Chapter Text
Harry’s never been on a train before, there's no need for them in the goblin underground when molten metal rivers can carry you everywhere you need to go. The Hogwarts Express is a beauty, almost as shiny as Rhea’s belly scales and longer than her from head to tail. Harry climbs aboard, pushing through the crowd, and finds an empty carriage near the back of the train. He doesn't like being between so many humans.
He has his trunk at his feet and his bag slung over his shoulder. The pouch at his waist holds all the gold he’s managed to earn over the years with the goblins, and he reluctantly took the knife that Master Fourhorn gave him as a parting gift, so that’s tucked in there too. He knows how to use it, if worse comes to worse.
He’s not been there very long when a boy comes in and asks if he can sit with Harry. The boy is tall, taller than Harry which isn't an impossible thing, and his hair is a different kind of red than what Harry remembers his mum’s hair to be. He has pictures, of course, Master Fourhorn found some from Hogwarts yearbooks, but memories are better to keep in the goblin tunnels. Pictures get dirty and ripped.
“Is that real gold?” The boy asks, looking at the metal in Harry’s hair with wide eyes. He's sat himself down across from Harry, a battered trunk at his feet.
“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “My Master and their wife braided them in so I could have something to remember them by while I'm gone.”
“Your Master?” The boy's freckled face scrunches up.
“Yeah, my Master, my teacher. They raised me alongside my mum. Do wizards not have teachers?”
Wizards are weird, Harry’s finding out.
“Of course we have teachers. What do you mean ‘do wizards not have teachers?’ You’re a wizard, aren’t you?”
Harry shrugs, “I guess so.”
The boy frowns.
“Do you have any siblings?” he asks, clearly reaching for something to fill the silence with. It makes Harry smile. “Mum was saying she’ll be glad that most of us are out of the house now that I’m finally off to Hogwarts, but dad said she’ll miss us the hour after we’re gone. Says she'll have no-one to cook for except for him and Ginny, that's my younger sister.”
Harry shakes his head, amused by this boy and his words, “No, it’s just me. I mean, I guess Master Fourhorn’s kids might count as my siblings, but they stay in the Den until they’re older, and once they're older they're off to other Hollows, so we haven’t really had the chance to get to know each other.”
“Oh.” The boy’s brows pull together, which Harry thinks is meant to portray confusion.
The silence is awkward, and Harry is glad when a bushy-haired girl sticks her head into their carriage. The train is moving now, Harry can feel it under his feet. He doesn't know if he likes the feeling of moving when he's sitting still.
“Neville’s lost his toad,” the girl says, nose pointed slightly upwards. “Have you seen it?”
A shy-looking boy peeks into the car behind her. He’s chewing on his bottom lip with wide, glossy eyes. Harry thinks he recognises the boy, but he can’t be sure. He's seen so many pictures of his parents' friends, this might be one of their kids.
“I haven’t,” Harry says. He smiles at the shy boy when he catches his eye, “But I can help look, if you'd like?”
There aren’t any toads or frogs in the Lower Pits and Hollows, but Harry’s been learning how to track since he came to live with Rhea. He’s pretty sure he can hunt down a toad if he’s given the chance. It can’t be more difficult than catching a sickle-bat, can it?
Harry stands and takes a deep breath in through his mouth, just like Rhea taught him.
The scents of the train car are mixed. The redheaded boy smell-tastes like ash from a fireplace and the old rat that sits in his pocket. The girl smell-tastes like parchment and ink. The shy boy has the slight tang that comes with protective magic, probably from his parents, but there’s a slight taste of salt coming from his robe’s front pocket.
“The toad’s in your pocket,” Harry points to the pocket. “He smell-tastes like he’s scared. Do toads like to stay in pockets? Or maybe it’s the train, feeling it move when I’m not moving is kinda weird.”
The boy pulls a large toad out of his robes and heaves a great big sigh of relief. Harry tries not to giggle, not wanting the boy to think he's laughing at him. Rottentooth always said Harry laughs like a harpcrup barks, little hiccuping giggles that make most goblins in the area clack their teeth with amusement.
“Thank you so much.” Those big eyes meet Harry’s, and they share a smile.
“Do you wanna sit with us?” the redheaded boy asks. He sounds kind of put out, but Harry appreciates him asking anyway.
The girl sits herself down at the redhead’s side. Harry can’t help but giggle into his sleeve at the expression on the boy’s face. He doesn’t think the redhead likes her very much. Hopefully that’ll change, they’ll be in the same year after all.
“I’m Hermione Granger,” the girl introduces herself. “I’m a Muggleborn, so I didn’t know anything about magic before my letter came. My mum thought it was a prank before Professor McGonagall showed up with proof. Mum had to sit down for a bit after Professor McGonagall changed the couch into a German Shepard. I can't believe magic is real! It feels a little like a dream, to be honest.”
“I’m Neville,” the shy boy says. “Neville Longbottom. I’m a pureblood, I guess. My Gran and Uncle Alfie thought I was a squib until a few years ago, but I grew up around magic.”
Harry wonders what a squib is, but he doesn’t ask. He thinks he remembers reading about the term, something about having a small magical core? He doesn’t remember all that much.
“I’m Ron Weasley,” the redhead introduces himself with pride, as if daring anyone to fight him about it. It makes Harry wonder who this boy's family is to other wizards. “I live with my five brothers and my sister. We’ve grown up with magic. I swear Charlie’s accidental magic as a kid almost burned our house down. Dad had to add a new room to it after that.”
Harry grins. His magic almost did the same when he was at the Dursleys. Then Rhea taught him to keep the fire in his throat instead of outside his skin.
“I’m Harry Potter,” he says.
The others stare at him with wide eyes, and he can’t help but giggle.
“Are you really?” Ron asks. The boy looks so shocked.
“Yeah, I think so.” Harry makes a show of looking himself over. “Don’t know who else I’d be if I weren’t.”
“Do you have the scar?”
Harry grins his goblin grin, the one he learned from Master Fourhorn, and feels his magic pulse when the other kids squirm in their seats at the sight. He loves showing off his scar! He knows he got it ‘cause Voldemort hurt him as a kid, but wizards are so picky about scars, not like goblins are. Harry rarely gets to show it to others without getting pitying looks. Goblins see it as a badge of honor, from surviving a powerful opponent when he was smaller.
He pushes his bangs up to reveal the lightning scar, wiggling in his seat when the others ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh.’
“Do you remember getting it?” Hermione asks. Right after she says it, she quints like she’s berating herself for asking.
Harry shrugs, “Not really. I was a baby, my mum and dad are the ones who did all the work.”
“What do you mean?” Neville asks. His voice is clear of stuttering as he stares at the scar on Harry’s forehead, too entranced to be nervous.
“Well, I wasn’t the reason I survived the Killing Curse, was I?” Harry shrugs again. “Rhea says my parents cast a blood ritual on me when they heard Voldemort was coming for them. That’s why I survived, my parents were smart.”
Ron bites his lip.
“Aren’t blood rituals illegal?” He looks like he regrets asking as Hermione’s eyes light up.
“They are!” The girl pulls a book from her bag and flips through it. “I read about it in the book that the bookstore owner recommended to me about the history of the Ministry of Magic. There are so many types of magic, but the Minister says some of them are really dangerous and can’t be used without hurting other people, so they made them illegal. Blood magic is one of those.”
“I dunno about all that,” Harry eyes the book with caution, “but I know it’s why I’m alive, so I don’t really care all that much.”
They fall into a rhythm of conversation from there. Hermione knows a lot about the muggle world, and she’s been reading everything she can get her hands on since she got her Hogwarts letter. When she gets talking, Harry and Ron discover that it’s hard to get her to stop. Neville really likes plants, Harry learns. Harry doesn’t know much about plants from aboveground, but he listens to the boy and asks questions when he can. Ron knows so much about chess. He’s even beat his whole family at it! He has five brothers and one sister, and his house is so tall because they keep adding rooms to it when they need to, for parties and guests and stuff.
Harry tells his new friends about Master Fourhorn and Rhea, though he doesn’t mention that Rhea’s a dragon. Wizards and witches don’t usually react well to that kind of news, Harry’s found. He does tell his new friends about living with the goblins under Gringotts, which makes Ron’s jaw drop and Neville’s toad slip to the floor before Hermione catches it once more.
“Is that where you’ve been all this time?” Ron asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he squints like he’s remembering something, “Dumbledore told the Ministry that you went missing when you were six, right? And the Ministry went absolutely mad about it. Then word got out that you had been living with the worst sort of muggles, ya’ know? So the wizarding world was in an uproar. Even the blood purists were upset about it. Have you been with the goblins the whole time?”
Harry smiles with a shrug, “Yeah.”
He doesn’t really care what wizards think about his living situation. It’s better than the Dursleys, that’s for sure.
“Mum even sent a howler to the Headmaster when he lost you,” Ron grins. “Minister Fudge got one too when the Ministry unofficially gave up the search for you.”
Good. The goblins have no love for Minister Fudge.
“Is that why you have an accent, Harry?” Hermione asks, head tilted curiously.
“Yeah, Master Fourhorn says that I learned to speak Gobbledygook faster than any other wizard they’ve taught! They still taught me English, but there’s not much use for English in the tunnels, so I didn’t use it that much.”
It’s a few hours after they start up that there’s a knock on the train car’s door. Harry cocks his head as it opens, revealing three boys Harry’s age. They must be in his year too. He wonders how many first-years there will be.
The blonde boy in between the stocky boys looks pompous, like a young goblin who thinks he’s won a trade for something worth more than what he’s giving. Harry stifles a giggle.
“I heard Harry Potter is on the train,” the boy all but sneers. “I wanted to introduce myself, make sure he doesn’t fall in with the wrong sort.”
Ron automatically puffs up in some kind of angry emotion, but Harry raises a hand to cut him off. He wants to hear what the boy has to say, and he feels like Ron’s a little biased against him. He thinks this boy is a Malfoy from that family that Ron was talking about earlier, one of the blonds that hates the Weasley family, something due to an ancient feud.
“My name is Harry Potter,” he says with a smile. He stands and offers a hand in the standard pureblood greeting of clasping wrists.
The boy looks surprised, eyes darting from the prominent scar to the gold and iron ornaments in his long hair to the lack of glasses and the new robes. Harry can understand that, since Ron told him about the books that some wizard wrote that tell a fake story about Harry’s life. He's gonna send an owl to Account Manager Griphook when he can to see if he can take those books down, especially the one where Harry fights a dragon, that's just disrespectful to the Great Ones.
“It is good to finally meet you, Heir Potter,” the boy says, releasing Harry’s arm. “I am Draco Malfoy, Heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy.”
“Good to meet you too, Heir Malfoy. Call me Harry, why don’t you.”
“Of course, Harry. Call me Draco.” Draco sneers at Ron as the boy makes a disgruntled noise. “Now, why don’t we retire to my usual train car? Get you away from the common riff raff.”
“I’m perfectly fine where I am,” Harry smiles. “But you can join us, if you want?”
The boy looks conflicted, and anger glints in his eyes when Ron makes a noise that Harry thinks means he disagrees.
“If you can handle being near a blood-traitor and a Muggleborn,” Ron sneers, prodding at the boy’s fragile ego.
Harry watches as Draco visibly wars within himself. Harry hopes that this young boy can get over the prejudices he’s been taught and come to his senses. If not, this year is gonna be really difficult.
“How about this,” Harry suggests. “We all sit down, and we can talk things out. I’m sure we can all be civilized, can’t we? I mean, I was raised with goblins, and I still know how to respect other kinds of people and their cultures. It's to my understanding that wizards think goblins are inferior, so that should convince you if you actually believe that.”
Draco’s jaw drops at the casual announcement, eyes going wide, and Harry grins. He’s got his starting point in fixing Draco’s misconceptions, and he’s gonna run with it.
Draco sends his bodyguards, probably Vassals from the Crabbe and Goyle families, back to their own train car and cautiously sits to Harry’s left, near the window and on the far side of the bench as Neville. He scowls at Ron and Hermione opposite him in disgust, but Harry thinks he can fix that easily enough.
“Did you know that the most powerful wizards in history have been half-bloods?” Harry grins a goblin grin as the cabin goes silent, wide eyes turning to him in shock. He thinks he’s gonna get a lot of that these days.
“What?” Ron exclaims. His eyes dart to Draco hesitantly, “But You-Know-Who wasn’t a half-blood.”
“Yes, he was.” Harry shrugs as Ron gapes at him. “Because I supposedly conquered him when my parents died, Account Manager Griphook let me look at Voldemort’s vaults, since I'll have access to them when I'm thirteen, and they clearly showed that he was a half-blood with the last name of Riddle. He hid it ‘cause he wanted power, so all the goblins have as proof is a vial of his blood and half of an ancestry test, but it’s definitely clear that he was a half-blood.”
Draco has gone pale, paler than how he's looked so far, and Harry’s a little worried about him.
“Supposedly conquered him,” Hermione says slowly, as if tasting the words as she says them. “Why did you say ‘supposedly conquered him?’ I thought that was what had happened? That’s what all the books say.”
“Books can be wrong.” Harry grimaces as Hermione looks at him like he’s killed a crup. “In this case, I mean. Besides, my mum and dad are the ones who did all the work. I told you about that, so technically I didn’t kill him, did I?”
“But,” Neville stutters, “but you sound like you don’t believe he’s dead…”
Draco goes impossibly paler.
“He’s not, not really,” Harry says as gently as he can. He doesn’t want to lie to these kids, his new best friends. “He did something so his soul can remain on this plane. The goblins and I are reversing it, don’t worry.”
“Father has told me stories,” Draco says, almost in a daze. He shudders, fear in his eyes.
Harry watches him carefully. He looks like he might go faint.
Draco seems to shake himself out and put on a fake sneer once more, “Well, if the Dark Lord does return, my family has nothing to worry about. You lot, on the other hand, well, you better look out.”
Harry sighs. He raises a hand when it looks like his friends might snap back at the blond. Ron is turning red with rage in defense of himself and Hermione, even though he's not too fond of her yet.
“You really shouldn’t talk like that, Draco,” he frowns. “All you know is what you’ve been told. Don’t you think you should come to your own conclusions? Like I said, the most powerful wizards have had muggle blood: Professor Snape, Voldemort, Dumbledore, my mum, Merlin, Grindelwald, Professor McGonagall, Garrick Ollivander, the list goes on.”
“Merlin was a half-blood?” Neville asks in shock.
Harry wishes that these kids would stop doing that, not believing what he’s saying. Master Fourhorn and Account Manager Griphook said that’s a wizard thing, that questioning someone’s claims is normal for other humans. Harry doesn’t like it.
“Of course, he was.” Harry drags his teeth against each other in frustration. “Gringotts wasn’t around back then, so he didn’t have a vault with the goblins, but everybody in the Goblin Nation knows that Merlin was descended from a muggle mother and a pureblood wizarding father.”
Draco groans, losing all of his smug superiority, and palms at his face.
“That can’t be true,” he says, almost pleading. “Father told me he was a pureblood, so he’s a pureblood.”
Harry keeps the growl in his chest at the insinuation that he’s lying. Draco’s just a kid, a human kid, and he doesn’t know anything about the world that his father hasn’t told him. He doesn’t know that it’s practically assault to question a goblin’s word.
“It’s true, I swear on my family magic,” Harry says, voice low.
The air around him shimmers and solidifies for a millisecond, confirming his oath. Harry bats at the magic, disliking how it tingles in his magical core.
“Oh, Salazar,” Draco slumps back to lean on the window. “This can’t be happening.”
Harry’s frown slowly morphs into a grin.
He’s got him.
By the time the train stops, Draco is pacing back and forth and loudly arguing with Hermione as they consider muggleborn integration into wizarding spaces, but he doesn’t look truly angry, and there’s been no real fighting. Harry considers that to be a start.
Hagrid, the Groundskeeper, guides the first-years off the train and into boats. He’s a half-giant, so Harry likes him already. Harry waves Draco away for the blond to go sit with his Vassals, Gregory and Vincent, and he climbs into a boat with Neville, Ron, and Hermione. He looks down at the water warily. He knows there are creatures living in the lake that could help him if he falls in, but he’s not that great a swimmer in regular water. Molten gold, sure, but water? No thanks.
Hogwarts is beautiful. It’s taller than any human building Harry’s ever seen, with windows of painted glass and towers that stretch up to the sky. Used to the underground, Harry has to strain his eyes to see the tops of the towers. It’s dark outside, which makes it easier, but not by much. It’ll adjust with more time above the ground, Healer Gravecut told him before he left.
The boats dock, and Hagrid leads the first years up to the big entrance of the castle. Harry sticks close to his friends. He doesn’t like how many people there are here, but he tries to push away the noise and flips his gold coin over and over in his pocket.
A tall, stern woman towers over the first-years and tells them to make themselves presentable. Harry pulls at the strands of hair loose from his braid and bites his lip. He thinks he looks presentable. When the woman leaves, about a minute after she's out of sight, Harry feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He shivers as a rush of cold comes over him.
A parade of ghosts comes through the nearest wall, making the closest first-years shout in alarm. Harry’s breath stops in his chest. There are ghosts here? Why are there ghosts here? Do wizards not know how to help their dead pass on peacefully? He’ll have to ask someone later.
Ron mumbles something about bloody ghosts under his breath at Harry’s side, making Neville snort and then blush furiously. Hermione reprimands Ron in a stern tone that has Harry giggling.
Professor McGonagall, the tall woman from before, dismisses the ghosts and leads Harry and his class out of the hallway and into the Great Hall.
The inside of the Great Hall reminds Harry of the goblin StarSky Hollow, though it lacks the artificial rain that sometimes falls from the enchanted ceiling. Harry stares up at the stars and candles in awe. It looks real. In the StarSky Hollow, there was an element of removal with the stars, since goblins rarely went to the surface and looked up at the sky, but here it’s one to one. It's amazing.
Hermione says something about Hogwarts: A History beside him, but he’s too busy looking out at the hall.
There are four long tables, just as Rhea said there would be, and a table at the head of the hall for the staff to sit at. At the center of the head table sits an old man with a long white beard. Harry meets the man’s eyes. This is Albus Dumbledore, Harry’s seen pictures of him before. He’s the man who left Harry with the Dursleys.
The man at the head table with greasy black hair and a hooked nose peers down at the students in the hall with a sneer. Why is everyone so tall in the wizarding world?
Harry catches sight of who he knows is Professor Flitwick. The wizard is part-goblin, and Harry grins a goblin grin at the sight of him. Some of the first-years near Harry mutter under their breath and shuffle slightly away from Harry’s sharper teeth. They’re not as sharp as Master Fourhorn or Rhea’s, but they’re sharper than they were before Harry got his first scales.
Harry keeps his eyes on the stars in the charmed sky as the Sorting Hat is placed on a stool in front of the staff table. It sings a song that describes the Houses of Hogwarts.
“Abbot, Hannah,” Professor McGonagall calls.
It only takes a few seconds for the hat to call out Hufflepuff!
Harry’s jaw drops. The hat can speak? None of the books Harry read in preparation for wizarding school told him that the hat could speak. Singing was one thing, Harry’s seen objects sing before, but talk? Wow. He wonders why goblin schools don’t have hats that can talk. Maybe they’re shy or just don't want to talk to a human. That would make sense.
Eventually, after Hermione and Neville go to Gryffindor and Draco goes to Slytherin, Professor McGonagall calls for Harry.
Silence falls in the Great Hall, and Harry steps forward.
The students talk over themselves when they see him, commenting on his fame and his appearance. Harry shies away from the noise and hurries over to sit on the stool. He pulls the talking hat over his head without any hesitation. He doesn’t like the way some of the students are looking at him. The hat covers his eyes.
It’s an odd feeling, having a talking hat read Harry’s mind. He talks to Rhea in Serpent Speak and the goblins in Gobbledygook. The Fourhorns and sickle-bats in the Higher goblin tunnels can’t speak like Harry and the goblins can, but their grunts and growls get their messages across well enough. This Sorting Hat hums out a tune in his mind without any real words. It tingles.
“I’ve never sorted a dragon before,” the hat muses. It’s weird to hear the voice in his head.
“Well, I guess that’s ‘cause no dragon’s ever hoarded a wizard before,” Harry replies. He feels the hat’s chuckle reverberate through his head like a Hollow cave.
Harry thinks he knows which House he’ll be sorted into, but it’s fun to see-hear the hat think through the options.
Each House has its own merits. Slytherin is the house of snakes and stays in the dungeons, and Harry thinks his life’s goal is plenty ambitious. Hufflepuff is based on loyalty, and Harry’s best trait is loyalty to his mum and Master Fourhorn. Ravenclaw is led by a part-goblin wizard and values the zeal for learning, and Harry’s been searching for more knowledge since he was brought to the Nation’s tunnels. But in the end, there is only one house that depends on bravery, and that is what Harry has to have to complete his mission.
Dragons have to be a bit of all four houses. Harry’s not good at manipulating like Song-Twister Axel tried to teach Harry to be. Goblins don’t like lying, but they understand the need to twist the truth. Song-Twisters are master manipulators. Harry knows the world expects him to go to one specific House, and he’s okay with that. All his plans need is for him to have the bravery to hunt down the remaining horcruxes and defeat Voldemort for good. All three of his peoples are counting on him. It doesn’t rely on cunning or kindness or intelligence, just bravery to do what might hurt.
“Then that’s settled,” the hat whispers into his mind. “You will make your House proud.”
Harry smiles.
“GRYFFINDOR,” the sorting hat shouts, to the delight of the red and gold table.
Harry’s new friends all clap, even Draco at Slytherin table, which makes Harry feel warm inside.
The table of lions cheers so loudly, like their goblin champion has just killed the opposing monster to prove their ability in the stone ring. Harry can’t help but grin as he makes his way to sit near Ron, Hermione, and Neville. He’s never had anyone cheer like that for him before. He's not allowed in the stone rings until he's at least thirteen.
Two redheads that look kinda like Ron start to chant about getting Harry in their House, grinning like fools. Harry stares at them with wide eyes. He’s never met wizard twins before. He wonders if they’re different from goblin twins. They’re definitely different from dragon twins, since they don’t share one body with two heads.
There’s so much magic in this giant room that Harry’s head is swimming. He tries to listen as the rest of his year is sorted, but he really comes to when Dumbledore gives his speech. His eyes meet Professor Quirrell's, the man with the turban, and his scar burns in response. Harry frowns. Why did that happen? He tests it again, and every time he meets the man's eyes, his scar stings in pain.
Food appears on the table, but Harry’s stuck on the Dumbledore's last announcement. Don’t go into the third floor classroom? Why not? Schools are supposed to be safe, aren’t they? Maybe there’s something in there that the seventh years are using to prove themselves, like Warriors in the stone ring in the goblin tunnels.
Harry considers the food in front of him. The chicken and pumpkin juice are no sugar crystals and liquid topaz, but he guesses he can give them a try. Ron, on Harry’s left, is eating like his life depends on it. Harry’s not worried though, Ron doesn’t look like he’s been starved, not like Harry did before he got used to the regular meals that Master Fourhorn gave him. Harry tries the chicken and hums. It's not that bad.
Eventually, Harry and his friends follow the Gryffindor prefects up to Gryffindor Tower. Harry marvels at the height of the thing. He saw it from the outside, but the inside is even better. There are what look like hundreds of floors in it, and Harry likes the common room the best. The password to the door is Caput Draconis, which Harry grins at. There’s a warm fire already lit that reminds him of his dual river back in Rhea’s Pit. The portraits lining the walls wave to the incoming wave of first-years.
The prefects give a speech about unity and doing well in class. Harry elbows Ron as the boy’s face falls at the part about grades, smiling softly. He gets the feeling that Ron’s not all that interested in doing well in class, which will be interesting compared to Hermione who’s practically bouncing at his side.
Percy, one of Ron’s brothers, leads the first-year boys to their dorm.
Harry grins and bounds over to where the House Elves have placed his trunk, running his fingers over the plate of metal that inscribes his name into the bed. Ron and Neville do the same on either side of him. He’s glad he has his friends surrounding him and not the other boys. Nothing against them, but Harry needs people who will protect his back if he needs them to, and he doesn’t know Dean or Seamus all that well yet.
His bed is warm as he slips into it after getting ready to sleep. Harry closes his eyes to Seamus and Ron arguing over the best Quidditch teams, a smile on his face.
Harry wakes before sunrise.
He’s restless, bouncing on his toes to the drumbeat of a goblin call to arms, and he quickly dons his wizard clothes before prying open the nearest window. The calendar Seamus hastily put up the night before marks today as September 2nd, which means nothing to Harry.
In his studies, Harry trained with the Apprentice Song-Twisters, the Nation’s Class of Spies, in the Simulation Pits of the higher tunnels. The higher tunnels are used for that sort of thing, activities that require motion and magic. The lower tunnels are more still and quiet. He knows how to move through windy areas and climb steep cliff faces because of his meager training. Harry knows he’ll never be a Master Song-Twister, and so does Master Song-Twister Axel who trained him, but it’ll only help him to learn the trade in the long run.
The outside of Gryffindor Tower is easy to scale. Harry finds foot and handholds to lower himself from with little caution. He knows what he’s doing. His nails aren’t as tough as Rhea or Master Fourhorn’s are, but they get the job done. He avoids the many windows, not wanting to be interrogated about what he’s doing. Wizards are so peculiar about what they let their children do, and Harry has a feeling that climbing the tower isn’t something his Professors will let him do.
There’s a lower roof attached to the side of the tower, and Harry lowers himself to sit on it, his bare feet digging into the cracks of the stone.
Here, as the sun rises, Harry can see everything. He can see the Black Lake and the Forbidden Forest, the Quidditch stadium and the greenhouses. In the distance, Harry has to squint, but he can see the outline of the Hogsmeade village. His eyes adjust more easily than goblin eyes do, thanks to the wizard medicine he takes every year for it, though they hurt when he focuses on far distances for too long, like the sky.
It’s a beautiful thing, to see the sun rise. It reminds him of the mornings at the Dursleys, making breakfast before his relatives awoke, peaceful in a place of chaos, painless for the time being.
He sits on his perch long past sunrise, until he peers down to see people starting to move around in the castle below him. A couple of figures are moving towards the greenhouses, and Harry thinks he sees the half-giant groundskeeper moving towards the forest. Harry can’t wait to meet the man.
Professor McGonagall hands out their schedules at breakfast. A yawning Ron sleepily comments that they have Herbology first, a class that Neville is really looking forward to. Hermione is already making a study schedule for their classes, which Ron looks a little annoyed by.
The first-year Gryffindors trudge to the their assigned greenhouse alongside their Hufflepuff peers. Harry hums and nods at the correct intervals as Neville mutters excitedly about what he hopes they’ll do in Herbology. The boy can really talk when he gets going about something he's passionate about. It makes Harry feel warm inside.
Professor Sprout is a cheerful witch with dirt splattered across every inch of her clothing. Harry likes her already.
Harry partners with a Hufflepuff, Susan Bones, to go through the Ingredient Encyclopedia to name all the plants on their table. Susan barely glances at the gold and iron threaded into Harry’s hair, and she doesn’t comment on his accent, which is better than Zacharias Smith who gets partnered with Ron. The redhead looks like he wants to strangle his Hufflepuff partner.
Neville earns Gryffindor ten points from Professor Sprout in this single class alone. Harry pats his friend on the back with a grin as they leave to go to their next classes. Hermione and Ron bicker, trailing behind the two boys as they walk to History of Magic.
Harry freezes when Professor Binns floats into the classroom.
He needs to learn how to help ghosts pass on from the living world, he doesn’t like the feeling of death licking at his skin. It doesn’t help that Binns is one of the most boring speakers that Harry has ever heard. He resolves to talk to Account Manager Griphook about this as soon as he gets the chance.
Lunch comes, and Harry happily devours the food set out for them by the house elves.
Defense Against the Dark Arts is next, with Transfiguration after it.
Harry grits his teeth through his nausea at the wave of smell that hits him as he walks into Professor Quirrell’s Defense classroom, and he makes sure to sit in the back of the room, much to Hermione’s protestations. He can’t deal with being so close to the horrible smell-taste of garlic. He tries not to wrinkle his nose too much.
Quirrell meets Harry’s eyes by chance as he’s stuttering his way through his introductory speech, and Harry is almost blindsided by a blast of pain from his scar.
What in the Great Mother’s name was that? He clutches at his forehead as discreetly as he can. He knows there’s a piece of Riddle’s soul in his scar, but why would it react that way to simply meeting his Professor’s eyes? He thought he had been imagining the pain from the feast last night, that it was from a dream of his, but now he knows better.
Harry tells himself to get word to Healer Gravecut as soon as possible.
He suffers through the first Defense lesson, barely listening to Quirrell prattle on about vampires and the danger they pose to society. His head hurts so much by the end of it that Ron has to lead him by the elbow to Transfiguration. Luckily, the fresh air seems to be helping, ‘cause within a few minutes the pain has dulled to a low buzz.
Harry and his friends sit at the front of the Transfiguration classroom.
There’s a cat sitting on Professor McGonagall’s desk, and Harry eyes it curiously. He hasn’t met many muggle cats, most of the felines he knows are underground species, but he’s pretty sure muggle cats like this shouldn’t have a magical core.
“Do cats have magical cores?” he asks Hermione. She’d probably know best out of all of them.
“No, none of the books I’ve read say anything about that,” she says quickly, always happy to answer a question. “But there are breeds like Kneazles and such that have magic in their souls, just not in the form of a core. Why do you ask?”
“‘Cause that cat has one,” Harry says, nodding to the desk. He watches as the tabby cat blinks slowly in his direction.
Hermione makes a sound in the back of her throat, “How odd. I wonder why.”
The room fills with students, all Gryffindors, and class starts. Professor McGonagall is nowhere to be seen. The cat meows, and Harry gets a thought in the back of his mind. He thinks he remembers a book that talked about something like this, but he doesn’t really remember the name of it.
The cat jumps from the desk, shifting and stretching and contorting until Professor McGonagall is standing where the cat should be. The class erupts into applause, cheers, awed cries, some of fear. Harry clacks his teeth in excitement with wide eyes, making Neville flinch slightly from his place beside him. He doesn't mean to be scary, especially not to his friends, but he can't help goblin motions being scary to other wizards.
McGonagall is a cat! That’s amazing. Could he do that? He wonders what his animal would be. Does the animal depend on the person? Is it possible for one's animal to be a magical creature? Harry wonders if he could be a dragon. He has the scales for it already, after all.
The woman makes a speech about the difficulties and rewards of Transfiguration as a subject, but Harry only vaguely registers her words.
He raises his hand the instant her speech comes to a natural conclusion, his eyes wide and eager.
“Ma’am,” he starts when she acknowledges him, “how did you do that?”
“If you were listening, Mr. Potter, you would know.” The woman sounds stern, which makes Harry’s smile widen. She sounds exactly like a goblin Den Master chiding a misbehaving youngling. “Transfiguration is a complicated art form, and through my studies I have mastered it. That transformation is a sign of that mastery.”
“So that was self-transfiguration?” He knows it’s not, but he can’t remember the correct name right now, and he really wants to learn how to do that himself.
“It was not.” Professor McGonagall paces slowly up and down the rows of desks. “That particular transformation is called an Animagus transformation. You will not learn the theory of such an act until third-year, though I expect some of you to take an inkling to it, as a few do each year.”
“Can anyone become one, Professor?”
Hermione perks up as he asks. She seems to want to know the theory of it, unlike Harry who wants to become one. To each their own.
“Technically, yes. However, it is a time consuming process, and rarely does one make it to the end of said process. It is dangerous if done incorrectly or unsupervised, and I expect none of my students to succumb to such a curiosity. Do you understand me, Mr. Potter?”
“Yes, Professor.” He’ll see if Master Fourhorn knows any Masters in the art of Transfiguration so they can teach him.
Professor McGonagall looks reluctant to accept his words, which makes him grin. He never promised not to pursue the process, he just agreed that he understood the dangers. He knows how to speak to wizards without binding himself with empty promises. Master Song-Twister Axel thought he excelled in that area of Song-Twisting.
The professor moves on to explain their goals for this class. Hermione makes sure to raise her hand every chance she gets, asking loads of questions that have Harry giggling into his hand. They’re just working on theory today, he learns from McGonagall's answers. He’s disappointed he won’t get to use his magic to transfigure a matchstick into a needle, but he understands. They’re only eleven, they need to know what they’re doing before they do it. Though, he’s pretty sure he can shift wood into metal without much difficulty. He has enough practice from the rivers.
Professor McGonagall dismisses them to retreat to dinner.
Night falls, and Harry walks deep into the dungeons. The walls whisper of the students that have passed by them, and though Harry’s not that adept at listening to stone as an actual goblin is, he knows how to find the lowest point of the castle. It's an art form, one that Harry learned at a young age.
There’s a low-down staircase that leads nowhere, ending in a blank stone wall. Harry sits on the lowest step.
When he was eight, Master Fourhorn taught him and the other young goblins how to send messages through the natural magic of the earth. One has to be as low into the ground as they can be, which Harry is, and they have to cast their bloodline magic into the earth as far as it can go. Harry does this now. He’s not a goblin, he doesn’t have a bloodline linked to the earth as they do, but he does have dragon-magic entwined with his wizard magic, and that works mostly the same as goblin magic.
His scales glow slightly underneath his robes as his magic reaches out to the caves underneath Hogwarts. He knows his eyes are probably slitted like Rhea’s. He pulls his robes over his head, throwing them in a pile beside him, and stretches, feeling his scales click together, free in the open air for the first time all day. He sighs.
It only takes a few minutes for a song-worm to unearth itself from the stone of the wall in front of him. The worm twists as it lands on the step, flapping muddy wings to right itself.
Harry talks to it in Gobbledygook.
“Tell Healer Gravecut that my scar has reacted strongly to a wizard who taste-smells like magical corruption. Tell her that I freely open my medical history to all necessary parties of this information. Ask Master Fourhorn to speak with Great One Rhea and ask for her advice on the situation. I am prepared to escape or fight if needed.”
Harry’s not a fighter, but he’s at least trained in fighting with his magic and his ornamental knife. He’s very good at escaping, if it comes to that, so he’s not worried. The only consideration would be against his honor or the safety of the children around him.
The song-worm shakes its wings of dirt and dives back into the stone wall to deliver his messages. It will use his dragon-magic as a guide on where to travel.
Harry mindlessly itches some of the new scales dotting the base of his neck. His hardened nails hit the spot exactly, digging in between them nicely.
“So it’s true,” a low voice intones. Harry tenses. (He stopped startling when he was eight, since then he’s learned to tense in preparation instead of jump.) “The Boy-Who-Lived has been living in the Goblin Nation for the last four and a half years.”
Harry taste-smells the air, getting strong remnants of potions and dust and ash. He relaxes. It’s Professor Snape, the greasy haired wizard that used to be friends with his mum. Her bank vault had been very revealing, and Harry remembers finding the pictures of the two of them that his Account Manager Griphook helped him identify. He doesn't think the professor will like him very much, since Lily, his human mum, wrote about his relationship with James, his father, in her diaries.
“Professor Snape,” he says, settling back and twisting to look up at the man, “I didn’t see you there.”
Though he really should have. The man’s taste-smell is rather distinct.
“Though,” the man continues as if he hadn’t heard him, “that would not explain the marks on your skin that are ever apparent.”
Harry barely restrains the hiss between his teeth. He knew his situation would get out eventually, so he’s not that angry or upset about it, but having his scales referred to as simple marks would make the most controlled dragon spit flames. He tries not to huff smoke in retaliation to the terms.
“It’s not exactly a secret, Professor,” Harry says, calming his heart rate with a steady breath. He doesn’t expand on that any further.
Snape raises an eyebrow imperiously.
Harry ignores the action, pulling his closed robes back on and wishing his eyes to go back to normal. Master Fourhorn would scold him on his disrespect of authority, but they would allow him it as Snape hasn’t yet proved his honor.
“Mr. Potter,” he sneers, though Harry doesn’t hear any real anger, just curiosity, “you will tell me why there looks to be scales covering your very human back.”
“Why?” Harry doesn’t mean to be repetitive, but he does feel the need to know.
“You are a student here,” the man sneers. “Your safety is our responsibility, and I have clearly seen something that may be impeding your physical health.”
Harry bites his lip, runs his tongue over his slightly-sharper teeth. Goblins and dragons like trades, and from what he’s read, so do Slytherins. He just has to come up with a good enough exchange that he can give this man the information he wants to know. It won't be secret for much longer, so really it doesn't matter that much.
“I propose a trade.” Harry steps up so he’s only a few steps below the professor.
The man looks reluctantly impressed, “A trade.”
“I tell you what I’m doing here tonight, and you do one simple thing for me.” Harry grins a goblin grin, what wizards would call a sneering scowl. “Keep an eye on Professor Quirrell.”
Professor Snape raises an eyebrow.
“And why would I do such a thing? Do you expect me to report my findings to you, Mr. Potter?”
“Of course not. Just watch him. He feels… wrong.”
The man hums, “I accept the proposed trade.”
“Alright,” Harry gestures to the stone wall behind him. “I came here tonight to get a message to my healer in the Nation. My scar has been hurting since I arrived whenever I’m around Professor Quirrell. Healer Gravecut told me to tell her if I feel anything from it, since she and the other Healers discovered Voldemort’s magic embedded in the core of it when I was younger.”
Snape’s face goes blank. Harry knows it’s a lot of information to drop on the man, especially since Snape was on both sides during the war.
“I used a song-worm, a type of earthen golem that swims through the ground to deliver messages. They’re attracted to goblin magic, since it’s in tune with their own, and they like to repeat the sounds that they hear, which makes them perfect messengers in the goblin tunnels for far distances.”
Professor Snape hums his understanding.
“Why do you think your scar hurts when you meet Quirrell’s eyes?” At Harry’s surprised look, he scoffs, “I am not dense. I saw how you only reacted at the opening feast when you made direct eye contact with the man.”
Harry nods, “It has something to do with Voldemort’s magic, for sure. I think that Professor Quirrell has some of Voldemort’s magical essence in or on him, which makes the remnants in my scar react in kind, like one part of something seeking the other.”
Snape swallows, it looks difficult.
“Does this scar of yours react to any bit of the Dark Lord’s magic?”
“If you’re talking about the mark on your arm,” Harry shrugs, “I haven’t felt anything from it so far, so I’d say it’s only pieces of Voldemort’s soul that my scar reacts to.”
The man’s skin pales further. He doesn’t even react to the mention of the Dark Mark, which Harry thinks is commendable.
“But that means…” the man trails off.
“It means that, by my theory, Voldemort is still alive and somewhere in Professor Quirrell.” Harry shrugs again. “But that might be wrong, of course. I’m just a kid, what do I know? Healer Gravecut will tell me soon if I’m right.”
Snape nods, seeming to accept that even as his eyes flicker back and forth.
“And how does that connect to those scales on your back?”
“That was not a part of the deal,” Harry smiles gently.
The man frowns, clenches his jaw, and nods.
“I propose a second trade,” Professor Snape declares. “In return for you explaining your scaly problem, I will make sure my conclusions about Quirinus are sent to you.”
Harry stifles a giggle. He hasn’t made this many trades since little Axeclaw wanted Harry’s mothsilk blanket in exchange for a Sickle and three Knuts. He likes how Snape isn’t as clear as he could be, leaving loopholes for himself to use if needed. The man is skilled in the art of negotiation.
“I agree to this trade.” Harry considers what he can tell the man. “How much do you know of goblin culture?”
“I…” Snape trails off. His lips quirk. “How Goblin are you, Mr. Potter?”
Harry grins, clacking his teeth like a proper goblin, “Enough.”
Truly, he was raised from the age six onwards to be a goblin. Rhea’s draconic parentage has influenced him more than the goblins, of course, but that was more physically. Harry acts and talks like a goblin, or he would if wizards thought it anything more than simply barbaric. Wizards don’t like it when you talk mainly with your gestures, Harry’s found, which excludes most of goblin communication.
Besides, Harry lives by the Goblin Nation’s commandments, which include honesty, honor, and not losing a Knut. That’s what Snape is asking, if Harry would hold it against him if he was anything less than honest.
“I know the basics," Snape concedes. “I have books on the subject, very old books. I know that there is something called the Large Standard, or something of the same wording. I only know the basics of the goblin tongue, and the texts that I have read suggest that this Standard is the code the goblins live by.”
Harry thumps his hand, open in a flat palm, against his thigh in amusement.
“You’re probably thinking of the Great Ones. It’s interesting that over the years the myths about them have evolved so much in that direction, but in reality they are beings of great importance. The goblins sing that the Great Ones are the children of their gods.”
Snape looks taken aback. “They are creatures?”
“Of a sort. Wizards call them dragons. All dragons come from the goblin tunnels, but not all of them remember this. Dragons are sacred in the Goblin Nation, their culture depends on them, and in return goblins keep the dragons alive and policed. In the beginning, Master Fourhorn and the Song Singers say that there was the giant, Ymir, like the Old Norse creation myth. The giant sacrificed himself, and the world was born from his body and life force. The dragons are his children, left behind to watch over his creation.”
“And you have been accepted into the fold of dragons?” Snape looks unconvinced.
“Technically, yeah.” Harry grins his best grin and huffs some smoke like Rhea taught him to, relishing in Snape’s wide eyes. “Great One Rhea, one of the youngest dragons, saw me in the reflections of her gold pile before we met. She saw who I was and the remnant of Voldemort’s magic in my scar, and she decided that she had to have me as a part of her Hoard.”
“Which,” the man drawls, eyes going unfocused as he thinks it over, “connects your life force to hers. Dragon magic is much unknown to wizards and witches, and it makes some small amount of sense that the connection would transform you in some way.”
“You’re a smart man, Professor Snape. It’s no wonder you survived what you did.”
Snape swallows hard before schooling his expression once more.
“And you, Mr. Potter, are not what I expected.”
“Let me guess,” Harry smiles softly, “you expected a carbon copy of my arrogant father. I’m sorry to disappoint, sir, but the only things I have in common with James Potter are name, looks, and Gryffindor foolishness. Everything else comes from my mums, both Lily and Rhea.”
“You claim a dragon as your mother?”
“Of course. She rescued me from an abusive household. Without her, the goblins would never had cause to guide me away from my relatives. I’m sure you know what they’re like, sir, Ron told me that it became common knowledge after Headmaster Dumbledore admitted he lost me. And besides, you knew Aunt Petunia when you were kids, didn’t you? Can you imagine that woman in charge of a magical child? It was hell. I lived in a cupboard, I cooked all their meals, I cleaned the house from top to bottom, and that was only when I was six. If I had stayed with her, who knows if I’d still be alive.”
Snape’s eyes are pained, and Harry’s expression softens.
“Rhea is just as much my mother as Lily was.” Harry smiles, trying to lighten the mood, “And she taught me how to breathe fire, which is the most maternal thing I could imagine. Don’t you agree, sir?”
Professor Snape sighs a long-suffering sigh, but he tilts his head slightly to concede the point.
Harry reaches out a hand, waiting for Snape to finish eyeing him like a cornered goblin, and clasps the man’s wrist when he offers his own. They shake each other's arms, and Harry smiles.
“Nice to officially meet you, Professor Snape.”
“You as well, Mr. Potter,” the man sneers. “Now, you must be going if you want to make it back to your dorms before curfew. I’d hate to take off points from Gryffindor on the first day of the school year.”
The slight smirk on his face tells Harry the man’s lying, but he nods nonetheless.
As Harry tucks himself into bed that night, he hums an old goblin song, one that Master Fourhorn and Rottentooth sang to him when he was younger and had trouble falling asleep on his new bed of gold. He sings a story about a dragon and her hoard, and he smiles.
Harry wanders around the castle before breakfast the next morning. He’s wearing his wizard robes, the open ones that show his uniform underneath. The clothes are itchy and tight against his skin, and he wishes he could wear his closed robes with only his underclothes underneath, but he noticed that most of the first-years wear open robes, and he’ll follow them for now.
He wishes he could wear his normal clothes, his pelvis wrapped with moon-cotton silk, rough wraps around his knuckles, his hair in intricate braids each day from the young goblins in the nearest Den, jewelry tied to each of his limbs to ward away the spirits.
He compromised when he woke up that morning, tying a spirit-repelling totem to his wrist. He really doesn’t like being so close to the Hogwarts ghosts, and he still doesn’t understand why they’re here, so he’ll protect himself as best he can. His mother’s blood protection might take care of Voldemort’s magic, but ghosts are another issue entirely.
He’s somewhere near the Transfiguration classroom when he hears soft padding footsteps. He taste-smells the air and grins.
Professor Flitwick appears at the end of the hallway, and Harry watches as the man’s eyes go wide at the sight of him. The part-goblin presses a palm to his opposite side in a silent greeting. Harry understands and darts his eyes to the nearby portraits with watching eyes. He returns the gesture.
They, without a word spoken, move to an empty classroom where there are no spying portraits.
“Mr. Potter,” Professor Flitwick smiles, a baring of teeth. Harry feels himself relaxing at the sight of something so natural to the Goblin Nation. “I’ve been told to give you a message on behalf of King Ragnok.”
Harry’s hair stands on end. The King?
“Alright,” he says slowly, mind moving a mile a minute.
“I was told to mention that Healer Gravecut recognized what you described to her. A small group of the Nation’s best will be arriving at Hogwarts on Friday after your last class,” Professor Flitwick announces. “They will be taking care of the problem you brought to their attention.”
Harry muses over that in his head. That’s good, he’ll be glad to see them so soon into his stay at the school, but the fact that they’re coming onto wizard land means that the problem with Quirrell is drastic.
“What do you know about the problem, Professor Flitwick?”
He needs to do damage control. Quirrell can’t hear of the goblin visit before it happens, Harry can’t let the man get away before he can be dealt with. Harry has complete faith in the Nation that raised him to deal with the threat, so he needs to do his part in helping them do that.
“Nothing more than I have told you, Mr. Potter.” Flitwick hums to himself, clicking his teeth together. “Though I do have some questions about your aura, if you are willing to answer.”
“A trade,” Harry nods. “You will help me keep the peace in the school until the Nation arrives, and I will tell you of a secret that those in my Pit and the higher officials know."
If the professor agrees, he will have two adults that can help him if he needs it. It’s a good deal for his first few days at wizard school, and it makes it worth giving up personal information. It’s not a secret that dragons reside in the Goblin Nation, it’s just fallen out of popular knowledge in recent years.
Professor Flitwick clicks his sharp nails together three times in a formal agreement to the proposed trade, and Harry does the same.
“I swear to help you protect this school in the time until the Nation’s delegates arrive,” he vows. His voice dips low into the war songs that mimic human drums, his true goblin voice that he only uses to sing his songs.
“For the past four and a half years, I have been in the care of a Great One,” Harry says. “Because I am a part of her Hoard, I have become a dragon. I am still human, still a wizard, but I was raised a goblin, and I have become a dragon. It is as simple as that.”
Flitwick growls a high hum, “I have heard of things such as this happening. There are old songs about it, though they are far and few between.”
“There are?” Harry tightens his jaw. His Pits and Hollows had no songs of such a nature.
“Yes,” he nods. “Master Grimkart, the one who raised my Den when my human father left me in the Nation’s care, used to sing of goblins that could shift into Great Ones. It makes sense that a human could do the same. Even goblins do not know much about the Great Ones’ magic.”
The man scans Harry up and down.
“Can you morph? Those were my favorite stories as a young boy.”
“No,” Harry smiles. “It’s just scales, teeth, and nails for now. The Serpent Speech doesn’t help, as I catch myself hissing a lot more often than not, but so far it’s just been those three things. Do you think I’ll be able to shift one day?”
He hums idly, “Perhaps. One cannot say for sure. I will consult with my Den Master when I can. He is busy these days with a new litter of children in the Lower Dens.”
Harry nods. He understands, and he’s grateful for even that little bit of information. He shows his thanks by thumping a closed fist against his hip. Professor Flitwick grins a goblin grin and escorts Harry out of the classroom.
He escapes into the Great Hall just in time to catch a sleepy Ron entering as well. He drapes his arm over the redhead’s shoulders with a soft smile.
The burning, stinging pain continues throughout every interaction Harry has with Professor Quirrell. Even if they’re just in the same room together, Harry’s scar burns with the trace of Voldemort’s tainted magic. His friends try to keep him away from the man, but they don’t always succeed. Draco sneers at everyone who looks Harry’s way during Potions. Harry’s happy the blond boy hasn’t regressed in the time he’s been away from the little group of Gryffindors.
Charms comes on Tuesday, and Harry acknowledges Professor Flitwick with a palm against his own chest, a greeting that states the older goblin as his superior. It draws some looks, but Harry and the Professor don’t care.
Hermione asks him about the goblin tunnels that night at dinner, and he goes through the process of explaining the basics. The Gryffindors around him listen intently, and even some of the nearby Ravenclaws perk up when they hear him start his stories, a low tone of song to his voice. Ron doesn’t look too interested, but he listens all the same, which Harry really appreciates.
Professor Quirrell looks the same as he always does, clothed in a wreath of garlic. He looks pleased as his students grimace through every one of his stuttered sentences.
Harry wants to incapacitate the man and leave him in the forest, but he doesn’t.
His hands quiver with the strength it takes to stop that particular impulse.
Harry’s second Transfiguration class has him practically vibrating with excitement. He can’t wait to learn more wizard magic. They haven’t been using much in Defense, and Charms is fun enough but Transfiguration is something different, creating things out of other things. Harry likes it a lot.
He changes the matchstick halfway into a needle on his first try. He frowns down at his wand, clacking his teeth in frustration. He knows he can do it better without the stick. He tells Professor McGonagall this, and she raises an eyebrow in disbelief. He bristles at that. Ron nudges him with an elbow and quietly reminds him that wizards question everything, that it's offensive in the Goblin Nation but not in the wizarding world.
“Here,” Professor McGonagall says, handing Harry a new matchstick. She seems to have caught Ron’s whispered words. (Do Animagus qualities influence human forms? Harry shoves that thought to the back of his mind before he can ask.)
Harry focuses on the wood of the matchstick. It’s whispering, singing of the tree it came from, and Harry sings back with a smile. No sound leaves his throat, his singing is the magical kind, but the wood reacts the same as if he says the wizard's incantation. The matchstick shifts into a silver needle.
The class mutters amongst themselves at the seamless transition. Harry grins up at Professor McGonagall.
“Very good, Mr. Potter,” she says, managing to hide the surprise in her voice valiantly. Harry decides he likes that about her.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
He looks at the metal needle and shifts it back to its matchstick state with only a hum.
Hermione is pressed against his side immediately as the professor draws away to put out one of Seamus’ fires. She shoots question after question to Harry, and he answers to the best of his ability.
“My focus isn’t on my wand or the words,” he tries his best to explain. “They’re just methods of directing magic, aren’t they? So instead of using those, like forcing a river through a pen sized tube, I talk to my magic directly. I ask it to do what I want, but it’s not really asking, I guess. It’s more of a gentle demand. I am magic, and my magical core is me, so we work together to do what my mind is picturing.”
The first-years around him look at him with wide eyes.
“Did that make any sense?”
Hermione hesitantly nods.
“I think so,” she says slowly. “But how do you make contact with your magic? Isn’t that what the wand is for?”
“For most people, yeah,” Harry shrugs. “Master Fourhorn and Rhea taught me how to see my core when I was little. It took a lot of focus and some goblin magic, but after a few days of meditating, I could feel it in my chest. Maybe you could try that?”
“But where would I get goblin magic?”
“I could help there,” Harry smiles. “I use wizard magic ‘cause I’m a wizard, but Master Fourhorn taught me the basics of goblin magic too.”
Professor McGonagall clears her throat, stepping up beside the two of them, watching him intently, “I would also like to learn your method of casting, Mr. Potter. If you are amenable, of course, I could clear a time to meet in my classroom this weekend.”
“That would be brilliant,” Harry grins. “Thanks, Professor.”
Harry makes sure to invite Susan in Herbology and Draco during lunch that day. They agree readily enough, though the Vassals at Draco’s side shoot Hermione uncomfortable looks. Neville quietly reminds Harry that he can’t change the whole wizarding world in just a few days.
They agree to meet on Sunday after breakfast.
The goblin group arrives during lunch on Friday, striding into the Great Hall like royals striding onto the battlefield.
Harry stands on instinct, hitting his fist into his chest as hard as he can in reverence to the group of delegates. There are fourteen of them, a significant number in the Goblin Nation, the number of Higher Great Ones near the center of the earth. For Harry, Potions has just ended, and it went rather well. He wasn't expecting the King to arrive so soon in the day.
The two goblins at the head of the group are King Ragnok and his best fighter and friend, Warrior Justgrowl. They hold themselves high, hands on their visible weapons. King Ragnok is wearing his finest metals, displaying the wealth of his Nation. His partner, Queen Hap’gott, is in the Lower Pits as usual, taking care of the internal aspects of the Nation.
Behind the King and his Warrior stand five Master Singers. Harry’s heart skips a beat at the sight of so many of them away from their Hollows. They carry old magic with them wherever they go, and Harry wonders if the other humans can taste it in the air. Their clothes shimmer with silver-thread, and they are free of any visible weapons.
Four goblins stand behind the five Master Singers, these adorned with political jewelry, mothsilk cloth draped across their stocky frames to designate them delegates to the wizarding world.
The last three goblins follow the rest, hands on swords and axes, guarding the political goblins as they make their way through the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Harry recognises one of them, a Master Warrior called Gashskull that trained up Master Fourhorn’s brother when they were young. Harry has a great respect for this goblin. He thinks he knows another of the goblins as Warrior Dimsclaw.
The hall is silent in the wake of these creatures, and Harry gnashes his teeth in amusement.
Headmaster Dumbledore slowly stands from his place at the high table. He looks troubled. Harry guesses he wasn’t informed about the Nation’s contingent, and his eyes are drawn to a smug looking Professor Flitwick. They share a goblin grin.
Master Singer Swaynote, the shortest Master Singer, steps up to stand on King Ragnok’s open side.
“Hello there,” Headmaster Dumbledore says, an undernote of tension in his grandfatherly voice. “I have had no requests for entry from the Goblin Nation, or I would have prepared a welcoming feast.”
King Ragnok snorts, slashing his hand down in a subtle gesture of disrespect that only the other goblins understand. Harry bites his lip to keep himself from giggling.
“We are not here for you, Albus Dumbledore,” King Ragnok grunts in accented English. “We are here on behalf of one of our own.”
Most eyes go to Professor Flitwick, as do the Headmaster’s, but the man shakes his head.
“May I ask who that may be?” Dumbledore asks. Harry thinks the old wizard is starting to lose his patience.
“Harry Potter,” King Ragnok announces in a low voice. “Deemed a child of Great One Rhea in his sixth year, Harry has become a part of the Goblin Nation by magical privilege. He has warned the Nation of a rising danger to all sentient beings, and we are here to take care of it.”
Harry watches the Headmaster consider the King’s words very carefully. He looks shocked, like he hasn’t noticed the metal adorning Harry’s braided hair or his tendency to slip into Gobbledygook when he’s tired. Wizards are really very unobservant, Harry has realized.
“And who might you be?”
The King stands taller, resting his clawed hand on the hilt of his pulsing sword.
“I am King Ragnok of the Goblin Nation,” he declares. “The goblin to my right is Warrior Justgrowl. The mage to my left is Master Singer Swaynote. The rest of my group is here to protect the interests of the Nation. We do not need your permission to move forward, though it would be preferable.”
Dumbledore swallows and nods his consent. He knows he’s outnumbered and outskilled. Harry hopes he doesn’t know that Snape and Flitwick would take Harry’s side in a fight if it came to that.
“I give my permission, as long as none of my wards are harmed.”
King Ragnok grunts out a garbled command to the Master Singers behind him, and Harry watches eagerly as Master Singer Swaynote directs the other four Master Singers into a chorus of layered songs, echoing and radiating in waves from their auras.
The magic is like nothing Harry’s ever seen before. He barely notices Ron’s hand clenching into his robes as he listens and taste-smells the Old Magic in the air. He watches the waves of magic extend outwards from the Nation’s contingent. They sway with Master Singer Swaynote’s song, humming to the beat, and slowly they reach out towards the high table. Snape scoots away from Professor Quirrell with a smug grimace.
Headmaster Dumbledore looks like he’s panicking. He pulls his wand from his robes and flicks it quickly downwards, but Professor Flitwick has positioned himself between the Headmaster and the waves of goblin magic. The Headmaster’s spell does nothing, and the Master Singers continue with their entrancing songs.
Harry watches as the waves encircle Professor Quirrell. He clacks his teeth excitedly as the man is entombed in glowing lines of goblin magic, woven together by the strongest Master Singers in this side of the Goblin Nation.
Professor Quirrell floats out of his seat, and Harry thinks he can see the man’s eyes roll back into his head as he is pulled towards the Master Singers.
“I demand you stop what you are doing this instant!” Dumbledore thunders.
“They will not,” Warrior Justgrowl grunts, speaking for the first time. “They are the only thing separating the Wraith of Voldemort from the children in this school. We will not knowingly harm children.”
The Great Hall erupts at the Dark Lord’s name, and Harry bares his teeth at the sudden noise. The King has decided on full honesty, which Harry respects. The Goblin Nation is not known to lie, but Song-Twisters and those of like professions are called in to obscure the truth when needed. Harry’s glad they’re not needed now.
Harry backs away from the Gryffindor table, gently detaching Ron’s hand from his robes, smiling at the paling redhead as he goes. He walks quickly to stand close to the goblin group, though he gives the King and his Warriors a large berth. Harry drops into a proper goblin bow, resting on one knee with his fist pressed hard into his sternum. His chin is parallel with the floor, leaving him to look straight ahead into the nearest political delegate’s chest.
“I thank you, King Ragnok and Advisors,” Harry grunts fluently in the goblin tongue. “Your concern for the safety of wizarding children, of all children, makes me proud to serve you. I am grateful for your quick work, even as I acknowledge it was not I who you did it for.”
The advisor with lapis in her hair hums low in her throat.
“Harry, Smallhair,” she clacks. “The King and his Advisors accept your thanks. We wish to see you in our Bank when you next visit. Until then, Scholar Flitwick will watch over you within Wizard territory.”
Harry exhales sharply, bowing his head so his eyes can’t see the King any more. It’s more than he could ever ask for. He’s met the King before, of course, and talked with him personally. Harry’s case is an odd one, adopted by a Great One and assimilated into the Goblin Nation. It makes sense that the King would want to check on him, but this personal acknowledgement still makes his heart race.
“My thanks,” he croaks, holding himself as still as he can as the goblin contingent passes him to exit the Great Hall, an entombed Quirrell floating above them.
The hall is in uproar around him, with Dumbledore rushing to grab Harry and gently demand answers, but he doesn’t care. He grins a goblin grin and clacks his teeth together sharply, humming at the Headmaster’s barely noticeable flinch.
Finally, it’s time to meet personally with Headmaster Dumbledore.
The first thing Harry does when he’s sitting in the Headmaster’s office is ask for Professor McGonagall to join them as well. He can see that Dumbledore wasn’t expecting that, and Harry schools his expression before he can giggle again.
“That can be arranged,” the old wizard says.
A silvery mist comes out of the man’s wand, making Harry tense, and takes the form of a phoenix. Dumbledore speaks to the silver creature, and it rushes off, flying through the nearest wall.
“What was that?” Harry asks. He hasn’t read anything about a spell like that. It reminds him of the silver rivers in the Higher Hollows and Dens.
“That was a Patronus, my boy,” Dumbledore smiles, eyes twinkling happily.
There’s an air of impatience in his voice that betrays his usual grandfatherly tone, but Harry ignores it. He really doesn’t like being called boy, though Rhea and Master Fourhorn tried to create happy associations with the word after Harry left the Dursleys.
“Can I learn how to cast one?”
“You can, though it is harder than it looks. The primary use is to repel Dementors and Lethifolds, both Dark Creatures of immeasurable power. I have adjusted the intent that goes into creating a Patronus, which lets me send messages across any distance.”
“That’s amazing,” Harry breathes. “How do I learn it?”
“Well, the incantation is Expecto Patronum, and this is the wand movement. You won’t get it on your first try, but if you want to try it soon, I’d advise you to think happy thoughts. The Patronus requires a happy memory to push it into existence. This is why Dark wizards, especially those with the Darkest of souls, cannot cast this particular spell.”
“That’s just silly,” Harry muses, eyes fixed just over Dumbledore’s shoulder. He notes the man’s bewildered expression and continues, “Dark wizards can have happy memories too. The problem is probably that they have less of them, since Dark wizards rarely have happy childhoods, which is when the post potent memories come from.”
“My boy,” the Headmaster starts, but Harry cuts him off.
“The only difference between Dark wizard magic and Light wizard magic is a magical core variation. It makes a certain amount of sense that a wizard of one affinity can’t cast spells of the opposite, but the way you’re talking, like Dark wizards’ souls are so corrupted that they can’t cast a spell that runs on happy memories, well, that’s just silly, isn’t it?”
“Well said, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall strides into the office, a smile on her face. She meets Harry’s eyes, “I trust that King Ragnok and his people have taken care of You-Know-Who for now?”
“Of course, Professor,” Harry smiles and nods. “The Master Singers are the most powerful magic users in existence. They’ll be able to hold the Wraith until they’re ready to destroy him for good.”
“And how do they intend to do that?” Headmaster Dumbledore asks, clearly skeptical. “I have been searching for an answer to the Dark Lord’s demise for years and have found nothing.”
Harry looks the Headmaster right in the eyes and says, “We know about the soul shards, Headmaster. The King has everything well in hand.”
At the man’s look of shock, Harry resists the urge to clack his teeth together in amusement.
“Riddle will be truly dead before the year is up,” Harry decrees.
Dumbledore falters, “How do you know that name?”
Harry simply stares. He knows Master Fourhorn would be chiding him for his lack of respect if they were here, but they’re not, and Dumbledore has not shown any personal honor when it comes to Harry. He earned points for not wanting the goblins to hurt any of his wards, but not enough to override his blatant doubt of the Goblin Nation as a whole.
“Albus,” Professor McGonagall chides sternly. “What is this about You-Know-Who having soul shards? And how in Merlin’s name did he possess one of our professors? Shouldn’t the wards have kept such a creature out of Hogwarts?”
That’s an excellent question, but Dumbledore doesn’t answer it clearly. He prattles on about security measures and Voldemort’s fear of death, but he doesn’t really answer any of Professor McGonagall’s questions.
Harry frowns. He doesn’t like that.
“Tom Riddle,” he knows the first name now since Dumbledore unthinkingly said it in his daft explanation, “created Horcruxes, a corruption of the soul that picks away at it and ‘guarantees’ a kind of immortality. I imagine Riddle’s Wraith got in because the castle’s wards aren’t as powerful as they once were. I don’t know much about wards, but it probably doesn’t help that Riddle was once a student at Hogwarts.”
McGonagall’s jaw drops, and she turns angry eyes to Dumbledore.
“You never told me--” she thunders, but Harry tunes her out from there.
He should probably ask Professor Flitwick about wards, see if the part-goblin can answer McGonagall’s question about the wraith. He wonders if the wards are failing. They probably would be if Dumbledore hasn’t cared for them at all in his tenure, which Harry is starting to think is the case.
“Can I go, Headmaster?” Harry interrupts the man’s impassioned defense to ask.
Dumbledore sighs, “Not yet, my boy. I’m afraid I have a few more questions for you.”
Harry’s starting to get tired of this. He wants to sit by the fire in the Gryffindor common room and regale his housemates with stories from the goblin underground. Now that the King has given him free reign, he can’t wait to tell the Weasley twins about the dragons.
“Ask away.” He almost flinches as he realizes how curt that sounded, how disrespectful, but he doesn’t apologize.
“How did you come to live with the goblins, dear boy?”
Oh, good, a question he doesn’t mind answering.
“When I was six, a hole opened up in my Uncle Vernon’s tool shed. I climbed in, ‘cause I was tired and thirsty and curious, and when I was far enough in I realized that I was too dirty to go back to Aunt Petunia’s house. She would have made me stay in my cupboard for days, and I didn’t wanna go hungry for so long, so I kept going.”
He doesn’t miss the horror on Professor McGonagall’s face, nor the impassive twinkle in the Headmaster’s eye. He keeps going.
“Master Fourhorn, the keeper of Rhea’s Pit and the Den Master of the Bone Den, took me in and gave me food, clothes, and shelter. They introduced me to their family and the Great One Rhea, and they took care of me. I was safe there, and happy, so I stayed.”
Dumbledore sighs, looking like he’s weighed down by a great burden.
“I am sorry you went through that, my boy.”
“What, the abuse from my relatives? Or living with goblins? ‘Cause only one of those was painful, sir.”
“Both, dear boy. I wish you would have been raised by a magical family, like a normal boy, and lived a normal life.”
There are so many things wrong with that statement.
“I was raised by a magical family, just not a human one,” Harry counters. “And if you wanted me to live a normal life, why did you leave me with an abusive muggle family in the first place, sir?"
Dumbledore flinches, “I wish you wouldn’t use that word, my boy.”
“What, abusive? That’s what they were. I was raised to value the truth, Headmaster Dumbledore, and I will not dispose of the truth just for your comfort. Goblins have a moral code, and lying is not a part of that.”
The man sighs once more.
“Alright, I understand. I am not so cruel as to ask you to go against your values, dear boy.”
Harry doubts that, but he’s been disrespectful enough, so he keeps his thoughts to himself. For now.
“Is that all, sir?”
“It is, my dear boy,” Dumbledore nods slowly. “I hope you will update me on Tom’s progress with the goblins. I fear I will worry if I am not in the know.”
“Of course, Headmaster,” Harry agrees. “Account Manager Griphook should be owling you with regular updates on my behalf. If we’re done here, I should be getting back to Gryffindor Tower. We don’t have any classes for the rest of the day, and Ron wanted to teach me how to play wizards’ chess.”
Harry walks away, leaving a fuming Professor McGonagall with the Headmaster in his office. He grins as he skips back to the tower, clacking his teeth all the while.
He learns that night that he's absolutely terrible at wizards' chess.