This one began after I posted a small comment introducing Death from Puss in Boots to the Harry Potter universe, and the combination was so much fun that I couldn't get the idea out of my head. It built and festered as they do, and well now there's this. I figure I'll prod at this one when I feel like writing at something a bit more mature than my other stories. I do have a plot in mind, so that's something.
Chapter One: The Toppled Prince
To a Gringotts goblin, nothing was more important than the security and welfare of the gold and other such valuables under their stewardship. It was the cornerstone of their whole identity, the first thing every witch and wizard thought of when considering goblinkind.
Not that they did so terribly often, mind.
Still, it was a point of pride, almost a vanity to know that even in spite of the poor relations between the two peoples in the past, wizards still trusted only goblins to look after their shiny bits and bobs. Perhaps it was the impartial nature of a goblin—they loathed each and every member of wizard society equally, after all—or maybe it was their storied ruthlessness that convinced wizards to set them as the attack dogs, ready to bite and chomp at anyone foolish enough to stick their hands in other people's coffers. Either way, if a wizard wanted their riches looked after, they turned to goblins, and the diminutive folk were only happy to oblige, for the right fees.
And nothing costed quite so much as the reallocation of funds.
"…seventeen ivory busts, assorted."
"Seventeen ivory busts, assorted," Trikgor muttered in response, pointing to each bust in turn as he counted them. "Seems a bit much, don't it?"
"We're not here to scrutinize some wizard's hoarding habits," Argluk chided him. His voice echoed slightly off the high wooden walls of the expanded interior of the caravan the pair were currently shuffling through. "We're inventory and transport. Six chests, hundred-thousand galleons each."
"Six chests, hundred-thousand galleons each," Trikgor said, tapping each with his pen. "Lotta money to hide in the basement."
"These old families, some of them still don't trust goblins," Argluk said. "Old patriarchs who inherited prejudices from even older patriarchs. Once they keel over, the youngsters don't want the pressure of looking after the family fortune, so it goes in the bank."
"And we've gotta move the stuff," Trikgor grumbled as they made for the rear hatch through rows of old and antique valuables.
"Oi, no grousin'," Argluk told him. "He's paying good money for this. And the caravan's being overseen by Gorshud himself."
"That supposed to make me feel better?" Trikgor scoffed. "That just means more scrutiny, you ask me. What's so special about this old geezer compared to the others?"
They climbed into a cool and misty morning, jumping from the hatch and landing in grass still wet with a morning dew. Together, the pair shut the twin doors of the old wooden wagon, sliding a latch into place before each snapped a heavy wooden padlock onto the metal bar. The two goblins leaned against the rear of the innocuous-looking transport, staring out over the grounds of the old manor they'd just cleared out.
"Supposedly some of his old books and such are important to the wizard-folk for some reason," Argluk said with a dismissive wave of his clawed hand. "Dunno. I gave up trying to understand that lot ages ago. I suggest you do, too. Only good thing about a wizard's his gold."
"Even then," Trikgor said, "the tender they handle, it always feels a bit greasy after it's been in circulation, don't it? Something on their hands."
"You're only right, you know," Argluk chuckled. "They've all got a smell to 'em, too. Not the babes, mind, but as they get older, they just start to ripen, and they get this foul odor."
"Humans are just unsavory creatures," Trikgor observed, staring into the sky. "…Where is the ponce, then? The retrieval team's due ten o'clock, ain't it?"
"Maybe he expects us to be patient for the Heir of Gringott," Argluk rumbled, speaking the title with no small amount of disdain. "After all, he'll be our boss in a few years."
"Not the best way to earn the respect of your subordinates, is it?" Trikgor scoffed. "Imposing yourself on a job and then making the real workers wait 'round for you."
"Oi, there they are," Argluk spoke, pointing a long finger up into the sky, where a pair of Abraxan horses was winging its way down to them. "'Bout bloody time."
The giant winged beasts swooped in and landed with an impact that Argluk felt even meters away. Upon them, however, were neither Gorshud or his delegations. It was a human, four of them, in fact—two sat astride each horse. They wore long hooded cloaks and strange masks depicting a grinning foxlike face with a long mustache and a pointed beard.
Immediately, the goblins sprang to alertness, axes raised.
"State your business!" Argluk spat. "What've you done with Gorshud!?"
"Oh, we brought him, don't worry," one of the humans spoke, a female from her voice. She turned to one of the lads on the other horse. "Show him."
The masked man shifted to grab a bundled sheet behind him, tossing it at the feet of the two goblins. As it rolled, the sheet came undone to reveal the lifeless face and blank, unseeing eyes of Gorshud.
"What—what have you done?" Argluk roared. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?"
"This," the girl spoke, holding out a strange metal contraption in her hand, like the stock of a crossbow but without the actual bow. Squeezing the trigger, there was a strange cracking sound before a white-hot lance of pain erupted in Argluk's chest, throbbing and shooting agony throughout his core with every pulse of his heart. A distant screaming he realized was his own sounded, and after a moment of disorientation, he felt something solid smack him in the back before he realized he'd fallen.
"Gk!" Argluk gasped out, his head lolling as he saw Trikgor limply land next to him, silent in a very final sort of way. Pain filled his being, clawing at him and attempting to wrest free another agonized shout, but his lungs had been emptied, and he couldn't seem to refill them with much more than short hitching wheezes that were growing warm and wet.
"Hitch up the horses," the girl told the others. "Let's get out of here."
"Y-you…" Argluk spat, coughing wetly. "You d…don't know what you've—caused."
That seemed to catch the attention of one of the males, who peered in his direction with a curious tilt of his masked face. Making his way over, he crouched next to the goblin, reaching up to push his mask away.
Argluk recoiled at what he saw as a haunting grin was offered to him.
"Don't I?" the boy asked, raising another of those strange weapons.
And Argluk knew no more.
…
Tick-tick-tick.
"Sod off."
Tick-tick-tick.
"Sod off," Dora grumbled into her pillow.
…Tick-tick-tick-tick.
"It is my day off, and – "
Tickticktickticktick!
"Oh, bloody fine!" Dora huffed, throwing back her covers and summoning every last reserve of willpower she had to climb from the cozy confines of her small but quite functional bed. Compounding her struggle was the chilling charm she'd placed over her closet of a bedroom, which had left the ambient temperature somewhere south of twenty degrees; an English summer it was, but it was one hot and humid, and now that she was living on her own, there were no dormmates, parents, or disastrous flatmates to complain about her preference for sleeping accommodations comparable to the interior of an icebox.
Tick-tick-TICK-TICK!
"I'm bloody coming!" Dora groused, stomping for her bedroom window and yanking it open to allow in a revoltingly wet wash of positively damp summer air, along with a great horned owl, which hopped onto the sill and proffered a leg. "I'll beat Alastor Moody with his own leg, I will. Thank you, bird."
The bird let an indignant hoot, as though offended it hadn't been offered even the slightest treat, and took off in a flurry of feathers that sent Dora's lamp wobbling. Shutting the window, she snagged up her wand and whipped it to refresh the cooling charm before flouncing off toward the loo with the letter in hand. Plonking down on the bowl she read:
Tonks,
Check the paper. We need you to come in ASAP. Hate to ruin your weekend, but this is a big one. Can't say much more in a letter in case the bird's intercepted.
Get here sharpish.
Moody
"So much for a lie-in," Dora grumbled, flushing and crossly going about getting herself ready.
Dora Tonks called home a sliver of a townhouse crammed into the middle of a row of identical ones. Narrow but quite deep, it took perhaps five big steps to cross from left to right. The upstairs was devoted to the aforementioned closet of a bedroom, a bathroom that was somehow even smaller, and her recently-vacated spare room which she was considering turning into closet space, notions of splitting the rent be dashed.
Downstairs, a miniscule kitchen still managed to accommodate all that Dora needed to prep a quick bowl of oatmeal (something she actually enjoyed when smothered with a proper amount of marmalade or fruit) or even a fry-up when she was feeling adventurous and had a fire-suppression spell ready. Through a small archway, a tiny living room was dominated by a large couch along with a telly tucked into a corner.
Magic or not, Dora was not about to go without her shows.
Settling onto her couch with a bowl of oatmeal and flicking her wand at the screen to get some midmorning news block playing, Dora ate with one hand and snagged up the Daily Prophet that had been pushed through her mail slot. The headline was certainly eye-catching:
Gringotts Caravan Robbed!
Sebastian Selwyn's Fortune Taken By Parties Unknown!
That was most definitely a shock; the number of Gringotts caravans that had been robbed in the last decade could be counted one hand. Security was so tight as to render even planning a heist a logistical nightmare—even finding out the schedule or location of a transfer was supposed to be impossible.
"Inside job?" Dora muttered to herself through a mouthful of oatmeal. That only made sense. Goblins were ruthless. But, no. A betrayal was simply nothing more than a death wish. Double-crossing a goblin was bad enough news for a wizard—for one of their own kind, the penalties were especially…penalizing.
Unless it was a martyr, someone aware of the consequences and perfectly willing to shoulder them in the name of a cause. That was a daunting prospect. Causes were dangerous, had a way of galvanizing the reckless and directionless, of giving them something to point toward, often with disastrous results. If it was a cause, Moody had every right to be twitchy over the whole thing, especially given that he seemed to know something the papers didn't. He very likely wanted her in the office before the papers did find out and blurted something out best kept secret in their race to be the first to a constantly-moving finish line, that in the race to sell issues.
Bolting down her breakfast with renewed vigor, Dora managed as well to burn her tongue on some scalding coffee before guzzling it down and then hurrying to dress herself. Noting that it was time to get some laundry done, she cast a scouring charm on the least-offensive outfit she could find and fell over twice while attempting to wriggle into a pair of rather snug jeans that were horrible to put on but made her legs look incredible.
Such was the price of looking good once in a while.
Speaking of looking good—fastening the jeans, she turned to study herself in the mirror, running a hand through long locks of teal that she was beginning to suspect washed her already pale face of what color it had left, giving her the sickly look of a zombie. She could of course use her metamorphmagus abilities to give herself a perennial tan, but it took work to keep such a thing up, lest it fade in mere hours. Maybe she could darken her eyes, have something to really pop against the pallor? Focusing on what she'd like to see peering back at her, she watched as cinnamon brown popped to deep blue.
Hm, that did quite well, actually. She had a heart-shaped face and a pointed chin, meaning she needed something in the middle of it all to grab the eye. Although, maybe a much darker hair color would…
No, she didn't have time to spend hours trying on faces. There was work to be done.
"Right," she muttered to herself, holding out her wand. "Accio bag."
Her bag flew to her hand, and she reached in to ensure her effects were all still in place before slinging it over her shoulder and heading for the door. Once she had stepped into some trainers (and laced them up with a wave of her wand), she waded out into the wall of sweltering air that awaited her on the streets of London.
Dora quite liked living in London proper. For one, it was close to work, and while Dora still had to apparate in, at least she didn't need to go far. Secondly, London was far from Mum and her overbearing influence; while she knew the woman meant well, she could be smothering at times—London acted as a buffer, the bustle and liveliness of the city often a bit much for Andromeda Tonks. While Dora thrived in the mayhem, Mum was perfectly content tucked away as she was in the quiet Suffolk countryside. This left their reunions under Dora's control, though she hardly let her mother and father languish without her. She visited at least once a month and always went home for Christmas.
After all, their lives were likely so empty without her; they needed a bit of her personal brand of chaos brought in every so often.
Striding along, Dora took a moment to feel the breeze in her hair, the sun against her face. Ministry workers by default spent most of their time away from any form of natural sunlight, deep underground as the Ministry of Magic was. The false windows did a fair enough job of replicating the real thing, but the fact was that there was simply no substitute for fresh air (even as damp and horrible as it was now) and real rays of light on one's face.
And occasionally a falafel purchased from the lovely couple in front of the convenience store two streets down from her flat.
Still, she could hardly walk all the way across the city to work, especially in the heat. Once she had finished her second breakfast, Dora slipped into the nearest Tube station, the distant rumble of departing trains mingling with the echo of footsteps as she ducked into a ladies' to apparate away.
Moments later, Dora arrived at the apparation point in the Ministry of Magic's atrium.
In her early days at the auror academy, the Ministry atrium had always wowed her with its grand feel. The high ceiling a deep twilight blue dotted with an ever-changing series of gold swirls and symbols, the constant burble of conversation of those coming and going, the steady wash of the fountain adding a droning background to it all—it all just felt splendid and a bit larger-than-life. Or, it had, once.
Lately, she found her eyes rarely drifted up to the fancy ceiling, and the glass windows peering into offices and corridors even caused her no small bit of apprehension. When her time as an auror was up—when she was grizzled and old and retired like Moody—did that await her? A desk, an in-tray, and days of paperwork and quill-pushing?
Not if she could help it.
Flashing her badge to the bloke at the security counter, Dora made her way to the lifts, and one slightly perilous ride later (the sudden movements and abrupt changes of direction often sent her nearly sprawling), she was stepping out and heading for the Department of Magical Law-Enforcement. As soon as she opened the door to the auror pen, a growl of a voice called out.
"Tonks, my office!" Moody's voice carried through the large room that held most of the auror forces, bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. The auror forces were only a few dozen in number, housed mostly in cubicles crammed into a dimly-lit room that always seemed to smell musty, like an old cellar. Some of the more senior and distinguished members merited their own office down the hallway off of the pen, a prestigious honor that carried with it a great deal of reputation. None deserved such a perk as much as Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, though some said that the office was just as much for the benefit of those newer recruits who found the mere sight of the storied veteran unnerving.
"'Bout time you got in," Moody rumbled as Dora made her way over.
"Yeah, how dare I have a lie-in on what was supposed to be my day off?" Dora drawled.
"Trouble doesn't take a day off," Moody shot back.
"I sure tried, though," Dora said, and Moody barked out a laugh, his scarred face pulling into an unsettling grin.
"Come along, then," he said. "I'll brief you."
Moody was equal parts a success story—the gold standard of everything an auror should aspire to—and a cautionary tale of what happens when one in their line of work becomes too invested in his job. Scarred, pitted, and otherwise all manner of haggard, the aging ex-auror had retired from active duty only when his prosthetic leg had begun to slow him down. Nowadays, he spent his time clunking around the auror offices, working cases passed from the DMLE and training the occasional "lucky" new recruit.
Like Dora.
"You saw the Prophet?" Moody rumbled as he stepped back to allow her into his office. Shutting the door behind her, he hobbled his way to his desk, settling in with a groan. He flung his leg up on another chair, shifting and prodding at it with a contemplative sigh. "Gonna rain, I expect. Always gets like this 'fore a good storm."
"I saw the Prophet," Dora confirmed, dropping into the seat opposite him. "Someone really managed to pull one over on the goblins?"
"Oh, that's only what the press knows," Moody said, glancing about. On top of one of his filing cabinets, his Foe Glass showed only nebulously shifting shadows, nothing even coalescing into a human shape. Likewise, his assortment of Sneak-O-Scopes lay dormant, not even lighting up. Apparently finding this satisfactory, he went on. "That wasn't just a bunch'a goblin brutes. One of 'em was Gorshud, son of Gorgott."
"Gorgott, the owner of Gringotts bank?" Dora asked, and Moody nodded.
"This was no simple robbery, I think," Moody said. "This was an assassination."
"Are you sure it's not just a—of course you are," Dora muttered. "No such thing as a coincidence, is there?"
"Not in our line of work," Moody said with a proud smile. "Won't be an easy sell to Scrimgeour, mind you. Not with Bones dealing with the fuss at Hogwarts and Fudge desperate to pretend everything's hunky-dory. I doubt he thinks goblin politics could affect the wizarding world, but it certainly could."
"How so?" Dora asked.
"Don't know," Moody admitted. "Not yet. That's why you're here. We need information. While everyone else is scrambling about worried about their gold getting nicked, you and I are going to find out what exactly might motivate someone to off the next in line to take over Gringotts."
"Is that our assignment?" Dora asked, and Moody fixed her with a look, his mismatched eyes (one a large and beady blue prosthetic) boring into hers.
"Your assignment is to assist and learn under me," he said, "and my assignment is often whatever the bloody hell I feel like doing. Is this in the books? No, not strictly. But in my time, I've found it's true what they say about asking permission and forgiveness. About the time these idiots realize something's amiss and needs looking into, the problem's either already solved or too out of control to fix. I tend to prefer the former."
"Then let's get a move on," Dora said. "And maybe grab some tea on the way."
"Good lass," Moody said, heaving back to his feet and snagging up his cloak. "I knew I had a good feeling about you."
And that, to Dora, was the highest praise she could imagine.
…
If one wanted to keep abreast of goblin politics and didn't fancy actually asking a goblin about them (which was a daunting prospect and also just as likely to get you stonewalled as blacklisted by goblin society entirely), there was a single other option available. To explore that option, Dora would have to pay a visit to her alma mater.
Hogwarts School had a timeless look about it. Thanks to a series of charms meant to prevent the usual wear and tear from weathering away at the building, it looked likely much the same as it had when it had been constructed, perhaps with the addition of a fair amount of creeping ivy and vines. Even the surrounding forest seemed unchanged, the trees already so large that any miniscule growth they'd undergone since Dora had first seen them was nigh-unnoticeable.
"It's a bit like stepping back in time," Dora said as she peered out the window of the carriage that had been sent for the pair upon reaching Hogsmeade. Across from her, Moody grunted. His real eye was fixed out the window, though unseeingly. His magical eye, however, spun and twisted about in its socket, obviously making sure they weren't about to be swarmed by werewolves or some beastie from the Forbidden Forest.
Or irate house-elves.
"Not all the same for me," Moody finally said. "That Whomping Willow wasn't there. Hagrid's little abode, either. Still, I get what you mean. Feels like the rest of the world just doesn't exist when you're here. Dangerous feeling, that. Sooner or later, it finds ya."
"Too right," Dora muttered.
The carriage slowed to a stop at the large grand doors of the castle, and they disembarked into a cool Scottish midmorning. A gentle breeze wafted the scent of greenery and the unmistakable aroma of the Black Lake across Dora's face, and she allowed herself a moment to be swept into the memories, into aching nostalgia. Had it already been five years? She wondered how little Marylouise Wainscott was doing. Goodness, she wouldn't be so little anymore, would she? She was a seventh year now!
Trying not to devote too much time to that thought, Dora followed Moody up the stone steps as the doors swung inward with a quiet groan. There to greet them was a diminutive man, barely standing to Dora's waist—and yet he carried himself with the utmost aplomb, standing as tall as he was able and greeting the pair with a warm smile.
"Alastor," he said. "And Dora, my dear, you've grown!"
At first glance, Professor Filius Flitwick was most likely assumed by muggles (and possibly most wizards) to be a little person. If one wasn't looking to make the comparison to a goblin, they would probably miss the fact that his arms were a bit long for his body and his nose bore the trademark hook shape of one of goblin ancestry.
In his own words, Professor Flitwick preferred it that way.
Still, even if he was only one quarter goblin, he apparently had full-blooded family that still kept in touch, and given goblins' love of sharing the latest news, that meant that was always well-informed on all matters pertaining to them.
That was important today.
"Thank you again for seeing us on such short notice, Professor," Dora said as Flitwick led them to his office. The castle was quiet around them, the Great Hall visibly empty through the doors off of the Entrance Hall. Classes were most likely in session, a thought that had Dora fending off yet another wash of nostalgic musings.
"I haven't taught you for five years, Miss Tonks," Flitwick said with a chuckle. "You don't have to call me that anymore. We're peers now, aren't we?"
"I don't think I'll ever be able to consider you a peer," Dora said. "You're simply on another level."
"Oh, tosh," Flitwick chuckled. "Now, what was it you wanted to speak to me about? Your letter was…rather cryptic."
"Yeah, Moody's good at cryptic," Dora said with a wry smile at her mentor.
"I'm not dead yet, so it's working, innit?" Moody growled.
Flitwick led them to his office, a large and spacious room comfortably lit by a bank of windows in the wall opposite the door. The furniture was all ornate and dark wood with shiny leather upholstery, reminding Dora of the few times she'd accompanied Mum to meet with one of the many Gringotts bankers in a back office. Perhaps Flitwick ordered his furnishing from the same place they did?
"Please, have a seat," Flitwick said, making his way around a small but ornate desk to climb into a chair. The two aurors sat across from him as he studied the pair carefully. "Tea?"
"No, thank you," Moody said. "We're only here to ask you a few questions. Pertaining to a case."
"Well, anything I can do to help, I'd be glad to," Flitwick said. "What sort of case is it?"
"Officially, the story is a robbery," Moody went on. "Someone went after a Gringotts caravan, intercepted it, made off with the entire Selwyn family fortune."
"I read about that in the Prophet," Flitwick nodded. "It's…highly unusual. In all my years, I've never heard of someone even figuring out when a caravan was running, much less actually managing to best the guards. It's a not inconsiderable amount of money."
"We think the robbery might not have been the primary motivation," Dora said with a look at Moody, who nodded at her continue. "We think they may have been after one of the guards, a goblin named Gorshud."
"…Gorshud," Flitwick said, and from his tone, the name absolutely meant something to him. "The son of Gorgott. Is he…?"
"He was killed in the attack," Dora said. "I…don't know if the two of you knew each other that well."
"He's actually something of a distant cousin of mine," Flitwick said, folding his hands contemplatively on his desk. "It's how I've stayed so ingratiated with the goblins despite being only one quarter myself. I'm a distant relation to the Gringott line."
"And would there be any ramifications to his death?" Moody asked. "Any goblin politics that might go off?"
"Plenty," Flitwick said with a humorless chuckle. "Gorshud is the only son of Gorgott, the head of Gringotts. To wizards, that might not seem like much; surely there's someone else who can run the bank. But to a goblin, the Gringott line and Gringotts bank are the very foundation of society. It's only because their kind rallied around Gringott that they were able to organize and become more than a bunch of greedy savages who terrorized wizards and muggles alike. Ever since its inception, Gringotts has followed a strict line of succession. The first male heir becomes the head of the bank and the de facto leader of their society."
"The head of the bank is their leader?" Moody asked with a wry snort. "Sounds like goblins."
"Indeed," Flitwick said, and maybe Moody didn't spot it or didn't care, but Dora heard a small note of exasperation at Moody's blanket statement. Still, the comment was allowed for the moment. "If there's a goblin equivalent to the royal family, it's the Gringott line. They're respected and deferred to by all of goblin-kind. Their decisions are final, their policies are as law to the people."
"And the crown prince was just killed," Moody surmised.
"Essentially," Flitwick nodded. "But there's a complication."
"Do elaborate, if you please," Moody rumbled. The professor surveyed them over steepled fingers, the long digits ending in slightly thick nails that spoke yet more of his goblin heritage.
"Generations back, the Gringott line instituted a policy, the Rule of One," he said. "There would only be one heir to inherit the throne, so to speak. Too much infighting otherwise, brothers going after brothers wanting to be head of the bank and call the shots. It didn't happen often, but when it did, goblins went to war."
"And it's never pretty when goblins go to war," Dora said. That much she had at least gleaned from her sleepy History of Magic lessons.
"The old saying goes, 'War is the norm, peace but a breath.'," Flitwick said, a faraway look in his eyes. "War is a goblin's natural state. Peace had to be learned…with difficulty. In any case, the Rule of One held for many, many years. The Gringott line produced many fine female heirs, brought plenty of big names into the family. But there was always one male, and then that was it. Until Balgott the Burly begat twins. Males, the both of them."
"What became of them?" Moody asked.
"Gorgott eventually went on to succeed his father," Flitwick explained. "Had Gorshud, and things were just fine for a time. His brother, Aggro, had no interest in the throne, in the job and its accompanying responsibilities. He simply wanted to start a family and run a goblin security company. And he ended up having three sons, all of whom grew up coveting what they believed to be a birthright that had been stolen from them. You see, Aggro had his little brood quite early, and they were all close to Uncle Gorgott. Until Gorgott had Gorshud."
"Then he rather ran short on time to spend with his nephews, I expect," Dora surmised. "So not only did they lose out on spending time with their favorite uncle, they find out it's because he's spending time with his little prince."
"That's a motive if I've ever heard one," Moody said. "One of Gorshud's cousins had him offed."
"I very highly doubt that," Flitwick said with a shake of his head. "In fact, I'm sure they're scrambling right now to ensure no one has any grounds to accuse them of it. If any of Aggro's sons is found to be connected to the killing, their claim to the throne loses all legitimacy. It was part of the agreement between the brothers Gorgott and Aggro. No, right about now, I'd say all three brothers are now readying themselves to contest the throne, and depending on how that ends, wizard society could be in for quite a change."
"What d'you mean?" Moody asked. Flitwick fixed him with a thoughtful look.
"You know, I thought this conversation seemed familiar," he said slowly. "I had this very same talk—of goblin politics and Gringotts as the cornerstone of their society—with a student only last year. She seemed rather interested in it. Fascinated, even."
"That didn't strike you as odd?" Moody said.
"Well, she was an odd girl," Flitwick admitted. "Always going on about strange made-up creatures and these wild conspiracy theories. I don't think…she was terribly well-thought-of among her peers. She attracted her share of bullying."
"Where is she now?" Dora asked with a frown. She'd gotten the occasional bully in her time—more an upstart "popular girl" picking on her for her more alternative dress sense, but ostracization was what it was. Not very much fun and an isolating feeling.
If she could help a girl feel a bit more accepted, that would be better than anything she did as an auror.
"I'm afraid she's…missing," Flitwick said with a frown. "She was among the Ravenclaw girls that disappeared near the end of last year."
The case was familiar to Dora; it had been quite an uproar at the Ministry last summer, given that a couple of the missing girls had parents working there. With no leads, no witnesses, and no hint of where they could have gone, however, Madame Bones seemed to have hit a dead end.
It was tragic.
"Well, what's her name?" Dora asked. "We need any lead we can chase down, and maybe her father can shed some light on her little goblin fixation."
Flitwick let a wry laugh at that. "I wouldn't bank overmuch on that," he said. "Her father is Xenophilius Lovegood."
"Oh, bloody hell," Moody rumbled.
"My point precisely," Flitwick said. "But, if you'd care to ask about, her name is Luna. Luna Lovegood."
…
"Luna."
"Not now, Sir Thomas," Luna said, staring rather intently at the kettle. "The Earl Gray is nearly finished and must be steeped for precisely three-hundred and twelve seconds."
"I only wanted to congratulate you on a job well done today," Sir Thomas spoke, his cordial tones and velvety inflection always so pleasing to listen to. Was it perhaps because he didn't have an actual voice and thus lacked the potential imperfections one might encounter while speaking? Luna didn't really care to devote much thought to the matter, simply because it was trifling to do so.
And she didn't abide trifling thoughts.
"It was rather a successful endeavor, was it not?" Luna asked. Two-hundred and eighty-six, two-hundred and eighty-seven… "We've stirred them up. There will be no settling—not after this and quite especially not after what's to come."
"Are you excited?" Sir Thomas asked, and Luna glanced up from the kettle—two-hundred and ninety, two-hundred and ninety-one—into his beady black eyes, which were actually just buttons, sewn onto a fairly well-made stuffed bear crafted from what had clearly once been a Slytherin uniform jumper.
He even bore a little green and silver tie, which Luna thought made him look smart and well-put-together.
"It will be lovely to see Guy happy," Luna said with a fond smile. "He's always been quite sour."
"He should smile more, should he not?" Sir Thomas agreed. "If he only had more to smile over."
"We'll give it to him," Luna said with a rictus grin of her own, one that split her face and pulled painfully at the scars over her right cheek. Daddy had given her those scars, because Daddy was bad and awful, because Daddy would rather try to wish the world something different than what it was, to live in his fantasy and pretend what was real was fake and what was fake was real. Two-hundred and ninety-eight, two-hundred and ninety-nine. "We'll make him smile and laugh and be as free as we are. And then, Sir Thomas, everything will be good and everything will be right."
"They'll try to stop us now," Sir Thomas told her in cautionary tones. "Now that we've acted, there will be those that attempt to put an end to our mission."
"I hate that word," Luna said as she stared contemplatively at her teacup. Three-hundred and three, three-hundred and four. "This isn't a mission, this is nature, roots and vines growing through the cracks of their perfect streets and their control and their pretend. And it isn't right to pretend away reality. A mission is…grasping and cloying. We're prying their grabby fingers away from the ball of mud they've taken hold of and letting it glop away like it should."
"What an apt metaphor," Sir Thomas complimented her.
"Thank you!" Luna said cheerily, another grin sending a jolt along those scars. Daddy lies, Daddy hurts, Daddy burns. Three-hundred and ten, three-hundred and eleven… "The tea!"
"Now!" Sir Thomas said with an amused little chuckle, and Luna giggled gleefully as she whipped the teabags from the pot, springing to her feet and spinning her way across the tearoom in a pirouette that sent her frilled skirt flaring around her. Pausing near the bin, she dropped the teabags into it and pulled a bow while Sir Thomas whistled appreciatively.
"Encore, encore! Bravissimo!"
She whirled her way back to the table with another bubbling giggle, sipping at her tea while beaming across the table at Sir Thomas. Just a bear, so many called him, a tatty old handmade thing hardly worth a sickle. And yet, he'd been Luna's first friend, the first person to listen to her, to help her and encourage her. Tea parties with Sir Thomas had been the only respite to her hellish school life, and Luna had lived for those moments when she'd been able to slip away, to don her tiara and listen to Sir Thomas's warm and caring words.
And then they had been joined by another lonely soul.
The door to the tearoom opened, and in strode Guy—his name had used to be something else, but he didn't like anything that had used to be, including his name. Now, he was Guy, and Luna thought that that name was just as good as any other, after all. He wasn't wearing the mask he liked so much, which was nice. His face was shocking to some, but it was real where a mask was pretend, and it isn't right to pretend away reality.
But Guy liked to wear masks on their outings, and she liked Guy, so she put up with it for a time.
"Tea?" Guy asked, his voice its usual flat tone. Guy was mercurial, a word Luna really enjoyed using. Sometimes he bore all the emotion and inflection of a marionette with a particularly apathetic puppeteer at the strings. Others, he was as wild as an inferno, raging and burning all in his path. Luna felt that both had their merits and that both were the essence of what Guy was. Two opposite extremes, colliding in a coiled storm of a person. At any moment, it seemed, he could go off like a lightning bolt.
Snickering at her own little joke, Luna poured a measure of tea into three cups, sliding one to Guy and one to Sir Thomas. As Guy plucked his up and took a calculating sip, Luna watched in anticipation. Finally, Guy gave a satisfied nod.
"Perfect," he said, and Luna felt a triumphant swell in her chest. She loved when she got the tea just so. Guy rarely smiled (unless he was in one of his moods, but that was a manic thing), but when it was just the three of them and a well-prepared tray of tea, this lovely and contented look played on his face.
Luna couldn't get enough of it, and she did her level best to earn it from him as often as possible.
"Have we learned of Gorshud's funeral yet?" Guy asked, and Luna shook her head.
"Not yet," she said. "Knight and Bishop are looking into it, but you know how goblins are."
"I do know how goblins are," Guy said with a frown.
"Goblins are vicious selfish beasts good only for sowing discord and destruction," Sir Thomas spat.
"That's hardly polite, Sir Thomas," Luna said.
"Goblins are a symptom," Guy said cryptically. "What a world they expect us to participate in when they tout magic as their great equalizer and then hide the real power behind gold and honeyed words."
"Well spoken," Sir Thomas said. "And what do you do to such a world?"
"Expose it," Guy said, having produced his mask and now holding it in one hand to study the grinning visage. "Let them see how hollow it all is. And then watch it crumple."
"And burn what's left," Luna added. "To beyond ash."
…
"This will slow the progression of the curse and keep the damage confined to your hand, but…there is no curing what has been done," Severus intoned gravely, his dark eyes boring into Albus's. "The dark magic was too powerful. If you had gotten here only minutes later…"
He left the rest unsaid, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Albus already knew how close a brush with death he'd had, however. In fact, it was hardly so much a brush as a stern battle that he'd not even won. Things had only been…postponed.
"How much time do I have, Severus?" he asked quite calmly. His casual tones seemed only to incense an already vexed Severus even further. Though his face was impassive, behind his eyes, the man's thoughts were a tumult of rage, of disappointment—this had not been the plan, and they both knew it.
But Albus had been a fool.
"A year, perhaps a bit longer," Severus said. "Albus – "
"Thank you, Severus," Albus said, coolly cutting across whatever thinly-veiled admonishment his Potions master could have had to offer. "If there is nothing more, I would like some time to recuperate from this ordeal. It would seem I have only a short time to put my affairs in order."
"You – "
"Thank you, Severus," Albus said, now injecting a hint of warning into his tone; this was hardly the time for bluster and fury, for straining their relationship when cooperation was paramount more than ever. "We will discuss this more tomorrow. For now, I feel in need of a rest."
"…Yes, sir," Severus ground out, turning sharply on his heel and whirling from the room with a billow of black robes. No doubt, he would stew and fester in his quarters before packing it all away behind his emotionless mask, per usual.
Severus was excellent at compartmentalization.
Once the door had clicked shut behind the livid Potions Master, Albus was left alone, staring down at his blackened right hand. Upon his finger, a simple golden ring glinted innocuously, set with a carved black stone emblazoned with an all-too-familiar symbol. As of several minutes ago, the stone now also bore a crack, a hairline fracture splintering it down the middle. Nonetheless, this did nothing to temper the power of the Deathly Hallow.
The Resurrection Stone…
Technically, he mused, this meant that he had all three in his possession. The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility, the lattermost of which he had sadly never had a chance to return to its rightful owner.
According to popular theories amongst certain circles, he was now the Master of Death.
Even as he pondered these words, a sudden chill engulfed the room, guttering his candles and leaving him at the mercy of the moonlight spilling in the high windows of his office. As Albus reached for his wand, a haunting whistle filled the air, a tune that sounded both mournful and expectant.
A dirge…
Taking up his wand, Albus stood, glancing about the office. Fawkes had gone, off to deliver a message to Minerva and yet to return. The headmaster was alone, for the moment.
Although, not entirely.
"Buenas noches, Albus," a quiet rumble of a voice spoke, nearly a growl with a curious Spanish accent lilting his words. Turning toward the source, Albus at first saw only a set of gleaming red eyes glinting out of the darkness. "Or should I say…Maestro? Congratulations. You're the first in a long time to get your hands on all three."
The figure stepped forward into the moonlight, which disappeared into the black of his cloak. A tattered thing that hung nearly to his feet, it did nothing to obscure a set of digitigrade legs ending in a wolf's hindlegs. Under the hood, those red eyes gleamed, but protruding forth was a long snout, teeth currently bared in what looked to be a grin of some sort.
"You take the form of a wolf?" Albus asked.
"It's been a…favorite of mine recently," the wolf spoke, loping slowly toward Albus's desk. "Forgive me. I suppose I prefer a bit of pageantry every now and again. Lately it's been all a bit repetitive, reaping after reaping. You've been keeping me quite busy, after all."
"How could I have done so?" Albus asked. "I prefer not to kill."
"One doesn't have to kill to be responsible for a death," the wolf spoke with a leer. "You've proven that time and again, Albus. Inaction, irresponsibility…ineptitude. Quirinus Quirrell didn't have to die. Nor did Ginevra Weasley, poor niña. Sirius Black, Barty Crouch, Cedric Diggory, just what do you have to say for yourself Albus? Why hold onto mi varita if you're simply going to wave it about to conjure tricks! Sooner or later, mi amigo, you should have known I would want to come play fetch…"
"This doesn't mark me as your master, then," Albus surmised as the wolf finally reached his desk, towering over him.
"Many have pretended themselves mi maestro over the years," the wolf spoke. "They may even hide, for a time, under my cloak. But no one, not even your Tomas will escape me. No one…masters…me."
"Then why are you here?" Albus asked, and the wolf rumbled forth a chuckle.
"Haven't you heard?" he asked. "Death follows the holder of the Hallows. Not some perrito trailing his master, but as the hunter, circling, waiting. And you, Albus, won't be keeping me waiting very long, will you?"
He gestured to Albus's withered hand, still clutching his wand. At the sight of this, the wolf let another low laugh.
"And don't get any ideas about using my wand against me," he said. "That would be…necio."
"And what happens now?" Albus asked. "I've a year left of my apportioned time, don't I?"
"Si, correcto," the wolf admitted. "I could, of course…take you now. After all, I've been following in your wake for years, waiting. But…for now, I suppose I will continue to do so. After all, you're in for quite a year. Watching you struggle, watching you claw what you can from your remaining months… Será maravilloso."
"Then I hope you enjoy the show," Albus said. "In the meantime, may I?"
"Si, si, perdóname," the wolf said with a gesture of his arms that unfurled his cloak and allowed Albus a glimpse of his lashing tail. "Hasta luego, Albus. I won't be far."
He stepped back from the desk, turning and seeming to melt into the shadows with another rendition of his whistled tune. As the last echo of the song faded, the candles in the room flared up once more, though the chill lingered, no matter what Albus did to attempt to warm up. Despite himself, despite the fact that he endeavored to maintain a composed demeanor in all things, Albus's hand shook as he held the wand, and not simply from the lingering cold.
A brush with Death, indeed.