HP: Monochrome

After a long, warm shower, Harry found himself back in his room, staring at the formal wear. A dark silver tux, complete with a white shirt and slacks, was pressed and neatly folded on his bed, and on top of it was a thick, golden watch and a brand new dragon-hide wand holster.

Methodically, Harry put on one article after another, and stood in front of the large, ornate mirror as he examined himself.

The young man looking back at him seemed raw and hard. His cheekbones stood out starkly, having lost a lot of weight while he was in a magical coma, and his rehabilitation had only added some lean muscle back to him. Faint blue veins were visible against his skin, and his black hair hung down past his jawline, clean but shaggy after ditching the thin stubble growing around his chin. Clearly, growing his hair longer had been the right decision. The look was completed by the long, lean face, bright green eyes, starkly pale skin owing to the lack of proper sun over the past few months, and of course, the thin, jagged lightning bolt on his forehead.

"I look like a bloody vampire," he muttered to himself, eerily reminded of Dracula, a vampire from the movie he'd briefly caught on the telly during summer. He had later learned that the character was based on Vlad Drakul, an ageless, immortal vampire king of Transylvania.

What made it even stranger was the sheer amount of opulence that adorned him. He'd never seen such wealth up close, let alone worn so many articles of clothing that practically oozed galleons.

The whole image was off-putting, like looking at a complete stranger.

"Master's filthy half-blood looks like a filthy mudblood's offspring."

Wand immediately in hand, Harry spun around in a defensive gesture, but he needn't have bothered. It was an elf. Or, rather, it was the elf. A demented, decrepit-looking thing adorned in nothing more than rags, it was the absolute antithesis of everything Dobby represented, right down to the core. While Dobby's meaningless blabberings and undeserved praise did wonderful things to his ego, this one's acerbic tone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

"Kreacher," Harry replied, keeping his composure. Something about the elf always seemed off to him, especially because of that strange, constant gleam in his eyes. As if everything he saw around him was through a tinted lens of bigotry and House pride.

Sirius had confided in him that he hated the elf with a burning passion. However, his dearly departed brother Regulus loved the elf just as much, and for certain sentimental reasons that he didn't bother explaining, he said it would be a terrible idea to give the poor thing clothes. Looking at how fragile it was and how fanatic it behaved about House Black, the house elf would probably die of a heart attack or something.

His godfather had also shared an additional, but vital, detail about Kreacher. And house-elves in general.

Never show weakness in front of a house-elf. Ever.

"Do you have anything important to say to me, Kreacher?" he asked, his tone severe. It was incredibly easy to just pretend he was talking to that git Malfoy. The elf's vicious tongue only accentuated the image—

"Just that it is time for Master's filthy half-blood to look civilized."

—Like that.

Harry rolled his eyes, remembering Sirius's attempts at trying to civilize the elf. When he forbade him from uttering the slur, Kreacher had gone out of his way to gather some choice words that were as bad as, if not worse than, 'mudblood'. And it didn't stop there. Any time Sirius tried keeping him from uttering any profanity, Kreacher would lob back biting remarks in the politest of tones.

In the end, his godfather tried keeping Kreacher away from everyone in general, and in return found most of the house flooded with twisted enchantments and wards.

It was almost as hilarious as it was sad.

"You've given me my robes. Now get out."

"Kreacher can't do that, Master's half-blood," Kreacher mockingly bowed low, his forehead touching own feet. "Kreacher was ordered by Master himself."

Well, if that's the case…

Sirius was probably downstairs, so it came as no surprise to him that he'd asked Kreacher to inform him about getting ready. After all, it was the simple orders that even a wily little thing like Kreacher couldn't twist around to suit his own purposes.

In any case, he wasn't going to keep his godfather waiting.

"And you've informed me already," he snapped. "This is my room, so get out!"

Kreacher's large, floppy ears drooped. "This is Master Regulus's room. Master's half-blood is not fit to shine Master Regulus's shoes." The elf's tone grew somber. "But the blood-traitor Master came home and changed everything. Ordered poor Kreacher around. And now, Master's half-blood thinks he owns this house." His voice began to crack and tremble. "Oh, what would my dear Mistress think!"

He began to wail.

Loudly.

"You're not fooling anyone with that act," Harry coldly replied. Hermione would've torn him a new one if she saw him behaving like this to a house-elf. "This is my room. Now stop this nonsense and get out. Before I make you."

The wails ceased, and Kreacher's ears went erect.

"If Master's half-blood wasn't Master's godson, and if Kreacher wasn't forced to show Master's half-blood any courtesy, Kreacher would like to see the half-blood try, filth!" he spat.

Harry narrowed his eyes at him.

This… this was very un-elf-like behavior. Granted, he didn't have a lot of exposure to house-elves or their regular way of life. Dobby, bless his heart, was a bit touched in the head, and Winky was nearly always drunk on butterbeer. He'd interacted with a few of the Hogwarts house-elves before, and despite their eccentricity, they were nothing but helpful, bending backwards to entertain the students in the castle.

Kreacher, on the other hand, was no such thing.

There was almost a primal feeling that exuded from him. An uninhibited hostility of sorts. And, call him crazy perhaps, but Harry had always felt like Kreacher hated him. Not just hated out of token necessity for being a half-blood— that was just a convenient excuse —but well and truly hated his existence.

But why?

Why?

Extending his senses outwards like he'd always done, Harry felt the silent thrum of the elf's aura. And much to his surprise, the elf had Power, with a capital 'P'. He faintly remembered Dobby knocking Lucius Malfoy away with little more than a snap of his fingers, but he never internalized how much potential house-elves really had. Not to mention, it usually took him direct contact to feel someone's aura, but he could feel Kreacher's from across the room.

That was when he came to a grave realization.

This was no elf. This was a homicidal killing the hell was something like this doing in the House of Black? And more importantly…

"Kreacher," Harry intoned, keeping his voice stern, "why are you here?"

The elf's ears flopped down again. "Because, Master wished Kreacher to be here."

"Sirius wanted you to inform me to be ready. He didn't wish for you to make conversation or goad me. You could have simply dropped my robes on the bed and vanished off to wherever elves like you go, but you didn't," Harry gritted out. "So I'll ask again. Why are you here?"

Then, it happened.

Kreacher's entire body sagged, and Harry looked— really looked. It was eerie, watching those large, bulbous eyes staring straight at him, as if his gaze slipped past his physical body and pierced his very soul. Analyzing, verifying, validating.

"Master is planning to take Master's half-blood into the family," Kreacher snarled. "A filthy half-blood, from a family of fools, taken into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Harry Potter can pretend all he wants, but Kreacher has seen his face. Kreacher knows what he is. A demon!"

"Wait, what do you—"

Pop!

Just like that, Kreacher had vanished in a sudden displacement of air.

Harry remained completely silent, save for one sharp little inhalation. Several seconds went by, before he sighed and turned towards the mirror.

"Never a moment of boredom around here," he told himself as he straightened his bowtie. "Not a single one."

"My word," Sirius gasped, before standing up with his hands wide open. "Who is this roguishly handsome fellow?"

"I, uh—" Harry stammered, finding the situation a little uncomfortable. Over the past week, he'd slowly grown familiar with the Black House and his new life as Sirius's godson. That meant no cooking, no sweeping, no backbreaking chores like back at 4 Privet Drive. Instead, Sirius went out of his way to make sure he had everything he could ever want— new shirts, jeans, sweatpants, boots, even bundles of underwear and socks. His old trunk had been ditched for a more premier model, one with expansion charms and defenses.

And that was just the superficial parts.

Every evening, before supper, he would sit down and share stories about his life at Hogwarts with the rest of the Marauders, and Harry pretended not to notice when Sirius downplayed Pettigrew's contributions and highlighted James Potter instead. In return, he would trade stories about his own exploits at Hogwarts, though— he remembered with a wince —most such tales landed him in a hospital bed, especially right before the end of the term. It was clear from Sirius's body language that he wanted to know about Harry's life prior to Hogwarts, but he hadn't pushed the fact yet.

Not one bit.

It was a tiny thing. Nearly inconsequential. But to Harry, it meant the world.

Of course, none of that negated the fact that he was feeling overdressed.

"I feel like a ponce," he groaned, tugging irritably at his collar. "Worse yet, I feel like Malfoy."

"It's not about being a ponce, Harry," Sirius walked up to him. "People respond to how we're dressed. And you look very fashionable. Handsome and noble and every inch a member of House Black." He paused, taking a quick step back to give him a full-body scan. "Yup. You look so very much like your father that it's uncanny, except for the eyes. Those are all Lily."

Sparkling tears threatened to fall from the man's eyes. "I— James would have been so proud to see you like this."

Harry knew Sirius meant it as a compliment, but a part of him wished the man had said something else. Hearing Snape compare him to his father made him feel better, but that was because Snape was a greasy git.

Sirius, on the other hand, compared him to James Potter as praise. It was a stark reminder that all of this— the house, the familial environment, the clothes, the life he'd been provided —wasn't really his. He was only getting it because James Potter made Sirius Black his godfather. He didn't truly belong here. He was a Potter, and at best, a guest of House Black. He was—

"As expected."

Harry blinked, his godfather's sudden words throwing him off-balance. "What are you talking about?"

The man smiled at him knowingly. "I'm talking about you, Harry. You're feeling uncomfortable, like you don't even belong here. Isn't that right?"

He faltered. "How did you— can you read my mind or something?"

"Would you believe it if I said you talk in your sleep?"

"…"

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd fall for that one," Sirius sighed. "My ancestors were, well, high-strung, egotistical bastards who thought the whole world was theirs to command. Not a bad way of looking at life, but it wasn't worth the trouble it would bring."

"So… what did they do? Some kind of ward?"

"Anyone who isn't a Black will constantly have this nagging feeling that they don't belong in the manor. Their brain conjures the rest."

Harry frowned. This… emotion-affecting magic weirdly reminded him of dementors. About how they made him sink into despair, feel depressed, hear sounds of his mother screaming as she begged Voldemort to let him live.

"The magic hits you with a subtle emotion. It triggers your brain into thinking 'why am I feeling that'. And in response, your own mind conjures images, memories, flows of thought that could lead to said emotion."

Sirius's smile faltered, deep lines etching themselves onto his face. He looked more like a Black than ever before.

"It's a vicious cycle. Once you start feeling it, it makes the feeling— the emotion —even stronger, more legitimate. As if it came from your own mind."

Harry looked at the man incredulously. "So what you're saying is that this thing can make me feel a certain way, enough to even dictate my actions?"

"If done skillfully, yes. That's why Legilimency, that is the art of mental intrusion, is frowned upon. It also didn't help that Voldemort employed it during the last war. That's how I lost my cousin to him."

"Bellatrix," he murmured. He'd often heard Sirius reminisce about his dear cousin, who had slowly transformed from a vicious yet charming young woman into a raving, homicidal maniac.

It made him wonder. When he had first stepped past the wall behind the Leaky Cauldron four years ago, everything about the magical world felt glorious, beautiful, and wondrous. And even now, it still felt that way. But it was like that was simply a veneer to all the haunting, maddening truths that lay underneath. Hideous, manipulative strings that loomed in every dark corner, ones that spoke of a world not as free as he had once thought. Not everything was as clean as 'swish-and-flick', some things were downright insidious, like the dark arts and this Mind Magic.

His wand thrummed.

Yes, Yes. I know.

"On the plus side, emotive magic isn't everyone's cup of tea. That is why most witches and wizards resort to potions and draughts. Snape should be covering some of those this year in Potions." He paused, face twisting at the mere mention of the greasy-haired professor. "Anyway, let's get going."

Harry shot him a blank stare.

"Oh come on, don't be like that!"

"I wouldn't if I knew what was going on," he dryly responded. "Where are we going? And why would I need," he grabbed at his tux, "this?"

Sirius simply gave him a wolfish grin. "Gringotts. We're going to the bank."

"For a party?"

"Well, there can be a party afterwards if you want. I don't suppose you have a girl— or two —you'd like to invite?"

Harry just rolled his eyes. "Where's Andi?"

"Wow, that's unexpected," Sirius wagged his eyebrows. "Older women, Harry?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Isn't she coming with us to Gringotts?"

"She… can't," Sirius admitted, "Our business today is private. And she has a job to attend to. But not to worry, I'll be sure to tell her how her absence was dearly missed."

"SIRIUS—" Harry blushed like a ripe tomato.

"Or you can stop being grumpy and get on. Sides, you'll never feel this gloominess again."

"Uh, what exactly do you mean by—"

"Nope. Nothing. No more talks or suffering from grumpy-old-wizard syndrome. Time to be off on our way." Sirius flamboyantly turned around and marched towards the Floo. "You coming?"

Harry stood there for a moment, wondering what the hell his life was becoming.

"HARRY?"

"Alright, I'm coming!"

The snow-white multistory edifice that was Gringotts was easily the most impressive piece of real estate in the entire shopping district. Towering over all the shops on either side, it was an imposing construction on pure white marble that housed the one and only magical bank of Wizarding Britain— along with a heap of other services, widely unknown to almost all but the magical elite.

And the whole place was run by goblins. Snarky, calculative, and greedy to a fault.

Beneath the layers of alabaster marble were subterranean caverns deeper than they had any right to be, and in them lay magically sealed vaults, where the elite stored their wealth in galleons and other prized antiquities.

Harry would know. His introduction to the wizarding world had begun with a visit to one such vault.

Vault 713.

As he walked out of the Floo, right on Sirius's heels, he found himself facing the large building. For security reasons, the goblins had a public Floo installed outside of the bank's outer gates. Knowing the numerous wizard-goblin wars, it was probably done as a security protocol.

But knowing his luck, the truth was probably something stranger.

Harry and his godfather quickly traipsed up the stairs and stepped past the large bronze doors, into a large antechamber that tapered into a long hallway leading to the main entrance of the bank. Lining both sides of the aisle were flanks of goblins, dressed in metal scale mail and holding spears and javelins— likely enchanted.

The inner doors led to a familiar, extravagantly large entrance hall. Two rows of counters, each one manned by a goblin teller, stood on either side, with the head goblin's desk located at the far end of the room. There were two more doors framing his desk that led further into the bank, and even more doors behind the counters, leading to… elsewhere.

With this many doors, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if one somehow led back to the Black House, or Hogwarts, or even the Dursley home.

…Alright, the last one would have surprised him. Somewhat.

A few witches and wizards were milling around, while some sat on the benches near the entrance and others were talking to the tellers. Harry swiftly followed behind his godfather as he calmly strode towards the head goblin. "Sirius Black," he firmly intoned as he reached the desk. "I believe I am expected."

The teller's eyes flashed in recognition. "Very well," he replied in a croaky voice, pressing the thin steel bell on the desk. Two guards, just like the ones from outside, stepped right behind them, and the teller met Sirius's gaze once more. "The usual protocols, Mister Black."

Sirius nodded. Without breaking his stride, he followed the two guards, and Harry found himself walking even faster to keep up as their little entourage stepped into a side corridor and continued to walk.

Not much could be said about goblins… except that their nation, spread across every continent in the world, had more gold in circulation than the next ten biggest nations combined, magical and otherwise. And that wasn't even accounting for the sheer amount of stockpiled gold guarded in the three dozen or so Gringotts branches scattered across the globe.

The gold didn't belong to goblins— it was wizarding gold. And yet, the creatures turned a healthy profit from running the magical banking system. Given that, who could say that, at any given point, they wouldn't just turn their impressive security systems against the humans who often treated them with disdain? What was in place to stop them from bankrupting the wizarding world in one perfectly vicious move?

The answer was simple. Nothing.

And people still wondered why there were so many goblin rebellions in the past.

Harry had entered Gringotts exactly twice in the past. The first time had been with Hagrid, and he'd been too awed and starstruck by anything that remotely seemed magical to fully register anything. And the second? He'd been red in the face, wondering how to cope with the embarrassment of shoving a handful of galleons into his pocket while Mrs. Weasley had scratched the corners of their vault and came up with one measly galleon.

This time, however, his mind was free and aware enough to notice things. Like how the Blacks warranted an Overseer, of all things. He wondered if House Potter also had a similar setup. There were a ton of questions zooming in his head, but with any luck, he'd get them sorted before the day was over.

Harry sat beside his godfather in a mostly spartan room with files— lots and lots and lots of files —all drawn and tightly knit with threads, enormous bundles of paper stuffed into each of them. A single goblin, old and wizened with whiskers below his cheeks, sat before them, adjusting his glasses every few seconds as he pored over the papers in the folder before him.

A bank job, Harry easily decided, was not for him.

Hell, he'd take potions classes with Snape breathing down his neck over this any day.

"What can Gringotts do for you today, Mister Black?"

It was interesting to see goblins disrespecting wizards up close— they absolutely refused to indulge in wizarding traditions like calling someone by titles like 'Lord' and 'Lady' and such. According to Hermione, it was a silent protest against wizards for taking their sacred tongue and defining it as Gobbledegook, meaning 'incomprehensible gibberish'.

"I am here to discuss important and profitable matters," Sirius replied.

"Dangerous words to throw around a goblin, Mister Black," the Overseer— whose name was Ripclaw, according to the nametag on the door —replied, revealing two rows of yellowish fangs. "I recognize your grandfather's work in teaching you our customs, but your recklessness leaves you vulnerable."

"I'm sure," his godfather smirked, relaxing back into his chair. "But before I'm drawn and quartered, there are some business propositions I'd like to discuss with you. Along with a few things I require immediately."

"And what are they?"

"An ancestry test, for starters." Sirius tilted his head in Harry's direction. "For my dear godson and ward."

"An inheritance ritual," Ripclaw spoke, frowning as he threw Harry a full-body glance. His eyes flickered towards the scar on his forehead before looking away. "Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Might I ask why the need for such a ritual?"

"Recognition."

Ripclaw's eyes slightly widened. "Gringotts does not have an inheritance record for Harry Potter, Are you suspecting that illegitimacy was involved in his conception?"

"Goblin!" Sirius snapped. "I pay you for services in exchange for gold. If I wanted an advisor, I'd have gone elsewhere. State your price and be done with it!"

The goblin's nostrils flared at the insult and his body tensed, leaving Harry to wonder whether he was going to attack Sirius. Slowly, and subtly, he reached for his wand.

But it was unnecessary, as Ripclaw slowly relaxed. "Who shall bear the cost?"

"The Black Family Vaults."

"I strongly recommend against that."

"If this is a matter of price—"

The goblin cut him off with a powerful stare, one that possessed a strange sort of hunger. "Do not presume to educate me about finance, wizard." The words came out soft, but the tone wasn't missed by anyone in the room. "I am a goblin. You do not have to coerce me into accepting gold!"

Sirius stiffened a little, but his expression stayed composed.

"However," the goblin's features turned less feral, "I am also the Overseer of the Black family. It is my job to call a foolish endeavor foolish."

"I don't understand," Sirius replied, his voice oddly composed despite his twitching fingers. "Are you suggesting against taking an inheritance ritual? Against me spending my money today at Gringotts?"

The goblin's eyes had bulged outwards, and his lips twisted like he'd swallowed an unnaturally ripe lemon. "…Yes."

"Why?"

"The Black family gold may not be used for frivolous purposes. Sponsoring the inheritance ritual for a half-blood fits the definition of 'frivolous' according to the previous Lord Black's policies."

"But I'm the new Lord Black!"

"Not sworn by the Wizengamot, you aren't," Ripclaw countered. "Until then, all fiscal policies will follow the wording as dictated by the previous Lord of House Black, Arcturus Sirius Black."

"Fine!" Sirius snapped, leaving Harry wondering if this was what passed for standard meetings between goblins and wizards— always at one another's throats. "Take the damn gold from my own vault then. I want his complete genealogy on my desk. Surely I have enough to pay for it?"

A glint of mad hunger flickered across the goblin's eyes as he licked his lips. "It does. Any other matters of business I can help you with?"

"Yes indeed," Sirius replied. "I wish to adopt my godson and ward, Harry James Potter, into the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. He will wear the Black name as proudly as any other of my kin, he will enjoy the protection of my ancestral home, and he will gain every privilege as someone of his station is suited for."

The goblin's eyes comically widened. "You want to adopt a half—"

"Yes."

"With full rights to—"

"Yes."

"Request denied."

Harry could've sworn his godfather was inches away from cursing the goblin to bits, if the veins bulging on his forehead were any indication. At this rate, the Aurors would come and throw Sirius back into Azkaban, and he would be sent packing back to the Dursleys.

No, damage control was vital.

Grabbing his godfather's arm, Harry shook his head. "Sirius, if there's any issue—"

"It's nothing, Harry," Sirius waved off his concerns without a care, his eyes still trained on the goblin. "Do you feel it is in your best interests to antagonize me like this, Ripclaw? The Wizengamot will meet in an emergency session in three weeks."

"Then I suggest postponing this request for three weeks," Ripclaw replied, his smile full of teeth. "Gringotts will be happy to entertain your request after you become Lord Black." He made a grand show of closing his books with a loud Bang! "If that is all, Mister Black, Gringotts will send an owl when the inheritance ritual is ready to be performed. You may expect us in… three weeks, at the earliest."

Harry sighed. He was no adept at understanding the nuances of politics, but even he could tell the goblin was just fucking around with Sirius at this point. And by the looks of it, his godfather was ready to come to blows over it. He glanced at the Overseer, then at Sirius, then back at the goblin, before opening his mouth to—

"With all due respect, goblin," Sirius coolly replied, his face completely smoothed out, "it is you and your kind that don't have the fullest grasp of my situation. When I said I needed the inheritance ritual done, I meant today. Not in three weeks."

Ripclaw rhythmically tapped the table with a claw-tipped finger, staring at Sirius calculatively. "Any requests on inheritance rituals need to be made at least four weeks in advance. Unless, of course, a Lord of a family requests it, of which you are neither. Not for the next three weeks, at least."

Sirius grinned. And for a brief moment, he was really glad that his godfather would always be on his side. "I might not be Lord Black, but I am the Master of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. The same house where my great-ancestor Phoebus Black stored his entire collection of goblin-forged armaments after rendering an absolutely humiliating defeat on Ragnok the Second back in the 1713 goblin rebellion. Surely you recall your people's history?"

The tapping ceased.

"That's right. The very same Phoebus's blood now flows through me, his descendant. And now, neither you nor your kind are welcome in my home, in any way, shape, or form."

The goblin flinched, his clawed fingers digging grooves into the marble table before him.

"If you haven't heard, goblin," Sirius continued in his falsely jovial tone, "I happen to be renovating my house, which means getting rid of all my trash. I hear Borgin over at Borgin and Burkes is offering very reasonable rates for goblin-forged silver. I wonder if he's open right now—"

"Stop!" Ripclaw raised a hand in surrender. "Suppose Gringotts can be persuaded to perform the inheritance ritual today—"

"Now."

"—Now," the goblin acquiesced, "then will you swear, upon your blood and position as owner of the Black Vaults and Master of 12 Grimmauld Place, to not sell those armaments to anyone but Gringotts?"

Harry watched as a small smile flitted across his godfather's face, before disappearing just as quickly. For some reason, he got the eerie feeling that the man had just executed a successful prank. "I'd love to, Ripclaw, but I unfortunately must decline. You see, I need to be recognized as Lord Black, owner of the Black Vaults, in order to swear an oath of that magnitude. Perhaps we can revisit this issue in three weeks' time…"

Ripclaw jumped onto his chair.

Harry whipped his wand out.

Sirius didn't so much as twitch. Instead, he just chuckled. "Unless of course, goblin, Gringotts has a mechanism in place to counter my grandfather's outdated policies after all?"

Ripclaw gnashed his teeth, glaring at Sirius with pure and unguarded hatred. "I'll… I'll see what I can do. Wait here."

After he hurried out of the office, silence reigned for several seconds, broken only when Harry finally snorted in relief. "That," he muttered at last, "was the coolest thing I've ever seen."

His godfather smirked, tossing him a small nod.

"So what's next?"

"All kinds of interesting things, Harry. All kinds of interesting things…"