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Diagon Alley looked familiar enough to its former liveliness. Harry squeezed past the witches and wizards who clogged up its narrow lanes, with his head low beneath the cloak. No one stopped him. Everyone had their own business to attend to. The traces of the war lingered, but life had moved on. Harry just didn’t feel like part of it.
He had turned down every offer mailed to him, Auror training, Quidditch tryouts, even the godfather time that had been promised to Teddy. He had locked himself away at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. People had talked, either out of worry, anger, or both, including those who knew him personally, like Mrs. Weasley. She had been particularly persistent, trying to give him helpful advice about moving forward, about learning from Ron and Hermione. Harry had blocked her Floo, and eventually severed the connection at the hearth altogether to prevent anyone else’s nagging.
Ginny had stopped by once, a little over two months in, when Harry had yet to show his face outside the front door of Grimmauld’s.
“I think I understand a little, Harry. When the diary was taken from me — afterwards — for weeks I felt hollowed out. I knew what it had been by then. I still missed having someone in my head. But it passes. You just have to wait.”
Harry had chosen not to argue. What Ginny had shared with Riddle had been a girl’s late-night fantasies. Harry’s head had housed a Horcrux for far longer, and had been tempted by far, far greater promises.
The Daily Prophet had started running wild stories, claiming Harry’s “retreat from society” was part of his secret plan to “overthrow the wizarding world”. Harry hadn’t kept up the subscription long enough to know.
One morning, a letter from Gringotts had arrived on his kitchen table. No specifics, only that there were dire matters to discuss, and his presence in person was required. Ignoring Goblins was usually considered unwise. Hence now Harry climbed the bank’s marble steps and handed the letter over to a Goblin who didn’t look up from his ledger. He was waved down a narrow hallway with the back of a quill.
The office was dim and had not been utilised in some time. A weary, middle-aged wizard had been waiting long enough that the tea between them had gone cold. He clutched a leather briefcase rather nervously. When the wizard set it down, the latches rattled, as though the contents within were trying to break out.
Harry shut the door with extra force.
The wizard glanced at the door and cleared his throat. “Good to see you, Mr Potter. Please sit. Let me be clear from the start. Gringotts has no — none — vested interest in any past association of yours with…”
“Okay?” Harry didn’t sit.
The wizard wet his lips. He turned to lay half a dozen locking charms on the door, and gestured for Harry to take the chair again.
“A will has surfaced. Bequests from a wizard who had no family. An estate. Left in trust. For ‘Harry James Potter’ to inherit. However, there are special rules to follow. You understand how this goes…”
“Get to the point,” said Harry, and finally sat down.
“Quite.” The wizard’s hands trembled, laying the parchments out. “The last will of… of…”
Harry reached across him and read past the name.
I, Lord Voldemort, legally recognised by Gringotts as Tom Marvolo Riddle, Master of the Dark Arts, Heir of Slytherin, with absolute clarity of mind, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament. Let no Goblin, no Ministry hack, and no surviving member of my so-called inner circle mistake the following for sentiment. All prior arrangements are rendered void. I command the following…
The elegant loops and curves of Voldemort’s handwriting, in silvery-green ink, glinted coldly as Harry tilted the parchment.
Harry skipped down to where his own name was written.
ARTICLE I
To Harry James Potter — my fated adversary and my most unwilling heir — I bestow the role of Executor. In the highly improbable event of my demise, and should the boy still draw breath and remain of sound mind, I do so decree that the boy alone shall settle my worldly affairs, enacting my final designs exactly as written. I authorise the liquidation of my assets and the disposal of them to the ungrateful wretches who so eagerly await the division of my spoils. Let no other hand touch this work. The boy has earned the labour.
The last sentence earned Harry’s wince. As far as jokes went, it was one in really poor taste. He wondered if anyone had ever dared laugh.
ARTICLE II
The lost artefacts and ancient manuscripts of my ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, which I rightfully reclaimed from indifferent custody, shall be surrendered into the trust of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the explicit condition that no portrait, plaque, or commemoration of myself be hung within those walls; my work will speak adequately on its own behalf. Furthermore, the wealth within my Gringotts vaults shall be divided into three equal shares, distributed thusly: one-third to St Mungo’s Hospital whose wards I have done so much to populate; one-third to the orphans of this recent unpleasantness, whose number I have, by my own conduct, materially increased; one-third to the families of the slain, calculated per head by the Goblins, that no widow may say I died still in her debt. Let the wizarding world not forget that I, the greatest wizard of this age, settle my accounts in full, and have generously returned to the hands of the unworthy the gifts I once took.
The wizard avoided any eye contact when Harry next looked up.
ARTICLE III
The remainder of my magical relics shall be auctioned under my Executor’s supervision, the proceeds allocated to aforementioned beneficiaries. Any esoteric writings in my collection shall be catalogued and placed in the Hogwarts Library, with the exception of those I have personally annotated, which shall be held under lock until such time as the school is in capable hands. Any dark artifacts shall be relinquished to the Department of Mysteries, where the items will be filed, lost, and rediscovered in due course. This bequest applies solely to my general hoard, and extends not to my personal effects, the handling of which is detailed below.
A long list followed, full of excessively passive-aggressive yet polite instructions. It seemed Voldemort had left something for everyone. Fortunately, none of it required Harry’s actual attendance, since the Goblins would just post the keys. Until the last page.
ARTICLE IX
The estate in Little Hangleton, known as the Riddle House, is to be burned to ground. My Executor shall personally ensure its reduction to ashes and bear witness as every inch of that accursed dwelling is wiped clean off the earth. Let no historian of mine begin the story there.ARTICLE X
My treatise, “The Dark Arts in British Wizardry”, composed in my own hand and arrested only by circumstance, is to be published in its entirety, unedited and unabridged, every marginal note preserved verbatim. Let those who survived me read it and remember how close the survivors came to oblivion. The royalties shall be paid directly to the Ministry of Magic, whose coffers I have emptied on several memorable occasions. A signed copy shall be delivered to each living member of the Order of the Phoenix. Should any attempt to destroy or conceal said copy, it will simply reappear on the most conspicuous surface available.
The wizard inhaled and set the last scroll flat between them. “Please note, Mr Potter, that any attempts to counter the will’s stipulations could be ill-advised. This is bound by blood and by Goblin script. Not a comma of it can be tampered with.”
This document has been bound by blood and magic, notarised by Gringotts Bank, and it shall stand uncontested, unaltered, and unbroken. Enclosed with this testament, my Executor shall find a singular golden Galleon — enchanted to fall, in any wind, on any floor, by any hand, upon heads alone. Consider this a token between us.
The final sheet held a single gold coin, heavy as lead. Harry worked it loose from where it had been attached to the parchment and, without much thinking, flipped it. Heads. He flipped it again. Heads. The wizard flinched both times.
“Mr Potter. You’re under no obligation… This is purely procedural. If…”
“I’ll do it,” said Harry, and pocketed the coin. He was already on his feet. “I’ll see it through. Let’s start with the inventory.”
The wizard’s chair creaked. “Before leaving… Perhaps… A will of your own?”
Harry paused in the doorway. It seemed Harry had been expected to make one as well. The galleon in his pocket burned white-hot against his thigh, a little like the locket, back when Harry had let Ron stab it with the sword of Gryffindor.
The endless work officially started the following week. Harry moved through Voldemort’s postmortem affairs ploddingly, even though the Goblins did the bulk of the heavy-lifting. They eyed his comings and goings with suspicion, and perhaps some pity. Gringotts sifted through decades-old paperwork. The sale of properties and stocks was set in progress, which meant signatures and more signatures.
Harry signed and stamped the forms more than what could be reasonably asked from any overworked Ministry employee. He grew numb from the monotony and the underground chill of the bank’s deepest vaults. He had the Goblins arrange payments to St Mungo’s, auction off items, and distribute funds. At one point a Goblin slid a ledger toward him. The column showed the standard per-head valuation of the dead, and the sums for every life taken were ready and waiting to be paid, down to the Knut. Harry read it and pushed it away.
The Daily Prophet had already labelled him “Heir to the Dark Arts”, and the Ministry had issued several concerned statements, alluding vaguely to how such “tainted legacies” could affect Harry’s future, which Harry hadn’t been interested in anyhow, so the warning felt meaningless.
In Grimmauld Place, Harry worked long into the night, sorting casualty lists and organising payments to the families. He rarely used the upstairs rooms anymore. The range of his daily activities gradually shrank down to the kitchen and the kitchen table. Kreacher came and went with plates Harry didn’t touch and removed them later with no comment.
The families made it hard for Harry in small and big ways. Mrs Weasley returned the cheque torn in half. Harry tried sending the money through other Weasleys, thinking the roundabout method might work better. Charlie was out of contact, Percy refused, and Ginny wrote back that it was insulting. Bill and Fleur only accepted their own share, if a little hesitant, and promised to pass it where it was needed. Draco sent Howlers demanding to see Harry in person to confirm that Harry was, in fact, “Harry Potter”, otherwise this fraud wouldn’t hold in court. Lucius later apologised for any inconvenience.
Ginny came by again. “Harry, is there any money left for yourself?”
Harry held up the galleon, let it catch the kitchen light. “This. One galleon. A little gift from him.”
Ginny’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She looked at his coin, then at his face, and pursed her lips even harder.
“You could’ve taken something. Mum wouldn’t accept, that’s Mum, that isn’t your fault. Time for a fresh start, Harry. Do you even sleep in a bed these days? I don’t care what people write in those rags, but I know your life can’t all be about — that.”
Harry turned the coin over again.
“Right,” said Ginny, and let herself out. She slammed the front door so loudly that Harry heard the portraits in the hallway screeching.
Harry didn’t need Voldemort’s money. Grimmauld Place still held the Black family’s wealth, and Harry had quietly arranged for his will to leave it to Andromeda and Teddy. What little remained from his parents had gone to Hogwarts and the Weasleys, the latter via Bill, who would not ask questions. Only Voldemort’s gift, the galleon that forever landed on heads, kept its weight in Harry’s pocket.
The reparations dragged on for weeks, months, until Andromeda Tonks took over as the head of the relief agency for the orphaned and the bereaved. Harry trusted her no-nonsense approach to keep it from being misused. She came to Grimmauld several times with necessary paperwork. The last time, Andromeda set a folder on the counter and lingered in the kitchen doorway, seemingly reluctant to say the obvious, and indeed said none of it. The next batch of papers came by owl, addressed in neat script that only Auto-Quills produced.
Soon came Voldemort’s manifesto, “The Dark Arts in British Wizardry”, six hundred handwritten pages of theory and self-mythology in that same silvery-green ink. The publisher in Diagon Alley handled the bundle by its edges and offered Harry an advance, which Harry turned down on the spot.
“Mr Potter. About your cut…”
“Not my book,” said Harry. “Just do your usual print run, and don’t send me a copy.”
The manifesto sold almost too well, to the point there were rumours it might have a Confundus on its title page. The Prophet ran excerpts for a fortnight. They called it the most dangerous heterodoxy of the century, then quickly changed their stance once the sales spiked, and called it the most important biography after “The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore”.
Two copies appeared on Harry’s doorstep over the next month, both signed in that silvery-green hand: To my Executor, with the compliments of the author. Harry burned one in the kitchen grate and another in the bin out back, but each reappeared on the dinner table within an hour, unsinged. He instead stacked them by the umbrella stand. They kept arriving. The manuscript had sat on Harry’s desk for six weeks and Harry hadn’t even read it past the first page.
Slowly, things wound to an end. The final bus ride to Little Hangleton was uneventful. Since the beginning of the millennium, more and more young people had moved from countryside to cities for better education or careers, and Harry was the youngest passenger aboard the old, rumbling vehicle, with the countryside slipping by. The village itself felt abandoned. The house at the top of the hill had been empty long enough that those who remained paid it hardly any mind, even as a stranger with black robes trudged uphill.
The windows were smudged beyond visibility. Once inside, dust stirred as Harry moved about, and cobwebs and dead bugs crunched underfoot, over the decaying floorboards. He walked through rooms, fingers dragging over antique furniture, in place exactly as it must have looked that summer when Voldemort returned. The painted floor. The wallpaper. The pattern of the hall runner, diamond on diamond, faded brown, that Harry had walked over in dreams in another decade.
They matched his memories, or those planted in him by a soul piece long gone. Upstairs, in the master bedroom, soft light shone through the cracks between curtains. He slumped heavily onto the old bed. The sheets had been on it long, long before him. The springs gave exactly as his memories had told him.
Harry looked at the ceiling.
He remembered the dreams easily. A Hogwarts that hadn’t been Hogwarts, with looping corridors and reversed staircases, leading to cellars never seen before or since. Tom Riddle, sixteen, same as the boy from the diary, had waited at the end of the labyrinth. with a candle in hand. He looked unreadable in the flickering candlelight.
They had walked, mostly. Riddle would point out a new tapestry, a suit of armour, or a silent, watching portrait. A long gallery of windows looking out on a courtyard Harry had never seen and could not place. Riddle had stood at one of the windows, without turning, and said, “Ever wonder how it would feel to fall?” A classroom where desks pushed against the walls, a single chair in the middle. Riddle had sat backwards, chin on the chairback. They had argued sometimes, about small things. Over the ethics of turning a statue into a person. Whether ghosts were still people, or only memories that refused to die. Riddle had laughed, sideways, and said autonomy was a lie, because all men were made up of other men’s stories, not much different from statues or ghosts or portraits. They had never spoken of the war. Their hands had brushed once or twice. Harry had never asked whose dream it was, whether Voldemort shared the same dreams or Harry had just made them all up, whether Riddle had been a memory or a fragment of a soul. Voldemort had never showed any hint of it when awake and alive. Voldemort’s will answered some of it, perhaps.
Their farewell had been quiet. King’s Cross, the white platform, the bench, and the thing under it. Nothing like Riddle. A half-finished business scraped together, skinned and gasping, that Harry had been asked to pity and had not been able to. Dumbledore had given him a choice. Harry had helped the poor creature on board, and stood back as the train left the station. Only later, walking past bodies in the rubble of the Entrance Hall, Harry had grasped what the cost had been. The dreams had stopped and left Harry to wake.
Lying on the bed, Harry pulled out the enchanted galleon, held it up to the dim light, then flipped it.
Heads. Harry sighed and closed his eyes.
When his eyes reopened, Tom Riddle sat in the armchair beside the bed. Sixteen. Voldemort’s manifesto lay open across his knees. The candle on the bedside table, even though there had not been a candle, threw the lower half of his face into a steadier light than anything else in the room.
“You had it published,” Riddle said, without looking up. “Indulgent.”
“Maybe the author wanted you to see it.”
“Is that so?” Riddle turned a page. He read for a while. Harry watched. The room had grown colder, or Harry had, and it was easier to lie still and feel the chill sink through. At last. “He was always sentimental about you,” said Riddle. He closed the book, and set it on the bedside table next to the candle. He looked across at Harry for the first time. The expression Harry had never been able to read was still unreadable. “Come on. There’re a few loose ends left.”
Harry stood up. The springs of the bed creaked again. He left the galleon on the bedspread, heads up, and followed.
Downstairs, in the kitchen the Riddles had used and Voldemort had not, the lamp oil was still in the cupboard where Harry had known it would be kept, next to the kindling box.
By morning, smoke over Little Hangleton brought out the local brigade. By the time the engines had got up the lane, the roof had fallen in and the walls were going. They found nothing important, only a gold coin in the cinders, heads up. One of the firemen pocketed it without thinking, but found it back on the ground by the time their shift was done. He left it where it lay.