"Now, lead us to Vault 713, if you would," Hagrid commanded, his voice regaining some of its earlier authority. "But, Griphook, I must insist, could you possibly drive a little slower this time? For the children's sake."
The Goblin, already seated and gripping the lever of the minecart, merely offered a tight, chilling smile—a gesture that promised retribution for the request.
"There is only one speed in the lower vaults," Griphook rasped, his voice cutting the heavy silence.
With a violent metallic lurch, the cart shot forward.
Their speed increased to a dizzying, terrifying velocity. They plunged deeper into the earth, the turns growing sharper, the air turning frigid and heavy with subterranean cold. The wind was no longer a breeze; it was a physical assailant, stabbing at Tierra's face and hands like a thousand freezing needles.
The minecart plummeted down what felt like a sheer cliff face. Harry, in a moment of reckless, boyish curiosity, leaned perilously over the side to peer into the dark, echoing abyss below. Hagrid roared, a deep, guttural sound of alarm, and with a swift, powerful grab, hauled Harry back by the scruff of his collar, pulling him firmly back into the cramped carriage.
Tierra, who had instinctively squeezed her eyes shut the moment they accelerated, was no longer experiencing mere nausea; she was experiencing the chaos of forced, rapid spatial displacement. The journey was not simply physical; it was metaphysically punishing.
The deeper they sank, the closer she felt to the oppressive, non-Euclidean geometry that haunted her subconscious after channeling the Outer Gods. Every violent twist and drop felt like the bank was actively trying to rip her spiritual self from her physical container. She focused every ounce of her will, not on enjoying the 'thrill,' but on anchoring her soul within her frail, six-year-old body.
It felt like an hour, though it could have been mere minutes, before the cart finally screeched to a halt in a pocket of absolute silence. They were at the platform for Vault 713.
Tierra opened her eyes. The difference between this chamber and Harry's vault was immediate and profound. There were no torches, only a single, cold blue glow illuminating a solid, featureless iron door. Crucially, there was no keyhole. The defense wasn't mechanical; it was purely magical.
"Stand well back," Griphook warned, his voice suddenly taut with professional severity. Hagrid, Harry, and Tierra immediately obeyed, taking two large steps away from the cold metal.
Griphook reached up, pulled off the ring he wore—a massive silver band—extended his long, thin finger, and tapped the door gently.
The iron door didn't unlock; it dissolved. It began to fade, the metal momentarily taking on the consistency of smoke, then slowly vanishing as if an eraser was systematically rubbing out a meticulous drawing on a blackboard. The vanishing act revealed the contents within.
"Any wizard foolish enough to try and bypass this door will find themselves instantly pulled through the barrier and trapped permanently inside the vault, unless they are a Gringotts Goblin," Griphook explained, his tone a mixture of pride and chilling finality.
"How often do you check to see if anyone is in there?" Harry asked, his voice a nervous squeak.
Griphook's face cracked into a malicious, deeply unsettling grin. "We estimate about once every ten years," he said, the implication clear: one trapped wizard was a good decade of amusement for the Goblins.
Tierra didn't hear the rest. Her gaze was locked on the single item within the vault: a dirty, unassuming little package, about the size of a tea cup, wrapped in cheap, plain brown paper.
It's the Philosopher's Stone, she confirmed, the reality of the artifact hitting her with the force of a divine revelation. The catalyst. The central nexus of the next great conflict.
For a terrifying, uncontrolled instant, the psychic connection she had established with the library—and the lingering presence of the Outer Gods it contained—surged. She could sense the artifact's core: not just the life-extending magic, but the deep, primal power of alchemy, the transformative force of Creation and Destruction contained within a single, perfect substance.
The Stone was a closed loop of energy, infinitely sustainable. It was the purest form of organized magic she had ever encountered, a stark contrast to the chaotic, terrifying power she was attempting to wield.
Her eyes, wide and focused, followed the package as Hagrid lumbered into the vault. The half-giant easily retrieved the small bundle and, with a gentle, almost reverent gesture, tucked it deep inside the inner pocket of his leather coat, securing it against his broad chest.
Gone. The source of infinite power, gone. Tierra forcefully withdrew her gaze and clamped down on her soaring magical sensitivity. She had seen what she needed to see, confirming the narrative was still perfectly on track.
"Right, let's get back in the bloody carriage," Hagrid grumbled, suddenly subdued. "And don't talk to me on the way back. I think I'd best keep my mouth shut for the duration."
The return journey was, impossibly, worse. Tierra did not open her eyes until the minecart stopped with a final, sickening shudder back in the main hall. She felt wrung out, her reserves of mental energy completely depleted from fighting the nausea and the chaotic magic of the tunnels.
They emerged onto the sunny, bustling street of Diagon Alley. Harry looked bewildered, clutching a heavy bag of coins, unsure how to carry a fortune on his shoulder. Hagrid, despite his bravado, was visibly shaking, his face pale beneath his ruddy complexion.
"We need to get you two outfitted," Hagrid declared, pointing toward Madam Malkin's Robes. "Uniforms first. But... Harry, Tierra, would you excuse me for a moment? That blasted minecart has put my head in a spin. I think I need a quick, refreshing drink at the Leaky Cauldron."
Tierra saw the opening, and a wave of cool calculation washed away her nausea. Hagrid's physical discomfort was her strategic advantage.
"We'll be fine, Hagrid," Tierra said quickly, stepping forward with an air of responsible maturity that belied her age. "We can manage the robes ourselves."
They entered the shop. Madam Malkin, a short, plump woman, was all business. While she took Harry's measurements—a task Harry found profoundly awkward—Tierra used the time to examine the fabric, the stitching, and the potential for customization. When it was her turn, she stood perfectly still, focusing her concentration not on the measuring tape, but on the precise physical dimensions required for the Concealment Charm she planned to weave into the lining. She didn't just need a robe; she needed a magical garment with enhanced utility.
Hagrid returned just as they finished, carrying two paper bowls of ice cream—chocolate-covered raspberries and chopped hazelnuts. "Eat while we walk," he said, smiling, and ushered them out.
The shopping spree began. They moved swiftly through the required list. They bought thick quills and ink from an ornate stationery shop. Then, Flourish and Blotts, a vast bookstore reeking of old parchment and binding glue, where they acquired their standard textbooks. Tierra bought hers with a sense of déjà vu, mentally cataloging which spells and potion ingredients in the first-year texts could be exploited for greater power.
Next, they visited the Cauldron Shop, where Tierra purchased the required pewter cauldron, a brass folding telescope, and a high-quality set of silver scales for potion weighing. Every purchase was done with agonizing precision, the Goblin's processing fee still a bitter taste in her mouth.
The final, and most critical, stop was the Apothecary.
The pungent smell—a sickly mix of rotten eggs, stale sulfur, and decaying cabbage leaves—assaulted them immediately. The place was a chaotic wonder: buckets of thick, viscous goo covered the floor; jars filled with exotic herbs, shriveled roots, and brightly colored powders lined the walls; and bunches of dried feathers, glistening fungal thread, and tiny, furry claws hung from the ceiling.
While Hagrid negotiated a standard, large-volume purchase of common potion ingredients, Tierra slowly browsed the specialized, high-security displays.
Harry, still the wide-eyed tourist, was marveling at a Bison Horn marked for twenty-one Galleons. But Tierra's attention was fixed on the truly rare and terrifying stock: the Gallbladder of a Scorpion-tailed Snake, the iridescent Silver Shell of a Feathered Serpent, and, chillingly, rows of Desert Thorn Flowers and preserved Ghost-faced Swan Pupae.
She knew, from Merlin's notes, that the African tree snake skin and the ghost-faced pupae were restricted ingredients, tightly controlled by the Ministry of Magic and requiring wand and real-name registration. They were too high-level, too traceable.
But her target ingredient, the Gallbladder of the Scorpion-tailed Snake, was the crucial component for the Hydra Reagent—an incredibly potent, stabilizing potion that would allow her to channel the Outer Gods' magic with slightly reduced risk of physical collapse.
She performed a rapid mental calculation: the ingredient cost approximately two Galleons per ounce. To brew a triple-batch of the reagent, factoring in the high probability of failure for an untrained apprentice, she would need approximately 150 grams, or roughly five ounces.
Five ounces at two Galleons each—ten Galleons.
She corrected herself, remembering the high failure rate and the need for backup. No. Triple batch. Thirty Galleons, plus another thirty for the other rarer reagents— The total cost of a safe starter kit of advanced ingredients would be nearly seventy-two Galleons.
She had just under two hundred Galleons total. Spending seventy-two Galleons now, on items not on the school list, would instantly halve her liquid assets and raise immediate, insurmountable suspicion.
It was a tempting, agonizing risk, but she knew the Ministry's security protocols were already tightening around Wool's Orphanage thanks to her public display of magic. She could not afford a paper trail.
Tierra bought nothing beyond the required list: seven vials of standard potions, a bundle of dried stinging nettles, and a few ounces of flobberworm mucus. Her financial autonomy had to be preserved. She would return, alone, when the time was right.
They left the Apothecary, Hagrid carrying the cumbersome bags. They had only walked a few paces down the busy, winding cobblestone street when Tierra enacted her plan.
The sudden, chaotic lurching of the minecart had left her with residual, genuine trauma. She simply needed to amplify it, to focus her nervous energy into a paralyzing physical manifestation.
Tierra suddenly stopped dead. She clamped her small, thin hands over her abdomen, her face snapping instantly from a polite mask to a frightening mask of rigid, breathless agony. She squatted down, folding inward on herself. The pale blue tint that her skin often took on when channeling chaotic magic began to seep out, chilling her complexion until she was frighteningly bloodless. Cold, clammy sweat instantly broke out on her forehead.
"Ti—Tierra! What's happening to you?" Harry cried out, his voice shrill with sudden panic, dropping his ice cream bowl to rush to her side.
Even Hagrid, the man who faced dragons, was completely thrown. He looked down at the convulsing child with utter helplessness. "My stomach... it hurts," Tierra gasped, gritting her teeth and making the words sound torn from her lungs. "It's an old problem. I told you, heavy exercise after eating… the minecart. It punched me."
Her acting was flawless, aided by the sheer physical exhaustion from the ride and her internal magical reserves being taxed. Her face was frighteningly pale, perfectly mimicking acute gastric distress.
"Hagrid," she whispered, her voice barely audible, forcing her gaze up, making it seem desperately pleading. "Mr. Hagrid, I'm so sorry... could you just hold me? Just for a moment. I'll be alright, just a second of warmth..."
The appeal worked. Hagrid's massive paternal instinct overwhelmed his confusion.
"Oh, Merlin, come here, you poor little thing!" With a speed that belied his size, Hagrid scooped Tierra up. She felt tiny, fragile, cradled in his thick, warm arms like a wounded kitten. He began patting her back, the action gentle but entirely ineffective.
"Harry," Hagrid barked, his eyes darting frantically, "how about this? Look, see that small sign in the corner, past the robe shop? Ollivander's Wand Shop. You absolutely must get your wand. It is the most important item."
He was reasoning aloud, prioritizing the most essential, singular task for the less-experienced boy.
"I will take Tierra directly to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It's very close, just a short distance from the Leaky Cauldron. The best doctors in Britain, Harry. We will be back soon. After you've chosen your wand, please, wait for us in the lobby of the Leaky Cauldron. I'll explain everything to Tom. I'm sure he'll be happy to buy you a couple of glasses of pumpkin juice."
"Okay, Hagrid," Harry agreed instantly, his panic giving way to a sense of duty. "Tierra, are you absolutely going to be alright?"
"Of course, Harry. I'll be absolutely fine," Tierra managed to whisper, her eyes still squeezed shut in feigned agony. "Just go. Please."
Hagrid needed no further urging. He stumbled away, cradling Tierra, his huge body bumping violently into numerous pedestrians and bewildered wizards. But Hagrid didn't care. He was terrified for the girl in his arms. He could feel Tierra's hands and feet growing colder and colder, like Christmas snowflakes freezing against his chest.
In a gesture of pure, desperate compassion, Hagrid used his free hand to roll up the bottom of his great, thick coat, wrapping the heavy, warm leather tightly around Tierra's cold hands and feet.
Tierra nestled into the fabric, her breath evening out slightly. She was cold, utterly spent, and still nauseated, but a wave of profound, cold relief washed over her.
Success.
The plan was a success. Hagrid was distracted by crisis, Harry was safely occupied by a crucial, time-consuming task, and she was now being rushed toward a public hub (The Leaky Cauldron) under the guise of an emergency. St. Mungo's was a bluff; Hagrid would stop at the pub first to ask for directions or help from Tom. The confusion, the crowds, and the temporary separation were all she needed.
She was moments away from freedom, moments away from enacting the real first step of her survival plan: escaping observation and beginning her true training. The price of that freedom was a little pain and a lot of calculated deception. She tightened her grip on the rough leather of Hagrid's jacket. Her path was clear.