Harry stood by the window, one hand stuffed in his coat pocket, watching Knockturn Alley live its own ordinary life. A man in patchwork robes argued with a goblin over a sealed box. Two cloaked figures slipped past the alley mouth, heads down. Further down the street, a man started shouting at a woman in a thick leather cloak. She didn't even flinch. Just reached into her coat and pulled a long silver knife. The man backed off, then broke into a loud, barking laugh as he turned and bolted into the fog, still laughing like he'd won something. No one else reacted. It was just another Saturday morning.
Behind him, Richard spoke.
"We've got the plan. Now we just need to write it down and hand it to Gringotts."
Harry turned away from the glass, unbuttoned his coat, and slung it over the back of the chair. He dropped into the seat across from Richard, already reaching for the papers.
"Alright," he said. "Let's write it."
Richard didn't rush him. Three columns sketched in faint ink, nothing written yet. Ingredient, quantity, purpose.
Harry leaned forward.
"So… we just list everything? Even the venom?"
"Yeah. " Richard answered. "It's also about control. You show them you have a plan, they stop treating you like a liability."
Harry nodded slowly, eyes still on the page.
"Okay. I mean, I know what I need the venom for. That's… clear."
"Write it like it's final," Richard said. "Don't say 'maybe.' Say 'assigned to' or 'designated for.'"
Harry reached for the quill, hesitant at first. "Designated for prototype potion work. Internal use. Access restricted." The words looked too formal in his own handwriting, but he didn't stop.
Richard tilted his head. "Good. Next is the hide. You have ideas for that?"
Harry shrugged. "I guess armor? Robes maybe? Something I can actually wear if I have to… fight."
Richard looked at him then scratched his jaw. "You can't just sew that stuff together like denim. It's hide. Real hide. Needs heat, spells, tools. It's a process."
Harry rubbed at his temple. "So I'd need you to actually do it."
"Obviously," Richard said. "But Gringotts doesn't care if it's me or Merlin. Just tell them it's happening."
Harry hunched over the parchment again. "Alright. Allocated for… protective gear. Custom-fit. Ready for enchantment. Work handled through Aqua and Umbra."
He paused, chewing the end of the quill.
"What about the fangs?"
Richard pulled a thinner ledger from the stack, flipped it open. "Seventeen total. One's going to the archive, which leaves sixteen. You planning to use them or just let them rot in a drawer?"
Harry gave a small shrug. "I read a thing this summer. Some old book. It said basilisk fangs were used in ritual work. Stuff to expand magic cores, fix burnout. Sirius mentioned it too, kind of. Said a lot of old wizards used to go through rites when things started breaking down."
Richard looked at him without much expression. "And you want to try that."
"Not now," Harry said quickly. "But maybe later. If things get worse."
Richard nodded once. "Then list the whole lot for secure hold."
Harry dipped the quill again. "Seventeen fangs total. One consigned to historical archiving, sixteen retained under magical containment for future internal use." He scratched a line under it. "Okay. That's done." He looked up. "What's next? The bone?"
Richard nodded. "Yeah. Bone's next. Probably the most important thing in the set."
Harry frowned. "More than the venom?"
"Yes," Richard answered firmly. "Venom is the most dangerous. No question. One mistake and it eats through whatever you were trying to fix. Magic, object, person."
Harry tapped the parchment with the quill. "But if it's that strong, shouldn't that make it the best?"
"It's not about strength. It's about intent. Venom's designed to break things. You want to destroy a cursed object, perfect. You want to drink it, good luck."
Harry snorted. "Right."
Richard leaned back a little, studying him. " Think of it like broth."
Harry gave a look. "Broth?"
"You want to make it right, you don't throw in scraps. You start with bone. Boil it low, slow. Hours, sometimes days. The marrow breaks down, the structure softens, and everything the bone held seeps into the water. You drink it, and it feeds you."
Harry stayed quiet.
"Now take that, and make it magic. Basilisk bone's been soaking in raw spell pressure for centuries. Not just alive, but coiled in a place built to amplify. You steep it the right way, in a potion base with the right draws, and that energy transfers. All of it."
Harry lowered the quill. "Transfers how?"
"To you. Elixirs like that don't just heal or energize. They deepen. Expand the core. Strengthen how magic sits in your body. You'd feel the difference. Like space opening up inside."
Harry stared at the blank space next to the bone entry.
"There are rumors," dwarf said, "that Voldemort used potions like that. Core shaping. Not with basilisk, probably. But something close."
Harry met his eyes, hesitated. "Is that actually true?"
"Hard to say but it would explain a lot. Don't you think?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He just leaned in, scratched out the next row, and started writing. "Base for alchemical enhancement. Intended use in elixir development. Processing scheduled under secure lab conditions."
Richard nodded. "Good."
That left one line.
Harry glanced at the last column. He didn't reach for the quill.
"I don't know what to do with that one."
Richard tilted his head slightly.
"I mean," Harry went on, "it's from the Chamber. The walls. It's probably Parseltongue magic. Command-based, maybe. But I don't even know what that means. I don't know how to test it. I don't know how to read it without triggering something."
"You want my advice? Don't fake it."
Harry gave a small shrug. "I wasn't going to."
"Good. Just tell them it's being evaluated. Say you're researching potential uses. Keep it vague."
Harry frowned. "Isn't that risky?"
"Not if you keep the rest tight. You've got plans for everything else. One unknown doesn't make you a risk. It makes you cautious."
Harry reached for the quill again, hesitated, then wrote: "Crystallized magical residue. Source under study. Reserved for long-term research and spell recovery efforts. Status to be updated pending further analysis."
He leaned back and let out a breath.
"That's all of it," Richard said.
Harry folded the parchment once, slid it into the prepared folder then reached out and clasped Richard's hand.
"Thank you," he said. "Really."
The dwarf gave a slight nod, but Harry didn't let go just yet.
"You should come by Grimmauld this winter. For Christmas. Sirius'll be there. He'll want to see you."
"I'll think about it," he said.
Harry gave a crooked smile. "That's better than no."
~~~~~
Harry stepped out into the cold November air, his breath fogging in front of him. The wind rattled his coat as he crossed Knockturn Alley, heading toward Gringotts. Just a few more blocks.
He should've been focused on the paper. On what to say. On making sure none of it fell apart once they started asking questions. But instead, his brain drifted.
Gifts.
He had maybe six weeks until Christmas. Ron would expect something, even if he didn't say it. Hermione would pretend not to. And Sirius. That was the trickiest one.
He didn't have a clue what to get any of them.
He passed a display window packed with enchanted bookmarks and floating ink bottles. Not bad. But not right, either.
He'd think about it later. After the bank. After he made it through one more meeting without messing anything up.
Saturday's chill nipped at Harry's nose as he jogged up the white stone steps of Gringotts. Two goblin guards followed him with their eyes but he ignored them. He hugged Richard's folder close, nudged the bronze door open, and slipped inside where warm lamplight and the dry scent of parchment settled over him like a blanket.
The place was packed. Robes of every colour bunched into a snaking queue that stretched from the counters to halfway back toward the doors. Harry joined the end, shuffling forward a few inches at a time while the chatter of impatient witches and the jingle of coin pouches filled the hall. He rubbed his chilled hands together, wishing the line would move faster, and tried not to think about how each tick of the ornate wall clock above the tellers was eating into the little courage he had managed to collect on the walk over.
"You there. Potter, right?"
Harry glanced up. A stout witch in a mauve hat peered at him.
"Tell me," she said, lips pursed, "does the Triwizard Cup always let children buy cuts in line, or is that a special service for champions?"
Harry blinked suprised. "I am just waiting like everyone else, ma'am."
She sniffed. "Funny. Rita Skeeter says gold and fame open every door for you."
The wizard beside her, tall and gray-bearded, let out a rough chuckle. "Rita Skeeter writes fairy tales." He plucked the newspaper right out of the witch's hands and offered it to Harry. "Here, young man. See what masterpiece she has painted of you today."
Harry took the paper, heartbeat quickening as the moving headline came into view. A smug photo of Skeeter winked at him from the corner.
Is The Boy Who Lived Now The Boy Who Bought the Cup?
Gringotts whisper that Harry James Potter, freshly minted Triwizard Champion and longtime darling of the wizarding world, may have slipped more than his name past the Age Line. Gold, influence, and a little Black family pedigree seem to open doors even ancient wards cannot bar.
"Age Lines are stubborn," says Aurelia Finch, a senior consultant on ward security. "But a well-timed donation to the right vault can smooth any rough edge." Could Potter's legendary fortune have greased the gears of fate?
Eyewitnesses claim the young champion was seen in the marble halls of Gringotts less than a day before his name burst from the Goblet of Fire. Coincidence, or calculated investment? One bank clerk, speaking under the protection of anonymity, describes a "private escort" guiding Potter to high clearance offices usually reserved for Heads of House and Ministry dignitaries.
Just what business does a fourteen-year-old Hogwarts student conduct behind those barred doors? Goblin spokesmen refuse to comment, citing client confidentiality. Yet whispers grow louder that Potter leveraged his inherited fortune to secure a slot no under-seventeen wizard should hold.
Ministry officials remain tight-lipped, though one aide in the Department of Magical Games and Sports confides that the Triwizard selection was "unusual from the start." Unusual indeed.
Where does the truth lie? Is Potter a victim of arcane chance or an ambitious heir using deep pockets to chase deeper glory? Until the Champion himself offers a full accounting, the public is left to wonder: How much is victory worth, and who is truly footing the bill?
Rest assured, dear readers, your devoted correspondent will keep digging. Gold leaves a trail, and Rita Skeeter knows exactly how to follow it.
By Rita Skeeter
Harry folded the Prophet along its crease and handed it back to the witch.
"Keep it," he said. "I did not pay anyone anything, and I could not care less about that tournament."
The witch opened her mouth, ready for another jab, but the gray-bearded wizard cleared his throat.
"You heard him," he said, eyes twinkling. "Maybe let the lad queue in peace."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek, heat rolling up the back of his neck. Rita Skeeter could paint lies faster than most people could tie a bootlace, and the Prophet printed every drip of her ink as truth. He pictured her smirking over a jeweled quill, twisting words to sell papers. A distant part of him wanted to snatch the column, march to her office, and dump a vial of basilisk venom on her desk just to watch the colour drain from her face. Instead, he fixed his stare on the marble floor and counted each breath, willing the anger to settle into something cold and useful by the time he reached the counter.
The queue shuffled again until Harry found himself at the counter facing a thin-lipped goblin in sapphire robes.
"Business?" the goblin asked, quill poised.
"I need a consultation with the officials who handled my basilisk claim last month," Harry said. "Ragnok Ironclad or Griphook Ironquill if they are available."
The goblin's eyes narrowed a fraction. "No appointment?"
"None," Harry replied. "But the thirty-day review window they set is almost up, and I have the project plan they requested."
He slid Richard's folder across the polished wood. The goblin tapped the seal, glyphs flaring silver. After a long moment he nodded once.
"Wait by the side alcove. Someone will collect you shortly."
Harry stepped away, pulse drumming. He sat, folder balanced on his knees, and tried to steady his breathing while office doors opened and shut down the corridor. Every minute felt like five. He ran through the plan in his head again and again until boots clicked to a halt in front of him.
A young goblin clerk, ink stains on his cuffs, bowed curtly. "Mr Potter, Chamber Four is ready for you."
Harry rose, squared his shoulders, and followed, the muffled roar of the busy hall fading behind him with each step toward the meeting that would decide everything.
Harry entered the room and dipped his head in greeting. Ragnok Ironclad returned the nod, sliding into the central seat and Griphook Ironquill settled beside him, quill already lifted, ink tip poised above a fresh ledger page that bore Harry's name in bold, black script.
"Good morning, Mr Potter," Ragnok said "I trust the season finds you well." Griphook adjusted his spectacles, quill hovering. "And that Hogwarts obligations have not kept you from the preparations we discussed."
Harry straightened in his seat, forcing a steady tone. "Busy, sir, but prepared. I brought the full project outline." He placed the folder at the center of the table and eased his hand back.
Ragnok slid the folder open, saw the lone parchment inside, and lifted a brow. "One page? After nearly a month, Mr Potter… we expected evidence of progress, not a grocery list."
Harry set his palms flat on the table. "You locked the ingredients in your vault, sir. Richard and I cannot brew prototypes from empty air. What we could do, we did: mapped each step, listed the tooling, and scheduled forge time on an active spellforge staffed by a certified alchemist. The outline shows how everything moves once the materials are released. That is progress, even if it fits on one sheet."
Griphook's quill twitched to life, scratching a note along the ledger's margin. "Name this alchemist," he said without looking up.
"Richard of Aqua and Umbra," Harry replied. "Registry number AA-412. He holds mastery in potioneering and artificery, and he maintains a live spellforge beneath his workshop. He handled the Black Forest Hydra claim twelve years ago. You recorded that settlement yourselves."
Ragnok gave a slow nod. "Richard's record stands. We have no doubts about his skill." He folded his hands, golden rings clinking. "Understand, Mr Potter, Gringotts has catalogued dragon hearts, manticore glands, every dangerous reagent you can name. Yet in four centuries we have never overseen a basilisk disbursement. What lies on that vault shelf may be singular in our lifetimes."
Harry's voice cut through the room. "Rare or not, I killed the basilisk. Its remains are mine by right of claim. I have laid out every step, every safeguard. Selling it for coin would be the real waste. The value is in what the ingredients can become, not a pile of Galleons gathering dust."
Griphook's eyes flashed at the word waste. "Gold gathering dust offends none in this bank, Mr Potter."
Ragnok's rings clicked once against the tabletop. "Mind your tone. You address custodians of wizarding wealth, not market hawkers."
"None of the fangs leave containment until I decide they're safe to move. If I authorise sales later, your brokerage fee applies. For now they stay sealed. Gringotts will profit, and my project moves forward. Everyone benefits. Now, do you have any other questions?"
Griphook tapped the parchment. "The residue. Undefined, untested, and potentially volatile. What do you actually know about it?"
"Very little," Harry admitted. "Richard and I found no references in any archive, Hogwarts or private. The plan is to isolate micro-samples under shielded wards, log every reaction, and submit weekly reports to your Hazard Containment desk. If the residue proves unsafe, you seize it at triple market value. That clause is already written."
Ragnok regarded him for a long moment, ferruginous eyes unreadable. "Triple market value may not offset the threat of linguistic magic run amok. Name a stronger guarantee."
Harry's bravado faltered. He glanced at the single page, then back at the goblins. "I am not an economist," he said, voice tight. "If triple value is not enough, tell me what will satisfy the bank. You know the risks better than I do."
Ragnok steepled his fingers. "Then we keep it simple. Post a straight bond, lets say five thousand Galleons from your vault, held until phase one is complete with no accidents. In return, we release everything except the residue today. Our auditor will visit Richard's forge once a fortnight to verify safety wards, nothing more. No claim on recipes, no cut of future earnings. Just the bond and our oversight." He paused, letting the terms settle between them. "Acceptable?"
Harry mentally tallied the bond. Five thousand Galleons barely dented the Potter vault, but it felt like handing over a limb.
"You have my permission to withdraw the five thousand from my vault," Harry said, tapping the ledger for emphasis. "And while we are at it, I want a full review of the Potter vaults. When can we set that up?"
Ragnok snapped his fingers. The clerk in brown livery darted out again, no words needed. Griphook riffled a second ledger, quill flicking. "Asset consultation, category heirloom and liquid, one hour duration. The earliest opening is next Saturday at nine sharp. Take it or wait three weeks."
"Next Saturday works," Harry answered.
The clerk returned few moments later set a battered leather suitcase on the table and flicked the latches. Velvet trays unfolded in neat tiers, each section stretched wide by an expansion charm. Eleven crystal vials of basilisk venom gleamed in one row, liquid pulsing with slow green light. Below them lay the layered panels of cured hide, corners stitched with runic thread to prevent flex. Sixteen fangs rested in individual clamps. Along the bottom, rib arcs and a length of spine sat wrapped in gauze, ivory white against the dark lining. The final compartment held only a brass plaque: "Residue retained under Gringotts custody File 34-C."
"You now hold every component except the residue," the clerk said. "Tap the case with your wand to shrink it. Weight adjusts with the size."
Harry ran a thumb along the edge of the venom rack, then closed the lid. The latches snapped shut with a sound that felt like the start of something huge.
Harry drew his wand, touched the leather, and watched the suitcase compress until it was no larger than a lunch tin. The handle slid neatly into his palm.
Ragnok rose. "The first task looms, Champion Potter. May your preparations hold." His voice lost its earlier edge, replaced by something that sounded almost like respect.
Griphook added, "We follow every investment with interest. Consider the Cup another ledger we intend to balance."
Harry slipped the miniaturised case into his coat, meeting their stares without flinching. "Then I will give you something worth tracking."
"See that you do," Ragnok said.
Harry offered a short nod, turned on his heel, and left the chamber.