After returning from the Grangers', my room at the orphanage looked exactly the same.
Four walls.
One window.
A bed.
A desk.
A wardrobe that still refused to close properly on the right side.
Nothing had changed.
That was slightly irritating.
Not because the Grangers' house had been large. It wasn't.
It wasn't magical either. No moving staircases, no portraits commenting on people walking past, no ceiling pretending to be the sky.
Just a house.
A normal one.
The kind where adults asked whether you wanted more tea, someone knew where the spare towels were, and the question of where you lived did not require consideration.
I sat down at the desk.
Hedwig was perched on the windowsill, watching me.
"Don't start."
She tilted her head.
"This is not an existential crisis."
She hooted.
"It's administration."
That did not seem to improve her opinion of the situation.
I opened the drawer.
The pouch lay where I had left it.
Bottomless.
Bought from Thimgrin for seventeen Galleons.
I still suspected I had overpaid.
I shook it lightly.
There were enough coins left inside that I would not have to worry about food, books, or most things the average Hogwarts student could think of for a very long time.
Yesterday, Mr Granger had asked:
"How much was left after that thousand?"
"I didn't notice a difference."
It had sounded funny at the time.
Today, slightly less so.
Because almost a year ago, I had entered the Peverell family vault, seen mountains of gold, jewellery and magical objects reaching almost to the ceiling...
...taken some money...
...and left.
Then I had spent the entire year wearing the signet of that same family.
Using its ancestral wand.
Reading Elias's notes.
Looking for traces of the Peverells in books.
And when someone asked me a few completely ordinary questions about the estate, I discovered something mildly embarrassing.
I had no idea what I had actually inherited.
I didn't know whether that vault was the only one.
I didn't know whether the Peverells owned land.
Buildings.
Contracts.
A house.
I knew I was the heir.
I did not know exactly what I was heir to.
I rested my elbows on the desk.
"It sounds worse when you list it."
Hedwig hooted.
"Thank you for the support."
The most irritating part was that I could not even pretend I had no idea where to start.
Thimgrin had told me on the first day that inventories existed.
Several of them.
I had asked when I could see them.
He had answered:
"Whenever you ask, Mr Peverell."
And I hadn't asked.
At the time, I had other things on my mind.
A wand.
Hogwarts.
Magic.
My own eyes.
Later, Quirrell.
Voldemort.
The forest.
Traces.
Compared to all that, a property register had not seemed particularly urgent.
That had been reasonable.
At least until two Muggle adults asked me a few normal questions and made me realize I could not answer half of them.
I looked at the signet.
White gold.
Black stone.
The Peverell crest.
Over the year, I had grown so used to its weight that I barely noticed it anymore.
That seemed slightly absurd now too.
I had proof that something belonged to me.
Perhaps it was finally worth finding out what.
I slipped the pouch into my pocket.
Hedwig immediately straightened.
"I'll be back before dinner."
She did not look convinced.
"I'm only going to Gringotts."
She hooted.
"Yes. Only."
Another hoot.
"The fact that the last 'only' ended with Hogwarts proves nothing."
She stared.
"We are not discussing this."
The caretaker sat behind the desk in the main room.
She was reading some sort of form.
I stopped by the door.
"I'm going out."
She looked up.
"Where?"
"Into the city."
Technically true.
"When will you be back?"
"Before dinner."
She looked at the clock.
"Don't be late."
"I'll try."
That was also technically something one could say.
I left.
London looked exactly the same as it had before Hogwarts.
Cars.
Buses.
People hurrying somewhere with expressions suggesting wherever they were going was not particularly pleasant.
A year ago, the magical world had seemed like something separated from everything I knew by a thin wall.
Now the Muggle part of the city felt strangely distant.
I passed through the Leaky Cauldron.
A few minutes later, I was standing in Diagon Alley.
This time, I did not stop.
A year ago, I had looked at everything.
The shops.
The wizards.
The magic hanging in the air.
Now I knew where to turn to avoid the group of tourists standing in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies.
I knew which stallholder tried to overcharge students.
I knew that if I walked too close to the potion ingredient shop, my clothes would smell like dried fish for the next half hour.
Progress.
Gringotts still dominated the street.
White marble.
Bronze doors.
Goblin guards.
I went inside.
The main hall was just as impressive as before.
Maybe slightly less.
After Hogwarts, scale stopped having quite the same effect.
I approached an empty counter.
The goblin did not look up immediately.
"Business?"
"I'd like access to my family vault."
"Number?"
"I don't know."
That made him raise his head.
"Family?"
"Peverell."
His gaze moved to my hand.
To the signet.
It stopped there for perhaps half a second.
Then he put down his quill.
"One moment, Mr Peverell."
He walked away.
I raised an eyebrow.
Last time had taken longer.
Less than two minutes later, Thimgrin emerged from a side passage.
He looked exactly the same.
Which, in his case, meant he still looked as though he remembered the construction of Gringotts' first vault and had not approved of it.
He stopped in front of me.
"Mr Peverell."
"Thimgrin."
His eyes moved over me.
"It has been almost a year."
"I didn't know you were counting the days."
"I am not."
"That's a relief."
He turned.
"Follow me."
I did.
"Good to see you too."
"I did not say it was good to see you."
"That's why I like you."
"That is concerning."
The journey down was just as unpleasant as before.
Gringotts carts had apparently been designed by a goblin who believed the human spine was overly attached to remaining in one position.
Thimgrin did not look bothered.
I tried not to either.
After several minutes, we stopped in front of the enormous doors.
Peverell Family.
I took my hand out of my pocket.
The black stone of the signet fit perfectly into the recess.
Magic moved through my finger.
A brief check.
Recognition.
The doors shuddered.
Then began to open.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Creaking exactly as they had the year before.
I looked at Thimgrin.
"You still haven't oiled them."
"This vault is several centuries old."
"That's not an answer."
"They are not the doors to my home."
"You have no sense of responsibility."
"I care for your family's wealth better than I care for my own life."
"You said that before."
"I stand by it."
The doors finally opened.
I looked inside.
Right.
Still absurd.
Piles of Galleons.
Gold.
Silver.
Chests.
Jewellery.
Artifacts.
Objects whose purpose I did not even attempt to guess.
High against one wall, something resembling a suit of armour reflected the dim light.
Farther back stood chests marked with runes.
The first time, I had seen the money.
Now I noticed everything else.
"Thimgrin."
"Yes?"
"How much of this has been catalogued?"
He looked at me.
"Everything."
I turned my head.
"Everything?"
"This is a bank."
I looked back into the chamber.
"You have a list of every object?"
"Naturally."
"Artifacts too?"
"Naturally."
"Documents?"
"Yes."
"Land?"
Thimgrin frowned.
"Gringotts does not maintain the complete register of wizarding land ownership."
I stopped.
"Who does?"
"The Ministry."
Right.
Of course.
I stepped into the vault.
I walked over to one of the lower piles of coins.
I did not need much.
I still had plenty of Galleons.
But I took another few hundred and put them into the pouch.
If I was going to start dealing with things outside Hogwarts, I preferred not to come back every time something turned out to cost more than expected.
Thimgrin watched me from the threshold.
He always remained on the other side.
I only noticed that now.
"You can't come in?"
"I can."
"But you don't."
"It is not my gold."
Fair.
I looked around again.
"I should properly go through the rest of this sometime."
Thimgrin remained silent.
I turned my head.
I knew that silence by now.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't nothing."
"Mr Peverell—"
"Thimgrin."
He sighed.
"Would you like access to the documentation concerning the family estate?"
I stared at him for a moment.
"To what?"
"The documentation concerning the Peverell family estate."
"We have that?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Thimgrin looked genuinely surprised by the question.
"You did not ask."
I closed my eyes.
Only for a second.
"I came here as a child who had just discovered he'd inherited an extinct family."
"Yes."
"And you decided the documents weren't worth mentioning."
"You asked for an inheritance test."
"Yes."
"We performed the test."
"Then I asked about the vault."
"I showed you the vault."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
"I'm beginning to understand why goblins make good bankers."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
"Even better."
I sighed.
"Fine. I want to see the documentation."
"Banking records?"
"There's more than one kind?"
"Naturally."
Of course.
"What are the options?"
Thimgrin began counting on his fingers.
"Assets deposited with Gringotts. Investments. Financial agreements. Wills held in custody. Obligations owed to the bank. Obligations owed by the bank to the family. Inventories of vault contents. Property deeds deposited by your ancestors."
"That sounds like a lot of paper."
"Yes."
"And the complete register?"
"The Ministry of Magic."
"Which department?"
Thimgrin looked at me.
"The Ministry of Magic."
"That's a building."
"Yes."
"So you don't know."
"Gringotts is not responsible for the organisation of British administration."
"Helpful."
"I am not charging you for that advice."
"Yet."
The corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
Suspicious.
In the end, I did not take any documents with me.
Thimgrin informed me that if I truly wanted a complete picture of the estate, it would be more sensible to obtain an up-to-date extract from the Ministry first and compare it with Gringotts' records afterward.
It sounded irritatingly reasonable.
We were returning to the main hall when I heard a voice.
"Mr Peverell."
I stopped.
I did not know the voice personally.
But I knew enough about its owner.
I turned.
Lucius Malfoy looked exactly as a man should look when his son had spent the entire year describing him with a mixture of pride and mild fear of disappointing him.
Tall.
Pale blond hair.
Expensive robes.
A cane topped with a silver serpent's head.
He stood several steps away.
He was not smiling broadly.
He did not need to.
He inclined his head.
Not low.
Not excessively.
Simply the appropriate amount.
I returned the gesture.
"Mr Malfoy."
His gaze moved to Thimgrin.
Then to me.
To the signet.
"We have not yet had the opportunity to be formally introduced."
"No."
"Lucius Malfoy."
"Oliver Peverell."
"Of course."
Right.
Draco definitely took after him.
Thimgrin looked at me.
"Mr Peverell."
"I'll manage."
The goblin inclined his head.
Lucius watched him leave.
He did not comment immediately.
"Draco has mentioned you."
"I hope not too often."
The corner of Lucius's mouth moved slightly.
"Often enough."
"That doesn't sound reassuring."
"He has a tendency toward detailed reports."
"I noticed."
A short silence.
Lucius looked at my hand.
"The signet."
"Yes."
"I haven't seen it in many years."
That was interesting.
"Did you know the previous owner?"
The question came out faster than I had intended.
Lucius raised one eyebrow.
"Not personally."
So not Elias.
Or he did not want to say.
I did not press.
His gaze returned to my face.
"I must admit, news of the Peverell name's return has attracted a certain amount of interest."
"I can imagine."
"Your family was believed extinct for a very long time."
"Apparently prematurely."
"An accurate description."
He said nothing more.
He did not ask about my eyes.
He did not ask about my parents.
He did not ask about the vault.
That almost drew more attention than if he had.
"Draco enjoyed himself this year," he said after a moment.
"That's an interesting way to put it."
"He claims Hogwarts was more interesting than he expected."
"That sounds more believable."
Lucius studied me for a moment.
"I attribute some of that to your company."
"I'm not sure whether that's a compliment."
"It can be both."
Yes.
Definitely Draco's father.
He moved slowly toward one of the side columns.
Not exactly leaving.
More making sure the conversation was no longer taking place in the middle of the passage.
I followed several steps.
"He also mentioned," Lucius said, "that you spend your holidays in a Muggle orphanage."
There it was.
"Yes."
Lucius's expression did not change.
"I admit I found that unusual."
"Which part?"
His gaze moved to the signet.
"The heir to one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain."
Then toward the side passage I had just come from.
"In possession of a private estate."
Back to me.
"And yet remaining under the care of a Muggle institution."
A pause.
"An unusual arrangement."
"The law has a sense of humour."
Lucius raised an eyebrow slightly.
"British law has many qualities. Humour would not be the first I would list."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"That's exactly why I'm trying to work out what my options actually are."
"Of course."
He did not sound surprised.
"Being underage can be an exceptionally inconvenient legal condition."
"I've noticed."
"Especially for someone who can own property, but cannot necessarily decide freely where he lives."
So the Grangers' questions had hit upon something magical law genuinely treated as a separate problem.
"Did Draco tell you about that too?"
"No."
Lucius looked at me calmly.
"Such situations are not unheard of among old families."
Ah.
Probing.
Not aggressive.
Not even especially hidden.
Lucius Malfoy was simply checking how much I knew about my own position.
"I'm already looking into it."
"Sensible."
"The Ministry."
For a moment, something that might have been amusement appeared in his eyes.
"Good luck."
"That sounds like I'll need it."
"With the Ministry?"
This time, he actually smiled slightly.
"Always."
Fair.
Lucius adjusted his grip on the cane.
"If you require information concerning the customs of old families which official records may not consider worth explaining..."
A pause.
"The Malfoys possess a rather extensive library."
An offer.
Not an invitation.
Not a favour.
An offer.
I remembered it.
"Thank you."
"Think nothing of it."
That was not true.
We both knew it.
Lucius inclined his head.
"Mr Peverell."
"Mr Malfoy."
He turned away.
I watched him for several seconds.
Interesting man.
Dangerous.
But interesting.
I visited the Ministry two days later.
Not because I needed two days to prepare.
I needed one day to answer Hedwig's letters.
I mean people's letters.
Hedwig merely supervised the process.
The Ministry was less impressive once you knew the Department of Mysteries was somewhere beneath the building.
It still looked good.
The Atrium.
Fireplaces.
Witches and wizards moving in every direction.
Paper aeroplanes flying overhead.
The fountain.
People who looked as though they had regretted their career choice since breakfast.
I stood in the middle for a moment.
I had been here before.
Except that last time two Ministry employees had been leading me.
I had not needed to find anything.
I knew where the Department of Mysteries was.
Roughly.
I more or less knew how to reach the Wizengamot chambers.
I knew where, in several years, Harry would run around with a group of teenagers trying not to get killed by Death Eaters.
I had absolutely no idea where houses were registered.
Wonderful.
I looked around.
Information.
There was a sign.
I approached.
A woman of perhaps fifty sat behind the desk.
Glasses on a thin chain.
Three stacks of parchment.
A cup of tea that looked older than I was.
She looked up.
"Yes?"
"I'm looking for the department that handles family estates."
"Which part?"
I stopped.
"The estate."
"Inheritance?"
"Among other things."
"Property?"
"That too."
"Succession registry?"
"Probably."
She looked at me over her glasses.
"Those are three different things."
Of course they were.
"I want to check everything that formally belongs to my family."
That changed the way she looked at me.
"Family?"
"Peverell."
Her eyes immediately dropped to the signet.
Then returned to my face.
"Peverell?"
"Yes."
She said nothing for a moment.
Then reached beneath the counter.
She pulled out a small card.
"Office of Family Estates and Succession. Level Four. West Wing."
"Thank you."
"Ask for a senior registrar."
I stopped.
"Standard procedure?"
"No."
Right.
"Thank you again."
I started walking.
"Mr Peverell."
I turned my head.
The woman was still looking at the signet.
"Take a number at the entrance."
"Now that sounds more like government."
She did not smile.
Tough crowd.
The Office of Family Estates and Succession looked less impressive than its name suggested.
A long corridor.
Six doors.
Benches.
Several people waiting with folders on their laps.
And a small metal mechanism by the entrance.
I took a number.
Forty-seven.
I looked at the board.
Thirty-two.
Fantastic.
I sat down.
After nineteen minutes, I was beginning to understand Voldemort a little better.
After thirty-two, I was wondering whether magic could speed up bureaucracy.
After forty-one, I decided that if it could, the Ministry was deliberately refusing to use it.
"Forty-seven."
I stood.
I entered the room.
An older man with ash-grey hair sat behind the desk.
He looked at the slip.
Then at me.
"Business?"
"Full extract of family assets and succession status."
"Application?"
"I don't have one."
He sighed.
Of course.
"Form S-Seven."
"Where do I get it?"
"Information desk."
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
"They told me to come here."
"Without the form?"
"Yes."
He frowned.
"Name?"
"Peverell."
Silence.
The older man looked at the signet.
Then very slowly put down his quill.
"I see."
I doubted it.
But fine.
He stood.
"Wait here a moment."
He disappeared through a door at the back.
He did not return for almost five minutes.
When he did, he was carrying a thin black folder.
Too thin.
That was my first thought.
After what I had seen at Gringotts, I had expected something the size of a Potions textbook.
He placed it on the desk.
"Oliver Peverell?"
"Yes."
"Place your signet on the document, please."
He opened the first page.
At the bottom was a black circle.
I pressed the stone against it.
The parchment flashed.
The ink shifted.
One word appeared.
Confirmed.
The senior registrar nodded.
"That will do."
"Good to know the Ministry trusts jewellery."
"Not jewellery."
He looked at the signet.
"Succession magic."
Fair.
He slid the folder toward me.
"This is the current abbreviated register."
"Abbreviated?"
"The complete one occupies seven volumes."
I stared at him.
"I'm beginning to miss the vault."
"A common reaction."
I opened the first page.
PEVERELL FAMILY
Status: active.
That was new.
A year ago, most of the world had believed the family extinct.
Below it:
Recognized heir: Oliver Peverell
Succession status: confirmed
Last registered representative: Elias Peverell
My finger stopped on the name.
Only for a moment.
I continued.
A list of accounts.
Deposits.
Land.
Holdings whose names meant nothing to me.
Two buildings in magical London that had been rented out for decades.
Several plots of land.
One old warehouse.
"Why didn't Gringotts tell me about this?"
The registrar shrugged.
"I don't know what Gringotts records."
Logical.
I turned the page.
Historical rights.
Several entries marked expired.
One suspended.
My finger stopped.
Family representation in the Wizengamot — inactive.
I looked up.
"What does that mean?"
The senior registrar looked over.
"Which entry?"
"The Wizengamot."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Exactly what it says."
"The Peverell family has a seat in the Wizengamot?"
"It has a right of representation."
"That sounds very similar."
"It isn't."
"Of course."
He pointed to the line below.
"The right remains attached to the family, but it has not been activated for many years."
"By me?"
"By anyone."
"So I can activate it?"
He looked at me.
Then at my face.
Then back at the document.
"Not at your age."
Fair.
"When?"
"Magical majority, provided the remaining requirements are still satisfied."
"What requirements?"
"Separate department."
I looked at him.
"Naturally."
He did not look amused.
I turned the page.
More entries.
Several that meant nothing to me.
And then:
Peverell ancestral residence.
I stopped.
Read it again.
Ancestral residence.
Below:
Ownership status: active.
Owner: Peverell Family.
Current heir: Oliver Peverell.
Further down.
Location: not disclosed in public registry.
I frowned.
My finger moved lower.
Protection classification: hereditary / private / pre-Ministry.
I read it again.
"Pre-Ministry?"
The registrar looked over.
"Older than the Ministry."
"I understand that."
"Then?"
"Where is it?"
He looked at the document.
"I don't know."
I raised my eyes.
"This is your registry."
"Yes."
"You register a house whose location you don't know?"
"We register ownership."
"That doesn't sound particularly useful."
"We are not a cartographic office."
I looked at him for a second.
I was beginning to like him.
A little.
"The Ministry genuinely doesn't know where the Peverell ancestral residence is?"
"Formally, we know it exists."
"We've established that."
"The ownership was never dissolved, sold or seized. Succession magic continues to recognize the property as part of the family's estate."
"And the address?"
"None."
"Who removed it?"
"It doesn't appear to have been removed."
I looked at the page again.
"Then?"
"Most likely it was never entered."
That was more interesting.
"How do you register a property without an address?"
The registrar leaned back slightly.
"If the deed predates the Ministry's addressing system, very easily."
"How old is it?"
"I don't know."
"Can we check?"
"The complete register."
"Seven volumes."
"Yes."
Of course.
I ran my thumb along the edge of the page.
The Peverell ancestral residence.
I had not known it existed.
I had a home.
Probably.
Somewhere.
I did not know where.
Wonderful.
"I want a copy."
"Of the entire abbreviated register?"
"Yes."
"Three Galleons and eight Sickles."
I took out the pouch.
The senior registrar looked at it.
"Gringotts?"
"Yes."
"At least someone is making money from this."
I paid him.
For the first time that day, the man looked satisfied.
I returned to the orphanage later than planned.
Dinner had not started yet.
Technically, I had kept my word.
I entered my room.
Hedwig sat exactly where I had left her.
She looked at me.
"I'm not late."
She hooted.
"Slander."
I placed the folder on the desk.
The old surface sagged slightly beneath the weight of the parchment.
I sat down.
In front of me was a document stating that I owned land, buildings, money, historical rights and apparently even an ancestral residence whose location the Ministry itself did not know.
Yesterday, I could have described my inheritance approximately like this:
A lot of gold.
A signet.
Several things that were probably better left untouched.
Now the answer was slightly longer.
Land.
Buildings.
Historical rights.
An inactive right of representation in the Wizengamot.
Seven volumes of documentation.
And a house whose address was unknown to the office responsible for confirming that I owned it.
I looked at the peeling paint on the wall.
Then at the crooked wardrobe.
Then at the folder.
I opened it again.
Peverell ancestral residence.
Right.
At least now I knew what I was looking for.