Hagrid led Harry into the white, wonky building at the end of the very magical street, which was apparently a bank run by goblins . Harry loved reading, and especially loved reading fantasy. So the idea of meeting a not-so mythical being was a new level of excitement. He wondered if they looked like J.R.R. Tolkien’s goblins, or Terry Pratchett’s. He’d heard that in D&D the goblins were green. They were almost always cunning. And usually weapons specialists.
A sudden thought had him wide-eyed, breathless with anticipation. Would they trick him into a deal? He couldn’t wait to match wits with them, hopefully they would go easy on him for being a child. Maybe he could ask them to teach him.
Harry was so excited he felt he could vibrate right out of his skin. But he still managed to take in his surroundings. The guards at the door were dressed head to toe in armour, so much so he could not discern any specific features. They were short though, maybe only a little taller than him, which was definitely short for a human adult. So at least the height part was similar to what fantasy books described.
The warning on the door momentarily captured his attention before Hagrid pulled him away.
Inside the bank, Harry looked around in awe. The architecture in the place was amazing and he wondered how much of it was done with magic. Probably all of it unless there were limits to what a goblin could do. Or, if they were like the goblins in the Misty Mountains, maybe they stole the building from dwarves. Because if there were goblins, maybe there were also dwarves. And orcs? But nobody really wanted orcs .
A man in a very expensive suit with a full but neat beard, and about the height of a dwarf, stood to one side of the cavernous room. Maybe he was a dwarf, though he was much neater than the dwarfs in his fantasy books. Harry couldn’t see the tellers past all the humans standing around waiting to be helped, so he couldn’t verify which fantasy book described goblins the most accurately.
As they shuffled along in the line, Harry watched the people around him. The human magicals mostly dressed in old fashioned robes, though some did look like the full length outfit his Muslim neighbours wore on Fridays. Or the brightly coloured and decorated ones that the Ghanaian family that lived on Magnolia Crescent wore to a wedding that one time. But most of them looked like the pictures he’d seen in history books about the middle ages.
Finally they reached the front of the line, though Harry still could not see the teller. He resolved to stand on his tippy toes, maybe use the edge of the counter to do so. Hopefully, that wouldn’t cost him his fingers.
“Mornin,’” Hagrid boomed out. “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr Harry Potter’s safe.”
“And does Mr Potter have his key?” A deep voice asked with a hint of condescension in the tone.
“Err, yes,” Hagrid said as he stuck his hand in one pocket, then another. “Got it here somewhere…”
While Hagrid rummaged around, Harry decided to test the counter with the finger least likely to be missed - the pinky on his left hand. Nothing happened. And then Hagrid started emptying his pockets onto the counter and Harry figured it must be safe, though he could imagine the goblin teller wasn’t well pleased.
Using the edge of the counter to stand on his very tippy toes to peer over the counter took a lot of effort and concentration. So much so that Harry was unable to keep the startled thought inside his head upon first seeing the teller.
“You don’t look like a goblin.”
Gasping and stuttering out an apology, Harry thumped back down onto the ground, though it seemed the not-goblin teller had lowered the counter because now Harry could see over it clearly to meet the calculating gaze on the other side.
The teller had a full beard that was neatly braided down the middle, reaching their midriff. They looked like a dwarf, and Harry was not going to assume a gender because the dwarrowdams of Middle Earth also had beards. They wore a business suit, complete with waistcoat and tie. A polished and gleaming brooch made with a blue gem was pinned to the lapel of the suit jacket. They had multiple ear piercings and their silver hair was mostly braided back, with a few braids hanging down to frame their face, each containing at least one bead. They weren’t exactly muscular, but there was an obvious air of danger about them, like they were trained in combat despite the desk job.
Hagrid had located the key, hand held up as if poised to exclaim “AHA!” but the tense silence kept him still, eyes darting between Harry and the teller. The teller seemed to be assessing Harry, taking in his oversized, raggedy clothes, the shoes with holes, the broken glasses, the messy hair. Harry wanted to shrink into the ground in absolute mortification.
“What do I look like, little wizard?” The teller finally asked.
Voice barely above a whisper, Harry answered, “Dwarrow. Tolkien’s dwarrow in the modern world.”
A satisfied smile made its way across the teller’s face. “Just so, Heir Potter, though here we are called Dverger.” They scribbled something down and dropped the note into a box. After a few seconds another note was ejected from a different slot in the same box. The teller nodded, made a gesture to another dverger, then turned back to Hagrid. “Please hand over the key.”
Hagrid nodded and handed over the key. Then, while the teller was busy with it, said, “I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore.” His chest seemed to puff up with the air of a toddler being given a very important job . “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”
The teller took the proffered letter and read it carefully, then hit a small button to the side of the counter. Another dverger hurried over to them, skidding to a halt beside Harry, who offered a small smile. The new dverger seemed startled by the gesture before smiling back.
“Very well, Mr Hagrid. Griphook here will take you down to the vault while I take Heir Potter to see his account manager.” With that, the teller turned around and made their way from behind the counter towards them.
All the while, Hagrid spluttered, his accent growing thicker as he went, “Now see here! Professor Dumbledore did na mention anythin’ abou’ no account manager. I’m ter take ‘Arry ter get money out ‘is vault an’ then return tha key back ter Pr’fess’r Dumbledore. Yer canna jus’ take him away, yer need Pr’fess’r Dumbledore’s permission. ‘E’s yun’ ‘Arry’s guardian.”
Harry had flinched back at the start of Hagrid’s outburst, wary of the gigantic man’s anger and flailing limbs. But he had so many questions . Why was the Headmaster supposed to keep his key? And what did Hagrid mean that the Headmaster, a man he had never met, was his guardian? Weren’t the Dursleys his guardians? Why did the teller call him Heir Potter not Mr Potter? Did he really have an account manager even though he was only eleven? And why did Hagrid not want him to see this account manager? Hagrid had seemed kind, he had saved Harry from the Dursleys and brought him to this magical place and told him about his parents. But now, as his face turned purple, he seemed more like Uncle Vernon when things weren’t going his way.
A group of armoured guards, each carrying deadly sharp weapons, surrounded Hagrid. Griphook pulled Harry away, staying between the boy and Hagrid, and ushering him closer to where the teller (Harry needed to get their name!) was coming out from behind the counter. Once the teller reached them, Griphook returned to Hagrid, and Harry was pulled out of the main lobby, through a polished archway that Harry had not noticed before, down a corridor with marble floors, and then another corridor, and another, before turning into a corridor with a different pattern on the floor and lined with doors on either side.
They stopped before a door with a sign in a language that Harry did not know. (Though it looked like runes or old Norse script. Maybe it was Khuzdul? Harry would like to learn Khuzdul, and maybe even Sindarin).
The teller knocked, the door opened slightly, and a few guttural words were exchanged with whoever was on the other side of the door, before the teller turned back to Harry.
“This is where I leave you, Heir Potter. I, or a colleague, will collect you when you are done with your business to lead you out of the bank.” They sketched a shallow bow, turned, and made to leave.
“Wait!” Harry called out, shaking himself out of his whirling thoughts. The teller turned back and cocked an eyebrow. “I, uh, just, um..” Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Harry looked into the eyes of the dverger who had obviously done quite a lot for him, and said, “Thank you. I appreciate the favour you have done for me, though I don’t yet know how to go about returning it. When I learn more about your culture, I will offer proper thanks. Until then, may I know your name, or the name that you go by?”
For a moment, the teller remained silent, looking into the eyes of the young wizard as if trying to determine the sincerity of his words. Finally they nodded and said, “I am called Silverthread. I would be pleased to answer any questions you may have about my people and our culture, so long as those are not protected secrets. You may owl me using my earned name.”
And with that, Silverthread was gone. Harry had the distinct impression that he was the first human that Silverthread offered to communicate with outside of bank business. He felt rather chuffed with himself, but managed to school his expression somewhat before turning back to the ajar door. It wouldn’t do to leave his account manager waiting. Hopefully he’d get some answers, and maybe some unbiased information about his parents.