Mother Magic and the Philosopher's stone

Chapter One

Harry James Potter, The boy under the stairs, had always been good at listening to voices in his head. So when a soft, gentle voice told him to walk and keep walking out of Privet Drive at 5 years old, all he could do was oblige. It had been with him for as long as little Harry could remember, and maybe, it was his mother, coming back in any way she could to guide her son. His Aunt Petunia always said that his parents had passed away in a car crash, so they weren't around anymore. He often wondered where they were now, was it dark underground? Were they happy? The voice, that lovely voice, told him that they were so very proud of their son and that he was loved. So, naturally, they must be coming back soon.

Lady Magic had come to Harry Potter, and Lady Magic was so very cross with Albus Dumbledore.

Harry kept walking, directed easily by the maternal voice, he headed out of the suburbs, hopped on a few buses, missed by the drivers. All of which seemingly couldn't notice him, eyes glazed over slightly. He wondered if maybe they were thinking about lunch; his stomach rumbled, as if to say, 'yes, they most certainly were,'. And if a woman forgot a storebought sandwich on the bus as she got up and left, Harry wasn't going to question it. His feet ached by the time he stepped into a small pub that he doubted he would have noticed if the Lady voice hadn't asked him to look for it. 'The Leaky Cauldron' it was called, and it was the type of establishment that Uncle Vernon would turn his nose up at, saying that a 'man of good stature' would never be caught in a place like that. Harry didn't know what stature meant, but he didn't like his uncle, so disagreed anyway. Inside was a great deal warmer than the bitter October outside, and Harry's hands were pleased with the warmth. He rubbed them together, allowing soft lightning to warm him up. The Lady voice told him to keep his head down and make his way to the back of the pub, greeted by a large brick wall. Harry pressed a small pale hand on the dark brickwork, and he felt a hum in his head. It broke away immediately, opening up to the brightest and strangest scene that the young boy had ever witnessed.

The archway led onto a large cobbled street which twisted and turned out of sight, and many strange people, which he was sure Aunt Petunia would call 'freaks' clustered together in large numbers, wearing strange brightly coloured clothes that looked a bit like fancy blankets. Harry wanted to wear one now, and was sure he would wrap his ratty thin duvet around his shoulders in the privacy of his own cupboard, pretending to be just like them. The winter sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. 'Cauldrons- All sizes- Copper, Brass, [???], Silver, Self-stirring, [????]', said a sign hanging over them. He didn't know what some of those words meant, but he was deathly curious. Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as he made his way up the street, trying to look at everything at once. 'Focus,' the Lady voice supplied, 'There will be many trips back here, but you musn't tell your relatives.' Harry nodded absentmindedly, listening in to a woman outside of a strange shop as he passed saying 'Dragon Liver, sixteen sickles an ounce, they're mad...'. He wondered what sickles were, but hoped that his friend would tell him soon enough.

After a slow walk through the bustling crowd, Harry had reached a snowy-white building which towered over all the other shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors was a funny little man with a long beaky nose and a very short build. He averted his eyes, knowing better than to stare, Harry didn't want to offend the funny man, especially as he was no taller himself. He felt a weight drop into his pocket, and pulled out a small gold key. 

"what's this?" He whispered to the voice. 

'Ask for counsel with Irontooth, tell him you want an inheritance test and to accept your lordships immediately.' Lordship? He didn't know much about lords, but at school they always talked about Lords and Ladies from a long time ago. With knights and dragons and roundtables. He was a lord? 'Yes, to many families. Currently, a very wicked old man is using the power that is rightfully yours. You are here to claim it.' Harry nodded solemnly, and marched up to the end desk with another funny man at it, writing away with a brown feather quill.

"Hello, sir?" He stammered out, trying his best to be polite. The man turned his nose down on him, staring with a piercing gaze, and a mildly incredulous look on his wizened features. "I'd like to speak to Irontooth please." The man nodded, seemingly pleased with the boy's manners. Many wizards believed themselves to be above goblins, the same goblins that made their finest silver and ran their economy and laws without fault. Seeing such a genuine and earnest boy treat him with such respect gave him a certain level of report with goblinkind. Griphook was unlikely to forget it. 

"Your key please, Mr. Potter." Harry pulled the slight key out of his pocket, and it suddenly jumped into the hand of the man. He would have felt almost relieved, if he wasn't so thrilled by the small trick, as there was no way such a petite five-year-old would have been able to jump high enough to give him the key without it. "Please, follow me." Harry did, jumping to follow Griphook's slow pace with an excited bounce. He led the boy through a large wooden door, which gave way to a huge cavernous space, with rocky outcroppings and stalagmites aplenty. Griphook ushered him into a minecart and off they went through tunnels and dark patches and more winding track than Harry had ever seen.

This was the best five minutes of his life.

By the time they arrived at another long hallway, much like the marble one upstairs, but carved straight out of the earth. Dim lanterns hung from seemingly nowhere, and Hary was quickly ushered into a smaller office, where another funny man was waiting for him. Irontooth.

"Mr. Potter, I presume?" Harry nodded quickly and sat down in his chair. 'You've done well,' the Lady voice chipped in, 'but I will take it from here.'Harry felt the oddest sensation of lukewarm water covering his body from the head down, and suddenly he was weightless, floating in nothing and feeling just the same. He couldn't see anything, pure pitch blackness but it didn't concern him, he didn't feel the need to see. He could hear a distant conversation as if whispered through a keyhole across a long room. He willed himself over to it, and suddenly he was back in the office, standing next to where his body was, watching as it gave a subtle wink with glowing gold eyes. The not-Harry held his hand out to Irontooth, who cut it with a thin knife straight across the palm. Harry flinched, looking at his own hand, but feeling no pain of any sort, and no mark either. When he looked at the not-Harry there was no wound, and the blood from his hand was suspended in the air, turning into sepia tones and unfurling into a long piece of parchment. Suddenly, he felt a tug on his navel, and the not-Harry was nowhere to be seen, he, the real Harry James Potter, back in the chair, in the office, underneath Gringotts.

Irontooth cleared his throat.

 "Harry James Potter, Current Lord Potter, Lordship acceptance pending, and in line for the Peverall, Slytherin, Le Fay and Black titles, hereby declares his lordships and inheritance valid and in order, in name of magic so mote it be." A soft glow emanated from Irontooth's oak desk. Fading into existence was a small cushion, with four rings on it. "Mr. Potter, do you accept your lordships? As acquiesced by your blood and by right of conquest?"

"I- yes!"

"Please put on these rings, on the same finger if you will Mr. Potter." Harry did so, and although his fingers were too small for the large rings, they fit him snugly, before combining into one small golden band, with the markings of a serpent, Inside a triangle, lay a serpent and raven intertwined behind a crescent moon . "With these lordship rings, you will be subject to none but the most harmful curses, and no poisons but the most potent. You also have several manors and libraries to your name, all of which are enclosed in this list here." He handed the child a small scroll, sealed in a shimmering silver wax. "Additionally, there are now several new bank vaults unsealed and accessible to his lordship alone." Vaults? Did he mean bank vaults? Did he have money? 'Aye my child, more than you have ever dreamed of. But only take a small satchel of coins, 500 galleons- we will return for you to collect more.' His Lady voice had delivered on every one of his boyhood hopes and dreams, money and power, he didn't feel quite so small anymore. "Did his lordship require anything else?" 

"500 galleons from one of my vaults please, Sir." What now, Lady voice?

'The Library.'