Chapter Text
Flight 103 touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport at 12:47 p.m. local time. The American quest had begun.
As the tires jarred against the tarmac, Harry felt a sharp spike of adrenaline through the bond. Beside him, Hermione’s knuckles were white against her armrests. He reached over, covering her hand with his, and felt the steady, protective hum of their magic settle between them.
“We’re on the ground,” Harry whispered, his British accent sounding startlingly small in the massive cabin.
“Step one: Mundane Customs,” Hermione breathed, adjusting her glasses. “Remember, Harry, just be a tired teenager who hates long flights. It’s what they expect.”
They shuffled off the plane and into the 1994 terminal of JFK—a maze of concrete, low ceilings, and flickering fluorescent lights. The air was a heavy soup of jet fuel and hot asphalt.
When they reached the booth, Harry handed over the forged passport Hermione had crafted. He watched the officer's face, his heart hammering. The man barely glanced at them, his stamp falling with a rhythmic thud-thud.
“Welcome to New York,” the officer grunted.
“Thank you, sir,” Hermione said, her voice perfectly level, though Harry felt her relief wash through their bond like a cooling wave.
Once they collected their shrunken trunks—hidden deep within a backpack—they emerged into the arrivals hall. The noise was a chaotic blend of rattling baggage carts, shouting porters, and hundreds of overlapping conversations. They followed the signs to the taxi stand, where yellow cabs lined the curb under a long metal canopy, their engines idling in a thick cloud of exhaust.
“Hotel Mulberry, Mulberry Street,” Hermione told the driver, a man who looked thoroughly unimpressed by two British kids in oversized jumpers.
The taxi lurched onto the Van Wyck Expressway, an elevated stretch of highway cutting through the industrial heart of Queens. Harry stared out the window at weathered warehouses, graffiti-covered retaining walls, and endless rows of brick apartment buildings. Delivery trucks roared past with a violence that made the Knight Bus look orderly.
As they merged toward the Midtown Tunnel, the skyline appeared suddenly—a jagged forest of glass towers rising above the haze, sharp and unreal after the flat sprawl of Queens. They dived into the tunnel, and when they burst out the other side, the world turned into a sensory explosion of Manhattan traffic.
Streets narrowed and buildings crowded together as they headed south. Finally, the gray concrete gave way to the vibrant, neon-lit streets of Chinatown. The taxi pulled up to a narrow mid-rise building on Mulberry Street, directly across from the open trees and benches of Columbus Park.
The Hotel Mulberry was a plain, pale concrete structure, clean and understated. It sat quietly at the edge of The Lattice, blending into the neighborhood without drawing attention to itself.
“This is it?” Harry asked, looking at the modest marker above the door.
“Understated is the point, Harry,” Hermione reminded him.
They stepped into the lobby. To a No-Maj, it was just a small, functional space with a desk and a glass-fronted entrance. But as they approached the counter, Harry noticed the subtle shifts—the way the shadows in the corner didn't quite match the light, and the sharp scent of cinnamon and old magic that replaced the city exhaust.
“Checking in for Blancher,” Hermione said, her voice professional. “We sent an international owl last week.”
The clerk, a woman with a sharp bob and knowing eyes, tapped a key on her computer. "Ah, the Blancher siblings," she said, checking the reservation. "Your parents sent word you'd be arriving ahead of them."
“Yes,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They told us to head straight here and get settled. The flight was a bit of a naff experience, to be honest.”
“Natural enough. Moving is a nightmare, especially with the cross-Ministry paperwork,” the clerk replied, sliding a keycard across the desk. “Room 402. The magical elevators are the ones with the brass handles—don't use the mundane ones unless you want to end up in the laundry room.”
Once they reached their room and the door clicked shut, Harry collapsed onto the nearest bed.
“Hermione,” Harry said, staring at the ceiling. “We’re really in America.”
“We entered a completely different world, Harry,” she admitted, sitting on her own bed. “The noise, the bureaucracy... it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s better,” Harry said firmly. “No one here knows my name.”
“Not yet,” Hermione said, her mind already pivoting. “Which is why we have to go to the bank. Now, before we lose our nerve.”
They caught another cab to the Financial District. American Gringotts was located at 33 Liberty Street, hidden beneath the massive, stone-fronted Federal Reserve complex. To access it, they entered a specific service elevator in the sub-basement that required a small pulse of magic to activate the hidden floor.
The doors opened to a world of dark marble and sharp efficiency. Goblins in tailored suits moved with practiced efficiency. Harry stepped forward, his heart racing. Under Goblin Sovereign Law, he didn't have to hide.
“I am Harry Potter,” he said, his voice echoing. “I am here to claim my status as the Acting Head of the House of Black.”
He slid the silver, intricately carved key Sirius had given him across the counter. The goblin held it to a glowing sensor.
“Key verified,” the goblin rasped. “The House of Black is a Sovereign Vault. Sirius Black’s status in the UK is irrelevant to our statutes. You have full access.”
“I want a new key made,” Harry said, following Sirius's instructions. “Immediately. Render all other existing keys to the Black vaults invalid.”
“It is done,” the goblin replied. With a snap of his fingers, the old silver key melted into slag, and a new one was produced. “No one else has access now.”
“And the Potter Legacy Vaults,” Harry added, gaining confidence. “I want new keys for those as well. I want to restructure the permissions. My previous... guardians... are no longer authorized.”
“The UK branch will be notified that the keys have been replaced by the owner. No details will be shared," the goblin noted.
As the goblin processed the paperwork, a silver orb descended from the ceiling, hovering in front of Harry’s face.
“Standard magical integrity scan for new sovereign holders,” the goblin explained dismissively.
The orb pulsed with a soft, blue light that turned a sharp, discordant violet as it lingered over Harry’s forehead.
“An anomaly,” the goblin muttered.
The goblin eyes narrowed as he studied the glowing outline of Harry’s scar on the diagnostic slate. The runes flickered, shifted, then pulsed once in a way that made the goblin’s ears twitch.
“An anomaly?” Hermione stepped forward, her mind already racing. “What kind?”
The goblin didn’t look up. “Unknown. Not curse‑residue, not hex‑echo, not dormant spellwork. It is… foreign. Embedded. And old.” He tapped the slate with a claw. “Further scans are required.”
Harry swallowed. “Is it dangerous?”
“All anomalies are dangerous until proven otherwise,” the goblin said flatly. “And until it is identified and removed, your transaction cannot proceed. Gringotts does not move funds through a bearer whose magical integrity is compromised.”
Hermione’s breath hitched. “So what do we do?”
The goblin finally looked up at them, eyes sharp and unblinking. “You may continue with deeper diagnostics now, if you choose. A ritual room is available. Private. Shielded. Our cursebreakers can attempt to isolate the anomaly’s signature.”
Harry glanced at Hermione. “Will it hurt?”
The goblin gave a thin, humorless smile. “Almost certainly. But less than leaving it where it is.”
He gestured toward a heavy iron door at the back of the chamber. Runes glowed faintly around its frame, shifting like something alive.
“Enter if you wish answers,” he said. “Or leave, and the anomaly remains. The choice is yours.”