Harry Potter: Raised by Wolves.

His grin faltered when he checked the price tag, and glanced inside his rapidly diminishing coin purse. He muttered a curse under his breath. "Why did I buy that stupid quill?" he hissed quietly, scowling.

Turning away from the wand holsters with slumped shoulders, Harry froze. He was in Diagon Alley — Gringotts was right around the corner. He had heaps of gold that his parents had left him. He just had to go get it!

He left the shop with a spring in his step, making a beeline for the enormous white building at the end of the street. One of the desks was open when he arrived, and the goblin manning it glanced down his long, crooked nose at Harry. "How may I be of assistance?" he asked in a low, slightly croaky voice.

"I'd, uh, like to withdraw some money from my vault, please," Harry requested, refusing to let his nerves get the better of him. He wondered if it was like a muggle bank account, where you could just get the money without having to go to the vault itself. He didn't fancy going on one of those mine carts right now. Every time since, someone else had withdrawn money for him. "Oh, uh, Harry Potter. The Potter vaults," he added belatedly. The goblin's eyes flicked up to his forehead, as peoples' often did when he said his name.

"Vault key?" the goblin asked. Harry's spirits fell. He didn't have his key! Mrs Weasley was the last person to have it, he thought, but he was pretty sure she gave it back to Dumbledore when she was done.

"Oh. I, um, don't have my key on me. Is that… a problem?"

"We can confirm your identity in other ways," the goblin assured him. "But it requires your consent to a scan of your magic." Harry hesitated for a second. A scan sounded fairly harmless. People probably did it all the time; surely they didn't carry their vault keys with them everywhere? "Okay, that sounds fine. I consent."

The goblin nodded, then snapped his fingers and waved his hand towards Harry. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and he hummed, frowning. He snapped and waved a second time, frown growing deeper. Harry's stomach churned. "Is there something wrong?"

"May I speak to you privately, Mr Potter?" the goblin asked, leaning back in his chair and pursing his lips. "There is a matter I wish to bring to your attention." Immediately, Harry's brain conjured the worst; there was something wrong with his magic, or he wasn't actually Harry Potter, or the goblins refused to let him in anymore. He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking as he followed the goblin across the bank and into a corridor, where he was led into a small private room. The goblin gestured to a chair, and Harry sat. "One moment, please."

The goblin left Harry alone in the room, but only for a couple of minutes. Those minutes felt like a lifetime as he waited, scenarios chasing each other around his mind, each more dire than the last.

When the goblin returned, it was with a second goblin at his side. This one looked older, with wispy white hair and a deeply lined face. "This is Gorrak, Mr Potter. He's one of our senior staff, and specialises in inheritance claims and family magic."

Harry wondered if goblins shook hands. When none was offered to him, he merely nodded, twisting his fingers anxiously in the hem of his t-shirt. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Gorrak. Can I ask… what am I doing here?"

"Do you consent to a scan of your magic?" Gorrak asked, bypassing all pleasantries. Harry blinked.

"I— yes, I consent." If the goblins were planning to hurt him, they probably wouldn't ask consent first. Gorrak raised his hands, and his fingertips glowed with a faint silver light as he ran them over the air a foot in front of Harry. If Harry concentrated, he could feel a sort of… tingle, faint on his skin, making the hair on his arms stand up. Gorrak lowered his arms, scowling. "Wizards." He spat the word like a curse, sharing an unreadable look with his colleague. "Farlig, did Mr Potter have anyone with him when he spoke to you?"

"No, sir," the other goblin, Farlig, replied promptly. "He was alone."

"What's the matter?" Harry interrupted, cheeks turning red as both goblins turned to look at him. "Something's wrong. Am I okay? Is my magic okay?" Gorrak eyed him speculatively. "Mr Potter, can you recall any time in which you have been the recipient of any sort of long-term enchantment, or ritual magic?"

Harry's brow furrowed. "Ritual magic?" he repeated, bewildered. "No, not that I know of. Why?" Had someone cursed him?

"I expected as much. The block is so deeply ingrained, you were probably just a baby when it was set." Gorrak's muttered words were more to himself than Harry, but Harry caught them anyway, and froze.

"Block?" he repeated. His pulse thudded in his ears. "Are you— am I— I don't understand."

Gorrak met his gaze unflinchingly. "Mr Potter, I regret to inform you that there is a rather severe block on your magical core, entirely restricting your access to your family magics."

The words echoed in Harry's head.

"Family magics? What does that mean?" He'd never heard of such a thing.

Gorrak took the seat opposite him, a serious expression on his face. "Family magics, Mr Potter, are the magics passed down through wizarding families for generations. They are tied to your individual magical core, but are a separate part of it — they pass certain gifts or talents down family lines, and every wizarding parent will pass on some level of family magics to their children. Even muggleborn parents. In your case, however, the magics are of one of the oldest lines in wizarding Europe. They are an enormous part of your core, and without them you will be refused any inheritance or heirships, as well as any family gifts you may naturally possess."

Harry blinked, not sure he understood correctly. "So they're just… gone?" he asked, panic rising in his gut. Gorrak shook his head.