Chapter 28: Inheritance and Intimidation

The days were counting down, each one bringing the inevitable closer with a quiet, relentless pace. In less than a week, they would return to Hogwarts for their fifth year. For most, it was something to look forward to—a familiar rhythm of classes, the competitive thrill of Quidditch matches, and the potential glory of House Cups.

Even Hermione, with her usual meticulous over-preparation, had already color-coded her extensive supply list, cross-referencing every required textbook and diligently working on refreshing old, complex spells, her mind a whirlwind of academic excitement and anticipation.

Harry, on the other hand, was planning something else entirely, his thoughts far removed from the mundane concerns of school schedules and homework assignments. Hogwarts felt… quaint now, a distant, almost nostalgic memory, a place he still held affection for but no longer defined him. The innocent wonder of magic, once so profound, now seemed a mere shadow compared to the raw, cosmic forces he now wielded.

He waited until the others were thoroughly distracted in the drawing room—Hermione was engaged in a heated, philosophical debate with Ron over the inherent responsibilities and ethical dilemmas of Prefect duties, her voice rising in passionate defense of house-elf rights, while Fred and George were trying, with predictably chaotic results, to enchant Crookshanks into performing a rather elaborate, self-choreographed tap dance, much to Hermione's exasperation.

Seizing the opportune moment, when their attention was firmly elsewhere, Harry quietly slipped out the front door of Grimmauld Place, a shadow among the familiar, bustling warmth of the house, his departure unnoticed amidst the cheerful din.

His destination was clear: Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

But this wasn't merely a trip to withdraw money for school supplies, nor was it a casual visit. This was far more significant, a pivotal step in his burgeoning personal agenda. He was going to investigate what actually belonged to him, to unravel the financial and historical legacies of not one, but two ancient wizarding families: the Potters and the Blacks.

His newfound memories as Jacob, though sometimes disorienting, provided him with tantalizing glimpses of hidden possibilities, whispers of ancestral wealth and forgotten enterprises. While they may not be all true he wanted to see it for himself.

He knew from these fragmented "fanfic" ideas that there might be actual properties and businesses owned by the Potters, not just a vault of coins. And the House of Black, he knew, was all but his already.

Sirius had dropped it into conversation once, offhandedly, with a grim humor that belied the dark truth of his own sterile lineage. Nearly two decades in Azkaban, he'd explained, made one sterile, a cruel twist of fate that ensured the Black line, through the main branch at least, would end with him.

So, Harry knew, everything, the house and all its hidden contents, would eventually belong to him. He needed to verify these records, to understand the full scope of his inheritance, both the financial and the potentially dangerous.

When Harry stepped into the massive, echoing marble foyer of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, the atmosphere shifted instantly, as if an invisible wave of profound unease rippled through the venerable, unyielding institution. The goblins, bustling with their work—weighing coins, stamping ledgers with sharp claws, haggling over rates—froze. Their chattering ceased.

Those near the entrance, diligently counting mountains of Galleons or consulting ancient scrolls, pretended to continue their tasks, their movements stiff and unnatural, but their sharp, predatory eyes flicked toward him—wide, wary, and acutely alert, a silent chorus of apprehension.

They remembered him, certainly. They remembered the raw magic that had pulsed around him, the sheer, undeniable power that had cracked their hallowed halls during his last, rather chaotic, visit. They remembered the Campione, the Godslayer, a being whose very presence could bend reality to his will.

He chuckled inwardly, would he get this reaction everytime he entered the bank. while it was amusing it would no doubt get old fast.

Harry didn't bother pretending not to notice their sudden deference, their thinly veiled fear.

They must have had a run in with one of his 'Sibling' Before if their reaction is to go by.

He walked with a measured, deliberate stride, his new presence effortlessly commanding the vast, echoing space around him. He approached the main teller desk, a towering structure of dark wood and polished brass, and fixed the goblin behind it with a cool, level stare, his emerald eyes holding a depth that few could meet comfortably or for long.

"I want a private viewing of all properties, holdings, and records under the name of Potter and Black," he said, his voice calm, clear, and utterly devoid of negotiation, each word ringing with quiet authority. "I have the legal right to examine them, and I expect full transparency."

The goblin, usually quick to snarl, to demand proof with a flash of teeth, looked up, its eyes narrowing initially with a flicker of defiance, but then its gaze flickered to Harry's aura, a subtle tremor running through its ancient, hardened form.

The sheer power radiating from him, even when subtly contained, was impossible to ignore. "Y-your blood will be t-tested to verify your claim, young wizard, as per Gringotts' ancient protocol and the iron-clad agreements we hold with all our clients—"

Then flinched back when Harry glared at him, "Verify? Was I not here before? Was there another that appeared with my 'uniqueness' " he said dragging the last word out.

"M-my lord i-it's simply the following procedure" it stuttered out.

He nodded at the little goblin. "Don't expect me to follow such again" he added when he started to follow the goblin to a private room.

Why was he behaving like this? Why was he acting like this when there was no need? Simple, these little fuckers are bastards that would betray and cheat you at a moment's notice, he remembered the movie and books. Right now he wanted them to have the image of an arrogant, impulsive child that they had to be careful around lest he destroy them.

After reaching a private room and bringing a bowl, the goblin gave him a knife.

"No need," he said, extending a single claw to cut his skin just enough to draw small blood before dropping a few drops in the bowl for confirmation.

The goblin snapped its long, clawed fingers sharply, a curt, almost submissive gesture that conveyed a reluctant acceptance. A smaller goblin immediately scurried forward, bowing deeply.

"Follow me," the head goblin rasped, its voice losing its usual gruffness, replaced by a strained, almost obsequious politeness, as it motioned towards a discreet, heavily warded door.

His eyes twitched, another room are they serious. He saw them shiver and turn slightly to look at him no doubt sensing his aura and irritation.

He was led into a private conference room, far from the main banking hall, a secluded chamber carved from deep black obsidian and veined with shimmering silver, designed for the most sensitive and confidential transactions.

The air here was cooler, heavier, and imbued with centuries of magical secrecy. Scrolls bound with intricate seals and crystal record slates etched with glowing runes were brought out, unrolled, and laid before him with meticulous care by a team of bowing goblins, their surfaces illuminating with arcane script.

First, the legacy of the House of Potter.

The records were surprisingly extensive, far more than Harry had ever imagined, revealing a family history richer and more enterprising than the tales of his humble upbringing had ever suggested. He leaned in as the goblin, now remarkably deferential, read aloud from the ancient parchments, its voice a low drone:

"Primary vault: 687, currently contains approximately 2.1 million Galleons in liquid currency, not accounting for shifting investments and reserve stocks held in various magical commodities. Holdings include majority ownership in Starlight Alchemy, a highly profitable potion and magical ingredient supplier, a minor but historically significant stake in Nimbus Racing Broom Company, dating back generations, and a dormant patent for the 'Quick-Quill' transcription system, a rather ingenious Muggle-inspired device adapted for wizarding use, still quietly collecting residual royalties annually, a testament to your family's inventiveness."

"Wait," Harry muttered, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face, a hint of awe in his voice. "The Potters owned racing shares? And invented a quill system?" The Jacob in him found this absolutely fascinating, his original Harry Potter knowledge, drawn from books and films, hadn't covered these unexpected details of his family's entrepreneurial spirit. This was a rich, complex legacy he was only just beginning to uncover.

"Indeed. Your great-grandfather, Fleamont Potter, was a visionary entrepreneur, investing heavily in broom production, various magical innovations, and sundry other ventures. Not all his business endeavors failed, unlike common misconception circulated by less astute families," the goblin's tone held a hint of dry, uncharacteristic humor, almost a subtle dig at wizarding society's limited understanding.

The goblin moved on, its clawed finger tracing the next line on the illuminated scroll. "Potter Estate was destroyed during the last war. The house in Godric's Hollow was considered ministry property due to the significance it holds."

"And how were the ministry able to get the house"

"It was considered a crime scene after what happened and later due to unknown reasons, somethings about nobody there to rectify and claim it or similar processes it legally became unowned property that the ministry quickly snatched up".

He should be angry right?

So why wasn't he?

Most people would be angry like 'How dare they' or "That doesn't belong to them'.

But he didn't care. Maybe it was because he never had good memories in that place.

As Harry, he didn't even remember anything but screams and a flash of green and mad laughter.

As Jacob he had a clear memory of the man who was his father, James Potter, dying at the hands of a madman and a beautiful woman, his mother, Lily Potter sacrificing herself for her child, dying and leaving him all alone.

So no he wasn't that much interested in the house that wasn't even a family home but rather something they got during the war.

Then came the much anticipated, and significantly darker, legacy of the House of Black.

Harry already knew the basics. Sirius had mentioned—offhandedly, with grim humor and a touch of bitterness that hinted at deep, unhealed wounds—that everything in the Black line, the vast fortunes, the sprawling properties, the infamous cursed heirlooms, would eventually go to Harry upon his death.

The ancient, convoluted laws of the Black family made it clear no living legitimate children for Sirius, no other direct heirs. The next male relative by magical tie would inherit. Sirius had even joked darkly about how nearly two decades in Azkaban had likely rendered him sterile, thus ensuring the bloodline's official, if tragic, end with him, and the unavoidable transfer of its considerable, if deeply tainted, legacy to Harry as his heir. It was a morbid, yet practical, arrangement.

But the records laid out before him showed something even more interesting, something that resonated deeply with his own burgeoning plans, a piece of the puzzle falling into place with unsettling precision.

"While you are not the current Lord Black," the goblin explained, its voice low and precise, "due to Lord Black's continued existence, you are considered the legal heir by magical lineage and lord black. In such cases, under Gringotts policy, you may access information and lesser vaults within the family holdings, provided they are not otherwise restricted by a specific blood seal of a currently living, legitimate Black, or by the express command of the acting Lord Black."

Harry's eyes, keen and analytical, scanned the extensive list of Black family holdings, skipping over the mundane assets. Most of it was indeed what he expected, ancient jewelry, insidious magic, dusty heirlooms whose history whispered of unspeakable acts, vast tracts of land that seemed to brood under a perpetual gloom, and an unsettling collection of cursed weapons, their very presence radiating malevolence.

Then he saw it, a name that made his breath hitch almost imperceptibly, a chilling echo of his quest for justice, a vital piece in his grim hunt:

Vault 711: Bellatrix Lestrange (née Black)

Still listed under the House of Black, still connected to the main family tree, its contents theoretically under the purview of the current Head of House. The knowledge from Jacob's memories screamed at him the significance of this particular vault.

Harry leaned back slightly, a cold, calculating smile slowly spreading across his lips, utterly devoid of warmth or amusement.

"Is that vault currently locked under Sirius Black's explicit authority," he asked, his voice low, a silken thread of menace woven into its calm, "or by any direct, personal restriction that supersedes the family's general oversight?" His gaze fixed on the goblin, probing for any loophole, any weakness in the bank's legendary security.

The goblin hesitated, its sharp eyes flicking from the record to Harry's face, sensing the palpable shift in his aura, the sudden increase in intensity. Its small, reptilian pupils dilated. "It is… technically neutral," it rasped, a tremor in its voice. "As no formal heir has claimed the position of House Head due to Lord Black's lack of explicit declaration, the vault defaults to the general family name for oversight, and only its account holder, Bellatrix Lestrange, or a properly authorized Head of House, may access it. Its contents are sealed by Bellatrix Lestrange's personal enchantments, but not by a specific Black family Head's directive, nor by any blanket restriction from Lord Black."

Harry's smile sharpened, no longer merely cold, but predatory, a flash of something ancient and dangerous. This was it. The opportunity.

"Then I want access to Vault 711," Harry commanded, his voice gaining an edge of undeniable, absolute authority, leaving no room for argument or appeal. "Now. There will be no further discussion on the matter."

The goblin stiffened, its small body rigid with defiance, its innate stubbornness warring with a primal fear. "We do not typically allow presumptive heirs access to vaults not directly under their current purview, particularly those of living, albeit incarcerated, account holders. There are protocols, rules, ancient traditions that Gringotts strictly adheres to—" it began, its voice rising in indignation.

Harry leaned forward, cutting off its protestations, his eyes blazing with a suppressed golden light. And just a whisper of his divine power, a subtle, unsettling fraction of his immense force, curled around him, filling the obsidian chamber.

It wasn't an aggressive blast or an overt threat, but a primal emanation, the sheer weight of a Godslayer's presence, and an undeniable pressure that bore down on everything. The air in the obsidian chamber grew heavy, impossibly dense, suffocating. The torches flickering erratically in their sconces seemed to dim, their flames dancing wildly as if trying to escape the sudden oppression.

A low, resonant groan, barely audible, echoed from the very obsidian walls as if the ancient stone itself shuddered under the unsettling, divine pressure. The runes etched into the ceiling pulsed faintly, overwhelmed.

The goblin paled, its eyes wide with a mixture of terror and instinctual recognition. It felt the raw, incomprehensible power, the implicit, overwhelming force that transcended mere wizarding magic, a power that made its ancient, strict protocols seem utterly insignificant, a foolish resistance. Its defiance crumbled instantly, replaced by a profound, trembling submission.

"We… will allow it," the goblin rasped, its voice thin, practically a gasp, it's head bowing in a gesture of profound, involuntary submission, its entire being cowering before the young man.

It wasn't hard to find. The Bellatrix Lestrange vault was, as expected, a chilling collection of dark treasures, a testament to her depravity and obsession with forbidden arts. Cursed necklaces shimmered with malevolent intent, their jewels seeming to pulsate with dark energy. Blackened goblets sat on dusty shelves, their surfaces whispering dark secrets and forgotten rituals. Ancient, unholy tomes bound in what felt disturbingly like human flesh lay scattered, radiating an aura of corruption.

But amidst them all, on a solitary pedestal, sat a lone object, nested on a silken cushion, almost unassuming in its simplicity, yet humming with a sickly, oily magic that made Harry's skin crawl with revulsion.

A cup.

Hufflepuff's Cup. Gleaming dully in the dim light, undeniably evil, its golden surface marred by an insidious, internal darkness. It was a vessel of fragmentation, a piece of a soul ripped apart.

Harry stared at it for a long time, the weight of its significance pressing down on him. This was another piece of Voldemort, another anchor to immortality, a tangible fragment of his nemesis's fractured essence.

His fingers twitched an almost uncontrollable, primal urge to grasp it, to crush it, to annihilate it now, to end this fragment of evil instantly. The destructive power of his Authorities, particularly the Fenririan Rend, yearned to be unleashed, to tear apart this vile object.

But he didn't.

Not yet. He couldn't risk Voldemort feeling its destruction and realizing the full extent of his hunt, the systematic dismantling of his immortality. That awareness could make the Dark Lord unpredictable, desperate.

One step at a time. The game had to be played meticulously without alerting his prey.

He took the cup, wrapping it carefully in a piece of enchanted, lead-lined cloth provided by the goblins (who seemed eager to see him gone from their sacred halls), its dark magic muffled by the protective layers. The cursed object was a cold, alien weight against his side as he left the vault without another word, the transaction swift and silent.

Four Down

Back in Grimmauld Place, secluded once more in the drawing room, its gloom now feeling less oppressive in the presence of his new power, Harry laid the cup beside the locket, the other Horcrux he possessed.

He surveyed them, a grim tally, their dark auras a stark contrast to the subtle golden glow that now emanated from him. He counted them in his head, a mental checklist of his progress, including the metaphysical scar memory that had once housed a piece of Voldemort's soul, now purged, eradicated from his very being.

Four Horcruxes neutralized or securely in his grasp, awaiting their final, collective destruction.

Three remained.

The ring.

The diadem.

And the snake.

Soon.

Very soon. The hunt was progressing, piece by piece, towards an inevitable, final confrontation.

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