Agent Potter
Chapter Three
After a hellish eight hour flight James finally touched down in the UK. He'd been on a plane many times during his years as Tony DiNozzo but this, by far, had to be the worst flight he'd ever taken. He'd been trapped next to a single mother, traveling with a screaming baby and a sick toddler, the whole way and, to make matters worse, they'd flown into a storm, causing a great many of the passengers to become airsick. James had never been one of those pureblood bigots who believed themselves superior to non-magicals but he was never flying like a muggle again. Give him a broom or a portkey any day.
Finally clearing customs, at the first available opportunity, James threw the small suitcase he'd brought with him from America into a rubbish bin. It contained his passport as Anthony DiNozzo, which he wouldn't be needing anymore, and a few changes of clothes, which he'd only brought with him because he knew the airline would be suspicious if he flew to the other side of the world without any kind of luggage. The only thing James didn't throw away was a wad of British currency, which he'd had exchanged which he was waiting for his flight to board back in America.
Striding out of the airport, James hailed a cab and and paid a driver to take him to Charring Cross Road. James was still dreading what he could possibly be about to discover but he was feeling marginally better the closer to home he got. James knew that he was taking a risk by heading to the Leaky Cauldron and, thus, Diagon Alley (especially if both Voldemort and Dumbledore were still running around) but the goblins were the only ones he could trust right now so he needed to get to Gringotts. James just had to hope that he'd been away from Britain long enough that nobody in the Alley would recognize him. Of course, in that case, James would also be faced with the task of convincing the goblins - a race of warriors - that he wasn't an impostor out to steal the Potter gold but James had faced much worse odds in his lifetime. At least, unlike most people, James knew that the goblins would give him a fair trial.
For once luck seemed to be on James' side. When the cabbie dropped him off on Charring Cross Road James found the Leaky Cauldron to be packed but the patrons were all pouring over copies of the Daily Prophet or crowded around the wireless. Nobody gave James so much as a second glance. James didn't stop to find out what had everybody so interested. If it was something he needed to know about he knew that the goblins would tell him later. He strode straight through the pub, luckily gaining access to Diagon Alley, even without a wand, when someone in the Alley opened the portal and went to join the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron.
James quickly made his way to Gringotts, scarcely taking note of how Diagon Alley had changed in the years that he'd been gone. He had only one goal now that he was home: find out what the hell was going on in the world and, more importantly, find his son. James knew that the goblins hated weakness so he tried to make himself seem as strong and confident as possible. Most witches and wizards thought of goblins as beasts of the worst of the kind, and treated them as such, but James' father had always taught him that goblins should be treated with respect. They basically had control of the entire wizarding economy and, as thousands of years of magical history showed, they could cause all sorts of problems if they decided to rebel. Besides, history also showed that the more respectful you were to goblins the bigger profits your investments were likely to make. Unsurprisingly, ever since James and his father had taken the time to learn gobbledygook, the goblin tongue, the Potter accounts had been very profitable.
"Greetings," James said in fluent gobbledygook, stepping up to speak to the nearest available teller. He couldn't help but smile at the sound of his own voice. When his true memories returned so had his British accent. His years as Tony DiNozzo hadn't been all bad but it was nice to be rediscovering his true self. James focused on the teller, praying that the Potter account manager was still the same as it had been the last time he'd done business with Gringotts. "I would like to meet with Bearclaw if he is available, please."
The teller stared at James as though he was an alien from outer space. The goblin was hyperventilating and looked as though he was on the verge of having a heart attack. The goblin wasn't one that James had done business with before so he seriously doubted that the goblin knew who he really was. The only thing that James could think of which would provoke such shock in the goblin was his use of gobbledygook. 'Ooookay,' James thought to himself. So that was one thing that seemed to have changed in the years that he'd been gone. In James' youth human usage of the goblin tongue hadn't been overly common but, by the same token, it hadn't been so rare that it caused goblins to have heart attacks when humans did use it.
"D-Do you have an appointment to see Manager Bearclaw, sir?" the teller finally managed to croak, speaking in gobbledygook.
James took that as confirmation that gobbledygook really had fallen by the wayside. Except for, occasionally, account managers talking to their richest clients, goblins never called humans 'sir' or 'madam.' He shook his head regretfully. "I am afraid Bearclaw won't be expecting me. It is business of the utmost urgency, though. I would greatly appreciate it you would see if he can spare some time for me."
"May I tell Manager Bearclaw who is here to see him?" the teller inquired.
James, though, shook his head. At least until he knew what had become of Harry he didn't want to advertise his 'return' just yet. "I'm afraid that's information which needs to be kept between Bearclaw and myself. Suffice to say that he and I are very old friends."
"I'll just go and see if he is available," the teller said, giving James one last look of disbelief, before scurrying off in a manner totally uncharacteristic of his race.
Surprisingly, James found standing in the atrium if the bank, which nobody giving him a second glance, extremely refreshing. As one of the last members of the extremely wealthy Ancient and Nobel House of Potter, which could trace its roots back even further than Godric Gryffindor, he'd used to get lots of attention every time he stepped out in public. James had been a right little snot as a kid, lapping up all the attention. As he'd gotten older, though it had really started to grate on his nerves. War had made James cynical and he started to see many of his 'admirers' as opportunistic little shits, just trying to wrangle a galleon or two out of his coffers. Back then James had wished they would go away and leave him alone so now he found being ignored a relief. James was smart enough to realize that the anonymity probably wouldn't last once the wider world got wind of his return but he was sure going to enjoy it while it lasted.
After a few minutes the teller returned, giving James an even stranger look. "Manager Bearclaw says that he can spare a few moments of his time for you," he announced. "If you'd just come this way."
The teller led James through a familiar maze of corridors but didn't actually accompany him into Bearclaw's office. That, James knew, was because the desk tellers were among the most lowly ranked goblins employed by Gringotts and didn't actually have the right to sit on on meetings between managers and their clients or to go down to the vaults. As the teller left, probably returning to his post, James knocked briskly on Bearclaw's door and then entered the office without waiting for an invitation. Shutting the door behind him again, James found Bearclaw, his family's long-standing account manager and friend, standing behind his desk and glaring at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. "There aren't many humans that I would call a friend, wizard."
James smirked at that, fairly sure that Bearclaw had already figured out who he was. "And there aren't many goblins that I would call a friend, Bear," he retorted.
"Well now I know you really are who you appear to be," Bearclaw mocked. "No other humans have ever had the gall to give me a nickname."
James knew that if Bearclaw was joking around with him the goblin was positive of his identity. "How did you know who I was?" he asked. "I was sure I'd have a battle on my hands to get you to believe me."
"A goblin never forgets a face," Bearclaw said. "I knew who you claimed to be after the teller, Ironfist, described to me the man who was refusing to give his name. Then there's the fact that you are speaking my language. Few humans have ever taken the time to learn the goblin tongue. Finally there have been many advances in defensive magic since we last met. You'd have survived the atrium but, if you had attempted to enter this office or go down to the vaults, disguised the wards are such that you would have been killed immediately, James Potter."
This last statement was said with such a look of vicious glee that James was positive any intruders at Gringotts would be killed in the most brutal possible way. It wouldn't be an easy death. "Charming, Bear," he mumbled.
The glare returned to Bearclaw's face. "Now, I don't suppose you would deign to tell me why you have been presumed dead for the last 15 and a half years? Why your son believes himself to be an orphan?"
A look of hope sprang onto James' face. "Harry! He's alive?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes," Bearclaw nodded briefly. "But before I consider telling you anything more I wish to know why you saw fit to abandon him."
"It wasn't by choice, Bear," James said earnestly. "Harry became the most important part of my world the moment he was born and nothing has changed since that day."
"Then why did you leave?" Bearclaw demanded.
A glare crossed James' face as he recalled his last meeting with the old man he'd once looked upon as a second father but who he now believed to be just as evil, if not more so, as Voldemort. "It was entirely Albus Dumbledore's fault."
"I believe that you need to explain that comment, James," Bearclaw said, a surprisingly neutral expression on his face.
And so James did, his blood boiling and silently vowing to kill Albus Dumbledore if he ever saw the old bastard again.
The last thing James Potter remembered he'd been dueling Voldemort in his own living room. He was exhausted, bleeding and in pain but he was determined to keep going, knowing that Lily and Harry would be sitting ducks if he were to fall. James was a very powerful wizard but Voldemort was even more so, meaning that James had little chance of defeating him. If he could keep this level of attack up, though James was somewhat hopeful that he'd be able to drive the bastard away. At some point, however, Voldemort must have managed to get in a lucky shot because all James remembered from that point on was a blinding light, a crippling pain and then...nothing.
James was fairly certain that he faded in and out of consciousness from that point on. When he woke up properly, though he found himself lying spread-eagled on some sort of wooden slab, his arms and legs bound tightly to posts at all four corners of his makeshift bed. James didn't know where he was but it certainly wasn't his little house in Godrics Hollow. James immediately began to panic. His fear wasn't for himself but, rather, for his wife and son. If he had been kidnapped then what had become of Lily and Harry? Had they been taken too or were they already dead?
A noise somewhere off to the side caused James to turn his head. To his relief he saw Albus Dumbledore watching him. As well as being his former headmaster, Albus had been a friend of the Potter family for many years. James had met him for the first time at six or seven years old when the man had come to join his parents for dinner. "Albus, thank god!" he panted, wincing at the jolts of pain which shot throughout his body. "Lily and Harry! We need to help them."
"Lily and Harry are beyond help now," Albus said, in an odd sort of voice, making no effort to help James.
James' world ended. "NO!" he sobbed, the pain in his body nothing compared to the pain in his soul. "Y-You m-mean they're d-dead?"
A small smile played about Albus' lips. "Your pathetic wife is. Your brat could go either way."
Even through his pain James realized that there was something seriously wrong. "A-Albus?"
"Oh come on," Albus scoffed. "You didn't think I was actually trying to help your ridiculous family, did you?"
"You said Voldemort was going to kill us," James said, staring at his mentor in horror.
"And I hoped that he would," the old man smirked. "You and your wife dying would be...regrettable but I couldn't allow you, or anyone else to stand between your brat and the Dark Lord."
"You wanted us to die!" James accused.
"I won't have your brat or anyone else taking my glory away from me by killing the Dark Lord!" Albus spat.
"This all comes back to the prophecy!" James realized in horror.
"It does," the old man smirked. "And now your wife is dead and cannot affect my plans. If your brat survives the night you can bet that he'll suffer an 'unfortunate accident' soon. You, on the other hand, you surviving relatively unscathed has left me with something of a quandary."
"You're insane!" James screamed, struggling to free himself from his bonds but failing miserably. He had a horrible feeling that they were powered by magic. "You're fucking crazy!"
"Maybe," Dumbledore smirked. "But I'm also more powerful than anyone. Back to my quandary, though."
"Fuck you, old man!" James spat.
"I'm very fond of you, James so I'll forgive your little outburst this time," Dumbledore said. "But I may not be so forgiving next time. Now, as I was saying I'm very fond of you, James and your parents ment a lot to me. I don't think I can quite bring myself to kill you outright."
"Bastard!" James spat, knowing that he wouldn't want to live on if his wife and son were dead.
"But by the same token I can't keep you around, either," Dumbledore continued, as though James hadn't spoken. "Don't worry, though. I'll make sure that you have a good, happy life. You just won't remember this one."
"You can't do that!" James shouted.
"Yes," Dumbledore said simply. "I can. Goodbye James. It's been nice knowing you."
"And that's the last I remember of the magical world until I woke up with my real memories a few days ago," James told Bearclaw.
The goblin looked far more sympathetic now. "By the sound of it your memories returned at the exact moment that Albus Dumbledore died. The spells on you must have been tied to Dumbledore's life force, and ceased to exist the moment his magic could no longer power them."
James was mildly surprised to learn that Dumbledore was dead. He was actually quite happy about it, though. The only thing that bothered him was that he hadn't been the one to kill the old bastard. "You believe the truth about the wizarding world's hero rather easily."
Bearclaw sneered. "James, you know that the goblin nation have never brought into the legend of Albus Dumbledore as much as everyone else. Besides, what you say rather fits in with what we've managed to find out about the foul old man."
"Oh?" James asked warily.
"We've been trying to get hold of your son for many years," Bearclaw said. "Obviously he wouldn't have been able to access the family estates until he turned 17 but we needed his permission to make changes to your family's investment portfolio. All communications to him were overlooked, though, returned to us with no reply. Tests showed that they never reached your son, having been bounced off a mail-redirect ward. Then a few years ago we received a letter from the old man himself, saying that as Harry's magical guardian he was forbidding us to make contact with the boy. Without your son to sign off on various contracts I'm afraid the the Potter fortunes have rather suffered in the last few years."
James waved his hand uncaringly. "Money isn't important. Fortunes can be replaced. Please! Tell me about my son."
