Hi. I am Lady Russell Holmes, writer extraordinaire. This is my fic, and my ego sincerely hopes that you will like it enough to review. I have more than 200 pages already written for this fic on paper, of which this chapter is only the first 4 1/2, so I actually plan to finish this. A few words of explanation may be in order. This is in the summer after Harry’s fourth year, if it isn’t obvious, and I am insane. There. That’s all the explanation I have yet. More may come, just be patient. Oh, I suppose I need a disclaimer as well, don’t I?

DISCLAIMER!!!!!!! Pay attention, because this is the only disclaimer that I am going to write, unless you give me trouble. I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER, OR ANY RELATED PARAPHERNALIA!!!!! That is the inestimable privilege of Joanne K. Rowling, another writer extraordinaire. I’m just using him as a plaything, I am very rough on my toys, and I most definitely do not plan to return him in ‘like-new’ condition. So sue me, but all you’ll get is...(looks around room and checks pockets) 67 cents, 72 Francs and a very peculiar cat. Oh, wait, forget the cat: he owns me, not vice-versa.

It was a quiet breakfast Friday morning at the Dursley’s, with Aunt Petunia and Dudley gone to London for the weekend, when Harry saw the owl at the window. Surprised, because owls usually came to his bedroom window, not the kitchen, he crossed the room and let it in. Vernon, at the table, looked apoplectic, but then Vernon had looked that way since Harry had come home for the summer, 4 weeks ago. He had lost his job at Grunnings, over an issue of embezzlement, and he was very irritable, even towards Dudley, but as always, especially towards Harry. Now his eyes drilled into Harry as he untied the letter from the owl’s leg. As he let the owl back out, Vernon slammed his glass of scotch onto the table, the first sound since the owl had tapped on the glass.

“Where do you get off letting a filthy bird into Petunia’s clean kitchen?” he demanded, his face gone red already.

“She didn’t touch anything,” replied Harry absently as he examined the envelope in his hands. It had his address on the front in a reddish ink. He flipped it over and his puzzlement grew. The wax seal on the back was imprinted with the crest of Gringott’s Bank. Why would Gringott’s send him a letter? Was he out of money? Harry opened the letter with trepidation, but Vernon snatched it from his hands before he could begin to read it.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“So? Rubbish! What is this Gringott’s?” Vernon said contemptuously, but his eyes continued to scan the parchment. Suddenly, they froze, and a slow smile spread across his face. Harry’s stomach dropped. He remembered telling Hagrid once that the Dursley’s fear of all things wizard would not include a pile of gold. It would seem he was right.

Calm now, Vernon looked up. He handed Harry back his letter, still grinning in a way that reminded Harry of Fred and George, but with more avarice than mischief. To avoid Vernon’s eyes, he looked down at the letter. It was written in black ink, in a jagged script.

Mr. Potter,

This is an accounting review. For you convenience, we have provided sums in both Wizarding and Muggle currencies.

Below the short paragraph was a long list of numbers which Harry recognized as amount of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, divided into withdrawals and interest, as well as a total which more than explained Vernon’s good mood.

“This can’t be right,” stuttered Harry. “There isn’t this much gold in my vault.” He realized what he had said when Vernon pounced on him, his smile gone.

“You’ve had this money the whole time, haven’t you,” he hissed. “You ungrateful bastard! We took you in, raised you, supported you your entire life.” Harry had heard these words before, but what frightened him this time was Vernon’s grip on his upper arm. He could feel his fingers pressing into his arm, deep enough that his bones felt crushed. “You’ve been hiding a fortune from us, boy!” the man ground out.

Harry looked at the parchment again. Vernon was right. It was a fortune. According to the letter, Harry Potter was in sole possession of 310,344,827 Galleons, 10 Sickles, and 11 Knuts. A very respectable sum in its own right, but when translated into British Pounds, it was incredible.

“9 billion Pounds,” breathed Harry, unable to believe what his eyes told him.

“That’s right, boy,” sneered Vernon, his smirk returning. And I think it’s high time that I collected what you owe me.”

Harry just looked at him. A coldness began to grow in his chest and he pulled his arm from his uncle’s bruising grasp. “Owe you?” he laughed. “You should owe me! Retribution for a childhood without love, without any rights as a human being.”

“But you’re not a human being boy,” said Vernon in a low voice. Harry realized that his uncle was drunk, or nearly so. “You’re a freak, an unnatural parasite, and we gave you shelter, food. Be grateful, boy!” He was roaring now, and had Harry’s arm again. Harry tried to pull away, but his time, his uncle’s grip was too strong. Vernon leaned into Harry’s face and spoke, softly, threateningly.

“What’s yours should be mine, freak. If you were dead, it would be mine.”

Harry couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “It wouldn’t,” he said, just as softly. “I wrote my will last year. Dumbledore witnessed it. Everything I own is left to my friends and my Godfather.” He felt distant. This wasn’t really happening, was it?

Vernon purpled, and then his eyes left Harry’s. They now held a calculating look. He looked back. “Then you’ll just have to give the money to me.” He tightened his grip, but Harry ignored it.

“You’re cracked.” he said succinctly. He tried to pull away one last time, and Vernon snapped.

“You will not disobey me!” he roared. He pushed Harry face-first into the wall, twisting his right arm behind his back. Harry struggled, but stopped immediately as he felt his shoulder begin to burn from the unnatural angle at which it was held.

“Now,” hissed Vernon into his ear. “Consider carefully.” He sounded dead sober now. “Will you pay me what I am owed?”

Harry was biting his lip against the pain, but he knew instinctively that, if he gave in, this would happen again. “I don’t owe you anything.”

It happened so fast. Vernon yanked Harry’s arm up suddenly and Harry felt his elbow just... come apart. The small cracking sound filled the kitchen, before it was drowned out by Harry’s scream. Vernon slammed his head into the wall to shut him up.

“You get another chance to answer me correctly, freak.” In his mouth, the last word held the timbre of an Unforgivable curse.

As he sank to the floor, cradling his elbow, Harry retained at least some presence of mind. “No,” he said. “I won’t.”

Vernon laughed, a harsh bark. He grabbed Harry’s newly broken elbow and hauled him to his feet. “You’re too brave,” and the word was a sneer, “for your own good.” Harry blacked out from the pain in his arm as Vernon threw him roughly against the table, into a chair.

He came to with his cheek lying in a puddle of spilt milk. Only a moment must have passed, for Vernon was still there, but now he held... Harry’s eyes widened. His uncle now held a knife.