The days following their discovery in the Emrys vault passed with a strange mixture of quiet urgency and subterranean intensity. The revelation that Harry was heir not only to the houses of Potter and Black but also to Emrys and Ywen had fundamentally redefined his place in the wizarding world. There were no classes that could prepare him for that weight. No syllabus for rediscovering the legacy of an ancient druidic lineage believed lost to the winds of time.
Hermione had dedicated herself with obsessive focus to the work of untangling the magical genealogy that now enveloped Harry like a mantle. Her notes had grown from parchment scraps to thick folders, each page carefully annotated with runic symbols, familial lineages, and magical law. Harry, meanwhile, was experiencing something stranger still: a slow, creeping resonance. As if the knowledge of who he truly was had begun to awaken magic within him that had long lain dormant.
They practiced in secret, deep within unused corridors and behind wards so dense not even the castle ghosts could wander in. The staff from the vault responded to Harry's touch like a living conduit. Where once he had known wand magic as a flow through a narrow channel, now the spells surged through him with elemental force.
It was Hermione who suggested testing the staff's capabilities in earnest. "You need to understand its boundaries. Is it attuned only to you? Does it respond to intention or incantation?"
He nodded. "It feels like... like it listens. Not just to my words, but to what I want the magic to do. Almost like the Room of Requirement, but internalized."
"Druidic constructs were always semi-sentient. Most weren't bound by the limitations of Latinic invocation. They used the natural will of the caster, amplified by ancestral resonance. If this is what it seems to be, then you're channeling magic the way it existed before Hogwarts even codified education."
In one of the oldest courtyards, beneath a sky streaked with twilight hues, Harry stood alone and raised the staff.
"Ignis Forma," he whispered, not quite expecting a result.
The air in front of him shimmered—and then a luminous pattern of fire traced itself in midair, unfurling in curving, ancient script. The staff hummed with satisfaction. Magic had listened.
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Their correspondence with Director Ragnok had continued as well, though more cautiously. The goblin had offered access to the secondary vaults linked to Emrys and Ywen, contingent upon magical verification and discretion. Each visit required careful planning to avoid attention, as Dumbledore's network within the school was pervasive and subtle.
During their second appointment, Rillthorn greeted them with the same austere professionalism, though Harry noted the faintest shift in demeanor: respect.
"The secondary holdings lie beneath the Core Crypt," Rillthorn explained as their cart began its descent into the deeper catacombs of Gringotts. "Few living descendants have stepped into these halls. You are the first in over a thousand years to open this vault, Lord Emrys."
Harry's fingers tightened around the grip of the staff, now shrunken into a rod and hidden within his sleeve.
The doors to the vault were obsidian and bound with vines of mithril. At his touch, they dissolved like mist.
Within lay a chamber unlike any other: a star-map etched in gold along the ceiling, floating manuscripts that reorganized themselves as he approached, and three basin-like pensieves embedded into the stone floor.
"What are these?" Hermione asked, breathless.
Rillthorn replied, "Memory depositories of the House Emrys. Each bound to the bloodline. They contain records of magic, prophecy, and law."
Harry stepped forward. As he touched one, a rush of visions flooded his mind—green forests, ancient battles, rituals beneath moonlight. But one memory stood out: a younger Merlin, not the wizened figure of legend, but a scholar, inscribing something onto parchment by candlelight.
A voice echoed through the chamber, the memory itself triggered: "To my blood's last heir—know this: legacy is not given. It is remembered. You are the culmination of an unbroken oath. Protect the roots, or the forest will fall."
Hermione gripped his arm. "Did you hear that?"
He nodded, eyes still distant. "Yeah. I think that was meant for me."
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That night, back in the Tower, they laid out everything they had: the tomes, the scrolls, the whispered inheritance.
And Hermione, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard, said, "We need to begin preparing for the Council. The Wizengamot will not stay neutral forever. And when they find out what you are—what you carry—they'll either try to crown you... or destroy you."
Harry said nothing for a moment.
Then, with quiet certainty: "Then let's give them something they can't ignore."