Diagon Valley pulsed with magic, more alive than Alaric had ever felt it. The crowds moved around him, but his mind was elsewhere—on the vision he had seen earlier, the faces of Harry Potter and his friends. It was unsettling, not because of the faces themselves, but because they shouldn't have been there. Harry was three years younger, still too young to be preparing for Hogwarts, and yet, Alaric had seen them, as real as the cobblestones beneath his feet.
He stood in front of Gringotts again, its imposing marble structure looming above him. The weight of his earlier conversation with Griphook still hung over him like a fog. The goblins knew he was the heir of Solomon House before the bloodline test. The wards had recognized him the moment he stepped into the bank. The question gnawed at him: How could they have known so much before I even did?
Inside, the cool air of the bank sent a chill down his spine as he approached the goblin waiting for him.
"You're back," Griphook said, a sly glint in his eye. "I assume you're here for more than just your vault today?"
Alaric nodded. He had come for answers, and Gringotts was the only place where he felt he might get them.
They descended into the depths of the bank, the rattling cart speeding through dark, twisting tunnels. As they went deeper, Alaric could feel the ancient magic thickening in the air. It was a feeling he hadn't recognized before, but now, with his connection to Solomon House awakened, it was almost suffocating.
They stopped in front of an old, nearly forgotten vault, deep beneath even the Black family vaults. The door was marked with runes so ancient that even Alaric couldn't recognize most of them, but he could feel their power. Griphook didn't speak, merely stepping aside to let Alaric approach.
The moment his hand touched the vault door, the ancient wards reacted. The runes glowed softly, and the door creaked open, revealing a trove of treasures beyond anything he had imagined. Gold glistened in piles, but it was the books, scrolls, and artifacts that caught Alaric's eye. These were the true treasures of Solomon House—relics of an ancient magical lineage, knowledge lost to most of the wizarding world.
As he stepped inside, his eyes were drawn to a pedestal in the center of the room. On it sat an intricately carved box, bound by chains of glowing silver. The box itself radiated magic, and Alaric could sense that this was no ordinary object.
Griphook, who had remained at the entrance, spoke. "That is the heart of Solomon House. What lies within is not gold or jewels, but something far more valuable. Knowledge."
Alaric stared at the box, feeling the weight of his bloodline pressing down on him. "Why did you know who I was before the blood test?"
"The wards of Gringotts are ancient, older than most wizarding magic," Griphook said. "They are tied to families like yours, families whose magic predates modern wizarding society. The moment you entered the bank, the wards recognized your blood. Solomon's legacy runs deep in this place, entwined with the very foundations of Gringotts."
"Did Solomon make a pact with your kind?" Alaric asked, piecing together the fragments of information he had gathered.
Griphook's eyes glittered. "Not a pact. A symbiosis. Solomon's magic, his house, was intertwined with goblin magic long ago. His bloodline was always meant to guard knowledge, just as we guard treasures. The wards recognize those who are worthy. You, Alaric Black, are that heir."
Alaric spent hours in the vault, his mind racing as he leafed through ancient texts that chronicled the history of Solomon House. Rituals, spells, mind magic—powerful and forbidden knowledge lay within these books, but most of it was sealed. The true power of the house would only be unlocked when he came of age at 17, but even now, Alaric could feel the weight of his legacy.
Among the books, one volume stood out: a journal bound in black dragonhide, with the symbol of Solomon etched into the cover. As he opened it, the pages revealed a detailed account of the family's history, but one passage caught his attention. It spoke of a prophecy, one that foretold a child of Solomon's blood who would have the power to change the fate of both the magical and non-magical worlds.
The words resonated with him, echoing the strange vision he had experienced earlier in Diagon Valley—the fleeting image of Harry Potter and his friends, an illusion his mind had conjured. But the prophecy was vague and incomplete, and Alaric knew there was much he still didn't understand.
As Alaric left Gringotts, his thoughts weighed down by the knowledge he had uncovered, he felt the world around him shift again. The familiar streets of Diagon Valley stretched before him, but this time, there was no illusion of Harry and his friends. The vision had been nothing more than a manifestation of his expectations, perhaps fueled by the ancient magic stirring within him.
But there was something else. A feeling that he was being watched. Not by the goblins, nor by the bustling crowd of witches and wizards. No, this was different—subtle, hidden, but undeniable.
Alaric turned, his eyes scanning the street. No one stood out, yet he couldn't shake the sensation. Whoever—or whatever—was watching him, they weren't ready to reveal themselves yet. But Alaric had a growing suspicion that his connection to Solomon House had made him a target, one whose significance extended beyond even the wizarding world.
The day was growing late, and Alaric knew he couldn't linger in Diagon Valley any longer. He had what he had come for—answers, though they only led to more questions. But as he walked towards the Leaky Cauldron, his mind returned to the illusion of Harry Potter. It had been so vivid, so real. It wasn't just an expectation—it felt as though it had come from somewhere deeper within him as if the very fabric of reality had shifted to accommodate his subconscious thoughts.
Could it be connected to his growing power? Or was there something else at work?