The Iron Rails
The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express wheels against the tracks was a jarring counterpoint to the turmoil raging within Harry. He sat in his usual compartment, the familiar plush seats and the scent of treacle tart doing little to soothe his nerves. Ron and Hermione sat opposite him, their voices a constant, buzzing drone, discussing their summer plans with an unsettling normalcy.
They’re acting like nothing happened, he thought, his gaze darting between them. Like they didn’t just plan my murder.
He forced a smile, nodding at Hermione's enthusiastic description of her planned trip to France. Just play along, he told himself. Don’t give them any reason to suspect.
But the words he'd overheard, the cold, calculating tones of Dumbledore, Hermione's pragmatic assessment of him as a "ticking time bomb," and Ron's unsettlingly flat agreement, echoed in his mind, a constant, chilling reminder of their betrayal.
They think I’m stupid, he thought, his fingers tightening around the worn leather of his trunk handle. They think I’ll just go along with their plan.
He had to plan, think, strategize. He couldn't trust anyone, not anymore. He had to be careful, methodical. He needed to gather information, to understand the full extent of their treachery.
First, get to Gringotts, he decided. They’re the only ones who might help.
He remembered the tales of Goblin justice, their unwavering adherence to contracts, their fierce independence. He remembered their services, their knowledge of ancient magic, their willingness to protect those who sought sanctuary.
They won’t care about Dumbledore’s plans, he thought, a flicker of hope igniting within him. They’ll only care about their laws, their contracts.
He had to reach them, to present his case, to prove the betrayal. He needed evidence, but that would have to wait. Survival was the priority.
As the train pulled into King's Cross, Harry's senses sharpened. He scanned the platform, his gaze searching for any sign of Dumbledore or the Order. He spotted them in the distance, their faces etched with concern, their eyes scanning the crowd.
They’re looking for me, he thought, his heart pounding against his ribs. They know something’s wrong.
He had to disappear, to slip away unnoticed. He couldn't risk being seen, being questioned. He made his way through the crowd, his movements swift and silent, his invisibility cloak a comforting shield against prying eyes.
Don’t panic, he told himself, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Just blend in. Become a ghost.
He reached the edge of the platform, the bustling streets of London stretching before him. He slipped through a gap in the barrier, disappearing into the sea of muggles. He moved quickly, his footsteps silent, his mind focused on his destination.
Diagon Alley, he thought. Gringotts.
He reached the familiar cobblestone streets, the magical world a stark contrast to the mundane world he had just left. He slipped into a shadowed alleyway, his gaze fixed on the imposing marble building of Gringotts.
This is it, he thought, his heart pounding against his ribs. This is my only chance.
He approached the bank, the imposing bronze doors looming before him, a symbol of ancient power and unwavering laws. He was about to enter a world he knew little about, a world where contracts were sacred and betrayals were punished. He was about to ask for sanctuary, to plead for help. He was about to become a fugitive, a shadow, a ghost.
Harry stepped into the cool, dimly lit lobby of Gringotts, the imposing marble columns and the watchful eyes of the Goblin guards a stark contrast to the chaotic bustle of Diagon Alley. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and ancient secrets. He approached the teller's counter, his heart pounding against his ribs, his palms slightly clammy.
A Goblin, his face etched with the wisdom of centuries, sat behind the counter, his eyes sharp and calculating. He looked up at Harry, his gaze unwavering.
"Well, well," the Goblin said, his voice raspy and laced with a hint of sardonic amusement. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence, have you, Mr. Potter?"
Harry blinked, taken aback by the Goblin's tone. "Excuse me?" he asked, his voice slightly unsteady.
The Goblin raised a thin, gnarled eyebrow. "We've been sending you letters for years, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Hundreds of them, I'd wager. Monthly reports on your vaults, requests for meetings, notifications of… shall we say, irregularities. Apparently, our owls have been encountering some… difficulties."
Harry's confusion deepened. "Letters?" he repeated, his brow furrowed. "I haven't received any letters from Gringotts. Ever."
The Goblin's eyes narrowed, his gaze intensifying. "No letters?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion. "Not even the monthly reports detailing the… unusual activity in your vaults?"
Harry shook his head, his confusion turning to a cold dread. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I've never received anything."
The Goblin leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a calculating light. "That is… problematic," he said, his voice echoing through the silent lobby. "Extremely problematic."
He paused, his gaze fixed on Harry's face. "Tell me, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice low and intense. "Have you ever wondered why your vaults have been… depleted, despite your lack of withdrawals?"
Harry's breath hitched. "Depleted?" he echoed, his voice barely audible. He had always assumed his vaults were secure, untouched. He had never considered the possibility of unauthorized access, of theft.
"Indeed," the Goblin confirmed, his voice sharp and precise. "Significant withdrawals, frequent transfers, and… shall we say, unusual expenditures. All meticulously recorded, of course. All detailed in the reports you claim to have never received."
He tapped a long, bony finger on a stack of parchment beside him. "We have records stretching back years, Mr. Potter. Records detailing the systematic draining of your inheritance. Records that, had you received them, would have alerted you to the… discrepancies."
Harry's mind reeled, the implications of the Goblin's words sinking in. He had been robbed, systematically and meticulously, right under his nose. And someone had been intercepting his mail, preventing him from discovering the truth.
"Who?" he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of anger and fear. "Who has been accessing my vaults?"
The Goblin's eyes narrowed, his gaze unwavering. "That, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice low and ominous, "is what we intend to find out. But first, we need to establish your identity, confirm your claims, and… address the matter of your missing correspondence."
He gestured towards a door behind the counter. "Please, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice echoing through the silent lobby. "Follow me. We have much to discuss."
Harry followed the Goblin through the door, his mind racing, his heart pounding against his ribs. He was about to enter a world of ancient laws and unwavering justice, a world where contracts were sacred and betrayals were punished. He was about to uncover the truth about his stolen inheritance, the intercepted letters, and the people who had been systematically robbing him. He was about to discover the full extent of the treachery that surrounded him.