The Gringotts lobby hadn't changed since Harry's last visit. Still colder than a Dementor's handshake, still echoing with the kind of wealth that could probably buy a few small countries, and still full of goblins who looked like they'd eat your financial records—and maybe your soul—if you got snarky.
The goblin at the reception desk didn't even glance up when their group walked in. His quill danced across the parchment like it had a vendetta against vowels.
Sirius strolled up with the casual swagger of a man who'd been wrongly imprisoned, cleared his name, and now spent most of his time acting like a magical rockstar. He tossed his cloak over one shoulder like he was posing for a magazine cover titled Wizarding World's Most Eligible Disasters.
"We have an appointment with Toothgnasher," Sirius said with that devastating grin that tended to make people either swoon or sprint.
The goblin's eyes lifted—once. Cold, assessing, and vaguely irritated, like they were interrupting the most riveting entry in the Gringotts ledger.
"Name?"
"Black. Sirius Black. And this—" Sirius gestured dramatically to Harry, who was already bracing for nonsense, "—is Mr. Basilisk-Bane himself, Harry Potter."
The goblin's quill paused.
"You sold us the corpse of a sixty-foot serpent and a colony of giant spiders."
Harry shrugged. "They tried to eat me first. I took it personally."
The goblin blinked, and for a moment—just a flicker—Harry thought he saw respect.
"Very enterprising."
Harry smiled, all teeth. "You should see what I do with zombies."
Jean, who'd been standing next to him, leaned in with a smirk. Her copper hair caught the light like she'd planned it, and her voice was just loud enough for Harry to hear. "You're terrifying when you flirt."
Harry didn't miss a beat. "That wasn't flirting."
Jean's lips curled into something that could melt steel beams. "Exactly."
Behind them, Logan grunted.
"You two gonna keep doing that, or can we get to the part where something explodes?"
Natasha gave him a look. "Can't rush bureaucracy. It's a whole genre of horror."
The goblin finally stamped a sigil on a square of parchment. The seal hissed like steak hitting a hot pan.
"Toothgnasher will see you now. Lift seven. Do not stray. Do not touch anything. And for your own safety, do not make eye contact with the vault hounds."
Clint leaned toward Steve. "How do you not look at something once someone says not to?"
Steve muttered, "Focus on the floor. Pretend you're in a meeting about Stark's expense reports."
"Say no more."
They were met by a goblin guide in a robe so sharp it could've qualified as a blade. He led them down a hall that smelled faintly of old magic and newer lawsuits.
Harry walked beside Jean, close enough that their shoulders brushed every few steps. She reached out and linked her fingers through his, casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Just making sure your wand hand doesn't twitch," she whispered.
Harry tilted his head toward her, his smirk unmistakably Potter. "I aim with precision."
"You once lit a ghoul on fire by accident."
"It was haunting the shower. I panicked."
"Your panic response is fire."
"I'm consistent."
Sirius looked back at them, grinning like a man who'd just heard a dirty joke from Merlin himself. "Ah, young love. Nothing gets the blood pumping like magical litigation."
"Or near-death experiences," Natasha added dryly. "And from what I've seen, these two specialize in both."
The lift arrived with a soft chime that sounded way too elegant for what Harry knew was basically a magical death elevator.
The doors slid open to reveal a goblin with a presence. He wasn't tall, but somehow commanded attention like a firework in a library. Sharp suit. Sharper grin. And a monocle, because of course.
"Mr. Black," he said smoothly. His voice sounded like it had been aged in dragonhide and poured over ancient contract law.
"Toothgnasher," Sirius said, stepping forward and clapping him on the shoulder like they were old poker rivals. "You're looking terrifying as ever."
"Mr. Potter," Toothgnasher said, nodding. "Your punctuality is noted."
"We're here to talk vaults, valuables, and very specific death clauses," Harry said. "And probably insult your competitors along the way."
Toothgnasher's grin widened. "Delightful."
Natasha took a casual sip from her travel mug. "Ten galleons says someone threatens bodily harm before this meeting is over."
"Twenty if Sirius tries to negotiate using a prank," Clint added.
Logan cracked his knuckles.
Steve sighed. "Just… no claws, okay? We're here for diplomacy."
Logan grunted. "I am diplomatic. I haven't killed a banker in years."
As they stepped into the lift, Jean leaned into Harry's side, her voice warm against his ear. "You ready to unleash your inner Slytherin charm?"
Harry turned his head, his green eyes gleaming like hexed emeralds. "Jean, I don't have an inner Slytherin. I've got a full-time, highly caffeinated public version."
She grinned, and something in her look said dangerously impressed.
Sirius clapped both of them on the back. "Let's go find out some truth."
The doors closed with a thunk, the lift began its descent, and Harry Potter smiled like a man about to outwit a room full of magical lawyers.
Because he was.
This wasn't just a meeting.
This was war—with better lighting and sharper pens.
—
The lift came to a smooth, ominous stop with a low chime that suggested either a luxury vault level or the doors would open to a kraken wearing a bowler hat. With Gringotts, you never really knew.
The doors slid open to reveal a sleek marble office. No dragons. No piles of gold. No laser-eyed goblin guards riding war rhinos. Just black obsidian floors polished to a shine, enchanted parchment floating midair like smug bureaucratic butterflies, and a panoramic wall of crystal windows that looked down into what might've been a chasm full of vaults—or, more likely, the financial version of the abyss.
Toothgnasher stepped in first. He wore the scowl of someone permanently annoyed that no one respected his exquisite penmanship. He gestured toward an imposing rune-carved table surrounded by high-backed chairs that probably whispered passive-aggressive things when left alone too long.
"Please," he said, voice like diamond on granite. "Sit."
Everyone did—with varying degrees of suspicion.
Steve moved like the chair might test his bloodline.
Clint circled once before sitting, like a cat trying to decide if this patch of carpet might explode.
Logan flopped down with the grace of a cinder block.
Natasha didn't sit. She prowled around the edge of the table, eyeing everything like she was two seconds from choking it with a curtain cord.
And Sirius Black? Oh, Sirius stood like he was auditioning for Most Dramatic Cloak Flare 2025. The man even brought his own wind.
Toothgnasher looked up at him. "Do sit, Black."
Sirius grinned. It was the kind of grin that got you banned from seven countries and invited to eleven.
"Well, Toothie—mind if I call you that?"
"I do."
"Too bad. We're here on family business. Dumbledore should've sent word. Possibly with sparkles and emotionally constipated commentary."
Toothgnasher nodded. "He did. In triplicate. Signed, sealed, and enchanted against forgery."
Harry snorted. "Yeah, sounds like him. Pretty sure the man sends laundry lists with three enchantments and a phoenix feather."
The goblin's eyes sharpened. "You wish to determine if this redheaded woman—"
"—hottie," Sirius interrupted brightly, gesturing toward Natasha. "Redheaded hottie. Precision matters."
Natasha didn't flinch. Just arched a single, deadly eyebrow. "Careful, Black. I have knives older than your bloodline."
"And I find threats deeply attractive," Sirius replied. "Carry on."
Steve rubbed his face. "Oh no. It's going to be one of those meetings."
"—if she is biologically related to Harry James Potter," Toothgnasher continued coolly. "Specifically, the twin of the late Lily Evans-Potter, as per intelligence forwarded by Dumbledore."
Harry tightened his grip on Natasha's hand. She didn't pull away.
Jean Grey—looking unfairly radiant and terrifying, like a goddess moonlighting as a telepath—leaned in. "Is that something Gringotts can confirm?"
"It is," said Toothgnasher. "Bloodline Verification Rites are an ancient, sacred goblin service. However—"
Sirius rolled his eyes. "And here comes the bill."
"—they are not without cost."
Sirius snapped his fingers. "Boom. Called it."
"To conduct a full hereditary verification, account for magical tampering from the Red Room, and uncover any obscured lineage, the base fee is fifty thousand galleons."
Clint choked on absolutely nothing. "Fifty thousand?! What, are the results delivered by singing pixies on unicorns?"
"There is a discount if the unicorn is declined," Toothgnasher said, deadpan.
Sirius gave him an approving nod. "Alright, Gobbo. Let's play."
"Do not call me Gobbo."
Sirius pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill, scribbled something quick, and slid it across the table.
"You open that," he said, "and I walk out with my client. We'll go to the Norse vaulting guild. Their dwarves will do it for half the price and a pint of phoenix tears."
"There are no Norse dwarves in the vaulting guild," Toothgnasher growled.
Sirius grinned. "No. But you know that. I know that. The press doesn't. Just imagine the headline: 'Goblins Price Out Boy-Who-Lived's Family Truth—Decline Deal of the Century.'"
Toothgnasher's eyes glittered. Then he opened the parchment.
He read it. And then—against every natural law of goblinkind—he laughed. It sounded like someone scraping gold across a grindstone.
"Well played." He folded the parchment. "Twenty thousand galleons. No unicorn. No midgets. Blood rite within the hour."
Sirius bowed. "Pleasure doing business, Toothie."
"Toothgnasher."
"Toothie."
Jean leaned toward Clint. "You owe me ten galleons."
Clint sighed. "I thought he'd lead with a prank."
"He did," Jean murmured. "The parchment says, 'I solemnly swear I'm too pretty to pay full price.'"
Meanwhile, Harry was still holding Natasha's hand.
"You okay?" he asked softly, all the fire in him banked just enough for her.
"I don't know," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to be."
He nodded. "Then let's find out."
Toothgnasher waved a clawed hand. A glowing archway unfurled across the back wall like a curtain of starlight.
"Please proceed," he said. "The blood will tell us what names were stolen."
They rose together.
Sirius leaned toward Jean and whispered, "I hope this doesn't end in a family reunion slash international incident."
Jean didn't look away. "With us? It'll probably end in both."
As the group crossed into the ritual chamber—wands, claws, claws-on-heels, adamantium, and sarcasm all included—Harry Potter braced himself.
Because for once, he didn't want to run. He didn't want to joke. He wanted the truth.
And he was ready to pay in blood to get it.
—
The ritual chamber looked like the kind of place you either performed ancient rites in or got murdered by a shadow council. Probably both.
The walls pulsed faintly with runes that didn't so much glow as throb, like they had opinions. A massive obsidian altar squatted in the center, covered in glyphs that whispered things like "destiny" and "non-refundable decisions." Overhead, a constellation of floating candles rotated in slow orbits, casting enough light to make everyone look dramatic but not enough to read any fine print—which was probably the point.
Toothgnasher gestured toward the altar. "Place your palms on the stone. One on each side. It will draw three drops of blood from each participant, interpret the ancestral resonance, compare magical signatures, and determine lineage—maternal, paternal, and otherwise."
"Will it hurt?" Clint asked, peering at the table like it might ask for a kidney.
"No more than a mild paper cut," Toothgnasher said. Then, as an afterthought: "From a cursed contract signed in dragon bile."
Natasha stepped forward first, wordlessly. She rolled up her sleeve, as if baring an arm was just another day at the office. Harry followed her lead, heart in his throat and thoughts in an absolute riot.
She looked at him. "Ready?"
He nodded. "On three?"
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
Their hands met the stone at the same time.
The reaction was instant.
The altar pulsed crimson, then gold, then something darker—deeper. Threads of glowing energy snaked out from under their palms, curling like vines made of memory. The blood that surfaced from the stone shimmered unnaturally, suspended in midair before coalescing into a burning sigil above them: two mirrored lilies, their stems entwined.
Jean flinched. Logan growled low in his throat. Sirius stiffened. Steve's fingers twitched toward his shield even though it wasn't there.
Natasha didn't breathe.
The runes along the wall surged to life. Some rearranged. Others shattered into fragments of starlight.
Then everything went still.
The glowing sigil cracked.
And split in two.
One half remained—a pure, silver lily. The other half twisted, almost corrupted.
Toothgnasher narrowed his eyes. "That... is unusual."
Sirius straightened. "Unusual how?"
Toothgnasher muttered a few incantations in Gobbledegook and summoned a floating ledger the size of a coffin. It flipped open on its own, pages rustling like angry birds.
"Blood match confirmed," he said. "The two share a 99.87% maternal match. Genetically identical in that regard. Magical signature also aligns. Known as blood twins—non-fraternal but born of the same mother's line."
Harry's chest clenched. "So she's—"
"Your aunt," Toothgnasher confirmed. "You share the same mother. Lily Evans-Potter and Natalia Alianovna Romanova are... were... biological sisters."
Clint let out a low whistle. "Well, that's going to make Thanksgiving awkward."
Natasha's face was unreadable. "But?" she asked.
Toothgnasher didn't smile. "But there's a fracture in the ancestral trail. Someone has attempted to sever or mask part of Mr. Potter's magical inheritance. A block. Complex. Old. Red Room-grade old."
Jean took a sharp breath. "What kind of block?"
"The kind you don't notice until you ask the right question," Toothgnasher said, snapping the ledger shut. "The ritual cannot yield full data until we isolate and analyze the anomaly. That process will take—"
"A few minutes?" Sirius asked hopefully.
Toothgnasher gave him a flat look. "An hour. Minimum. Possibly more if Mr. Potter's blood carries additional enchantments or... interference."
Harry exhaled slowly. "So we wait."
"Yes."
Sirius clapped his hands. "Great! Let's all awkwardly hover outside while goblins dissect the metaphysical history of your bloodstream."
Steve muttered, "Sounds less awkward than my last Stark Industries gala."
As they made their way out of the chamber, Toothgnasher gave them all a final look.
"When you return," he said to Harry, "we will have answers. But know this: your blood holds more than names. It holds truths. And truths do not always bring peace."
Harry turned back, eyes steady. "That's okay." He looked at Natasha, who met his gaze unflinchingly. "We've both spent our lives in lies. It's time we found out who we really are."
—
There are three universal truths in life:
Death is inevitable.
Taxes are cruel.
Ice cream heals trauma. Especially trauma involving blood magic, identity crises, and long-lost assassin aunts.
Which is why, after being told that his bloodline was a tangled mess of lies, enchantments, and questionable magical paperwork, Harry James Potter found himself sitting outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour—with what could only be described as the Dysfunctional Avengers Therapy Squad.
Clint Barton was dual-wielding waffle cones like a sugar-drunk raccoon. One was bright green (possibly pistachio, possibly radioactive), the other was neon blue, the kind of shade that could legally be classified as a war crime. Steve Rogers was eating his single scoop of strawberry with the intense precision of a man who once wrote a war report on dessert. Every few seconds, he scanned the crowd like Voldemort might pop out of a pastry shop.
Sirius Black, because of course he had zero chill, had ordered the most chaotic sundae on the menu: banana split, extra fudge, with a drizzle of firewhisky and three cherries that looked suspiciously flammable. He was already halfway into a story involving a flaming unicycle, a badly enchanted invisibility cloak, and a dare in Knockturn Alley.
"I'm telling you," Sirius was saying, eyes bright, "I was this close to making the Prophet's front page as 'Mysterious Floating Sock Terrorizes Diagon Alley.'"
Jean Grey raised an eyebrow over her butterbeer float. "Honestly? Still not the weirdest story I've heard today."
"Gryffindors, darling," Sirius said, tossing her a wink. "We don't do boring. We are the plot twist."
Harry, sitting next to Natasha Romanova, swirled his hazelnut-and-chili scoop into a perfect spiral before deadpanning, "And this is why wizards shouldn't have access to alcohol and large quantities of dairy."
"Your godfather's a menace," Natasha murmured, quietly spooning at her lavender-and-lemon sorbet like it had personally insulted her.
Harry glanced at her sideways. "You should've seen him in Azkaban. Ten years, no shampoo. Still managed to look like a shampoo commercial for deranged wizards."
Natasha's mouth twitched. Not a smile exactly—but more than nothing. A glimmer. A flicker of not-brooding.
Which, for her, was basically a bear hug.
Harry cleared his throat, trying to sound casual and absolutely not like he was having a small emotional panic in his chest cavity. "So, uh... this whole aunt-nephew thing. Do we... hug now? Trade tragic origin stories? Bond over emotional repression and trauma flashbacks?"
"I don't hug," Natasha said flatly.
"Cool, cool," Harry said. "I'll just, y'know, silently scream inside."
There was a pause. Then she added, almost reluctantly, "I used to dream I had a sister. Before the Red Room. Before they scrubbed it all out of me."
Harry stirred his melting ice cream, not looking up. "I used to dream someone would come rescue me. That I had family out there. That someone gave a damn."
Natasha turned her head slightly. "And now?"
He shrugged. "Now I've got a highly-trained assassin aunt, a morally questionable dog-dad, and two ice-cream-junkie Avengers as uncles." He gave her a sideways grin. "Could be worse."
"I could teach you how to disarm a man using only a spoon," she offered.
He held up his spoon. "You say that like I haven't already."
And that made her snort. Actual snort. In public. "You're dangerous," she muttered.
"Oh, Auntie Nat," he said sweetly. "You have no idea."
Across the table, Jean Grey was watching the two with a small smirk on her lips and soft amusement in her eyes—the kind that said I'm glad you're okay but also I heard everything and I'm storing it for future mockery.
She leaned over, nudging Harry's arm. "That was smooth."
"Thanks," Harry said, taking a dramatic bite of his now lava-level spicy hazelnut scoop. "I've been working on my emotional stability and my dessert game simultaneously. It's called multitasking."
Jean grinned. "Is it also called deflecting?"
"Deflection is a sacred Potter tradition," Harry replied. "Along with sarcasm, flaming birds, and dying at inopportune moments."
"Just don't make it a habit," she murmured, brushing his arm with hers ever so slightly. "I kind of like having you around."
He looked up, met her eyes, and—yep—his heart was definitely doing that weird fluttery beatbox routine again.
"You planning on getting rid of me, Jean?" he asked, tone light but gaze locked.
"No," she said, almost shy for once. "Just... planning on keeping up."
Before that got even sappier, Clint loudly slid into the scene holding a tower of ice cream that defied physics.
"Okay, not to interrupt your teenage flirting," he said, "but I'm officially declaring this the Greatest Ice Cream Experience Since That Time Thor Tried Churros."
Steve, still halfway through his strawberry scoop, muttered, "Pretty sure this violates several clauses in the Sokovia Accords."
"I'm going to need to see that clause," Sirius said, leaning over to steal a spoonful from Clint's cone. "Especially the part about ice cream diplomacy."
"Is this what Muggle therapy is like?" Toothgnasher rumbled, suddenly appearing behind them with all the subtlety of a grumpy thundercloud in a waistcoat.
Everyone jumped.
Harry blinked. "Toothgnasher, buddy, you gotta stop doing the Grim Reaper thing."
"Your blood analysis is progressing," the goblin intoned gravely, eyes glowing faintly with goblin magic. "We've identified three potential enchantment blocks. One was placed at birth. The others... later."
"Wait—seriously?" Clint asked, licking his blue scoop. "Who enchants a baby?"
"You'd be surprised," Harry said dryly.
Jean's hand found Harry's under the table, fingers curling lightly. "We'll face it together."
He gave her a lopsided smile. "Yeah. Let's just hope we don't need another blood ritual to sort it out. I'm running low on limbs."
Toothgnasher snorted. "You humans. Always so dramatic."
Sirius grinned. "Says the guy who performs blood rites on stone altars in candle-lit death chambers."
The goblin muttered something in Gobbledegook that was probably an insult, then stalked off.
Natasha stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from her jeans. "Alright. Enough sentiment. Time to see what secrets are trying to hide inside the Boy Who Lived."
Harry stood too, finishing the last bite of his fire-chili swirl. "Honestly? At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if it turns out I'm secretly half-centaur or descended from Merlin's pet hedgehog."
Jean laughed. "You say that like it's off the table."
He offered her a hand. "Coming with me, Phoenix?"
She took it. "Always."
As they walked back toward the bank, Sirius trailed behind, grinning to himself. "You know," he said to Steve, "they grow up so fast."
"Yep," Steve said, watching the two teens with a warm smile.
Clint licked his cone. "Also, I call dibs on telling Logan Harry has a new aunt who's a former KGB operative. His reaction's gonna be epic."
From somewhere nearby, Logan's voice snarled, "I heard that, bub."
Clint squeaked. Jean laughed. Harry rolled his eyes. And Natasha—finally—smiled.
—
Back at Gringotts, things were getting weird. And not the "your goblin banker knows your Hogwarts House" kind of weird. No, this was full-on "magical MRI from a goblin necromancer" weird.
Toothgnasher led them deeper into the bank than Harry thought legally allowed. Past vaults sealed tighter than Tony Stark's trauma vault, and corridors lit with torches that clearly hadn't passed any sort of magical OSHA inspection in the last six centuries. At one point, Logan sniffed the air and muttered, "Something died here. Recently." No one asked for details.
Finally, they reached a chamber carved into the living rock, inscribed with runes older than breakfast tea and just as complicated.
Toothgnasher raised a clawed hand. Magic pulsed faintly as the stone door creaked open with a sound that could've come straight from a horror movie. "Enter," he said, his voice like gravel gargling thunder.
Harry stepped inside, followed by the Dysfunctional Avengers Therapy Squad—minus Clint, who paused to swipe a handful of goblin-polished coins off a pedestal.
"For research," he said. No one believed him.
Inside, Toothgnasher tapped a rune on a stone slab. A glowing diagram of Harry shimmered into the air, threads of golden, silver, and deep violet magic stretching out like tangled magical spaghetti.
"Your bloodline is... complicated," Toothgnasher said solemnly.
"Tell me something I don't know," Harry muttered.
"The first block," Toothgnasher continued, pointing to a pulsing aura near the chest, "was placed at birth. The magical signature matches James and Lily Potter."
Sirius, looming like a wolf with issues, frowned. "That tracks. James mentioned Harry nearly blew out a hospital window with accidental magic during delivery."
Clint blinked. "Accidental what now?"
Steve tilted his head. "Magic can... happen on accident?"
"Oh, yeah," Sirius said, suddenly shifting into Full Wizard Uncle mode. "Magical kids are emotional landmines. Crying? Boom. Laughing? Pop. Hungry? Hope you didn't like your curtains."
"I once lit Mrs. Figg's skirt on fire because she said I couldn't keep a toad as a pillow," Harry offered, casually.
Clint gave a low whistle. "And I thought Lila's glitter phase was dangerous."
Sirius grinned. "James probably threw a temporary block on Harry's magic to stop him from nuking the nursery every time he sneezed. Standard parenting. Usually fades."
"It did," Toothgnasher said. Then he waved a claw and more tangled threads shimmered to life—darker, knotted, hiding beneath the surface. "But then, more were placed. Between ages three and eleven. Some... repeatedly."
A silence fell like an anvil.
"Who?" Harry's voice dropped into deadly territory.
Toothgnasher's eyes gleamed. "The magical signature belongs to one: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."
Jean's hands lit with faint telekinetic energy. "You've got to be kidding me."
Harry's jaw clenched. "That manipulative, lemon-drop-loving, beard-fondling—"
Natasha cut in, her voice like a knife dipped in ice. "Why would he suppress a child's magic?"
Sirius was pacing now. "James and Lily were magical powerhouses. Harry should've been juggling cauldrons by five."
"I did show magic," Harry said, ticking them off on his fingers. "Once turned a teacher's hair blue. Permanently. Teleported to the roof during a chase. Regrew my hair overnight. Oh—and I talked to a snake at the zoo."
"Parseltongue," Toothgnasher said. "Rare. Dark. Voldemort's legacy."
Steve looked at Harry like he'd grown a second head. "You teleported?"
"Untrained," Sirius added. "That's not magic. That's instinct. That's survival. That's—frankly—awesome."
Jean leaned in, smirking. "You are kind of amazing, you know. Like... hero-hair and chaos energy in one fiery package."
Harry's ears turned pink. "Noted."
Logan grunted, arms crossed. "Kid's a walking supernova."
"And still humble," Clint added. "I hate how likable you are."
Toothgnasher cleared his throat. "With this much core magic, you should have displayed elemental control, summoning, astral projection—"
"I can fly," Harry interrupted. "Without a broom. But only when I'm pissed off or emotionally unstable."
"So... Tuesday," Natasha said dryly.
"The blocks stunted your growth," Toothgnasher said. "But your magic grew anyway. Pushed back. Evolved. Like a dammed river. You are not a bomb, Mr. Potter."
"Let me guess," Harry said. "I'm a storm?"
"Yes." Toothgnasher's eyes glowed. "One that has been shackled. And you are very close... to your thunder."
Jean squeezed Harry's hand under the table. "You okay?"
He exhaled. "No idea. But I'm ready to find out."
Sirius cracked his knuckles. "Let's peel back the lies."
Natasha nodded. "Let's dismantle the blocks."
Clint raised his spoon. "Also, if it turns out you're part dragon, I called it. Just saying."
Steve placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "To the end of the line, Harry."
Logan sniffed. "Let's get this over with."
Toothgnasher stepped forward, eyes gleaming. "There are more revelations still. Truths buried deep. Bloodlines lost. Powers returned. But first—we unchain the storm."
Harry, who had survived a dark lord, abusive relatives, government incompetence, magical politics, and being raised in a cupboard, just nodded and said:
"Good. Because I've got a few more blocks to break. And a world that's overdue for a storm."
Jean smiled. "And I'll be right there. Even if it gets messy."
Harry's grin was all teeth and spark. "Oh, it's gonna get glorious."
—
Toothgnasher tapped another rune on the stone slab like he was casually checking email, and the magical projection in front of them shimmered—threads of gold and silver rearranged themselves into three sigils: the Potter stag, the Black starburst, and a third symbol that looked like it had stepped straight out of a gothic fever dream.
Harry squinted. "Okay, I know Staggy and Sparky, but what the hell is the fancy one with the skull, the wand, and what I'm pretty sure is a snake trying to eat itself?"
"The Peverell crest," Toothgnasher said, his voice dropping into the deep, dramatic tone of someone who very much enjoyed dropping lore bombs. "The final lost branch of the Three Brothers."
Sirius let out a breath that sounded like it'd been trapped since Azkaban. "Bloody hell. The Peverells? I thought they were just bedtime stories!"
"To mortals," Toothgnasher said with the smugness of a creature who'd lived through several apocalypses, "most truths are."
Harry dragged his hand down his face. "Right. So, let me get this straight. I'm the Heir of House Potter, the Heir of House Black, and now also the last living rep of some ancient bloodline that probably moonlighted as the inspiration for every horror bedtime story ever told?"
"Technically," Toothgnasher corrected, teeth glinting, "you're not a scion. You're the Head."
Steve gave a low whistle and crossed his arms. "That's... a lot for a thirteen-year-old."
"I'm also apparently a suppressed magical demigod with a PTSD bingo card and flying powers powered by anxiety," Harry muttered. "Just slap it all on a t-shirt. Maybe throw in a lightning bolt and a sarcastic tagline."
Jean looked up from the flickering sigils. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were sharp. "Wait—head of three Houses?"
Toothgnasher tapped another sequence into the rune-tablet. Three family trees unfolded midair, floating like magical PowerPoints with terrible user interfaces.
"House Potter: James deceased, Lily deceased, Harry sole living descendant. House Black: current Head, Sirius Black—declared Harry heir due to magical sterility caused by prolonged Dementor exposure. House Peverell: long considered extinct. Reinstated due to magical resonance recognition. Vault to unlock upon adulthood."
Clint raised a hand, eyes narrowed. "Okay, but like... is there a crown? Because I feel like he deserves a crown. Maybe one with antlers."
"No crown," Toothgnasher said. "Just wealth, influence, and contracts."
The room collectively froze.
Jean's eyebrow twitched. "Contracts. You mean—?"
"Marriage contracts," Toothgnasher said with far too much joy. "One active per House. All legally binding under the Ancient Houses Accord."
Harry groaned. "I swear to Merlin's saggy knickers, if one of those is with Umbridge—"
"No," Toothgnasher said with what might have been genuine offense. "The Greengrass Accord was signed between Charlus Potter and Sebastian Greengrass. Their children were both male, so the contract passed down. Your betrothed is Daphne Greengrass."
Logan snorted. "The ice girl?"
"The very one," Toothgnasher confirmed. "Cryokinetic. Mutant. Magical. And one of your MageX allies."
Harry paled. "Okay, that's... awkward."
Jean's eyes narrowed. "She's also very pretty."
"Jean—"
She held up a hand like a traffic stop sign. "No. Don't. Continue, goblin."
Toothgnasher plowed forward. "The Black-Bones Pact was initiated by Arcturus Black and Desmond Bones. As Sirius cannot sire children and Amelia Bones is regent but not active heir, the contract binds you, Harry Potter, with Susan Bones."
"Susan," Jean repeated. "My other best friend. This is a comedy, right?"
Natasha leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "This is starting to sound like one of those royal dramas where everyone ends up married to their cousin."
"Don't jinx it," Clint muttered.
Steve gave Jean a look of concern. "You okay?"
Jean smiled. That smile? It was the kind of smile that said someone was about to start a fire. "Oh, I'm peachy. My boyfriend has two fiancées and a royal lineage now. Totally normal Tuesday."
Clint edged toward the exit. "I vote we leave before someone gets set on fire."
"Don't be dramatic," Jean said sweetly. The wall behind her cracked.
"Just to clarify," Harry said quickly, hands raised, "I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't sign anything. I didn't even know these contracts existed. I've been too busy dodging death and saving the world on Tuesdays."
Jean sighed, rubbing her temples. "I know, I know. Just... next time you accidentally inherit a duchy and two wives, text me."
"Deal."
Toothgnasher cleared his throat with the self-importance of a lecturer mid-monologue. "The Peverell Vault will be accessible when the Head—namely, Harry—turns seventeen. Contents include: the Sword of Aetherion, the Staff of Final Light, enchanted rings of command, the Book of Nine Shadows, and a relic marked only as 'The Shard.'"
"That doesn't sound ominous at all," Harry said. "That sounds like it comes with its own theme music."
"Also," Toothgnasher added, "six million Galleons in gold."
Sirius choked. "Six million?!"
"Not including property shares, dragon-hide investments, and several stakes in high-reward goblin hedge funds."
Harry put his head in his hands. "I'm going to throw up. Then I'm going to buy a theme park. With dragons."
"You already own three islands," Toothgnasher said blandly.
Jean muttered, "This boy has more money, trauma, and relationship drama than an entire season of Bridgerton."
Right on cue, the doors opened and in walked Susan Bones. Beside her, Daphne Greengrass looked like she'd walked straight out of a Vogue spread themed "Ice Princess Meets Aristocratic Rage."
Susan gave a sheepish wave. "Hi. So apparently we're engaged."
Daphne nodded, lips tight. "Same. Didn't even get flowers."
"Cool, cool, cool," Harry muttered. "Any chance I can fake my own death and live as a dragon farmer in Romania?"
Jean folded her arms. "You're sleeping in a separate room tonight."
Sirius cracked his knuckles. "Now that's the Potter spirit."
"And we're still not done," Toothgnasher said.
Clint whimpered. "Why. Why are we not done."
"Because," the goblin said with a grin, "next we test whether he can wield the Sword of Aetherion without disintegrating into sparkly mist."
Harry threw his hands up. "I changed my mind. Bring back the cupboard."
Jean grinned. "Nope. You're the storm now. Might as well bring the thunder."
Toothgnasher leaned forward. "And before we proceed—House Peverell has no active marriage contract."
The room went quiet.
Toothgnasher looked at Jean. "I strongly suggest entering into a formal Peverell Pact now—before any Pureblood house attempts to fabricate a magical contract. It has happened before."
Sirius nodded grimly. "He's right. It happened to me once. Had to duel some idiot who tried to claim my hand for his troll of a daughter with a forged contract."
Harry glanced at Jean, heart thudding. "So... what do you say? Want to make it official?"
Jean studied him for a long moment, then smirked. "Only if I get a tiara."
"Done," Harry said. "Diamond, gold, whatever you want. You want a crown made of phoenix feathers, I'll make it happen."
Toothgnasher sighed. "Romance. Disgusting. Alright, let's go test if you explode when you touch the sword."
Logan grinned. "Now that's a date."
---
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