Chapter 4
Harry was still a little embarrassed.
The trip to Diagon Alley had been relatively cheap. He did what the bus driver—Mr. Billie—had told him and managed to bike. He’d never had the opportunity to use a rental bicycle before, and after his trip, he thought they were very neat. Very practical.
As he weaved through Diagon, his cloak over his head, he frowned, recalling the expression of the porter who was so obviously a wizard.
Harry had always been slightly annoyed that people often came up to him with a list of preconceptions. It totally eliminated any possibility of making a first impression and any genuine care people had to get to know him.
He also thought it unfair that people knew more about him before he had the chance to properly introduce himself.
Now and then, he took a moment to sit in shock that the entire wizarding community knew his parents had been murdered before he did.
Bloody hell.
He shook his head. Too early in the day for such damaging thoughts.
Diagon roared with life in the late morning. August first was a breezy day, and Harry smiled at the sky. Little witches and wizards ran as their mothers and fathers trailed after them.
As he peered into shop windows and gazed down the length of the street, the corners of his mouth turned downward. Diagon was still red and blue and orange and purple. Harry believed it could still shine gold as he watched the wide-eyed expressions of what he presumed were incoming first years. But when he stared at the exposed brick buildings, they seemed to pale in comparison to the vibrant hues that he’d previously perceived. They seemed to be coated in a layer of dust, and the shadows darked the street rather than provide shade.
He recalls when he’d first been here. Hagrid got him Hedwig. Hedwig, who was smart, loyal and came with an attitude. One that was prominent last night when she arrived at near two in the morning, pecking the glass window of his room. When he opened the window, she’d puffed her chest as if to say, Ha, look, I made it too.
Harry shook his head, quickly resized the cage keychain on his backpack, before promptly knocking out once more.
Harry recalls the first wizard his age he ever met: the striking platinum blond hair and practiced straight posture of one Draco Malfoy. The young boy who was dressed like he came out of a magazine and didn't so much as bat an eye at Harry’s then sickley frame or his ragged clothes. No he’d simply gushed about his excitement to enter Hogwarts castle. He treated Harry as he would seemingly treat anyone else. Harry remembers entering that conversation wary, having it feeling on edge, and leaving it hoping he might have started a friendship. Made a friend.
He was a little off the mark.
Now and then Harry wonders where the little boy who lit with excitement and treated Harry as an equal despite his state went and how he was one in the same with Malfoy.
As he came up on Gringotts he quickly turned a corner between two shops.
Over the summer due to a lack of correspondence and a well- having a life Harry had spent the majority of his time wandering outside. And when he wasn’t wandering he was reading. The previous summer when he got his books for the year he had managed to get the wrong charms book before he had the right one shipped. It had advanced spell work and whatnot that Hermione seemed more interested in. He’d tried to pawn it off but she insisted that it was very insightful and that he read it too. Of course she had hardly read it at all as the whole year her head was in books that corresponded with his tasks but she was enthusiastic nonetheless. With hardly anything at all to alleviate his boredom he resorted to reading.
He managed to read the book front to back two and a half times. He was absolutely certain he couldn’t perform a single spell without actually practicing, but he believed he understood them to a certain extent.
Harry pulled out his wand.
The twins had taken to sharing far more of their trade secrets after Harry gave them his winnings from the tournament to start their joke shop. One of those secrets was that in a highly wizard-populated area, you could get away with using your wand because the Ministry couldn’t track who the magic was coming from. This explained how there were always traps and pranks at the Burrow that were clearly magical, yet the Ministry was never alerted—they simply assumed it was Mr. or Mrs. Weasley.
Immediately after he heard this he grinned internally. Oh what he would be able to get away with.
Harry conjured a mirror and began casting a glamor on himself.
His nose became slimmer and his eyes deep brown. His hair had changed from black to dusky brown blond that contrasted poorly with his skin. Finally his scar seemed to smudge away.
Harry folded the cloak and put it in the school satchel he’d brought with him.
He starred in the mirror. He did not look like himself. Harry was pleased.
He walked up the steps of Gringotts and tried his best not to seem self-conscious. He had to remind himself no one else knew he was wearing glamour. His fidgeting and constant patting down of his clothing caused him to run straight into someone as he walked up to the goblins.
The second time that day, Merlin he needed to get a hold of himself.
When he looked up to apologize, he was met with familiar platinum blond hair and a sharp pale face. Malfoy. Great.
He must be cursed.
“Oh, my apologies. Are you alright?” came Malfoy's voice in a tone that could only be described as… respectful?
In his daze, Harry's words came out slightly slurred. “I… yes. I'm sorry. I should have paid more attention.”
Harry rolled back his shoulders, attempting to steady himself.
Malfoy was in neat grey slacks and a navy knit sweater. He looked posh as ever but… casual. Harry internally shook his head as he fought down the urge to sneer at the ponce.
“Oh, you’re alright,” Malfoy waved him off.
“Draco!”
Oh, ugh.
Harry turned and was met with Pansy Parkinson. Harry didn’t know all that much about her, only that she and Malfoy were often seen snickering together. Dating, perhaps? She’d chopped her hair into a sharp bob and was wearing striking boots that clacked as she walked. In her arms was a collection of bags.
“Blaise and Theo are only up ahead. Daph, Mills, and Vinny are somewhere near. They’re going to leave without us—”
Malfoy snickered. “Alright, alright. Wait, Viv is here?” Harry heard his slowly fading voice say as he walked away.
Harry scrunched his brows and frowned. He sighed and shook his head. Slytherins.
“Oh, hell,” Harry heaved.
He'd been having more than a difficult time trying to explain to the goblins he was Harry Potter and just needed money.
They threatened to kick him out and call the Aurors on him.
They were aggressive and just a whole bloody headache.
It was harsh whispers and heaved sighs.
No, I’m wearing glamour—
No, because people will recognize—
I just—
Look at my wand!
Isn't there some way—
I HAVE THE BLOODY KEY!
After some aggressive groveling, the goblins agreed to bring him to his vault to test his magical signature.
“Yes, that– that’ll be great, thank you,” Harry nodded.
He trailed after the goblin that had been instructed to ‘deal with him.’ Harry shook his head. Bloody goblins. He recalled something Bill Weasley had told him during an evening he’d been blessed to spend at the Burrow. He recounted his first impression of goblins at age eleven and how salient they had been. The way they loomed above and looked at him had made his skin crawl.
“We are talking about a different breed of being,” said Bill. “Dealings between wizards and goblins have been fraught for centuries – but you’ll know all that from History of Magic. There has been fault on both sides, I would never claim that wizards have been innocent. However, there is a belief among some goblins, and those at Gringotts are perhaps most prone to it, that wizards cannot be trusted in matters of gold and treasure, that they have no respect for goblin ownership.”
Harry's grip on his wand did not waver.
Vault 687. Harry hadn't seen its physical door since Hagrid had taken him when he was eleven.
“Now boy, lift your hand,” ordered the goblin, whose name he still hadn't been informed of.
Harry obeyed.
“Now close your eyes, with your hand squeeze tightly around your wand and—”
And then it struck him. Harry felt bloody stupid.
“No! Boy, do not put down your hand!” the goblin chattered angrily, nearly twitching.
“I… I can take my glamour off,” Harry said lamely. “We’re in private so…”
The expression Harry wore was sheepish, and the one the goblin reflected back could only be described as sheer disappointment.
He removed his glamour, and the goblin lightly shook his head, muttering to himself.
“Do you have the key, Mr. Potter?”
“Yes, I think I've made that clear,” he snarked.
He handed it over, and then he was in.
Now, Harry had only intended to make a withdrawal—which all you needed is the key and identification for—but after he was in the vault, he couldn't help himself.
He stepped in.
“Mr. Potter, this is where I leave you. Take what you need and I’m sure you’ll find your way back. Same way as in. Do not take what mustn't leave and do not enter what mustn’t be opened.”
And the vault gate shut behind him.