The Unbitten

See Chapter One for disclaimer and details.

Chapter Two

"You mean you don't know anything?" Poppy inquired, in shock. She had been rattling on at the boy about his parents (Lily and James, as she referred to them) as she puttered around Harry's room, only to have the lad ask her who she was talking about. A few more questions had revealed Harry's total ignorance of both his parents and the wizarding world, prompting her outburst.

Annoyed, Harry replied, "I'm not totally stupid; I got rather good marks in school, until. . . " Harry abruptly shut up. That was something he wasn't supposed to talk about. The Dursleys had made sure he'd know what would happen if he did.

"Besides," Harry said, trying desperately to change the subject, "do you know why I was in the bloody hospital to begin with?" As soon as he'd said it, Harry regretted it. He'd get in trouble for tattling on Dudley, too. But maybe not as much trouble: after all, such things had been covered up in the past, as well.

No, he was in for it, regardless.

The medi-witch sank onto a nearby frame chair. "I'd wondered," Poppy said much more casually than she was feeling. "Do tell."

"A. . . group of boys beat up on me," Harry offered.

"Almost to the point of killing you? How old were these boys?"

"Ten," Harry reluctantly replied.

"That doesn't sound like ten-year-olds," Poppy argued. "Are you sure you did nothing to provoke them?"

Harry shook his head, but didn't meet her eyes, which Poppy took to mean that he was hiding something. He was, but not what she thought he was hiding - she thought that he had, in fact, provoked the attack.

"What did you do?" Poppy asked gently.

Harry's head snapped up. "Nothing!" he asserted.

"Then why-"

"It was my cousin, okay?" Harry said desperately, interrupting. "It's his favourite game, 'Harry Hunting'." Although his voice was defiant, he didn't expect to be believed. Nobody believed him: at least more than once. After his aunt and uncle got through spinning their lies and making Harry 'admit' to them. . .

"But. . . so vicious," Poppy weakly protested.

"It was his birthday. I ran and hid too well."

Poppy was shocked, as what the boy had said sounded as though he was cooperating. "You let them?"

"No! Don't you listen? I ran and hid!"

"And. . the other boys?" Poppy's voice was quiet, almost as though she didn't want the question heard, and therefore answered.

"His gang," Harry replied, almost as quietly.

"And they found you," she more stated, than asked.

"Yes."

Poppy sat there staring at him, and then a look of determination came over her face. She abruptly came to her feet. "If you'll excuse me," she said to Harry, "I need to have words with someone," and left the room, but not without making sure that the wards keeping Harry in, were in place.

_ _ _

"It hardly matters now, Poppy," Albus said gently to the furious mediwitch leaning over his desk.

"Hardly matters?" Poppy almost screamed. "The boy is almost murdered, his species changed because of it, and it 'hardly matters'?"

"He is much too dangerous to be allowed to go back to them, after all," the old man explained.

"You would have sent him back?" a shocked Poppy quietly inquired.

"It was the safest place for him, Poppy."

Poppy stared at him a few moments. "What part of 'almost murdered' did you not understand, Headmaster?"

"I don't suggest you spread such rumours around, Madam Pomfrey," Albus said quietly. The threat was understated, but it was definitely there.

Poppy wanted scream at the man: pound some sense into him. But she could see that the man she had once so admired had changed, if he could ignore the well-being of a child.

~*~

One week later Harry had been seen to be more or less harmless, if he drank his blood as needed.

Harry had arrived at Hogwarts with nothing, not even the clothes on his back (dirty, torn and bloodied, those that hadn't had to be cut off his body at the muggle hospital so he could be treated, were still thrown away). So after Harry had breakfast and a large serving of beef blood washed down with the ubiquitous pumpkin juice (a spiced mixture that could be served either hot or cold), his hospital pyjamas and slippers were transfigured into robes and shoes, and he was taken to Diagon Alley to be fitted and outfitted.

Unfortunately for him, Dumbledore had assigned the potions master, Severus Snape, to be his guide and guardian on this foray.

"Hurry up, Potter!" Snape snarled at the child who was almost running at his side, the man's anger growing as he dwelt on the injustice of it all. Although small, necessitating his gait, Harry wasn't having that much trouble keeping up with the man. Annoyed, the potions professor lengthened his stride once again. He didn't want anything to do with the child of James Potter in the first place, and then to have the boy forced on him! And since he couldn't take his ire out on his employer, Dumbledore, who had insisted that Snape was the only person available for the task - never mind that it could have waited a day or so until someone else could have taken the brat - the next target of opportunity was the boy himself.

He swept into Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and slammed Harry's key down under the nose of the first available goblin teller, the goblins being the owners and operators of the bank.

"The Potter vault!" Snape angrily demanded, with a sneer. Normally he would not have made such a mistake, but he had worked himself into such a state that he let his mouth get away from him.

The teller looked up, his face wearing a sneer of his own. And with his wide mouth, pointed teeth and expressive features, it was a far more impressive sneer than Snape could ever hope to wear.

"And you are?" the goblin inquired, the tone of his voice implying that it could hardly matter, since the dark-haired man standing before him was lower than the lowest of creatures, anyway.

"Severus Snape," the man snarled, trying to intimidate the short being.

If anything, the goblin's sneer grew even more supercilious. But instead of getting into a pissing contest with the man, he looked to the boy at the man's side. The young one's face was a picture of warring emotions. He was red with mortification and mute apology, as well as showing an ill-hidden amazement at what he was seeing. Was the lad a Muggleborn? But no: not if he was a Potter. At any rate, the young one didn't seem to share the greasy human's prejudices and attitude.

The teller picked up Harry's key, then reached over and rang a bell, which had another goblin showing up at their side seconds later.

"Take Mister Potter to his vault, Torntin," the teller told the underling, handing Harry's key to him.

As Torntin turned to lead the way, both Harry and Professor Snape followed him.

"You, Mister Snape," the teller said to the man before he had taken two steps, "may wait over there." The goblin gestured to a few benches against the walls.

Harry hesitated, unsure what to do as the potions master sputtered, then said, "I need to-"

"You need to. . . " the teller interrupted, mocking him. "Mister Potter is the only one allowed in his vaults," he continued, only partially lying. The young man's trust vault could be entered by anyone accompanying him, but the other two. . . Ah, the other two were, indeed, only for those of Potter blood - or their nearest relative, should the last of the Potter family die.

However, that was all the teller knew. In another ten to thirty years he might, if he was fortunate and worked hard for it, be promoted to junior account manager. At that time he'd have access to far more information. But there were tellers who were nearing the end of their life spans, so a promotion was hardly a certainty.

Torntin gestured for Harry to follow him, and hesitantly, Harry did. The seated goblin had looked small, even perched on the high stool he sat on, but with this one he could estimate the height of the goblins better. Harry knew he was about four and a half feet tall (the nurse at school had taken the heights and weights of all the children), and this goblin, Torntin, would, Harry thought, come up to his shoulder. Guessing, Harry thought the goblin might be a little over three feet tall, but his arms, head, long hands and feet were disproportionately large, as were the extremities of every other goblin in sight.

In his quite vocal fury with the goblin teller, Snape didn't notice Harry was gone until it was too late. His vocabulary and threatening manner when he did, got him thrown out of the bank - literally. Seething, the man took a seat on one of the benches scattered around Diagon Alley for the public's convenience, and waited for when the little brat would exit the bank. There would be no shopping for him! On the other hand, there were things that Snape himself needed to purchase. And if the little snot put just one foot out of line. . .

"Vaults?" Harry asked Torntin as they climbed into what looked like a mine cart with seats.

Torntin looked at Harry oddly. "Yes," he said. "Three, if I remember correctly."

"Really?" Harry responded, gobsmacked. "Wow! Do you know how much is in them?"

Torntin frowned slightly. "You have not read your monthly status reports?" he inquired. Not that he knew. He had only been working at Gringotts for twenty years, although he was proud to have worked his way up from mucker and dragon handler to customer escort; unless something remarkable happened, it would be at least another thirty before he had earned enough seniority to become a teller, or even a minor clerk.

"You sent me mail?" Harry asked, amazed. Then his expression changed, turning contemplative. "I never saw it," he added.

After a second he thoughtfully said, "That doesn't surprise me, though; my relatives never let me have anything, hardly."

Torntin didn't comment, but when they got back to the surface, he would be making a report. The affairs of the bank were not to be interfered with!

When Torntin showed Harry the trust vault, the goblin was in for another rude surprise.

"Wow. . ." Harry drawled out in awe. "Is that gold?"

"Yes, Mister Potter." After a pause, he asked, "You are not aware of Wizarding currency?"

"Is that what this is?"

Torntin sighed. "Yes, Mister Potter. The gold coins are galleons, the silver ones are sickles, and the bronze ones are knuts. For comparison, a galleon is worth five muggle pounds. There are seventeen sickles to a galleon, and twenty-nine knuts to a sickle."

Harry only looked confused, but nodded anyway. He figured if he was there long enough, he'd figure it out.

"How much would I need to get clothes?" he asked.

"That would depend upon the quality and amount of the clothes purchased."

"Um. . . Medium quality, and about. . . ten pieces?" Harry guessed.

Torntin was fairly certain by this time that the Potter heir knew nothing about the wizarding world, and was likely far underestimating what he would need.

"I would suggest that you purchase a bottomless bag and fill it," Torntin finally said, "making it unnecessary for you to have to make numerous trips back to your vault." Of course a bottomless bag was nothing of the sort, but it held so much that it seemed like it.

Harry pursed his lips, undecided. "How much are they?" he asked.

"Ten galleons."

Fifty pounds? Harry thought, in shock; he'd never even seen that much money. Then he looked around him, at the piles and piles of galleons. Only then did the enormity of the amount of money in the vault hit him, and he was totally gobsmacked. To a normal nine year old (ten in a few weeks), ten pounds was a lot of money; and here was Harry, who had never had more than tuppence to his name, staring at a large fortune.

After a bit, Torntin cleared his throat, reminding Harry of his presence.

Harry started, then looked guiltily at the goblin. "Sorry," he said. "I think I'll take your advice, if you don't mind."

Torntin reached into the air and pulled back a soft leather bag about five inches across and seven deep: one of the magics he had to master in order to become a customer escort. He didn't create it: he merely fetched it from stores.

"Your bag, Mister Potter," Torntin said, handing it to Harry. "Besides being bottomless, it is veritably theft-proof."

At Harry's look of incomprehension, Torntin elaborated. "Once you put a drop of your blood on it, it cannot be stolen from you by either magical or mundane means, nor will anyone but you be able to access the contents."

Harry grinned, thinking how that would frustrate his aunt and uncle; then he frowned. "Can it be destroyed?" he inquired.

"For an extra fee we can put an array of protection charms on the bag that can make it all but indestructible, but at this time, yes."

Harry looked at the piles of gold around him for reassurance, then said, "I'll pay."

"Very good. And do you want low, medium, or high level protection?"

Harry looked at the gold again, and said, "High, please. " He had no idea what the levels of security entailed, but he figured the more there was, the better.

Torntin nodded. "That will be an extra six galleons. May I have the bag so that I can send it to our enchanters?"

Harry handed it back, and Torntin held it out to his side, flicked his hand, and the bag disappeared. "High security," he said to the air.

"While we are waiting, would you like to visit your other vault?" Torntin suggested.

"I thought I had three?" Harry inquired.

Torntin had skimmed the account information sheet set in a small alcove to one side of the door whilst Harry was otherwise occupied, and replied, "There is only one other you can access at this time, but no gold may be removed from it until you're of age. You must either be of age or emancipated in order to enter the other."

Emancipated. Didn't that mean that a kid divorced his parents? Or was it something else? At any rate, Harry had the rather firm impression that a kid's parents weren't involved with that kid's life any more. He could be free of the Dursleys! "How do I get emancipated?" he asked, trying to hide his eagerness.

Fortunately Torntin had just come across this in his studies of wizard law a fortnight ago; one did not get promotions on merit alone. "You must be sixteen years of age and living independently, fourteen years of age and estranged from your caregivers, with the means to support yourself, or fourteen, the last of your line, and able to support yourself. I believe you qualify on three counts, Mister Potter, those being having the means to support yourself, being the last of your line, and from what you have told me, likely being estranged from your caregivers as well. However. . ."

Harry nodded, his expression sober. "I understand." Then he visibly brightened. "At least I can see the other, eh?"

When they returned to the Gringotts main lobby, Harry's 'bottomless' bag was almost completely full of gold (along with his key, a dagger, and a trinket or two Harry had taken a liking to from the second vault). Torntin quickly glanced at the teller from whom he'd collected the young Mister Potter, and scanned the benches. Not seeing the rude loudmouth that had been with the boy, he took Harry to the junior account manager who was in charge of the floor that month and whispered in his ear. Going over the heads of your superiors wasn't usually a good career move, either.

His superior peered at Harry over the tops of his half-glasses, then nodded and hurried away. When he returned, he told Torntin, "Take him to Riptorn."

By this time Harry was getting worried. He had been in the bank a long time, and Professor Snape must have got tired of waiting for him some time ago. He looked around, but didn't see him.

"I really should check in with Professor Snape," he told the goblins.

"He is not in the bank," the floor supervisor informed him.

"Oh." Well, the professor had informed him, more than once, that he had better things to do than show Harry around Diagon Alley: although those weren't quite the words he'd used. Among other epithets, the greasy-haired man had called Harry an 'unnatural waste of space'. It had kind of hurt, but Harry was used to being called worse.

Perhaps Harry had been gone so long the professor had decided to take care of some of those things, and would be back for him later. In that case, there was no harm in finding out what these interesting. . . creatures? Beings? What they wanted, anyway.

Harry was ushered into a small office just large enough for a desk, filing cabinet (one drawer of which was able to fetch any records needed from the main stacks), and three chairs - one for the goblin, and two for clients.

"Please be seated, Mister Potter," Riptorn invited, not looking up. He was closely studying the files of the Potter account. "I understand you've been having some difficulties with your correspondence from us?"

"Um. . . I haven't received any, if that's what you're referring to," Harry replied.

Riptorn glanced up at the boy before returning to perusing the records. "Yes, Mister Potter, that is to what I'm referring."

Harry's face tinted a bit at having his English corrected.

"Our records indicate that copies were sent to Albus Dumbledore, who was supposed to have kept you apprised."

"The headmaster of the magic school?" Harry asked, surprised.

"The very same."

"I never saw him until about a week past," Harry informed the goblin. He would have to ask the odd old man why he hadn't been informed, if he was supposed to have been.

Riptorn's left eyebrow raised a bit. "Interesting," he said. "Your tenth birthday is in just a few weeks, is it not?"

Harry was momentarily thrown by the apparent change of subject. "Yes, sir; July thirty-first," he replied.

"Hm. . . If you wouldn't mind, Mister Potter," Riptorn said, getting up from his chair. "I must confer with my superior for a moment."

When Riptorn returned, he was carrying a few sheets of parchment. After seating himself, he met Harry's eyes.

"As you may or may not know, Mister Potter, on your tenth birthday you were to be informed of, and read your parents' will. Albus Dumbledore was to have performed this service, but in light of the information you have given us, it has been decided that we shall waive the last few weeks until your date of birth, and read it to you now."

Now Harry understood; they didn't trust that Mister Dumbledore would do it. Well, he was curious, so he wasn't going to complain if they wanted to tell him now.

Afterwards, Harry blinked in an effort to get his thoughts in order. Not that it helped. He had already known he was very wealthy, just from the contents of the trust vault. But to learn that was only one percent of the gold in his vaults! Of course the contents of the trust vault was to have helped in the costs of raising him and getting him the occasional treat, as well as paying for the costs of his schooling, but he wasn't the least bit familiar with any of the names of those that were to be considered as suitable foster parents for him. And the only time his aunt and uncle's names were mentioned, was to forbid his placement with them.

So why had he been raised by the magic-hating couple? And who had placed him there?

Bewildered, Harry decided he should wait and maybe ask Madam Pomfrey. He didn't quite trust the old man with his ever-twinkling eyes, especially now that he knew Dumbledore had kept things from him - or at least hadn't let him know about his vaults.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by Riptorn.

"Of course this mightn't be all that you're entitled to, Mister Potter," Riptorn hinted.

"Are you saying my parents hid things from me, too?" Harry was incensed.

"Not at all," the goblin calmly replied.

Harry relaxed, but was now a little puzzled

"However," Riptorn continued, "during the last two wars many families were wiped out, and some of them may have been related to you."

Harry understood, and although he was slightly horrified at the thought of whole families being killed, he was also very curious. "How do we find out?" Harry asked.

"The Heritage Potion," Riptorn replied, and was surprised as the boy's face paled.

Harry had been fed several potions in the first days following his arrival at Hogwarts, most of which he thought unnecessary when it was explained to him what they were for, and all of which had tasted na-a-asty.

"H-how. . . " Harry stopped and swallowed convulsively, then gathered his courage and asked, "How - how bad does it taste?"

Riptorn looked at the boy, his eyes wide, and then did something that few goblins did in the presence of humans: he laughed, only being spurred on as Harry's face became rather indignant.

"What?" Harry demanded indignantly, instinctively knowing he was being laughed at. "What's so amusing?"

Gaining control of himself, although a rather disturbing, teeth-filled grin remained on his face, Riptorn replied, "Not all potions are made for drinking, Mister Potter: nor is this one."

Harry blushed. "Oh," was all he could say.

"Would you like to buy this service?" Riptorn inquired.

Harry nodded mutely. Even if he had known that the geneology potion Snape was making would have been ready in another two days, he'd likely have wanted to do this. After all, then he wouldn't have to wait!

Not that the geneology potion and the heritage potion were quite the same. Although both dealt with the ancestry of the one it was used with, the heritage potion was designed by the goblins to show only those names that had accounts with the bank, either active or inactive. The geneology potion would trace out a person's entire family tree.

"Torntin!" Riptorn called out.

The customer escort entered promptly.

"We will need the Heritage kit," Riptorn ordered.

"Yes, sir," Torntin replied with a respectful nod of the head, before quickly walking out again.

Riptorn turned back to Harry. "Now then, Mister Potter: would you care for tea?"

Harry opened his mouth to issue a polite refusal, but his stomach chose that moment to make a rather embarrassing grumble. Face burning, and knowing the goblin would know he was lying if he refused now, Harry nodded. "Yes, thank you."

Riptorn snapped his fingers, and a tea service appeared, along with a plate of sandwiches and one of something the contents of which Harry didn't quite want to see too closely.

Riptorn poured the tea, and pushed the finger sandwiches closer to Harry. "Help yourself to the sugar and milk, if you like," he said.

Harry nodded rather distractedly. He added the one lump of sugar he thought he might be able to get away with, and had only taken a couple of bites of a sandwich, when Torntin returned with a silver tray upon which rested a thick, cut crystal flask mostly filled with a dark liquid, a stone bowl upon which was carved several runes, a knife, a couple of steaming damp flannels, a quill, and several blank pages of parchment.

"Ah," Riptorn said abruptly. "I'm sorry to interrupt our repast, Mister Potter, but in just a couple of minutes we could have the process started, and then return to it before our tea gets cold."

Harry looked regretfully at the tea and sandwiches, then gently pushed them to one side. "What do we need to do?" he asked.

Riptorn answered rather distractedly as he worked with the items that had been on the silver tray. The only thing still remaining on it was the stone bowl. "What you shall need to do," the goblin continued, "once I have everything prepared, is to drip six drops of your blood into the stone bowl, wherein will be a portion of the potion in the flask."

Less than a minute later, Riptorn had finished with everything else, and poured about two ounces of the dark potion into the bowl. Carefully stoppering the flask, he set it aside and picked up one of the steaming flannels.

"Please wipe your hands with this, Mister Potter. Wouldn't want the blood contaminated with anything on your hands, after all."

Harry took the flannel from Riptorn, and very conscientiously cleaned his hands as best he was able. Riptorn took the flannel back, and handed Harry the small knife. It looked very sharp.

"How do I do this?" Harry asked nervously.

Riptorn looked at the boy and noticed he was very tense: almost vibrating with it. The lad would likely either back out, or cut so deeply he'd do serious damage.

"Would you trust me to do it for you, Mister Potter?"

Harry looked up at the goblin, gratitude almost streaming from his eyes. "Would you, sir?"

Although he had offered, Riptorn was quite amazed. A wizard - even a child - trusting a goblin to use a weapon on them without more hurt than necessary? It was unprecedented! But without a word he held his hand out, and the boy handed him the knife. Riptorn took it, then came around the table to take hold of Harry's hand, then moved his grip to the boy's index finger before quickly slicing the pad, and moving Harry's hand over the bowl.

Harry had flinched, of course, but the goblin's grip was firm. 'They're a lot stronger than they look,' he noted to himself.

Riptorn gently squeezed Harry's cut finger until exactly six drops had fallen into the potion in the bowl, which fizzed a bit, then pulled the boy's hand back and, muttering something Harry didn't understand, ran a fingernail over the cut, leaving unscarred skin behind, then let go of the lad.

Having his hand back in his possession, Harry looked at his finger, about to ask for a plaster for it, when he noticed that except for a little blood, his finger was as it had always been. "Wow," he whispered.

Of course it would have healed almost as quickly without Riptorn's help due to the accelerated healing vampires have, but neither Harry nor Riptorn knew that.

The bank was set up to deal with any sort of creature that was intelligent and made use of currency. They had wards in place to inform them of the presence of such creatures. But Harry wasn't a typical vampire. His having a heartbeat confused the wards, and so they remained quiescent, as they were with any undisguised wizard.

Riptorn took the quill and, after making sure it soaked up as much of the potion as it could, set it, point down, on the parchment. When he let go, the quill remained upright. With a satisfied nod, he turned to Harry.

"Now we wait. And while we do, we can complete our repast," he said, handing Harry the other steamed flannel.

Harry wiped the blood off his hand, and turned eagerly to his abandoned tea and sandwiches.

A few minutes later he heard the scritching of the quill as it started to write. Turning, Harry watched in fascination for a minute, then turned back to his plate, glancing back at the self-driven quill every once in a while. Even after Harry had eaten his fill, a rare - nay, a nonexistent event before he'd wound up at Hogwarts, the quill scritched on, occasionally refilling itself from the bowl.

And then finally it stopped, and fell over.

Without a word, Riptorn rose from his chair and approached the now-filled parchment. He then handed it to Harry.

"Most of those names," Riptorn began, "are victims of the last two dark lords. Good families, most of them, insofar as wizards count such things, but not terribly influential, wealthy, or powerful. However, each had a vault with varying amounts in them. I shall need to do some research before I will be able to give you the numbers."

Harry nodded his understanding, his expression polite, but his body language urged the goblin to get on with it. He was sure Mister Snape was going to be upset with him for taking so long.

In the end, there was nothing earth-shattering in the list. There was a vault that refused to be identified pending unnamed conditions, but that was it. However, Harry found himself not only a very wealthy young man, but had inherited three seats on the Wizengamot (two of which were considered defunct), and in possession of several properties, including ten percent of Hogwarts' grounds: which entitled him to a seat on the Board of Governors of the school. He wouldn't be able to exercise the rights and powers of the seats he was entitled to until he was of age, however, or emancipated and in the company of a competent advisor.

There was one surprising thing, however... the Helling vault. Evidently his mother had been a direct descendent through the distaff line.

"I was informed my mother came from Muggle stock," Harry said, in question. Poppy had told Harry more than she was aware she had, while rambling on about his parents.

"That she was not, sir," Riptorn replied, and then expanded on his reply when Harry stared at him blankly. "As you should know, a Muggleborn witch or wizard's line is deemed to be 'pure' if, after three generations, there are only witches and wizards on both sides of the line. On the other hand, a squib's line, if there are no magical offspring after five generations, is disowned. They usually move to the muggle world, as few will deal with them. Most forget, after a few generations, that they might be anything other than muggles."

"Ah," Harry said, trying to sound wise, even if he was feeling rather lost.

o~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~o