The north wind whistled tightly all night, threading its chill into the bones of the house. In the deep hush of midnight, Adrian Blackwood felt as though a monstrous figure loomed over the foot of his bed. Shrouded in a ragged, pitch-black cloak, the faceless wraith held a long-handled sickle, its presence like a suffocating shadow pressing against his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs.
Adrian struggled awake, bolting upright in bed with a sharp gasp. He drew in a long, unsteady breath. It had only been a dream. But why such a nightmare, so vivid and foreboding? There seemed to be no cause for it. That eerie, spectral presence haunted him long after he awoke, and the lingering dread made it impossible to fall asleep again. His mind tossed and turned as much as his body, and by morning, his nerves were frayed.
In the early morning light, after a quick wash, Adrian took his youngest sister Emily down to the drawing room, where the two waited quietly while the rest of the household got ready for breakfast.
"Adrian, you and Emily go ahead and eat first, don't wait," Mrs. Harris said cheerfully. She flicked her wand to guide a hearty helping of baked beans in tomato sauce and a thick slice of crusty bread onto his plate. After pouring herself a steaming cup of Ceylon tea, she summoned several glasses of milk and floated them to the children's spots.
"Alright, Mum." Adrian's spirits lifted slightly at the familiar aroma. Among the hit-or-miss offerings of English cuisine, this classic breakfast remained one of the few things he genuinely enjoyed—even more so now, with a body unused to such simple indulgences.
Though the Harris family wasn't considered affluent by wizarding standards, they lived comfortably enough, aided by Morgan Harris's modest dowry from her Rosier ancestry and Owen's steady post at the Ministry. Unlike the Weasleys, whose financial woes were well known in pure-blood circles, the Harrises were far from destitute. As such, Mrs. Harris was never frugal with her children's health or nutrition.
As a certified therapist at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Morgan knew too well the importance of physical well-being for young witches and wizards. She supervised their meals and wardrobes personally, ensuring they maintained the dignity expected of a pure-blood lineage—lest they become the subject of ridicule like the Weasleys, who, despite Arthur's Ministry job, were often mocked for their patched robes and second-hand books.
"Morning, Mother," said Renn, entering the room in neatly pressed robes, every button in place.
"My dear, I smell food. Excellent timing," said Owen Harris, appearing just behind his eldest son.
Daisy stumbled down a few minutes later, rubbing sleep from her eyes and blinking groggily at the light. Mornings had never agreed with her.
Albert was already halfway through his breakfast, eating with deliberate slowness. When Morgan nudged him to hurry, he responded with mild smugness that he wouldn't be joining the shopping trip—he had work to report to at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where he was posted under the Auror Office.
Ever since receiving a long-term surveillance assignment involving Harry Potter, Albert had been operating under strict Ministry instructions. At Owen's urging, he'd arranged for Adrian—then still recovering from the magical accident that brought him to this timeline—to be transferred to the same Muggle school Harry attended. The aim was to quietly initiate contact and potentially form a bond with the Boy Who Lived before Hogwarts. Many pure-blood families had dreamed of such access, but Albus Dumbledore's vigilance had blocked most attempts. The Harrises, however, found a clever loophole.
Adrian—before the memory merge—had unknowingly used a Confundus Charm on the Muggle headmaster, successfully acquiring a temporary teaching role at Harry's school. None of the adults had explained the full purpose to him at the time, but Adrian now understood Owen's plan. Still, even with that knowledge, he felt reluctant to engage too closely with Harry before Hogwarts. A casual acquaintance in the Muggle world was one thing—but shadowing Harry into the magical world could easily backfire. Dumbledore might arrange for him to become Harry's sidekick—or worse, his pawn.
The Harris household moved like a well-oiled machine as they packed for the day's trip. Adrian couldn't help but speculate excitedly: would they travel by Enchanted Carpet, Broomstick, Floo Powder, Apparition, or even an official Portkey?
"Adrian, come on now, no Floo travel today," Mrs. Harris called briskly from the front steps.
The family of six gathered around an old lamppost in the front garden. Nearby, nestled in the grass, lay a battered black rubber tire, humming faintly with magic. They joined hands, forming a tight circle.
Owen checked his silver pocket watch a second time before placing one foot on the tire.
Instantly, Adrian felt a violent pull behind his navel—like an invisible hook yanking him forward. He was spinning through space, his feet no longer touching the ground, the air roaring past his ears. Wind and whispers, laughter and silence, all blurred into one disorienting blur. His blood felt like it was flowing in reverse.
Time seemed to stretch and compress at once. Then, with a sudden lurch, the journey ended.
Adrian stumbled forward, blinking as the world came back into focus. They had arrived in the main hall of a bustling Kovarsky's Bakery, part of a magical franchise known for its enchanted displays and famous painted sign featuring a coquettish blonde witch with cascading curls. She winked as they entered.
Outside, the streets of Diagon Alley swirled with activity. Children laughed as they passed Eeylops Owl Emporium, goblins patrolled near Gringotts, and colorful signs advertised new wand cores at Ollivanders.
"Floo travel's alright, but it's too easy for kids to overshoot their stop," Renn remarked, brushing ash from his robe sleeves. "Portkeys are better for group trips, even if the Ministry makes us register every time."
Owen nodded. "Besides, I don't fancy having soot on my robes all day."
"Alright, children," he announced, "first stop—Gringotts Wizarding Bank. We need to collect some galleons. Then you'll get this month's allowance."
He gave Adrian a meaningful wink. The children erupted into cheers.
"Maybe I can get a new set of robes!" Daisy said excitedly, twirling.
"Then you'd better budget carefully next month," Morgan replied, though her stern tone was softened by the affectionate pat she gave Daisy's pale-gold hair.
Emily, still too young to care about robes or galleons, clung to Adrian's hand. For her, a scoop of strawberry-and-peach ice cream from Fortescue's was the pinnacle of luxury.
Chattering with excitement, the family strolled down the cobbled street toward the towering white facade of Gringotts, its brass doors gleaming in the sun. A goblin in scarlet livery stood sentinel on the steps, watching the crowds with cold, calculating eyes.
Their day in the magical world had begun.
The family chatted amiably as they strolled along the cobbled street of Diagon Alley and soon arrived at the towering white marble building—Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
The first thing that caught the eye was the shining bronze doors, which had stood sentinel through centuries of wizarding history, silently observing the rise and fall of countless wizarding families.
Standing at attention before the doors was a goblin in a scarlet and gold uniform, polished buttons gleaming in the sunlight. As the Harris family approached, the goblin gave a stiff, formal bow and extended a craggy, long-fingered hand—its palm wrinkled and hairy—to usher them forward.
They passed through the bronze doors and found themselves before a second set of silver doors, this one engraved with a well-known warning in flowing script:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed…
Adrian read the verse silently as Owen Harris took the opportunity to give a pointed lesson to his younger son.
"It's quite true," Owen said. "Wealth earned by honest effort is always more secure. Don't let the allure of shortcuts fool you."
Adrian tilted his head in thought, recalling the story of Harry Potter and Griphook's break-in at Gringotts years later. If a thief returns what was stolen to another thief in good faith, does that still bring misfortune? he wondered. Harry took the Horcrux cup from Bellatrix's vault with Griphook's help—but wasn't that stolen property, too?
They passed through the silver doors into the bank's vast marble hall, where a massive crystal chandelier glittered overhead. Tall white marble columns lined the walls like silent sentinels. About a hundred goblins sat at high counters beneath the chandelier, busying themselves with weighty ledgers, enchanted balances, and gem-lenses. Some were scribbling in vast accounting books; others were counting Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts or examining rubies and sapphires through jeweler's eyepieces.
"Vault 666," said Owen, handing over a small, ornate key to a goblin in a tailored black waistcoat. The goblin resembled a wizened old man but carried himself with pride and suspicion in equal measure.
Adrian, caught between his modern sensibilities and his wizarding immersion, smirked inwardly. Vault 666? That number can't decide if it wants to be cursed or cool.
"Follow me," the goblin said curtly, his voice like gravel. His formal bow was barely more than a dip of the head, and his tone implied irritation—as though the Harrises were making a withdrawal from the goblin's personal hoard.
"Oh dear, I'll wait here," said Mrs. Harris, settling onto a nearby bench. "Do any of the children want to stay with me?"
"I'll stay with Mum," said Daisy quickly, linking arms with little Emily, who was already tugging toward a shop display. Daisy was also secretly worried that the tunnel ride might ruin her carefully styled hair.
Adrian and Renn followed their father and the goblin to the waiting mine cart, an enchanted metal trolley set on rails. With a sudden jolt, it sped off into the depths of the bank, the tunnels racing past them in a blur of stone and shadow.
They zipped down steep slopes, across narrow bridges, and past a silent underground lake that shimmered eerily in the torchlight. Jagged stalactites and stalagmites jutted from the ceiling and floor like the teeth of a sleeping dragon.
Eventually, the cart halted before a heavy stone door marked with the ominous number 666 carved deeply into its surface.
The goblin inserted the key and turned it with a metallic clunk. The stone door swung open smoothly. Contrary to Adrian's half-dramatic expectations, there was no gloom or desolation inside. Instead, dozens of gold Galleons and piles of silver Sickles gleamed from neat stacks in the chamber.
On one side of the vault, old magical tools—crafted from stone, bone, and iron—rested on shelves like ancient relics. Though worn and aged, they were meticulously arranged and carried an air of quiet power.
Some kind of enchantment must preserve them, Adrian mused. These look like artifacts, not junk. Much more interesting than coins.
"Still looks like a respectable haul," Renn remarked with a grin.
"Diligence and thrift are virtues," Owen said, scooping a handful of Galleons into a soft leather pouch. He added more Sickles until the bag bulged slightly. "Our ancestors worked hard for this—it's not just money; it's legacy."
"That should do," he declared, tying off the bag and motioning the boys back toward the cart.
When they rejoined the others outside Gringotts, Owen handed the pouch to his wife with a satisfied smile.
"Ten Galleons, and ten Sickles more for snacks. Daisy, that should be enough for a new robe."
"Oh, thank you, Mum!" Daisy squealed with delight, throwing her arms around her mother and planting a quick kiss on her cheek. "I love you!"
Mrs. Harris smiled and handed the same amount to Renn, along with a new pair of dragon hide gloves, folded neatly in brown paper.
"Thanks, Mum." Renn pocketed the money and gloves at once.
Adrian stood silently, watching his mother with hopeful eyes.
"Alright," she said at last, "Renn and Daisy, you're free to roam. Be back by noon sharp in front of Moon Palace Café. And stay out of Knockturn Alley!"
"Yes, Mum," Daisy said with a wink as she dragged Emily toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
"Wait—what about my pocket money?" Adrian asked, feigning casualness but clearly invested.
"You're coming with us," Mrs. Harris said gently. "How about we get you a big strawberry-vanilla sundae from Florean Fortescue's, and you can pick out a new toy if you see something nice?"
"Alright…" Adrian replied, reluctant but understanding. Reaching out for money didn't sit well with him, but he hadn't quite made up his mind what to buy anyway.
"Dear Morgan Le Fay," Owen said with a chuckle, nudging his wife. "Give the lad a few Galleons at least. He's a good boy."
"Oh, fine," Mrs. Harris sighed in mock exasperation. "But no losing it!"
She handed Adrian five Galleons, then tucked ten Sickles into Emily's cloak pocket while Adrian kept an eye on her.
"Let's get going," Owen said, waving his hand. "We've still got a lot of shops to hit."
Adrian walked beside them, his hand slipping into his pocket, fingers brushing the cool coins inside. The sights, sounds, and smells of Diagon Alley overwhelmed the senses. It felt good to have a bit of money jingling in his pocket—like the day had truly begun.