The two brothers exchanged a couple of playful jabs. If Dudley had initially managed to get along with Harry in a somewhat normal way, it was likely because, a year ago, Harry had nearly obliterated the concrete earth elemental at Number 4 Privet Drive. That incident had undoubtedly left Dudley terrified… though, well, that probably didn't quite count as normal interaction.
Still, there was now a semblance of a proper cousinly bond between Dudley and Harry. Part of it stemmed from the changes in Harry over the past year, and part from the candies and weight-loss potions Harry had sent back. Perhaps the shift in Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's attitudes toward Harry also played a significant role in influencing Dudley.
All in all, Harry was quite pleased with this change—at least he didn't have to teach Dudley a lesson the way he once did with Draco to make him behave.
In the hallway, Harry came across the portraits of the Potter family ancestors. It wasn't exactly his first time seeing them; he'd glimpsed many of their faces during last year's battle with Voldemort.
"I'm delighted to feel the breath of life in this house again, child," said the portrait of Fleamont Potter, Harry's grandfather, gazing at him with a kindly smile. "It's a pity I didn't get to see you grow up. Your grandmother and I were quite old when we had your father, and we only lived long enough to see him marry."
"Not long after James's wedding, Fleamont and I were taken by dragon pox…" said Euphemia, Harry's grandmother, her portrait tinged with regret. But then her expression brightened. "Still, seeing you grown up now isn't half bad. Are you planning to move back in?"
"Yes, Grandmother," Harry nodded. "I'm planning to live here."
"Ha! That's splendid news!" chimed in an elderly figure in an ancient robe, grinning broadly. "I thought this house would stay in ruins forever, crumbling to dust… You won't regret coming back, lad."
"And you are?" Harry asked.
"Henry Potter, your great-grandfather," Fleamont introduced.
"Indeed, your great-grandfather, as genuine as they come," Henry said with a cheerful jest. "Anyway, we've been keeping an eye on this place, especially the Potter family vault. Only direct bloodline heirs can enter it. Try to break in by force, and you'll get nothing."
"No one else has been inside since twelve years ago," Fleamont added. "Though, I wouldn't get your hopes up too much. The most valuable thing in the family is that Invisibility Cloak—is it still around?"
"It is," Harry nodded. "Does it have any secrets?"
"No idea!"
This time, Fleamont and Henry answered in unison.
"When I inherited it from my father, it was already like that," Henry sighed. "Unlike other invisibility cloaks, it doesn't wear out over time, can deflect some spells, and its concealment is flawless. Don't bother asking the other portraits either. That question's been a Potter family mystery for generations. We all ask it, and we all don't know."
Classic Potter.
"Point is, as long as it's useful, that's what matters," Fleamont said earnestly. "Don't worry about where it came from. If it works, it's good."
"Fair enough," Harry sighed.
The Potter ancestors, it seemed, weren't particularly inclined toward scholarly pursuits. Or perhaps there had been one or two who dabbled in magical research, but none had made any headway with the Invisibility Cloak.
Dumbledore, at last, found himself in his element—not as a glorified repairman or porter, but as a true master of magical knowledge, playing a pivotal role. He dispelled several traps left by Ministry employees to deter overzealous wizards from breaking into the Potter residence. Among them were a few particularly nasty curses, hidden so well that anyone less skilled or experienced would have missed them and suffered the consequences.
"Do Aurors use curses or hexes this powerful too?" Harry asked with interest, watching Dumbledore neutralize the final trap, which left a deep black crater in the wall. "This seems like dark magic."
"You must understand, Harry," Dumbledore said, straightening up, "during wartime, especially in those dark days twelve years ago, many things ceased to matter as much… Survival came first."
"I get it," Harry nodded.
The pressure of survival, the hatred born from the deaths of family and comrades—these were all too common in times of war.
"Here you are, Harry," Dumbledore said with a smile, stepping aside to reveal the entrance to the Potter family's underground vault. "I think it's best you go in alone. I'll check the rest of the house to ensure everything's safe and free of hidden dangers."
"Thank you, and sorry for the trouble," Harry said with a slight bow.
"Not at all, Harry."
Dumbledore had helped him immensely, and as the old wizard had requested, Harry treated him as a friend in private—a dynamic that felt natural to both.
After watching Dumbledore leave, Harry placed his hand on the door's handle. It was some kind of metal, neither iron nor copper, cold to the touch. Two seconds later, it suddenly grew scalding hot, and the door… opened.
Well, if you could call the entire door, along with Harry, sinking downward into the ground "opening." Harry guessed he'd passed some sort of verification. If he'd failed, the door might have swung inward, but that would've been the wrong path, likely riddled with traps to doom any intruder.
Only a verified heir would descend with the door to the true Potter family vault. When the descent finally stopped, the door swung inward automatically.
Whoosh! Whoosh whoosh whoosh!
As Harry pushed the door fully open, a long corridor stretched before him. Torches lined the walls, igniting one by one from the nearest point as he stepped forward. At the corridor's end, a faint blue glow shimmered.
Despite no one having entered this place in at least twelve years, there was no musty smell or stale air. The air was fresh, breathable, even carrying a faint pinewood scent.
Harry walked down the corridor, noting that the walls weren't bare. They were adorned with murals depicting the Potter family's history. The first showed a wizard standing at a table laden with vials and bottles, dressed in peculiar robes and a large hat. Harry guessed this was the ancestor who founded the Potter family, renowned for his potion-making prowess.
The subsequent murals followed a similar style, chronicling the lives and achievements of notable family members—key moments that defined their legacy. For Harry, deciphering them was a mix of guesswork and fascination. It was, admittedly, quite engaging.
When he reached the chamber at the corridor's end, he saw a massive bronze disc suspended from the ceiling by four thick chains. At its center burned a strikingly beautiful blue-white flame, illuminating the entire room.
By all logic, such a massive flame should have radiated unbearable heat, making it impossible to approach. Yet Harry stood directly before the disc, gazing up at the fire, and felt no warmth at all—as if the flame were merely an illusion.
But when he tossed a piece of parchment from his dragonhide pouch into the blue-white fire, it vanished in the blink of an eye, burned to nothing without even a trace of ash.
"…Gubraithian Fire?" Harry murmured, frowning as he recalled a vague description from a book he'd read.
The text had little to say about it, describing it less as a flame and more as an advanced spell—a magical fire that burned without fuel, never extinguished, and could only be conjured and controlled by the most skilled wizards. A rare treasure, yet here it was, used by the Potter ancestors to light their vault. Practical, if nothing else.
On the wall opposite the corridor hung a massive tapestry. Harry approached and examined it—a family tree of the Potters. Woven in gold and crimson threads, likely from some magical creature's fur, each name shimmered with silver thread mixed with unicorn hair. At the very top, Harry found his own name.
The tree was vast, a testament to the Potter family's long history. Tracing it downward to its roots, Harry found the first name: Linfred of Stinchcombe. From Linfred branched seven lines, the first marked by Hardwin Potter, married to Iolanthe Peverell. Harry's own place was at the end of this branch.
Scattered across the tapestry were several charred holes, likely marking those disowned or expelled from the family. Or perhaps… Squibs? Harry couldn't be sure.
The vault itself was about the size he'd expected. To the left stood a row of stone shelves, to the right six tall bookcases filled with countless books (Harry decided to save those for last). Several wide stone tables stood around, cluttered with an assortment of bizarre objects.
He didn't linger long at the tapestry, instead heading to the stone shelves. Harry struggled to describe them—especially one stone table, possibly a potion workbench, which he suspected had been used by Linfred centuries ago. A label on the table's edge confirmed his guess.
There were also potion recipes, their parchment yellowed with age but preserved perfectly by magic. Harry recognized some as Linfred's most famous creations, like Skele-Gro and Pepperup Potion—shining examples of the Potter family's legacy. The shelves were filled with such relics of ancestral glory.
For instance, a neat row of Merlin Orders, awarded by the Wizengamot, sat in elegant wooden boxes, each accompanied by a note detailing the reason for the honor. There was also a pure gold goblet, seized during a goblin rebellion, with the inscription "Never Returning to Gringotts" etched on its base. Similar items abounded.
Harry: "…"
He was starting to understand why his ancestors opted to build a private vault beneath their manor instead of entrusting their treasures to Gringotts. Many of these items, if seen by goblins, would likely spark… unrest.
Or rather, the Potter vault held a startling number of things that could cause a stir if revealed.
On one table, Harry found a sword, its description claiming it was a replica of the Sword of Gryffindor—forged by goblins obsessed with the original, only to be "acquired" by a Potter.
Yeah, pretty shameless.
The shelves were piled with such curiosities, but after a cursory look, Harry lost interest and moved to a central stone table. Scanning it quickly, he picked up a delicate glass vial, about half the size of his palm, wrapped in tight chains. A dried bloodstain marked the exposed glass.
[1421: Oath with the Blacks Broken]
That was the only description, cryptic and devoid of context. Utterly mysterious.
He also found more dangerous items, like a dagger with dried blood on its blade, its handle inscribed with "For Curse-Breaking Experiments Only." The dark brown stains seemed permanently fixed, and beside it lay a thick stack of parchment.
Flipping through it, Harry found detailed notes on attempts to break a blood curse. The experiments had failed, and the cursed individual had transformed into a bird and flown away, never to return.
Since entering the wizarding world last year, Harry had heard nothing but praise for his parents and the Potter family. Even among their Muggle neighbors in Godric's Hollow, the Potters had a stellar reputation.
Most Potter children were sorted into Gryffindor, standing in opposition to Slytherins who prided themselves on pure-blood supremacy and scorned Muggle-born wizards. Whenever turmoil struck the wizarding world, the Potters consistently aligned with the majority, upholding justice and fighting for peace.
By all accounts, the family was virtuous—not evil, not prejudiced against Muggle-borns, and never producing rebels bent on overturning the wizarding world. Even the Muggle residents of Godric's Hollow spoke fondly of them, considering them ideal neighbors.
But honestly, many of the items Harry found in this vault would likely send Ministry Aurors into a panic if brought to light.
Most of the objects on this table were either remnants of forbidden experiments, highly dangerous magical artifacts, or outright dark magic items.
Well… Harry supposed it wasn't entirely fair to judge. Many of these things likely weren't banned centuries ago. This was simply the legacy of an ancient family.
Eagerly, Harry approached the bookcases he'd been saving for last. Protected by preservation charms, the books were free of dust or decay. He pulled one down at random. Its cover depicted a robed, monstrous figure in agony, its hands raised, its face like a desiccated corpse beneath a hood. The figure appeared dissected, half its body sliced open.
Soul Stitching: Defensive Applications
Unquestionably a dark magic tome, per the Ministry's classifications. Its pages, made from some unknown creature's hide, emitted a pained moan with each turn. Harry skimmed it. Despite its grand title, the content was crude—more like sewing a deer and a wolf together with needle and thread than true soul magic. It was filled with failed experiments, utterly worthless.
He grabbed another book, drawn by its title: The Curse-Bearing Capacity of Time-Turners.
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