The white marble steps of Gringotts Wizarding Bank gleamed in the afternoon sun with the kind of aggressive prosperity that could only be achieved through centuries of carefully calculated compound interest and a complete disregard for aesthetic humility. Harry stood at the bottom of those steps, staring up at the imposing bronze doors with the expression of someone who had just realized that managing cosmic superpowers was considerably simpler than managing finances.
"Right," he said to Bill, who had arrived at the Burrow precisely at quarter to two with the punctuality of someone who understood that goblins considered tardiness a personal insult worthy of immediate financial penalties. "Any last-minute advice before I walk into what I suspect is going to be either the most educational or the most humiliating conversation of my post-war life?"
Bill Weasley—eldest of the Weasley clan, curse-breaker extraordinaire, and the only person Harry knew who could make fang earrings look professionally appropriate—adjusted his dragonhide jacket with the casual confidence of someone who'd spent years negotiating with beings who could calculate interest rates to seventeen decimal places while simultaneously insulting your ancestry in three different languages.
"First rule," Bill said, his tone carrying the weight of hard-won experience, "never, ever comment on a goblin's height. Second rule: don't make promises you can't keep. Third rule: everything is negotiable except goblin dignity, which is non-negotiable and will cost you seventeen percent more than you were expecting if you accidentally offend it."
Harry blinked. "Seventeen percent specifically?"
"Goblins are very precise about penalty calculations," Bill replied with the weary patience of someone who'd learned this lesson through painful personal experience. "Also, don't mention the Goblin Rebellions unless you want a three-hour lecture on historical grievances and why wizards are fundamentally untrustworthy as a species."
"Noted," Harry said, mentally adding "avoid historical topics" to his growing list of conversational landmines. "Anything else I should know?"
"They're going to test you," Bill said seriously. "Not obviously, not aggressively, but goblins always test new clients—especially clients with unusual circumstances and unprecedented financial portfolios. They'll want to see how you handle pressure, whether you panic when confronted with complex numbers, and most importantly, whether you're going to be the sort of client who makes reasonable decisions or the sort who accidentally bankrupts themselves through poor investment choices and emotional spending."
"I'm not going to bankrupt myself," Harry protested.
"Harry, mate, you're eighteen years old with enough money to buy a small country and absolutely no experience managing anything more complicated than a Gringotts vault key," Bill pointed out with brutal honesty. "From their perspective, you're either going to be their most profitable client or their most spectacular disaster, and they're very interested in determining which category you fall into."
"Comforting," Harry muttered. "Though I suppose it's fair. I've never actually thought about money as something that requires active management. It's just sort of... been there when I needed it."
"Which is exactly the attitude that makes goblins simultaneously hopeful and terrified," Bill said with dark amusement. "Hopeful because clients who don't think about money tend to let it accumulate without making stupid decisions. Terrified because clients who don't think about money also tend to make monumentally stupid decisions when they finally do start paying attention."
They climbed the marble steps together, and Harry found himself unconsciously adjusting his posture into something that was probably more "cosmic superhero preparing for diplomatic negotiations" than "confused young wizard hoping not to embarrass himself." His enhanced senses immediately began cataloguing the building's defenses—protective enchantments layered so thickly they were practically visible, magical wards that would probably trigger seventeen different alarm systems if he so much as sneezed wrong, and what appeared to be some sort of reality-anchoring spell that made the air feel heavier, more substantial, as though the building itself was refusing to acknowledge that physics might have opinions about architectural impossibilities.
The bronze doors swung open before they reached them, moved by magic that was both ancient and efficient. Inside, the main hall of Gringotts stretched out with the kind of cavernous grandeur that suggested the architects had been competing to see who could create the most intimidating financial institution possible.
Goblins moved through the space with practiced efficiency, managing transactions at long counters while simultaneously radiating the particular brand of professional disdain that could only be achieved through centuries of dealing with wizards who thought "financial planning" meant "hope everything works out somehow."
"Mr. Potter," a voice said from Harry's left, and he turned to find a goblin who looked like he'd been carved from granite and professional skepticism in equal measure. "I am Ragnok, Senior Account Manager. We've been expecting you."
The goblin's eyes—sharp, intelligent, and absolutely unimpressed by fame, fortune, or cosmic enhancements—swept over Harry with the thoroughness of someone conducting a preliminary assessment that would probably be discussed in goblin financial circles for years to come.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," Harry said, extending his hand with the careful courtesy he'd learned from dealing with beings who considered politeness a form of negotiation and rudeness a declaration of war.
Ragnok's expression flickered with something that might have been approval as he shook Harry's hand with a grip that tested for both strength and control. "Short notice is relative when the client in question has been missing for twenty-eight days and returns with physical enhancements that make our magical detection systems question their fundamental purpose."
"Right," Harry said, deciding that straightforward honesty was probably his best strategy. "About that—"
"We'll discuss the details in private," Ragnok interrupted smoothly, gesturing toward a corridor that led deeper into the bank. "Your financial situation is... complex enough to require discretion and considerably more time than our public areas allow."
They followed Ragnok through corridors that grew progressively more impressive and intimidating—past offices where goblins managed accounts worth more than most wizards would see in a lifetime, through security checkpoints that made Harry's enhanced senses buzz with the intensity of their protective magic, and finally into a conference room that looked like it had been designed specifically for conversations that would either end very well or very badly with no middle ground permitted.
The room was circular, carved from what appeared to be a single piece of pale stone that probably had a name Harry didn't know and a value he didn't want to think about. Comfortable chairs—by goblin standards, which meant "functional but not excessively generous"—surrounded a round table that held nothing but a crystal sphere filled with swirling silver smoke.
"Sit," Ragnok said, settling into a chair with the air of someone preparing for a performance they'd rehearsed many times but never quite the same way twice. "Mr. Wesley may remain if you wish, though I should mention that everything discussed in this room is protected by banking confidentiality agreements that carry penalties severe enough to make most wizards reconsider their commitment to curiosity."
"I'll stay," Bill said immediately, taking a seat beside Harry with the casual confidence of someone who'd faced down cursed tombs and considered goblin financial negotiations only slightly more dangerous.
"Very well." Ragnok touched the crystal sphere, and the silver smoke within began to organize itself into shapes, numbers, and what appeared to be a very detailed financial portrait of Harry's entire economic existence. "Mr. Potter, let us begin with the basics. According to our records, you currently control three primary vaults—the Potter family vault, inherited from your parents; the Black family vault, inherited from your godfather Sirius Black; and a Ministry compensation vault established following your receipt of the Order of Merlin, First Class."
"That sounds about right," Harry said, watching the numbers swirl into formation with the expression of someone who suspected he was about to learn things he'd rather not know.
"Additionally," Ragnok continued, "you have inherited several subsidiary accounts from various Black family members who named Sirius as their heir before the family disowned him. Property holdings in three countries, stock investments in seventeen magical businesses, and what appears to be a share in the Hogsmeade post office that nobody quite remembers why the Black family purchased but which generates a surprising amount of quarterly profit."
"I own part of the Hogsmeade post office?" Harry asked faintly.
"One-eighth share," Ragnok confirmed. "Purchased by Arcturus Black in 1952 for reasons that made sense at the time and have been profitable ever since. We've had several inquiries from parties interested in purchasing your share, but given that you've been... unavailable... we've declined on your behalf."
"Thank you," Harry said, making a mental note to ask exactly how profitable owning part of a magical post office could be and whether that number would make him feel better or worse about his life choices.
"The Potter vault," Ragnok said, and the numbers shifted to display what appeared to be several centuries of carefully managed family wealth, "has been accumulating compound interest since your parents' death. Your father's investment portfolio was conservative but intelligent, and seventeen years of uninterrupted growth has resulted in... substantial returns."
The number that appeared in the swirling smoke made Harry's enhanced mathematical abilities immediately calculate exactly how many first-class airline tickets, American hotels, and superhero consulting resources he could fund, and the answer was "enough to make Ron's joke about buying a small country disturbingly accurate."
"That's..." Harry paused, searching for words that would adequately express his shock without making him sound like he'd never considered the concept of compound interest. "That's considerably more than I was expecting."
"Most clients say something similar," Ragnok said with what might have been goblin humor. "Though usually they add commentary about their parents' financial acumen and express regret that they didn't inherit similar skills."
"My parents were good with money," Harry said, feeling a sudden rush of emotion at this new evidence of their competence and care. "I didn't know. I mean, I knew they left me the vault, but I never thought about... about them actively managing it, planning for my future, making sure I'd be taken care of."
Bill reached over and squeezed Harry's shoulder with the kind of understanding that came from losing people you loved and discovering new evidence of their love long after they were gone.
"The Black vault," Ragnok continued after a respectful pause, "is considerably larger and more complex. The Black family has been accumulating wealth for centuries, and while much of it was spent during Voldemort's first rise to power, Sirius inherited a substantial portion that was held in protected accounts your aunt Bellatrix couldn't access."
The numbers shifted again, and this time Harry actually felt his enhanced metabolism falter slightly at the sheer scope of what he was looking at.
"Merlin's beard," Bill muttered. "Harry, you're not just wealthy. You're 'accidentally reshape the British magical economy' wealthy."
"That's..." Harry paused, trying to process the implications. "That's a lot of money."
"It's enough money to make you one of the most financially significant individuals in the British wizarding world," Ragnok said bluntly. "Which brings us to the matter of management, investment strategy, and your intentions regarding this rather substantial fortune."
"My intentions?" Harry repeated carefully.
"Most clients in your position have one of three approaches," Ragnok explained, his tone suggesting he'd given this lecture many times to various wealthy young wizards with more money than sense. "They either spend recklessly until they're bankrupt, invest aggressively until they're either dramatically richer or completely ruined, or they panic and do nothing while we manage everything and charge them increasingly substantial fees for the privilege."
"What would you recommend?" Harry asked, deciding that honesty was probably his best strategy.
Ragnok's expression shifted into something that looked almost approving. "A client who asks for recommendations instead of assuming they know better than goblin financial experts? That's... refreshing."
"I'm a wizard who can fly and shoot energy beams from his eyes," Harry said with a slight smile. "I'm very aware that having superpowers doesn't make me competent at everything. Financial management seems like something I should probably leave to professionals who actually understand what they're doing."
"Wise," Ragnok said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice now. "Though I should mention that complete delegation isn't ideal either. This is your money, your responsibility, and your future. You should understand what's being done with it, even if you're not personally managing every transaction."
"So... what? I learn enough to make informed decisions but trust you to handle the actual management?" Harry asked.
"Precisely." Ragnok touched the crystal sphere again, and the numbers rearranged themselves into what appeared to be a comprehensive financial education syllabus. "I propose a balanced approach. We manage your day-to-day finances, your investments, your property holdings. You attend quarterly meetings where we explain what we've done, why we've done it, and what returns you can expect. You maintain veto power over any major decisions, but you trust us to handle routine matters without requiring your constant oversight."
"That sounds... reasonable," Harry said, though he was eyeing the syllabus with some concern. "Though I have to admit, I'm not sure how much time I'll have for quarterly financial meetings given that I'm also trying to manage cosmic responsibilities and apparently provide superhero consulting services to American farmers."
"Superhero consulting services," Ragnok repeated slowly, his tone suggesting he was filing this information away for future reference and possibly future profits. "To American farmers."
"It's complicated," Harry said with a slight grimace.
"I imagine it is." Ragnok's expression suggested he found Harry's life choices both baffling and somehow entirely predictable. "However, that actually brings us to a relevant topic—your immediate financial needs for this... consulting expedition."
"Right," Harry said, grateful for the shift to practical matters. "Hermione mentioned something about currency exchange and access to American magical banking facilities?"
"The Magical Congress of the United States operates under different regulatory frameworks than the International Confederation of Wizards," Ragnok explained. "However, Gringotts maintains correspondent relationships with several American magical banks, including the primary facility in New York's magical district. We can arrange for you to access your funds through their system, though there will be fees associated with international transfers and currency exchange."
"How substantial are we talking?" Harry asked.
"Three percent on transfers, two percent on currency exchange, one percent on account maintenance," Ragnok rattled off with the speed of someone who'd calculated these numbers so many times they no longer required conscious thought. "Additionally, there are regulatory fees imposed by the American magical banking system, and if you're planning to engage in any commercial activities—such as, theoretically, providing superhero consulting services—there may be additional licensing requirements and associated costs."
Harry did some quick mental calculation using his enhanced mathematical abilities and decided that even with all those fees, he could still afford to fund their entire expedition in the kind of ridiculous luxury Ron had joked about.
"That seems manageable," he said. "What do I need to do to set up this access?"
"Sign several forms, provide authorization for international transfers, and most importantly..." Ragnok fixed Harry with the kind of look that suggested this next part was crucial, "convince me that you're not going to accidentally destabilize the American magical economy through poor decision-making or cosmic interference with banking infrastructure."
"I'm not going to destabilize anything," Harry protested. "I just want to travel to Kansas, help someone learn to control abilities similar to mine, and hopefully avoid any major disasters in the process."
"Mr. Potter," Ragnok said with what might have been goblin humor, "you disappeared for twenty-eight days and returned with physical enhancements that make our magical detection systems recalibrate themselves every time you walk through our doors. Your mere presence causes minor fluctuations in the building's protective enchantments. And according to reports, you've developed the ability to encourage plant growth through passive cosmic influence."
"That last one is really more of an involuntary side effect than an actual ability," Harry offered weakly.
"Nevertheless," Ragnok continued, "you represent a unique category of magical client—one whose abilities may interact with banking infrastructure in ways we cannot fully predict. Before authorizing international access to funds of this magnitude, I need assurance that you understand the potential for... complications."
Harry considered this seriously, recognizing that Ragnok's concerns were entirely valid. "I can't promise there won't be complications. I'm still learning to control these abilities, and there are aspects of cosmic energy manipulation that I'm only beginning to understand. What I can promise is that I'll do everything in my power to avoid causing problems, and if problems do arise, I'll take full responsibility for addressing them."
Ragnok studied him for a long moment, those sharp goblin eyes searching for something—sincerity, perhaps, or the kind of character that separated good clients from disasters waiting to happen.
"You're honest about your limitations," he said finally. "That's... rare, among young wizards with significant wealth and cosmic powers. Most would have simply assured me that everything would be fine and relied on charm and fame to smooth over any concerns."
"I've learned that charm and fame don't actually solve problems," Harry said quietly. "They just make people more disappointed when things go wrong."
"Wise words." Ragnok touched the crystal sphere again, and documents began materializing on the table—thick parchment covered in the kind of dense legal text that made Hermione's academic writing look positively breezy. "Very well. Let us proceed with the arrangements. I'll authorize international access to your funds through our American correspondent banks, with certain safeguards in place to prevent catastrophic financial errors."
"What kind of safeguards?" Harry asked, already suspicious.
"Daily transfer limits—generously calculated but still limited enough that you can't accidentally bankrupt yourself through a single moment of cosmic-influenced enthusiasm. Mandatory review of any purchases exceeding one hundred thousand galleons. And most importantly..." Ragnok's smile showed rather more teeth than was strictly comfortable, "automatic notification to this office of any transactions that our systems flag as 'potentially reality-altering in scope or implication.'"
"Reality-altering transactions," Harry repeated. "Is that a standard banking category?"
"It is now," Ragnok said with satisfaction. "We created it specifically for your account. Congratulations, Mr. Potter—you're the first client in Gringotts history to require dedicated monitoring for cosmic financial interference."
Bill choked on something that might have been laughter. "Harry, you've managed to become a unique category of banking client. That's... actually impressive, in a deeply concerning sort of way."
"It's a gift," Harry said dryly. "Right up there with my ability to attract mortal peril and make simple situations complicated through sheer accident."
"Speaking of mortal peril," Ragnok said, shuffling through the documents with practiced efficiency, "there's the matter of your will and estate planning."
Harry blinked. "My what now?"
"Mr. Potter, you're eighteen ears old with a fortune substantial enough to affect the British magical economy, cosmic powers that could theoretically reshape reality, and a documented history of engaging in activities that could charitably be described as 'high-risk.' You need a will."
"I'm not going to die," Harry protested automatically.
"Neither did your parents," Ragnok said bluntly, and the words hit Harry like a physical blow. "Neither did your godfather. Neither did countless other young wizards who thought they were invincible and left their families to sort through the legal complications of intestate inheritance while dealing with grief."
The room fell silent except for the gentle hum of the magical protections and the soft swirl of smoke in the crystal sphere.
"You're right," Harry said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I need a will. What do I need to do?"
"Decide who inherits what," Ragnok said, his tone gentler now. "Primary beneficiaries, contingent beneficiaries, any specific bequests you want to make. The actual legal documentation we can handle—that's what you pay us for. But the decisions about who receives your wealth and property? Those are yours to make."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, thinking about family and responsibility and the uncomfortable reality that he was no longer the orphan boy with nothing—he was a young man with resources, connections, and people who depended on him in ways that extended beyond just his ability to defeat dark wizards.
"Teddy," he said finally. "Edward Lupin. My godson. He's my primary beneficiary—everything goes to him if something happens to me. Managed in trust until he's of age, with Andromeda Tonks as trustee and..." He paused, thinking. "And Hermione Granger as contingent trustee if Andromeda is unable to serve."
"Wise choices," Ragnok said, making notes. "What about specific bequests? The Weasley family, for instance?"
"The Weasley family doesn't need my money," Harry said firmly. "They need my friendship, my loyalty, my presence in their lives. Giving them gold would feel like..." He struggled for words. "Like I was trying to pay them back for love, and love can't be repaid with money."
"A mature perspective," Ragnok observed. "Though I should mention that many clients choose to make smaller bequests to friends and family—not as payment for love, but as practical support for people they care about."
Harry considered this, then nodded slowly. "A trust for Ron and Hermione's future children—if they have any—for education and opportunity. Same for any Weasley grandchildren. Not enough to make them wealthy, but enough to give them options and security."
"Excellent. Any specific items? The Potter family home, for instance, or personal effects?"
"The house should go to Teddy as well," Harry said. "It's his heritage as much as mine—his father was my dad's best friend, and..." His voice caught slightly. "And he deserves to grow up knowing where he came from, having a connection to the people who loved his parents."
Bill reached over and squeezed Harry's shoulder again, understanding written in every line of his face.
They spent the next hour working through the complicated details of estate planning, international banking access, and the various legal frameworks that governed transferring substantial wealth across international borders and magical jurisdictions. Harry signed forms, authorized transfers, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was planning for his own death at eighteen years old.
Finally, Ragnok sat back with the satisfied expression of someone who'd successfully navigated a potentially difficult conversation without any major disasters. "Well, Mr. Potter, I believe we've covered everything necessary for your immediate needs. You'll have access to your funds through our American correspondent banks, with the safeguards we discussed in place. Your will has been properly documented and filed with all necessary magical authorities. And you've demonstrated a level of financial maturity that frankly surprised me."
"Surprised you how?" Harry asked.
"Most eighteen-year-old wizards, when presented with a fortune of this magnitude, immediately want to discuss luxury purchases, investment schemes that promise unrealistic returns, or elaborate plans to impress their friends and romantic partners," Ragnok explained. "You immediately focused on responsibility, legacy planning, and protecting the people you care about. That suggests character—something money can't buy and goblin financial management can't instill."
"I've had a lot of practice with responsibility," Harry said quietly. "More than I wanted, really. But it's taught me that having power—whether magical, financial, or cosmic—isn't about what you can take for yourself. It's about what you can protect and provide for others."
"Wise words for one so young," Ragnok said, standing with the fluid grace that belied his age and species. "I believe you'll be an excellent client, Mr. Potter. Challenging, certainly—your cosmic enhancements and tendency toward reality-altering activities will require careful monitoring—but excellent nonetheless."
"I'll try to keep the reality-altering to a minimum," Harry promised.
"Do try," Ragnok agreed with dry humor. "Though given your track record, I won't hold my breath. Now, unless you have any other questions, I believe we're finished here."
Harry glanced at Bill, who gave him an encouraging nod, then stood as well. "Just one question. The American magical banking system—what should I expect? Any particular cultural differences or protocols I should know about before I go waving around a Gringotts access authorization?"
Ragnok's smile showed rather more teeth than Harry found comfortable. "American magical banking operates under what they call 'frontier principles'—which is their polite way of saying 'barely regulated chaos held together by profit motive and aggressive marketing.' They're efficient, creative, and entirely comfortable with risk levels that would make traditional British bankers faint. You'll fit right in."
"That's... either reassuring or terrifying," Harry said.
"Both," Bill and Ragnok said in unison.
"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "Exactly what I needed—confirmation that my cosmic consulting adventure is going to involve navigating American magical capitalism on top of everything else."
"Consider it character building," Ragnok suggested. "And Mr. Potter? One final piece of advice."
"Yes?"
"Don't let the Americans talk you into investing in their 'revolutionary magical technologies.' Half of them are legitimate innovations that will change the magical world. The other half are elaborate scams designed to separate wealthy British wizards from their money. Learning to tell the difference is... challenging."
"How do I tell the difference?" Harry asked.
"If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is," Ragnok said. "If it requires immediate investment or the opportunity will disappear, it's definitely a scam. And if the American wizard presenting it uses the phrase 'paradigm shift' more than twice in a single conversation, run."
Harry laughed despite himself. "Noted. Avoid paradigm shifts and revolutionary opportunities that require immediate investment. Got it."
"You'll do fine," Ragnok said, extending his hand for a final handshake. "You've got good instincts, better friends, and enough money to survive a few mistakes. Just try not to accidentally reshape the American magical economy, hmm?"
"I'll do my best," Harry promised, shaking the goblin's hand with careful respect. "Though given my luck, I'm not making any guarantees."
"Nobody ever does," Ragnok said with something that might have been goblin wisdom or just resigned acceptance of Harry Potter's tendency toward the dramatically complicated. "Good luck with your consulting work, Mr. Potter. And do try to come back in one piece. Paperwork for deceased clients is enormously complicated, and I'd prefer not to process it for someone I actually like."
"I'm touched," Harry said dryly. "Really. That might be the nicest thing a goblin has ever said to me."
"Don't let it go to your head," Ragnok replied. "You're still on probation as far as the reality-altering transaction monitoring system is concerned."
As they left the conference room and made their way back through the intimidating corridors of Gringotts, Bill couldn't suppress his grin. "Well, that went better than expected. You didn't offend anyone, didn't accidentally reshape the building's protective enchantments, and Ragnok actually likes you. That's... impressive."
"I think he likes me because I admitted I have no idea what I'm doing," Harry said. "Apparently honesty about one's limitations is refreshing in the banking industry."
"It's refreshing everywhere," Bill pointed out. "Most people with your level of power—magical, financial, or cosmic—develop egos that require their own gravitational fields. You've somehow managed to gain cosmic superpowers and remain fundamentally decent about it. That's rare."
"I've had good examples," Harry said, thinking about his parents, Sirius, Remus, and all the other people who'd taught him that power was a responsibility, not a privilege. "And good friends who'd hex me if I started getting too full of myself."
"Damn right we would," Bill agreed cheerfully. "Though with your enhanced durability, we'd probably need to research some seriously advanced hexes. The old standbys might not be sufficient anymore."
"Please don't start researching advanced hexes specifically designed to work on cosmically enhanced targets," Harry requested. "That seems like the kind of project that would end badly for everyone involved."
"Too late," Bill said with a grin. "I've already asked Fleur to look into some of the more creative French curses. She's very interested in the theoretical challenge of hexing someone who can fly, shoot energy beams, and potentially alter reality through force of will."
"I married into a family of sadists," Harry muttered.
"You married into a family of people who care enough to keep you humble," Bill corrected. "There's a difference. Though both involve hexes, so I can see where the confusion comes from."
They emerged from Gringotts into the afternoon sunlight of Diagon Alley, and Harry paused on the marble steps to look out over the bustling magical shopping district. Witches and wizards hurried about their business, completely unaware that the young man standing on the bank steps had just finished planning his estate, authorizing international access to a fortune substantial enough to reshape economies, and discussing the challenges of cosmic financial management with goblins who'd created an entirely new category of banking client just for him.
"You know," Harry said thoughtfully, "six months ago, I was still hunting Horcruxes and sleeping in tents. Now I'm planning international consulting trips and trying not to accidentally destabilize banking systems. Life's gotten... complicated."
"Complicated but better," Bill pointed out. "You're alive, you've got family and friends who love you, you're planning a future instead of just surviving until tomorrow. That's worth a bit of complication."
"True," Harry agreed, starting down the steps with Bill beside him. "Though I could do without the reality-altering transaction monitoring system. That feels like overkill."
"Harry, you can make plants grow by being happy and apparently cause minor fluctuations in building-sized protective enchantments just by existing," Bill said reasonably. "The monitoring system seems pretty sensible from where I'm standing."
"Fair point," Harry conceded. "I suppose I should just be grateful they're letting me access my money at all instead of declaring me a cosmic banking hazard and freezing everything until I can prove I'm not going to accidentally transfigure the American magical economy into something that violates several fundamental principles of thaumic commerce."
"See? You're learning goblin financial humor already," Bill said with approval. "Next you'll be calculating compound interest for fun and discussing investment strategies at dinner parties."
"I draw the line at investment strategies," Harry said firmly. "I've got enough on my plate without becoming the sort of person who finds portfolio diversification exciting."
"Just wait," Bill predicted. "Give it a few years of managing substantial wealth, and you'll be exactly that sort of person. It happens to everyone eventually."
"It won't happen to me," Harry insisted. "I'm going to remain completely disinterested in financial minutiae and delegate everything to professionals while I focus on important matters like cosmic responsibility and superhero consulting."
Bill's laugh echoed across Diagon Alley, warm and genuine. "Sure, Harry. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
As they made their way back toward the Leaky Cauldron and the Floo connection that would take them home to the Burrow, Harry reflected that his life had indeed become complicated—but in ways that felt manageable, purposeful, and strangely normal despite all the cosmic enhancements and reality-altering potential.
He had family, friends, resources, and a future that extended beyond just surviving the next threat. He had a godson to provide for, an American farm boy to help, and a goblin account manager who liked him enough to personally warn him about paradigm shifts and revolutionary investment opportunities.
All things considered, complicated wasn't so bad.
"Right," he said to Bill as they stepped into the Leaky Cauldron's familiar chaos, "next stop: explaining to everyone that I'm now financially capable of funding our entire expedition in ridiculous luxury and dealing with their inevitable reactions to discovering I'm apparently wealthy enough to accidentally reshape economies."
"This is going to be fun," Bill predicted. "Ron's going to want to know exactly how wealthy you are, Hermione's going to lecture you about responsible financial management, and Ginny's going to make jokes about dating someone who owns part of the Hogsmeade post office."
"I do own part of the Hogsmeade post office," Harry marveled. "That's still weird. Why do I own part of a post office?"
"Because Arcturus Black made questionable investment decisions in 1952," Bill replied. "And because you're Harry Potter, and weird things just sort of... happen to you."
"Story of my life," Harry agreed as they stepped into the Floo and disappeared in a swirl of green flames, heading home to face the next round of complications in his increasingly extraordinary existence.
Behind them, deep in the vaults of Gringotts, Ragnok made a note in Harry Potter's file: "Client demonstrates unexpected maturity and reasonable financial instincts. Monitor for reality-altering transactions. Approved for international banking access. Expect complications but manageable ones. Overall assessment: Excellent client with cosmic enhancement considerations."
And in a small addendum, written in goblin script that only other banking professionals would understand: "Actually likes this one. Try not to let him bankrupt himself or reshape any economies. Both would be disappointing."
---
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