Vault Of Lies
Harriet stood beneath the white marble pillars of Gringotts, her hood pulled low and her wand gripped tightly beneath her sleeve.
The air was cool and dry inside the great bank, a stark contrast to the noise and color of Diagon Alley beyond its iron doors. The goblin at the front desk didn’t look up, but she felt his gaze slide toward her the moment she stepped past the threshold.
A whisper of power trailed behind her like a cloak. Something ancient. Something watched.
She approached the counter.
“Name?” the goblin asked without ceremony.
“Harriet Potter,” she answered—automatically, reflexively. But even as she said it, the words rang hollow in her mouth.
The goblin’s eyes sharpened, flicking to the envelope in her hand—the one marked with the obsidian seal of Gringotts Holdings Division.
He nodded once.
“Follow.”
He led her through a side door she’d never noticed before, down a narrow, arched hallway made of black stone. The walls were etched with strange runes—goblin-script, she guessed—glowing faintly as they passed.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the Truth Vault.”
That shut her up.
They walked in silence for what felt like forever. The deeper they went, the colder the air became. Magic pulsed here—dense, unfamiliar, the kind that curled in the back of the throat and settled behind the eyes. It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either.
It was indifferent.
Uncaring.
It simply was.
At the end of the hall was a thick, iron-bound door. The goblin placed one long-fingered hand against it. Runes flared, sizzled, and slid away.
The door creaked open.
Inside was a single chamber, circular, carved entirely of obsidian and iron. No treasure. No gold. Just a pedestal in the center with a thick folder resting on top.
“Sit,” the goblin said.
She did.
The moment she touched the folder, it unlocked with a hiss of silver smoke. The top page bore her name in two bold, warring fonts:
Harriet Lily Potter
Harriet Lyra Malfoy
She blinked.
“No,” she whispered.
The goblin—Magroth, as his nameplate now identified him—simply nodded. “Yes.”
Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.
The file was full of legal documents, sealed scrolls, magical signatures, and arcane bloodline charts. At first, it was a flood of incomprehensible jargon. But piece by piece, the picture took shape.
There had been a child—registered under the name Lyra Malfoy, born June 25th, 1980. Daughter of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Taken from the St. Mungo’s nursery under mysterious circumstances just two days after birth. No witnesses. No recovery.
The case was sealed.
Hidden.
Buried.
The next section detailed a magical ritual known as a Bloodbinding Mask, an illegal enchantment capable of rewriting magical signatures. Rare. Forbidden. Untraceable—except by Goblin magic.
The spell had been cast on a baby girl... just after her parents were killed in Godric’s Hollow.
Harriet stared at the third page.
It was a blood print test. Two vials of magical blood—her own, extracted at Gringotts years ago for wand registry purposes—and one from the sealed Malfoy archives.
Match: 99.9%
Subject: Harriet Lily Potter = Harriet Lyra Malfoy
She couldn’t breathe.
“Dumbledore knew,” Magroth said quietly. “He had to. There’s no way such magic could be done without resources, without power. The Ministry wouldn’t authorize this. Only someone who didn’t need permission could’ve orchestrated it.”
Harriet looked up.
“But why?” Her voice cracked. “Why would he take me?”
“To turn you into something he could control,” Magroth said with a sneer. “He made you a symbol. A lamb. The last child of the Potters. So tragic. So noble. So easy to use.”
The room spun.
She clenched the arms of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white.
“They made me—” she gasped, “—into a sacrifice.”
Magroth nodded once.
“Yes.”
It was a long time before Harriet could speak again.
She read every page, even the ones she didn’t understand. Birth records. Magical traces. Wand imprint data. A letter from Narcissa to someone named “A.M.” begging for help in finding her child. A list of vaults she now legally owned. And finally, a short note written in a script she knew all too well:
------------------------------------------------------------
"I have done what must be done. The child must never know her true origin. It is for the greater good."
—Albus Dumbledore
-----------------------------------------------------------
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to cry.
She did neither.
She stood, spine stiff, fingers shaking with restrained fury.
“I want a copy of everything,” she said. “All of it. Vault records. Inheritance documents. Bloodline proof. The spellwork.”
Magroth nodded.
“Already prepared.”
A second, smaller satchel appeared on the table.
She took it with shaking hands.
“And... the Malfoys?”
“They don’t know,” Magroth said. “Lucius suspects. Narcissa mourns. Draco…” He hesitated. “...watches.”
That surprised her.
“Watches?”
“More than you know.”
Harriet nodded.
She tucked the satchel into her cloak, turned toward the exit, and paused.
“Why tell me now?”
Magroth tilted his head.
“Because truth always rises. And because someone inside Gringotts believes you deserve to choose your path with both eyes open.”
He didn’t bow.
Didn’t smile.
Just turned away and vanished into the shadows of the chamber.
---
Harriet stumbled out of the bank nearly an hour later, the sun too bright, the alley too loud. The world felt wrong. Tilted. Like someone had lifted the skin off it to reveal something cold and rotting underneath.
She slipped into the Leaky Cauldron without speaking and Flooed back to the Burrow with a practiced ease that didn’t reflect the chaos boiling in her chest.
No one noticed.
Fred and George were arguing about bet placements. Ron was shouting about Viktor Krum. Hermione sat stiffly in the corner, reading a book with tight lips and tired eyes.
No one saw her shaking hands.
No one saw her hold the satchel like it might disappear.
No one asked.
And she didn’t tell.
Because Harriet Potter had died in that vault.
Harriet Malfoy was wide awake.