Twist of Fate

Title: Twist of Fate
Author: Saydria Wolfe
Series: Fate Misnamed
Series Order: 1
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Fix-it
Relationships: Gen
Content Rating: PG
Warnings: off screen Major Character Death (Albus Dumbledore)
Author Notes: Originally posted for November 2024 Rough Trade. I’m pretty sure I picked the wrong POV to start this from, but I like it so what I posted on RT stays, renamed. Project File name is now the series name. I’ll work on a sequeling it with a novel from the POVs I want…eventually. No promises, please don’t ask.
Word Count: 3060
Summary: What if Harry Potter was 5% more curious and 10% more bold?

 

 

“Uncle Vernon?” Harry braced himself as he called his uncle’s attention.

The older man focused his beady little eyes on him. “What. Freak.”

Harry took a deep breath. It had been nearly a week since Hagrid had sent him back to this hateful place all alone. Nearly a week of dealing with the Dursely’s hatred for his existence after spending a day surrounded by the love the Wizarding World had showered him in.

He wasn’t entirely sure why they showered him in love—for surely, he didn’t do what they said he did—but, he reminded himself, he would rather deal with that than the Dursley’s.

“I think it’s safe to say that you don’t want my kind around here—”

Uncle Vernon snorted hatefully. “Is it that obvious?”

Harry marshalled on. He didn’t want to spend a second longer than he had to on Privet Drive, but if he told his uncle that, the man would keep him there out of spite. “In the Wizarding World, there are resources available to me that we don’t have here—resources we cannot bring into the muggle world!” He added when Vernon Dursely’s eyes lit up with greed, making the right assumption that the resources Harry mentioned was money.

He didn’t actually know if he could bring his parents’ money into the muggle world or not but he sure as hell was not going to let this terrible man steal from his murdered parents.

Uncle Vernon huffed and sat back.

“If you can take me to Charing Cross near Tottenham Court, I will do my best to never bother you or your family again,” Harry promised.

Uncle Vernon hemmed and hawed. He looked at Harry and looked down. Looked at Harry and looked up. Looked at Harry, glanced at the clock, and a malicious little grin flickered briefly across his face.

Harry had approached his uncle after dinner. His uncle probably assumed the Wizarding World closed down, like the muggle world did, but he knew from the door signs that neither the Cauldron nor the Bank ever actually closed and those were the two places he figured he needed.

“You better not leave any of your freak stuff in my house or I’m going to burn it!” Dursley stood up with a glare and pulled out his car keys. “You have five minutes!”

Harry hustled to Dudley’s spare bedroom; glad he had been keeping his stuff packed to protect it from his cousin.

He was in the backseat with his trunk and Hedwig in her cage in three minutes.

Uncle Vernon was backing the car down the drive one minute after that.

The drive was quiet—save for Uncle Vernon’s internment threats about what would happen if Harry ever came back, but he wasn’t worried. Okay, he was definitely worried, but he would rather go to an orphanage than go back to the Dursely’s. He hoped the Bank could help him emancipate himself but, at the least, the Wizarding World was sure to have an orphanage and, if it did, that would be that.

It was dark by the time Uncle Vernon ordered him, “OUT!” before he actually stopped the car. They weren’t at the intersection he had asked for, but he could see the Leaky Cauldron sign so this was certainly better.

He pulled his things and Hedwig out of the car with him. Uncle Vernon hit the accelerator before he got the door closed and was gone without any form of farewell.

Harry couldn’t say he was surprised.

He pulled a black Benny hat Dudley had rejected as a gift two Christmases past out of his pocket and pulled it on. It hid his scar and helped warm his head in the falling night, which was a win all around as far as he was concerned.

He made his way through the pub, down the alley, and into the bank without anyone looking twice.

The bank lobby was empty except for a few bankers having conversations here and there.

Following Hagrid’s example—because he didn’t have another one to follow—he walked straight up to the closest teller and waited for acknowledgment.

And waited.

And waited.

The tellers were being rather rude, ignoring him and speaking in a language he couldn’t understand.

He could barely hear it, honestly. He knew they were talking and making sounds but he couldn’t seem to hold even a single syllable they uttered in his mind. In fact, the harder he tried, the more the words seemed to slip out of his grasp.

Harry mentally touched the warmth inside him. He used to think it was his soul—something his aunt always told him he didn’t have—and he had been partially right. After reading his Magical Theory textbook, he knew that warms that part of his very magical soul. Specifically, it was his magical core sheltered within his soul.

It felt large inside him—much too large to fit inside his physical body—and it crackled like fire. It was a sun, but much kinder and more of a comfort to him than he would have thought.

Within the warmth of his core, he found understanding.

“Egypt—” one of the tellers was saying. “I cannot abide sand. Better to let the humans deal with it.”

“With that much possible profit, I can deal with sand,” the other disagreed.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted gently, hoping praying his magic would let him speak their language. “Would one of you mind helping me for a moment?”

Both Bankers turned to him, pale and blinking rapidly in shock.

“Did I say it wrong?” Harry asked in English. He had never deliberately tried to use his magic for anything. This was his first time touching it at all outside of the meditation outlined in his one theory book.

“Name?” the first Banker asked.

“Harry Potter.”

“Good evening, Lord Potter,” both Bankers said.

The first one started pulling levers that Harry didn’t see until the Banker touched them. His other hand was slamming about large stamps and hitting nearby quills with zaps of magic, making them write things. The parchments the quills wrote on then folded themselves into different bird shapes—some even changed color!—and flew off into the depths of the bank.

Harry heard the Bank’s doors lock.

“Take young Lord Potter to someone that can assist him, Galnar,” the busy Banker instructed.

“Of course, sir.” Galnar turned to Harry. “If you will meet me at the end of the row, I will see you to a private office where a senior Banker will assist you.”

“Thank you.” Harry was confused but not afraid. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. He had, in fact, attempted to be exquisitely polite by speaking the other beings’ language—he just had to remind his racing heart and rampant anxiety of that fact.

And, considering the scope of his questions, he would probably need a senior Banker anyway.

Harry met Galnar at the end of the teller counter and followed him into an office area. Once again, the door to the area was invisible until the Banker had touched the door. They went down a short hall and into a random-seeming door.

“Please, wait here,” he was instructed.

The office Galnar left him in was the finest room he had ever seen, much less actually been in. He knew his Aunt Petunia would be green with envy over such a room and wondered briefly if the Queen would be as well.

He explored the room and had just settled on a leather—dragonhide?—chair when the room’s second door opened.

His magic prompted him to stand at the sight of the Banker that entered and he didn’t fight the urge.

“Lord Potter,” the being greeted.

“Sir,” he greeted in return, nodding respectfully. He wondered if he should correct them about the whole lord thing. He wasn’t lord of anything; he was just Harry.

The Banker spoke again before he could decide. “An intruder was found in your family’s primary vault,” the Banker told him. “A person entirely unrelated to your family with no legal right to be there.”

Harry considered that. He also considered the sign on the front door of the Bank and what he had read from his—biased and inflammatory—history book. “Are they dead?”

“Yes,” was the succinct answer. “When you made yourself known to the front counter, one of my bankers locked down all of your family’s vaults. This invader attempted to override the lockdown. He was trying to leave your vault with several items clearly marked as your family’s possessions on his person—including two priceless, incredibly powerful relics of your ancestors’.”

Harry figured that had to count as the kind of theft that the front sign had warned would lead to death. “Who was he?”

“Albus. Dumbledore.”

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Harry asked, just to verify his understanding, “Of Hogwarts School.”

“Yes.”

Harry was taken aback. Hagrid had expressed so much faith in and love for Headmaster Dumbledore…who was a man that would steal from dead people? Murdered people. He didn’t know what to think.

“Dumbledore was also Chief Warlock of the Wizemgamot—the Magical version of the British Parliament—and the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards—the Wizengamot’s international equivalent.”

“His death with be big news,” was the message Harry assumed the Banker was obliquely sending. “Will your people get in trouble for it?”

“Unclear,” the bearer of bad news admitted. “I am Ragnarok Stonefoot, War Chieftain of the Horde.”

Harry nodded, a little dazed and entirely surprised. His history books indicated that the War Chieftain was the highest-ranking member of the Horde. They were also, supposedly, the most violent but Ragnarok didn’t look like he was going to smack anyone around. He looked like he could use a good book and a couple hours in a squashy chair. “You lead the entire horde.”

“I do,” Ragnarok agreed.

“Am I supposed to bow? Or is there a salute I owe you?”

Ragnarok gave him a flick of the lips smile. “We only do those sorts of things on formal occasions.”

“Okay.” Harry nodded. “Thank you.”

“What brought you to the Bank this evening, Lord Potter?”

“I’m not actually a lord, War Chieftain.”

“Call me Ragnarok—my title as my people recognize it is included in the phrase you would consider to be my first name,” Ragnarok said before he could object.

“Okay.” Harry wasn’t sure if he should press the lord thing or answer the War Chieftain’s question.

Better the be safe than sorry, Harry answered the questions. “I came to the Bank this evening in search of resources to free myself from my muggle guardians. They are horrible people. They had magic and hate me. They have lied to me about my parents my entire life. They told me my father was a drunkard that killed himself and my mother in a car crash. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I learned they were murdered and heroes.” He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened the night his parents were killed but he was sure that he hadn’t done anything to stop Voldemort. That meant his parents had to have done something themselves. Therefore, they were heroes, not him. “I shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

“No, agreed. Such an environment is entirely abusive.” Ragnarok pointedly looked him over. “Neither can it cannot be ignored that you are wearing rags three sizes too large for you.

“I would send you to my personal healer. They are entirely discrete and you are unusually thin for your age. We can legally document any damage your guardians may have done to you—intentionally or through neglect—to further support your case for emancipation.”

Harry wondered exactly how much the Bank’s healers would find. “And they will correct anything they find?”

“As a matter of course,” Ragnarok assured him. “You are, after all, a very important customer.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “Thank you, sir.”

“I also request your permission to have your parents’ Final Will and Testament found and analyzed. I have found that one was not filed with the Potter Account Manager but he had a document verifying the document’s existence. It was secured to an unspecified vault for secrecy due to the war the wizards were having at the time your parents died. Only the executors were given the exact location.”

“Why do you need it?” Harry asked. “My permission, I mean. Shouldn’t the Will have been dealt with when my parents died?”

“It should have been. However, the executor of your parents’ Will were all either jailed or tortured to insanity by Death Eaters—Voldemort’s followers—before the Wizards’ War ended.”

Harry’s mind swirled. That…was a lot.

“In addition, it would behoove you to know that it is standard practice within the Bank to lockdown all vaults belonging to a wizard of your stature the moment they enter the Bank. All Bank employees and authorized account users would be gently ushered out of the vaults at that time. Only intruders and criminals are harmed in these circumstances but they are typically stunned, portkeyed to a secure location, and sorted out later.”

“So, Dumbledore dying because of a lockdown was strange?”

“Extremely. We were notified, of course, of the death within one of our vaults when it happened but the circumstances are unclear. Did the stunning magic accidentally kill him because of his fairly advanced age? We cannot be sure.”

“What other options are there?” Harry wondered.

Ragnarok hesitated. Harry didn’t this a War Chief could hesitate. “The other possibility is that Albus Dumbledore was named an enemy of your family line. If he did commit some crime against your line to cause him to be declared your enemy, it would have had to have happened around or after the time of your parents’ death. Your father was very loyal to Dumbledore and did, in fact, financially support many of his endeavors within the Wizarding World.

“Personally, I find it rather telling that James Potter’s financial support of Albus Dumbldore did not stop when the Ministry froze your parents’ accounts and all other scheduled withdrawals due to a lack of a Family Will.”

“You think he must be my Family’s enemy because of these suspicious transfers and the fact that he died in our vaults,” Harry guessed.

“An Enemy of your Line invaded your accounts without any sort of permission the Bank can find and attempted to take ancient relics of your ancestors while forcing his way out of the vault,” Ragnarok reiterated.

“Sounds like the exact thing the notice on your front doors warns people about.”

“It is.”

“Do you know where the Will is?”

“Your account manager can and will retrieve it with your permission.”

“Will I get to meet my account manager?” Harry asked.

“Once you have been cleared by our healers, certainly,” Ragnarok agreed. “For a client of your rank and status, we must verify you are not being influenced by any potions or spells before we can legally allow you to make financial decisions.”

Harry was starting to wonder exactly when his rank and status was. “I, Harry James Potter, give my permission for my account manager to retrieve my parent’s Will from our vaults and analyze it.” Harry said as formally as he knew how. “I would also like to meet said account manager and go over the Will with them at the earliest opportunity.”

Ragnarok frowned and glanced over his school trunk. “You have completed your school shopping?”

It was more of a statement than a question but Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“And you came to this bank for funds to buy your supplies?”

“Yes.”

“But you did not meet your account manager at that point in time?”

“No, sir.” Harry thought he saw the problem here. “Does everyone have an account manager?”

“No,” Ragnarok shook his head. “Only the oldest and richest accounts have an Account Manager assigned to them. There are bankers working in general account management but they rarely interact with clients.”

As Harry had expected. “Hagrid probably just didn’t know to ask for my Account Manager when we were here.”

“Hagrid? As in Rubeus Hagrid?” Ragnarok demanded. “The Hogwarts Groundskeeper?”

“He did great,” Harry defended his friend. “We got everything on my list in less than a day and he kept me from buying too much.” Though he would have really liked those books about modern magical life and society.

“How well the duty was carried out is not the point,” Ragnarok retorted. “You said your guardians are muggles.

“All muggleborn and muggle-raised students are supposed to be escorted on their first shopping trip by a professor—specifically one of the Heads of Hogwarts’ four Houses,” Ragnarok explained. “The Ministry pays for books to introduce these students to the magical world before they ever step on the train. Only a Hogwarts professor is authorized to request these books from the bookshop.”

“So, Hagrid couldn’t have gotten me those books,” Harry nodded his understanding and felt a bit of renewed grump that Hagrid hadn’t let him get some for himself. “Would he have known these books exist?”

Ragnarok gave him a flat look. “His mother was a giantess—a magical creature—and his father was a wizard.”

“So, no,” Harry concluded. “Can I get them now?”

“We would have to contact the Ministry for a brand-new set, which I don’t think we should do right now for a variety of reasons.” Ragnarok paused to consider the issue. “Your mother was muggleborn and should have gotten a set. I’ll forward your request to your account manager. The books are self-updating so the information will both not be stale and provide you something of a historical perspective. If your account manager can’t find them, we will discuss other options.”

“Sounds good,” Harry agreed. Having something of his mother’s would a gift in and of itself. “What’s next?”

“Next, we get you to my healer.” Ragnarok gestured for him to follow. “We will be going deeper into the bank. I assure you it will be entirely safe.”

“One of the first things I learned about the Wizarding World is that there is no safer place in it than Gringotts. Except perhaps Hogwarts.” Harry smiled, remembering Hagrid’s little speech.

Ragnarok snorted like he didn’t agree. “Perhaps.”

 

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