Harry stood at the edge of the Knockturn alley courtyard, staring at the flickering runes around his home's threshold. The wind rustled the ends of his hooded cloak, the long tattered layers whispering like secrets against the stones. His face remained hidden, just like his identity.
It had been Sam's idea first.
Sam had warned him early on. "People in power don't want those beneath them rising. Especially not muggleborns or… werewolves."
It was true. The wizarding world, especially the circles with power, despised disruption. They feared wild cards. Muggleborns often had unmatched potential, and yet were held back by arcane bureaucracy and pureblood prejudice. Even in the slums of Knockturn Alley, that bitter truth held weight.
And Harry — or rather, the cloaked figure many saw around Keller's Curio — had quickly become a ghost story. No name, no face, only whispered sightings. They'd seen him cast wandless magic, and that was enough to spread fear. In a world where wandless spellcasting was rare and terrifying, it made people wonder.
Some said he had goblin blood due to his size. Others claimed he was a cursed revenant.
But only the werewolves knew the truth. And they gave him a name.
Loki Wolfmoon.
A name born of respect, secrecy, and kinship. It began as a whisper, then spread through Knockturn Alley like fog. Harry Potter ceased to exist here. Loki Wolfmoon took his place.
[Alias Acquired: Loki Wolfmoon]
Reputation with Werewolf Community: +50
Hidden Title Unlocked: "Moon's Secret Keeper"
Harry found himself thinking of Teozad Umbra — the necromancer who changed his name and vanished into the Muggle world. If a necromancer from the old world had to pretend harmless, then how much more careful must Harry be?
His status window chimed quietly in his mind.
[Current Title: The Silent Butcher]
[Class: Necromancer]
Warning: Public use of necromantic abilities may trigger Ministry detection
Suggestion: Consider switching to alternative specialization
Harry let out a slow breath.
"I chose necromancy because I had no other path," he murmured to himself. "But I have options now."
He opened his [Class Panel] with a mental flick:
[Class Tree Accessed]
Primary Class: Necromancer (Active)
Alternate Class Available: Elementalist
Unlock Requirement: Attune to 2 elemental affinities (Minimum requirement met)
Warning: Class switch may disable some necromancer-exclusive passive perks
Perk Transfer: Passive stat boosts will carry over. Dark magic affinities will be locked.
Elemental magic. It was versatile, less controversial, and — most importantly — legal.
And Harry already had some of the required affinities:
Fireball – Level 8
Water Shield – Level 6
He had what he needed to become something more socially acceptable — and more adaptable.
Necromancy had given him power when he was defenseless. But now… he had allies. A home. An identity. He couldn't risk exposing his necromantic skills during an attack in public — especially now that Aurors were sniffing around Knockturn Alley again.
[System Notification]
Do you wish to switch Class to Elementalist?
Y/N
Harry stared at the prompt, then closed it for now.
Not yet.
But soon.
He would need to prepare. Read up on elemental spell shaping. See what kind of synergies would carry over. And perhaps… craft a new wand more attuned to elemental focuses.
For now, Loki Wolfmoon would continue his silent work. A phantom with a cloak darker than the alley he walked. And the magical world would never know the boy they dismissed had already begun reshaping their forgotten shadows into something new.
Harry changed his clothes into a normal wizard cloak, the kind that blended well in Diagon Alley. He didn't want to draw attention by wearing his torn, dark Dementor cloak—not when he was planning to visit the heart of wizarding commerce. He left his more fearsome gear at home and instead opted for the deep green cloak with silver-lined cuffs and hood, one of the better ones Regina had picked out during their shopping spree. It made him look like a young noble with taste.
He stood inside his newly floo-connected fireplace at the Potter Residence and tossed in a pinch of white powder, speaking clearly,
"The Leaky Cauldron!"
A swirl of green flame engulfed him and spat him out into the dusty hearth inside the Leaky Cauldron. He brushed the soot from his shoulders and stepped out into the pub. It was midday, and the place was crowded with all sorts—shoppers, travelers, and the usual suspects. No one paid Harry much attention, and he preferred it that way.
He walked out the back door of the pub to the brick wall that separated the Muggle world from Diagon Alley. He remembered what Sam taught him—three up, two across—and tapped the bricks in the correct sequence. The wall trembled for a second before folding inward and revealing the magical high street beyond.
Harry stepped into Diagon Alley, and the difference was stark. Here, he didn't need to wear his cloak like armor or worry about ambushes or traffickers. People moved with purpose and energy. Children ran laughing between their parents, and bright shop windows displayed the latest in broomsticks, cauldrons, and magical pets. It was a place that seemed untouched by the darkness he'd grown used to in Knockturn Alley.
With his cloak fluttering slightly in the wind, Harry walked confidently past the familiar shops. He didn't pause to sightsee. He had one destination in mind—Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
This time, he was going alone.
Harry stepped into the cold marble hall of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, the silver doors closing behind him with a dull thud. Tall pillars rose toward the enchanted ceiling above, and long queues of witches and wizards stood waiting to be served. Goblins moved with mechanical precision behind the counters, their clawed hands gliding across scrolls, ledgers, and golden scales. The atmosphere was both regal and razor-edged—just the way Harry liked it.
He approached the nearest teller with calm authority.
"I'd like to visit my vault. Vault 917," Harry said, voice firm.
The goblin glanced at Harry, his eyes narrowing in assessment. But he said nothing beyond a curt nod.
"Very well. A guide will take you shortly."
[Quest Progress: Vault Maintenance – Step 2 Completed]
+100 EXP
A few minutes later, a goblin named Grizzlethorn arrived, holding a lantern in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He motioned Harry to follow without a word.
The goblin-led cart ride was just as exhilarating as Harry remembered it. The cart dipped, twisted, and spiraled through the subterranean tunnels of Gringotts with breakneck speed. Cold air rushed through Harry's hair, and the torchlight on the tunnel walls flickered like ghosts racing beside him. It was the only rollercoaster Harry actually enjoyed.
Eventually, the cart ground to a halt in front of a massive vault door, marked with ancient runes and a bronze number:
917.
The goblin pressed a hand to the enchanted lock. A pulse of green light ran across the edges, then the door creaked open, revealing the contents of Harry's vault.
Inside, piles of golden Galleons gleamed in the magical torches that lit up as he stepped in. But compared to the true vaults of old families, it still looked… sparse. Too neat. Too new. He decided to fix that.
From his inventory, Harry began pulling out old weapons and armors—looted from dungeons, magical creatures. A battered bronze shield. A bloodstained axe. Three sets of rusted armor once used by dungeon guardians. He arranged them haphazardly on racks and shelves.
But nothing goblin-made. He wasn't stupid. That kind of mistake would get him flagged and interrogated.
The result was a vault that looked lived-in. Authentic. Like it belonged to a wizard with history, one who traveled and survived things most people only read about.
[Vault Personalization Complete]
+50 EXP
As he exited the vault, Harry turned to Grizzlethorn. "I'd like to speak to someone regarding the Potter Family's financial records. I was told the banking division might hold account information."
Grizzlethorn narrowed his eyes at the request but did not refuse.
"I will take you to Archivist Flametail," he said. "He specializes in old accounts and lost lineages. But be warned—his services come at a price."
Harry simply nodded. "That's fine."
They climbed back into the cart, now headed deeper into the inner chambers of Gringotts—not for gold, but for secrets.
The room smelled of dragonhide and old ink.
Harry sat in a heavy leather chair across the polished obsidian desk sat Archivist Flametail, a thin, long-fingered goblin with half-moon spectacles perched on his narrow nose and a quill twitching restlessly in his hand. A thick tome bound in black dragonhide sat open before him, its golden-edged pages whispering faintly in the silence.
"So," Harry began, "I'd like to know if the Potter family has any vaults… any accounts left here. I was told they were an old wizarding family."
Flametail's gaze sharpened behind the lenses. He didn't speak for several seconds. Then, slowly, he tapped the page before him.
"Potters," he said, voice thin but clear. "Yes. Very old blood. Ancient, in fact. They date back far before the Ministry of Magic itself. But they became especially prominent after the Lord Potter of his time married the last known daughter of the Peverell line."
Harry blinked. That name again.
"Peverell?" he asked. "As in… the Deathly Hallows?"
Flametail's eyes glimmered. "You've heard the name. Good. Then you'll understand why their lineage was… sought after. One of your ancestors, Lucian Peverell, was a known practitioner of forbidden arts. His granddaughter married into the Potter family, and their merged legacy created a long line of scholars, curse-breakers, and warlocks of no small renown."
Harry leaned forward slightly. "Do I… have a vault?"
"Technically," Flametail said, flipping a page with a razor-sharp nail, "you have all of them."
"What?"
The goblin nodded. "During your grandfather's tenure as Lord Porter, a clause was created: all vaults of any Potter descendant who dies without an heir or renounces magical lineage shall revert to the family vault. Upon your father's death, along with a few other bloodline branches, the assets were merged back."
[Quest Created: Inherit the True Vault]
[New Information Unlocked: Potter Bloodline Consolidation]
Flametail closed the book and placed both hands on the desk. "You now hold legal rights to the Potter Family Vault. But…"
Harry tensed.
"…you cannot access it. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because only an of-age heir who has formally claimed Lordship may open the main vault. Without Lordship, the doors will not respond. And even then, you must pass the trial set by your ancestors."
Harry tilted his head. "Trial?"
Flametail smirked faintly. "Potters were not fools. They did not allow just any descendant to walk away with family secrets and relics. One must be tested."
"That's fine," Harry said, with a small shrug. "I'm not after money. I want knowledge."
The goblin's grin widened ever so slightly. "Then you'll be pleased. Unlike other wizarding families who hoarded gold, the Potters accumulated… curiosities. Rare books, ancient scrolls, artifacts of unknown purpose. Some banned. Some forgotten. All dangerous."
Harry's heart beat faster.
"And it's all there?" he asked.
Flametail nodded solemnly. "Waiting for the one who proves himself worthy."
[Quest Updated: Inheritance of the Potters]
Stage: Locked until Age 17 or Lordship Claimed
Progress: 3%
– Vault Identified
– Family History Unlocked
– Access Requirements Revealed
Harry was just about to leave Archivist Flametail's office when something tugged at his memory.
"Oh—wait," he muttered, turning back.
He reached into his robe pocket. In truth, he reached into his inventory, but made it look like he pulled something from inside his clothing. Smoothly, he produced a small, ancient Gringotts key, darker than brass, engraved with intricate runes.
He placed it on Flametail's desk.
The goblin's hand paused mid-page-turn. His nostrils flared. The moment his eyes fell on the key, all color drained from his face, which was quite the sight considering goblins weren't particularly rosy to begin with.
"Where did you get this?" Flametail whispered, his voice thin and tight. He didn't touch the key—he stared at it like it might bite.
Harry kept his tone even. "Doesn't matter how I got it. What matters is—is the account still active?"
The archivist swallowed, the movement of his throat twitching with tension. He reached out with both hands—hesitant, respectful—and slowly picked up the key.
"…Vault 22," he said finally. "The Blackfyre Family Vault. One of the oldest vaults ever created in Gringotts. It is… protected. Bound with curses. Layered in ancestral wards. It only opens under two conditions."
Harry waited.
"One—if you are a direct blood descendant of the Blackfyre line. Or…" Flametail hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly as if remembering something unpleasant. "…if you killthe last lord of the Blackfyre bloodline in personal magical combat. Only then may you claim this vault as your own."
Harry tilted his head. "And who was the last lord of the Blackfyre family?"
The goblin's hand clenched involuntarily. "…Ares Blackfyre."
Harry's lips curled into a smile. "Then I qualify."
Flametail looked like someone had just tossed a Howler at his face. "Impossible. He was—he lived for centuries. A necromancer. A war criminal. His shadow alone killed thousands in the Goblin Rebellion of 1203. That man was a monster. How—how could—?"
"I defeated his shadow," Harry replied. "Killed it in an abandoned crypt near Holloway Lane. He tried to bind me with a soul cage spell, and I broke it. That's when I got the key."
[Quest Objective Completed: Claiming the Legacy of Blackfyre]
[Reputation +50 with Gringotts]
[New Title Unlocked: The Shadow Slayer]
[Vault Access Granted: Vault 22 – Blackfyre]
Flametail exhaled shakily, then finally cracked the barest smile—grim and knowing.
"In the Goblin War," he muttered, "Ares Blackfyre stood alone on the battlefield. With one ritual, he turned a thousand dead into bone soldiers, wiped out our entire flank. He was never declared dead. Many of my kin still believe he was immortal. But if what you say is true…"
He stood. "Then it is time."
Without another word, Flametail took the key, slid it into a deep drawer filled with ancient ledgers, and beckoned Harry to follow. The door to his office swung open as if the vault itself had heard the name Blackfyre echo across the stone.
"Come," he said. "Let us see if Vault 22 recognizes you."
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