"The rich invest in time, the poor invest in money." – Warren Buffett
Leaving Privet Drive without being noticed was easier than she'd expected.
Too easy, even.
Harriet waited until mid-morning, when the street had settled into its usual rhythm—curtains twitching, lawnmowers humming, neighbors pretending not to watch one another while doing exactly that. She stepped outside with a small bag slung over her shoulder, glanced once at number four, and didn't look back.
At the corner of the street, she raised her wand.
The Knight Bus arrived with all the subtlety of a collapsing building.
There was a deafening bang, a gust of displaced air, and suddenly a violently purple triple-decker bus was wedged into a space that absolutely did not exist a second earlier. The houses on either side leaned away as if offended by its presence.
Harriet blinked.
"Well," she muttered. "That's… discreet."
The doors swung open, and a man with a cheerful, slightly unhinged smile leaned out.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus! Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard! Where to?"
"The Leaky Cauldron," Harriet said, stepping inside.
The interior was chaos made functional—beds instead of seats, brass rails, swinging lanterns, and the faint smell of old socks and magic. She took a seat near the window, gripping the rail instinctively as the bus lurched forward at a speed that had no business existing within the laws of physics.
Buildings shrank. Streets bent. The bus squeezed between obstacles with millimeter precision, sometimes through spaces Harriet was fairly sure were not wide enough.
She watched it all with interest rather than fear.
"How does this thing work?" she asked aloud, mostly to herself.
The driver—Stan—glanced at her through the mirror. "Magic," he said proudly.
"That explains nothing."
He shrugged. "Works, though."
Harriet leaned back, thoughtful. "How far can it go?
"Anywhere in Britain," Stan replied. "Long as there's space to appear."
"And how much money does this make you?" she continued, curiosity genuine.
Stan grinned. "That will be telling."
The bus screeched to a halt in front of the Leaky Cauldron with another explosive bang, and she stepped out, only mildly disoriented.
Before entering, she adjusted her appearance—pulling a cheap red wig into place and slipping in blue contact lenses that immediately began to itch.
I hate these already.
Inside, the Leaky Cauldron was warm, dim, and comfortably chaotic. She ordered a butterbeer, then excused herself to the restroom. There, finally alone, she cast the charm—features shifting subtly, seamlessly. The lenses gone. The wig discarded. A new face looking back at her from the mirror.
Not invisible. Just… unremarkable.
Better.
She returned to the main room, sat, and took a long sip of her drink.
That's when she heard it.
Two men at the neighboring table, both flushed and clearly several drinks past reasonable judgment.
"What an idiot," one of them laughed. "Must've had too much to drink. Kept saying the devil wanted to reincarnate him—make him his right-hand man or something."
The other snorted. "Bloody Bulgarians. Always weird. As if angels and devils even exist."
They burst into laughter.
Harriet froze.
Devil. Angel. Reincarnation.
Her mind ticked.
That… rings a bell.
She frowned, thinking back. Wasn't there an anime like that? Some pervert gets reincarnated as a devil because of a chess game or something?
She grimaced. Yeah. Dropped it almost immediately. The protagonist annoyed me, and I had zero interest in watching an ecchi pretending to have a plot. Too bad the lore seemed interesting and rich through…
Still…
Interesting.
She finished her butterbeer slowly, thoughts drifting. If something like that existed here—if this wasn't just the world of Harry Potter—then things were far more complicated than she'd assumed.
And potentially far more interesting.
She stood, walked to the brick wall behind the bar, tapped the correct sequence without hesitation. The bricks rearranged themselves, opening into Diagon Alley.
She crossed through quickly, barely sparing it a glance. She knew this place already. The smells, the noise, the colors—familiar. Comfortable.
Her steps slowed only when she reached the massive white façade at the far end.
Gringotts Wizarding Bank loomed before her, austere and unwelcoming.
Harriet smiled faintly.
"Alright," she murmured. "Let's see what I actually own."
And with that, she stepped inside.
Gringotts was exactly as unwelcoming as Harriet remembered.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the noise of Diagon Alley seemed to die behind her, swallowed by marble, stone, and something sharper—intent. The air inside the bank felt heavier, as if the building itself expected visitors to misbehave so it could justify disliking them.
Tall white pillars rose toward a ceiling lost in shadow. The floor gleamed, polished to the point where it reflected people in a way that made them look smaller than they were. Goblins sat behind high counters, long fingers moving quickly over parchment, eyes sharp and calculating.
This wasn't a place built for comfort.
It was built to remind you that you were not in control.
Harriet adjusted the strap of her bag and walked forward calmly. No hesitation, no wide-eyed staring. She wasn't here to gape. She was here to conduct business.
A discreet sign near the entrance caught her attention:
By entering Gringotts Wizarding Bank, all patrons agree to the Absolute Discretion Clause. Any attempt to extract, coerce, or magically influence information—financial, political, or personal—will result in immediate sanctions.
Below that, in much smaller letters:
Sanctions may include asset freezing, magical injunctions, or permanent exclusion.
Harriet hummed softly.
"Comforting," she muttered. "In a 'they'll kill you politely' sort of way."
She approached an unoccupied counter. The goblin behind it looked up slowly, eyes flicking over her face, then narrowing just slightly.
"Name," he said.
"Harriet Nicole Potter," she replied. "Also Harriet Black, apparently. I'm here to access my vaults. My status should already be updated."
The goblin's fingers paused.
One long nail tapped the counter once.
"Identification."
She placed the Triwizard Cup fragment token—the magical confirmation charm—on the marble surface. It pulsed faintly, reacting to her presence.
The goblin examined it, then her, then the token again.
"Yes," he said at last. "That will suffice."
He drew a thin ledger toward him, flipping pages with practiced ease. Symbols glowed briefly beneath his fingers.
"By virtue of your completion of the Triwizard Tournament," he continued, voice flat, "you are now recognized as a legally autonomous magical entity under Gringotts international banking accords."
Harriet raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"You are considered an adult for the purposes of financial, contractual, and inheritance matters."
That… was bigger than she'd expected.
"And my access?" she asked carefully.
"Full," the goblin replied. "You are granted unrestricted access to the Potter family vaults. Additionally—" his eyes flicked up, sharp and knowing "—to the Black family vaults."
Harriet blinked once.
"I was under the impression those were… complicated."
"They were," the goblin said. "They are no longer."
He slid a parchment toward her. On it, a single line glowed faintly.
Renunciation of Claim – Sirius Orion Black
Harriet read it twice.
"So he really did it," she murmured. "Alive or dead, everything defaults to me."
"Yes," the goblin said. "The renunciation was received and validated weeks ago."
Well.
That certainly added another target to her back.
Harriet exhaled slowly. "I assume this information is… confidential."
The goblin's smile was thin. "Gringotts does not share inheritance data without cause. And we define 'cause' very narrowly."
"Good," she said. "Because I'd rather not have every ambitious idiot in Britain suddenly remembering my name."
The goblin inclined his head. "A reasonable concern."
She hesitated, then added, "Before we go any further—are there… fees associated with consultations beyond basic vault access?"
His eyes sharpened.
"That depends on the nature of the consultation."
Harriet reached into her bag and placed a small but undeniably heavy pouch onto the counter. Gold chimed softly.
"I'd like an overview," she said. "Political and economic. Britain, primarily. But I'm interested in international trends as well."
The goblin's gaze flicked to the pouch. He weighed it expertly with one hand.
"This will purchase discretion," he said. "And a general briefing."
"That's all I'm asking for."
He nodded once.
They moved to a quieter section. The goblin offered tea—something Harriet had absolutely no intention of drinking, thank you very much.
"Very well."
He leaned back slightly, folding his hands.
"The British magical economy," he began, "is… stagnant."
Harriet listened closely.
"Old money circulates among old families," he continued. "Innovation is slow. New enterprises struggle to secure capital unless endorsed by established names. The Ministry exerts heavy influence through regulation, often inefficiently."
"Let me guess," Harriet said lightly. "Lots of tradition, not much foresight."
"An accurate summary," the goblin agreed. "Politically, denial is the prevailing strategy. The return of dark forces is inconvenient. Therefore, it is ignored."
Harriet snorted softly. "Classic."
"Internationally," he went on, "the situation differs. France invests heavily in magical research and education. Germany focuses on infrastructure and enchantment standardization. Eastern Europe—" he paused "—is more volatile, but resource-rich."
"And Britain?"
"Britain relies on legacy," he said bluntly. "And legacy is… finite."
Harriet tapped a finger against the counter, thoughtful.
"So if someone had, hypothetically," she said, "a large amount of capital and didn't particularly care about tradition…"
The goblin's eyes gleamed faintly.
"They could exert significant influence," he finished. "Quietly. Effectively."
She smiled.
Not a triumphant smile. Not a villain's grin.
Just a satisfied one.
"Good to know."
He slid another parchment toward her. Numbers covered it. Lots of them.
Harriet scanned the totals.
Once.
Twice.
Then she leaned back slightly.
"…That's obscene."
The goblin looked pleased.
"The Potter vault alone places you among the wealthiest one percent of British magical society," he said. "The Black vaults elevate you significantly beyond that."
"Filthy rich," Harriet murmured. "Absolutely disgusting."
"And useful," he added.
"Oh, extremely," she agreed. "I can buy privacy. Protection. Time."
She paused, then smirked faintly.
"And probably a very nice shield or two."
The goblin nodded. "Should you wish to move assets, invest abroad, or establish trusts—"
"I will," Harriet said. "Just not today."
She stood, gathering her things.
"For now," she added, "I just wanted to know where I stand."
The goblin inclined his head. "You stand very securely, Miss Potter-Black."
"One last thing," she said over her shoulder. "If someone were interested in… disappearing for a while. Quietly."
The goblin smiled fully this time.
"Gringotts specializes in stability," he said. "Including the kind that cannot be traced."
She nodded once.
"Perfect."
Options.
Gringotts did not rush her.
That, more than anything else, reassured Harriet.
"You appear to have additional inquiries," he said.
"I do," Harriet replied calmly. "And before you suggest disappearing quietly—I'm not interested right now."
She shrugged. "I've spent enough of my life being hidden, ignored, or shoved into cupboards. If I'm going to use this money, it won't be to run away."
A faint, almost imperceptible pause.
"Very well," the goblin said. "Clarify your interests."
Harriet leaned lightly against the counter, voice casual but focused. "Organizations. Independent ones. Guilds, mercenary groups, magical contractors—whatever exists outside Ministry control."
The goblin studied her more carefully now.
"In Britain?" he asked.
"Preferably not limited to it."
"That narrows matters," he admitted. "The British Isles favor centralized authority. Independent forces are… discouraged."
"Figures."
"However," he continued, "internationally, such structures do exist. Particularly on the continent and further east."
He waved a hand, and a new parchment slid across the counter, ink rearranging itself.
"Magical guilds—combat, research, security—are most common in regions where magical governance is weaker or more fragmented. Parts of Eastern Europe, the Balkans, certain Mediterranean territories."
Harriet's eyes flicked across the list.
"And mercenaries?"
"Private magical contractors are legally recognized in several jurisdictions," the goblin said. "They operate under guild charters, often hired by noble houses, corporations, or… other entities."
She hummed. "Let me guess. Expensive."
"Competent ones are," he replied.
"Good. I don't like bargains when my life is involved."
That earned her a thin smile.
"What about Britain?" she asked. "Anything unofficial?"
"There are… remnants," the goblin said carefully. "Former wartime groups. Individuals with experience. They lack structure but can be contacted through intermediaries."
"Such as Gringotts?"
"Such as Gringotts," he confirmed, unapologetic.
Harriet nodded, filing that away.
"Next," she said, "real estate."
The goblin's fingers danced over the parchment again.
"You possess," he began, "a considerable number of properties already."
Her head snapped up. "I do?"
"Yes."
Another parchment appeared, this one longer.
"Potter holdings include: a townhouse in Godric's Hollow (currently sealed), two rural properties under legacy trust, and minority ownership in three mixed-use wizarding commercial buildings in London."
Harriet blinked. "That's… more than I expected."
"The Black estate," he continued smoothly, "is more extensive."
Of course it was.
"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," he said, "remains under ancestral protections. Additionally: one manor in Wiltshire, currently dormant; two properties in France; one coastal estate in Italy; and several investment holdings tied to international vaults."
Harriet stared at the parchment.
"…They really didn't believe in moderation, did they."
"Old families rarely do."
She exhaled slowly. "Estimated total value?"
The goblin gave a number.
Harriet read it.
Then read it again.
"…That's not money," she said flatly. "That's a geopolitical opinion."
"An apt description."
She rubbed her temple. "Okay. Hypothetically—if I wanted to purchase a new residence. Neutral ground. Somewhere I can exist without every pureblood idiot knowing my address."
"Wizarding or mixed?"
"Mixed."
He nodded approvingly. "Wise."
He listed options: smaller enclaves in southern France, magically concealed neighborhoods in Northern Italy, independent territories bordering magical zones in Eastern Europe. Prices varied wildly, but all were well within her means.
"And Britain?" she asked, more out of obligation than interest.
"Discrete options exist," he said. "But Ministry oversight is unavoidable."
"Pass."
She straightened. "One more thing. Protection."
The goblin's gaze sharpened.
"Artifacts?" she clarified. "Wards. Defensive contracts. Insurance, magical or otherwise."
"You may acquire layered protections," he said. "Personal wards, property enchantments, contracted response teams. Costs scale with coverage."
"And if someone wanted to… test those defenses?"
"Then they would regret it," he replied.
Harriet smiled faintly. "Good."
She gathered the parchments, tucking them neatly into her bag.
"I don't want to vanish," she said, more to herself than him. "I want room to breathe."
"And money provides that," the goblin said.
"It provides options," she corrected. "And options are freedom."
She paused, then added lightly, "Also, convenience. I'm very lazy when I'm allowed to be."
The goblin gave a short, surprised laugh. "You are an unusual client."
"So I've been told."
She turned toward the vault elevators, then stopped.
"Thank you," she said.
He inclined his head. "Gringotts values informed clients."
As she walked away, parchments warm against her side, Harriet's thoughts finally began to settle—not into panic, not into ambition, but into something far more dangerous.
Clarity.
She didn't need to hide.
She didn't need to rush.
She didn't need to save the world or burn it down.
She just needed space, leverage, and time.
And somewhere along the way, without forcing it, without overthinking it—a plan began to take shape in her mind, along with the delight of discovering she was filthy rich
She stopped mid-step.
"…Wait. I'm rich. Why didn't I take any money?"
A pause.
"…I'm an idiot."