Chapter Text
“S-sir… May I really…”
Little Harry watched his uncle warily over the plate of delicious-smelling food. He had never seen food like this before. Not at the Dursleys'. He was never allowed to eat at the table. Sometimes they would taunt him with food. Tell him he could have it, then take it away and punish him. Uncle Allister had turned up like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, but with sandy grey whiskers and khakis. He had spoken to Uncle Vernon and whisked Harry away as if by magic from Little Whinging to a sunbaked land of sand and swaying palm trees.
“Go on, try it. Don’t be shy,” Sir Allister Grey coaxed the tiny boy. He was painfully thin, as stunted as the street children who roamed the alleys of the old city of Cairo. He quietly cursed his Muggle grand-niece and her husband. Ah, the scales of Ma’at will catch up with them eventually. What was important now was for Lily’s son to heal. He had come so far and worked so hard. Turning back was not an option. After the boy has been fed, they had an appointment at Gringotts’ Cairo branch to keep. The ancients knew the power of a name. To protect Lily’s boy, they would have to obscure his name.
Harry gingerly scooped up a falafel ball and bit into it. It tasted nutty with just a hint of spice. He almost cried. It was so good. He had not eaten anything since the burnt toast yesterday morning…
“There, there… it’s alright now, child…” A gruff voice, a hand awkwardly patting his back. Allister Grey was no good with children, but for the poor mite’s sake, he had to have a go at it. Maybe he could secure an ayah elf to be Nanny.
Five years later…
Cleo had cleared the breakfast things. Harold Grey smiled at the photo of his parents. He wished them a good morning before heading for the library to start on his homework. Uncle Allister had returned home late from the Library of Alexandria last night and would not be up so soon. It was vacation time. Once he was done with his homework, he could read up on his hieroglyphs and try deciphering the stele in the study Uncle Allister had set as a challenge to him. He had already ruled out Greek. The last urn he helped his uncle decipher was from Troy and told part of the Iliad. A clay tablet a month back was a Sumerian account tally. His guardian loved setting puzzles and riddles to challenge his ward during the off-dig season. Ibis House’s library was full of books and tomes relating to the ancient world.
Horus bobbed his head in greeting when Harold passed his perch. The boy stopped to stroke the hawk on the back of his head. His uncle was sitting by the fireplace in the study, snoring softly in his armchair. He had not made it back to his bedroom after all. Harold gave his elderly guardian a fond smile before browsing through the shelves for the texts he needed. He would like to finish up before Sir Allister took him out to the bazaar in the evening.
“Young Ma-s-s-ster…” Nefertari slithered into the study. The Egyptian cobra’s hood flared as she greeted her wizard.
“Good morning, my little queen… I trussst you fed well last night?” Harold replied as she preened under his regard. She had fed well indeed on a plump rat. Their bond went deep, forged when she was still a snakeling caged in a Moroccan souk destined for potion ingredients. The wizardling had felt sorry for the cobra and saved her. He was not a true Speaker, but he was quick enough to pick up the nuances of the serpent tongue.
Harold sat at his little walnut desk beside his uncle’s dark mahogany one. He pondered the homework from the academy. Perhaps he should start with French and finish with Arithmetic, or should it be the other way round? He could complete his Latin verbs in an hour, perhaps less. It was the weekend after all. He could take his time about it. The International Charms Academy catered to the small European wizarding population in the city. The lessons were, well, basic for a child of Harold’s calibre. Yet he had to attend and obtain a Charms certificate if he was to apply to one of the established magical schools in the States or Europe since he would not be a resident of the region. He would not get an admission letter otherwise. Academically he was well ahead of his age group. Uncle Allister asked the teachers to issue him extra homework or readings so he would not be bored. Harold did most of his learning during dig season when he accompanied his guardian on his travels, whenever to the Trojan ruins or the lost pyramids of Nubia.
He was going to be eleven soon - when a magical child should have his first spurt of magic by, according to European belief. The locals claimed a child’s magic was stable by nine and most would be apprenticed out if not sent up the Nile to Uagadou.
His life would have been so different were it not for his Great Uncle Allister. He recalled a dark, cramped space, almost a tomb. Unkind words and rough blows. Weak, helpless. Pain and tears. That was all gone now. He had feared the darkness of the tomb once, but his guardian had shown him the hidden wonders within the secret tombs in the Valley of the Dead. Knowledge is power. He could use it to protect himself, his family and friends. Set Wards against vipers or rockfalls. Spells to identify hidden dangers lurking in the shadows. Harold could never be a regular child, not with his intelligence. Sir Allister never coddled him. He challenged him, encouraged him in his interests. By nine, he was treated as a fully-fledged member of the dig party with his own duties to see to in accordance with local practices. Ibis House was a House of Thoth, the ancient Egyptian god of knowledge and magic.
They had already discussed his possible academic future back when he was nine. Ilvermorny, Drumstrang, or Hogwarts. Beauxbatons lacked the academic rigour needed for Cursebreaking, so his Uncle Allister said. He might be a Hogwarts legacy, according to his uncle. Even if he were not, they should be honoured to have a bright lad like him as a student. Drumstrang was too focused on offensive magic. Might work for some Cursebreakers – Bombardo-ing everything in sight, but it was not Uncle Allister’s style. Arithmancy or Ancient Runes? Both subjects were required to be a Cursebreaker or Wardmaster like Uncle Allister was before he left Gringotts. Perhaps he could seek an opinion from his guardian later.
“Master Harry needs to have his elevenses,” Cleo blustered as she popped into the study.
Eleven already? Harold frowned. He had lost track of time but at least his French homework was done. He accepted the glass of milk and date cookies. He was too young for the strong coffee preferred by his uncle, though Uncle Allister allowed him to partake of hot mint tea and spiced chai during the digs to protect against the desert chill.
Allister woke up in time for lunch on the veranda overlooking the Nile. Like many of the city’s magi-archaeologists, he kept a river-barge on the river for use during digs along the Nile. A small jetty ran along the back of the house while its front faced the street of Cairo’s Magical Quarter. The entire Quarter shifted according to the yearly ebb and flow of the Nile and was magically Warded against the occasional sandstorm or earthquake. In the more populated parts, the wix lived in a mishmash of dwellings and tenements with canals cut to the main river. Some wix forwent fixed dwellings on land entirely for caravans and river barges. These were mainly trading families who followed the flow of goods across the desert sands and along the mighty Nile.
Allister waved to a neighbour who was riding her pet crocodile down the river with her grandchildren despite the noonday sun. The dowager waved back from under her parasol while rebuking her youngest grandchild to stop splashing in the river lest they attracted hippos. Hippos were the ones to watch out for on the river. No one in the quarter had tamed hippos where many had crocodiles to guard their homes and riverboats since the time of the ancients.
Magic ran deep in the sands here, in the Nile’s steady heartbeat and the seasons. Perhaps it was this magic that enthralled Allister Grey when he first arrived there between the wars an eager young wizard. He could see it working its spell on his young ward. Nefertari slithered up the chair to nestle in Harry’s lap. Horus was out delivering a letter, or his familiar would have taken his place on the back of Allister’s chair or on his shoulder.
A dusty bird approached them - a battered, beleaguered short-eared owl. It all but collapsed on their veranda. A dusty envelope was gripped in its claws.
“Tch, it needs some water…” Allister cast a Cool Breeze Charm on the bird while Harold poured some water into a saucer. Nefertari flared her hood and flicked her tongue over the bird.
“Not food, Nefertari…” Harold warned sternly before he Summoned some of Horus’ cubed fresh rabbit from the kitchen. Owl pellets would be too dry for the poor bird.
“Who sent it, Uncle?”
“Hm, Hogwarts. It seems you are a legacy student still, Harold Potter Grey,” Allister Grey frowned. That was one complication he had not foreseen back then. It would figure that the Potters would have a trust fund set up for their heirs. It had been five years since he adopted the child and bestowed a new name on him.
Five years ago…
“State your business, wizard…” Sobecki the goblin did not need to look up at the tap-tap of a cane on the tiles to know it was his old colleague – Allister Grey. What surprised him when he did look up was the goggle-eyed little boy in ill-fitting clothes with the distinguished Wardmaster.
“Adoption. I wish to adopt this child,” Allister Grey declared.
“Tch, got yourself a street rat for an apprentice finally, huh? Could have dressed him better…” Sobecki put on his glasses and leapt down from his tall desk. That was when he saw the boy’s scar shaped like a lightning bolt.
“Oh, sons of Set… Whatever have you been up to? We will need Sheikha Sirocco for this one…” Sobecki rang the bell for the bank’s head goblin. Still, he could not hide the grin on his face. The jackal had done it again. There was no way the British would allow their precious Chosen One to leave British soil legally, even if he was forced to live with magic-hating relations. Magic subject to such abuse tend to go awry, twisted, chaotic. It was an affront to the order, magic, and Ma’at. Under Sir Grey, the child would have a chance to heal, prosper… Every goblin in Cairo knew how hard the wizard had fought for custody of his great-grandnephew after the Potters’ tragic demise, appealing all the way to the ICW. Sir Grey was anything if not doggedly determined.
“I also would like to seek the services of a healer given the child’s experiences of the past few years…” Sir Grey added quietly.
“Of course, Ali,” Sobecki snapped a goblin salute and Sir Grey returned the salute with a bow.
“Perhaps tea later in my rooms once the paperwork is done…” Sobecki offered slyly. Sir Grey only chuckled. He knew his old friend would try to interest him in some new expedition on behalf of the Goblin Nation’s artefact recovery team which Mrs Sobecki headed. Perhaps the Lost Kingdom of Punt.
As it turned out, there was no time for a leisurely tea once the healer’s report came out. A Horcrux was residing in the poor boy’s scar. Harry’s young life and very soul were in danger. The rest of the day passed in blur of fevered activity. Sobecki urged mint tea on his friend while junior goblin runners were sent to fetch their most experienced goblin Cursebreakers and Ritual-keepers.
“Horcrux – a foul business. An affront to the Order and Magic…”
Sheikha Sirocco declared as she peeled off her dragonhide gloves and burned them in disgust on the brazier. She had been overseeing the healing ritual. Her weather-lined face showed the strain of the past hours despite her outward stoicism.
“Is the child safe now?” Sir Allister asked shakily. It had been hard, watching the goblins carry out the ritual but unable to assist. The Sheikha had warned him not to intervene if he must watch. And that horror Ammit, the Devourer of Souls… They only used her for the most thorough of Cleansings and to destroy the deepest evil. The ancient Egyptians barely scratched the surface of that monstrosity in their depictions.
“That will depend on you, sir. How far will you go in this? Abducting a child, bringing him to us, applying for a new identity for him…”
“Will you assist us?” Dare he hope for the aid of the goblins?
“By Thoth, of course, the Goblin Nation will help, you addled fool…” the she-goblin snarled. He grabbed the pitcher off the sideboard and poured herself a stiff drink. “What was done here to this child was a crime! Do you wish to keep him as your ward then? Tie yourself down to raise a wizardling, jackal?” There was an edge of challenge in her voice.
“Of course.” As he replied, he looked her straight in the eye from where he was sitting. The Sheikha was taller than most goblins were. Part-Ifrit, some had alleged for her uncanny insight. She had been his supervisor once, back when he was a young man training to be a Cursebreaker. Well before she attained her current exalted office.
The Sheikha snorted and snapped her fingers. A scroll of papyrus appeared on the table. She fished out a stylus from her desk tipped with a ruby scarab. He recalled it was only used for the most solemn of agreements in the branch.
“You are taking a gamble, Ali. Sign here and you will be guardian to one Harold Potter Grey. May your enemies fall at your feet.”
“May your coffers overflow with gold…”
Harry Potter left Gringotts as Harold Grey, ward of Sir Allister Grey – retired Wardmaster and Cursebreaker and respected magi-archaeologist.