Daisy and Dahlia

By ten o'clock the next morning, Harry had obtained a teal blue linen summerweight cloak with a hood (Twillfit & Tattings, 1 galleon 6 sickles, end of season sale); he had read Paterfamilias or Matriarch all the way to the end, learned exactly under what circumstances the mandatory ruling on title deeds for wizarding property had come about, and re-read the Gringotts pamphlet some six or seven times. One thing he did not know, was whether he was the head of the Potter family or not. If he was not the head of the family, then he only had the right to ask about his own personal vaults and investments; if he was the head of the family, then even at the age of twelve, he had the right to ask about Potter family vaults and investments, though he could not make investment decisions or withdraw money from the family vault until after he had 'taken up the family headship.' Underage family heads, apparently, had Regents to make decisions for them; at any time between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, an underage family head could undergo a minor ritual to take up the headship, one which had to take place on the family's ancestral land. And Harry wouldn't know if he had any ancestral land until and if he was able to search the family vault for title deeds.

Hagrid had told Harry, two years ago, that the Potters were 'an old wizarding family.' And surely, if there were any other Potters, Harry wouldn't have been left with Aunt Petunia. But what if Harry asked about the Potter family vaults and investments, and Junior Manager Gornuk kicked him out again? Harry hated feeling stupid, and Junior Manager Gornuk had given the impression that he was actually being patient with Harry, but that his patience had limits. Harry didn't want to test them. He was pacing anxiously up and down Horizont Alley, when he caught sight of a sign suspended from the overhanging gables of the building next to Weeoanwhisker's Barber Shop: 'Fawley, MacMillan, Tonks and Associates; Attorneys and Solicitors.' There was a flashing poster in the window next to the rather more sedate sign, proclaiming "Worried about something? Consult us! Three galleons for the first half-hour; no further commitment; confidentiality and discretion assured by force of oath." Surely, this was exactly what Harry needed: half an hour, to talk to someone who was an expert in how the wizarding world worked, and they would have to keep his business a secret from everybody else. It was twenty past ten. He had time. He climbed up the rickety stairs, and knocked on the door. A bored-looking young witch, chewing bubblegum, set her newspaper aside. He explained he'd come for the three-galleon half-hour confidential consultation, and she used her wand to summon a form.

"Name?" she asked.

"Will that be confidential?" he asked quietly.

"Yep!" she said, popping the bubble.

"Harry Potter," he whispered.

"Merlin's Beard!" she shouted, nearly swallowing her gum. "You're Harry Potter! And no, I can't go to the papers with this, nor can anyone else in the office. Let's see who's available... Mercutio's with a client... Rodelinda's having her day off, she'd be sorry to have missed you, she likes to bag the prestigious clients... Ted'll do it." She scrawled along the rest of the form, took Harry's three galleons, and tore off the bottom bit of the form to return to him as a receipt. "Oi, Ted, client! Half-hour special!" A big-bellied, blonde man popped his head into the reception area. Nobody could have been further from Uncle Vernon in demeanour. He was mild and cheerful, faintly dishevelled and slouching.

"Come on through, son," he said, leading Harry into a rather untidy office. "Have a seat. Right. Confidentiality's assured. You can say anything you like; I can't tell anyone without your permission. Aaand... the timer's on. Go."

"Erm," said Harry. "It's about my family. The Potters."

"Yes?"

"I want to know... am I the last? Am I the head of the family? Is it a family or a House? Is that the kind of thing you can find out, or do you know someone who can, discreetly?"

Ted shook his head.

"It's as well your family has plenty of money, son, or I'd feel bad having charged you the three galleon fee. Of course you're the last of the Potters in Britain. That's common knowledge. Everyone knows that - everyone but you, apparently. Not sure what your guardians were thinking, not telling you. It's a House, not just a family - don't even need to look that up - though only a minor one, not Ancient and Noble or anything. Your great-grandfather, Henry Potter, had a Wizengamot seat. I'd have to look into the records to find out whether it's been kept dormant for you or whether it's been revoked. Henry Potter was head of House Potter; Fleamont Potter, his oldest son, took over the headship, but didn't bother with the seat. I think his younger brother Charlus went into politics for a bit, don't remember the details. Charlus and his wife and their kid went in one of the early Death Eater attacks, Fleamont and his wife died of dragonpox, though some people found it a bit suspicious, especially after the Manor was torched while they were in St Mungo's and all the house-elves died. The official story was ashwinders, but rumour had it it was Fiendfyre. I was a trainee at the time, recently married, new father. Shook me up more than a bit, I can tell you. James - your father - was still in Hogwarts at the time. I think he lived with friends for a bit - I could look into the details if you like - and when he got married he moved into the Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow, the original site where Linfred of Stichfield lived, though I think the building's a couple of centuries later. The Manor was the family's main residence since just before the Statute, but what was your father going to do, live in a tent? The cottage was only a little two-bedroom place with a bit of garden, but it must have been nice, before. Blasted half to bits in the attack, of course. It's a war memorial now. You've seen it, haven't you? Everyone has."

Harry shook his head.

"I didn't know any of that. Apart from my father's name being James, that is." Ted shook his head.

"Disgrace, I call it, nobody telling you. But there it is."

"So my father was Head of House, and that makes me one, too, since I'm his only child."

"That's right, so you are. Not that it counts for much; there are no other British Potters but you, so there's no-one for you to be paterfamilias of. There's a cadet branch in America, and they'd probably be in line to inherit if you died childless and intestate - God forbid - but they don't have any authority over you, nor you over them. They're very distant cousins - the last common ancestor would be a good couple of hundred years ago, at least."

"So if I'm an underage Head of House, who's my Regent?"

"You don't know? It should be your magical guardian. Whoever's been looking after you all this time."

"My guardian's a muggle. Aunt Petunia." Harry swallowed.

"A muggle can't be Regent to a wizarding Head of House," Ted said blankly. "Well, between you and me, I don't think whoever your Regent is has been doing a very good job. You're twelve years old; your Regent has never introduced themself to you as such; nobody's taught you your family history; you haven't even seen any of the Godric's Hollow memorial circus, and you have more of a right to it than any of the people who traipse around it eyeballing. I didn't think I'd be able to give you any advice worth the money, but I'm doing it now. As soon as you turn thirteen - perhaps the day after your birthday, if you don't know what time of day you were born, just to be sure - you go to Godric's Hollow, you go to the site of where the Manor was, and you do the ascension ritual right on top of the heap of blackened stone that used to be your family home. Then, whoever it is, they have no more say in your affairs. You'd be an adult as far as making financial decisions goes; the Trace would come off your wand; you still wouldn't be allowed to Apparate or buy firewhisky, but apart from that, you'd be treated much like a seventeen-year-old."

"Won't the ritual set off the Trace? I don't want to get into trouble for underage magic."

"I never heard of it doing so, and approved ritual magic (non-dark) is on the list of permitted exceptions to the Decree, anyway. If old Hopkirk does give you grief about it, you can owl the firm, and I'll send her a sniffy letter for free. Least I can do, really."

They shook hands. Harry intimated he might be back another time for more legal advice, and Lucy from the front desk gave him a leaflet with the rates.

Well. So much for "I'm a kid, I can't!" Even if Dumbledore was his regent now, in a couple of weeks' time, he wouldn't be. Aunt Petunia's plan to hand Daisy and Dahlia over to Harry might actually work.