Lucien Gaunt didn't trust men in cloaks, and he certainly didn't trust men in purple ones who spoke like they knew all your secrets. Yet here he was, standing beside Albus Dumbledore on a sidewalk in London that had just cracked itself open to reveal a pub that hadn't been there five seconds ago.
"The Leaky Cauldron," Dumbledore had said, as if that explained anything.
Lucien had raised an eyebrow. "Leaky and Cauldron don't exactly inspire confidence when used in the same sentence."
He wasn't sure what was more unnerving: the fact that the pub smelled like roasted meat and centuries of spilled ale, or that no one seemed to notice its sudden appearance.
But his sarcasm faded when he followed Dumbledore through the brick wall behind the pub and stepped into Diagon Alley. The cobblestone street pulsed with color and life. Owls hooted from stacked cages, cauldrons boiled unattended, and children stared wide-eyed at broomsticks in midair.
"Right," Lucien muttered. "So magic is definitely real. Either that or I finally cracked and this is a coma dream brought on by cafeteria meatloaf."
Dumbledore chuckled, then offered an almost apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I must leave you here, Lucien. Urgent matters require my attention."
"Of course they do," Lucien drawled. "Because clearly, dropping a traumatized orphan into Wizard Costco with no supervision is part of the curriculum."
Dumbledore didn't deny it. Instead, he handed Lucien a list of school supplies with his letter that had HIS FULL NAME, and another name.
"Speak to Griphook at Gringotts. He will assist you."
The bank loomed like a marble fortress at the end of the alley, its twisted pillars and wary goblin guards giving Lucien the immediate impression that it doubled as a deathtrap. Perfect.
Etched into a bronze plaque at the entrance were words every first-time visitor read:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take but do not eat,
Must pay most dearly for their deed.
So if you seek beneath our floor
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
Lucien read it aloud, dry as dust. "Charming. A bank that rhymes and threatens dismemberment. So much more festive than overdraft fees."
Inside, the cavernous bank echoed with the clinking of coins and the murmur of low voices. Marble pillars spiraled like twisted trees, and the faint scent of ancient gold hung heavy in the air. Goblins with keen, angular faces and eyes like polished obsidian bustled about—each moving with a strange, deliberate grace that was equal parts unsettling and fascinating. Their long, slender fingers tapped impatiently on ledgers and coins, teeth sharper than any human's flashing occasionally in a half-smile.
Lucien approached one such creature—small, sharp-eyed, and with a calculating gleam in his gaze.
"Griphook? I'm Lucien Gaunt. Dumbledore said you'd help."
The goblin's eyes glinted as if weighing Lucien's worth. "Gaunt, you say? One moment."
Ten minutes and several unnerving signatures later, Lucien was led to a discreet chamber where goblin attendants produced an ancient, ornately carved mirror and a set of mystical instruments. Griphook explained, "This is a test of bloodline purity. Only the true heir may claim the Gaunt inheritance."
The test was exacting. Lucien felt a strange tingling as the magical devices scanned his veins and the mirror reflected hidden runes intertwined with his essence. When the results settled, Griphook's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Your bloodline is indeed pure, and by all accounts, better than him."
"Him? Who is this him?"
"No one. No need for you to know now. Let us go to claim your inheritence if you accept. Here are the documents to sign and ring to wear.
"Wait wait. I ain't signing nothing till I know exactly what I am signing."
With a annoyed look and click of his tongue griphook just said, "Read the documents then. I'll send the Gaunt account manager now, you can askhim your questions."
After a very long 5 hours filled with taut tension later with a lot of word games, questions and venomous exchange of pleasantries later.
"Vault 8, one of the earliest vaults." Suphnick said.
"Who are you?" was the interpretation of a hissing sound from a gigantic snake made of stone blocked his way.
"I can understand hissing of snakes now?... Wait yeah I always did. Right.... obviously"
He made his own hissing sound after willing himself to speak to the snake before him "I am Lucien Gaunt. Nice to meet you."
The snake moved out of the way, revealing a treasure trove beyond any dream. towers and mountains of gleaming gold coins stacked upon each other, jewel-encrusted goblets sparkling under the flickering torchlight, and enchanted artifacts that hummed with ancient power. There were ancient tomes bound in dragonskin, ceremonial blades with runes glowing faintly along their edges, a cloak that shimmered like oil in water, and a ring inlaid with a stone blacker than midnight.
Lucien blinked, momentarily stunned. "So. I'm basically rolling in it. The Gaunt family fortune isn't just ancient—it's obscene."
He ran his fingers hovering above the treasures, careful not to disturb a single thing, the weight of his inheritance settling in. This wasn't just a dusty legacy; it was a vault bursting with raw power and riches that could buy kingdoms.
The door creaked open. Inside were ancient tomes bound in dragonskin, ceremonial blades, a cloak that shimmered like oil in water, and a ring inlaid with a stone blacker than midnight.
He didn't touch a thing. The whole place was unknown. The whole world was unknown nothing good comes out of doing something like touching in a magical world.
Lucien left with a small pouch that held infinite riches all for him and only him.
He walked past robes, cauldrons, parchment shops. Bought only what he needed. Nothing fancy. Not yet.
When he stepped into Ollivanders, he paused. The air smelled like dust and power. Dumbledore was gone.
Lucien smirked to himself. "Guess I'm doing this solo now. Not the first time, and for sure not the last time." with a secret hope deep in his subconscious—buried beneath layers of practiced sarcasm and emotional armor, covered by dry humor and coping mechanisms.
The door clicked shut behind him.and the bells rung informing the owner.