HP: Ashborn

"Jasmine Potter."

"Well then, Miss Potter, I wish you the very best of luck on your magical journey. May you wield that wand with precision and flair. Have a wonderful day, Miss Potter—Lady Potter."

With a polite nod, I stepped out of Ollivanders, the faint smell of wood shavings and magic lingering in the air. My next stop? Gringotts. If there's one thing my recent encounter taught me, it's that even with knowledge of the future, certainty is a fickle friend. What I needed now was the one thing more valuable than galleons: information.

Walking into Gringotts, I was greeted by the usual scene—a symphony of clinking coins, scratchy quills on parchment, and goblins immersed in their work. At the center of this organized chaos stood teller Gornuk, his sharp eyes focused and his demeanor as stoic as ever.

I approached him with confidence, offering a polite greeting. "Good afternoon, Teller Gornuk."

He glanced up, his sharp-toothed smile surprisingly pleasant. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ashborn. How may Gringotts be of service to you today?"

"I find myself in need of services of Gringotts, Teller Gornuk," I replied with a small smile. "I have some business to attend to in the Ashborn family vault."

"Follow me, Mr. Ashborn," Gornuk said, his tone curt but professional. Without another word, he led me down the familiar corridors of Gringotts to the same private room I'd visited before with Ripjaw.

"Please wait here, Mr. Ashborn. I'll inform Vice-Director Ripjaw of your arrival." With a slight bow, he exited, leaving me alone in the silent, impeccably kept room.

Thirty minutes later—long enough to make me reconsider my life choices but not long enough to start pacing—the door creaked open, and in walked Ripjaw.

"Greetings, Max! My apologies for the delay," he said, his gravelly voice warm yet authoritative. "I've been absolutely swamped with some pressing matters."

"Greetings, Ripjaw," I replied, offering a small nod. "No need to apologize. The wait gave me time to organize my thoughts—there's quite a lot I need to discuss."

Ripjaw smiled, clearly pleased with the answer, and took his seat across from me. "Well then," he said, leaning back slightly, "let's get started. How may Gringotts assist you today?"

"Firstly, I need information," I began, meeting his gaze. "Specifically about Magical Britain—the government, the prominent families, their key members, and any notable events they're associated with. Nothing too in-depth—just the general knowledge that most would consider common."

"This can certainly be arranged," Ripjaw replied, his tone businesslike. "Of course, there will be a fee. Compiling such information will take some time—no more than a week. Once it's ready, we can have it delivered to your residence."

"That works perfectly," I said with a nod. "I'm currently staying at the Leaky Cauldron, Room 2D. Please send it there once it's prepared."

"Consider it done," Ripjaw said smoothly. "We'll ensure it's delivered promptly. Now, is there anything else?"

"Yes, there is," I said, leaning forward slightly. "I want to put the funds in my family vault to work. Leaving 50,000 galleons to gather dust in a vault may sound impressive, but it's not going to grow itself. I have a few business ventures in mind that show strong potential for profit, and I'd like to invest the funds accordingly."

At this, Ripjaw let out a booming laugh, the kind that shook the room. "Spoken like a true goblin, Max! My sentiments exactly. Galleons won't multiply by simply lounging in a vault. Sadly, most wizards fail to grasp this simple truth."

"Then they're idiots," I said with a shrug, my tone calm and matter-of-fact.

Ripjaw burst out laughing again, his laughter echoing in the chamber. It took him a solid thirty seconds to collect himself, wiping a tear from his eye as he grinned broadly.

"That's precisely what we say about wizards," he said, still chuckling. "The fact that you recognize the folly of your fellow wizards when it comes to financial matters tells me you have the makings of someone who understands true financial competence."

But then Ripjaw shifted gears, his laughter replaced with a sharp, professional tone. "Let's leave wizards and their lack of financial sense behind. You mentioned investing in a business you have in mind. Let's discuss that—and the amount you're planning to allocate."

Without hesitation, I replied, "I'm looking to invest in a Muggle business—specifically in the technology sector. I've been tracking the performance of a company called C**CO, and I want you to purchase as many shares of that company as possible."

Ripjaw blinked, clearly surprised. "You want to invest in a Muggle company? Not that Gringotts has any objections," he added quickly, "but I must admit we lack complete expertise in Muggle markets. That said, we can absolutely assist you in this endeavor—for a price, of course. Now, how much are you looking to invest?"

"40,000 galleons," I said, my tone as casual as if I were commenting on the weather.

Ripjaw's eyes widened, his bushy eyebrows shooting up so high they practically brushed his hairline. "40,000 galleons? That's nearly three-quarters of your family vault, Max! No sane person would risk such a significant portion of their wealth on a single investment. Are you certain about this?"

"I'm as certain as I'll ever be," I said, leaning back in my chair with a faint smirk. "Besides, sanity is overrated. As a great mind once said, 'The line between brilliance and madness often overlaps.'"

Ripjaw studied me for a moment before a wry smile crept across his face. "A bold move, Max. But boldness has a way of paying off when it's backed by conviction. Very well, we'll proceed as you've requested. How do you suggest we do it?"

"First, I need to ask about the pound-to-galleon conversion rate," I said, leaning forward.

Ripjaw's expression turned sour, as though the mere mention of the subject displeased him. "Five pounds to one galleon," he replied curtly.

"Understood," I said with a nod. "Then, I'd like to convert 40,000 galleons into pounds—that would give me 200,000 pounds. I'd like Gringotts to use this amount to purchase as many shares as possible in the company I mentioned."

Ripjaw raised an eyebrow, his calculating gaze sharp. "That can be arranged. However," he said, his tone becoming pointed, "what will Gringotts receive in return for facilitating this transaction?"

"When I withdraw the profits, Gringotts will receive 25%," I replied confidently.

"Fifty percent of the profit," Ripjaw countered without missing a beat, his sharp teeth glinting in the light.

I paused, mulling it over for a solid thirty seconds. Then, with a serious expression, I said, "25% to Gringotts, and an additional 5% deposited directly into your personal vault. Final offer."

Ripjaw studied me carefully, his sharp eyes gleaming with approval, before breaking into a proud, toothy grin. "You really do know how to negotiate, Max. Fine, I accept. However, we'll need a security deposit of 7,500 galleons. And to complete this transaction, we'll need to visit your family vault to collect the gold."

"That's no issue," I said with a small smile. "I need to pick up a few items from my family vault, anyway."

Ripjaw nodded and stood. "Then let's get moving, Max. It's going to be quite the trip—for you, at least." He turned toward the hallway and bellowed, "Griphook!"

A goblin promptly appeared, his movements brisk and precise. "Yes, Director?"

"Ready the cart. We're heading to the bottom-most floor," Ripjaw ordered, his tone commanding.

"As you wish, Director," Griphook replied, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

We boarded the cart, and what followed felt less like a casual ride and more like the start of a high-speed roller coaster. The tracks twisted and turned at dizzying angles, plunging us into the depths of Gringotts. Along the way, I caught glimpses of humans toiling as slaves, goblins meticulously inspecting the mines, and—most unsettling of all—a massive, ferocious Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon, its scales shimmering like molten steel as it let out a low, guttural growl.

After ten adrenaline-filled minutes, we finally reached the bottom-most floor. The air was heavier here, thick with an ancient magic that seemed to hum around us. From there, we continued on foot for another twenty-five minutes, the sound of our footsteps echoing ominously in the cavernous tunnels. At last, we stood before Vault 38—a towering, foreboding structure with intricate runes carved into its surface.

Ripjaw gestured to the altar in front of the vault. "Place a drop of blood here," he instructed, his voice carrying a note of reverence.

I pricked my finger and let a single drop of blood fall onto the altar. The moment it made contact, the magic activated with a dazzling display of light and energy. The vault's massive gates groaned, then swung open with an air of finality.

What lay before me was a sight so extraordinary, it felt almost surreal. The interior resembled a sprawling dungeon, divided into two distinct pathways. One path bore the inscription "Towards Library," while the other read "Towards Artifacts and Treasures."

Drawn by curiosity, I chose the library first. The sheer scale of it left me awestruck—bookshelves stretched endlessly in every direction, potentially numbering in the five digits. Each shelf held eight neatly arranged rows of books, and what struck me most was the complete absence of duplicates. Every book here was unique, a testament to the vault's unmatched wealth of knowledge.

As I reached out to browse the collection, an unexpected and overwhelming surge of information began to flood my mind. It was as if the library itself had decided to imprint its knowledge directly into my brain. For an agonizing minute, I was assaulted by a searing headache—the kind that feels like your skull might literally shatter under the pressure.

But, painful as it was, it was worth it. The knowledge gained in that moment was priceless.

No, I am not an M.

The influx of information flooding my mind was staggering. It wasn't just random facts but a comprehensive understanding of everything a librarian would need to manage a library of this magnitude. I now knew how to locate any book, the precise system used to store them, the protocols for borrowing, and countless other intricate details. One critical piece of knowledge stood out: once a book was placed within this library, it could never be removed. The only way to take knowledge out was to create a copy of the original.

Following the guidance etched into my mind, I made my way to the central table of the library. As I approached, my breath caught at the sight of it. The table was so luxurious, so exquisite, that even kings might wage wars over its possession. It appeared as if it had been crafted just yesterday, in pristine condition despite the centuries it must have endured.

Its dark brown surface glowed with an enchanting luster, perfectly complemented by intricate golden carvings adorning its borders. The craftsmanship was mesmerizing—elegant, beautiful, and utterly captivating. Yet, what drew my attention most was the engraving at the table's center, words that looked freshly carved despite their ancient origins:

To my cherished kin,

Remember this always: our motto, "From ashes we rise," is not mere words—it is a testament to who we are. Live your life boldly, for it is far too brief to harbor regrets. Embrace every challenge with honor and pride, for we are warriors in spirit and deed. Use the wisdom of the library we have built—every tome, every scroll, a gift of magical knowledge gathered to empower you. But as you carve your path, never forget those who will follow. Leave behind not just a legacy of strength but a foundation of care and foresight, ensuring that those who bear the Ashborn name shall rise even higher.

—Augustus Ashborn (980 A.D.–1077 A.D.)

Below the inscription was the Ashborn family symbol: a magnificent phoenix, wings spread wide as if soaring into the heavens. Its intricate design radiated an aura of resilience and strength. Beneath the phoenix, the family motto was proudly displayed in bold, elegant script:

"De Cineribus Surgimus."

(From ashes we rise.)

This was no ordinary library table. It was a masterpiece—a monument to the legacy of the Ashborn family. And as I stood there, I couldn't help but feel the weight of their words, their history, and the immense responsibility that came with bearing the Ashborn name.

I read the inscription once, twice, and yet again, until every word was etched into my memory. This was the message the Ashborn family founder intended every descendant to carry within their soul. Second chances in life are rare, and this was mine. I had no intention of squandering it. My ambition was clear—I would be free, unshackled by restraints, the freest man alive in this world.

Standing before this timeless declaration, I closed my eyes and prayed silently for Augustus Ashborn's peaceful afterlife. The weight of his legacy hung heavy in the air, but it didn't feel oppressive—it felt like a guiding hand, urging me to rise as he had envisioned. For two minutes, I stood there in quiet reverence, honoring the man who had built this legacy not just for himself, but for those who came after him.

When I opened my eyes, my gaze fell upon two intriguing items resting beside the engraved message. The first was a pristine golden compass, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine. The second was a humble-looking yet extraordinary brown box, labeled as the Gemino Box. Both items bore the unmistakable touch of Augustus Ashborn himself, relics of his ingenuity and foresight.

The compass, I learned, was no ordinary tool. It had a singular purpose: to guide its holder to the exact book they needed. All one had to do was think of the subject or title, and the compass would point the way. For someone navigating a library of this scale, it was nothing short of miraculous.

The Gemino Box, though deceptively simple in appearance, was equally ingenious. It provided a way for beginners like me to borrow books from the library without complications. The box had a unique enchantment: when a book was placed inside, it would produce a temporary copy of the original. This copy could be used for up to three months, after which it would vanish, leaving the original safely in the library.

Both items were testaments to Augustus Ashborn's brilliance. Practical, purposeful, and crafted with an eye toward empowering his descendants, they exemplified the values he held dear. With these tools, I felt a newfound confidence in the journey ahead.

With the compass clutched tightly in my hand, I closed my eyes, summoning my intention with all the seriousness of someone about to unlock ancient secrets—or maybe just open a stubborn jar of pickles. "I need a beginner's guide to Occlumency," I thought, with all the gravitas befitting the occasion.

The compass immediately sprang to life, whirring and spinning like it had consumed an alarming amount of caffeine. After five dramatic seconds of frantic rotations (during which I seriously considered ducking for cover), it finally settled, pointing in a resolute direction. I followed it with the kind of trust one reserves for GPS systems, secretly hoping it wouldn't lead me to a dead end.

Eventually, I found myself in the Mind Arts section. After passing 25 shelves—which, incidentally, felt more like a marathon than a casual stroll—I found the book the compass had so eagerly pinpointed. The title gleamed:

"Mind's Shield: A Beginner's Path to Occlumency" by Aelric Fenwood.

I couldn't help but appreciate the poetic nature of the title. The "mind's shield" part had me envisioning a mental fortress, though, given my novice status, mine was probably more of a mental tent.

With the book in hand, I approached the Gemino Box. This clever little artifact was like a magical Xerox machine, but without the annoying paper jams. I placed the book inside, and after a minute of mystical humming and whirring, the box presented me with two identical copies. The original, clearly unimpressed by my mortal grip, floated gracefully out of my hand and zoomed back to its rightful place on the shelf. Though I knew this would happen, watching a book levitate away with such smug self-assurance was still somewhat disconcerting.

Feeling emboldened by my success, I repeated the process with books on various subjects, compiling a collection that any ambitious scholar—or dangerously enthusiastic nerd—would envy. After thirty minutes of diligent work, my bag now contained:

"The Basics of Becoming: Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration"

"Runes Unraveled: A Beginner's Guide to Ancient Scripts"

"Dark Arts Unmasked: A Beginner's Defense Guide"

"Numbers and Nonsense: An Easy Start to Magical Math"

"Enchanted Essentials: Learning Your First Charms"

"From Cauldron to Cure: The Foundations of Potion-Making"

With my bag now considerably heavier (and my brain buzzing with anticipation), I began making my way out of the library. But as I left, I turned back for a moment, letting the enormity of this place sink in once more. This library wasn't just a repository of knowledge—it was a beacon for those who dared to seek, to learn, and to grow.

This wouldn't be my last visit—far from it. Every step in my journey of knowledge would eventually lead me back here. After all, when in doubt, consult the books. Or, in my case, consult the magical compass that knows where the books are better than I ever will.

With my work in the library complete, I turned my attention to the artifact section—a treasure trove where I had two very specific targets: a Time-Turner and a Legilimency-shielding locket.

And, as luck would have it, I was greeted by that all-too-familiar head-crushing sensation—knowledge forcibly crammed into my brain like it was last-minute exam prep. Only this time, it was worse. What had been a two-minute headache before now turned into a ten-minute endurance test. Ten. Long. Minutes. I swear, my brain felt like it had been through a blender.

I almost blacked out from the mind-shattering pain, but sheer magic—or maybe sheer stubbornness—kept me hanging on. Barely. It took twenty minutes of deep breathing (and maybe a touch of internal screaming) to pull myself back together. The upside? This round of headache came with a bonus prize: detailed positions and information about every artifact in the vault. A silver lining, right?

Each artifact was safely stashed inside one of nearly 1,000 trunks. I zeroed in on the trunk holding the Time-Turner, opened it, and there it was—a device with two hollow concentric circles and a third golden circle holding a delicate hourglass. I held it reverently, like it was the Holy Grail of magical gadgets. Because, well, it kind of was. This small, pocket-watch-looking marvel had the power to send people hurtling across the time axis! How ridiculously awesome is that?

But, wait—there's more. Holding it in my right hand, I followed the instructions and touched the glass part. Sure enough, my finger was promptly nicked, and my blood was absorbed into the hourglass sand, staining it a deep red. This nifty little mechanism ensured only someone with Ashborn blood could wield the Time-Turner.

Talk about exclusive access, huh?

Despite my brimming enthusiasm to try the Time-Turner right then and there (because, honestly, who wouldn't want to toy with the timeline?), I decided to be the responsible adult I clearly am. I tucked it securely into my pocket, silently congratulating myself on my restraint.

Next on the list was the Legilimency-shielding locket. It wasn't far—just a few trunks away. I opened the designated trunk and found an ancient, brown-colored locket with a ruby-like jewel embedded at its center. The craftsmanship was stunning—like something plucked right out of a legend. When I flipped it open, I was greeted by an array of intricate runes and enchantments carved into its inner surface. Naturally, I had no idea what any of it meant, but if I had to guess? It screamed magic.

Following the tried-and-true blood-bonding method, I let a drop of my blood fall onto the locket. Almost instantly, I felt a surge of connection with the artifact, its magic weaving itself around me. It felt... familiar. Like déjà vu. The sensation mirrored what I experienced when I first became the heir of Ashborn.

With all my tasks in the vault complete (and my brain still recovering from the trauma of those mind-shattering headaches), I figured it was time to call it a day.

"Yeah, let's get out of here. One more headache and I'll probably be down for the count."

Stepping out of the vault, I was greeted by Griphook and Ripjaw, who were patiently waiting outside. Ripjaw grinned as he saw me approach.

"You sure took your sweet time, Max," he said, clearly amused.

I offered a sheepish smile. "Apologies, Ripjaw. You know how family magics are... although I'll admit, part of the delay was me getting lost in awe over the library."

Ripjaw chuckled. "It's fine. You're not the first. Even we goblins occasionally lose ourselves in the wonder of the library and artifacts while cleaning. Anyway, as you requested, I withdrew 47,500 Galleons for your purposes. Your family vault now holds 8,848 Galleons, 5 Sickles, and 5 Knuts."

"Perfect," I said with a nod. "Shall we head out? I'm completely drained and still have other matters to handle—non-vault-related ones. I'll return another time to finish anything else, Ripjaw."

With that, we left, and I silently vowed never to underestimate family vaults—or their headaches—again.

After heading back to the surface, I wrapped up the formalities for my investment. A tidy sum of 40,000 Galleons went into CISCO, with Gringotts managing all the nitty-gritty details. Ripjaw and I tackled a mountain of paperwork together, and by the time we were done, the sky had dimmed, and the air buzzed with the sounds of dinner hour.

Nights in the Wizarding World are just as vibrant as the days, if not more so. Diagon Alley had its own unique charm—a magical warmth that no other place could replicate. The soft glow of yellow lanterns outside shopfronts, the twinkling enchanted lights above, and the bustling dining areas filled with laughter and conversation gave the whole street a kind of alive magic.

Someone once said, "Time slips away when you're doing what you love," and that sentiment rang true for me. My trip to Gringotts—and my utter fascination with the wonders of the magical world—had made the day disappear in the blink of an eye.

Back in my rented room at the Leaky Cauldron, I found myself staring at the books I'd brought along. The temptation to crack them open right away was strong, but... yeah, no. The day's events, combined with two mind-shattering headaches from the vault, had turned my brain into scrambled dragon eggs.

Still, as I sank into my bed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. My goals for the day had been achieved, but tomorrow would be another beast entirely. My to-do list loomed large, with tasks like:

Gaining practical experience with spells. Mastering the oh-so-complicated etiquette and manners of Purebloods. Learning about the last wars. Investigating the current political climate of Magical Britain. Absorbing everything from the treasure trove of books I'd acquired from the family vault library.

With a silent "Good night" to myself—and to you, dear readers—I let exhaustion take over, sinking into the embrace of my bed. The journey to Morpheus's realm (aka sleep) was swift, and I slipped into dreams of Time-Turners, ancient lockets, and a magical world brimming with adventure.

(Good night to you as well, my readers! May your dreams be magical.)