Magic smelled different here.
Not like the metallic dampness after a storm, like in my room. Not like dawn, still being born. Here… it was like incense smoke. Older. Heavier. Deeper.
I stood on the threshold of Diagon Alley — literally. Behind me, the door to the Leaky Cauldron still creaked on its hinges. And in front of me… a world Muggles could only dream of.
And I... I could truly see it.
Not just with my eyes, but with every sense. The threads of magic here were thicker, brighter, stronger. They danced between buildings, twined above shop entrances, wove through people. Every object, every storefront, every brick was so saturated with magic that the Muggle world seemed gray and lifeless by comparison.
The gray sky didn't matter here. The street pulsed with enchanted light.
A wizard in a crimson cloak levitated a dozen books above his head. An old witch sold cages filled with furiously cawing ravens who — unless I was mistaken — spoke in rhyme. A pair of children dragged trunks behind them, laughing up at a hovering owl circling above like a guardian.
And then... their laughter dimmed.
Not immediately. Not abruptly. But as if someone slowly turned down the volume of the world. Their eyes held that familiar flicker — unease. They didn't stare directly at me. Their gaze slid past my figure, as if instinctively refusing to acknowledge something unnamed.
It was the same with the adults.
They glanced at me, then quickly looked away. Avoiding eye contact. Their bodies tensed slightly, as if they'd suddenly remembered something they had tried to forget.
They weren't hostile. No. It wasn't hostility.
It was fear, cloaked in ignorance.
And I liked that.
No one stopped me. No one asked if I was alone, why I was here, or who my guardians were. They didn't see an orphan. They didn't see a child. They saw something that belonged to this world, but... not entirely. To be honest, I had grown used to it — even if it stung a little.
Diagon Alley stretched before me like a ribbon of light and secrets. My hands curled at my sides, trying to steady a tremble — not from fear, but anticipation.
I had a goal. First — Gringotts.
With that thought, I started walking forward. My legs carried me on their own. In my past life, I'd read too many first-time descriptions of Diagon Alley to be surprised. But still — experiencing it myself, not as a reader but as someone truly present — that was something else entirely.
The walk to Gringotts didn't take long, maybe five minutes — and that was me walking slowly.
Before me stood a snow-white building towering above the other shops. "Gringotts Bank," I murmured to myself.
Stairs made of white marble led me to the tall doors of polished bronze. On either side stood goblins dressed in scarlet uniforms trimmed with gold. Their faces were carved from sharp lines — alert, emotionless stares. They guarded the entrance not like soldiers, but like judges. No one passed without their judgment, though not a word was spoken.
For a moment, I hesitated, reading the silver letters engraved upon the door:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take but do not earn
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
The words pulsed with magic, as if the door itself warned all who passed.
The goblin to the left gave a curt nod, assessing me swiftly and silently. I opened the door.
The interior struck me with its sheer vastness.
The hall was massive and marble-clad, its ceiling so high I couldn't quite make it out. Rows of columns lined the room, and between them stood gleaming, dark counters. At each sat a goblin — hunched over scrolls, quills, or... counting gold.
Their movements were precise. Their gazes — cold and calculating. And all of them... paused when I entered.
Not because I was a child. Not because I was alone.
Some goblins froze mid-motion. Others raised their brows. One in particular — older, with a particularly sharp gaze — stared at me a few seconds longer.
I didn't speak.
I simply walked forward, down the center of the hall, my footsteps echoing between the columns.
The magic here was heavier. Older. Different from what I had felt on Diagon Alley. As if the very institution of the bank held within it the memory of ancient spells. As if the ground beneath remembered every step taken through its halls.
I approached one of the nearest counters.
"Good morning. I'd like to exchange pounds for Galleons," I said calmly, looking at the goblin who was counting gold coins with a precision that rivaled clockwork.
The goblin looked up.
"One Galleon equals five pounds. The yearly exchange limit is five hundred pounds," he replied coolly, pulling out a parchment from under the counter.
Without a word, I reached into my pocket and laid the banknotes before him. He inspected them carefully, brushing the edges with his fingers as though judging their weight and texture by touch alone. His eyes narrowed briefly.
"Everything's in order," he finally acknowledged, handing me ten gold coins. "Your Galleons."
"I'll need your signature. Right here," he added, sliding the parchment and a quill toward me.
I glanced over the document. A simple statement: confirmation that I had exchanged fifty pounds and had four hundred fifty remaining for the year.
I took the quill and signed neatly.
Oliver Peverell.
The goblin froze.
His gaze settled on the parchment, then lifted to me, then back to the signature. For a brief moment, he said nothing — as if something within him hesitated, as if he recognized something.
But I didn't care.
I had another question.
"Do you know where I can take an inheritance test?" I asked quietly, but with confidence.
The goblin laid the parchment aside thoughtfully. His eyes drifted toward the end of the hall, and he pointed toward one of the clerks — a goblin who looked as though he might remember the founding of the bank itself. Even for a goblin, his age was... extraordinary. His skin like parchment, fingers like the gnarled branches of an ancient tree, and his eyes — glassy, but sharp.
"Go to him. Tell him Gurnik sent you," he said curtly.
I nodded in thanks and walked toward the goblin he'd pointed out. Every step echoed off the marble floor, and the magic around me seemed to thicken. As if the bank itself was watching.
I did as Gurnik said. With steady steps, I approached the old goblin. I stopped in front of his desk. The goblin did nothing — just stared at me, silently and intently.
"Good morning. Gurnik sent me," I said calmly.
The goblin sighed quietly, almost annoyed.
"So you want to take the inheritance test?" he asked, piercing me with a sharp glance.
He was certainly strange — but who was I to judge goblins?
"Yes," I replied firmly, without hesitation.
The goblin slowly rose from his chair.
"Follow me," he muttered and started walking toward the corner of the building.
I followed him in silence. We passed one door. Then another. And a third. Eventually, we reached a small, gloomy room. It was dim, grimy, and nearly empty — in its center stood nothing but a desk and two chairs.
The goblin sat down and began rummaging through one of the drawers. After a moment, he pulled out a small golden bowl and placed it in the middle of the desk. But that wasn't all. He reached back into the drawer and this time produced a transparent bottle filled with what looked like water... at first glance. Inside, the liquid shimmered with strands of magic in different colors.
He looked at me again with the same unsettlingly sharp gaze.
"That'll be six galleons," he said, extending his hand.
I hadn't expected anything else. Getting something for free from a goblin? Not in this world.
Without a word, I handed him the money.
The goblin examined the galleons thoroughly — counted them, sniffed them, even bit into one. Only then did he nod in satisfaction. Then he took the bottle and slowly poured its contents into the bowl, filling it halfway. Once more, he rummaged through the drawers and retrieved a golden dagger.
"Hope you're not squeamish about blood," he said through gritted teeth, handing me the blade.
I'd expected this, but I didn't reach for the dagger immediately.
"Can you confirm that my blood won't be used for anything other than this test?" I asked, looking him straight in the eye.
The goblin clearly felt the weight of my stare. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he still smirked slightly.
"At least one of you isn't stupid," he muttered, then pulled a parchment and quill from the drawer. He signed the document and handed it to me.
It was an official statement: Gringotts Bank guaranteed that the blood would only be used for the inheritance test. After the procedure, it would lose all magical properties and become nothing more than red-tinted water.
I looked at him with suspicion. In this world, blood held tremendous value. I wasn't about to let someone do who-knows-what with mine.
Without breaking eye contact, the goblin clenched his right fist and placed it over his heart, raising his left hand into the air.
"I, Thimgrin, swear on my life that everything written in this document is true. Should I lie, may death claim me," he declared solemnly.
I saw it — a green line of magic streamed from his lips. It didn't flow into his body, but instead floated upward, dispersing into the air like smoke.
Thimgrin straightened up.
"I hope that will suffice, sir. Now — your signature and three drops of blood, please," he said, gesturing to the parchment.
"Yes," I replied shortly, signing my name carefully.
I knew what to do. I took the dagger and, with a swift, deliberate motion, cut across my palm. It stung, but that wasn't important now.
I raised my hand above the bowl and allowed three drops of blood to fall into the shimmering liquid.
When the last drop touched the surface, the liquid began to react. First, it swirled clockwise. Then it stopped... and began spinning in the opposite direction.
Finally, it settled.
The fluid turned a deep black, and in its center, glowing white letters slowly emerged:
Peverell
I expected nothing less — but clearly, Thimgrin had not been prepared for this. Surprise? Absolutely. His wide-open eyes stared at the name, as if unable to believe it. It took him a moment to regain his composure.
"The ritual never lies," he said quietly, though this time, his voice carried unmistakable respect.
His sudden shift in demeanor caught me off guard.
"I am Thimgrin. I have overseen the Peverell family vault longer than some wizards have maintained their bloodlines," he declared, eyeing me carefully. "The inheritance test is complete. Please follow me to claim what is rightfully yours."
He didn't give me time to respond. He stood and headed for the exit.
I followed. We returned to the main hall, but Thimgrin didn't slow his pace. He marched toward a set of doors opposite the ones we had come through. One door. Another. Then another. I stopped counting — I was certain there had been at least fifteen.
"This is the place," the goblin said, slightly out of breath.
We stood before a large set of metal doors, engraved with the words:
Peverell's Family
He pulled a heavy, metal key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. He turned it with some effort.
There was a click.
The doors began to open on their own — slowly, heavily. I immediately noticed they were enchanted — lines of magic coiled around the lock and hinges, guarding every mechanism. And then it hit me: these doors were ridiculously thick. There was no way I could have opened them without magic. Not even with a goblin's help.
The hinges groaned as the doors swung open, sounding like they hadn't moved in decades.
"This is where the Peverell family ring is kept," Thimgrin said solemnly. "Only the heir can wear it. Should anyone else try... well, let's just say they'd beg for a quick death." He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter first.
I took a step forward.
Breathing was difficult. The air in the room was heavy, thick with dust that rose into the air. It felt like no living soul had been here in years.
In the center stood a pedestal — simple, but solid, made of aged, dark wood. Resting atop it was the ring.
"Beautiful..." I whispered without thinking.
Crafted from white gold, the ring was modest in design, yet perfect in every detail. At its center sat a large black diamond, and within it, engraved subtly... the Peverell family crest. A symbol I knew all too well.
I felt compelled to wear it. As if something inside me already knew.
I stepped closer. My left hand reached for the ring almost on its own. It was cool to the touch — but not cold. I picked it up and slowly, almost reverently, slid it onto the ring finger of my right hand.
A perfect fit.
Not too loose. Not too tight. As if it had been made just for me.
And then it struck.
I didn't know what it was. A strange jolt, like a sudden electric shock. My eyes started to itch, my vision blurred. But it passed after a few seconds.
"What was that..." I whispered.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Peverell?" Thimgrin asked, seemingly unaware of what had just happened.
"No, it's nothing," I answered quickly, doing my best to appear unbothered. "Mr. Thimgrin, is that everything from this room? If so, I'd like to see the family vault."
"Yes, this room contains only the ring. Please follow me — I will take you to the vault," he replied, watching me closely.
I left the chamber. As I crossed the threshold, the doors began to close on their own. I paused next to the goblin and waited until they were fully shut. After a moment, the lock clicked softly as Thimgrin turned the key and pocketed it. He turned on his heel and continued forward.
The pattern repeated. Door after door, until we finally reached the main hall and proceeded directly to the underground cart.
I climbed into the cart alongside Thimgrin. The old goblin whispered something to the younger operator, and we began our descent.
We sped downwards, yet I could see everything clearly despite the velocity. We passed through tunnels, magical defenses, and stone ledges lit by faintly glowing crystals. The descent lasted perhaps five minutes — which, considering the speed, said a lot about how deep the vault was located.
Eventually, the cart began to slow. Metal wheels screeched, sparks flying.
"This is it," Thimgrin said as he disembarked. I followed.
Before me stood massive doors. They weren't just doors to a room — they looked like the gates of a fortress. Inlaid in silver letters across them:
Peverell Family
"No key fits these doors. There's no lock. Place your signet into that slit," the goblin instructed, pointing to a precise indentation shaped perfectly for the ring's diamond.
There really was no lock. Just a narrow, exact slit. I pressed the ring to it. I felt magic flowing through my finger and hand — examining me, testing, as if trying to confirm my authenticity.
Then, it stopped.
The ground trembled slightly. The doors began to creak open, loudly. A sharp screech rang in my ears — someone really ought to oil those hinges.
The doors took several seconds to fully open. What appeared before me was a vault at least half the size of Gringotts' main hall. Not only was it vast in length and width, but the ceiling reached some fifteen meters high. Despite that, piles of galleons, golden artifacts, jewelry, and magical relics nearly reached the roof.
"Your family was quite wealthy, Mr. Peverell," Thimgrin said, standing just outside the threshold. "I have something that might come in handy — for only seventeen galleons," he added with a grin, producing an enchanted, bottomless pouch.
"I'll take it. I'm sure I'm overpaying," I thought dryly.
I began stuffing galleons into the pouch. I didn't count them, but I estimated between 800 and 1,000 coins. *I don't plan on coming back here often* — I muttered and slipped the pouch into my pocket.
I cast one last glance at the vault and started heading toward the exit. As I crossed the threshold, the doors began to close on their own.
"We'll head back now, Thimgrin," I said. "But before we leave, I have something for you."
I pulled out a handful of galleons and handed them to the goblin.
"Take care of it," I said simply.
The goblin looked surprised, but he accepted the gift without hesitation.
"Of course. I take care of your family's wealth better than I do my own life, Mr. Peverell," he said, bowing deeply.
As the cart carried us back up to the surface, I began to wonder exactly where I would go to spend this newfound fortune — and certainly not on anything foolish.
AN:
This chapter ran a little long — nearly 2,900 words — but I couldn't help myself. Hope it was worth the ride!