(Harry POV)
Harry James Potter looked around his tiny bedroom, frantic for a second, before realizing where he was. It had just been a dream—more like a nightmare, really.
Placing his hands on his face, he took several slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves and settle his roaring emotions. He sighed with a mixture of tiredness and despair at the situation. He always had the same recurring dream after suffering a beating from his uncle. It always set his pulse racing; it felt so real, so powerful in its haunting nature.
Harry opened the door to his cupboard before looking out to see it was still dark outside. Looking over in the direction of the grandfather clock to check the time—and to find out how long he had until he had to get up and start on breakfast—he saw the clock hands indicated it had just gone past midnight, which made him smile. Being careful not to wake his relatives, he faintly whispered, "Happy Birthday to me..." He was eleven now, so only another five more years in this hellhole until he could escape.
He hated his family with a passion; he hated the unfairness of his life. The only escape he had from these feelings was the books at his local library, and his mind. It was his only sanctuary from the hardships he endured and the injustice.
Moving back into his cupboard, his shoulders protested at the sudden movement, triggering a wave of minor aches and pains across his back in response, which he ignored.
Once again, he let a tired sigh escape him as he got back into his makeshift bed, which happened to be an old, battered sleeping bag, along with some old sheets he'd been able to save from being thrown out to help keep him warm during long winter nights so he wouldn't freeze to death.
His body was still aching from his uncle's belt as he tried to make himself comfortable without resting on his aching back. He had developed a tolerance to pain over the years, but there was only so much one could ignore.
If anyone had examined his body, they would have seen it was covered with scars from all the beatings he had received. But his uncle had taken it as a personal challenge to make him beg—to beg him to stop the beating—while his aunt watched on as if it were a perverted show for her entertainment, wine glass in hand, drinking away.
What was worse was after they were done beating him raw, they would just dump him back into the cupboard or leave him bleeding on the floor. They would then retreat back into their bedroom and have sex, if he guessed correctly, based on the animal-like groans, moans, and grunts he'd heard coming from the floor above in the direction of their bedroom.
Not that he had ever bothered to check his theory, since he was often not in any state to make his way up the stairs. The sounds alone were evidence enough to suggest their activities—as well as the morning-after duties, when he had to clean up their room. It was so degrading, having to clean up after such filth, after such pigs. It just made him so angry, before he would remember the vow he'd made to himself each year.
"I swear someday I will have my revenge." It was the same promise he made to himself every birthday since he had grown old enough to understand his mistreatment at his guardians' hands. It was the vow he made whenever he thought of the beatings that he had endured; it was a promise that helped him keep going.
Closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths, he tried to relax. However, out of the corner of his eye he noticed a flash—a glint of gold-colored metal—which instantly triggered his interest, recalling how his cousin had set him up by stashing one of his aunt's necklaces in his cupboard, then ratted him out.
He would get his cousin back; that beating had left the biggest scar. Suppressing his rising anger at the memory, he reached out toward the gold object. It seemed to call to him, pulsing in darkness, urging him to touch it.
Grasping it with his hand, he felt something engraved on the heavy object. Bringing it to his eye to look at it better, he saw it had a faint symbol of a dragon with letters beneath it spelling out "Gringotts Bank."
Harry didn't recognize the name nor the symbol on the coin. The only banks he could recall were NatWest and HSBC. Then again, what type of bank still used gold nowadays? Looking back at the coin and the unique dragon engraved on it, he felt compelled to read it aloud, "Gringotts Bank?"
He felt a pulling sensation on his body. Blinking rapidly to take in the rapid movement around him that looked like a vortex, he tried to let go of the coin, but he couldn't. He tried to wake himself up, thinking it had to be a dream.
Next thing he knew, he was on the floor—a clear white floor made of marble. The aches in his back burned as he pushed himself upright, climbing to his feet. Noticing the same odd dragon symbol as the gold coin in his hand on the marble floor caused him to start examining the room.
"Good evening, Mr. Potter. We have much to discuss," said an unknown voice from behind him.
Turning to face the direction from which he had heard the voice, his heart started pounding instantly at the sight of the non-human individual, encased in black plate armor trimmed with gold.
"Please remain calm, Mr. Potter. You're at Gringotts Bank, and all shall be explained to you in time," said the creature before him, causing him to blink several times, confirming what he was seeing.
Looking at the individual—or creature—before him, he couldn't help but ask, fear lacing his voice, "What are you?"
A sneer appeared on the creature's face before disappearing quickly as he schooled his features. His voice was tinted with a hint of anger as he looked Harry straight in the eye. "Mr. Potter, my name is Bloodmoon. I am your account manager, and you are currently at the goblin bank called Gringotts, near central London. We provide banking services for magical Britain."
His mind started running at max speed, trying to process what he was being told—trying to make sense of the information he'd been given. 'Account manager? Goblin? Magical Britain?' The logical part of him rebelled at the idea of magic. His aunt and uncle always said magic wasn't real.
Plus, he was a man of science and math. But it made sense—he could feel it in his gut, in his core. Thinking over everything in his short life, he could remember strange things happening around him whenever he was mad or upset, like the TV going up in flames or the cupboard door unlocking, allowing him to get some food during the night.
Looking back at the creature—no, he corrected himself, the goblin—in front of him, watching him closely, caused his heart to start pounding a hundred beats per minute as he spoke the forbidden word aloud, "Magic? Or have I finally gone mad?"
"No, Mr. Potter, you're not mad. Magic is indeed real," Bloodmoon answered patiently while walking towards the table now at the center of the room. This table had two silver goblets and a jug of water on it. He poured a glass of water before making his way back over to Harry and forcing the cup into his hand.
"Please drink this, Mr. Potter. It is water. It will help calm your nerves so I can begin to fill you in. I was informed you are currently living in a non-magical household with your aunt. We were led to believe that she had knowledge of our world and would have informed you of being a wizard and about your heritage," his account manager stated before walking back to the desk and looking back at him.
"Please take a seat," he said in a commanding tone.
Nodding quickly—recognizing the tone of voice—Harry made his way over to the offered seat as he thought over what Bloodmoon had just said about his aunt and that she knew of magic.
This resulted in him quickly looking back at the goblin waiting for him so he could continue with his explanation, since Harry was getting the feeling that Bloodmoon hated time wasters. Taking the offered chair, he focused all his attention on his account manager so it was clear that he was listening carefully and ready for Bloodmoon to continue.
"It appears your aunt has not informed you of your heritage, nor has she informed you of our world. Therefore, the task falls to me," Bloodmoon sneered, before adding, "I forgive you of your rudeness and your ignorance of our world."
He just nodded, accepting Bloodmoon's apology of sorts since he didn't want to say anything else and risk losing any more respect. But he felt he should at least say sorry for his earlier rudeness and hopefully start again. "I am sorry for my earlier outburst and rudeness. I meant no disrespect."
"Apology accepted, Mr. Potter. Now, since it is clear you have no knowledge of our world, I have to ask—since it's the logical place to start," Bloodmoon said while looking at Harry across the desk, "What do you know of your parents' death?"
Answering truthfully and calmly, all the while trying to suppress his rising anger and the mixture of other emotions, "Nothing besides what my aunt and uncle told me," he said with his own sneer.
"But I expect now that it is a lie, based on everything you have told me," he added, tears forming in his eyes as he spoke, before taking another couple of deep breaths to calm himself before continuing.
"My aunt and uncle told me my parents died in a car accident resulting from drunk driving. And that my father was a drug addict and my mother was a common whore," tears now flowing freely.
Looking up at Bloodmoon, it was clear that the goblin was angry at what he was being told, based on the new fire in his eyes and the rigid posture his account manager shifted to before he finally spoke up, confirming Harry's private hopes that it was an ugly lie.
"Mr. Potter, your aunt and uncle have lied to you. Both your parents were respectable members of the magical community—both as Lord and Lady Potter—as well as in their careers. Your father was a highly skilled and respected Auror, and your mother was a respectable researcher," he said before refilling the cup with water as Harry processed this new information.
After handing the cup back to Harry, Bloodmoon continued his explanation. "Your mother was an Unspeakable at the Ministry—essentially a researcher investigating magic, as well as several other areas of research. While your father, when not conducting his lordship duties, was a Hit Wizard responsible for leading a team of wizards and witches to hunt down and capture dangerous criminals—basically a high-level law enforcement officer."
All he could do was nod as Bloodmoon explained about his parents and their careers. It was comforting knowing the truth about his parents; it didn't make him feel worthless anymore.
"Now let me tell you the basics of what happened, just so you can understand, because I am not responsible for wizarding history—just your wider financial dealings," his account manager explained.
Clearing his foggy eyes as he looked back at his account manager, he said as calmly as possible, "You have my full and undivided attention."