D.M.Emrys
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(Harry Potter) Worthy of you: Chapter 14 - Welcome home
🕑 Added 2025-07-14 17:54:03 +0000 UTCChapter 14 - Welcome home
Summary: Harry finally sets foot in the home that should have been his all along—and begins to reclaim what was stolen.
The director turned to leave the room, but before he left he shot over his shoulder, "I wish you good luck tomorrow Mr. Potter, you may approach Manager Goldpaw directly upon your arrival to the bank. No need for the line."
Harry, thankful for all the goblin's help, bowed a little and repeated a line from the book, "Thank you director, may your vault never dry."
The old goblin paused suddenly just at the door frame, his guard almost colliding with him thanks to that abrupt stop.
Harry began to worry he messed something up when a raspy laugh left the leading goblin's mouth and he shouted, "Let us ensure you have a future Mr. Potter, because I for one cannot wait to see what it brings to us all."
With that he left with his guards and the healer, leaving a very confused Harry behind. Was he just complimented?
Goldpaw cleared his throat, and when Harry looked at him he was seated behind his desk once again. He began to put his papers in order while speaking to them, "Our business for today is concluded, I believe you have other tasks to attend to. I will see the both of you tomorrow at noon."
Harry and Remus stood up from their seats, bowed a little with Harry saying, "Thank you Manager Goldpaw, may our future business prove profitable."
The goblin shot Harry one last scary smile before both wizards left the bank.
Their next stop was the Leaky Cauldron, where they picked up their belongings and stepped out of the barrier into the street. Harry looked up at the already setting sun before his gaze moved back to Remus and he asked, "So how do we get to the manor?"
Remus smirked a little and stretched out his arm with his wand pointing toward the road. Harry's face paled when he realized what was going to happen, he barely had time to think 'Oh, shit' before a purple blur was already heading toward them.
The wrought-iron gates creaked open with a low groan that echoed like a forgotten memory, revealing a path flanked by rows of ancient oaks and softly rustling hedgerows. The gravel underfoot was smooth and well-maintained, as though someone—or something—had tended to it over the years in quiet anticipation. Lantern posts lined the walkway at even intervals, each crafted from blackened brass and topped with glass globes that shimmered faintly in the last drops of evening light. Crimson ivy, touched with gold along its edges as though kissed by autumn magic, curled up the trunks of the trees and the posts alike.
As Harry stepped through the gate, a hush seemed to fall over the air. No birdsong, no wind—just the rhythmic crunch of his footsteps and the distant cry of a gull from somewhere beyond the hills.
The manor itself came into view gradually, as if unveiling itself from the folds of time. It was a stately building—three stories tall, wide and symmetrical—with stone walls the color of warm honey and a roof tiled in deep crimson. Tall windows with arched tops gleamed in the sunlight, framed in dark oak. A pair of massive double doors stood at the center of the front façade, made from polished mahogany and inlaid with golden accents that shimmered like starlight. Above the doors, the Potter crest was carved into the stone: a proud stag rearing back on its hind legs, framed by a sunburst.
Trailing along the edges of the building, small balconies jutted out beneath the upper windows, guarded by wrought-iron railings twined with the same rich crimson ivy. The gardens surrounding the path were manicured but not sterile—vibrant flowers in deep reds, golds, and warm whites bloomed in low beds, lining the walk as though guiding Harry home.
It was beautiful. But Harry didn't smile. He couldn't.
Every step up the gently sloping path made the ache in his chest deepen. This wasn't just a house—it was a home. One meant for laughter, late-night stories, and the kind of warmth he had only imagined during long winters in his cupboard under the stairs. Compared to Number Four Privet Drive—so square, so cold, so painfully ordinary—Potter Manor felt like stepping into another world entirely. A world that should have been his from the beginning.
He paused at the foot of the broad front steps. There were seven of them, wide and smooth, leading to a veranda with crimson cushions on polished stone benches. The doors stood silent before him, neither welcoming nor forbidding—just waiting. Waiting for a boy who had grown too fast. For a son who had never come home.
Harry's fingers tightened slightly at his sides, his throat dry. This place held echoes of the life he was meant to live.
And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to imagine it.
Remus stayed quiet for the whole time probably to allow Harry to process all of this, and Harry truly appreciated it.
The polished mahogany doors loomed before him, tall and silent, with golden handles shaped like intertwined stags. Harry hesitated only a moment before reaching out—his hand hovering an inch from the handle.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, as if the very wood had exhaled, a quiet hum vibrated through the air. The gold glowed faintly beneath his fingers. The manor—his family's home—was recognizing him.
A soft click sounded, not mechanical, but magical. The doors parted with a gentle creak, swinging inward without force.
Harry took a breath and stepped forward.
The first thing he noticed was the warmth.
Not just from the golden sconces that lined the walls in soft flickers of firelight, but from the color of the space itself. The entrance hall was grand—clearly designed to impress. The floor beneath his feet was smooth crimson-veined marble, warm to the touch and gleaming like still water. Two sweeping staircases curved up in opposite directions from the far end of the hall, their railings wrought in dark oak and inlaid with fine golden filigree that caught the light like threads of sunlight.
The walls were painted in a rich, subdued crimson trimmed in gold leaf, with tall arching columns that stretched toward a high, vaulted ceiling. The ceiling itself was painted with a mural—abstract yet radiant—a depiction of a great stag surrounded by curling flames and winds, magic dancing in golden streaks from its antlers.
Directly across from the front doors, displayed in proud prominence between the bases of the twin staircases, was the Potter family crest. It was carved into a stone slab taller than Harry, mounted to the wall and framed by two aged wands—clearly antique—crossed in reverence like swords. The crest glowed faintly with an old enchantment, the stag rearing proudly atop the family motto inscribed in old Latin.
He didn't need Remus to translate it. "Fortitudo ex Cordis." Strength from the Heart.
"Merlin," Harry murmured.
Beside him, Remus smiled softly, though there was something distant in his eyes. "I haven't seen this place since before you were born. James always said this room felt like stepping into the heart of Gryffindor Tower."
Harry didn't reply, but he could see it now. The way the flickering sconces cast moving shadows that made the hall feel alive. The warm reds and burnished golds, like the embers of a long-burning fire. There was no harshness, no chill of wealth trying too hard. Just legacy. Comfort. Power earned, not demanded.
And yet... There was a tightness in his chest.
He could picture a toddler's laughter echoing off these walls. Could imagine running down those steps in a blur of messy hair and flapping robes, a mother's voice calling from above, a father waiting below with a grin.
He had been robbed of this. Of all of this.
The Dursleys' cramped, soulless hallways flashed in his mind. Beige carpets. Plastic light switches. Locked cupboards. The memory pressed against him like a shadow—something that didn't belong here.
"Harry?" Remus asked gently.
Harry blinked. He realized he'd been staring at the crest too long, his jaw clenched. He nodded silently, trying to shake off the ache.
"I'm all right," he said, voice low but steady. "Just... trying to take it all in."
Remus gave him a reassuring hand on the shoulder. "It's a lot. But it's yours."
As they stepped further inside, their footsteps soft against the marble, the sconces flickered just a touch brighter—subtle, like a house welcoming someone it had waited far too long to receive.
Harry was startled by a pop sound right in front of him before a squeaky voice spoke, "The great Harry Potter sir has returned home."
Harry had to blink as he looked downward to be met with the large brown eyes of the only house elf he knew. "Dobby? What are you doing here?"
The house elf smiled widely, "Dobby asked to work for Hogwarts after the great Harry Potter sir saved Dobby. Professor whiskers said he is happy to let Dobby work in the castle, but offered Dobby to work for the great Harry Potter sir. Dobby agreed immediately, and Dobby has been here for two days cleaning." The elf finished proudly.
"Umm, Harry you want to introduce us?" Remus asked hesitantly.
Harry nodded. He pointed at the house elf and said, "Remus this is Dobby. He is the elf I tricked Malfoy into freeing with the diary." Harry then switched his pointing to Remus and finished, "Dobby this is Remus Lupin, he will be living here with me."
Harry then looked at the house elf and asked, "Are you sure you want to work for me Dobby?"
The elf's ears almost looked like wings from the amount of fluttering they did while he nodded his head vigorously, "It will be Dobby's greatest dream to work for the great Harry Potter sir."
Harry considered it for a moment. There was no way he would be able to handle all this space by himself, even Remus might not be enough so an extra pair of hands, a magical pair at that, would be helpful.
Harry looked at Dobby again and said sternly, "I will agree to hire you. I will pay 10 galleons a month with 2 vacation days for your choosing."
The house elf looked scandalized and shook his head, "The great Harry Potter sir is very generous. Dobby will accept a Sickle a month and no need for vacations."
Now it was Harry who shook his head and with finality offered, "2 galleons a month, and one vacation day. Plus you have to start calling me just Harry."
Probably noting his tone, and understanding it was the best offer he would get, Dobby relented and with a bright smile agreed, "Dobby is very happy to work for Harry sir."
Harry smiled and offered his hand to the elf, "And I'm happy to have you Dobby."
With tears filling his eyes Dobby shook Harry's hand before snapping his fingers. As soon as he did all the luggage both he and Remus carried disappeared.
Harry turned to Dobby with a raised eyebrow and the elf was happy to answer the unasked question, "Harry sir's things are in the master bedroom, Wolfy's things are in the main guest room."
Harry noticed Remus tensing at the nickname Dobby used for him, which he didn't understand, but was too tired to care for the moment. Harry turned to Dobby again and said, "If you don't mind Dobby I need to sleep, I have a hard day tomorrow."
Again the elf nodded enthusiastically before informing him, "Of course Harry sir. Dobby prepared the master bedroom for Harry sir already."
The steps rose wide and curving beneath his feet, their polished oak dark and gleaming in the soft glow of the sconces. Harry's hand brushed the golden filigree railing as he climbed, each step carrying the weight of a strange new reality. The silence of the manor wasn't heavy or oppressive—it was expectant, almost reverent, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath for him.
Remus had followed behind at a quiet distance, but when they reached the landing, he gave Harry a faint smile and peeled off toward one of the guest rooms without a word—leaving him to explore on his own.
The upper hallway was long and carpeted in deep crimson, soft beneath his trainers, with arched doors lining both sides like quiet sentinels. As Harry moved down the corridor, his gaze flicked to the subtle gold inlays on the baseboards, to the faint glint of sconces shaped like stylized phoenixes, to the occasional window draped in heavy curtains the color of fine wine. He paused at each door, glancing in some—one held a study, another what looked like a sitting room—but then, halfway down the hall, he saw it. The largest door.
Tall and paneled in dark, rich wood with golden handles and a carved border that framed a faintly embossed stag at its center. Somehow, he knew.
Harry pushed the door open slowly, and what greeted him made him freeze in place. The master bedroom was... warm.
Not in temperature, but in feel. The walls were paneled in smooth oak trimmed with crimson velvet, and the ceiling curved gently overhead, painted in a soft gold hue that caught the firelight and made the room glow. A grand four-poster bed dominated the space, its frame dark and sturdy, with flowing curtains of deep red tied neatly back. A thick comforter, also in crimson with gold embroidery, lay waiting, fluffed and immaculate. Plush pillows sat in perfect rows.
A stone fireplace sat across from the bed, its hearth flickering with living flame. An armchair was angled beside it, a folded Gryffindor scarf draped over one arm as though waiting for someone to settle in and read. To the left stood a large window framed by heavy curtains, and before it, a polished oak desk with his inkwell, quill, and a few open schoolbooks already laid out.
Against the far wall, a tall cabinet had been turned into a miniature wardrobe—his Hogwarts robes hung freshly pressed within, and his trunk had been set at the foot of the bed, neatly closed. His Nimbus had been mounted reverently on the wall above it, displayed like the prized possession it was.
But what made Harry's breath catch was what sat on the nightstand. A photo frame.
Inside was a picture of him and Hermione, clearly taken after a victory. He was grinning crookedly, his arm around her shoulders, while she leaned into him with that brilliant smile of hers, windblown and laughing. The image looped every few seconds—he blinked, she nudged his shoulder, he smirked—again and again. It was simple. Unassuming.
But someone had placed it there with care.
Harry stepped fully inside now, letting the door click gently shut behind him. The weight of the day—the trip, the revelations, the ache of everything he'd seen—settled into his shoulders like a cloak, but somehow, here, it didn't feel as heavy.
He crossed to the bed slowly and sat down, the mattress giving beneath him with just the right amount of resistance. He glanced once more around the room—at the details, the warmth, the life already waiting here for him.
"Thank you, Dobby," he murmured.
Then he leaned back, letting the soft pillows catch him as his eyes closed. Soon enough he was asleep.
