Chapter Text
It was a normal day in Gringotts. Wizards and witches were standing in line waiting to talk with a teller, while the tellers were busy counting gems and coins and filling out ledgers when not dealing with a client. It seemed to be another standard day.
Suddenly all eyes were drawn to a ceiling to see an owl flying in and around, clearly waiting for something. When the door was opened to the back of the bank, the owl swept through to the shouts of the goblins. Clearly, this owl had somewhere to deliver her message to.
The owl did not stop at the teller line or the lobby. It ignored the frantic gestures of the floor guards and banked sharply into the corridor leading to the high-security management wing. This was the heart of the bank, where the deep ledgers were kept and the most sensitive contracts were managed. At the end of the hall, a heavy door of reinforced ironwood stood barred, but as the owl approached, the runes carved into the wood flared a dull, pulsing red. Sensing the blood-warded signature attached to the bird, the locks disengaged with a series of heavy metallic clicks, allowing the owl to sweep into the room just before the door slammed shut again.
The Manager looked up from his ledgers, his hand reaching for a silver letter opener as the bird landed with a heavy thud on his desk. Its golden eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that suggested it carried the weight of a kingdom in the small roll of parchment tied to its leg.
The owl held out its leg with the message attached and hooted. You want me to take the letter? the Manager asked to confirm. The owl hooted again and nodded its head while keeping its leg steady. With trembling fingers, he removed the letter from the leg. Even in his haste, the goblin did not forget the protocols of the bank. Before using his letter opener to reveal the contents, he tapped a small chime on his desk to call for owl treats and fresh water for the bird. The owl took the offering with a dignified click of its beak, its task nearly complete.
The Manager turned his attention back to the parchment. He did not immediately break the seal. Instead, he held it up to the light of the enchanted lamps, looking for the tell-tale shimmer of the blood-verification he had been trained to recognize.
Barchoke saw that on the bottom was a speck of blood and decided to read the letter. It read as follows:
Dear sir,
My name is Harry and I am five years old. My snake friend I met in the park told me to write to you after telling me I smell of the blood of lions and tigers and magic. He also told me it was because of magic that I was able to speak to him as most humans cannot understand snakes. He called you “tunnel-rats” so I apologize for any insult this is, but he is just a harmless garter snake and wouldn’t harm anyone. My current relatives hurt me and don’t take care of me, my snake friend said that you could find me a better home. I beg of you to get me out of here before they kill me as I am afraid here that I will die if you don’t help me.
Signed,
Harry (drop of blood)
Barchoke stared at the small, crimson stain at the bottom of the parchment. The blood was pulsing with a faint, rhythmic glow that only a goblin’s eyes could truly appreciate. It was the Potter resonance, unmistakable and ancient. The insult from the snake was forgotten the moment he reached the plea for help. A better home, the boy had written. Before they kill me. Barchoke slammed his hand onto a large, brass button on his desk, the sound echoing through the quiet office. Within seconds, the heavy door thudded open and two goblin warriors in burnished silver armor stood at attention.
Barchoke did not wait for the warriors to speak. I need an immediate audience with Director Ragnok, he barked, clutching the letter as if it were a holy relic. The guards hesitated, but Barchoke held up the parchment so the light caught the glowing blood-seal. I have proof that the Potter heir is being abused, verified by his own hand. This is no longer a matter of estate management; it is a violation of the Treaty.
The guards straightened instantly, their spears clashing against the stone floor in a salute of acknowledgment. One of them turned and began to lead the way at a brisk pace through the labyrinthine halls of the inner bank. Barchoke followed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knew that once the Director saw this blood, the gears of Gringotts would grind the Ministry’s plans to dust. The boy who smelled of lions and magic was no longer alone.
Barchoke entered the Director’s sanctum, the heavy doors sealing behind him with a sound like a tomb closing. Ragnok sat behind a desk carved from a single block of obsidian, his eyes scanning the letter Barchoke laid before him. He did not look angry; he looked cold.
You claim this is the Potter blood, verified by the child’s own hand? Ragnok asked, his voice a low rasp. Barchoke nodded. I am certain, Director. The resonance is undeniable.
Ragnok reached into a drawer and pulled out a shallow stone bowl etched with silver runes. We do not act on certainty, Barchoke. We act on truth. He gestured for the letter. Place it over the basin. If this is truly the Heir, the stones will wake.
Barchoke did as he was told. As the letter hovered over the basin, the blood drop at the bottom began to glow with a fierce, golden light. A low hum filled the room, vibrating the very floorboards. Slowly, a single thread of red light stretched down from the parchment and touched the center of the bowl. The silver runes flared white-hot, and a phantom image of a roaring lion and a coiled serpent flickered in the air above the desk before settling into a steady, pulsing glow.
Ragnok leaned back, his expression shifting from cold calculation to a dark, predatory satisfaction. The verification is absolute. The Potter line is calling for sanctuary, but I want to verify the name first, so we know exactly what we are dealing with.
Barchoke watched as the Director pulled a thick, iron-bound ledger from a shelf behind the desk. This was the Great Book of Houses, a record tied to the very foundations of the bank. Ragnok dipped a quill made of a dragon’s talon into the glowing basin where the blood had settled.
The blood will write the truth, Ragnok murmured. If he is merely Harry Potter, we proceed with standard guardianship reclamation. But if there is more to his name, the protocols change.
He touched the tip of the quill to a blank page in the ledger. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the red ink began to swirl and spread across the paper, forming elegant, sharp-edged letters that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat. The name that appeared was not just a simple first and last name; it was a string of titles and lineages that made Barchoke's breath hitch in his throat.
Ragnok stared at the page for a long time before looking up at Barchoke. His eyes were wide. We are not just looking for a lost boy, Barchoke. We are recovering a Sovereign.
Barchoke leaned forward, his eyes widening as the ink settled into the name: Hadrian James Windsor-Potter. Below the name, a series of numbers appeared, shifting rapidly before locking into a position that indicated his place in the royal line of succession. It wasn't just a distant claim; it was close enough to be dangerous to some and a sacred duty to others.
Ragnok’s hand trembled slightly—a rare sight for the Director of Gringotts. The mother was not who the Ministry claimed she was, he whispered, more to himself than to Barchoke. They hid a Prince in a suburban cupboard. They left the blood of the Crown to be beaten by commoners.
He slammed the ledger shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the room. This is no longer a matter for the Goblins alone. We must notify the Palace. The Sovereign Aegis must be mobilized before the Headmaster realizes his prize has gone missing.
Ragnok traced the line of succession with a clawed finger, noting how Hadrian stood behind his aunt's children. He is far enough down the list for the Ministry to have ignored him, the Director mused, but close enough that the Palace will consider this a kidnapping of the highest order. They have treated a Prince of the Blood like a common house-elf.
He looked at Barchoke. The fact that he is behind his aunt's children is a tactical advantage. Whoever did this likely thinks the Crown has forgotten this branch of the family. They believe no one is looking.
Barchoke nodded, understanding the dark logic. They believe they have a child they can hide away, when in reality, they have a royal hostage. What are your orders, Director? We still do not know who placed him there.
Ragnok stood, his heavy ceremonial armor clinking. That is why we do not wait for the Ministry. We do not know who in the wizarding government can be trusted if a Prince was allowed to vanish into a muggle cupboard. We notify the Palace's private guard directly. If the boy is being hurt, every second we spend on curiosity is a stain on Gringotts' honor.
He looked at Barchoke with an expression that promised a storm was coming.
Tell him we have found an Unknown Prince of the House of Windsor who should have been known as his mother should have been found as well, the Director commanded. The Palace has been missing a branch for years while the boy was trapped. This ends today.
Ragnok did not reach for a telephone or a common quill. He turned to the heavy brass speaking tube on his wall. Assemble the prime extraction unit, he barked, his voice carrying the weight of a general. I want our three best curse-breakers—I do not care if they are human or goblin—and I want them in the lobby in five minutes.
He looked back at Barchoke, his eyes narrowed. If someone went to these lengths to hide a Prince of the House of Windsor, they did not do it with a simple deadbolt. I want the site analyzed for every ward, tether, and soul-bind known to our kind. If there is so much as a hair-trigger hex on that boy’s cupboard, I want it dismantled before he even knows we are there.
Barchoke felt a chill. The inclusion of human curse-breakers meant the bank was pulling out all the stops, using every resource to ensure the Prince's safety. The extraction wasn't just a rescue; it was a surgical strike against whoever had dared to steal from the Crown and the Bank alike.
I will order the goblins amongst them to appear human so we do not break the Statute, Ragnok added, his fingers already flying across a set of activation runes on his desk. And tell them to move fast. I want no witnesses and no delays. If the local constabulary or the neighbors look out their windows, they should see nothing more than a group of men in dark suits on official business.
Barchoke nodded, his own hands steadying as the plan took shape. He watched as the Director pulled a set of shimmering, heavy cloaks from a hidden compartment—enchanted garments designed to layer a powerful physical illusion over the wearer. The goblin members of the team would look like stern, nondescript government agents to any prying eyes.
Go, Ragnok commanded. Bring the Prince to the bank. Until he is within these walls, he is a target. From this moment on, Gringotts is his fortress.