G'day.
Been working hard on starting my own company, and working hard has made me sick as a dog.
I apologise for the quality of the last chapter and in advance for the poor quality of this one. This is by far the hardest chapter I've ever had to right of anything. What with the content I needed to get through and being ill, it hasn't come up half as well as it could have done, but still – I hope you enjoy it anyway if you can put up with it. I will remedy my style and repost as soon as possible. Oh – and pneumonia for the lose.
Cheers for the reviews - I did laugh when someone complained there was too much plot. As Mike would say- Fuckin' A.
I'll see you all soon. Peace,
G.L.
"So far all is well," Taye said quietly, with a stiff, higher-class British accent.
Had anyone been looking at him, they'd have seen Lucius Malfoy muttering apparently to himself, casting his eyes around a little furtively, however...
This was not so.
Inside the largest compartment in the newly purchased magically shrunken trunk, Harry and Mike sat, rocking sharply every so often, on conjured chairs. MacReedy's Travel Accessories had even given him a discount, just for being 'Mr. Lucius Malfoy, sir'.
Taye lowered the trunk from his chest, surveying the Main Hall of the Wizarding bank, Gringotts.
Crazy fucking idea, Taye's head screamed, and he'd be sweating if the latex compound he'd applied to his face allowed it. His heart was beating at a rate of knots, and maddening thoughts rushed through his head as every instinct told him to turn and flee but, on the exterior, Lucius Malfoy walked calmly and a little impatiently towards one of the higher-ranking tellers at the other end.
Some little genius, Taye thought petulantly. Great idea, eh – you two hide in the trunk, I'll be out here on my own, you can hear me but I'm fucked if I can hear you. Fucking wizards.
Invisibly steeling himself as he approached the youngest-looking, Taye hefted up the cane and knocked the solid-silver handle on the desk in front of the Teller.
"You, creature," he said briskly. "I have business on behalf of the Board of Governors and Hogwarts."
The goblin eyed him curiously.
"This to do with Dumbledore bein' out of commission, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked.
Taye nodded, rolling his eyes, inside thinking Jesus – Mike was tellin' the truth...
"Yes – news travels fast, hmm?" Taye said disapprovingly, an eyebrow arched. "I also need to make a deposit into a private vault on behalf of Professor Dumbledore, and a withdrawal from a private vault on behalf of a silent party. I will need an escort, and then privacy."
This was it – crunch time. The goblin would bite, or he would know something was wrong. The boy, Shujin, seemed to believe they hated Dumbledore and, with the recent turn of events, decided to capitalise on the fact.
The goblin sat back in his raised chair and gave the equivalent of a sniff.
"I need to see your permission and your keys," the goblin said slowly, fortunately not sounding as though any of this was out of the ordinary.
"The letter from the silent party – it has some goblin name or other on it, I believe," he said reaching into his robes. "Professor Dumbledore intended to send his permission with that oaf, Hagrid or Heart-grad or whatever his name is, and I'm here on behalf of them both, to ensure that for once, something is done correctly."
The Goblin Teller looked at the little sealed scroll – the name on it was Bite-Helm, in Harry's handwriting. The Goblin's scaly eyebrows rose.
Taye dropped the four keys on the desk between them.
Timing is crucial, he told himself. Time it right and watch it unfold. They are not stupid creatures.
The goblin stared at the scroll, then at the disguised Taye, and finally at the keys.
"Of course. Walk back with me, Mr. Malfoy," the goblin said quietly, clambering down all of a sudden. "We'll find a private room and I shall find the Malfoy Vault Keeper, Bite-Helm, for you."
"No," Taye said impatiently, hand gripping the cane head tightly to stop himself from shaking. "I have other business to attend to this afternoon. Make sure that gets to whoever it's supposed to, and summon someone to see me down. Now."
Looking bewildered, the goblin did so.
Minerva McGonagall was on the hunt.
She'd visited the archives for records on Chow, and found out about his shady studio, and the accommodation above it.
She'd also found out about his history with the Marksmen.
In less than half an hour, she'd found the place and was now walking up to the entrance of it.
It was bitterly cold in the black-stone Knockholt Square, and not many people were out, everyone prolonging their Christmas break as much as they could get away with.
Marching solidly over the near-empty plaza, up to the front door, she waved her wand in a complex twizzle and the door clicked open silently.
She did not break stride as she marched into the shop.
When she reached the counter she stopped. Peering around with a sniff, she gathered herself together.
Dark and dingy, she registered. Unused for maybe a week?
"Lumos," she whispered, her wand tip igniting with brilliant light.
She moved around inside the parlour slowly, taking in all she could gather, before finding a door in the back studio.
Steeling herself, she performed the same complex wand manoeuvre to open it silently.
A hallway, she saw instantly. Again, dark, but not unused.
Looking to the left inside it she saw a door leading to the Square. To the right were stairs, and another doorway on the opposite side of the hall just before the staircase.
She moved onwards, up the two flights of stairs and into another hallway, at the end of which a dull, dusty window let in a trickle of natural light.
Extinguishing her wand, adjusting her eyes in the gloom, she tapped the tip of her wand against her glasses.
Moving towards the door she could now see on the left-hand side – the one that led to above Chow's studio – she put her free hand on it.
Something caught her attention – a thick doormat in front of the door itself. Her foot was on it. She moved her foot off to read what it said; emblazoned across it was a yellow smiley face, the words wreathing it proclaiming 'FUCK OFF.'
Pursing her lips, she moved her attention back to the door... as it opened.
Taye stepped carefully into the cart, and for once was not hiding his nerves.
"Where to?" a large, burlier goblin asked, facing forwards like a soldier.
"Uh..." Taye thought for a second. "1188, then 687, then 72, and finally 613."
"You have all the keys?"
"Of course," Taye snapped, sounding a little more like a Malfoy now.
"Hold on," the goblin said with a devilish grin. "First stop – Gringotts' Setup vault for Mr. H. Potter. I assume you are authorised, Mr. Malfoy?"
Taye glared at him, asking from behind his teeth, "Am I sitting here?"
The goblin gave an ill-natured nod and pulled the lever, lurching the two of them into rushing darkness.
"Uh - Mr. Bite-Helm, sir," a young voice asked. "A letter, sir."
The Goblin's eyes rose from the pile of rotting carcasses he was devouring and settled squarely on the young Goblin.
"A letter?" he asked sourly, in Gobbledegook. "You would interrupt my meal for a letter? What is your name and rank?"
"Uh – sir, my apologies and please forgive me, but the Malfoy asked it be sent straight to you. He is here in the bank now."
With a small growl, Bite-Helm pushed the putrid mess away from him with a single sweep of his short arm and stepped down from the Eating Stool.
"He is here? The Elder Malfoy?" the goblin spat, tiny shreds of ancient meat escaping his sharp teeth as he snatched the letter from the other goblin's fist. "Why has he not been brought to me?"
"Sir," the younger goblin said, bowing out of his way and following swiftly, "he demanded to go into the vaults himself – said he was here on behalf of the Board of Governors and Hogwarts, because the Headmaster is in a coma."
"Wait," the older goblin hissed, circling suddenly. "The Elder Malfoy is going down into the vaults? Physically going down with an escort, not waiting somewhere and telling us what he wants brought to him?"
The younger goblin nodded, trying to avoid eye-contact with Bite-Helm.
"He – he's already inside, sir."
Bite-helm stood still for a moment, putting things together in his small, scaly head.
For lack of a more appropriate action, he lowered his eyes to the letter in his hand. Pursing his stiff lips with disinterest, he broke the seal and unravelled the creased parchment.
'Bite-Helm,' it read. 'I apologise for the confusion and for not appearing in person – I know you have had dealings with the Malfoys in the past and Lucius, despite our differences and with the promise of an owed favour, has agreed to deliver this to you. His business with the bank and my own have in common their secrecy – I didn't dare trust such a letter to owl, but know this; I suspect that Dumbledore is not really in a coma. He is looking for me, for he knows I have escaped Hogwarts' grasp for the holidays and greatly desires to have me back. You have so far been entirely correct about the Headmaster in every estimation... thus; I am in hiding, and forced to do my dealings through those whom no-one would suspect any connection. However, do not worry – when term starts once more I will return in good graces, and our plan will go ahead as intended. As to Lucius Malfoy's dealings here – he does not know my suspicions about Dumbledore, and is here (I believe) purely to capitalise on the Headmaster's misfortune. Let me assure you though, with all formality – Lucius Malfoy, on the 26th December in the early afternoon, has every right to step into the vault you set up for me and deposit or withdraw what he will... after all, the Headmaster will find it most trying, should he decide to, to refund all of the money in my 687 vault if only a fraction of it is still there. I hope you are on the same page as I am, Bite-helm; my many regards – Harry Potter.'
He read and reread the letter, teeth bared, his mind working frantically.
He stared upwards into the apex of the circular chamber, crushing the parchment in his fists and breathing steadily.
"Something is going very wrong," he said out loud.
"Shall I call the guards, sir?" the young goblin asked hopefully.
Bite-Helm had forgotten he was there – he turned to admonish him when a thought struck him like a bolt of lightning.
His eyes widened.
If Dumbledore is inoperative to the public eye, he considered, whether it is true and especially if it is not, the Board of Governors with Clause 14 have the right to send a representative to reorganise the Hogwarts funds and withdraw a limited amount from the School vaults. The Board of Governors also have the right to act as the Headmaster for items that are crucially important to the state or safety of the school.
He hummed tunelessly, working his throat, as he took himself through it.
But, he thought. But something is not right about Lucius acting on behalf of Harry... it is illegal unless Malfoy is in Harry's employ... so he must be in someone's employ...
He frowned deeply, casting the letter away and leaning against a pillar in the chamber, trying to reach a sensible conclusion.
Well anyway, Malfoy would not simply march down into the vaults unless something truly important was afoot. But what could that be? And is he working on behalf of Dumbledore or –
He stopped the train of thought short, suddenly knowing, suddenly scowling furiously as he figured it out.
It's the Stone, the conclusion almost slapped him in the face. It's the stone – the Philosopher's Stone. He thinks Dumbledore is compromised and is moving it to a safer location... or at least that is what he's told the Board of Governors. But he has been the servant of Voldemort in the past, and we know that Voldemort or at least Voldemort's minions are looking to secure the stone to resurrect Him, after that break-in on the first of September. So he's taking the stone down there to... to what? Hide it? Destroy it? Or... leave it somewhere he knows Voldemort will be able to reach it...
He almost shivered at the implications.
Despite what many believed, Goblins were not inherently evil – they were greedy and very good at getting their own way, but ultimately, they wanted little to do with the rest of the world, and certainly not dominion over it.
Ultimately they were interested in Business – in the economic advantages you hold when you control the funds of nearly every Wizard and Witch in the country.
In the last wizard war, business had declined in an irreparable way – combined with the deaths, the emigration and the panic, people had assumed, through a few very ill-advised marketing ideas and the way they'd chosen to stay neutral, that Goblin-kind automatically allied themselves with Voldemort.
While strictly untrue, a very few had, and as the rumour grew it was very bad for business. The Goblins would never ally themselves with one such as Voldemort – namely, a Wizard – unless there was an absolute, assured certainty that he would win the war.
It had taken years to bridge the void after that... people – humans - do not forget, even if something has been proved to be false.
So, he finished in his head, if it gets out that under the goblins' very noses one of Voldemort's ex-comrades has given him a tool to help him resurrect himself, especially if Dumbledore isn't actually inoperative, things are going to look very, very bad for business.
He ignited the parchment with his hand and held onto it, ensuring it burnt thoroughly, watching and waiting silently, not feeling the flames.
When he held nought but ash, he turned to the younger goblin.
"Allow the Malfoy into the vault on behalf of the silent partner," Bite-Helm said in sharp Gobbledegook. "Let him complete his business there. Do not allow him access to the school vaults on behalf of Dumbledore or the School Board and let him know I am available to reason with if he so desires. If he reacts badly to my restrictions, do not hesitate to use lethal force."
McGonagall's eyes were stung slightly by the bright orange light that flooded out of the flat as the door swung away from her face.
Standing stock still, taken completely by surprise, she and the tall black man on the other side of it stared at each other in shock.
I recognise him, she thought vaguely. From the restaurant..?
A split instance later the man began to fumble for his weapon, and she raised her wand and pointed it into his chest, stunning him silently, point-blank, in a flash of red.
He was propelled backwards and his arms splayed out – to her surprise, a wand slipped from his fingers and clattered away, not a handgun.
Oh dear, was all she thought as his Ring-eyed comrade from the next room bundled in.
This one was definitely wielding a gun.
A few seconds later and the lightning-fast firefight was ended – she was unharmed, thanking Merlin for his mercy, and the man was face down on the floor, gun still in his fingers, petrified.
She brushed some of the splinters from her shoulder from where the first shot had landed in the doorframe, and lowered her wand.
It was at that point that she felt something cold and hard press into the small of her back, and felt breath on the back of her neck.
A thickly accented voice; "Don't move, old witch – don't you fucking move an inch."
Taye stepped into the first vault, yawning and glancing over his shoulder, making sure that he was alone.
The goblin had stayed in the cart and was puffing away on a pipe in his own little world.
Breathing deeply, gathering himself together and focusing on the task at hand despite how queasy he felt after the cart ride, he got to his knees in front of the pile of gold and silver and lowered the trunk, still somehow in his hand, to the floor.
Tapping the wand he'd borrowed from Mike on the new trunk, which enlarged, and then once more on the lock, it popped open and the man and boy began to climb out.
Taye once more checked the doorway to the vault.
He gave the All-Clear sign and, in silence, Taye and Mike began to physically push piles of gold towards where Harry was enlarging and opening a combination to his own trunk on the floor in front of him.
One by one, from the smallest to the largest, they filled Harry's trunk's compartments – they'd only filled 5 or so when Harry gave the sign to stop – they'd taken about half of what was in the vault.
Silently again, they compacted the first trunk with the gold in, climbed into the second trunk and Taye closed the top of it gently.
It locked automatically, he tapped it to shrink it once more, and then picked it up.
Moving out of the vault, he felt a little better... or did at least until the cart set off once more.
"That wen' smoothly," Mike whispered to Harry, back inside the trunk now. They'd conjured some apparently rollercoaster-style seatbelts fixed onto their sofas and Mike had performed a permanent sticking charm with Harry's wand that held the sofas to the floor, so that they could relax on the turbulent cart rides.
Shujin shrugged – he was chain-smoking. Mike had refused any cigarettes, saying that he'd end up coughing his lungs up, which the goblin was bound to hear.
"We're makin' good time bro," Mike went on. "Won' be lon' now."
"That's because we haven't actually broken the law yet," Harry whispered back, annoyed that Mike was more nervous than he was. "I'm making legal withdrawals from my own vaults at the moment."
"Aye – I bet tha goblins'll look at i' that way 'n' all, mate."
Shujin rolled his eyes. Mike had been fine in the planning stages but now, in the act, seemed to be losing his bottle a little.
Ah, give him a break, Shujin, Harry told himself. He nearly died two days ago. Other people aren't as good at coming back from that as you are.
A few more seconds passed in rocky, bumpy silence before Mike whispered loudly, "Think I will grab one o' them ciggys now, cheers, mate."
"So my dear," the accented man said gruffly. "Why don't you tell me who you are?"
McGonagall's wrists hurt. Her wand was on the table on the other side of the room – she'd been forced, at gunpoint, to enervate the black man and had needed to assure her captor that the other man's petrification would wear off slowly.
Now she was wandless and tied to a chair in the middle of Mike Chow's flat.
"My name," she stated bluntly, "is Professor Minerva McGonagall."
"Ooh – a Professor, eh?" he said with a grin, his 'R's thick, looking behind her at his companion.
The unmarked black man had sat behind her and, from enervation, had avoided her eye. She was growing more and more suspicious of his identity – coupled with the fact that he was apparently a wizard, and yet in the employ of the Marksmen.
"I am here on behalf of Professor Albus Dumbledore," she continued. "Who I'm sure the man behind me at least will have heard of."
The man in front of her, pointing the gun lazily from his perch on the windowsill, said, "We all know Dumbledore, my dear..."
"Good," she replied. "In that case, I think it is time you let me go, hmm?"
"Oh do you? And why would we do that?"
"Because I'm not here to impede on your business at all – I'm looking for Michael Chow, and I was informed that this was his last known address."
The man grinned wider.
"Why – we were looking for Chow ourselves, ma'am," he said mockingly. "What a fortunate coincidence, nyet?"
She fought back a shudder.
"It would appear so," she said crisply. "Now, as I have not permanently harmed either of your companions, and have no business or qualms with you or your men, it would be courteous to untie me, give me back my wand and let me go about my day."
The man in front of her creased with cackling laughter and Minerva began to feel very scared – not the first time a cruel, simple Muggle had induced such an effect.
"I fail to see the funny side," she said, her voice heroically steady.
"Ah – ah," the man said, wiping his red-ringed eye. "You will do. In years to come. Now then – ah, here's an idea! Why don't we stop this bazár and tell me what you know about Chow?"
She pursed her lips, her heart thumping.
"I think I already have," she said.
The man shook his head, standing up from the windowsill, walking towards her leisurely, completely at ease.
"Tuftá - I think you could tell me a little more, bljad'" he said pleasantly.
She noticed that, as he got angrier, more and more of what she assumed was Russian slipped out.
"Such as?"
"Where is the shíshka, Chow?" he asked in a low voice, no longer with pretense.
She sighed and said, "I have no idea."
"Chush' sobách'ya," he scowled. "Let us try again."
By the time ten minutes had passed, her old face was bruised and battered, her chair was ten feet closer to the window and he wasn't speaking any English at all.
Lucius Malfoy, Snr., at their head, the Aurors marched into the bank with their wands out.
Before anyone could say anything, the young goblin teller near the other end of the Atrium screamed at the top of his lungs.
"CLOSE THE BANK! Imposters! We're being ROBBED!"
Harry held up a hand and snapped his fingers.
The other two looked up – they were in the Hogwarts main vault, a huge, cavernous chamber with three security doors, the last of which had needed the Key.
Taye looked at him questioningly but soon heard it - the sound of another cart arriving. Mike was facing the door already.
Harsh, low words were exchanged in the goblin language from the carts – it sounded like maybe ten or so goblins were out there.
Harry closed his eyes.
Fuck, he thought.
He gave the clear-out signal immediately, knowing something had gone wrong somehow in an otherwise perfect plan.
Using what little Art he could get away with, he pushed the rest of the nearest pile of coins and artefacts into the open trunk compartment. He started trying to hurry the others but realised it was too late.
Shit – how the fuck do we get out of this one? He wondered, trying to make his brain work.
Without preamble, at the sound of goblins at the first door, Mike jumped into the new trunk on the other side and pulled the lid shut.
Taye hissed a curseword after him but Harry knew he'd done the right thing – he waved at Taye to get his attention.
"Grab this trunk," he whispered as loud and quick as he dared. "When I'm in it – hide it in your robes – maintain your cover!"
With that, he jumped into the open compartment and landed heavily on the massive pile of gold and trinkets with a grunt.
His brain wasn't yet working – he was trying to think of what could have gone wrong.
Is the situation salvageable? He wondered hopelessly. He'd never fought goblins...
The trunk lid thudded shut and he prayed that somehow they'd escape – Taye had his and Mike's wands. His own wand was needed to open the trunk he was in.
He heard the tap to shrink it and felt himself lifted hurriedly up and into the pocket of the robes.
I should have thought this through, he realised. What the fuck happened? We got through the waterfall alright, it didn't remove the muggle-made disguise... we were already in the fucking vault!
They'd assumed that after they were in the school vaults already that nothing would go wrong – they were plain sailing from there... they'd already stolen millions without being noticed in their very simple plot... but apparently something had gone very wrong.
And we were only one fucking vault from getting away with it!
At the sound of raised voices outside the trunk Harry subconsciously held his breath, wondering what the hell would happen to them if Taye didn't pull this off.
Apparently, they didn't give him the chance to.
He heard the South African scream and fall – Harry rolled awkwardly on the pile of gold, almost drowning in the tide of coins, and he felt something sharp cut his ankle as Taye fell with the trunk in his pocket.
Shit almighty, Harry thought, not daring to pull himself out of the heavy, cold swamp.
Taye's scream was cut off.
The goblins kept shouting in their language – from what Harry could hear they were ensuring that the job was finished, sticking Taye continuously with... with what? With the huge decorative spears the guards in the atrium hold?
The voices rose in angry chorus as, presumably, Taye's very simple muggle disguise was ripped from his corpse.
Fuck it all, Harry thought in frustration. I shouldn't have got in the trunk. I should have killed the little fucks.
He wondered briefly if Mike was alright.
...then he felt the trunk he was in lift off of the floor – he heard a goblin's voice very close indeed.
They've found me, he thought. They've found my fucking gold.
Despairing, not knowing what else he could possibly do, he closed his eyes and concentrated, hard, on disappearing...
His Art would not come. He didn't have the power.
With a groan of frustration, the pitch black compartment full of gold starting to slowly crush him, he tried to let a spike of something ignite his Art...
Panic? Despair? Anger? He wondered in quick succession. Why won't anything fucking come?
The goblins were starting to pry at the case – he could feel it, with his connection to the exterior of it...
Suddenly, Harry had it. He felt a dull flourish of hatred for the greed and deception of the fucking goblins – for Dumbledore, lying unconscious in Hogwarts – he felt hatred for the whole wizarding world and everyone in it. Even fucking Mike, who still had told him everything about Nobunaga. Even the stupid, immature students he shared Hogwarts with. The school itself – he hated all of it. Every fucking thing. The deceptive, stupid Weasley twins, the teachers, the location – pure and unadulterated hatred coursed through him.
I hate this whole world, the breathless mental voice narrated. THIS WHOLE FUCKING WORLD.
He revelled in it.
He let it consume him slowly – from the smallest trickle onto the surface of his dormant, exhausted Art to the exhilarating rush of loathing that ran like fire through his veins, all of it built into a tremendous force that ran through his body and devoured his soul.
His weary art was not triggered by a spike or a lick of emotion – his emotion grew until it almost destroyed the Art itself, the very core of him.
He felt the magnetism – the electricity in the darkness around him –
I... am... losing... control...
He couldn't breath but he didn't need to – the swelling pressure squeezed his body and his spirit until it felt like he would explode –
I... will...
The effort almost killed him.
...disappear.
"Tvoyú mat'!" the Russian screamed in frustration, spitting in her face.
He had her by the hair and was lifting her, suspending her in the air in front of the window, rubbing her bloody face into the glass which felt like it was straining, desperate to crack and free her from this place.
The other men had left – now it was just the two of them.
McGonagall had closed herself off to the world – it was the only response she could have at this time. She had stayed strong and resilient, then had cried and begged, and now there was nothing else for it – she had told them all she knew and they still intended to kill her.
At least I will have died trying to help Dumbledore, she thought, though it was little compensation and she never forgave herself for thinking it.
The Marksman was still screaming at her in Russian but she got the gist of it.
This is it, she thought, surprisingly calm. I lived through the war against muggle-killers and now I'm to die at the hands of muggles.
She hoped that, if she survived, this experience didn't change her too severely.
But she knew she wouldn't survive.
The Russian moved behind her and pressed his body weight into her back – he was no longer screaming.
He intended to end it now – to push an old woman face first through the window, to fall a storey onto cold, black stone.
Merlin, she thought as she felt the glass warp slightly and heard a splinter. I hope there's a Hell for these men.
And then, out of the blue, she felt it...
After a moment, so did the man behind her, trying to murder her. He released his push momentarily.
Silence...
The force of it was like the sonic boom of a tiny nuclear explosion in the room behind them.
Minerva McGonagall was shielded from the blast itself by the Marksman, whose scream was drowned in the force of noise that pushed the two of them laterally through the window and out into the cold air.
Her eardrums had been massacred and she knew she'd broken some bones before she even landed.
But land she did, in a muffled and confusing thump – the force of the explosion behind them had imploded the building and a dustcloud arose slowly and artfully.
She'd landed on the large Russian.
The last thing she saw was gold.
This is not a good place, Harry decided, standing in the wake of his impact.
Incredibly he wasn't yet tired – he felt brilliant. It was the most alive he'd felt in years.
He walked out of the wreckage, feeling his strength start to drain rapidly, and somehow his feet found the Twilight Inn through the gathering crowds.
He ordered a room as though in a dream and somehow found it... he didn't reach the bed before collapsing.
He laughed, supping his tea with reverence as she turned away shyly.
"And to whom do I owe thanks for this brew, fair maiden?" he asked playfully.
"Jalila," she responded flirtatiously.
"Ah, Jalila – how exotic," he breathed, thinking, I love my job.
They were interrupted by the Producer, whose magically echoed voice shouted, "Martin! One Minute!"
"Aw," he feigned misery. "Gotta go to work now sweetie – but come find me afterwards, yeah?"
She agreed and left the booth – he sighed and turned in his chair.
Looking through the glass to the other side for affirmation, a voice in his ear said 'Thirty Seconds'.
He cleared his throat, with one hand lifting the sheaves of parchment in front of him, and stretching the other over toward the huge magical Gramophone.
His eyes scanned the page as he counted down in his head.
One more sip of his tea, then – the voice in his ear said 'Ten... nine...'
He tuned it out and put his hand on the needle arm, ready to lift as the song finished – he got a nod from the other side of the glass and tapped his the magicrophone with his wand and leant into it as he pulled the needle off of the record.
"That was the Duel of the Fates cover by 'Pepper and the Pixies'... Good evening listeners – you're back with me, Martin Andreas, on the Wet Whistles of Winter special – Happy Boxing Day to all," he said, his voice deep and smooth.
As he talked, the magical record flew itself back onto the shelf and he waved his wand, summoning and preparing the next one.
"Call-ins will start at seven, I remind you," he continued. "And I've got a real treat for you in just a moment – the new Weird Sisters track, exclusive to us on the Wizarding Wireless Network this beautiful Boxing Day – but first, it is six o'clock and these are the day's headlines..."
He cleared his throat and squinted at the first bullet point.
"...Gringotts Bank has had to report its second break-in this year today – the Spokesgoblin for the bank has told our reporters that the occurrence of a second-such event so soon after the first break-in, which you may remember from September, is unprecedented, and we've been told the bank will be stepping up security to meet the calibre of modern criminals when the New Year comes – so, listeners, you may be subjected to far more thorough security checks when visiting your vaults in the future, you've been warned. At this point, all that we know is that the break-in was unsuccessful – so fear not; nothing has been removed from the bank – but there was a fight of some sort and at least two men are believed to have been involved. Our source inside the bank, who did not wish to be named, has indicated that there was some sort of struggle, and that there were casualties on both sides, but otherwise nothing has been clarified and no official arrests have been made – at least not by humans, anyway," Martin added mysteriously, imagining the look on his producer's face. "In other news – in what is being treated as an unrelated incident, at around the same time as the break-in, there was some sort of explosion in Knockholt Square today, which for those who don't know is the shadier neighbour to Diagon Alley in Central London. Two people were injured and rumours are abound that one of those people was none other than a teacher from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Far more extravagant and unbelievable, however, are the two-hundred witness reports and statements that have proclaimed that millions in golden Galleons were projected from the blast and landed, in an inexplicable hail of pure gold, all over Knockholt Square and even into Knockturn Alley itself! Was this some strange terrorist attack? Were the two incidents related? What sort of statement is being made? Or was this all just a horrible accident? We all know that there some less-than-orthodox places in the area and strange, public alchemical experiments have been carried out in the past..." he said, when an idea popped into his head and he continued, "and perhaps all this incident has been is a Hogwarts Teacher has managing to create an exploding version of the Philosopher's Stone!"
Smiling giddily to himself, Martin sipped his tea, imagining the reactions of his listeners and his boss.
"Aurors have issued a call for all those who were nearby to hand in the gold that was expunged from the explosion, which tells us that they believe it was real gold and not the Leprechaun equivalent, but mysteriously, so far, none has been handed in... well anyway, we wish the Hogwarts teacher and the other person involved a hasty recovery. Now... last night we at the WWN issued a survey about Christmas Smells....."