Soul Beneficiary

Of all the things—it starts with an owl.

Harry's head is pounding. It’s uncanny how it matches the rhythmic thump thump thump his steps make as he climbs the metal stairs up to his flat. He’s almost sure he'll never be able to have another thought ever again over the sound of seven-too-many rearing their resentment - but that can't be right, because he's pretty sure he's thinking all this right now. 

He groans loudly, the weight of it heavy in his chest, but it's the easiest way he can manage to confirm he isn't talking aloud. When the sound of it echos up the stairwell, he winces and at least knows he isn't going crazy. Yet.

Harry sighs after the last step. He’s frustrated and in pain, and can’t wrap his head around why that might be. He’s not a lightweight, but this hangover is killer . The worst he’s ever had. 

On the landing for his floor, he rummages through his jeans pockets for his keys. He pulls out three crumpled receipts, some pence, what he thinks is the metal tip of a biro, and a stick of chewing gum before he finds them. And he's just about ready to collapse right here in his entryway when his door latches behind him with a satisfying and quiet click.

It takes Herculean effort, but Harry doesn't collapse. If only because he knows how much better his mattress will feel - though the cool tile pressed against his flushed face doesn't sound half bad either. It’s something he very seriously considers. The walk home was long and strife with blaring noises and blinding lights, but at least the brisk autumn air had done wonders. With that thought, he finds the will to move, his steps nearly silent as he pads his way down the hall to the kitchen. 

Without stopping, he pulls open the closest cupboard to grab a glass, makes his way to the basin, and sets it aside to push out the window right above before he moves to fill it. The breeze sends Harry into a trance, and by the time he comes to, he's pleasantly resting his head on his folded arms at his small, two-seating dining table.

Harry sighs and mutters, "I solemnly swear not to drink this much ever again." Even though he knows he'll just get roped into it at the next party. But that isn't until Christmas or New Year's hols, so he has plenty of time to live in denial.

His eyes slip shut. He doesn't have to worry about work until 2; it's only 11. A little rest before then will only do him some good, and the soothing feeling of his hair ruffling is just so relaxing. How can he resist?

But as his eyes blink open one last time, as he tries to find any of the remaining energy that kept him off the floor to help boost him to his bed once again, he realises that it's not the wind messing with his hair.

It's an owl.
An owl?

What…?

Now: Harry's quite sure he's never really seen an owl. Of course, he'd seen them in class, probably in books or during that one environmental studies course he'd taken during secondary school when he was 13, maybe even at the zoo for Dudley's 11th birthday. But he can't recall a time in his life when he'd seen one out in the wild during the day or, more likely, at night. He's not even sure they're all that common to the area. 

So he can say with some confidence that he is probably not in a hangover-induced hallucination right now. (There is just no way Harry can hallucinate an owl in this much vivid detail.) Although if there were ever a good time to have one, Harry suspects the safety of his flat is nigh-near the best it can get.

"Uh," Harry croaks, staring wide-eyed up at the large bird of prey , his mind regretfully reminds him, and its sharp beak, "can I help you?" 

The owl, naturally, does not respond. It does hoot, however, and lifts its leg to present a— is that a fucking letter?

I've been drugged . He has almost no doubt. He'll have to dial everyone and tell them to get tested if they haven't already before it's too late.

The owl hops once, twice, and shakes its leg in Harry's face. It seems to be in a rush. Strangely, Harry does feel slightly guilty for holding it up. He carefully unties the letter from its leg, and it soars away, flying out of the window Harry had left open… that it had no doubt let itself in with earlier…

What?

He looks down and - It's heavy; Harry wonders at it. His mouth parts slightly as his thumb brushes the silky smooth texture of the envelope. The feel of it reminds him of a beautiful glass lamp Vernon had bought Petunia for one of their anniversaries.

Harry had always taken extra care to cradle the lamp in his lap while cleaning and dusting it out of fear of accidentally tearing or staining its delicate fabric shade - because god forbid he were to drop it. Petunia would watch him like a hawk whenever he was near, swore left and right Harry would find some way to ruin it, dirty it. But he wouldn't dare. It was far too beautiful to even imagine such a thing. 

Yet even with that memory so close to the surface, Harry suddenly doesn’t doubt that this letter is the highest quality thing he's ever held. He had no idea that paper could feel softer than fabric.

The front of the envelope has his name elegantly inked in gleaming emerald across its cream colour and his address written out smaller beneath it. There's no return sender, but Harry figures if you're sending letters by owl , for Christ's sake, you're probably not all that worried about standard mailing rules. The thought brings a small smile to his face.

He turns it around and reveals a wax seal so yellow it dazzles . Harry can almost believe pure melted gold is holding the envelope staunchly shut. Pressed into the wax is some type of shield or coat of arms with wings at the top and a key going through a geometric pattern. The word GRINGOTTS is inlaid around the centre in a small circle. He hasn't heard the name before, but Harry is suitably impressed if this is the amount of effort people are putting into scam mail these days.

Because that's a lot like what this is starting to feel like: a scam. Harry has heard of people receiving beautiful mail like this before, with fanciful letters from liars claiming to be kings and queens and wealthy with a sad back story and an offer of friendship. An emergency following a few back and forths and leaving the receiver with a newly drained bank account, one less friend, and a lack of trust buried under a hard-learned lesson…

Still... It's rather tempting, isn't it?

Harry stares at it a while longer, heart in his throat. He can't pinpoint why, exactly, he feels like something cataclysmic is about to happen — it's just a letter — but the feeling is building in the air around him. And he's sure it's all stemming from this small, unassuming thing in his hands.

He carefully reaches for the seal. His thumb pushes underneath it, and it's hardly there for a moment before Harry winces back, hissing in pain. The building moment that stops time and lingers in the air bursts like a bubble. A phantom chill like a cold drizzle of rain scatters across his arms.

"Hell, that's sharp," Harry gasps, nearly offended. He puts his finger in his mouth to keep from bleeding all over the place, but he's not fast enough to stop two more drops from landing on the envelope. 

He huffs. No stranger asking for friendship is required — apparently, he can develop a mistrust before even opening the thing.

Harry glares narrowly at the letter and glances at his finger. The cut seems to have stemmed its flow; in fact, there's nearly no sign of it at all. Harry furrows his brows as he takes in the unblemished skin of his thumb and warily turns his stare back to the letter.

It's innocently sitting where he dropped it, facedown and flap delicately bobbing in the slight draft of his flat.

Huh . Harry bends down to pick it up and mourns over the ruined envelope long enough to feel a little silly. Whatever he managed to do must have loosened the seal? Maybe his fingernail pried it up just right?

Harry wavers again, but that temptation rears up, leaving him eager and giddy. He gingerly tugs the folded paper out and reads.

October 31st -
To Harry James Potter,

Gringotts W. Bank offers its deepest condolences for the loss of your benefactor, Tom M. Riddle. Gringotts realises this is a difficult time for you and those closest to him, and it is our wish to help you expedite the settlement of the Riddle Estate due to Mr Riddle's beneficiaries.

As you surely understand, there are specific procedures we must follow in order to make the final exchanges for Mr Riddle's estate. We have included herewith an affidavit, which, under certain circumstances, needs to be completed and returned to our offices in order for us to process the exchange. This affidavit should be completed only if Mr Riddle's estate will not be probated in the Wizengamot or other courts of law, and the value of the entire estate, less liens and encumbrances, does not exceed 31,201 Galleons 10 Sickles and 9 Knuts. 

If the estate is not probated and is less than 31,201 Galleons, 10 Sickles and 9 Knuts, an affidavit should be filled out and signed for each beneficiary no sooner than 30 days after the date of death. Our records state that you, Mr Potter, are the sole beneficiary of Mr Riddle's entire estate. We have taken the liberty to attach a breakdown of what Mr Riddle's estate entails.

If Mr Riddle's estate does exceed 31,201 Galleons, 10 Sickles and 9 Knuts or is probated, please do not complete and return this affidavit. To avoid exchange delays, distribution instructions should include all beneficiaries' Vault Numbers and preferred Gringotts banking locations. Upon receipt of these orders, we will process the final exchange. 

We are aware that the procedures necessary to follow after a death may be cumbersome and complex. Please feel free to owl our offices if you have any questions or concerns. 

Sincerely,
Chief Banker Ricbert

…Harry realises rather suddenly that he is still way too hungover for this.

His mind rushes through the information, latching onto the date first. He was at a Halloween bash with some Uni mates last night, so he's already a day late to receive this news. Had the owl been waiting nearby this whole time? Did it only just now reach him?

Not to mention, Harry doesn't recall ever meeting a Tom M. Riddle, and he's pretty sure he'd be aware if he'd had some enigmatic benefactor all this time. 'Benefactor' already sounds concerning enough - too much like a sugar daddy - and Harry would definitely know if he had one of those . 

He's unsure what kind of court a Wizengamot is; maybe something foreign? And he feels reassured of that guess once he catches sight of the currency. The fact alone that this bank didn't have accounts, but instead vaults did plenty to strengthen his argument. 

Harry supposes it would be simple enough to reach out to the bank and ask some follow-up questions if it wasn't for the fact they could only be reached via owl . Where did they expect Harry to find a fully-trained messenger owl who knew what and where Gringotts Bank was?

More importantly, why am I taking all of this so seriously?

It's clearly a joke. Someone is pulling Harry's leg or trying to get him to send his banking information to this odd foreign place to scam him out of his meagre savings. Sure he's curious, but not stupid.

He shuffles the papers, passing the affidavit to find a list of this imaginary man's belongings. Harry's not surprised to see it isn't very long — clearly, these people are creative enough to invent a bank and currency but not an extensive background profile of a dead man — only mentioning a literal estate home referred to as Riddle Manor and a vault that definitely had more 'galleons' than the letter had said along with an organised breakdown of valuable items within it.

It's an odd way to get someone to fall for a scam, Harry thinks. How is anyone to believe this has any worth (well, aside from the house) when they don't show any exchange rates for galleons to pounds? If he can send a letter back to them, Harry will make it as snarky as possible and include helpful tips to make their scam seem a little more believable next time. Hell, maybe they'll even thank him with a real cheque.

Harry snorts at that thought, but his eyes return to the listed manor. His head feels itchy, the pounding finally simmering down, probably. He reads a little more about the house, how many rooms it has, the style, where it was...

Little Hangleton?

Harry blinks in surprise. Little Hangleton isn't very far from here, a few hours cab at most. Is it an imaginary English summer home? Bold of them to pick a place close enough for Harry to validate. Proving this is a scam would be as easy as a ride to this manor's listed address and back...

But that's ridiculous. It's a terrible idea…
He shouldn't. He won't.

He won't.