"Alfred, go to Egypt and buy me every book you can find on anti-tracking magic," I ordered as I prepared to leave the house. "And while you're there, ask the goblins if they can provide any tools—something that can keep me and my activities hidden from all forms of tracking for at least three hours."
He nodded crisply, already making mental notes. I didn't wait for a response.
Outside, the morning air bit cold against my face as I began my usual jog. My thoughts drifted as my feet found their rhythm. So much had happened, and there was still so much more to do. Being reborn into this world wasn't something I took lightly. I could recognize its potential, the sheer vastness of what magic could offer. Space, time, elemental, light, dark—every branch of magic imaginable existed here, waiting to be explored. This world would be my first step, the foundation for my journey to the very top.
Still, I couldn't ignore the unease in my chest. Maybe I was being overly cautious. Maybe even paranoid. But when you have no one to lean on, when every move could be watched by those far more powerful, paranoia isn't a flaw—it's survival. Two of the strongest wizards alive wanted me dead because of a prophecy I never asked for. How could I not be guarded? That's why my first impression of everyone tended to be cold, maybe even dark. I couldn't afford blind trust. Still, if someone proved themselves genuinely good, I would meet them halfway. I wasn't heartless—just careful.
By the time I returned home, Alfred was already waiting with a neat stack of books and two elegant quills.
"Sir," he said, bowing slightly. "These two quills are both enchanted to counter various forms of magical tracking and detection—including blood tracking. Each quill will function for roughly two hours before reverting to a normal one."
"Hmm. Well done, Alfred," I said, examining them. "I won't be able to practice the spells before Hogwarts, but my system can analyze their structure easily."
After a cold shower that cleared my head, I put on Dudley's oversized hand-me-downs and pulled a cap low over my scar. "Alfred, take me to Diagon Alley," I said quietly. I had no intention of being recognized.
Our first stop was Madam Malkin's.
"Hello, dear," she greeted warmly. "Hogwarts robes, is it?"
"No, ma'am," I replied, keeping my tone polite but firm. "Just regular wizard wear. All dark colors—preferably black."
A few minutes later, I left with two sets neatly wrapped. My next destination was Gringotts. It was time to handle something long overdue.
At the counter, I spoke softly, "I'm Harry Potter, and I'd like to meet with my family accounts manager."
The goblin squinted at me, his lips curling slightly. "He is not available at this moment."
Did he just sneer at me? Oh, that was a mistake.
"I booked an appointment yesterday," I said evenly, sliding over the parchment Griphook had acknowledged.
He glanced at it, scowled, and still said, "He's not present. Come later."
I smiled—a calm, dangerous kind of smile. "Then I'd like to file a complaint against the Potter accounts manager and you, for violating Article 35(d) of the Family Accounts Section, directly with your branch manager."
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead almost instantly. "My apologies, Mr. Potter. Please, give me a moment. I believe he might have returned."
"My time is as valuable as yours," I said mildly. "Let's not waste it."
"Of course… please, this way."
He led me into a side corridor to a cramped office, where a slightly plump goblin was chewing on something that smelled faintly of metal and spice. The teller spoke a few hurried words in Gobbledegook before leaving.
"Mr. Potter," the seated goblin said indifferently, "let's get this over with. I don't have much time."
I tilted my head. "What's your name? Are you the Potter accounts manager?"
"I'm Bogrod, yes. Now sit, boy, and don't waste my time."
I raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smirk. "I don't think so, Bogrod. I'm invoking Article 56(g). I want a private office assigned to my account."
His eyes narrowed, then flicked to the side as he muttered a few sharp words in his language. Reluctantly, he stood and led me to a larger, better-furnished room.
"Now state your business," he said, trying to sound composed.
"Not so fast," I replied. "I, Harry James Potter, demand the presence of the branch manager and an oath of secrecy, invoking my rights under Article 2, clauses (a) and (b)."
Bogrod went pale. His mouth opened and closed, and for a moment, I thought he might actually faint. Then he dropped to one knee, trembling. "Please forgive me, Mr. Potter. I beg you—give me another chance. I'll not disappoint you again."
He was right to be afraid. I knew enough about goblin society to understand their rigid hierarchy. One accusation from me could ruin him completely.
"I'll consider forgiving you," I said coolly, "if you swear a full oath of secrecy and vow complete servitude to my family's accounts."
The silence stretched. Finally, his shoulders slumped. He performed both vows, his voice low and trembling.
"Excellent," I said, allowing myself a small smile. "Don't worry, Bogrod. You'll come to celebrate this decision soon enough. Now—give me my Lord's ring."
Traditionally, the title of Lord could only be claimed at seventeen, and the Wizengamot seat at twenty-one. But there were exceptions—rare ones. In cases like mine, where the family line was nearly extinct, the ring itself decided worthiness.
Bogrod returned with a small velvet box and opened it. The ring shimmered faintly in the light—ancient, but simple. No hidden enchantments, no detectors or protections, just the symbol of family authority.
I slid it onto my finger, feeling a pulse of magic surge through me before it tightened, adjusting perfectly to fit.
Bogrod bowed deeply. "Congratulations, Lord Potter."
"Thank you, Bogrod," I said evenly. "Now—tell me about my estates."