Chapter Text
Getting out of the castle is, perhaps, easier than it should be.
With Winter Holidays just starting, and the promise of the Yule Ball in just a few days, the castle is abuzz with excited chatter and frenzied preparations. For Harry, this makes it fairly simple to disappear for a day; no one the wiser amidst the joyful chaos. No one accept Ron and Hermione.
This, of course, creates another situation in which Harry feels the need to lie to them about his plans. Trying to explain that he's sneaking out of the castle to visit Gringotts would be impossible unless he fessed up to everything that's happened since Halloween. The weight of what he's keeping from them is an increasingly heavy load no matter how much Sirius, Remus, and Cedric help. But, Harry consoles himself, as soon as he gets this done, he's going to tell them everything. He's sure that, if he lays everything out for Hermione the way he did for Padfoot and Moony, she'll understand why Dumbledore can't be given carte blanche on Harry's life anymore. And while a small part of him still hasn't fully healed from Ron's attitude immediately after the Drawing of Names, he's willing to give the other boy the benefit of the doubt on this.
Either way, as far as those two are concerned, Harry is spending the day in The Room, researching ways to breath underwater. This was an immediate deterrent for Ron, but it took a fair bit of convincing to get Hermione to keep her previous plans with Krum. The part about going to the Room isn't a lie, he thinks, as he makes his way up to the familiar corridor.
Once Harry enters the familiar Study Room, he readies his Invisibility cloak and calls for Dobby. With a pop, the little elf appears in front of him.
"Is Mr. Harry Potter, sir ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be. And your sure the Wards won't pick up on us aparating in-and-out?"
The little elf nods his head enthusiastically, puffing out his chest, "Dobby is a free elf, sir. He is not being connected to the Wards!"
Harry nods, "Alright. I'm going to put my cloak on and take your hand. Bring me to the alley nearest to Gringotts, or as close as you can. I'm not sure how long I'll be, but I'll call you when I'm ready to come back." he says, going over the plan one more time. "Oh and Dobby," he says as he goes to pull the Cloak over his head, "Thank you for doing this."
The elf grin grins wide at him, and with a click of his fingering, Harry is standing in Diagon Alley.
-*-*-*-
Stepping into the atrium of Gringotts, Harry survey's the area for other patrons. He's come at a purposefully strange hour in late morning, guessing that the crowds would be thin. Seeing only two other wizards, one of which looks to be a guard of sorts, Harry figures he guessed right. Taking off his cloak and quickly stuffing it in his bag, he walks up to the main teller.
"Hi," he starts tentatively, wondering belatedly if there is a particular way one is meant to greet Goblins. A problem for later. "I'm hoping to speak with my account manager. We've been chatting via Owl, but I know there are some things we need to discuss in person."
"Name of account holder," the elder goblin requests, looking directly at his scar. Harry looks around, quickly making sure there's no one watching.
"Potter, sir. Harry Potter," he says quietly. The goblin nods as if he was expecting this answer which, Harry supposed, he probably was.
"Do you have your Key, Lord Potter?"
Harry is so startled, having never been addressed this way outside of Nilki's letters, that it takes him a moment to process the question. When he does, he sighs.
"No, sir. I've never had access to my Key. One of the many things I'll be discussing with Account Manager Nilki," he says tiredly.
The goblin teller seems to sober a this, grabbing a small piece of blank parchment from his desk. "I see, that is an issue. If you haven't a Key, no matter. A simple blood test will suffice," he says as he seemingly conjures a small needle. As the teller holds out his hand expectantly, Harry cautiously gives him his left. Grasping firmly, the teller quickly punctures his index finger. As a small drop of blood wells to the surface, the teller guides him in stamping it onto the small parchment and Harry watches in fascination as looping script begin to appear in dark red ink.
Identity: Henry James Potter
Father: James Fleamont Potter (Deceased)
Mother: Lilly Rose Potter (nee Evans) (Deceased)
Harry stares blankly at the piece of parchment, dimly aware of the teller telling him to wait as he calls Nilki to the front. Henry. His name is Henry. Harry is...a nickname? No one told him. No one had ever told him something as basic as his first name. Does Sirius know? He would have to. But it isn't as if he would purposefully keep it from him, so why did-
"Lord Potter," his reeling is cut short as a voice calls from his left.
Turning towards it, he sees a female goblin standing inside an open doorway just behind the teller's counter. This must be Nilki.
-*-*-*-
Nilki's office is a reasonably sized space, with neatly ordered book shelves and a rather large curio cabinet that sits just behind her desk. Sitting in the chair across from Nilki, he watches as she pulls an intimidatingly large stack of files from a magically locked drawer in her desk.
"Well," she starts, "While it's certainly good to finally meet you, I'm assuming you have something important you wish to discuss seeing that you made the effort to get out of that school of yours." Her words are stated firmly, but not unkindly, and without judgment. Harry nods, taking a deep breath.
"I know the last we spoke was when I officially named Remus as my Estate Manager, and I know we had tentatively planned on meeting in person after term finished in Summer. But I've been studying a lot about what Lordship entails, as well as the rituals involved in Claiming my Titles -there are a surprising amount of books in the Hogwarts Library from the suggested reading list you sent me - and I've been thinking...well. I've decided that, if possible, I'd like to go through with the ritual cleansing. From what I understand of the cleansing itself, it is a fairly simple ritual that is able to purge any spells or potions that may be hindering my mind or body..."
At this Nilki nods, assessing him, "That is correct, you have been doing your reading. We can easily do the cleansing today if you have an hour or so. However, while it is a requirement that you partake in a cleansing before you accept your Title, it is rare for us to actually find anything harmful during the course of the ritual," she says, "That is, unless you have reason to believe otherwise." It is said as much as a statement as a question, and Harry isn't sure how to explain the increasing need he has felt for a cleansing ever since Nilki first mentioned it. Part of him wants to believe it's paranoia but another, much larger, part of him knows he needs this.
"After everything I've found out these past weeks -the things about my life that have been deliberately kept from me- call me paranoid, but I don't want to take any chances. Especially when I'm competing in a deadly Tournament meant for people much more skilled than I," he says resolutely.
-*-*-*-
The ritual, Harry knew, required very little action from him. And so it came to be that, a quarter-hour after speaking with Nilki, the Ritual Chamber was prepared. Harry was given a soft cotton robe in the most startling white, and lead to a deep grotto filled with cool, clear water. After bathing and donning his robe, he was lead to the Chamber and bidden to lay down in the center of an elaborately drawn circle. When the chanting first began, he felt a wash of warm magic flow over him as if in waves. It was soothing and though he did not understand what was being chanted, he felt so lulled by the rhythmic syllables that he found it hard not to slip into slumber.
Then the pain began.
First a tickle, then an uncomfortable pulling sensation behind his eyes, until the pain in his head was so bright and intense that he was sure his scalp was being ripped off. He was dimly aware of making an inarticulate noise of pain as he felt something warm and wet sliding down his forehead and into his hair. He had a muddled second to wonder if it was blood before his world went dark.
-*-*-*-
Harry is, unfortunately, somewhat used to waking up in an infirmary bed. There hasn't been a single year at Hogwarts that didn't see him laid-up for one reason or another (usually Quidditch). However, it is not the quite, airy space of the Hospital Wing that he awaken to, and it is not Madame Pomfrey standing over hid bed with a disapproving frown. Squinting his eyes open, mindful of the dull ache in his forehead, the first thing he sees is a goblin in a smart pair of (what Harry assumes are) goblin-sized scrubs that seems to almost glow in the glare of the overhead lamp. Glancing up from the clipboard he's holding, the medi-goblin (?) notices his wakefulness.
"Ah, Lord Potter, you're awake. Give me just a moment for a quick full-body scan and I will call in the Ritual Master. Account Manager Nilki is also here, should you wish to confer with her," he says, gesturing to the end of Harry's bed.
Glancing over, he sees Nilki sitting in a chair at the end of his bed, a concerned frown on her face. There is a hazy mass of light around her, swirling sedately in shades of orange and red. Confused, Harry looks back at the medi-goblin. What he had originally mistaken for fainting-related haziness, he now sees that there is, in fact, a faint blue-green light emanating from the healer.
"Why are you glowing?" he asks groggily. Without missing a beat or even looking up from the spells he seems to casting around Harry's form, the medi-goblin asks, "And what color am I emanating?" in a serious tone.
"Er..." Harry stammers, "Blue? Well, greenish-blue?" he pauses, thinking for a moment, "Turquoise, you're glowing turquoise," he settles on finally, proud of remembering the particular shade. A faint memory of Professor Trelawny talking about something called 'soul-colors' passes vacantly through his still-aching head.
Before he can say anything else, or perhaps ask again why on earth he's suddenly seeing colors everywhere, the door open. Walking slowly into the room in the oldest goblin Harry has ever seen. Deep wrinkles cover a face speckled with age spots, white hair hangs in two long braids reaching almost to the floor and adorn his brow in bushy tufts that almost shield his squinted eyes from view. He wears a deep purple robe with golden thread embroidered in intricate runes and symbols along the edges and cuffs. The shade of his robe almost succeeds in masking the near-identical shade of light swirling on either side of him, only visible because of the steady stream of bright white that flows between the space above his head and the space around his heart.
"Master Broadfang," Nilki says as she stands quickly, offering her chair to the man. Nodding at her, the elder goblin, Master Broadfang apparently, lowers himself slowly into the chair.
"So," his creaky voice speaks on a sigh, "Not exactly the Cleansing any of us expected, I would wager."
Feeling slightly wrong-footed to be laying down in front of, Harry assumes, the Ritual Master the medi-goblin mentioned, he sits up slowly, wincing as his head twinges in protest.
"I'll admit, sir" Harry starts tentatively, "Everything I've read about this particular ritual implied that it was a relatively painless process." He looks at Nilki, then, worried, "Did I do something wrong?"
Before Nilki can answer, an unexpected laugh grates itself from Master Broadfang's throat as he settles his dark eyes on Harry.
"The Cleansing removed much from your person, much of which I fear would have done irreparable damage to your magic and your psyche had they not been removed before you reached magical maturity. In that way, Lord Potter, I would say you did exactly the right thing in coming to us when you did," the Master began. "In all my years as Ritual Master, I have only been confronted with such vile magic one other time, though it was certainly not attached to a live vessel. Tell me, young Lord, what do you know of the nature of your scar?"
Having felt increasingly worried, and not the least bit confused, throughout Broadfang's answer, a question regarding his scar feels both appropriate and terrifying.
"I know that it's a curse scar," Harry starts slowly, feeling compelled to give the most concise answer possible like if he were taking a test "From when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at me and failed. Dumbledore once told me that it makes some kind of...connection between me and Voldemort. He said it's the reason I'm a parselmouth." At this Harry hesitates then, stealing himself, he rushes to say "I also have dreams. Sometimes. They've gotten worse, recently. And in the dreams it's like I can...well. I see him, Voldemort. But it's not just a regular nightmare, it's like I'm actually there, in the room with him."
If Harry expected any particular reaction, he wasn't sure, but he's certainly surprised when Nilki breaks out in what Harry can only assume is very colorful swearing in Gobbledegook. Glancing back at Broadfang, he is simply nodding his head as if expecting this answer.
"You are correct, of course, and so was your Headmaster. However, you may find it unsurprising that he did not give you the full scope of things. I hope the lack of explanation stems from a lack of understanding on Albus Dumbledore's part, because if he knew that your scar was harboring a horcrux and did nothing...I fear for his day of judgment in front of Lady Magic."
"A horcrux?" Harry asks, latching on to the unfamiliar word, a sense of dread filling his stomach.
"It is both gladdening, and unsurprising that you do not know of its particular brand of magic. And were you not directly affected by it, I would not tell you. Be that as it may..." the elder goblin trails off with a sigh, "The creation of a horcrux is classified as Black Magic. It is the darkest form of Soul Magic where, through the ritual murder of an unwilling victim, one can split their soul in half and house the rent shard in a chosen vessel. In doing this, one achieves a bastardized form of immortality, as one can never be truly killed until all parts of their soul meet Death."
Mind whirling and stomach churning, Harry swallowed hard, his mouth tasting like bile. Shakily, he allowed himself to put the horrifying pieces together. "So you're saying," he started, sounding much steadier than he felt, "That I had a piece of soul inside my scar; a piece of Voldemort inside my head?"
"Indeed, Lord Potter," Broadfang confirmed, looking grave, "It gave my students and I quite the shock. Luckily, while my experience with horcrux magic is understandably limited, I recognized the blight on your core immediately. Such an atrocity is not something one ever forgets. While we do not have the means within the Ritual Room to dispose of a Soul Shard, I was still able to contain the piece purged from your body."
Moving to the pocket of his robe, Master Broadfang held out his hand. Held within a piece of jet-black silk, he presented what looked like a small crystal ball, like a small version of the ones they use in Divination. Instead of being clear, however, the inside of the orb was swirling with jet-black smoke and as Harry gazed at it, he could see shapes of skulls and a swirling snake that snapped viciously against its glassy confines. And then he felt it; the creeping cold not dissimilar to the chill of a Dementor. Harry shivered, pushing back against the pillows behind him.
"It's awful," he whispers, "You said you couldn't destroy it in the Ritual Room...but you can destroy it, right?" Harry suddenly had a terrible need to see the things destroyed; smashed or exploded, or melted down to something unrecognizable so that he knew the retched thing could never get back to him.
"I will personally see to it that it is destroyed. There is a ritual to perform that will pull all Soul Shards that are not already with their host. However, if a viable piece of Tom Riddle's Soul has already found a host, as your dreams suggest, I fear the ritual will be unable to collect it," Broadfang warned.
"But if you destroy all the other pieces, he won't be immortal anymore. He'll be...killable," Harry said slowly
"Not only will he be mortal, he will be significantly less powerful," the Elder replied, a vindictive smile playing across his wrinkled face.
Harry mulls this over for a moment, Nilki and the medi-Goblin speaking in rapid-fire Gobbledegook off to the side. As he is trying to get used to the swirling colors surrounding the Goblins, he realizes this new ability most likely has to do with whatever else Broadfang was able to cleanse from him during the ritual. Looking up, he makes eye contact with the Elder.
"You said there was more than one thing found in the course of the ritual; When you first came in," Harry says cautiously, unsure of where the conversation might lead next. Although he doubts anything can be worse than having a piece of psychopath-soul torn out of his unsuspecting forehead.
"Indeed," Broadfang sighs. "While the horcrux was by far the most dangerous aspect to present itself during the ritual, it was no less alarming to find that you still had an active Spell-Bind on your person."
Harry quickly racks his brain to remember if he has ever come across that particular phrase and draws an underwhelming blank. "Spell-bind, sir? What is that?"
"To Spell-Bind an individual is to put something of a tourniquet on their magical core. To look at it another way, you may picture your magical core as a flowing river. A Spell-Bind will act as a large boulder, placed in the flow of you core. It will not stop you from using magic, but it will limit the amount of power you can access at one time," Broadfang pauses, allowing Harry a chance to catch up. "Are you following, Lord Potter?"
Harry, reeling for what feels like the hundredth time today, can only nod.
"The practice itself is not entirely uncommon. Parents of particularly strong children will often Spell-Bind their child as a safety precaution if the child is prone to bouts of accidental magic. However, in those cases, the Bind is removed, at the very latest, when that child begins their formal education at age eleven. Even that is pushing the bounds of what is recommended. For you to still have an active Spell-Bind at your age, I shudder to thing of the lasting effects it would have had on you should it have been left much longer. Further more, it is something that should have been easily noted and dealt with by any diligent Healer. This leads me to believe that you are long over-due a full health scan."
At this the Elder peers at Harry with a stern expression that reminds him, inexplicably, of Remus when he is scolding Padfoot for getting mud on his jumper. Chagrined and feeling the need to explain himself, Harry rushes through an explanation, "Well, my relatives haven't taken me to a muggle doctor in a while, but I see Madam Pomfrey whenever I get hurt in Quidditch." Broadfang sighs and Harry hears the medi-Goblin grumble something fierce off in the corner. "Rest assured Lord Potter," the healer starts, "I have been most diligent in my work. Why in Magic's name you were still wearing these awful things when there is a perfectly good spell to fix eyesight is beyond me," he says, holding up Harry's glasses. For his part, Harry touches his face in surprise. He hadn't even realized they were gone, assuming he was wearing them simply because he can see. "My glasses," he murmurs. Then something occurs to him, "Wait! Is that why I can see the colors?" "That most likely has to do with the removal of the Binding. What you are seeing are not just colors, Lord Potter, but magical signatures. Your Sight seems to revolve around magical individuals, but I believe with time and training you should be able to hone in on the magical signatures of objects as well," the healer answers. “Oh.”
Harry fidgets in the sudden silence as the three goblins gaze at him going over all that he has just learned. He was, but is no longer, infected with a piece of Tom Riddles soul. Just like, he realizes with a start, Riddle's Diary from second year. Moving on quickly from this his mind moves to his magical core. It wouldn't be bragging to say Harry is one of the more magically powerful students at Hogwarts. Remus has pointed out on multiple occasions that what Harry lacks in spell-work, he makes up for with raw power. Occasionally, on his more distracted days, this causes problems when working on more subtle magics like charms and transfiguration. Now, with the Binding removed, his magical core will be even more powerful than he is used to. This could cause problems if he can't learn to regulate it properly. Perhaps even more disorienting, he has a new magical ability that affects one of his primary senses. For a brief moment, he finds himself grateful that Quidditch has been canceled in lieu if the tournament. He can almost imagine a dizzying array of colors distracting him as he looks for the snitch. With a dawning sense of dread, Harry begins to realize that he has an enormous amount of extracurricular studying to do.
He isn’t sure what his face is doing, but it can’t be anything pleasant. Perhaps he looks as overwhelmed as he feels because all at once, the medi-goblin’s face seems to sag in an approximation of softness. Grumbling, she reaches back to his discarded glasses and does…something to the lenses that makes them briefly flash silver. Stepping briskly over to Harry’s cot, the newly spelled glasses are shoved in his hands.
“Here, the Lady knows you won’t be winning an fashion contests, but that should help you acclimate to your Sight.”
Gingerly, he places them back on his face, the weight of them comforting in their familiarity. As he peers around the room, he is relieved to realizes that the colors - magical signatures - are far less distracting.
“Thank you,” he says softly, glancing back to the medi-goblin.
In a move that reminds him fiercely of Professor McGonagall, he is given a tight nod of acknowledgment and a dismissal from the room.
-*-*-*-
When Harry and Nilki return to her office there are a few things waiting for them. By the corner of her desk is a sleek-looking briefcase with a piece of parchment attached.
Harry tells Ron and Hermione about everything
Harry pops into the come-and-go room the same way he popped out of it; with the help of Dobby. The room, however, is not the same as he left it.
“Harry!”
Whipping his head around, he sees Ron and Hermione standing by the fireplace looking more than a little frazzled.
Shit