The lower levels of Gringotts were nothing like the bustling marble halls above.Here, the air felt untouched by time—cold and heavy, as though it carried the whispers of every secret ever stored in these ancient walls.
The goblin carts rattled along the rails, sparks flying where metal kissed metal.Blake sat close beside me, clutching her money pouch, Kreacher perched at her feet like a fiercely devoted sentry. The managers—Griphorn for Salvius-Peverell and Rugnot for Black—rode with stiff precision, saying little as we descended into the depths.
My new heir ring pulsed faintly, matching the beat of my heart.Magic—old magic—responded to me in a way I'd never felt before.Not even when I saw my name written in the Book of Admittance.
Not even when the wand chose me.
This… this was something else.
A call.A recognition.As though the vaults themselves were watching.
Arrival at the Peverell Vault
The cart jerked to a stop.We stood before a towering stone door, smooth and seamless except for a faintly etched crest:
A triangle over a straight line — the Peverell sigil.
The metal around it looked untouched, unmarred by age or time.It gave the impression of a guardian that had never once failed in its duty.
Griphorn turned to me.
"Heir Salvius–Peverell," he announced solemnly, "the Peverell vault recognizes only blood. No key, no spell, no force can open it—save your hand."
My breath hitched.
"Just place your palm upon the stone."
I swallowed, stepped forward, and pressed my hand to the cold surface.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
WHOOOM.
A shockwave of magic pulsed outward, rippling across the stone.Lines of silver runes burst outwards like veins of lightning, racing across the door.A deep, resonant hum filled the air—the sound of ancient enchantments awakening after years of slumber.
The stone slid open without a single crack breaking its surface.
Inside… I froze.
Treasures of the Invisible Legacy
The Peverell vault wasn't ostentatious.
Peverells weren't like the Malfoys, who flaunted wealth for prestige.They weren't like the Blacks, whose vaults brimmed with dark heirlooms and cursed power.
This vault was subtle.Purposeful.Dangerously intelligent.
Galleons were stacked neatly along one wall—not in mountains, but rows.Old, heavy coins stamped with ancient mint designs, far more valuable than standard currency.
But the true treasures were elsewhere.
Shelves filled the space, holding:
• Alchemy tools—intricate, well-polished, masterfully crafted• Vials of rare materials preserved by stasis spells• Books bound in dragonhide, basilisk leather, and even phoenix parchment• Scrolls labeled with runes for stealth, illusions, advanced offensive charms• A dueling artifacts chest with runic inscriptions etched so deeply they hummed faintly
But what drew me was the small, humble corner near the vault entrance.
A pile of worn schoolbooks.Edges bent.Spines cracked.Pages full of messy scribbles and furious notes.
My throat tightened.
Evelyn's books.My mother's books.
I kneeled slowly, reaching for the top one.The Charms textbook.
Inside the cover was a name:
Evelyn P. – Gryffindor, First Year
My vision blurred.I blinked until the words steadied.
On the margin of a levitation charm explanation, she had written:
Caelum nearly set his robes on fire. Again.
A wet laugh escaped my lips.
Another page:
A lion must stand tall even when shadows grow — remember this.
A whispered prophecy hidden in her handwriting?Or simply the wisdom of a girl who grew up too fast in dark times?
My hands trembled as I reached for the next artifact:
A photo album.
The first picture—Evelyn in Hogwarts robes, beaming after Sorting.
Next—Evelyn and Caelum, sitting side by side on the lawn.She held a book.He tried to peek over her shoulder.She elbowed him, grinning.
Page after page—Seven years of their lives, frozen in time.
Then the final photo.
A sunny meadow.My father's arm around her.My mother touching her rounded stomach with shining eyes.
Their smiles…
Joy.Hope.A life they wanted desperately but never reached.
My lungs tightened painfully.
I wanted to cry—but I swallowed it down, forcing my emotions into a tight box.
I would grieve later.
I grabbed an old Peverell pouch—worn but functional—and filled it:
• 500 Galleons• A handful of Sickles and Knuts• My mother's photo album• Her first-year Charms and Potions books
I stood, bowed my head slightly to the vault, and walked out.
Blake and Kreacher waited quietly by the cart.
She saw the expression on my face and didn't ask.She simply held my free hand.
I squeezed back.
Arrival at the Salvius Vault
The next stop took us even deeper.The rails turned darker.The air colder.
Magic thickened until it crackled—alive, restless.
Rugnot's posture stiffened.Even Kreacher trembled.
The cart stopped before a black vault door carved from obsidian-like stone.The Salvius crest shimmered faintly:
A serpent coiled around a curved blade, surrounded by fractured circle sigils.
Griphorn inhaled slowly.
"The Salvius line," he began, "is far less known than the Peverells. But in ancient times… they were feared. And respected."
He gestured to the door.
"Your touch, Heir."
I pressed my palm against the serpent's head.
CRACK.
A blast of cold shot through the air.The vault shuddered as heavy enchantments unlocked, one after another in a chain of thunderous magic.
When the door slid open—
I stepped into a war room.
The Salvius Legacy
Where the Peverell vault was scholarly and subtle, the Salvius vault was unmistakably dangerous.
Shelves brimmed with:
• Cursed objects, locked inside rune cages• Books on combat magic, dueling, shadow arts• Scrolls on curse-weaving, battlefield healing, troop command spells• Weapons crafted of blacksteel and basilisk-bone hilts• Ancient battle armors embedded with protective runes
The air tasted metallic—like the moment before lightning strikes.
This was the vault of fighters.
Of protectors.
Of survivors.
But in the far corner…
A soft silver glow caught my eye.
A Pensieve.
Old, simple, and yet thrumming with ancestral weight.
A stirring in my chest reminded me of something else—my mother's locket.
I touched it.
Instant warmth.A pulse.
Then—
My heir ring brushed its metal surface.
The locket flashed.
Lines of shimmering light burst across it, revealing etched symbols.
Not just any symbols.
The merged crest of the Salvius-Peverell line.
My breath disappeared.
This locket wasn't just sentimental.It wasn't even just magical.
This was an heirloom of blood.A key.A seal.A memory vault.
One that recognized me.
And only me.
I turned sharply.
"Managers," I said, voice cold and steady, "leave us."
Griphorn bowed deeply.Rugnot hesitated, then followed.
"Close the vault," I ordered.
Kreacher obeyed instantly.
The door shut with a thrum of ironclad enchantments.
Silence enveloped us.
Blake's voice trembled slightly.
"Alastair… what are you going to do?"
I softened.
"Blake… I need to check something. Something important. Something about my parents."
She breathed out, worried but trusting.
"Okay. Kreacher and I will talk about my family."
The elf puffed his tiny chest.
"Kreacher will tell Young Miss all about Master Regulus, noble House Black, and wicked mistress."
Blake shot me a confused look.
"He means Walburga," I muttered.
"Oh."
I walked to the Pensieve.
Unscrewed the locket.
Silver-white liquid memories—my mother's tears—dripped into the basin.
The Pensieve glowed brighter, swirling violently, then calming into a clear surface.
My heart thundered.
I steadied myself.
And leaned in—
falling into the memories of my blood.