Rey's vault was number 628.
He picked it at random—no deep meaning, just the first number that felt right.
Gringotts was its own underground world. The rail cart rattled along like a mine train, the darkness broken only by the occasional whoosh of another cart streaking past in the distance.
One million Galleons. That should cover him for a good long while—even after stocking up on every magical tool and potion he might need.
The goblin finished counting the coins, sealed the vault with a heavy clang, and pressed a brass key into Rey's palm. From now on, this was the only thing that would get him back inside.
"Well," Rey thought with a wry smile, "rich in both the wizarding world and the Muggle one. Not bad for a kid who woke up here less than a year ago."
The goblin gave him an impatient nudge. Rey climbed into the returning cart.
It was basically a roller-coaster welded to a mine cart. If the goblin didn't brake, the ride would outdo any theme-park thrill. Rey shook his head. In a world full of magic, the goblins still ran on rails and brute force. A proper teleport array or wormhole-style gate would've been so much simpler… but yeah, good luck getting that to work.
Lost in pointless thoughts, he stepped back into the bright marble hall of Gringotts. A different goblin escorted him out with stiff politeness.
The moment he left the bank, Rey turned left and headed straight into Knockturn Alley.
The potion shop sat about a hundred meters down the narrow street. Its owner was an old man—wild white hair, black linen robes hanging off a skeletal frame, back permanently hunched. His narrow eyes had the sharp, dangerous glint of a man who'd seen too much and liked even less.
When Rey walked in, the old man was rearranging bottles on the shelves. The same shop where Rey had bought the healing potion for Willy Bruce's daughter. It was the only proper apothecary in either Diagon or Knockturn Alley, and the stuff here actually worked.
The place was dim, crammed floor-to-ceiling with jars and vials, and the old man reeked of concentrated herbs and something sharper—maybe dragon bile or powdered unicorn horn. Business looked slow. That was the illusion. This shop was the classic "closed three years, eats for three" kind. When a serious customer walked through the door, the till rang loud enough to wake the dead.
Everything here cost a fortune. Rey had come ready to be fleeced.
But he also knew the old man wasn't simple. The sheer volume of stock suggested he could find exactly what Rey needed—potions that worked on Muggles, slowly boosting strength and speed with zero nasty side effects.
"What'll it be this time?" the old man asked without looking up, voice dry as dust. "Got a hundred Galleons ready?"
First-time buyers got served no matter what. Second visit: minimum hundred Galleons. Third: a thousand. After that the prices climbed so fast most people simply stopped coming. There were only five official "tiers." After the fifth, it was whatever the old man felt like on the day.
He hadn't even bothered telling Rey the fourth- and fifth-tier prices. In his eyes a kid this young couldn't possibly afford them.
"Can I skip straight to the fifth-tier amount?" Rey asked calmly.
The old man froze mid-reach, then turned slowly. "I don't joke, boy."
"Neither do I."
Their eyes locked. The old man's narrow gaze sharpened like a blade. "If this is a prank, the consequences will be… unpleasant."
To him Rey looked like a teenager—maybe fifteen, sixteen at most. No noble house would let a child that age walk around with fifth-tier money.
"I'm serious," Rey said. "But first I need to know if you actually have what I'm looking for."
The old man's eyes narrowed to slits. The kid wasn't nervous. That was new. "What exactly are you after?"
"Potions for Muggles. The kind that, with proper training, push their bodies to the absolute limit. No side effects."
Rey kept his voice low even though the shop was empty. These were banned items. If Muggles could reliably use them, the Ministry's whole "keep the worlds separate" policy would collapse overnight. Guns were bad enough; guns plus vampire-level strength would turn any Auror's day into a nightmare.
"Three thousand Galleons," the old man said after a long stare. "That's the fifth-tier price."
Rey didn't blink. "Fine. But it's not just one bottle, right?"
The old man's thin lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "Ten bottles, taken in sequence, will bring one person to their personal ceiling. No side effects whatsoever."
Rey felt the familiar sting of being overcharged. Ten bottles for one person. Thirty thousand Galleons to create a single proper hunter. Even with his vault full of gold it still hurt.
"How long does the full course take? And what's the final level?"
"One year of regular training. The limit for a Muggle is roughly a vampire baron. The potion only works on those without magic. Useless on wizards, witches, or magical beasts."
Baron—the lowest ranked vampire strength. Above that came viscount, count, duke, prince, and the ancient progenitors. Even a baron outclassed most newly turned fledglings by a wide margin.
Rey nodded once. "I'll take it. Five people's worth."
The old man actually paused, stunned. Fifteen bottles—hundred and fifty thousand Galleons—handed over like pocket change by a kid who looked barely old enough to shave.
But then the old man's expression soured. "I only have stock for three people right now. Five will take time to prepare."
Rey shrugged, the picture of casual wealth. "How long?"
"A week at most."
"Fine. I'll take the three you have today and come back for the rest."
The old man studied him for another long moment, then gave a slow nod. Money talked—even when it came from a boy who looked like he should still be in short trousers.
Rey counted out the Galleons without hesitation. Rich or not, he was building an army. And in this world, sometimes the deepest pits were exactly where you had to jump.