HP: Ashborn

"Did you say Ashborn?" the head goblin asked, his sharp features frozen in a mask of suspicion.

"Yes," I replied, my voice steady despite the rising unease in my chest. "It's the only name I've ever known."

The goblin's narrowed eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, calculating, as if my answer might suddenly change. Finally, he straightened, his clawed fingers tightening around the ornate staff he carried. "If what you say is true," he said, his tone tinged with both gravity and intrigue, "then this matter surpasses my authority. It must be addressed by the upper management of Gringotts."

He gestured sharply, the motion imbued with a sense of finality. "Follow me. I will escort you to a ritual room."

I glanced toward Professor McGonagall, searching her face for any hint of guidance or understanding. Her usually composed demeanor faltered; her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes betrayed a rare flicker of uncertainty. Whatever this was, it had caught her as off-guard as it had me.

Her small, reassuring nod did little to settle the questions churning in my mind. As the head goblin turned to lead the way, the heavy silence that followed carried a weight that promised answers or so I think.

We followed the head goblin through a labyrinth of shadowy corridors, the faint echo of our footsteps the only sound in the silence. The air grew colder with every step, and the flickering glow of enchanted torches cast eerie, shifting shadows along the stone walls. Finally, we arrived at a heavy, ironbound door.

Inside was a dimly lit chamber where another goblin awaited. This one stood apart from the others I'd seen—his robes were adorned with intricate embroidery, and he was draped in an assortment of odd trinkets: earrings shaped like crescent moons, a medley of chains and necklaces that clinked softly as he moved. His eyes gleamed with a knowing intensity as he regarded me.

The head goblin exchanged a brief, whispered word with the shaman goblin before the latter gestured for me to step forward. A third goblin emerged from the shadows, holding a parchment that seemed to radiate an ancient, faintly golden glow.

"Your hand," the shaman goblin rasped, his voice as rough as gravel.

I hesitated, glancing at Professor McGonagall, who gave a short nod. Reluctantly, I extended my hand. The shaman goblin withdrew a thin, wicked-looking blade and, with surprising precision, nicked my finger. A sharp sting was followed by three ruby drops of blood falling onto the parchment, where they seemed to spread and shimmer as though alive.

"Please ensure his blood is used only for the inheritance ritual," Professor McGonagall interjected sharply, her tone brooking no argument.

The shaman goblin looked up at her, his thin lips curling in a faint sneer, but he gave a curt nod. With a wave of his clawed hand, he muttered an incantation, and the blood faded from the parchment, leaving only its faint golden glow.

Once satisfied, he handed the completed parchment to the head goblin, who unfolded it with an air of importance. His eyes scanned the page, and as he read, his expression shifted—from disbelief to something bordering on awe.

The head goblin cleared his throat, his voice suddenly devoid of its earlier gruffness. "Ahem. Well, it appears you truly are an Ashborn, sir." He glanced at me, his gaze now tinged with respect, even deference. "If you would follow me, I will escort you to a waiting room. The goblin responsible for overseeing the Ashborn vaults will join you shortly."

I exchanged a bewildered look with Professor McGonagall, but neither of us spoke. Whatever this discovery meant, it was only the beginning.

Though there was nothing outwardly wrong with the situation, an inexplicable unease lingered in the air, like the faintest whisper of a storm on the horizon. The head goblin led us through another series of polished marble corridors before arriving at a room that was markedly different from the rest of Gringotts.

The waiting room was an opulent space, its walls adorned with rich tapestries and enchanted sconces casting a warm, golden light. A polished mahogany table stood in the center, surrounded by plush, high-backed chairs upholstered in crimson velvet. Everything about the room spoke of exclusivity, of secrets whispered only among those deemed worthy.

The head goblin gestured toward the chairs. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. The Vice-Director will be with you shortly."

As he turned to leave, I found myself calling out impulsively. "Wait! Sir."

He paused, half-turned, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. "Yes? Is there anything else, Mr. Ashborn?"

"Um—how may I address you?"

For a moment, the goblin seemed caught off guard, a flicker of surprise breaking through his composed demeanor. But it was gone as quickly as it came. "I am Gornuk, a teller at Gringotts. You may address me as Teller Gornuk."

"Well then, thank you, Teller Gornuk, for your services," I said, attempting to show some measure of gratitude despite my uncertainty about the situation.

"I was merely doing my job, Mr. Ashborn," he replied curtly, though his tone carried a hint of satisfaction. With a small bow, he exited, leaving Professor McGonagall and me alone in the luxurious space.

Moments later, the door opened, and an older goblin entered. This one was unlike the others I'd encountered—his silver-threaded suit was finely tailored, his gait confident and deliberate. His presence commanded attention, an air of authority clinging to him like a cloak.

He smiled—a sharp, practiced gesture more formal than friendly—and inclined his head toward me. "Greetings. I have been informed that you claim to be Mr. Ashborn." His voice was deep and smooth, his words carrying the weight of centuries of tradition. "I am Ripjaw, Vice-Director at Gringotts. My family has overseen the Ashborn vaults for over 800 years."

His gaze shifted to Professor McGonagall, polite but firm. "However, I must clarify, Professor, that this meeting pertains solely to the Ashborn family. Matters of this nature are strictly confidential, and only members of the Ashborn lineage are permitted access to such information."

McGonagall's lips thinned, her disapproval evident, but she nodded with measured understanding. She cast me a glance that conveyed her reluctance to leave, yet her respect for the boundaries of goblin law.

"Very well," she said, her tone clipped but civil. "I shall wait outside."

With that, Professor McGonagall rose from her chair, casting one last reassuring glance in my direction before leaving the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with Vice-Director Ripjaw.

Ripjaw's smile widened ever so slightly, though his sharp eyes betrayed no emotion beyond professional courtesy. "Thank you, Professor. Now, Mr. Ashborn," he said, turning his attention fully to me, "shall we begin?"

Ripjaw studied me, his sharp, calculating eyes seeming to see far more than I was ready to reveal.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm yet weighty. "It must be very difficult for you to process all of this, I assume, Mr. Ashborn."

I exhaled a nervous laugh. "Oh, you have no idea. Umm—Sir Ripjaw, right?"

His eyes gleamed with approval, and his expression softened into something resembling a smile. "Just call me Ripjaw, Mr. Ashborn."

"Then please call me Max, Ripjaw."

"Very well, Max," he said, inclining his head slightly. "I take it you have little knowledge of wizarding families?"

"None at all, actually," I admitted. "Three days ago, I thought I was just an abnormal child. Then Professor McGonagall showed up at my doorstep and told me I'm a wizard. As if that wasn't enough, when I went to buy a wand, Mr. Ollivander mentioned it was an honor to match a wand to someone from the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Ashborn."

I paused, gesturing vaguely toward him. "And now, here I am. Confirmed to be an Ashborn, sitting in a Gringotts waiting room, talking to you—the Vice-Director himself. It's a lot."

Ripjaw chuckled, the sound dry but not unkind. "I imagine it would be. And yet," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "what lies ahead will be even greater surprises—but I assure you, all of them will be welcome ones."

His tone carried a curious mix of encouragement and mystery, enough to make my mind spin with possibilities.

I sighed, leaning back in the luxurious chair. "Well, it seems like fate has plans for me. I guess all I can do is go along with it."

Ripjaw's smile widened slightly, his sharp teeth glinting in the low light. "Fate, Max, may have chosen you. But from what I've seen of the Ashborn lineage, you may find that you are more in control of it than you realize."

His words settled over me, heavy and profound. For the first time since all this began, I felt the weight of not just my confusion, but a burgeoning sense of responsibility. Whatever lay ahead, it was clear I wouldn't simply be a passive participant.

Ripjaw's voice carried the weight of centuries as he began, "Firstly, I think I should start with the basic history of your family. Your ancestor, the first Ashborn, was a protégé of Rowena Ravenclaw, one of the founders of Hogwarts."

I blinked. Then blinked again. Wait—what? My thoughts spiraled into disbelief, and before I knew it, I blurted out, "Wait! I mean, what the fuck?!"

My tone—somewhere between awe and utter disbelief—caught even me off guard. Ripjaw, however, seemed entirely unfazed. If anything, he looked amused.

With my eyebrows practically touching my hairline and my jaw threatening to unhinge itself, I managed to stammer, "My family is at least a millennium old?"

Ripjaw nodded, his expression still calm but with a glint of enjoyment in his sharp eyes. "Yes, it is," he said, as though he were confirming a simple fact about the weather.

"But you must understand," he continued, his grin widening ever so slightly, "the Ashborn family was different from every other wizarding family on the face of the earth."

I leaned forward, my curiosity piqued despite my shock. "What do you mean by different? And please, define what different means in this context."

Ripjaw chuckled, his sharp teeth flashing briefly. "For one," he began, "the Ashborns didn't place much importance on the wealth in their vaults. To them, money was merely a means to an end—or so I have been told. Even your family motto reflects this sentiment: 'From Ashes, We Rise,' or in Latin, 'De Cineribus Surgimus.'"

I blinked again, digesting his words. A wizarding family that didn't obsess over its wealth? That was... new.

Seeing that he had my full attention, Ripjaw continued, "What the Ashborns truly valued was honor and knowledge. Your family's founder, inspired by Rowena Ravenclaw, took her famous motto—'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure'—to heart. It became his life's mission to gather and master every piece of magical knowledge he could find."

I nodded, hanging on his every word, as Ripjaw leaned back slightly in his chair. "Each generation that followed the founder upheld this legacy. They amassed a collection of magical books, tomes, artifacts, and countless other items—so much so that the Ashborn family vault is one of the most extensive in existence. Even though the last known member of your family passed away in 1870, he ensured that the legacy continued. Before his passing, he made a contract with Gringotts. It stipulated that every significant discovery in magical knowledge for the next 500 years should be documented and added to the Ashborn vault."

I stared at him, stunned. "So… you think I'm from a squib line of the Ashborn family?"

Ripjaw inclined his head thoughtfully. "That would be my assumption. Your magical heritage seems to have reawakened in you after generations. It's rare, but not unheard of. Regardless, Max, you stand at the crossroads of a legacy steeped in brilliance and ambition."

I sat back, my head spinning. A millennium of history, an unparalleled treasure trove of magical knowledge, and an inheritance I barely understood—it was overwhelming. Yet, at the same time, a part of me felt the faint stirrings of something else. 

Pride.

Even though the weight of Ripjaw's revelations settled heavily on my shoulders as I realized just how much I had underestimated my ancestors' relentless passion for knowledge—and the staggering price they were willing to pay for it. I felt proud to be part of people who gave their everything for the conquest of knowledge.

And everything about me being from a squib line also began to make sense, pieces of a puzzle clicking into place in my mind.

As I processed this, Ripjaw reached into the folds of his impeccably tailored robes and produced two scrolls, handing them to me. "These," he said, "are the lists of the complete properties of the Ashborn family. The smaller parchment contains the total Galleons in the family vault, and the larger parchment lists the artifacts contained within it."

Curiosity overcame me as I took the smaller scroll and unrolled it. My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets as I read the numbers inscribed on the page:

ASHBORN FAMILY VAULT

Currently holds 57,398 Galleons, 5 Sickles, and 5 Knuts.

I stared at the parchment, my brain working overtime to process the sheer size of the number before me. "Didn't you say the Ashborns never cared about money?" I asked, incredulity dripping from every word.

Ripjaw chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that echoed in the room. "Indeed, they never cared for wealth in the traditional sense," he replied. "As I mentioned earlier, the last member of your family struck a deal with Gringotts to ensure the continuation of their legacy. This contract included the accumulation of all new magical knowledge produced after his demise and the maintenance of your family vault for the next 500 years."

I raised an eyebrow. "And the price for all of that?"

Ripjaw's sharp grin widened, his teeth gleaming. "Ninety-nine percent of the money in your family vault at the time. It was, and still remains, the single largest financial transaction ever conducted in Gringotts' history."

I gawked at him, stunned. "You mean we were… filthy rich?"

Ripjaw inclined his head slightly. "Filthy rich doesn't begin to describe it. Just for perspective, the amount the Ashborns handed over in that transaction was greater than the combined wealth of the five richest families in magical Britain today."

I almost let out a low whistle, trying to wrap my head around the sheer absurdity of it all. My family hadn't just been rich—they'd practically owned the concept of wealth. And yet, they'd given it up without hesitation, all for the pursuit of knowledge and honor.

Still, I glanced down at the parchment again, taking solace in the hefty sum that remained. "Well," I said, exhaling, "even with more than 50,000 Galleons left, I'd say I'm still doing pretty well for myself."

Ripjaw chuckled once more, the sound filled with quiet amusement. "Indeed, Max. But remember, the true wealth of the Ashborn family has never been measured in coin. It lies in the legacy of wisdom and artifacts stored within your vault. That, is the treasure you must learn to wield."

His words carried a solemn gravity, and for a moment, I felt the enormity of the responsibility now resting on my shoulders. The money was a mere fraction of what I'd inherited—a vast legacy of knowledge and power, waiting for me to uncover it.

Then, I unrolled the larger parchment, my eyes scanned the extensive list of magical items and artifacts stored within my family vault. Many of the names were unfamiliar, shrouded in mystery, yet they hinted at an unfathomable depth of magical knowledge.

However, my gaze froze on one particular entry that made my heart skip a beat:

68. Magical Compass

69. Time-Turner (12-Hour Version, Bound to None)

My fingers tightened around the parchment as my mind raced. A Time-Turner—and not just any version, but one unbound to any prior owner. The sheer possibilities sent a thrill through me. I wanted it immediately. The desire surged within me like a tidal wave, but I fought to keep my expression neutral. No satisfaction would betray my inner thoughts.

Carefully folding the parchment back up, I looked at Ripjaw. "Then can I visit my family vault?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

For the first time, his composed demeanor faltered. A flicker of nervousness crossed his face before he answered, "No, Max. Your family vault is number 38. Unfortunately, the cartway to the first 50 vaults is currently under repair. I will promptly inform you once it's fixed. However," he added, his sharp gaze meeting mine, "to visit the vault, you would also need to formally accept the mantle of Heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Ashborn. Only recognized family members are permitted access."

I frowned slightly but nodded. "Fine. In the meantime, is there any way for me to withdraw some Galleons?"

Ripjaw's expression returned to its usual professional calm as he replied, "Yes, there is. We can provide you with a pouch enchanted with an expansion charm. It can hold up to 10,000 Galleons and is accessible only by an Ashborn. This service would cost you 50 Galleons, and the amount you withdraw would be deducted from your vault balance. However, this option is available only because the cartway is temporarily inaccessible."

"Fair enough," I said, making up my mind. "Then please arrange for that pouch and withdraw 1,050 Galleons from my vault—50 Galleons being the fee for the pouch."

Ripjaw nodded approvingly. "Excellent! I shall arrange it immediately. Anything else you would like to ask?"

"No, not today, Ripjaw," I replied with resolve. "Today, I just want to accept the mantle of Heir to the Ashborn family and get it over with."

Ripjaw gave a small nod of approval, his sharp grin returning. "As you wish, Max."

From within the folds of his robes, he retrieved a parchment and handed it to me. Elegant, ancient lettering covered the surface. As I began to read, Ripjaw explained, "This is the standard oath for heirs to any Most Ancient and Most Noble House. Recite it with sincerity, and raise your wand high as you speak the words."

I took a steadying breath, my heart pounding as I gripped my wand tightly. With deliberate care, I raised it into the air and began to recite the oath, my voice steady and strong:

"I, Maximus Aurelius Ashborn,

By blood and magic,

I stand before those who came before me,

To swear upon my life, my honor, and my power.

I accept the mantle of Heir to the Most Ancient and

Most Noble House of Ashborn.

I vow to uphold its traditions, protect its legacy, and honor its name.

This I swear by the magic that flows in my veins.

I swear it. So mote it be."

As the final words left my lips, a dazzling burst of magic erupted from my wand. A magnificent phoenix composed entirely of fire soared into the air, its flaming wings casting a warm golden glow throughout the room. It circled above before descending, enveloping me in its fiery embrace. Yet, to my astonishment, the flames weren't hot. They were warm—comforting, even—and filled me with an inexplicable sense of belonging.

The magic settled into me, a soothing hum resonating deep within. As the phoenix vanished, I felt an immediate connection to my wand—a surge of power and harmony that hadn't been there before. It was as though my magic had found its true alignment.

Ripjaw's voice cut through my awestruck silence. "It seems the family magic has fully accepted you, Max. Do you feel any different?"

I blinked, still processing the sensation coursing through me. "I do," I admitted, flexing my fingers around my wand. "It's... hard to describe, but I feel stronger. Like my magic is more focused, more... mine."

Ripjaw's grin widened, his sharp teeth gleaming. "Good. That is as it should be. The Ashborn legacy flows through you now—not just in name, but in blood and magic. This is only the beginning, Max."

I nodded, knowing he was right. The weight of my inheritance—and the possibilities it held—was only just beginning to reveal itself.

"Do you have any more questions, Max?" Ripjaw asked, his piercing gaze resting on me.

I sighed, the weight of the day's revelations pressing down on me. "Yes, I do have more questions, but honestly, I'm feeling quite exhausted. Today has been overwhelming, and I need some time to process everything. For now, I'd appreciate it if you could prepare the pouch you mentioned earlier."

Ripjaw gave a curt nod, but I wasn't finished. "Additionally," I continued, "before I leave for Hogwarts, I'd like to visit the family vault to retrieve a few artifacts that might be useful. I plan to return in August to handle the rest of the formalities and explore the vault in detail, but I'd like to complete everything necessary for the heirship today so it's all in order before I leave."

Ripjaw considered my request for a moment before nodding again. "The cartway to your vault will be repaired within the next two weeks at the latest. Very well, let us complete the remaining formalities and prepare the pouch for you."

The next hour and a half passed in a blur of paperwork and procedural details. By the end of it, I held a small pouch enchanted with an expansion charm. It weighed nothing but held a staggering 1,000 galleons—more than enough to cover anything I might need.

As I stepped out of Gringotts, the fading sunlight cast long shadows across Diagon Alley. I spotted Professor McGonagall waiting for me near the steps.

"Hello, Professor," I greeted her, feeling a strange mix of weariness and exhilaration.

"Hello, Max," she replied with a small smile. "I trust you've learned more about your family and completed the necessary procedures?"

I nodded, unable to suppress the pride in my voice. "Yes, I have. I'm now officially the Heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Ashborn."

Her smile widened slightly. "Good for you. It seems today has been quite eventful for you. But we still have a few tasks to complete. Come now, we need to finish your school supplies shopping."

"Of course, Professor," I said, adjusting the pouch at my waist and following her to Madam Malkin's Shop.

What Madam Malkin saw in me, I'll never know, but my cheeks were brutally assaulted by the overly enthusiastic shop owner while she took my measurements for my school robes. The whole situation was met with the amusement of the ever-stern professor, who couldn't help but smile slightly at my predicament.

'No! I'm not cute. Just young. And I was just brutally assaulted.'

As I returned to the professor, now with very red cheeks, I caught her subtly smiling while she enjoyed my situation. To my dismay—and her amusement—she ruffled my hair, and I glared at her as much as I could, which only seemed to please her more. My only thought at that moment was to get out of that shop as soon as possible.

I asked Professor McGonagall if there was a magical bag available. She took me to a shop where I could purchase a trunk with an expansion charm to store all my supplies, along with a bag with an expansion charm to carry all my books. I paid for them, and we left the shop together. Since Professor McGonagall had already bought my books and other supplies earlier, I had nothing else to do.

With our shopping done, the professor Apparated me back to my orphanage. I was almost proud this time, as I hadn't embarrassed myself—I only lost my balance a little.

'Progress, mate. Progress,' I thought to myself.

After dropping me at the entrance of the orphanage, Professor McGonagall handed me a ticket for the Hogwarts Express, scheduled for 1st September. She wished me good luck before leaving. I stood there, clutching the ticket, feeling the weight of everything that was about to happen. I had almost five months ahead of me, and I could hardly wait. My body was practically shivering with excitement.

'FUCK,' I remembered that— 

'Five months—an eternity—and with my luck, I'd probably die of impatience long before the train even arrived.' 

I groaned internally as I stared at the ticket in my hand. Sure, it was exciting—Hogwarts, magic, my family's legacy—but the wait? It was going to drive me insane. Still, there was no turning back now. I'd just have to find ways to fill the time, somehow. 

I took a deep breath, shaking the rest of my frustration off. 'Alright, Max. You've survived weirder things. It will be a walk in the park, just make it through the next five months and not to make a fool of yourself before you even get there.'

It wasn't exactly a walk in the park, but Maximus Aurelius Ashborn learned this the hardest way possible—by realizing that waiting was, in fact, a form of torture.