Chapter Text
The three males weren't sure what he was talking about, but the director was a man of action. With a snap of his fingers Goldpaw was holding a piece of paper and a pen.
With his raspy voice Harry began listing them off. Hufflepuff cup, vault. Slytherin necklace, cave full of inferi. Ravenclaw's diadem, statue inside a messy room. A ring with a weird stone on it, under the floor of a house. A snake, in a forest.
Their eyes widened when they all realized what Harry was listing.
The director's eyes snapped from the paper to Harry and he began asking, "How do you know all of this? Have you seen the locations? Wha..."
The old goblin was forced to stop his interrogation when the healer pushed him away and glared at him, "Leave my patient alone until I discharge him."
She then turned to him and asked, "Mr. Potter are you feeling like yourself?"
Harry went to answer, but his throat was now utterly gone so instead he just nodded. The healer seemed to realize the issue and pulled a pain relief potion from inside her robes, slowly and carefully feeding it to Harry.
Harry could feel the ache in his throat fading away slowly. The healer then looked into his eyes before pointing at the clock in the far corner of the room/cave, "Can you tell what time it is?"
Harry nodded and read the time aloud thinking that the healer was trying to determine if he had any issues with his mind.
Though the response he received was odd. Remus looked shocked and said slowly, "Well this is a surprise."
Harry was confused and reached for his face to feel if there wasn't anything wrong, once he reached for his eyes that was when it hit him what made everyone look surprised... or more like the lack of what. Apparently Harry wasn't wearing his glasses, and still he somehow managed to see the far away clock perfectly.
The healer looked thoughtful as she kept checking Harry's face, "A horcrux was never made using a living host. It would seem that in your case the fragment latched on to your magic which because it happened at a young age led to stunting some of your growth, as well as a few other health issues that seem to include your short sightedness."
Harry frowned, "Latched on to my magic? So he was using it as energy for itself?"
The healer nodded, "I would be careful with the spells you cast from now on as they might be more powerful than you're used to. I must admit that your magical core must be impressive if even after a decade of leeching you were still able to cast spells and not become a squib."
Okay... Harry didn't know how he should feel about that so he decided to just ignore that comment while keeping in mind the first advice.
The director leaned slightly closer to Harry and said, "I am more interested in the magic you displayed to recoil the fragment."
Harry just tilted his head in confusion prompting Remus to explain, "For a moment there it looked like the ritual would fail and you... Well out of nowhere there was a pulse of magic bursting out of your chest, and just before anyone could do anything your scar went from pulsing with dark veins spreading from it to catching on fire. All of a sudden dark mist began coming out of your scar taking the form of you-know-who and shrieking before fading away. At this point the flames went out and the skin under it dusted away revealing a newly healed patch of skin."
Harry's finger shot to the left side of his forehead and he asked carefully, like he couldn't believe it, "I... I don't have a scar anymore?"
Remus gave Harry a small smile, "No Harry, you don't. Though I got to admit the whole thing reminded me of Dumbledore's phoenix's burning day."
Harry's eyes widened and he asked in a hurry, "Did you say the magic pulse came from my chest?" The two goblins and wizard nodded in confusion, "Dumbledore told me my family had something to do with phoenixes, and Fawkes cried onto my chest the last time I saw him."
The healer began rubbing her chin, "It did look like phoenix magic, and the fact there is one of them involved is fascinating. I will research it and if I find anything of use I shall share it with the director and Goldpaw. Otherwise you are clear to leave Mr. Potter."
With that the healer went to one of the tables and began writing something. After Harry dressed and wiped off the runes from his forehead the four of them left the room and found themselves walking in the fancy hallway from before once again.
"So Mr. Potter..." The director began, drawing his attention, "The items you mentioned. We can only assume they are the containers the self-proclaimed dark lord created." He then shook his head in dismay, "To create seven of those abominations, the man is truly mad by now if he wasn't before."
Harry frowned, "I don't think he created seven."
That comment drew the attention of everyone else in the hallway so Harry elaborated, "My fragment was a mistake on his part so he didn't know about it. I believe he did want to create seven of them, because they teach us in first year that seven is a magical number."
Goldpaw hummed and pointed out, "So we are talking about six containers."
Again Harry shook his head to the confusion of the others, "The snake didn't feel like the others. It felt... more basic. I think that Tom is possessing the snake to stay in some state of being alive like he did with Quirrell last year."
The director considered it for a moment, "It would make sense. The original soul won't be able to exist as a wraith for long, even with 7 anchors in place. But there were only five intentional ones, and you already disposed of one of them."
Harry nodded, "Yes. And thanks to you another one is gone now. By the way about that vault..."
The director raised his hand, "Yes, Goldpaw already mentioned that madwoman's name. Once I am back in the office I shall sign the order to search the Lestrange vault for a golden cup."
The old goblin's smile then turned sharp as they reached the staircase and he presented a plan, "If we do find this cup, it will be the perfect catalyst to create the spell to find the rest of them. Once we do, will you by any chance consent to hire Gringotts' curse breakers for the job of hunting them down and disposing of them?"
Harry blinked at the offer. It was the first time someone was offering him this kind of help, usually it was just expected from him to do the job, especially if it had to do with Voldemort. "Will I have enough money for this?" was the only problem he could think of.
The director waved the concern away, "I will sign a special permit for you to be charged out of the main Potter vault which I assure you won't even be dented by the cost of our services."
Harry gave the goblin a deep bow and replied, "I will be glad to accept your offer Director."
After they promised Goldpaw to visit again soon to sign for the approval of the charges for the curse breakers both Harry and Remus left the bank.
They did make the small stop to get Remus the Prophet subscription before returning to the manor, Remus laughed himself silly when Harry asked why they were at the Leaky Cauldron and the older man replied casually, "To floo back to the manor. I set the floo back up this morning."
Harry sputtered for a moment before demanding, "Then why did we take the damn bus here?"
Remus shrugged and replied, "A good marauder never misses a chance for a prank."
Harry grumbled all the way to the fireplace, and when he landed on his ass back in the manor's entrance hall he cursed under his breath.
Harry stood in front of the full body mirror and dusted himself off of all the ashes he gathered during his journey.
But eventually he took a deep breath and walked as calmly as he could toward the room Dobby pointed out earlier that morning.
The door clicked shut softly behind him.
Harry stepped into the room with slow, reverent strides, breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat. The air felt different here—not stale, but still, as though the room itself had paused the moment he entered. A hush hung over everything, like a library of the dead.
It was smaller than he expected. Intimate. The stone walls were paneled in aged oak, warm in hue and polished to a soft sheen. Two plush armchairs faced the far wall, with a narrow writing desk between them holding a silver inkwell, a faded ledger, and a single unlit lantern. The only light came from a few wall sconces casting golden halos that flickered gently across the faces in the frames.
Portraits.
A few dozen of them, hung in orderly rows along the three main walls, framed in gold or dark wood, some oval, others square or grandly arched. Each depicted a witch or wizard dressed in old formal robes—some in fine crimson, others in regal navy, forest green, or deep maroon—each face captured in striking detail.
And yet... none of them moved.
Not a twitch of the eye, not a rustle of fabric, not the slow turn of a head. They sat frozen in mid-expression—some serene, others stern, a few even caught in half-smiles. Silent sentinels of the Potter line.
Harry's heart beat faster, eyes scanning the collection. He stepped slowly along the wall, gaze flicking from face to face. Men with proud jaws. Women with strong eyes. Familiar chins. Hair the same shade as his. Some looked kind. Others looked like they'd judge a Hippogriff and send it crying to its nest.
But none of them were James or Lily Potter.
The disappointment hit like a slow chill. He hadn't even realized how tightly he was holding onto the hope until it slipped quietly from his fingers.
"Lord and Lady Potter..." he murmured under his breath, brow furrowing. "You meant—"
He turned back to the far wall, the one opposite the door. Two larger portraits sat there, side by side in matching golden frames. A man with neatly combed dark hair, a trimmed beard, and a commanding posture stood proudly in crimson-trimmed robes. His expression was sharp yet not unkind, and his hand rested on the hilt of a wand mounted on his hip.
Beside him sat a woman with elegant features and warm eyes framed by chestnut curls pinned back with delicate gold clips. She wore a flowing robe of deep wine red, embroidered with faint golden thread in the shape of ivy leaves. Her hands were folded calmly in her lap, and her gaze was direct—even frozen, she looked like someone who expected to be listened to.
Harry stepped closer, suddenly realizing what he was seeing.
His grandparents.
He blinked. There was no doubt about it. His father's nose. His mother's cheekbones. Even something in the posture—the way they sat like rulers of their space, yet not unreachable.
"James?" The sitting woman spoke all of a sudden, her face frowning.
The movement and word was so unexpected that Harry yelped and jumped backwards with wide eyes.
"No." Responded the calm and warm voice of the man standing at her side, "He might look like a miniature version of our son, but he has Lily's eyes."
The woman leaned forward, her eyes wide and shining, "Are you... our grandson?"
Harry could only nod still too stunned by the sudden conversation to respond. Before he returned the question, "Are you my grandparents?"