2

Harry had thrown out his wand arm as soon as he reached the road outside his aunt and uncle's house, quickly stepping back to avoid being flattened by the Knight bus as it sped round the corner and braked sharply in front of him.

"Good afternoon, my name is Stan Shunpike and this is the Kni-," the lanky man stopped suddenly in his speech, having looked up from the piece of paper he was reading from and realised just who it was who had called the bus. "'Ere, Ernie, it's only 'arry Potter!"

Harry's mind fought for a second between annoyance and amusement, before amusement won out and he allowed a grin to spread across his face.

"Alright, Stan?" he asked, before stepping onto the bus, waltzing straight past Stan and into the nearest seat, sprawling himself out in it.

"Yeah, thank you, Mr Po'er! Where'll it be?" Stan replied enthusiastically, forgetting, in all his wonder and hero worship that he was supposed to take money from those who travelled on the bus. This, of course, suited Harry just fine, and in fact caused a slight uncharacteristic smirk to form on his face.

"Diagon Alley," he replied, glancing around the bus. Every other armchair but his own was empty, though he could hear faint sounds of someone talking upstairs, so he supposed he was not the passenger.

"Same as t'other two, then, take us away, Ern!" Stan said, reluctantly moving back up to the front of the bus, leaving Harry in peace.

The journey took all of five minutes, the bus screeching to a halt outside of the tiny pub which housed the entrance to the alley.

"Cheers Stan, Ernie," Harry called as he stepped off of the bus, turning to salute them cheekily as he left. The strange fire the music had lit inside of him was still burning, causing his confidence levels to soar; he could take on anything right now, and he would come out smiling every time.

Two pairs of footsteps followed him as he entered the Leaky Cauldron, and he glanced over his shoulder to check that they didn't mean danger. He may be able to take on anything, but that didn't mean that he wanted trouble sneaking up on him anytime soon.

"Shit," he swore under his breath. Why was it that just when he was feeling great, those two had to turn up? Well, he decided, they were not going to ruin his day, not until he was ready for them. He sped up slightly, flattening his hair with his hands to make it less distinctive, and within seconds was through the pub and the wall, and into the alley beyond.

Striding purposefully now that he could rely on the sheer amount of people milling around to disguise him, he headed straight to the far end of the alley, to the enormous building of Gringotts. The goblins watched him suspiciously as he passed, but he merely sent a smirk their way, causing their frowns to deepen. He reached the enormous doors and, in a fit of melodrama, pushed hard on both of them; they swung inwards, sunlight streaming into the dimly lit building, framing his silhouette in the doorway. Faking nonchalance, he paused for a second to allow his eyes to adjust before wandering over to a free desk.

"Hey, I need to get some money out," Harry told the goblin casually, in answer to his (or her, Harry never could quite work out the difference between male and female goblins) questioning look.

"I see," the goblin's tone was scathing enough to rival even Snape's, and for a second Harry wondered if he was going to be refused service on the grounds of not being adequately unnerved by the strange beings. But then the goblin was snapping its fingers, and another goblin was running across to take him to his vault.

"Don't you need my key or something?" he asked, curious at the lack of security.

"We know who you are, Mr Potter," was the reply, and though he couldn't help but wonder about polyjuice and other appearance changing potions and spells, Harry let the matter go. Almost.

"Oh, I doubt that," and the smirk was back in place, superior, as though he knew something that the goblin didn't. Of course, in this instance, the superiority was entirely appropriate, as Harry knew several things about himself that the goblin didn't. The goblin in question, apparently, didn't care much for the conversation, and stayed silent for the entire cart ride down to his vault. Whilst Harry was scooping gold into his pockets, however, a thought occurred to him and he was forced to engage the goblin in conversation once more.

"Um, is this like, my only vault? I mean, my mum was muggleborn, but the Potters are an old family, right? So it seems strange that there are no heirlooms, no nothing. Just gold," his voice took on a sad note towards the end, as he lingered on the thought that this was possibly all that was left; a pile of gold for a family. It hardly seemed right.

"Of course not, Mr Potter," the scathing tone was back in full force, "this is merely your own personal vault, you also have access to your mother's vault and the Potter family vault. Your father's personal vault was, of course, merged into the Potter vault when he died." Harry paused for a second, running what he had just been informed of through his head, making sense of it. Why had no-one told him before?

"Because you did not ask, no doubt," the goblin was turning now, back to the cart, and so he missed the gaping look of surprise on Harry's face.

"I didn't say that aloud, did I?" he asked, following his escort back to the vehicle.

"Of course not, Mr Potter," a nasty smile spread over the goblin's face, he was quite clearly revelling in the confusion he was causing. Harry shook his head, deciding to ponder the idea of goblin mind reading abilities later.

"Can we visit the vaults then? I mean, my mum's and the Potter's? Wait, why wasn't my mum's put in with the Potter one?" He climbed into the cart as he asked, working on automatic, so lost in thought that he didn't notice as the fire that had guided him here began to dim.

"Your mother chose not to have it so, beyond that, I have no idea," the goblin was so clearly uninterested in the subject that Harry shut up, staying in his thoughts until they reached the next vault.

"This is my mum's vault then?" he asked, receiving a curt nod in return.

"If Sir would hurry, we can move quickly onto the Potter vault, where the majority of the money is" the goblin said, a sneer on his pointy face. A flash of anger went through Harry and the fire that had been dimming flared up again; how dare this goblin put mere money above being able to see something of his mother's? Forcing his face into a grin (though it came out with a cruel streak to it, more grimace than grin), Harry dragged his eyes from where they had been resting on the door to his mother's vault and turned to face the goblin.

"Nah, I think I'll take my time, you know?" Before his escort had time to react, Harry had turned back, wrenched open the vault door and stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

Inside the vault, he stood for a second, eyes closed and breathing heavily. The anger he had felt at the goblin was slightly irrational, but he couldn't help it. He had always had a temper, but these days he seemed to snap at the slightest of things. Maybe he needed an outlet of some kind. Or anger management. Shaking his head to clear it, he resolved to think about it later, and opened his eyes to look on his last link to his mother.

The vault was small, about the size of the Weasley's, though it was nowhere near as empty as theirs. The walls were lined with shelves which were covered in mounds of clothing, books, boxes, photo albums, jewellery, and even, in a far corner, what looked like alcohol bottles. Harry sniggered slightly; at least there was something of use to him. In the centre of the room, directly in front of where Harry was standing was a podium with a sealed letter on it. On the letter, in a neat, feminine hand was written the words 'To Harry Potter, Our Son'.

With shaking hands, Harry picked up the letter and slit it open, a sense of hope flitting through him at the possibility of knowing something of his parents.

Harry left the bank a different person. Oh, not inside, not where it really counted. In his heart he was the same brave and noble Harry Potter, but to anyone looking at him from the outside, they would find this hard to believe. His dark hair still covered his face in messy waves and his round glasses were still perched on his nose, but that was about all that could be said to be the same. Gone were the baggy, old hand-me-down clothes he had entered in, replaced instead by tight fitting, faded jeans, a baggy, slightly ripped white vest all covered with a long, black leather coat which hung around his ankles. The dirty trainers he had worn before were gone as well, swapped for dirty converse, which must at one point have been white. A grey rucksack was slung over one shoulder, looking as though it was rather heavier than should have been possible for such a small bag. He looked almost obscenely muggle, and several of the witches and wizards he passed as he strode down the alley sneered at him slightly, edging around him as though he were dirty. He wondered idly if any of them would still do the same if they realised who he was, but, he supposed, the type of purebloods they most likely were would only seek to avoid him more if they knew that he had defeated their master.

Unconsciously, his hand gripped the letter in his pocket, and he couldn't help but relive in his head the words he had read not an hour before.

Dearest Harry, it had read,

There are two ways in which you could be receiving this letter. The first, and the way we are hoping for is on your eighteenth birthday. If it is, then happy birthday, son! But, the realists in us (and by us, I mean mainly me, as your father is too much an optimist) must admit the possibility that you are getting this far earlier than you should be, the reason being that we have died in the war. If we haven't, then feel free to mock us as we ramble on about how much we love you and stuff. Just bare with us, yeah?

At the moment we are in hiding, under the Fidelius charm. We won't write down where we are, for fear of this letter falling into the wrong hands, but if it's true that we have died, then you will have inherited the property anyway. Our good friend Peter Pettigrew is our secret keeper (though we have told everyone that it is Sirius- sneaky, aren't we? May as well be Slytherins), so we should be safe. But just in case we aren't, we decided to put together this vault for you, full of all of our favourite things. Well, my favourite things and your father's collection of 'necessary items for a true marauder'.

If you want more of an explanation of anything, then just ask Peter, Sirius (Sirius Black, that is), Remus Lupin or Alice Longbottom. They know almost all the stories behind it all, and we're too lazy to write them all down. Plus, every time we try, you (baby you, that is) knock something over on that blasted broom of yours (your father objects here to it being called blasted, but I don't care- it's a menace!), and we have to stop writing to sort it out. Besides, if we really are dead, then we'd love for you to find parents in our friends, and we know that they would love it too.

Always remember that we love you, and we are so incredibly sorry that we weren't there to see you grow up. Do us proud, son,

Love always,

Mum and Dad

A tear came to Harry's eye just remembering the words, and he hurriedly dashed it away with a knuckle. A teenage boy saw though, and stared in wonder at what he was seeing. Since when had the Boy Who Lived To Be Annoying been so... hot?