Honest comment: I think I may have been too bold with all this. I was trying to emulate the greats of the HP fanverse, but maybe I took on too much. I'm still going to try to finish it, but I'm going to be less hard on myself and stop wanting it to be perfect.

I don't own Harry Potter.

On a muggy day late in July, a Wednesday, to be exact, the doors to Gringotts shut. Witches and wizards tried them, grumbled, and swore, until one of the passerby shouted, "It's one of their holy days, ain't it?" Then they would walk away, privately thinking uncharitable thoughts about the passerby who'd actually paid enough attention in History of Magic to know when the goblin holy days were.

It was, in fact, a British Goblin holiday, albeit one of their stranger ones. In past millenia, said day was devoted to sacrificing their enemies and feasting on their flesh, but modern wizards frowned on that, and anyway, the youth these days would probably just slather still beating hearts in ketchup, and what was the point of wasting a perfectly good heart that way? So the goblins had seized the opportunity when the human wizards quenched the one hundred and sixty-third goblin rebellion on said holiday, and decided to officially change it to Veneration of our Benevolent Overlords Day. The humans were rather confused by this, because compared to goblins, humans have a severely underdeveloped sense of sarcasm. The goblins mostly used it as an excuse to drink overpowered firewhiskey and build complicated traps for fun. After all, maybe they'd need that jet of flame, if the burglar survived the poison spikes, crushing rocks, and Dark curses that came before, of course.

The goblins find it sweetly ironic that this is the day the whatever-number-we're-at-now rebellion begins.

When the doors didn't open on Thursday, few wizards noticed. It was not a big business day, so other than those who actually worked at Gringotts, and the few in the know, everyone assumed it was another goblin holiday and walked away, patting themselves on their back for their amazing cultural sensitivity. Bill Weasley and his fellow curse breakers, however, went shopping, for canned goods, floo powder, and medical potions, got change in muggle pounds, and hurried home to their families with their hands near their wands.

When the doors didn't open on Friday… well. Friday was the Ministry payday. Since the Ministry employed a solid quarter of the wizarding populace, this meant Friday was a very busy day at the bank, normally.

Since everyone was working, the mob didn't form until half-past noon. At two, the aurors came to see why no one had returned to work. At 2:05, the aurors gave a pale, shaking man from the Goblins Liason Office a Incorporeality potion and told him to "Buck up, if you'd been doing your job properly in the first place this wouldn't happen."

At 2:06 p.m. his hand got trapped in the door, which had apparently been enchanted with a spell against Incorporeality potions. At 2:07 p.m. an Auror used a well-placed diffindo to cut his hand off.

At ten past, a healer arrived, took one look at the bleeding man, another at the hand still stuck in the door, and muttered, "God save us from trigger happy aurors."

At half past, an auror attempted to open the door by throwing a curse at it.

At half past and one minute, the healer had a second patient to treat.

By three, Minister Fudge had a headache.

Remus glanced up from his coffee when Sirius entered the living room of the London flat, clutching a newspaper. Harry was over at a friend's place for a couple of days, so Sirius and Remus had decided it would be a good idea to spend some time together so they could see how effective Sirius's therapy had been. If he was dealing well enough day to day, maybe they could all move into Grimmauld Place. The Unplottable status would be supremely beneficial, especially given Harry's loss of blood protection. The only reason Dumbledore had allowed Harry to move to the London flat with them over the summer was because Remus had pointed out Hogwarts would be the first place any enemies would look, and even then, the sheer level of wards they'd placed on the flat made his hair stand on end.

Sirius flopped down on the well-worn couch besides him, and pointed to the paper. "The goblins are rebelling again. What is this, the millionth time? How do they think it'll go any better than the previous ones?"

Remus sipped at his coffee. "I did tell you and Harry to get your money out of the bank," he said levelly.

Sirius blinked, then slowly set the newspaper down. "That you did. You knew."

"They're tired, of not being allowed wands, of not being able to get jobs outside of Gringotts, of whispers calling them money-grubbing and venal wherever they may go. Sound familiar?"

"Somehow, when you said you were going to try to fix things for werewolves, I thought you meant you'd protest or something," Sirius replied, with a little laugh.

Remus finally looked over at him. "This is a protest. The only sort the Wizarding World will listen to," he said. "Everything's picking up pace, now, all due to the house elf thing. There was that article last week, do you remember?"

Sirius nodded. "The decree that will make it illegal to enslave them, yes. It'll never pass."

"I wouldn't be so sure. You didn't see how many of the oppressed we have working together, Sirius. It's a snowball on a mountainside, now, but by the time it hits the ground, it'll be an avalanche."

"It will be good to see you finally able to have the life you deserve, then."

Remus smiled slightly, even as he stared into the depths of his coffee. "I do hope it isn't too hard on Tonks," he murmured. "She'd be a full-fledged Auror by now, and Diagon Alley must be a mess from all this."

Drip... Drip.

Drip… Drip.

Sometimes he fantasizes. If the dripping were to stop, he believes, maybe everything would be okay.

Drip...Drip.

He puts his ragged shred of a shirt under it one day. It helps, for perhaps an hour.

Drip...Drop.

Altered timbre, tone, tempo perhaps… he'd always been a terrible musician, despite all the lessons. Gentle on the keys, boy. How many times can you forget the notes, boy. Have you no bloody ear for music, boy.

Drip drop drip drop drip drop drip.

But still the same song.

"Help me, help me, help me," he harmonizes as he stumbles over to the drip...drop. The ceiling is low, but not so low that he can reach the source, no matter how he stretches. He catches the water in his hands, instead. Some of the color lifts. He stares. He'd almost forgotten his hands weren't naturally crusty red-brown blood splotched with grey dust. The paleness is a little moon of his own, to have and to hold. A moon and an ocean, he thinks dizzily. Drip drop drip drop plop grows the ocean.

It runs over.

"No, no, no…" He adds his other hand, but no matter how tightly he holds it, the water runs through his fingers. "Help me, help me," he chants.

The ocean, the moon are his only companions. They can't leave him like this.

He shuffles back, yanks the shirt away from the ground.

Drip… drip.

Drip… drip.

It's all he has left.