The Awakening
The first sensation was fire—not the burning agony of Cruciatus, but something deeper, more primal. Harry's eyes snapped open at the stroke of midnight on his eighteenth birthday as a surge of ancient, untamed magic coursed through him. His very DNA was rewriting itself, his body reshaping to match the legacy buried within him.
It was agony, and yet it wasn't. It was as if every nerve and bone remembered what it was always meant to be. His skeleton groaned, lengthening as muscle and sinew reknit. Magic burned brighter, unfettered by the blocks he hadn't even known existed. His skin prickled and then came the wings—massive, dark, and glorious. They erupted from his shoulder blades in a storm of shadowfire and blood, their span brushing the edges of the small room.
The transformation was not merciful. It dragged on for hours, searing every detail into his memory. His eyesight blurred before sharpening into clarity beyond anything human. His teeth ached as his fangs descended, and his muscles throbbed with newfound strength. It wasn't just physical; even his magic roared, wild and untamed, no longer bound by invisible chains.
By the time dawn broke over Grimmauld Place, Harry stumbled to his bathroom mirror, compelled to see the result of his ordeal. He stared, shocked into silence.
Gone was the scrawny boy who had once been shoved into a cupboard under the stairs. In his place stood a man of power, 6'1" with shoulders broader than he'd ever imagined. His wings, dark as midnight, spread wide, their metallic silver and emerald green tips catching the weak morning light. His emerald eyes now glowed faintly with an internal fire, his glasses rendered unnecessary. Fangs peeked out when he moved his lips, a sharp reminder of how far he had changed.
Yet what stunned him most was the overwhelming feeling of rightness. This wasn't a transformation. This was an unveiling, a revelation of what he had always been.
A sharp tapping at the window broke his trance. Turning, he saw a stately owl waiting impatiently with a letter bearing the Gringott's seal. Harry's instincts flared. Something about this letter felt pivotal. He crossed the room quickly, opened the window, and retrieved the parchment.
The letter was simple yet commanding:
Mr. Harry James Potter,
Number 12 Grimmauld Place
London
We have detected your creature inheritance manifestation. Your presence is required immediately at Gringotts for a complete inheritance test. This letter will serve as a portkey upon speaking the word "goblins."
Regards,
Griphook
Potter Account Manager
A thrill of foreboding and purpose shot through him. Grabbing parchment, he hastily scribbled a note for Sirius and Remus, though the unease bubbling in his chest whispered that perhaps he shouldn't trust them as completely as he once had. Flashes of doubt had plagued him over the past weeks—odd memories surfacing, fleeting images of Dumbledore with a look that was more calculating than kind.
Harry didn't have time to dwell on the implications. He spoke the word, and the portkey activated, whisking him away to Gringotts.
Griphook's eyes widened fractionally when Harry appeared, wings tucked tightly against his back to fit the office. The goblin recovered quickly, inclining his head. "Welcome, Mr. Potter. I see your inheritance was... significant."
Harry's voice carried a weight of authority he hadn't realized he possessed. "You could say that. Though I have no idea what I've become."
Griphook's gaze flicked to Harry's wings before nodding. "That is why you're here. Blood does not lie." He pulled out an ornate dagger and an enchanted parchment. "Seven drops of blood will reveal everything."
Harry didn't hesitate. The blade bit into his finger, and the blood dripped onto the parchment. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a hum of ancient magic, words began to appear—not a few lines, but pages upon pages of revelations.
The room seemed to hold its breath as Harry read. His heart pounded with each line:
Multiple magical blocks, placed since infancy.Love potions and memory modifications, all bearing Dumbledore's magical signature.Marriage contracts tied to prominent wizarding families, were signed without his consent.Nine ancestral houses, each with legacies and responsibilities that had been hidden from him.
Each discovery unravelled the foundations of his reality. His supposed guardians, his allies, even Dumbledore himself—all had played a role in manipulating his life.
"I've been lied to," Harry murmured, his voice low but filled with fury. His wings flared slightly, their shadows flickering ominously in the candlelight.
"There's more," Griphook said, pointing to the parchment.
Harry's breath hitched. Amid the overwhelming revelations, one truth stood out—a name, inscribed in magic so ancient it shimmered with a life of its own:
Mate bond detected. Connection pending.
The awareness bloomed within him, an undeniable pull. Somewhere out there, his mate awaited him. He could feel them—distant yet tethered to his very soul.
"Griphook," Harry said, his voice steady despite the storm brewing within him. "I want the blocks removed. All of them. I need to know who I truly am."
The goblin regarded him with respect. "As you wish, Lord Potter-Black. But be warned, the process will not be easy. These blocks are deeply embedded."
Harry's fangs gleamed as he smiled grimly. "I've lived through Voldemort. I can handle a little pain."
Griphook nodded and motioned for Harry to follow. The path ahead would be gruelling, but Harry welcomed it. No more lies. No more manipulations.
As he stepped into the ritual chamber, Harry's thoughts burned with a single resolve:
This is the beginning. Dumbledore's games are over, and someone is going to answer for what they've done.