Harry and the Magic Factory

Chapter 12

A/N: Now that the Tom Riddle plotline is mostly done, it's time to get started with the next set of problem characters. Enjoy!

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What was Harry attempting to do? He knew this question would come up very soon when he sat down with the goblins. They'll been brushing closer and closer to this very question for a few years now, but they were a cautious race when not directly engaged in warfare. They'd keep the peace as long as they could, then they'd utterly descend into warfare.

So, what was Harry trying to do?

He could say he was attempting to rebalance the corruption. He could also say he was awarding the punishment that others deserved. He was holding the scales of justice. In truth, his motivation wasn't anywhere near as pure and altruistic. He was actually looking out for his interests, for the interests of the Potter Estate.

Harry was going to stamp out all the most visible forms of corruption within wizarding Britain so that he and his people could be left to themselves. They had a long-term plan and didn't need the annoyance that Dumbledore, Snape, Wilmot, Hector Marchbanks, or the entire Ministry of Magic would provide.

This was to be the opening salvo in a war, a very quick, brutal war.

That was something the goblins could understand and respect. It was self-interest and it wouldn't be bloody, but it would be twice as effective as spilling blood.

More allies.

Fewer enemies.

More wealth for everyone involved.

Harry walked away from the Potter School, where the Chosen were still working on their exams, save the one who had resorted to cheating. It was a short walk to the small, almost innocuous building that housed the Potter Trust. Potter owned and Goblin run, a rather unique hybrid.

Tonight, in the darkness, the chief goblin of Gringotts, Ragnok, was 'visiting' the facility. In actuality, it was one of his once monthly visits so he could say 'hi' to Harry and, perhaps, stutter his way to asking the kinds of questions that the goblins really wanted answered.

To be honest, Harry knew that his small branch of Gringotts had the smallest staff of any of their branches, but also the greatest profits. And that was after Harry had negotiated with them extensively to reduce their rates. The building was already built and the land provided before the goblins even got wind that the Potter Estate had its own bank.

The secret to the goblin success here was using muggle techniques. People could arrange for underground vaults, but witches and wizards were encouraged to use a standard account, meaning that all gold was pooled together so that Gringotts and the Potter Trust could lend it out. Families that opted for the standard account received interest payments four times per year. Families who opted for just a vault account had the benefit of "negative interest" or paying for the privilege of storing their wealth underground.

Gringotts had made millions of galleons in the last seven years through lending out parts of this pooled wealth. And each and every witch and wizard received sizable interest payments, plus access to their original deposits. It was faster, simpler, and a much nicer experience.

The problem for the goblins was that they hadn't liked the idea from the start. So they hadn't objected to an exclusivity provision that Harry had insisted upon: "Gringotts Worldwide may not utilize any of the processes, spells, or practices unique to the Potter Estate branch for twenty five years; and only then upon payment of a royalty to be agreed upon by both sides."

The goblins wanted that rule reversed. They'd wanted it changed within a year of their taking control of the Potter Trust. But Harry wasn't budging. Not yet. Not until something important happened. They wanted to be able to introduce pooled resourcing so they could expand their lending profits. They wanted to be able to copy the building design and security procedures in use at the Potter Trust: no dragons needed because a series of security spells, like the Fidelius and others, that changed their password phrases and tokens daily to ensure no one could enter the vault area without going through four layers of goblin authentication.

Harry walked into the small conference room just away from the tellers. The goblin he expected was there; but there were seven additional goblins Harry hadn't expected. It seemed the goblins had come with a full negotiation team and without the courtesy of forewarning.

So Harry stopped in his tracks, refused to speak, and did not greet any of the goblins with word or gesture or glance. It was a nuanced sign that Harry was very annoyed with them.

Both sides went ten minutes without any motion or speech. Finally Harry grew tired of this game. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a sheet of parchment. He conjured up a Muggle style pen with a fancy tip. Then he started writing the formal language that would sever the goblin's role in the Potter Trust. If he finished the statement, and signed it, the goblins would have but a week to end their work and remove their presence. Harry was halfway through the floral language when Ragnok figured out he'd lost the negotiation before anyone had said a word.

The short, leathery goblin stood up. "Please stop, Mister Potter. Everyone else, please leave us now. I must offer my apologies; I was rude."

The head of Gringotts Worldwide never apologized. Never. For him to do this today indicated that he was actually willing to breach protocol; that he was terrified enough or needful enough to go off the scriptbooks.

Harry paused in his writing as the disgruntled, unneeded goblins left the small conference room.

"What was your purpose, Ragnok?"

The goblin hesitated before speaking. It meant he was struggling or making up a lie. "I wanted to negotiate your permission to replicate the success of the Potter Trust."

Harry let the lie slip for a moment. He wanted to remind Ragnok of a few things. "The first time we met, I hope you remember, I was barely ten. And some of my friends came to me and told me that a goblin demanded to meet me and demanded to establish a bank to house all the wealth I'd drained from the Diagon Alley branch. What was it? Sixty percent of all the liquid wealth that had been housed there? The Death Eaters were a well-funded lot, it seems. And so I met with you; you ignored me and tried to talk with Sirius Black instead. You listed your terms: we'd give you the land and a permanent lease, we'd pay you an annual fee for taxing your patience in addition to the standard account holder fees you'd be charging. Then we walked away. Never had anyone do that, right? Then we sent you our terms: you'd use the building we'd already built, you'd use our process, you'd act as the middleman for loaning out Potter Family funds to those who wanted to build houses or start businesses in the Village, you'd reduce your fees to a reasonable level and start paying interest on money in the loan pool. Remember who won that negotiation? Remember who has won every negotiation between us?"

Ragnok was scowling and his sharp teeth were visible.

"Try a stunt like this again and we will kick you out without a regret. I'd rather work with you and your kind, though, as long as you treat me and the citizens here with respect. And ambushing me is not respectful. Neither is lying. So, Ragnok, why are you really here?"

It took Ragnok four tries before he finally came clean with his real reasoning. "Almost since the day the ink dried on our contract, I and other of the goblin elders have wondered why you are doing these things? Hiding out, building schools and businesses, working with muggles and goblins…"

Harry smiled. Honesty from a goblin was in somewhat short supply. He was glad to recognize that he was right about what the goblins really wanted. They wanted information, enough understanding to feel as if they were participating. Maybe this was the reason they'd shared their seer's divinations; tit for tat, priming the pump to be able to get this kind of information out of Harry.

So, Harry launched into his story. "My story starts fifty to seventy-five years in the future. Then we'll jump back to the recent past…."

Ragnok wanted a clear answer, but he was going to have to suffer through this energetic human. The damned boy – no, young man – had more wiles than even the legendary Rasptang. That goblin's feats in negotiation hadn't been matched in the four hundred twelve years since his passing. This Harry made Ragnok feel like a small goblin still suckling from his mother.

"…so in the predictable future, all of humanity will know about magic. But it will take a lot of time and resources to ensure it happens slowly, responsibly, and safely for us and for them. It's been eight to eleven hundred years since the greater parts of human civilization were actually aware we existed, so we can't just stand up one day and start shouting…"

The ancient goblin had listened carefully and asked respectful questions. Then he asked about this whole stunt with these children from the British magical community. "If your goal is for the whole world to know, why are you futzing around with these wizardlings?"

"First we're revealing the existence of the Potter Estate to parts of the magical community. That's the reason we've done this highly publicized Apprenticeship Program; what the folks out there call the Chosen. It would have been easier just to silently invite them in, the worthwhile ones, at least, but we need to get people used to our existence…"

It was well past midnight before the meeting ended. Ragnok was bewildered, afraid, confused, and had the smallest touch of hope flickering in his chest. What had he said? "We're going to bring back the magic to the entire world, not just keep it locked away for witches and wizards… Non magical folks will have access to our medicines, our views of history, our resources in solving problems…."

The boy Harry was next to insane, but he was a visionary. And his ideas could make profits like no other wizard in history. It would give the goblins much to think on.

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It had to be past midnight. George Weasley was blinking rapidly and repeatedly as he moved through a series of relatively simple questions – half of which he didn't understood.

It seemed the test was alternating muggle science questions with advanced questions in magical geography and other fields. George had never taken muggle chemistry or history or geometry and his understanding of the greater part of the magical world was very small; why didn't they teach any magical geography or ethics or philosophy at Hogwarts? He was rapidly coming to understand he'd need to learn about muggles, and the wider wizarding world, to fit in here at the 'Magic Factory.' But, if it meant learning pranks from the true masters, George was willing to do it.

"430. The engorged plecknia fish is very useful in several magical fields. Describe the shape and appearance of the fish. Identify the eight river sections where the fish can still be found today. How is this fish used in potions, warding, and light rituals? Identify specifically the reaction when engorged plecknia bones are added to fresh, warm dragon blood."

George blinked a few times. Hagrid had never even covered the first kind of fish in his classes. But, for some reason, that fish's name seemed familiar to him. And the clue about the dragon blood…oh, George remembered. The fish's bones became invisible when exposed to dragon blood, damned useful in building very secure temporary wards. The keystone of the ward would be impossible to find if it was inscribed in one of the plecknia bones before it was saturated in the dragon blood. George started writing. He yawned once then flicked over to the next question. His tired body perked up when he read it.

"431 (final question). Identify three subjects you have not had formal training in, but would like to study in further depth."

Odd question. But it wasn't too hard. The problem was limiting himself to three.

Fred was also yawning. The current question was a killer: history, ancient wizarding customs, and laws. None of it was interesting in the slightest to Fred.

"447. You have been invited to a dinner gathering in the Fall of 1922. You are attending without a partner, but the other eight guests are all partnered up and are the parents of your former classmates. All of them are involved in education or the Ministry of Magic. Identify three historically appropriate subjects for conversation at the party. Identify the appropriate clothing you should be wearing to a pureblood party when you have left school and not yet begun a formal apprenticeship. Assume that one inebriated guest insults your family: discuss your available options for seeking redress. Identify the appropriate protocol for leaving the party before any of the other guests."

Fred sighed and started trying to salvage something out of the question. He didn't have the slightest idea why the year 1922 was important; he knew, but did not understand why, that date was the most important part of the question. Still, he knew bits about the pureblood customs. His mother had drilled that much into him, coming from the Prewitt family as she did. But the history components, bah! And all Fred could think of was challenging the drunken idiot to a duel.

Maybe it was good for partial points.

"448. Explain briefly the history behind the periodic table of elements. Explain briefly how elements are arranged on it and why it is of use in muggle chemistry."

George wrote, "No clue."

"449 (final question). You have the opportunity to study three areas of Muggle knowledge. Which ones do you pick and why?"

Fred blinked a few times. He kept stumbling over the phrase 'final question.' Was this test finally over? Fred felt like his brain had been removed, pan fried, doused with bourbon, and then thrown back into his skull – more than once. Triple fried brain with a side of panic and terror.

Fred and George finished first, almost at the exact same time. But it wasn't long until Colin Creevey finished and then collapsed against his desk. God only knows if any of them managed to pass any of it. Now they all knew why Harry had goaded them into taking the test. He'd wanted all of them to be fully prepared to admit their ignorance.

Fred and George both felt ignorant. But they also had hope…and excitement. It would be nice to know more, so they could craft more and more elaborate pranks. Both were independently hoping they'd done well enough not to be totally disgraced and packed away like rotting hunks of meat.

They both wanted to stay now. They both wondered when they'd find out if they could.

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Severus Snape was scowling. It was nearly a permanent scowl at any point in time, but it was especially pronounced right now. His only son and heir was off with some Potters somewhere – and Dumbledore had more or less forced Bracus into going.

So Severus poured himself into the one thing he loved: concocting experimental potions. He was at his private research laboratory in the small potions development company he'd founded after the war with the money Albus had given him.

Albus had paid well for Severus' activities. However, Albus Dumbledore's expectations for services rendered never quite ended. Severus was still teaching at that blasted school – which wasn't a complete waste of time, it did allow him first pick of the more gifted potions students, of course – but now his own son had been forced into some kind of indentured servitude, into spying on these damned Potters.

Severus slowly poured a thin stream of doxy blood into his cauldron. The mixture changed from a vivid orange into a light lavender color. It was almost stable enough for the final two ingredients. But it would take reheating before they could be added. Severus set a small potions timer for twelve minutes. He set a self-stirring spoon inside the cauldron and set it for one rotation every thirty seconds, just enough to keep the whole mess from burning or scorching.

Snape picked up the paper he'd half read that morning. More drivel about the Chosen: Blaise Zabini and Cormac McLaggen had been expelled for unexplained reasons. It was quite the black eye. Snape suspected Cormac of doing something stupid (but not brave), like a halfwit Gryffindor, and Blaise of doing something sneaky and yet still getting caught.

But what news of his son, Bracus? There was nothing out of that mysterious Potter encampment. And the mission Bracus thought he was on…the boy would be doing some dangerous stuff if the opportunities presented themselves. Would he be sneaky and cunning enough? Probably not. Bracus still tended to overestimate his own abilities and underestimate everyone else.

Snape hated being a spy now – his targets were vastly different now, no longer Death Eaters. Now Albus made Severus join up with various ghastly pureblood supremacy groups so they could be monitored. None of the people Severus had met possessed an ounce of brains, but stupid people could still be dangerous.

He hated that his son had been brought into spying. He loathed Albus for sending his son out in this way. Snape just hated the world at this moment in time.

Snape looked up when he heard the light chime indicating someone had arrived at the facility's apparition point. Who would be coming inside so close to Christmas? Snape unlocked the door to his lab. It could be his son, maybe, or one of the employees. Or…

It was Albus. His long beard preceded him into Snape's laboratory.

But this Albus was smiling, smirking, and very, very pleased. "They've finally agreed to meet with me."

It took Snape a few minutes of probing to determine that Albus meant 1) that the Potter Family people had finally responded to one of his quarterly letters and 2) that Albus was already plotting how he would turn the meeting into a relationship, a relationship into a form of control. Albus was a master of extending favors and then drawing on a simple slight obligation for years, if not decades. The man hadn't dominating British politics for forty-plus years by being a forgiving, easy going grandfather.

"I'm going to find out how they disappeared for so many years. And I'm going to try to find out if they had anything to do with the disappearance of all those Death Eaters. Not even the goblins at Gringotts know – or will say – what happened to them. The only thing we do know is that none of the family lines have expired or else their family seats in the Wizengamot would have disappeared…"

Snape was listening to this drivel with a caustic regard. Albus was spinning more of his tales. It made no sense, any of it. Snape had been the one to deliver the overheard partial prophecy to the Dark Lord. He'd also been the first one to determine who the prophecy might concern – although he'd kept that information to himself for a long time. He knew that the Dark Lord had set out that night on a 'mission of extreme importance.' So, there was no way that Lily, James, or their tiny little Harry could have survived that evening. Snape put his money on some of the Death Eaters appropriating the Potter name and going into hiding after the apparent fall of Voldemort.

Snape corrected himself. It was no longer the 'apparent fall' as the Dark Mark had finally completely faded from his arm. Something had happened very recently to end his connection with his followers: was he actually dead?

Of course, Snape had shared none of this with Albus Dumbledore. Snape worked for the man, took his money from Albus' coffers, but he did not trust the ancient warlock. No one in their right mind trusted that silver tongued devil.

"…so, Severus, my boy, we can finally put to rest all these conspiracy theories, all these rumors, once your boy Bracus returns. He'll know who these Potters are and what they're doing…"

"Have you heard anything about Bracus? Has he used his portkey?"

Albus shook his head. "Have you received any news?"

Snape picked up the paper and pointed to the article about Zabini and McLaggen. "Not about my son, nothing. But have you spoken with them, Albus?"

The old wizard nodded once and frowned a bit. "First thing I did this morning, actually. Poked around inside both their minds. Strangest thing I've ever seen. Haven't been obliviated or anything, but they can't talk about what they saw there. I also can't open up those memories, nor any memories from before they went to see that 'Magic Factory.' Someone's merged privacy charms and memory charms together. Dastardly magic…"

Anything that kept Albus away from his answers he labeled dastardly or dark magic. The only reason he hadn't pushed for the banishment of occlumency was that he was such a strong legilimens.

"Any idea why these Potters are coming forward now? This reeks of a publicity stunt," Snape said.

"Yes, very public. I've long suspected they invited other folks to work with them. You know, those folks who'd disappear for a year then reappear clutching an enormous sack of gold? Plus, I think they're poaching our Muggleborns. We've only had five such students in the last seven years. I don't even know how they're doing it, really…"

Severus rolled his eyes. He could care less about the mudbloods. If the Potters were taking them, it was rather decent of them. Perhaps Hogwarts could finally be a worthwhile institution.

"…I think it's time to ask the Ministry to take a serious look into these Potter Emporiums. Drop a word to Cornelius. Maybe he'll ask that awful Dolores Umbridge to trump up some charges; woman's hated the Potter Emporium for years. Loathes house elves like you wouldn't believe. Then we can work these Potter folks from both sides. Ministry pressuring them, but then I'll be the other side, the kind, friendly side, when we meet in two weeks…"

That sounded like a model Albus plan. Put someone in an impossible situation, then ride to the rescue with a stupid half-smile on your face. It sounded exactly like how Albus had secured Snape's services, too. Snape had been apprehended at the scene of a triple murder in Kent, but Dumbledore had been the one to walk into the interrogation suite. And when Snape walked out, he was in Dumbledore's employ with a partial pardon in his hand.

"Be careful, Albus, they've evaded your attentions for more than fifteen years now. I'd say whoever they are, they have a lot more going on for them than you imagine."

Snape tried not to underestimate his enemies, not since he'd misjudged both Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore so badly. No, Snape was not misjudging the Potters this time. He was looking at their only obvious assets in the wizarding world and making his plans based on those solid observations.

"…nonsense, Severus. Whoever they are, they're interested in business. They'll be interested in keeping their business going. If the Ministry is bothering them, they'll be amenable for help from other quarters, you know. Businessmen are sensible, reasonable people…"

It was moments like this that Albus revealed his similarities with muggle gangsters and magical dark lords. He really was vicious and cunning, but he kept his grandfatherly patina in place at the same time. Deadly viper, Snape thought. And then he scowled harder.

Instead of arguing further when Dumbledore would only ignore his counsel, Snape stood up and moved back to his experimental potion. He dropped in the sliced Ashwinder eggs and then, a few moments later, a stream of Peruvian vipertooth venom.

"Powerful looking poison, there, Severus. What's it for?" It was easy to forget that Dumbledore knew his potions almost as well he as did. An apprentice to the alchemist Nicholas Flamel. One of the few to have ever seen the Philosopher's Stone.

But this substance wasn't for prolonging human life. No, it would be poisoning house elves, like the Potters' own. Like only the Potters own. But Snape kept that part of his elaborate revenge plan to himself. "New kind of stain remover, Albus. Toxic stuff, but this is what we'll use to clean those ancient estates when the orphans finally come of age and you can unseal those homes for them."

Snape knew all about Dumbledore's creative financing methods. "Borrow" money from war orphans. Keep the orphans away from their estates and ancestral homes until they reach their majority. Then get them to sign off what was done in their names before releasing the remaining pittances left back to the orphans.

Albus was brilliant when it came to tactics like that. But Snape liked to remind Albus that he, the finest Potions Master in the land, knew exactly who and what Dumbledore was.

Dumbledore twittered along in his excited, half-sensible comments for another ten minutes. Then he left Snape to a quiet, solitary Christmas vacation spent in his lab. And it would have remained quiet had not a house elf popped in silently and left a short letter from the Potter Estate on Snape's desk.

It wouldn't be found until early the next morning. That letter, in two parts, half from his son and half from some blasted 'healer' the Potters employed, would ignite Snape in ways nothing ever had.