Modest, Too

by Luan Mao

Tear it all down and build it back up, better. It's a modest goal.

3. Bank

Modest, Too

Chapter 3: Bank

Hunger eventually drove us from my room. I'd tried calling Dobby for room service, but it looked like the morning's threats were keeping him away.

Tracey's parents ran into us in the kitchen while they were getting tea and a snack for themselves. Mr Davis grimaced at us. I don't know whether that was disapproval of our obviously having gotten much closer or simply upset at seeing his daughter naked. Well, tough. If he didn't want to see his daughter naked he shouldn't have barged into our room. And if it was disapproval then I call hypocrisy: I suspect they'd spent the night just like Tracey and me. The Davises were smiling at each other a lot and touching more than is proper for old people.

(Sure, they're not that old, but they were old enough to be my parents, which makes them too old to be doing that.)

"Good morning, everyone."

"'Good afternoon,' you mean. You two must have worn yourselves out."

"Er…" I wasn't quite sure of the proper response, what with my girlfriend and her father being right here and her mother being the one asking the question. I tried to think of some subtle way to take the heat off.

"Oh, yes, Mum. Harry about split me in two. He really made it up to me for falling asleep every night for the past week."

Or we could just skip right on past "subtle".

"Is there anything left from lunch? Or breakfast?" I could cook something up if I had to, but I'd rather grab something and get back to bed.

"It's all gone, Dear. Why don't you see what's in the pantry? I'd send Tracey, but she's walking a bit bow-legged." Mr Davis grimaced again, but it was directed at his wife rather than at Tracey or me.

While I cooked up a filling meal for two hungry teens, plus a bit extra in case of moochers, I asked for news, about the market or anything else.

"It's been all good news so far. The market was an unqualified success. Some shops sold out the entire stock that they brought. I haven't gotten word from all of the businessmen so far, between having to leave abruptly yesterday and owls not being able to reach us here, but I stopped by our shop briefly this morning and caught up with a few people. Very good so far.

"There is much interest in another market as soon as next week. We'll have to arrange details. In particular, we'll have to keep an eye on the ministry. Their people got away yesterday. They probably had timed portkeys, as they disappeared without anyone noticing them waking up. Good job on your stunner boxes, by the way. Everyone from the ministry was stunned and no one in the crowd was hit, thanks to the shields. Back to the main point, the ministry people got away. They know you were there, in the thick of things, and they may have recognized others there."

Dobby popped in, fussed at me for cooking, and noodged me away from the counter. "Dobby would have been here in time to cook the Great Harry Potter Sir's lunch, but the Very Vigorous and Potent Harry Potter Sir's bedroom was a mess. Very stinky, too. Dobby cleaned it all so it's ready for youse to start again." Mr Davis choked on his tea even as Tracey buried her face in her hands.

Mr Davis resumed, "A few of the businesses can pay us back right now, and several more will be able to after one more market." I noticed the us but didn't comment on it. "Oh, and a few wondered if I could introduce you to their daughters, with an eye toward possible business mergers. I told them I could arrange an introduction if you were interested." In an interesting turn-about from the usual, now Tracey was frowning, her mother was hiding her face in her hands, and Mr Davis just looked amused.

"Here is you's lunch, Mister Great Harry Potter Sir and Racey Davis. Youse will have plenty of energy to stink up your bedroom again." And now both of the Davis women were hiding their faces while Mr Davis growled.

"Everyone, I've worked myself to the bone for the past week. I'm taking a short vacation to rest up. Tracey, you've been working pretty hard, too. Would you like to join me? Dobby, send in food every few hours, please. Other than that, leave us alone. That means no barging in!"

True to my request, we were left to ourselves. Food appeared when we weren't looking, so it was almost like we were the only two people in the world. We certainly went through the motions of re-populating the planet all by ourselves.

...oooOOOooo...

"Harry!" A three-and-a-half foot Harry-seeking missile hit me and bounced up into my arms moments after Tracey and I "returned" from our vacation. "Where were you? I didn't have anyone to play with!"

"Hello, Natalie. I missed you, too. And I'm sure Tracey did, too."

"Oh, yeah, hi, Tracey." I wondered at the cool greeting, but the answer came when Natalie turned the enthusiasm back on. "Mommy said you had to stay in bed the last two days and Tracey was taking care of you why couldn't I help I'm a big help you said so!" Nat was jealous of her big sister. How cute.

"Sorry, Nat. Tracey was helping me in a way you can't. You have to be a little older for that." Tracey poked me in the ribs. "At least ten years older. But I'm sorry you felt left out. How about we go out and play after breakfast?"

Tracey and I had walked out of my room with arms around waists and pressed up against each other. We couldn't continue to the kitchen like that because Natalie managed to squirm between us no matter where Tracey stood. And instead of sitting on my lap at the table she sat between Tracey and me. Her cuteness was wearing a bit thin.

There was actually some good news over breakfast. Somewhat good, anyway. It seemed the ministry was bowing to reality just a bit and had decided to relax the "stay at home" order for the magical populace and most people could travel without risking arrest on sight. Better yet, the ministry, in their benevolence, would even allow the weekly markets at least until Diagon Alley was usable again. The market organizers would need to pay for a license as well as hire "trained, professional" security through DMLE, but it was a start. Oh, and the ministry was still looking for the ringleaders of last week's illegal market. Par for the course.

While I pushed Nat on a swing, after conjuring a tarp to keep out the drizzle, I thought about a bunch of things. Tracey was one of the "things", of course, but only half of my thoughts were on her and what we'd been doing the last few days. Maybe three-quarters. I also thought about the ministry and what I should do about them trying to arrest me. And about the dozen and a half dopes who came to break up the market last week and what trouble they could cause. And about Tracey and what she might be doing right now.

Meanwhile, the ongoing market was none of my business. I had my own affairs to take care of. Including my education, which I'd let slip for months, what with Volde-bizarre, goblin bomb car, and wizard bazaar. And I had to do something about Dumble-czar, but so far hadn't had time to think about it.

After lunch I visited the correspondence-school people to get reinstated as a student. My tale of having to drop the last batch of courses because of being targeted by a terrorist, true though it was, didn't convince them, so I conjured up an authentic-looking statement from the London police. That and a semester's tuition convinced them of my sincerity. Looking at the pile of books in my study, I knew what I'd be doing for the next few months.

...oooOOOooo...

"That's an awful large haul there, Dobby." I had happened to come into the kitchen just as Dobby arrived from the latest grocery run before making supper. "And why on earth did you need so much bread?"

"Dobby has something to tell the Great Harry Potter Sir." He was nervous and cringing, like when we first met. "If the Great Harry Potter Sir will please follow Dobby?"

The trip to the basement got me feeling nervous. Dobby led me to the hidden door to the cells. That tells you all you need to know about the Black family: their summer cottage had a dungeon.

A very full dungeon. It was designed to hold four, eight if they were well acquainted. It currently held a dozen battered men in the four cells. And there was a large, cloth-covered mound on the floor which wasn't there last time I was here.

"Potter! Let us out of here, you –" Good taste prevents me from transcribing what Mr Mouth from the market called me. Besides, I don't think I could do it justice without a pensieve.

"Dobby? What's going on here?" I had to cast several silencing spells so he could hear me over the cacophony that had come up. I didn't want to have to shout at my friend. He was reverting right in front of me to the abused slave I'd first met. And I was sure there was more to this than met the eye.

"Dobby brought the bad ministry men here after you was knocked asleep at the market. Dobby used the extra house portkeys and the bad men were put in the cells. Dobby has been feeding the bad men until you could see them."

All that made sense. The house's wards were a thing of beauty – I could admit that now that I'd finally figured out how to change them. They were "smart" enough to recognize that the Davises had been freely given a portkey and didn't mean me any harm and therefore let them into the entry hall. The group of ministry employees, even though they were unconscious at the time and even though Dobby had put the portkeys on them, were recognized as attackers and sent to the dungeon.

"I see what happened, Dobby, but I don't see why. Why did you bring them here? What makes you think I want them?"

"Bad men tried to arrest the Great Harry Potter Sir and they tried to stop the Great Harry Potter Sir's market. And they would have just come back and attacked later if Dobby hadn't stopped them so Dobby had to stop them to save the Great Harry Potter Sir."

Again, that made sense, at least for a house elf. I think pretty highly of Dobby, but, let's face it, all house elves are simple-minded and insane by human standards. But of course elves aren't human. They think differently. They're perfectly capable but in the same situation a human and an elf will come to different conclusions.

And now it was time for me to come to some conclusions. The time pressure wasn't too great. Only Dobby and I would be coming to the dungeon, he could keep them fed, and the magic suppression in the cells would keep them from escaping or doing anything rash.

"Does anyone have immediate medical needs?" The wards would have banged them around a lot, probably broken bones. "Did everyone make it through the wards in one piece? Er…" I looked at the covered pile on the floor. There had been more than a dozen in the ministry group. "Dobby, is that the rest of them? What did you do?"

"Some of the bad mens was already dead, Mister Great Harry Potter Sir. Dobby brought them here with the rest and covered them until the Great Harry Potter Sir could tell Dobby what to do with them."

Looking under the tarp I saw it was the bodies of the older desk jockeys and coppers.

Twenty stun boxes threw out four hundred eighty stunners in an instant. All nineteen of us within the circle would have been hit by a handful each, maybe more, depending on how many missed and splatted into the shields made by the boxes on the other side of the circle. Those of us with armor or young, healthy hearts survived. These six hadn't. I'd known of the danger but told Smithson to go ahead anyway.

I was practically a cold-blooded murderer.

But the "victims" were the myrmidons of a tyrannical government.

I could live with it.

"Dobby. This is very important. Who saw you take the bad men? Does anyone know they're here?"

"No one saw Dobby, Mister Great Harry Potter Sir. Dobby remembers his lessons from bad Malfoys. Never be seen when working."

I relaxed. I had time to figure this out.

"Dobby, continue to feed them. It doesn't have to be just bread and water. Give them non-magical medical supplies if they ask for them. Don't tell anyone about this. Any questions?" It was best to make sure Dobby kept feeding them. Even though Dobby was "only" a friend and employee and not bound to me or the Potter or Black family, he would treat all threats to his family very harshly. It was simply the way house elves thought.

"What should I do with the dead bad men, Mister Great Harry Potter Sir?"

"We can't let them ever be found, Dobby. Never. Can you make the bodies disappear so there's no trace of what happened to them? No magical trace, no bodies to be found?"

"I can do. Do you want me to take their stuff?"

We arranged for where to store their stuff, then I left Dobby to his work.

I headed to my den. This needed a good think. Of course we couldn't just let them out and send them on their way. I didn't know how to obliviate and couldn't trust anyone to do it for me. I didn't have any Draught of Living Death, didn't have the skill to brew it, and couldn't be seen buying it. Maybe I could send Dobby for some, or buy some in disguise.

A little voice was whispering, Just kill them and have Dobby get rid of the bodies.

"What's on your mind, Harry?" I'd run into Tracey, literally, as I had pinched the bridge of my nose as I walked. "If you're thinking of what to get me for my birthday, you already missed it, but you can make it up to me any time you like."

"This is just a bit more important than that," I snapped. Then I came out of my funk and saw the expression on her face. "I'm sorry. This is a very bad problem. I can't tell you about it."

"Well, don't let me keep you from it." Her backside was nice to watch as she stomped off, but that was the only good to come of it.

The tapping at my door an hour or two later was Dobby. "Dead bad men is gone, Mister Great Harry Potter Sir. Dobby dropped them in a pig farm near bad Weasels' house."

Oh, that wasn't at all disturbing. I glanced at a brandy bottle, wondering if drunkenness was all it was cracked up to be. "And are the pigs on this farm butchered and sold locally? Give me the farmer's address. The Weasleys are getting half a hog as a surprise gift." Inflicting second-hand cannibalism on the family was nothing like what I'd idly dreamed of doing to them, but it was both funny and fitting.

I was finding humor in a horrible situation. I didn't know if that was a healthy coping mechanism or a sign I was cracking up.

"Oh, yes, Mister Great Harry Potter Sir! Dobby got pictures."

My nice, new coping mechanism couldn't cope with that. I had Dobby put his pictures in the locked store room along with the dead men's "stuff" and had him promise again never to speak of this to anyone.

The problem was as addressed as it could be for now. I hurried off to grovel to Tracey.

The day had started with my girlfriend and me wrapped around each other, both pleasantly tired and sore. It had rapidly taken a sharp dive downward. It's true: some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

...oooOOOooo...

Over the next few days Dobby visited the shops of several potion vendors to buy a dozen doses of Draught of Living Death. I'd told him to avoid being recognized if he could manage it. His solution was ingenious. A Groucho Marx nose and mustache doesn't look any more natural on a house elf than on a human, but it certainly would keep anyone from identifying him.

It was a flat bust. He was not able to obtain even a single dose. Most shops were closed, and the few brewers or sellers Dobby could find were having trouble getting ingredients. And the few doses that might be available weren't for sale to an anonymous elf. Draught of Living Death was a controlled potion, after all, and the sellers weren't going to risk the very harsh penalties for selling it against regulations.

It all comes back to the ministry. Even broken, flailing, and not doing anything useful, the Ministry of Magic was keeping me from doing what I needed to do.

On the other hand, wizards had an awful lot of ways to do harm and get away with it. Some kind of harsh penalties were needed to keep would-be wrongdoers in line. And that meant the full DMLE to investigate, and taxes to pay for it all. I needed to ponder this some more. I'd been thinking about destroying the ministry and killing everyone who came after me but maybe that wasn't a good idea.

During this time, two more of the prisoners died, one of his injuries. The other went into a seizure when I tried to obliviate his memory of the last few days. Dobby took them away.

Two more were going to die any day now. And all the rest were banged up, between the stunners and the house wards.

I couldn't keep them forever. Between the broken bones and the suppression of their magic, they were in pain and dying. I couldn't let them go. I couldn't transfigure them into bricks and stack them in the basement.

I valued my privacy and freedom more than I valued the lives of thugs and tyrants.

"Dobby!" I had him stash their stuff and dispose of the bodies. Those were going to be some well-fed pigs.

Tracey remarked on the nightmares that had started up again.

...oooOOOooo...

Apart from the mess with the prisoners, we all settled into a routine. I spent at least eight hours a day on my school work. Finishing this last set of courses would qualify me to take my A-level exams in the Spring. I wanted to attain this goal in Hermione's memory if for no other reason. Besides that, I kept an eye on my properties and collected rent, did magical workouts to keep in practice, and helped watch Natalie. And, of course, spent as much time as I could with my nice, new girlfriend.

"Mr Potter, thank you for having us as guests these past two weeks. I had planned to return to our own house right after the first market but I'm getting resistance from all quarters. Tracey has informed me she will be staying, though she will help us in our shop during the day. Natalie threw a tantrum and my mother commented that it was nice having you and Dobby help watch Natalie. And Marie observed that it is very convenient for her to cook only a third of the dinners after working all day. As a result I find myself asking, would you mind if we stay a bit longer?"

Chuckling, I told him they were welcome to remain. Sometimes I missed the quiet, but more often it was nice to have the noise and bustle. Of course, Natalie was responsible for most of that noise and bustle and I liked having her around. Perhaps if the floo was ever brought back up they could move back home and Grammy and Nat could come over during the day and Tracey and I could "break in" every room at night.

...oooOOOooo...

I had one other task before I could really focus on my schoolwork.

After problems needing my smiling face and winsome personality eased up a bit, I disappeared for a few days. I'd have invited Tracey to come along, but she was mad at me again for some reason that I didn't understand.

My quest started in Monaco. This was where Dobby began his vacation a few weeks ago. As long as I was here, I could pick up another portkey to a dubious location. Maybe a bondage and leather themed nightclub this time. Stocking up on emergency equipment is a task that is never done.

From that starting point it was just a matter of patience, persistence, and payoffs to find what, or rather whom, I was looking for. A day and a half after leaving on my not-so-epic quest I returned home.

"Dobby! I have someone here to see you."

Dobby popped in, his eyes grew even larger than normal, then he prowled toward the elf who accompanied me home. The look on his face made me fear for my virtue. Now I know what a horny, two-foot-tall, floppy-eared, bulgy-eyed tiger looks like. Some unspoken communication passed between them, then the new elf had been thrown over Dobby's shoulder and he was hurrying toward his room.

"Send in food every few hours, Harry. Other than that, leave us alone!" The door slammed, only to open an instant later. "And booze, too!"

Wide eyes and gaping mouths faced me. "She's the lady elf Dobby met on vacation. I thought he could use a little break after working so hard last week. Her family is all gone, so I talked her into coming with me." Grammy was covering Natalie's eyes, to much protestation. "Uh, Natalie, Dobby's really tired and needs to take a break. Just like I did last week. Don't worry about it."

This is as good a place as any to note that for the next four days we all had to take turns casting silencing and air-freshening charms all around Dobby's room. When the two made their grand reappearance, we found that Sukki had bonded to Dobby. I didn't even know that was possible, but then Dobby always was a bit different. And I took it as a sign of better times ahead, when my house elf had a house elf.

...oooOOOooo...

Soon after that the floo system came back up. Mighty gracious of our benevolent ministry, leaving it down for only a month. I didn't know if some rich purebloods were somehow benefiting from it being down, or if some ministry middle manager, promoted more for family connections than for competence, just forgot to turn it back on. Well, there might have been some technical reason, maybe relating to my Bomb.

The Davises moved home once the floo was running. As previously discussed, Grammy and Natalie spent most days at my house and Tracey spent most nights.

For Natalie's birthday, I took her and Grammy to the amusement park. Tracey would have come, but Marie was sick and Tracey was needed at the family shop. I had always thought that wizards almost never got sick because their magic kept them healthy, but it seems that they just have better medicine. Drink a potion at the first symptom and it made them well again immediately.

The amusement park was a blast, once I cut loose a little. Little Miss Adrenaline Junkie was used to the floo and portkeys and even (highly controlled and supervised) broom rides, so the gentle little trains and merry-go-rounds intended for short people were booooooring. I hadn't planned to subvert the park's safety measures, because I mostly agreed with them, but I couldn't withstand begging and whining and big, watery eyes. It worked out ok: mild confusion charms on the line attendants and sticking charms on Nat, and all was good. And safe. And exciting. And clean, once I used a few scouring charms after one too-exciting ride.

All in all, a success. I carried an exhausted little girl out of the park, with Grammy shushing her when she half woke up and demand to go back for more rides. We had to take a cab to a floo point as Grammy was too tired to apparate and her "old bones aren't up to one of your portkey rides, young man". Hmmph. That was the first complaint I'd heard about my portkeys.

...oooOOOooo...

"Harry, could you do us a favor?" Marie was distressed about something. "Someone is trying to take over our shop. They've started to make threats."

I agreed to go and at least counteract the threats. I had two reasons for putting myself in the line of fire of someone else's enemies. Well, three. First, the people trying to take over or shut down the small businesses were annoying me. Despite everything I said and all of my reasons to leave Britain and let the wizarding world fall apart on its own, I couldn't let things just fall apart without trying to stop it. Especially now that more of Wizarding Britain had names and faces and many of those faces were small children.

My second reason was less lofty. Frankly, I was stressed and needed to vent. I wasn't getting laid as often as I had recently gotten used to and the pressure and aggravation had to go somewhere.

And the third reason was still less lofty. Tracey and I had been arguing or just getting annoyed with each other, and she wasn't sleeping over even half the time. Sex aside, I wanted a good night's sleep. Doing her family a favor was the best approach I could think of to get along better and thereby sleep better. Plus, of course, the sex.

The evening turned out better than I'd expected. The thugs who came a-calling had orders to bring the Davises to "Mr M" for a discussion and were all set to slap kidnap portkeys on them – portkeys that had sticking charms and which would activate when the flat side was pressed against something. These two clowns were trivially disposed of — no, not that way; I stunned them from behind as they stomped toward Marie, took all of the magical stuff off of them, and bound them with non-conjured ropes and chains and sacks over their heads — and then I had their return portkey. "Don't wait up!" I told the Davises. They didn't want to come on this raid, and I didn't want them, either. They couldn't help and would just get in the way.

Mulciber was in front of me. I was surprised. I'd half-expected to arrive at Malfoy Manor. "Hello, Death Eater," I said politely as I petrified him. "Expecting someone else?"

Now I had a slight problem. I'd planned to show a bit of fang, maybe break an arm or two.

But Mulciber was not your everyday would-be crime lord.

Death Eater. Murderer. Escapee from Azkaban. Any sane society would have executed him for their own safety if not for some vague sense of justice. But here he was, free to walk the streets.

"Dobby!" If I called, he could come to me anywhere, even through wards. Heck, for all I knew, there were no wards on the house. Nothing like on the Black Summer Cottage, that's for sure. If one of my enemies had tried the same trick I had, he'd be in the cells before he stopped spinning. (I was prepared to encounter wards like on my house. I always carried a pistol and explosives, so I should be able to fight or break out without magic.) "Dobby, I need you to find out if anyone else is in the building. Go as fast as you can and come back here."

My elf was back in a flash. It was just the three of us. Moments later it was just the two of us. We looted the house but there wasn't much beyond pocket change. Either Mulciber lost all of his money in Gringotts's collapse or he spent it all on bribes to stay out of Azkaban.

I'd killed Mulciber without thinking it through. He was a Death Eater, he hadn't repented, he was still a danger, he was dead. But now that I had a moment to think about it, I thought it was a mistake. The Davises knew I was going after "Mr M". The thugs hadn't seen me but knew Mr M was Mulciber. All in all, there was good chance I'd be identified as a murderer.

Don't get me wrong. I'm well aware that I murdered some of my prisoners, and arguably murdered all eighteen. I felt hardly any guilt because they had attacked me first with no good cause. And I felt no guilt over concealing my acts from the ministry and the public because there's a complete disconnect between justice and law enforcement. And the mob mentality, too. I'd be damned if I allowed the ministry which put me on trial for casting a patronus, or the mob which called me an attention-seeking psycho, to judge me here.

So, guilt and justice were not an issue, but getting away with killing Mulciber was. The Black family came to my aid again. The Grimmauld Place library described a corpse rotting curse which would make a body seem longer dead than it really had been. And this is the best part: the suggested uses for the curse included disguising the time of death to let a killer find an alibi.

Mulciber's four-days-dead body was taken to Diagon Alley where he would be found the next day — suspended by his left wrist with his Dark Mark hanging out. I took care of the final loose end, the kidnappers back at the Davises' shop. By the time I got to them they were awake but still paralyzed and tied up. One was loud, abusive, and threatening — could have been an auror, no doubt. The other was quiet and fearful.

"So you know the situation, Mulciber is dead, killed in his own home. I caught you trying to kidnap my friends. You are completely at my mercy. I don't especially want to kill you, but by this point I've killed so many men that two more won't bother me. Now, what can you tell me to convince me to let you live?"

They had nothing. Thug One kept up his threats even when helpless. I've seen that before. He learned as a child that bullying got him what he wanted and wasn't smart enough to try something else when the bullying didn't work. Thug Two immediately bowed to my superior force. I'd seen that, too: bullies who were either on top or on the bottom.

Either way, they had nothing I wanted. Ideally I'd turn the would-be kidnapers over to the police and be done with it. Here, there was no justice to be had. Even if the ministry weren't trying to arrest me already. Any justice would have to be at my hands.

I tried obliviating them. I got too much, but I was getting better: they lived. Despite what I told these two, killing did bother me. I'd do it, obviously, especially with Death Eaters or when someone got me angry, but it bothered me afterward.

...oooOOOooo...

"Mommy! Mommy! Tracey wants to make a baby!" Natalie was tearing through the house yelling loudly enough that I could hear her from my sound-proofed study. "I want a baby, too! Mommy!"

I met up with Tracey as she hobbled after her sister, a pained look on her face. She'd been throwing up a lot and seemed very tired for the past few days, so she was staying with me so the elves and I could look after her. "I guess there's a story behind this?"

Tracey growled at me. "Ah, sorry, Harry. I'm not feeling good and now Natalie. Let me lean on you and we'll try to get Little Miss Motormouth under control."

Mr Davis was home for lunch. He looked over with a scowl. "I noticed you haven't kept your breakfast down for a few days, Tracey. And now Natalie has some interesting news. It seems that you two haven't been very careful. Do we need to have a serious discussion, Mr Potter?"

"Argh! Natalie! Daddy! Relax! It's just a flu. And I'm certainly not having a baby, as my monthlies are letting me know."

This whole thing had come from Natalie asking about the supplies Tracey was putting away in the bathroom between their two rooms. Tracey slept with me, of course, and usually used my bathroom, but she still nominally had her own room in deference to her father's preference, and she had been bashful about putting these items where I would see them. It hadn't come up before because most witches took a contraceptive potion that also stopped the "monthlies". But now both that potion and flu remedies were in short supply. Take a quickie explanation of female plumbing, add an excitable five year old and voila! Instant misunderstanding. If this were a sit-com we'd cue the laugh track. As it was, my throat was tingling where Mr Davis had been glaring at it. Accidental magic, maybe.

...oooOOOooo...

After about a month of the new routine, Mr Davis flooed over one evening to ask if I could meet with a group of his colleagues sometime soon.

I had a good guess what they wanted to talk to me about. Yep, money. The dozen men in the room took it in turns to explain the problem.

"Mr Potter, we need money. Not us specifically," the pudgy, elderly wizard hastened to explain, "but the wizarding world. There just isn't enough coin moving around to support trade, let alone build new houses and the like."

"The money you loaned to us, small businesses, was a great help in getting things going for a few weeks. But now we have a new problem. Much of the money that you leant us has been paid in rent by the shop owners, or else apartment rent by the employees. And the landlords are holding on to the gold and not paying much of it out."

"Hoarding, in a word."

"But it gets worse. The wealthy families are using the new galleons they're getting to buy up shares of our businesses, or start their own, or offer loans with harsh conditions."

"And it's even worse than that. Because of the 'increased oversight' over small businesses, most of us have a choice of paying bribes to the wealthy, connected families or working in the black market. Or just closing our doors."

"The Fudge family doesn't own much property, but even with Cornelius gone they have a great deal of political influence. They are preventing many of us from selling unless we give them part ownership of our family businesses."

"All this flows down to our families and employees and our own vendors. Everyone is feeling the pinch, even if we're not being directly extorted."

"And one more problem: With no Gringotts, we have to hold all of our money ourselves. Shops are being burglarized, or even robbed during the day. We're protecting our money as best we can, but none of us are professional warders."

"We've reported the crimes to the ministry, of course, but they claim there's little they can do. They are too understaffed to investigate because a goodly fraction of DMLE have gone missing."

"We aren't coming to you to solve all of our problems, Mr Potter," — Well, thank Goodness for that! — "but we were hoping you could help us with a few of the money issues. Robert here suggested that you'd be able to help, although he was unable to tell us how."

The pause in their pitch, suggesting I should tell them how I could help, gave me a moment to collect my thoughts. The issues of licensing and selective enforcement were beyond my reach. The wizarding government was large for the size of the British wizarding world and DMLE was by far the largest department. There was no way I could fight them all. Even if it was my problem, which it wasn't. I wasn't set on leaving Britain, but I wasn't set on staying, either. And while I was in the Black Summer Cottage I was virtually untouchable.

The same went for political influence and corruption and abuse of power. It was a nice daydream but I couldn't go in and kill everyone on the Wizengamot and all of their hidden backers and all of the corrupt bureaucrats.

Money, though. I could help with money. I had over a third of the million galleons I'd set aside, what with some of the loans having been repaid. And I could set up a protected storage area, using some ward schemes I'd picked up and some of my own inventions and hired staff.

"You need a bank, it sounds like." This was an interesting and fun and maybe profitable thing to think about. Much better than the research paper I had sitting on my desk: Trace the literary roots of James Joyce's Ulysses with special emphasis on Homer's Odyssey. My resolve to qualify for A-levels, and to do well across the board, was taking a serious beating. "Three big questions before we can start planning. How do you want to set it up, just a replacement for Gringotts or something more modern? Who is going to own it and run it, me or a group? And what are you going to do about the ministry? You have to know they'll try to shut it down or take it over."

The first question revealed that none of the wizards in the room knew anything about Muggle banks or finance. Many of them had bank accounts, but that was solely so they could buy from Muggle vendors. They'd deposit cash and immediately write a check. I could pick up brochures from banks to give an idea of what else was possible.

The third question revealed that no one had a good idea for dealing with the ministry other than doing what they were already doing: pay off those who just had to be paid off and otherwise operate beneath official notice.

And my second question revealed that everyone here was delusional. "We had in mind an equal partnership among the ten of us here. We would need you to put up the initial funding and create the storage area, but after that we would all participate in the business decisions and share in the profits. With a bit of luck we'd be able to repay you within a few years."

Cutting through the verbiage, I should help Wizarding Britain because they were in trouble and I was in a position to help. And they would cut themselves in on a slice of the pie because they were the ones who had informed me of the need for me to help.

I couldn't believe that Mr Davis was a part of this. My feelings about my duty to the wizarding world had been made clear, I would have thought.

The meeting ended on a less than happy note. I hadn't given them a flat No but neither had I given them the immediate Yes they wanted.

I thought about the situation a bit more once I got home. I would probably do it, if there were a chance at a profit — "Doing well by doing good," they called it. But one thing was certain: I wouldn't be in a partnership with today's group. The advisor for the economics class that I took dropped a bit of wisdom as a side-note in one of our meetings. Don't start a business with anyone who has a goal but no plan to get there.

The next day I talked it over a bit with Tracey and Grammy. I left out my disappointment with Mr Davis's role in the discussion, not wanting to be on the wrong side of "family is everything".

"If I do this, I'll need to use something other than galleons. I don't want King Garnosh the Gaptoothed staring at me from every coin my bank issues."

Tracey looked at me. "Who? I don't recognize him from Binns's history classes."

"Oh, you're right. The newer galleons have Goppenhilda the Gorgeous, his wife."

"You're just making that up! Aren't you?"

"Well, I can see someone slept through her History of Magic classes."

"I did not! I used the time to daydream, just like everyone else with any sense."

The problem was that galleons were charmed to be unalterable and well-nigh indestructible. It made perfect sense, of course. One of the problems with precious metal coins is filing, scraping off small bits from the edges. If you do it carefully no one will notice the little bit missing, and you can eventually get a decent amount of gold or silver. The Muggle solution was to mill the coin with little ridges all around the edge so filing would be noticed. (And the modern Muggle solution is to make their coins out of base metal, but that's a different topic.) The goblins simply put charms on the coins so that bits of gold couldn't be removed.

Well, it wasn't an urgent concern. Assuming I decided to do some form of bank, there were plenty of other problems to solve before I needed to worry about what to use for coins.

...oooOOOooo...

Speaking of banking, I was getting cash-poor. Muggle cash; I still had millions of galleons. The problem was, most of the stuff I needed to buy was in the Muggle world. I had enough rent coming in to cover ordinary expenses, but nothing like the flood that had been going out. More rent would be here soon, but for the next few days we'd need to tighten our belts if I couldn't raise some cash.

Of course, I could buy enough food from Wizarding grocers no matter how much they charged for it. But the system hadn't gotten straightened out yet and there wasn't enough to go around. Every carrot I bought was a carrot some other family couldn't buy. I might decide to let them all be taken over by the next dark lord to come up, but until I got to that point I wouldn't let kids go hungry.

I did have a "business" bank account with a fair bit in it. That was for upkeep of my properties, taxes, and the like. Harry-Potter-the-non-magical-property-owner expenses, not Harry-Potter-the-person. I wouldn't dip into that unless it was an emergency. And I had Harry-Potter-the-person bank accounts, but they didn't have much. I'd always preferred to keep my wealth as gold rather than as numbers in a book. This policy had cost me in the past year because gold prices dropped like a rock as the Muggle British government sold their gold reserves. I wasn't going to starve, of course, but between taxes and gold prices I had a net loss last year, which came out of my personal Muggle wealth.

Similarly to the bank accounts, I owned quite a few stocks and securities, inherited from my parents. I wouldn't be selling those to support the wizarding world's economy. I didn't plan to sell them at all. They were my safety net in case I left not only the magical world but the British Isles entirely. I might have to abandon my real property but stocks could be exchanged anywhere in the Muggle world. I hadn't shared these thoughts with the Davises; there was no sense adding stress when they already doubted my commitment to Wizarding Britain.

It occurred to me, as I went over my finances to find a way to buy groceries, that my business and personal finances were more complicated than most of the wizarding world's. They worked essentially on a cash basis plus land ownership and business partnerships, with the goblins making loans to individuals. Perhaps the introduction of more modern financial instruments would shake up the system enough to break it free of the rich purebloods' control. Or bring it all crashing down. I wasn't sure if I cared which.

As for our groceries, the senior Davises were a little vague on how Muggle money made it into the wizarding world. "The goblins handled it." Sure, the Muggle-born and their families would exchange some pounds for galleons, but nowhere near enough given the amount of food and other basics that came from the Muggle world. Marie said she'd look into that.

Meantime, I had this huge mound of gold. There had to be something I could do with it.

"Hello. I just inherited a pile of these coins. I don't know what they are but they seem to be gold. Can you tell me what they're worth?"

The coin dealer took the galleon readily enough but very soon was looking at it skeptically. He poked at it with a few tools, measured and weighed it, then handed it back to me. "It's not gold, whatever it is. I couldn't even scratch the surface and the weight is wrong. Some sort of anodized coating over lead, I'd guess. And look at the likeness on this side. It looks more like a caricature than a real person. It's probably a gag coin. It's not worth anything, young man."

Two other dealers said the same thing. Disgruntled and discouraged I made my way back home to cut open a coin and see for myself.

Easier said than done. The coin resisted all magical and physical attempts to cut it. Tracey wandered by when I was getting frustrated and suggested transfiguring it to a different shape. No dice. I could feel something resisting me. Then Natalie came by and asked, "Why can't you change it? Is it a spell?" D'oh! I knew the coins were charmed but forgot all about it. Full-time student, part-time landlord, looking at starting a bank, and spending the nights exercising rather than sleeping. I could either cut back on my activities or drink more tea. "Dobby!"

Removing the protection was, again, easier said than done, but by the end of the afternoon I had removed the anti-tamper charms and sliced a galleon in half.

It sure was nice, shiny gold… as far down as a coat of paint. The interior was a dull grey.

I'd learned a little metallurgy in researching and making my Bomb — Oh, right. I ought to start making another. Never know when you'll need one. — so I knew how to melt and separate and weigh the metals. I was just confirming what I already knew.

Lead.

I had tons of lead in my basement. I wasn't sure there was enough gold in the pile to be worth separating out, what with having to break the anti-tamper charms on each coin one at a time.

Two more hours' work after dinner showed that sickles also were lead but knuts were real copper. Too bad copper wasn't valuable enough to be worth breaking the goblin enchantments. Besides, I didn't have enough knuts to make a difference. Tracey brought me a handful of wizarding coins from across Europe that she'd been collecting. Lead. I'd guess the different tribes of goblins were all in on this together.

That evening I talked with the Davises (Dobby was busy with Sukki; I ran away from hearing the details but apparently she needed to be disciplined), sharing my findings and wondering how to start a bank with no gold and no valuable currency. The conversation took a turn I hadn't expected.

"Should we tell anyone? I'd hate to keep giving people galleons for food and stuff when I know they aren't real gold."

"I should think not," Grammy said forcefully. "Losing faith in money will lead to even greater turmoil than closing the bank. After all, even when you destroyed Gringotts there was still money in Britain. We'd have muddled through somehow if the ministry hadn't interfered and made things worse."

"We should inform only business owners, especially small shopkeepers. It is they who have the most to lose from bad money, trading their goods for lead."

The most to lose? Really? What about people working in those shops, trading away part of their lives for a few lead coins?

"Does it really matter? So long as everyone thinks they're money, then everyone can buy and sell and everything is good."

"That's a good idea, Marie." Not surprisingly, Mr Davis was latching onto that. "That's the way most of the Muggle world works. It works well enough for them, it seems."

I wasn't sure about that. The more I read in history and economics, the more it seemed that cheap money was the root of all evil. All government and bank evil, anyway.

The discussion — if you call three people all arguing on one side and not noticing I wasn't saying anything a discussion — kept up while I ignored them and thought it through. Any economy more advanced than barter needs some form of money. Ordinary people prefer a hard currency, like gold coins or paper backed by silver. They want their money to be worth the same next year as it is now. Governments like a soft currency because they can just print more when they want to wage a war or build a statue of the ruler or inflate away their debts. Dishonest money-men also like soft currency because there are more opportunities to make a profit from funny tricks with the funny money.

"Perhaps the thing to do is continue to use the galleons." Marie was talking when I tuned back in. "There is nothing else we can use and everyone is accustomed to them. As for your concerns about fraud, we simply don't refer to the coins as gold. Call them galleons, and if people assume they are solid gold, that is their own lookout."

That might work. It was one of those not-quite-a-lie untruths like Dissembledore was always spouting. I didn't like it, but it might be necessary to sacrifice some of my scruples for the greater good –

I couldn't believe I just thought that.

I wondered if that was what got Dumbledore started down the wrong path, just one little omission, one little lie, one little manipulation.

The hits kept coming. Mr Davis was pushing the hardest, though Marie wasn't far behind. Tracey mostly kept quiet, while Grammy kept a hard line.

"Young man, you must not tell the public. The risk of chaos and disruption is much too great. You must find a solution, and only then may you tell whom you like."

I ground my teeth. "Mrs Davis. I have great respect for your experience. I will listen to your advice when you offer it. But I will not be ordered. Not by you, not by anyone. And never in my own house."

The verbal assault stopped dead. Honestly, I don't know if they were more intimidated by my anger or by the enraged elf by my side.

Tracey rather timidly broke the silence. "Harry? I'm not going to tell you what to do, but if you do tell everyone, can you stock up on food for us first?"

Yet another moral question: if I'm going to do something which could hurt a lot of people, is it ok to keep myself from being hurt by the same thing? It was certainly wrong to profit from the chaos, but where is the line?

Not for the first time, I cursed my History advisor. He'd loaded me up on philosophy books, tracing moral thought from Classic Greece through today. I had been much happier without these questions. Just mind my own business until a problem hits me, then charge in and fix it without worrying about consequences. Now, everything I might do seemed filled with moral dilemmas. I had just turned eighteen! I shouldn't have to worry about anything but getting into college and my girlfriend's pants.

"That's a good idea. Dobby and Sukki, in the next few days, please make sure we have enough food in the house to last us at least a month. No, two months. And stock up on other supplies, too." I still didn't know where the line lay, but taking a few small steps so I could keep getting in my girlfriend's pants didn't seem too morally hazardous.

...oooOOOooo...

"May I have your attention, please?" They didn't have much choice. My voice was booming across the market field on a crisp October morning.

The businessmen who knew about the lead galleons were uniformly against my telling everyone else. They were concerned about a panic that would stop everyone from buying and ruin everything. They had a good point, as did Grammy Davis when I first discovered it. But the idea of continuing to use galleons and calling them "gold" while knowing the truth rankled. Maybe it was just a reaction to all the half-truths and outright lies that had been told to me, all in the name of the Greater Good, but I wasn't going to be a party to it.

So, as I was saying, no one wanted me to make the announcement. A few went so far as to forbid me from going to the market ground.

There was a little problem with that. I was paying for the market ground. In fact, I'd been underwriting the markets since the beginning. No one bothered to tell me, but I'd been paying for the fields and the security and the other overhead all along. I found out only when I was tracking down where the money had all gone when I noticed that the pile of bags of galleons was getting smaller instead of larger as businesses repaid their loans. I didn't really think any of the Davises were stealing it. And they weren't, in Mr and Mrs Davis's eyes. The economy needed to keep running and people needed to be able to buy food, and the ministry taxes and fees and restrictions were making everything too expensive to afford. The solution was to take from someone who had the ability to pay for it and subsidize everyone who needed it.

Yes, that sounded very familiar from my readings in philosophy and world history of the last century or so.

I might even have gone along with it, if they'd asked instead of sneaked. Saying afterward that I'd been too busy with my schoolwork was no excuse.

So, the announcement. "May I have your attention, please? Thank you. This will take a few minutes, but it's important. You all know that Gringotts Bank closing has been a big problem for us all. I've been working on opening a new bank." I had to pause for cheers. I soaked that in for a moment, knowing that they'd cut off after the next bit. "Thank you, but that's not the announcement. There's a problem with the galleons Gringotts was using."

Over the next ten minutes I got a coin from an audience member, and demonstrated how to remove the anti-tamper charms, and cut the coin in half.

"You see the problem. Our coins are not gold, they're lead."

As expected, the yells of outrage began immediately. There were a lot of shouts to get the goblins — already done; no need to thank me — and a fair number of complaints that I screwed things up for everyone and what was I going to do to fix it?

"I don't have any answers for you right now. So long as everyone is willing to work for galleons and take galleons for purchases, everything will keep working. Longer term, I'm working on better money. But I had to tell you about this now because I found out the gold coins were a lie."

That went over well. "I'm not going to take lead for my trunks." "You mean to tell me I just worked a whole week and got a handful of lead?" "You caused this, Potter. Now what are you going to do to fix it?" When I said it went well, you may infer some sarcasm.

But wait, it got better! A handful of aurors showed up. This was the first market I'd attended since the first one, and practically the first time I'd been seen in the wizarding world, so most likely was standing orders for the ministry-supplied watchmen to report me.

"Aurors, before you tell me I'm under arrest, please observe what I just showed everyone here." It took just a couple of minutes to outline what I'd discovered. "The ministry has been paying you in lead. Now think about what happened to Voldemort and his Death Eaters and everyone else who has come up against me. Is a handful of lead coins worth the risk?" I was overstating the case, a bit, and bluffing, a tiny bit, but they didn't know that. After a few glances between themselves the aurors settled back to listen to me talk with the angry mob.

"A few minutes ago someone asked what I'm going to do to fix the problem with the money. I don't think it's my problem to fix. The goblins were stealing gold from us all for years. All I did was find out what they'd been doing. And I destroyed Gringotts, so we don't have to worry about them stealing any more."

Oops. I didn't mean to say that. Explanations were demanded.

"There wasn't much to it. The goblins kidnapped me and locked me in a vault to die. I escaped from the vault and Gringotts collapsed when I did it. I don't think they were as secure as they said they were."

That about describes the afternoon. I repeated that I would open a bank, if I could find something that could be used as the basis for the money. I demonstrated the lead coins half a dozen more times, using coins from different people. I did find one old galleon that was real gold. I congratulated the owner, cut it up into slices for him, and ordered a security wizard to act as bodyguard as long as the old man was at the market. That caused a quick check for old galleons. I did the same for two more people. And eventually I made my way home, not having been attacked by an angry mob nor having to flee from it.

I found out later that most people continued to use galleons for trade. They weren't very happy about it, but there was nothing else to use. A few hard-noses went to barter, but that is too clunky a system for a real economy.

There were a lot of hard feelings about the bad money, many of them directed at me. Mr Davis was right, it had been a mistake for me to tell everyone, at least before I had a replacement for galleons. Luckily, Grammy was not right and everything didn't immediately drop into total chaos.

...oooOOOooo...

While most of my attention was on my school work throughout Autumn, I was also putting some time into planning a bank. No firm plans quite yet, but I wanted to be able to open for business quickly if I decided to do it. Partly this was for the benefit of the wizarding world but mostly it was for my benefit. By running a bank and introducing modern services I should be able to turn a profit. The fortunes of half a dozen families had come to me but had all been stolen by the goblins. I wanted to rebuild at least the Potter fortune.

As with the last time I did this semester's worth of courses, I had too much on my plate. Last time around it was Mr Progressed-Farther-than-Any-Other-on-the-Road-to-Immortality-Oops and his white-masked wastes of life. I doubted my correspondence school would accept another excuse for dropping and resuming. Fortunately, I should be able to hire someone to help me this time around. It was just knowledge and effort required, not a Chosen One type of thing.

Diagon Alley had reopened. The magical interference had faded and the ministry had managed to obliviate and confuse the Muggle investigators. Any remaining rumors or evidence of a big shake in London a few months ago were dismissed as lunatic-fringe stories. I don't know if someone in the ministry was quite clever or if they just lucked out.

In any event, Diagon Alley reopened very shortly after the market in which I made my announcement. I had stopped payments for the markets' expenses so they didn't have a choice. One fine Fall day I wandered up and down the alley, talking to anyone who would talk to me — not everyone, by any means; some held me personally responsible for the economic turmoil — asking if anyone knew of a wizard-aware Muggle banker or a wizard with knowledge of Muggle banking. Normally I'd have asked Tracey's parents to ask their network of contacts to find someone, but Mr Davis and I were still a bit at odds over the ridiculous business venture he and his friends had proposed.

Most of the wizards I asked replied with, "What? What's that? What would you want one of them for?" and the like. But after a couple of hours and what seemed like a thousand inquiries, I found John Walsh.

"You want me. I'm a Muggle-born. I graduated Westfield Academy and then went to Muggle night school to catch up my education and work toward a finance degree. In the wizarding world I'm stuck in a dead-end job as an assistant potions brewer because of my heritage, though for the past year I've also managed the shop's business operations. In the Muggle world I can't get my foot in the door for a banking career because I went missing for seven years. I'm still here because brewing pays better than waiting tables."

Of course, that's assembled from talking to him for half an hour. If he'd given a sales pitch like that I'd have gotten suspicious.

"I'd have preferred some experience working in a bank, but I understand the problems you're having. I'm having the same problems in both worlds. I might want to talk to you sometime to find out how you've kept a good attitude. I'm bitter about the wizarding world, and you've had it worse than I.

"You're hired, full time if you want it or part time until this becomes successful. You might want to keep your steady job, in case my bank fails. I can pay you galleons for now, with the option to convert to my bank's coins later. If you want it I can provide a Muggle apartment for your family as part of your pay."

Walsh took the part-time option as the safer route and the apartment as a way to ensure he'd be getting something of value for his time. I approved of both: it was the cautious decision, and from what I gathered, bankers should be cautious and conservative (in the economic, not the political, sense). That was another reason for me to hire a manager. My personality was hardly cautious and conservative. "Goof around, don't pay attention, start flailing about when trouble lands on you" makes for an exciting adventure story, but it's not appropriate for stewards of others' money.

Oh, and an amusing note. As I walked around Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, I saw several lawmen. More to the point, they saw me, though a few of them "didn't see" me. None made an attempt to arrest me. Either they took my earlier words to heart and didn't want to risk their lives for a handful of lead coins, or they didn't agree with the ministry's and Dumbledore's vendetta against me.

...oooOOOooo...

During these few months, Tracey and I alternated between being very affectionate and being annoyed with each other. On my side, the affectionate phase was at least partly to make up for being a jerk and snapping at her. I think the same went for Tracey. There was never any big fight or betrayal to explain the annoyed phases, it was just little things. Leaving the toilet seat up. Her wanting to gossip about her friends when I had a paper due. One of us would say something, the other would snap back, and next thing you know, we'd be either quarreling or ignoring each other. I'm not going to write down any examples because they all sound petty and childish, even to me.

One evening, after Tracey stomped off in a huff, her parents flooed back in with her and sat us both down.

"Tracey, Harry, being with another person is a skill you have to learn just like any other. You cannot simply take two people who like each other, throw them together, and expect them to stay together. And sex at best covers over the rough spots for a short while." Mr Davis grimaced at that. He's so predictable.

"The point is, you need to learn to get along. Learn to ignore the things you can live with, learn to bring up small problems before they get so big you cannot live with them, learn to tell when you will not be able to get along. Marie and I were attracted to each other at the beginning, but we never would have stayed together more than twenty years if we hadn't figured out how to live together.

"Even in a contract marriage — not that we are proposing one —" Nice save. I don't know about my expression, but Tracey's threatened her father's death. "— you would have to find a way to live together if you wanted anything but a miserable life.

"To begin with, Tracey, do you fundamentally like and respect Harry? Mr Potter, do you fundamentally like and respect my daughter? Can you imagine living the next hundred years with each other?"

After another few minutes' worth of tips for ignoring little problems, Tracey and I were shooed off to go on a date and spend some low-pressure time being a couple. The timing could have been better — I needed to study for a test and put together paperwork to evict some deadbeat tenants — but the intent was good so I went along with it.

We found ourselves in a small restaurant on Knockturn Alley because Tracey was dressed in robes which did not look anything like a Muggle dress. This was not a risky decision. Knockturn Alley is just another shopping district, but with lower-end stores and poorer customers than are found on Diagon Alley. So far as I can tell, its bad reputation came from a marketing campaign by Diagon Alley shop owners. Wizards who were wealthy enough to shop on Diagon Alley — roughly the same group who can afford to go to Hogwarts — bought into the stories of Knockturn Alley's dangerousness even though they didn't make sense. Really, if someone were murdered on Knockturn Alley every hour, don't you think someone would notice? The British wizarding population is small. A death every hour would kill them all in six years or so. But then, wizards are stupid, and the purebloods are especially stupid.

I was recognized, but no one flocked around or threatened me. Overall, I seemed to be popular with the working class, so this restaurant was a lucky selection. Tracey and I talked over our shared pot pie, friendly but not intimately, as was appropriate for a public place. Overall, dinner was nice and relaxing.

"Potter! What are you doing here?"

Until one of Mr Davis's colleagues from the abortive partnership came in.

"Isn't enough that you ruined my business and bankrupted me? Now you have to ruin my supper, too?"

I had blasted him into the wall before I consciously realized he had drawn his wand. Bone breakers to the arms made sure he wouldn't pick it up after he picked himself up, and a circular shield around Tracey and me protected against any friends he might have. Elapsed time: under two seconds.

Tracey was screaming beside me. Once I was sure there would be no more attacks, I put away my wand and attempted to calm her.

"That's your problem! Always fighting! I'll never have any peace around you. Be with you a hundred years? I'll be lucky to live five!"

This didn't come out coherently; I had to piece it together from between the screams and wails.

Tossing money to the owner for damages and a pouch of galleons to one of the attacker's friends for his healing — he'd drawn first, but my response was probably excessive — I brought Tracey to her home. She wouldn't want to spend the night with someone who was always fighting.

I sighed. The evening hadn't exactly ended as I'd hoped. Tracey was very attractive and a great bedmate and nice to have around most of the time. And she was a lightweight. I didn't think she was suitable for the life I led.

I sighed again, called for tea, and grabbed my calculus textbook.

...oooOOOooo...

In my copious free time when I wasn't busy with school, taking care of my properties, or trying to fix my dating life, I worked with Walsh on the million details for starting a bank. Well, that's a lie. I worked with Walsh on the concepts, an he slaved away on the million details.

Our biggest innovation, from the wizarding perspective, was account-based banking. The goblins offered nothing but glorified safe deposit boxes. Customers rented a vault and put in whatever they wanted, and in theory the goblins left it untouched until the customer's next visit.

With customers putting their money into accounts, we could let them make deposits and withdrawals without the inconvenient, time-consuming, and frightening (for some) cart rides. We could offer low-cost bank cheques; the goblins' version of bank draughts were so expensive that they were used only for large amounts and had frequently been held and traded back and forth for years before being redeemed. We could pay interest on deposits and make loans from the customer assets. This was important because without it the bank would be able to make loans and issue currency only up to the amount of the bank's own wealth. Because we were attempting to replace the wizarding nation's currency and act as a central bank, this would not do. My assets were pretty well wiped out and there was no way I could come up with more than a few percent of the wealth needed for the entire economy.

But with money going into accounts, we had the flexibility to make safe, best-guess decisions about issuing more currency and making more loans than we had wealth to back them. Fractional-reserve lending, if you consider the coins to be loans. This was getting into morally and financially hazardous territory — there's not much difference between debasing precious metal coins and lending more than you own.

We'd offer safe-deposit boxes, too. We had to inch our way into the conservative, neophobic wizarding culture.

Exchange for Muggle cash was a sticking point. We still couldn't find out how the goblins had done it. My guess, and it was as good as any, was that they sold some of the gold they stole from the wizards over the years. We couldn't do anything similar, as I didn't have enough of anything that Muggles would want. Wizarding society is essentially parasitic on Muggle society. Wizards need food and other goods that Muggles provide, but because of the Statute of Secrecy, wizards can't provide any goods and services for Muggles. Maybe that's why the goblins began their gold scam in the first place. For all I know, one of the treaties required Gringotts to exchange galleons for pounds at a fixed rate.

We'd have to leave it for later. There were already plenty of problems on our plates.

...oooOOOooo...

While Walsh handled most of the details, we still had to figure out how to get the new money in wide use. Accepted by the population, that is to say.

We'd given up on commodity money, coins made of intrinsically valuable material. We just couldn't come up with enough gold to put into use. I thought about "paper" money made of basilisk skin but there wasn't enough of that shed skin I found. Besides that, I didn't know how durable it was, and even an ancient, discarded skin was too magic resistant for me to apply durability charms.

That left token money, meaning coins not worth anything in themselves but standing for value. Ideally we'd have something that people wanted, and which the bank would give for the coins on demand. But what? If we couldn't come up with something, we'd be left with fiat money, money worth something "because we say so". That might work for a government, which can force its people to take them, but would never work for us. And after being burned by the goblin scam, it would take a special kind of idiot to voluntarily start using another worthless coin.

Of course, this was Wizarding Britain…

But if I, or one of the groups of non-rich-pureblood businessmen, didn't think of something, then the economy would default to ownership by Malfoy and his little friends. They were already starting to circulate specially marked galleons from their own hoards, making loans at high rates and making purchases at the old, "galleons-are-solid-gold" prices. Shopkeepers might not be happy to get only that much money for their goods, but often it was that or nothing.

I might not care too much what happened to the average wizard, but I'd be damned if I let those bastards steal the country after I beat their master.

I had time to ponder today. I was doing my periodic blood scrubbing. This was the magical equivalent of dialysis, though the poison being removed was not urea but rather basilisk venom. My best guess was that a chip of basilisk fang had broken off in my arm. I had to guess because there was no medical professional I'd trust with this, not after seeing how Pomphrey was able to ignore her alleged oaths of service in covering up the injuries and abuses that happened at Hogwarts. Or the way the whole world seemed to know the details of my hospital stays. Or the way she didn't notice, or "didn't notice", a chip of basilisk fang in my arm during exams for four years after the injury. I'd bet that, if I went to St Mungo's, both the ministry and the Daily Prophet would be presented with proof that I was a dark creature before the exam was done.

By filtering out the poison myself when the itching, burning sensation got too much, I avoided the attention. Not only that, but every month I got a small supply of basilisk venom, a rare, valuable, and usef…

And the answer came clear. My bank's coins would be backed by basilisk venom.

The shape of the solution was simple enough. All we needed was to refine the details. I had about a gallon of venom, surely the majority of the supply in Europe. I'd have to estimate a free-market value, then produce coins worth some multiple of that value. Muggle banks these days normally issue loans equal to, say, thirty times their assets. I'd have to research how much coinage a government's central bank should issue, compared to the reserves in the vaults. Then do some advertising, let out the coins, and wait for customers and profits to roll in.

As I said, the details needed some work.

I wasn't worried about someone else flooding the market with basilisk venom and ruining the value of the currency. This is what happened in Spain after the discovery of the New World. They looted the gold from the Americas and flooded the market in Spain. The economy didn't grow to match the money supply, and the resulting inflation destroyed the Spanish economy for centuries.

Basilisk venom is valuable in its own right, like gold, but it's even rarer. A basilisk is harder to raise than simply having a toad hatch a hen's egg. And the basilisk in Hogwarts's Chamber of Secrets had rotted to uselessness. A couple of years ago I went back down and salvaged what I could from the Chamber of Stink. The fangs were still good, but everything else was spoiled. I brought samples of the different parts to a potions master to check it for usefulness and potency. The man chased me out of his shop, throwing hexes at me for the crime of wasting such a treasure.

The fangs produced a bit of venom, but it stopped after a short while. I guessed the chip in my arm (if indeed I had a chip of fang in my arm) was being kept active by my magic. I had no way to test this. I did take care to jot down my history, observations, and hypotheses in one of the family journals from the library. I'd benefitted from the notes of previous generations. This was my way of paying the debt. You never know who could benefit from reading one of my observations on fighting a basilisk or dealing with the aftermath, or what I saw in the Department of Mysteries, or how I killed Voldemort.

That last went into two blood-warded journals. Only those of Black or Potter blood could read them. Dumbledore and the ministry were desperate to know how I did it, going so far as to put me in "protective custody" after the deed was done. That worked out all right, when all is said and done. I think the detention area needed an outside exit where that wall had been and I'm pretty sure the aurors on my protective detail, the two who protected me by not letting me leave the room, were able to have their parts re-attached if someone got to them soon enough.

To return from the digression: Walsh was surprised at my suggestion of using venom to back the currency and more surprised at the source. I hadn't intended to tell him, but he'd leapt to the conclusion that I had a pet basilisk and I had to derail the incipient panic. Not that the truth was much better.

Once he got used to the idea that his boss's toxic personality wasn't entirely metaphorical, he set to the work of estimating value, calculating what multiple of that value we could issue, and so on. His experience as the potion master's manager came in handy.

Meanwhile, as before, Walsh dealt with most of the details while I did what I could.

Natalie saw me doodling up coin designs one day. I certainly wasn't going to use galleons as they were. "What are you drawing, Harry? I can help!" And help she did. Her design had a giant me strangling a basilisk with one hand, blasting Voldemort with my other hand, and holding a maiden with my other, other hand. I had to break it to her gently that I didn't want my face on the coins, but I'd hang her drawing on the wall of my den.

Once I decided on a design, I started enchanting the coins. I used gold-coated lead, for lack of anything better. The process was tricky because the signature on each coin needed to be exactly the same, so in theory each coin could be validated. And it was time consuming because they needed to be done one at a time. This is yet another reason the wizarding world lags well behind the Muggle: Muggles have factories and assembly lines and machines and automation. Wizards do practically everything manually as one-offs. Economy of scale? No. Have a skilled craftsman set up a process that an unskilled laborer can follow? No. That would be something to look into when I had some time.

...oooOOOooo...

The need for, and profitability of, a bank was clear to people besides me. Well, that was obvious, as that group of businessmen had approached me in the first place. But one particular someone else was advertising a bank opening before mine was quite ready.

Now, I didn't have to try to steal away their business. From what I could see, my bank's services were going to be so much better that people would come to me sooner or later.

But there were non-business reasons to ruin the other business.

"Don't bank with Malfoy! Who'd do business with a Death Eater?"

"Don't leave your money with Malfoy! Anyone who can cast an Imperius can clean him out."

"Stay away from coins that Malfoy has touched. Who knows where his hands have been?"

OK, I didn't use that last one. But I seriously thought about it. I was hoping to make Malfoy look like a ridiculous fop, not any kind of serious threat.

Most of my advertisements focused on the new services I offered. "Better than Goblins" was the slogan, and the hook for another attack ad. "Malfoy's bank: Just like goblins, but slimier". That one turned out rather popular and I heard "Just like goblins" repeated by the man on the street.

For his part, Malfoy hammered on my unreliable nature and the unknown people I had working for me. "Malfoy's bank. Staffed entirely by trustworthy purebloods."

That just begged for a counter-ad, "Purebloods can't count past twenty-two even with their fingers and toes", but too many of my potential customers were purebloods.

...oooOOOooo...

Late December, and I was finally done with my assigned course work. I had months of memorizing before I was ready to take the A-levels, but now I was qualified to take them.

Tracey and I went out for a nice dinner to celebrate. We were trying to work out whether we'd stay as "friends with benefits" or try for "happily ever after". Or if we needed to part amicably, while we could still be friends. Aside from such momentous issues, we could hope this date would go better than the last. Not setting a high bar there: if we managed to finish our entrées we'd do better than last time.

Most wizards had settled into using galleons again (albeit at greatly inflated prices) and I still had a mountain of them, and I was still muggle-cash poor, so we went to a fancy wizarding restaurant.

"Harry, you're a great guy most of the time. Thank you so much for helping my family. And everyone else, too." She smirked and blushed at the same time, an odd sight. "And the sex is good, too, when you aren't making me mad at you."

Now, I may not be the most perspicacious man in the world, but I heard a "but" coming.

"But you've gotten so much harder since we got together. Darker. Not in a Dark Lord way, just in a human way."

I didn't like the way this was heading. One of my sneaky ulterior motives for bringing Tracey here was to find out why she was mad at me so much, figure out what I could do about it, patch things up a bit, and end the night with about six hours of sex.

The problem was, she was right. Some, anyway. I'd killed a lot of people since summer. More than I'd directly killed in fighting Riddle, I think. All of them were people I'd been pressured into fighting, and I could justify every death, but still. It leaves a mark.

It was almost a relief when a clothes horse interrupted our toying with our food and avoiding each other's eyes.

"Potter. Cease your constant attacks on me and cease this nonsense of taking over our world."

"What are you talking about, Malfoy? I'm not trying to take over anything. What are you doing out in public, anyway? Shouldn't you be hiding your Death Eater face from decent people?"

"That's slander! You know perfectly well I was held under the Imperius curse. Now, stop changing the subject. A mere boy, raised like an animal among Muggles, could never be qualified to organize the backbone of a great nation. You need to step aside and let a better family, one experienced in finance and the ways of the wizarding world, perform the duty."

I saw that people were watching the confrontation, so I decided to play it up to advertise the bank I would someday be opening. "Experienced in finance, are you? Tell me, Lucius," — Note that I called him Lucius, not any of the half-dozen insulting variants that occurred to me on the spot. It's not that I'm becoming mature, it's that I'm becoming aware of presentation before an audience. In my mind I'll still call him Doucheus. — "what kinds of bank draughts do you plan to issue? How will you resolve disputes over payment? Are you going to offer services other than secure storage? Will you offer transaction-based accounts? What is your fee schedule? What interest rates will you offer on account deposits? Where do you plan to put your storage? How convenient will it be for depositors to access their property? What form of auditing will you provide to ensure honest accounting?"

Malfoy was reeling. He clearly hadn't a clue what I was talking about. And I hadn't exactly been using any esoteric banking terminology or specialized banking knowledge. All or most of what I'd just asked would be familiar to any Muggle with a bank account. Which was the point I was making.

"Face it Malfoy, you don't know about finance or banking. All you know is the way you purebloods have been running things for centuries. You may be a big fish here, but this is a very small pond. The entire British wizarding population is just one medium-sized city. You're not a nation, you're Cwmbran. We don't need a vast financial structure for a great empire, we need a local bank for a small city. Any Muggle would have a better idea what's needed than any pureblood wizard."

My big mouth. Some of the audience had nodded approvingly when I started my rant, but most looked as confused as Malfoy. And after that last bit almost everyone was frowning at me.

Malfoy, also playing to the audience, jumped in with an attack on me rather than on the merits of what I said. A tried and true debating technique, which works especially well on naive audiences. Like British wizards. "And there you reveal your foolishness. A boy raised among Muggles cannot appreciate the nuances of our way of life."

"Well, there's no need for us to fight about it. There's room for more than one bank. You can call yours the Death Eater Bank of England and I'll call mine the Decent Folk Bank of England."

Malfoy started to splutter again. Really, considering that he's a high-profile Death Eater who makes enemies every time he opens his mouth, you'd think he'd have a thicker skin. I ignored his insults. They were meaningless.

But amidst the spluttering came a clear, "When my Master hears about this…" Not too smart, Lucius, with all these witnesses around.

I'd made the points I wanted to make to the audience (as well as some I shouldn't have made) and got a free bonus point thanks to Malfoy's reflexive threat. Now I wanted to be rid of the nuisance. Getting into a fight in front of Tracey wasn't going to get her into my bed tonight. "Look, Malfoy, you can wave your little pee-pee –" Dammit! I was trying to appear mature in front of Tracey and the audience, but I just couldn't do it. "– at me some other time. Why don't you go back to what you were doing? Tonight I'm spending time with my lady friend."

"Ah, yes. The Davis girl." The albino returned to form as his eyes ran up and down Tracey's figure. "They say every man has his weakness."

"Oops. Time for you to make your peace, Malfoy."

He didn't know what to make of my final statement, but with a few more veiled threats and not-so-veiled insults he eventually left. Dinner was ruined, so we left, too.

"Harry, what am I going to do? I can't fight Malfoy if he comes to get me."

"Don't worry. You don't have to fight him, you just have to get away from him. You've already got a portkey necklace. And I'd better give one to Nat, too. Don't worry, it will work out all right."

My original hopes for the night were in a shambles, as Tracey wasn't in an amorous mood. My revised plan wasn't going to happen tonight, as Tracey needed to cling to me and I wasn't going to be able to get away. No problem. I'd sleep tonight, and take care of things tomorrow night.

...oooOOOooo...

"Natalie, I have a present for you." Tracey and I went to her family house before they left for work the next day. "I want you to wear it all the time, ok?" That should be no hardship for her. What little girl doesn't want a necklace with a pink pony with a multicolored mane? "And listen, if you're ever in big trouble, like someone attacking you, hold the necklace and say, 'Harry's House'." This was a one-trip portkey. It had taken some work to disguise the magical pattern so the necklace would seem to carry only a cheering charm.

The Davises were late to work as Tracey and I related the night's encounter and I told them not to worry. I also told everyone not to say anything about any suspicions they might develop over what they saw in the newspaper.

...oooOOOooo...

Dobby helped me get to Malfoy Manor. Oddly, I'd never been here. I had expected to have to smash my way in during the war, but that fool Draco left his safe harbor on a mission. That saved me the effort of killing him for his many crimes against me and my friends, but denied me the pleasure of killing him for his many crimes against me and my friends.

My friend was essential for getting me in. He'd already checked that he was still keyed in to the wards. You'd think that, over the centuries that wizards have bound elves, enough elves would have been sold or freed that wizards would have it on their checklists to lock out elves once they'd left service. But pureblood, inbred wizards are stupid.

Dobby popped in and disabled all of the elves in residence — only one; the Malfoy family was coming down in the world — then escorted me in. This prevented the wards from sounding.

"Hello, Doucheus," I said politely as I petrified him in his reading chair. "Up a bit late, aren't we?"

Now I had a slight problem. I'd planned to show a bit of fang, maybe break an arm or two. Show him he was not safe from me even in his home. Explain to him that my girlfriend was off-limits in whatever game he was playing.

But now that I had him helpless in front of me I was suffering from some doubts.

Death Eater. Murderer. Kidnaper. Everything Mulciber was and then some. And a rich son-of-a-diseased-bitch who repeatedly bought his way out of trouble so he could go right back to doing it again.

"Dobby, we never did get you justice for Malfoy's treatment of you, did we? What do you think, would his ears make you a nice birthday present? Uh, no, I don't think chewing them off his head will work very well." We were working to a loose script, but sometimes Dobby scares me. "Look, Dobby, I need you to find out if anyone else is in the building. Go as fast as you can and come back here."

Even at elf speed he'd be a few minutes to check such a big house. "So tell me, Madboy, why are you trying to scare off the banking competition? To get even more money and power? Your master, you know, that half-blood whose toes you used to lick, is dead and isn't taking all your money any more. And you don't have an heir to leave it to, what with Dorko getting himself killed in his nice little white mask." Wow, getting angry there. He almost seemed about to break his petrification. Or himself, since the spell still had him locked up tight. And that gave me an idea. "And it's not like you can make yourself another heir, even if Narcissa hadn't gotten herself killed in her nice little white mask. How'd you manage to get her pregnant, anyway? Pass her around to your friends and expect that one of them would do the trick? Or did you just bend her over and pretend she was a little boy? Oh! That would explain a lot. You aimed wrong out of habit, didn't you? And that's why your precious darling Draco was always a little shit."

Almost there! Malfoy was straining so hard that there was actually a healthy color on his albino face. "And it also explains why you want to steal everyone's money with your bank. You need a lot of money so you can have someone invent a way to get little boys pregnant. You want a nine year old boy to be able to crap out Draco Junior."

Dobby popped in to report that the manor contained only one house elf, whom he'd handled, and a prisoner chained in the master bedroom. Good. In most circumstances I'd set monitoring wards all over the house so I'd know when to leave, and then free the prisoner. But ol' Lucius was almost done here.

"Dobby, I want you to loot the house here. Take everything valuable. You know what we're going to do with your money, Bad Aim? Three things. I'm going to pay for assassins to destroy all of the pureblood families in Britain. And I'm going to give money to all those poor pureblood daughters who will be on the street because their fathers and brothers were all killed. What does a pureblood girl go for now, a sickle a throw? I'll give some Muggles some wizard money so they can have fun, too." Malfoy's breathing was so fast and irregular it was no wonder his face was purple. "And here's the best part, you pathetic inbred. I'm going to use most of the money for scholarships to bring in all of the Muggle-born who couldn't afford a magical education. Just think, in ten years the number of adult wizards will double, maybe even triple, and all those Muggle-born will destroy your society."

Malfoy's face lost its purple color but his lips turned blue. I gave it another minute before checking. Yes, he was done here. Indeed, the tongue is mightier than the sword.

"You're not really going to do all that, are you, Harry?"

"No, of course not. Well, mostly not. We're going to rob Malfoy Manor, but not the rest." I didn't feel any guilt. The Malfoys were all gone. So were the Blacks. The closest relatives would be third cousins or farther. As a distant Black, I probably had as good a blood claim as any, come to think of it. I'd personally suffered by Malfoy's actions, starting with that stupid diary. And I could claim right of conquest, though it was questionable whether insulting someone into heart failure counted as a conquest.

Dobby set about looting the place while I set the wards and then saw to the prisoner. It was a naked boy, about ten years old.

Jesus. I'd just been taking cheap shots, getting to Malfoy. It never occurred to me that it was the truth.

The boy was unconscious and didn't seem like he was dying, so I let him be for the moment.

Dobby brought me to the captured elf. I wouldn't try to release him without Dobby to help. House elves weren't unstoppable combat juggernauts, but they were fast and unpredictable and could be dangerous and I hadn't practiced the spells for fighting and subjugating them.

"Hello. I am Harry Potter. Your master is dead. I didn't kill him with a spell. I think it was heart failure. However, he threatened my woman. Under the old rules, I am claiming his property by right of conquest. I order you to bond to my family." The formalities were soon done and Tapper was helping Dobby gather up the loot. His silence and obedience were now guaranteed.

The aftermath took the rest of the night but was straightforward. Dobby grabbed everything valuable and brought it to one of my warehouses. There was too much for the cottage's storeroom. It took him several trips, but it all worked out well enough.

The boy wasn't any trouble. He'd been obliviated until he barely knew his own name. He seemed to be a muggle, though I wasn't too sure of my spell work there. When we were done at the manor I apparated him to a hospital and left him at the emergency room with a scrawled note and an envelope of cash. It was the best I could do for him.

Dobby brought me the newspaper a few days later. Well-known mainstay of pureblood society Lucius Malfoy was found dead in his home, the victim of an obvious pre-Yule burglary. DMLE informed the newspaper that the thieves were probably near-squibs, as their heart exploder curse was barely strong enough to kill Malfoy. We join all the world in mourning this fine man's tragic demise. Ah, Daily Prophet, whatever would we do without you?

...oooOOOooo...

In January Walsh and I worked full-bore on last-minute details. He took time off from his day job and spent his vacation working hundred-hour weeks. In the beginning of the month we hired a manager to arrange for building rental, hire staff, and so on. His most important job to start with was to smooth the way with the ministry. Even if I managed to slip their grasp every time they went to grab me, they could shut my bank down in a week by confiscating every coin I issued, or even arresting those holding the coins as conspirators of a known criminal.

To that end, Gamp used his impeccable pureblood ancestry and contacts within the ministry to get us a hands-off policy so long as we didn't visibly break any laws. Gamp's ancestry and contacts didn't quite suffice, but a pouch of the galleons sitting in my basement did the trick. The cost was very reasonable, given that those lead galleons were practically worthless and, with luck, would soon be utterly worthless.

Dobby found me another elf. To start with, at least, we would use part of my basement as our vault. We trained the new elf to fetch and store customers' safe-deposit boxes, shuttle pouches of different currencies, and so on. Elves don't seem to have any real limit on the number of times they can pop in a day, so this was not only convenient, it was an extra layer of security. Anyone who robbed the bank would get only what was in the tellers' trays. And I was the only human who could enter the vault and live.

And finally, in mid-February, The Decent Folk Bank of England opened to great fanfare.

The less said about that day, the better. There were no great problems, but everyone in the world wanted to talk to me, shake my hand, get a little piece of me. When the day finally dragged to a halt, I went home to shake in Tracey's arms for an hour.

...oooOOOooo...

Even after the hoo-raw of Grand Opening died down, my presence was still required at the bank every day. Katrina, the receptionist, information desk, and appointments secretary, attempted to make appointments so I could come in just one day per week or a few hours per day, but tenth-generation purebloods and ministry department heads were not used to being told No by some young, no-family witch. I would have hired some old battle-axe as the bank's appointment secretary, but the truth was, I couldn't afford to alienate too many influential people. I ended up spending most of every day at the bank, studying when I could, meeting people and solving problems when I must.

One fine day Katrina told me that my business partners urgently needed to speak to me. Partners? I didn't have any partners. Walsh and I had talked about it, but for now he was simply an employee. Maybe it was representatives of some would-be crime lord, coming to deal themselves into my bank.

On seeing the two "partners" walk through my door, I would have preferred the representatives of a would-be crime lord.

"Weasley. Weasley. I can't say it's a pleasure, but it's a surprise. I thought you were done with me. In fact, I remember those exact words from Fred's mouth. What's it been now, almost two years?"

Yes, I was much more polite than might be expected. What can I say? I was in a very good mood after spending a night not sleeping much.

"I'm sure you're a busy man, so we'll cut to the chase. We need to set up an account to write checks for both Muggles and wizards."

"And we need a line of credit."

"George, your part, no problem. Fred, don't make me laugh."

"We don't want it, we need it. We bankrupted ourselves providing stuff to the ministry for the war. They didn't pay much over our cost, nothing like our retail prices. We went through that first thousand and all of our profits before then just to keep things going. Then, after it was all over, the ministry stiffed us."

"Cry me a river. Get back to me when the ministry not only doesn't pay you but tries to arrest you for winning the war. Now, do you really want a checking account, or was that just the hook so you could cadge money?"

Wading through the excessive verbiage, they did need a checking account. They had placed orders with Muggle companies for supplies and of course couldn't pay in galleons. But they didn't have enough money to be worth opening an account, let alone pay their suppliers. So Fred was somewhat right: they needed a loan in order to make their next batch of stuff to sell.

Setting aside personal issues, they were gifted inventors. And, in fact, they were a large part of my inspiration in inventing my own toys – most wizards simply used existing spells and potions without even considering making something new. Yet another similarity with Muggles: few people know how their television works and almost none could have invented it.

Making the Weasley twins a loan, at an appropriate interest rate, might be a good business decision. I could set aside my personal distaste for the family in the pursuit of profit. Hooray, I'm growing up.

The twins, never a pair to sit quietly more than three seconds at a time, couldn't just let me think this through. "If you won't lend us money, you can give us something else we can use. How about, how did you kill Voldemort? Maybe we can use that to turn a profit."

Plans for loans screeched to a halt. "Don't tell me, let me guess. The ministry has a reward for that information. Or did Dumbledore want you to turn it over for free, for the Greater Good? Get out. I don't deal with kidnapers or their lackeys."

...oooOOOooo...

I continued to study when I could, but the bank was taking up more and more of my time. Of the four sets of coins in circulation, only mine was backed by anything but air and promises. This led to more customers and higher demand, exactly as I hoped.

But something came about that I should have expected but hadn't. Because my coins were worth a fixed amount of basilisk venom and I would redeem it on demand, people tended to hold on to my coins, preferring to spend the "air and promises" money. "Bad money drives out good" had been explained in my reading, but I simply hadn't thought of it. Walsh hadn't either, though to be fair his education had concentrated on practical matters in the banking industry, whereas mine had been more theoretical.

After researching the topic and discussing it with Walsh, I decided to issue more coins. We were now up to four-to-one for coins issued compared to the basilisk venom I had in the vault. This made me a little nervous, but it was only a tiny fraction of the usual reserve ratio in Muggle banks. We wouldn't be in trouble unless there was a run on the bank, with many people demanding the venom for their coins. And if that happened we were in trouble anyway.

...oooOOOooo...

I was on my feet and running for my den before I had fully awoken. The intruder alarms had gone off in the middle of the night.

Sukki met me at the door. "It's ok, Master Harry. We got them all. Tapper is watching bad humans in the cells. Dobby is outside watching if more come."

The house wards had captured two of the intruders as they tried to enter. Dobby and Sukki had popped out and gotten the other four by slapping portkeys on them. All were awaiting my pleasure in the cells.

Note those numbers. My extremely effective house wards, among the best in the land, were less effective than two motivated house elves. Wizards are not only insane, they're stupid, using the species only as menials.

We kept watch the rest of the night, but there were no further assaults.

Come morning, good and tired and hungry and grouchy, I decided to see whom we'd caught.

"Hello, Bill. Miss Vance. Flitwick. I don't recognize the rest of you. Is this an Order of the Phoenix party, or just coincidence that the three of you are in on this?"

Profanity and threats came at me from all directions. Sheesh, two times I've had prisoners and two times they've been mad at me. You'd think they didn't appreciate my hospitality.

That was a joke, but not really. I've mentioned that the Blacks were paranoid, proficient, powerful, and pernicious. The house wards reflected that. Battering unwelcome visitors and throwing them in anti-magic cells was the least hostile the wards could be set. The default setting was lethal. The nasty setting was "wish for death".

So, the threats.

"You –" Bill had quite the mouth on him. Like his mother, but multi-lingual. "I stood up for you, told my brothers you weren't that bad. I should have known that my family was right about you. They took you in, treated you like family, and you betrayed them all like this. Don't think my mother didn't tell us what you did to her." From the other bits he spewed out, it was clear that Molly, Ron, Ginny, and the twins hadn't told him quite everything about their last interactions with me.

"Mr Potter, your murderous ways must come to a stop. It will be my privilege to destroy you for your unbelievable, heinous crimes." Flitwick was nothing like the jolly man I'd respected and liked at school. He was practically frothing at me. I wondered if some of the less kind rumors and jokes about him were true. If so, then he'd lost relatives at Gringotts and destroying me was personal.

"Dumbledore knows where we are, Potter. Do the smart thing and let us go before he has to come and smash us out." Interesting. One of the unknown wizards was more reasonable than the three who knew me. Maybe familiarity breeds contempt, or maybe his own personal ox hadn't been gored before coming here tonight. Nevertheless, being reasonable didn't mean he was right.

"Maybe you haven't figured this out. A world-class curse breaker got caught by my wards. And a professional duelist was captured without getting off a spell. Who is going to come in and get you out? And here's a hint, Bill. I've had a lot of house guests, people not related by blood. The wards were turned down as low as they go. I've turned them back up. Anyone who tries to break in now will die screaming."

There wasn't a whole lot of useful conversation. None, in fact. It was strange. Everyone in the world knew I'd killed Riddle. This group had heard Dumbles's suspicions that I'd done something to Gringotts. It was talked about that I'd somehow defeated a large ministry group sent to arrest me and made them all disappear. And even though my house elves had thrown these geniuses into cells, where they still sat with no magic available, they thought I was helpless to do anything.

"We're at an impasse, Potter. We trapped here for the moment, but you as soon as you open the cell doors we will get out and destroy you. And Dumbledore will be here any moment."

Flitwick had spent too many years teaching eleven-year-olds and away from the real world. At a flick of my finger, the cell blasted a stunner through him.

"Does anyone else have anything they'd like to say? No? That's fine. Dobby, bring me the veritaserum, please." Walsh had gotten me a wide variety of controlled potions, sub rosa.

It turned out that this was an Order of the Phoenix party, with the four members here being a large part of the remaining group. The other two were a hired curse breaker and a hired fighter. Dumbledore had sent them partly to break my bank — the combination of personal power, reputation (currently being smeared, but still favorable), and money would make me a threat if I were to turn dark.

The other reason was known only to Flitwick.

"Albus told me of the prophecy. You are fated to come in conflict with the leader of the other side and you have a power he knows not. Albus cannot risk fighting you until he knows the power. You are on the path to becoming the next dark lord. Mass murder is just the beginning and we cannot risk the leader of the light."

Typical Dumbledore. The magical world has several methods of detecting lies. I'd have to see if there was a way to detect half truths and misdirection.

There was only one more notable part of the interrogation, a funny one this time. I'd waited until Weasley's dose wore off.

"Have you been eating at The Burrow? Did you eat any of the pork that someone gave your family? Did you notice it tasted any different than usual? Did you know that I captured the entire group of aurors that was sent to arrest me? And did you know that human flesh looks and tastes like pork?"

Bill looked at me, aghast, before vomiting up about the last three weeks' worth of meals. Not a wise thing to do when you're on your back, bound to a table. I let him choke a few moments before cleaning up the mess and letting him breathe.

"Don't worry. It was just pig. But do you see how easy it is to fall for half truths? You need to be more suspicious when you talk with Dumbledore.

"Not that it matters. The bad news for you is, I can't afford to feed prisoners. The good news is, I'll be letting you go. The bad news is, I'm not very good at obliviating. If you live through it, you'll probably be drooling imbeciles. The good news is, don't worry, Bill. You'll still be smarter than Ron. And Vance, you're pretty good looking. I'm sure you can earn a living even if you can't dress yourself. That might even be a selling point in your new career."

There were more screamed complaints about my hospitality, but it didn't make any difference. When I was done, the elves put on disguises and brought the six to the St Mungo's lobby. I didn't want them to disappear. I could have use Draught of Living Death for that, or fed them to pigs. No, I wanted to deliver a message to Dumbledore.

Two important points had come out of the night. First, Dumbledore knew where I lived. That was bad. Even with the wards cranked all the way up, my house was not an impregnable fortress. I'd need to look at moving my household and the bank assets.

The second point was that Dumbledore was afraid of me. That was worse. Sure, it was ego gratifying to have "the most powerful wizard in the world" afraid of a teenager, but he was immensely powerful. His magical strength probably exceeded mine, he had deeply studied magics I had not even heard of, his political strength dwarfed mine on my best day, and he had a century or three of manipulating and dealing and getting his way. My only advantage was creativity not constrained by "the way wizards do things", and I couldn't see that being enough. If I couldn't persuade him I wasn't an enemy and I couldn't neutralize him, Britain was not a safe place for me.

As I pondered — let's be honest: as I worried — the alarms went off again. Someone had apparated onto the property.

Tracey awaited me down in the dungeon. Not exactly awaiting me patiently. Spitting mad, in fact. The broken arm might account for that. With my wards cranked up, even people on the access list were thrown into the dungeon if they tried to enter. With the Black Family Wards special battering, of course.

"Tracey! What are you doing here? I told Grammy and Nat not to come over. I'm having problems here."

"You're having problems? I came over to help and this is what you do to me? Let me out!"

I hastened to release her from the cell and to lead her from the dungeon, jabbering apologies and explanations as she spewed invective. I couldn't blame her for being angry. Sukki had passed word to Grammy and Nat not to come and Grammy mentioned it to Tracey, but the message had gotten garbled along the way.

"I have bone knitting potion, but you should be checked by a healer. Let me apparate you to St Mungo's."

"I'll do it myself! I don't need any help from you."

And with that she apparated out. And left her unbroken arm behind.

"Dobby! Sukki! Tapper! I need to leave for a while. I'm turning the wards back down to make sure no one else is hurt. If anyone else attacks, Dobby, you're in charge. Defend against casual attacks, but don't risk yourselves. The stuff here isn't worth it." Sighing, I apparated with the arm to the hospital.

Tracey's family understood immediately that I'd done my best to warn everyone away. She and I eventually worked things out. It seems strange to say, but I was almost glad Tracey stayed away for a week. I was desperately busy and, lame though it sounds, I needed work or sleep more than I needed sex.

...oooOOOooo...

"Potter! I've been trying to get in to talk to you but you've been ignoring me."

Great. My day wasn't bad enough. I'd just picked up my A-level results on the way in to my office in the bank. An Acceptable in History, failures in everything else. I'd known I hadn't excelled, but this was a dreadful shock. Too much time working, not enough time studying. I'm sorry, Hermione.

"I want a loan, Potter. A big one. You owe it to me, after everything you've done to me and my family. Dumbledore told me what you did to Bill. He's just like the Longbottoms now, you bastard! You owe us and you owe us big."

Was Dumbledore proud of himself, manipulating Ron Weasley? Why didn't he cheat a three-year-old out of her candy while he was at it?

"What about what you've done to me, Weasley? We can skip everything else and talk about you killing my girlfriend. You shot her in the back, Weasley. She was fighting Death Eaters and you shot her from behind."

"That was an accident! You can't prove anything else, even if she did throw me over for your money and fame. There was an investigation and everything." He got an ugly look on his face. "Not that DMLE would say anything else. It's not like she had a family, a proper wizarding family, to speak for her. And my father has been with the ministry his whole life."

I choked down my rage. After a few splutters, I got out, "Your father? Congratulations, Ron. You sound just like Malfoy now. Oh, wait, he's dead. Take the hint."

As Ron's face turned purple I ground my teeth. He was right. The ministry's managers were all from the same few families. A lowly mudblood had by law almost the same rights as a pureblood, but those rights often were not respected. And filthy muggles, like Hermione's parents, had no right at all to bring a complaint to DMLE.

I'd always wondered if Ron had intended to shoot Hermione. He'd never said anything before to support the suspicion, even when we were arguing right after the event.

"Now give me money, Potter."

Two years ago I'd let Weasley go, despite what I suspected. Two years ago I was comparatively innocent.

"You owe it to me."

In the past few months I'd killed dozens of men and women. Coldly murdered almost a dozen. Destroyed minds with uncontrolled obliviations. And nuked all of Britain's goblins.

"Remember, I was the first friend you ever had."

One more death would not stain my soul any blacker.

"You are not my friend. You are nothing to me. No, your family is nothing. You are less than nothing. If I ever see you again, I'll kill you."

I turned and walked away. I wouldn't murder if I didn't have to. But today it was a close thing.

Behind me I heard the start of a curse. I slid out of the way, not quite quick enough. A piercer was stopped by my armor but still spun me around.

Weasley's wand was still pointed my way.

"I see you."

...oooOOOooo...

The Daily Ploplet was in fine form the next day. Boy Who Kills! Skimming the article, I didn't see any mention of Hermione, only that I had been seen to argue with my best friend before starting a fight that left him dead.

Delightful. I'm so glad I never subscribed to that rag. Dobby had picked up this edition while he was out. He thought I should see what they were saying about me. Par for the course, really. Just recently I was a hero for feeding all of wizarding Britain in defiance of the ministry's well-intended but misguided restrictions on travel and commerce. Now I needed to be torn down. Standard British tabloid behavior, something else the magicals and muggles had in common.

The article said, accurately, that Weasley's body had been so badly transfigured, torn apart, and burned that it was scarcely recognizable as human, and not at all identifiable. Only the witnesses — of which there were apparently hundreds, though I wouldn't have thought more than a dozen would have been able to get a view into that side alley — were able to tell DMLE who was involved.

Although the way the arms had been switched, so he could shoot himself in the back for a change, should have given them a clue.

And speaking of DMLE, they hadn't shown up for the fight because they were now under-staffed and it took time to assemble a large enough team of aurors to come arrest me. But they were looking for me now, "with every resource at their disposal".

It didn't matter what the Prophet said or the sheep thought. The aurors were already under order to arrest me, and the ordinary wizard needed me and my bank and my loans more than I needed him.

...oooOOOooo...

As Winter melted into Spring, the banking business continued. Malfoy's bank, which had been taken over by the Greengrasses after his demise, folded. Who would have thought that there was no profit in putting your own wrapper on a galleon and charging a premium for the still-worthless lump of lead. The Fudge-Yaxley bank, which was doing the same thing, survived only because they made a deal that the ministry would pay salaries and expenses only in F-Y galleons.

As for myself, I spent more of my time at home or in the Muggle world. Bank business had smoothed out enough that I wasn't needed as much. And, while the aurors still didn't try to arrest me on sight, I faced much more scrutiny and hostility whenever I went out into the wizarding public. A few people had closed their accounts with my bank, but not enough to affect business. Our services were not available elsewhere, so customers stayed regardless of what they might feel about me.

So I stayed at home, puttering around a bit and taking care of my properties, but mostly moping and wondering what to do. This was my first down time that I could remember and I didn't know how to be idle.

"Higher, Harry!"

Fortunately, Natalie could always drag me away from my den and my doldrums. Swings don't push themselves, you know.

Tracey came over one evening bearing carry-out, new special-purpose clothing, and a determined attitude. She would cheer me up even if it took several fold-up paper cartons and prolonged bouts of nudity.

"You need a vacation, Harry. A real one, not the few days you spent with me. That was fun, but hardly restful. Your bank is running well now and you have money. You can take me to the beach in Egypt. I already checked. The weather should be warm and clear for the next week, so let's leave in the morning."

"And will you be sunbathing topless? I hear it's acceptable at some of the beaches."

My currently on-again girlfriend blushed and shook her head. Victorian morals.

It was fine. We'd have six nights in the hotel room, so it didn't matter that her new swimsuits were both full-coverage. Modest, too.