The cobblestones of Diagon Alley gleamed like polished pewter in the early morning light, still slick with dew that caught the first rays of sun filtering through the narrow gaps between buildings. A large black dog padded silently through the lengthening shadows, his intelligent gray eyes constantly scanning for threats, followed by a tall young man whose hastily transfigured robes hung with surprising elegance on his transformed frame.
Harry adjusted the conjured sunglasses that hid his serpentine eyes and tried to embody the confidence Sirius had spent twenty minutes coaching into him while they'd hidden in Knockturn Alley.
"Listen carefully, pup," Sirius had said, his hands gripping Harry's shoulders with the intensity of someone imparting life-or-death wisdom. "You're not that scrawny, scared kid from Little Whinging anymore. Look at yourself—really look. You're tall, you're strong, you carry yourself like someone who's faced down dark wizards and lived to tell about it. Because you have."
Harry had glanced down at his new body—the broader shoulders, the confident way he stood without even thinking about it, the way his voice had dropped into something that commanded attention rather than squeaking for it.
"More importantly," Sirius had continued, his gray eyes dancing with the kind of mischief that had probably gotten him detention every other week at Hogwarts, "you're the heir to one of the most ancient and noble houses in wizarding Britain. The Potter name opens doors, the Potter fortune buys respect, and the Potter reputation... well, that speaks for itself. Walk like you own the place, because technically speaking, you probably do own a piece of it."
Now, approaching the towering white marble facade of Gringotts Bank, Harry tried to channel that confidence. The physical changes definitely helped—there was something about moving in a body that felt powerful and coordinated that made everything seem more manageable. Even the way people's eyes slid past him was different; instead of the curious stares and whispers that had followed "the famous Harry Potter," he was drawing the kind of respectful attention given to any well-dressed young wizard of obvious breeding.
The goblin guards at the bronze doors barely glanced at them—just another young aristocrat with his impeccably behaved familiar. Nothing to see here.
Inside, the main hall of Gringotts buzzed with the controlled chaos of high finance. Goblins in sharp suits scurried between marble counters with ledgers and canvas bags that clinked with the weight of gold, while wizards and witches queued with the patient resignation of people dealing with bureaucracy that had been perfected over centuries. The air smelled of metal, parchment, and the particular brand of anxiety that came with discussing large sums of money.
Harry approached the nearest available teller, noting the elegant nameplate that read 'Griphook' in flowing script. The goblin behind the counter was shorter than most wizards but carried himself with the kind of authority that made height irrelevant—sharp features, intelligent dark eyes, and the look of someone who'd heard every sob story and scheme the wizarding world had to offer.
"Good morning," Harry said, pleased that his voice came out steady and considerably deeper than his old nervous squeak. "I need to speak with the Potter and Black account managers, if you please."
Griphook's dark eyes flickered with the kind of interest a predator might show when scenting particularly interesting prey. When he spoke, his voice carried the crisp precision of someone who'd spent decades dealing with wizarding nobility and their various eccentricities, delusions, and occasional legitimate business.
"And you would be?" The question was polite, but there was steel underneath it—this was clearly not a goblin who tolerated time-wasters or fraudsters.
"Harry Potter," he replied quietly, then slid Sirius's hastily scrawled authorization across the pristine marble counter. The parchment looked rather shabby against all that gleaming stone, but the signature was unmistakably authentic. "I also have permission to inquire about Black family accounts."
Griphook's expression shifted subtly as he read the letter, his sharp gaze flicking between the parchment and Harry's sunglassed face with the calculating look of someone reassessing a situation. "Potter and Black accounts," he repeated slowly, as if testing the words. "Most... interesting. Please, follow me, Mr. Potter."
They were led through a maze of corridors that seemed to exist in their own pocket of space, past doors marked with names like 'Malfoy Holdings' and 'Ancient Bloodline Trusts' and 'Curse-Breaking Insurance Claims.' The deeper they went, the more ornate the surroundings became, until they finally arrived at a door marked 'Private Consultations - Senior Management' in gold lettering that practically radiated respectability.
The room beyond was a study in understated elegance—all dark mahogany and buttery leather, with walls lined with what looked like very old, very expensive books. The kind of room where fortunes were made and lost with a handshake and a signature.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Griphook said with the kind of professional courtesy that suggested he was already mentally calculating commission percentages. "The senior account managers will be with you momentarily."
The moment the heavy door closed with a soft, final-sounding *click*, Padfoot's form shimmered and expanded back into Sirius Black. He immediately began pacing like a caged panther, all nervous energy and barely contained motion, his long hair falling into his face as he moved.
"Merlin's saggy left—" Sirius caught himself, glancing at Harry with an expression of mock severity. "Language, Black. Must set a good example for the heir." He grinned, then continued his pacing. "Twelve years. Twelve bloody years since I've been in this room, and it still smells like parchment, ambition, and barely controlled avarice."
Harry settled into one of the leather chairs, surprised by how naturally the confident posture came to him now. There was something about the way his new body moved—fluid, controlled, like he was finally wearing a form that actually fit him. "Sirius, when you say I'm rich, exactly how rich are we talking here? Because that trust vault seemed pretty impressive to a kid who'd never seen more than a few pounds at once, but if that's just pocket money..."
"Oh, pup," Sirius grinned, and for a moment he looked less like an escaped convict and more like the handsome troublemaker from those old Marauder photographs—all sharp cheekbones and dangerous charm. "You have absolutely no idea what you're about to walk into. The Potters have been collecting wealth like some people collect chocolate frog cards, except they've been at it for about eight centuries. And the Blacks..." His expression darkened slightly, like storm clouds passing over the sun. "Well, let's just say that centuries of being absolutely ruthless in business, politics, and occasionally dark magic has its financial advantages."
"Ruthless how?" Harry asked, genuinely curious despite the slight chill in his spine.
"Put it this way—every major political upheaval in the last five hundred years, there was probably a Black on the winning side. And if there wasn't, there was definitely a Black selling weapons to both sides." Sirius's grin turned predatory. "We're very good at surviving, pup. It's practically a family motto."
Before Harry could ask about the other family mottos, the door opened to admit two goblins who couldn't have been more different if they'd been designed by committee to represent opposite ends of some spectrum.
The first was tall for a goblin—nearly wizard height—with an elegant bearing that spoke of centuries of command. His hair was silver-streaked with age, his dark suit was perfectly tailored, and he moved with the fluid confidence of someone accustomed to being the most intelligent person in any room he entered. When he spoke, his voice carried the cultured tones of aristocracy with just a hint of something darker underneath—like silk wrapped around a blade.
"Lord Black," he said, executing a bow that managed to be respectful without being servile. "I am Ragnok, senior manager of the Black family accounts. We are... profoundly relieved to see you alive and, if I may say so, looking remarkably well considering your recent circumstances in what I understand to be Britain's most unpleasant correctional facility."
The second goblin was shorter and stockier, with intricate braids woven through dark hair and intelligent eyes that seemed to catalogue every detail of their appearance, posture, and probable net worth. There was something theatrical about him, like an actor who genuinely enjoyed his role, and when he smiled, it was with the sharp satisfaction of someone who'd just been handed an interesting puzzle to solve.
"And Mr. Potter," he added with a slight smirk that suggested he found something deeply amusing about their entire situation. "I am Griphook—not the one who escorted you, that would be my considerably less charming and significantly more bureaucratic cousin. I have the distinct pleasure and considerable honor of managing the Potter family accounts." His grin widened. "And I must say, we have been anticipating this meeting with what I can only describe as barely contained excitement."
"Anticipating?" Harry asked, leaning forward slightly. Something in Griphook's tone suggested there were surprises coming, and after the day he'd had, he wasn't sure his nerves could handle many more revelations.
Griphook settled behind an ornate desk that seemed to have materialized from thin air, his movements precise and economical like a master craftsman arranging his tools. "Your parents, Mr. Potter, were remarkably thorough in their preparations for various contingencies. They left extraordinarily detailed instructions regarding your inheritance, your guardianship, and what should be done in the event that certain... political complications arose."
Ragnok nodded approvingly as he spread several thick documents across the desk's mahogany surface with the reverence of a priest handling holy relics. "Unfortunately, those same political complications have prevented us from executing their wishes until now. But I believe recent events may have finally created the proper conditions for... shall we say, full disclosure."
"Political complications meaning Dumbledore," Sirius said, and there was enough venom in his voice to kill a hippogriff.
"Among others," Ragnok agreed diplomatically. "Perhaps we should begin with blood verification, gentlemen? A mere formality, you understand, but goblin law is quite explicit about confirming identity before discussing financial matters of this... magnitude."
"Magnitude?" Harry squeaked, then cleared his throat and tried again in his new deeper voice. "What kind of magnitude are we talking about here?"
Griphook's grin became positively wicked. "Oh, Mr. Potter. You are going to *love* this conversation."
The blood verification ritual was elegant in its simplicity—a drop of blood from each of them onto enchanted parchment that immediately began displaying elaborate family trees in glowing golden script. Harry watched, fascinated, as his lineage spread across the page like luminous vines, connecting him to names and dates stretching back so far they disappeared into the medieval period.
"Magnificent," Ragnok murmured, studying the results with the satisfaction of a master chess player seeing his strategy unfold perfectly. "The bloodlines are clear, the inheritance chains unbroken, and the magical signatures..." He paused, frowning slightly. "Quite remarkable, actually. Mr. Potter, has anyone mentioned that your magical core has undergone some rather dramatic changes recently?"
"You could say that," Harry said dryly, thinking of basilisk venom, werewolf bites, and phoenix fire all mixing in his bloodstream like the world's most dangerous cocktail.
"Fascinating. We'll need to discuss the implications of that later, but first—the accounts." Ragnok straightened, his expression becoming businesslike. "Lord Black, your holdings have been maintained in trust since your unfortunate incarceration. I'm pleased to report that our investment strategies have proven... quite successful. The interest and compound growth have increased your liquid assets by approximately forty percent."
Sirius whistled low, a sound of genuine appreciation. "Forty percent? In twelve years of Azkaban? You goblins really don't believe in letting gold gather dust, do you?"
"Gold that sits idle is gold that isn't working," Ragnok replied with evident pride. "We prefer our clients' fortunes to be as active and productive as possible."
"And now, Mr. Potter," Griphook said, and Harry could practically see him savoring the moment, "your accounts."
"Right," Harry said, bracing himself. "Lay it on me."
Griphook's eyes glittered with what might have been genuine affection. "That trust vault you've been accessing—the one with the little cart ride and the spinning tunnels that probably seemed so impressively full to your thirteen-year-old eyes—represents roughly two percent of your total inheritance."
The words hung in the air for a long moment. Harry stared at Griphook, then at the papers spread across the desk, then back at Griphook.
"I'm sorry," he said carefully. "Did you just say two percent?"
"Two percent," Griphook confirmed, clearly enjoying every second of Harry's shock. "Perhaps we should review your holdings in detail? I do so enjoy this part."
What followed was the most overwhelming financial briefing in the history of thirteen-year-old boys being told they were ridiculously wealthy. Properties scattered across four continents like jewels on a map—Potter Manor in the Scottish Highlands, complete with its own Quidditch pitch and what the records described as 'probably the most extensive private magical library in Northern Europe.'
"There's also the vineyard in the Loire Valley," Griphook continued with evident relish, "which has been producing award-winning magical wine for three centuries. The profits alone from that property could support a comfortable lifestyle indefinitely."
"A vineyard," Harry repeated faintly. "I own a vineyard."
"Oh, it gets better. The cattle ranch in Australia spans several thousand acres and includes what our last assessment described as 'enough space to hide a small army, should the need arise.'" Griphook's grin suggested he appreciated the forward-thinking paranoia of Harry's ancestors. "Then there are the elegant townhouses in London, New York, Rome, Tokyo, and Cairo—all in the most fashionable districts, naturally."
Sirius had stopped pacing and was now staring at the documents with something approaching awe. "James, you magnificent bastard," he murmured. "You really did think of everything."
"The investment portfolios," Ragnok took over, his cultured voice making even astronomical sums sound reasonable, "include controlling interests in Nimbus Racing Brooms, Zonko's Joke Shop—your father apparently had a sentimental attachment to that particular investment—significant holdings in three major potion supply companies, and a rather substantial stake in the Daily Prophet."
"Wait, wait, wait." Harry held up a hand, his enhanced senses picking up the amusement radiating from both goblins. "I own part of the Prophet?"
"Twenty-three percent, actually," Griphook said cheerfully. "Your father acquired those shares after they published what he considered a particularly slanderous article about your mother's Muggle heritage. He felt that if he was going to be subjected to terrible journalism, he might as well profit from it."
"Apparently his efforts to improve their editorial standards were largely unsuccessful," Ragnok added dryly.
Sirius barked a laugh that echoed off the mahogany walls. "That's James Potter for you—always trying to fix the world one bad newspaper at a time."
"The total liquid assets," Griphook continued with the casual tone of someone discussing what to have for lunch, "amount to approximately twelve million Galleons. This does not, naturally, include property valuations, artifact collections, or business holdings, which would roughly triple that figure."
Harry made a sound that wasn't quite a word. It might have been an attempt at "what" or possibly just the noise someone makes when their brain short-circuits.
"Sweet Merlin's left buttock," he finally managed, slumping back in his chair.
"Language, pup," Sirius said automatically, though he looked equally stunned. "Though under the circumstances, I think considerably stronger language might be warranted."
"Is he all right?" Ragnok asked with what sounded like genuine concern. "We do occasionally have clients react poorly to suddenly learning they're obscenely wealthy. We keep smelling salts in the desk drawer."
"I'm fine," Harry said weakly. "Just... processing. Twelve million Galleons. Plus property. Plus businesses. Plus I apparently own part of the newspaper that I just learnt once insulted my mother."
"Think of it as an opportunity for editorial revenge," Griphook suggested helpfully.
Ragnok's expression grew more serious, his aristocratic features taking on the grave cast of someone delivering bad news after good. "However, gentlemen, there are complications we must address before we can proceed further. Most pressing is the matter of your parents' sealed will."
"Sealed?" The temperature in Sirius's voice dropped about twenty degrees, and Harry was suddenly reminded that this man had been considered dangerous even before his Azkaban years. "By whose authority?"
"Albus Dumbledore invoked emergency guardianship protocols the night your parents died," Ragnok explained, his tone carefully neutral in the way that suggested he had personal opinions about this decision but was too professional to voice them. "The will was sealed 'for Harry's protection and the greater good' until his seventeenth birthday, with all guardianship decisions falling to the Chief Warlock's discretion."
"That manipulative, meddling, self-righteous—" Sirius began, then caught himself with visible effort, though his hands were clenched into fists.
"However," Griphook interjected smoothly, his theatrical instincts clearly sensing the perfect moment for a dramatic revelation, "your father was, shall we say, somewhat paranoid about the possibility of governmental interference in his family's affairs. Quite prescient, as it turns out."
He produced an ancient scroll from his desk drawer with a flourish worthy of a stage magician. "This copy was stored in the main Potter vault, well beyond Dumbledore's considerable reach and protected by wards that would make a curse-breaker weep with frustration."
Harry's hands trembled slightly as he accepted the parchment, the weight of it seeming far heavier than mere paper and ink. Seeing his parents' familiar handwriting for the first time in years made his chest tight with emotions he couldn't quite name.
"Read it aloud, pup," Sirius said quietly, his earlier anger replaced by something gentler. "They were your parents. You should be the one to give their words voice again."
Harry cleared his throat, his new deeper voice carrying easily in the quiet room. "'We, James and Lily Potter, being of sound mind and body—and significantly annoyed at having to write this at all—do hereby set forth our final wishes regarding our son Harry and our worldly possessions.'"
He paused, smiling slightly at what was so distinctly his father's voice coming through the formal language. "'In the event of our deaths, we name Sirius Black as Harry's legal guardian, with full authority to make decisions regarding his upbringing, education, welfare, and any other matter that may arise. We have complete confidence in Sirius's ability to raise our son with the love, guidance, and occasional necessary mischief that every Potter requires.'"
"Thank Merlin," Sirius whispered, and Harry could see years of guilt and worry lifting from his shoulders.
"There's more," Harry continued, his voice growing stronger. "'We must also state clearly and unambiguously for the record that Peter Pettigrew was chosen as Secret Keeper for the Fidelius Charm protecting our home at Godric's Hollow. This decision was made against Sirius's advice—he wanted to be the Secret Keeper himself, the brave idiot—and we pray daily that it will not prove to be our undoing.'"
The silence in the room was profound. Even the ambient sounds of the bank seemed muffled, as if the weight of revelation had somehow thickened the air itself.
"This completely exonerates you," Harry said, looking at his godfather with something approaching wonder. "Not just legally—it proves you were innocent all along."
"More than that," Ragnok observed, his analytical mind clearly working through the implications. "It provides irrefutable proof of Peter Pettigrew's guilt and, by extension, evidence of a massive miscarriage of justice that will have significant political ramifications."
"Oh, there's still more good stuff," Harry said, scanning ahead with growing excitement. "'Should circumstances make it unsafe for Harry to remain in Britain—and given the general incompetence of magical government, we consider this regrettably likely—we hereby authorize Sirius to take whatever steps necessary to protect our son. This includes relocation to any of our international properties, full access to all Potter family resources, and complete authority to make decisions about Harry's magical education regardless of Ministry policies or traditions.'"
"It's like they could see the future," Harry marveled.
"Your parents understood that power makes enemies," Griphook said respectfully. "They prepared for numerous contingencies, including several that seemed quite paranoid at the time but appear remarkably prescient now."
He produced yet another document, this one bearing official seals and ribbons. "Including this—pre-authorization for immediate transfer to any Gringotts branch worldwide, with full diplomatic immunity during transit and absolute protection of assets regardless of political circumstances."
"You mean we could leave for America today?" Sirius asked, and there was a note of hope in his voice that made Harry's heart clench.
"Within the hour, if necessary," Ragnok confirmed. "We have branches in New York, Los Angeles, Salem, and New Orleans, all of which maintain excellent relationships with the American magical government. MACUSA has always been... more pragmatic about these matters than the British Ministry."
"However," and Ragnok's expression grew troubled like storm clouds gathering, "the blood verification revealed something deeply concerning that we must address before any travel arrangements can be finalized."
"What now?" Harry asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The day had already contained enough revelations to last him several years.
"You are bound by blood wards, Mr. Potter," Ragnok said grimly. "Ancient magic tied to your mother's sacrifice, but channeled through highly irregular and, frankly, invasive means. Someone has been using your blood to track your movements, monitor your activities, and potentially influence your magical development."
Harry felt ice-cold dread settle in his stomach like a stone. "Dumbledore."
"Almost certainly," Ragnok agreed. "The magical signature is consistent with someone of his considerable power and skill. More disturbing, the binding is invasive enough that whoever cast it could theoretically locate you anywhere in the world, assuming they have the proper focus objects."
"Focus objects?" Sirius asked, though his voice suggested he already suspected the answer.
"Items containing Mr. Potter's blood, hair, or other biological material," Griphook explained with distaste. "Quite dark magic, actually. Not illegal, precisely, but certainly ethically questionable when performed without consent on a minor."
"So even if we run to the other side of the world, he could still find us?" Harry asked.
"I'm afraid so. The connection is... quite thorough."
Sirius's expression had gone dangerous again, his gray eyes promising violence. "Then how do we break it? Because I am not letting that manipulative bastard use my godson as a tracking beacon for the rest of his life."
Ragnok and Griphook exchanged one of those meaningful looks that spoke of years of professional partnership and shared expertise in navigating complex magical legal situations.
"There is a way," Ragnok said slowly, choosing his words with the care of someone walking through a minefield. "Blood adoption. If Lord Black were to formally adopt Mr. Potter as his son and heir, it would completely sever the existing blood connections and replace them with entirely new magical bonds."
"Wait," Harry said, his quick mind immediately grasping the implications. "You mean I wouldn't be a Potter anymore?"
"Not exactly," Griphook clarified with the patience of someone who'd explained complex magical inheritance law to confused heirs countless times. "The ritual would make you both Potter and Black—legally, magically, genealogically. You would inherit from both family lines, carry both names if you chose, access both family magics. But the blood ward connection to your previous identity would be completely severed, as if Harry Potter had simply... ceased to exist."
Harry looked at Sirius, his enhanced senses picking up the complex swirl of emotions radiating from his godfather—hope, fear, longing, love, and something that might have been barely contained joy all mixed together in a cocktail that was almost overwhelming.
"What do you think?" Harry asked quietly.
Sirius ran both hands through his long hair, a gesture that made him look younger and more vulnerable than his years in Azkaban should have allowed. "Harry, I..." He seemed to struggle with words that were clearly fighting to get out. "I loved your parents more than life itself. James was my brother in everything but blood, the best friend a man could ask for. Lily was... well, she was the best of all of us, really. Being your guardian, protecting you, making sure you grow up safe and happy—that's an honor I never thought I'd get the chance to claim."
He paused, looking out the window at the London skyline visible in the distance. "But this... Harry, this would make you my son. Really, truly, legally and magically my son. Not just your godfather or guardian, but your actual father in every way that matters. Are you absolutely certain that's what you want?"
Harry studied this man who had spent twelve years in a hellish prison for a crime he didn't commit, who had escaped not for revenge or freedom, but to protect him. Who had risked everything—his life, his sanity, his very soul—just to see Harry safe. Who was looking at him now with such transparent love and hope that it made Harry's chest tight.
"Sirius," he said, his voice carrying a certainty that surprised even him, "you've shown me more genuine love and loyalty in three days than the Dursleys managed in thirteen years. If you're willing to claim me as your son, then there's absolutely nothing I want more than to be exactly that."
Sirius's face lit up like sunrise, but he held up a hand. "Harry, you need to understand—once we do this, there's no going back. The magic involved... it changes everything about who you are, fundamentally. Your very essence would be altered, your magical signature rewritten. Harry Potter would effectively cease to exist."
Harry thought about that for a long moment, considering everything the name Harry Potter had brought him. The fame he'd never wanted, the expectations he couldn't meet, the weight of being a symbol rather than a person. The way people looked at him and saw either the Boy-Who-Lived or a convenient target, never just... him.
"Good," he said firmly, and he could hear echoes of his father's determination in his own voice. "I'm tired of being Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. I'm tired of being a chess piece in other people's games, tired of having decisions made about my life by people who've never bothered to ask what I actually want. Maybe it's time for someone else to carry that particular burden."
"And what would you choose to be called?" Ragnok asked with practical efficiency. "The Black family maintains certain naming traditions—constellations, stars, mythological figures associated with strength and power."
Harry grinned, feeling lighter than he had in years, as if a weight he'd carried so long he'd forgotten it was there had suddenly lifted from his shoulders. "Hercules," he said without hesitation. "Hercules Black."
Sirius threw back his head and laughed—a sound of pure, uncomplicated joy that seemed to fill the entire room and chase away years of darkness. "Hercules? Really? My son wants to be named after a constellation known for impossible labors and legendary strength?"
"Seemed appropriate," Harry defended with a matching grin. "I mean, have you actually looked at my track record with supposedly impossible tasks? I figure I might as well lean into the theme."
"Hercules Black," Sirius repeated, testing the name like fine wine. "You know what? It's absolutely perfect. It suits the man you're becoming—strong, determined, someone who gets things done no matter what the odds."
"The ritual will take several hours to properly prepare," Ragnok warned, his tone becoming businesslike. "And I must emphasize—it is remarkably intense, both physically and magically. Both parties must be completely committed, as the magic involved will fundamentally alter your magical signatures at the most basic level."
"How long before Dumbledore's people track us here?" Harry asked, his practical side asserting itself through the emotional whirlwind.
Griphook consulted a complex device that looked like the unholy offspring of a compass, a clock, and a magical seismograph. "The blood ward tracking magic shows increasing activity and narrowing search patterns. Based on the magical resonance signatures, I would estimate perhaps six hours before they narrow your location to Diagon Alley specifically, and perhaps two hours after that before they identify Gringotts as your destination."
"Then we'd better stop talking and start doing," Sirius said with sudden determination, rising to his feet with the fluid grace of someone born to command. "Ragnok, prepare everything needed for the adoption ritual—I don't care what it costs or how many favors you have to call in. Griphook, I want a complete financial briefing prepared for immediate transfer to your American branch, and liquidate whatever assets are necessary to purchase a proper home for my son and me. Somewhere with sunshine, privacy, and absolutely no British Ministry interference."
"Already anticipated, Lord Black," Griphook said with evident satisfaction, producing yet another folder from his seemingly infinite desk drawer. "Might I suggest the Potter estate in northern California? Seventeen acres of prime magical territory, protected by excellent wards, maintained by a small army of house-elves but never actually occupied. Previous assessments describe it as 'ridiculously suitable for a young family seeking both comfort and complete security from outside interference.'"
"California," Harry mused. "Sunshine, beaches, no one who knows who Harry Potter is..."
"Perfect." Sirius turned to Harry with an expression of such pure affection that it made Harry's chest warm. "So, pup—ready to officially become my son and start a completely new life?"
Harry felt his serpentine eyes burn with something that might have been tears of joy. "Ready when you are..." He paused, testing the word that had felt impossible for so many years. "Dad."
The word felt strange on his tongue, unfamiliar and slightly awkward after years of never having anyone to say it to, but right in a way that made his heart race with possibilities.
Sirius's answering grin was so brilliant it could have powered the entire Gringotts building. "Then let's go make it official," he said, his voice thick with emotion he wasn't bothering to hide. "After thirteen years of both of us being alone in different kinds of prisons, the Black heir is finally coming home."
As Ragnok and Griphook bustled around preparing ancient ritual implements with the efficiency of master craftsmen who'd performed this ceremony perhaps a dozen times in the last century, Harry—soon to be Hercules—allowed himself to imagine a future where he woke up every morning genuinely wanted, unconditionally protected, and completely free to choose his own path.
For the first time in his entire life, that future felt not just possible, but absolutely inevitable.
---
Four hours later, deep in the most secure ritual chambers beneath Gringotts Bank, ancient magic older than Hogwarts itself reached its crescendo. The blood adoption ritual was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced—waves of power that seemed to rewrite him from the inside out, reshaping not just his magical signature but his very essence, his connection to the world itself.
The ritual chamber was carved from living stone, its walls covered with runes that pulsed with their own inner light. The magic built slowly, systematically, as Ragnok and Griphook chanted in ancient Gobbledegook while Sirius and Harry stood within interlocking circles of silver and gold.
When Sirius spoke the final binding words—"I claim you as my son, my heir, my legacy"—the power that flowed between them was like being struck by lightning made of pure love.
When Harry responded—"I accept you as my father, my guide, my family"—the magic completed its circuit with a sound like reality itself reshaping.
When the last of the binding magic settled into his bones like liquid starlight, Hercules James Black collapsed against his father's chest, feeling fundamentally changed in ways he was only beginning to understand.
"How do you feel?" Sirius asked softly, his own voice hoarse from hours of complex magical work.
Hercules lifted his head and smiled—the first completely unguarded expression of pure joy he'd worn since he was very small. "Like I'm finally exactly where I belong."
Miles away at Hogwarts, alarms began shrieking throughout Dumbledore's office as the blood wards tied to Number Four, Privet Drive suddenly collapsed into magical fragments, their anchor point severed as completely as if Harry Potter had simply vanished from existence.
But by then, the newly forged Black family was already stepping through an international portkey toward a new life in California, leaving Harry Potter's complicated legacy behind forever and heading toward a future written entirely in their own hands.
In the end, that future would prove to be everything they had dared to hope for, and more besides.
---
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