Heirs of the Founders

by Animekitty2

A more mature, knowledgeable and motivated Harry Potter goes to school. His fated encounter with Hermione Granger comes sooner as they share a compartment aboard the Hogwarts' Express during their first journey to school. With greater self-confidence, the muggle-born and halfblood will start the long needed reformation of the magical world, hand in hand. HP/HG/DG/LL/OC

11. Chapter 11

Heirs of the Founders

Author's notes and stuff:

Sorry for the delay but the time between this and my previous update coincided with my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, which -as odd as it might sound- took precedence over my other creative endeavors but that's just half of my excuse. The other half came when I realized that, while writing, I was writing a very pivotal chapter. It seemed each chapter arch led to another chapter arch that was followed by yet another arch -and so on- until this chapter got so big that it gave birth to a baby chapter that -had I not stopped myself- would've likely had this chapter's grandchapter. Knowing that I was overdue on my not so rigid update schedule I figured my fans -who I really appreciate- had waited long enough; especially after the very positive reception of my previous chapter.

Adieu for now,

Animekitty2

Obligatory blah blah blah:

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

Chapter Eleven

The first Saturday of the new school year dawned with—as was its wont—the sun rising majestically against the Eastern horizon. The early long shadows, retreating, as the day grew brighter, slowly drew back the curtain of night that fought to remain pooled in deep crevices and tarns scattered about the valley and the many corners and alcoves of an ancient castle's profile. This unfolding drama of the eons performed countless times but never repeated had a larger audience this morning; a bushy-haired bundle of nerves with sleep deprived hazel-eyes. Turning from her dorm window vantage Hermione glanced at her unmade and barely slept in bed to and quietly slipped from her room. She returned in less than ten minutes, tiptoed past her sleeping classmates and reached her bed. Quickly and quietly, she dressed in her workout clothes, put on her runners and softly padded once more across the dorm.

"Granger," a half asleep Lavender Brown mumbled, "wha's ya do'n getting up so early; it's Saturday morn'n for Merlin's sake, doncha wanna have a bit of a lie in, it's no' like we have any classes today or tons of homework to ge' done."

"I guess I'm just a morning person," Hermione said quietly, "I hardly ever sleep in; I guess I'm like my parents that way."

"Muggles are weird," Lavender muttered inoffensively.

Morpheus reclaimed Hermione's year-mate and the bushy-haired brunette slipped from her dorm without waking any of the other young witches. Down the hall and descending the stairs, she found Harry waiting in the common room.

"G'morn Mione," Harry greeted as his piercing emeralds studied the young witch, "don't take this the wrong way but you're looking pretty rough this morning."

"Couldn't slee . . ." her answer interrupted by a huge yawn, "s . . . sorry Harry; too nervous."

"Calm down, Mione," he said; completely forgetting telling someone to calm down almost always had the absolute opposite effect.

"Harry, I'm meeting your advisers as Hermione Granger, the Lady Matriarch not Hermione Granger, The Vassal," she said. "I've done nothing in my life—not even playing a little lamb in a Christmas Pageant—to prepare myself to be at or near the center of attention."

"Hermione, how 'bout this," suggested Harry, "think of the meeting-room as a classroom and the people you face as teachers; you're never shy in class."

"I'll t . . . try, Harry."

"Good girl," he said with a smile that set her heart aflutter with something other than anxiety, "now, let's see if we can burn off some pent up anticipation by getting our hearts beating and our blood flowing."

She was certain—kinda certain; or was that disappointed?—that Harry was speaking of their morning exercises. Either way, that didn't stop her mind from wandering pleasurable avenues, which were far more enjoyable manifestations of anxiety than brooding self-doubt. Embracing the inner glow offering her distraction, she joined Harry at the exit and followed him through. The portrait swung closed behind them.

"Saturday mornings too?" The fat Lady said in a prissy huff when she recognized the exiting Gryffindors and turned away from them.

"Are we being shunned?" Harry said through a series of uncontainable sniggers that went a long way to soothe Hermione's butterflies: the nervous kind, not the other type; those remained fluttering very actively.

"Looks like; hope she'll let us back in later or we'll end up looking like Neville the other day, when he had forgotten the password."

"You know, Mione, I really don't get magicals," Harry said, holding her hand as they walked, "don't you think they'd think of a more secure method than passwords. Let's face it, passwords can be overheard and glamours or potions can mimic the look of another, if looks are even used as a secondary level of identification. I'd use magical signatures, if it was me; even identical twins have different ones, like their fingerprints but better because not even magic can duplicate another's signature."

"I'll add that to my list of things that are stupid in the magical world—number three: are witches and wizards too dumb to rethink things?" Hermione said, probably louder than she should've.

"I heard that Miss Granger," came a squeaky, yet amused voice from the bottom of the last flight of stairs. "Need I remind you that you—young lady—are a witch; you just slandered yourself—do you want to sue? I know a few good lawyers if you need council."

"Good morning professor," Hermione and Harry said together and smiling.

"You must know what I mean professor," added the hazel-eyed witch.

"Unfortunately, of that, I'm all too well aware and have seen far too many examples of it," Professor Flitwick concurred, "even amongst my Ravenclaws; they might think deeply and logically about magic but seem completely oblivious to the society they live in and never think to question it. This mindset is even adopted—usually by their fourth or fifth year—by the muggle-born sorted to my house. I can kinda understand it but it still leaves me a bit disappointed; especially when I think about what's coming and how unprepared most of them will be when it arrives."

"I don't understand, professor," Hermione questioned.

Professor Flitwick gave Hermione a long longing look and once more wished he'd been gifted with such a clever witch. Why does Gryffindor always get the really good ones? First Lillian Evans; now Hermione Granger—Lily's son would've been a nice addition too, he thought wistfully before answering. "Things didn't change because they didn't need to and until fifty years ago or so there were no outside forces precipitating societal evolution; magicals (as in human magicals) ignored non-magicals who were themselves oblivious of the parallel society existing alongside them—for the most part. With no impetus to alter what had worked quite well for hundreds of years and generations nothing changed and because we were able to remain hidden—or obliviating as needed if seen—we never gave it any thought: besides, they're just muggles; what can they do to us, right? Unfortunately, our ability to hide is rapidly eroding and if You-Know-Who or another picks up where he left off then we'll be rapidly exposed (cameras, radar or satellite imagery can't be obliviated) to a very angry and very powerful world that vastly outnumbers us and wields weapons—freely I might add—that the majority of our compatriots could never imagine."

Hermione remained quiet and thought about what Professor Flitwick had said; it echoed both Harry's and the Founders' opinion, and put her in a very pensive mood. It was a third wakeup call and brought on an epiphany for the young witch; Hermione Granger and her family were standing beside the absolute center of the oncoming storm and neither they nor she was remotely ready. She looked at Harry and saw a face of acceptance towards the spiraling events and his place within them; it was like seeing a younger version of her father as describe by her mum. Who dares wins, came unbidden to the forefront of her mind.

"How . . . How long?" She asked as her gaze shifted between her Harry and her Charms' Professor.

"No more than ten years; a lot less if Voldemort or someone claiming to be Voldemort or like Voldemort rises before then," Harry replied.

"Wh . . . What can we do?" She asked, knowing the answer.

"That was rather rhetorical of you, Mione," Harry said with a grin, "we're doing it now or will be once we get moving; train and prepare. What's coming, will; we can't stop it—like King Canute tried with the tide: it didn't work for him; it won't work for us—but we can shape it instead of letting it sweep us away. Now, let's get started."

Surprising Hermione, Harry hit her with the same stinging hex Professor Flitwick had used on Friday but the green-eyed wizard had to whisper the incantation; she had mixed feelings—some very startling ones if her year-mates heard them—over her wizard's playful use of the spell. Torn between anger and acceptance; Hermione got the last laugh when their professor silently cast the goblin version of the hex on Harry.

"Playtime's over, let's get moving," ordered Professor Flitwick as he marshalled his young charges through the castle's doors.

Unknown to the three, Professor Snape had seen and overheard their conversation—from the shadows, he lurked in—by accident: a dreadful reminder of eavesdropping on another conversation, which had had a very negative affect on a certain young wizard. I'm so sorry Lily, I was a fool then and am forced to play the fool now, Severus thought as the three exited at steady but quick jog.

"Ah, Severus my old friend, you're up early this morning," came the unwelcome voice of Albus Dumbledore now standing a few paces away; Professor Snape neither heard nor saw the Headmaster's approach.

"Couldn't sleep," he muttered noncommittally and kicked himself for letting the old man sneak up on him.

Dumbledore looked towards the castle's doors and said, mystified, "Why a young witch or wizard would want to run like that is anyone's guess. Well, to each their own I suppose; shall we head to breakfast?"

Severus Snape looked at the man who'd kept him from Azkaban and didn't recognize him. I wonder if it's too late to change sides—again? He thought, torn between serious consideration and whimsy.

—}{—

If Hermione had thought that Professor Flitwick would be more lenient today she was sorely—or was that sorely in the other sense of the word?—mistaken. He had pushed them as hard or harder than usual and didn't spare the stinging hexes; it had been educational too as the diminutive teacher taught her what Harry knew: goblin stinging hexes were far more painful than human ones; it left her to wonder if she now sported a couple of welts on her behind. The half-goblin had also begun instruction in goblin martial arts and it soon became apparent to her that Harry had already had some training as Professor Flitwick put him through his paces. Watching her wizard, Hermione learned another very valuable lesson: goblin martial arts where the epitome of the adage; the best defense is a strong offence. For the first time, she wished she had accepted her mum and dad's offer to teach her how to fight and from what she just saw—besides Harry looking quite dashing with that focused look that made her tingle—she knew she'd have been better prepared; at least she was in decent shape, she commiserated silently in resignation.

"Another good morning," Flitwick praised, "I'm quite impressed with the effort you display."

"Thank you, professor," the two replied before turning to return to their dorms.

"One moment, Lady Granger," he said and watched Hermione stiffen with displeasure before turning back to face him, "I've got something for you."

The young witch—trying to rein the daggers in her eyes—watched the small professor conjure something that he then handed to her. Receiving the item, she took a close look at the folded fabric in her hands.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A gift from The Nation, Milady; half robes of the finest acromantula silk stitched with goblin spun shadow gold," he replied.

"What's goblin spun gold, professor?" She asked as she unfolded the garment that looked more liquid than material and in the blackest of blacks.

"How much do you know about Alchemy?" the professor asked.

"Only the basics, sir: base metals to gold; the Elixir of Life," Hermione replied.

"Are you aware of the Alchemy axiom that gold is immutable, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nodded.

"It's not completely correct and while gold can't be changed—magically that is; muggle physicists might argue that point—to base metals it's appearance may be altered," Professor Flitwick said to a very curious bushy-haired witch. "Muggles are aware of white gold—which is an alloy—but they aren't aware that pure gold can be teased by magic to turn just about any color."

"Teased?" the young witch questioned, "How?"

"You'd have to ask a goblin Master Goldsmith—but it's a family secret held by just two clans, I'd not expect an answer—but let me finish."

Hermione and Harry nodded with rapt attention.

"Those robes, aside from silk, were created using Master-spun gold threading," said the Charms' Professor, "that includes every bit of stitching and embroidery you'll find on them."

The hazel-eyed witch, holding the fully unfolded vestment at arm's length for a full look, marveled at what she held—it would be by far the grandest thing she had ever worn—before her eyes seized upon the embroidery evinced on its left breast; she asked, "Whose heraldry am I wearing aside from the Potter House crest on the right sleeve?"

"The sword superimposed on an open book is the Granger heraldry as assigned by magic and is in the colors of your petitioning house, House Potter; it can be changed if you don't like it, Milady," Filius Flitwick replied.

"Okay, I guess I can get that but why did it appear on Tracy Davis' sleeve?"

"My guess is that magic has recognized an alliance between House Potter and House Granger," the professor replied with a touch of uncertainty, "now, from my understanding over what happened at lunch yesterday, if Tracy Davis was from a noble house you'd likely also bear her family's heraldry below the Potter one you now bear. Furthermore—if I didn't misread the events—if Daphne Greengrass' father accepts Lord Potter's offer to protect his daughter then that will bring the Noble House of Greengrass into the alliance and their family's heraldry will be added below the Potter Family's on your sleeve and beside yours on Tracy's."

"Professor Flitwick," Harry started, "there seems to be a lot of ancient magics coming into play around me, why?"

"I do not know Lord Potter," was his simple reply.

"I see," Harry commented thoughtfully before asking, "Another thing professor?"

"Milord?"

"Why half robes?"

"It was The Overlord's idea; he suggested you wear casual muggle clothes beneath the robes and ensure they are seen by Lord Malfoy," the petite professor replied. "He seems to want to make a not so public statement to the Wizengamot and feels this will serve his purpose quite well."

"It's hard to believe The Nation is grandstanding like this," the green-eyed wizard said abstractly; Hermione was feeling a little left out.

"Indeed," Filius said before adding, "Let's put this aside for now and retire to make ourselves presentable. I'll meet you after breakfast, here; we'll have to go to Hogmeades and ask Rosmerta if we can use her Floo."

Professor Flitwick watched his rapidly becoming favorite students of all time disappear as they ascended to their dorm. Choking back a sigh—a goblin does not wear his emotions on his sleeve—of 'McGonagall Envy', he turned and was about to return to his quarters and freshen up when he almost walked into Severus Snape.

"Good morning, Filius." Professor Snape greeted in his customary baritone drawl.

"Good morning, Severus," Filius peeped in surprise.

"Out running with the pride again, I see; you do know cats eat birds, don't you?" Severus said in a tone that Filius found difficult to interpret, "so why is a raven spending time with the lion's cubs?"

"Miss Granger and Mr. Potter wish to maintain a fitness routine," the Charms' Professor replied. "I am the only one who has experience in such things; I'm sure Minerva would offer if it was her forte but alas there's only me: I wish my ravens were as conscious with regards to their physical condition but they don't think it's important—I take it your snakes are the same?"

"Indubitably, Filius," he replied before asking casually, "So, how is our resident Lord . . . and his Lady, this morning?"

"Fine, just fine Sev . . ." Professor Flitwick stopped speaking with a squeak and glared at Professor Snape. Damn snake, he thought angrily before continuing, "Whatever do you mean, Professor Snape?"

"Don't take me for some addle-brained fool—of which this castle is full of—Filius. I know that our new bushy-haired-know-it-all is tight with Potter," he stated, virtually spitting out 'Potter' when he spoke the boy's name, "but what I really want to know is why a mud . . . muggle-born witch is now the second highest ranked person in Hogwarts? Even the Great Dumbledore—of the ever-twinkling-eyes—is not a titled Lord; for all he's the Wizengamot's Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump. I know you know what's going on and I'd kindly like to know too; especially when I'm expecting at least a Floo call from a very angry Lord Malfoy this evening."

"I will not answer nor obfuscate by speaking in circles, Professor Snape, since what you request is not mine to tell," Filius replied in strict goblin formality. "And while Albus trusts you—the blemish on your arm notwithstanding—you've not convinced me or any other faculty members (except maybe Argus) that you are actually good for this school. Understand, friend, the chronic favoritism you've show your house tells me you remain firmly entrenched in the circle you claimed to have abandoned. Now, if you'll excuse me, I wish to freshen up before breakfast. Oh, Severus, on a final note: if you're thinking about legilimency; I recently read about a new constipation hex I'd love to try."

Not waiting for an answer, Professor Flitwick stepped around the infuriated Potions' Master; hoping the man was angry enough to do something foolish. Feeling disappointed and relieved—he really didn't want to deal with the Headmaster or that nepotistic bunch of favor traders, called the Hogwarts' board—Filius left Snape behind and returned to his chambers; his earlier pleasant mood now fouled.

—}{—

Leaving the Charms' Professor, Harry and Hermione scurried back to the Gryffindor tower; thankfully, turned up nose aside, the Fat Lady graciously allowed them back inside. With hastened steps, they crossed the common room and climbed the stairs; separating at the landing before heading to their respective dorms. In less than thirty minutes, the two finished getting showered and dressed. With their school robes covering their muggle clothing, Hermione and Harry exited the common room and made their way to breakfast; the hazel-eyed witch—nervously nibbling her bottom lip—was quiet and held her wizard's hand in a death-grip.

"Hermione," Harry began softly, "you'll be fine; I suspect today is more meet-and-greet than business and I'll handle big daddy Malfoy. Perhaps, if you're a good little witchling, I'll ask if you can use the Gringotts' library."

Harry's 'good little witchling' comment refocused her nerves but did little to calm her down and the idea of getting into the library excited the young witch in other ways, too: the little hitch in Hermione's breathing, while subtle, didn't go unnoticed by the emerald-eyed wizard at her side.

"I'm gonna say it again, Mione," he teased quietly, "you're one weird witch; bibliophilia is a rather unique kink, even for a girl leaning towards alternate persuasions."

"Ha'porth," Hermione teased back.

"Ha'porth?" Harry said.

"I can't always call you prat; that would become repetitive and won't satisfy my bibliophilia," she said impishly, "I need something bigger; ha'porth is much more satiating than just a little prat: size does matter you know, any girl can tell you that."

With a whiplash inducing turn of his head, Harry looked at his witch and said, "Mione? . . . nope, got noth'n to say."

Hermione giggled and actually began to relax as they reached the Great Hall. Stepping into the wafting scents of breakfast that filled the room, the two Gryffindors were the first students at a house table this Saturday morning. Across the near empty room, they found themselves an audience in Professors Snape and Dumbledore while Professor Flitwick busied himself with his kippers. Ignoring their onlookers, Harry served himself a healthy portion breakfast though Hermione's appetite was limited to a few slices of toast.

"You need more than toast, Mione," Harry commented as he watched his friend begin to butter her forth piece of toast.

"I know, Harry but my stomach is being overly acrobatic this morning and if I eat anything heavier I'm likely to lose it all; I'd rather avoid that," she said. "Hopefully I'll be able to make it up at lunch."

"Providing they don't serve goblin fare," he quietly muttered ominously.

"Sorry, did you say something?" Hermione asked after chasing a mouthful of toast with a deep draught of cold water; courtesy of Tipzee, who must've spoken to the kitchen elves on her behalf.

"It's nothing; you done?"

"I guess."

"Good, it looks like Professor Flitwick is too," observed Harry. "Let's go, Mione; got everything?"

"I think so," she replied and rose from the table.

Unconsciously reaching for him, Harry's took her hand and with a reassuring squeeze, he led her from the Great Hall and into the castle's grand foyer; Professor McGonagall was there and chatting to their escort.

Turning to the young couple, she said, "Good morning Lord Potter; Lady Granger, I hope you slept well."

They both cringed a bit before replying in chorus, "Good morning professor."

With a warm smile, their head-of-house asked, "Have you got everything?"

"Yes Professor," they answered as if they were one person with two voices. That is so uncanny, Minerva thought, somewhat disturbing too. They've known each other for less than a week and already I feel as if I'm speaking to Lily and James—in their final year, that is—or, Merlin forbid, the Weasley Twins. The thought of her redheaded menaces possessing the power—not that they were weak, just focused differently—that these two children can muster sent chills down her spine. Thankfully, Harry isn't like them or worse—the unwelcome image of the Malfoy scion sprang to mind—and Hermione's almost single minded devotion to knowledge will keep her well-grounded in the face of the perils and traps of power but that will be for history to decide; all I can do is point them in the right direction.

"While I doubt you'll give Professor Flitwick trouble; as your head-of-house it's my duty to tell my young cubs to behave themselves," she said warmly.

"We will, Professor McGonagall," Hermione answered for them.

"I'm sure you will," the professor agreed and turned to her faculty companion to say, "I leave them in your care, Filius; I expect them back this evening, unless something untoward or unexpected happens."

"If something happens I'll contact you immediately, Minerva."

"I'm not sure if this is proper or not but do try and have a good time, you two," she said to Hermione and Harry.

"Thank you professor," Harry replied for them this time.

"Lord Potter?"

"Yes professor?"

"Please be weary while dealing with Lord Malfoy, Harry, he is not a pleasant man and will not take kindly to today's summons; he also wields a lot of influence in our world."

"I understand Professor McGonagall," he replied sincerely.

"Do you, Lord Potter?"

"Yes, Ma'am, I was expecting this encounter, just not so soon," the young wizard replied with unexpected maturity. "Unfortunately, Draco forced this meeting before its proper time; I'd hoped to have Lord Malfoy somewhat neutered in the Wizengamot or at least poisoned the Minister's ears and pockets to his gold tongue a bit before meeting him."

Professor McGonagall could only stare at the eleven-year-old wizard who recently came under her care; this was an unexpected response and a quick glance at Filius was enough to convince her that the half-goblin was not surprised. Even young Miss Granger seemed inured to Harry's casual—almost indifferent—attitude towards meeting with the shadowy hand behind the Wizengamot.

"Very well then, Lord Potter," she said, knowing beyond a shade of doubt that the young wizard had earned the title that his father's death had automatically granted him, "and Miss . . . I mean Lady Granger; please be careful too."

"I will, professor, thank you; my mast . . . Harry will take care of me," she replied, her blush and quick correction were telltale signs of her nervousness. Neither her nor Harry noticed the subtle lift of Professor McGonagall's eyebrows with Hermione's near confession, which made their transfiguration teacher think of Emma Granger for some reason: she had a distinct impression she'd missed something important when she met the young witch's parents.

"Indeed," said Minerva McGonagall "well Filius, I leave them in your care; by the way, how do you intend to get to Gringotts?"

"I have a Gringotts' portkey, professor," Harry replied.

"What about coming back?" she asked.

"I have one for Hogsmeade as well," the messy-haired wizard replied, "My Majordomo and Vaultlord arranged it for me."

"I most assuredly, Lord Potter, do not like the idea that one of my students may come and go, as he pleases, with nothing more than a simple step beyond the school's ward line," huffed the professor.

"I will never leave the school without notifying you, Professor McGonagall," Harry said reassuringly, "it would be improper of me."

"I noticed you said 'without notifying' and not 'without your permission', Mr. Potter," she said.

"As the Lord of my House, I may come and go as needed without yours or Professor Dumbledore's permission but that would be incredibly rude of me, not to mention disrespectful," he replied. "Lady Granger, as an emancipated minor herself, has the same privilege—she didn't even need her parents' permission this time—I assure you neither of us will abuse nor flout our privileges but we can still exercise them at will if need be."

"I'm aware of the school's bylaws as they pertain to emancipated nobles, Lord Potter."

"I'm sorry professor, I didn't mean to impugn," he said with a brief bow of his head, "I said that more for Hermione's sake."

"I knew that, Harry," Hermione said, "I read up on the bylaws when I became a 'Lady'."

Harry smile and said, "Of course you did; I should've known, Mione."

"Well, I'll stop holding you up and thank you for respecting both your teachers and your school, M'Lord; Lady, as well," Professor McGonagall said with a courteous nod.

"It would be ignoble of me to do otherwise, Professor McGonagall," he said before adding, "Speaking of ignoble; Professor Snape I don't like stalkers and eavesdropping from the shadows is unbecoming of an adult: come here now."

Harry, as the lord of a Noble and Most Ancient House, put a touch of ancient magic behind his words and to the Potions' Master's dismay his body immediately complied to the command. He tried to fight the compulsion but was forced to submit, no matter how hard he fought and, unlike the Imperious Curse, he knew what he was doing.

"What is this magic, Potter? You will be sent to Azkaban for using an Unforgivable," the man sneered and struggled against his traitorous body, which stiffly stepped towards the young lord.

"Well, it's a good thing that I'm not using one then, isn't it?" Harry said with a sarcastic smile and tone.

"Then what is it!"

"You're heritage is betraying you Professor Snape; its rather ironic I might add," the young wizard succinctly replied.

"Mr. Potter, you will release Professor Snape this instance," Professor McGonagall said angrily; Professor Flitwick said nothing and watched the performance unfold, Hermione was nervously biting her bottom lip and speechless."

"As you wish, professor," he said and immediately Professor Snape stumbled but regained control of his body.

"I'll see you in detention until you graduate, Potter, and that will be five hundred points from Gryffindor for that egotistical display of disrespect!" he almost yelled; Professor McGonagall and Hermione gasped, Filius Flitwick was smiling.

"No, professor, neither of those will happen since you are solely in the wrong in this matter," the young man said; his magic enhancing his nobility to everyone's—but the Charms' Professor's—discomfort. "Now, as I was saying; I find it highly ironic that a House espousing pure-blood supremacy is headed by a full half-blood—at least my mom was a witch if you catch my meaning—and it seems that like young Mr. Malfoy you don't fully grasp who or what I am: let me enlighten you."

"Arrogant, just like your father," he sneered.

"You are wrong there, my friend," Harry said twisting 'friend' into an insult with his intonation, "I am far more arrogant—as you call it—than my father ever was; after all he never took up the full mantle of House Potter, which I shoulder and now bring to bear upon you. What do you know of the Most Ancient Houses, professor?"

Severus Snape looked furious but said nothing; Professor McGonagall knew where this was heading and didn't envy her coworker's situation as she remembered that House Potter—along with three others—were as close to royalty as a magical family could become; the Young Lord before them knew it as well: that was obvious. For Minerva McGonagall, being in the presence of a fully vested and released Lord of a Noble and Most Ancient House was having a profound effect on her; as feelings, she long thought dormant made an unwelcome reappearance. A quick glance at Lord Potter's witch—who looked almost rapturous in the aura of magic radiating from Harry—conferred a precocious kinship with the older witch or any other witch—or wizard of such persuasions—for that matter; exposed to such a wanton display of power.

"What has that got to do with anything?" Snape spat.

"Everything, my dear Potions' Master," the green-eyed wizard retorted sharply then asked, "Now, how am I to deal with you: by ceded rights conferred to me as Lord of a Most Ancient family or as the holder of a Life Debt?"

Professor Snape grew pale and sputtered, "Wha . . . What d . . . do you mean, P . . . Potter?"

"Tsk, tsk Professor Snape," Harry said with a subtle yet wily shake of his head and a smile. "I am fully versed in the entries on my portfolio and while I'm not aware of the events precipitating the inclusion of such an interesting asset; it does not mean I don't know about it nor not take advantage of it, if it pleases me."

"Harry, what is a Life Debt?" Hermione asked, once more realizing that she'd been left ignorant of many things in the Magical World.

"A Life Debt is incurred when a witch or wizard saves the life of another, unselfishly and at risk to themselves," Professor McGonagall replied.

"But how could one be owed to Harry," asked the confused bushy-haired witch.

"I inherited it from my dad, Mione," he replied before turning his attention back to a squirming Potions' Master. "You look like a little worm wiggling on a big hook, Professor Snape, but let me finish this; then you may resume being surly, unpleasant and parochial to three-quarters—give or take a few—of the students in the school."

Severus Snape could only glower but, unfortunately, he had to agree with the young lord's assessment about his feelings—it was rather apt although understated; only one other had ever made him feel this uncomfortable, at least he needn't fear being Cruciod, he hoped.

"Now, professor whatever transpired way back then is—like I said—unknown to me but from our first meeting I got the feeling that you didn't like me," Harry stated firmly. "As we had never met before September first—as far as I know—I don't understand your rather childish animosity towards me so I must assume I inherited that—much like the Life Debt—from my dad as well. First off, Professor Snape, I am not my father and since Voldemort," Professors McGonagall and Snape shivered; Professor Flitwick simply looked uncomfortable, "killed my mum and dad when I was barely fifteen months old; I can't really say I knew them: now can I? So, whatever happened back then is a mystery to me, and something I wasn't a party too, so why do you wallow in it? Have you got something to add, Professor McGonagall?" Harry added, somehow noticing the older witch's sudden discomfort with this topic.

Since Harry hadn't been looking at her, the older witch didn't know how her cub noticed the flash of insight that had appeared on her usually staid expression but his timing couldn't have been coincidental; she replied, "Severus . . . I mean Professor Snape and your father disliked each other when they were students and year mates here. And while I don't want to speak ill of your father, Harry, he and his friends were really quite cruel to our Potions' Master who had the misfortune of bearing the brunt of many of their pranks."

"I see, my dad was a bully," the emerald-eyed wizard sadly commented.

Old loyalties reared in Professor McGonagall's attempt to be supportive, "I wouldn't say 'bully' Harry . . ."

". . . I would," he interjected with displeasure. "It's only a prank to the bullies who are convinced they are merely pranksters and the audience finding humor in the humiliation of others; did you ever think to ask how a young Severus Snape felt?"

Professor Snape was stunned; the son of his most hated rival had just interrupted and publicly corrected his head-of-house—a witch that Severus stilled feared to cross after being her student for seven years—like she was an errant child. In a glance, he could see the obviously stunned and angry glare Minerva McGonagall was now directing at her young Gryffindor and he found himself smiling faintly when he observed her looking to Filius and Potter's Witch for support. Professor Flitwick looked mildly amused; Potter's witch—the young Lady Granger he reminded himself—looked almost furious but not with her friend's behavior but with Minerva and her offhanded and casual support for Harry's father. He's like Lily, Severus thought, suddenly finding himself warming to the boy and his bushy-haired friend; who was already so much like Lily that it was disconcerting. For the first time he almost wished to be eleven again and starting Hogwarts as year and classmate to the young Lord and his Lady; who still had a huge question mark hanging over her.

Harry turned back to Professor Snape and said, "Well, it seems I've found myself in a rather awkward impasse with you professor and find myself in the same circumstance you've had with your godson whereas I'm forced to apologize for something I'm not party to. Be that as it may, Professor Snape—and for what it's worth—please accept my, albeit, belated apology for my father's behavior; I hope our relationship from this day forward will prove profitable for each of us. Nevertheless, know this: Your faded tattoo—yes, I know about that but before you ask let me tell you I have very thorough friends who keep very thorough records—will always temper my trust of you. Still, that leaves me to deal with your Life Debt."

Severus Snape began to feel nervous—not to mention helpless—at hearing that being brought into play by the young lord.

"As I said, I don't know how it was incurred but as of today: I, Lord Harry James of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, do release Severus Tobias Snape from the Life Debt he owes my family; so mote it be."

A brief flash of green surrounded Harry and Severus and then dispersed. Professor Flitwick smiled; Professor McGonagall looked surprised that someone would release a Life Debt so readily. Hermione's opinion of her wizard raised several notches; she hadn't liked the sound of these 'Life Debt' things, which likely and regularly descended into enforced servitude: slavery was wrong except when the slave willingly submitted to her master.

"Thank you, Lord Potter," Professor Snape said as he bowed, deeply.

"It would be wrong of me to hold that over you professor but we still have a problem."

"Milord?" the Potions' Master said.

"You've heard things this morning that, while not really secret, are not ready to be revealed in general and more specifically towards the Lady Granger's new circumstances," said Harry. "I could—if I choose to—force a vow of secrecy from you by virtue of my ceded powers but I'd rather not begin a relationship with that hanging over it and while Hermione could do the same I ask that she not, as well; do you understand Professor Snape?"

"Yes Milord; Milady," he replied with another bow.

"Glad to hear, I do so hate to force my will upon others," Harry said but added after a quick glance at Hermione, "unless—of course—they wish to submit to me of their own volition and desire."

"I understand, Lord Potter," Severus replied but he found himself looking at the young witch bearing Potter heraldry on her sleeve and a flustered look on her face.

"Please understand, though, I'd appreciate it if you don't speak of me or my business with our illustrious headmaster, Professor Snape: I'm sure Hermione feels the same."

"I understand Milord."

"Thank you, professor," the young wizard said, "and—by the way—I will try to redirect Lord Malfoy's ire but can make no promises; I hear he is a petty man. Still, you shouldn't have to bear the burden of your godson's immature and inane behavior or attitude. Good day to you Professor Snape; Professor McGonagal: Professor Flitwick; Mione, let's go."

Two dumbfounded professors watched the trio depart and were about to return to their regular routines when an unwelcome figure stepped from the shadows.

"That was quite educational my old friends," Albus Dumbledore said with his eyes atwinkle. "Who'd have thought one so young could be so magnanimous; so, what do you think about our two young Gryffindors? I suspect for the benefit of our school and society we'll need to keep close tabs on them: we do have the Greater Good to consider; now, don't we? It's our solemn responsibility, as educators, to ensure our charges step into their proper places in society; we can't have our little witchlings and wizardlings aspiring to stations higher than they belong, now do we?"

Severus Snape glowered and said bitterly, "Albus, do you actually hear yourself or are you as deaf as those you preach to?"

"Severus, I'm surprised my boy," Professor Dumbledore said, "You know what I mean. Haven't the years I've mentored you been didactic; you need to accept your place just as Professor McGonagall and her old family have."

"I'm beginning to wonder if I actually know you, Albus," Professor McGonagall surprisingly said, "still, I've things to do but first I should eat a little breakfast—for all I don't feel very hungry now—I shall see you later, Headmaster."

"Fine, fine Minerva, I'm looking forward to seeing you later; perhaps at lunch," he said as his Transfiguration Professor turned stiffly on her heel and marched away. Damn, Severus thought, she beat me to an escape; I really don't want to listen to this senile old goat but my decoy got away. Professors Dumbledore's attention focused on Severus, now, and he said, "So Severus, my boy, is there anything you wish to tell me or are you busy too?"

"Um . . . well . . . I guess I need to review my course outline now that most of my students have been in my class once; you know, so I can address weaknesses and such," Severus replied in hopes of being able to escape getting drawn into a long rambling dissertation from his protector. Thankfully, Albus didn't seem to be on top of his game this morning so his weak excuse was effective.

"Very well, old friend, I'll see you at lunch then."

Having successfully escaped, Professor Snape hurriedly removed himself from Albus' proximity and made his way to his office. Is it too late to switch sides again? He asked himself, redundantly, not knowing Minerva had had pretty much the same thought—minus the 'again' part—as she walked away.

—}{—

Leaving behind Professors Snape and McGonagall, Harry, Hermione and Professor Flitwick exited the castle and began walking down the path to Hogsmeade.

"Professor Flitwick?" Hermione said as they walked.

"Yes Miss Granger?"

"I'd hoped to keep the whole 'Lady' thing quiet but here I am sporting Noble Heraldry, which flaunts my family's recent ascension, and am about to meet the Lord of another noble family; that's hardly what I'd call discrete," she said with concern.

"Fear not Lady Granger," Filius replied; Hermione scowled a little, "the only heraldry that will be visible is the Potter emblem on your sleeve. Your family's Sword and Open Book will only be visible to Gringotts' staff and those who already know of your family's peerage; does that help?"

"Yes thank you, Professor Flitwick," Hermione replied sounding relieved.

"Any time, my dear," the petite professor reassured the young witch.

They reached the school gate, stepped through and beyond the wards protecting Hogwarts.

"What was that?" Hermione asked on the Hogsmeade side of the gate.

"That weird prickle that sorta feels like your foot or something is asleep?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded.

"Extraordinary," Filius squeaked.

"What's extraordinary," the young witch asked.

"That a first year could feel the ward-line," the professor replied, "even most sixth and seventh years don't notice it and they've had five or six years to grow accustomed to the feel of the different magical fields, which are always in play around a witch or wizard; especially in highly charged environment like Hogwarts. Good duelers usually have a good field sense; field fluctuations provide hints as to the type of magic about to be used by their opponents."

"You mean you know what's coming," Harry asked.

"No, it's far more general than that but it does provide a vague insight into whether a charm, curse or transfiguration is about to be used—singularly or chained—and a sense of how much power is being put into it," he answered.

"I always wondered why Pit Master Casthand always seemed one step ahead of me when we were dueling," Harry fathomed, remembering his training.

"Yes Casthand is very adept—almost precognizantly so—at spell prediction; training under him can be an exercise in frustration for his adepts; I should know, he was my Pit Master too when I was younger but my time with him was profitably rewarding while on the professional dueling circuit. You're very lucky Lord Potter, he retired shortly after training me and I never would've thought he'd even consider training a wizard."

"Ragnok twisted his arm a bit," Harry muttered humorously.

"Sorry Lord Potter, did you say something?" Filius asked.

"No, no nothing important, professor," the green-eyed wizard said with a smirk. "Let's change our robes, Mione—you are wearing something under yours I hope," he playfully teased his witch, "and get to Gringotts; if we conclude our business promptly I'll even treat you to an ice-cream at Fortescue's; if our escort doesn't mind."

Hermione and Harry slipped from their school robes and into the almost sensual embrace of their acromantula silk half-robes. As the garment's sleeves slid onto her arms and drape across her shoulders, Hermione felt an unexpected rush of arousal pulse through her body. Her eyes glazed briefly, her breath hitched and when she exhaled, it passed as a sigh that definitely was not that of a child; worried that his bushy-haired friend might faint, Harry put his arms around his witched and steadied her.

"How many spells have been woven into Hermione's robe, professor?" the young wizard asked in concern and surprise at the state of his best friend.

"Quite a few, considering how she reacted," Professor Flitwick replied with as much concern as Harry but he seemed to harbor a touch—surprisingly so, considering his half-goblin heritage—of visible embarrassment. "I'm not one to feel a pull towards a student, especially one so young, but I'm not so old as to not have those types of urges anymore."

"Excuse me," Harry almost exclaimed in surprise.

"Witches and wizards of great power attract those who are lesser endowed magically, Lord Potter," Filius explained somewhat bashfully, an odd sight for one as familiar with goblins as Harry was. "You might call it the arcane compulsion to perpetuate the species with the most powerful mate one can find; it's quite humbling, especially to my goblin pride, that I'd feel such a pull towards a girl who could be my granddaughter. I'm not sure if I should feel sorry for or envious of the two of you but neither of you will lack for keen partners; I'd suggest that you and Miss Granger learn to contain your auras because within a year or two you both may well have allures, which even a veela would envy."

"You're not serious, professor?" Hermione asked—looking somewhat embarrassed herself—having recovered from the brief wave of magically induced bliss she'd experienced mere seconds ago.

"Welcome back Miss Granger and yes I'm serious," the charms professor said with a toothy goblin grin. "Actually, it might be good idea for you and Mr. Potter to spend some time under the tutorage of a Veela Matron; without a doubt, the veela are among the best at containing their magical auras but that might be fraught with risks as well."

"Professor?" Harry said.

Filius looked at his young charges and said, "Well Veela Matrons tend not to like traveling but I'd be worried sending you into a Nest if one won't come to you; I'll makes some inquiries while we're at Gringotts today."

"Professor, why would visiting a Nest be a problem?" Hermione asked.

"The veela would likely want to keep Lord Potter, although I'm certain he'd find it . . . pleasurable," replied the professor; he saw the young witch smirk at that. "You find that amusing Miss Granger? I see you know little about the veela—not surprising since they tend to remain isolated for obvious reasons—but they are even more attracted to power than goblins are and, by the way, Lady Granger; veela are quasi-hermaphroditic by means of ancient secret rituals and you, undoubtedly, are quite powerful yourself: if you get my meaning."

Hermione blanched but managed to reply, "Yes sir, I do sir. By the way; what happened to me when I put on my robe?"

"That was your magic charging the robe's embroidered runes and a rather extreme example of what happens when one's magical essence is rapidly drawn from the body and into something or someone else," replied Filius. "It won't happen again unless those runes are fully drained, which should never happen as long as you wear it from time to time. So, are we ready to go?"

"I am, professor," Harry replied and drew a large gold medallion from his pocket; it was embossed with a heavily stuck Gringotts' coat of arms; he then explained, "This is a portkey Hermione, place a fingertip on it and on the count of three firmly annunciate 'portus'. I doubt you'll enjoy the feeling but it won't last very long but you need to remember, you'll reappear a foot or two above the floor when we arrive: got that?"

The bushy-haired witch nodded and put her finger on the medallion; she was obviously nervous.

"One, two, three," Harry counted and then the together—Hermione much louder than the others—they chorused, "Portus."

Feeling like she'd been hooked from behind her navel, Hermione was suddenly tugged with great force. Memories of the weird creature from Yellow Submarine's Sea of Monsters popped into her mind, unwelcome and unbidden, as the sensation of being sucked into herself overwhelmed her. The force pulled her into a place of absolute and soundless black having neither an up nor down. She felt dizzy and disoriented but before the first stirrings of sensory-depravation panic, the world reappeared. She floundered briefly, as if the floor had dropped out beneath her feet, and Hermione was glad Harry had warned her about arriving a foot or two above the ground. Landing reasonably gracefully—thanks for those ballet lessons mum; dad, she thought alighting on the floor—she refused to give into the brief wave of vertigo that swept over her and looked around.

"You did a lot better than me, Mione," she heard Harry say with laughing praise.

She turned towards the voice and found her friend on one knee; he was smiling. Meanwhile, a little distant from her wizard, Professor Flitwick looked on, unfazed, with a trace of amused disdain, which he wasn't trying to hide.

"Good morning and welcome to Gringotts Lord Potter, Lady Granger and Professor Flitwick," a man greeted.

Harry rose to his feet, brushed nonexistent dirt from his clothes and turned to face the voice; a man in his twenties—sporting orangey-red hair—was standing by the door. Harry replied, as he studied the man, "Good morning and thank you. You look familiar; have we met?"

"No Lord Potter but I'm sure you're familiar with my brothers," he replied.

"We are, your name must be Weasley," Hermione said with certainty and extended her hand, "It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Hermione Granger."

"The pleasure is all mine, Lady Granger," he politely replied as he took her hand and bowed his head. "I've recently had the privilege and have become acquainted with your parents, the Lady and Lord (Emeritus) Regents Granger; had I not known who I was sent to greet and escort, I'd have recognized you immediately by your attractive features and noble mien, which you have definitely inherited from your parents."

Hermione's cheeks flushed with the brightest and deepest red Harry had yet seen; he chuckled and said with possessively playful menace, "Mister Weasley, what are your intentions towards my Lady Hermione?"

"I . . . I'm s . . . sorry Lord Potter, had I known . . ." the young man hastened to apologize; hearing the possessive, 'my Lady Hermione' caused the young witch's heart to flutter adroitly in her chest.

"Harry," the gruff but amused tone of a goblin who just arrived, "please don't tease the help; poor William Weasley has had a rather disconcerting week courtesy of our young Lady Granger's parents: I'm not sure he'll ever recover; let's hope he salvageable or Gringotts will be down one curse breaker."

"Profitable day to you, Griphook," Harry warmly greeted, "allow me to introduce my friend, the Lady Hermione Granger and profitable day to you too, Curse Breaker Weasley; it's a pleasure to meet you . . ."

The redheaded man—obviously nervous considering his belated greeting, which formal protocol demanded—genuflected, bowed his head and discourteously interrupted the young lord, ". . . I'm honored to meet the most esteemed head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter and Scion . . ."

". . . Stop!" Harry commanded, raising his palm before the curse breaker; Griphook frowned and Filius looked curious: obviously, there was more to the enigma, which was Harry Potter, than the Charms' Professor knew; the green-eyed wizard continued. "There are things which are not spoken of in public, Curse Breaker Weasley; now please rise and—for god's sake—call me Harry."

"Yes Milord," the curse breaker said and rose; Harry simply shook his head with exasperation.

"Where were we, ah yes, introductions," cited the emerald-eyed wizard in a tension breaking—hopefully—tone, "Gringotts' Majordomo to House Potter and Chronicler Griphook may I introduce the Lady Matriarch Hermione Jean of the Noble House of Granger: Lady Granger allow me to introduce Majordomo Griphook."

"Majordomo," said Hermione, extending her hand.

"Lady Matriarch," Griphook replied, shaking the hazel-eyed witch's hand, which she offered without prejudice or guile: a refreshing change for any goblin from their regular dealings with most human magicals, "and please call me Griphook while in your service, Milady"

"Only if you call me Hermione, Griphook," she replied with an honest smile even though she was sensitive about her front teeth, "at least when formal protocol can be dispensed with."

"You are wise beyond your years, Hermione and an honor to your parents with your candid nobility," the goblin responded with a respectful head nod. "It's rare to meet one truly worthy of their title, especially refreshing after our history with the Wizengamot and its many self-absorbed; self-deluded—in their own importance and superiority—members: let us have a profitable future together . . ."

". . . and may our vaults ever overflow with gold," Hermione completed with an anglicized version of the formal goblin rejoinder.

Griphook smiled, bowed his head and said, "I am deeply moved and honored that a young witch might respond in proper goblin rhetoric; few, if any, have ever shown such respect to The Nation and The People and before this day is out I'll see you named as Friend, Lady Granger."

"It is I who is honored, Griphook; Lord Potter has been nothing but forthcoming and supportive in his praise of The Nation and The People," the bushy-haired witch replied as she found herself unconsciously embracing her new status. "It is a pity that my parents and I came away from our first dealings with Gringotts with a negative opinion; for that I apologize and beg your forgiveness, although I now understand from whence your peoples' attitude arose. 'May we live long and trample our enemies; may we take their wealth and pillage their wives; may we forever bring honor to our forefathers and eviscerate our foes.'"

If a tear could appear in the eye of a goblin; then Griphook would be bawling as Hermione recited one of the holiest—for goblins anyways since they were agnostic at most—aphorisms found in The Words of The Nation and The People. What's up with these Granger people? William Weasley silently questioned. They seem more goblin than human. How can muggles and a muggle-born—only recently learning of our world—ingratiate themselves so firmly in goblin culture that they are almost seen as one of The People? Even Lord Potter seems to belong here more than with Wizarding Society; what is to become of the old families and the rest of us in the looming years?

Harry leaned towards Hermione, his warm breath tickling, and whispered in her ear, "When did you learn so much about goblins and their beliefs, Mione?"

She whispered back, "I did some reading."

"Of course you did; but when do you find the time to read so much?"

"Well, I had trouble sleeping last night," Hermione replied quietly before continuing nonchalantly, "and one of the benefits of an eidetic memory is that I essentially read by the page and by the glance."

"A most convenient ability, Hermione," Griphook replied, his usual goblin demeanor having returned.

"Sometimes," replied the young witch, "but it can take a while to sort through the things I read and put them into their most useful reference frames; organizing my knowledge takes more time than acquiring it and new experiences create new applications for that knowledge: it's like an ouroboros."

"A what?" Harry asked.

"An ouroboros," the hazel-eyed witch replied, "you've likely seen an illustration of a serpent eating its own tail, before; that's called an ouroboros . . ."

"Mione," Harry interrupted, having recognized the cadence of an oncoming Hermione dissertation.

". . . and comes from ancient Egypt originally—at least that's what scholars think based on archeology," Hermione continued, "but it has found its way into Plato's writings and later into Gnosticism . . ."

"Mione," Harry said louder.

". . . Even Norse legends refer to something similar called Jörmungand," she continued without haven taken a breath, "the middle child of Loki and Angrboða the giantess . . ."

"Mione!" Harry almost shouted.

". . . Oh dear! Sorry mas . . . Harry," Hermione said as she tried to dig her toe into the floor she was now staring at; Griphook immediately recognized her actions and thought of Emma Granger.

Interesting, like mother; like daughter, the Goblin thought—William Weasley seemed oblivious—before addressing the young lord, "Vaultlords Goldenfang and Diamondwill have asked that you meet with them before the properly summoned Lord Malfoy arrives, Harry."

"Thank you Griphook; I trust that you and Mr. Weasley will escort my Lady to whichever chamber has been booked for this?" Harry said, "Where am I to meet with my Vaultlords and where will I find you later?"

"I've been told they'll be in Goldenfang's chambers and we've booked the Inquisitor's Throne for your meeting with Lord Malfoy, Lord Potter," Griphook advised.

"The Inquisitor's Throne!" Harry exclaimed.

"Yes Lord Potter; the Overlord wishes to convey a placid and affable aide-mémoire to Lord Malfoy and his associates," the goblin replied with a toothy grin.

"When did you develop a gift for understatement, Griphook?" Harry asked with friendly sarcasm.

This exchange between goblin and wizard was generally unheard of as Professor Flitwick and William Weasley looked on, dumbfounded; Hermione—not yet fully familiar with The Nation and The People or their ways—saw Harry behaving as Harry and didn't think anything was odd.

"I've obviously been polluted by a young green-eyed wizard; oh the shame of it all: what will my father say?" Griphook retorted with uncharacteristic mirth; his response further surprising one Charms' Professor and one curse breaker: a young bushy-haired witch thought it cute.

"Poor Griphook," Harry mollified blithely with filial grin. "Anyways, Hermione; Professor Flitwick, I need to run: I leave you to the tender mercies of my brother and Curse Breaker Weasley; I'll join you shortly."

With that, Harry departed the room; leaving his bushy-haired friend and his Charms' Professor with Griphook and the redhead.

"This way, Lady Gra . . . Hermione," the goblin bowed and directed, with an outstretched arm, the young witch towards the door that Harry had departed through; she followed as her nervousness returned in the absence of her wizard.

Hermione timidly stepped in the indicated direction and passed through the door. On either side of her stretched a long hallway of white marble streaked with golden rivulets, which glittered and sparkled under the flickering light of smokeless torches. The torches, wall-mounted between unevenly spaced doors, marched to the corridor's horizons, which lay in the distances on her right and left. What the . . .? She thought as the very scale of this edifice threatened to overwhelm her. Just how big is this place? Knowing better than to wander, the hazel-eyed witched waited for her escort.

"Filius; Weasley," Hermione heard Griphook say, "It is best that neither of you be seen as parties to this action—especially you Weasley, for the sake of your family; we don't want them drawing Lord Malfoy's attention or ire—and request that you entertain yourselves for the remainder of the morning."

"As you wish, Griphook," Filius replied in time with the redheaded wizard response, "Yes Third Chronicler."

"We've arranged for lunch; it will be served at Ragnok's table and request the pleasure of your company," the goblin said, "hopefully this morning' assemblage will not sour our appetites for good food and ale—a dwarven keg no less."

"I'm honored by your invitation, Griphook, and look forward to a lunch with such esteemed colleagues," the Charms' Professor formally accepted with a slight bow, while muttering under his breath, a little cocky from his fortuitous luck but with a chaser of roguish wit, ". . . dwarven ale: my, my; Minerva will be so green when she hears."

Turning, Griphook spied Hermione fidgeting and looking a little dazed as she stood in the hallway; waiting for him. He allowed himself a relaxed grin as he watched the witchling glance up and down the corridor then—with an introspective and very focused expression—nibble on her bottom lip before repeating the entire process; not wishing to startle her, the goblin cleared his throat.

With a little flinch, Hermione faced Griphook who said to her, "It's called the Warriors' Spine, Hermione, and traverses the North/South axis of the real Gringotts of which the above ground white marble showpiece is but a small part of. Very few witches and wizards are allowed down here, or know of its existence, and we intend to keep it that way. You and your parents have been given a very great honor in that the Overlord has instructed us to trust you and your parents explicitly; we've even waived the usual oaths we extract before those not of The Nation and The People learn of this place."

"I . . . I guess it's more than just a long hallway then," Hermione said with smile.

"Absolutely," Griphook confirmed before continuing, "it and its counterpart—the Scholars' Spine—on the East/West axis cross at the Nexus, which sits at the crown of a dome with a base diameter of thirty-score and forty rods and a height of five-score and ten rods"

A quick conversion of rods to feet and feet to miles—in her head—caused Hermione to gasp and exclaim, "Th . . . that's two miles across and over a third of a mile high!"

"Good mental arithmetic, Hermione," Griphook praised, "so how many stairs are there in one of the Nexus' helixes? I'll let you work that out as I take you to our meeting room."

"The Inquisitor's Throne, yes, sounds kinda ominous if you ask me; does it hold a special meaning?" The young witch asked before answering the goblin's question with a casual, "By the way, there are about two thousand seven hundred and twenty two stairs if goblins hold to the convention of eight inches per stair riser; a hell of a climb if you ask me . . ."

". . . and something ever goblin, but the infirm and elderly, are expected to conquer at least once per year," Griphook added, "oh, by the way, it's three thousand six hundred and thirty stairs, Goblin risers are six inches; we, after all, have shorter legs."

"Why?"

"Is that why 'climb' or why 'shorter legs', Milady?" the goblin mischievously asked.

"Climb;" she answered but continued in like kind, with a smile, "The 'shorter leg' issue will be discussed at a later date."

Tradition I guess," the goblin replied, "and a way to prove that we can still defend The Nation—at least physically; not necessarily skillfully—should the need arises."

"I'd love to see the helix, it must be an awesome sight," the bushy-haired witch said, "almost like Jacob's ladder."

"From archaic Judaic tradition?" Griphook surprised Hermione with his question, "and, by the way, it's a quadruple helix and is rather spectacular; you'll see it later if things go as expected. But if we want to get there then we best pick up the pace, Lady Hermione."

"Lead on MacDuff," Hermione invited.

"Who's MacDuff?" the Goblin asked.

"Funny," the young witch replied; walking beside Griphook, "you get my somewhat obscure reference to Jacob's Ladder but aren't familiar with Shakespeare."

"Is this 'Shakespeare' a popular writer in the muggle—excuse me, nonmagical—world these days?"

"Um . . . well not exactly current I guess you could say but definitely well known," Hermione replied as Griphook led her through a door that fronted a broad stairwell, which they climbed until reaching another door that they passed through.

"This is the lowest level of our bank's administration offices and the deepest—besides the vaults—level that most witches and wizards will ever see or know of," the goblin told her, "and the level on which the Inquisitor's Throne is on; this way, Lady Hermione."

The hazel-eyed witch followed Griphook past numerous doors and down multitude corridors—that even with her eidetic memory was getting hard to keep track of—until reaching one non-specific door after a horde of other non-specific doors. The goblin opened the door for her and bowed her in.

"Mummy; daddy," she squealed happily when she saw her parents—wearing the same half-robes as she—inside. She charged to her mum and gave her a big hug before turning to her dad and doing the same.

"My, my; my pretty princess: what a busy first week at school, you've had," her father said happily, as he hugged her back.

—}{—

Harry made his way to Goldenfang's office, reminded again of just how big Gringotts really was. A few minutes at a reasonably quick pace lead him to his primary Vaultlords' office and he pushed open the door.

"Good morning, Silkenrobe; you're looking quite fierce this morning," Harry said with a big smile.

"Why thank you Lord Potter; as do you," she replied with a grin that Harry found attractive; thankful once again that goblin females look more human—but for their height and pointy teeth—than their male counterparts, although their muscles were as well defined.

"Have you found a worthy seed-mate yet?" he asked.

"I'm saving myself for you, Lord Potter," she flirted in response; an oddity for goblin kind—and rather obscene, too; he was not of The People after all—but she knew how strong the young human was, "and remember, I'm far more durable—if you catch my intent—than any witch that might tickle your budding fancy. I'll gladly bear many strong offspring by the seed you gift as you use me with virility; their strength will be the envy of The Nation and they'll ascend to the Halls of Honor."

The goblin equivalent of an intercom buzzed on Silkenrobe's desk, she answered, "Yes Vaultlord?"

The gravelly voice, made more so by the low-fidelity of the device, of Goldenfang said, "If you're done flirting and trying to make brood by Lord Potter, please send him in Silkenrobe."

"Yes Vaultlord," she answered before addressing Harry. "As you heard, Lord Potter, you may go in; you are expected."

"Thank you Silkenrobe," he said and he felt reasonably certain he heard her say very quietly, as he stepped into Goldenfang's office, "I'm in estrus today and not wearing anything under my robe, Harry."

He let the door close quickly behind him, casually wondering what Hermione would say to the idea of an amorous gobliness hitting on him, and greeted the two Vaultlords waiting for him, "Profitable day to you Vaultlord Goldenfang and you Vaultlord Diamondwill; may black ink fill your ledgers."

"And in yours as well, Lord Potter," Diamondwill responded for the goblins.

"So, Harry; you've had an interesting first week at Hogwarts and have already made allies and enemies," Goldenfang said.

"Well, you know, I never do things by half-measures," the green-eyed wizard replied with a smile.

"Indeed," said Goldenfang, "and, just so you know, Gavin Davis was quite surprised by Curse Breaker Weasley's arrival, yesterday afternoon, but readily accepted the level three wards he got at no cost to him. He was also quite happy with his daughter's new status; he'd like to meet with you—to formalize the alliance—but understands it'll likely have to wait, until the Yule Break. Another thing, I wouldn't be surprised if you're on the top of Tracy Davis' betrothal list now; I better tell Silkenrobe to sink her fangs into you before then, if she still wants your spore that is."

Harry blushed and that drew Diamondwill into the banter, he added, "Silkenrobe's friends would be so surprised to know how much of a deviant she is—what with wanting to procreate with a wizard and all. I'm sure you'll have Ragnok's blessings, though; he'd love to have Lillian Potter's blood mixed with his and would likely brood any female offspring you might have."

"Have you two finished?" Harry asked, still looking embarrassed; the Vaultlords nodded, "Good let's get down to business; what do we know about Lord Malfoy?"

Goldenfang dropped a thick, heavy folder on his desktop and on top of the folder was a time-turner.

"That much, eh," Harry sighed in resignation as he looked at the file, the time-turner making it all the more ominous.

"Unfortunately," his primary Vaultlord replied. "By the way, there was no one in my office an hour ago, Lord Potter; will that give you enough time? We may use my side chamber—no one's entered there in the last hour either—to review the information."

"Thank you Goldenfang," said the young wizard, "and what of you Diamondwill?"

"I need to greet and escort Lord Malfoy; he should be here in about ten minutes, please keep that in mind," the goblin advised.

"We will, Diamondwill," replied Goldenfang, "I'm sure Lord Malfoy did not like this morning's summons; let's not exasperate matters by making him wait too long for his audience with Lord Potter and Family Granger. Very well then, are you ready Harry?"

"Yes," replied the green-eyed wizard as he draped the time-turner's chain over both of their shoulders. He turned the escarpment disk once and then released it; Harry and Goldenfang vanished and Diamondwill then went to the door leading to his fellow Vaultlord's side chamber.

Knocking first, he then called through the door and said, "Your office is now clear Goldenfang; I'm off to receive Lord Malfoy."

"Thank you Diamondwill," Harry called back.

—}{—

Lucius Malfoy was in a foul mood and had already berated and/or brutalized most of the manors' kitchen house-elves to soothe his rage. The nerve of Diamondwill, he works for me but thinks he can order me to Gringotts; the Wizengamot will hear of this, Lucius Malfoy ranted in his head; ignoring the simple fact goblins could refuse him vault access and there was nothing he, nor the Wizengamot, could do about it: other than trying to take over the bank. "I expect Fudge to put those vile creatures in their proper place, this time. I'll play along for now and let the filthy goblins think they can command me but this is the last time; let me tell you. I'll never understand why those abhorrent beasts are allowed so much autonomy when dealing with their betters: they should all be exterminated; that way our gold could be safeguarded by proper folk who know their proper place—even mudbloods would be preferable to that unwashed horde; mudbloods can at least be trained to serve their betters.

"Are you ready yet, Narcissa?" he impatiently yelled.

"Yes Lucius, you needn't yell," his wife replied coolly as she entered the manor's foyer and made her way to the mansion's designated public Floo hearth, "for the life of me, I don't know why I must come but at least I can do some banking I've put off."

"Gringotts' V. I. P," he growled and disappeared into a blaze of green.

"Dobby," Narcissa said and her house-elf popped in before her.

"Is Masters be now gone, mistress?" the dirty tea-towel clad creature asked, looking over his shoulders nervously.

"Yes, Dobby; now, I've laid out today's work in my parlor, please see it done before dinner," Mrs. Malfoy instructed.

"Dobby will see it done, mistress."

"Thank you, Dobby," she said before tossing a handful of floo-powder onto the grate and evoking, "Gringotts' V. I. P."

Narcissa Malfoy stepped into the ball of green flame and followed her husband; her arrival at Gringotts' was greeted by her husband's furious tirade on Vaultlord Diamondwill.

". . . the beck and call of lessor creatures like you and that is something you should already know; when the Wizengamot hears of this you will be reminded of your proper place, goblin," fumed Lucius, Diamondwill remained impassive but at least managed a little nod when Narcissa arrived.

"This way, Lord; Lady Malfoy," the Vaultlord said very stiffly and Narcissa was certain that Diamondwill was imagining many creative ways to disembowel her foolish husband; as a former Black she knew better than to annoy goblins but the Malfoy name was too new to truly understand this simple adage. "We've booked the Inquisitor's Throne for today's meeting."

"Good, I'm glad you understand the importance of this, Goblin," Malfoy said with glee, "I will put that whelp, Potter, in his place and gift his mudblooded slag to my son—once she's fixed of course—as his new toy after I train her to know her place; young flesh and minds are so responsive to a good flogging."

"Yes, Lord Malfoy, I'm sure today will hold many surprises," Diamondwill retorted; Narcissa was not as deaf to his tone as her husband was and heard what wasn't said. Lucius is as Slytherin as Draco is—that is to say: not at all—he has yet to realize he's meeting with the Lord of a Noble and Most Ancient House; if he thinks Potter will be sitting in 'The Throne' he is even more foolish than I thought. I hope Potter is cute, we may well belong to him before this day is done. Did mum and dad know Lucius was an idiot before I married him? Perhaps they wanted to make me suffer because of I was openly different (Bella was even more extreme than I was but hid it better; Andy was our opposite and far too dominant for a daughter of Black descent) not that Lucius was strong enough to satisfy those needs. My useless husband would rather be 'pegged' than take me in the manner I need; at last he mostly ignored me once Draco was born: I never missed little Willy and he didn't even notice; neither did he care about my indulgences nor do I care about his.

Lost in thought, Lady Malfoy followed her husband and their Vaultlord; unfortunately, she didn't notice one of her least favorite witches, likely returning to the VIP Floo chamber, approach until she heard Chloe Parkenson's shrill and grating voice, "Well if it isn't Narcissa, what a surprise; I haven't seen you in ages. Did you dye your hair? It looks blonder now; who wants grey, eh? Have you heard from Draco? I'm sure he's properly asserted himself in his house and to his year-mates; he's a Malfoy after all and what with that Black blood of his, I'm sure witches are already flocking to him. I do hope my daughter will be wise in Draco's consort selections and train them properly; so that they may please him—and her when her Lord is busy. We have this mudbood I trained—and use from time to time—who eagerly uses my crop on her own intimate flesh enthusiastically and has a most talented tongue; I'm sure you and Lucius have a few, as well, considering how rich you are."

"Chloe, you know very well that Lucius has never expressed any interest in consorts," Narcissa stated, "and that we have none; my husband gets what he needs without them so we haven't bothered."

"You must be amazing in bed, Narcissa—a husband who doesn't want consorts; I'm jealous," the pug-faced mother of her son's betrothed said.

"Must we have this conversation every time we meet Chloe?" Mrs. Malfoy said without hiding her irritation. "Anyways, I must catch up to Lucius; perhaps we will meet up later."

"Perhaps," agreed Chloe Parkinson, "ta, ta for now Narcissa; I have an urge to use my favorite toy, now: you can drop by later if you want. Like I said, she has the most talented tongue and the way she crops herself is exquisite; you really must see what she can do to herself someday."

"Yes, perhaps someday," Lady Malfoy said abstractly as her concentration drifted down more pleasant avenues and the hope that she might have some quality time away from Lucius soon, "anyways, some other time Chloe; I'm being left behind and must hurry."

With that, Narcissa Malfoy, hastening her steps and left her son's future mother-in-law where she stood; seeking to catch up with her husband and Vaultlord Diamondwill. Damn, lost sight of them, she thought with annoyance, now, where is the Inquisitor's Throne again and why must Gringotts be so frigging labyrinthine?

"Excuse me," she asked a passing goblin, "which way to the Inquisitor's Throne?"

The goblin raised his eyebrows in surprise for a second but replied in the usual gruff and monotone voice of his people's professional voice, "second corridor down and to your right; it's the third door on your left."

"Thank you," Narcissa said dismissively and waved the creature off; never noticing the goblin's scathing smirk.

Following the goblin's directions, she purposely strode through the corridors of Gringotts and, reaching her destination, pushed open the ostentatious and ornate door to the Inquisitor's Throne. The sight greeting her was something she could never had imagined; proving again the old adage that 'truth can be stranger than fiction' in the spectacle of Lucius being pinned—prone—to the floor by a very feminine and familiar knee forced into the small of his back. With his wand arm twisted painfully between his shoulder blades and tears of agony in his eye, he hadn't even whimpered before a brunette—her face obscured by untamed and bushy hair—drove Lucius' elm and dragon-heartstring wand, business end first, into the unyielding marble floor: it splintered, sparked and was reduced to little more than kindling.

"Aunt Nancy!" Hermione exclaimed and that began a cascade of startling revelations.

"Hermione! Dan! Emma!" Narcissa exclaimed as her eyes met those of her other and loving family: as she thought of them. "What in Merlin's name are you three doing here?" Hermione now understood why her aunt had used that odd aphorism from time to time.

"You're a witch!" Dan exclaimed.

"Yes . . ."

". . . This effeminate piece of trash is your husband!" Emma exclaimed, as she looked at her other spouse, within arm's reach, but continued to dig her knee into Lucius' lower back.

"Yes . . ." Narcissa replied in a tone leaning towards shame.

". . . Draco is your son, Aunt Nancy!" Hermione exclaimed, emphasizing 'your'; trying to connect the boy with the woman she called Aunt Nancy and thought of as her second mum.

"Yes . . ." the blonde witch replied, her tone now dripping in shame.

"We have a lot to discuss, Nancy, or is that even your name?" Dan asked with more surprise than either anger or disappointment.

"It's Narcissa, mas . . . Dan," she replied demurely, her eyes fixed to the floor; hoping her hasty correction went unnoticed by either her Husband—who was likely about to become her ex—or Vaultlord Diamondwill.

"Look at me Nan . . . Narcissa," Daniel Granger ordered and as her eye's gaze lifted from the floor and swept past Emma—who she thought of as both wife and lover—and noticed the collar openly displayed on her (in all but law) sister-spouse's neck. With a silent 'finite', she dropped the concealment on her own collar; she had nothing to hide now as she faced her greatest fear: being expelled from what she thought of as her true family. Her eyes, now misting, reached Dan's; he said, "You have nothing to worry about, Narcissa. Emma and I knew you were married and had had children by another; we knew from the beginning that you didn't belong to us exclusively but that doesn't mean Emma, Hermione and I don't love you any less and since this piece of trash was forced upon you, how could we hold it against you? You will always be welcome in our marriage bed and if your little-willied husband tries anything; I'm sure Emma would love to practice some old-school dental procedures on him: without anesthetic."

Lucius Malfoy painfully craned his neck and looked at his wife; he hissed in anger, "You're a pureblood of the highest order and you pollute yourself with filthy mug . . . muggles and why are you wearing a slave's collar? Have you no shame or pride, how can that be better than the diamond/mithrel choker I gave you and thought you were wearing this morning. "

"Shut your gob, Little Willey," Emma growled as she slammed Lucius' head back to the floor with her free hand, "Eww, your hair is all slimy; you need an oil change, Little Willy."

"I . . . am . . . Lord . . . Malfoy," he spat out each word as he spoke, "I . . . am . . . your . . . better . . . in every way; filthy muggles will be taught their place. How dare trash mock me and freely call me by a name other than my own. When the Wizengamot hears about this, I will see you two to Azkaban."

"Oh dear, Little Willie is threatening us, Dan," Emma said mockingly; still kneeling on Narcissa's husband's back, "whatever should we do?"

Daniel Granger laughed heartily and smiled at his wife who was holding a fully-grown man—prone and humbly—against the floor, effortlessly; he stated, "You know, Lord Little Willie; Emma and I read Hermione's books before she headed off to school. We know wizards are generally helpless without their little pointy bits . . . of wood," Dan chuckled a little before adding. "I bet you even played mine is bigger than yours when you were younger and while you might pose a threat to Emma or I alone or at midrange; I guarantee we can kill you at close or long range if we choose to: we are not just any 'muggles'; you don't frighten us. So, why don't you just hitch your little pink pony to your 'I'm your better' cart and learn that—no matter what you think—you are not at the top of the food chain. There are far more 'muggles' than magicals and eventually your kind—sorry Narcissa—will eventually really piss us off."

He, Lucius Malfoy, one of the most feared of Voldemort's inner circle—of course, he was acting under the Imperious Curse at the time—was being humbled by a muggle female while being mocked by her muggle husband, all in plain sight. Meanwhile, his pureblooded wife of Noble and Most Ancient House of Black descent looked on with a damn smirk and a frigging collar, marking her as property of at least the male but likely the female as well. With his worldview rapidly disintegrating before his and Vaultlord Diamondwill—who actually looked amused—eyes, Lucius Malfoy's most lucent thought was to say, rather pathetically, "Why do you keep calling me Little Willie? I am Lord of the Noble House of Malfoy: my name is Lucius, not Willie, and I'm not little; what is the meaning of this?"

Dan and Emma—still not relinquishing her hold on the wizard beneath her—erupted into laughter; even Narcissa—nee Nancy Moore, to the Grangers—Malfoy began to giggle very unladylike but feeling much freer as Emma chose to answer, after a playful nibble on Lucius' ear. "I'll keep my voice down; can't have my daughter hearing this—she is a child after all—and tell you: One night, a number of years ago now, Dan was plundering Nancy's . . . I mean Narcissa's bum and she moaned into my quim, while licking that her husband's little willie was a toothpick compared to what she was blissfully impaled upon and had exquisitely filling her bowels. Ever since then, whenever one of us referred to you—yes, even Nan . . . Narcissa—we used Little Willie; I wonder if she was right? Perhaps I should take a look for myself, is that okay with you Lord Malfoy?"

Lucius was enraged but helpless to act as this filthy muggle whore took aim at what made him a man and did so with knowledge that his—he thought—prim and proper wife had provided her with and—even ghastlier—her husband. To make matters worse; his so-called prissy and purist wife had allowed a muggle to do something—at least once—to her that she'd always denied him, her husband, and had done so while wetting her face on the nethers of the muggle slut who was demeaning him. All in all, Lucius was having a very bad day and it was all because his son couldn't behave like a proper Slytherin and know when to keep his mouth shut but. Unbeknownst to him, Lucius Malfoy's day was about to become worse as a pair of smallish high-quality dragon-hide boots stepped into the room and around his wife.