Chapter One: Credible Threat

Diagon Alley
13th December 2009, 9.27am

Ron Weasley had thought it was too early on a Sunday for most of the shops on Diagon Alley to be open, but he had forgotten quite how close it was to Christmas. News travelled fast in the Wizarding World, so by the time he arrived at Gringotts word had spread from the few curious shoppers who had stopped to try and peer past the emergency wards the DMLE first-responders had hastily thrown up, and there was now a large crowd gathered at the perimeter.

Looking across the mass of people, Ron caught a glimpse of Calliope Nakamura's distinctive purple-tipped hair. He stifled a groan as he ducked his head, but it was already too late. The Quibbler's lead investigative journalist had spotted him, and as soon as she turned his way the other reporters followed suit.

"Auror Weasley! Auror Weasley over -"

"- can you tell us -"

"- number of casualties -"

"- any suspects -"

Keeping his chin down and his mouth firmly shut, Ron shouldered his way through the throng of journalists, meeting requests for comment and wild speculation with the same stony silence. A hand rested gently on his sleeve just before he reached the wards, but Ron met Callie's enquiring gaze with a tiny shake of his head, and she backed off before he activated the charm on his DMLE badge that would allow him to cross the boundary.

Once he was through, the noise of the crowd dropped to a faint background murmur and Ron breathed a sigh of short-lived relief. This side of the barrier the air lost its wintry chill, and it carried a thick, heavy scent: smoke, brick dust and something putridly sweet and vaguely metallic that Ron recognised, with a sudden hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, from the Battle of Hogwarts, more than ten years ago.

He picked his way carefully through the scraps of twisted bronze and charred marble that littered the pavement in front of the bank, coming to a stop at the bottom of the sweeping steps, now scorched and blackened, that led up to the front doors. Only one of these remained intact, listing from its hinges at a crazy angle.

The preliminary report that had been deposited on Ron's kitchen table at eight thirty that morning indicated that Fiendfyre had raged through the bank overnight. Only a thousand years worth of goblin magic worked into the very stones had kept the external structure largely intact. The alarm hadn't been raised until an unfortunate Cursebreaker unlocked the doors at half past seven, releasing a powerful blast as the starved flames gorged themselves on fresh air.

Cursebreaker Orpington was now in a critical condition in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Ron had visited the hospital before he came down to the scene, taking the chance to speak briefly to Healer Davis, who had not been overly optimistic about the man's chances of survival.

"Third-degree burns to most of the torso and face, fourth-degree almost all the way up his right arm. Smoke inhalation..." Tracy's Welsh accent sounded unusually grave as her pale eyes skimmed the injury report. "Even if he does live, we'll almost certainly have to amputate what's left below the shoulder."

Though Ron didn't know Inigo Orpington personally, the Gringotts Cursebreakers were a tight-knit group and he had heard the name in conversation with Bill a couple of times.

Thinking of Bill again as he surveyed the destruction, Ron ignored the slight feeling of guilt at the relief he had felt when Davis had confirmed the identity of the heavily-bandaged figure lying in the bed behind her. No one would blame him, he knew. Merlin, even Harry would have -

"It's a mess in there."

Startled from his thoughts, Ron turned to his right to find his partner standing next to him and eyeing the doorway. Dean Thomas's mouth was pressed into a thin line, a muscle ticked in his jaw, and Ron struggled to think of a time that he had seen him look more furious.

"How bad?" he asked, trying to squint through the haze of dark smoke that still spilled through the doors. Even now, firefighters from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes were down in the tunnels that ran under the bank, battling to get the last of the blaze under control.

"Seven fatalities confirmed," Dean said. The unspoken that we know of hung between them.

"Wizards or -"

"All goblins." Dean's eyes narrowed. "Whoever did this must be a lunatic," he spat. "The Gringotts clan have revenged slights to their honour on entire wizarding families. On generations, even. This is multiple murders, theft, and destruction of property."

"You say that as though it's worse than the murders."

Dean cut Ron a look, just as he heard what he was saying and had to resist the urge to punch himself in the forehead. "Right. Goblins. Got it."

"Clueless, you are," Dean muttered, though it was more affectionate than accusatory.

Ron smiled apologetically. "Any idea yet of what's missing?"

"We won't know until the fire's out." Dean sighed. "And even then we're going to have a time of it getting the goblins to tell us."

His gaze turned thoughtful as he looked towards the crowd gathered at the edge of the perimeter. "Did Callie manage to get hold of you?"

"She knows I can't give her anything this early on," Ron said, immediately annoyed by his own defensiveness when Dean's mouth threatened a smirk.

"Doesn't stop her trying though, does it?" he teased, before he looked back at the doors, his face turning grave.

Ron followed Dean's stare, and decided there was nothing else for it. "Is it safe to take a closer look?"

"DMAC are down to the lower levels, so there's only one way to find out," Dean said, before he cast a Bubblehead charm on himself. Ron followed suit, and together they climbed the stairs and went into the entrance hall.

Even with the flames mostly contained the heat was still palpable; nevertheless Ron, seasoned Auror and hero of the Second Wizarding War though he was, felt a shiver work its way up his spine as he looked around.

The interior of Gringotts bank was barely recognisable: the carved white marble walls were stained coal-black and the polished wooden counter had been reduced to smouldering lumps of charcoal, dotted here and there with pools of melted brass; all that remained of the tellers' weighing scales. Wisps of smoke and flecks of ash drifted lazily through the air above three corpses in the middle of the floor.

"Have they been moved?" Ron frowned down at the neat arrangement. Each of the goblins had been laid with their feet facing the door, arms folded over their chests.

"This is how they were found, apparently," Dean replied, frowning at his own scrawl in his notebook. "Justin just owled to say Paraforensics are mustering, but they'll be another fifteen minutes or so. Until then cause of death is anyone's guess, but it - well. No markings, so it looks like a straightforward Avada."

Ron nodded slowly, hearing the hesitation in Dean's voice. "You think differently?"

Dean kissed his teeth, his lip curling into an expression of utter contempt before he tipped his chin towards the mostly-missing back wall. "It's pretty obvious that somebody robbed the place. Seems to me like these poor sods were left here as a message."

Ron nodded slowly, stepping across to examine the surprisingly neat hole that had been cut through the stone.

"Boring Charm," Dean said behind him. "Fucking powerful one too."

"What's boring about it?" Ron asked, forehead scrunched in confusion when Flitwick announced the subject of that day's lesson.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Boring as in to bore a hole," she hissed. The "you idiot," went unsaid, though Ron could feel Harry's shoulder shaking with laughter next to him.

"You said seven bodies?" Ron said, dismissing the memory and turning back to survey the gutted Counting Hall.

"Yeah." Dean wrinkled his nose unhappily. "The others are a bit more in line with what you'd expect from Fiendfyre."

Ron winced at that, then looked again at the three corpses in the middle of the blackened marble floor, feeling a prickle of déjà-vu. It could be no accident that they had been left like this: untouched by the fire, and clearly intended for the Aurors to find.

He knelt for a closer inspection, running his gaze across the bodies, and spotted something that made his stomach drop for the second time that morning.

"Dean."

"What is it?" Dean asked, squinting as he peered over Ron's shoulder.

"Wasn't it a goblin, that first body in Haringey?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "But he was one of the Bavarian Horde, not a Gringotts -"

"Look," Ron said, and Dean abruptly quieted as he spotted what had caught Ron's attention. All three goblins' hands were splayed across their chests, and it was clear up close that every single digit had been broken in multiple places.

"Fuck," Dean swore, quiet and vehement. "Fucking fuck."

Ron dropped his chin towards his chest and blew out a heavy breath. "Alright then. We need to Owl the Department straight off. Tell Creevey I want the Haringey file on my desk by the time I get back."

He rose swiftly to his feet and marched out of the mangled doors with Dean following closely on his heels. "You really think it could be -"

"I think the DMLE were cagey enough about the finer details that it has to be more than a coincidence," Ron sighed as he removed his Bubblehead charm and gave his head a shake to dispel the momentary dizziness caused by the influx of fresh air. "Don't you?"

Dean nodded as he followed suit, scrubbing a hand over his short curls. "I remember how adamant Harry was that it was a fix-up."

Ron glanced across the wards, where he could see Callie deep in conversation with Rowan Khanna from the Prophet, and sighed. "Are you alright to wait here for Paraforensics while I head over to Grimmauld Place?"

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "You're going to go now?"

Ron stuck his wand back into its holster and started to pull on a thick pair of knitted gloves. "I want to talk to Harry before this has a chance to get out. This close to Christmas? The papers are practically salivating for a scandal." He chewed his lip for a moment. "No. If I go straight away there's less chance of anyone else getting ahead of us. Run interference for me?"

"You bastard," Dean sighed, but he nodded, wrapping his scarf firmly around his neck as he fell into step with Ron and strode towards the perimeter.

They both pressed their DMLE badges to allow themselves across, and the last thing Ron heard before he disapparated was Dean clearing his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have been authorised to answer -"

A/N: Christmas Christmas Christmas Christmas