Archive of Our Own ^beta

Maybe it could start with a lottery that Harry, out of pure boredom, decided to participate in on the Summer of 1993 while he wandered in Diagon Alley as a runaway, fully expecting that he wouldn’t win anything. It had been stated in an information board that the results would be announced in the Daily Prophet about a month after. Harry gave it 2 knuts and 16 sickles before forgetting about it entirely.

What he was not expecting was precisely that: winning the jackpot, over a year later in the buzzing heat of July. He was in his bedroom when an unfamiliar owl knocked at his window with an inconspicuous letter in its talons. After Harry took the letter, the owl flew away without even a backwards glance.

Harry shared a look with Hedwig as if she could explain it.

In the letter, it said that he should find himself in Gringotts as soon as possible and within a year after the results—the date for which had been helpfully detailed inside the cheque that came with the letter—or else it would be forfeit. It said: ‘September 1st, 1993.’

The following numbers were also written in the cheque: 2,536 Galleons, 1 Sickle, and 18 Knuts. And if Harry was doing his math right, that was almost thirteen-thousand in pounds... Which was...

Well, he’d be damned. He was rich as hell.

His aunt had been dismissive, but surprisingly, she waved him away without much fuss when he asked to leave for the rest of the summer, which he happily took as a ‘yes’. Before he left, he remembered to send his Ron and Hermione letters informing them both that he would be staying at the Leaky Cauldron for a few weeks and that he was fine. The same morning, he packed all of his things, and by night, he was on the Knight Bus.

He still wasn’t off this strange, euphoric high by the time he arrived in front of the Leaky Cauldron, the Knight Bus speeding away in a flash behind him. His luggage had been reduced to fit into his pocket in the bus by the conductor.

It was already too late in the night for any shop besides the Leaky to be open. Luckily, he still had leftover galleons from his pocket, enough to get a room for himself. Tom the barkeeper let him know that Gringotts wouldn’t be open until eight in the morning. So he slept the night away a little disappointed, but the buzzing under his skin didn’t disappear.

When he woke up, he had a wide grin on his face. He had never looked forward to tackling the day as much as he was feeling at that moment, and he barely managed to calm himself down by showering and changing into a set of clean clothes.

After breakfast at seven-forty, Harry emerged from the brick wall and into Diagon Alley. He felt the slightest trepidation as he saw Gringotts in all its marbly-glory looming over the alley, but he was ultimately the most excited he had ever been other than the times he won Gryffindor a Quidditch Cup.

Along the way, Harry saw that only a few other shops were open, like a wizarding pharmacy, a bakery, and several others that Harry didn’t recognise from the shop fronts, so Diagon Alley felt deserted even with some wizards already loitering around.

Gringotts had just officially opened when Harry finally reached the building after purposely dragging his feet. The goblins guarding the entrance sneered at him but let him pass through without a word. Harry didn’t let his nerves overwhelm him as he approached a teller and informed the goblin that he had come to claim his winnings. The goblin narrowed its eyes at him and demanded proof, which Harry guessed they meant the cheque and handed it over.

For a few excruciating and awkward minutes, the goblin looked it over and, presumably, worked to confirm the authenticity of the cheque. Just when it felt like Harry’s nervousness was going to spill over him, the goblin asked if he wanted all of the galleons in hand now then suggested that it was wiser if he kept a bigger percentage, like eighty percent, in his vaults. Harry nodded wordlessly, too shocked to say a word.

After a few more minutes, the goblin dropped a small pouch onto his waiting hands. It looked lighter than it really was.

Before he was waved away, the goblin advised him that he should return to look over the details of his vaults, and rather bluntly, to spend the galleons wisely. Harry blundered as he thanked the sneering goblin before tumbling out into the alley once more.

Most shops in the alley were starting to open after the time that Harry spent inside Gringotts, enough so that his being a thirteen-year-old boy could enjoy it. He bought himself new Quidditch equipment, a really expensive trunk that he could shrink and unshrink with only a tap of his wand, and remembered to get Hedwig frozen rat treats. He also got a free cup of ice-cream, a remnant of the summer before his third year, and a pricy lunch at a pub next to Florean’s called The Three Sheets.

Harry had just begun to stroll his way back to the Leaky Cauldron when he saw it.

He was passing by Quality Quidditch Supplies again, intent on inspecting the broom displays from the outside as if he hadn’t already seen them that day. In his excitement earlier, he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to the standing poster by the entrance.

There it read: “Get your tickets now to the most exiting event of the year, the Quidditch World Cup! To avail, please head on over to the ticketing kiosk at Carkitt Market through Horizont Alley or the Ministry. For more details, send us an owl post at...”

Occasionally, the background of the text moved to show dramatic lights as it change between famous Quidditch players that Harry vaguely recognised from the magazines.

Honestly, it completely escaped Harry that the World Cup would be held this year. Ron had told him that Mr Weasley usually got tickets for them from work, and he even invited Harry. Though even if Harry remembered about that, he thought he couldn’t have participated under normal circumstances. As it was, he currently possessed major winnings from a random lottery and buying a possibly pricy ticket couldn’t hurt him. But more importantly, the Dursleys were nowhere near to stop him.

The problem was that Harry had no idea where Carkitt Market was and he didn’t want to go through the trouble of going to the Ministry. It was already two in the afternoon and he was tired after walking around all day, so he didn’t want to wander so aimlessly anymore.

He entered Quidditch Supplies, where Harry asked the shopkeeper for directions. He would be told to simply walk straight into the intersection next to Magical Managerie, which Harry remembered was only right across the street. The ticketing kiosk for this year’s Cup was apparently next to a money exchange office. He thanked the shopkeeper for this knowledge before going his merry way.

Harry took note as he passed by a barber shop and another bakery, as well as a store with a shop front of hundreds of ticking clocks, which suddenly reminded him of the time and pushed himself to walk faster.

Finding the kiosk itself was easy enough. Looking to his right as he emerged out of the intersection and into a roofed area called Carkitt Market, Harry saw a stall with a fairly long line of wizards. It was squeezed inside a marble building called the ‘Gringotts Money Exchange’, next to a counter that was manned by both a witch and a goblin. From a distance, Harry saw that the line was slow moving, and he resigned himself to a long afternoon of waiting.

He approached the stall after seeing that those who were in line were assigned numbers and has to walk past about forty people on his way there. In its makeshift counter, there was a pile of paper with a quill next to it. He figured, since no one was telling him not to, he was to write his name in one of the papers so he could somehow get his number. But when he tried to grab the quill, it suddenly stood up on its own and hovered over the paper.

So, it was a self-writing quill. Harry looked around, noting that the wizards within earshot were the tired-looking worker behind the stall, and another wizard who was loudly, and rather unpleasantly, asking the worker about amenities and tents. It suddenly occurred to him that nobody has so much as approached him for saving the world from a you-know-who as a baby, and that he was intent on letting it stay that way for the remainder of his stay at the Leaky Cauldron.

Finally, he whispered his name to the self-writing quill, and relief flooded him when it wrote exactly that without much fanfare. Once that was done, the number 333 magically appeared under his name. He takes the paper and walked back towards the end of the line. Now, the hours of waiting officially begun.

Harry got hungry while waiting, and fortunately for him, there were opportunistic wizards who were roaming around with snacks for sale. There was even a sketchy wizard who tried to sell him a chair, but who was spooked when the witch behind him grumbled about the ICWQC being so money-grubbing that they wouldn’t even provide a bench. This turned into a rant about the Ministry’s incompetence in general, most of which went over Harry’s head.

And then, finally, after almost an hour of queuing, it was Harry’s turn.

Harry hoped that the worker wouldn’t yell out his name, and luckily for him, the wizard just wanted to get it over with. They grabbed his paper, asked him how much and which seat he wanted with a flyer showing his options (he picked the most expensive one), took his galleons, and handed him his ticket with further instructions, a portkey, and his receipt, all without looking at him.

He returned to the Leaky Cauldron with his loot, satisfied beyond compare. Hedwig, who had arrived from the journey to the Weasley’s and Hermione but didn’t have a response with her, was waiting for him in their room, and they both discovered that she really liked frozen rat. Harry morbidly compared it to ice-cream for owls, and then he left the room to ask Tom to send him a meal upstairs for dinner.

When he got back and fished out his sack of coins, which he found was a bit lighter than before, Harry realised that he’d spent more than he probably should. He had paid just over 150 galleons for the ticket and hadn’t checked the other options, then about 20 galleons on his other purchases. In other words, he hadn’t considered to be frugal at all. Maybe he could return his ticket and downgrade? But when he looked it over, he discovered a big stamp at the back of his ticket which said, in bright red letters: ‘NO REFUND’.

Harry bit his lip, and without a word, stashed his ticket inside the most hidden part of his new trunk, which had cost him 7 precious galleons. Banishing any guilt-inducing thoughts involving his spending habits, he returned to Hedwig, who was munching on her third owl ice-cream and began to pet her soothingly.

“So I have to use the portkey a week before August 25th?” Harry mumbled grumpily the next morning. His muscles were aching for some reason, and the first thing he did was sleepily look for his ticket in his trunk. Now, he was squinting at the instructions printed in small letters on the front and back. “‘… a week at most to enjoy the food and lodging accommodations included with the ticket…’”

A yawn broke out of him.

He was still groggy hours later even after having his breakfast and taking a shower. Why that was, Harry didn’t know, and it was, quite honestly, ruining his day.

He’d fully intended on staying inside that day when a barn owl dropped a letter onto his desk through his open window. Seeing it was from Gringotts woke him up at least, even just slightly. It was firmly demanding him to show up at Gringotts to ‘settle a few details’.

Harry’s heart was unusually beating faster as he left the Leaky. What could Gringotts possibly want with him? Was it about Harry’s recent expenditures? What did banks in the Muggle world usually summon you for? Unusual purchases? Was it the same for Gringotts too?

It was like the world had been flipped upside down. He felt as if he could burst into tears by the time the dreaded marble building appeared into full-view, then shrivel up and die when the guards let him in with smug faces like they knew what horrible things awaited Harry inside. Or maybe he was just imagining it…

He approached the same teller he’d gone to when he claimed his winnings a few days ago, which was the seventh to the last in his left side of the main hall. It was the same, sneering goblin teller behind the counter when Harry stared up and met their eyes.

He steeled himself.

“Hullo,” he greeted.

“Mr Potter,” the goblin began, the sound gruff and terrible. “You received the missive, yes?”

Harry nodded.

“And are you fully aware why your presence was requested today?”

Harry did not.

“Uh, yes. And I… I…” He closed his eyes and told himself, ‘oh, fuck it’. “I… I promise that everything I spent my winnings on the past few days were absolutely necessary and that I can explain each one,” Harry answered. He tried for a measured voice, but he found himself breathing harder and harder with each word. Then the goblin’s eyes narrowed as if they didn’t believe a word that he said, and he started sweating. “I swear on my life, I needed those—”

“With all due respect, Mr Potter,” interrupted the goblin, who, for a few seconds, dramatically paused with this mean look in their eyes before continuing. “Gringgotts treasures what our patrons entrust upon us, but we do not have jurisdiction over where wizards displace their galleons.” Harry’s jaw slackened as his cheeks went positively red. The goblin continued with a smirk, “As long as you haven’t stolen from this establishment or failed to pay your dues, the matter of where your coins have gone to once it is outside of your vault is not of any interest to Gringotts, excluding its transaction records.”

The goblin seemed satisfied with letting Harry stew in his embarrassment while they returned to some paperwork that he couldn’t see behind the counter. Reluctantly, he had to admit that was a good prank he’d done on himself.

Merlin, Harry wanted to curl up and die.

Instead, he fought through his shame and asked, “So… What am I here for then?”

The goblin’s sneer was sharp and very, very judgemental as their attention was once again turned on him. It almost made Harry shrink on himself, but he forced his body to straighten and his eyes to look confident even though his cheeks were definitely burning.

“You’ve been summoned to settle a few security and ownership details regarding the vault that is in your possession,” the goblin drawled, in a very Snape-like manner. “You have the key, yes?”

“Yeah… I do,” Harry replied slowly. “But it’s in my trunk and I don’t have it with me right now…” his voice trailed off at the end.

After Hagrid had helped him buy his supplies back in his first year, Harry has been keeping his key. He remembered the piles of galleons, sickles, and knuts inside his vault. It was definitely more than what he’d won from the lottery. Heck, he still has what he got from first year.

“No matter,” the goblin dismissed. “We can confirm your ownership over the vault in other ways. We can start with your blood.”

A saucer flew in front of Harry’s face. A thick needle sat in its basin.

“Your thumb,” the goblin supplied when Harry just stared at it.

He hesitated for a second before picking up the needle. Slowly, he aligned the pointed end with his thumb, breathed in, and pushed it into his skin. It was almost painless, but it was there, and then he pulled the needle off and blood began dribbling freely onto the floating saucer before just stopping three seconds later. The wound magically healed on its own without even Harry doing anything. Impressed, he put the needle back into the saucer, away from the blood. A few seconds later, he could hear it sizzling, and he could see that his blood had suddenly began bubbling and smoking, before seemingly evaporating out of existence.

“Uhh, that’s good, right?” Harry worriedly looked at the goblin for approval.

And fortunately for him, the goblin, who had been watching it unfold, nodded.

“What now?”

“Your vault,” the goblin began, “is something you’ve inherited from your parents, which your late father, James Potter, also inherited from his predecessors. As their sole living antecedent, you are entitled to all of its contents, and in the probable future that you produce one, your heir also unless it is said otherwise. If you ever wish to authorise a new keyholder, you may request so personally in Gringotts. The only requirement is you have to be of the legal age of seventeen.”

“…Right,” Harry muttered, and he tried his best to maintain the new information in his brain. This was far too adult for him. “New keyholder at seventeen, can share ownership with heir. Got it.”

“Most owners of the vault request a ledger that documents the belongings contained within the vault. Mere keyholders cannot request one, only the owner. Seeing as you are both a keyholder and the owner, you may request it of us.”

“Oh, in that case…” Harry really only had to deliberate it for a second before he shrugged. “Get me a ledger. How much is it for?”

It was as if he’d chosen the right dialogue among a sea of bad choices that he hadn’t known about, because the goblin grinned. “3 Galleons, 13 Sickles, and 17 Knuts.”

“Alright.” Harry was already counting the coins in his pouch. “There you go. When can I…?”

“In a few minutes, Mr Potter,” the goblin said. “You still have a few things you need to know before I can hand over the ledger to you.”

Harry did not groan.

In essence, Harry really didn't have to do much else as the owner of the vault aside from personally registering an heir when it came to it, report a stolen or missing key, and answer official summons. If he chose to, he could also get the Wizarding version of bank cards, which came in the form of rings. Of course, Harry had to get it, which turned out to be a single, golden band around his index finger. But even though he was the owner of the vault, he was still fourteen so his spendings had a limit to 30 galleons each month (at least, through the ring), and he had to personally show up if the expenses exceeded that. That was, quite honestly, devastating to hear for Harry, but he could do nothing but nod. Finally, the goblin informed him that should he find himself in need of coffers, they have a small branch at Hogsmeade.

By the end of the goblin’s speech, his ledger was ready and, upon confirming that Gringotts had no other business with him, he left.

The first thing that Harry tested the ring on was at Brews and Stews. He was quite hungry and their food was decent the last time Harry ate there with Astoria yesterday. It was a buffet type of restaurant, where he just had to fill his plate with food while waiters roamed around with hawk eyes to watch customers and hound them for payment. Though this mode of service almost put Astoria in a battle of death stares with an insistent waitress yesterday, Harry thought it was worth it for the delicious food that he got for ass cheap.

“Want me to ring you up?” a waiter asked him on the table where he was sitting alone.

When he nodded, they presented him a piece of black slab and asked him to just slide his finger with the ring on it. When he did, the slab lit up along with his ring, and through the bottom, it spat out this fancy-looking receipt of his total. It had Gringgott’s logo at the centre next to another logo that looked like a bunch of interlocking black-and-white triangles. Harry didn’t know where it was from, and at that moment, he didn’t care. He brought the receipt back like it was trophy.

He waited until he was back in his room at the Leaky before unrolling the ledger. It was a single parchment that fit his entire net worth and assets through tiny letters. The first thing he looked for in the ledger was the total amount of galleons, knuts, and sickles in his vault. His heart skipped a beat when he saw they were each in five or four digits…

Below that was a list of furniture, books, clothes, jewellery, and even clothes. It really struck him now that all these things were once deposited by his predecessors as they passed, and the very thought evoked a sense of responsibility in him.

The goblins had grouped every single asset on the ledger. They also included the state of these items next to their names, and it varied from ‘good as new’ to ‘falling apart’. The furniture would go from ‘Chair (7, good condition)’ to ‘Bradbury Sewing Machine (1, petrified with rust)’. Harry was sure they could be fixed with some wand-waving though, so he wasn’t worried about damaged things.

The Potters actually kept a lot of books in the vault. There were titles that Harry thought was probably about alchemy, some about family recipes, history, genealogy, and a more interesting one called ‘List of Properties (perfect condition, 1)’. He wondered if he could withdraw some of these books and engage in a bit of actual light reading.

He also wanted to try on the jewellery for the ball so he didn’t have to buy a set. Besides, it would be like honouring his ancestry, right? The thought sounded good.

Later, when it was almost evening and his ledger had long been hidden away in his trunk, the hawk from the other day came knocking at his window again. He let Stephon in and fed it the strawberries, which had thankfully been left untouched by Hedwig yesterday.

He read the letter.

Well, that was the last thing that Harry expected Astoria to write about, but it was in character. This Retaillour thing sounded pretty interesting, too, and he wondered if it could somehow work with his ring…

As he watched the hawk fly away, his thoughts wandered to Ron and Hermione. He was still salty that they couldn’t hang out with him this week, and he’s not sure he wants to stay with the Weasleys now, but he wants to spend his first World Cup with his best friends and tell them everything about his summer.

Several minutes later, Stephon returned once again with Astoria’s response.

He had figured out a few days ago that Astoria likely belonged to a rich family like Malfoy. Which meant that it was completely possible that the Greengrass family bought the same tickets as he did… Which also meant that the Malfoys probably also got the same tickets.

He swallowed. He was beginning to regret spending those 150 galleons now. He didn’t doubt it for one bit that the Malfoys would throw thrice that many galleons on tickets, because money probably grew on trees for them. Harry would know that feeling on his first few day with his lottery winnings. And he really would rather not spend a few days within three feet of the Malfoys.

Hesitantly, he wrote back.

He rewarded Stephon with another strawberry before sending it on its way again. Astoria’s letter took a while to return, so Harry just left the window open as he flipped through the magazines again. Although he wasn’t quite feeling up to buying more clothes after yesterday’s excitement at WizaChes, he might just be thinking of expanding his wardrobe. Maybe.

His letters with Astoria went back and forth for a while until Astoria simply stopped writing back for the night. They had debated what would be a good summer activity for Harry all throughout, and she had almost convinced him to take a vacation off the country across Europe. The only reason why Harry didn’t think he could go was because he was lazy but wise enough to guess he’d be too tired for the World Cup after any attempt at a vacation.

However, he does dwell on Astoria’s other suggestions. Astoria was just as bored as he was, apparently, and she made sure to express this in her last letters, bemoaning the fact that she had decided to stay temporarily in their family flat at Diagon Alley. Her reason had been that she was still sulking after her parents refused to get her a new dress robe. Harry plainly told her she was acting like a spoiled brat, but that didn’t stop her from suggesting that he should take her with him if he ever wanted to crawl out of his room. Which was why he was surprised when she suggested a trip to the Muggle world.

That got Harry thinking whether Astoria was taught the same about Muggles and Muggleborns as the likes of Malfoy. He resisted asking her in his final letter and just agreed that going to the Muggle world might not be too terrible an idea… He hoped he was right.