Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone

Chapter 14

The streets of Underfoot bustled like an upturned anthill, if anthills were vast and noisy and lit by a combination of phosphorescence and torchlight. The light glittered off steel every few minutes as another armed guard clattered up the broad, winding road to Gringotts. Knots of goblins aggregated on every street corner to speculate. Their faces covered a spectrum of emotion from fear to anger.

Harry sat slumped in a hollow of bluish-grey rock where the garden met the back wall of his foster-parents' dwelling.

"It's all my fault," he insisted. The words were a hiss modulated by Parseltongue and repressed tears.

Prettyroot rolled her eyes, a mannerism she had picked up from the goblins. "Of course it is not your fault. The goblins who took you into their nest knew what they were doing. They knew better than you, a mere hatchling, and still do. You are upset because your nest is in turmoil. Allow the adult goblins to handle it."

"But everyone hates me."

"Harry?"

The boy let his snake companion slither up his sleeve and rubbed his red eyes, avoiding his foster father's face.

"We're going to-" Badluk stopped, then knelt down and carefully touched the boy's cheek. "How did you get this mark?"

Harry sniffed. "Somebody threw a brick at Grimzap's f-father in Diagon Alley. They don't know if he'll wake up again. I- I told him I was sorry. It's all my fault!"

Badluk regarded him for a while, expression unreadable, before speaking.

"It may have happened because of you, but only indirectly. Everything affects everything else, you know that." The goblin's thin but strong arms wrapped around his foster son. "You can be sorry that it happened, but you have nothing to apologise for, Harry. These things do happen and will continue to happen. The world continues to spin. Grimzap should not have lashed out at you, although I understand why he did."

Harry looked up, scowling. "It's my fault, Badluk. That's what everyone is saying!" His voice broke slightly. "There's going to be a war because of me!"

Badluk mirrored Prettyroot's eye roll exactly. "Everyone is saying that, are they? Everyone. Manager Spinkrod and Pegworts the Locksmith and Cousin Grimrut have sent you messages to that effect, yes? Dukbadden and Old Mother Blagwed have stopped you in the streets to say it, I expect. Your friend Buvolok told you this through the medium of song, and young Shutz through interpretive dance, naturally. This is the case, yes?"

Harry's hands gripped his knees until his knuckles were white. A sudden breeze curled out of nowhere and shook the pale leaves of the herbs in the garden around him.

The goblin's hands shook him gently. "Brother Harry James Potter, listen to me. Do you know what happens to goblins who do start rebellions or wars against wizarddom? Years later, they are lauded as heroes. The fact that there is not, in fact, going to be a war because of you should be a considerable disappointment to your childish ego."

Harry didn't seem to appreciate this. His mouth was set in a hard line, and the pebbles in the garden were beginning to quiver and rattle in response to his uncontrolled anger.

His foster father released him, and looked at the boy with an uncharacteristically deep scowl. "Stop that. Loss of control is weakness. Seize the hammer by the handle, and stop crushing your thumb with childish pettiness. Harry, listen to me. You are a Brother amongst Brothers, and we would fight to the end for you. I fully expect that slights will be made against you that will be recorded in the Scroll of Grudges some day."

Harry's eyes widened slightly at this; the garden calmed around them as the storm of magic he had been gathering died away.

Badluk nodded slightly in approval. "Now. I came to tell you that Sibilig and I will be in meetings for some time as we deal with this problem that has arisen. Do not try to wait up for us. No fires, fights or foreign snakes in the house. There is sliced mushroom and dried bat in the coolstore. If we are not back by tomorrow, you are to stay with Blagwed's brood until one of us comes to find you."

Five minutes later, Badluk was hurrying up the wide paved underground road towards the bank. The steady stream of armed and armoured goblins made way for the manager.

His step faltered slightly when the thump, thump, thump of the drop hammers and blast furnaces began, signalling the opening of the armouries buried far beneath Underfoot. It was a purely precautionary measure. Nobody really knew how bad the current climate might get, and how fast.

Clawed hands gesticulated wildly, as if conducting the orchestra of stray papers and flying spittle that accompanied the spectacle.

"Do you have even a passing familiarity with the term sunk costs?"

"We have to at least consider-"

"-if we could be sure he would go a suitable family, but-"

"-without even getting into the question of security. Ridiculous! I will not allow it!"

"Sibilig, I do realise that you have become emotionally invested-"

"-could ask Dumbledore, but he has made his position reasonably clear-"

"Just because Filius says-"

"-threat of open rebellion-"

"-Bagnold-"

"-get the boy to speak-"

"-no mere legal challenge would-"

"-Dumbledore-"

"-one hair on his head, and-"

"-outright war-"

King Gurmsalt scowled and banged his empty coffee mug against the marble table, hard. On the third repeated downstroke, the smiling goblin face with the whimsical inscription Number One Boss shattered into hundreds of pottery shards.

The room quietened, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him.

"Bogripple," the elderly goblin said pleasantly, "Perhaps you could remind us of the contingency plans."

The taciturn Manager of the Information and Veracity Department pulled a piece of paper unerringly from the middle of the stack in front of him, and glanced down it as he collected his thoughts. "We always knew that word would spread at some point. We had intended to be the instigators of it, of course, but planning for the best case leads to collapsed tunnels and broken spears."

He dropped the paper back on top of the heap, and stared around the table. His fellow Councillors were fearful and angry. Unduly so, he hoped.

"Allow me to explain something about the society of wizards."

"Bad business, dad." Bill Weasley gloomily poked his wand at the fire which smouldered on the hearth of the silent Burrow. It spat a thick jet of sparks up the chimney in response.

Arthur Weasley peered curiously at his oldest son. "Did you know about the whole thing, beforehand? From the goblins?"

The young curse-breaker grimaced. "Yeah, I found out almost as soon as Tollens swore me in. But I was under goblin-oath, like everyone else. The only reason we can talk about it now is that it's common knowledge. I haven't actually met the sprog, but I've seen him from a distance. He looked happy enough. Pale, but I suppose he spends all his time below basement level."

Arthur sighed. "Your mother was beside herself when the news broke. She doesn't think the goblins will raise him properly."

Bill frowned, and jabbed at the fire again. "Goblins... they've no love for wizards, it's true. None at all. That's not a society you'd want a lad to grow up in. But I do trust them, in a funny way. I'm dead certain they wouldn't hurt a child... and I don't see them giving him up."

Arthur sipped his tea and glanced at the strange, luminous hands of the kitchen clock. They told him that it was almost midnight and that his twin sons, wherever they were, were 'up to no good'.

"The Ministry has been inundated with owls, but there doesn't seem to have been real trouble over it yet. What do you suppose will happen?"

Bill scratched at the stubble on his chin. "There's been a lot of talk about rebellion. The Dark families are kicking up a stink, of course. People are throwing their support behind this new candidate. Some people're saying they're going to take their gold out of Gringotts, too. But that's mainly down at the pub, and the biggest talkers are also the biggest drinkers. I don't think the bank will lose much business. It's not like they have any competitors."

Arthur's nod was barely visible in the darkened room. "True enough."

"Some of my co-workers have been talking about quitting, but the long-term contractors aren't fazed at all."

Arthur sighed. "It's a pity they pay so well."

"I'm not quitting, dad."

"I know. But your mother- well, never mind. Do the goblins have any news on Black's escape? I haven't heard a whisper for the last-"

He stopped when Bill suddenly sprang to his feet, pulling something from beneath his shirt: a dragon's fang on a thin golden chain. The younger man's empty tea cup clattered across the floor. "Sorry, dad. My buzzer's going off."

Bogripple leaned forward. "Wizards are fickle. They are only concerned with what is in front of them. Veneer over brickwork, floor over foundation. They are pathetically easily distracted."

Disapproval flashed in the goblin's dark eyes. "Malfoy is clever, of course. He timed his announcement perfectly for The Prophet. Our timing will be similarly perfect. The Evening Prophet has only about a seventh of the readership, so although I am having the clerks submit letters to the editor, I think we will stay our main move for a while."

He smiled thinly. "As a bonus, this will also give us cover of darkness. Now, I have already taken the first steps towards damage control. Our few loyal people in the Ministry have already been given the appropriate instructions. And our dozens of disloyal ones have been given the appropriate bribes and threats. It remains..."

A goblin had slipped in through a door at the back of the room and made his way to the table, shrugging an apology for the interruption. "There is a small mob at the main doors. Fifteen to twenty, most of them inebriated. They are not attempting to break in but they are attracting attention."

"Aurors?" Gurmsalt snapped.

"They have not arrived yet."

Bogripple impatiently waved the serving goblin closer. "We have heftier boulders to hew. You. Bring unto us the Scroll Of Grudges. Quickly."

The young goblin went pale. "Me? But you don't... you can't mean... the first edition?"

Bogripple's face cracked into a deep scowl. For some of the Council, it was the first time they had seen any break in the head spy's calm façade. "Not the first edition, you rock-polishing whelp! The latest volume! Bring it to us! Now!"

The lackey wheeled, and ran off.

Bogripple's fingers flew through his stack of papers, fetching out various documents. "Grimcrok, please have Teuyork assemble his ...usual team. They can requisition whatever they think necessary."

"Will that be enough?"

"No. We'll split them up into several groups for the field, and bolster them with reinforcements if there is an error. Shindig, how many of your human curse-breakers and warders are in the country and not on active contract?"

"Roughly two dozen."

"I want you to contact all of those whose loyalties you are sure of, and bring them in indefinitely. On double overtime. Sibilig, I want your senior trainers in, too. They may have contacts I am unaware of. Director Gurmsalt, you look a little dehydrated. I would ask that you leave the room and spend some time locating yourself a glass of water."

While the other goblins were still reeling in their seats at the idea of paying double overtime, Gurmsalt maintained his level gaze at Bogripple. "Plausible deniability?" he asked.

Bogripple said nothing. The goblin king left the room.

"Group one. Move out."

The mixed group of humans and goblins finished dividing themselves into pairs. Each of them looked tough, capable, and hardened to the problems of the world. After a moment, they disappeared from the Gringotts foyer with the whiplash crack of side-along Apparition.

Bogripple, cradling a thick book under his arm, turned to the remaining crowd, who gathered closer to listen to him.

"Group two. Teuyork, you're in charge." He handed a scroll to the goblin in question. "Ziffinok with MacHardie, Kripburn with Joyner, Raknulf with Weasley, Harragarg with Bell, Teuyork with Meredith. Any objections, leave now."

The various sorcerers milled about and found their places.

Bogripple paused, looking at faces. "Weasley, how old are you?"

"Uh. Just shy of twenty, sir."

"Switch with Hedges."

A grizzled middle-aged wizard took the redhead's place beside the goblin Raknulf.

"Group two. Move out."

The crowd cleared a space so that the second group could Apparate away. The remaining goblins and wizards seemed to be the younger ones.

"Getting soft in your old age?" Sibilig murmured to her fellow manager.

Bogripple sneered. "He shouldn't be party to this. He is a liability. Nothing more."

"I see." A smirk danced on Sibilig's face.

"It is only that I tend to forget how slowly wizards mature. I'll put him in the last group, yes?"

"Yes."

"The 'routine' part of this routine ward maintenance call is now over. By the terms of your Magical Oath," Teuyork intoned dully, "You will now close your eyes and cover your ears. Alternatively, you may disregard this order and permanently leave the employ of Gringotts, as well as the world of the living."

The dour goblin waited as the humans all firmly closed their eyes and blocked their ears. The faintly-glowing nets and spiral shapes of strong magical wards hung in the air all around them, held open by magic that arced from staff to staff. Three wands were stuck in the ground next to a cube of dull stone, holding a complex knot of power in place. The wards were twisted around the entire agglomeration in eye-watering ways.

Teuyork stepped carefully across the ward-line, walked up to the large house, and sent a thin black rope snaking up the outer wall. He climbed up after it, becoming just another shadow amidst the strands of ivy.

The goblin sorcerer found the right window, took his short staff from the sling on his back, and silently melted a small hole in the glass. He poked the wooden end through the gap.

"Sla-vakk gimeirdio."

Blood splattered across the panes.

As flames danced through a pub in Hogsmeade, the first screams and shouts broke the silence of the night.

"Imperio."

Bill Weasley, feeling a tap on his shoulder, hesitantly opened his eyes and brought his hands away from his ears. Dekkdja the goblin sorcerer had returned, bringing somebody else with him. Bill blinked with surprise as he recognised the flamboyantly-robed man standing vacantly in front of them. He appeared to have been drenched in beer; malty foam was dripping out of his blonde hair.

Dekkdja snapped his fingers impatiently to get Bill's attention. "Do you have the Apparition co-ordinates for the Swansea Dragon Sanctuary?"

"Er, yes. Sir." Bill's gaze flickered again for a moment to the bedraggled human peacock. "My brother actually showed me around there just a couple of months ago, before he left for Romania..."

Long fingers dug into his arm. "I do not care, Weasley. Farrington. This smiling blonde idiot has agreed to help us out tonight. Grab him and take us there."

There were a dozen thick doors between the ready room and the passages of the Unfathomable Maze which blocked the way to Underfoot. Each door opened with a different sign or charm. A dozen others lay between the wide, low-ceilinged ready room and the Gringotts main foyer. The Floo places there were shut off and guarded by goblins with bright steel halberds and crossbows. There was a pair of security trolls held at the ready in an antechamber, too, and the bank's dragon handlers had been placed on alert.

Nobody was expecting trouble of that magnitude, but there was no point not planning for it. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

The roar and clatter of the war foundries beneath Underfoot were a faint stuttering hum, this close to the surface.

The ready room was the closest thing to neutral ground for Gringotts' goblin and human employees, a dark stone wasteland of low tables and dart boards, where abandoned coffee cups lay like rare white blossoms. Over the past day-and-a-half it had become a sort of hub. It was an eclectic bunch who filled it, and despite the tension in the air, the rather stilted relationship between the humans and Brothers had relaxed just a little. A few foreign diplomats of various shapes and colours were dotted throughout the throng. There were a few members of the ICW whom the goblins had hastily invited, as well as the normal range of foreign goblins and other nonhumans visiting Gringotts.

Harry was sitting under Sibilig's watchful eye and talking to the youngest curse-breaker he had ever seen. The people around him were smiling as much as they were frowning, and none of his goblin peers were here to give him dirty looks, and he was relaxed enough to ask questions of this William Weasley.

Bill grinned at the young boy's unquenchable curiosity, then self-consciously stopped in case he was showing the wrong number of teeth and unintentionally challenging the nearest goblins to a fight to the death, or something. He sipped his coffee, surprised how at ease he was feeling despite all the higher-ups who had accrued in the room. Many of the bank managers were here, and had dragged tables together to make temporary offices.

Harry Potter was entirely unlike what he had expected. In fact, he barely acted like a child at all, from the snake weaving around his arms to the expression on his face as he asked about the goblin-oath... and wizard transportation and why it rained and what Hogwarts was like and why exactly were there patterns in timber that corresponded to how old a tree was?

Bill answered as best he could, sipping coffee as the throng of people murmured around them. Most of the other warders and curse-breakers were also drinking coffee. Some had been up all night, others had been roused from their beds in the early hours. A few bottles of bakh and Butterbeer were being passed around the room, and one senior sorcerer on Manager Bogripple's staff was cooking porridge over a conjured fire. Bogripple himself, sitting in a corner amidst the stacks of paper that two other goblins carried around for him, had a glass of distilled water at his knee. King Gurmsalt, who was speaking quietly to some junior clerks, had expressed a preference for tea boiled black in an old boot.

Everyone who was anyone, and a few more besides, were hanging around the ready room, many with dark rings under their eyes. Most of them had nothing to do, but information was trickling here fastest, so here they were. A Greek centaur in a toga stood out the most as he debated with a small man with a fussy moustache who worked for Grimcrok's debt collectors. Attention still tended to flicker, though, towards the talkative child with the dark hair who sat in the middle of things.

Every now and then, a goblin slipped in with a newspaper or letter or spoken message. The goblins were using Bogripple as a weathervane – or in their parlance, a gauge-for-the-temperature-of-iron. As the hours dragged by and the Information Manager seemed to slowly brighten up, the room became more cheerful, bit by bit.

Somebody was whistling like a kettle boiling, one long barely-modulated note. Others argued quietly. In the corner near the door, a toothless old goblin worked on a small marble sculpture of a chariot, her chisel tink tink tinking against the stone. The guards nearby maintained their crossbows.

Dawn came and went, far above, and the world continued to spin.

Copies of the Daily Prophet appeared almost as soon as it was printed, and one quickly found its way into Harry's hands. He spread it out on the floor so he could manage the large sheets of paper, and looked at the front page.

The wizards were still making much of the fact that he was a ward of the goblins. The picture alongside the story was a photograph of a small group of protesters outside Gringotts, two human Aurors half-heartedly waving them away from the building.

All this, though, had been pushed down below the headline story – a pureblood lord had been brutally murdered in his bed the previous night. A picture of him in Wizengamot robes – pre murder, of course – scowled out from the page.

The story about Harry wasn't continued until a few pages later. When it was, there were a surprising number of quotes from minor celebrities and Ministry workers coming out on the side of the goblins. Harry recognised the journalist's name; it was someone he'd been introduced to last night in this very room. The editorial alongside it was rather nasty, using words like 'abduction' and 'travesty'. Harry was only a little upset; it was basically what he had been brought up to expect from wizardkind.

The first few pages of the paper were filled with dramatic pictures of a building consumed by an inferno, and a naked man running desperately from an angry dragon. The man's hair was on fire and every so often he would shoot sparks wildly from his wand in the general direction of the dragon. Harry read the accompanying story with interest.

"Why would he do that?"

Bill Weasley, reading over his shoulder, looked uncomfortable. "Lockhart? Well... he's apparently done a lot of reckless things, fighting monsters and subduing magical animals and so on. Might be best not to wonder why he was so agreeable when we came to get him."

Harry frowned. "When you came to get him? The newspaper says he got drank and broke into the dragon sanctuary himself."

"It's 'got drunk'," the man corrected. "Well, he certainly looked it, yeah. And yes, we helped. Have you met Malloc? The wizard with the dreadlocks? He took the pictures. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was a dare, or maybe Dekkdja paid Lockhart to do it."

"'Beer' is shedaal, yes?" Harry asked. "It's a type of gritakkik? I mean alcohol?"

"Um. I think so. My Gobbledegook isn't great, yet."

Neither Sibilig nor Badluk drank. Harry opened his mouth to ask more about alcohol and Mr Lockhart and the conjunction of the two, then thought better of it. He'd ask Badluk, later. Hopefully the answer would be more than 'there are factors at play', which was all too often the answer to the most interesting questions.

Bill smiled faintly as the naked man in the photograph stumbled, waved his wand ineffectually at the dragon, then jumped in the air and clutched at a smoking portion of his anatomy.

"It says here he's in a 'critical condition'. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Oh... It means he was pretty badly hurt." Bill's smile faded, and he bit his lip. "After he caught on fire, we had to knock the dragon out. It took almost all of us to subdue it, even with Brown, and he's an amazing wizard. I don't think Lockhart really had a chance. Anyway, we made a run for it since the rangers were on their way. They took him to St Mungo's to be treated."

Harry frowned. "Made a run for what?"

"I mean we legged it."

Bill saw the frown deepen. "It means 'escaped'."

"Oh. I see. And St Mungo's is where the healers come from, yes? The ones with the green robes, with their prodding wands?"

"Ha. Yeah."

The frown deepened. "So... it was a diversion. Just for the newspapers."

"Yeah, I think so."

Sibilig leaned over to Harry and murmured something to him in Gobbledegook which Bill didn't catch, but the boy looked less upset afterwards.

"That's pronounced 'diversion', by the way," Bill added, not completely comfortable with the conversation. "The 's' sound changes to more of a 'sh'."

"I read English much better than I speak it," Harry allowed, distractedly shaking his pet rock worm out of one of his sleeves. Her small, scoop-like wings tangled for a moment in the lining before she tumbled into his lap and hissed reproachfully at him.

Bill cleared his throat and reassured him in the goblin tongue. "It i vêry ĝôôd. Prôbably bêttêr than ôthêr§ yôûr aĝê, mô§t. Mû¢h bêttêr than my ôwn ôthêr lanĝûaĝê. Yê§?"

"Your Gobbledegook is the worst I have ever heard in my life," Harry said solemnly.

The goblins kept their doors closed all day, but managed draughts, deeds, cheques and small sums by owl post. In the ready room, Manager Grimcrok gloomily calculated their lost business on a pair of abacuses. Manager Flattaks clinked her glass against King Gurmsalt's mug, celebrating the fact that they had avoided a run on the bank. The latest news said that the protesters on the street above had faded way to a handful of malingerers, too.

Bogripple spoke what they were thinking aloud. "Pressure in various quarters seems to have been fairly successful. We will see what happens next."

Beside him, the Head Clerk cracked his knuckles. "Do we know when we will open again?"

King Gurmsalt shook his head wearily, and closed his eyes. "Not today. Hopefully tomorrow."

"I'll stand down the evening clerks." The goblin scuttled off.

There was a brief lull around them. Bogripple watched the ready room with the faintest of smiles. Then he leaned back until his head brushed the stone wall, and recited quietly from memory.

"Perpetrator: Gilderoy Lepus Timothy Lockhart. Grudge: false claims made to the detriment of the Brotherhood. Perpetrator: The owners and financial backers of the Three Broomsticks Pub. Grudge: theft of land, and three hundred and seventy-eight years of unpaid interest. Perpetrator: Morroceros Biela Nott. Grudge: three unpunished murders of Brothers, two verified and one suspected."

He plucked the bookmark from the tome that lay in his lap. "Let red ink strike out their deeds."

If a war was fought, it was a war of attrition. The opposing side, although they did not know they were fighting, was a loose alliance of the wizarding media and the fickle minds of the public.

It wasn't a dramatic war by any means. Measured in blood, it barely tipped the scales to 'skirmish'.

It wasn't dramatic, but it was effective. A core tenet of the Brotherhood was to use what one had, and the goblins had cunning in spades. Interesting and distracting news continued to fill the newspapers. When the doors were opened to the Aurors and lawyers sent by the Ministry, members of the ICW were present at every meeting. When Gringotts opened for business again, customers found surprisingly reasonable interest being charged on new loans, and pleasantly low bank fees.

A battalion of goblins in gleaming armour discretely lined the walls of the bank.

After several days, an election was called, and wizards turned to the polls to let their upset be heard. Normally the new minister would not be elected for months, and actual control of the government would change over with the new year. As it was, with Bagnold's resignation, the reins were handed to her successor immediately.

Inside Gringotts, many more meetings were held. The managers took to having their meals served there instead of at home.

A half-planned trip to the grand and terrible Seelie in the Spring was postponed. Harry Potter would not be travelling outside the safety of the bank for some time – even if he would actually be more inaccessible somewhere like the Holly Mound.

...If not 'safer', per se.

After that indefinite postponement, conversation turned to Lord Lucius Malfoy, who hadn't made a public appearance for several days.

Flattaks quoted aloud from the original newspaper article.

"I still cannot believe this man. 'Fortunately, I had several opportunities to meet him, and my concerns grew each time. A young boy of a Noble family, an icon of the Light in what have been troubled times' … 'inexcusable that he could not even be raised by his own kind. While I hesitate to use the word feral' … 'the animal cunning in his eyes worried me' ... 'imperfect understanding of English' … 'to the outrage of every right-thinking citizen in Wizarding Britain' … 'violence almost inevitably instilled in him by a culture with fewer morals and lesser ideals than our own'..."

She threw down the paper in disgust. Gurmsalt looked calmly across at her. "The man is modestly cunning. We know this, yes."

"His political gain is obvious, assuming Fudge has been groomed as his pawn. His ideological gain is more difficult to quantify," Bogripple said idly, staring at the ceiling. "Perhaps he seriously thought we would be swayed to hand over Harry Potter. Perhaps he intends to mould wizarding perceptions of the 'Boy Who Lived', so that in their eyes he truly becomes a goblin."

"Feral," said Grippflag.

"Cunning," suggested Shindig.

"Violent," grinned Badluk.

Gurmsalt scribbled a note down. "Perhaps we will introduce Harry Potter to their society, then, to plane down some of these terrible aspersions."

"He is hardly an archetype of a British wizard," Bogripple warned. "They will see that he is different, and much will be made of those differences. If he is lucky, he will be 'other-worldly'. If he is unlucky, he will be 'contaminated'."

"Pah. He will never be a paragon of normalcy. He will never be what they want him to be. It is better they find out now, before he goes to the Hogwarts school."

There were shrugs all round.

"I want to know how Malfoy found it out."

"Bagnold."

"Perhaps, but I do not think she would have let such detrimental information slip, even if she was somehow unaware the man was backing her main opponent."

"In fact," Gurmsalt said, "I'm not even sure she knew Harry was with us ahead of the news breaking. I am quite sure Dumbledore knew of it, and reasonably sure that Lady Bones did, too. But the rest of the Ministry really had no clue."

The goblin managers considered this.

"Something Harry let slip, then."

"I suspect so," said Pogsheen of the Tax Department, flashing her metal teeth around. "But really, it cannot have been all that difficult to deduce even without talking to him at all. I am actually surprised the secret lasted as long as it did. Returning to the topic of Malfoy's gain..."

"Yes. He must have calculated the benefit and loss as worthwhile."

"He is an idiot wizard, and he would fear us taking his gold."

"Yes."

"Yes. He must have some plan to keep his wealth intact."

Grimcrok, the scarred and one-eared head of the Debt and Recovery Department, checked his notes. "Lucius Malfoy has put his own curses on his family vault, as per the 1888 Meckerley Option. Any nonhuman touching it will turn to dust. Anybody who bypasses that enchantment will find themselves petrified and the vault emptied of air."

The other goblins gaped at Grimcrok.

"He thinks that would stop us?"

Bogripple cleared his throat. "A month ago, he removed many heirlooms from his vaults. At the same time, he substantially increased his investment portfolio, removing a lot of the liquidity we had access to. His deeds remain in our hands, but I hardly think the human Ministry would make him give up his estates should somebody else turn up with those deeds and no record of sale. An accurate summation would be this: the amount of gold he has in our vaults is rather substantial, but at least two-thirds of his actual wealth is safe."

The elderly Wurmspitz tapped his chin thoughtfully. "He did not actually seem very outspoken in that Prophet article. I heard much, much worse in my time working the tills. Perhaps he could be induced to come out more in our favour."

"No. I think that was simply more the wizard's manner than any actual reticence on his part," Bogripple said. "My secretaries have no record of him ever speaking rashly. However, given his girder-of-iron commitment to his pathetic ideologies, I suspect he would not be amenable to blackmail or bribery."

"Fine. So it would be difficult to attack his wealth. What of his person?" Flattaks asked bluntly.

"Speaking hypothetically, of course, I suspect we could penetrate his defences. After all, Gringotts contractors laid the original wards at Malfoy Manor. But I would be surprised if he were even in the country at the moment. Besides, suspicion would fall on us if anything happened to him."

There was silence for a while.

"And, of course, he is our biggest client."

"Yes."

"Yes."

Gurmsalt placed his palms on the table. "This is ridiculous to discuss. We would be breaking the 1865 Accord and numerous others if something 'happened' to him." He cut one of the managers off with a glare. "Even if it were made non-obvious. Seizure of his wealth would be nothing less than an act of war. We seem to have staved off one war this week. Attention has moved on from us a little. Why push our luck?"

"So the offcut is untouchable," Sibilig growled.

"Yes," said Bogripple. "For now. But in the future... we might find an interesting way to exact punitive measures."

One by one, the other goblins turned to watch him.

"Dumbledore! I say, Dumbledore, are you there?"

The Headmaster looked up from his paperwork and stifled a sigh. It had now been exactly a week since the landslide election of Cornelius Fudge to the position of Minister Of Magic, and every single day the new Minister had called on him for help. Usually two or three times.

The problem was that Fudge had gotten the position on the backing of the old Pureblood crowd – Malfoy, Nott and Flint chief amongst them. Many of them were Lords or Ladies, but hardly any of them actually worked for the Ministry. Old blood, old money. Most of them were gentlemen of leisure. They did nothing so menial as work. And so they were of little practical help to Fudge, who himself had been sequestered in the Department Of Magical Games And Sports for a decade before spending just one year in the Wizengamot. He had originally been elected as a Warlock by the tiny county of Sparking Heath. Now he was in the deep end.

Dumbledore wondered exactly what the man's various secretaries and subordinates did all day. It seemed to be taken as given that only the Head Warlock could be depended on to do or know anything that remotely involved governance.

Dumbledore got up and knelt creakily in front of the fireplace, which was flashing green. With some effort he injected a little twinkle into his eyes, and accepted the fire-call.

"Good day, Cornelius. To what do I owe this latest pleasure?"

"It's Harry Potter."

Dumbledore's eyes became a little more focused. "Oh?"

"Harry Potter and the goblins, Dumbledore! I met with their head chappie this afternoon. Forgot to ask you along when I called this morning. I had that Mockridge fellow from the Goblin Liaison Office translate. I had to keep telling him to talk tough, it's the only way to make them listen. Spoke in English, of course, so they wouldn't understand. Total fiasco, though, the head gob wouldn't do any more than shake hands. And when they let me sit down they gave me the worst tea I've ever drank, tasted like tree bark. Had to spit it out. They went on and on about the law this and their rights that, gabbling faster than Mockridge could translate, and didn't take kindly to it when I told them that the law can be changed! I tell you, I came in hoping to have a proper dialogue about returning Harry Potter to a real home as soon as possible, and by the end of it one of the bleeders had drawn an axe on me!"

Dumbledore fought a nearly overwhelming urge to drag his hand wearily down his face.

"Absolutely Mockridge's fault, of course," Fudge continued. "I'm thinking of replacing him. That Cresswell chap is meant to be a rising star. You recommended him originally, didn't you? Anyway, what I need is your help negotiating, Dumbledore. You speak their mumbo-jumbo language, right?"

The Headmaster's wand hand twitched, and he paused before answering.

"I'm quite fluent in Gobbledegook, yes, Cornelius."

"Well you can come with me next time, I hope. I need your support in the Wizengamot, too. Nobody wants another goblin rebellion, but we have to get the Boy Who Lived out of there! I campaigned on that, of course, but it's really the principle of the thing!"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "It will certainly be good to get him back to his family."

The jowled head in the fireplace stared back at him blankly. "I thought he was the last of the Potters."

"Oh, quite so. I meant his family on his mother's side," Dumbledore explained. "The Dursleys. They're not magical, but-"

"Muggles? Muggles, Dumbledore! The Boy Who Lived, brought up by muggles? Oh, no, there's no way the public would like that! If it weren't for them being family, that'd be no better than the goblins, really! No, indeed. I've asked around, and several reputable old families have already offered to sponsor the boy. Jolly good of them."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed a fraction. He had more than an inkling of exactly which families might have offered to take in Harry Potter. He could even picture the extremely earnest looks they would have had on their faces when they spoke to Fudge.

"Well, you must be careful not to rush into something like this, Minister," Dumbledore said, rapidly changing tack. "You excelled in History Of Magic, if I recall. You must know of the consequences – the sheer casualties – when goblins rebel. I'm afraid I must be frank. It would be political suicide if you got yourself drawn into that sort of situation."

Fudge's face went from preening to pale in a matter of seconds. "B-but that's why I need your support, Dumbledore! To keep the Wizengamot in line – if we present a united front, they'll have to give him back, and we can put him where he belongs..."

"I would advise you to let things settle, Cornelius. After all, he'll be at Hogwarts in a year, so-"

"Dash it all, Dumbledore, I won't last a fortnight if I don't get him back, let alone a full term! Lucius was telling me there's rioting in the streets about it! Everybody's up in arms, from what I've heard!" Fudge looked uncertain for just a moment. "I'll think about what we can do, but I expect you to help us stand strong. Full session on Tuesday, Dumbledore, and I need a topic for a speech then. Leading issue of the day and all that. Can't stop for tea, sorry, I'd really better get going. Still have a pardon and a stack of bylaws to sign. Good evening!"

The sickly green bowler hat floated in the fireplace for a few seconds before disappearing after its owner.

Well, that was as fruitful as ever, Dumbledore thought. Fudge seemed to swing wildly between complete obstinacy and complete pliability. In fact, 'I'll think about what we can do' was actually the best result Dumbledore had achieved so far when the man was being stubborn.

Merlin knew how he had managed to get elected. Maybe he talked so much that people had stopped listening to what he actually said.

Albus Dumbledore stood wearily, and summoned his travelling cloak. He had a king to visit.

Bellatrix Lestrange hobbled outside the prison on one foot that was not so much broken as mangled. Her eyes went to the grey skies and black seas that skirted the island. Laughter caught in her throat and faded. She could have stared at that sight for days, but she knew she only had an hour at most before her absence would be noted by the unsleeping guards.

It was a short crawl down the boulder-strewn slope to the huge, rough waters of the North Sea. The rocks were knife-sharp where they had shattered against each other. Her arms and legs were bleeding heavily before she was halfway to the shore. She didn't notice.

In summer, the tumultuous sea could be described as 'freezing'. Now, with midwinter approaching, 'deadly' would be more apt. If it wasn't for the wave movement and the salt, Azkaban would have been surrounded by a mat of solid ice. A human in the peak of fitness would not survive long in that water in winter. Someone suffering from Dementor exposure, and with only one good foot? The idea was laughable.

This was of no concern to Bellatrix.

She struggled to an upright position against a slab of stone. The weight on her shattered ankle caused several shards of bone to break through her skin, but she barely even noticed. The spell-resistant shackles gone, she felt the tug of her magic for the first time in years.

She might not have her wand, her sanity, her health, or a single happy memory. But as the most trusted lieutenant of the Dark Lord, there had been nobody better for him to teach one very special power.

Bellatrix Lestrange spread her arms and flew.

Author's notes:

→ Thanks for all your reviews. They were instrumental in avoiding various plot pitfalls when I was writing this chapter. Even pointing out spelling errors is helpful.

→ For those of you keen to get into the Hogwarts years, they're drawing close now. There'll probably be just a few more vignettes of Harry with the goblins first.