a fortune. If only they'd treated Harry as family should, then he would've happily shared it with them, but now, they'd never seen a penny — or a Galleon — whatever.

"Bes' take some of each," advised Hagrid.

But how much of each, Harry thought. Without a concept of how costly things were in the wizarding world, he had no idea how much money he'd need for everything he'd likely want to buy. He could come back for a refill, he supposed, but these goblins irked him with their undeserved arrogance. Not to mention, how was he going to carry it? His bag of normal money was already full. Asking Hagrid got him nowhere, but again, that's when Griphook spoke up.

"If you require something to carry your coin, we can provide an enchanted bag, for a fee, of course," he said, smiling like a man — or a goblin — about to take candy from a baby.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "And how much would it cost me?"

"500 Galleons," stated Griphook, flashing a sharp-toothed grin.

Harry didn't need Hagrid's sudden choking coughs to know how ridiculous of a total that was. He knew the game this goblin was playing. "I see… Do tell, what makes the bag worth so much money? I could buy one in the alley for a fraction of that price."

Of course, Harry had no idea if that was true; he was just trying to unsettle the goblin, to rile him up. It was working.

Growling in anger, Griphook spat his next words. "Goblin enchantments far outclass those of wizards! Yours crumble to pieces after mere months, whilst ours last generations! That alone gives reason to the price."

"But what's to stop me from just buying another when — as you say — the wizard-made enchantments crumble?" Harry could see the rage building in his opponent. Good. "It would still work out cheaper than what you're offering."

"You play a dangerous game, wizard," said Griphook hotly.

"I'll keep that in mind, goblin," replied Harry, grinning. "Perhaps, if you had something more impressive to offer, I'd consider paying a higher price."

Griphook stood there for a moment, likely considering the possible consequences of leaving Harry and Hagrid locked in the vault. In the end, he did nothing like that and stormed back to cart, returning with a rucksack sized bag. Harry could tell it was expertly made even from a distance.

"This is a bag used to transfer gold between vaults," explained Griphook. "It is larger than anything you will find made by wizards, and contains a slew of enchantments not … commonly found … on such items."

"Go on," prompted Harry, making Griphook scowl. "You can't honestly expect me to buy something if I don't know what it does."

"Then you prove yourself smarter than most of your kind," said Griphook. "Besides your basic extension and organisation charms, which are enhanced on this particular item, you will find notice-me-not charms woven in to deter would-be thieves. If you still allow it to be taken from you — as I expect you would — that is where the blood lock comes in." Griphook paused, hoping to see Harry squirm under the mention of blood, but he didn't. "Only those keyed into the lock can open the bag. Anyone else who tries will receive quite the … unpleasant … surprise. Lastly, there are the standard invulnerability charms layered into the fabric, as is mandated for all goblin made items. This will protect the bag from many forms of damage."

"But not every form," snorted Harry. "Hardly invulnerable then, is it? Still, it's more to my liking. Dare I ask your price?"

"2000 Galleons."

A loud thud came from somewhere behind Harry; Hagrid must've either fainted or had a heart-attack. Whichever it was, Griphook had taken immense pleasure from that moment.

"I'll give you 100 Galleons for it," offered Harry. It was an outrageous counter-offer, but it was meant to be.

"100!" Griphook shouted so loud that a few piles of Galleons came tumbling down. "You aim to cause offence! I ought to carve your tongue out, and feed it to the beasts!"

"Ironic that you mention beasts, when you're acting like one. Snarling and snapping like some feral animal." Harry could see his words having more of an effect than he expected. He slowly slipped his hand into his bag, curling it around his gun, just in case the goblin suddenly attacked. "What type of man throws out threats like that over simple bargaining?"

"This is not bargaining! This is THEFT!"

"As I told you before, I have no plan to steal anything," said Harry matter-of-factly. "If anything, you are stealing my time by wasting it with your little tantrum! Present your own — appropriate — offer, or be done with this."

"5000 Galleons!"

"1 Galleon."

Griphook roared. "You'd make a laughing stock of me, wizard!"

"As you would me, goblin!" barked Harry. "I will not stand for it! If you are to continue treating me with such blatant disrespect, then I will reply in kind. Would you prefer I take my leave instead? Take my business elsewhere? I'm sure there are other goblins willing to be more reasonable than you!"

Although Harry maintained his controlled exterior, inside he was truly beginning to grow annoyed. He had lost track of how much time had been wasted inside Gringotts already, and there was much he wanted to do with his newfound fortune before the sun fell.

"1500 Galleons," growled Griphook.

"250," replied Harry.

"You are arrogant, Harry Potter!"

"I tire of these pointless insults, Griphook." They then went back and forth, until Harry reached his wits end, giving his final offer. "750, and not a Galleon more."

Looking far from pleased, Griphook considered the amount before snapping his acceptance, shoving the bag into Harry's hands. Harry wasn't going to let him get away just like that though, not before being told how the bag's enchantments worked, such as the blood lock. A few moments later, Harry pricked his finger to smear his blood around the opening of his new bag, taking the more sensible route rather than slitting his throat open like Griphook had instructed. The bag flashed scarlet, telling him the lock was initialised.

Harry then went around and gathered a number of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts into his bag. He then returned to the vault entrance, where a terrified Hagrid and a seething goblin stood waiting for him.

"750 Galleons," Harry reminded Griphook. "I will find out if you take more than you're allotted."

"I have let many insults pass this day, Harry Potter," snarled Griphook, "but you will not speak ill of my honour."

Amused, Harry compared the image of this grumpy goblin to what he'd been like not long ago, acting so haughty and prideful. Harry had wanted to knock him down a peg since that first threat back in the passageway, in front of those strange items. Oh, that's an idea, isn't it.

"Hey, Griphook," started Harry.

"What now," the goblin snapped.

"How would you still like to make those 2000 Galleons?" said Harry, smiling in a way that gave even Griphook caution. "I think I have an offer you'll like."

{ ϟ }

"I can't believe yeh did that."

"You've been saying that for the last 20 minutes, Hagrid."

"I jus' can't believe it. I thought we'd be left down there forever—"

"Hagrid."

"—I mean, yeh just don' talk to goblins like that—"

"Hagrid!"

"—wars have been started over less—"

"HAGRID!"

Harry's frustrated shout finally snapped the half-giant out his trauma induced loop. He'd been like that ever since they got off the cart for the last time, after they'd visited that second vault — vault 713. Hagrid had walked silently into the higher security vault and taken a small brown parcel, numbly stuffing it in his coat, and then fearfully returned to the cart. Griphook had been extra spiteful with his driving after what Harry had done to him, making the cart go full speed, almost throwing them off the rails in multiple places.

Now, about half an hour later, they sat in Florean's Ice Cream Parlour, taking a much needed breather — or much needed in Hagrid's case. The half-giant was still positively green, looking ready to throw up his breakfast of toast any second.

The sun had fully risen during their time in Gringotts, meaning they must've spent hours inside the bank. It hadn't felt that way to Harry, but the evidence was irrefutable. The alley itself was now full of people, both children and adults, who equally ran around like headless chickens, dashing from store to store. Harry had been keeping an eye on everything, but magical society so far seemed … disappointingly normal — if you didn't count the strange clothes, and, well, the magic. Maybe he'd have seen otherwise if he wasn't so distracted.

"I don' understand why yeh spent 2500 Galleons on that thing, Harry."

"That's because you don't know what it is, Hagrid," replied Harry.

Griphook had been most eager to get the Galleons he thought Harry had cheated him out of, so, when Harry said he wanted to buy those three strange items from the passageway, the greedy goblin had jumped at the opportunity. Harry was forced to pay an additional 2500 Galleons on top of the 750 he'd paid for the enchanted bag, massively diminishing the balance of his trust vault. It was worth it though, or, at least Harry hoped it would be.

"Aye, I don't," agreed Hagrid. "Do you?"

"Not yet," admitted Harry without hesitation, "but something tells me it's important. Call it a gut feeling, if you will."

"My gut's not been feelin' right since that cart."

Chuckling, Harry went back to examining the golden glove sitting on the table in front of him. The two staffs were stored away in his bag by his feet, but it was this gold item that attracted most of Harry's attention. That same buzzing from before was running rampant in his mind, and Harry was trying to understand it, but it was like trying to catch a hyperactive fly with his bare hands. The closer he got, the buzzing would dodge him at the last second. Neither had he managed to get the red gem on the glove to glow again; Harry began to doubt whether it ever did.

About to slip the golden glove onto his hand, Harry stopped when the table quaked and Hagrid pushed himself to his feet. "I've got some stuff I need teh take care of, if yeh don't mind. Won't be long — yeh can get started on buyin' yer school supplies whilst I'm gone."

"Does it have anything to do with that package from vault 713?" Harry couldn't help asking.

"Shh!" Hagrid turned every which way, checking if anyone was listening to them. At the same time, he patted his coat's chest pocket, where he stored the small brown package. "Not so loud, Harry. And no, it has nothin' to do with that. Yeh'd do right to forget about tha' package and vault 713 — you hear me. Hogwarts business — got nothin' teh do with yeh."

Harry hummed noncommittally. His mind never let him forget anything, but he'd choose to let this go for now. Something told him this wouldn't be the end of it, that he'd encounter that package, or whatever was inside it, again.

"OK, Hagrid," said Harry. "I'll see you in a bit then."

"If it gets late and I'm still not back, head back teh the Leaky Cauldron and wait fer me there."

With that said, Hagrid left the parlour, waving to Florean on the way out, and disappeared into the bustle of Diagon Alley. Giddy excitement overtook Harry as he realised he had free reign of the alley and its stores. He was so excited that he put aside his desire to figure out the golden glove and that buzzing, shoving the item back into his bag, next to the two staffs, his normal and wizard money, gun, and vault key. Hagrid had been so kind to hand it over once Harry asked; keeper of keys or not, Harry didn't overly trust the giant not to lose it.

Although Harry wanted to rush off to the book store and buy every book he could find, he mustered all of his willpower to restrain himself. A moment of consideration created the plan to go around and buy only what was stated on the Hogwarts equipment list, for now that is. He still wasn't sold on attending the school, of being nearer to Dumbledore, but he'd be prepared if things went that way.

Taking Hagrid's earlier advice, his first stop had been Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Luckily, it was empty when he entered, except for Madam Malkin herself who looked rather ruffled, mumbling about it being a busy day. The woman had taken his measurements using a tape measure that flew around his body, curling around him like a snake — all with a single wave of her wand.

"Your school robes will be done by tomorrow, sweetheart," said Madam Malkin.

"That's fine, thank you," replied Harry. He knew it would take a bit longer because he'd splurged for the best quality robes she could do. After living his life in Dudley's hand-me-downs, Harry was keen to have the best for once.

Waving off Madam Malkin's desire to redo his entire wardrobe, Harry then dashed to the next store, and the next, and the next — ticking off items as he went. Getting a trunk seemed pointless when he had his bag, but it was on the list so he bought one anyway. He'd probably only keep important things, or the things he'd need at the time in his bag with him. That same shop actually sold enchanted bags, and though Harry wouldn't ever admit this to Griphook, or any goblin for that matter, the quality was laughable compared to his goblin made bag.

Flourish and Blotts proved to be the test of restraint that Harry thought it would be. The store was even bigger on the inside than he'd assumed, and books could be found in almost every square-inch of it. Harry was simultaneously confused and intrigued by so many of the topics — transfiguration, conjuration, arithmancy, runes — the list went on, but he painfully held back from outright buying the store in its entirety. He'd be back, he had an entire month here; that's the promise Harry had to repeatedly make to himself so that he could walk out with only the first-year subject books he'd need. OK, maybe he nabbed a few extras, like 'Hogwarts: A History'.

"Where to now?" wondered Harry, checking his list. There was a single item left unchecked — a wand, which took him to one of the stores most weathered by time. The sign outside read 'Ollivanders. Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C'.

Harry had walked past this store many times throughout the day, and every time he'd heard a mess of noises coming from inside. On two occasions, he'd spotted kids his age enter the store, visibly excited to get their wands. Both of them had come out white as a ghost, clutching their new wands like lifelines. Curiosity alone would've made Harry go in, never mind his own eagerness to get his very own wand.

A bell rung out from above the door as Harry stepped inside, but no one was behind the counter to receive him. The place was eerily silent, like time was frozen inside.

"Hello?" Harry called out to no reply. Strange, he was sure the sign outside said open. It wasn't that late either.

Taking a look around, Harry might've assumed he'd walked back into Flourish and Blotts with how similar the layout was — walls compiled of shelves, except these didn't hold books. On these shelves were long, narrow boxes, packed as high as they could go. Were all of these wands? There had to be thousands of them, and that was just the ones Harry could see.

"I wonder which ones mine," Harry mumbled, stepping closer to one of shelves. As he did, the sounds he'd been hearing all day coming from within the shop grew louder. This wasn't anything like the itch with his telekinesis though, neither was it like that buzzing. Harry could distinctly hear the noises, and they seemed to be coming from the wands themselves — all of them. It was almost like a countless number of songs were being played over one another.

Harry reached out to pick up one of the wands, and the sounds got louder, as if vying for his attention. There was one noise playing louder than the others, but it was coming from the back of the shop somewhere.

"I thought you might be able to hear them."

Surprised by the voice, Harry spun on his heels to find an old man stood behind the previously unoccupied counter. His emerald orbs met the man's pale, silver ones which had yet to blink or even twitch.

"Where did you come from? How long have you been standing there?" Harry half asked, half demanded. He hadn't heard the man approach, not a single noise. It reminded him of when Hagrid had sneaked up on him back in London.

"Not long, I assure you, Mr. Potter," replied the man, smiling when Harry reached up to check that his hat was still in place over his scar. "A hat isn't going to fool everyone, especially those who see with more than just their eyes."

"Right…" Harry didn't really understand that at all. "Mr. Ollivander, I presume?"

"Then you would presume correctly, though to some, I am merely Garrick."

Harry wasn't going to call him that. This aged wandmaker unsettled Harry in a way he hadn't felt before, like those unblinking silver eyes were boring a hole into his soul. The wild, white hair and ragged clothes didn't help the guy look any less crazy either.

"Their songs are beautiful, are they not?" continued Ollivander, finally shifting his eyes from Harry to the shelves of wands.

"Do you mean those sounds?" asked Harry, receiving a nod in return. "They are coming from the wands then."

"Yes, yes — the wands. In all my years and travels, I've never found anything quite as captivating. I've lost count of how many hours I've spent standing right here, lost in their symphony…"

Harry could agree that the wand's music was hundreds of times better than anything he'd before, but he couldn't see himself wasting so many hours doing nothing except listening to it. Still, he was interested in how, or why the wands sang in the first place. He asked the wandmaker this.

"Ah, that is the question, isn't it?" came Ollivander's cryptic response. "Every wandmaker searches for the answer at some point in their life. Each proclaim their own theory to be the correct one, but none can know for sure, not even me."

"But you have your own theory too," stated Harry.

"I think," began Ollivander, before pausing, as if to think about how exactly to explain his thoughts. "I think they sing because they're lonely, Mr. Potter. You see, there are wands upon these shelves that were made long before I was born, some before even my father, and his father before that. They have yet to find their partners, and some may never do so." Ollivander whispered that last bit, as if it would upset the wands to hear it. "They sit here, waiting, hoping, for the day that special person walks into my shop, for it isn't the wizard that chooses the wand, Mr. Potter, it's the wand that chooses the wizard."

Harry looked over the wands in a different light; their songs taking on a new meaning. "That's … really sad."

"I agree," said Ollivander softly, "and so did your mother."

The wandmaker instantly had Harry's full and undivided attention.

"It takes a special kind of witch or wizard to be able to hear a wand's song, Mr. Potter. Someone who is sensitive to magic in ways that others could never understand. There has been but two individuals in recent times — three now, with you — and I could tell from the moment Lily Potter — Lily Evans at the time — stepped into my shop, that she was one such special individual. Eyes the same as yours, so full of awe and wonder, as well as a hunger to learn the deepest intricacies of magic itself. Yet, none of this compared to her care and compassion.

"She would often visit me here, and spend hours listening to the wands. They enjoyed it — I haven't heard them sadder than when she stopped coming around. I was considering extending her an offer of an apprenticeship, before that terrible night occurred…"

At some point during Ollivander's story, tears had gathered and began to fall from Harry's eyes. He could imagine his mother standing where he was, smiling her beautiful smile as she listened to the same wands he did now. Would she have brought him along once he was older? Was this yet another thing they'd never get to do together?

Harry spoke up, asking a question in an attempt to distract himself. "W-Who was the other person?"

Ollivander's wistfulness abruptly died, as if Harry's question had forced him to remember something he'd tried his best to forget. He looked wildly around the store before speaking. "That person… He was just a boy when I first met him, coming in to buy his wand, much like yourself, but that's not all. He too was an orphan, and displayed a genius beyond his years. I truly believed he'd become the next Albus Dumbledore, if only…"

Faster that Harry could track, Ollivander suddenly closed the distance and snatched his hat from his head. The wandmaker stared at his scar. "That's where…"

Harry grabbed his hat back without any resistance from Ollivander. Annoyed, he didn't bother replacing it onto his head; there was no one else in the shop, and Ollivander already knew who he was.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did that," spoke Ollivander mournfully. "Thirteen and half inches, yew, and powerful. Very powerful indeed. I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday, selling that particular wand to that same, special and troubled boy."

Harry's mind flashed back to his nightmare, seeing that white wand raised to kill his mother, and then him. "You mean that same boy … he's the one that … You know who killed my parents."

"I do," confessed Ollivander, acting as if he was admitting their murder. "You must believe me — if I'd have known what that wand was going out into the world to do — I never would have sold it him."

"Tell me who he is," Harry demanded, shaking in anger. "Tell me his name!"

Ollivander flinched, stumbling backwards from the sheer hatred Harry exuded. "So much pain… So much anger… It's almost like you remember… Oh, you do, don't you?"

"I've watched my mother die protecting me from that monster in my nightmares more times than you could ever imagine." Harry's telekinesis waited at his fingertips, ready to be unleashed. "You will tell me his name!"

Realising the danger he was in, Ollivander cowered slightly, yet didn't speak. The wandmaker looked torn between what to do — not knowing which was worse; facing Harry's wrath, or answering his question. Eventually, he decided it was the former.

"He went by many names," he began. "You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Dark Lord. To this day, people are too afraid to speak his actual name, fearing it will summon his wrath. Of course, it won't, not anymore, but fear is a particularly potent force."

"Does it look like I'm afraid," snapped Harry, out of patience.

"No, it doesn't," said Ollivander. "Very well, but I shall say it only once, don't ask me again. The Dark Lord's true name was … Lord Voldemort."

A window in the back of the shop blew open, allowing a freezing wind to rush down the aisles of shelves and around them. Ollivander jumped a metre into the air, running back to close the window, then behaving as if something — a ghost, or a spirit, something unseen — had managed to make it inside.

Meanwhile, Harry added the name Voldemort to the puzzle in his head. Finally giving the monster in his nightmares a title, one that took Harry one step closer to finding it and exacting his revenge.

"He was a diabolical man," said Ollivander, barely above a whisper. "A remarkable wizard, yes. Capable of feats most can't dream of, but a remorseless monster."

Harry tilted his head frowning. "You keep saying 'was'."

"You-Know-Who rampaged across Britain for many years. Him and his followers struck terror into the hearts of men, women, and children alike, but then, one Halloween night, he went after a family — your family, Mr. Potter." Ollivander stared intently at Harry. "No one knows why he did it, but the result of that night spread to every corner of the country. The Dark Lord is dead! Defeated by a baby who was left with nothing more than a scar on his forehead. The celebrations lasted for weeks."

Harry remembered Voldemort's anguished screams from that night. The memory always ended before he could see what happened, but Harry had assumed the monster was out there somewhere.

"He's dead?" he asked.

Ollivander hummed mysteriously. "That is what people believe."

"But not you."

"If anyone could survive, it would be the Dark Lord," said Ollivander, clearly horrified by the very idea.

But Harry wasn't terrified; he was hopeful. He wanted that monster to be out there somewhere, secluded and in pain, waiting for the day Harry found him and made him experience a fraction of the pain Harry had felt since that night.

Ollivander cleared his throat. "Might we move past this unsettling topic and find you your wand, Mr. Potter?"

Harry could recognise pleading when he saw it. He wouldn't get anything more out of the aged wandmaker unless he resorted to unsavoury tactics. Nodding, Harry said, "Yes, let's."

"Now," began Ollivander, relieved, "we could go about it the normal way, and have you try some wands until we find yours, but I believe you might already have an idea. Close your eyes, Mr. Potter, and listen."

Doing as he was told, Harry closed his eyes and breathed deep, full breathes to try and cool his boiling blood.

"Good," said Ollivander. "Listen for the song that resonates with your very soul. Hearing it should bring a feeling of completion that you've never before experienced. Find it and follow it."

Harry already knew the song Ollivander was talking about. He'd not known what it was when he first entered the shop, but he did now. The song that played louder, easily heard over the rest vying for his attention. A crash came from the back of the store and a wand box flew to the counter, carried by Harry's telekinesis. He cared not for hiding his ability from Ollivander.

Ollivander gasped. "Ah, yes. I should've guessed that this wand would choose you…"

The box wasn't any different than all the others, but Harry knew the wand within was one of a kind the moment he laid his eyes on it. He picked it up, warmth rushed up his arm and throughout his body, and with it came a sensation of companionship he'd never known. Harry vaguely registered Ollivander explaining the wand's features — eleven inches, made of holly with a phoenix feather core. Giving it a swing, a storm of sparks rained down around Harry, lighting up the glum store in every colour that existed.

"So powerful. I haven't seen a wand bond so quickly with its owner since…"

Harry had the distinct feeling that the wandmaker was about to say Voldemort, except he'd have been too scared to say the actual name. Ollivander continued, "It's safe to say we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. After all, the Dark Lord did great things — terrible things, yes — but great."

Harry's wand pulsed softly in his hand, syncing with his heartbeat. An unspoken bond — a pact being formed between them. Together, they'd kill Voldemort once and for all.