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Harry had stepped into magical spaces before — Ollivander's wand shop, Diagon Alley, even the moving staircases of Hogwarts on his first visit last week — but nothing had prepared him for Vault 998.
The air inside was cold, not physically but magically, humming with tension. The chamber was vast — too vast to be underground — with shelves that twisted up into blackness, piled with artifacts, scrolls, and glowing objects he couldn't identify.
There was no gold. No piles of Galleons like in his other vault.
This vault wasn't made for wealth.
It was made for secrets.
Behind him, the goblin Griphook remained at the doorway, strangely solemn.
"You were not meant to see this yet," he said, voice quieter now, almost respectful. "But the wards have chosen you. And the heir's seal responded to your touch. That hasn't happened in… centuries."
Harry turned to face him. "What is this place?"
"Your true vault," Griphook said. "One your parents never told Dumbledore about. Because they didn't know it existed either."
Harry's heart beat faster. He looked again at the shelves. There was something unsettling about the way certain items watched him back — as if aware of his presence.
He stepped forward.
At the center of the room, resting on a black pedestal, was a small object covered in deep blue velvet.
He reached for it — carefully — and lifted the cloth.
Beneath it sat a mirror shard.
The glass was silvery, cracked at the edges, and carved with what looked like ancient runes. Harry's breath caught. The moment his hand brushed the edge, a jolt of energy surged through him.
He staggered back — the mirror shard flared with light, and a faint image flickered across its surface.
A girl.
About his age. Brown eyes. Black hair tied back in a braid. Dressed in midnight blue robes with a Ravenclaw crest stitched in silver thread. She stood in a tower Harry didn't recognize — tall windows behind her opened onto a stormy sky.
She looked… terrified.
"He's coming," the girl whispered. "And you're not ready."
The image vanished.
Harry gasped.
Griphook stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "You saw her?"
"You didn't?"
The goblin shook his head. "Only you would see the vault memory. She must be tied to your bloodline."
"My bloodline?" Harry repeated. "You mean… my mum?"
But even as he said it, something in his gut disagreed. This wasn't Lily's legacy. This was older. Much older.
Griphook gestured to a table on the side of the room. "There is something else."
Harry followed him, and on the table was a worn leather book, bound in silver thread. On the cover were three letters, in old script:
R. R. H.
"Rowena Ravenclaw?" Harry guessed.
Griphook nodded. "That is her handwriting. The last item ever taken from the ancient Ravenclaw line before it vanished."
"But what does it mean?" Harry asked. "Why do I have it?"
"You were granted access," Griphook said. "Not by inheritance through your parents — but by a secondary blood right. One so old, even we cannot fully trace it."
Harry felt like the ground beneath him had shifted. All this time, he thought his family legacy was tragic but simple: his parents had died to protect him from Voldemort. End of story.
But now…
Now there was a second vault, a mysterious girl, and a magical book that once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw herself.
📜 Later That Night
Harry sat alone in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron, a cup of lukewarm pumpkin juice untouched beside him.
Griphook had warned him not to take the book or mirror shard — "They must remain in the vault until you're ready," he had said. "Premature removal could… awaken things."
So Harry had left them. But not without feeling like a piece of himself stayed behind in that cold chamber.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a different piece of parchment — the second letter.
He turned it over again, wondering how it had found him.
And then, suddenly, another whisper.
"Find the Tower of Thought."
Harry looked up.
No one nearby. Just the bartender humming softly and Tom the innkeeper wiping glasses behind the counter.
The voice had come from inside his mind.
He glanced at the letter again — now something had changed. The bottom of the parchment had begun to glow faintly, and a new message appeared:
Do not return to Platform 9¾. The way is watched.
Use the Half-Door at King's Cross. 9¾ is closed to you now.
His breath caught.
"Closed?"
Who had sent this letter? Why was Platform 9¾ no longer safe?
He shoved the parchment into his pocket and pushed back from the table.
He needed answers. And he knew where to start.
📚 The Next Day: Flourish and Blotts
Hermione Granger was exactly where he expected her to be — tucked between towers of books, nose-deep in something titled "Warding Ancient Magic: Volume II."
She looked up, surprised. "Harry? What are you doing here? I thought you weren't back until Sunday."
"I… came early," Harry said, glancing around. "Can I talk to you?"
She closed her book immediately and followed him to a quieter corner.
Harry hesitated, then took out the parchment. "Have you ever heard of the Tower of Thought?"
Her eyes widened slightly — a rare reaction from someone who always seemed to know everything.
"Where did you hear that?" she asked quietly.
"I saw it… in a dream. And someone whispered it to me through a magical letter. It said I shouldn't use Platform 9¾. That it's… watched."
Hermione went pale. "Harry, the Tower of Thought isn't just a place. It's a theory. A magical concept. According to legend, it's where Ravenclaw herself developed her most powerful enchantments. A place that bends memory, time, and intellect."
"So it's real?"
She glanced around again. "If it is… it's hidden. Most scholars believe it's lost magic. Protected by puzzles and riddles only a Ravenclaw heir could solve."
Harry's pulse quickened.
He thought of the girl in the mirror shard.
The vault.The book.The whisper.
And for the first time in days, he said the words aloud:
"I think I'm the heir."
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