I put the Black agreement aside with the Ministry certificate.
Over the next two days, neither document gave me any reason to change my mind. Section VI could wait. I had other things to investigate, and some of the paperwork I needed was already on my desk.
On the second afternoon, I came back from the bookshop with a book and what remained of the money I'd meant to spend on lunch.
Hedwig was waiting by the window. A letter from Draco lay beside her.
I spread the parchment out on the desk.
Draco wrote exactly as he spoke.
At length.
With conviction.
And with the unshakeable certainty that anything happening at Malfoy Manor ought to interest the rest of the world automatically.
I made my way through a description of one of his cousins' new brooms, a complaint about the rain, and almost an entire page about why Blaise had been 'unbearably pleased with himself' at some gathering.
What he was pleased about went unspecified.
Apparently, that wasn't important.
Only towards the end did anything useful appear.
Father mentioned your meeting at Gringotts.
I told him you've been spending an unusual amount of time in banks and at the Ministry lately.
He said that if you really are trying to find your family home, you ought to check how the Ministry classifies your care arrangements first.
I have no idea what one has to do with the other.
Father says you'll understand.
I think he does this on purpose.
I looked at the last sentence for a moment.
"Your father is irritating."
Hedwig hooted from the windowsill.
"Not yours. Draco's."
I returned to the letter.
Right at the end, Draco had added:
Mother says that if you really are spending the whole summer in a Muggle orphanage, you ought to visit us one day.
Father said he would not invite the Peverell heir through his own son's letter.
I therefore consider that precisely what he has just done.
You can come next week.
Just be warned: if you start talking to Father about old families, I'm leaving you both to it and going flying.
I laughed.
Quietly.
That was very Draco.
I put the letter down.
Then I reached for the list I'd made after reading the Ministry's extract from the register.
Guardianship — check the rules. No application.
That item was still waiting. First I'd dealt with the vaults, then the Black agreement had sent me to another office. None of that made the restrictions on where I could live any less relevant.
Lucius had already mentioned them during our conversation at the bank. Now he was reminding me through Draco.
I'd have liked to know whether he was being helpful or simply enjoyed being right.
I already knew I could own a house without having the right to move into it on my own. What I didn't know was what changing my care arrangements would involve, or how much authority a guardian would be given. I wasn't going to wait until after signing something to find out.
I wrote 'Ministry' beside the entry and slipped the list into my folder.
Tomorrow.
The next day, the woman at the information desk recognised me before I could introduce myself.
"Mr Peverell. Is this about the same agreement?"
"No. Today I'd like to check my own care arrangements and the rules about living in a house I own."
She put down her quill.
Then reached for a small directory beneath the counter.
"Current care arrangements?"
"A Muggle state institution."
She turned a few pages.
"Office for the Supervision of Underage Wizards. Level Two, Section C."
I wrote that down.
"And if the question is about living on my own property?"
Her finger stopped on the page.
"That depends on the question."
"Of course."
"If you're enquiring about ownership, the Office of Family Estates and Succession remains responsible. If you're asking about a change in a minor's permanent residence, you need the Supervision Office."
"Supervision, then."
"To begin with, yes."
I nodded.
"A form?"
She looked at me.
Almost suspiciously.
Then slowly reached beneath the counter.
She took out three sheets.
I stared at them.
"Three?"
"The first is for confirmation of your current status. The second is for access to your own care records. The third is for a consultation concerning a change of residence."
"I'm not applying to change anything."
"It's a consultation."
"And if I fill it in?"
"It's still a consultation."
"And if I sign the last page?"
"Then it's an application."
I looked at the form.
Then at her.
"That's a trap."
"That's a form."
"Same thing."
She didn't answer.
I took the papers.
The Office for the Supervision of Underage Wizards was the worst place I'd visited in the Ministry so far.
Not because it was gloomy.
Quite the opposite.
There were toys.
That immediately made me suspicious.
A wooden dragon walked across a low table, flapping its wings and occasionally puffing out a tiny cloud of smoke.
In the corner, building blocks stacked themselves into a tower, toppled over, then started again.
Paper butterflies fluttered along the wall.
One landed on my shoulder.
I took it off.
It came back.
I took it off again.
It settled on my knee.
I gave up.
I was eleven.
That didn't mean I wanted to discuss my legal situation beside a teddy bear whose eyes followed me around the room.
I sat down.
A few minutes later, the door on the far side of the waiting room opened.
"Peverell?"
I stood.
The witch who'd called my name was younger than most of the officials I'd met recently. Perhaps in her early thirties. Her dark hair was tied back, and she carried a thin folder under one arm.
She looked at the form.
Then at me.
"Oliver Peverell?"
"Yes."
"Come in."
Her office was normal.
A desk.
Two chairs.
A cabinet.
No toys.
A relief.
I sat down.
She took the seat opposite.
"You'd like to check your current care arrangements."
"Yes."
"Because of problems where you're living?"
"No."
Her quill paused above the parchment.
"No?"
"I'm not here to make a complaint."
"I see."
She studied me for a moment.
"Then why?"
"I recently found out that I own a family property."
"Ah."
That was the first 'ah' I'd heard at the Ministry in days that actually explained anything.
"You want to move."
"I want to know whether I can."
She seemed to like that answer better.
She set the form aside and opened the folder.
My name was on the front.
I didn't like how many places in London now had folders labelled Peverell.
"You are currently in the care of a non-magical state institution."
"Yes."
"You have no individually appointed legal guardian."
"That's right."
"Your existing arrangements remained in place after you were identified as a wizard. We found no one with an automatic prior claim to guardianship, nor any previously appointed magical guardian."
My parents weren't here.
I didn't know my grandparents.
I had no aunt.
No uncle.
No one who ought to turn up out of nowhere.
At least, not according to the records.
"Could the Ministry have simply taken me away?"
"No."
She answered immediately.
Good.
"We don't remove children from non-magical families or institutions simply because they turn out to be witches or wizards."
"Good to know."
"In certain circumstances, however, care arrangements can be changed."
"That's why I'm here."
She nodded.
"In your case, there are several possibilities. The first is the simplest. You do nothing."
"Sounds good."
"Your current arrangements remain in place until you come of age, or until another reason for changing them arises."
"Which means, in practice, that I keep living where I am."
"Yes."
"Next option."
"An individual magical guardian."
I frowned.
"Chosen by me?"
"You may name someone you'd prefer. That doesn't mean they will automatically be approved."
"Who approves them?"
"The Ministry."
Naturally.
"Would they have to live with me?"
"Usually. It depends on the arrangement."
"What would they be allowed to do?"
"Represent you legally in matters requiring an adult's involvement. Give consent for certain things you cannot do independently as a minor. Make decisions concerning your residence, education and, in emergencies, medical treatment."
"Finances?"
She looked at me more closely.
"What about them?"
"Would a guardian get access to the Peverell estate?"
"Not automatically."
That wasn't the answer I'd wanted.
"And otherwise?"
The corner of her mouth twitched.
"That depends on how the guardianship is established. Where substantial family assets are involved, personal guardianship is usually kept separate from the management of the estate."
"I'd like to know how to guarantee that separation."
She put down her quill.
"The extent of the guardian's authority should be specified when the guardianship is established. Appointing a guardian does not, in itself, mean handing over your estate."
"But they could be given the right to make some financial decisions?"
"If they were authorised to do so."
I nodded. This was exactly the sort of thing I wanted to know before signing anything.
"A guardianship can be established with very limited powers."
"No access to the vaults?"
"Yes."
"No authority to dispose of family assets?"
"Yes."
"No right to sign agreements on behalf of the family?"
"Ordinary guardianship does not automatically confer that sort of authority in any case."
"Good."
"But that person would still be your guardian."
"Exactly."
She wrote something down.
I couldn't see what.
Probably: exhausting.
"There is another possibility," she said.
I looked at her.
"Living independently?"
"Institutional supervision. Not quite the same thing."
I rested my forearms on the desk and waited.
"In practice, this is an arrangement for underage witches and wizards who have a safe home of their own and sufficient means to support themselves, but no one living with them permanently."
I sat a little straighter.
"So I wouldn't have to live with a guardian?"
"Not in every case. But this arrangement usually applies to fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds. The property must be assessed as safe. An adult witch or wizard must provide supervision, though they need not live on the premises. Access to medical assistance, a stable environment and a favourable assessment are also required."
"And at eleven?"
"At your age, this isn't an option."
A pity. It had sounded promising for a moment.
I wrote the requirements on the back of my own sheet of paper. Then returned to a question whose answer might be useful sooner.
"Suppose I have an ancestral home."
"Suppose?"
"I haven't found it yet."
Her quill stopped again.
"You haven't found your own house."
"It's a little more complicated than that."
"Address?"
"I don't know it."
"Town?"
"No."
"County?"
"Not yet."
She stared at me.
"Is the property registered with the Ministry?"
"Yes."
"And you don't have an address?"
"There wasn't one in the register either."
A longer silence.
"I see."
"I don't think you do."
"You're right."
Fair.
"Can I at least visit it?"
"If you own it and no separate restriction applies, then as a general rule, yes."
"On my own?"
"That depends on the property and its conditions of access."
"What if it's protected by family magic?"
"That may be relevant."
"And if there are servants living there?"
She glanced at the file.
"That too."
Something, at least.
"Can I spend a day there?"
"Potentially."
"Several days?"
"Then we begin to get into questions of residence."
"What if I go out in the morning and return to the orphanage for the night?"
"That is not a change of permanent residence."
I wrote that down. Simply entering the house wouldn't require me to change my entire legal situation first.
She ran a finger down the documents.
"Put simply: you may own property. You may exercise your rights of succession within the limits laid down for a minor. You may visit the property, provided access is not subject to separate restrictions. Recognising it as your permanent residence, however, would require a change to your current care arrangements."
"So I can go and look around the house, then come back to sleep at the orphanage."
"As a general rule, yes. Just remember that the rules of the institution currently responsible for your care still apply."
I nodded.
It wasn't the answer I'd most wanted, but at least I knew what it depended on.
I didn't apply to change my care arrangements.
I didn't need a guardian.
I didn't need Ministry supervision.
At least, not yet.
I did take a copy of the relevant rules.
Seventeen pages.
I wasn't sure I'd ever read them.
I probably would.
That was the worst part.
I was about to leave the Ministry when I remembered why I'd started thinking about any of this in the first place.
The house.
The fact that I couldn't legally move into it yet did nothing to change one rather important point.
I still didn't know where it was.
I changed direction.
The Office of Family Estates and Succession was exactly where it had been last time.
Unfortunately, so were the staff.
The senior registrar saw me and stopped writing.
"Mr Peverell."
"I'm beginning to suspect I come here too often."
"I won't argue."
"I don't want the full register today."
He looked genuinely surprised.
"Really?"
"Really."
"What, then?"
"The records for one property."
The surprise vanished.
"The Peverell ancestral home."
"Yes."
He put down his quill.
"This may take a while. Please sit down."
He disappeared between the shelves. I took out my notebook and found the page with my questions about the house.
A few days earlier, I'd been looking at the family's general register.
I already knew the house existed.
That it still belonged to the Peverells.
That the maintenance fund remained active.
That its protections were still officially functioning.
That its location wasn't in the public register.
That had been enough at the time.
Now I needed something more practical.
A direction.
After fifteen minutes or so, the registrar returned with two folders and a thick ledger.
Not seven volumes.
Nice.
He set them in front of me.
"Administrative records for the property and associated lands. Some of the oldest entries have not been transferred into the current system."
"How old are the oldest?"
"Not all of them are dated. In some cases, you'll have to rely on later copies."
I drew my chair closer.
Then opened the first folder.
I recognised the opening pages.
Ownership: House Peverell.
Status: active ancestral seat.
Publicly listed location: withheld.
Protective enchantments: pre-Ministry classification.
Administrative access: restricted.
Updates followed.
One from Elias's time.
Several earlier ones.
The deeper I went, the older the language became.
First the Ministry.
Then the Wizards' Council.
The records before that hardly looked like government documents at all.
More like later confirmations of something that had existed long before the institution attempting to record it.
I turned a few pages.
Then found the first entry that came close to describing a location.
The ancestral seat lies within the boundaries of the historic family estate identified in earlier registers as the Peverell Lands.
I read it again.
Then looked at the registrar.
"That isn't a location."
"It is."
"It's a piece of land named after the people who owned it."
"Older registers were less standardised."
"What would 'the Peverell Lands' mean today?"
"I don't know."
Wonderful.
A longer note followed.
The historic boundaries of the estate have undergone numerous alterations. Portions of the land have been subdivided, sold or forfeited under separate legal instruments. The ancestral seat has remained in the family's uninterrupted ownership.
So the Peverells had once owned a larger area.
Over time, it had diminished, piece by piece.
The house had stayed.
That, at least, made sense.
"Do you have old maps?"
"In the cartographic archive."
The registrar gave me a room number. I wrote it in the margin, but stayed with the folders for now. I didn't want to leave yet another office before finishing the material I'd already been given.
I turned the page.
The next significant document was dated 1867.
At the request of the representative of House Peverell, the public approach road to the ancestral seat has been removed from the record.
I raised my eyebrows.
Then read on.
Physical access is preserved by way of the hereditary road and passages authorised by the estate's protections.
Well, now.
"What's a hereditary road?"
The registrar leaned over and read the entry.
"An old term. It usually means a road or magical passage that can only be used if the protections recognise the person attempting to enter."
"By blood? A signet?"
"Either. Or possibly something else. This entry doesn't specify the condition."
I looked at the black stone. The signet alone hadn't been enough at the third vault. I had no reason to assume the house would be simpler.
"So you could stand beside the entrance and not see it."
"If that's how the protections were constructed."
I read the passage again. It didn't give me a way to the house, but at least it explained why an ordinary address might not be enough.
Further down were two more lines:
Public access point removed.
Boundary marker retained in accordance with the terms of the deed.
My finger stopped.
"Is there a description of this marker anywhere?"
The registrar consulted the ledger, checked the deed number and pointed to the next page.
There was a space for it.
Blank.
"The older records are incomplete."
"A boundary stone? A magical mark?"
"The term could refer to either. Without a description, we can't establish what was used here."
I added the question to my notebook. After so many empty spaces, I was beginning to suspect that some of the information had never been intended for the Ministry at all.
The next two documents were practically useless.
A boundary adjustment.
A dispute over access to a stream.
One of the Peverells had apparently spent seven years arguing with a neighbour over roughly thirty feet of land.
Good to know certain traits ran in the family.
Then I found a document from 1811.
A short one.
The continued right of passage across the neighbouring estate for access to the family road is hereby confirmed.
I stopped.
A neighbouring estate.
At last, something that wasn't simply called Peverell.
My gaze moved down the page.
Ashcombe.
I didn't recognise it.
Further down:
Owner: the Fawley family.
Fawley.
That name I knew.
Not from any particularly important part of the story.
Just one of the old names of wizarding Britain.
"Does this estate still exist?"
The registrar spread his hands.
"Different register."
"Of course."
"But if I find Ashcombe..."
"You may find the estate's former boundary."
"And look for the marker."
"If it remains in the same place. Check the later boundary alterations."
I held the page with a finger to keep my place. At last, I had a name I could look for in other documents.
I made a note.
Ashcombe — Fawley — 1811.
That was already more than I'd had an hour earlier.
I kept reading.
In 1843, the Fawleys had sold part of the land.
In 1889, the boundary had changed.
In 1902, the Ministry had sent an inspector.
The report was three lines long.
Site inspection attempted.
Access to the property itself unobtainable.
Beneath that, in another hand:
The representative of House Peverell has confirmed that the protective enchantments are functioning correctly. No further inspection required.
I read it.
Then again.
I started laughing.
The registrar looked at me.
"What?"
"You went to check whether the house existed."
"Apparently."
"You couldn't find it."
"So the report suggests."
"And a Peverell told you that if you couldn't find it, the protections were working."
The registrar read the entry.
"Apparently."
"I like that."
"I'm sure you do."
I turned the page.
The next significant document was much more recent.
I recognised Elias's signature at the bottom. I'd seen it on accounts in the document vault, but this time it was the wording that held my attention.
I confirm the continued operation of the protective enchantments and the property's continued status as an active ancestral seat. I do not consent to an update of the public access point.
Elias Peverell.
I went back to the second sentence.
My father hadn't overlooked the missing address. He'd been given an opportunity to supply the information and refused.
In 1974. Several years before I was born, and before my parents disappeared.
I ran a finger along the edge of the page.
I didn't know whether he had been following a family custom or had a specific reason for not making the house any easier to reach. But the decision had been deliberate. That gap in the register told me more about him than many a completed form could have.
I wrote down the date and document number. I wanted a copy of this one too.
The following documents were later, but added nothing new.
After Elias's disappearance, there was a long gap.
No active representative.
The fund kept operating.
The status remained unchanged.
The house didn't cease to exist simply because no one turned up at the Ministry.
And then:
Current year — succession confirmed.
Me.
I closed the folder.
"The second one?"
"Boundary alterations and associated properties."
I opened it.
Plot numbers.
Names.
Sales.
Old units of area that no sensible person ought to be using any more.
After twenty minutes, my eyes began to ache.
An ordinary ache.
No magic involved.
It was almost nostalgic.
Then I saw the name.
Ashcombe Wood.
I looked back.
Read it again.
Not Ashcombe Estate.
Not an estate.
A wood.
The document concerned an adjustment to the boundary between former Fawley land and part of the Peverells' historic holdings.
A later annotation appeared below.
The area now lies within the administrative boundaries of Wiltshire.
I went still.
Wiltshire.
I stared at the word.
Draco.
Malfoy Manor.
Also in Wiltshire.
Coincidence.
Probably.
Wizarding Britain wasn't that large.
Even so, I wrote:
Wiltshire — Ashcombe Wood.
My first geographical reference I could place on a modern map.
Not an address.
Not coordinates.
But a name.
And a county.
After days of looking at entries that effectively said somewhere, it was an enormous step forward.
"I need copies."
The registrar looked over.
"Of what?"
"The 1811 document. The deed removing the public road from the record. The one mentioning Ashcombe Wood. The confirmation Elias signed in 1974. And the boundary alterations concerning those lands."
He named a price. I reached for my pouch as he began marking the pages to be copied.
It was raining when I left the Ministry.
Ordinary London rain.
I stood beneath an awning for a moment, watching people walk past.
Wiltshire.
It wasn't close.
It wasn't absurdly far away either.
A train.
A bus.
Then probably on foot.
I was eleven.
That complicated matters in an irritatingly mundane way.
I couldn't Apparate into the woods.
I wasn't going to fly halfway across the country on a broom.
I could ask an adult.
McGonagall.
Dumbledore.
Even the Malfoys.
The last option was the easiest in terms of getting there.
And the worst for other reasons.
Lucius could probably find a way to take me to Wiltshire without any trouble.
He probably knew the Fawleys too.
The problem was that the Peverells had spent more than a century deliberately refusing to tell the Ministry how to reach their home.
I wasn't going to be the first to say:
"Don't worry, I'll show Malfoy the way."
Draco was my friend.
That didn't mean his father ought to know everything about the Peverells.
Especially things the Ministry didn't know.
No.
First, I needed to learn more.
Ashcombe.
The Fawleys.
The old boundary.
The marker.
The hereditary road.
Then transport.
I tucked the documents beneath my coat.
I didn't have a home yet.
I had roughly the right patch of woodland.
Progress.
Hedwig was waiting in my room. She moved to the edge of the windowsill as I spread the documents and a Muggle map of England across the desk.
I found Wiltshire easily enough.
It was large.
Of course.
Ashcombe Wood wasn't marked.
Also of course.
I traced a finger over the map.
Salisbury.
Swindon.
Chippenham.
Smaller towns and villages.
Woods.
Roads.
Nothing.
The name might be old.
It might only be used in magical records.
It might have vanished from Muggle maps two hundred years ago.
I needed a more detailed map. Preferably one showing the boundaries of the old estate before its various parts had been sold off.
I set the map on the bed and reached for the catalogue of the document vault. Beside it, I placed the inventory of Elias's papers that Thimgrin had given me.
This time, I had something to look for.
Ashcombe. Fawley. Boundaries. Right of passage.
I copied the names onto a separate sheet and began with the section on property deeds. The descriptions alone weren't enough to identify the right document. I did, however, mark a few entries in the margin. I'd be able to request specific records rather than everything the bank knew about the Peverells.
The main vault had its own inventory. Thimgrin had mentioned it during my recent visit. Even the objects whose purpose I hadn't tried to guess were catalogued.
I remembered the long tubes against one wall. I'd seen them among the chests and old belongings; I hadn't opened any.
They might contain maps. Plans. Papers that had never made it to the document vault.
Or exceptionally expensive rugs.
I'd prefer maps. I already had quite enough experience with rugs.
I added a line to the sheet:
Main vault — check the inventory for maps and plans.
Beneath it, I wrote the room number for the Ministry's cartographic archive. If the family papers weren't enough, I could look there.
I glanced at the clock. Gringotts was still open.
For a moment, I considered going out. Then I looked at the catalogue, of which I'd checked only a few pages.
I settled into my chair.
"We're staying in today."
Hedwig began preening a wing, apparently pleased that I'd finally made a decision requiring no involvement from her.
Draco's letter lay beside the lamp. I moved it to the top of the pile of correspondence to answer, so it wouldn't disappear beneath the documents.
Then I opened the catalogue again.
That morning, I hadn't even been able to name the county where I ought to look for the house. Now I had the name of a neighbouring estate, a county, and a reference to a road I might miss even while standing right beside it.
I already wanted to see how that worked.
For now, I found the reference number for another document and added it to the list.