Ch480- Peverell Vault
Oof, I should've added a note to the previous chapter. That wasn't the ending. This fic will end in Chapter 495. True, I sped things up, I almost skipped sixth year and completely skipped the seventh, but I've spent years creating the lore and details for this world. I want to brag about them a little. So, indulge me just a bit longer. Thanks!
---
Harry stood in the lowest reaches of Gringotts, well beneath the public floors and goblin-run galleries. The air down here was colder, still as stone, and carried a faint metallic tang. Torches lit the walls with a quiet, steady burn. At his side, Grimbletack adjusted his waistcoat and gave the thick, ancient vault door a firm nod.
“This is it,” the goblin said, his hand brushing over the carved markings. “Peverell Vault.”
Harry stepped forward, brushing the edge of his sleeve back as he approached the door. His eyes stayed on the vault, but his hand dipped into the inner pocket of his jacket.
He drew out three items, the Invisibility Cloak, worn but well-kept, the Resurrection Stone, set in a gold band, and the Elder Wand.
The runes on the door pulsed. Then it split open down the middle with a low grind and eased apart.
Grimbletack watched the door shift, his gaze fixed on the three objects Harry held.
“Still can’t believe you got all three,” he said, almost to himself.
Harry chuckled, folding the Cloak back neatly. “Wasn’t exactly a treasure hunt. The Cloak’s been in my family for generations. Slipped away during the war, found its way back eventually.”
He held up the ring next, turning it slightly between two fingers. “The Stone was stuck in a ring Voldemort used for a Horcrux. He didn’t even realise what it was. Just thought it looked ominous.”
Grimbletack nodded slowly, eyeing the Elder Wand now.
“As for this one...” Harry gave the wand a lazy spin between his fingers. “Dumbledore tried everything to make Voldemort its master. Went to absurd lengths. What he didn’t think through was simple, Voldemort had already lost to me before he ever touched it. Wand never accepted him.”
Grimbletack gave a sharp, amused grunt. “So the wand just ignored him?”
“Didn’t respond,” Harry said, slipping the wand away. “He might’ve held it, but it never answered.”
The lights flared. Inside, on the far wall, a silver tree was carved deep into the rock, its roots curling down into the floor.
“No one’s opened this vault for thousands of years,” Grimbletack said, stepping forward with the usual goblin pride layered beneath his words. “Even before this building was put together, the Peverell Vault was sealed. It was transported here as a whole, first vault of the bank. And now that you’re the official Heir of the Peverell Lineage, this land is yours.”
He swept his hand to the side, toward a neat mountain of gold stacked along the right wall. “The bank’s been depositing rent over the years.”
His eyes lingered a little too long on the coins, the tone practically humming with greed. But Harry wasn’t bothered. Goblins liked gold, true, but they prized their reputation and old oaths even more. The vault was his, no goblin would touch anything unless he allowed it.
Harry didn’t spare the gold a glance. “Manage it as usual, Grimbletack. Keep investing, move it where it needs to go. I am not here to micromanage.”
Grimbletack let out something between a pleased hum and a hiss. “Of course, Lord Potter. With pleasure.”
Harry walked past him, ignoring the rows of gold and strange quiet of the space. The only thing in the middle of the vault, besides the silence, was the silver tree carved into the far wall, glowing faintly as if it had been waiting. He stepped up, reached out, and placed his hand on the bark.
The rune-lined branches flickered. A soft thrum spread through the air, and part of the wall clicked open.
Behind the tree’s trunk, a small alcove formed, revealing a single envelope resting atop a stone pedestal. That was it.
Harry pulled the letter free. The parchment was thick, aged in a way that suggested it hadn’t seen daylight in centuries. He unfolded it and began to read.
Since you found your way here, it means you hold all three gifts of Death. That in itself is no small thing. The Hallows do not simply land in a single hand by accident. Death does not allow that. Nor do his champions.
Yes, Death is real. As real as this vault, as the magic in your veins, as the bloodlines that birthed you.
Forget the bedtime tales.
We were never the first.
Yes, there were three of us, my brothers and I, sons of Peverell, but by the time we came across Him, the path had already been walked before.
He never said so directly, of course. Death doesn’t explain himself. He offers, and you either take, or you turn away. Most who turn away never speak again. Most who accept don’t understand what they’ve agreed to until much later.
But one of us, my eldest brother, Antioch, was always the kind to dig. Arrogant, yes, but curious. It is the curiosity that caught Him off guard. Death is used to pride. He enjoys it. But questions? Questions are another matter.
We were the ones who got remembered, but only because we were fools. Loud ones, proud ones, the kind that leave behind trails. But Death had champions before us. Just quieter ones. Smarter ones.
Antioch asked who came before us.
Death laughed.
Said only one ever earned Death's gift.
And somewhere along the way, he figured out how to bottle life. Properly. Not just immortality by spells or curses, real stalling of the end.
He didn’t chase fame. Not for long. But people noticed, as they always do. There are fragments of him in the stories that came after. You might’ve heard of him. Might not. Doesn’t matter. He changed faces more times than I’ve had birthdays. Name too. But every now and then, he make a mark. Build legacy. Then vanishes again.
But he’s still out there. Somewhere.
And here is the part that no one wrote down, that every record avoids. Death isn’t alone. There are three of them. Always have been. Older than the rest. Old enough the universe built itself around them like river stones in a stream.
You’ve met one if you are here. I don’t know which. Doesn’t matter. They never tell you straight. The Hallows? They are just tokens. Anchors. You think they make you a Master of Death? Hardly. Owning all three is like carrying a title you never asked for and no one wants to acknowledge.
If you are reading this, it means you are the champion now. Heir. Don’t look for consent, there wasn’t any. There never is.
You’ve been dragged into a game older than anything written, where your opponent’s been playing since before the world had names.
You will need every scrap of wit, strength, and patience just to stay on the board.
Good luck, Heir.
May Magic guide you.
May Time bless you.
And may Death spare you.
Harry folded the parchment. It didn’t burst into flames or vanish. Just sat in his hand, quiet. He slipped it into his coat, then looked back to the silver tree. The roots were still pulsing faintly.
---
They stepped back out into the corridor, door grinding closed behind them.
Back at the surface, Harry stepped out into Diagon Alley. He tugged his coat tighter, dodged a small cart that rumbled by, and walked toward the far end of the Alley, past Slug & Jiggers, past the newer cafe Tracey liked that served terrible tea but excellent shortbread.
He vanished as he turned the corner, appearing in a secluded place. The old wrought iron gate creaked open before he reached it.
Bellatrix stood waiting at the threshold. “Master.”
Harry gave a nod as he passed her. She bowed her head and fell into step behind him, then peeled off toward the side hall.