The morning mist had long since burned away by the time Harry and Hermione stepped out of Gringotts, yet the weight of revelation clung to them like a second skin. Diagon Alley unfurled before them—no less vibrant than before, but now muted by the gravity of knowledge newly acquired. Shopkeepers hawked magical wares with exaggerated flair, enchanted advertisements flickered like living posters, and owls swooped overhead bearing letters sealed with crimson wax. Yet for the two children-who-were-not-children, the world spun slower now, as if time itself paused to accommodate the tremor of destiny awakened.
A little over a month had passed since their return to the past, though the days had felt at once fleeting and eternal. The spectral line between what had been and what could be was blurring. Carefully, deliberately, they had lived under the radar, observing, memorizing, altering only what was necessary. But this—this journey into the legacy vaults of Gringotts—had unraveled a tapestry long buried, one that reframed everything they thought they knew.
"I still can't believe it," Harry murmured as they passed Flourish and Blotts, his eyes unfocused, more on memory than street. "The Emrys line. The Morrigan. Why didn't I feel anything? Shouldn't I have known—somehow?"
Hermione kept pace, her eyes scanning the crowd not just for threats but for details, timelines, clues. "Magic like this doesn't herald itself with fireworks, Harry. It's like an echo from the deep earth—it waits for the right vibration, the right moment. You had to ask the right question."
Harry scoffed under his breath. "And I never did. Not the first time."
Hermione gave him a sidelong glance, both chastening and compassionate. "You didn't know to ask. None of us did. The point is—we know now."
The windows of Madam Malkin's shimmered with floating measurements and rotating displays of Hogwarts uniforms, and the pair ducked inside, brushing off the weight of their thoughts for the moment. The shop was just as they remembered—comfortably dim, filled with the quiet rustle of enchanted fabric and the warm scent of pressed velvet.
A witch in plum-colored robes approached them with a well-practiced smile. "Welcome dears. In for school robes, I expect?"
Hermione smiled politely. "We'd like to browse first. Thank you."
They slipped behind one of the privacy curtains toward the back, the muffling charms creating a fragile bubble of quiet. Hermione pulled the Genealogical Charter from her satchel and unrolled it with ritualistic care. The names shimmered as they had in the vault—Potter, Black, Emrys, Morrigan. Each one a seismic shift in Harry's perception of himself.
"The Emrys line is patrilineal," Hermione began, her voice almost reverent. "It's likely an ancient branch from your father's side—far back, but still powerful enough to remain magically active. But the Morrigan line... that's your mother's. Entirely matrilineal."
Harry's fingers hovered just over the glowing parchment. "And she never knew? Or... she did, and it was hidden?"
Hermione nodded slowly. "Either scenario is plausible. The magic could have been buried intentionally. There are concealment spells older than Hogwarts itself. You wouldn't even know your memory had been tampered with. And if she suspected, she might have chosen to keep it from everyone—even Dumbledore."
Harry exhaled, a long, quiet sigh. "And now it's all mine. Magic, vaults, responsibility I never asked for."
Hermione met his gaze. "But it's also power we can use. Power Voldemort doesn't expect. That's how we win this time, Harry. Not with prophecy, but preparation."
Before he could respond, the curtain twitched aside and a pale boy with cold grey eyes stepped into their quiet world. Draco Malfoy—arrogant, curious, and already calculating.
"Didn't expect to find anyone else back here," Draco said smoothly. "Shopping for Hogwarts, are you?"
Harry turned, his expression unreadable. In the timeline he remembered, this encounter had been a foreshadowing of so much division. This time, he would meet it on his own terms.
"Yeah. First year."
"Draco Malfoy," the boy said, offering a hand.
Harry shook it. "Harry."
A beat passed.
"Harry Potter?" Draco asked, voice sharpened with interest. His posture shifted, a subtle tilt of entitlement.
Harry nodded.
Draco smirked faintly. "My father talks about you. Says you're the kind of wizard we should be proud of. I imagine you'll be in Slytherin."
"I haven't decided," Harry replied.
Draco's eyes slid to Hermione, visibly assessing her. "You'll want to be careful who you associate with. Some people don't belong."
Harry's voice was low, but firm. "I'll decide that for myself."
Draco blinked, then nodded curtly. "Suit yourself." And with that, he vanished behind another curtain.
Hermione let out a breath. "That was... different."
"He'll still be a problem," Harry said. "But not the same kind of problem. Not if we stay ahead of him."
They made their purchases in relative quiet. Every transaction felt heavier now—not just currency exchanged, but history, intention, and future consequence. Ollivanders, the apothecary, even the stationary shop—each visit a reminder of the familiar world rendered unfamiliar by knowledge.
Outside, as the sun began to wane behind the spires of the Alley, Harry paused to look back at Gringotts. There was something about it now—no longer just a bank, but a gate. A fortress of secrets.
"Something changed today," he said softly.
Hermione stood beside him. "Everything changed today."
And in that shifting light, with the parchments of blood-bound ancestry tucked away and old conversations revised, two children set their feet upon a path unlike any ever walked before.