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Chapter Text

Harry Potter?

Cheater!

How did he do it?

Of course it's Potter, honestly.

Harry walks blankly towards Dumbledore, eyes fixed steadily on the small piece of paper clutched in the older wizard's hand, as the insidious whispers of his peers echo in his wake. He stops in front of the Headmaster, panicked green eyes meeting kindly blue, until he is gestured towards the ante chamber the Champions had all disappeared behind. He dare not look at anyone else, terrified of what he might find on their faces. As he went, he clung to the kind look in Dumbledore's eyes.

Dumbledore will fix this, he'll believe me. He won't let them force me into competing.

These thoughts firm his shoulders as he crosses the threshold into the room where Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory sit stiffly by the fire. Cedric is the first to spot him, smiling tensely in greeting. He thinks Fleur may have said something, asked a question, but Harry isn't paying attention; too busy watching the grin slowly slide off Cedric's face. Harry isn't sure how much Cedric can glean just by looking at the play of emotions across his face, but he must catch enough because a look of dawning concern begins to sketch across the other boy's features.

Before the older boy can ask questions Harry is sure he wouldn't be able to answer, the door opens again. Filing into the room are the three headmasters, Moody, McGonagall, Snape, and Barty Crouch. The entire group of adults descend upon Harry in seconds, all with different emotions playing across their countenances; venomous - Snape and Karkaroff, worried - Professor McGonagall.

"Harry," Dumbledore begins calmly; the first to break the tense silence, "did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

Relieved at the chance to explain Harry looks imploringly into his bespectacled eyes and shakes his head and giving a firm "No, sir."

There is an immediate uproar, all of the adults attempting to talk over one another.  Inadvertently he finds himself backing up hastily from the deluge of raised voices, until his back hits something and he stumbles. Feeling two hands land heavily on his shoulders, he turns sharply, looking up into Cedric Diggory's confused face. He takes a hasty step back, flushing.

"Sorry," Harry mutters.

"S'alright, Harry," a pause, "So...your name came out of the Goblet." Cedric utters this as a statement, though his face is still painted with questions, and all Harry can do is nod.

Then, they're both glancing at the still-arguing adults, trying to decipher what's being said.  Harry is able to pick up a few things including, but not limited to; Karkaroff and Maxime accusing Hogwarts of cheating (of course), Moody sneering heavily at Karkaroff (strange but not out of character), Mr. Crouch muttering something about binding magical contracts (which did not bode well for Harry), Snape arguing that Harry is too inept to put his name in the Goblet (true but still rude), and McGonagall looking fierce as a lion-mother that is two seconds away from cursing Mr. Crouch where he stands (strangely comforting).

All of these things filter in and out of Harry's perception as he notices one important detail. Dumbledore isn't saying anything, he is simply standing back with a strangely blank expression on his face. He isn't arguing with Mr. Crouch or stating unequivocally that Harry can not compete in the tournament. Merlin, he hasn't even officially said if he believes Harry or not. An incredible sense of unease creeps up his spine, and in the warmth of the fire-lit chamber, ice wends its way through his veins.

Sick to his stomach with worry, he is caught in a downward spiral of panicked 'what ifs' until a gentle hand on his shoulders startles him out of his thoughts. Looking to his left, he realizes he has forgotten that Cedric is still standing next to him.

"Even I know you didn't put your name in the Goblet, that's just not who you are. They can't really expect you to compete, I'm sure." Though his words are an attempt to ease Harry's worries, it would help if the Hufflepuff sounded even remotely confident in his last statement. But Cedric is gazing at the adults, still shouting over each other, with an angry furrow to his brow and helpless irritation sharpening his handsome features.  It occurs to Harry, then, that  out of all the people in this room the only one who has thought to comfort him, the only one offering him explicit support, is a fellow student. A child, if only in name due to his age. Harry’s nebulous and fractured thoughts begin to shape themselves into a swelling tide of anger and clarity:

They can expect him to compete and, in fact, Harry is quite sure they do. Just as they expect him to be their Boy-Who-Lived and their Chosen one; the brave Gryffindor that revels in all things reckless and dangerous because Morgana forbid he ever say 'no, thank you I've had quite enough adventure to last anyone a lifetime.'

Anger boils through him, chased by his magic. He feels it swelling up his throat as if to choke him, making it hard to breathe. He knows that if he doesn't get control of himself, his magic will lash out, and he would very much like to avoid another Aunt Marge incident. He runs through an approximation of the meditative breathing Hermione tried to beat into his head last year. By the time his breathing is steadies, his ire has condensed into something sharp and very cold.

Unbidden, he is reminded of his first time in the castle; small and thunderstruck, an old hat falling over his eyes. He remembers that the Sorting Hat wanted to place him in a House known for cunning intellect. Now, he reminds himself that while he chose the House of the Brave, the house his parents belonged to, it does not mean he has less propensity for cunning. The Hat told him so. So Harry desperately summons all the intellect Remus and Hermione have been trying to get him to use for years; all the strategy he has learned through late-night chess matches with Ron and well-planned pranks with the twins.

Without glancing at Cedric, Harry walks purposefully into the midst of the adults until, one by one, their eyes turn to him. Harry isn't quite sure how much of his thoughts are showing on his face, but it's enough to see surprise flair across McGonagall's eyes.

"We've established that I did not put my name in the Goblet," he begins, only to be interrupted by a scoff from Karkaroff.

"Oh, have we, boy?"

Harry levels him with a bored stair, perfected over years of avoiding Vernon's ill tempers, and silently refuses to dignify his statement with a response until Harry is sure he's done being an asshole to a fourteen year old. When no other vitriol is forthcoming he moves his eyes back to the others, landing finally on Mr. Crouch.

"If I understand you, Mr. Crouch, you're argument for allowing an underage wizard to compete in a deadly tournament is that their is a 'binding magical contract.' Is that correct?"

An astonished silence follows his question. He isn't sure why they're surprised, it's not as if they were keeping their voices down. McGonagall is the first to recover, drawing herself up and glaring heatedly at Crouch.

"Yes, Barty. I am most interested in this reasoning as well," she states tartly, her Scottish brogue crisp in anger. Harry gives her a small smile, grateful for the steadfast protection she extends to all of her lion cubs.

"It is as I've said, Minerva," Crouch sniffs haughtily, "The boy's name came from the Goblet of Fire, the contract compels him to compete!"

"A contract? I'm actually quite familiar with the language of Magical Contract Law. I spent a significant time researching it last year, to help a friend with a case against an unfairly accused hippogriff," Harry says mildly. "I would love to see the contract for myself since, as you say, it is what compels me to compete."

"What a great idea, Harry!" he hears from behind him. Without his notice, Cedric had sidled up to stand beside him once more. There is a cheerful grin spread across his face that would be quite charming, Harry's sure, if not for the piercing challenge in the boy's eyes as he stared down Crouch. "My Dad works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I'm sure he'd be happy to be a second set of eyes. Well third maybe, after you give it to Granger, of course. Scary smart, that one," he finishes happily.

For a moment Harry blinks dumbly up at him. Suddenly he feels an immense wave of gratitude for this young man, who owes him nothing, but has decided to fight for him anyway. Crouch, for his part, isn't doing much better as he stares speechlessly at the two Hogwarts students.

"Well?!" Madame Maxime chimes in, "Let us zee zis contract!"

"It is not that kind of contract," Crouch says sourly, evidently displeased that the conversation isn't going the way he intended, "It is old magic, very old, creates a binding pact between the named competitor and Magic Herself. It is magic the likes of which can be seen in the bond between a Wizard and their House Elf, as well as-" at this he paused, looking unsure, "as well as in the contract of an Unbreakable Vow."

There were gasps around the room, next to him Cedric went rigid. Well that can't be good.

Irritated, Harry cleared his throat loudly, trying to stall whatever rant he can see brewing in McGonagall's eyes.

"Would anyone like to explain what that means to the fourth year?" he asks, feeling it necessary to emphasize his age again. Just so everyone is clear on how bloody ridiculous this entire situation has become.

To Harry's surprise it's Dumbledore who speaks, breaking his silence for the first time in almost an hour.

"It means, quite regrettably, my boy, that should you choose not to compete you will surely die."

Dumbledore, Harry thinks (a tad uncharitably), could stand to tone down the dramatics.

Days later, Harry finds himself sat on the far edges of the Black Lake, as far away from the Castle as he could get without passing into the surrounding moors. The weather is just this side of biting, the Autumn chill of the Scottish highlands seeping past his cloak. With the way Ron has been acting, however, Harry feels like the weather is a fair trade for getting away from his best mate's attitude.  Hermione, at least, believes him when he says he didn't put his name in the Goblet. She even agrees that he's not just being paranoid to assume someone is out to get him. But no matter what he says, she thinks that Dumbledore has his best interests at heart. Harry doesn't know what to think anymore; isn't sure if he can forget how easily Dumbledore stood back and let things unfold the way they did that night.

As a first year, Harry remembers feeling so in awe of Dumbledore, and thinking that the man must surely know everything. He remembers the chilling fear of realizing someone was trying to hurt him,  but knowing that as long as Dumbledore was there he would be safe. Then Dumbledore was gone when Harry faced Voldemort for the second time in his life. He remembers waking up in the hospital wing and realizing that the old wizard wasn't as all-knowing as Harry originally thought. His 11-year-old self came to that conclusion believing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Headmaster wouldn't have left a priceless artifact hidden in the school if he had known about Quirrell.

Now? Now he isn't so sure.

As Harry sits, contemplating powerful wizards and all their big games, he is pulled sharply from his own thoughts at the sound of a familiar call. Looking up, he sees Hedwig gliding gracefully towards him, a thick letter attached to her leg. I guess that means I've missed lunch, he thinks absently. He hasn't been very hungry these days, anyway.

Perching proudly on his left knee, Hedwig gives him a demure 'who' in greeting as he strokes her head. Untying the letter around her leg, Harry is surprised to see the official emblem of Gringotts Bank pressed firmly into a shimmering golden wax seal. As he pops the seal on the rich parchment, he realizes that the reason it's so thick is because there is another sealed envelope inside the first. As it falls into his lap, he sets it aside to read the contents of the first:

To Lord H. J. Potter,

On behalf of the Horde of Gringotts Bank, allow us to offer our congratulations to his Lordship's coming of age. This is the official notice to inform you that your status will be updated within our records  to reflect your new title(s):

- Lord Potter, Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter
- Heir Black, Heir Apparent to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black of the Sacred Twenty-Eight
- Descendant and Sole Executer of the House of Peverell, absorbed by The House of Potter (1328) and The House of Gaunt (1603)
- Lord Slytherin, by right of Conquest and possession of the Magical Gift of Parseltounge

For detailed information on your estate and assets, if applicable, your Primary Account Manager will enclose a more detailed correspondence.

May your gold flow,

The Horde of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, United Kingdom

Fortius Quo Fidelius

As Harry scans the short missive, he can feel his eyes widening further with each new line. Heart beating fast, he scrambles to open his second letter, the one that is supposedly from his account manager.

Dear Lord Potter,

Let me offer my personal congratulations on your coming of age (surprising as it may be). Next let me introduce myself; I am Nilki. I have served as the Potter account manager since the time of your name-sake Henry Potter. Before myself, the job belonged to my Father, and his Mother before that.

I am sure you must be confused. As, I must admit, am I.  However, I will endeavor to explain the circumstances of your new Lordship to the best of my knowledge. After my thorough inspection of your accounts, it appears that you are now considered a legal adult in the eyes of Magic Herself as of Samhain. There are few things that could have caused such a thing and I was understandably befuddled for many hours until I heard a rumor. You, Lord Potter, are being touted as a Champion in the upcoming Triwizard Tournament. If this is in fact the truth, it would explain your sudden coming of age quite well. The Goblet of Fire is a Goblin Made artifact; the enchantments made with Goblin Magic. It is an immutable fact that the recently amended Magical Agreement, welded into the very essence of the Goblet itself, requires every Champion to be of age. As soon as the Goblet names you one of its Champions, Magic must acknowledge you as an adult.

Being an adult in the Magical world, as you have no doubt noticed by now, comes with many things; chief among them the right to your Titles. It may also be prudent for you to note that files at the Ministry of Magic are automatically updated when one comes of age (though I highly doubt anyone in that institution of disorganization will think to check their records). This means, whether they know it or not, the Ministry can no longer Trace your magic use outside of Hogwarts. Thought you might like to know.

Now, this is only the beginning of the process of inheriting the full extent of your Lordship and assorted Titles. We need to go over all of your accounts and the entirety of your estate. You will also need to speak with the Black Account Manager for the specifications of your role as Heir Apparent. In the case of your Slytherin Lordship, I will need to consult our Inheritance Ledgers for more information on how to proceed. Either way, I would like to set up a time to meet in person in the near future.  However, I understand that the tight leash they keep on you students will make this near impossible until Holiday.

Until then, I am available to you via owl for any questions you may have.

Magic Be With You,
Nilki Wrandaughter
Primary Account Manager of the House of Potter (Peverell)
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
London Branch

Harry stares blankly at his two letters until the sun begins to set and he is in danger of missing dinner. He moves to stare at a preening Hedwig, who has stayed faithfully by his side while his world turns upside down.

"What the fuck," soft voice carrying across the Lakes mirror surface.

Chapter Text

The next week of Harry's life is spent in a period of inner turmoil. Even before the news of his new status as an adult, he was busy worrying about the tournament, dealing with the fallout from Ron's misplaced feelings of betrayal, Hermione's late-night preparatory lessons, and fielding enraged-on-his-behalf letters from Remus and Sirius. Luckily Hermione took one look at his vacant expressions and put it down to nerves regarding the tournament; not untrue, but not nearly the whole of it. He spends a good amount of his- very sparse- free time exchanging letters with a surprisingly patient Nilki (he has to bribe Hedwig quite handsomely to only bring him Nilki's letters when he's alone). The amount of information and all the things about his own life, and his parents lives, that he never knew is mind boggling. Throughout the dozens of letters they have exchanged in the past week, the anger he felt the night his name came out of the Goblet made periodic reappearances upon each new revelation regarding The Things He Should Have Been Told Immediately Upon His Entrance To The Wizarding World.

The most unsettling thing he realizes is that, when one considers all of the Money Vaults he has access to, Harry is apparently the Wizarding equivalent of a millionaire. This is something he has been actively ignoring, since the very idea doesn't compute with his version of the world up to this point. That, and the fact he is somehow the Lord of three Houses now, one of which is Slytherin.

The most gut-wrenching piece of information is that some of the vaults under the Potter accounts are not actually Money Vaults - a distinction Harry had not known existed-but Keep-Safe Vaults. These sorts of Vaults seem to be the Wizarding equivalent of safe-deposit boxes which apparently hold heirlooms and items his parent's thought valuable and important enough to keep at the bank. Harry asks Nilki if their is an itemized list of things in these vaults, something she is all too happy to provide. Among the many other things in these vaults there is; a pensieve accompanied by a box of memory vials (Harry could hardly imagine what stories they held), assorted antique furniture, and a chest labeled 'For Harry' that could not be opened by anyone but him.

The most infuriating thing he finds out, it that the only reason he didn't have access to the vaults is because he was never given the keys. For someone like him, who has grown up clinging to scraps of his parents memory, he feels cheated knowing he could have had access to their most beloved possessions all this time. The keys have been waiting at Gringotts since his parents died; meant to be kept by his Magical Guardian until his coming of age. When Harry gets this particular letter from Nilki, he half expects her to tell him that his Magical Guardian is Dumbledore, but no. Harry doesn't have a magical guardian; he never has. If Nilki is to be believed this is unheard of, as even muggleborn's are assigned Magical Guardians. For Hogwarts students like Hermione, their Head of House is assigned as their Guardian until the student comes of age, something that usually happens by graduation anyway. Nilki doesn't outright say his lack of Guardian is a crime but she very carefully points out that it is very unusual, and virtually impossible, and she'll be looking into it in a way that suggests...yes, there probably is criminal activity involved.

The most shocking revelation is the amount of property he apparently owns. Without even including the unknown amount of real estate he has access to as the Black Heir, the Potter family has a substantial amount all its own including the Potter Family Estate in Canterbury, the Town Home in Chelsea, a seaside cottage in Cardiff, and the rights to his parent's old house in Godric's Hallow. This revelation is accompanied by Nilki pointing out that the official Title of Potter Estate Manager has been vacant almost as long as he's been alive, so all of the properties are most likely in some kind of disrepair. She gently, but insistently, suggests he find someone (anyone will do at this point, Lord Potter) to fill the position. (Harry has a few ideas, all resembling the vague shape of a habitually unemployed ex-professor/adopted uncle/godfather-in-law. He just needs an opportunity to talk with the man in question, which is a problem within itself.)

The most incandescent-rage-inducing piece of information comes in the form of a short missive one evening after classes let out. Lily and James Potter's Last Will and Testament has never been read; it has never even been unsealed. Nilki tells him the bank needs permission from the Executor to have it read. Harry himself is the Primary Executor, a title he can only claim now that he's of age. The secondary Executor named? Albus Dumbledore.

Harry hasn't quite been sure what do with all of it; wasn't sure how to explain any of it. Multiple times, he's sat down at his desk to write out explanations to Sirius or Remus, only to stare down at blank parchment until the ink on his quill dries up. He can't really talk to Hermione about it for fear that she'll (with the best of intentions) bring the information straight to Dumbledore. Harry refuses to give any new information to the Headmaster, more angry at the old man than ever. Ron, of course, isn't speaking to him and that is a non-starter. He is half tempted to go to McGonagall, he knows she would keep his confidence if asked, but he doesn't want to put her in an uncomfortable position with the Headmaster.

Sufficed to say, he's been spending a good amount of time alone, agonizing over each new piece of information; each new piece of his life that has been, seemingly, deliberately kept from him.

Currently he finds himself in the clock tower, Nilki's latest letter clenched in his hand. Staring out at the grounds, past the nearly-silent gears of the giant clock, he watches as the waxing moon moves higher in the sky. He isn't sure how long he's been up here though, he absently notes, it must be past curfew if the moon is so high. He's in the middle of wondering if he should chance sneaking back to Gryffindor Tower when he hears a voice call out behind him.

"Harry?"

He whirls around, only to see Cedric Diggory walking up the steps behind him. Walking closer, the Hufflepuff Prefect comes to lean on the wall next to where Harry sits with his legs hanging off the open edge of the clocktower.

"Harry, it's past curfew," he says, gently admonishing, "How long have you been up here? I didn't see you at dinner."

Harry gives the other boy a surprised look, "You noticed I wasn't at dinner?" How strange.

Looking a tad abashed, Cedric reaches up to run a hand through his hair, "Ah, well. Yes, I suppose I did. You've been missing a lot of meals." Clearing his throat, he pushes on, "What's got you sitting up hear brooding for so long you miss curfew?" he asks with a teasing grin.

Harry isn't really sure how to answer that in a concise manner, and as his silence stretches for a few heavy seconds, the grin begins to slide off Cedric's face. Then, he's moving gracefully to sit cross-legged at Harry's side, so that they are mostly at eye level, and regards him with a sober expression. It's a bit strange to see on the usually cheery sixth year.

"I can't imagine how scary and upsetting it is to be forced into competing in the Tournament. I know you didn't sign up for this the way the rest of us did. And as capable of a wizard as you are, you have to know that I'll do anything I can to help you, rules be damned. You don't have to do this alone."

As he says this, Cedric's grey eyes are warm and resolute and staring right into Harry's. If Harry was any less emotionally exhausted, he could have gotten away from this conversation with his pride intact. As it is, he is so incredibly emotionally (and physically, he really hasn't been sleeping well) exhausted that Cedric's deceleration causes tears to spring to his eyes almost immediately. Cedric, to his credit, only looks mildly alarmed and even allows Harry the dignity of pulling himself together before giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Thanks," Harry mutters, though it is an entirely inadequate representation of the gratitude and relief he feels in this moment. And almost without thinking, Harry finds himself turning around to fully face the other boy.

"It's not...just the tournament," he starts hesitantly, glancing down at the letter still clutched in his hand. Then, looking up into the steadfast, earnest face of the kind boy in front of him, he finds himself explaining. Haltingly at first, as if he's forgotten how to confide in someone, but steadier as he goes until he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. He tells Cedric about his fears that someone put his name in the Goblet for nefarious purposes, about his inadvertent coming of age, and about Nilki. About his scar and his dreams that seem to always revolve around Voldemort these days. He even tells the other boy about Sirius, and Sirius's suspicions about Karkoroff and the tournament, never once stopping to think if Cedric could be trusted with the information. (Because Harry knows he can. Knows it as intrinsically as he knows how to fly)

And through all of it, Cedric listens.

Cedric Diggory isn't sure what he expected when he went to chide Harry Potter for being out past curfew, perhaps he wasn't expecting anything at all. Either way, he finds himself reeling, even now, days later, from the amount of information given to him by the younger boy. He also finds himself with a burgeoning critical eye towards the adults in his life; aware of their humanness and fallibility in a way he never has been before. Lastly, he finds himself feeling strangely and inexplicably fortunate that the other boy seems to trust him enough to confide in him so. Harry hasn't even told Hermione Granger half the things he told Cedric that night and they’re thick as thieves these days. (Although, he was assured that the bit about Sirius Black being innocent and on the run is well known in certain circles.) It's a bit terrifying to be given that trust with seemingly no prompting, and he isn't sure if it's more a credit to his own character or Harry's current loneliness. Either way, Cedric has decided to make sure that Harry's trust in him isn't misplaced. He's been keeping a closer eye on the younger boy, making sure to greet him when they pass in the hallways, and giving him (by way of Hermione) spell book recommendations to better prepare him. Above all, he has been making his support of his fellow champion known in every way he can, even among his own house. He hasn't figured out how to get rid of those badges yet but he will, even if he has to threaten that Malfoy kid with detention and loss of points. Heck he even bought into Hermione's Elfish Welfare Society (or whatever she's calling it) just to be supportive (he thinks she may be starting to trust him too)!

But even with everything he's been doing to make sure Harry knows he has a friend in Cedric, the boy has seemed oddly hesitant with him; embarrassed perhaps? He isn't sure. Imagine his surprise, then, when five short days before the first task he hears a familiar voice call out to him as he leaves the Transfiguration classroom.

"Cedric!"

And there's Harry, hurrying towards him with a determined look on his face with a harried looking Hermione following after him. Pushing past his surprise that the other boy is actually initiating a conversation, he gives a warm smile.

"Harry! What's got you in such a hurry? Shouldn't you be headed to Herbology?" This seems to surprise Harry, drawing him up short as he reaches Cedric's place at the bottom of the staircase.

Is it weird that I know that? It's weird that I know that, isn't it, he considers silently to himself.

"Yes," Hermione says irately, "We are."

She gets an eye roll for her troubles as Harry meets Cedric's gaze once more, leaning in closely. "Dragons," he hisses quietly, "The first task is Dragons. They have one for each of us. Karkoroff and Maxime know so that means Krum and Fleur know, and now we know too."

With a firm nod, Harry turns to walk off with an impatient Hermione before Cedric has even fully processed his words. But before the other boy gets too far, he turns back, amusement glinting behind his round frames.

"It's weird that you know my schedule, by the way."

"I knew it," Cedric says faintly to himself, clutching his Advanced Transfiguration textbook to his chest.

Upon the completion of the first task Harry finds himself warming considerably to Cedric, finally able to move past his crushing embarrassment from crying in front of him. But the older boy has proven himself to be a trustworthy and loyal confidant; not shocking when one considers what House he belongs to. This, in addition to Ron finally coming around after watching Harry almost die fighting a Dragon, has improved Harry's mood greatly.

Even so, he still can't figure out how to tell Ron and Hermione about his new status as Lord and Heir. Or even if he wants to tell them at all. Something always holds him back; whether it be the idea of Ron getting irritated again, or Hermione insisting on telling Dumbledore everything, he always finds a reason not to tell them. So Cedric remains the only person Harry has told. Sirius on the other hand, is another matter entirely. Harry desperately wants to tell him everything but knows it needs to be in person. The conversation he had with his godfather that night in the fire didn't last nearly long enough for Harry to get into the whole mess of his coming of age.

So, now that the first task has ended and Harry feels like he can breath properly again, he's on a mission to find a way to talk to the man. And since now he knows, thanks to Hermione, that a certain free elf is working in the Castle, Harry knows just who to ask for ideas.

This evening, Hermione is busy in the library, and Ron is looking comfortably lazy as he lounges in front of the Common Room fire reading the latest issue of Quidditch News, which features an article on the Chudley Cannons. Sensing the perfect opportunity, Harry leans forward from his place on the couch, head bent towards Ron's sprawled form.

"Think I'll go grab something from the kitchen, say hello to Dobby," he says casually, "Want anything?" He waits, hoping that Ron is too comfortable where he is and won't decide to tag along. The red haired boy glances his way, a thoughtful look on his face, and Harry holds his breath.

"Yeah," he says pensively, "Bring some of those pies from dinner if they've got 'em. Thanks Harry." And with that, he goes back to his article.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry heads out of the portrait hole before his friend has a chance to change his mind.

The kitchen is, as ever, bustling with busy house elves. He can see a group of them clearing off the last few dinner dishes from the four large tables that mirror the ones in the Great Hall. He doesn’t have to look hard for Dobby, however, as the elf is suddenly right in front of him and vibrating with excitement.

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir!”, he squeaks, “You has come back again! Can Dobby be doin’ anything for Harry Potter?”

Harry can’t help but smile at the elf’s enthusiasm.

“Hello Dobby. Actually, I came to ask you something. I think I’m in need of the expertise of a Hogwarts House Elf.” This statement has the desired effect as Dobby stands up straighter, his chest puffing out in exuberant pride.

“Anything Harry Potter asks, Dobby will do his best!”

Harry leads Dobby to the side of the kitchen entrance, away from the hustle and bustle of the busy elves.

“Can you keep a secret?” He asks, knowing full well Dobby would happily keep his secrets. After getting an incredibly effusive affirmative, Harry nods, “I need to know if there’s a place in the castle I can talk to my godfather, in private, without anyone finding out. He was framed you see, and even though Dumbledore, my friends, and I know he’s innocent…the Ministry is still looking for him,” He only lists Dumbledore for Dobby’s sake, knowing the elf is thankful to the man for giving him a paying job.

Throughout Harry’s explanation, Dobby’s eyes have gotten impossibly larger and surprisingly watery.

“Harry Potter’s Godfather is innocent?”, he asks in a miserable whisper, “And Harry Potter can’t live with him because of the bad Ministry? So he has to live with those awful Muggles instead?”

The elf looks two seconds away from breaking down into the loud sobs Harry is entirely too familiar with. This surprises him. He hadn’t thought Dobby remembered, or even cared, very much about the Dursley’s, but apparently he remembered enough to feel upset on Harry’s behalf. It's touching, if a bit embarrassing.

“Yeah, well,” he says uncomfortably, “That’s why I really need to talk to him, because I never get the chance when I’m with the Dursley’s,” he says quickly, hoping to distract Dobby from his impending breakdown. “Can you think of anywhere?”

Still looking at Harry with wide, watery eyes, Dobby quickly adopts the air of someone thinking very hard, a little crease in his bald forehead.

“Well,” he says slowly, “there’s always the Come-and-Go Room"

As Dobby explains, Harry can feel hope and excitement well up in his chest as the beginnings of a plan form in his mind. With a burgeoning lightness to his steps, he thanks Dobby profusely with promises of new socks for his help.

“Oh!” Harry says, turning back, “I almost forgot. Do you still have any of those little pies from dinner?”

It takes a few days to organize his plan, mostly because he spends a significant amount of time brooding over whether or not to tell Ron and Hermione. Eventually, the guilt from keeping so many things from his friends wins out. Which means that Friday evening after dinner, finds the group of three surreptitiously winding their way up to the seventh floor corridor.  On their way past the fifth floor, they run into a wild-eyed looking Cedric on the stairs. Looking closer, Harry sees that he is clutching a piece of paper.

"Er, are you-" Harry starts, but is cut off abruptly when Cedric shoves the piece of paper at him.

"I figured it out!" he crows, with a manic glint in his eyes.

Seeing Harry's confused look, he steps back, seeming to realize that Ron and Hermione are here as well. Smoothing down the front of his robes with a sheepish smile aimed their way.

"Forgive me Hermione, Ron. Could I just borrow Harry for a moment? Promise I won't keep you too long, Harry. I'm sure you have mischief to be getting up to," he says with a teasing smile. Harry thinks perhaps he would have been offended had that statement come from anyone else, but the way Cedric says it seems almost...fond. For a moment he feels wrong footed; which, of course, is the only explanation he has for why he suddenly blurts out an invitation.

"Actually why don't you come with us? We're on our way to...well it's just a bit of exploring is all."

He says quickly, feeling the warmth spread upwards to his face and ears. Glancing over, he sees Hermione trying poorly to hide a grin and Ron, oddly enough, glancing between Harry and Cedric with a calculating expression usually reserved for Wizards Chess. His confusion at their reactions is quickly banished when his attention is brought back to Cedric.

"Really? I mean, yeah! Yes, I'd love to. We can talk later, or on the way, or whenever." Cedric babbles his reply with the face of someone who's just been told Christmas has come early; his grin stretching wide across his face and crinkling his light eyes. Feeling a smile of his own pull unbidden across his face, Harry nods in happy agreement.

"So," Ron said loudly, startling Harry, "Lead the way, Harry. Since you're the one that wanted to go exploring," he says with a grin. Harry, knowing he's being teased but not entirely sure why, turns on his heel and resumes his march up the staircase.

As they walk, Harry begins to explain to Cedric all the information he gathered from Dobby.

"And you learned all this from your house-elf friend? That's wicked, Harry," Cedric exclaims, looking somehow even more excited. Then, his eyes and forehead squint as if in thought, "Hey, doesn't old Bathilda mention something about  a disappearing room in Hogwarts: A History?"

Naturally, this comment sparks a lively (and somewhat intimidating) debate between he and Hermione that carries them all the way to the seventh floor. Harry patently ignores the endearing seriousness with which Cedric approaches the conversation.

Once they arrive Harry quickly locates the tapestry Dobby mentioned, noticing a blank stretch of wall to the left. Just as he's about to ask for suggestions on what exactly to wish for, a door begins to emerge from the wall right before their eyes. It appears as if being pushed, doorknob-first, from the depths of the thick stone until a simple wooden door, painted a rich midnight blue, stands closed before them.

They all stand speechless for a moment.

"I guess it knew we were coming," Ron says.

The room they walk into is a decent sized sitting room centered around a large, roaring fireplace. One large couch and two armchairs sit neatly around a wooden coffee table adorned with a wizards chess set. To the right there is a cozy looking reading nook with two large bookshelves sandwiched between a set of wing-backed chairs. Looking closer, Harry sees that the shelves are filled with titles of different shapes and sizes, as well as a few nick-knacks that are being used as book-ends. To the left, there is a dark wooden table surrounded by four chairs and stacked neatly with spare parchment, quills, and unopened ink bottles in every color imaginable. Everywhere you look, the floor is covered in a varying array of plush carpets and while the room has no windows, it is warmly lit by wall-sconces in every corner. It's beautiful, and inviting. It's the perfect room for just about anything; including a meeting with Sirius.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, they're all off to different directions. Hermione, predictably, elects to check out to bookshelves first, while Ron throws himself down on the soft rug in front of the fireplace with a contented sigh. Harry and Cedric take up the armchairs on either side of Ron's sprawled form, looking at each other in amazement.

"I'm gonna give Dobby so many socks," Ron says dreamily, "This is awesome."

A gasp from the bookshelves turns their attention to Hermione who, in Harry's opinion, looks entirely too excited for someone looking at dusty old tomes.

"It knows you're champions!" she exclaims, "Look at all of these."

At this, she comes over with an arm full of books, dumping them on the empty table between them. Sorting through them she reads out some of the titles.

"Self-Defensive Spellwork, A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Action, The Dark-Arts Outsmarted- I mean they're the exact kind of books you two should be studying for your tasks and the bookshelves are filled with them!"

Getting up, Harry moves over to the shelves in question. Upon closer inspection, he sees what she means; shelf after shelf, from floor to ceiling, all manner of useful volumes line the tall bookcase. Ambling slowly over on Harry's right, Ron surveys them in mild interest. "I don't know 'Mione, 'Lochs, Lakes, and Lagoons: How to Navigate Freshwater Terrain'? What's that got to do with anything?"

A hand suddenly grasps Harry's elbow and he's suddenly spun to face a wide-eyed Cedric.

"That's what I was going to tell you! I figured out the Second Task and this," he moves to grab the book Ron is looking at off the shelf, "makes me even more sure I'm right."

Looking over at his friends, he sees his confused interest mirrored on their face. Moving back to the fireplace, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sit on the couch as Cedric lays out his experience with the Golden Egg in the prefects bath. As he paces before them, words spilling out quickly and hand pushing restlessly through his hair, Harry has the idle thought that the girls are right; Cedric is quite good looking.

Padfoot,

We need to talk, there's so much more I need to tell you, and Moony if he has time. Does this Saturday work for you? It will have to be after dinner. Could you stop by Honeydukes first? I've been craving something sweet. Make sure you check the cellar, that's where they keep all the best stuff. We'll talk more when you're here.

Stay safe,

Prongslet

- P.S. - Stay away from the Lemon Drops!

It takes Harry three tries and a final proof-read from Cedric to finally complete a letter for Sirius. Honestly, it didn't even occur to Harry that someone could be reading his mail as a way to spy on him until Cedric pointed it out. The other boy's increased paranoia on Harry's behalf is appreciated. Either way, Harry isn't willing to take any risks when it comes to Sirius, not with everything that's been going on recently. For this reason, the two boys decided that Harry should write his letter in a pseudo-code that Sirius would, hopefully, understand. With a final re-read, Harry thinks they did pretty well getting across what is needed: Meet me Saturday night, bring Remus if possible, enter the One-Eyed Witch passageway through Honeydukes, don't tell Dumbledore. Hopefully it makes sense to Sirius as well. With a final nod, he seals his letter and hands it off to Cedric for the older boy to bring to the owlery. He'll be sending Harry's letter with his own owl instead of Hedwig as another precaution.

As the other boy walks away with one last grin, Harry sets off to complete the rest of his plan.

Chapter Text

When Sirius receives Harry's letter, it's a stroke of luck that he and Moony are already together. In a secluded and windy cave on the outskirts of Hogsmead, Sirius and Remus sit over a wispy fire, reading the smartly coded letter with increasing concern.

"He wants us...to sneak into the castle. Prongs would be proud," Sirius says, the tight grin on his face doing nothing to hid his worry.

"This is bad, Pads. What on Earth would lead him to feel desperate enough to request this. He's a smart boy, smarter than a lot of his other Professors give him credit for, he wouldn't ask this lightly. And this part about the lemon drops? I'm almost positive it means he wants us to keep this from Dumbledore, which doesn't bode well for anyone."

Sirius is quiet for a moment, before speaking in almost a whisper, "You know as well as I do his hand in my imprisonment, so I can't say he's my number one fan at the moment, but I've tried my best to keep that from Harry. Up until now, Harry has always put a lot of faith in the old coot. If that's changed...Well, like you said. Harry's a smart boy. I'd trust his judgement more than most."

Moony sighs, and Sirius feels the soft weight of a head fall on his shoulder. With a soft laugh, Sirius reaches up the push shaky fingers through lightly graying blond locks.

"Well, Marauder Moony, think you have it in you for one last prank? Sneaking in and out of the castle was always our specialty."

Another sigh

"We'll  need to time it right. It would be best to reach the castle when most people are at dinner. That means we'll have to enter the cellar passageway at 6:50pm at the latest. And if Harry had the forethought to put his letter in code I have a suspicion he's gone Full Lily in terms of preparation. I would be shocked if he didn't already have a place for us to hide out..." Moony trails off as Sirius stares at him with a wide grin.

"There's the Moony I remember!"

Two nights later finds the two former Marauders making their slow way through the damp passageway towards Hogwarts. As they approach the end of the tunnel, the darkness cut through by wand light, they see a paper-wrapped parcel on the floor beneath the staircase. There's a note on top that says Read Me. Looking over at Moony, with an excited grin, Sirius plucks the parchment up, scanning its contents.

Pads (and maybe Moony),

If you're reading this then you understood my letter, thank Merlin. In this package, I'm leaving Dad's cloak and The Map for you both to use. Make your way to the 7th floor southeast corridor, there will be a dark blue door across from a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Go through the door, you'll be safe in there. Don't mind Dobby, he's always like that.

-H

P.S. You'll have to show me how to add to The Map, I found something you missed

A fond grin works itself onto Sirius's face as he hands the note off to Moony. To think, Harry is not only continuing the Marauder legacy by planning a top-secret break-in to the most protected magical fortress in Britain, but he's also finding new aspects of the Castle to add to The Map.

"Well done, Prongslet. Well done."

Chapter Text

Harry makes sure to make an appearance at dinner that night, as his eating schedule had become a bit more consistent over the last few weeks. Hermione even makes sure to keep up a running commentary on today's lessons as usual. Only someone who knows her well enough would notice the nervousness coloring her already shrill voice. When he's finished a decent sized portion of food, he makes eye contact with Cedric across the Hall. With a surreptitious nod, he makes a show of waving to get Harry's attention as he heads towards the Gryffindor table.

"Harry, hey! Could I talk to you for a second? I'm sure your busy but Professor Sprout told us earlier about the Yule Ball, have you heard about that?"

Harry waves at Ron and Hermione, a quick 'don't wait up' thrown out for posterities sake. This, as well as Cedric's well-timed conversation starter, is all engineered to get Harry out of the Great Hall with as little suspicion as possible. This particular move of deception was thought up by Ron, whose knack for strategy they have recently begun to employ for diversionary tactics. Who knew Wizard's Chess could make one so good at deception?

Once out of the Great Hall and into the deserted hallway, Harry begins to chuckle helplessly.

"The Ball? That was the best you came up with after two days of preparation?"

Cedric scoffs, looking away, "It was the first thing I thought of in the moment, I figured spontaneity would be more believable!" Seeing Harry's amused face has Cedric breaking out in a grin as well. "Oh, go on, Harry," he says on a laugh. As they begin ascending the staircase, a comfortable silence envelopes them, the only noise accompanying their brisk pace being the quiet murmuring of the portraits and the steady rapping of their shoes against stone.

"I never thanked you, did I?" Harry finds himself saying, his eyes on his laces. "You...didn't owe me anything when you first stood up for me in front of all the Professors. But you did anyway. And you keep helping me. I don't really understand it, but I appreciate it anyway," he finishes resolutely.

"Harry," Cedric stops him on the next landing with a hand on his shoulder, and when Harry looks at him, he doesn't think he's ever seen the other boy look so bewildered. "I wasn't helping you, you didn't need any help, I was just trying to be...a friend, I guess. Because I've watched you for years now. I see how every little thing that goes wrong at this school gets placed on your shoulders, one way or another. I've seen the students, and even the teachers, turn their backs on you as many times as they've praised you. And I know that the happiest I ever see you isn't when you're dueling or getting up to mischief, and it certainly isn't when you're the center of attention. It's when you're playing quidditch, or chatting with Ron and Hermione, or having Fred and George tease you like they would Ron or Ginny." Cedric huffs, shaking his head. "Honestly Harry, as uncomfortable as it may make you feel to hear it...I don't think you realize how amazing you are. Sometimes I think I'm a bit braver just from talking to you."

Harry stands on the fifth floor landing, his godfather (whom he hasn't seen in months) is waiting two floors above him, the possibility of being caught out is lurking around every corner, and yet...all he can do is stare up at Cedric in disbelief. He feels broken open by the older boys words in a way he is unaccustomed to. No one but Sirius has ever said anything like this to him before; and even then, well, Sirius is his godfather, he's supposed to say those things to him. And this isn't even the first time Cedric has rendered him speechless, he realizes, as he is suddenly reminded of that night on the clock tower. He remembers crying that night and if he doesn't get ahold of himself soon, history will inevitably be repeating itself.

"Would you like to know a secret?" he asks as he slowly begins walking again. He figures, Cedric knows so many of his secrets already, what's one more? "The Sorting Hat first wanted to put me in Slytherin. It said I would do just as well there as I would in Gryffindor," He glances at Cedric again, expecting to see shock, but all he sees is attentive curiosity. He wonders if Cedric will ever stop surprising him. "The only reason I'm in Gryffindor is because I begged the Hat to put me in my parents' House."

"Sometimes," Cedric starts in response, "I think the House system is nothing but a marketing ploy." This is said so casually, with such little fanfare, that it surprises a loud laugh out of Harry that has him covering his mouth. Grinning at him, Cedric continues, "It's true! What right do they have passing such resounding judgment on eleven-year-old's? It's not as though people don't change, it's called growing up! I understand that there are people who share similar motivations and drives, but the House system takes all the nuance out of it. It's as if they want us to be boxed into one thing our whole lives. Well I don't just want to be loyal and hard-working. I want to be brave, and resourceful, and creative, too."

By the time Cedric is finished, his cheeks have turned rosy in exertion as his hands wave frantically in the air. All Harry can do is blink up at him, wondering how long Cedric had been thinking about this for him to have such strong opinions on it. Truthfully Harry hadn't thought about it quite that way before, but he supposes it makes sense. Isn't that basically what Harry has been thinking since the Cup spit out his name? He can be brave without jeopardizing his cunning or his intelligence. And isn't he always thinking that Hermione could just as easily fit in with the Ravenclaws considering her impressive intellect?

Before he has a chance to properly respond, Cedric is stopping again. This time it isn't to make any embarrassing (and strangely heart-warming) speeches, but because they've reached the 7ht Floor corridor.

"Ah, well," Cedric says awkwardly. "I didn't actually mean to walk you all the way up here but...well I guess we got side-tracked. I guess I'll-"

"You could come with me," Harry rushes out. It's something he's been thinking about for days, but could never find the right time to ask. He didn't want Ron or Hermione to feel jealous, but they don't know everything Cedric does. One look at Cedric's face and he's reminded that maybe he wouldn't feel comfortable talking to a convicted criminal (falsely accused or not). Harry hurries on. "You don't have to, of course! It's just, I wouldn't mind. And I know Siri-er, Padfoot, wouldn't either. I mean, you already know pretty much everything I'm going to tell them and you were there for most for it anyway, so I figur-"

"Harry," Cedric interrupts gently, "I'd be honored," he says with a soft, if somewhat nervous, smile.

With a relieved grin of his own, Harry lets out a sigh. As they approach the door, Harry finally lets himself feel the excitement he's been trying to keep at bay all week. He's been trying not to get his hopes up, in case Sirius, and maybe Remus, couldn't make it for some reason. But as he opens the door, the first thing he hears is a familiar bark of laughter that fills his chest with warmth.

There they sit, on the now-familiar armchairs; Sirius and Remus, with Dobby standing on the coffee table between them. They all turn their heads as the door opens, apprehension melting as they see Harry.

"Hello Prongslet," Sirius say warmly.

Cedric follows closely behind Harry, shutting the door behind them, and watches fondly as the younger boy runs happily to his godfather. Cedric is still quite nervous about Sirius Black. It's not as though he doesn't trust Harry's judgment it's just...well he grew up thinking the man was a crazy serial killer. But, seeing how fiercely the man hugs his godson, a knot of tension he hadn't realized he was carrying begins to ease .

"Harry Potter's Ceddy! Will yous be coming in?"

Startled, Cedric looks over to see a little House Elf standing on the coffee table. "Oh hello, you must be Dobby. Harry's told me so much about you," Cedric says with a smile, which grows wider as he watches the elf's chest puff with pride at these words. Hopping off his perch, Dobby rushes towards him, taking his hand and leading him over to the couch. It is at this point that he notices silence has descended over the room. Looking up, he sees Lord Black's piercing grey eyes watching him from over Harry's shoulders, Professor Lupin sipping tea mildly from the opposite arm chair. Suddenly, Cedric feels peculiarly like a rabbit being stalked by a hunting dog. Harry breaks the silence.

"Sirius," he mumbles into the man's shoulder, "I can feel you trying to be intimidating. Don't scare poor Cedric when he's been nice enough to put up with me these last few months."

And just like that, the tension in the room subsides as Lord Black lets out an amused huff. "Trying? Trying, Prongslet? I'll have you know I'm very intimidating."

Then the two are off, snipping at each other with matching grins on their faces, and Cedric has the pleasure of seeing yet another instance of Harry when he's truly happy. A soft voice from his side distracts him from the amusing scene.

"They'll be at this awhile. It's how they show love. Harry's Father was the same way," Professor Lupin says, looking at the two over his spectacles in an exasperated sort of fondness. "Would you like a cup of tea while we wait?"

"That would be wonderful, Professor," he replies, following his former teacher towards the writing table in the corner where a tea service has been set. Cedric claims a cup and saucer as Lupin tops off his own cup. As Cedric fixes his tea, he can feel himself being surveyed.

"You know what's going on here," he begins, and it's not a questions, simply a statement of fact, "And it is...telling. That you're here when not even Ron or Hermione are," he says frankly. "And truthfully all of this," he waves his hand vaguely around the room, "has us quite worried. So, while I'm not sure what exactly you did to earn Harry's trust, I want you to know that I'm thankful."

Cedric looks at the man in shock. He never had much interaction with Professor Lupin last year outside of the classroom, but he was, and remains, one of the very best teachers Cedric has ever had at Hogwarts. He feels shame well up in his stomach as he remembers that his own father was one of the people who advocated for Professor Lupin's resignation. He figures, the least he owes the man is his honesty.

"Truthfully, sir, I'm not entirely sure what I did to deserve the trust Harry's placed in me, either. But I know that the minute he walked into that chamber with the rest of us champions...I knew something was wrong. And it wasn't because he looked scared or worried. He looked resigned. He looked so tired and...like he was about to give up. And when it became clear that the adults weren't going to do anything; that they were making him compete against his will. Well. The tournament itself didn't really matter anymore," moving his eyes away from his tea, he meets Lupins eyes, "I won't tell you not to be worried, sir, I'm worried too. Harry has...a lot to tell you two. But at this point, I'm just hoping we both make it out of this Tournament alive," he says soberly.

With worried eyes, Professor Lupin rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, but whatever he was going to say is cut short.

"He did what?!" Sirius yells, jumping to his feet in outrage.

"Ah, it seems we've missed the beginning of story time," he call wryly, "Which part are you on?"

"I just told him about Dumbledore giving in to Mr. Crouch's demand that I compete," Harry says dully.

"Oh," he replies, flopping down on the couch beside Harry, "Sorry Lord Black, but that's honestly the least of all the indignities Harry has been subjected to these last few months," he says, his jaw clenching as it does when he remembers the night on the clock tower; tears falling steadily down Harry's cheeks as he told Cedric about all the vaults full of family heirlooms - connections to his parents! - that had been kept from him. At his words, however, he receives three incredulous stares. He blinks at them.

"What?"

Then they’re all speaking at once.

"Lord Black?!" "Indignities?" "Months? How much have we missed?"

"Alright, alright," Sirius says, holding up his hands, "Firstly, none of this Lord Black nonsense, I'm getting hives just thinking about it. Sirius is just fine, thank you. Secondly," he looks firmly at Harry, "I think you'd better start from the beginning for Moony. I'll try to keep my comments till the end, yeah?"

Harry looks around at them, making eye contact with Cedric last. He gives the boy what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he settles in for Harry's highlight reel of the last few months.

Laying everything out for Sirius and Remus leaves Harry emotionally drained. All his letters from Nilki are scattered over the coffee table; Remus methodically going through them. Sirius has taken to pacing erratically in front of the fire place, only stopping to take savage bites of the tea cakes from the study table.

"Harry..." Remus begins. It is the first time he's spoken in over an hour, having been buried  nose-first in Harry's correspondences. "I understand now why you didn't want Dumbledore involved, this is...abhorrent. No magical guardian, no access to your Vaults, and James and Lily's Will was never-" he cuts of as a growl enters his voice. Looking at his eyes Harry can see the faintest yellow tinge to the usually warm green irises. Taking his glasses off, he rubs his eyes as he slumps back in his chair for a tired moment. Before Harry can think to comfort the man, he's already sitting forward again; back straight and his face determined.

"Right. There is a lot of this that you can't very well deal with right now as not only are you in school, but you should be focusing on the Tournament. There are a few things, however, Sirius and I - and by that I mean me, as Sirius can't be seen in polite society -" a scoff from the corner, "There are a few things we can take care of for you. There are a few matters you will not be able to attend to until you have taken your official Vows as Lord Potter. However, the thing your account manager seems most worried about is assigning an Estate Manager so that seems like the best place to start. Now, it will obviously be impossible for you to conduct any sort of interviews yourself while in school, but Sirius and I could work up a job listing and owl you potential applica-"

"Oh, no, I already have someone in mind for Estate Manager." Harry says, cutting Remus off with an expectant eyebrow.

"Oh," Remus blinks at him, "Wonderful! We can draft a letter right now and get that taken care of," he says, his excitement at the idea of checking something off his new list palpable.

Harry looks at him blankly. He hadn't expected to have to spell it out for the man.

"Oh," Sirius chimes in, bounding back to his chair excitedly, "Harry that's brilliant!"

He sighs in relief, "Thank you!"

With the three other people in the room staring at him with similarly expectant looks, in appears to dawn on Remus what Harry is getting at. Just as quickly as clarity filled the man's features, his face pulls tight in an unhappy flatness. Harry hears a whiny sigh come from Sirius as he slumps in his chair. Harry has a suspicion as to where this is going and he feels preemptive irritation bubble in his chest.

"Harry, I don't need charity from..."

Oh no, Harry has had enough of this sort of thing from Ron, he isn't about to hear it from Remus too, "It's not charity Remus," Harry cuts in fiercely, "It's family, there's a difference!"

At this the man looks taken aback by Harry's abruptness, his face going slack with shock. Harry expects an affronted sort of comment but, strangely, Remus's eyes light up with an almost disbelieving amusement. Harry, his irritation cooled only slightly, is about to demand answers, when Sirius speaks up.

"Well Harry, " he says on a chuckle, "Once we get that pensieve out of your Vaults, remind me to show you the time your mum told Moony off with those exact words. In that exact tone, mind you!"

Remus just sighs. Harry makes the decision to take that as his acceptance. He'll write Nilki in the morning.

Talking with Remus and Sirius, finally being able to tell them everything, leaves Harry in a dazed sort of happiness for the next week. Even dancing lessons can't ruin his mood. Everything feels lighter now, as if some of the weight he has been carrying around disappeared. Is this what it's supposed to be like to have dependable parental figures?

"So who're you gonna ask to the ball?" Ron asks one day over breakfast. Harry, having been watching Cedric walk into the Great Hall beside Cho Chang, just stares at him blankly for a moment.

"Oh. Honestly, I just figured you and I would go together."

Ron looks at him as if he's just been given the answers to the universe. Then, of course, his natural pratishness kicks in and Harry watches as he schools his face into a moue of false pity. "I'm flattered, mate, really, but I just don't feel that way about you-" he starts, a grin creeping up his face.

Harry throws his roll at him, laughing. "Not like that you tosser. I meant as friends. It's not as though either of us is seeing anyone. And I'm not exactly keen on asking anyone." He says, going back to his toast.

"I don't know, Harry," Ron says with overly exaggerated hurt on his features, "If your not even going to put in the effort to ask me..."

Harry puts his head on the table with a loud thunk.

It's only because Harry has taken to joining Hermione and Cedric in the library that he witnesses the interaction at all. Later, as he goes over the encounter for Ron multiple times, he'll wish he didn't.

Across from him and Hermione, Cedric talks quietly with his friend Scott. For this reason, Cedric is the first one to notice Krum approaching. What strikes Harry as odd, at first, is the little smile Cedric send Hermione's way. Then he's leaning over the table to get her attention.

"I think you have a visitor, Hermione," he says with a grin, gesturing behind them with his head.

Turning their heads, they both watch as Viktor Krum walks purposely towards their table. Thinking on Cedric's comment, Harry wonders why the other boy would assume Krum is here for Hermione. That is, until the Durmstrang student has stopped just to the right of Hermione's chair and greeted her with a deep bow.

Back straight and eyes on Hermione, he speaks quietly, "My apologies for interrupting your study. I have seen you here and around halls. I have been impressed with your fortitude and commitment to study. And commitment to friends," At this, he catches Harry's surprised eyes, nodding his head in sedate acknowledgment, before turning back to Hermione with a rare softness to his otherwise hard features. "I vould very much like the chance to know you better. Vould you do me honour by attending the Yule Ball with me?"

Harry glances at his friend, surprised to see her with a knowing, but happy, smile on her face.

"I would love to," she says simply.

With bright eyes Krum quickly conjures a single rose bloom in the lightest shade of periwinkle, presenting it to Hermione with another bow. Hermione holds the delicate conjuration in her hands with a bright smile as he takes his leave.

Harry, still feeling a bit taken off-guard after watching the exchange, surveys the other occupants of the table. Scott, looking bemused, but otherwise unaffected; and Cedric, with a wide grin and a pleased look in his eyes.

Am I the only one that didn't seen this coming?

"Well," Cedric says cheerfully, "Good on you Hermione, Krum seems a good bloke. I wondered if he'd ever get around to asking you!"

"Yes," Hermione says, a happy smile still lighting up her face, "me too."

I'll take that as a yes.

Seeing the delighted look on his friends face, Harry determinedly shakes off the rest of his shock, "What Cedric said, 'Mione. Congratulations," he says with a genuine grin.

Preening under the well-wishes, the girls back straightens with her delight, "Thanks, Harry."

Appearing to remember where they are, she visibly tries to reign in her smile, though her eyes remain bright, as she delicately sets her rose on the table. Clearing her throat, she picks up her quill to fiddle nervously with the soft eagle feather.

"Well that's it, then. We're all spoken for; no need to worry anymore," she says firmly, a hint of relief in her tone. Harry wonders how long she's been agonizing over this and resolves, privately, to pay her better attention.

Chapter Text

Getting out of the castle is, perhaps, easier than it should be.

With Winter Holidays just starting, and the promise of the Yule Ball in just a few days, the castle is abuzz with excited chatter and frenzied preparations. For Harry, this makes it fairly simple to disappear for a day; no one the wiser amidst the joyful chaos. No one accept Ron and Hermione.

This, of course, creates another situation in which Harry feels the need to lie to them about his plans. Trying to explain that he's sneaking out of the castle to visit Gringotts would be impossible unless he fessed up to everything that's happened since Halloween. The weight of what he's keeping from them is an increasingly heavy load no matter how much Sirius, Remus, and Cedric help. But, Harry consoles himself, as soon as he gets this done, he's going to tell them everything. He's sure that, if he lays everything out for Hermione the way he did for Padfoot and Moony, she'll understand why Dumbledore can't be given carte blanche on Harry's life anymore. And while a small part of him still hasn't fully healed from Ron's attitude immediately after the Drawing of Names, he's willing to give the other boy the benefit of the doubt on this.

Either way, as far as those two are concerned, Harry is spending the day in The Room, researching ways to breath underwater. This was an immediate deterrent for Ron, but it took a fair bit of convincing to get Hermione to keep her previous plans with Krum. The part about going to the Room isn't a lie, he thinks, as he makes his way up to the familiar corridor.

Once Harry enters the familiar Study Room, he readies his Invisibility cloak and calls for Dobby. With a pop, the little elf appears in front of him.

"Is Mr. Harry Potter, sir ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be. And your sure the Wards won't pick up on us aparating in-and-out?"

The little elf nods his head enthusiastically, puffing out his chest, "Dobby is a free elf, sir. He is not being connected to the Wards!"

Harry nods, "Alright. I'm going to put my cloak on and take your hand. Bring me to the alley nearest to Gringotts, or as close as you can. I'm not sure how long I'll be, but I'll call you when I'm ready to come back." he says, going over the plan one more time. "Oh and Dobby," he says as he goes to pull the Cloak over his head, "Thank you for doing this."

The elf grin grins wide at him, and with a click of his fingering, Harry is standing in Diagon Alley.

Stepping into the atrium of Gringotts, Harry survey's the area for other patrons. He's come at a purposefully strange hour in late morning, guessing that the crowds would be thin. Seeing only two other wizards, one of which looks to be a guard of sorts, Harry figures he guessed right. Taking off his cloak and quickly stuffing it in his bag, he walks up to the main teller.

"Hi," he starts tentatively, wondering belatedly if there is a particular way one is meant to greet Goblins. A problem for later. "I'm hoping to speak with my account manager. We've been chatting via Owl, but I know there are some things we need to discuss in person."

"Name of account holder," the elder goblin requests, looking directly at his scar. Harry looks around, quickly making sure there's no one watching.

"Potter, sir. Harry Potter," he says quietly. The goblin nods as if he was expecting this answer which, Harry supposed, he probably was.

"Do you have your Key, Lord Potter?"

Harry is so startled, having never been addressed this way outside of Nilki's letters, that it takes him a moment to process the question. When he does, he sighs.

"No, sir. I've never had access to my Key. One of the many things I'll be discussing with Account Manager Nilki," he says tiredly.

The goblin teller seems to sober a this, grabbing a small piece of blank parchment from his desk. "I see, that is an issue. If you haven't a Key, no matter. A simple blood test will suffice," he says as he seemingly conjures a small needle. As the teller holds out his hand expectantly, Harry cautiously gives him his left. Grasping firmly, the teller quickly punctures his index finger. As a small drop of blood wells to the surface, the teller guides him in stamping it onto the small parchment and Harry watches in fascination as looping script begin to appear in dark red ink.

Identity: Henry James Potter
Father: James Fleamont Potter (Deceased)
Mother: Lilly Rose Potter (nee Evans) (Deceased)

Harry stares blankly at the piece of parchment, dimly aware of the teller telling him to wait as he calls Nilki to the front. Henry. His name is Henry. Harry is...a nickname? No one told him. No one had ever told him something as basic as his first name. Does Sirius know? He would have to. But it isn't as if he would purposefully keep it from him, so why did-

"Lord Potter," his reeling is cut short as a voice calls from his left.

Turning towards it, he sees a female goblin standing inside an open doorway just behind the teller's counter. This must be Nilki.

Nilki's office is a reasonably sized space, with neatly ordered book shelves and a rather large curio cabinet that sits just behind her desk. Sitting in the chair across from Nilki, he watches as she pulls an intimidatingly large stack of files from a magically locked drawer in her desk.

"Well," she starts, "While it's certainly good to finally meet you, I'm assuming you have something important you wish to discuss seeing that you made the effort to get out of that school of yours." Her words are stated firmly, but not unkindly, and without judgment. Harry nods, taking a deep breath.

"I know the last we spoke was when I officially named Remus as my Estate Manager, and I know we had tentatively planned on meeting in person after term finished in Summer. But I've been studying a lot about what Lordship entails, as well as the rituals involved in Claiming my Titles -there are a surprising amount of books in the Hogwarts Library from the suggested reading list you sent me - and I've been thinking...well. I've decided that, if possible, I'd like to go through with the ritual cleansing. From what I understand of the cleansing itself, it is a fairly simple ritual that is able to purge any spells or potions that may be hindering my mind or body..."

At this Nilki nods, assessing him, "That is correct, you have been doing your reading. We can easily do the cleansing today if you have an hour or so. However, while it is a requirement that you partake in a cleansing before you accept your Title, it is rare for us to actually find anything harmful during the course of the ritual," she says, "That is, unless you have reason to believe otherwise." It is said as much as a statement as a question, and Harry isn't sure how to explain the increasing need he has felt for a cleansing ever since Nilki first mentioned it. Part of him wants to believe it's paranoia but another, much larger, part of him knows he needs this.

"After everything I've found out these past weeks -the things about my life that have been deliberately kept from me- call me paranoid, but I don't want to take any chances. Especially when I'm competing in a deadly Tournament meant for people much more skilled than I," he says resolutely.

The ritual, Harry knew, required very little action from him. And so it came to be that, a quarter-hour after speaking with Nilki, the Ritual Chamber was prepared. Harry was given a soft cotton robe in the most startling white, and lead to a deep grotto filled with cool, clear water. After bathing and donning his robe, he was lead to the Chamber and bidden to lay down in the center of an elaborately drawn circle. When the chanting first began, he felt a wash of warm magic flow over him as if in waves. It was soothing and though he did not understand what was being chanted, he felt so lulled by the rhythmic syllables that he found it hard not to slip into slumber.

Then the pain began.

First a tickle, then an uncomfortable pulling sensation behind his eyes, until the pain in his head was so bright and intense that he was sure his scalp was being ripped off. He was dimly aware of making an inarticulate noise of pain as he felt something warm and wet sliding down his forehead and into his hair. He had a muddled second to wonder if it was blood before his world went dark.

Harry is, unfortunately, somewhat used to waking up in an infirmary bed. There hasn't been a single year at Hogwarts that didn't see him laid-up for one reason or another (usually Quidditch). However, it is not the quite, airy space of the Hospital Wing that he awaken to, and it is not Madame Pomfrey standing over hid bed with a disapproving frown. Squinting his eyes open, mindful of the dull ache in his forehead, the first thing he sees is a goblin in a smart pair of (what Harry assumes are) goblin-sized scrubs that seems to almost glow in the glare of the overhead lamp. Glancing up from the clipboard he's holding, the medi-goblin (?) notices his wakefulness.

"Ah, Lord Potter, you're awake. Give me just a moment for a quick full-body scan and I will call in the Ritual Master. Account Manager Nilki is also here, should you wish to confer with her," he says, gesturing to the end of Harry's bed.

Glancing over, he sees Nilki sitting in a chair at the end of his bed, a concerned frown on her face. There is a hazy mass of light around her, swirling sedately in shades of orange and red. Confused, Harry looks back at the medi-goblin. What he had originally mistaken for fainting-related haziness, he now sees that there is, in fact, a faint blue-green light emanating from the healer.

"Why are you glowing?" he asks groggily. Without missing a beat or even looking up from the spells he seems to casting around Harry's form, the medi-goblin asks, "And what color am I emanating?" in a serious tone.

"Er..." Harry stammers, "Blue? Well, greenish-blue?" he pauses, thinking for a moment, "Turquoise, you're glowing turquoise," he settles on finally, proud of remembering the particular shade. A faint memory of Professor Trelawny talking about something called 'soul-colors' passes vacantly through his still-aching head.

Before he can say anything else, or perhaps ask again why on earth he's suddenly seeing colors everywhere, the door open. Walking slowly into the room in the oldest goblin Harry has ever seen. Deep wrinkles cover a face speckled with age spots, white hair hangs in two long braids reaching almost to the floor and adorn his brow in bushy tufts that almost shield his squinted eyes from view. He wears a deep purple robe with golden thread embroidered in intricate runes and symbols along the edges and cuffs. The shade of his robe almost succeeds in masking the near-identical shade of light swirling on either side of him, only visible because of the steady stream of bright white that flows between the space above his head and the space around his heart.

"Master Broadfang," Nilki says as she stands quickly, offering her chair to the man. Nodding at her, the elder goblin, Master Broadfang apparently, lowers himself slowly into the chair.

"So," his creaky voice speaks on a sigh, "Not exactly the Cleansing any of us expected, I would wager."

Feeling slightly wrong-footed to be laying down in front of, Harry assumes, the Ritual Master the medi-goblin mentioned, he sits up slowly, wincing as his head twinges in protest.

"I'll admit, sir" Harry starts tentatively, "Everything I've read about this particular ritual implied that it was a relatively painless process." He looks at Nilki, then, worried, "Did I do something wrong?"

Before Nilki can answer, an unexpected laugh grates itself from Master Broadfang's throat as he settles his dark eyes on Harry.

"The Cleansing removed much from your person, much of which I fear would have done irreparable damage to your magic and your psyche had they not been removed before you reached magical maturity. In that way, Lord Potter, I would say you did exactly the right thing in coming to us when you did," the Master began. "In all my years as Ritual Master, I have only been confronted with such vile magic one other time, though it was certainly not attached to a live vessel. Tell me, young Lord, what do you know of the nature of your scar?"

Having felt increasingly worried, and not the least bit confused, throughout Broadfang's answer, a question regarding his scar feels both appropriate and terrifying.

"I know that it's a curse scar," Harry starts slowly, feeling compelled to give the most concise answer possible like if he were taking a test "From when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at me and failed. Dumbledore once told me that it makes some kind of...connection between me and Voldemort. He said it's the reason I'm a parselmouth." At this Harry hesitates then, stealing himself, he rushes to say "I also have dreams. Sometimes. They've gotten worse, recently. And in the dreams it's like I can...well. I see him, Voldemort. But it's not just a regular nightmare, it's like I'm actually there, in the room with him."

If Harry expected any particular reaction, he wasn't sure, but he's certainly surprised when Nilki breaks out in what Harry can only assume is very colorful swearing in Gobbledegook. Glancing back at Broadfang, he is simply nodding his head as if expecting this answer.

"You are correct, of course, and so was your Headmaster. However, you may find it unsurprising that he did not give you the full scope of things. I hope the lack of explanation stems from a lack of understanding on Albus Dumbledore's part, because if he knew that your scar was harboring a horcrux and did nothing...I fear for his day of judgment in front of Lady Magic."

"A horcrux?" Harry asks, latching on to the unfamiliar word, a sense of dread filling his stomach.

"It is both gladdening, and unsurprising that you do not know of its particular brand of magic. And were you not directly affected by it, I would not tell you. Be that as it may..." the elder goblin trails off with a sigh, "The creation of a horcrux is classified as Black Magic. It is the darkest form of Soul Magic where, through the ritual murder of an unwilling victim, one can split their soul in half and house the rent shard in a chosen vessel. In doing this, one achieves a bastardized form of immortality, as one can never be truly killed until all parts of their soul meet Death."

Mind whirling and stomach churning, Harry swallowed hard, his mouth tasting like bile. Shakily, he allowed himself to put the horrifying pieces together. "So you're saying," he started, sounding much steadier than he felt,  "That I had a piece of soul inside my scar; a piece of Voldemort inside my head?"

"Indeed, Lord Potter," Broadfang confirmed, looking grave, "It gave my students and I quite the shock. Luckily, while my experience with horcrux magic is understandably limited, I recognized the blight on your core immediately. Such an atrocity is not something one ever forgets. While we do not have the means within the Ritual Room to dispose of a Soul Shard, I was still able to contain the piece purged from your body."

Moving to the pocket of his robe, Master Broadfang held out his hand. Held within a piece of jet-black silk, he presented what looked like a small crystal ball, like a small version of the ones they use in Divination. Instead of being clear, however, the inside of the orb was swirling with jet-black smoke and as Harry gazed at it, he could see shapes of skulls and a swirling snake that snapped viciously against its glassy confines. And then he felt it; the creeping cold not dissimilar to the chill of a Dementor. Harry shivered, pushing back against the pillows behind him.

"It's awful," he whispers, "You said you couldn't destroy it in the Ritual Room...but you can destroy it, right?" Harry suddenly had a terrible need to see the things destroyed; smashed or exploded, or melted down to something unrecognizable so that he knew the retched thing could never get back to him.

"I will personally see to it that it is destroyed. There is a ritual to perform that will pull all Soul Shards that are not already with their host. However, if a viable piece of Tom Riddle's Soul has already found a host, as your dreams suggest, I fear the ritual will be unable to collect it," Broadfang warned.

"But if you destroy all the other pieces, he won't be immortal anymore. He'll be...killable," Harry said slowly

"Not only will he be mortal, he will be significantly less powerful," the Elder replied, a vindictive smile playing across his wrinkled face.

Harry mulls this over for a moment, Nilki and the medi-Goblin speaking in rapid-fire Gobbledegook off to the side. As he is trying to get used to the swirling colors surrounding the Goblins, he realizes this new ability most likely has to do with whatever else Broadfang was able to cleanse from him during the ritual. Looking up, he makes eye contact with the Elder.

"You said there was more than one thing found in the course of the ritual; When you first came in," Harry says cautiously, unsure of where the conversation might lead next. Although he doubts anything can be worse than having a piece of psychopath-soul torn out of his unsuspecting forehead.

"Indeed," Broadfang sighs. "While the horcrux was by far the most dangerous aspect to present itself during the ritual, it was no less alarming to find that you still had an active Spell-Bind on your person."

Harry quickly racks his brain to remember if he has ever come across that particular phrase and draws an underwhelming blank. "Spell-bind, sir? What is that?"

"To Spell-Bind an individual is to put something of a tourniquet on their magical core. To look at it another way, you may picture your magical core as a flowing river. A Spell-Bind will act as a large boulder, placed in the flow of you core. It will not stop you from using magic, but it will limit the amount of power you can access at one time," Broadfang pauses, allowing Harry a chance to catch up. "Are you following, Lord Potter?"

Harry, reeling for what feels like the hundredth time today, can only nod.

"The practice itself is not entirely uncommon. Parents of particularly strong children will often Spell-Bind their child as a safety precaution if the child is prone to bouts of accidental magic. However, in those cases, the Bind is removed, at the very latest, when that child begins their formal education at age eleven. Even that is pushing the bounds of what is recommended. For you to still have an active Spell-Bind at your age, I shudder to thing of the lasting effects it would have had on you should it have been left much longer. Further more, it is something that should have been easily noted and dealt with by any diligent Healer. This leads me to believe that you are long over-due a full health scan."

At this the Elder peers at Harry with a stern expression that reminds him, inexplicably, of Remus when he is scolding Padfoot for getting mud on his jumper. Chagrined and feeling the need to explain himself, Harry rushes through an explanation, "Well, my relatives haven't taken me to a muggle doctor in a while, but I see Madam Pomfrey whenever I get hurt in Quidditch." Broadfang sighs and Harry hears the medi-Goblin grumble something fierce off in the corner. "Rest assured Lord Potter," the healer starts, "I have been most diligent in my work. Why in Magic's name you were still wearing these awful things when there is a perfectly good spell to fix eyesight is beyond me," he says, holding up Harry's glasses. For his part, Harry touches his face in surprise. He hadn't even realized they were gone, assuming he was wearing them simply because he can see. "My glasses," he murmurs. Then something occurs to him, "Wait! Is that why I can see the colors?" "That most likely has to do with the removal of the Binding. What you are seeing are not just colors, Lord Potter, but magical signatures. Your Sight seems to revolve around magical individuals, but I believe with time and training you should be able to hone in on the magical signatures of objects as well," the healer answers. “Oh.”

Harry fidgets in the sudden silence as the three goblins gaze at him going over all that he has just learned. He was, but is no longer, infected with a piece of Tom Riddles soul. Just like, he realizes with a start, Riddle's Diary from second year. Moving on quickly from this his mind moves to his magical core. It wouldn't be bragging to say Harry is one of the more magically powerful students at Hogwarts. Remus has pointed out on multiple occasions that what Harry lacks in spell-work, he makes up for with raw power. Occasionally, on his more distracted days, this causes problems when working on more subtle magics like charms and transfiguration. Now, with the Binding removed, his magical core will be even more powerful than he is used to. This could cause problems if he can't learn to regulate it properly. Perhaps even more disorienting, he has a new magical ability that affects one of his primary senses. For a brief moment, he finds himself grateful that Quidditch has been canceled in lieu if the tournament. He can almost imagine a dizzying array of colors distracting him as he looks for the snitch. With a dawning sense of dread, Harry begins to realize that he has an enormous amount of extracurricular studying to do.

He isn’t sure what his face is doing, but it can’t be anything pleasant. Perhaps he looks as overwhelmed as he feels because all at once, the medi-goblin’s face seems to sag in an approximation of softness. Grumbling, she reaches back to his discarded glasses and does…something to the lenses that makes them briefly flash silver. Stepping briskly over to Harry’s cot, the newly spelled glasses are shoved in his hands.

“Here, the Lady knows you won’t be winning an fashion contests, but that should help you acclimate to your Sight.”

Gingerly, he places them back on his face, the weight of them comforting in their familiarity. As he peers around the room, he is relieved to realizes that the colors - magical signatures - are far less distracting.

“Thank you,” he says softly, glancing back to the medi-goblin.

In a move that reminds him fiercely of Professor McGonagall, he is given a tight nod of acknowledgment and a dismissal from the room.

When Harry and Nilki return to her office there are a few things waiting for them. By the corner of her desk is a sleek-looking briefcase with a piece of parchment attached.
Harry tells Ron and Hermione about everything

Harry pops into the come-and-go room the same way he popped out of it; with the help of Dobby. The room, however, is not the same as he left it.

“Harry!”

Whipping his head around, he sees Ron and Hermione standing by the fireplace looking more than a little frazzled.

Shit