The air over Privet Drive tasted like iron before the rain. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and walked faster, wanting to be anywhere but Number Four. The fights had been worse this summer; Vernon's face purpled if Harry so much as breathed. Tonight he'd snapped back. Now the night felt like exile and freedom at once.
A woman stood under the park's single lamp, too elegant for Surrey: tall, skin like marble, hair blacker than the shadows around her. When she smiled at him, the world tilted — a predator's smile wearing a stranger's face.
"You don't belong here," she murmured.
Before Harry could answer, the night cracked. Teeth at his throat, pain like fire, then a rush of ice spilling through him. She didn't drink. She breathed something into him instead, a pulse of ancient magic and hunger. His magic flared in panic; the air detonated. The woman went flying apart like shattered glass, her scream cut off.
Harry collapsed to his knees, clutching at his neck. The world spun. He staggered back to Number Four and up the stairs, slamming his door. Heat and cold warred in his veins; his magic beat against the invading force. Tremors racked him until he blacked out.
---
Afternoon light stabbed through the curtains. Someone pounded on his door so hard it made his skull ring.
"Freak! Get down here!" Petunia shrieked.
Harry pushed upright. His muscles felt strange, coiled. When a shaft of sunlight struck his cheek he hissed — not a burn, but an ache deep in his eyes. He shuffled to the door, opened it just as Petunia raised her fist to bang again.
She froze.
His skin was chalk-white. His once-unruly hair now hung straight and dark to his shoulders. He'd shot up several inches overnight, eyes a burning emerald glow.
Petunia made a thin, rabbit-like sound and bolted downstairs.
Harry stumbled into the bathroom. The mirror gave him back a stranger: pale face, sharp cheekbones, eyes like green fire. When he parted his lips he saw the glint of fangs. Memory flooded back — the woman, the bite, the surge of power. He gripped the sink until it cracked under his fingers.
A thud below. Vernon's voice, rising: "What the devil is going on, Petunia?"
Harry descended the stairs, each step oddly silent. Vernon was waiting at the bottom, red-faced and quivering with rage.
"You're scaring my wife, boy," Vernon barked. "I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget."
Harry's new senses caught every drop of sweat on the man's skin, every beat of his heart. When Vernon lunged, Harry moved without thinking; the world slowed. He slid aside, the man's fist slicing empty air. Vernon stumbled, cursed, swung again, and Harry dodged just as easily, a predator's grace in his limbs.
"Your parents were freaks," Vernon spat, voice thick with hate. "And you're worse."
Something inside Harry snapped. The hunger roared up, drowning his guilt. In a blur he seized Vernon, fangs flashing. Warm blood filled his mouth before he realized what he'd done. Vernon's struggles went limp. The smell of it — copper and salt — was both revolting and intoxicating.
He let the body drop. Blood dripped down his chin. Petunia shrieked from the kitchen; Dudley bolted out the back door.
Harry wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. "I… didn't…" But it was done. Whatever he'd become had chosen for him.
---
He ran upstairs, threw clothes and his wand into his school trunk, snatched up the Invisibility Cloak, his money pouch and anything else he could grab in seconds. He didn't look back at Vernon's body. He didn't look at the only house he'd ever known. A moment later he was in the street, cloaked, moving like smoke toward London.
By nightfall he reached the Leaky Cauldron. The bar was noisy enough that no one noticed the tall pale boy slip upstairs. He pressed a few Galleons into Tom's hand for a room, hood low over his face. In the privacy of the tiny chamber, he stared at his shaking hands and the faint stain of red around his mouth.
When dawn neared he threw the cloak back on and slipped out, heading for Gringotts. If he was going to survive this — whatever "this" was — he needed answers, and goblins were known for discretion.
The marble halls of Gringotts were nearly empty at this hour, echoing with the click of goblin claws on stone. Under his Invisibility Cloak Harry slipped up to a teller's desk, hesitated, then lowered the hood.
The goblin's quill froze mid-scratch. "Mr. Potter," it rasped. "You look… different."
"I need to see my account manager. Now," Harry said, voice low and even. His glowing eyes flicked around the hall. The goblin's nostrils flared once, then it snapped for a runner. Moments later, Harry was being ushered through a side door into a high-ceilinged chamber lined with ledgers and iron-bound chests.
A squat goblin with silver rings on his ears sat at the far end of a desk carved from black stone. His nameplate read Ripclaw.
"You're late, Mr. Potter," Ripclaw said. "Eleven years late."
Harry blinked. "What?"
Ripclaw steepled his claws. "Since your eleventh birthday we've sent monthly statements of your vaults. You've never responded."
"I never got anything," Harry said, frowning. "No letters, no statements, nothing."
The goblin's face twisted in genuine fury. "Impossible." He leapt down from his stool, muttered a spell, and swept a clawed hand through Harry's aura. A shiver of magic ran over Harry's skin.
Ripclaw's eyes narrowed. "Mail-repelling charm. Someone wrapped you in it years ago. It was bound to your magical core… but whatever happened to you recently burned it out."
Harry's fists clenched. Only one person had the access and the arrogance. Dumbledore. The thought came like a growl, his new fangs pricking his lip. That conniving old coot.
Ripclaw didn't comment, but the corners of his mouth curled up, showing needle teeth. "We dislike tampering with our clients," he said softly.
Harry forced his voice steady. "Can I see the amount of money I actually have?"
Ripclaw vaulted back onto his stool, opened a drawer, and withdrew a parchment thicker than his arm. He spread it before Harry with a flourish.
Rows upon rows of vault entries glimmered in gold ink. At the top, one figure made Harry's stomach flip: Potter Family Vault: 5,000,000,000 Galleons.
He stared, then looked up at Ripclaw. "This… this can't be right."
The goblin grinned wider, teeth like knives. "Quite right, Mr. Potter. You're rich."
Harry's mind raced. His old life at Privet Drive seemed like a bad joke. His new life — pale skin, glowing eyes, hunger gnawing his veins — felt like a blade waiting to be sharpened.
He smoothed the parchment with trembling fingers. "All right. Show me everything."
Ripclaw leaned forward, his expression a predator's mirror of Harry's own. "Let us discuss the legacy of House Potter… and what you wish to do with it."