Gringotts loomed like a fortress at the far end of Diagon Alley, its white marble façade gleaming in the sharp morning sun. Wizards and witches bustled in and out, clutching bags of galleons, muttering to goblins, or hurrying with ledgers in hand.
Ambrose Emerys paused at the steps, one hand resting lightly on the banister. He breathed in slowly. He had entered places older and darker than this - his family's sanctums, weather-caverns hollowed out beneath mountains - but there was something unique about Gringotts. It wasn't just a bank. It was a pact. A symbol of the uneasy, enduring contract between goblins and wizards.
He stepped inside.
The great hall stretched before him, high-ceilinged and lit with lamps. Goblins lined the counters, their quills writing quickly. The noise of coins being counted and parchment being shuffled filled the air, undercut by the occasional sharp bark of goblin speech.
Ambrose moved with a slow, calm confidence, his midnight-blue robes brushing against the polished floor. He carried no bags, no entourage. Only his signet ring glinted faintly on his hand.
When he reached the central counter, the nearest teller barely looked up. "Name?" the goblin snapped.
Ambrose removed the ring and set it gently upon the desk. The crest- a lightning-wreathed eagle clutching a spear - gleamed faintly in the lamplight.
"Ambrose Emrys," he said evenly. "Heir. I request access to Vault Number One."
The scratching of quills stopped. The hall, bustling only moments before, stilled as though struck by a charm. Goblins froze mid-step. One dropped a stack of coins; another hissed under his breath, sharp teeth flashing.
The teller's eyes widened, pupils narrowing. His quill slipped from his hand, splattering ink across the ledger. "Vault… Number One?" he repeated, his voice hoarse.
Ambrose inclined his head. "Correct."
From nearby, another goblin whispered harshly in Gobbledegook. A third scurried toward the back, clearly to alert superiors. Whispers rippled across the hall. Wizards waiting in line looked confused, but the goblins-they looked shaken.
"Proof," the teller rasped finally, his composure cracking.
Ambrose pressed the signet ring into the desk's blood rune. Golden light flared, spreading like veins across the wood, before sinking back into the grain.
The goblin inhaled sharply. His hands trembled as he pushed the ring back across the desk. Then, very slowly, he bowed. Not a shallow dip, but a deep, reverent gesture that made the other goblins murmur.
"Follow," he said, voice tight.
---
The cart ride rattled down into the earth, deeper and deeper. Goblins in other carts stared as they passed, some narrowing their eyes, others watching with something close to awe. Ambrose sat quietly, hands folded, gaze sharp.
At last, the cart stopped before a seamless wall of black obsidian. It was not like other vault doors. It had no hinges, no handle - just a living shimmer of wards that thrummed like a heart.
The goblin guard swallowed. "Vault One," he said, almost reverently. He pressed his claw to the surface. The obsidian rippled like water, and the door melted away.
Ambrose stepped inside.
Gold glittered like sunlight captured underground. Mountains of galleons spilled against the walls. Jewels gleamed in their cases. Artifacts, ancient wands, blades, spheres of weather-glass, rested on pedestals humming with restrained power. And at the far end, tomes bound in dragonhide and mant strange materials sat upon carved shelves, their spines glowing faintly with enchantments older than the bank itself.
Even the goblin guard gasped softly. Few of their kind had ever seen this vault opened.
Ambrose stood in silence for a moment, letting the weight of history press against him. This was not wealth. This was legacy. His family's oath, sealed before Gringotts itself was young, and this was only one of many such legacies scattered around the world.
At last, he turned. "Two thousand galleons," he said calmly.
The goblin scrambled to obey, scooping the coins with a reverence rare for his kind. Ambrose withdrew his leather handbag, tapped the clasp, and opened its shimmering expanse. The galleons vanished into the space of a manor house folded into leather. He closed it with a snap.
"Thank you," Ambrose said politely.
The goblin bowed again, lower this time.
---
The air of Diagon Alley felt brighter after the vault's depths, filled with chatter, haggling, and laughter. Ambrose moved through the crowd with measured grace, pausing here and there to examine displays: potion phials glowing faintly blue, quills that scratched notes by themselves, broomsticks gleaming with polished twigs.
He purchased inks, potion ingredients, and a handful of elegant robes more suited to his timeless style. Wizards gave him curious looks. Some stared outright at his white hair, his pale skin with its faint golden hue, his eyes - molten, otherworldly. Ambrose ignored the whispers, his expression calm, but inwardly he noted them. He would always be a stranger here.
And yet-
"Mum, look!"
The voice drew his attention. A barefoot girl darted ahead, blonde hair wild, a necklace of corks bouncing against her chest. Her mother, bright-eyed and sharp, followed with a bemused smile. A sandy-haired man trailed behind, arms full of shopping bags.
The Lovegoods.
Ambrose inclined his head. "Good afternoon."
Pandora returned the gesture, curiosity flickering across her face. "And to you, young man. We've not seen you before."
Ambrose considered, then answered with honesty. "Ambrose Emrys."
The name rolled into the air. Most nearby ignored it. But Pandora froze, eyes widening. Her husband's head jerked slightly, and even little Luna tilted her head, her dreamy expression sharpening.
"Emrys," Pandora repeated softly. "An old name. Very old."
Ambrose smiled faintly. "Older than most remember. And you are?"
"Pandora Lovegood," she said warmly. She placed a hand on Luna's shoulder. "My daughter, Luna."
Ambrose crouched so he was level with the girl. "A pleasure," he said kindly. "Do you like books, Luna?"
She grinned. "I like stories. The ones no one else believes."
Ambrose chuckled. "Those are often the truest kind."
Xenophilius shifted awkwardly, then offered a polite bow. "Xenophilius Lovegood. And forgive me, but… Emrys? As in-"
"The same," Ambrose interrupted gently, sparing him the embarrassment of fumbling over legends. "But not much of it matters here, does it? Today, I'm just another boy buying quills and sweets."
Pandora laughed softly. "Perhaps. But there are few boys with eyes like storms."
For a moment, they lingered in light conversation. Pandora spoke of magical theory, curious to test the mind behind the name. Xenophilius rambled about odd creatures he swore existed. Luna tugged Ambrose's sleeve, asking if he'd ever seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Ambrose, smiling, promised he'd keep an eye out.
Then it struck.
Ambrose's vision blurred. His breath caught. His eyes flared, their glow growing more intense, and his voice deepened into a resonance not his own:
"Beware the brilliance of your hands, Pandora Lovegood. In pursuit of wonder, you will touch ruin. Magic will embrace you and bury you in the same breath. Tread lightly, lest curiosity carve your tomb."
The crowd fell silent. Pandora stiffened, clutching Luna close. Xenophilius's mouth fell open.
Ambrose blinked, staggered, and steadied himself. He bowed deeply, his voice low but steady. "Forgive me. That was… a prophecy. I am a Seer. I usually can choose and control when the words come, but it seems fate really wants you to know some of it's plans"
Pandora's eyes softened, though sorrow lingered there. She nodded slowly. "Then I will remember them. Thank you, Ambrose Emrys."
Luna, still clutching her mother's hand, whispered dreamily, "You sound like the thunder."
Ambrose's lips curved into a sad smile. "Perhaps I do." He inclined his head once more before turning away, the weight of the vision heavy on his shoulders.
---
Back in the lofty quiet of Hogwarts, Dumbledore's office glowed with lamplight. Books lay open in piles. Nicolas Flamel sat across from Albus, Perenelle at his side, her quill scratching notes. Between them, Fawkes preened, tail feathers glowing faintly.
"Again," Dumbledore murmured. "When Ambrose spoke of his family's wards, you sang once, my friend. Was it agreement?"
Fawkes trilled softly.
Nicolas leaned forward, eyes bright. "A phoenix confirming ancient wards through song… Albus, do you realize what this means? Their craft may rival that of Merlin's age."
Perenelle smiled faintly. "Or surpass it. We are glimpsing a library of magic that the world has forgotten."
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "And Ambrose walks into Hogwarts in a matter of weeks. I wonder if he knows how heavy the shadow of his name will feel here."
Nicolas's laugh was soft, excited. "He carries it lightly. That much is clear. But oh, Albus, think of what we may learn!"
Fawkes gave a long, low note that resonated like a warning.
"Yes," Dumbledore murmured, half to himself. "Knowledge is both a gift and a burden. Hogwarts will never be the same."
---
Two months slipped past. Summer waned. The last days of August glowed warm and lazy.
In his family's great library, Ambrose sat with his extendable bag-house beside him. Robes folded, books stacked, galleons counted. His Hogwarts letter, long since read, rested on the desk.
He glanced at the storm ceiling, where clouds rolled lazily across painted skies.
"Hogwarts," he whispered. "A new chapter."
A Scroll filled with Norse-like runes stirred faintly, runes glowing.
"Try not to terrify them all in your first week," it scrawled.
Ambrose smirked. "No promises, old man."
The runes flickered smugly.