Harry Potter: Returning from Hogwarts Legacy-Chapter 153: You Really Deserve to Die, Harry {1}

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No one knew why Gryffindor had suddenly earned points from Snape, just as no one understood why he always seemed to have it out for Gryffindor in the first place.

The ones who found this fact hardest to swallow were, naturally, the Slytherin students.

It made sense, didn't it? The old professor, who had always been as "warm" to Gryffindor as a winter's day, had inexplicably changed his tune and started awarding them points?

Some students from more scholarly families had already begun whispering about the Imperius Curse, wondering if Professor Snape had been hit with a mind-control spell by Hermione or something equally absurd.

It was downright bizarre!

Even by the time class ended, the Slytherins were still reeling, as if lost in a fog.

Merlin's beard, it was just too terrifying to comprehend.

"Nice work, Hermione," Ron said as they sat in the Great Hall, still chatting with her. "Looks like your plan really paid off. Snape even gave you points—twenty of them! You're an absolute genius."

"Thank you for finally noticing," Hermione replied with a smug little smirk. She, too, felt that snagging twenty points from Snape's grasp was nothing short of legendary.

And she had every right to be proud. Even the Gryffindors who disliked her the most had to grudgingly admit the truth, pinching their noses as they did.

Unfortunately, Harry hadn't managed to secure a pass to leave the castle.

"I feel compelled to remind you, Mr. Potter," Snape drawled, his voice dripping with that quintessential Slytherin sneer as he pronounced Harry's name, "let's put it this way: I'm aware you possess certain powers that even Dumbledore and the Dark Lord cannot fathom. But a Basilisk is not something a young wizard of your age can handle. If the creature from the castle truly ventures into the Forbidden Forest to hunt, I suspect it'll be you and your band of witless troll friends who end up regretting it."

"Alright, Professor," Harry muttered, disappointment weighing on him as he turned away listlessly.

Just as he reached the door, he caught Snape muttering something under his breath, as if talking to himself.

"Perhaps Hogwarts' equipment does need some repairs. I [sic] I should take it to Dumbledore's office for a check-up next Monday night."

Harry froze mid-step but didn't turn around.

He'd caught Snape's hint loud and clear. Without another word, he left the office.

Back in the Great Hall, Hermione and the others swarmed him.

"So, Harry?" they asked, concern lacing their voices. "What did Professor Snape say?"

"Wait for my signal," Harry said with a grin. "Trust me, I told you Snape's not so bad... but we should get ready. Tomorrow night's when Professor Lockhart kicks off the Duelling Club."

"Got it, Harry," Ron said, flashing an OK sign with his fingers. "I'm feeling pretty good about myself right now. I reckon I could take on either Fred or George, no problem—"

"You should have more confidence," Fred's voice chimed in from behind him. "My little Ronniekins."

"Yeah, you should," George added from the other side. "You ought to say, 'I can beat those two copycat idiots, Fred and George, without breaking a sweat.'"

"Hey, that's your words, not mine!" Ron quickly backpedaled. "You two are mad, insulting yourselves like that."

"Mad, are we?" George chuckled. "Not as mad as my darling little brother, who spends all day dreaming about how to outdo his big brothers."

"What do you know? It's called ambition!" Ginny jumped in to defend Ron. "Merlin's beard, Ron, I hope you thrash these two numbskulls—if you do, I'll tell Mum to reward you with an extra drumstick."

"Really?" Ron's eyes lit up instantly. "Brilliant! But, uh, could we switch it up this time? I'd love a new broomstick instead."

"Wait until you're a prefect for that," Percy interjected from the side. "Look, Mum got me an owl for becoming a prefect. If you manage it, she'd definitely agree to get you a broomstick."

"Yeah, then everyone in the family would be a prefect," Ginny said with a laugh.

"Hey, Ginny!" Fred and George chorused in unison. "You do realize one of us isn't ever going to be a prefect, right?"

"Oh, hello, next-door neighbors," Ginny said, wrinkling her nose. "I reckon Dumbledore would have to lose his marbles to let you two troublemakers become prefects—and even if he did, Professor McGonagall would stay sharp enough to stop it."

Stung by their little sister's jab, the twins looked momentarily wounded.

But being the shameless pair they were, they exchanged a glance, burst into laughter, and plopped down next to Harry. "Harry, that idea you gave us was gold," they said. "We've been secretly selling some little trinkets to the other students, and they're a hit—two Galleons in just a month!"

"Two Galleons!" Fred whispered excitedly. "You know, even our family vault doesn't have that much—"

"Yeah, I don't know why we even bother with a vault," Ron grumbled from the side. "It's not like we've got piles of gold to stash..."

"But I reckon we can't stay this poor forever," Percy chimed in, picking up the thread. "I bet our great-great-grandfather, Gareth Weasley, stashed a fortune in Gringotts—I mean, a proper haul."

"For real?" Fred and George asked in perfect sync.

They were desperate for cash these days. If they could dig up some ancestral treasure, their startup funds would be sorted.

And, come to think of it, Harry had to agree.

A hundred years ago, the Weasleys weren't exactly strapped for cash—especially after Gareth hit fifth year. His pockets started bulging, and he'd often splurge on snacks, inviting Harry to dig in.

Sometimes, Harry even caught him pulling a Galleon from his pocket, flipping it around in his hand like it was nothing.

How could a Weasley family like that ever be broke?

Harry remembered Gareth buying a Galleon's worth of ice cream without batting an eye. He had to have a vault at Gringotts—something he never got around to passing down to the family.

Maybe it was time to ask Bodrig. It seemed worth a shot.

"I reckon there's got to be something," Ron nodded solemnly. "Great-great-grandfather was a bit of a name in the wizarding world back then. No way he was skint."

"Exactly," Ginny agreed, but then her confidence faltered. "Wait, do you think Mum and Dad might've already found his vault but kept it from us?"

"No chance," Fred said, ever the mischief-maker. "If they'd found it, we'd have spent it ages ago. You think we'd still be scraping by?"

"What's that about?" Harry asked.

"It's just how Mum and Dad are," Percy said with a shrug. "They've never been ones to hoard money. Why bother saving when you can live happily in the moment?"

Harry tucked that little nugget away. He'd ask Bodrig about it later that night.

Since it was Friday, everyone was in a laid-back mood.

Saturday and Sunday were holidays—who'd waste them studying like mad?

Harry rolled out of bed around seven, claiming he was off for a stroll. Instead, he headed to the second floor, where the Basilisk had last been spotted, and crouched there for a bit.

He figured he'd try his luck. If he caught it, great. If not, no big deal.

After waiting over an hour with no sign of the creature, Harry gave up and slipped into the Room of Requirement.

He downed an Aging Potion and activated Bodrig's two-way mirror.

"Mr. Potter," Bodrig greeted him with impeccable politeness.

Harry gave a slight nod, pleased with the goblin's manners.

"Mr. Bodrig," Harry said, cutting to the chase, "I've got a question about an old friend of mine from a hundred years back."

"Go ahead," Bodrig replied, his expression growing serious. He couldn't quite figure out what this unpredictable wizard was up to.

Was he here to settle scores with the goblins? His tone didn't suggest it, but still.

So Bodrig stayed on guard, wary of Harry's magic and the fact that, frankly, the goblins weren't entirely in the right—after all, a certain couple's joint fortune had vanished under their watch.

"I had a good mate back then, Gareth Weasley," Harry said, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. "If I remember right, he had a vault at Gringotts—not a family one, a personal one."

Bodrig perked up. "Very well, sir. I'll have someone look into it. Please bear with me."

With that, Bodrig set the mirror down and scurried off to arrange a check with Gringotts.

About half an hour later, the mirror flickered back to life.

"Mr. Potter," Bodrig said, beaming with delight.

"Judging by that grin, you've got good news?" Harry asked.

"Yes, yes, sir!" Bodrig chuckled. "Guess what? Gareth Weasley did indeed leave a sum behind—in Vault 709, to be precise. We tallied it up: twenty-four thousand, two hundred and fourteen Galleons, plus a notebook."

"A notebook?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Yes, a notebook," Bodrig confirmed with a nod. "It seems to detail some Weasley family matters, though we don't know the specifics—Gringotts respects client privacy, as you're aware."

"Right," Harry said.

"But here's the thing," Bodrig continued, lifting his gaze cautiously. "Mr. Weasley's will states that this money... it's yours."

"Mine?!" Harry's brow furrowed. He hadn't seen that coming—Gareth leaving it all to him?

"Yes, along with the notebook and a letter he wrote to you," Bodrig said with a sigh. "As for the vault's key, well, that's you, sir."

Harry sat there, stunned.

After a moment's thought, he said, "Alright, here's what you'll do. Amend Gareth's will. Make it clear this is a legacy for the Weasley family."

He paused, recalling Percy's words.

"Mum and Dad never had a savings plan..."

"So," Harry continued, "add that Gareth's will allows them to withdraw two hundred Galleons a year from the vault to improve their lives."

"Understood, Mr. Potter," Bodrig replied smoothly. He knew better than to pry—goblins like him had a knack for discretion.

"As for the notebook and Gareth's letter," Harry said, "send them to Malfoy Manor. Have Lucius hold onto them for me—I'm a bit tied up at the moment."

"Of course, sir," Bodrig said quickly. "You've still got that Basilisk hunt in Greece to deal with. But, if I may, I have a small request..."

He rubbed his fingers together, a shrewd glint in his eye.

"Go on," Harry said neutrally.

"I know a Basilisk is child's play for someone as powerful as you," Bodrig said. "So, if you find yourself with spare parts after dealing with it—scales, venom, whatever—Gringotts would be happy to take them off your hands. Naturally, we'd offer you our best terms, Mr. Potter."

"I'll think it over," Harry said, not committing.

"Then I wish you success, Mr. Potter," Bodrig said cheerfully. After a bit more small talk, they ended the call.

The next morning, Harry was still groggy in bed when Hedwig pecked him awake.

"Ow, what's that for?" Harry grumbled, rubbing her back. "Why're you nipping my ear?"

Hedwig couldn't talk, of course. She just hooted softly and tugged at his ear, nudging him toward a bag by his bed.

Harry fumbled for his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and spotted the parcel from Malfoy Manor.

As expected, it'd be Gareth's letter and notebook.

He glanced at his still-snoozing dormmates, grabbed the items, and slipped outside to a quiet corner to read.

First, the letter.

Dear Brother Harry,

By the time you read this, I'm probably dead—I reckon you'll be gutted, but don't be too sad. Death's just another grand adventure, right?

Miss Grindelwald figured out when you'd be back, somehow. I know you're not exactly rolling in Galleons, so I left you a little something at Gringotts—begging for bursaries from Headmaster Black wasn't fun, was it? You've been there.

Forgive me for not joining the others to find you. Being the only son left, Dad wouldn't let me go.

One thing, though: when you see certain letters left in the Room of Requirement, don't think Miss Malfoy didn't try to find you. You'd never guess it, but after you vanished, she was the one who took it hardest. Merlin's beard, mate... trust me on this—she'll come looking for you.

Oh, and it's worth mentioning: Poppy Sweating's gone missing too—that Hufflepuff girl who was always staring at you.

If you can, check the Forbidden Forest for her. Hope she doesn't end up like that Jackdaw, you and Miss Grindelwald talked about.

One last thing: you really deserve to die, you git.

Yours faithfully,

Gareth Weasley

10th September 1901

Harry set the letter down, a heavy, indescribable sadness settling in his chest.

He'd known Gareth was long gone, but reading this hit him hard.

To him, those days at Hogwarts a century ago felt like just a year and a half back. He and Gareth had only been apart that long—yet over a hundred years had passed.

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