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This time at Gringotts, Harry was once again in his 19-year-old guise, courtesy of the Ageing Potion.
Even after seeing Harry numerous times, the goblins of Gringotts had yet to grow accustomed to him. The moment he appeared, the security guards at the entrance snapped to attention.
Harry made his way with practiced ease to his old acquaintance, Griphook, and stopped him from calling for Scard.
"I'm here for a new vault this time, Griphook," Harry said, producing a deposit slip he'd found tucked inside the lining of a notebook.
Griphook took the slip, examining it meticulously before retrieving a thick tome from behind the counter. With a heavy thud, he slammed it onto the desk, sending up a cloud of greenish dust. The book looked as though it hadn't been touched in ages.
Flipping through the pages with care, Griphook searched diligently. After six or seven minutes, he finally looked up. "Found it, Mr. Potter. This deposit slip belongs to Miss Cassandra Malfoy of the Malfoy family. She stored some personal items and a quantity of Galleons in Vault 831."
"There won't be another incident where the vault's been emptied before I get there, will there?" Harry asked, his tone casual but pointed.
Griphook waved his hands frantically. "Rest assured, Mr. Potter, that will absolutely not happen!"
"Better not," Harry replied. "Lead the way, Griphook."
The two boarded the rickety cart, hurtling through the underground tracks of Gringotts with the wind roaring past them.
"I love this breakneck speed, Mr. Potter!" Griphook shouted over the din. "Nothing beats the thrill of this ride, followed by opening a vault to see gleaming piles of gold coins. It washes away so many troubles—though, of course, you can't always guarantee a vault will dazzle you."
Harry suspected Griphook was slyly referencing the Weasleys' vault. He'd heard the stories—rats went into the Weasley vault and came out with tears in their eyes.
"Wealth is just a material thing, Griphook," Harry called back, raising his voice to be heard over the whistling wind. "You should know some sorrows can't be solved with money."
"That's your perspective, Mr. Potter. You're a legendary wizard," Griphook shouted. "But me? I'm a mundane goblin, a common sort. I don't have 'sorrows,' just minor irritations. And what makes me feel better? Coins!"
Harry couldn't help but envy Griphook's uncomplicated outlook. It spared him from overthinking.
"We're here," Griphook announced, halting the cart. "Vault 831, Mr. Potter. Mind your step."
Griphook approached the vault door, pulling out an ancient bronze key and inserting it into the lock. Moments later, the door groaned with a creak and collapsed inward with a resounding crash.
"I must say, the Malfoy family's wealth back then was truly formidable," Griphook remarked, consulting a list in his hand. "I can scarcely imagine they spent ten thousand Galleons to have Gringotts enchant the vault with spells to preserve its contents against time's decay. You have to admit, the Malfoys were impressive, weren't they?"
Harry peered through the open vault door. Contrary to his expectations of glittering piles of Galleons, the interior held no such golden glow. Instead, it was filled with everyday furniture and household items.
Stepping inside, he noticed a pair of pristine leather shoes arranged in a T-shape near the entrance. Beside them stood a plain, unadorned table, upon which rested a vase containing a budding hyacinth and a camellia.
As Harry's gaze fell on the flowers, their buds quivered faintly. In an instant, they unfurled into full bloom, their vibrant petals bursting forth.
"It's a miracle, Mr. Potter," Griphook marveled from behind. "Even after nearly a century, this hyacinth and camellia are still alive…"
Indeed, they were. The brilliant blue and red blossoms glowed in harmony, as if nothing in the world could be closer than they were.
Harry resolved to preserve them carefully. He gingerly placed the vase into his pouch. "Alfonso!" he called sharply. "Don't you dare harm these flowers, understand?"
"Yes, Master!" Alfonso hissed in reply.
Harry planned to show the flowers to Professor Sprout. Perhaps the Herbology expert could find a way to keep them alive forever. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, his instincts told him these flowers held great significance.
The vault was filled mostly with furniture and an assortment of tableware—porcelain and enamelware imported at great expense from China, alongside other costly treasures. All of it, Harry noted, was portioned for two.
He opened a nearby trunk, only to slam it shut again, his face flushing red. Inside were Cassandra's clothes—cough—not the secondhand robes he'd once worn, but delicate garments meant for a young woman.
Still…
He reopened the trunk. On top of the clothes lay a letter.
Unsealing it, he read:
Potter,
I trust you still cherish our friendship, or you wouldn't have found this place… right?
In the vault, I've left eight thousand Galleons for you. I won't have a Muggle-born like you scraping by on school handouts—or worse, becoming some other woman's lackey. Remember, you're my sidekick.
The clothes beneath are for me. You're grown now, so no more wearing my old robes.
Also, I'll have words with you about tearing my notebook—if I ever see you again. And that overly bold… maybe girlfriend of yours? Ruining my notebook was utterly uncouth. I expect you to keep her in line, or I'll teach you a lesson myself, Potter.
C.C. Malfoy
Harry set the letter down, torn between relief and smugness. Thankfully, it was Jack the parrot who'd damaged the notebook. Otherwise, he'd have no chance of washing away the blame, even if he jumped into the Thames.
He knew all too well that anything involving Veratia made Cassandra prickly. Like that time in the second term of fifth year…
He'd planned to play one of Merlin's delightful little games with Cassandra, but in a moment of stupidity, he mentioned bringing Veratia along.
"So, you and that Grindelwald…" Cassandra's eyes turned dangerous. "You two… went to Merlin's ruins together? And you even gave her your clothes to wear?"
"Yeah…" Harry hadn't yet grasped the gravity of the situation. "I saw she—"
"Take it off!" Cassandra snapped, her voice icy.
"What?" Harry blinked, confused.
"I said, take it off! My clothes!" Cassandra stomped her foot.
Dumbstruck, Harry removed the secondhand robe Cassandra had foisted on him. Under the blaze of Incendio, it burned to ash.
Cassandra stomped on his foot and stormed off without looking back.
Even now, recalling it made Harry wince with guilt. He didn't know why—it just did.
After pocketing the letter, Harry continued exploring the vault, searching for more traces of Cassandra. When he drew his wand, Griphook tensed.
"Mr. Potter, magic is, in principle, not permitted here—"
But catching Harry's look, Griphook backtracked. "Though it's only a principle. If Mr. Potter truly needs to, I suppose it's not entirely forbidden."
"Revelio!" Harry incanted.
---
*February 14, 1898, Wiltshire, England*
Septimus Malfoy, having concluded a Ministry meeting, returned early to his manor to spend the holiday with his family. Regrettably, his wife had passed fifteen years prior, leaving him with two children.
The elder, Ignatius Malfoy, was his pride. The younger, Cassandra, was his treasure.
The family should have lived happily together, but everything changed with the arrival of a scarred boy.
To this day, Septimus couldn't fathom why his precious daughter had taken a shine to a Muggle-born orphan. Yet, with the Malfoy family's clout, he had no need to marry her off for alliances. If she liked the boy, so be it—a Muggle-born was still better than a Muggle.
Over time, the scarred boy earned Septimus's approval. Orphaned and Muggle-born though he was, the lad had a pure, kind heart. The Malfoys didn't need a prodigy for a son-in-law—just a good man.
But just as Septimus had come to terms with it, disaster struck. The boy vanished.
From then on, Cassandra seemed possessed. She'd heard somewhere that the boy had gone a hundred years into the future and, foolishly, sought to chase him through time magic.
It was exhausting.
When Septimus returned to the manor, he was blindsided by news: Ignatius reported that Cassandra had gone to Gringotts again.
His heart sank. He immediately ordered Ignatius to bring her back.
At Gringotts, Cassandra was in Vault 831, storing her belongings. The vault number was carefully chosen—purchased at great expense by Ignatius from another owner. It signified August 31.
Six years had passed since Harry's disappearance. The once-vibrant, proud young woman had become a somber, melancholic figure.
In her hands, she held a charmed vase containing a budding hyacinth. Hyacinth, starting with H, symbolized Harry—her favorite flower. Beside it was a camellia, for Cassandra.
It was a Victorian tradition. On February 14, Valentine's Day, lovers would plant two budding spring branches in a special pot, each flower's initial matching their names. Days later, if the buds bloomed brilliantly together, it foretold a life of harmony. If they bloomed apart, the lovers would part ways. Large, vibrant flowers promised a bountiful family, while a wilted bloom warned of a lover's early death.
Muttering a few spells, Cassandra placed the vase on the table. She then tucked a letter into a trunk.
Satisfied with her work, she paused, then retrieved a pair of new leather shoes, arranging them in a T-shape beneath a bed by the door.
Another Valentine's custom: an unwed woman could place shoes in a T-shape under her bed with the window open to dream of her beloved or find him standing before her.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Potter," she murmured, clutching a small vial in her hand.
It was a potion, her means to cross the vast expanse of time to find Harry. She'd gone to great lengths to procure it from Nicolas Flamel—not by asking outright, but by requesting a pile of books on divination and prophecy, among which she found notes on the Philosopher's Stone.
After much internal struggle, she'd torn out a page and tucked it into a divination book. The potion's side effects were significant, but Cassandra deemed them acceptable. Proud as she was, she'd rather pay a price than face Harry a century later with an aged visage.
With one last glance at the vault, she left Gringotts.
At the entrance, she spotted Ignatius hurrying toward her.
Sorry, brother. Goodbye.
She turned and left the bank.
Back at her temporary room in the Leaky Cauldron, Cassandra lingered by the window, casting a wistful glance at her father, who had come searching for her.
She activated a Merlin relic stolen from home.
The world spun, and she found herself in a chamber enveloped by stars.
"Lumos!" she incanted.
Pleased, she patted the sealed walls and retrieved a small bag charmed with an Undetectable Extension Charm. From it, she produced the potion and a goblet.
Pouring the emerald-green potion into the cup, she watched it swirl into a misty cloud. With a gloved hand, she elegantly grasped the goblet—a grip Victoria had taught her, despite others' criticisms.
"Cheers," she said with a faint smile, tilting back her graceful neck and drinking the potion in one go.
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