Chapter Text
Not that it matters but most of the following is true.
Mr. Archibald Henry III purchased his copy of the daily prophet in London and carried it with him all the way to Wales. He was early - a bad habit, so he found a clean wall to lean against and pulled the paper from underneath his arm, where he'd kept it carefully tucked for the trip. By the shine of shoes or the crisp note of his collar or the rather stodgy aura that surrounded the elderly man, any passerby might have expected a man such as this to flip directly to the foreign politics section of the paper, or maybe the economic news. Instead, Mr. Henry stared down at the front cover for long, unblinking moments and watched the disappearing smirk of Mr. James Potter.
A bunch of pish-posh, if Mr. Henry had anything to say about it. Although he did sport something of a small grin underneath his impressive mustache.
The year is 1988, and Mr. Potter has occupied more news in the Daily Prophet than the weather. After all that dreadful business with He Who Shall Not Be Named and the Potter Cottage and... suffice it to say, the Wizarding World was not - contrary to what you may think - comfortable with the supernatural.
The Wizarding World was not - contrary to what you may think - comfortable with the supernatural. The supernatural, of course, in this case encompassing a much smaller circle than it does in the muggle world. After all, wizards cut their teeth on ghosts, curses, dark creatures, etc. There are certain phenomena, however, that are unexplainable by either Muggle science or magic. Everybody in the Wizarding World seems to get a collective stomach ache whenever something or someone falls into that small grey area. Which may help explain why James Potter's face is on the front cover of the Prophet for the seventeenth time this year.
The story is rather boring if you ask Mr. Henry. A cottage - simple, plain, unremarkable - disappeared from Godric's Hollow a few years back. It was unexpected, of course. In the morning, the Potter family lived there. By the time the sun had set, the house and everybody in it at the time was gone. Mother, father, baby, and - what makes this moment in history supposedly spectacular - He Who Shall Not Be Named, Lord Voldemort himself. All of them, vanished without a trace.
When officials arrived on site the next morning, all they found was a patch of black dirt in a perfect circle. After which, the world seemed all in a to-do, and clearly, they'd never calmed down about it. The ministry invited experts from around the world to study the case. Even after droves of the smartest wizards alive today - Albus Dumbledore himself - inspected the site, what happened to the Potters remained a mystery. The property quickly became notorious. Everybody associated with it - Voldemort, the Potters, Sirius Black - became notorious along with it.
Of course, this James Potter tosser must wear notoriety like a fine pair of silk pajamas. For all the face time he's gotten himself in the Prophet.
Mr. Henry rubs at his mustache. It's scratching something awful today. He looks up from the article, and there's a small muggle child staring at him from just down the street. He's got one of his fingers in his mouth and he's pointing at the moving pictures on the newspaper. Mr. Henry snaps the paper closed, and twitches his mustache and large bushy eyebrows at the young boy. It has the desired affect. The little muggle jumps and runs off to his mother, who is looking in the window of a video tape rental store, whatever that is.
When the child has left, Mr. Henry flips the paper back open. Mr Potter is winking at him. The Prophet only had a handful of pictures of Mr. Potter at their disposal. This one seemed to be their favorite. The camera catches Potter's attention for just a moment, and in that moment the entire wizarding world is bewitched by the eyes of their most notorious outlaw. Potter's mouth is turned up into something that's not quite smirk but not quite smile. He's both charming and venomous. Then he winks and flashes out of sight. A bunch of whooey, if you were to ask Mr. Henry.
Still, despite being generally irked by him, Potter did puzzle Mr. Henry.
Six months after his house disappeared, James Potter - thought to be dead or otherwise - walked into Gringott's Bank. It was two o'clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and Mr. Potter was not only alive, but he was there looking to rob the place.
Witnesses from that day say Potter had a dangerous gleam in his eye. The look of a man gone crazy. He didn't leave the bank with any money, but he left with a reputation. A reputation that only continued to grow as years passed. While his first foray into bank robbing hadn't been successful, he'd only improved with time. He'd robbed banks and trains all across the British isles - both muggle and wizarding, amassing quite the fortune and quite the reputation.
Fortunes and reputations were certainly a subject that Mr. Henry found interesting.
The other stuff - the whooey - did not.
Commoner rumors and pish-posh. For years, silly rumors about Potter clogged up any open avenues for decent conversation. Good, hearty, working-class wizards consumed themselves with such dribble. They said Potter morphed after that night. He lost his human form. He grew horns out the top of his head. His skin was now wilted like the undead and the whites of his eyes are now stained red with the blood for which he was responsible. They seem to believe that James Potter today is more monster than man. Well Mr. Henry thinks it's all just nonsense.
The clocktower strikes twice. By george. Just like him, show up somewhere early only to arrive late. He tosses the paper into the bin and replaces his bowler cap to the top of his head. There is business to be done. Can’t be caught standing about, dilly-dallying over the news.
The Hughes National Bank happens to be the architectural pride and joy of this quaint Welsh town. Inside, chandeliers glimmer from where they hang underneath the creamy arched ceiling. Sunlight filters through beautifully ornate stained glass windows along the bank floor. The teller stations shine with gold. And Mr. Henry’s ivory cane clack clack clacks against the milky marble floor. He walks with a limp in his left leg, which makes his gait uniquely familiar.
As he struts down the bank’s midway, conversations cease and are replaced with hissing whispers. All eyes turn to the formidably fragile form slinking across the floor. Mr. Henry’s legs are stick thin, creating the illusion that if it weren’t for his cane, he might topple over at any second.
Mr. Henry is one of the bank’s most important clients. If not, the most important client. He’s held important accounts here for several decades now. Accounts his father had held before him. And his father before him. And so on and so forth. Which largely means, when Mr. Archibald Henry III walks through those solid oak double doors with his uniquely familiar gait, he receives the attention of everybody inside.
As soon as word of their esteemed guest's arrival reached his desk, the bank manager jumped out of his chair and approached Mr. Henry with a professional smile and a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and below his arms.
Bank managers of such an establishments do not come to be in such a position without possessing a certain sort of mettle. To rise to such a position, the bank manager must prove themself to be strong, judicious and fair. They must be even-keeled and serene in the face of conflict.
“Mr. Henry, lo-lo-lovely to see you again, sir,” Mr Barry, a reputable bank manager renowned for his mettle, stammers. "I... I... I must apologize. We weren’t expecting you today, or we, we would have…"
"Nonsense.” Henry flaps his hand in the manager’s face. “I'm in town on other business, and thought I might drop by. I had some questions for you actually, Mr..."
"Mr. Barry, sir," the manager says. "How can I help you today, sir?"
Mr. Henry looks about the floor to where nosy eyes peep into their conversation. "Would it not be more prudent to continue this conversation somewhere more discrete? It's very important, very private business."
"Yes, yes, sir. Follow me, please." The bank manager ushers Sir Archibald Henry IV off the main floor and into his own ostentatious office.
"Can I get you a cup of tea, sir?"
"No, that's quite alright. Straight to business, I'm afraid." The seats are upholstered with the unfriendliest leather Mr. Archibald has ever sat in. He approves.
"Well what brings you in today, sir?"
"I've got a rather important package arriving in London in a few weeks time. A package that... well suffice it to say, I'll need it kept safe." Mr. Henry drops his cane onto the desk in front of him. The clang causing the bank manager to jump in his seat. Mr. Henry itches at his mustache. "I am under the impression that the vault here at the Hughes Bank is state of the art. You’ve got the Fitzwilliam model installed here, if I'm correct?"
"Well yes, sir. I mean no sir. I mean, well we do have a state of the art vault on the property, sir. Only we no longer have the vault you are referring to.” The bank manager folds and unfolds his hands across his desk. “Which you’ll find is only to your benefit you see. That vault was found to have various flaws in security, so we replaced it. With the Markley model."
Up until now, Mr. Henry has donned a polite but bored expression. At this news, the skin around his eyes crinkles. The corner of his mouth tightens. "You replaced it? That beautiful piece of history? Why?"
“Well to be frank, sir, people kept robbing it.”
“Small price for beauty I’d say.” Like a puppet cut loose from his strings, Mr. Henry slumps forward in his chair. “Well, when? When did this happen?”
"Only a few weeks ago, sir. After James Potter robbed it last. We had to get a new one didn't we."
Of course, James Potter and all his nonsense. Always ruining Mr. Henry's plans.
The bank manager continued, "I've got to say, sir, this new one, she's a real beaut too. The most modern form of security in the world, they say. I can assure you that any packages you might need protecting, well we here at Huffington Bank are more than adequately prepared to..."
"Yes, yes," Mr. Henry interrupts. "I presume you've stored items of significance in this safe before. Watches, fine jewelry, eye pieces even perhaps?"
"Yes, of course. All matter of personal items such as that, along with..."
"And specifically, what types of items?"
"Well I couldn't of course expose my clients in such a way, but I can assure you..."
As the bank manager stammers on and on about the validity of the new safe, Mr. Henry itches again at his mustache. The facial hair feels so vehemently wrong. When his fingers meet his upper lip though, he feels a smooth patch of skin where the mustache was supposed to be.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure the new vault is wonderful. ACHEW!” A cleverly timed sneeze allows Henry to hold a handkerchief over his newly mustache-free face. “Excuse me. Allergies. And the name of this new vault. What did you say it was again? You see, only I'll need to verify its security. You understand? ACHEW!” Mr. Henry blinks heavily. “Those don’t happen to be azaleas on your desk there, do they?”
The bank manager looked up from where he’d been rapidly scribbling down all pertinent information on a silky piece of bank letterhead. They were indeed azaleas brought to him by his wife this morning. “I’m afraid they are, sir.”
Mr. Henry stood quickly. “I’ll take my leave then. Terribly allergic. Other errands to run.” He swipes the letterhead out from under the bank manager's fingers. “Thank you for your time.”
The bank manager calls after him as he flees the office, but Henry has no time to lose. He struts down the center aisle of the bank. His ivory cane skips steps as he barely uses it to walk.
The sun assaults his eyes, dotting his vision with black spots as he stumbles outside and into a nearby alleyway. There, with one hand on his upper lip and the other hand supporting his weight on the brick wall, Mr. Henry's crisp and styled coif of hair falls into an unkempt black mop, sticking up in every direction. His frail and hunched form stretches to be lanky and tall. His vision focuses in and out until he can't make out his individual fingers in front of his face. His body pulls and morphs and straightens and grows and shrinks until a new man stands in the alley. It seems today that Mr. Archibald Henry IV is not a rather important patron of the bank, but instead the notorious bank robber James Potter on the business end of Polyjuice Potion.
He catches his reflection in a window. James Potter, alright.
James pulls his glasses from the inside pocket of the suit jacket and re-situates them on his face. He rubs his upper lip. He’s never enjoyed the feeling of facial hair and is glad to be rid of the mustache.
He tosses the necktie to the ground and nearly skips from the alley. The letterhead neatly tucked into his pocket.
The bank manager stands on the front step of the bank, searching for his elderly patron. James gives him a nod of the head and tosses Mr. Henry's bowler cap right into his arms before disappearing down the street. The Lochness Monster, indeed.