Harry Potter: The Last Potter

The bell above the door of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions jingled softly as Harry stepped inside, the warmth of the shop immediately enveloping him. He felt awkward in the large, bustling wizarding store, his clothes patched and oversized, a hand-me-down from his cousin Dudley. Madam Malkin greeted him with a kindly smile and directed him to a stool where a measuring tape began flitting around him like a hyperactive hummingbird.
"Another first-year, are you?" came a drawling voice from the next stool over.
Harry turned to see a girl about his age, her jet-black hair drawn back in a precise braid, her pale skin accentuated by her sharp green eyes. She was being fitted for her robes as well, but unlike Harry, her posture radiated confidence, her chin tilted just slightly upward as if she already had the upper hand in their interaction.
"Uh, yeah," Harry mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
The girl smiled thinly, her gaze flicking to his forehead. "And you're Harry Potter," she said, her voice soft but tinged with something unspoken—curiosity, perhaps, or calculation.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. How did you—"
"Everyone knows who you are," she interrupted, her tone carrying a faint edge of amusement. "I'm Pansy Parkinson. Slytherin family, through and through."
"Right," Harry replied, not knowing what else to say.
Pansy studied him for a moment before leaning in slightly. "Listen," she began in a lower voice, her words deliberate, "when you get to Hogwarts, you need to think carefully about which house you join."
Harry blinked. "I don't really know much about the houses," he admitted, embarrassed by his ignorance.
Pansy's eyes narrowed slightly. She glanced around the shop, then grabbed his arm and tugged him toward a quiet corner near a rack of shimmering silver dress robes. "Come on, Potter. I'll explain."
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, her expression suddenly serious. "There are four houses at Hogwarts. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each one has its... reputation. Some better than others."
Harry nodded, waiting for her to continue.
"Let's start with Gryffindor," she said, her lips curling into a faint sneer. "They're the house of so-called bravery, but let me tell you something, Potter—most Gryffindors are just reckless fools who think they're invincible because they're loud and obnoxious. They rush headfirst into danger without any real plan. Half of them wind up dead or disgraced before they've even lived properly."
Harry's brow furrowed. That didn't sound particularly appealing.
"Then there's Hufflepuff," Pansy continued, her tone taking on a note of disdain. "The house of loyalty and hard work. Admirable, I suppose, but they're basically the leftovers. The people who weren't clever enough for Ravenclaw, brave enough for Gryffindor, or cunning enough for Slytherin. They're... nice, I guess, but nice doesn't get you very far in the real world, does it?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to make of her harsh assessment.
"Ravenclaw," Pansy went on, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "The house of intelligence and wit. Sounds good, doesn't it? But most Ravenclaws are so obsessed with proving how clever they are that they forget to actually do anything with their intelligence. They'll write essays and invent theories, but when it comes down to it, they're just a bunch of dreamers with their heads stuck in books."
She straightened, her green eyes locking onto his. "And then there's Slytherin," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Ambition. Resourcefulness. Power. It's the house for people who know what they want and aren't afraid to go after it. Slytherins don't waste time on empty bravado or meaningless gestures of loyalty. We play the long game. We win."
Harry couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine at the intensity in her gaze.
"But..." he hesitated, "isn't Slytherin supposed to be, you know, the house for dark wizards?"
Pansy's expression hardened. "That's what people like the Gryffindors want you to believe," she snapped. "Yes, some Slytherins have gone dark, but so have people from every house. The difference is, we don't pretend to be saints. We see the world for what it is—cruel, competitive, and unforgiving. Slytherin teaches you how to survive."
Harry didn't know how to respond. The girl's words were sharp, cutting through his limited understanding of the wizarding world and leaving him with a sense of unease.
"Think about it, Potter," Pansy said, her voice softening slightly as she stepped closer. "You've spent your whole life being told who you are, haven't you? The Boy Who Lived, the savior of the wizarding world. But at Hogwarts, you get to choose. You can be just another reckless Gryffindor, or you can join a house that will actually help you shape your future."
Harry swallowed hard, his mind spinning. He had never considered the idea that his choice of house might be so important—or that someone like Pansy Parkinson would take such an interest in his decision.
As Madam Malkin called Pansy back to finish her fitting, she gave him one last look, her green eyes glinting with something that looked almost like hope.
"Think about what I said," she murmured before turning away.
Harry stood there for a long moment, her words echoing in his mind. For the first time since entering the wizarding world, he felt the weight of an unfamiliar and foreboding choice settling on his shoulders.
As Harry leaned against the wall of Madam Malkin's shop, watching Pansy Parkinson stand perfectly still as the enchanted measuring tape flitted around her, he mulled over her words. Her voice, sharp and insistent, lingered in his mind, weaving doubt into the patchwork understanding he'd built of this strange new world.
Everything he knew about magic, Hogwarts, and even the houses had come from Hagrid—a friendly, larger-than-life figure who had barged into his life and swept him away from the miserable world of the Dursleys. But now, as he considered Pansy's pointed remarks, he realized just how little he'd truly been told.
Pansy had spoken with conviction, even if her tone carried a faint edge of arrogance. Gryffindor reckless? Ravenclaw aloof? Hufflepuff dismissed as the house of leftovers? And Slytherin, which Hagrid had spoken of in hushed, almost fearful tones, painted as a house of cunning and ambition?
Harry frowned. The way Hagrid had described Slytherin—"Not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin"—had sounded definitive at the time. But now, he wasn't so sure. Pansy's words hinted at a deeper story, one that Hagrid either didn't know or didn't want to share.
His fingers twitched at his side, his mind flicking back to earlier that morning when they'd stopped in Diagon Alley. Hagrid had whisked him from shop to shop, dictating every step of the journey. Harry hadn't been given time to stop and think, let alone browse.
He'd noticed a stack of books in Flourish and Blotts—titles like The Rise and Fall of the Founders and Great Wizards and the House Divide. When he'd tried to pick one up, Hagrid had pulled him away with a cheerful, "No time fer that, Harry! We've got ter get yer wand next!"
And yet, now that he thought about it, there had been time. There had been plenty of time.
Pansy tilted her head slightly as Madam Malkin adjusted her robes, her expression calm but her eyes sharp. Harry wondered if she'd read books like those, if that's how she knew so much about the houses. Maybe she knew the things Hagrid didn't want him to know.
The more he thought about it, the more Harry realized how controlled his introduction to the wizarding world had been. Every shop they'd visited, every conversation Hagrid had allowed—they'd all been carefully directed. Hagrid had dismissed questions about Slytherin, waved away any curiosity Harry had about Voldemort's rise to power, and even dodged discussions about his parents' history beyond the vague and shining image of "heroic Gryffindors."
Why doesn't he want me to know more? Harry wondered.
"Are you just going to stand there staring, Potter?" Pansy's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he realized he'd been looking at her for longer than was polite.
"Sorry," Harry mumbled, straightening up.
Her lips curved into a faint smirk, but her gaze remained calculating. "You look like someone just told you Father Christmas doesn't exist."
Harry didn't respond, unsure how to put his swirling thoughts into words.
"Let me guess," she continued, her tone teasing but with a trace of genuine curiosity. "You're thinking about what I said, aren't you?"
He nodded reluctantly.
"Good," Pansy said, stepping off the stool as Madam Malkin declared her robes finished. "Most people don't think at all. They just parrot whatever they've been told."
Harry didn't have a chance to reply before Madam Malkin ushered him back onto the stool. As the tape resumed measuring him, his thoughts churned.
Pansy had planted a seed of doubt, and Harry couldn't shake it. What else might Hagrid have been leaving out? What else was there to learn about this world that he wasn't being told?
He resolved then and there to find out for himself. When they returned to Diagon Alley, he would grab one of those books, even if Hagrid protested. He wouldn't let himself be spoon-fed someone else's version of the truth.
As Pansy left the shop, throwing a final glance over her shoulder, Harry felt a mix of unease and determination. He had a choice to make, and for the first time, he realized just how important it was.
After what felt like an eternity of being poked and prodded by magical needles and measuring tape, Harry was finally allowed to leave Madam Malkin's shop. His robes were neatly pressed, folded into a compact bundle that could magically shrink down into a keychain-sized briefcase, which he clipped to his pants. The sensation of the cold metal against his leg was oddly reassuring, a small anchor in a world that was beginning to feel increasingly unfamiliar.
As Harry stepped out of the shop, he was met by Hagrid's towering figure. The half-giant gestured with a massive hand toward a building across the cobbled street, a bank that seemed to lean precariously to the right, as if defying the very laws of physics. Six enormous wooden beams, weathered and thick as tree trunks, held the building upright.
"That's Gringotts," Hagrid said, his voice low and serious. "Most people don't realize it, but it's one of the safest places in the wizarding world. Nothing gets in or out without the goblins knowin' about it. And trust me, you don't want to mess with them."
Harry nodded, a mix of awe and trepidation creeping up his spine. The bank looked ancient, but its structure somehow exuded an intimidating sense of power. It was a building that demanded respect.
Inside, Harry's breath caught in his throat. The interior of Gringotts was just as grand as its exterior—no, more so. The ceiling stretched impossibly high above them, so far that Harry had to tilt his head back to make out the intricate, golden designs that danced along the rafters. The floor was polished marble, gleaming with a soft, almost otherworldly light. Every surface gleamed, every detail meticulously crafted.
But what truly caught Harry's attention were the goblins. Dozens of them moved swiftly through the vast hall, their long noses sharp and eyes glinting with an unsettling intelligence. Their bony fingers worked deftly at scrolls, ledgers, and keys, and though Harry caught their eyes as they passed, they barely acknowledged him. It was as if he were invisible, a non-entity in a place so much older and more powerful than he could comprehend.
"Careful how you talk to 'em, Harry," Hagrid's voice broke through the silence, low and cautionary. "Goblins don't much care for wizards. They'll listen if you're polite, but don't try to charm your way past 'em. They've got ways of knowin' when you're lying. Just tell 'em why you're here, and give 'em your name."
Harry felt a sudden knot tighten in his stomach, and he followed Hagrid toward the nearest counter where a goblin was seated. The goblin's sharp eyes flicked up at them, and for a moment, Harry thought it might speak to them, but it said nothing. Instead, it just waited, its long fingers tapping rhythmically on the surface in front of it.
Hagrid gave Harry a gentle push forward, the force of it surprising Harry out of his daze. He cleared his throat, trying to remember everything Hagrid had said.
"Uh, I—I'm here to open an account," Harry stammered, suddenly feeling very young and very out of place. "My name's Harry Potter."
The goblin's eyes narrowed slightly, but it didn't speak. Instead, it motioned for Harry to continue.
"Just tell 'em what you need," Hagrid murmured, standing behind Harry with his arms crossed, watching the goblin with a wary but resigned look.
Harry tried again, keeping his voice steady. "I need to open an account. I was... uh... I was told to come here."
The goblin gave a slight nod, and with a flick of its fingers, a small ledger appeared in front of it. It glanced at Harry for a long moment, assessing him in a way that felt invasive, as if it could see everything there was to know about him with a single look. Then, without another word, the goblin gestured for Harry to sign.
As Harry took the quill and ink, he couldn't help but feel like he was stepping deeper into a world that didn't quite make sense. The goblins, the towering bank, the strange air of secrecy—it was all so overwhelming.
And yet, as he signed his name on the ledger, a strange sense of finality washed over him. This was it. The world of magic had swallowed him whole, and there would be no turning back.
As soon as Harry finished writing his name, the goblin slammed the ledger shut with a loud, resounding thud. The sharp sound echoed in the vast hall of Gringotts, startling him. Before Harry could process what had happened, a small, ornate key materialized out of thin air, seemingly drawn from the very air around the goblin's long, spindly fingers.
"Follow me, Mister Potter," the goblin said curtly, its voice low and sharp like the snap of a whip. "Your... companion is to remain here. Gringotts' rules do not permit those not named in our records to witness such matters."
Harry turned back to Hagrid, who gave him a reassuring nod. "Go on, Harry. Goblins'll see you right. I'll be waitin' when you're done," the half-giant rumbled, though his expression was tense. His hand gripped his umbrella a little too tightly.
Harry hesitated for a moment but nodded, clutching the strap of his satchel as he followed the goblin deeper into the bank. The grand hall soon gave way to narrow corridors, the polished marble floors giving way to rough stone beneath his feet. The air grew colder, and the flickering light of torches cast long shadows on the walls, making the passage seem endless. The goblin's quick, precise footsteps echoed in the silence, the sound reminding Harry of sharp claws tapping against stone.
Finally, they stopped before a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. The goblin opened it without a word, revealing a small office lit by a single, dim lantern hanging from the ceiling. The room was cramped, dominated by a massive desk covered in precarious towers of papers, ledgers, and parchment scrolls. The piles teetered as though one wrong move would send them cascading to the floor, yet somehow they seemed to defy gravity.
Behind the desk sat an older goblin, its skin a pale, almost translucent shade of grey. Deep wrinkles carved harsh lines into its face, and its eyes, sharp and calculating, glinted in the dim light. The goblin's hands moved with deliberate precision as it worked through a stack of documents, not bothering to look up at Harry or acknowledge his presence.
"Sit down," the first goblin instructed, motioning to a worn, uncomfortable-looking chair in front of the desk. "He will see to you in due course."
Harry sat, feeling smaller than ever in the presence of the ancient goblin who still hadn't so much as glanced in his direction. The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the scratch of quills against parchment and the occasional shuffle of papers. Harry tried not to fidget, his fingers twitching in his lap. The goblins were unlike anything he'd ever encountered—alien in their demeanor and completely indifferent to the awkward human boy sitting in their midst.
The minutes stretched on, each second feeling heavier than the last. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the older goblin set down its quill and steepled its long, bony fingers. It fixed Harry with a piercing stare, its eyes boring into him as if stripping away every layer of pretense and exposing him completely.
"Harry Potter," the goblin said at last, its voice a dry rasp, as though it hadn't spoken in years. "You are here to claim what is yours. Let us begin."
"What is mine... what do you mean?" Harry asked, his voice wary but tinged with a spark of curiosity. The goblin's response was slow, deliberate—a toothy grin that stretched far too wide, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Harry swallowed hard, the image of those teeth tearing through something—someone—flashing in his mind. He fought the instinct to step back, his feet rooted by a mix of fear and intrigue.
"Why, your titles, of course," the goblin replied, its tone laced with sly amusement, each word cutting with the precision of a dagger. "The Potters are one of the oldest, most revered families in wizarding Britain. Or..." the goblin paused, its expression darkening with mock disdain, "...did your friend fail to mention that little detail?" The way it spat the word "friend" was venomous, a deliberate jab that made Harry bristle.
"Titles? Wealth?" Harry echoed, the words foreign and almost ridiculous to his ears. All his life, he had been just Harry—the unwanted boy in the cupboard under the stairs, a walking punchline to the Dursleys' cruelty. Titles? Wealth? The very idea seemed absurd, like a cruel prank someone might play on him.
The goblin's sharp eyes bore into Harry, its patience visibly thinning. "Yes, Mister Potter," it said, its voice low and commanding, "titles, wealth, power. The Potters are not some obscure family name; they are a dynasty. Your bloodline is steeped in centuries of magical history, influence, and accomplishment. And as the last surviving member of that line, you inherit not just their riches but their responsibilities."
The word responsibilities struck Harry like a cold wind. His pulse quickened, his stomach twisting in knots. He had spent the last twenty-four hours barely coming to terms with the fact that magic existed, and now he was being told his name—his name—carried weight and expectations he couldn't even begin to understand.
"But—I didn't know," Harry stammered, his voice breaking slightly. "I didn't even know magic existed until yesterday! How can I be—how can I have—what you're saying doesn't make sense."
The older goblin leaned forward slightly, its skeletal hands resting on the cluttered desk. Its gaze was piercing, like a predator sizing up its prey. "Ignorance," it said with a faint sneer, "does not erase fact. Your bloodline is a fact. Your inheritance is a fact. Whether you were informed or not, whether you accept it or not, these truths remain. The Potter legacy has been passed down to you, and now you must decide what to do with it."
Harry felt a cold weight settle over his chest. "What... what exactly am I inheriting?" he asked hesitantly, his voice quieter now, as if afraid of the answer.
The goblin's grin widened once more, its sharp teeth gleaming ominously. "First, you inherit the Potter family vaults—Gringotts' finest. Within them lies wealth amassed over generations: profits from investments, magical patents, landholdings, and estates. The current value sits at around 32 billion Galleons. However..." The goblin raised a clawed finger, emphasizing the point, "...as a minor, you are restricted to the use of your trust account, which contains a mere 578 million Galleons."
Harry's jaw nearly dropped. The goblin's tone suggested this "mere" sum was nothing of consequence, but to him, the number was incomprehensible. "That much money..." he whispered, more to himself than to the goblin.
"Second," the goblin continued, ignoring Harry's shock, "you inherit the titles and estates of the Potter family. As the last Potter, you are the rightful head of the House of Potter. A Lord, to be precise. You also gain stewardship over any house-elves bound to your family's lands and properties."
"Lord Potter?" Harry repeated faintly, the title tasting strange and unreal on his tongue.
"Yes," the goblin confirmed with a curt nod. "As head of your house, you are entitled to certain rights under wizarding law. However..." The goblin's grin faded, replaced by a look of grave seriousness. "...with those rights come great responsibilities. Your family's ring, housed within the Potter vault, serves as the physical symbol of your status. Once you don the ring, you will formally accept your title and the duties that come with it. You will be expected to represent your family in matters of wizarding governance and politics. And believe me, many—particularly those who understand the power of old bloodlines—will be watching you."
Harry felt a chill run through him, his mouth dry as he tried to process the goblin's words. His name, his blood, his inheritance—they weren't just his. They were something bigger, something that carried meaning and weight he could barely comprehend. The idea of putting on that ring, of stepping into a world where strangers judged and watched him, made his heart pound.
He swallowed hard, gripping the edges of his chair to steady himself. "And... if I don't accept the title?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The goblin's eyes glittered, its smile returning, colder this time. "That, Mister Potter, is entirely up to you. But understand this—power ignored is power forfeited. And in the wizarding world, such forfeiture rarely goes unnoticed or unexploited."
The ride back to the surface was a blur for Harry. The minecart rattled and sped along, but he hardly noticed. His gaze was fixed on the ring now firmly resting on his finger, the massive red P in the center catching the dim light with a faint, almost hypnotic glow. The metal band seemed to hum softly, resonating with the beat of his heart, and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he felt different—more grounded yet somehow lighter. The air around him felt sharper, clearer, as if he were seeing the world through new eyes.
Most of all, Harry could feel his magic. It was as if a dam had been lifted, and now the raw current of energy that had always been a part of him flowed more freely, more purposefully. He flexed his fingers experimentally, watching faint traces of light spark along the runes etched into the ring. A wave of control he'd never experienced before surged through him, the same errant power that had once felt wild and unpredictable now a steady, thrumming presence in the back of his mind.
By the time the cart screeched to a stop at the surface level of the bank, Harry's head was spinning, not from the ride but from the implications of what had just happened. He climbed out of the cart in a daze, trailing after the goblin who guided him back toward the grand hall of Gringotts. As the cavernous space opened up before him, the polished marble floors gleaming under the light of a thousand chandeliers, he spotted Hagrid immediately.
The half-giant was standing awkwardly by a long wooden bench, clearly ill-suited for someone of his size. His knees jutted up at odd angles, and the bench creaked ominously every time he shifted his weight. The moment he spotted Harry, Hagrid stood, his broad face splitting into a wide smile, though his eyes immediately flicked to Harry's hand.
"Yeh're done then?" Hagrid asked, his deep voice booming slightly in the hushed hall. Without waiting for an answer, he placed a massive hand on Harry's back, giving him a gentle but firm nudge forward. "We've got one more stop ter make before I get yeh back ter yer folks."
Harry stumbled slightly under the sheer weight of Hagrid's hand, but he managed to keep his footing. "What's the next stop?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. After everything that had just happened in the vault, he wasn't sure he was ready for more surprises, but at the same time, he couldn't deny the small flicker of excitement blooming in his chest.
Hagrid gave him a knowing look, his eyes twinkling mischievously beneath his bushy brows. "Ah, yeh'll see soon enough. Important stuff, mind yeh, but nothin' ter worry about." He straightened up and started toward the towering double doors of the bank, his strides so long that Harry had to jog slightly to keep up.
As they stepped out into the sunlight, the busy streets of Diagon Alley unfolded before them, bustling with witches and wizards going about their business. Harry blinked against the sudden brightness, the noise and movement of the crowd washing over him like a wave. For a moment, he hesitated, glancing down at the ring again. Its red stone glimmered faintly, almost as if it were reacting to the energy of the magical street around them.
Hagrid's voice broke through his thoughts. "This way, Harry," he said, motioning toward a side alley that branched off from the main thoroughfare. "Won't take but a minute."
Harry followed, his curiosity mounting. As they walked, he couldn't help but notice how some of the people in the crowd glanced his way, their eyes lingering on him longer than seemed normal. Some whispered to one another, while others offered polite nods or brief smiles. It wasn't outright attention, but it was enough to make him feel slightly self-conscious. Did they know who he was? Or was it just the ring catching their eye?
"Er, Hagrid," he ventured as they turned into the quieter side street, "where exactly are we going?"
Hagrid grinned but didn't answer right away, his broad shoulders blocking most of Harry's view ahead. Finally, they stopped in front of a small, nondescript shop with a weathered wooden sign that read Silverwood & Son – Magical Artifacts and Enchantments. The shop's windows were dusty, and the items displayed within—ancient tomes, worn wands, and odd trinkets—looked like they had been sitting there for decades.
"Here we are," Hagrid announced, holding the door open for Harry. "Need ter sort out somethin' fer yeh, part o' bein' a proper wizard, yeh know."
Harry stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and polished wood. The shop was cramped, its shelves crammed with artifacts and curiosities that looked both fascinating and slightly dangerous. Behind the counter stood an elderly wizard with a long, braided beard and half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up as they entered, his sharp eyes immediately zeroing in on Harry.
"Ah," the man said, his voice smooth and precise, "I've been expecting you."
Harry blinked in surprise. "You have?"
The wizard stepped out from behind the counter, his robes rustling softly as he moved. "Indeed. When Hagrid here mentioned you'd be coming, I knew it was only a matter of time. My name is Silverwood, proprietor of this humble establishment." His gaze flicked briefly to the ring on Harry's finger, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I see you've already taken the first step in claiming your inheritance."
Harry glanced down at the ring again, feeling a fresh wave of uncertainty. "Is this about the ring?"
Silverwood chuckled softly. "Partly. The Potter family ring is a powerful artifact, one of the oldest of its kind. But it is only one piece of the puzzle. There is more to your family's legacy than you realize, and part of that legacy involves understanding the tools at your disposal." He motioned toward a display case filled with wands, though these were unlike any Harry had seen at Ollivanders. They were adorned with runes and gemstones, their designs intricate and unique.
"You've got a wand already, of course," Silverwood continued, "but there are enchantments and accessories that can complement your magic, enhance it even. And as the head of an ancient house, you'll find that certain responsibilities require... additional resources."
Harry frowned, his mind racing. "I'm not sure I understand."
Silverwood smiled patiently. "You will, in time. For now, let's start with something simple. Tell me, young Potter—have you ever heard of a focus stone?"