Blake and Kreacher clung to each other—sobbing, shaking, broken and mended all at once.
Seeing them like that made something tighten painfully in my chest.
Tears stung the corners of my own eyes.
For five long minutes, everything was just…
Breathing.
Crying.
Healing.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
I inhaled sharply, wiped my face, and gently squeezed Blake's shoulder.
She sniffed, took a shaky breath, and nodded.
We straightened ourselves.
"Come in," I said.
The door swung open.
Three goblins entered—their posture stiff, eyes sharp, expressions serious.
The first was the clerk who'd escorted us earlier.
Behind him stood two others wearing deep bronze armor-like breastplates—formal attire for account managers.
The clerk gestured toward them.
"Heirs, these are your appointed vault managers."
The first stepped forward—old, scarred, and carrying a tiny ornate box.
"Griphorn Irongrip," he introduced himself with a small bow.
"Senior Account Manager for the Salvius–Peverell line."
My eyebrows rose.
Griphorn continued:
"After Lady Evelyn and Lord Caelum's union, the families merged management. I have served them for decades."
The second goblin stepped forward.
"Rugnot," he said in a rasping voice.
"Black Family Manager."
He looked at Blake with an unsettling mixture of awe and dread.
But Griphorn approached first.
He held the small box reverently.
"Sir," he said, bowing again, "it is my honor to welcome the Heir of Salvius and Peverell back into the wizarding world."
He spoke as if reciting a sacred rite.
"May you prosper the lineage of the Greats."
Then his tone shifted—formal, serious.
"Before we proceed, there is a matter to address."
He took out a parchment sealed with a crest:
A triangular knot symbol over a vertical line — Peverell.
A silver serpent coiled around the triangle — Salvius.
He removed the parchment and placed it before me.
I blinked.
"What is this?"
Griphorn signed the parchment.
Rugnot signed next.
The clerk signed last.
Then Griphorn handed it to me with both hands—an unprecedented show of respect.
"This," he said clearly, "is a confidentiality contract."
He tapped the parchment.
"Under ancient binding agreements with the Peverell line, goblins are forbidden to disclose the true lineage of the Peverells unless the Heir or Head of House grants explicit permission."
I inhaled sharply.
Griphorn bowed deeply.
"For centuries, the Peverell name has been veiled. Hidden. Guarded from the outside world. Even other pureblood families know nothing."
My pulse pounded in my ears.
Blake stared at me, wide-eyed.
"I hope," Griphorn added, "you will find answers to this secrecy in the vaults."
A shiver ran down my spine.
Blake glanced at me nervously.
Kreacher bowed low.
The air in the room felt heavy—thick with old magic, old oaths, and the weight of names forgotten by history.
My voice was barely a whisper.
"What happens next?"
Griphorn straightened.
"Next, Heir Salvius–Peverell…we officiate your heirship."
Griphorn lifted the small ornate box and opened it with ceremonial precision.
Inside rested a ring—ancient silver, etched with the merged crest:
A Peverell triangle
encircled by the coiled Salvius serpent.
My breath caught.
This was the symbol of my bloodline.
Griphorn bowed deeply again.
"Please, Heir Salvius–Peverell. Accept your ring."
My fingers trembled as I picked it up.
The metal was cool—unnervingly so—and yet thrummed with a deep, patient magic.When I slid it onto my ring finger, the silver tightened, reshaping itself instantly to fit my hand.
A pulse of energy shot up my arm.
My magic answered the ring.
Recognized it.
Acknowledged it.
Then the ring fell silent, settling like a heart that had found its rhythm.
Griphorn exhaled.
"It is done. The ring has accepted you.
"He placed a hand over his chest in rare goblin sincerity."
It carries high-level ancestral protections. Even the Imperius Curse would find no purchase on your mind while you wear it."
I stared at the ring—awestruck, humbled.
Rugnot stepped forward then, bowing stiffly to Blake.
"I welcome the Heiress of the Ancient and Noble House of Black," he declared.
"It is an honor to meet you."
His tone was respectful—but nowhere near the reverence Griphorn showed me.
I noticed something else:
Rugnot made no move to produce a ring.
"Where is her ring?" I asked sharply.
Rugnot's expression didn't flicker.
"Sir, only rings of families whose lineage is lost are kept with us. As the Head of the Black family is still alive…"
I froze.
"…what?"
Rugnot continued blandly:
"Arcturus Black, Head of House, is elderly but living."
My stomach dropped.
Shit.
Of course.
Arcturus Black dies in 1991—not yet.
I had forgotten him.
Forgotten this part of the timeline.
Beside me, Blake didn't care about timelines.
Her eyes were shining with something close to hope.
"I have… a family?" she breathed.
"Yes, Miss," Rugnot replied.
"And we will need to inform the Head of House of your arrival."
Blake nodded instantly, excitement breaking through her shock—
I grabbed her arm gently.
"No," I said firmly. "Not yet."
She blinked. "But—"
"We don't know your great-grandfather," I said quietly.
"And we don't know what he's like. Kreacher is here, and he can answer your questions first."
Kreacher puffed up proudly, placing a hand over his heart.
"As Young Master says!"
Rugnot bowed again.
"As you wish, sir."
I straightened.
"Now. Can we see our vaults?"
Rugnot answered:
"Sir may access all his vaults. But Miss Smith cannot access Black Family Vaults until approved by Head of House."
Before I could argue, Kreacher shuffled forward, suddenly determined.
"Kreacher will fix this!"
From the folds of his filthy toga—where no pocket should exist—he produced a tiny key, old and rusted but humming with magic.
He held it up triumphantly.
"Master Regulus opened a vault for Young Miss. Kreacher kept it safe. This key belongs to her."
Rugnot's eyes widened slightly before he snatched the key and waved a hand over it.
A glowing number unfurled in the air:
Vault 814
Rugnot nodded stiffly.
"Very well. We will proceed."
And so we did.
The procession was almost ceremonial:
Griphorn, walking with the authority of an ancient banker.
Rugnot, stiff and watchful.
Kreacher, trotting proudly at Blake's side.
Blake, holding my hand, visibly overwhelmed yet excited.
And me—ring glowing faintly, magic humming beneath my skin.
We stepped into the carts.
The descent was long.
Faster.
Deeper.
Colder.
We first arrived at Blake's vault—Vault 814, tucked neatly among the mid-level vaults.
Rugnot inserted the key.
Clank.
Grind.
Boom.
The heavy door groaned open.
Blake and I stepped inside together.
For a moment we were silent.
The vault wasn't grand—no jeweled pedestals,
no relics,
no heirlooms.
Just…
Coins.
Piles and piles of neatly stacked Galleons and Sickles, glinting softly in the torchlight.
Nothing else.
Blake blinked. "It's… just money."
She expected to find some emotional mementos of her parents.
Kreacher shook his head.
"Master Regulus wanted Young Miss to have independence. Safety. Gold enough to live free."
His ears drooped slightly.
"He could not give heirlooms. Mistress would have known. But this—this he could hide."
Somewhere deep inside me, something tightened.
Regulus… had prepared for her future.
Even knowing he would never see her grow up.
Kreacher shuffled forward, pulling out a pouch that looked far too small to be useful.
It shimmered faintly with enchantments.
"Master Regulus told Kreacher to keep this in the vault too," he said proudly. "Undetectable Extension Charm. Very sturdy."
He began scooping coins inside at an impressive speed—fistful after fistful, the pouch swallowing them endlessly without swelling.
Blake's mouth fell open.
"Kreacher—how much is that?"
Kreacher paused, puffing out his thin chest.
"Kreacher collected only a little. About one thousand Galleons. Enough for books, brooms, wands, and emergencies."
"One thousand—?" Blake squeaked.
Even Rugnot raised an eyebrow.
And yet—
When Kreacher stepped aside, the vault looked almost untouched.
The piles barely shifted.
Regulus hadn't just provided for her.
He had ensured her entire future.
Blake's eyes shimmered.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the pouch.
"He… he really cared," she whispered.
"Kreacher told Young Miss," the elf said proudly, tears slipping down his cheeks, "Master Regulus loved Young Miss very much."
Blake hugged the pouch to her chest.
I rested a hand on her shoulder.
"We'll use it wisely," I promised.
She nodded firmly, wiping her eyes.
We stepped back out.
Rugnot locked the vault.
But we weren't done yet.
We climbed back into the carts and descended far deeper.
Past the gem vaults.
Past the pureblood vaults.
Past the dragon-guarded vaults.
Down into a part of Gringotts I had never seen in any memory—not in canon,
not in fanon,
not in any imagined world.
The walls here glowed with ancient runes.
Magic—pure, potent magic—hung thick in the air.
There were fewer than ten vaults in this forbidden depth.
And none of them had numbers.
They had only names.
The first vault:
PEVERELL
I felt my chest tighten.
The fourth vault:
SALVIUS
My blood sang.
Kreacher trembled beside us.
Blake clutched my hand.
And Griphorn bowed low.
"Heir Salvius–Peverell," he said quietly,
"We have arrived."
______________________________________