Sympathetic Properties

by Mr Norrell

Having been treated as a servant his entire life, Harry is more sympathetic when Dobby arrives, avoiding Vernon's wrath and gaining a bit of freedom. That freedom changes his summer, his life, and the world forever. A very long character-driven story that likes to play with canon.

17. Promotions Earned With Blood

AN: Because of all the different goblins involved, a short reminder is probably needed.

Largrot, the really fat and narcoleptic Grand Overseer. Gutripper, the half-blind and hostile head of Security. Lognot, the head of Confidential Affairs that handles Flamel and the Sorcerer's Stone. Fillast, "The Director" of day-to-day operations for the Gringotts building itself. Barnabas Marsh, "The Human" in charge of the Hogwarts Accounting Department. "The Little Minister" Bankor, in charge of Ministerial Matters. "The Foreigner" Alkrat, in charge of Corporate Accounts. Slaggran, the pudgy and wheezing head of Personal Accounts. Braglast, the ever-silent Supervisor of Dodgy Deals. Barchoke, in charge of Hereditary Accounts.

Warning: Parts of this chapter are intentionally disjointed. I warned everyone that I'm not going to make this easy, but I trust you're all intelligent. You've all read the first book and the story to this point so you should have no trouble keeping up.

All snippets from Sorcerer's Stone come from the American version of the book. I am still not JKR; I just blended her work in.

.o0O0o.

The Burrow was unnaturally tense; Ginny didn't like it. Even with the Wizarding Wireless droning on about the latest news it wasn't like when they were younger and they all gathered around to listen to Charlie's first games of Quidditch straight from Hogwarts. She'd been too young to really remember Bill's first games but assumed they'd been the same.

They'd been an exciting kind of tense that made you break out in a grin for no reason and cheer as soon as their names were called, even when they were hundreds of miles away and couldn't hear you. This felt like something bad was happening out there and they were left to wait around and find out what it is, and without being able to do anything to help.

'Was this how it felt with You-Know-Who?' she wondered.

Her parents, Bill and Charlie, and even Percy had all said the younger kids couldn't understand what it had been like back then. Percy only remembered bits and pieces, and the twins not at all, but Percy remembered enough. Mum and Dad gathered around the wireless after sending them to bed, talking in whispers about this or that; always very quiet, afraid, or sad.

'But all of it stopped,' she thought as she unsuccessfully tried to occupy herself by checking what she had with her school list.

They hadn't gotten everything before the goblins had come for Dad and Ron, but what they hadn't bought didn't seem so important without them; even Ron. He might have been the one responsible for running her off every time she had tried to play with the others but that didn't mean she wanted the goblins to take him – well, not as long as he had Dad with him too.

'Harry defeated You-Know-Who and he's dead and gone and never coming back,' she thought as she tried to soothe her jumbly stomach.

'The books said all that was a lie though,' her fear reminded her.

The books about Harry – no, about the Boy-Who-Lived – had been full of plots by polite-seeming but nefarious-minded cut-throats scheming to control the wizarding world in secret, hunting down their adversaries, and seeking a way to return their mysterious Dark Master to life after years of Banishment in the Hereafter, and only Har– no, the Boy-Who-Lived – could stop them.

'The books are nothing but stories,' Ginny told herself firmly. 'Little adventure tales where the hero defeats the villain, saves the girl, professes his love, and gets a True Love's Kiss at the end of it. They're not real.'

'What about Harry and the bouncing broom?' that annoying part of her asked. 'What about facing the giant three-headed dog, fighting free from the devil's snare, and outsmarting the giant chess set?'

Ron might've been annoying, and rude to boot, but he'd come home with a huge tale to tell. Her brother had made it seem like it was pretty much him doing everything, but she knew it'd all been Harry; even the bit with the troll shouted hero in a way Ron could never live up to, but he had said You-Know-Who had been there too. He hadn't seen him, but Harry had, and had defeated him again.

Even if that bit had just been something to throw in at the end to make it seem exciting, she couldn't deny – even if what her brother said was only half-truthful about everything else – that bad things did swirl around Harry Potter, be he the Boy-Who-Lived or just this plain Harry. Maybe he was a hero after all. The thought didn't comfort her any though because things had already gone so… well, so terribly wrong.

Harry was never supposed to save anyone else – well, he was never supposed to save anyone other than her anyway. He had saved Hermione Granger though and messed up all Ginny's hopes and dreams in the process. And now she was his girlfriend, though Ginny had never heard him use the word. Hopefully he never would.

She didn't want to think ill of anyone, let alone have anyone die, but if Hermione Granger simply hadn't been there then perhaps she still would've had a chance to have the hero of her dreams. Harry might not be that now, and far too into studying from what she'd seen – heroes didn't need to study, they just did things – but he could always change, couldn't he? Couldn't he become a hero later on?

From watching her mother when Charlie had brought his first girlfriend over, Ginny knew precisely what not to do: she couldn't try to break them up. It wouldn't work and anything she tried would only make them closer. Plus, it'd make him hate her even more than he already does.

'Creepy indeed,' she thought. 'Doesn't he know what gazing longingly at someone's supposed to look like, what it's supposed to mean?' Having her mother make her stay away from him was going too far though. If she was looking for proof this Harry wasn't the boy from the books then she didn't have to look any further than that. Harry Potter wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived, he was just a skinny kid with glasses and messy hair and an ugly scar on his forehead. 'He'd probably have pimples soon too,' she sulked.

But the niggling sense of doubt remained; what if he changed? If only Ron hadn't been born then perhaps she would've been bumped up in the queue. Then she would've been in Harry's year instead of Ron; she would've been the one to meet him on the train and become friends with him straight away. She might have even been the one to get attacked by the troll, saved by him, and she'd be in Hermione's place now. It would've been perfect!

Giving things a good hard look, Ginny had to admit her mother had been right. She'd had the amazing opportunity to get to know the real Harry Potter, and maybe even become friends with him, and she had blown it because her head had been too full of Book Harry for her to realize it. With the way things were now, even if they broke up – no, when not if, because they would, Charlie and that girl had after all – even then, Harry wouldn't want her around, much less be interested in creepy little Ginny. And if she wasn't around then how could she get her hero when he changed into one? It was a nightmare.

There was a shift in the background noise and before Ginny could pick up on what it meant her mother descended upon Fred as he and George came back downstairs.

"Don't you turn that down," her mother scolded, Fred's hand still on the wireless. "They might say something about Gringotts."

"They hadn't said anything important for an hour," Fred said defensively.

"Yeah, why would anyone think Bulgaria tearing itself apart in a bloody civil war again was important?" George said with a look to his twin. How anyone could fail to tell them apart was beyond her.

"No talking about tearing anything apart while your father and brother are still with those goblins," their mother said looking concerned. "Did you get Charlie's old trunk out like I told you?" she asked, trying to distract them all with other things.

"Yeah, it was a bit more beat up than we thought–," Fred said.

"–So I took it instead. Ginny can have mine," George gave Ginny a quick wink to say he was glad to do it.

'Fred might be a bit much sometimes, but George is a nice guy. We should find him a girlfriend,' she decided. 'Oh! Then I'd have a sister! I wonder if he'd be interested in Hermione,' Ginny wondered. 'As long as she and Harry didn't kiss then it didn't mean anything and everyone could still be friends.' That thought made her smile more than the newer hand-me-down.

"That's nice of you, George," their mother said as she went to check the clock again.

No one's hand had changed positions since they had gotten home. Merlin alone knew where Percy was, he hadn't been with them and Mum didn't want to let anyone out of her sight to search for him. He, Dad, and Ron were still all pointing at Traveling, which seemed to be for when the clock didn't know where else to put them. But at least they weren't pointing to Mortal Peril so she guessed they couldn't be in too much trouble.

"Ginny, go on and take your things up to your room. We can find out what all we need later once your father gets back," her mother said, probably coming to the same conclusion she had about what the clock meant as she reluctantly pried herself away and disappeared into her comforting kitchen. By the time they got home there'd probably be enough food prepared to feed them all for a week.

Gathering her things together, Ginny made the trek up to her room where she found George's old trunk sitting on her bed. Taking out the new quill that her mother had gotten her, an ordinary feather charmed to look like the peacock's feather Lockhart had, she ticked off what she had from her list as she transferred them to the trunk.

Some of the books would need to be mended, and she didn't want to know how they had burned the back cover of her Charms book, but the important stuff seemed to be there. All except Lockhart's books that is, her Dad had been thrown out of the store before they could buy them. If there was one thing she was glad about it was that Harry hadn't been there to see the fight get started. What the blond boy and his father said was horrible; she certainly didn't want Harry to think those things.

Surely someone besides her own brother would be interested in her one day. Call it 'the Grand Tradition' or not, the thought of marrying part of her own family made her feel icky and wrong. People might've done it two hundred years ago, and evil people like that might want to still do it now, but she'd die alone and unloved – like Great-Aunt Muriel would – before she'd do a thing like that.

At the bottom of the cauldron Ginny found something odd. It was a small, somewhat worn, black leather journal like the ones her mum had taken to writing in. It certainly wasn't on the list. She flipped it open to see if it was hers but didn't find anything inside. It was old, but blank. The only thing she could find was a reference to a Vauxhall Road and the name Tom Marvolo Riddle.

It had to be a diary! She had always wanted a diary. Luna's mum said she'd had one ever since she was a little girl but Ginny's mum had never gotten her one. Whoever this Tom Riddle was had obviously never used his; it was probably an unwanted Christmas gift that'd been sold off and never thought of again.

Ginny squirmed as she stood thinking about it. If she asked her mum whether she'd gotten it for her she could say yes, but she might say no and use it herself. She supposed she could always hide it and wait to see if her mother asked where it was, but if she lied and tried to keep it her mum had already found all of her book-stashing hiding places.

A devious smile bloomed on her face as Ginny came up with the perfect plan. She'd write her name in it and just start using it, that way if her mother wanted to take it she'd be wracked with guilt and couldn't do it. Besides, with Harry renting a room there was sure to be enough money to buy all the journals her mother could want, there was no reason she had to have this one.

Ginny ran to her little writing desk by the window and filled her quill with ink.

'This diary belongs to Ginny Weasley,' she wrote on the first page. Ginny thought of adding 'Keep Out!' but reckoned it'd only make the twins want to read more if they ever find it. Oh! Maybe she could find some way to bewitch it so they couldn't once she got to Hogwarts.

Coming out of her little daydream, she was shocked to find the page completely blank. She quickly checked the next page it just in case she'd flipped it accidentally. There was nothing there; everything was just blank. Her mother had bought a bum book. Who'd bewitch a diary so you couldn't write anything in it? Ginny was about to take the journal to her mother to say that she could have it when something truly bizarre happened. The book wrote back.

'Hello, Ginny Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle. It's very nice to meet you. It's been quite some time since anyone has written in this diary. However did you come by it?'

She didn't know if it was the uncertainty with the goblins or just because he was gone, but her father's voice suddenly rang loudly in her ears. 'Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.'

B–But that didn't make any sense. Wouldn't a book keep its brain in itself? But wait, what about the clock? It was a clock; it didn't have a brain, so how was it supposed to know where to place the hands on it without one? And what about pictures and paintings that move about on their own and talk? Even their Ford Anglia had a compass pointing you in the direction you were supposed to go and none of them had a brain at all.

Then the answer came to her. Magic and magical items could be dangerous if you didn't know what to do. It was just one of those things parents say to make you cautious, even if they weren't really dangerous at all. Don't run downhill. Don't fly too high. Don't play with your brother's wand. Don't trust anything without a brain. The answer to why the diary was there came easily after that.

'An enchanted friend for the friendless?' she asked the book in writing.

'Something like that,' came the response. 'I can be your friend. The real Tom – the one who made this book what it is – he never really had many friends. He was always alone, even at Hogwarts. That's why he made this, once he learned enough. It was tough, but he thought if he could prevent even one person from having to be alone like he was it'd all be worth it. So what do you think, can we be friends?'

It – He – Tom, that is, had been alone like her. The boys had always had each other, but most of the time they didn't talk to her unless it was to make fun of her or tease her. But Tom couldn't make fun of her, not really, he was in a book. He had to be nice or she'd stop writing and he'd have no one to talk to until the next person came along, and who knows when that'd be?

Looking at it this way, her mother's plan made a lot of sense. All of her problems had come from longing for a boy who lived in a book, and here's a boy who actually does live in a book – well, who seems to anyway. Who better than him to be a friend to a girl like that? Her mother probably thought she'd end up forgetting about Tom once she made some real friends like she had forgotten about Luna.

'Fat chance,' Ginny thought. She'd never forgotten about Luna; you never forget your very first friend. There were still days she hoped to see her making her way over the hill towards the Burrow; that's why her desk still faced the window, so she'd never miss her if she did.

'I'd like that,' she wrote to Tom. She'd already lost one friend, she wasn't about to lose another.

.o0O0o.

The Pit was one of the less well-built places in the levels below Gringotts, from what he had seen. Lester Lichfield couldn't say anything for sure about the area known as Below, but from what Barchoke had said it was supposed to be very rough. The Pit was a dim echo of that. It had been built as a hand-to-hand fighting ring where duels and matters of vengeance could be settled in a communal, entertaining, and money-making way; where promotions could be earned with blood.

Thankfully it had fallen out of favor as generation after generation of bankers pushed the others lower and lower down and built a bulwark of guards between them. Lester didn't know what would happen if that bulwark ever failed, but right now it didn't matter. He would've preferred they take Harry through the process first, but Overseer Gutripper hadn't been too choosy, so Ginger got grabbed instead; he was just lucky to come along – even if it was only to stand to the side and not speak, though that was only very heavily implied.

Inquisitor Inkgotts fluttered around the chair the ginger kid was strapped to in the center of the former ring-of-death. Lester wanted to tell the kid not to panic and he was in the best of hands but truth of the matter was he'd never seen this done on a human before. It'd been done a time or two, but from what he'd heard it was really disorienting. Goblins might compartmentalize their memories as naturally as they do their vaults, but humans had a much harder time with it. Odds are everything would be all thrown together at the same time.

Lowering the rubbery plunger-thingy onto the kid's head and attaching the connected tube to a repurposed muggle moving picture projector, Inkgotts turned and raised his head to the Overseers in the stands above.

"We're ready," he said.

"Show us how you learned of the Sorcerer's Stone," Overseer Gutripper commanded before the others could say anything.

Instantly a silvery-gray filament threaded its way through the tube and whipped through the projector to be displayed high on the far wall for everyone in the small group to see.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term," the Dumbledore in the memory said, standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, presumably during the start-of-term notices. "Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

With a flicker the memory changed.

A lamp flared to life showing the wild-haired Hermione, who was wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown. She'd obviously been waiting for them in the Gryffindor Common Room.

"You!" Memory-Ginger said furiously. "Go back to bed!"

"I almost told your brother," Memory-Hermione snapped, "Percy – he's a prefect, he'd put a stop to this."

The memory flickered again; either the kid was scatter-brained or was suffering from nerves. Even squinting to make out what came next didn't help; it was very dark and the little glints of light off gold and crystal didn't tell him much.

"RUN!" Memory-Harry yelled before he, Ginger, the girl, and some pudgy kid sprinted down the sparkly dark room, swung around the doorpost and ran through the halls of Hogwarts – why, he didn't know, but he could only grin at remembering the mischief he and Charlus had gotten up to there.

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" Peeves the poltergeist bellowed after yet another flicker, "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!"

Flicker.

"Oh, move over," Hermione snarled as she knocked Ginger aside to stand in front of a random door at Hogwarts and grabbing Harry's wand.

Flicker.

Harry, Hermione, and several Weasleys were standing in Flourish and Blotts.

"I like my hair messy," she told the ginger kid before messing up Harry's hair, making Lester have to stifle a laugh.

Flicker.

Lester found himself looking up, both at the projected memory and in the projected memory as a three-headed dog played tricks with his eyes. Who'd build a scale model of a Hogwarts hallway for a doghouse? As a thunderous set of growls and rolling mad eyes sparked movement in the lower section of the memory suddenly the proportions changed dramatically to his eye. It wasn't a tiny hallway, it was a huge dog!

Flicker.

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" the ginger kid said in his memory, echoing Lester's thoughts. "If any dog needs exercise, that one does."

"You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" the girl snapped. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

With another flicker in the memory, Lichfield felt himself jump slightly as an adolescent black dragon snapped out at them. What in Merlin's name were a dragon and a giant dog doing at Hogwarts if the Stone wasn't there?

Flicker.

"Charlie!" Harry said, turning to look at the ginger kid.

"You're losing it, too," Ginger said. "I'm Ron, remember?"

'Oh, so that's what Ginger's name is,' Lester thought before dismissing it. 'I like Ginger better.'

The memory flickered again, sending a man in a purple turban to the floor in a dead faint and causing an uproar in the Great Hall.

Several purple firecrackers exploding from Dumbledore's wand stilled the rampaging gaggle of frightened kids as the old man rumbled, "Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

The next flicker showed the two boys back in a Hogwarts hallway.

"Hermione!" they said together before wheeling around and running back to a door, fumbling with a key, and running inside.

The girl was cowering against the far wall of a bathroom, looking as if she was about to faint. A troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

Flicker.

"Oy, pea-brain!" Ron yelled, throwing a metal pipe at it. The troll paused and turned its ugly snout toward him.

The next flicker put the three of them sitting in a classroom.

"You're saying it wrong," the girl snapped at Ron the Ginger. "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

The memory then flickered back to the troll as the ginger pulled out his wand must've cast the first thing that came to mind.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Lester stared curiously as the club slipped out of the troll's hand, rose high into the air, turned slowly over – and dropped, cracking its owner's head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole memory tremble. How Harry had made it onto the troll's back Lester didn't know if he wanted to know.

The projector died for a moment as the kid recovered a bit.

"Wicked," the ginger kid said before the projector flickered to life again.

.o0O0o.

"We've got to get one," the red-haired kid told his dad as he concluded his tale. "It was mad, but brilliant!"

Safe and comfortable in the lobby's unwanted visitor's section, the kid named Ron had started spilling everything – as soon as he could speak coherently that was – going on and on like a – well, like a twelve year old who'd just been on his first roller-coaster. He had learned more about his daughter's first year at Hogwarts in the last half hour than he had heard from her during the entire summer.

It was obvious as to why she'd done it, though he couldn't help but feel a little sad for it. Raise her right and teach her to think critically and she still ran straight into a twelve foot troll, giant three-headed dog, and an evil chemistry teacher – though the last one was a danger wherever you went. Chemistry teachers were evil, evil people; it was probably the fumes that turned them all into mad scientists.

"Ah, here she comes," Arthur said drawing his attention to his wobbly-legged daughter as she made her way towards them with her goblin buddies.

"Are you alright?" the frizzy-haired dentist asked as the goblins moved away.

Hermione seemed to ponder that in an 'I just had a lot of laughing gas' kind of way.

"Blueberry?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him questioningly.

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes,'" he said with a smile as Ron snorted at her answer. The kid didn't really have much to kid her about though. What was a 'snuffle-wampum' anyway? He checked his watch as his daughter's brain rebooted.

"If we really hurry we might still be able to get everything before the shops close," he said more to himself than anyone else. They'd still be late in getting home though.

"No," his daughter said with a scowl, holding her hands out in front of him to keep him in his seat. She must've rebooted into Puckle mode. "Harry's still in there; we can't just leave."

He looked at his daughter; he knew what she was doing. Having just been through what the boy was going through, she couldn't be concerned with the boy's health; she was concerned with the health of their not-a-date date. After a moment Hermione's eyes flickered to the Weasleys and her look became beseeching; begging him not to make her say it.

"Alright," he said, giving her a small reprieve. "I suppose we can stay the night and head back tomorrow morning. That roach motel we entered through rents rooms, doesn't it?" he asked Arthur.

"Er – yes, but I don't know anyone who's ever stayed there," Mr. Weasley answered. "I'd invite you to stay with us but wouldn't want to spring you on Molly like that. I'll be in enough trouble as it is."

"And we wouldn't want to intrude," Mr. Granger said honestly, thinking it would indeed be too much.

"If we make it tomorrow afternoon I could probably go with Harry when he meets Professor McGonagall," Hermione said hopefully.

Ron snorted. "Leave it to Hermione to squeeze a little school into her break," he said with a smile.

She shot him a reproachful look.

"You could pay a little more attention to your schooling, Ron," the boy's father said. "You really don't seem to appreciate it. I wish I had when I was your age."

"Plus, teachers tend to cut you a little slack if you treat them like human beings, it confuses them," Mr. Granger told the boy, who was staring at him like he was still wearing the throw-pillow.

"So can we?" his daughter asked with those big brown eyes of hers.

He felt the invisible lead he led her around on as a parent lengthen yet again. He didn't like how quickly they went from walking home with you from school hand-in-hand, jabbering on about what they'd learned, to keeping huge sections of their life a secret but figured that unless he tied a big rock to the top of her head every night there was no way to keep her from growing up. And with his luck she'd end up squashed and looking like one of those goblins. Then Grumpypants Stealyourwallet from earlier might become family.

That only left him with the same two choices again: either be the typical father and make her fight him for every inch of freedom when there was ultimately no way for him to win, or let her go and take the first tentative steps by herself and the examine the world on her own. He just wished it didn't hurt so much to watch her walk away.

"Oh, alright," he said with an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh to hide his heart. "But you're the one who has to find a way to let your mother know – without leaving the building," he smiled, knowing he was going to let her do it anyway. His little feminist liked to earn everything herself though. Good for her.

Instantly his Little Puckle started computing the perfect plan; it came surprisingly quickly. With a glance to the goblin guards, she looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"I need money," she said.

.o0O0o.

"They're getting antsy," Barchoke said, fiddling with his Concealer as he and Lichfield huddled with Harry by the odd device at the center of the room. The operator of it glanced at them anxiously from a little ways off, wanting to begin.

"Marsh is up there trying to convince everyone I've been taken in by some kids' prank or grand conspiracy theory," the goblin groused. "The others are now hungry enough to listen. It's just my luck the girl had cats on the brain."

"To be fair, there were a couple of other things which popped up regularly too," Lichfield said with a hint of a glance his way Harry chose not to notice. He hadn't had the chance to see Ron or Hermione after they were done, and waiting was not a pleasant experience.

"Just stick to what's important and I'll try to keep them from distracting you like they did her," the goblin told him.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"The ginger kid–," Lichfield said.

"–Ron," Harry interrupted.

"–Right," the old bailiff continued. "Well, he was pretty scatter-brained, which left them with more questions than answers. That had them trying to piece things together – most of the time out loud – which kept diverting her when she was actually doing a pretty good job on her own."

"We've pretty much pieced together your investigation all the way until you got separated," Barchoke explained. "Just show us the Stone and blood will flow," the goblin said eagerly. "Er – metaphorically," he clarified at a look from Harry before scurrying off back to the others.

"Clear your mind," Lichfield advised as the operator goblin led him to the chair and started to strap him down. "But stay focused. Just go with the flow, but concentrate on guiding it if you can," he said paradoxically as the plunger got stuck to Harry's head.

"You ready?" Barchoke called down from the overlooking ring, sending Lichfield sliding back to one side and out of the way.

Harry had never felt less ready. What if he forgot everything and nothing happened at all? What if it started replaying in his entire life and when it got to here, it started all over again? No, he had to focus; he knew what he had to do, kind of – he hoped.

"Show us the end, with the Stone," Barchoke said from the stands above him.

With a lurch in his stomach Harry found himself passing through the curtain of black flames and getting quite a shock. Someone was already there – but it wasn't Snape. It wasn't even Voldemort. It was Quirrell.

"You!" gasped Harry.

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all.

"Me," he said calmly.

"Who's he?" a goblin asked from somewhere.

Before he could wonder where the goblin had come from there was another lurch in his stomach and Harry found himself standing in the Leaky Cauldron with Hagrid.

"P–P–Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell. For some reason it seemed odd to see him without a turban, but the thought disappeared as the young professor grasped his hand. "C–can't t–tell you how p–pleased I am to meet you."

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?" he asked curiously.

"D–Defense Against the D–D–Dark Arts," muttered the young man, as though he'd rather not think about it.

With a rushing sensation Harry found himself back in the bowels of Hogwarts.

"I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter," Quirrell mused.

"But I thought – Snape–"

With a lurch Harry found himself in Potions class. Hermione had her hand stretched as high into the air as it would go without leaving her seat.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Snape sneered triumphantly.

Harry tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.

He was on the Hogwarts Express and the pinched face of Draco Malfoy turned to look disdainfully at Ron.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" Malfoy challenged. "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

With another lurch, Harry thought he might lose his lunch. Wait – besides the train, had he eaten lunch?

"Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms," the blonde boy said in a bored drawling voice as he stood on the other stool for his robes. "I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Malfoy snatched the package away from Harry and felt it. This seemed to be getting easier – but wait, what was he doing?

"That's a broomstick," Draco said, throwing the long, thin package back at him with a mixture of jealousy and spite. "You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

Ron had a grin on his lips as he simply couldn't resist it rubbing Malfoy's nose in it.

"It's not any old broomstick, it's a Nimbus Two Thousand," Ron crowed. "What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" He grinned at Harry. "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."

"What would you know about it, Weasley," Malfoy snapped back as if the very name was an insult. "You couldn't afford half the handle. I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig."

There was a bit of confusion as Harry found himself back on the Hogwarts Express.

Draco turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" the pinch-faced blonde said from the other stool in the robe store. "They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine."

With a slight shiver Harry found himself in the dusty little shack Uncle Vernon had dragged them all the way into the sea to find.

"I knew you'd be just the same," Aunt Petunia said sneeringly, "just as strange, just as – as – abnormal – and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the gut. As soon as he found his voice he said, "Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!"

Uncle Vernon rounded on him as soon as the door to number four closed, he was so angry he could hardly speak.

"Go – cupboard – stay – no meals," he managed to say before he collapsing into a chair and left Aunt Petunia to scurry away and get him a large brandy.

"I can help you there." Draco said holding out his hand to shake Harry's like he was doing him some sort of favor. Harry didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said coolly before a pink tinge appeared in Draco's pale cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," Draco threatened. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents."

"There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin," Hagrid said darkly over their ice cream. "You-Know-Who was one."

Back on the Hogwarts Express, Draco hadn't finished.

"–They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron stood up, determined to teach this Malfoy a lesson – until the whole world just collapsed.

With a head full of wibbly-wobbly things and not able to move his charms or leave the bear, Larry was finning it shark to drink. What was he supposed to September? Something about a bone, he sought.

"Quirrell!" someone behind him cried, and he felt himself lurch off again.

Back at Hogwarts, Quirrell gave a cold sharp laugh, so unlike his usual quivering treble. It made Harry's stomach lurch.

"Severus? Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he?" he mused amused.

From high up in the branches, Harry peered through the leaves and straining to hear what Quirrell was mumbling until Snape interrupted him.

"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

"B–b–b Severus, I–"

"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him.

"So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat," the turban-headed professor smiled mockingly, his back to the large mirror. "Next to him, who would suspect p–p–poor, st–stuttering P–Professor Quirrell?"

Harry couldn't take it in. This couldn't be true; it didn't make sense – even though a part of him seemed to already know this.

"But Snape tried to kill me!" he said.

"No, no, no, I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger–"

Her serious demeanor finally cracked as she started to chuckle in the middle of the pet shop; Harry was glad to join in. The exchange really had been ridiculous. When they were done she smiled at him like she used to. Yeah, her teeth were a little big, but who cared?

"–accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom."

Zigzagging through the air hundreds of feet in the sky, his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't direct it at all. Harry gripped it tightly as every now and then it made a violent swishing movement that almost knocked him off.

"The Stone!" Barchoke called from behind him.

Quirrell snapped his fingers and ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry. He had to concentrate.

"You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?"

"Come on, run, run!" Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to pull her toward the bathroom door, but she couldn't move, she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open with terror.

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron, who had no way to escape.

Harry took a great running leap and managed to fasten his arms around the troll's neck from behind. It howled in pain as his wand lodged up its nose and it started twisting around and flailing about with its club. Harry hung on for dear life; any second, the troll was going to rip him off or flatten him.

It was somewhat of a relief to find himself standing back with Quirrell.

"Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror," he said as he turned to study the Mirror of Erised. "This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this… but he's in London… I'll be far away by the time he gets back…"

All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and stop him from concentrating on the mirror. Even tied up as he was, Harry felt like he was sitting down somehow. He had to focus.

Quirrell blurred his way around the mirror and stared hungrily into it.

"I see the Stone… I'm presenting it to my master… but where is it?"

Harry felt oddly disconnected from his struggle against the ropes that were binding him. What had Dumbledore said about the mirror?

"It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts," the old headmaster said sagely in the deserted classroom deep in the dead of night.

Quirrell cursed under his breath.

"I don't understand," he said, starting to get frustrated. "Is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

"Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that," Dumbledore said as he smiled at him in the hospital wing. "It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes…"

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!" Quirrell cried.

"Use the boy… Use the boy…," came the voice Harry had known would answer.

"Who's that?" a goblin wheezed.

In a blink he and Quirrell had changed positions; Harry thought he could almost see it happen.

"I met him when I traveled around the world," Professor Quirrell said, a pale ghost of what he once had been. "A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was."

"Impossible," a human said in the background. Harry didn't pay it any mind.

"There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too week to seek it… Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts–"

"Run by goblins," Hagrid told him as they sat in the cold, sea blown shack.

"Goblins?" Harry asked, dropping the bit of sausage he was holding.

"Yeah – so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe – 'cept maybe Hogwarts."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest as he spoke to the bank teller. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly – but he shouldn't be seeing this. He shouldn't be expecting to see fabulous jewels or the like when he knew what it was.

Harry looked up and saw himself looking down as Hagrid picked it up a grubby little package wrapped in brown paper from the floor and tuck it deep inside his coat. It looked like he was watching a movie. What had happened next?

"Hagrid!" Harry said excitedly, sitting in Hagrid's hut holding a newspaper clipping. "That Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! It might've been happening while we were there!"

Hagrid didn't meet Harry's eyes as he tried to find something else to do.

Focus.

"–He was most displeased," Quirrell said. "He punished me… decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me…"

"Illuminating, but please no more distractions," Barchoke said. "Get to the Stone."

Quirrell rounded on Harry.

"Yes – Potter – come here." He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding the other Harry fell away and he got to his feet.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

Harry watched himself walk toward the man and look into the mirror.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket – and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket – he somehow saw it too. Incredibly, he'd gotten the Stone.

"How did you survive?" the human voice asked and in a blur Harry found himself standing further from Quirrell than a moment before.

"Let me speak to him… face-to-face…" came the voice from Quirrell's turban.

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough… for this…"

Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? Wait – he knew what was going on. He had to focus.

The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it as he turned on the spot to reveal the most terrible face Harry had ever seen where there should have been the back of the man's head. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter…" it whispered. "See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor… I have form only when I can share another's body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds… Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks–"

There was an urge to see a snow white form on the dark forest floor. Harry quickly discarded it; it wasn't important.

"–You saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now… why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

With a blur Harry sprang toward the flame door, Voldemort screaming "SEIZE HIM!" The next second he felt Quirrell's hand close on his wrist. There was no pain as the Harry he saw reacted as if his head were about to split in two; he yelled and struggled with all his might, but he knew the battle was already won. Quirrell let go of him, hunching in pain as his fingers blistered before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking the Harry he saw clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands around his neck – before Quirrell howled in agony.

The Stone had tumbled out of his pocket. Harry hadn't noticed that before, it didn't seem Quirrell had either.

"Master, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!" the man whimpered.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face–

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and Harry remembered: Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain – why was that?

In the hospital wing, a kind Dumbledore had the answer.

"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin."

Harry jumped to his feet, grabbed Quirrell's arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw him off – the memory started to become hazy – he couldn't see – he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" and other voices crying, "Harry! Harry!" before it all ended.

"Where's the Stone?" the harsh goblin from earlier demanded.

"–the effort involved nearly killed you," Dumbledore said to the younger Harry beside him. "For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" said Harry blankly. "But your friend – Nicholas Flamel–"

"He lived in this tower in the Hebrides, of all places," Molly said, sitting at her dinner table, "with goblin guards of all things."

"I said it was like going to the North Pole to see a very odd Father Christmas," Mr. Weasley added.

"I called him Saint Nick, because that was his name," Molly joked.

Focus.

"Oh, you know about Nicholas?" Dumbledore asked, sounding quite delighted. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicholas and I have had a little chat," he said as if to a child half Harry's age, "and agreed it's all for the best."

"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?" the younger Harry asked.

"They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die."

The movie stopped again and Harry found himself strapped to an odd chair with a head full of cobwebs and a mouth full of cotton. After a moment the bindings were loosened and his funny hat removed, leaving him free to stand – just not able to without the room spinning.

"I have the question," an oddly accented goblin asked from above. "This girl at the end, who-who is this being?"

Harry clutched the chair for support and quickly found a gnarled hand on his shoulder.

"Don't-buy-me?" he said curiously before shaking the cobwebs out.

"That was Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," Lichfield explained for him, "Harry is renting a room from them."

"It is the Weasley you said?" the mustachioed goblin asked excitedly. "Then how did she know the Flamel?"

Lichfield looked at him curiously; Harry could tell he was curious too.

.o0O0o.

Percy hit the ground hard; floo travel certainly wasn't for someone in too much of a rush.

"Mother?" he cried, picking himself off the kitchen floor before catching sight of her already close at hand.

"Where have you been? The rest of us have been back for hours. Did your father find you?" she asked, momentarily pausing in her dinner preparations.

"No, I'd only just heard," he said anxiously, "How're–"

"Not to worry, dear," his mother reassured him. "I just got a call from your father; everyone's fine. They're just staying until Harry's back with them. Though I must admit they had me worried for a while. I still don't know what all the fuss was about," she said as she returned to her work. "And Merlin knows where they got the idea to charge people to use their floo. They'll be doing the same for owls next. No common decency at all. You set the table and tell me how your day with Penelope went," she instructed him.

"Oh – um – it–it went fine," Percy said uncomfortably as he opened the drawer for the cutlery. "We're seeing each other tomorrow at the Hopef–" he stopped suddenly as all the silverware vanished, only to reappear on the table. "Um, mother?"

"Merlin!" she cried as the dinner pans flew out of her hands and started cooking themselves.

There was a slight pop! behind them and they whirled back around to the table, where a little house-elf wearing a clean white – if somewhat frazzled at the edges – pillowcase had just finished setting the table.

"Hello," the creature with small bags under his large eyes said. "You must be Harry Potter's family!" it beamed.

.o0O0o.

The polite smile on Barchoke's face lasted only as long as it took for the door at the far end of the Pit to close, then he rounded on Lognot and Marsh.

"There can be no doubt anymore that both of your departments were involved," he snapped. "Vault seven–one–three is a Hogwarts vault, not one registered to Confidential. How did the Stone get in there without your collusion?"

Rather than hunted, Barnabas Marsh stood resolved.

"I assure you, the Hogwarts Accounting Department had no knowledge of this," he reiterated. "With any cart operator able to open those doors, who's to say who put the Stone in there? Rest assured I'll be launching a full investigation on the matter."

"Be–being born with the Stone," Alkrat stammered excitedly to anyone who happened to be close by, "does–does this make him magical?"

"This is only one of several irregularities in your department–," Barchoke said stubbornly.

"Of course he's magical, he's a wizard," the pudgy Slaggran wheezed to Alkrat.

"And I will investigate it," Marsh shot back. "You keep your nose out of it unless you want more complaints against you than you know what to do with."

"No–no–no, I mean magical magical," the foreign goblin said as giddy as a child that's earned its first knut.

"My issues with your department go far beyond the Stone," Barchoke pressed. "Gringotts will be demanding full repayment once those transfers are rendered fraudulent, you can be sure of that."

"The entirety of Confidential should be put to the question," Gutripper said, looking at Lognot with a gleam in his eye. "That will get to the bottom of this breach."

"That's yet another item on the list of things I intend to get to the bottom of, I assure you," Marsh said with a dismissive wave to Barchoke.

"There's still no evidence there actually was a breach," Lognot interjected, looking tense. "It still could've been a fake."

"Do you think the I.C.W. or the Ministry will care?" Barchoke said, breaking into the conversation since he was getting nowhere with Marsh. "We can't keep this quiet. Every child at Hogwarts knows about this, the entire world's been after that Stonemaker for centuries, and the Ministry's always hated us for going behind their backs," he said, repeatedly poking Lognot in the chest with his finger.

"It was a rather scandalous event at the time," the ever diplomatic Bankor added with his soothing tone, "and though the People rejected and deposed that king afterwards we've nonetheless been bound to honor it."

Barchoke thought "scandalous" was an understatement since it was the reason they hadn't had a king since and had been repeatedly trounced upon by the Ministry.

"It was a bad deal from the start and it never should've been made," Barchoke cut in decisively. "We should take the opportunity to cut our losses and hand Flamel over to them. Let them deal with the Stone while we clear the rubble from this cave-in and get back to business as soon as possible."

The other Overseers seemed to agree with this since they all started talking at once.

"You realize they'll make us check every galleon, every scrap of gold we have?" Slaggran wheezed.

"The coin makers will be working overtime for years to check for the signature impurities," Fillast said. "Can't we speed up the process?"

"Oh! We must recall everything from the overseas as well," Alkrat moaned. "What–what–what will I pay my people with if you take away the galleon?"

"Don't you pay them in local currencies?" Slaggran said in a confused wheeze.

"No–no–no! I pay them in galleon," Alkrat explained. "Salary calculated for the area they're in – then they must convert when we pay them and we make the money for converting currency."

There was a pause as everyone halted to look at the foreigner.

"That's a really good idea," Barchoke mused, breaking the stillness as the clump of Overseers went back to talking over each other.

"We should ask the Ministry to keep the value of the galleon in place for the time being."

"We should demand they keep it in place," Barchoke countered Bankor's timidity; this was not a time for tepidness. "All contracts too. This can't be allowed to devolve into a panicked run on the bank."

"The testing, who–who will we get to do this?"

"A joint strike team of Enforcers and Curse-Breakers could overwhelm the island," Gutripper said. "Lognot's people won't stand a chance."

"I must protest–!" Lognot protested.

"I would suggest we include an I.C.W. task force instead of Curse-Breakers," Barchoke said with polite deference to Gutripper's suggestion. "They'll have to be involved anyway and it would lend legitimacy to our claim of a transparent and joint investigation – because you'll know they'll demand full access to everything unless we seem to be compliant already."

"The Curse-Breakers know more about on-the-fly arithmantic spell-dissection than anyone else we have," Marsh said, brainstorming out loud. "Couldn't they use that to make something to help with testing?"

"We should lock down all the vaults until this whole issue is resolved," Fillast said tersely. "It would be a good opportunity to check them for contraband as well."

"Oh! I like it!" Alkrat smiled. "They should be reassigned, with the competing teams to see who's the better!"

"You're right; imagine the fees we'd rake in from a surprise inspection."

"Yes, that is the proper thing to do," Little Minister Bankor said, agreeing with something or other. "There's a session of the Wizengamot in two days, we'll need to make a statement as soon as possible."

"I just had a sizable audit done," Barchoke said, "Auditor Axegrind proved quite capable." From the corner of his eye he saw Gutripper glance at him. "I suggest we put him in charge of testing."

"We'll hold Lognot here in the meantime," Gutripper sneered angrily. "They'll want to interrogate him before we kill him."

"No! NO!" Lognot screamed as he threw himself over the banister surrounding the Pit. Tumbling over himself in his haste, the goblin bolted for the door Harry and Lichfield just left from several moments before.

Tensions running high, Barchoke felt every inch like the grand goblins of old. Whipping out his dagger he flung it at the retreating goblin, aiming to wound and capture. He missed by a mile as it clanged down not even half way to the target and skidded across the floor.

Gutripper gave him a look saying he was dumber than a bag of rocks for even trying. He took the Concealer from Barchoke's other hand and shattered it on the floor.

"GUARDS!" the scarred security goblin bellowed as the Pit seemed to amplify his roar; the noise of the crowd when it had been in operation must've been deafening.

The door Lognot was charging towards banged open and two scarlet and gold guards burst through, weapons drawn. Lognot shuttered to a halt in front of them as a blade jut through his back. With a croaking, choking sound Lognot slowly slumped to the floor, sliding off the surprised guard's blade to lie in a pool of dark green blood. The guards looked up at them with wide eyes to see if they were to be punished for killing someone they may have wanted detained.

Barchoke stood stunned. Every goblin knew death was always around the corner, banking was a dangerous business full of envious competitors, but Barchoke had never seen anyone die before. Vaguely he knew that Gropegold wouldn't be in his cell anymore since he had given up all the information he had, but he had been far enough away from the event that he could pretend he didn't know what had really happened.

Now he couldn't. He had killed two people. Two bad people, or at least incompetent, but they were still people. He ran a hand across his shaved head. His Oath of Vengeance had always been more of a theoretical thing, but he had sworn to take vengeance upon yet another person, a human, a wizard, Dumbledore. That this could be achieved through prolonged pain and not death seemed to console him slightly; and confuse him a bit.

If truth be told Barchoke felt nothing as he looked down at the bleeding body. How could he be okay with death when it happened to someone he didn't really know, but be so terrified of it himself? Was it being removed from the act that made it palatable to him, or would the actual act be the same? He wondered how this squared with his Oath of Vengeance and couldn't help but be curious as to how he'd face his own death. Would he face it stoically, be petrified by fear, would he run – or would he fight?

"Well, that's done," Gutripper said, breaking the silence. "Hide the body, and keep it a secret from Confidential," he snapped to the guards.

'That shouldn't be hard,' Barchoke thought. 'The cave-blind fools didn't even know what was going on in their own department.'

Then it hit him, neither had he when this whole thing got started. Did Marsh really not know what was going on? How could they hold Overseers accountable for things, punishable by death, when everything was always so hands-off unless there was a problem? For his own health, things would have to change.

"I should be the one to make the announcement to the Wizengamot," Marsh said as the guards started to drag Lognot's body away, leaving a deep green smear behind them.

"You overstep yourself," Bankor interrupted, for once seeming slightly ruffled. "My department deals with the Ministry."

"With their policies and finances – not with the Wizengamot itself," Marsh pressed. "You may have noticed they and I have a lot in common."

Barchoke got his head back in the game. "I would think that you'd be too busy with your investigation," he said, giving the human the benefit of the doubt.

"Don't you have a kid's diaper to change?" the human sneered.

Barchoke went to grab his dagger to teach the human not to spit at kindness, only to find nothing there. With a spike of fear he realized that it was still on the floor of the Pit.

Marsh drew his wand.

Barchoke sprang instinctively back to put more distance between them. Daggers were drawn by Gutripper and Fillast. Alkrat jumped back in surprise, his hands up to ward off an attack. Slaggran fell on his ass. Bankor darted looks between them, wondering what to say to salvage the situation, and Braglast had disappeared entirely.

In the tense moment that followed, the human seemed to realize the grave mistake he had made. He had been given a dagger for a reason: they all had them, whether they had brought them or not, but no one threatened a goblin with a wand, not this deep in the bowels of Gringotts.

Marsh opened his grip on the wand so only two fingers were touching it, and slowly lowered it to the floor, keeping his other hand clearly visible. Braglast suddenly appeared from behind the human and kicked the wand aside before sheathing his own blade; the wand was the only one to make a sound as it clattered off somewhere.

With a gulp, Slaggran's wheezed breathing cut through the silence.

"They wouldn't know you either," he said from the floor as if nothing had happened. The fat goblin's stomach growled and he chose not to stand.

"Putting out a human would make us look weak," Fillast said. "We need someone they think would have their interests first. But not someone they know well enough to complain about."

"That is not me," Alkrat said. "Who–who are you suggesting?"

"Can we get food brought in?" Slaggran wheezed.

"Barchoke should do it," Fillast said.

"Me?" he asked, honestly surprised.

"You are the one who brought this to us. You say we should turn him over. This is your doing, so you do it."

"He is in charge of Hereditary Accounts," Bankor agreed, sizing him up. "The name of that alone will have them trust him."

"And this puts the domestic goblin face on it, yes?" Alkrat said. "Oh, yes–yes, that works. So what is he to say?"

.o0O0o.

The smile blooming on Hermione's face as they made their way over did loopy things to Harry's stomach which had nothing to do with all the strange events of the day. He was still getting used to the reality that Hermione liked him.

"Hey Harry, say something!" Ron said when they got close.

"Why?" he asked, causing the other boy to look disappointed.

"Mr. Snuffle-wampum is just trying to alleviate boredom," Mr. Granger said gesturing to Ron. "We've been waiting a while."

"You didn't have to do that," Harry said embarrassedly, running a hand through his hair to flatten it down.

"That's what I said, but got out-voted," the frizzy-haired dentist said with a shrug, bugging his eyes out a little. "Damn democracy; what we need is an autocratic authoritarian ruler that everyone falls in line with," he said with mock seriousness, drawing a long-suffering look from his daughter he didn't think the man saw.

"So you want to be a goblin?" Lichfield asked. "I know a guy; we can try to make that happen."

Hermione's dad seemed to change his mind.

"Oh, no," he said holding up his hands to ward Lichfield off. "You leave Mr. Grumpypants right where he is."

Lichfield laughed.

"Well," Mr. Weasley said, standing up from his chair. "Now that we can say you're still alive, I think it's safe to go home to Molly. You remember how to use the floo to get back to the Burrow, right?"

"Er – yeah," he answered.

Harry tried to ignore the mounting uncomfortable embarrassment as Mr. Weasley shooed Ron away and out of the bank, overriding his protests with a "You'll understand later."

He walked beside Hermione as the larger group made their slower way out the bank; Mr. Granger took his time tying his shoes and making sure the books were all still in the bag and Lichfield seemed content to wait. The goblins didn't help matters either by only opening one door at a time to let them though.

As they hit a completely deserted Diagon Alley, Harry was surprised to find it was so late; all the shops were closed and it was getting close to dusk. Ron and his dad were already at the far side of the alley about to enter the Leaky Cauldron.

"Well," Lichfield said gruffly, holding onto the bank's door to keep them from closing it. "I just got a whole new mountain of work to get to. I'll see you tomorrow," he told Harry before going back inside.

As the bank's door closed with a heavy thud and locked, Harry stood outside with the Grangers, feeling set up. Hermione's dad didn't make any pretense about it.

"Well, this is where I make a likely excuse and leave you two alone. Bye!" he said with a wave and walked jauntily off down the street towards the Leaky Cauldron.

And just like that the awkwardness was back between them. The adults may have left them alone so they could say goodbye in private but they also put a giant spotlight on them. Hermione fidgeted and shooed a beetle away from her hair as they started down the street.

She spent some time looking at the buildings on her side of the street, and he spent it concentrating on the cobblestones right in front of him, but neither of them were walking quickly or with any sense of purpose. In anything, they were dawdling. Even with it horribly uncomfortable, Harry didn't want it to end. When he chanced a glance over to her, Hermione seemed concerned about something.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Um – Yes, I think so," she said, still looking worried about something.

"Is it about that thing with your dad?"

"No," she said uncomfortably.

"Is it about Dobby?" he asked, hoping she'd say no again. He couldn't go back to the Malfoys, even if they could stop the transfer somehow. No one deserved to be treated like that and from what Lichfield had said freedom would see him miserable or dead, or both.

"Not exactly," Hermione said after a moment. "It's just–," she seemed to struggle for words, "–the new clothes, new shoes, the lawyer, dealing with the goblins–"

"–I thought you liked them," he said.

"Individually, yes, they're all very nice – except for the goblins," she said quickly. "It's just – all together, sometimes I don't know if I'm here with Harry or Harold, and with all this happening with the wizarding world it feels like you're leaving the non-magical world behind. The Dursleys may have treated you like rubbish, but I liked the muggle in you."

Harry stopped walking and felt his stomach plummet. He liked the muggle in her too, how would he feel if this had happened to her instead? Suddenly she'd have new people occupying her time, she'd have the best… books, probably, because he doubted she'd ever get back on a broom or that dresses were her thing, but it just might look like she'd become the hoity-toity princess of everything.

'It'd feel like she was leaving me behind, that she didn't need me anymore,' he thought. But how was he supposed explain all this? He turned to glance at Gringotts, which stood alone and uninviting, looming large over the alley.

"All of it that happened back there today," he gestured to the bank, "that's been my normal for the last two weeks, and everyone wants me to grow up. Barchoke wants me to grow up so I can handle the account, Lichfield wants me to grow up so it'll help him with the case, even I want me to grow up so I can spend more time with you doing all the serious stuff you like," he said anxiously.

"Sometimes, it's just too much," he explained, really only thinking about it now as the words came flying out of his mouth. "I try to spend time with Ron and the others, but even that doesn't feel right – it's like I've forgotten how to relax. I've been so petrified I'll be sent back to the Dursleys that–"

All words stopped as Hermione hugged him tightly. After the shock wore off Harry put his arms around her too; she seemed just as tense as he was. Now that he knew what to do with his hands, Harry thought this might be something he could get used to. It actually seemed to help.

"These clothes aren't new, by the way," he confessed as he felt the tension in his shoulders unknit a bit. Still standing as they were, Harry couldn't see her face to see what she thought, so he just kept talking. "I need new ones but I keep putting it off. All my old clothes were ruined so I've gotten used to dressing like this."

"You do wear something similar at Hogwarts anyway," she said to his shoulder.

"Right," he said, glad she couldn't see the chagrined look on his face. "And as for me being a Harold–," Harry started uncertainly.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't thought like a Harold in days, not since Dumbledore had tried to take him back to the Dursleys. Why had he been a Harold then and not a Harold now? The depressive answer came easily.

'Because ikkle Harry needed an adult to look after him,' he thought to himself. 'Big bad Dumbledore was too scary to stand up to on his own so he needed someone else to swoop in and do it for him.'

He had stood up to him though. It hadn't been easy, but Lichfield hadn't come swooping in to stop things like Harry had hoped he would, so he had to do it on his own. He guessed part of him thought it'd be easier to face the man he had started to see as a kindly old grandfather if it wasn't really him having to be the one to say those things.

It was mean old Harold who said those hurtful things, not Harry. Harry was still good, and pure, and thoughtful and kind and – it was a load of bollocks. He had stood up to Dumbledore, and would again if he had to. Strange that it was easier to go against Voldemort than it'd been to do the same to Dumbledore but he guessed that's why he had given those house points to Neville last year.

"Harold is just a name on a piece of paper," he said. "It doesn't mean anything. I'm still me, just like you'd still be you if your middle name really was Jørgensen."

She chuckled quietly at that, finding more humor in it a second time around. Hermione stepped away a bit and looked up at him; she seemed more at ease than she had before.

"You need some time to relax," she said as they started walking again.

Harry shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets to give himself something to do. Hermione looped her arm through his and walked close to him. He thought it was probably best to pretend this was perfectly normal and happened all the time. It felt nice, but it wasn't exactly relaxing in the way she probably meant.

"Yeah," he said, nervously flattening his hair with his other hand, "but good luck with that. I still have the thing with the Hopefuls tomorrow and I've completely forgotten what you wanted to ask McGonagall about. I've actually been looking forward to going back to Hogwarts, just to be away from all – that," Harry waved backwards at Gringotts, half-hoping it would shoo the building away.

"If–if I can get my dad to agree to stay the night," Hermione said tentatively, not quite looking at him. "I still have to finish my shopping and all," she added quickly, picking at an imaginary spot on the arm of his robe. "Do–do you think you'd be interested in doing your shopping with me, and we can go to the Hopefuls thing together?"

Harry smiled as his heart leapt upwards.

"Yeah, that'd be great," he said. Going about with Hermione had been fun, and had certainly been the highlight of the day; Harry could definitely see doing that bit again. "You think you could get him to stay?"

"It'd be better than spending another six hours in the car to just make another trip or try to cram in some last-minute shopping before hopping on the train."

Even dawdling didn't make things last when you really wanted them to and it was then they found themselves at the brick wall that led to the Leaky Cauldron and they separated again. The barman must have shut it once Mr. Granger had come through. Harry hesitated on taking out his wand to open it, just in case her dad was waiting on the other side, ready to jump out and surprise them. Hermione seemed to share his concern.

"So what do you think," Hermione asked, suddenly nervous. "You could come by around eight and we can go from there?"

Suddenly everything seemed very real again, and he understood why she was nervous.

"Um – yeah," he said, suddenly unsure how he was supposed to stand. "Eight–eight sounds fine."

"Good," she said and then proceeded to stand there with him awkwardly. Was he supposed to do something now?

Hermione's forehead crinkled as she stared at his chest.

"Did your tie just change color?" she asked.

Harry looked down in time to see his outer robe drop open. Before he could open his mouth to speak his tie flew up and hit him in the face, untying itself before it disappeared. His Gryffindor crest popped back onto his robe while his left sleeve and right pants leg twitched and shortened back to where they were supposed to be. After a moment, the other two joined them in their humiliating retreat.

'Well, so much for making a good impression,' he thought. 'At least her dad didn't see that or he'd be–'

Hermione cracked up, laughing even harder than she had back at the pet shop, and Harry knew from living with Fred and George for a while he just had to stand there and take it. It wasn't so bad with her though since he liked to hear her laugh; though he thought it'd be funnier if it had happened to somebody else. By the time her laughter started dying down and she wiped a tear from her eye, Harry had thought of something to say.

"Well, I did say they weren't new," he said with a shrug, causing her to have a bout of giggles again.

"There's the Harry I remember, just beneath the surface. I'll see you tomorrow, Harry," she smiled, then, after a moment's hesitation, darted forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

As Hermione opened the wall and ran inside, all Harry could do was stare dumbly after her, moving a hand to that spot on his cheek. He saw her have a brief word with the barman and then bolt upstairs. That's when he realized, they already had a room.

'Huh,' Harry thought. 'Apparently people plan these things after all.'

.o0O0o.

He found it much easier to evade the man's probing questions about what happened after he left than it usually was. Perhaps Lester didn't really want to know. Then again, without his trusty Concealer in his hand Barchoke felt much less forthcoming. Lester was less than sympathetic about his loss.

"Just be glad he smashed the orb and not your skull," he said in a low voice. "He's not someone to poke. I'm surprised everyone got out of the room alive to be honest."

Barchoke fiddled with the inside pocket of his suit so as to avoid having to say anything; he would have to get it mended, his dagger kept threatening to slip out. There might've been easier ways to turn off the Concealer than breaking it but Gutripper wasn't known for his subtlety. He supposed he shouldn't really complain, it wasn't something to shave your head over – though he technically couldn't do that without removing his own scalp. Besides, everyone had more to think about than him at the moment so they should be fine.

"Abnormalities like it pop up from time to time," Barchoke said with a wave, getting back to business as they walked by the Halfwit's statue. "Who knows why it happens. Forget about it, it's not relevant to the case, but Bumblebee Press most certainly is and I really want to get in Marsh's face and tear him a new–"

"Trace amounts of magic have shown up before, sure, even whole runic structures somehow, but the same unknown abnormality popping up with both Dumbledore and the boy?" Lester pressed in a whisper. "You heard what the man said; there's something strange about the boy's blood and it sounds like the old man knows what it is. I don't like him knowing something I don't; it smells wrong."

"Speaking of blood," Barchoke said, changing the subject that wasn't going to go anywhere as they turned down the Hereditary hallway. "Why didn't you mention the Will? Because of Sirius Black?"

"It's bound to be a sore subject for him," Lester said. "You didn't go anywhere near it either. I trust Moody, but I'd prefer to have it in my hand just to be sure; I should be getting it tomorrow, and with the Ida Beeman angle I've got someone else I'd like to pin down for corroboration – if I can find her."

Running steps from behind them made them stop short and turn as Overseer Alkrat skid around the corner with a large file in his hands.

"Ah! The Barchoke," the odd goblin cried warmly.

That made him nervous. Why was he being so friendly? He'd never even seen him in this hallway before.

"I was just to be leaving when heard you wanted," he said, handing over the file with a smile. "But who know when you get if I go – so I deliver. You know," the strange foreign goblin said conspiratorially, "if someone be wanting the keeping of files in one place for the security and things – I would not be fighting on this."

Alkrat held his hands up in front of him with an expression saying he couldn't care less. "I go now," he said, turning to walk away. At the end of the hallway he turned back. "We should be talking restructure of the overseas, it's very old. But–but–but later. I go Cairo."

When the oddball finally left, he shared a baffled look with Lester.

"That's the strangest goblin I've ever met," Barchoke said.

"That's saying something, coming from you. What'd he even give–," Lester cut off when he saw the file name. "That's Bumblebee Press."

"I knew it – they're spying on me," the Overseer mumbled, looking around everywhere before backing towards his office door. "You called me paranoid."

"Just because they're spying on you doesn't mean they're out to get you," Lester tried to say reassuringly.

"What else could it possibly mean?" he asked, fumbling with the door handle.

With a thunk! a dagger embedded in the door just inches from his hand. As Lester flattened against the wall Barchoke saw Overseer Gutripper coming towards him and tried not to wet himself.

.o0O0o.

Never be seen doing anything. His father had said that long ago in relation to the underhanded dealings he'd been so fond of, but while he had applied the mantra only towards his criminal enterprises, Lucius applied it to everything. Having been excluded from wielding actual political power due to an ancestor's blunder generations ago, the Malfoys had needed to find new ways to exert influence.

Nothing exuded wealth and influence as ostentatiously as doing nothing at all. Doing nothing also infuriated the lesser people. So used to scurrying about in their menial tasks in the hopes of accomplishing something, they simply couldn't understand how he thwarted them so easily when he hadn't seemed to lift a finger. Everyone knew it was him of course, it was rather the point, but they couldn't prove anything and thus his influence grew.

The seeming exception to this was his spot on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, the mostly hereditary and secretive group of select families charged with overseeing the well-being of their illustrious school. But since no one really knew what they did, and few spared them any thought, it didn't particularly count for much in most people's eyes.

On the other rare instances he was seen to act it was always innocuous, making it seem like he was still doing nothing. A false smile in the halls of the Ministry to remind everyone that he knew what they were doing and was always watching, bland platitudes and idle comments outside of the Wizengamot chamber to remind them what to think, and 'small gifts for their children' in the form of crushed velvet bags full of gold were his preferred means of orchestrating the world's affairs.

It was a much more civilized way of doing things than his father had done, though arranging harsh accidents for wayward children was still sometimes necessary, even when they didn't know what their fathers had done that was so wrong. Even then, Lucius took pains to make sure things were never connected to him except in the target's own mind.

That was why days like today never sat well with him, but he'd had no choice; Dumbledore had forced his hand, he'd had to act. The doddering old fool had no children or grandchildren to use due to his perverse and unnatural affections, and everyone who could be considered reasonably close to the man was safely snug in the castle had made things difficult. That was when a golden opportunity presented itself.

The infinitely mundane Arthur Weasley had started cringing and begging his way through the Ministry like the dirty little weasel he was. The fact he thought anyone would support such a misguided effort as his Muggle Protection Act when nearly everyone of any standing had a small hoard of cursed family heirlooms hidden away in secret rooms or in their vaults at Gringotts was laughable. He was close to the Headmaster's affections for some reason though, and this made him priceless as far as targets went.

Lucius had made his thoughts on the matter clear in a token resistance but in the end had let the initiative come to a vote. Dumbledore could have his temporary victory; he would win the cultural war. The Ministry barging in and searching homes would only serve to rally people against such new, invasive, and ultimately untrustworthy ideas. In time, the entire thing would be scrapped and the thought that we shouldn't be protecting muggles from ourselves but protecting ourselves from them would embed itself in people's minds.

Arranging the world as he wished it to be was a delicate thing full of subtle maneuvers and schemes which took time to come to fruition. It was a generational game and Dumbledore had proved too much of a hindrance, had defied him too long, and was too prevalent for him to ignore. He had to be swept aside so a better man could reign supreme. Unfortunately, this left him with only one option to choose: deploying the diary a self-styled Dark Lord had entrusted him with.

He had taken immense satisfaction with the thought that the balding ginger weasel's insipid daughter would be Dumbledore's downfall, and would likely take her own father down with him. Since the pathetic man had dared to strike him, and in public, perhaps he'd have her sent to Azkaban as well, once everything was done. Penniless, jobless, joyless, and utterly without prospects or determinable skill they'd be a constant reminder to others of what happened to those who dared to go against his wishes, perhaps an even more powerful reminder than Dumbledore's own fall would be.

What Marsh said now was unsettling. The entire stability of the world he was shaping, of the schemes he had, the ultimate culmination of his family's rise and return to their rightful place of power had all been undermined. All their great gains were at risk as they found themselves on the edge a precipice with no broom to cling to.

"You were quite right to bring this to me, Marsh," Lucius said, schooling his features into a semblance of calm detachment bordering on slightly mocking indulgence as he luxuriated in his Wiltshire manor's drawing room.

Of course he had known everything the misnamed Overseer had said, or so he wanted the man to believe. Suspicions were as good as facts when you played the game as well as he did, but he had never thought Dumbledore would blunder so badly. It could ruin everything. He had always thought the man a poor, but insistent player but now… now he was convinced the old fool had been playing a different game entirely.

How could the power-hungry madman styling himself a Dark Lord still be alive?

His first instinct was to cower, to hunker down and protect himself from the maniac who would so joyously take his life in an instant, and offer up those gains in hopes of buying his freedom. Lucius wished he had never become involved with the man; it had been his fanatical wife's doing, her and her sister. Not being in line to inherit their family's wealth themselves, they had been drawn in with visions of a courtly ruling class, pure of blood, noble, and Slytherin, guiding the world into the golden age the Founders had envisioned; it was not what they received. All the Dark Lord gave was pain and demanded everything of you in return.

"I trust you will do everything in your power to guide things on their proper course and keep others out of our affairs," he drawled, mind occupied on other things as he said what was expected of him.

He would have to change his plans, especially in regards to Draco's long-term prospects. Should the Dark Lord indeed find some way to return, it wouldn't do to have that particular gem waiting for him. He had the family's long-term success to consider; the individual was irrelevant, no matter the Black Family's thoughts on the subject, and there was no one left to enforce any contracts on their side anyway.

"The other Governors and I will remember your good stewardship when these issues are behind us," he said to his pawn, knowing the unspoken promise of gold would buy his compliance, it always did.

"Of course, sir," the man gave a winning smile which said all was already well in hand in the way only the particularly good boot-licking servants – the ones who stayed bought once you paid for them – seemed to have.

With a genuine smile, Lucius was reminded of the pleasures he had gained that day. Selling the elf after wringing what little life there was out of him was an opportunity too convenient to miss. Let someone else watch the pathetic creature die pining after his family; his secrets were safe. Dead elves betrayed no one, even by accident.

An unexpected pleasure had come when he had returned home. Seeing his haughty, pampered wife attempt to get on without someone waiting on her hand and foot was an immeasurable joy. She'd been accustomed to the luxuries which came with being a Malfoy for so long the woman actually seemed to believe she was entitled to them.

He debated extending the treatment to Draco; there was far too much Black in him for his liking, especially for the role he'd been born to play. With that role now in doubt he had to be sure his heir was capable of continuing the same delicate dance until the time was more auspicious for them.

When Marsh failed to make his departure as was expected of him, Lucius graced him with an artfully arched eyebrow.

"Was there something else?" he asked, taking a sip of the elf-made wine some new vintner had sent as a gift, hopeful for an investment. Whoever this Cadogan was made a nice wine for a first time out; Lucius though tried never to drink anything younger than he was. He would have to pass. Perhaps he'd send the rest to Severus as a Christmas gift.

"There is, sir," Marsh said, shifting slightly on the expensive rug. "It's something I hesitate to bring you since the subject is a close one, but it does have rather large implications for us all – should other issues not come to the fore – so I'd be negligent if I didn't bring it up."

"Go on," Lucius said intrigued.

"Well, there was another person who loomed large in the boy's memories… It was your son."

.o0O0o.

Barchoke looked down at the file on his desk, not even seeing it. This was bad. It was really bad. It was so bad it was virtually catastrophic. He didn't know how he could recover from this. He got up to pace up and down his office, removing his suit jacket and tossing it over a chair before loosening his tie.

Alkrat had been the first, but he hadn't been the last. Gutripper talked to him about strike teams, interrogation squads, and future security concerns. Bankor came by with a rough outline of the speech they wanted him to give – provided the Wizengamot would allow a goblin to speak; he doubted it, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Fillast then presented him with a proposal for a flip-free fliplift and discussed ideas for a post-Stone Gringotts. Afterwards, Slaggran had come by with some cream-filled pastries. How he had managed to get those Barchoke had no idea, but he suspected it had something to do with all the muggle currency the bank was required to take in and had nothing it could do with it.

Braglast was by far the scariest, and that was including Gutripper throwing a dagger at him to get his attention. On the spur of the moment Barchoke dashed to the cabinet and flung the doors wide – nothing seemed out of place. He tapped all the panels though, just to be sure. They sounded solid, but they couldn't be. He looked up at the office ceiling, hoping to see some hairline split which could give him some kind of clue.

How in Gott's name did the little cat-skinner fall from the ceiling onto the desk, hand him his favorite power tie he'd lost two years earlier, and then disappear by climbing into his cabinet – and all without making a sound? And what was it he actually did around here anyway?

After all that, Barchoke half expected Lognot to stop by – until he remembered he was dead. The only ones who hadn't come by was Largrot and Marsh. Marsh was a human and therefore didn't matter, and Largrot... He tried to remember back to when the last time he'd seen Largrot. Had he even been in the Pit with them? Surely no one would've killed him after the preliminary meeting, there'd been no reason to. Had he fallen asleep – or had he gone into hiding?

Barchoke yanked off his tie and flailed the nearest chair with it to vent his frustration. How could his fortunes have turned so quickly? What had he done to draw their attention to him? What made them think he had all the ideas? He used to have a nice cushie job where he didn't have to do anything five days out of the week, got paid, and had weekends off – now he was working all the time and everyone was deferring to him. It was madness.

The higher you climb, the further and faster you fall. All it would take now would be one thing, one big accomplishment they could point to as evidence that he should be the one to lead and before he'd know it he'd be bumped upstairs to be Grand Overseer. What a disaster. Who would ever want the job? It meant you were responsible for everything that happened, and he never heard of a Grand Overseer retiring of old age – there'd always been someone around to knock him off when he got old so they could take his place at the top of the building.

He supposed it was too late to get the boy to change his mind about the case, even if he could somehow convince Lester – which he'd never be able to do in a million years. He'd have to watch his step from here on out and hope the case only proved middlingly successful on the bank's behalf because unless someone else distinguished themselves he looked to be the default choice. The thought made him as antsy as an under-worked house-elf. He needed something to take his mind off his possible sudden end-of-life situation.

There was a quick knock on the door and Secretary Trixie entered, closing the door behind her.

"There's a lot of talk going around about you," she said with a cheeky half grin and a glint in her eye, her voice cracking in that enticing way she had.

'That's it,' he decided. 'If I'm going to be damned with a promotion then it's high time I start doing what I want.'

With a flick of his wrist he sent his tie whipping out and wrapping around her arm. There was only an instant of shock before her grin became feral.

"C'mere!" he cried, pulling her through the air towards him as night fell.

.o0O0o.

The summer nights of Cairo were always warm, and usually windy. The people lucky enough to be stationed here all loved the city, the exotic foods and smells, and the kind of history that'd reach up out of the sand after five thousand years just as powerful as the day it'd last been seen. Bill had expected to spend the next several years here before transferring to India, China, or the Andes. What he hadn't expected was an Urgent All-Recall Notice pelting him in the face while he ate, but surprises hadn't stopped there.

Every Curse-Breaker they had was being ordered to pack their things and return to London; why was unknown. It was just his luck that when he'd finally gotten his things out of the Burrow he had to find a place to stay in England again for who knows how long. To make matters worse, the tellers were in a tizzy about something, refusing to exchange the dinar into galleons, saying they would have to take it up with London.

He'd just been about to grab an early portkey back to England before all the rooms at the Leaky Cauldron and the Three Broomsticks were snapped up when he was told Overseer Alkrat wanted to see him. He had seen him at a few digs, just as excited as everyone else at the thought of treasure, but Bill hadn't even thought Alkrat knew his name.

Being probed, prodded, and scanned while the giddy little Overseer cackled in the background certainly wasn't the most dignified of meetings though. He had tried for patient silence in the beginning, thinking it was some sort of new security check, but it had gone on for more than half an hour and they gave no sign of letting up anytime soon.

"Is this going to take long?" Bill asked as one of the small cadre of goblins started measuring the fingers of his right hand while another did his left foot. "I've got somewhere to be tomorrow – on top of the Reassign."

"Yes–yes–yes, you're very interesting," Alkrat said with a wave. "Do not be forgetting the hair – I want to know why it is red."

Bill tried not to sigh. Whatever this was about had better be worth it.

.o0O0o.

AN: Quite some time ago I clicked on a reviewer's name to check out their profile and I found something interesting. They pointed out that, contrary to popular belief, Lucius Malfoy had no position in the Wizengamot. It's surprising, I know, especially considering how he'd been built up as a behind-the-scenes manipulator who had the Minister in his pocket, and yet their evidence was sound. I forget what all they said but one point stood out: in OotP Harry had his trial before "the entire Wizengamot," and yet Lucius Malfoy wasn't there. He had been left outside to prowl the hallways and try to sway the result however he could and wasn't mentioned again. It's a different type of Lucius Malfoy than most people are used to, but it does make for an interesting character.

So, thanks AlaskanKing for pointing that out.

As always, thanks for reading.