Harry stepped out of Gringotts and exhaled hard, almost like something had finally let go inside him. That meeting had squeezed him tight without him even noticing. Now it was over. He had seven names on his list. First up was Daphne. Buying her a gift felt more complicated than the others. Ron was easy. Hermione too, once he figured it out. Sirius would be tough, but in a different way.
Harry stepped into Astrith's Atelier, the door clicking shut behind him. Calista looked up from her desk, eyes sharp and alert. She stood immediately. "Mr. Potter. I did not expect you today. Has something happened?"
Harry shook his head. "Everything's fine. I just have a few questions."
He filled her in as they moved toward the back workspace. He kept it short, just the important bits: the basilisk, the venom, the fang, the hide. What he kept, what he handed over, and what he hoped to do with it. Calista didn't interrupt. She listened, arms crossed, her face unreadable as she took it all in.
When he was done, she tapped her quill against the edge of her desk. "…so just to make that very clear. You plan to make protective gear out of ingredients from a basilisk, and you want me to create the style."
"Yes," Harry said. "Richard knows how to work with the materials, but he's not really sure how it should look. He's not a designer."
Calista studied him. Her silence made him want to fidget, but he held his ground.
"His shop is near Knockturn. It's called Aqua & Umbra. It's not shady or anything, just tucked away. Maybe you could meet with him and figure it out together?"
She gave a slow nod. "I can reach out to him. We'll talk through the details. But I can't give you a clear answer yet. Basilisk hide isn't something I've worked with. I'd need to know more."
"That's alright," Harry said. "I wasn't expecting a yes right away."
He hesitated before speaking again. "I've been meaning to ask… is the shop okay? I mean, do you need anything?"
Calista didn't respond right away. Her shoulders shifted just a little, like she was debating what to say. Harry didn't rush her. He waited.
Eventually, she let out a breath. "I need help. Real help. Staff I can trust. And the financial side… hasn't been managed properly for years. There's no one overseeing it."
Harry nodded slowly. "Next Saturday I've got a meeting with the goblins. They're going to walk me through everything. Vaults, accounts, investments, all of it. So I'll know what's going on then."
He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "But if there's anything I can do now, like actually help with something, just tell me."
Calista looked like she was choosing her words. Her fingers tapped once against the wood before she finally spoke.
"There's something I should probably mention. For a few weeks now, I've been having trouble getting certain materials. Special ones. Things like Acromantula silk, phoenix-ash threads, enchanted wool. The orders are either delayed or canceled outright. At first I thought it was supply chain nonsense, but that wasn't it."
She met Harry's eyes.
"There's a procurement office. It's near Gringotts. They handle oversight for family-run businesses like this one. When someone places a request for rare magical materials, they check if the person has proper authorization. For Astrith's, that means they want proof the order came from a Potter."
She glanced at the shelves behind her, then back at him.
"I'm not one. I can't override their hold. I tried filing a request, but they ignored it. I had to turn away a 500-Galleon commission yesterday"
Harry straightened up. "Wait. Near Gringotts, yeah?"
Calista nodded.
"Alright. Just to be sure… you've got the order numbers?"
She gave a small, surprised smile. "You're going to handle it yourself?"
Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I'm already out, and I just came from Gringotts anyway. No point in waiting if I can fix it now."
Calista opened a drawer and pulled out a neat stack of parchment. She flipped through them, then handed him a folded slip. "These are the current ones still being blocked. If they give you trouble, just say you're acting as the Head of the Potter estate."
He took the paper and slipped it carefully into his pocket. "Alright. I'll head there now."
Harry turned to leave, then stopped halfway to the door. He shifted on his feet and looked back at her.
"Actually… one more thing."
Calista raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"Do you know a place. Like… a proper one. Where I could buy jewelry? For, you know… a friend. Who's a girl."
Her lips twitched, and then she let out a soft laugh. "A friend, hmm?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "It's not like that."
"Of course it isn't," she said, still smiling. "In that case, I suggest Belvoir's on the far end of the Alley. Ask for Tomas. He has good taste and won't talk down to you."
Harry nodded quickly. "Thanks. Really."
"Anytime, Mr. Potter. Good luck with your… friendly gift."
With one thing crossed off his list, even if he still had to stop by Richard's to deliver the ingredients, Harry headed toward the building near Gringotts. The plaque by the door read Office of Vault Commerce, polished and formal like everything in this part of the Alley. Harry stepped inside, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. So this was what it meant to act like the Potter Heir. A pile of responsibilities he didn't ask for but had to carry anyway.
A witch with a pinched expression sat at the front desk, quill scratching without pause. She didn't look up when Harry approached.
"I'm here to approve a series of orders made by Astrith's Atelier," he said, pulling the parchment Calista had given him from his pocket.
The witch held out her hand without a word. Harry gave her the list. Her eyes skimmed it, then she clicked her tongue and motioned to a side hallway.
"Room Four. Mr. Vornax will assist you."
Harry walked down the corridor. He knocked once, then opened the door.
The man behind the desk didn't look up. "If you don't have an appointment, you'll need to fill out Form Seventeen-B. Wait time is three days minimum."
Harry didn't sit. "I'm not here for a form. I'm here to approve existing orders under the Potter Vaults. From Astrith's Atelier. I have the list."
Vornax finally looked up. Thin-framed glasses, sharp features, not a hair out of place. "Ah. Mr. Potter. How… unexpected."
"Is there a problem?"
"Well," Vornax said slowly, setting the parchment aside like it was an inconvenience, "we've had quite a few claims from that shop. Since no Potter heir has confirmed her position in over a decade, we had to freeze outgoing purchases. Policy, you understand."
"She runs the shop," Harry said. "Everyone knows that."
"Yes, but tradition requires proper verification. We cannot simply release enchanted textiles to every seamstress who names herself a legacy."
Harry stepped farther in but didn't sit. "What's the proper verification then?"
Vornax laced his fingers together. "A letter of succession from the previous Potter head of house. Stamped by the Wizengamot seal. Or a heritage claim, filed through the Ministry's Bloodline Office. Processing time takes roughly a week, assuming there are no inconsistencies."
Harry eyes widened. "A week? For fabric orders?"
"This is not a tailor's stall, Mr. Potter," Vornax said, adjusting his cuff. "We manage enchanted materials. And your seamstress friend has submitted over a dozen pending requests in the last month alone."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the lamp on Vornax's desk.
"Why are category-three transfers still pending?" Ragnok barked as he stepped inside, eyes already locked on the clerk. "Circulation is down twelve points across vault-class portfolios, and this office is sitting on its hands?"
Vornax froze. "Sir, I was under the impression.."
"Impression?" Ragnok's robes whipped behind him as he strode closer. "You think this economy moves on impressions? We've got slowed flux in every tier below merchant-class, material holds stacking across half the mid-sector, and personal vaults being throttled without review. Your job is to move gold, not stare at it."
"I was only following the protocol," Vornax tried again.
"Protocol does not mean paralysis," Ragnok snapped. "We are the central flow of wizarding capital, not a museum of ancient paperwork. If I see another week of flat movement from this office, I'll audit every ledger you've signed since Beltane."
Only then did Ragnok spot Harry standing near the desk.
"Mr. Potter. What are you doing here?"
Harry didn't waste the moment. "Trying to authorize a few standing orders from one of my family businesses. I was told I had to wait a week for the paperwork."
Ragnok turned his head back to Vornax. His stare could have cracked glass.
"Stamp it now. And deliver a copy to my office."
Vornax nodded quickly and reached for the ledger, shoulders stiff.
Ragnok gave Harry a sharp nod, then swept out without waiting for a response.
~~~~~
The soup was incredible. Rich, thick, full of roasted garlic and spiced lamb that melted the moment it touched his tongue. Harry sat by the window at Marlowe's, a tucked-away little place near the back end of Diagon Alley.
He hadn't planned to stop, but the smell had hit him the second he passed the door. Now, with a half-empty bowl in front of him and a quiet table all to himself, he was glad he did. The heat from the food was settling the tired parts of him, the ones that had been stretched thin all morning.
First stop after the paperwork mess had been Aqua and Umbra. Harry unshrunk the case, laid out four shining fangs, the rolled hide, and a stack of bone arcs. Richard's grin said everything. He slipped the lot under a stasis sheet and promised to start forging tests before sunrise. The venom and spare fangs stayed with Harry, charmed down to the size of a matchbox and tucked deep in his coat.
Next he stopped at the biggest bookstore on the main street. He walked every aisle, searching for a book on residue or anything about the Chamber. Nothing. The only thing that grabbed his eye was a shiny spell guide, and he already had more of those than he could finish this year. He left empty-handed and irritated. Maybe residue really was that rare, or maybe he just needed to keep digging.
He turned down a quieter side lane, half ready to give up, and almost walked past a narrow storefront marked Obscurus Tomes. The weather-worn sign tilted a little, as if daring people to notice it. Harry frowned. He had been through Diagon Alley more times than he could count, yet the place felt brand-new.
Inside, a tall wizard with wire-rim glasses glanced up from behind a ledger.
"I'm looking for anything on basilisks," Harry had said, brushing some hair from his face. "Or Parseltongue. Or maybe something about crystallized spell residue."
The clerk raised his eyebrows high. "That is unusually specific."
Harry waited.
"Most publishers steer clear of serpent-related magic altogether," the man added. "But follow me."
They'd wound through some crooked stacks and stopped at a locked cabinet.
"These are references. Not guidebooks," the clerk said. "You'll find fragments, traveler logs, maybe a few field notes. Nothing polished."
"I'll take what I can get," Harry told him.
The man turned the key and set two heavy books on a side table. One was Whispers Beneath the Stone, stitched together from the field journals of curse-breakers who had explored snake temples in Africa and India. "Three entries deal with spoken control sigils," the clerk explained. "Most of it focuses on vaults, traps, and ritual layouts."
The second book, Residual Arcana: Field Notes on Spell-Fall Crystals, looked newer but one edge had been burned straight through. "Chapter five describes residue scraped off cursed stone," he said. "You'll need to know your alchemy to follow some of it, but it's in there."
Harry had leaned in to check the price and nearly choked.
"That much? For fragments?"
The clerk's voice didn't change. "Rarity sets its own cost."
Harry hesitated. He thought about walking out. Thought about how easy it was to spend someone else's gold. But the image of those glowing lines carved into the Chamber wall kept flashing back into his head. So he paid.
The clerk started wrapping the books in brown paper and glanced up. "Name for the receipt, Mr…?"
"Potter."
The man froze. His hand stilled mid-wrap. "As in… that Potter?"
Harry nodded once.
The clerk didn't say anything for a second, then cleared his throat. "Well. In that case… may the words treat you kindly, Mr. Potter."
Harry just thanked him and left before the man could say anything else.
"Hey," a voice said beside him.
Harry blinked and looked up. A girl around twenty stood by his table with a floating parchment beside her and a quill scribbling notes in the air. She gave him a small smile.
"How's the soup?"
"Oh. Yeah. It's great," Harry said. "Really good."
"You want something sweet? We've got treacle tart or apple crumble today."
"Treacle tart sounds perfect."
She smiled again, but then paused. "Are you here with someone?"
Harry shook his head. "No. I'm on my own."
"You look a little young to be out here alone."
"I'm fourteen," he said. "And my parents… they passed away a while ago. I came to handle some things today. It's fine."
Her expression shifted, kind but unsure. "Sorry to hear that."
"It's alright," Harry said. "Thanks for asking."
"I'll go grab that tart."
The waitress walked off. Harry leaned back in his chair, and out of the corner of his eye, spotted the edge of his bag peeking out by his foot. He nudged it closer, smiled to himself.
It was heavier than before.
He'd managed more than he thought he would today. A few gifts were already packed inside, wrapped and ready. Others still needed a bit of work, but the hard part was done.
It was time to go back to Hogwart.
~~~~
Harry left the gated aisle, book pass tucked in his pocket, and slipped back into the wide reading hall. He dropped into an empty corner table, pulled the heavy indigo tome from under his arm, and set it down with a soft thud. Luminous Constructs: Theory and Field Application. He cracked it open to the page Professor Flitwick had mentioned. There it was, in tidy bronze ink: Animata Lumen. A full wand pattern filled the margin, loops and spirals that looked more like art than instructions.
A short paragraph of text sat under the diagram.
To conjure light is simple. To bind it with purpose demands focus equal to flame and clarity equal to glass. Doubt scatters the form.
Harry read it twice, then copied it word for word onto his parchment. He traced the loop of the final spiral with his quill tip, trying to picture his wand cutting the shape through the air. Lines of cramped ink filled the next page, and Harry copied the key parts word for word.
"Animata Lumen is no idle glamour. The construct draws continuously upon the caster's core. One must shape and sustain in the same breath. Falter, and the form collapses. Persist without measure, and the core scorches itself dry."
Another note in the margin followed.
"Think of Lumos as a candle. Think of Animata Lumen as carving that candle into wings while the flame still burns, then commanding those wings to fly."
Harry swallowed. Continuous draw. Constant control. It was Patronus-level strain, only with moving parts that could unravel if his concentration slipped for even a second.
Harry lifted his wand and whispered, "Lumos." A clean beam spilled from the tip, bright but harmless. He stared at the glow and tried to pull it off the wood, picture it stretching into a thin arc. The light wobbled once, then snapped back to a point and went dark.
Nothing.
He drummed his fingers on the table. It was still just wand light, anchored at the core of the holly, not free in the air. Animata Lumen was different. The book said the construct had to stand apart from the caster, fed by the core but not tied to the wand. He needed to find the spell's trigger, the word or motion that split the light away. Until he could make the glow detach, shaping it was impossible.
He turned the page. More diagrams, more margins packed with notes so tiny they curled into each other. Near the bottom, a single line stood out in darker ink: Incantation: Luxoleo. A second note followed, scrawled in cramped handwriting. Do not rush the split. Breath and clarity must meet at the peak of the flare. He frowned. The split. That had to be it. The moment the light let go of the wand. His eyes drifted to a side diagram showing a flare rising, cresting, then drifting loose like a ribbon slipping from a knot.
Harry closed the book and slid it aside, parchment tucked safely between the pages. His eyes were starting to sting. He pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his jumper. The world blurred, then sharpened again as he slid them back on.
He ran a hand through his hair and paused. It had definitely grown. Longer than he remembered. Maybe he should ask one of the twins to charm it shorter, unless he wanted to start looking like Sirius when he got out of Azkaban.
"Tempus," he muttered. The floating numbers read six-oh-four. Saturday dinner was already underway. Time to move.
Harry packed the books and slipped them back into his bag, careful not to crease the corners. As he left the library, he glanced at the nearby paintings out of habit. Most were quiet this time of day, their subjects dozing or watching him with half-lidded eyes. The corridor beyond was cold and quiet but he didn't mind.
It was already November 8th. As Harry headed down the quiet hallway, hands shoved in his pockets and bag bumping lightly against his side, a familiar unease crept in. The First Task was close. No one had said a word about it since the Champions were picked. Just that it would happen in November. He'd trained where he could, picked up spells, pushed himself harder than usual.
What was it going to be? And was he actually ready?
One step at a time. First, dinner with his friends. Then meditation, clear his head, find his center again. Tomorrow, the potion project would hit its final phase. Basilisk venom. Just thinking about it made his stomach tighten. But that was tomorrow. For now, he just had to keep moving forward.