The Myrren Mateship

The war was over. 

And Voldemort had been killed. 

The world was quieter for it, and yet the silence, the quiet, the nothing to do… left Harry Potter restless. It felt like his anxiety was at an all time high. 

The world had gone absolutely still, hushed by the absence of battle cries and curses, and yet the silence did not bring peace. Not for Harry Potter.

The quiet gnawed at him.

Each day that passed left him more tired than he was before. 

With no duels to fight, no lives to save, and no looming threat on the horizon, Harry found himself adrift in the silence; raw, frayed, and restless. The world was healing, but Harry was unraveling. He kept feeling like the walls were pressing in on him from all sides. The quiet was a heavy, suffocating stillness that left his heart racing for no reason, his breath catching in his throat like he was still under fire.

His anxiety, once tethered to survival, had nowhere to go.

Now it lingered in every corner of his day, clinging like smoke from a fire that should have burned out. Loud noises made his muscles lock, silence made his skin crawl. He couldn’t sit still for long without feeling like something was wrong, like a curse was coming for him and he’d forgotten how to defend himself. His magic throbbed under his skin, jittery and unstable, always on the verge of sparking.

The so-called-war was over.

But Harry Potter had never felt more on edge.

It had been a month since the final battle at the Ministry. 

A month since Voldemort’s lifeless form crumbled to ash beneath his feet. A month since his world had lost the urgency of survival. And now, he was drifting. 

The only tethers he had were the friends and family he’d carved out for himself through blood, sweat, and the kind of tears that left scars. Without them, he wasn’t sure he’d have stayed upright. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.

At fifteen, he should have been worrying about exams, not carrying the weight of the wizarding world on shoulders far too young for it. He felt it in his bones, in the way magic hummed too loudly under his skin now, unstable and strange, like it no longer knew where to go.

He hadn’t genuinely touched his wand since the Ministry. He hadn’t needed to.

People expected him to rest. To smile. To plan for the future like nothing had shattered inside him. Instead, Harry drifted through the days, caught between his war-torn past and a future that felt like fog. It was a mixture of PTSD and something else- a restlessness that burned hot under his skin, magic coiling tighter with each breath, waiting for something, a danger perhaps, that would no longer come. 

It was just trauma. At least he hoped it was just trauma. 

The front door to Grimmauld Place slammed open with a bang loud enough to rattle the ancient portraits on the walls, jerking Harry out of his thoughts and his self-imposed exile on the tattered couch in Sirius's old living room.

“HARRY JAMES POTTER! Get your bloody arse up! Have you taken your potions?” Hermione's voice rang through the house, shrill with frustration and worry, a familiar anchor to reality.

Behind her, the unmistakable sound of multiple feet thundering across the floor echoed through the hall, a chaotic stampede of determined purpose as the rest of the cavalry spilled inside. 

Harry lifted his head just enough to glare at her, though there was no real heat behind it. She stood in the doorway like the storm she was, both hands braced on her hips, curls a riot around her flushed face. Her jumper was slightly askew, ink stains on one sleeve, and her foot tapping out a furious rhythm on the scratched wooden floorboards.

She looked ready to hex him six ways to Sunday.

Harry groans and lets his feet fall to the floor as he sits up much to quickly and ends up all the more dizzy for it. 

“Hi Hermione. Nice to see you too,” He mutters, rolling his eyes as he dragged himself upright.

“Potions first Potter.” She seethes, her voice dropping to a warning growl as she crossed the room, thrusting a handful of vials into his hand like a challenge. Her brow arched high enough to rival McGonagall’s own signature look.

Harry scowled at the bottles, holding the healer advocated potions.

From behind her, Ron appeared in the doorway, looking a mix of amused and resigned. His red hair was rumpled from the wind, freckles more pronounced against sun-kissed skin. 

“Bottoms up mate, we’ve all been prescribed the same bloody thing,” His other best friend raises the bottle of butterbeer he’d snagged from the kitchen in a cheers motion.  Ron gives him a crooked grin, “Figure if I have to take mine, so do you."

“Gosh shut up Ron, I hate how they dull my senses, you know this,” Harry grumbles staring at potions with a heavy pout on his face. 

“Don’t be a baby, Harry. We’re all traumatized little soldier babies according to Goblin Healer Godra, and so we must take the potions.” Ginny’s voice floated in before she did, light and laced with mischief. She skipped into the living room with the kind of energy that felt almost out of place in Grimmauld’s dim, dust-heavy air. Her red hair was pulled back in a loose braid, a few strands sticking to her flushed cheeks, and her eyes gleamed with a familiar spark; fierce, bright, and somewhat unbothered by the gloom Harry wrapped around himself like a second skin.

She dropped onto the arm of the couch with the grace of someone who owned whatever space she entered, her wand tucked behind one ear and her arms crossed like she was daring him to argue. Dirt smudged her jeans, and her shirt  -an oversized Weird Sisters tee- had a rip along one sleeve, evidence of her latest skirmish with the Weasleys family’s temperamental gnomes.

Harry rolls his eyes at the girl, “Traumatized babies sounds about right for you,” He grumbles, ducking when she tries to kick at him from her place on his the couch.

“Harry, we all have bloody PTSD - you know that,” Hermione says firmly, her tone the no-nonsense one she used when she was two seconds away from hexing him for his own good. “I know you hate how the potions dull your senses, I know- but that’s why we made the schedule. So no one takes them alone.” She crosses her arms, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “We’re always together when it counts. The side effects only last an hour. Nap it off if you have to.”

She waved his worry away, trying to make him feel better, but Harry could see the tension in her jaw, and the slight tremble in her fingers. She was exhausted too, just holding it together better than he was.

Ron hums in agreement, lounging in an armchair, his eyes skimming through a copy of the Quibbler. His eyes flicked over the pages lazily, but there was a focused ease in his presence that grounded the room. “We’ll guard your back dummy, we always do,” The redhead muses, voice quieter than usual, but steady.

And just like that, the storm in Harry’s chest began to calm. The anxiety that had been buzzing like a hive of furious bees, relentless and loud, slowed. Not gone -never gone- but quiet enough to breathe through. The weight on his shoulders eased just enough for him to move.

He glanced at the potions in his hand again, the liquid inside shimmering faintly, laced with calm. His fingers tightened around the vials.

He wasn’t alone.

Not really.

Harry sighs, plopping down beside Ginny, who was trying to open up- Harry does a double take wondering why exactly she was trying to open up a muggle cellphone in a magically warded house. 

“She’s trying to make a bomb apparently,” Hermione sighs, arms going up in the air in exasperation. 

“Magic and electricity make things go boom,” Ginny giggles like a maniac and Harry wasn’t the only one that leaned away from the girl. 

Before Ginny could launch another playful kick at Harry’s antics, the front door creaked open again- this time with less urgency… more calm, almost serene.

Harry immediately knew who exactly had come inside. 

There were only a handful of people keyed into his wards anyways. 

Neville steps into the living room first, arms full of potted plants that jingled with protective charms and smelled sharply of mint and earth. His face was flushed from the walk, dirt under his nails and a smudge across his nose that he hadn’t noticed… or didn’t care all the much about. He wore a knitted green jumper that looked like it had seen one too many Herbology sessions and white socked clad feet skirt across the floor.    

“Brought the calming plants Healer Godra recommended,” Neville muses, adjusting his grip as a plant tried to wiggle out of the actual pot. “Thought maybe they’d help with the, er… mood in here.” He gestures to Grimmauld Place as a whole… which valid. But Harry was in a piss-poor mood and wasn’t feeling like validating anyone.

Behind him, Luna glided in as if she’d stepped out of a different world entirely- as usual-, her wand was tucked into a beaded belt at her waist and a necklace of shimmering, oddly shaped stones hung around her neck. Her hair was loose today, catching the light like starlight, and she held a stack of battered books covered in hand-drawn symbols and pressed flowers.

“We should plant them under the moonlight,” Luna says dreamily, tilting her head at the potted herbs in Neville’s arms. “They absorb peace better that way. Also, Harry, you’ve got grim wraith residue clinging to your aura. It’s probably the potions… or the angst.”

Harry blinks, nonplussed, very used to his best friend’s way with words. “Thanks, Luna. That clears everything up.”

She smiled, settling cross-legged on the floor like it was the most natural place to be, “You’re most welcome.”

Neville, ever the steady presence, shoots Harry a sympathetic look and carefully placed the plants on the windowsill, casting a couple spells to keep them in place. 

“You don’t have to like the potions,” Neville points to the vials in clenched in his hands, immediately noticing. “Just… maybe don’t make Hermione explode. She’s been twitchy all day.”

“I HAVE NOT!” 

“She has not, apparently,” Neville deadpans, eyeing Hermione with a mix of fond exasperation and dry humour.

Harry couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped him, a snort of amusement that cracked through the heavy fog in his mind. Before he could second-guess himself, before the anxiety could swarm back in, he snapped the corks off the vials and downed them one after the other, grimacing at the bitter taste.

The effect was immediate - not from the potions, but from his friends.

As one, all five of them visibly relaxed. Shoulders dropped, jaws unclenched, and the tense, brittle atmosphere in the room eased like a held breath finally released. They hadn’t just been watching him- they’d been waiting, bracing for his crash or resistance.

Harry sank back into the couch, the weight of his friends’ quiet support, love and care settling around him like a worn, familiar blanket.

“I’ll protect you, Harry. Sleep,” Luna said serenely, patting the top of his head with gentle finality, as if casting a spell with the gesture. Her touch was light, but it carried a promise that soothed him more than the potion ever could.

Harry didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t need to. He was already asleep. 

Now, Harry Potter had never lived what anyone would call a conventional life.

But even with all the chaos he’d endured- the dragons, the Dark Lords, the constant brushes with death-  nothing had prepared him for the absolute Pandora’s box that had burst open the moment he took his place in the wizarding world. He hadn’t expected the danger he’d unknowingly embraced, the nightmare that welcomed him with open arms.

Truthfully, he hadn’t expected much at all. He just wanted to be accepted… maybe make a couple of friends…. finally belong somewhere.

He wasn’t prepared for catastrophe to become his shadow.

These days, Harry was numb to most of it- neutral, detached, even a little emotionless when it came to the relentless disasters that seemed to trail after him. But that night… that night haunted him.

He had definitely not expected that night to have ended the way it had.

That night was the reason he rarely slept through until morning without waking in a cold sweat.

And it was the nightmare consuming him now.

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, voice sharp with panic, her fingers clawing at his wrist. She was kneeling beside him, her robes torn and soaked in blood - not all of it hers. Her knees had skidded across jagged stone, raw and bleeding, but she didn’t care. All her focus was on Harry, his head cradled between her shaking hands as he thrashed on the floor, his body a battleground for the dark magic tearing through him.

Possessed. Again.

Just minutes earlier, Harry had watched her sever a Death Eater’s arm with terrifying precision, her spell clean, ruthless - delivered without hesitation when the man got too close. Harry, in the haze of pain and darkness, had vowed never to make her angry. Ever. The pitiful Light Side and their supposed disgusting moral high ground would never expect a severing charm to be used like that.

But Hermione Granger didn’t fight fair. Not when it came to protecting people she deemed as hers.

And in the dream- like every time- Harry could still feel the Dark Lord’s mind clawing at his own, and his best friend’s voice, his sister, grounding him in the storm.

Her voice, desperate. Her hands, shaking.

His pain, endless.

Ron stood like a fortress in front of them, his body tense and wand raised with lethal precision at anyone who dared look twice. His eyes, usually full of easy humour, were narrowed to slits, burning with fury at anyone who so much as glanced the wrong way. He was daring them. Daring anyone, Ministry official, reporter, even Dumbledore himself, to come a single step closer.

Even Dumbledore wasn’t immune to Ron’s rage at Harry’s distress. Harry who was Ron and Hermione’s brother in everything that mattered. And anyone threatening his brother could simply die.

Ron looked ready to murder anyone who threatened him. No questions. No hesitation. Just death.

And apparently, he looked the part. Because not even the most self-important Ministry official nor the vultures with cameras and Quick-Quotes Quills dared breach the line he’d drawn. Not one soul got close.

It helped -or didn’t, depending on how you looked at it- that the entire battlefield was in chaos. Screams echoed through the ruined corridors, spells still sparking off stone. And at the centre of it all, the reason for the frenzy lay with Harry.

Because Harry was almost certain he had just killed Voldemort.

And that made him the storm in the eye of it all.

“Harry, eyes up here,” Hermione snapped, her voice cutting through the chaos with practiced authority. Her hands moved with precision, healing spells glowing at her fingertips, wand flicking seamlessly between diagnostics and cures. Around her, dozens of potions hovered in midair, bottles clinking softly before she selected one, uncorked it with a flick, and shoved it against Harry’s lips. He swallowed because she left no room for argument- and because somewhere in the haze of pain and magic, he knew she was the only reason he wasn’t dead yet.

He was fairly certain he would’ve died long ago if Hermione Granger weren’t always so ruthlessly, impossibly prepared.

“Back the BLOODY FUCK AWAY!” Ron’s roar shook the corridor, raw magic crackling around him like a storm about to break. His wand was forgotten… he didn’t need it after all. He flung protective wards at Harry and Hermione, using his wandless magic to intimidate onlookers. The wards slammed into place with a thunderous snap, golden light flaring around the three of them, the force of it sending several onlookers stumbling back. The wards pulsed with power, not just Ron’s, but something deeper, ancient.

They were powered by the bond all three of them shared… powered by the magic between siblings-in-arms. There hadn’t been an active bond like that since the day of the founders. There were whispers of a similar bond being held between Dumbledore and Grindelwald. However there was never any evidence of it. Now, that same magic pulsed between Ron, Hermione, and Harry- visible, tangible, and undeniable.

Beside him, Ron’s baby sister was just as angry and appeared just as murderous.

Ginny’s fury burned. Her wand was in hand, eyes narrowed like a predator’s, and she looked just as ready to draw blood. No one -not officials, not press, not even their so-called allies- would be able to get to Harry and Hermione… not without going through her.

“Depending on CHILDREN TO FIGHT YOUR OWN BATTLES! BLOODY WORTHLESS!” Ginny was screeching, blood running down her arms and eyes almost black in her rage. 

Neville apparated into the Ministry with an ear-deafening crack of thunder, a glowing potion clutched tight in his arms. Wards flared as he tore through them like parchment, unbothered by the layers of protection meant to slow intruders. He didn’t even break stride.

If anyone had ever doubted Neville Longbottom’s place in the prophecy- if there had been whispers that he wasn’t quite enough- that doubt shattered the instant he forced his way through the potent magical barriers like they were smoke.

“Here,” Neville demanded, unwavering, dropping to a crouch beside his godbrother. His eyes locked on Harry’s, full of determination. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t falter.

Not even once

Hermione took the potion from his hands without a word, her own trembling fingers steadying around the vial as she worked. “Thanks,” She’d murmured, voice low, almost tender. Her cool hands ran across Harry’s forehead, pushing back sweat-drenched hair, murmuring spells that dulled the agony twisting through his body.

Possession. Pain so deep it was etched into his very soul.

And…. Horcruxes.

The word echoed in Harry’s mind like a curse. 

Hermione’s hands shook for the briefest moment - just long enough to betray how close she was to unraveling. If she weren’t so focused on keeping Harry alive, she’d be tearing through the Ministry vultures just like Ron, wand blazing.

But Harry was suffering.

He’d just had a piece of Voldemort’s soul ripped from his scar, his very magic cracking beneath the strain, and he was seconds away from a full-blown seizure. His body convulsed once, twice and Hermione tightened her grip, her magic flaring bright and fierce, anchoring him to the present.

“No,” She’d whispered, more to herself than anyone else. But Harry had heard her. 

“Not today. Not him.”

Neville worked quickly, drawing blood runes along Harry’s temples and down the line of his jaw, the strokes precise, practiced. A gift of knowledge hard-won from the goblins, a part of the lessons they’d all received from them. Neville’s hands never trembled. They couldn’t afford to.

Striding from across the room, Luna stepped into the intention wards, her presence calm amidst the storm. The moment her feet crossed the barrier, the air changed -thickened with magic older than language. Her wand began to move in slow, deliberate arcs, weaving intricate sigils into the ward lines, her lips moving in a chant only she understood. Her eyes glowed, pupils swallowed by swirling purple- the unmistakable mark of a Noble Seer, one touched by Lady Fate herself.

To the onlookers outside the wards they would see nothing but chaos. Just three desperate kids fighting to save the Boy-Who-Lived with panic in their eyes. And certainly none of the illegal magic they were using.

But on the inside, a powerhouse of a dark ritual was being performed. Magic heavy and thrumming with ancient power, the kind only invoked to preserve a soul on the edge of tearing apart. A ritual to keep Harry’s soul in place as they cleansed it from the remains of the horrid thing Voldemort had placed inside of Harry’s scar all those years ago. They were tearing out the rot Voldemort had buried deep within his scar, that had festered inside Harry for nearly his entire life.

Five agonizing minutes passed, the kind that felt like lifetimes, before Harry’s body stilled. His eyes flew open, a ragged gasp torn from his lungs as his back arched, tears trailing silently down his cheeks.

Hermione and Neville’s arms were slick with blood  -not all of it his - and relief shone in their eyes like cracked glass catching light. Hermione’s shoulders shook, a choked sound breaking from her throat as she wiped at her face with trembling fingers.

“Did- did it work?” Harry had rasped, clutching at his chest.

Ron and Ginny were at his side in an instant… protective, frantic, torn between guarding him and threatening anyone who dared step closer. Ron looked like he was ready to hex the next person who even breathed too loudly in Harry’s direction.

Neville helps him into a sitting position, Harry’s head lying limp on Neville’s chest as his godbrother held him tightly. The pressure in his skull and chest had eased exponentially and he could finally… finally breathe. 

Across the room, Luna and Hermione moved in tandem, erasing the last traces of the ritual, sealing the blood runes with quiet spells. Hermione sniffled once, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as she tried -and failed- to keep from crying.

“It worked, Harry,” Luna replies for everyone, because they were all high strung on emotions. 

She was aware of just exactly how many people had heard her, as her voice cut through the silence like silver thread, strong and sure when no one else could find the words.

The entirety of the Ministry goes silent, listening with bated breaths. 

And then, she lifted her head, eyes still glowing with that eerie purple light as she stared at the crowd beyond the wards.

Her next words plunged everything into chaos.

“Voldemort is dead.”

Harry blinked awake slowly, breath hitching in his throat. His mind was thick with fog- the lingering weight of his dream/nightmare, as well as the dull haze from the potions still swimming through his veins. His limbs felt heavy, like he’d run a marathon in his sleep.

He sat up with a groan, wincing as the motion sent a dull throb through his temples. His hand fumbled along the side table, finding his glasses by touch. He shoved them onto his face and scrubbed a hand over his eyes, exhaling heavily.

“Welcome back to the land of the semi-functional,” Ron quips, hovering a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, posture stiff with tension. Red hair was sticking up at odd angles like he’d been running his hands through it again and his jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He looked like he was trying hard to seem relaxed, to keep things light, but his sharp, worried gaze never strayed from Harry for a second. His wand was tucked into his front pocket, and his hand hovered near it, like he was ready to jump into action at the slightest sign of trouble.

“You were thrashing again,” Hermione muses softly, seated at the edge of the couch with a vial in hand. Her expression was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, and Harry could tell she hadn’t stopped watching him since the nightmare started. “We tried to wake you sooner, but-”

“It was just a dream,” Harry mumbles, even though they all knew better.

“‘Just a dream,’ he says,” Ginny mutters under her breath, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “Sounded more like a bloody exorcism.”

Luna appears at his side, silently handing him a glass of water before perching on the arm of the couch like some serene, ethereal guardian. “You said horcrux… three times.”

Harry blinked up at her. “…I did?”

“Mmhmm,” Luna nods. 

Hermione pushes a vial into his hands before he could respond. “Calming Draught. Take it.”

Harry gave her a flat look, “I’m calm.”

“You’re not,” She snaps, then pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Please, Harry. Just take the damn potion. For my own sanity if not yours.”

Ron, ever so helpful, raises his butterbeer again. “Bottoms up, mate. It’s not that bad. Tastes like minty socks.”

Harry sighed in defeat and uncorked the vial, tipping it back with a grimace. “Disgusting.”

“Told you,” Ron grins.

“You said minty socks, Ronald. Calming draughts don’t taste like that,” Harry mutters, making a face.

“Stop whining,” Hermione said, though her voice softens. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Not for the first time,” Neville adds from his place by the window, holding one of his potted plants like it might offer comfort. “Probably not the last either.”

Harry blinks at all of them- the concern in their faces, the exhaustion in their eyes. His chest tightens, not from pain, but from something else.

Gratitude.

He wasn’t alone.

Not in his nightmares, not in his waking moments, not in anything.

A loud pop interrupted the heavy silence, followed by the rustling of fabric and the clatter of something metallic.

“Dinner is READY, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby announces at full volume, striking what he clearly thought was a heroic pose. He stood at the foot of the couch in a violently mismatched outfit: a golden silk waistcoat with emerald buttons, a kilt made of tartan tea towels, and a floppy wizard hat that nearly covered one eye. His feet were adorned with fuzzy, purple socks, one of which jingled with every step.

The group stared.

“Dobby,” Ginny says slowly, a small unconscious smile continuously growing on her face, “you look… fantastic.”

“Dobby has dressed for the occasion,” The elf beams, puffing out his chest. “Dinner is a most sacred time! And Master Harry Potter must eat everything on his plate, Healer Godra’s strict instructions!”

“I’m suddenly terrified,” Ron mutters, eyeing the single jingling sock warily.

“Dobby has prepared a full feast. And dessert! Treacle tart, sir!” Dobby’s ears flapped with excitement. “Come, come, while it’s hot!”

Harry manages a small smile, the first in what felt like forever, and pushes himself off the couch with a soft groan. The calming draught had dulled the edge of his anxiety, settling his nerves like a warm blanket pressed against his frayed mind. His thoughts, which had been a jumbled storm of noise and panic, now moved slowly…. not numb, just quiet. For the first time all day, he didn’t feel like he was about to come apart at the seams.

“Lead the way, Dobby,” He murmurs, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening.

Dobby’s eyes sparkled like Christmas lights, and with a dramatic bow and another pop, he vanishes toward the dining room, leaving the sound of jingling socks and the faint scent of treacle in his wake.

“I think he’s getting worse,” Neville whispers as they followed, still clutching one of his favourite plants like a comfort object.

“He’s getting weirder,” Ron corrects, “But if there’s dessert, I’m not complaining.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hermione mutters. “Last time, he tried to serve pumpkin juice while dressed in a pumpkin costume.”

Harry laughs, genuinely, and for the first time in days, he felt the heaviness ease just a little more. He adored his friends… his family. 

They filed into the dining room, still chuckling, the warmth of the moment wrapping around them like a shared spell. Grimmauld Place, with its gloomy portraits and creaky floors, felt a little less oppressive when filled with laughter.

The table was absurdly grand for the six of them, set with mismatched plates, flickering candles, and a centrepiece of what appeared to be levitating fruit… all spinning in slow, enchanted circles. Dobby reappeared with a loud pop, dramatically pulling out chairs with the exaggerated flourish of a high-society butler.

“Please be seated, most noble friends of Harry Potter!” He announces, doffing his floppy hat, and his ears were fluttering with excitement. “Tonight’s menu includes roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and treacle tart, made with extra love and magical zest, sir!”

“What in Merlin’s name is magical zest?” Ginny asked, eyeing the floating fruit warily.

“Dobby’s secret recipe!” The elf chirps, vanishing again toward the kitchen.

Ron leaned over and whispered, “Should we be worried that the fruit’s still spinning?”

“Yes,” Hermione answers flatly, though her eyes were brighter than they’d been in days.

Harry took a seat between Neville and Luna, the clatter of cutlery and the buzz of conversation wrapping around him like armour- not hard, but familiar, steadying. The calming draught still hummed through his veins, taking the edge off everything; the fear, the grief, the endless exhaustion. For once, the storm in his head had quieted, and in its place was the soft murmur of home, of safety.

He glanced around the table, at Ron mock-wrestling a salt shaker, Ginny stealing bites off his plate, Hermione trying to stop Dobby from lighting the mashed potatoes on fire for dramatic flair, and Luna quietly enchanting her napkin into the shape of a moonflower.

Harry smiled, slow and real.

Whatever came next, whatever strange twist his life threw at him again- right now, he had this.

He had them.

Sunlight crept through the heavy curtains of Grimmauld Place, slipping in soft gold slants across the worn floorboards and the tangled pile of sheets on Harry’s bed. Dust motes danced lazily in the light, the stillness only broken by the occasional creak of old wood and the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he stirred beneath the covers, tangled in dreams he couldn’t quite remember.

A low, insistent hiss sounded beside his ear, followed immediately by a sharp peck to the top of his head.

“Oi,” Harry groaned, flailing blindly as he tried to fend off whatever had just attacked him. Something cold and smooth coiled around his wrist, and a familiar feathery weight settled with dramatic heaviness on his chest.

::Harry wake you, Basil is bored::

The hissing voice was smooth and young, filled with imperious displeasure. Harry squinted one eye open and came face-to-face with gleaming ruby slitted eyes, far too close for comfort.

Basil could barely even speak to him. And yes he named his baby Basilisk, Basil. Harry had panicked okay? It didn’t help that Ron had laughed so hard at it, he’d started full-out crying. Funny thing was that Ron absolutely adored Basil and treated the tiny snake like one would their own child. 

::Basil:: He grumbles, blinking against the sunlight, ::You bit me. Again. I told you biting people is considered rude,::

::Harry ignored Basil:: Basil pouts, annoyed at his human, his tongue flicking out as he curled himself tighter around his arm. 

::Basil you can’t bite people you’re annoyed at, love. You’d be killing everyone:: Harry hisses at his basilisk baby, making Basil pout even more. 

::Basil doesn’t kill Harry though:: Basil grumbles, hissing and continuously moving.

::I’m your human Basil, that’s why,:: Harry hisses back at Basil in Parseltongue, planting a gentle kiss on his snake’s snout.

::Fine:: Basil grumbles.

Hedwig, from her perch on his chest, hoots her disapproval and nips at his hair again.

Harry groans, reaching for his glasses with one hand while the other kept Basil from sliding off the bed. The tiny basilisk hisses his displeasure but allowed himself to be lifted. He plops the tiny baby snake in his collarbone and Basil burrows himself there.  At a single foot long, he was small for his species -still a hatchling- but his muscles were solidly growing, his scales warm from sleeping in Harry’s body’s heat all night.

His eyes, thankfully, remained covered with a thin natural membrane that protected others from his deadly gaze. Only Harry, bound to him by ancient familiar magicks, could look into Basil’s eyes and not die.

Hedwig flapped off his chest and landed on the nightstand, watching him with bright, judgmental eyes.

“I’m up, alright?” Harry mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face as he stood and stretched, feeling the stiffness of a body that hadn’t slept nearly enough. 

::Basil wants eat now::

::It’s want to eat, Basil:: Harry corrects and Basil looks like he was thinking it over before he nods primly. 

::Okay, Basil wants to eat::

::I’ll get you a mouse, love:: Harry tells his baby and receives a couple happy licks in reply. 

Hedwig hoots again, clearly agreeing with the need for food, and tugged at his shirt with her beak before taking flight toward the kitchen.

“Traitors, the lot of you,” Harry mutters, but he follows his owl downstairs, socks sliding slightly on the warped wood of Grimmauld’s ancient halls.

The kitchen was, predictably, chaos.

Ron was buttering an ungodly amount of toast, ignoring Hermione’s sharp lecture on moderation. Ginny and Neville were arguing over who got the last blueberry muffin- a heated exchange punctuated by Ginny nearly shoving Neville off his chair. Luna was humming cheerfully to herself as she added a glowing sprinkle of something to the jug orange juice.

“There he is!” Ginny grins,  “The walking corpse returns! Catch!”

She tosses him a muffin, which Harry caught on reflex before flopping into the chair beside her. 

Hermione shoves a plate toward him, eyes sharp. “Eat. Now. No arguments.”

Neville gives Hermione a look, handing Harry a cup of tea, his expression gentler. “You sleep alright?”

Harry hesitates and Hedwig, now perched on top of his head, gave him a warning nip .

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs, “Nightmares weren’t as bad.”

Ron raises a brow but said nothing as he pours himself more juice.

“You screamed in Parseltongue for a while. It was melodic.” Luna murmurs, her voice as dreamy as ever and Harry blinks at her, startled.

“What she means…” Hermione says, sighing as she plants her plate on the table in front of them, “… is that we’re still worried about you. So drink your tea, eat your muffin, and don’t pass out during lessons today.”

Harry raises his hands in mock surrender, but the truth was that the potions from the night before had done their job. The calming draught still lingered in his system, softening the edges of his anxiety, making his thoughts clearer. 

Breakfast passed with the usual shenanigans; Ron nearly choking on his toast, Ginny and Neville duelling over the last sausage, Luna calmly sipping sparkling orange juice -with god knows what inside of it- while Basil occasionally flicked his tongue at the food. He’d finished his mouse and Basil was now munching on some sausages Dobby got for Basil.

Dobby appeared with another pop, dressed in a red velvet vest and mismatched socks, to announce their Gringotts lesson schedule.

“Knife sparring, then blood rune theory!” Dobby demands, “And Master Harry Potter must not forget his gloves this time!”

Harry groans. It was going to be a long day.

The ancient marble halls of Gringotts loomed with the kind of silent grandeur that could unnerve even the bravest witch or wizard. But Harry was used to it by now. He had been coming for lessons- if you could call sparring with knives and studying magic lessons- nearly every day since his second year. His friends had started coming since their third year ever since Harry had brought them. 

They were after all goblin classes; intense, bloody, and not meant for the faint of heart. They’d all become a tad more bloodthirsty than was normal as a result. But they’d survived the war all because of the goblins classes. And Harry would forever be loyal and grateful. 

He assumes that was part of the reason the goblins had invested so much into them.

Harry adjusts Basil in his sling beneath his cloak, his palm resting gently over his small, coiled form. The sling was spelled for warmth and concealment, and Basil nestled in like royalty. The baby snake was still, content, and as always sleepy as can be. Basil’s presence calmed him, grounding him in a way nothing else really could. He could feel the slow, steady thrum of his magic, a warm hum that vibrated against his ribs.

Beside him, Ron was bouncing on his heels, two daggers strapped to his hips, eyes gleaming with anticipation. His red hair was pulled back into a loose tie at the nape of his neck, sleeves rolled up, revealing faded scars and the defined muscle of someone who had seen too much battle for his young age. 

Hermione, in contrast, walked with practiced calm, her own blade hidden under her robes, wand holstered at her side. She had her usual leather-bound notebook tucked under one arm, already brimming with scribbled notes about rune theory and goblin duelling forms. 

Neville was already muttering a spell under his breath, his voice low and rhythmic, like a chant he’d spoken a thousand times before. He flexed his fingers as he walked, the movement both habit and preparation, as if drawing magic into his hands with each stretch. The scent of herbs clung to him- rosemary, thyme, and something sharp and sweet- and there was a calm focus in his eyes, the kind that only came from hours of patient work and quiet communion with the earth.

Luna floated beside him, her steps light, almost ethereal, as if the ground barely dared to touch her. Her gaze was distant, fixed on something only she could see, yet Harry knew better than to mistake it for distraction- Luna missed nothing. Her wand was tucked behind one ear like a quill, and her fingers moved in slow, thoughtful circles over the rune-carved charm hanging from her neck, as if drawing unseen patterns in the air. There was a quiet hum to her presence, an energy that felt both ancient and otherworldly, like the calm before a storm no one else could sense.

Ginny, in sharp contrast, radiated fire and purpose. She moved with the confidence of someone who had faced darkness and refused to flinch, her long hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail that swung like a banner behind her. Her eyes burned with determination, scanning their surroundings with the precision of a seasoned fighter, and though her wand rested at her hip, she looked perfectly capable of taking down a battalion with her bare hands… and would, if it came to that. There was no hesitation in her, only resolve.

A goblin met them at the main atrium, his polished armour gleaming under the enchanted lighting. His name was Grithnakh, and he regarded them with a mixture of respect and disdain- a typical goblin expression. “Come along younglings,” He rasps, gesturing with a clawed hand. "The Blade-master awaits. Do not dawdle."

The chamber they entered was cold, the kind of cold that bit at the bone and smelled faintly of iron and old stone. The floor was etched with duelling runes, glowing faintly red, and weapons lined the walls- blades of every make and enchantment. The walls were dark stone, warded and enchanted to prevent damage, with high, vaulted ceilings that made the room feel more like a crypt than a training hall.

The Blade-master, an ancient goblin named Master Kragth, stood in the centre like a carved statue, his gaze sharp as a knife’s edge. His skin was like old leather, stretched taut over sinew and bone, and his black eyes glowed faintly with magic.

"You are late," He hisses, voice like gravel.

"By a minute," Hermione mutters under her breath, but they all bow respectfully in tandem. They all knew better than to push Master Kragth’s patience.

Master Kragth wastes no time, "Pair up. Warm-up sparring. First blood only." 

Harry draws his daggers in silence, the familiar weight of goblin silver comforting in his grip. The daggers, crafted for him specifically, shimmered with runes along the hilt, were perfectly balanced and deadly. The grip was worn just right, molded to his hand from use.

He turned and met Ginny's gaze. She nodded, already slipping into a fighting stance, her own twin blades gleaming. They’d sparred often. She didn’t go easy on him. And he would never go easy on her either.

Steel clashed in the chamber, the sharp ring of metal echoing as they moved. Harry ducked her first strike, countered with a twist, forcing her back. She smirked, pivoted, and drove forward- fast, relentless. The world narrowed to the clash of blades, the sting of focus, the hum of his magic flaring with each movement.

Their duel ended with Ginny drawing a shallow line along his forearm. First blood.

"Sloppy," Master Kragth barks, "Again."

Harry was much more attuned to the impalement arts. He had wicked aim and never missed his mark when his daggers were thrown. One-on-one duels weren’t his strengths. 

As such he needed as much practice as he could.

He clenches his teeth, nods at the Blade-master, and started the duel up again. The others were already in the thick of it- Ron sparring with Neville and Luna dancing circles around Hermione with a blade in each hand like extensions of her will.

They sparred for an hour, the air heavy with exertion, filled with the sharp scent of sweat and iron. Every movement was a test; of speed, of will, of endurance. The floor was slick with sweat and streaked with blood, some fresh, some already drying into dark smears. Bruises bloomed like ink stains on arms, ribs, and jaws, muscles ached, joints throbbed- but no one complained. There was no room for weakness here. Master Kragth’s voice cut through the clash of steel and ragged breaths, barking orders with relentless precision, his tone as unforgiving as the drills themselves. 

“Faster, Potter. You’re thinking too much. Thinking gets you killed.”

“Again, Weasley. That stance is pathetic.”

On and on it went, without pause, without mercy. The hour felt like a lifetime.

By the end, Harry was slick with sweat, his shirt clinging to his back, bruises already darkening across his ribs and forearms. His lungs burned with each breath, sharp and uneven, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears- but he was standing. He was alive. And the pain? It was grounding. It cut through the lingering fog of dreams and memories, tethering him to the present, to the now. It reminded him that this -this fight, this grind- was real. And he was continuously improving and no one would ever hurt him again.

Master Kragth prowled around them like a wolf eyeing his pack, eyes sharp and unsparing. His presence was a pressure in the room, heavy and inescapable.

“You’ve improved,” He growls, voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. “Barely, though. Don’t get comfortable.”

He pauses, letting his gaze sweep over them, lingering just long enough to make each of them feel the weight of his judgment.

“Your next class is upon you. Wash up and leave. Dismissed.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks away, boots echoing on the stone floor, leaving them in the silence that followed, the kind that only came after extreme exhaustion.

For a beat, no one moved.

Then Ron groaned loudly, collapsing onto one of the benches along the wall. "I swear he gets meaner every week."

"You’re just mad Neville outlasted you during sparring," Ginny smirks, already casting a minor healing charm over a bruise on her arm.

"Barely!" Ron shoots back, but he didn’t move from his spot, eyes closed, chest heaving.

Hermione rolls her eyes and flicked her wand toward Harry. "Hold still. You’ve got blood on your face- not yours, I hope."

Harry blinked, too tired to argue, and let her cast the charm. Cool magic washed over him, cleaning grime and sealing small cuts. He felt a little more human afterward, “Thanks Mione,” He grumbles and the waves a hand over at her, casting the same array of spells she had on him.

“Thanks,” She grumbles, plopping on the floor, and pulling out a bottle of water to chug at it desperately.

"I feel like I’ve been run over by a hippogriff," Neville muttered, downing a small vial of healing potion with a wince, "Twice."

Luna hands Harry a similar vial with an encouraging smile. “It tastes like strawberries,”

Harry eyes it warily, "Why?"

"Because I told Dobby to make them taste more pleasant," She explains with a huff of laughter.

"Bless you, Luna," Ron groans, gulping his down and making a face. "Still gross, but less horrifying."

Hermione swept her wand over the group, casting quick cleaning charms and muttering about hygiene and wound care. "We’ve got five minutes before the next class opens. Try not to bleed on Master Morgril’s floors."

"I make no promises," Ginny snorts, hands raised up. She was lying star-fished on the floor, looking like the last thing she wanted to do was get up.

They rest for a couple minutes before they were all up and moving, groaning and shuffling towards the next chamber.

The chamber was darker, lined with obsidian. In the centre, a slab of black stone pulsed with red runes. The air was charged with power, the kind that settled in your bones and made your magic itch.

Master Morgril, a master runesmith, stood beside the altar. He was shorter than Kragth, but broader, with arms thick from centuries of rune-carving. His robes were etched with metallic threads that shimmered with protective sigils, and a circlet of silver rested on his brow.

“Greetings younglings,” Master Morgril muses with a frightening smile. “Looks like Kragth gave you all a workout today,” He snickers at their distress, looking abnormally happy at their exhaustion. “Sit down, and pull out your notes,” 

Harry sank down cross-legged near the edge of the chamber, wincing slightly as his bruised limbs protested. He reached into his enchanted satchel -a masterpiece of goblin and human craftsmanship- and pulled out his expandable notebook. The bag, made of thick dragonhide and rune-stitched with care, was charmed to hold ten times its volume, yet weighed almost nothing. Layers upon layers of protective wards shimmered faintly under the surface , anti-theft charms, curse wards, explosive countermeasures, all anchored to Harry's unique magical signature. Blood-locked and soul-bound, the bag responded only to him.

The same protections had been applied to his notebook- his most valuable possession. More than just parchment and ink, it was a living archive, enchanted to never decay or tear, and capable of expanding endlessly. It contained every note Harry had ever taken: from first-year charms to advanced battle strategy, obscure magical theory, and now, the intricate details of blood rune magic. Spells, rituals, personal observations, all inked in his own hand, woven together by magic that ensured it would never be duplicated or destroyed.

This notebook was, in every sense, an extension of himself, his mind, his magic, and his legacy.

Harry flipped it open with reverence, quill already in hand, ready to capture whatever came next from the Master runesmith.

"Today," Master Morgril began, his voice slow and resonant, “-we delve into the theory and practice of blood-forged bindings. You will not perform a full binding as you are not ready. But you will learn the structure and background.”

Master Morgril gestured to the slab. Runes shifted beneath the stone’s surface, aligning into patterns.

"A binding rune consists of three core components: the Base Sigil, the Intent Matrix, and the Blood Seal. Together, these elements form a complete circuit. Break any part, and the magic fails or backfires."

Hermione leaned forward, eyes wide. "Is this related to the tri-fold symmetry of rune layering theory?"

Master Morgril arched a brow, nodding slightly. "Yes. Tri-fold layering enhances stability. The Base Sigil sets the anchor- here." He pointed to a large, circular glyph etched in the centre of the slab. "The Intent Matrix is inscribed around the Base, encoding your desired outcome. The Blood Seal..." He looked at each of them. "...is your signature. Your price."

Harry watched as Master Morgril pricked his own palm, letting a drop of blood fall onto the glyph. The stone flared, runes glowing bright red before fading into gold.

"Your blood aligns the spell with your magic. Without it, the rune is inert- a skeleton without soul. Now, inscribe the Base Sigil."

They were handed carving tools; not metal, but obsidian blades etched with control runes.

Harry traced the pattern carefully, hand steady. His rune glowed faintly, then dimmed. Ron, beside him, carved with practiced ease. Luna’s strokes were elegant, artistic. Neville cursed softly, scraping too deep.

Master Morgril inspected each.

"Acceptable. Now, the Intent Matrix; choose a purpose: protection, concealment, or binding."

Harry chose protection. His runes twisted around the Base, flowing like water.

Master Morgril nodded at him, “Now seal it."

Harry poked his finger, blood dripping onto the centre. Magic flared, rushing through the stone, and the rune pulsed.

"Good," Master Morgril said, eyes glinting. "Tomorrow, you bind an object. Today, you will practice this until your precision is near perfect.”

The chamber buzzed with raw energy, and Harry felt the rune resonate with his core, magic vibrating under his skin.

He always loved learning something new.

Lunch was in the Goblin halls; thick bread, spiced meat, as well as something that tasted oddly like dragonfruit. The chamber was dimly lit, the long stone table carved with more runes, enchanted to keep the food warm.

Dobby had sent him off with treacle tarts, and Harry shared his with Neville, watching his friends laugh and bicker over their lunch. Ron had challenged Ginny to a hot sauce eating contest, and Hermione was muttering about ulcers like she was already preparing their medical charts.

It started innocently enough- Ron boasting that no one could handle heat like he could. Ginny, never one to back down from a challenge (especially not from her brother), had shot him a wicked grin and dared him to prove it. Now, the two were seated at the end of the Gringotts dining hall, surrounded by a small audience of goblins who looked equal parts horrified and entertained. A row of tiny glass vials - each containing a progressively more ominous shade of red liquid- lined the table like a battlefield.

Harry, still nursing the ache in his fingers and hands from the blood rune lesson, leaned back in his chair and watched the chaos unfold with amusement, Basil was tucked safely against his chest. 

Neville and Luna had settled nearby with plates of food, though Neville looked vaguely concerned, probably calculating how many healing salves they’d need post-contest.

Hermione was pacing just behind Ron, arms crossed, wand already at the ready. “You’re going to destroy your digestive lining, Ronald. And don’t even think about coming to me when you can’t feel your tongue or if you start vomiting fire,”

“That sounds brilliant,” Ron replies, waving away her concerns and lifting the first vial with a flourish. “Fire-breathing Weasley- could be my next career move.”

Ginny rolls her eyes, snatching her own vial. “Please. I’ve survived Charlie’s cooking. This’ll be a breeze.”

Harry laughs, genuinely entertained as he was surrounded by his ridiculous, fiercely loyal friends.

He snorts, watching Luna, ever calm, apparently feeding bits of bread to a tiny creature no one else could see, claiming it was an Ember Wisp or something.

Apparently Ember wisps were invisible insects that looked like ember gemstones. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to deem Luna unbelievable. Everyone knows never to bet against their little moon. Anything she said was deemed as truth. Which kind of sucked considering that sometimes Luna lied on purpose just to fuck with people. It would be funny if Harry wasn’t the butt of her jokes a fifth of the time. 

Ginny and Ron were already two vials in, both red-faced and determined, and it was starting to get entertaining- or concerning, depending on whom you asked. The Goblins were thoroughly entertained at least.

Hermione had conjured two goblets of milk just in case, and was now standing over them with her arms crossed, brow furrowed so deeply it could cut steel. “This is reckless. Absolutely, utterly reckless. You do realize stomach-lining doesn’t regenerate overnight, right? And your pain tolerance isn’t as high as you both think it is.”

Ron didn’t even look at her. “Third one, let’s go, Gin.”

Ginny, eyes gleaming with competitive fire, grabbed the vial and clinked it against his like it was the toast before a battle. “Try not to cry, Ronald.”

Meanwhile, Harry kept a wary eye on Luna.

She was humming to herself, eyes unfocused but sharp, one finger delicately tapping out a rhythm against the tabletop while dropping crumbs into what appeared to be… nothing. Nothing visible, anyway.

“Luna… are you feeding your friend again?” Neville asked, ever the polite one, though he did glance at Harry like is she okay? as he buttered another roll.

Luna tilted her head serenely, her silvery-blonde hair half-braided, half a mess of soft waves, and gave Neville a pitying look. “They’re Ember Wisps, Neville. I told you already- they’re highly sensitive to emotions. They feed on contentment and carbohydrates.”

Harry raised a brow. “So… bread?”

“Exactly.” Luna gave him a soft smile, as if he’d passed some kind of ancient test. “They’re attracted to safe spaces. They like us.”

Harry wasn’t going to argue. He’d long ago learned Luna’s truth had a strange way of proving itself when least expected- and the last time he’d doubted her, he’d nearly been tackled by a pack of Moon Frogs she swore lived in the Black Lake. Spoiler: they did.

“Honestly, you’re just mad they don’t like you, Neville,” Luna added airily, feeding another crumb to the empty air beside her cup.

Neville flushed and muttered something unintelligible into his pumpkin juice.

Harry grinned, but his attention snapped back to the contest just in time to see Ron sputtering violently, face a vibrant red, tears streaming down his cheeks. Ginny was panting, her own eyes wide, but she looked triumphant.

“That’s five, Ronniekins. Time to tap out?” Ginny teases, though her voice was raspier than usual.

Ron slaps the table. “Never. Number six. Let’s GO.”

“They’re going to die,” Neville grumbles, eyes rolling up to stare at the ceiling.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione interjects, snatching the remaining vials and vanishing them with a flick of her wand. “This is over. You’re both idiots, and I refuse to spend the afternoon watching you throw up lava.”

Ron groans dramatically while Ginny cackles, clearly declaring herself the victor.

Harry shakes his head, still smiling as he carefully adjusts Basil in his sling. The baby basilisk stirred, his tiny, iridescent scales glimmering in the low light. He gave a soft, hissing yawn and nuzzled into Harry’s chest. He patted his baby familiar gently, feeling the warmth of his body against Harry’s ribs.

“Alright,” Hermione said, shifting gears with practiced ease, “-now that everyone’s survived their reckless life choices, we have to go. The Gringotts team’s finished the ritual on the manor’s wards. Today’s the day we open Potter Manor.”

“Did they say what we should expect?” Neville asked, his brow furrowing.

“No,” Hermione replied, tightening her ponytail. “Just that it’s been sealed since Harry’s parents died. And that whatever they left behind… it’s time for Harry to claim it.”

Harry stood slowly, slipping his notebook back into his warded satchel and securing Basil close. His heart beat faster - not with fear, but something else. Anticipation. Maybe even hope.

“Let’s go then,” He says quietly, and turns to Hermione, “Apparation?”

His best friend shrugs, clearly not minding the illegal act as they were underage. Well Harry was emancipated so he didn’t think it counted in his case. But she gives him a look-  the kind that hovered somewhere between exasperation and fondness- before giving him a huff and rolling her eyes in defeat.

Hermione taps her chin, clearly already sorting through contingency plans in her mind. “Well, technically we could Apparate, but I’m sure Master Elfric can provide a portkey or something,” She muses thoughtfully, glancing toward the hall where the goblin had disappeared. “It would be safer, considering the wards around the manor might be a tad volatile. The last thing we need is to trigger an ancestral defence system by accident.”

Harry blinks at her, brow raised, “You’re worried about wards with me here?”  

Ginny snorts crossing her arms, “We can’t all depend on mage sight to destroy and create theory-breaking wards that have the goblins begging you to work with them,” 

Harry flushes slightly, but didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong after all.

Mage Sight; was what the goblins had called it. 

A rare magical gift that allowed the bearer to see the threads and weaves of magic in their purest form. To Harry, it had first manifested when he was but nay a child, the world shifting subtly when he concentrated, the air rippling faintly, glowing lines of power revealing themselves along objects, people, and even the walls of Hogwarts. At first, he thought it was just a common thing all wixen were able to do… his belief was completely annihilated when people kept giving him weird looks for his more-than-keen-kind-of-creepy observations. 

With Mage Sight, he didn’t just sense magic- he saw it. Wards appeared like luminous spiderwebs of intent and power, glowing in colours only he could interpret. He could unravel them, manipulate them with ease, often instinctively. The goblins- particularly the Rune Masters at Gringotts-  had been astonished, especially when he’d dismantled one of their high-security vault locks in under five minutes during a training exercise.

It had led to more lessons, more scrutiny- and offers. The goblins wanted nothing more than to work with him. 

“I still say it’s cheating,” Ron mutters from behind a cup of milk. “I try to read a ward and it smacks me in the face. Harry looks at it and it bloody purrs at him.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “That only happened like three times.”

Hermione sniffs, “Regardless, volatile or not, the manor’s wards could be unpredictable, and as impressive as your mage sight is, I’d rather not test it against centuries-old blood magic unless we have to. Let’s go ask Master Elfric about the portkey.” She pushes her hair back with the air of someone deeply done with all of them. “Besides, I’m not worried about you, Harry. I’m worried about the rest of us not having a god-damn bloodline gift to help us not die by the hands of an ancient manor that might eat us alive if we breathe wrong.”

Ron blinks up at her, “Wait… Ancient manors have wards that can do that?”

Neville sighs, thinking of the Longbottom manor, “Honestly, I’d be more surprised if they couldn’t.”

Luna tilts her head slightly,  “I read somewhere that old magical estates develop temperaments after being sealed for too long. Potter Manor could be brooding and lonely.”

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered, rubbing his face. “We’re walking into a haunted house with a soul and Harry’s our human key.”

Harry gave him a flat look, “Comforting. Really.”

Ginny grins, clearly unbothered. “I stand by what I said. You’re the goblins’ favourite ward-breaker. They practically fall over themselves when you start designing your own wards.”

Harry rolls his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Mage sight isn’t cheating, you know. It’s hard to control and I can barely see beyond magic most of the time. It took a lot of practice to control it.”

“Let’s not discuss the rest of your bloodline gifts if you want to talk about cheating,” Hermione mutters, already rummaging through her satchel for parchment and quills. “Regardless, we’ll still need a port-key. Let’s find Master Elfric before any of you start hexing each other out of boredom.” 

“And maybe get snacks?” Ron adds hopefully. “I mean, in case the manor does try to eat us. I’d rather not die hungry.”

“You just finished lunch,” Harry gives his best friend an exasperated look. 

“I’m a growing boy!” 

Ginny groans loudly, throwing her hands up. “You’ve been growing for the past ten years, Ron, when does it stop?”

“When I’m taller than Bill,” Ron shoots back, grinning smugly. 

“In your dreams,” Ginny fires out, reaching up to tug on his ear with all the grace of a professional menace. Ron yelps and ducks out of reach, nearly knocking over a goblin clerk who glared daggers at him before stalking off, muttering about younglings.

“Behave,” Hermione hisses, not even looking up from the parchment she was furiously scribbling notes on. “Do you want to get banned from Gringotts before we graduate as Masters ourselves?”

“We won’t get banned,” Luna chimed in serenely, now trailing behind them with a handful of glittery pebbles she’d picked up from somewhere. “The goblins like chaos. It keeps them entertained.”

Neville blinks, staring down at his girlfriend fondly, “That’s…. true.”

“Besides,” Luna adds, tilting her head toward Ron, “Ron’s blood sugar is always dangerously low. I think that’s why he eats and talks so much.”

“Oi!” Ron splutters, looking deeply betrayed as the others laughed. “Et tu, Luna?”

Harry shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up despite himself. “Let’s just find Master Elfric,” Harry sighs, adjusting Basil’s sling and steering them toward the vault chambers. “Before Ron starts gnawing on his wand or Ginny actually stabs him with hers.”

“No promises,” Ginny mutters, but she falls into step beside him anyway, wand twirling lazily between her fingers.

They make their way down the winding Gringotts corridor, the stone beneath their feet etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly as they passed. 

The runes pulsed in harmony with their student slabs; flat, rectangular stones no larger than a palm, each engraved with a unique sigil that shimmered faintly in the light. As they passed through the towering archway leading to the inner sanctum of Gringotts, the slabs flared briefly, resonating with the ancient magic embedded in the stonework itself. The sensation was subtle -a soft hum in the air, like two notes striking perfect harmony- but unmistakable.

These slabs were tokens of their student status as well as lifelines to keep them safe.

Crafted by the Master Runesmiths and Master Craftsmen, each slab was personally attuned to the bearer’s magical signature, bound by blood and intent. For Harry and his friends, the slabs granted them unrestricted access to the City Below; the sprawling labyrinth of Gringotts’ subterranean world, where goblin society thrived beyond the public-facing bank. Most witches and wizards didn’t even know Gringotts had a city hidden beneath the vault levels, let alone one warded so fiercely that any unauthorized intrusion would trigger immediate and fatal defences.

Without the slabs… well, they’d probably be dead.

The goblins didn’t take kindly to trespassers after all.

The moment anyone stepped into the deeper levels without proper identification, the vault wards -ancient, sentient constructs- would activate with lethal precision. Traps would spring. Runic guardians would awaken. And the city guardians, including dragons, sentient constructs, and magic-forged beasts, would descend onto them without hesitation.

The slabs were protection, yes-  but they were also a mark of trust.

Few outsiders ever received them. Fewer still from the surface world. The fact that all six of them bore the King’s personal seal meant something … meant everything in goblin society. It marked them as allies… as official goblin friends… and as students worthy of goblin knowledge. 

Harry rubbed his thumb over the cool surface of his slab, feeling the faint tingle of his own magic pulse back in greeting. 

The air was cool, almost unnaturally so, carrying the faint scent of ink, parchment, and old magic. Basil hissed quietly from the sling at Harry’s chest, his little head poking out just enough to flick his tongue curiously at their surroundings. Harry rubbed his scales gently, murmuring reassurance under his breath. Basil wasn’t usually so unconstrained, knowing the danger of revealing himself outside of the walls of Gringotts. 

However, when they were in safe walls, Basil was free to act like the spoiled, lovable baby he was.

They found Master Elfric near the entrance to the Vault Chambers, his sharp eyes glinting as he oversaw a group of junior goblins sorting enchanted lockboxes. He was clad in deep crimson robes today, the heavy fabric embroidered with gold thread in patterns that seemed to shift if one stared too long.

“Master Elfric,” Hermione called, stepping forward with her usual brisk authority. “Do you have a moment? We’re ready to head to Potter Manor, and we’d like to avoid risking Apparition with the wards being as… unstable as they are.”

Ron snorts, under his breath, “Better than ending up mid-splinch.”

Neville gives a solemn nod, murmuring to Harry, “I like my limbs where they are, thanks.”

Master Elfric’s gaze flicked over the group, lingering on Harry, then Basil, and finally settling on Hermione with a faint nod. “Wise. The wards surrounding the manor are keyed to Potter blood, yes, but they’ve been dormant for over a decade. Disruption during apparition could have… unpleasant results.”

Ron muttered something about being blown up, earning a sharp elbow from Ginny.

“We’ll need a portkey if you please Master Elfric,” Harry said, stepping forward, his voice steady. “Something simple. And keyed to me.”

Master Elfric inclined his head, the silver of his piercings catching the light as he stepped past them toward a nearby worktable carved directly into the stone wall. “I must craft one. Gringotts maintains stored magical records for all ancient bloodlines- including the Potters. We will use that to safely attune the portkey to your signature and the manor’s original wardstone circle. It is the only secure entry point until you reassert ownership.”

From a drawer embedded beneath the runic surface, Master Elfric withdrew a thin slate tablet, flicking his long fingers over its etched surface. It lit up faintly, pulsing in time with the ambient magic of the room. He started to process, muttering under his breath, “Potter line... ward anchor located…. magic intact…. dormant … will respond to the heir.”

Master Elfric selected a small, unadorned iron coin and set it on the centre of the table, its surface dull and weathered from age. He grabbed his runic slab from inside his desk and set it beside the coin. Runic slabs were used by rune masters to quickly and easily perform runic spells atoned to their magical imprint. It was so that they didn’t need to keep redrawing the more common runes over and over again. Harry had been working on his own runic slab for the better part of a year but he was still hardly anywhere near close to finishing. 

With a grunt of concentration, Elfric placed one clawed hand over his personal runic slab, the other hovering above the coin, fingers splayed wide, muttering in Gobbledegook. 

His voice deepened, resonant with magic as he began to chant in Gobbledegook — the harsh, rhythmic cadence of the goblin tongue filling the chamber like the sound of grinding stone and crackling fire.

“Zarkhul mâg’hren Potteras, lok’thal vrenai. Haur’mek valzur, bindrek’gorn ash’teth.” (By the blood of Potter, call forth the ancestral flame. Bind the old wards, awaken the path.)

Runes along the slab sparked to life, pulsing red and gold, racing across the table to encircle the coin. Harry watched, eyes narrowed as he translated silently, catching each word. He was fluent after years of study.

The coin began to glow, slow at first, then with a sudden flare, the Potter crest -a stag standing in front of a shield with a sword floating diagonally in front of the stag- seared itself into the iron, molten gold against the blackened metal. A ripple of power surged outward, and Harry felt it instantly as well as seeing the Potter magicks whirl around above the coin before diving inside of the coin. It caused a tug beneath his skin, his own magic answering.

Master Elfric’s eyes snapped open, glowing faintly as the spell reached its end. The coin lifted from the slab of its own accord, floating between them for a heartbeat before it cooled and dropped gently into Elfric’s waiting hand.

The goblin inspected it, then gave a curt nod. “It is done. The portkey is attuned to your magic and the ancestral wardstone of Potter Manor. It will take you to the ward circle - the only place safe for entry until you reclaim dominion of the manor. You have taken up the mantle of Lord Potter, so you simply must touch the wardstone and the magicks there shall allow you entry.” 

Master Elfric handed the coin to Harry, who took it carefully, feeling the hum of old magic under his fingers. “Thank you.”

“You will do just fine, young Lord,” Master Elfric said, voice dropping to something quieter- not soft, but respected, measured… fond, in the way only someone ancient could be when looking upon something he’d seen countless times before; an heir stepping into the weight of his legacy. “The house remembers. And all family magicks want, crave, is for their blood to come home.”

Harry froze, fingers tightening around the portkey, the smooth metal now cool and heavy in his palm. The lump that rose in his throat was sudden and sharp, catching him off guard. He swallowed against it, hard, but it lingered like the echo of a voice he hadn’t heard in years.

Family.

The word shouldn’t have hurt. It wasn’t a wound- not anymore. Not after everything. But the way Elfric said it… it cut through all the scar tissue  instantly. 

He had taken up his Lordships the as quickly as he could when he and his friends had defeated Voldemort. The bloodline magics had recognized him instantly, binding themselves to the last Potter standing. Rings, titles, ancestral magics- all of it had claimed him the way magic always did…. without asking, without pause, and with a whole lot of gentleness and affection. 

The goblins had witnessed it firsthand during his first descent into the Hall of Records, where scions of noble houses usually took on the mantle of becoming official heirs. He’d been twelve at the time. The wards had parted for him, ancient defences recognizing him as a rightful successor, even before Harry himself had realized what had happened.

No ceremony, no choice. Just legacy- raw and unrelenting.

“I-” Harry’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat, forcing the words through the tightness in his chest. “Thank you, Master Elfric. I’ll… do right by it.” 

Master Elfric nods once, solemn, and for a moment, his sharp features softened. “The blood remembers, Lord Potter. And so does the magic. May your enemies tremble at your feet.” He dismisses them and the six of them turn away walking towards the exit. 

“Ready then?” Neville muses, looking at Harry with quiet understanding- the kind that came from knowing the feeling of holding such a large family legacy on his shoulders and knowing exactly how heavy it could be. His eyes, steady and grounded, held none of the pity Harry hated, only the solid kind of support that had carried them both through battles, fire and blood.

Harry met his gaze, drawing in a slow breath as the portkey thrummed faintly in his palm. “As I’ll ever be,” He murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, but the others heard it - and that was enough.

Ginny grins, sharp and feral, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s wake up your ancestral death trap, then.”

“I’m sure it’ll be charming,” Luna adds dreamily, stuffing a small pouch of glittering pebbles into her pocket. “Old manors usually are. Unless they’re cursed…. which most are.”

“Luna,” Hermione sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not helping.”

“I’m always helping. Just sometimes in ways you don’t expect,” Luna retorts serenely, twirling her wand in lazy loops that made nearby ambient magic flicker in response.

Ron huffs a laugh and claps Harry on the back. “Well, if your house does try to eat us, at least it’ll be a great story.”

“Assuming we live to tell it,” Hermione mutters, already double-checking her satchel of supplies.

Harry smiles faintly, heart thudding faster. He looked around at them- his people, his family by bond and battle-  and felt the tension settle, not disappear, but shift. Steadier. Braced.

“Alright,” He says, voice low but certain. “Let’s go.”

They circled around him, each placing a finger on the coin, magic humming between them as the portkey activated- and with a flash of golden light, they vanished. 

The Potter Manor awaited.