Getaway car
August 30
The summer had been long and brutally hot. Despite this, Harry was always cold.
Staring out his barred bedroom window at a beautiful sunset, Harry finally lets go of that one kernel of hope that had lingered all these long weeks. The hope that somehow he wouldn't actually have to spend the entire summer at the Dursleys.
But tomorrow was the last day before the return to Hogwarts, and the silence from his friends had lasted. He hadn't even been taken to Diagon Alley to pick up his school supplies. The lists had come out a few weeks ago, but as soon as he recognized the envelope for what it was - just an impersonal letter from Hogwarts - he had crumpled it up and thrown it away unopened doing his best to swallow down the anger scratching at his throat.
He's not sure how they - Dumbledore, the Weasleys, Sirius - think he's supposed to get to Diagon Alley to do his shopping without someone taking him there. It's not like Petunia would drive him into London for a shopping day if he asked. But time has run out, and he only has one more day to complete all his school shopping and get to Kings Cross to catch the train. And it appears like he'll be on his own for that.
Per usual, he supposes. He's always on his own when it really matters.
Heaving a sigh, Harry stands from his bed, pausing for a moment to allow the lightheadedness from standing quickly to pass. He's grateful that Petunia has gotten lax about locking his door as the summer wore on without any hint of defiance or "freakishness" from him. It's unlocked tonight, so he can head downstairs to find his relatives.
Vernon and Petunia are curled on the couch together downstairs, watching something on the telly. Harry's not sure where Dudley is. His cousin had slowly recovered from the Dementor attack and spent most of the subsequent weeks outside of the house. Harry - restricted to his bedroom most of the day, regardless of whether the door was locked - had scarcely seen him.
Hearing his footsteps, Vernon's eyes swing to him with a glower. Petunia, although her lips purse, seems intent on ignoring Harry, and she stays focused on the screen in front of her.
"What do you want, boy?" His uncle snarls at him.
"I go back to school in two days. But I'll need to go to London tomorrow to pick up my supplies for the year." Harry clenches his hands behind his back but keeps his voice even and face smooth, eyes trained on the ugly landscape painting hanging above the couch. He lets his emotions drain away so he won't react to anything nasty his relatives say - he needs his Aunt and Uncle to agree with his request, or he'll be screwed.
Vernon's face turns purple with anger, "Are you truly so stupid as to believe we'd give you money for that, you little freak? Money that could be spent on our son?"
"No, no, of course not. I can figure that out on my own."
Harry has been ever so careful to never even hint that he's got piles and piles of literal gold and silver sitting in a vault beneath London. His relatives would demand it all be handed over to them the second they got wind of that.
Better to let them think he's going to shoplift or beg for money. "I'll get myself there tomorrow, too. I just need to get my trunk and things from the closet before I go. I'll stay in the city tomorrow night, so I won't return until next summer."
Vernon scans him up and down, and Harry can practically read his thoughts straight out of his head - deny Harry his request and be stuck with him for longer, or let Harry have his things and get him out of their house a day sooner than expected.
It's probably the ultimate dilemma for Vernon Dursley, Harry thinks. The most challenging choice his useless uncle will ever have to make in his entire life. Harry knows his thoughts are bitter with resentment - and envy for his relatives' simple life that Harry will barely even admit to himself. He smooths the thoughts away before they can show on his face.
Turning back to the telly, Vernon grudgingly says, "I'll unlock the cupboard in the morning before I leave for work. No funny business before you leave. Take all that trash when you wake up and get out."
Relieved that their discussion went shockingly well - Vernon must want him out as much as Harry wanted to leave - Harry nods obediently and returns to his room.
He can't really pack, with his trunk still locked away, but he begins gathering his clothing into neat piles on his desk so that he can get out of here all the sooner in the morning. Crawling under his bed to open the loose floorboard, Harry pulls out a couple of granola bars and bags of crisps he had managed to hold on to all summer, only turning to them when he was truly desperate. Tucked underneath them all was a small wad of cash - bills and coins, and Harry is grateful for his foresight in years past. Each time he visited Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade and had a few moments to himself, he'd get some galleons converted into Muggle money so he'd have some funds stockpiled for summer, and would leave whatever was left here beneath the floor. He knew that one day, he'd be grateful for the extra money slowly accumulating in his hiding spot.
It wasn't much, but it should be enough to buy him a one-way train ticket into London and a good breakfast in the morning. Enough to get him to Diagon Alley - to Gringotts - where the fortune his parents left for him was waiting.
Harry carefully wraps the money in his thinnest shirt and tucks it into the pocket of the jeans he'll wear tomorrow. Glancing around his room, Harry figures anything left can stay where it is. Most everything he actually cares about is locked up downstairs anyway.
Flipping the light off, Harry lays back down on the bed. He knows he'll be woken up within a few hours because of nightmares, and he's tempted to just stay up as long as he can, but tomorrow is sure to be exhausting, so it'd be better to get as much sleep as possible - even if that's not all that much.
Harry lets his eyes drift shut and falls asleep to the distant sounds of whatever show his relatives were watching downstairs.
*
He is up with the sun and leaves his bedroom only a few minutes after he hears Vernon's car drive away. With the muggle clothing he'd been wearing all summer bundled up inside a spare pillowcase and dangling from his hand, Harry quietly goes downstairs and breathes a sigh of relief when the closet door is unlocked as his uncle promised.
Dragging his trunk out, he opens it just long enough to drop his clothes in and pull out his invisibility cloak and wand. As soon as the familiar holly touches his palm, Harry feels a previously unnoticed weight drop off his shoulders. A tension in his body that he had become so used to he had stopped trying to shake it out, suddenly relaxes.
Harry taps the rune to shrink his trunk to a more manageable carrying size and then throws the cloak over himself, double-checking that his feet are entirely covered by the cloak. Weeks ago, Tonks had said something about there being guards at Privet Drive. He's not sure who they are, but he'd rather not have to talk to any of them.
And if they think he's disappeared under their noses and panic for a bit - it serves them right.
This early, it's quiet on Privet Drive. Harry has become familiar with most of the neighborhood's morning habits out of pure boredom during his weeks here. He'd sit in his window, awake well before the sun, and observe the muggles around him.
Vernon is usually one of the first to leave, with Number 8 down the way, leaving at about the same time. The mum in Number 3 was usually up early and, most mornings, was out jogging. Harry sees the back of her disappear down Magnolia Crescent, her long ponytail swishing with her steps.
No sign of any magical observers, but they could easily be disillusioned or hidden by other methods.
So Harry is soft-footed as he quickly walks the few blocks over to Acton Street. Another person is waiting, a kid not much older than Harry. Probably catching the bus to a summer job. Harry gets here just in time, and a bus rounds the corner only a minute or two after he arrives. Using the squeal of the brakes as cover, Harry shuffles closer to the other teen and slips on board behind him, squeezing past while the boy pays his fare.
The ride to the train station is uneventful; only one other person - an old woman who sits near the front - gets on, and Harry is able to slip off the bus using the rear door when they stop. Finding a dimly lit corner, Harry glances around to ensure no one is too close and then whips off his invisibility cloak. Shoving it deep into his jacket pocket, Harry walks to the counter and purchases a ticket for the next train to Kings Cross. He figures he could sit under the cloak the entire train ride, but morning trains into the city are likely to be more crowded, and he'd rather not be stuck trying to avoid people sitting on what they think is an empty seat for the entire journey into London.
Checking the departure board, he determines he's got enough time to grab breakfast, and Harry stands in the short line at the tea shop. After the ticket, he only had a few pounds left, but it was enough to get a cup of peppermint tea and a sausage roll. Harry heads to his platform with the breakfast and is relieved to see the train already there. Climbing on board, Harry shoves his trunk into the luggage storage and can snag a seat with a small table.
While the train idles, he slowly and methodically eats his breakfast. The sausage sits heavily in his stomach, but he paces himself enough that he's still working on it by the time the train departs, the seats around him having been filled with commuters. Whenever his stomach roils too much, he sips on the peppermint tea and lets that calm the nausea.
It'll take a while until he can eat normally again, he knows from experience. Today will be alright since he'll be buying everything, and it will be easier to limit himself. Tomorrow at the feast, however - with a nearly inexhaustible supply of food cooked to perfection spread out in front of him - his willpower will have to be strong enough to resist if he doesn't want to get violently ill afterward.
It's a peaceful journey to Kings Cross, made longer than usual by the frequent stops for all the workers traveling into London. Eventually, they reach Kings Cross Station, and Harry huffs a soft laugh when he realizes they've pulled into Platform 10. He'll have to walk right by the platform for the Hogwarts Express to exit.
Luckily, Harry can find the Leaky Cauldron easily. He vaguely remembered how to get there from the station via his trip with Hagrid years ago. The pub is mostly deserted at this hour, but Tom is standing behind the counter wiping out mugs. Hearing Harry enter, Tom glances up, and Harry plasters a smile on his face.
"Mr. Potter! It's good to see you!" Tom says with a smile, "When we didn't see you come through a few weeks ago, I thought you must be staying away this summer and getting your school things by owl."
"Hello, Tom. It's nice to see you again as well. And no, just getting to it a bit late this year. Actually, I was hoping you might have a room to rent for the night - figured I'd just stay in town tonight and catch the train in the morning instead of making two trips to London."
"Of course, of course, Mr. Potter. We're always happy to have you. Your old room eleven is open. Let me just grab that key for you and you can go on up and drop off your trunk."
Tom bends down to grab the room key and beckons Harry to follow him up the stairs.
"Now, I'm sure you remember from two years ago, but breakfast is from six in the mornin' to nine-thirty, lunch is available starting at eleven o'clock to two, and we'll serve dinner from five to last call. Have ya had breakfast this morning, Mr. Potter? You've gotten here quite early."
"I've already eaten breakfast, Tom, thank you. I'm going to run to the bank and then get my shopping done, but I'll definitely be ordering dinner from you tonight. I've missed your cooking since the last time I was here."
Lie. The Leaky Cauldron's cooking is either too bland or too salty - no in between. But Tom's had a soft spot for Harry for years, earned on that first visit to Diagon and cemented during those weeks Harry stayed here before third year. Harry's more than willing to compliment the Leaky and Tom's cooking to keep on his good side.
Especially considering what he's about to ask.
When Tom lets him into room eleven, Harry sets his trunk down next to the entryway and opens it to dig out some coins. Seeing the galleons in his hand, Tom hurries to say, "It's just one galleon for the night, Mr. Potter."
Harry adopts an embarrassed expression and shuffles his feet, "Er, yes, I know. But, well, I was hoping the rest could maybe cover your discretion? I know when I've stayed here in the past, it's drawn you quite a bit more business, but I'd really like to be a bit more incognito about this visit. So, I could pay you a little extra to make up for any lost business?"
Tom winks and taps his nose with his pointer finger. "O' course, Mr. Potter. If anyone asks, I haven't seen ya all summer. You just let me know what you'd like for lunch, and I'll send it on up when you're back from your shopping."
The gold vanishes from Harry's fingers, and Tom closes the door softly behind him. Harry eyes the bed and debates slumping down on it for a quick nap, but he forces himself out the door again. Ideally, he can finish all his shopping within a few hours and avoid the afternoon crowd.
Backtracking down the stairs, Harry waves at Tom and then goes out back to tap the bricks. As the archway into Diagon Alley opens up, Harry knows he was right to get here this early. Although most shops are open, it's still too early for most customers. Harry hurries down the crooked street, scanning storefronts and noting where he'll need to visit once he's retrieved his money. Despite his familiarity with Diagon, earned through hours of exploring before his third year, Harry hadn't been able to visit last year at all, and he wanted to make sure he knew exactly where he was going to avoid wasting any time wandering around.
Finally, he reaches the end of Diagon, where Gringotts splits the road and diverts into Horizont Alley and Paral Alley. Climbing the marble stairs, Harry nods to the goblins standing guard outside the door and receives the usual suspicious looks in return.
Inside, Harry approaches the closest teller, who looks unoccupied. "Good morning." He says quietly and waits until the goblin deigns to meet his eyes. "I'd like to make a withdrawal from my vault."
"And do you have your key?"
Fuck. How could he have forgotten about his key? First year, Hagrid produced it, and before second and fourth year Mrs.Weasley had it. He hadn't withdrawn anything the summer before his third year.
"Er. No, I don't. It's been lost."
"Hmpf." The goblin glowered at him and then told him in his scratchy voice, "Before a new key can be made, you must submit to an identification verification test. Do you permit this?"
"Yes, of course." Harry's just relieved he's not being shown the door.
The goblin shuffles things on his desk for a moment, then pulls out a light blue roll of parchment and a black knife.
"The test will require blood from both hands." As the goblin speaks, he unrolls the parchment, weighing it down on his desk with some spare jewels and hunks of gold he dug out from another drawer. Indicating two squares at the top of the parchment, he continued, "Smear a bit of blood in each box."
Harry uses the knife to cut the skin on his pointer fingers just enough to draw blood. The blade is so sharp it barely takes any pressure; just running the tip over his fingers is enough to cause blood to flow.
Harry returns the knife to the goblin and drags both pointer fingers across the parchment in the designated boxes, leaving behind a rust-colored stain. As his fingers leave the parchment, he feels a slight tingle in his fingertips, and when he rubs the remaining blood off with his thumb, he sees the cuts have healed entirely.
The goblin has picked up the parchment and is silently reading whatever it indicates before rolling it back up and handing it to him. The teller provides no explanation to Harry, just picked up the end of an old-fashioned rotary phone - one unconnected by any cords, Harry notes - and speaks into the mouthpiece in gobbledygook. There's a bit of back and forth, and then, finally, the goblin hangs up.
"It'll be just a moment, Mr. Potter. Your account manager will be up shortly to meet with you."
Account Manager? What?
"Er, "account manager"? I have one of those?" The goblin gives Harry the most pitying, "Are you stupid" look Harry has ever seen and then seems to dismiss Harry entirely with a quick wave of his hand.
Harry's glare at the goblin goes unnoticed. He's bloody well tired of being looked down on for not knowing things about the Wizarding world when no one takes the time to explain anything to him. He's been to the bank multiple times - albeit never requiring an identification verification - but the tellers knew who he was. They could have said something.
Or this "account manager" could have sent him communications.
Turning his back sharply on the teller, Harry walks to a marble pillar not far away and leans against it. He'd been dead tired earlier but was feeling more energized already. Maybe the caffeine in the tea had finally kicked in.
His original plan was to purchase the bare necessities and then return to the Leaky for lunch and a nap. If he could make it a few more hours, though, he might be able to pick up a few extras - observing the toe of his sock that was visible through a worn spot on his sneaker, his "bare essentials" should probably be a longer list than initially planned.
Harry is pondering how many new pairs of pants he needs when there's a quiet cough behind him, and -
"Mr. Potter?"
He turns and sees a goblin standing behind him. She's wearing a uniform different from the tellers, cream with burgundy instead of the burgundy with cream accents tellers wear.
"Hello, Mr. Potter. I am the Potter Account Manager Alurus. If you'd follow me, please, we can discuss your accounts in my office."
Accounts? He decides not to question it this time. If he will have repeated interactions with this Alurus, he'd like to at least pretend he knows what's going on.
Harry nods instead and follows her through twisted hallways until they reach a comfortable office. She gestures him towards one of the chairs facing the desk and then offers him tea or coffee for their discussion.
"Tea would be great, thanks." At the very least, holding a warm cup would feel good. It got progressively colder the further into the maze-like bank.
Once they're settled with their refreshments, she stares at him. It's unsettling.
"Well, Mr. Potter. Our meeting is a few years overdue, but you've finally made it here. We'll have to discuss ignoring official Gringotts correspondence before you leave."
Harry frowns. "Er, sorry, but I've never ignored official correspondence from Gringotts." Her brows lower, and he hurries to say, "I've never even gotten correspondence from Gringotts to ignore."
"Mr. Potter, I have had excellent working relationships with your father, his father, and his father before him. I do not want to break that streak. I have sent you at least two missives annually since you turned ten. And then, there are the monthly statements and annual disclosure notices. You have been sent a bevy of communications from this bank."
"Well, I never received them!" He huffs, "I never get any mail except from my friends and my school." Although not much of the former in the last few months.
Her expression clears, and she sits back in her chair.
"Is that so, Mr. Potter? That is not as it should be. At the very least, one could assume you'd receive notices from your family solicitors. And that's nothing to say about the fan mail, which I'm sure you've been sent. You've truly never seen any of it?"
Harry blinks. As uncomfortable as he is to consider getting fan mail, it is strange that he's never received any. Even Hermione got inundated with mail, nasty as it was, after that article last year about their supposed relationship.
He shakes his head slowly, "No. No, I've never received anything."
She taps a claw on the armrest of her chair and considers him, "Hm. Something to look into another day, perhaps. For now, we have much to discuss."
She opens a drawer and pulls out several rolls of parchment. "Your most recent account statements, updated as of this morning. They would have been mailed out this evening, but this way, we know you received them, yes?"
"Now, as I understand it, you don't have keys to your vaults? I have taken the liberty of creating new ones." She hands him a ring with multiple vault keys on it. "All existing keys will no longer work, so I advise you to not lose those ones."
"Vaults? As in plural?" He asks. As far as Harry knows, he's only ever visited the one.
Alurus sighed and glanced up as if asking for patience.
"Yes, Mr. Potter. Your multiple vaults. You have the Potter Family vault, your mother's personal vault, and your Potter Trust vault. You also have a Black Trust vault, as well as a vault that Gringotts opened in November of 1981 as a courtesy for any donations or bequeaths made out to "The Boy Who Lived" or similar pseudonyms. And then, of course, there's the Slytherin Family vault."
He blinks at her in silence for a moment. "Sorry, I'm going to need a bit more detail here. I thought I only had one vault?"
As she begins to explain, she pulls out more parchment scrolls, "Yes, as I understand it, you've only ever made withdrawals from the Potter trust vault. This was opened for you at birth, with instructions given to Gringotts on how much should be deposited annually on your day of birth. You are also capped at withdrawing 1,000 galleons a year."
Setting aside the parchment she had been viewing, she moved on to the next one. "The Potter Family vault contains, in addition to funds, a bit of household furnishings, portraits, and other miscellaneous goods. There is no limit to the amount of galleons you may withdraw."
Harry unrolls his own parchment and tries to follow along. At the top of the scroll, in fancy calligraphy, it read "Vault No. 247 - Potter Family Vault (Primary)." Below the header, it lists his name as the sole account holder, and then there is an accounting of the galleons, sickles, and knuts within. Harry skips over the numbers - much more significant than what's in his trust vault, but nothing too outrageous. Below is a list of other items in the vault, and his hands are practically itching to get ahold of the items his ancestors thought were important enough to tuck away in the bank.
Alurus is already moving on to the following account statement, so he carefully rolls the parchment back up and sets it aside.
The Black Trust vault is next, and his brows raise as he sees the numbers. "Er - this is just the trust vault? Seems a bit...excessive."
Alurus, pursuing the scroll half-heartedly, agrees, "Yes, it is a bit. It's my understanding that as the various other members of the family were either killed or incarcerated, the funds in their trust vaults were migrated to the other heirs instead of returning to the main account. A long-standing tradition of theirs. You are one of the very few remaining who can claim to be an heir to the House of Black, and as such, your account has benefited substantially. And the family has always been quite generous - at least financially - with the sons and daughters of their House. The account was nothing to scoff at even before the deposits."
"I see. Thank you for the explanation." She nods imperiously at him, then sets the Black account statement aside.
"Ah, and now we come to your most substantial account." Harry has to hide his choke by coughing - his most substantial. As if the others weren't small - or, in the case of the Black account, not so small - fortunes.
"Since your defeat of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named in 1981, numerous donations and bequeaths have been made to you. These were most commonly made out to "The Boy Who Lived," and as no such account holder was registered at Gringotts, we opened a new account. Once several distasteful gifts were discovered, we continued to place them in this vault, even when they mentioned you by name."
Harry eyes the goblin, "When you say 'distasteful." He's unsure how to word the question, but she answers anyway.
"Cursed, Mr. Potter. While we took the liberty of taking care of anything that was outright dangerous or that which caused harm to the goblins responsible for sorting the gifts and maintaining the vault, but there are likely others we have missed over the years with more subtle enchantments and curses. I encourage you to hire the services of curse-breakers to clean out the vault before you remove anything from it."
He frowns - he knows Bill Weasley is a curse-breaker, but that's about it, and as he's over in Egypt, Bill is no help to Harry. "I see. Would Gringotts be able to recommend any curse breakers?"
"Of course, Mr. Potter. We'd happily dispatch a team of our curse-breakers to sort through your vault. For a fee, of course."
He nods, and although he's sure they'll charge him more because of it, he says, "I suppose you can take the appropriate fee out of the vault then." It's not like he knows what the going rate for a team of curse breakers is anyway; he wouldn't have any idea how to negotiate a fair price.
She nods, and although her face remains neutral, he can practically read the glee over what is sure to be a considerable commission coming her way.
"Now, last but not least - the Slytherin Family vault." She says, unscrolling the last parchment on her desk.
Oh shit, he thinks. He had been so surprised at the multiple accounts he hadn't even registered that bloody Slytherin was one of them. He can't possibly be related to Slytherin. Can he?
He doesn't open his own scroll, and instead asks, "Do you know why I have access to this account? I wasn't aware I had any relation to the Slytherin family."
She eyes him and seems to weigh her words when she says, "Yes, Mr. Potter, I believe I do know why you - and solely you - have access to this account." He focuses on her emphasis on "solely you."
" No one else has access to this account - no other claimants to the House of Slytherin?" That's impossible. Voldemort should have access.
"Mr. Potter, the Goblins of Gringotts keep very close watch over our largest and oldest accounts. When there are sudden and unexpected changes in who can access them, without any visit by the account holders themselves - changes caused by and registered by magic- we tend to investigate."
You'll find that the Goblins believe you that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named has returned - for you see, we never thought him truly dead. He was still listed as an active account holder, and our records would have registered his true death. So two months ago, when you claimed his return to life - his return to a body. We believed you."
Fourteen years ago, you gained access to the Slytherin account due to defeating the family's Lord. Not many vaults allow for such a transfer, but the oldest typically do. However, as you did not wholly defeat He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named - not to the death- he also retained his access. You both had an equal share of the vault. So, two months ago, it was much to our surprise to find that he was no longer listed as a Slytherin family vault account holder when he had been such since his first blood test at this bank many years ago."
"I must ask you, Mr. Potter, when He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named returned to a body, was it a new body created for him, or did he somehow return to the body he lost fourteen years ago?"
Harry thinks of pale, hairless skin, red eyes, and a noseless face and shudders. Voldemort looked nothing like the charismatic and handsome boy he had once been. Maybe Voldemort had metaphorically shed the skin of Tom Riddle long ago, but now he finally looked it.
" It was a new body. I - I guess I don't know what he looked like in 1981, but well, I've seen what he looked like when he was a lot younger, my age, and he looks nothing like that now. He doesn't even look human."
She looks smug for a moment before returning her expression to neutrality, "It is as we theorized then. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was heir to Slytherin because he is a descendant - his blood and bones make him such. When he created himself a new body, he no longer had that connection to his ancestor. As such, he is no longer an heir to the family."
She's right, Harry thinks. Voldemort had said himself that his dad was a muggle - said it quite carelessly considering his apparent stance on muggleborns and half-bloods - so his mum must have been the descendant of Slytherin. But he hadn't used anything with a connection to her in his disgusting potion. His dad's bones, Pettigrew's hand - eugh -, and Harry's blood. But wait -
"Alurus, part of his return to a body involved taking my blood. Wouldn't that grant him the same access as me?"
"No, as your access - your claim as Heir or Lord of the family, was never due to your ancestry."
"But then, would he get access to all my other vaults?"
He thinks she's a bit annoyed he's asking, but apparently decides she'll tolerate it, and she explains, "No, Mr. Potter. As I said, the older vaults tend to have more traditional clauses. None of your other vaults are as lenient regarding blood relations. You must be recognized as part of the family before accessing the account. As such, the other accounts remain your own, as does the Slytherin Family Vault."
He opens the parchment and knows his eyes are wide at the amounts listed. Between the Slytherin and the Black Trust vault, he's apparently got more money than he could likely ever spend in his entire life. Maybe even more than his children and grandchildren could spend.
He thinks back to his Potter Trust account, "And is there a limit to how much I can withdraw from this account?"
She smiles at him from across her desk, sharp teeth glinting out at him, "No, Mr. Potter. There's no withdrawal limit to this account. You'll find only the Potter vaults are restricted in any way - the trust vault with an annual withdrawal limit, and while you can visit the Family Vault, you cannot remove anything until you are recognized as a legal adult."
He slumps back in his chair, disappointed. It's not that he really needs anything from the vault - not when he can apparently buy anything he'd ever want with funds from the other vaults - but it would have been nice to take some items out that his family members had chosen and treasured. He had so few family belongings, after all - really just his dad's cloak. "Just two more years," he murmurs to himself.
"Not necessarily, Mr. Potter," Alurus says, nearly just as quiet.
Confused, he looks back to her - "You said I had to be recognized as a legal adult. I turn seventeen in two years."
"And so you do, Mr. Potter. But luckily for you, there are stipulations in place for families with a sole remaining heir. You happen to fit the bill for two separate houses - Potter and Slytherin. In the instance of all other family members deceased or disowned, the heir must just pass at least one NEWT, and they will be considered a legal adult."
"But I haven't even taken my OWLs yet." Harry reminds the goblin.
She shrugs, "That is an obstacle for you to manage, Mr. Potter. But I will tell you that the Ministry provides OWL and NEWT testing opportunities every February and August, outside of the proctored exams provided at Hogwarts."
That's right - Harry thinks he vaguely remembers seeing a sign about testing while Tonks was hustling him out of the Ministry after his trial.
If he could somehow sneak out of Hogwarts and make it to the Ministry in February to take the OWL in February, and then the NEWT in August, that would make him a "legal adult" almost a whole year ahead of schedule. Still not great, but it's better than waiting another two years. He could probably only manage it with Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he's always excelled in that course. The practical exams should be easy, but learning the theory two years ahead would be the hardest part.
Lost in thought, he thanks Alurus for the information she's told him.
They finish their discussion quickly after that. Harry promises to send Hedwig to the bank every month to collect documents - at least until they can figure out why he's not been getting mail from them - and allows Alurus to begin making investments on his behalf with fifteen percent of the galleons in the vaults he has full access to.
He also withdraws more money in one transaction than he's probably had the rest of his life combined. Now that he knows just how much money is hidden away far underneath London at his disposal, he's done "making due" with hand-me-downs and secondhand items.
Harry is stepping outside Gringotts by half past nine, blinking against the bright sunlight after so long inside. He's got an enchanted bag that - despite the spells making it impossible - feels like it's weighing down his pocket and a long list of items he wants to purchase before taking the Hogwarts Express the following day.