AN: Welcome to the rewrite of a partially rewritten story! That's rewriteception of some sort. And that isn't a word. Aside from the ramblings of an unimportant zero prominence author like me, this author's note serves no purpose other than to inform you that I don't own these characters, yadda yadda yadda, and welcome to the story.

Chapter One: Restless

o0O0o

Harry had had a hell of a week. First, the Quidditch World Cup had devolved into madness, and then Ron had gotten his school books by Owl Order. The latter wouldn't normally have been a problem, far from it, really. No, the problem Harry was stressing over today was less on the problematic side and more on the unexpected side. Over the summer, Harry had forgotten to get his required source texts for the upcoming school year.

"Well, I'd rather deal with this than another World Cup."

Hence, Harry was in Diagon Alley alone for the first time ever, making his way to Gringotts. Molly, bless her heart, had given him some change to purchase his necessities, but Harry wouldn't have any of it. He knew he had money in his vault and he wouldn't take a penny from the family that had accepted him as their own. Arthur would have joined him was he off of work, but he wouldn't arrive home for another hour or two anyway; Harry had kindly declined Molly's offer to send someone with him, sure it would take less than half an hour.

Molly, being the mother hen he'd grown to love, wasn't satisfied with that. She'd made certain that he wasn't recognizable as the Boy-Who-Lived before he left. Harry had been more than astonished that she was able to tame his hair and cover his scar, but she chalked it up to simple experience - one simply can't raise six boys without learning a few tricks along the way.

"The trick isn't to make the hair lie flat, dear, it's a modified bubble head charm. The air itself keeps it down. And the scar! Oh, the scar is simple, just conjure a little piece of skin-tone paper and use a sticking charm to lie it down flat over the scar," she excused. Harry admired how simple she made it appear, though later he would try to imitate without any luck.

A thoroughly disguised boy made his way around the throngs of shoppers as he strolled casually to the bank. It was a good feeling, being unknown. The anonymity granted by a little change in hair and forehead kept a wide grin on his face the whole walk there. So scrupulously was he enjoyed his disguise that the path was all too short for his liking. A goblin teller sat across a marble counter.

"What need you, wizard?"

"Erm, Barhold, I'd like to access my vault."

"Yes, the My vault. We'll show you directly to the vault of the house My."

Confused, Harry looked back, brows furrowing. "What do you mean?" he questioned, before realizing he'd been had. "Oh, I'm Harry Potter. I need to see my trust vault."

Barhold the goblin teller glanced at his forehead and hair and saw only a scrawny, pale boy with no distinguishing markings save for those exquisitely green eyes. "Certainly, and I'm not Barhold - I'm the Director of Gringotts, don't you recognize me?" it chuckled with all the sarcasm of an unamused, overworked worker. "Identification please."

Harry groaned and realized that he would have to remove at least his scar covering. Glancing quickly from side to side, he saw that nobody was looking. The goblin rolled his eyes.

"Come on, boy, you're overdue for a meeting with your account manager anyway."

"You mean I don't have to get rid of my illusions?"

"No, we understand your need for privacy. The Downfall will more than remove any illusions you've got hiding on you," allowed the goblin as he led the boy further into the bank.

Momentarily relieved, Harry followed the goblin down a hall, towards the carts. Mildly squeamish though the ride was, he wasn't terribly bothered. He was a little bothered, however, when the Thief's Downfall washed away his magically straight hair and hidden scar, drenching him in the process. It dried faster than water normally would but, as brisk as it was, it wasn't pleasant.

As they sailed further into the cavern, Harry began to be concerned. He'd been to his vault many times before and he never recalled going this way. The fog he had often seen beneath the rails was now far above his head, and he could no longer hear the sound of dragons. No, now he more felt the dragons' anguish than heard it.

The cart turned sharply onto a rickety, disused rail shortly thereafter, nearly bucking him out, and rolled into a thin cave near the bottom of the cavern. Nervous, Harry looked at the rock rushing past. He was very deep underground and this was definitely not his trust vault.

"Your account managers are briefly ahead. Do withhold your shock, this will be your first time seeing them."

Any response Harry might have had was stolen from his tongue as the vault they were nearing came into view. Gargantuan steel doors barred entry, protected by a pair of equally impressive stone gryphons.

"Mr Potter," the goblin began, leading him from the cart with shaky legs from the ride, "Your true vault, and account managers."

Confusion plagued Harry like it was the Dark Ages again. Account managers? Stone gryphons? Being this deep in the cavern when he wanted to go to his trust vault? This didn't add up, and that added up to the conclusion that he had been misunderstood.

"Barhold, what am I doing here? This isn't my trust vault."

"Oh, your trust vault. Irrelevant. You're 14 now, correct? Turned 14 a few weeks back?"

"Yes?"

"Then you're of goblin age, and by the ancient, terribly feudal laws of Ancient Britannia, you're old enough to access this vault. Good thing you came alone, this is a ceremony best undertaken while solo."

"I don't understand, I'm here for money from my trust vault."

The goblin rolled his eyes. "Don't make me repeat myself, boy. You don't need your trust vault and you'd be much better off simply accepting this as your full vault."

"Alright, sir. If you say so. So, shall I just stroll right in?"

"First you've got to get things settled with your account managers. I'll assume nobody's ever explained anything about this to you, or I'd have to insult you. Listen carefully while I give the abridged version. Your parents are very dead and you are very alive. Any family you have living is not close enough to the ancient blood of Potter to take ownership of the vault. So, you're going to claim ownership of the vault by walking up to those gryphons, doesn't matter which, and they're going to take your blood. You will be judged and found worthy. Then, the vault is yours to do with as you pleased. Your mother certainly spent enough time here."

Head spinning, Harry had more questions than answers. "Take my blood? All of it? What if I'm found unworthy? My mum spent time here?"

"No, you daft boy, not all of it! Yes, your mother spent time here. She was working on some sort of project. And as to the question about being found unworthy, I've got a little tip," the goblin offered, annoyed.

"A tip?"

"Yes. A tip. Don't be found unworthy, it would be unpleasant to clean you off the walls."

Wide-eyed, Harry began his walk to the statues. With surprising fluidity for such massive stone structures, they lowered their paws from a rearing position to inspect him. It was eerie how silently they moved, true predators.

"I'm here to… Claim Ownership of the vault, I suppose."

One of the two extended a sharp talon, as large as he was, and razor sharp. It stopped about a meter away from him, frozen like a statue, with an expectant look on its chiselled face. Puzzled, Harry put a finger forward and decided the best way to get blood would probably be to prick his finger against the extremely sharp tip of the claw.

Painlessly, it separated his flesh and let a single drop of blood well to the surface. The monolithic beast's massive head came down, extending its tongue to wipe the blood from his hand. The feeling of the tongue was bizarre to Harry, it was polished and smooth to the point of feeling slimy, a feat for a stone creature.

The gryphons shared a stoney look, and the further one from Harry made a wide expression and began hacking and spitting like a cat. Concerned, Harry looked to the goblin, who rolled his eyes. Finally, a pillow shot from its mouth, hitting him right in the chest. It hit with surprising force, knocking him onto his bum. Somehow, a ring had remained on the pillow, which now sat before him. "Potter," he read, "Ingenii et Virtutis."

It bore an ornate crest of an exquisite gryphon coiled around a ruby. Sliding upon his finger, he felt a rush of magic, and a settling of some weight onto his form. An unoppressive feeling of responsibility emanated from the ring, subtly asking that he take what it offered and bring it to greatness. In his brief moment of focus on the ring, the gryphons had turned back to their pedestals, climbing atop and rearing back. They placed their talons on a pair of levers, pulling them down, before settling into their original poses.

Crispy, crackling noises sounded from the doors like a bowl of delicious cereal. Slowly, a mineral coating careened off of them as they opened for the first time in a decade or more.

"Good, I won't have to scrape you from the walls. Congratulations, Lord Potter."

Slightly overwhelmed, Harry didn't bother asking about the title. He staggered into the vault, which was taller than it had any right to be, and was rather astounded. Beyond the door was more gold than Harry had ever seen. The room it lay in was extremely orderly, heaps of galleons stacked in crates. A wall full of small, thin boxes sat to the left and a door lay across from him. The sheer size and density of the room shocked him, he'd never seen anything like it. A glimpse of the telly in the Dursley's household floated to the forefront of his mind, a gargantuan warehouse for a supermarket.

"What is all of this?" the overwhelmed boy whispered to nobody in particular. Repeating himself loud enough for the goblin to hear, he was told that this was everything the Potters had in storage. "How much gold do I have? What are all of those boxes on the wall? Do I have any ancient artefacts? What's beyond those doors?"

"The Potters are a wealthy family, sir. Tens of millions of galleons in cash alone. The exact amount could be brought to you at your request, but I'm doubtful that you would need it. Those thin boxes should be wands left by your ancestors, and there are three artefacts here, though I know no specifics. I'm not privy to that information. Beyond those doors at the far side of the room would be an office requested by your mother, and the doors to the right are supposedly where she kept her project. If I may, I would suggest you prepare yourself for even more than you find in this vault. This vault has been closed since your parents were murdered, and there will be an influx of goods from those who left their belongings to whoever would defeat Voldemort."

Harry felt a slowly growing headache. This was no scar-induced headache, he was just purely overwhelmed. He'd heard Hermione talk about how a wand was roughly £150 in muggle money once, which meant that a single galleon would be worth around £21. That put his muggle wealth, in just cash and no assets, in a multiple of £21 pounds. From the way the goblin spoke, he was sure he could never spend this much money.

His legs almost failed him as he walked to the boxes near the far shelf. Opening the first case he saw a beautiful red wand. A note on the inside of the box declared it to be a redwood wand with a dragon heartstring, twelve inches long and quite sturdy. Second, he unlatched the red case, a thin wand of acacia and augury feather, and finally, he opened the bone case. A crude creation of dragon bone and elder. According to a note from its creator, a Hadrian Fenwick Potter, it was an odd creation, one that survived no matter how much magic he could force into it.

The impressive collection was too much for him, and he turned away. A knob in the wall caught his eye, and he turned it to find a room of small boxes. Whatever it was, he was too full of information to deal with it today. This could wait.

Reminding himself that he was only supposed to be getting books, he walked to the study at the end of the room. A neat, orderly library greeted him instead, full of outdated books and letters from his ancestors, all sorted alphabetically. Somewhere, he was aware of his heartbeat slowing, and a feeling like electricity charged him. His ancestors were here. They'd all left letters to him, to everyone before him. Had his parents…?

His parents had left a letter, one specifically dedicated to him. Slowly, his lightning bolt feelings coalesced into an odd emotion. All his life he'd been told he was worthless by his relatives. It broke him to read the confessions of a couple of barely twenty-year-olds. They were barely old enough to have kids, and far too young to die, but they loved him with all their hearts, so much that they gave their lives for him. Righteous vigour filled him, he had been wanted, he wept in lament.

Making his way from the study, letters in hand, he grabbed as many galleons in the shrinking money pouch as he could carry. He would be back at some point to explore the other features of the vault for sure. In the meantime, he would be getting back to the surface for his school books. Molly would be getting worried. Somewhere far away, Lily was sure to approve of Mrs Weasley, and Harry didn't want to let either of them down. He didn't want to let anyone down.

o0O0o

Three days later, Harry found himself at King's Cross once more. His friends were as excited as he was, though exhausted - Hermione hadn't slept a lick the night before, nor had Harry, and solely Ron had managed to get any sleep. The gloomy downpour dampened only their clothes, and Ron's attitude.

"Bloody crowds," Ron muttered under his breath. "Too loud." Ron glared at Pigwidgeon, though the unflappably enthusiastic owl continued flapping and screeching.

Molly gave him a sharp look which he felt more than saw. Perhaps it would have been better to stay awake the whole night when Ron woke up on the wrong side of the bed, they all suffered.

Charlie attempted to liven up the drowsy trio a little. "I might be seeing you all sooner than you think," he announced, putting his arm around his chilly baby sister.

"Why?" questioned Fred keenly.

"Oh, you'll see," said Charlie, "Just don't tell Percy I mentioned it… It's supposedly 'classified' information until the Ministry sees fit to release it. He'd give me an earful, that one."

"Yeah, I sort of wish I was back at Hogwarts this year too," said Bill, eyes twinkling as he looked almost wistfully at the train.

"Why?" asked George impatiently.

"I might even ask for time off to come and watch a bit of it… Oh, I might as well just say you'll have an interesting year."

"What do you think, Harry? What'll it be this year?"

"Maybe they've invited the Chudley Cannons to compete against Hogwarts! It would be nice of Dumbledore to let Slytherin win a match for once," Harry chuckled.

"Oi! Are you saying that Malfoy is better than my Cannons?" sniped Ron.

"No, Ron, he's just implying it," a redheaded twin delivered.

"Honestly, Harry, I'm almost hoping you're right. We deal with enough at this school already. Trolls, dark lords, snakes," Hermione stopped at Ginny's cringing expression. "My bad, Ginny. I shouldn't have mentioned the snake. It probably isn't anything Quidditch related, otherwise, it wouldn't be Charlie mentioning it. I suspect dragons are involved."

Harry agreed with Hermione. "Is a normal year to much to ask for?"

"Normal?" Fred said.

"Your normal, Harry, is not a thing to wish for," George added.

"At least you make things interesting!" Forge and Gred finished as they clambered aboard the scarlet express.

The group chuckled, save for Ron (who had a growing headache). They made their way onto the train and found their regular compartment, setting their things around. Hermione leant out of the window to say her goodbyes to the Weasley matriarch. "Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs Weasley!"

"Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs Weasley," added Harry.

"Oh, the pleasure's all mine, dears," said Mrs Weasley. "I'd invite you for Christmas, but - oh, you'll all want to stay at Hogwarts for some reason or another," she said with a knowing look.

"Mum!" groaned Ron irritably, "What d'you all know that we don't?"

"You'll find out this evening, I expect," said Mrs Weasley. "It's going to be very exciting! Mind you, I'm very glad they've changed the rules-"

"What rules?" begged the four boys.

"Oh, now that would be telling. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you later. You won't have to worry about them so long as you behave. Right, George? And you as well, Fred! I expect the best behaviour from my little men."

The pistons hissed angrily and the train creaked to a roll.

"What's happening at Hogwarts, mum? Tell us!" Fred bellowed from the window as the train gained speed. "What rules are they changing?"

But Mrs Weasley only grinned cheekily and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had disapparated.

The rain streaking against the now-shut window beat a steady rhythm alongside the train's engine, with the added effect of blurring the outside world. Ron undid his trunk, pulled out his hideous joke of dress robes, and flung them unceremoniously over Pigwidgeon's cage to muffle the bird's incessant screeching.

"I'll be taking a nap, you two," Ron grumbled. "Try to keep it down."

Hermione cast a silencing charm on the owl and the door, and a weak one on the window - she quite enjoyed the sound of rain on windows. It was a calming sound, and the feebleness of the spell let it just about drown out the whispers of sound she heard from the hall.

She opened her copy of Hogwarts: A History, the most recent edition, and began to read, despite her closing eyes. She slowly began nodding off, as did Harry, and before they knew it the lullaby of rain and whispers pulled them into a dreamless sleep.

o0O0o

By some miracle, they managed to get a good few hours of sleep before the lunch trolley rolled by. Ron's nose alerted him to the possibility of food, and his clumsiness roused the other two from their sleep. Hermione's head resting on Harry's shoulder gave Ron pause for a moment, but he was too groggy and hungry to think properly about it.

Hermione jerked away from Harry suddenly, eyes wide and face red. Harry gave another half snore before awakening fully, oblivious.

"About time for lunch, lads?" said the kindly lady running the cart.

"Yes, thank you," said Harry as he purchased several pasties and cakes to share amongst them.

Famished, they tucked in. Hermione noted that the rain was steadily getting heavier as they continued north, adjusted her spell accordingly, and resumed reading her book. Still tired, their conversation was stifled. Just as Ron was nodding off again, they heard a voice outside.

"... Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang, rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore - the man's such a Mudblood-lover - and Durmstrang doesn't admit that sort of riffraff. But mother didn't like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defence rubbish we do..."

Hermione silently walked to the door and slid it shut, blocking Malfoy's voice.

"So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?" she said angrily, "I wish he had gone, then we wouldn't have to put up with him."

"Durmstrang's another wizarding school?" said Harry.

"Yes," said Hermione sniffily, "one with a horrible reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts."

"I think I've heard of it," said Ron groggily, "Where's it? What country?"

"Well, nobody knows. Most theories say it's in Bulgaria, but some point it as far north as Poland."

"So its location is a secret?" asked Harry.

"Yes, a very closely guarded one at that. It's probably due to the rivalry between the biggest magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal whatever secrets they have," said Hermione matter-of-factly.

Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. "Durmstrang got to be at least the size of Hogwarts, right? How would they hide a ruddy great castle?"

"Well, you'd know if you bothered to read Hogwarts: A History or even if you had taken a useful class like Runes," said Hermione impatiently.

"Oh, don't you start…" Ron began, but Harry tuned out their bickering. Hermione's comments did get Harry thinking, though, about maybe switching classes to join Runes. Divination was a terrible bore anyway.

As the train bore northwards, several of their friends popped in to say hi, crowding the cabin. Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom (a round-faced, terribly forgetful boy who had been brought up by the formidable Augusta Longbottom) began to chat with the boys about Quidditch, with Seamus' rosette still exhaustedly piping phrases from the World Cup. After about a half an hour or so, Hermione grew tired of the endless Quidditch talk, and buried herself into her Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 as she attempted to learn a Summoning Charm.

Neville listened jealously to the others' conversation as they relived the cup match.

"Gran didn't want to go," he groused miserably. "Wouldn't buy tickets. It sounded amazing though."

"Oh, it was," said Ron, dreamy as he recalled the match. "Take a look at this."

He rummaged through his trunk for a moment, before pulling out a miniature figure of Viktor Krum.

"Careful, Ron, you might get Krums everywhere," Harry laughed.

Ron chuckled alongside his friends and turned back to Neville. "We saw him right up close, as well," said Ron. "We were in the Top Box-"

"For the first and last time in your life, Weasley."

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, flanked by his personal ogres, Crabbe and Goyle. The two looked to have grown a foot over the summer, and - if possible - even stupider than last they'd been seen. Clearly, they'd decided now was the time to make their yearly visit to the Potter crew.

"I don't remember calling for a brat, but it seems you've shown up anyway," snarked Harry, cool as ice. He hadn't, and wouldn't, forgive Malfoy for his father's misdeeds and his own personal pettiness.

Draco ignored him, instead choosing to go for easier prey. "Weasley… What is that?" said Malfoy incredulously as he pointed towards the hideous dress robes over Pigwidgeon's cage. A sleeve of the dress robes dangled downwards, swaying with the motion of the train, mouldy lace cuffs visible.

Ron made to stuff the cuffs out of sight but it was too late, the damage had been done. Malfoy's years as a seeker had made his reflexes faster than the stockier male, snatching the sleeve and pulling.

"Look at this!" said Malfoy, ecstatic. "Weasley, you weren't thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean, they were fashionable in the eighties…"

"The eighteen eighties!" laughed his cronies.

"Eat dung, Malfoy!" yelled Ron, the same putrid purple as the robes, yanking them out of Malfoy's hands. Malfoy cried with derisive, false laughter alongside his bodyguards.

"So… You plan on entering, do you? Going to try and bring some glory to the family name? There's money involved too, you know…"

"What are you on about?" Ron snapped.

"Are you going to enter, you dunce?" repeated Malfoy aggressively, "I suppose you'll be entering, won't you, Potter? Never pass up a chance to show off and get yourself hurt?"

"Either explain what you're on about or get out, Malfoy," said Hermione testily, begging for an excuse to punch the ponce. "I don't want to dirty this book by hitting you with it."

A gleeful smile rolled across the boy's face as he ignored the girl. "Don't tell me you don't know?" he said with delight. "You've got both a father and a brother who work for the Ministry and you don't even know? By Merlin, my father told me about it ages ago… heard it from the Minister himself. But then, Father's always been associated with the top people at the Ministry… Maybe your father's just too junior to hear about it… yes… they probably don't talk about important things in front of him."

Laughing once more, Malfoy beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle, and the trio of twats disappeared down the corridor to terrorize some other group.

Ron was grumpy for the rest of the trip after that, cursing Malfoy the whole way to the castle as he stuffed his dress robes into his trunk. Hermione, try as she might to lighten everyone's spirits a little, was simply too tired to do much other than doze lightly until the train neared Hogsmeade Station and they had to switch into their school robes.

The downpour was heavier still than when they left. It reminded Hermione of pictures she'd seen of a typhoon shortly after she was born. She was always curious to see the things that had happened in her life before she could even remember. As the train doors opened, a crack of lightning roared overhead, and she bundled Crookshanks up as best she could.

"Harry, let me see your glasses for a second," said Hermione, remembering a spell from her book. Harry knew better than to question her, so he handed them over without question.

"Impervius," she spoke, charming the glass to ward away water.

"What's that do?" Harry asked, intrigued.

"It'll keep your glasses dry, so you can see." she recited. "Now, let's go."

Pigwidgeon was left soaked as they trudged through the darkness to the carriages, eyes narrowed and heads bent against the beating rain. Ron, still glowering, hadn't bothered to cover the poor bird.

"Hi, Hagrid!" Harry shouted, noticing an enormous silhouette at the far end of the platform.

"All righ', Harry?" Hagrid bellowed back, waving. "See yeh at the feast! If we don' drown, that is!"

"Oooh, I wouldn't fancy crossing the lake in this kind of weather," said Hermione, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the drenched crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them at the end of the platform. Harry and Hermione climbed into the nearest one they could get to, followed closely by Neville and Ron. Slightly cramped though they were, the friends were grateful for the drying and warming charms in the seats. The thought of having to climb out into the rain again made them shiver.

Harry certainly didn't mind how cramped it was, Hermione was warm.

o0O0o

A/N: And here it is! The first chapter of the better story! I'd love if you've got any criticism for me, I'm grateful for anything I can get. I'd also like to note that ffnet's editing feature shows that this chapter is 4,870 words long, and when copied into a google document, it claims to be 4,706 words long. If anyone sees where that's from, I'd love to know.