The quiet of Grimmauld Place had become familiar over the past few weeks. A strange kind of familiar—like wearing a coat that wasn't originally yours but began to shape to your shoulders anyway. The house was no longer oppressive the way Harry remembered it from his fifth year. Kreacher had seen to that. With each passing day, the lingering sourness seemed to lift from the walls, replaced by a muted but genuine warmth.
Still, the place echoed differently when Harry walked through it alone.
He had left the Burrow gently. The Weasleys still welcomed him like family, but the moment he stepped into Number Twelve, something changed. Responsibility had a way of curling around him when he stood in his own doorway. And now, two months after the battle, the house felt like a physical reminder of it.
This morning, he was pulling on a jacket when an envelope on the hallway table caught his eye. Goblin script. The same deep green ink that had summoned him to Gringotts the previous week.
He took a breath, slid it into his pocket, and headed for the fireplace.
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Gringotts always looked the same: cold white marble, high ceilings, the sound of quills scratching at a furious pace. But today, he felt a push of energy in the air—goblins moved with crisp efficiency, sharper than usual. Perhaps it was the rebuilding of the magical world, or perhaps Gringotts always thrived when chaos outside forced people to rely on stability.
A goblin clerk approached him the moment he stepped inside.
"Mr. Potter," the goblin said with a bow of the head that was respectful but distinctly not submissive. "Account Manager Griphorn is expecting you."
Not Griphook. Harry felt an unbidden tension leave his shoulders. There was no anger between him and Griphook anymore—just distance and something a bit like caution—but Harry was still relieved.
The new goblin led him into a stone office carved with intricate runes. Behind the dark desk sat a tall, stern goblin with silver rings on each finger—markings of high status.
"Sit," he said without hostility.
Harry did.
"You received the preliminary inheritance notice," Griphorn began.
Harry nodded.
"Then you already know your accounts are active and accessible. Today's meeting is not about gold." The goblin's eyes glimmered. "It is about legacy."
Harry stiffened.
Griphorn continued, "As the last surviving Potter, you inherit estates and vaults held in your parents' name… in addition to the assets left by your godfather."
Harry opened his mouth, closed it. He still didn't know how to talk about Sirius without the ache catching him in the throat.
"And," Griphorn said carefully, "the Black inheritance is not a minor matter, Mr. Potter."
Harry swallowed. "I'm not… taking anything yet. I just want to understand."
"That is acceptable. Goblins respect caution." Griphorn folded his long fingers. "Before his death, Sirius Black altered his will. He reinstated himself into the Black Family seat after discovering earlier expulsion attempts were voided by his grandfather. In doing so, he passed the title, properties, and responsibilities to you. You may delay accepting lordship, but its weight does not disappear."
Harry stared at the polished desk surface. "I can't be involved in politics. Not now."
"Being a Lord is more than politics," Griphorn replied. "It means oversight. Land. Historical ties. Magic older than your Ministry."
Harry hesitated. "Then why not pass it to someone else?"
Griphorn's dark eyes sharpened, as if expecting that question.
"There is someone else," the goblin said calmly. "Andromeda Tonks. She remains a Black by birth. She is, by bloodline, next in line after you."
Harry's breath hitched.
"And she does not want it," Griphorn finished.
Harry blinked. "She said that?"
"She told us that the Black name was tied to pain. She wishes her grandson to grow in peace. Not under a banner that caused her suffering."
Harry's chest tightened. Andromeda. Strong, grieving, dignified. She had already lost her husband, her daughter, nearly her entire family. The idea of her pushing those burdens onto Teddy… he understood instantly why she refused.
"Why tell me now?" he asked quietly.
"Because knowledge is leverage," Griphorn said. "And you must know what has been put into your hands before you decide to drop it… or carry it."
Harry sat with that for a long moment.
A knock interrupted them. The door slid open, and Andromeda Tonks stepped inside.
Harry stood immediately. "I—I didn't know you'd be here."
"I asked to join," she said gently. "Griphorn informed me of the meeting."
She looked healthier than she had weeks ago. Still fragile at the edges, but present. Real. Like someone trying to rebuild herself. It made Harry feel strangely relieved.
"Please sit," she said to him, and together they returned to their chairs.
Andromeda turned to Griphorn. "We'll take it from here."
The goblin bowed and left.
For a few quiet seconds, they said nothing. Then Andromeda spoke.
"I wanted to see how you handled this," she admitted softly. "I wanted to see whether you felt burdened… or afraid."
Harry huffed a breath. "Little of both."
"That is normal," she said with a sad but understanding smile. "The Blacks were powerful, influential, impossible to ignore. But they were also broken, Harry. Terribly broken. Their traditions became cages. Their pride became their downfall."
Her eyes softened.
"You are not them. And being a Black doesn't make you them."
Harry looked down at his hands. "I don't want to be involved in politics. Not now. Not when the world is still trying to breathe."
"I know," she said. "And you don't have to. Not for years if that's your choice. But it is better to understand what you are stepping away from… than to be blindsided later."
Harry let that sink in.
Andromeda rose from her chair and paced slowly. "When you are older—when Hogwarts is behind you—you may reconsider. You may not. Either choice is valid." She paused, then added more softly, "And you will have my support regardless."
Harry blinked, surprised. "I didn't expect… that."
She smiled faintly. "You're Teddy's godfather. And Sirius was family to you. That makes you family to me."
Harry didn't trust himself to respond. The warmth in his chest almost hurt.
Andromeda glanced toward the door. "Now, before I leave… I wanted to ask something."
Harry straightened.
"After your schooling," she began carefully, "I intend to live somewhere quieter. But until then… would you mind if Teddy and I visited Grimmauld Place occasionally? He grows restless in a silent house. And you seem to calm him."
Harry's heart jolted. "I—of course. Anytime."
Her relief was visible. "Thank you, Harry."
She extended a hand. Harry shook it, surprised by how steady her grip was.
"Take your time," she said. "Understand the world before you try to change any part of it."
Then she stepped out, her footsteps fading against the marble.
Harry stood alone in the office, feeling the weight of the moment. He wasn't a lord—not yet. But the knowledge lingered. Waiting. Quiet. Patient.
He returned to Grimmauld Place through the Floo, stepping into a house that suddenly felt less empty. Kreacher appeared instantly.
"Master is home," the elf croaked.
Harry managed a tired smile. "Yeah. Just a long morning."
Kreacher squinted up at him. "Master looks troubled."
"Just thinking."
"Master should think in the kitchen. Kreacher made soup."
Harry blinked. "Soup?"
Kreacher nodded stiffly. "Soup that is not disgusting."
Harry laughed despite himself. "Alright. Lead the way."
The house-elf shuffled ahead, glancing back every few steps as if making sure Harry truly followed. They sat at the small wooden table—the same one Sirius used to lean on dramatically while complaining about pureblood nonsense.
As Harry ate, he wondered what Sirius would think of all this. Of him inheriting two houses. Of him facing goblins and laws and traditions he never asked for.
The thought ached, but softly. Softer than before.
Later, when Kreacher returned to dust the hallway, Harry pulled out the goblin envelope he had picked up earlier. It held copies of vault keys—light, ancient, shimmering faintly with family magic.
He held them in both hands.
Potter.
Black.
They were cold, heavy, and strangely alive.
He didn't know what he would do with them yet. He didn't know when he would step into the roles attached to them. But as he stood in the dim corridor of Grimmauld Place, keys gleaming faintly in the lantern light, he understood something clearly:
Responsibility wasn't a boulder dropped on him.
It was a door.A door he could choose to open later.When he was ready.After Hogwarts.After healing.After growing.
For now, he set the keys gently in a drawer.
Tomorrow, he would meet Hermione and Ron at the temporary Ministry tents.
Soon, he would face the Prophet again as rumors swirled.
And eventually—months from now, maybe longer—he would give the interview the world seemed to be waiting for.
But tonight, the house was quiet.
Harry climbed the stairs, passing newly polished banisters, hearing the small distant hum of Kreacher working below.
He paused outside what had once been Sirius's room.
"I'm trying," he whispered into the dim.
And somehow, the silence felt like approval.