.o0O0o.
Lester kept his eyes closed as he felt his head emerge from the flames. After a precautionary puff of air out of his nose, he blew small jets of air from his mouth towards his eyes to clear any trace of loose ash that might've accumulated on his face before he'd chance opening an eye. Some might complain about getting ash in their mouths but only because they'd never had an eyeful of the stuff. That was not a pleasant experience.
Whatever his plans, a soft padded pat on the nose had both eyes open at once and Lichfield suddenly found himself eye to eye with a very curious cat. Lester retaliated at the assault of cuddly cuteness by blowing a blast of air at it.
"Go away," Lester said before puffing out his cheeks to send another blast of air at the tiny creature. "Shoo."
The curious calico must've decided the mysterious head in the fire wasn't interesting enough to take the irritation to find out more because it sauntered off with its tail held high. Now free to take a look around, Lichfield noticed one thing right away: the old woman who lived here had no taste. This coming from someone whose apartment had plain white walls and almost no decoration whatsoever, Lichfield mentally revised it to bad taste rather than no taste.
The strangest thing about it was probably how anyone could stand to live in a place which smelled this strongly of cabbage. It might be one of the great mysteries of the ages.
"Hello?" Lichfield called. "Anyone home?"
The last thing he needed was an old biddy giving him the run around by constantly stepping out to get Mr. Whiskers and his eighty two offspring their own private dose of tuna every day.
"Just a moment!" a woman called from the other room.
Lichfield tried to wait patiently through the sound of feet shuffling, doors locking, and curtains being drawn. Just as the pain in his knees was about to have him damn the pretense the grey-haired old biddy in question appeared.
"Y–yes?" she asked.
"Sorry to interrupt," Lichfield smiled. "Are you Arabella Figg of Figg Leaf Breeding?"
"Oh, um – yes," the curious woman answered.
"Wonderful! Do you mind if I come through?" he asked.
"I suppose not," she said.
On wild impulse, Lester tried something he'd always been curious about. Feeling his body back at Gringotts, he kept his hand as close to his neck as possible and followed it towards his head until he was reaching into the flames. It was a curiously twisty sensation, but soon enough his hand and arm popped out of the fire next to his face. Repeating the process on the other side and with a couple self-shoves on both ends soon had the Figg fireplace giving birth to a very old and gnarled Lichfield.
"Sorry about that," Lester said, standing up and dusting himself off. "Didn't want to chance spooking some of them or treading on one of those cats," he explained, gesturing to the growing flock of fur balls around the room.
"That's – very thoughtful of you," the woman said uncertainly.
"Oh, where's my head?" Lichfield asked with a smile. "I'm Lester and I got your name from Gringotts. It seems you inquired about an investment opportunity and acquiring a few more Kneazles for your operation? I've always found getting to know the person behind the business to be the best way to go about things, don't you think?"
"Oh, of course!" the curious Mrs. Figg said now smiling. "Why don't you sit down and I'll make us a spot of tea?" she asked as she hustled him towards the small kitchen table and started bustling around the room.
"Curious to find an animal breeder in a muggle neighborhood, isn't it?" Lichfield asked.
"Oh, I don't mind muggles," Arabella said as she put the pot on to boil. "They love cats even more than we do, so there are plenty of toys they've come up with for the animals to play with. Plus, no one here bothers to look into the affairs of an old lady with a bunch of cats."
Lester found it amusing how the woman transitioned so smoothly from pretending to be a muggle to pretending to be a witch. It made him wonder how far a Squib could go with a bit of acting and a good deal of luck.
"So, you interested in breeding?" the old woman asked. "Cat breeding," she quickly corrected.
"I found the kneazle mixture to be interesting," Lester said. "But what intrigued me most was how close this house was to Privet Drive."
"P–Privet Drive?" the suddenly nervous woman asked as she removed the whistling teapot from the burner and added the tea. "What could possibly be of interest there? Just one muggle place after the next."
"Well that's where Harry Potter lives, isn't it?" Lester asked as total silence fell. "Tell me, why didn't you go to him for this investment? He owns this house, after all, and is your business's primary backer."
The curious old squib turned to look at him with large panicked eyes.
"With him living right down the street, you must see him all the time," Lester continued with a smile. "Did he not think it was a good idea?"
He expected evasions, he expected denials, what he didn't expect was a well-aimed teapot scalding him and sending hot water all over the room. Damn squibs were crafty, and quick. The only thing left of her at the last place he looked was a single tartan house slipper. Emerald flames erupted in the fireplace and if it weren't for a quick flick of his wand the old biddy would've gotten away.
"Help!" the old woman cried to the flames as she fell to the floor with conjured ropes all around her.
Lichfield Summoned the woman to him and held her in front of him like a shield as twin gouts of flames saw a couple of young people shoot out of the fireplace.
"Halt! Aurors!" one young girl with pink hair called, before promptly tripping on the rogue teapot and tumbling to a halt herself.
"Aurors, you?" Lester had a good laugh. "You pups couldn't be any higher than trainee cadets. What, did everyone else go out for a long lunch and not come back?"
Somewhat embarrassed looks passed between the kids some fool had left too close to the floo network. The pink-haired girl's hair shifted slightly towards red before returning to its normal color as she stood.
"Release the woman and give yourself up," Pink-Hair's compatriot commanded. The boy didn't look like he was old enough to shave.
"Why should I?" Lichfield asked. "I'm a Bailiff and here in my official capacity, but you? What're new recruits like you doing out without someone to change your nappy?"
Mr. No-Need-To-Shave looked to Pink-Hair for support. These kids had no idea what they were doing. If someone intelligent had been there though, sending them in would be a nice diversionary tactic while they sneaked up from behind, if they didn't mind them being killed before they could get the drop on him that is.
"Tell me," Lichfield said. "Is that old coot, Alastor, still working there?" Lester saw in the flicker in their eyes that he was. "You tell him I said, 'razzle-dazzle!'"
And with a swirl of color and a hooked feeling behind his navel, the old bailiff left the fool kids wondering what the hell had just happened.
.o0O0o.
If the bright mid-morning sun had Severus hating the blighted orb slightly more than usual, the children running along Diagon Alley had him hating all of mankind. Was there nowhere he could go and no time of day that'd see him safe from those intrusive dunderheads?
Catching sight of a sign to his right with a particularly large group of the little urchins in front of it, Severus angled his way there. Before he even crossed the intervening space one of them had seen his reflection in the window and they had decided, en masse, to go elsewhere. There were benefits to being the most hated teacher in the history of Hogwarts.
The garish green sign had promised a spectacle, and it delivered. Set out like an exhibit at a museum, a dirty and peeling set of trainers sat next to the traced footprints of an orphaned boy, and next to them was a copy of what the boy would be wearing from now on. Severus wanted to point to the autograph the boy had included or the expense that must've gone into the new shoes and see nothing more than pampered privilege, but the fact remained the boy had taken better care of himself in that one act than Albus Dumbledore had done in the ten years before it.
The night before, the man had dared to ask if he had formed an attachment to the boy. If the man had any sense remaining he would've known it doesn't take an attachment to know that even people you despise for being who they were still deserved a minimal level of common decency shown to them. If he still had any doubts at all on his current course of action, those trainers had settled them.
He left the display quickly before the odious shopkeeper could solicit his patronage. Down the Alley he went, most shoppers moving aside to open a space for him – though more out of fear and uncertainty than any respect. These people were all fools and only a fool would want respect from them. Severus gladly took their fear; fear made them move faster anyway.
The goblin guards of Gringotts noticed him when he was still two shops away from the bank. He noticed that they noticed that he'd noticed, and noticed how they shifted slightly as he made to enter the bank. The goblins bowed courteously, as was their custom, and Severus strode through the large double doors without giving them any apparent notice, as was his custom.
The bank was thrumming with activity, kicked into high gear by breeders flocking with their ungainly spawn to purchase putrid potions paraphernalia pawned off on them by sloppy shopkeepers who knew they wouldn't know the difference. Some tried to blame him for their precious little spawn not knowing if their Fluxweed was flattened or their Knotgrass was too knotty, but if the breeders couldn't take the time to look after their own spawn then they shouldn't have spawned at all.
After waiting in line for several infuriatingly slow minutes behind a particularly annoying mother and urchin, one he seemed to recall asking for an extension on his essay last term, which he had so gladly denied, Severus finally got to the teller.
"Ah, Professor Snape," the goblin said. "We don't often get the Hogwarts crowd in here, but now we seem to have one a day. You normally do your transactions through mail, don't you?"
"I think we both know that would be useless to try and do now, wouldn't it?" Severus asked with a knowing sneer.
"It would," the teller smiled.
"Then you may tell – whoever it is – I am here for a rather informative meeting."
The teller looked at him closely and nodded before slamming a 'Next Teller Please' sign on his desk and gesturing to a door to the side.
"This way, professor."
Hearing the groans from people behind him, and knowing he was forcing them to wait in yet another line by taking the teller away, gave Severus one last moment of joy to sustain him through what would come next.
.o0O0o.
Harry was hunched over his desk when his door slowly opened. Trying to put everything into one letter was quite a job to do, and he couldn't help feeling he was still forgetting a couple of things. All the big stuff was in there though, so he didn't think Hermione could complain too much. At least now she'd know as much as he could remember to tell her.
He saw slow movement of a red blur at the edge of his vision and knew it could only be one thing. Harry ignored it for a while to concentrate on reviewing the letter. Was there another bit about Hogwarts he was forgetting about? Harry mentally shrugged it aside. If he was forgetting about it then it must not be very important.
Someone cleared their throat from near the door.
"Hey, Ron," he said as he folded up the letter.
"Er – Hey, Harry," Ron answered as Hedwig made her way down from her perch on top of the wardrobe.
"Did you need something?" Harry asked while concentrating on fastening the letter for its trip.
"Do you really not care?" his friend asked nebulously.
Hedwig flew out the window before he turned to Ron.
"Do I not care about what, Ron?" he asked, trying to get the echo of 'Some friend you are, Harry,' out of his head.
"Money," his sort-of-friend said. "All the money Dumbledore stole from you. Do you really not care?"
"It was my parents' money," Harry explained. "I never knew it was there, but that doesn't mean I want it stolen either. It's the only thing I have left of them."
"So your concern is about your parents and not the money?" the red head asked.
"Yes, Ron. It's the only thing I have to remember them by, the only thing to show anyone ever cared about me, but I'd trade it all away in a second if I could get them back, wouldn't you?"
"What?" Ron said stupidly.
"If you had all the money you could ever want," Harry asked. "Enough to buy anything you could ever want and still have more than you could ever spend in a lifetime, but what you didn't have was your family – wouldn't you be willing to trade it all away to get them back?"
"That's – Woah, that's a lot of money, Harry," Ron said with a grin. "With that you could do anything."
"Anything but get your family back," Harry corrected. "No Fred, no George, no mum and dad, no Bill or Charlie, not even Percy and Ginny. If the only chance you had to see any them again was to give it all back, wouldn't you do it?"
Ron seemed to flounder.
"All of it?" Ron asked incredulously, sitting down on Harry's bed. "That's a lot of money. We're talking about a mountain of gold the size of Hogwarts here. We could buy Quidditch teams for a tiny bit of that."
"Isn't your family worth more?" Harry asked, wondering if his friend would ever get it. "Besides, I'm not there."
"You're not?" he asked.
"Nope, you're all by yourself," Harry said. "But you can get your family back if you give up the money."
"Well, I could see giving up a bit – maybe, maybe half," Ron said.
"Sorry," Harry said. "If you are going to get them back then you're going to have to give up the whole thing. It's just the way it works."
"That's just greedy!" Ron said, not even catching the irony. "I wouldn't be any better off than I am right now."
"You have a family who loves you, right now," Harry replied. "I'd give all the money I have to have what you have right now. What's the point of having money if you don't have anyone to share it with?"
Harry watched as Ron's eyes darted about unfocused. He had seen this happen a time or two before, on the rare occasions he was actually doing well in a game of chess against him, and Harry thought he knew what was happening. Ron was probably imagining flying on a top of the line broom, swooping around his mountain of gold and through tiny twisting tunnels inside it, or sitting down to a feast fit for a hundred people and having it all to himself, or perhaps even lounging around a mansion full of really expensive things, with a wonderful view of his mountain of gold – but everywhere he went, no matter what he bought, he'd still be alone. Suddenly all of those things, and all that gold, didn't seem quite so valuable any more.
"I never thought of it before," Ron said, running a hand through his hair. "So – you're really living here now?"
"Well, yeah," Harry shrugged. "Your sister needed to go to school and I needed a place to live. It seemed like a good deal."
"And you don't even care how much it costs?" Ron asked.
"You guys have been nice to me," Harry said with a shrug. "That's all I care about."
"I've been an idiot," Ron said sourly.
Ron was still looking at him oddly after breakfast the next morning, though it could've been the fact he had stacks of books lying around him and was still digging through the Weasleys bookshelves which had him looking like that… or the fact he'd begged off Quidditch until after lunch so he could continue digging, Harry wasn't really sure.
What he couldn't believe though was he'd been walking back and forth in front of a goldmine all week and had never even noticed. The shelves were stacked three rows deep! Sure, the first row was full of books telling you how to charm your own cheese and things like that, and the second row was all about child-rearing, home-building, and old catalogs of muggle appliances, but the row behind actually had real books.
There were books on plants, and books on caring for animals, books on healing minor scrapes and curing minor ills without the need for a Healer – which Harry supposed was what they called a wizarding doctor. There were the standard kind of textbooks you'd find at Hogwarts, and then there were some topics he'd ever even seen before. There was one called Simply Enchanting which was full of strange symbols, charts full of numbers, and strange shapes that seemed made of nothing but odd angles.
What Harry hadn't expected to find was a handwritten book. A handwritten leather-bound journal if he wanted to strive for Hermione-like preciseness. It was pretty much a mish-mash of just about everything: household plants and their uses, cooking recipes with potions ingredients in it – which presumably did something for whoever ate it, pages of those odd symbols and angular designs, even plans for a house that looked nothing like the Burrow.
Harry was wondering how something like this could've made its way into the Weasley home when on the very next page he saw it: the design of a clock. It wasn't just any clock though, it was the Weasley clock – it really couldn't have been anything else. Around the sides were some of the same phrases, though some, like 'Time to Feed the Baby,' were obviously different. The curious part though was that each one had a string of those strange symbols with it. The real clock didn't have those – or did it?
Harry was just getting up to check when he heard Mr. and Mrs. 'It's still strange to call her Molly' Weasley coming down the stairs.
"No, absolutely not," Mr. Weasley was saying as he hurried away from his wife. "I'll hex it off first. We said when we had Ginny we weren't having any more kids. We're not going to have more just because you think you'll feel – Harry! I thought you were upstairs with the boys."
Mrs. Weasley smacked her husband on the shoulder.
"This," she said, gesturing to Harry, "is why you don't build a house vertically. This is the second time I've had embarrassing conversations while walking in on him."
"Third, actually," Harry admitted. "The first time I hid in the kitchen until it was over."
Molly hid her face in her hand in embarrassment.
"Right," Mr. Weasley said to his wife. "Next time we build the house your way."
Harry chuckled.
"Was it the house I found in this?" he asked, holding up the journal.
"Oh, now where did you find–," Mrs. Weasley started before seeing all the books strewn about as she rounded the couch. "I guess I don't have to ask that question, do I?"
Mrs. Weasley smiled as she flipped through the old journal.
"Oh, look, Arthur!" she said excitedly. "There's the recipe I had to incorporate a Sound Sleeping Solution into a meatloaf."
"So it is," Mr. Weasley said with a less than enthusiastic look. "We're so lucky you found that, Harry."
"Yes, well, it may not have tasted like custard cream but it got the job done," Molly said defensively. "And I didn't hear you complaining when the kids were little."
Mr. Weasley shrugged noncommittally.
"Aw, there's my house," she said fondly as she flipped through to the next page.
"Would've been hard to press all nine of us into that little thing," Mr. Weasley said appraisingly.
"That's the beauty of normal homes, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley chided. "You can build out – not just up."
"I was going for a nice tower look," Arthur said evasively.
"You and Xeno both," Molly said with a shake of her head. "And my clock! I'd forgotten it was in here. My, it was so simple in the beginning, wasn't it?"
Harry hadn't thought there was anything simple about the drawing he saw; it was the most complicated thing he'd ever seen, and he said so.
"Oh, no, enchanting's actually quite simple once you know the basics," Molly said with a wave. "The hard part came later. You have any idea how tricky it is to get one object to track nine others all at the same time, especially when they're all related? I'm lucky it didn't turn out to be as big as a house."
"Do they teach that at Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.
"They touch on it a little at N.E.W.T. level, once you know the basics," she answered.
"Newt?" Harry asked.
"Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests," Mr. Weasley explained, looking over his wife's shoulder. "They come after Ordinary Wizarding Levels in your fifth year."
"They used to have a whole class dedicated to it," Mrs. Weasley said. "But something bad happened when we were younger and a bunch of people died – turned people off the subject."
"You've got a bad rune there," Arthur said.
"What? Where?" Mrs. Weasley asked.
"Just there," her husband said, pointing to one of the symbols on the page. "That says 'chickens' not 'baby'."
"Yes, well," a flustered Mrs. Weasley said, quickly flipping through the journal again. "Nobody's perfect."
"Hang on, is that why we got chickens in the first place?" Mr. Weasley asked. "'Oh, Arthur, you know I've always wanted chickens,'" he said in a fair approximation of Mrs. Weasley's voice. "You made a mistake and couldn't admit the truth?"
Mrs. Weasley snapped the journal shut.
"I may not be as bad as my brothers," she said drawing herself up to her full height, which, seeing as she was rather short, didn't amount to much. "–But that doesn't mean I'm not without my own bit of Prewett pride."
"Have you thought about what you're going to do with the extra money this year?" Harry asked, thinking it might be best to distract the Molly.
"I'm – I'm not sure I follow you," Mrs. Weasley said, looking at him strangely.
"Well," Harry said with a shrug, "Lichfield said we can't collect rent until the whole thing with Dumbledore and the guardianship thing is taken care of, so that'll help you out. And even then," he continued, somewhat embarrassed, "you guys have been so nice; it wouldn't feel right taking your money after you let me stay here. I'd let you have the place but I think Lichfield would poke me to death if I even mentioned selling it."
"You'd – you'd sell us the Burrow?" Arthur asked shocked.
"Well, yeah," Harry said. "It's your home."
Harry suddenly found himself pressed against the warm fleshy bits of Mrs. Weasley in his first ever hug from a mom. It was rather uncomfortable; he didn't know what to do with his hands. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed to know exactly what to do with his. He ruffled up Harry's messy mop of hair even more than it normally was.
"You're such a good boy, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said.
Harry finally decided that giving her a pat on the back was probably the least he could do.
"Oi!" one of the twins called from the stairs. "I thought we told you–"
"–We're never gonna call you 'Dad,'" the other twin finished for him.
"You should be so lucky," their mother chided, walking off to the kitchen with her husband while flipping through the journal again.
"You've got her wrapped around your finger," Ron said amazed, "and you've barely been here a week."
"Can you imagine what it'd be like by this time next year?" Fred said with a grin. "We really will be calling him 'Dad' at this rate."
"Nah," George said, "You're forgetting Hermione. She'd probably challenge mum to a duel for Harry's hand."
"You think we could sell tickets?" Fred grinned again, his eyes growing to the size of galleons.
"You're all bloody mental," an exasperated Ron said. "Come on out with us, Harry," he said changing the subject. "We could use another Chaser. These two need all the help they can get to get one past me."
The twins looked at their brother like he'd lost what sense he had and were determined to bring him down a peg or three. It didn't look like it was going to be pretty.
"Sure," Harry said, "I'll come. You guys go ahead, I'll grab my broom."
He just got back downstairs when he met Mrs. Weasley at the foot of the stairs.
"Er – Harry," she said uncertainly. "You've got a call in the kitchen."
Harry hadn't seen a telephone the entire time he'd been at the Burrow, so getting a call from anyone was rather unexpected. Plus, besides Gringotts and Dumbledore, who else knew he was here? It couldn't be Hermione; he hadn't even known a number to give her so she could call.
Following Mrs. Weasley to the kitchen, what he found wasn't a telephone at all – it was a head sitting in the fireplace wreathed in floo flames; Professor McGonagall's head. Harry was instantly wary; his first thought was that Dumbledore'd sent her. He relaxed a little though when Mrs. Weasley started puttering around the kitchen doing unnecessary cleaning, making sure to shoot suspicious looks at the floo from time to time.
"Mr. Potter, sorry for disturbing you during your break," his Head of House said, for once not sounding like he should be making better use of his time. "We at Hogwarts have been made aware of your current difficulties with Professor Dumbledore."
Harry thought 'difficulties' was a bit too forgiving but was willing to let her talk.
"Unfortunately," she continued, seeming rather perturbed with the situation. "It's not within my power to issue a refund for all the allegedly misappropriated funds," she said in a tone which clearly said she didn't doubt the alleged part at all. "Nor am I authorized to issue any sort of official statement on behalf of the school. Unofficially, I can say that I and the rest of the staff have found the headmaster's actions towards you to have been absolutely abhorrent."
He watched as the transfiguration professor looked away from him.
"I know Hagrid has taken this particularly hard," she said, choosing to look at the closest table leg rather than at him. "We both deeply regret any unwitting role we played that night, and I surely wish I'd tried harder to change his mind when he left you there, but can only say I thought he was merely enforcing the law."
Harry felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It'd been agonizing enough to piece together that Hagrid had been manipulated into taking him to Gringotts, but now McGonagall had been there the night he'd been left on the Dursleys' doorstep? Just how mangled up was the wizarding world? Would he next be learning he'd spit up on Madam Hooch's shoulder and Madam Pomfrey had helped birth him?
"While this may change your opinion of some of the staff," McGonagall continued, looking up at him again. "I can only hope it doesn't change your opinion of the school itself."
Harry wanted to say something but couldn't think of an empty platitude he could even remotely mean at the moment.
"To that end, if you're willing, I'd like to arrange an informal meeting with the students affected by the Hogwarts Hopefuls Scholarship Program."
This even got Mrs. Weasley's attention; her look changed from wary disapproval to curiosity.
"Why?" Harry asked.
"Because it's changed my opinion of the school," McGonagall explained. "The school, and Professor Dumbledore, has gained a lot of goodwill in the last several years; goodwill it doesn't rightly deserve. You've been wronged," his Head of House declared. "Not only was the money taken from you, but the credit for it as well. And while I cannot give you the money back, I can give you the credit."
"I don't need the credit," Harry said, shaking his head. With the goblins reversing all the transfers Dumbledore ordered and them going after Hogwarts in order to get the money back there really wasn't anything to take credit for. Then again, McGonagall probably knew that.
"You may not need it," the transfiguration professor said, "but you deserve it more than he does."
Harry couldn't help but to agree with that. It would feel good to take something of Dumbledore's for a change, and even if it wasn't something you could hold in your hand or lock away in a vault, it'd still be something. Some part of his feelings must've shown on his face.
"I was thinking this Wednesday," McGonagall said, "in one of the Leaky Cauldron's private dining rooms, if that'd work out for you. I'd be supplying lunch as well."
"Harry already has plans for this Wednesday," Mrs. Weasley said to herself. "My floo's always available to him though."
He looked over at Mrs. Weasley curiously and got a little smile in return. Harry smiled back as he realized what she'd just done. She wasn't trying to be nosy or interfere, essentially saying he was free to come and go as he pleased, she just didn't want his plans with Hermione to be ruined. Maybe Molly was a friend after all. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.
"Thursday would be better," Harry said, earning him a pat on the head as Molly left the room. "I'd like Litigator Lichfield of Gringotts Bank to be there though, and he'd probably like to talk to you too."
"I don't really see what I could possibly contribute," McGonagall said curiously. "But if you wish, I'll give him a call. I shall see you then. Have a good day."
Harry wished her a good day and her head disappeared with a pop!
At times Harry wished all he had to worry about was Quidditch.
.o0O0o.
Deep within Gringotts, Barchoke wiped his shaven head as Severus Snape came out from under the effects of the Veritaserum he'd been dosed with. For a human whose job it was to prepare potions, for some reason he was loath to put his faith in them when it came to questioning. After dealing with Dumbledore though Barchoke wasn't taking any chances. Veritaserum, Truth Quills, and Memories: the three nails for Dumbledore's public crucifixion.
The human had been intelligent though, probably knowing it'd take what he most wanted to avoid if he were to avoid… what he most wanted to avoid... Goblins weren't fools though; the Purging Potion and Veritaserum he'd brought with him had been switched with some of their own make. The human had probably known they would be and only brought them to offset any balance against him if their subsequent testing proved them just as good, if not better, than the ones they'd used.
That had been the whole thrust of the meeting: rectifying the balance. It was why Auditor Axegrind had been brought in and why they now had ten years of Personal Account Statements and a detailed listing of rare and expensive potions ingredients, their estimated value, and potential buyers for them to go through. Snape had put everything he had of value on the table and said, essentially, "Take it all."
Yes, the human was wily.
It was the kind of exchange goblins were always wary of because it was never certain what the other side was trying to buy. It left them uncertain as to what questions to ask too, though "What do you hope to gain by this?" was always top of the list, even if the answer was invariably, "I want you to leave me alone."
The questions had been direct, pointed. They wanted to know where the money had come from, where he had been told it'd come from, and what it was for, though only the second part was particularly important to them. The last part, why Snape had been paid so well, had them wondering if Dumbledore was insane or as clever as they come.
Albus Dumbledore had a repentant pet Death Eater on the Hogwarts payroll for more than ten years and had been paying him to be his personal spy in case the Dark Lord ever returned. That was insane. The payments always coming from "donations" from phantom accounts which disappeared as soon as you looked for them? That was clever.
It was times like this Barchoke wished he had a wizard's knowledge of magic. A wizard's magic was practical, theoretical, or mathematical in nature while a goblin's magic, such as it was, was instinctual and crafty. Magic, for a goblin, literally had to be worked into an object though how was never quite clear, even to them. That was why the goblin race had always wanted wands. With wands the magic simply was, the instinct directed by thought rather than craft. And with a wizard's way of magic too–
With Lester distracted with the Figg woman the Overseer was on his own, at a loss since he didn't know what other questions to ask, and would've struggled to understand any answers that would've been given even if he'd had the questions to ask. In the end he had no other alternative but to add a binding stipulation to come in should they have any more questions before they allowed him to go.
"The last part," the potions professor said, referring to the Auditor's final question: 'Why did you want to work for Dumbledore against the Dark Lord in the first place?' while his hands flexed beside him like he wanted to go for throats. "That will not be repeated outside this room."
It was Auditor Axegrind who spoke to the implied threat.
"It will be repeated anywhere we damn well please and as loudly as we choose," the goblin in black barked back at him. "It's not like anyone would believe it, even if we did. 'Master, could you please try not killing this one, I'd like to keep her as a pet. Kill the kid though,' is hardly an expression of love. Now get out," he dismissed the human with a wave.
The presence of armed guards and him having no wand probably had more to do with his quick exit than anything else.
Severus Snape had loved Lily Evans? Who cares?
"Overseer Barchoke," a lowly cart operator said from the door. "There is a floo-call for Litigator Lichfield, but he still doesn't want to be disturbed. It's Deputy Headmistress McGonagall."
"Tell her to come in," Barchoke replied. "When she does, I'll pry the man out of there if I have to."
Having never had the excuse to go outside during a storm Barchoke didn't know if this was true, but the human expression 'when it rained, it poured,' seemed appropriate.
.o0O0o.
Severus stood naked and exposed for all Diagon Alley to see, or at least he felt it so. He pulled his cloak around him more tightly and tried to look at things objectively as he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron. Not all of his secrets had been laid bare, only the ones he never wanted anyone to know, and those were the ones the goblins had so laughingly tossed back into his face as being worthless.
He'd been hoping to go through the questioning without the use of veritaserum, or at least to have the questioning done with the supply he'd brought. He had no doubts as to the quality of potions he made, and he had been diligent that his vertiaserum was of the finest quality imaginable, for only the highest quality would leave the one who imbibed it truthful yet without the dream-like state where they volunteered too much information.
Had he been able to take his own potion he would've been free to truthfully tell them when what they had asked had no baring on Albus Dumbledore's abandonment of the boy. They'd taken his potion to reimburse themselves for the vile swill they'd used on him which had left him in a near catatonic stupor. Even with Occlumency skills as refined as his there was no defense against veritaserum. How could your mind be coherent enough to mount a defense when the potion's magic was seeping through your veins to assault the brain directly?
As it was, the questioning could've been worse. It wasn't over, true; he'd feel compelled to return if they summoned him for more questioning, but it should be over for now. The goblins had been strictly focused, for the most part, wanting to know what he knew of the abandonment – which was negligible – and Dumbledore's financial misdeeds – which he knew only slightly more of, though only through piecing things together.
Severus had never bought the Headmaster's line of "unnamed benefactors" having been impressed with his role in the war and wanting to show their continued appreciation by donating to a private fund so he could acquire the quality and rarity of supplies he was always after for his own research. Whenever he had tried to find those "benefactors" though they'd slip away like ghosts, so in the end he'd simply made use of the money some fools would leave for him. Never had he thought it'd been pried from Potter's cold, dead hands.
He was why the potions master had gone to Gringotts today. If anyone was capable of reaching out from beyond the grave to drag others down with him it was James Potter. He'd done so with his one-time cohort, Sirius Black, for his betrayal, and now there were goblins involved. Severus knew that returning every illegal Knut he'd been given, even showing the investment had turned a profit, was the only way to avoid a similar fate. After all, nothing was more important to Severus Snape than Severus Snape and as far as money was concerned, he and Potter were square.
Lily Evans though had been his friend first and by the Unwritten Rules of Men it meant she was supposed to have been his. He'd had first claim to her and Potter had snaked her out from under him – before she could ever be under him. She had never been a Potter and never would be, as far as he was concerned. And while she may have hated him for words said in haste, she had no grounds to hold them against him so unjustly when he had debased himself and apologized.
She had cause to be angry, but she had no cause to run off with Potter and spread her legs for him – to give Potter what had belonged to him by right. If any sort of afterlife existed, if she had any way of seeing what was going on in the world, then she only had herself to blame when it came to the boy. If she hadn't been so spitefully stubborn as to run off with Potter when he could have hidden her instead, when she had defiled herself by sleeping with him and getting with child, and she had trusted his stupid band of miscreants to protect her from the Dark Lord, then yes, she did only have herself to blame.
If any lingering spirit of Lily Evans waited for him on the other side of death then she only had herself to blame for how he treated the boy too. The boy had come from her, the eyes said so, but how could she think he'd treat him as anything other than what he was: the proof of her sin against him. How could she think the boy would be anything to him but walking embodiment of her spite and betrayal? The boy should never had been born, the fact he was when a young child named Snape should've been in his place was something he could never forgive.
The spiteful goblin said what he felt for her was hardly an expression of love; so be it. If he couldn't hide himself away with thoughts of how things should've gone and call it love then he wanted this thing with Albus done with all the sooner. Then he'd be free to hate them all equally: the prancing ponce Potter, the stupid girl that'd betrayed him, and the Boy-Who-Shouldn't-Have-Been-Born.
.o0O0o.
It'd been a tiring couple of days for Lester Lichfield, so tiring he hadn't even bothered to torment his downstairs neighbor – besides flattening the rubber wheels the boy's automocar moved around on. He looked up the steep flight of stairs to the inner door to his apartment and began the trudge upward with a groan. He really needed to install a floo so he wouldn't have to rely on the regional public one, but who knew if the fools in the Ministry would get around to clearing it out before the landlord came by checking to see if he was dead when he didn't pay rent one month.
When he moved to set down his briefcase, Lester knew something wasn't right. There was no pitter-patter of little feet scurrying over for work and that could only mean – Lichfield drew his wand and whirled to the right, aiming for the apartment's single chair. Sitting there he saw a surprised-looking Mipsy with a dripping ice-cream cone almost as big as she was; her tongue paused halfway to giving the swirling vanilla tower another good lick.
She smiled and pointed behind him just as he felt a wand press into his back.
"Constant vigilance," the man behind him said.
The silence of the moment was suspended just long enough for Lester to consider, and then reject, the idea of spinning around and knocking the wand behind him away. This wasn't some first year recruit; no doubt he'd have another wand held further away out of his range. Formalities must be observed though.
"You know I lost Constance a long time ago," Lester said in reply, just as he had since the day his wife had died.
The man behind him grunted in recognition, though it did nothing to sooth the growing look of concern on the house-elf's face.
"And I still say you're a damn fool for having left," the gruff voice said.
Lester returned the grunt of recognition, though he had never had any doubts as to who the man was. As he began to turn to face the visitor the wand pressed into his back even more.
"Mind telling me why there's still a wand in my back?" Lester asked.
"Mind telling me why you abducted an old friend of mine?" the man behind him answered.
"What makes you think I did something like that?" Lester asked, motioning to the young elf to remain seated and enjoy the rare treat as he went about replacing his wand in his pocket and removing his outer robe. Just because the visitor was being persnickety was no reason Lester couldn't make himself at home in his own apartment.
"A wizened old codger is unfazed by two trainees showing up, displays clear knowledge of the inner workings of the Department, claims to be a bailiff, asks for me by name, and uses a registered emergency portkey activated by 'razzle-dazzle'?" the voice rattled off. "Yeah, I'd say that's you. Thanks for not killing the kids, by the way."
"Not a problem," Lester said, removing his shoes. "Wouldn't want to kill the recruit you've been spending a lifetime looking for. Where'd you find a metamorphmagus anyway?"
"Albus pointed me at her years ago," the growling voice grunted. "Delayed my retirement to train her. If I can get her to stop being a klutz she'd be great; if she was a Slytherin she'd be terrifying. Records say you're no longer active, how'd you get your hands on that old portkey?"
"It's been on the shelf over there the whole time," Lester gestured. "You didn't think I'd give up the real one, did you? Besides, they never had the authority to fire me. The change of status form must have slipped my mind," he said dryly. "I take it you also saw who's allegedly in charge of the outfit I'm supposed to be working for?"
"That's why I'm here and not there," the voice growled. "I'd like to get some answers before I try to get some answers."
"Splendid," Lester said. "I assume I can turn around now?"
The visitor grunted again.
Lester turned and took in the form of his old friend, particularly the overly scarred face, wooden leg, missing chunk of nose, and the large blue magical eye that swiveled around in one socket. The man had lost all three bits of him since he'd seen him last.
"Damn, Alastor," he said dryly. "You just keep getting prettier, don't you? Is that why you're upset?" Lester verbally poked. "Did I kidnap your cuddle-bunny?"
The way the man's scars pulled to one side gave Lester the impression the other man wasn't in a joking mood. Seemed as though Moody was really starting to live up to his name.
"Mipsy," Lester said, finally addressing the elf. "Once you finish and put the clothes away you can–"
In a flash his shoes and robe had disappeared, leaving Mipsy standing in the kitchen with her hands clutched to her head in pain.
"Don't eat it all at once you crazy little–," he mumbled as he shook his head. "Get started on a proper dinner," he called, "Alastor's staying."
The look of pure joy on the elf's face made for an interesting contrast to Moody's eye bouncing around as if he expected the walls to start attacking him. Lester noticed the man's customary hip-flask and how the eye darted back in the direction of the cleaning supplies. The man had been overly cautious twenty years ago, now it seemed he'd blown past paranoid.
"Don't add any poison to his food," Lester called to Mipsy. "He's a guest."
After a moment he added, "Don't add any poison to my food either."
"Yes, Mister Lichy. You want me to poison you later?" the friendly elf asked, finally earning a chuckle from the mad old Auror.
"No. Never poison anyone," Lester clarified as the elf went to work.
Alastor's magical eye seemed to roll into the back of his head so it could keep the elf in sight, leaving Lester wondering what it'd be like to have two of those things spinning around in his head. He'd probably forget which way was forward within a week.
"I thought you didn't like elves," Moody remarked as he conjured his own chair to sit on.
"Just because I've never seen the need for one doesn't mean I don't like them," Lester replied. "Besides, she had just been born. Her grandparents were gone, her parents were on the way out, her Family had been devastated, and I was the only one even remotely connected to it. What was I going to do, let her die?"
Mipsy outdid herself when it came to dinner. Lester had always been a very picky eater but the little elf seemed to know what he liked, even when he didn't know how she knew what he liked. Maybe he'd been more than a little negligent in his care for her, but at least he hadn't abandoned her. He'd have to rectify that mistreatment and give her more work to do, and he'd have to see about having her form connections to other people for when the inevitable happened.
Lester found that once Alastor had his assurance Mrs. Figg would be released once she agreed to cooperate and testify, he was an energetic audience. Every piece of information was scrutinized, alternate theories purposed, and different interpretations outlined. The sticking point to him was whether or not legal guardianship had been transferred to these Dursleys, to which Lester replied he was welcome to look into it, even if the boy didn't want them involved. What Lester was interested in was just how Dumbledore had gained that guardianship to begin with.
"They were killed that Halloween," he said, pointing to the date on the boy's guardianship papers. "How is it the old man got the boy the very next day in time to abandon him that night?"
"The next day?" Moody growled, his blue eye swiveling from the bank records to the papers in question. "That was a crazy day, but – I'll be damned."
"What is it?" Lester asked. "Why is that day so important?"
"That was the so-called trial for Sirius Black."
.o0O0o.
AN: Thanks for reading.