The grey heir

The air beneath Gringotts changed as Harry descended deeper than any vault he'd ever heard of. The stone turned from cool marble to volcanic obsidian, and runes began to glow along the walls as if recognizing the magic thrumming in his blood. Ironbone said nothing, allowing the silence and heat to do the speaking.

Finally, the path opened into a vast chamber lit by molten rivers and slow-turning orbs of levitating crystal and ore. At the heart of it stood a goblin unlike any Harry had seen.

Vaelrik Runeclasp was older than time. His skin was scorched bronze, his tusks engraved with runes that pulsed faintly with fire. One eye burned like a forge coal, the other was a pale shard of blue diamond. He did not bow. He only looked—and knew.

"You wear death like a crown, boy," Vaelrik said, voice like stone cracking. "And you seek a wand that won't lie to you."

Harry stepped forward, feeling the weight of the moment press against his shoulders. "I don't want power for show. I want something that's mine. Honest. Bound to me and no one else."

Vaelrik's crooked grin revealed serrated silver teeth. "Then we begin with fire."

---

The Soulfire Circle was ancient, older than Hogwarts, older than the Founders. Flames of green, black, and silver flickered to life as Harry stepped inside.

The room fell silent. Then came the whisper of memory.

He saw his mother's final scream. The curse rebounding. The shadow of Voldemort. He saw Death, cloaked and grinning, placing the obsidian ring in his hand. He saw a castle black as night and older than stone.

And then the fire erupted upward, forming a vortex of magical resonance.

From the flames rose relics — three cores and one wandwood, each vibrating with ancient potential:

A twisted shard of Elderwood, dark as void, pulsing with slow, ancient magic.

A gleaming Basilisk Fang, still humming with venom and fury.

A burning Black Phoenix Feather, its fire casting no light, only shadow.

A crimson strand of True Dragon Heartstring, coiled like a sleeping serpent.

Then, from the forge's heart, rose a fifth object — a stone glowing with veins of silver:

The Heart of Namaris.

Vaelrik's voice was hushed for the first time. "A power-stone from the comet that fell before Atlantis. Only used to bind paradox. You've summoned contradiction, boy. Life and death. Shadow and flame. You need more than magic to survive this."

He did not use a forge hammer.

Vaelrik drew a chisel and blade forged of dragonbone and silversteel. With reverent hands, he approached the suspended elderwood. His hands moved with precision as he began to carve—not beat—the wand into shape.

Every stroke etched ancient runes of harmony, identity, and death. The cores wound themselves through the grain. The basilisk fang was split and merged into the spine. The phoenix feather burned into the heart. The heartstring bound it all. The Heart of Namaris bled its molten essence down the wand's grip like a silver river.

When it was done, there was no flare. No explosion. Only silence.

The wand hovered into Harry's palm.

It pulsed. It lived.

Vaelrik stepped back, sweat lining his brow. "It is done."

Harry turned it in his hand, feeling it hum in response. The wand didn't merely respond to his touch — it resonated with his thoughts. A flicker of fire trailed from its tip before fading into shadow. It was sentient in a way Harry could feel but not explain.

Vaelrik gave him a long look, unreadable. "This wand is not a partner. It is a judge. It will answer to no false master. It will answer only to what you are — and nothing less."

Harry met the goblin's gaze. "Then we understand each other."

For a moment, there was silence between them. Then Vaelrik inclined his head, a gesture that carried more respect than any bow.

"You are the first in over a millennium to bind three cores in one wand without rejection. Even the Founders never dared such arrogance. Or perhaps such clarity."

Vaelrik continued, voice low. "Ashborn elderwood. Basilisk fang. Phoenix of night. Dragon of the old world. Bound by Namaris. This wand is truth. Do not betray yourself, or it will burn you before any enemy can."

Harry nodded once, solemn.

---

As they ascended, Ironbone met him again.

"I assume your weapon is satisfactory?"

Harry nodded, eyes still glowing faintly. "It is more than I imagined."

"You now possess artifact-class status under Gringotts code. That wand is one-of-one. Untraceable. Unreplicable."

Ironbone produced a folder of documents. "We will begin quiet consolidation. Funds. Influence. Seat reactivation. All will be handled discreetly."

Harry's voice was calm. "I want legal records opened. Everything Dumbledore sealed. But not a move made. Not yet."

Ironbone raised an eyebrow. "You choose patience?"

"I choose precision," Harry said. "Let him think he still holds the leash."

He turned back once more toward the cooling forge.

> "When the knife falls," he murmured, "I want it to be silent."

---

To be continued...