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.

26. It's Not so Much Fun for the Pig

AN: I'll get back to the Burrow in Chapter 28, I promise. Like what I did at the beginning of the story, I'm focusing on one part right now so I can quickly tell what's happened somewhere else all in one go rather than having to jump back and forth by inserting scenes in their proper chronological spot when those events really have nothing to do with each other and the remoteness is part of the point.

.o0O0o.

Drawing up documents stipulating who owned what was a relatively easy thing to do when it came right down to it. Getting all the parties involved to accept that document as a binding legal agreement about things unseen was a bit more troublesome, especially when one party wasn't sure who owned what in the first place and the other party didn't know about any of it but might have evidence to prove you wrong if you claimed too much. Plus, there's always the chance the party signing rights away they may not have had in the first place could wise up to the possibility they might want to claim them after all, which always caused problems.

And when it came to getting done what Gringotts wanted done in terms of the Ministry, it had always been an exercise in futility. They were more likely to change things at the last minute or hand you a list of dictates you simply had to abide by, at least when you heard things from the goblin side of it anyway. In truth, Lester didn't know if it was a sign of faith in his abilities or an act of desperation had them drag him into this; probably a little of both since Barchoke was tangentially involved somehow.

He wished he could just sit down and talk to the grumbling little goblin so they could be on the same page about everything. So many things had been thrown into the air in the last two days and the longer you worked on your own when you're supposed to be working in tandem the greater the chance was of messing everything up. That's why he'd been glad when they said 'the Overseer' wanted to see him; little did he know they were talking about the Little Minister, Overseer Bankor, who added a new complication of looking for just the right person to talk to and even what to say, with only his word as a guarantee that the deal was legitimate.

'Then again,' Lester thought as he checked the tiny globe in his pocket to make sure the bagpipers were still silently playing as the lift arrived at Level 4 and he made his way through the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 'You can't really call a deal legitimate when it's arguably to swindle the government out of something which might rightfully be theirs.'

He may have done some questionable things in the past but this was by far the dodgiest. Maybe he was getting too old or the kid's words and Skeeter's memory had riled his more noble ideals but trying to slip this through so soon after going on about quid pro quos left a bad taste in his mouth. It didn't help that he'd already been committed to doing this before it happened and at least he had the flimsy excuse of just trying to get goblins a fair shake at something before they got tromped on all over again.

'And if there's one thing I've learned at Gringotts,' Lester reminded himself, 'it's the only boot heel they like living under is one of their own. The Ministry might think they can walk all over them forever but step on them one time too many and you'll hobble away with one less foot.'

He paused for a moment to wonder if that's what had happened to Alastor before shaking his head and continuing on.

'A quid pro quo is all about trading something for something else and that's not what's happening here,' Lester reassured himself. 'I'm just talking to a partial-human about stamping a form.'

In the unlikely event the right person was there he'd have to walk a very fine line between convincing them to do something they'd have every reason not to do, reassuring them things won't be so bad if the Ministry didn't like what he did, and purposefully not bribing them with the one thing which would make things not bad for him personally if he did what they wanted while letting him know it could be available to him nonetheless. Lester saw the door to the Goblin Liaison Office come into sight and felt his stomach plunge a good ten feet. He was going to throw up.

'Nope. No, this is not going to work,' Lester said to himself as he turned around and quickly walked back towards the lifts. 'They're just going to have to take their chances on their own.'

He stopped again before he got to a turn in the hallway. If he didn't do this Lester knew exactly what the response from Gringotts would be: if the goblins had to do things on their own then so would he. So much of his case against Dumbledore depended on Gringotts going along with the accusation of Bank Fraud that virtually every bit of evidence he had would be completely discarded if they changed their mind.

The goblin system of justice allowed memories to be used against someone, the human one didn't, and it was only a proviso in a treaty relating to fraud cases which allowed evidence against an accused to be brought in to establish guilt in the human system that wouldn't otherwise be allowed. It was why having Barchoke on board as a partner and the inquiry as a joint one had been so invaluable. With every bit of dirt he's dug up on Dumbledore: with Flamel, the Sorcerer's Stone, the Dursleys, and even You-Know-Who, if he lost the support of Gringotts – or worse if they decided to side against him – then Financial Mismanagement by a Guardian would be the best he could do.

The only thing that could help them if he refused would be Barchoke, and it was debatable how much he actually could, or would in this case. With him pulled away, occupied with larger concerns, and surrounded by other goblins he would soon find himself in the position where he'd to have to decide whether his own personal vendetta against Dumbledore was enough of a reason to continue working against the bank's most immediate interests when it meant supporting a litigator who wouldn't do what the bank wanted while other options against Dumbledore might still be available. The other Overseers were sure to pressure him to pursue what was best for the bank and Barchoke would have to know that if he didn't, all of his new-found support would disappear and someone else would take his place.

'And really, why wouldn't they side against us?' Lester asked himself as he turned back to look at the open door to the G.L.O. 'They change their mind and the kid loses, all the transactions stay as they are, the bank doesn't have to refund a knut, and I'm left scrambling just to heave Dumbledore aside so he can't do anything else before the I.C.W. hauls him off to Nurmengard.'

He didn't know whether it was by accident or design but either way he didn't like it. He didn't like being manipulated, he didn't like being used, he didn't like having to doubt his friends – or friend, actually, since he really only had the one. Lester didn't like it, but he knew he was going to do it.

And really, what was he getting all bent out of shape about? As long as he chose his words carefully there shouldn't be a problem. If it worked, it worked and if it didn't, it didn't; and if it didn't it was Gringott's problem to deal with because he'd done his part. People complained about greed and corruption being rife within the Ministry so why hadn't the goblins turned to bribing officials a long ago? They could've had a dedicated staff for this and probably would've gotten a lot more of their goals accomplished in the last three hundred years if they had done that than they ever achieved by fighting them.

'Right,' Lester thought as he worked himself up to march towards the door again. 'And I'm not even doing any of that. All I'm doing is garnering one person's support for a certain interpretation of a treaty, that's all.'

That certainly wasn't illegal. It was actually far less than he'd seen Charlus do a number of times in the Atrium of this very building or in the lobby in front of the Wizengamot chamber for one law or another. There might even be a proper word for it but damned if he knew what it was. Merlin, he hated politics; he was not doing this again.

Lester peeked around the door frame and was rather surprised at what he found. With all the people needed to make the shambling monstrosity of the Ministry of Magic run the Goblin Liaison Office was abnormally empty. The only person who was there was a tiny little man who looked to have fallen asleep behind the big desk they probably wouldn't let him sit at normally. As far-fetched as the idea had been at the time, Overseer Bankor had pegged it perfectly: short stature, somewhat larger ears, longer nose, and more angular features – this had to be mister… Hob? Hobble? Hobber? Hobby?

'Damn, I knew there was something I was forgetting,' he berated himself.

.o0O0o.

Glimmers of silvery light joined the rays of the early morning sun peeking under the door and reflecting off the honey-colored wood floor, bathing everything in golden light from below. It was like the fingers of the Greater Good beckoning him to come out and play. Conditions had to be just right for it to happen – rainless days in Scotland being a notable event – but the sight had been something Albus had grown to look forward to during his thirty-six years as Headmaster.

Tiny motes of dust buzzed about just inches above the floor like happy little insects as he closed his eyes and breathed deep the smell of old books and beeswax candles which always seemed more pungent after a good night's sleep. As he moved to sit up and slide his feet into his slippers he felt a stab of pain in his left knee; it must have rained during the night. Though it always made him sleep well his joints didn't enjoy it in the morning, especially the knee which bore the scar from his duel with dear Gellert. The curse should have blasted his leg clean off – and yet it hadn't; Love had saved him that day, and indeed the world.

Putting on his half-moon spectacles and flicking his wand to bring light to the hexagonal bedchamber, the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world paused to see to the aches and pains which came with advanced age. Retrieving a blue fluted vial from his bedside table Albus carefully poured a good dollop of the clear viscous liquid it contained in one hand and replaced the container before rubbing it into his troublesome knee and felt the soothing relief take hold. The excess he applied to his fingers and wrists before wiping what was left off onto his right knee.

Standing spritely, the tall man twisted to the left and then right, bent his neck from side to side, and whirled his arms about and raised them over his head as if in a bizarre dance before he tried to fly. His back, neck, and shoulders had always been good compared to his brother's but at one hundred and eleven years old you could never be sure when things would go wrong. His dear friend, Nicholas, had said the soothing solution would work as a general treatment for such things but as long as his own bodily aches didn't become too much of a bother as to demand immediate relief upon waking Albus had no plans on taking it orally; not least because the man had said it would result in watery bowels.

It wasn't a perfect solution to aging but it worked, and as Nicholas had pointed out: even the Elixir had its drawbacks. In his youth Albus had fallen victim to the old – and now he knew discredited – idea that magic itself kept the magical people of the world young and healthy. After two years of correspondence it had been incredibly embarrassing to be corrected on it when he first met Nicholas, who had been something of a hero of his at the time. He didn't know it until years later but it was then the ancient wizard decided they would be fast friends.

It also came as a comfort that his hadn't been the most outlandish idea to ever make it into Flamel's home. The last person to have gained an audience with him had done so not to pursue research but to prove that Nicholas was a fraud and merely the latest in a long line of Nicholas Flamels to hold the name and pass the "Secrets" on to the next generation. What those secrets were and to what ultimate purpose even the man himself didn't seem to know, but seemed intent it proved something nefarious, according to Nicholas.

Thinking of Nicholas, Albus couldn't help but feel a sense of loss. Knowing he and Perenelle might see half a million or even a million sunrises and sunsets together had given him hope that with enough time the rift between him and Gellert might mend itself so they could go forward in friendship and love once again. Sadly this was not to be, at least not yet; the reports he's had of the man's rehabilitation in Nurmengard though spoke volumes on how even the darkest heart had a bit of Light left in it.

As he looked through his wardrobe at the handful of his favorite outfits he hadn't sold off and drew out a flowing purple robe with stylized stars and moons with its matching high heeled and delicately buckled boots, Albus couldn't help but lament the passing of his extensive wardrobe. He hadn't bought a new outfit in almost a decade, worn the one he had out half a hundred times before, and the others many more times than that but there was very little else he could do; he was the headmaster of Hogwarts and it was his duty to do his part.

The appearance of poverty didn't help the image people had of him which had helped bind the nation together through troublesome times, but as long as no one looked too closely there were still things which could be done to maintain it. It was a heavy burden to bear but he did what he must. With a series of wand waves, twists, and flicks the purple became sky blue, moons became brooms, and stars became black Bludgers and gold-and-silver Snitches. Though the cut of the robes stayed the same, the constellation of features was one Albus didn't recall using before and would certainly make the casual observer think it was new entirely. It was just the thing to breathe a bit of life into a stuffy Wizengamot meeting, and who could dislike it? It's Quidditch.

After he dressed and sat at his dressing table, Albus paused as he groomed his silvery hair and beard to spare a thought as to why he picked this particular pattern for today. While the game was dangerous and might make no sense as far as points scoring goes, it wasn't as if he liked the sport overmuch. Indeed, if there was a quality of the game he particularly liked it was how it so animated the public. Even those who were not raised a part of the wizarding world, like Harry, took to it quickly.

'Ah,' the kindly old wizard thought with a rueful shake of his head. 'Things always come back to him.'

And, when Albus thought of them, how could they not? Harry wasn't as smart as he was, wasn't as studious, wasn't as talented or insightful but it was as if the quintessence of what made Albus Dumbledore 'Albus Dumbledore' was alive within him. Out of the hardship and trouble poor misguided Tom had wrought upon the world, a child had been born to end it all; a promised child that – astonishingly – had none of Tom's failings but radiated the warmth and power of the Greater Good even in his most darkest of times.

Indeed it was the darkest of times that benefited a boy like Harry the most for it was only by repeatedly agitating and sublimating a substance that impurities could be removed, for as Ripley had said in 1591, "Sublimations we make for three causes: The first cause is to make the body spiritual," which Harry most certainly was. Being in the less-than-tender care of his relatives had resulted in him being a remarkably virtuous child. "The second is that the spirit may be corporeal and become fixed with it and consubstantial;" the boy's mother had seen to that with her early death. "The third cause is that from its filthy original it may be cleansed, and its saltiness sulphurious may be diminished in it, which is infectious."

Harry was his Great Work, Albus knew, and though Nicholas had sworn never to tell another soul how to repeat the Work he had gleaned several hints over the years. The process to create the Stone which had driven so many people to distraction last year in fact started with a poison-tainted substance which was then purified, and so it was with Harry. This Third Cause was absolutely essential if Harry was to face Voldemort and defeat him once and for all, for only someone who was essentially Pure could hope to prevail against that which was essentially Vile and Sublimation was the only way to get there. He only wished he knew a way for the boy to live through the process to get there but assumed the Greater Good would make it known at some point.

And with that a thought occurred to him and Albus had to look into his mirror give himself a smile with a twinkle in the eye. The Greater Good always acted with Purpose, even when those who carry out its work do not know what the Purpose was. He had thought the disruption in cordial relations between him and the boy was a byproduct of having been swayed by Love into not telling him why Voldemort had been so intent upon killing him when he was a child, but he had overlooked why he had been swayed in the first place.

Rather than eventually bringing them closer together, as the Greater Good no doubt planned, overriding his Love for Harry at that moment could well have destroyed things entirely. The Greater Good had used his Love to hold him back from revealing the details too soon so this continued Sublimation could continue to occur. Had it not, the added weight of such knowledge might have made the 'typical youthful grab at independence' the boy was now going through make him decide to run from his destiny and throw the world into a chaos of unpredictability.

'The Greater Good truly took everything into account,' Albus thought to himself, practicing his calm, all-knowing gaze in the mirror before changing to his penetrating 'I'm looking into your soul and seeing all the secrets you wish to hide' look. That one always had a person with a guilty conscience squirming and was an ever so much more fair thing to do than trying to invade someone's mind.

Even if he didn't know precisely why things were unfolding around him as they were until a much later time, it never hurt to maintain the image of complete control and quiet command the wizarding world always looked to for surety and security. The people felt a need to believe in something, and it seemed their belief was in him. And while they looked to him for guidance and put themselves in his hands, Albus knew they all really rested in the hands of a much greater power which worked things out for the best, no matter what any of them did.

The Greater Good would decide when Harry was told about his destiny; to do otherwise would be folly. Harry was the one who would lead them into a future the same as the past and the bright shining star of the Greater Good would guide his hand, so to reveal anything before he signaled a readiness to hear and a willingness to listen was simply out of the question. It would be a trying ordeal, keeping this from him and anyone else until the proper time, but Albus had never been one to shirk from his responsibility. With all the little burdens finally accounted for and his mind clear and focused, Albus knew it was time to begin the day.

Even if the day had been one of the most melancholy of days the sight greeting him as he stepped into his office would have been cause enough to smile. All his time spent in contemplation and getting ready must have made him later than he thought since the angle of the sun was such that the sparkly silvery instruments which filled the room reflected a little less of the morning's light, but since even the indirect light worked so well in conjunction with the glimmering collection of memory vials by his door the effect wasn't lost entirely. Indeed, from his raised vantage point of his little landing he could even see the school gates, glimpses of Hogsmeade Station, and the village itself, which was so rarely seen when he started his day with the sun.

'And I can even see little figures moving about around the gates,' Albus thought as he peered into the distance. 'The village children already busy at play no doubt. The little tots slipped away to get a better look at the school they all long to be a part of.'

He smiled at the thought; if he hadn't had so many pressing duties to attend to he'd be tempted to go down there, open the gates, and invite them in for a tour and lunch – and perhaps even let them see Fawkes – but sadly it was not to be.

"Ah, there you are Albus!" one of the portraits of former headmasters cried, a man whose face was so red he looked like an overripe peach. "We thought you'd stay abed all day and were debating amongst ourselves whether we should shout to wake you."

"Thank you for your concerns, but never fear," he said as he swept down the small flight of stairs. "What is the time?" he asked as he walked to take the seat behind his desk.

"Shortly after nine, according to the clock at St. Mungo's," a headmistress near him answered.

"Is it really?" Albus asked, patting his pockets to look for his watch before spotting it on the desk. It indeed was later than he'd thought; he'd have to forego eating in the Great Hall today. "Bobopsy?"

With a small pop! a little elf appeared beside him dressed in an immaculate towel showing the Hogwarts crest and carrying a tray laden with precisely what he wanted: a quick and easy meal to eat, filling, but not too heavy. They really were marvelous creatures.

"Ah, thank you," he said taking the tray with a smile. Soon afterwards the pleasant little elf disappeared again; probably up to straighten his bedchamber. Unfortunately he spotted something amiss; it wasn't just Fawkes's perch that was vacant today, his Daily Prophet was missing as well.

"Bobopsy?" Albus called again. "Was there no paper today?" he asked the elf once it returned.

"No, sirs," Bobopsy's bat-like ears drooped. "Not for the whole castles. Mister Professor-Head wants us to find some?" it asked eagerly.

"No, no, it's quite alright," Albus replied jovially. "It'll just give me something to look forward to when I return," he said with a pat on the elf's head.

As good as it would be to be caught up with all the gossip that passed for news when it came to making small talk later, there would probably be nothing more interesting than more questions about Gilderoy's past and how the whole thing made him out to be a bad headmaster. As loathe as he was to lie, Albus knew he couldn't admit he'd known the truth all along.

'I was as shocked as anyone to see that in the paper the other day,' he thought to himself, which was certainly true and gave the impression he hadn't known at all, so it would have to do.

"Now then," Albus said as he turned back to the assembled portraits. "Besides my tardiness, what matters were so remarkable to have gotten you in such a state, Atticus?" he asked as he began to munch on his late breakfast or incredibly early lunch.

"It was me," a headmaster named Everard replied. "I said I've never seen the Ministry so busy, even for a Wizengamot meeting," the portrait reported. It was a common enough expression from him; he must have said it at least once a decade, to Albus's recollection.

"I told them no matter what it was, there was no need to worry, there's plenty of time," the former headmistress said. "If you became overly late it'd only take you moments to transfigure your dressing gown and slippers into something suitable."

"Thank you, Dilys," Albus said blushing. He hadn't thought of going in his dressing gown before.

"Going in a dressing gown?" a rather rotund portraited man asked scornfully from a dim row above them. "It'd be a scandal. In my day we knew how to act like gentlemen!"

"You spent half your day drunk and wenching and the rest you can't remember," the sour old Slytherin, Phineas, said.

"Precisely!" the man agreed. "But we had money and servants; that's what made us gentlemen."

"Friends!" Albus said resoundingly in an attempt to restore order. "If we could please stick to the issue at hand," he continued, "Everard, why did the Ministry appear so agitated?"

The graying man in the portrait looked about a little nervously with all the attention was focused on him again.

"Well, I don't really know," he admitted at last. "You know I'm not so well liked anymore; they have me stuffed down on the lower levels near the Department of Mysteries, but news has a way of filtering down to me eventually. I heard about some sort of activity from my portrait here and went off to investigate. I managed to get as far as Level 2 before those prickly portraits physically threw me from their frames!"

"How rude," Albus commiserated.

"Which one was Level 2?" the stately Dame, Phyllida Spore asked from her spot on the right.

"That's the Wizengamot level," Armando Dippet replied in his thin voice.

"There seemed to be a lot of people there who shouldn't have been though," Everard pressed. "And this was over an hour ago. That's far too early for anything to do with the Wizengamot, isn't it?"

The portraits fell silent, catching Albus's contemplative demeanor as they looked to him for what he thought.

"This will be Lucius's doing, I suspect," he said finally with a shake of his head. "He has been far too quiet lately."

"Didn't a Malfoy marry one of the lesser branches of my–?" Phineas started to ask before the others shushed him into silence so he could continue.

"Arthur Weasley has his Muggle Protection Act coming up for a vote today," Albus told the room at large. "By now Lucius would have whipped his supporters' votes and deduced it will pass. This activity you noticed, Everard, is probably their furious last-minute scrounging for support to keep it from doing so."

"As well they should," Phineas interrupted. "And you should do everything you can to help them," he told Dumbledore. "Imagine; passing laws to protect muggles when we should be taking action against them. Push them all into the sea, I say, and be rid of them!"

"Well that's not very sporting," red-faced Atticus harrumphed.

"There's nothing wrong with muggles a little education cannot cure," a witch from another corner replied.

"Well said, Heliotrope," Albus added. "I am sure Lucius's schemes will be in vain," he reassured them calmly. "If there was any problem with the votes, Dedalus is sure to contact me. Now, did anyone else learn anything last night?"

One row up from Dilys, Albus spotted an elderly wizard with a large white wig and an ear trumpet as he paused to remove the horn and dig in his ear before replacing it.

"Why do I hear bagpipes in the Goblin Liaison Office?" the man wondered aloud.

.o0O0o.

"Mister Hob?"

"I'm-not-asleep!" he cried, snapping his head up as he pushed away from the desk in shock. Overbalanced and arms pinwheeling, he grabbed hold of the chair and desk in fear of toppling over. Now wide awake and panting like a frightened squirrel, he looked up to whoever spoke.

'Wow, who took the ugly stick to grandpa?' Hugh wondered. "Sorry, what?" he asked instead.

"You're Mr. Hob, I take it?" the old man asked again.

"Er– Hobson," he corrected the man. "Hugh Hobson."

"Lester Lichfield," the man said cordially.

"You'll have to forgive me," Hugh said, running a hand over his hair to make sure nothing was too flyaway. "I tend to work nights and for some reason the higher-ups told the entire office not to come in until after lunch, so guess who got stuck minding the store for a few extra hours without being asked?"

"Seems rather inconsiderate," the man said, before gesturing to a seat on the other side of the desk with his briefcase. "Do you mind if I…?"

"No, no, suit yourself," he said with a wave. "You must be new. We've got some pumpkin juice and water for tea over there if you want," Hugh said, gesturing to the left as the man took a seat. "It should still be pretty fresh. Either way you've got a few hours before anyone comes in to tell you what you should be working on."

Lester cleared his throat. "I think there's been a bit of a mistake," he said. "I'm not here to start work; I work for Gringotts."

"Oh!" Hugh exclaimed, a light bulb springing to life in his head. "Right, that makes a lot more sense."

An odd feeling made him look right to the dedicated floo connection between Gringotts and the Ministry. It still sat crackling away behind the small, spiky wrought iron grate they had conjured around it. Attempting anything other than a floo-call from the bank's side today should have been enough to put whoever did it in a world of hurt when they came out on the Ministry's side. 'Then how did he get…?'

"How did you get in here?" he asked the man curiously.

"I came through the door," the Gringotts man gestured behind him as he spared a glance at the grate.

"Right," Hugh said again, feeling more than a little stupid. 'What was the point of closing off the floo if they let them in the front door? Typical wizarding stupidity.' He gestured to all the empty work spaces around him. "We're rather understaffed at the moment, but there might be something I can help you with."

"Yes, it's hardly the work environment I expected such a noted 'idea guy' to have," the man said neutrally.

He was halfway to agreeing when his brain caught up with what exactly the man said.

"Very few people know the night guy at the Goblin Liaison Office exists," Hugh remarked with a suspicious look. "Let alone what he likes to refer to himself as, Mister um…"

"Lichfield," Lichfield replied. "And you're right; I've spent over a decade at Gringotts and never once spared a thought as to who might be working here. But that was my oversight, one Overseer Bankor hadn't made as well."

"Wait – Bankor's an Overseer?" he asked, at a loss trying to reconcile the strangely pleasant goblin he'd seen and exchanged messages with and the image of the tyrannical Overseer they've always been described to be.

Old man Lichfield gave him a look of puzzled disbelief.

"What? I thought he was senior staff or some kind of lobbyist," Hugh explained. "He never told me what he was, people here never use the proper titles for anything, and unless the goblin in question's standing directly in front of them they're more likely to insult them. I mean, sure, we've met a couple of times and batted some ideas back and forth but–"

"He said he's always found them to be constructive and innovative," Lichfield cut in, "so I doubt he was upset at the lack of a title."

That last bit made him feel better. Hugh didn't want to think a word from Bankor could've cost him his job but there were always people in the Ministry who'd fire a brown-blooded part-goblin like him over nothing at all. If that happened he wouldn't know what he'd do, scrounge around for something in the muggle world perhaps since he was lucky enough to pass as one of them – a short one, but still. It was only the belief a part-goblin would serve as a better go-between that had gotten him the job in the first place but being part one thing and part something else only meant you were easily hated by both; the only exception so far seemed to be Bankor himself, though no one else seemed to notice that.

"I try to be constructive," Hugh shrugged, "I don't know about 'innovative' though. Anything truly innovative always gets shot down – like the time I suggested we start using computers – I might as well have been talking to Fytherley Undercliffe over there," he said gesturing to the portrait of a Santa Claus looking wizard with an empty cornucopia stuck in his ear.

"What?" grandfatherly Fytherley Undercliffe called as if being motioned to was an invitation to speak. "Why do I hear bagpipes?"

"Because you're nuts, go to sleep!" he shouted back as he pulled out his wand and shot sparks at the man. "I have no idea what he's talking about," Hugh confided to Lichfield as Undercliffe walked out of the painting for parts unknown. "It was bad enough when he was just deaf; now it looks like he's crazy too – not that he wasn't before," he hastened to add. "Living in a hole in the ground might get you a last name, but it hardly makes you an expert on goblins – but what are you going to do? He's the only guy they've got who even resembles a 'goblin liaison' around here."

"Sorry," Lichfield chuckled. "You remind me of a friend of mine, which brings me to why I'm here."

The old man put his briefcase on the desk and opened it, taking out a small sheaf of papers and passing them over. Hugh's eyes went straight to several peculiarities straight away.

"The Wizarding Councils for the Kingdoms of England and Scotland?" he asked incredulously. "Ownership of an island? Intellectual property rights? What am I even looking at?"

"Gringotts needs an official agreement on an interpretation of an international treaty from around the turn of the fourteen hundreds," the Lichfield man explained.

"That's way beyond anything I can do," Hugh replied. "It'd probably take a good six months to dig up anything on this and translate it into anything usable, let alone come up with a working legal interpretation from it. And even then it'd have to be signed off on by Mockridge and he'll only do it if it's what's best for the Ministry. I'm sorry," he told Lichfield, "but it looks like you're going to have to come back some other time."

"It was my impression you're a manager here," the man from Gringotts said, as if that was actually supposed to mean anything.

"Well, yes, by technicality," Hugh said a bit bewilderedly. "Departmental guidelines say a manager must be working in the office at all times, so they had to make me a manager even if all I'm doing is managing not to burn myself making tea or fall asleep during the night shift."

"And don't those guidelines also state the manager on duty is authorized to make such an agreement if the head of the office and department head aren't available?" Lichfield pressed.

"After a lengthy confirmation process or if the world were ending, yes," he replied. "But it's not something they'd ever let me do."

"They'd rather let the world come to an end than have you stamp a form?" the man asked wryly.

Hugh pointed at his own face and said, "What part of part-goblin do you not understand? I'm lucky they let me reorganize the filing system into something that made sense – not to say they don't screw it up on a daily basis," he groused.

"I'm aware of how… discriminatory the Ministry can be with their employment practices," Lichfield said circuitously. "And that people can be very unpleasant to those of… differing heritages–"

"Are you trying to be politically correct?" Hobson asked looking at him oddly.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Lester said honestly.

"It's a type of social shaming muggles have taken to," Hugh explained. "They take a word or phrase which singles out a dispossessed minority and replace it with something that sounds better, and then strongly imply anyone who uses the old one is an intolerable bigot."

"You mean like 'person of non-magical heritage' instead of muggleborn," he said succinctly.

"Basically, yes," Hugh agreed. "And it makes something like 'mudblood' into unspeakably bad, social pariah-making bigotry rather than the good ol' fashion bigotry of yesteryear."

"There's certainly nothing wrong with that," Lichfield observed.

"Yeah, except it's never going to work," Hugh replied tersely. "In my experience wizards don't have a conscience or sense of shame at all – not to say that goblins are any better, because they're not for people like me. Their word for us is Brownblood, which isn't too far from mudblood in the first place."

"Bankor thinks there's a chance to change all that," the Gringotts guy interjected.

"Bankor thinks wizards and goblins can work together for the betterment of everyone if we can just sit down and explain things slowly and in small words so everyone can understand what we're trying to do," he said in a huff.

"And you don't believe it?" the old man asked.

"I'm part-goblin," Hugh said as he fiddled with the arm of his chair. "I have a vested interest in believing it."

"Then you'll be interested to hear there's a great deal of change in the air at Gringotts at the moment and an openness to new ideas," Lichfield said with one of those half grins people got when they were teasing you with something just out of reach. "I personally witnessed Overseer Alkrat of Corporate Accounts suggest consolidating all of our record keeping into a single new department, an idea Overseers Bankor and Barchoke seem to support."

"Is it true he's the new–?"

"I can't say anything about that," the Gringotts man said quickly with his hand raised to ward him off and all but confirming the wild rumor as true, or true enough to make no difference. "All I can say is that when Overseers start agreeing on things, those things tend to happen and when I spoke to him Bankor said explicitly he'd be pushing for someone with constructive and innovative ideas and an extensive knowledge of filing systems," Lichfield said with a raised eyebrow and meaningful look.

Suddenly Hugh felt like he'd fallen a good twenty feet and if he hadn't been sitting down he was sure his legs probably would've given out. A department? Heading an entire department? Heading an entire Gringotts department? That was more responsibility than he's had in his entire life and in a culture all but alien to him. Bankor had told him bits and pieces of it in their letters, notes, and memorandum but going in like this was… Well, impossible! Suddenly something snapped into place.

"So you're saying that if I stamp this agreement they'll–?"

"No, no! Absolutely not," Lichfield cut in. "I'm saying nothing of the kind. The job will either be created or not, and will be available to qualified persons independent of anything you do here and now," he said firmly.

"Right," Hugh said shrewdly, back on an even keel. "That sounds like a set up to me. I do what you want, leave the Ministry, they find out and are pissed at me for overstepping my bounds while no one at Gringotts seems to remember I exist. That's a very clever scheme you thought up but it's not going to work."

"Gringotts doesn't want anything but to have a clear understanding between themselves and the Ministry," the old man said. "Failing that, who knows what might happen; the Ministry may well conclude you were at fault for failing to prevent a catastrophe when you had the chance."

"Wait – w–what?" Hugh asked, shocked again.

"Didn't I tell you?" Lichfield replied. "The treaty in question is the only thing that guarantees the economic stability of the entire wizarding world – and it's been broken. Why do you think we've shut our doors and have taken as much hard currency out of circulation as possible? What do you think Overseer Barchoke was doing here yesterday when he met with the Minister but to find a way to head this off?"

Aghast, Hugh felt his mouth opening and closing uncontrollably, completely unable to speak. Why was he always the last one to hear about everything?!

"It seems obvious to me the Ministry has no interest in maintaining the peace," the grim-faced Gringotts representative growled. "Why else wouldn't they have this place working furiously to come up with an agreement like this?" Lichfield asked, thumping the sheaf of papers with a knobby finger. "Battle lines are being drawn, Mr. Hobson. I passed through the entire Auror Corps getting in here and by now they'll be taking positions for war, and rumors are that Gringotts has done the same."

Doom and gloom danced before his eyes as goblins and wizards fell. Red blood mingled with green to stain the cobblestones of Diagon Alley as buildings burned and the battle raged. Binns was a dreadful bore but the message of his class was clear: the history of their country was painted with blood. Goblin rebellions, while uncommon now, featured so prominently that everyone who'd ever taken History of Magic knew that centuries of seething goblin resentment boiled just under the surface and it might break lose at any moment.

"I don't think I have to remind you how heated things can get between the two peoples when one of them feels their rights have been trampled on and cast aside," Lichfield said which did nothing to dispel the horrible atmosphere. "If I go back there empty handed they'll have no reason not to fight it out. If that happens people will be looking for someone to blame."

He felt his stomach clench an instant before the blighted old man spelled out his worst fears.

"A part-goblin, here alone, who passed on the possibility to end things before they began? I can't see the Ministry wasting any time pinning everything on you."

Feverishly Hugh tried to think of some way out of this mess.

"They might even say you wanted this to happen; a goblin sympathizer."

'That's exactly what they'd say,' he thought. 'I'd be lucky to see the inside of Azkaban before they kill me.'

"The only hope you'd have then would be if Gringotts took you in," Lichfield said.

"Why would they want a brownblood like me?" Hugh asked with more than a little panic. "They've never given us the time of day, let alone a job or protection."

"If Bankor thinks you're worth investing in who am I to argue?" the old man asked with a wave that said it made no difference to him. "He wanted me to pass along a dagger of his to show his sincerity–"

"A dagger?" a stunned Hugh asked. "His own personal dagger, kept in his breast pocket?"

Lichfield grunted an affirmative. "That's the one, but I told him I'd never get it past security."

Hugh wasn't so sure, the Ministry measured threats in terms of wands, not knives, but if they already anticipated trouble it may have been true. When he had asked about their culture, particularly dealing with Overseers, one of the things Bankor told him was that they rarely made promises – particularly when circumstances were dire. When they did though it was customary for the Overseer who was making the pledge to give a person the dagger they received when they obtained their rank.

At first he thought it was for collateral, but it was ever so much more than that. It was the Overseer's pledge that if they betrayed their trust and broke their word the other person would be free to bury the dagger in the Overseer's chest and no one would raise a hand to stop them. He didn't have the dagger, true, but just knowing he wanted to send it spoke volumes. Was Bankor – were goblins – worth trusting after all?

"Instead he told me to pass along a message," Lichfield continued, drawing a thin strip of paper out of his pocket. "Apologies if I butcher this, but I know next to nothing when it comes to speaking goblin. Let's see, it was... 'Flute grab-a-tan flute,' or something very much like."

"Flute?" Hugh asked curiously as he took the strip from him. "How's that even–" Then it clicked.

'Phludt grappiten phludt,' the goblin transliterated into an English spelling read. 'Blood calls to blood.'

Bankor had always been uncomfortable saying anything about the violent part of goblin society. He liked to believe they had become better, more civilized than that, but with the propensity to violence being the most publicized part of it details had become necessary. The caverns far below Gringotts teemed with goblins with virtually no use to the ones who ran the bank. Barbaric and cruel, the only semblance of society they had was created through familial bonds.

A kind of clannishness kept violence from getting too far out of control when there were no guards in sight, but that didn't mean it didn't happen. He wouldn't go into details, and Hugh doubted Bankor had ever been close enough to those goblins to ever learn it first hand, but he did say clans had fought clans in the past when situations "Down Below" had gotten too dire, and when they did the rallying cry was always 'phludt grappiten phludt.'

Hugh balled the strip of paper up in his hand, almost afraid to read it again; he had to think this through. If he went by the letter of the Ministry's official policies then what Mr. Lichfield said is true; with him by himself and Mockridge too busy with the Wizengamot meeting – which may have already started for all he knew – to return to the office he ran then he could technically officiate the agreement. If he did though he'd be booted out of a job so fast he'd bounce across the Atrium, land in a floo station, and the only thing missing would be an announcer shouting "GOOAAALLLL!"

If he went by all the implied racial rules and prejudicial practices they expected him to follow then he'd be right where he was, too petrified to do anything but guaranteed to be scapegoated if anything went wrong. He didn't want to be in this position but he was, and he couldn't help but feel like someone had done it intentionally. That was ridiculous though since this is precisely the situation he's been in his entire life.

Even as a child it had been hard not to sympathize with the goblin side of things. How could he not be when the muggle children he'd gone to school with kept calling him a deformed elf and asked if he'd escaped from the North Pole? He'd wanted to yell at them, to pummel the truth into their stupid pudgy faces, but his mother had said if he did "They" would never let him go to magic school and the past was best left alone and forgotten.

Left alone and forgotten was still a step up from the Flitwick way of life. Though one of the uncles had done what he could to stop the public harassment, the professor implied the harassment was in part his fault for being "too goblin." The Flitwick Family philosophy for success and happiness was apparently to prance around emphasizing just how "near-human" they were by saying how great it was to be mostly-human, what a fantastic Ministry they had, and how much of an "honor" it was to even be included.

Hugh quickly found his chance at being incorporated into it cut short when his attitude was found to be lacking in that regard. The cowardly male head of the family didn't want to risk losing his "respectable" job in Hogsmeade or jeopardize having the choir he kept prattling on about from being incorporated as an official school elective by having a "radical" in the family. He had to admit though that accusing him of being the nearsighted sycophant who'd posed for the Fountain of Magical Brethren hadn't helped his case at all.

And it was hard to read wizarding history and not identify with the goblin side, at least partially. If this were a sports match they would be his team. Wizards took and they took and they took, and when things blew up in their faces they blamed the goblins for being rebellious when all they were doing was standing up for themselves! Was it so wrong to want to see the goblins win once in a while – or even just once? If what Lichfield said was true, centuries of pent up resentment might be poised to boil over but here he was, a little part-goblin, in the position to make a difference and maybe give them a win this time.

'They're giving me a jersey and telling me to get in the game,' Hugh thought to himself as he curled his hand tighter around Bankor's call to arms.

Movement in his peripheral vision as the man across from him shifted reminded him he'd spent the last few minutes staring down at the paperwork without reading a bit of it. Shifting from one parchment to the next Hugh saw they were all the same; Gringott's magical watermark was already on all of them, apparently they wanted this in triplicate. There was the customary legalese at the beginning but essentially it stated the goblins owned everything in, on, and constituting "Flamel's Compound" and all the rights thereto unless the Ministry can prove otherwise with documentation dating back to the time in question and verified by I.C.W. and goblin fraud experts.

"This places the burden of proof completely on the Ministry in any litigation," he observed.

"After six hundred years of occupying the island and paying for what went on there, Gringotts believes it's the least they're entitled to," Lichfield explained.

"I'm surprised they're giving the Ministry any opening to contest it at all," Hugh said.

"They didn't want to," the old man replied. "Not allowing them that small chance though might have been enough to have the entire thing thrown out if the I.C.W. doesn't see the opportunity it presents them."

"What opportunity?" he asked. "The binding arbitration clause or the submission of documents to experts?"

"Both," Lichfield smiled as Hugh summoned the Goblin Liaison Office's officiating stamp. "If there's one sentiment I heard time and again yesterday was that it was high time 'doddering old England' woke up and started acting like it's supposed to."

"Well then," he said hefting the heavy stamper. "Here's their wake-up call."

After three very satisfying thumps Hugh wondered if it would reflect too badly on him if he mixed up all the files before he left to find a new job.

.o0O0o.

Stepping from the Ministry's floo the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world, the caretaker of all which was Just and Good, was greeted from afar by the sight of some of the Pure and Chosen Few taking their ease around the glittering golden Fountain of Magical Brethren. Though in many ways he could call the Fountain a lie – the wizarding world had mistreated and abused their fellows for far too long for them to so eagerly look up to them with adoration at the moment – Albus preferred to look on it with hope. What the Fountain represented wasn't the world of today but the golden future to come thanks to the influences of the Greater Good.

Wizarding society was mercurial to say the least, which made interactions between it and the sulfurous goblins inherently volatile. And though the cause of such violence was the goblin's vitriolic nature more than anything the wizards had done, they nonetheless bore responsibility for them. As with the case with Harry, the continued agitation and sublimation of the race was needed in order to draw out their poisonous nature and transform them into something which could better help the whole. And though progress has been made – all one had to do was look at the professional and orderly bank tellers for evidence of this – the slowness of it must lie with the wizards themselves.

Had they only been tougher, more violent in their response to goblins actions in the past then surely the survivors of the race would be better people today. While the origins of house-elf servitude might be lost to history, the benefits they've gained from subjugation, toil, and slavery were beyond dispute. What other process in the world could account for such sweet and simple souls but abject misery and prolonged torture? Frank and Alice Longbottom certainly seemed happy when last he visited them. Had he been wrong in allowing Harry the freedom to make his own mistakes and live with the Weasleys rather than to place him at the Dursleys once again, through force if necessary? Or would the action of their separation make each part more reactive once they were brought back together and thus speed Harry's purification along faster than before?

Albus tossed such thoughts aside. It was not his place to question the course the Greater Good set out; his was to monitor, maintain, and comport himself with the circumstances it orchestrated and nothing more. And alas, though he might think it wise, it would not do for him to suggest such a drastic change of course today for either Harry or the goblins, especially without cause. Doing so would only give license to those like Lucius Malfoy in their attempts to use similar means against completely innocent populations: muggles, muggleborns, half-breeds, and the like. Had he been born in an earlier time though perhaps his insights into the workings of the Greater Good would have prompted a more expeditious course nonetheless.

'Of course,' he thought, 'had I been born any earlier the events which brought me into such a communion with its ways would never have occurred at all – and thus, the Greater Good required me to be born when I was, rendering the whole discourse moot.'

Moving forward, the smaller figures of the Fountain came into view. In some ways it was sad the centaurs continued to rebuff any attempt to reach out to them. Had they not, perhaps the wizarding world could incorporate the salt of the earth into their mix and better bind the country's three prime peoples together in friendship. Alas, it seemed unlikely to happen within his lifetime but the future was unwritten. The Greater Good would either see to it or leave them cast out to be trodden under by the slow and steady encroach of man.

The sight of Kingsley holding court at the Fountain pleased him immeasurably though. That a black man could have such a warm voice, sunny disposition, and good soul had always been evidence to him of the Greater Good at work. As the man met his eyes Albus felt a tug and quickly had to hold himself back from giving into the impulse to dive into the man's mind. That Kingsley sought to talk to him, perhaps in desperate need of counsel, was not extraordinary for they had often spoke in the past of this and that – but to feel a tug so strongly…

'Perhaps I should stop,' Albus thought, humming to himself as he considered matters for a moment. 'If the man is in such distress then his life or the lives of the Aurors he leads could be at risk. However, with Lucius's influence at work today Cornelius will need all the reassurance and moral leadership I can provide.'

The question then became figuring out which the Greater Good valued more: the lives and well-being of Kingsley and his Aurors or the untold number of muggles Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act would aid, for if left on his own Cornelius may bend to Malfoy's manner and the chance to help those poor unfortunates could be lost. In the end it was a small thing that decided it. Kingsley had looked away while he'd been thinking and busied himself with his men again, with the clear intention to stay just where he was for some time to come.

'There should be time enough to counsel him during breaks in the Wizengamot or to schedule a meeting some other time,' he decided, turning away to head through the Atrium.

As easy as it would have been to take the information of what ailed him from the man's mind, it was a temptation he could never allow himself to give in to. To access someone's secret sanctum and steal their innermost thoughts was to have power over them, and that kind of power was addictive and corrupting. Once you know them better than they know themselves they would soon have no choices left for they would always find themselves placed in situations where their actions were the ones you wished them to make, and though they may never know it, you would have to live with the knowledge eating away at your very soul.

Long ago Albus had learned that plotting for power and exploiting a position of strength to reshape the world around him into his vision of what it should be was not to be his grand destiny; the desire for it was in fact his greatest weakness. Engaging in such thoughts for even one short summer had been enough to cause his sweet sister to lose her life and to begin the slow advance of Darkness which would eventually grow to consume the heart of the Continent. He could not – would not – do so again. No matter what pain or strife may come as a result it would be a small price to pay to allow the people of the wizarding world the freedom to live their lives as they wish. It was the truly noble thing to do, and he was nothing if not noble.

"Ah, hello there, Professor," a guard at the Security desk called with a friendly wave as the one next to him offered a pink-cheeked smile. "I knew I'da beeee seeing you today." The man's friend turned very red and tried to hide his laughter behind his hand.

Albus failed to see what was funny though, of course he would be here – the Wizengamot was here. He passed through the Ministry's golden gates while looking at them in askance. Whether they had intended it or not it felt very much like some joke at his expense, though besides the barbs of Rita Skeeter – a woman too ignorant to be worth being mad at or taking seriously – Albus had scarcely experienced such slights in the last century to be sure if they were or not. He was resolved not to let such a small thing dampen his mood though, this was to be a day of triumph for the Greater Good over the recalcitrant and such a day should be lived with a joyous heart.

As the lift arrived, Albus tried his best not to inwardly groan as a curly-haired witch in virulently green robes came with it. Ever since he'd hit upon hard times Rita Skeeter was the one with the best robes to be found; hers sparkled so much they practically gave off their own light. While he had become quite adept in adapting what he had to new appearances, it just wasn't the same as having the real thing. Albus adopted his most contemplative and far-away expression in an effort not to engage her. The woman thrived on attention; he certainly wasn't about to let her know he was jealous. Unfortunately, it didn't seem destined to work.

"Ah, Dumbledore! There you are," the waspy woman said. "Come in, come in," she cried with a sting in her smile as she attached herself to his arm and pulled him inside. "Cutting it quite thin, aren't you?"

As the lift started moving Albus was trapped by good form and the confined space from beating a hasty retreat or shooing the woman off of him. Instead he used his most benign approach: empty small talk while keeping his thoughts to himself.

"I'm sure I'll make it in time," he smiled, amused she really thought Cornelius might start without him. "I hadn't thought to see you here today, Rita. I believe you once said 'politics is the realm of useless old men talking past each other while everyone else is asleep.'"

"And so it is," she said guilelessly. "But a little bird told me today would be a very different affair."

"No doubt," he said nebulously, thinking of the vote to come. What Albus had no doubt about though was that Rita would find some way of framing the protection of their muggle cousins as some usurpation of pureblood rights to mistreat them.

'Our muggle cousins,' he thought to himself. 'Perhaps I should use that if some swaying speech becomes necessary. It would point to a bond of kinship between us all and not-so-subtly remind them that many families have the unspoken-of squib in the family who would benefit as well. Such a speech may even sway the most unreachable of people to our cause if they believe I know who those squibs belonged to, especially if they were theirs,' Albus surmised. 'There's no harm in letting people believe you know more than you do; they're only talking themselves into doing what's right for reasons that aren't, which is a pleasant little irony no one would see.'

"And speaking of birds," he continued aloud, "we seem to be having an issue with that today."

"Whatever do you mean?" the reporter said curiously, looking up at him through her ludicrously long lashes.

"I am saddened to say I was left bereft of the Daily Prophet this morning," he explained. "The entire castle seemed to be lacking them."

"Ah, such a pity," she said with a sympathetic pat on his arm before finally moving away to dig into her crocodile-skin handbag. "I fear I'm the cause of that," Rita's false sadness ringing as pride clear as day to him. "My Lockhart article caused such an upswell in circulation they needed to use the owls in our northern office just to deliver to the rest of the country. There was even talk of having to deliver the Hogsmeade ones by hand, if you can believe it."

"It would explain the figures I saw at the gates this morning," he said more to himself than to her.

Though his absence would needlessly delay them accomplishing their task, it was nice to know he hadn't deprived any children a chance to see their future school. No doubt Minerva would see to them eventually. As if thinking of opening gates were some sort of spell, the lift finally arrived at Level 2.

"I look forward to reading it when I return then," Albus said with a mental tip of the hat he wasn't wearing to the woman who wouldn't deserve it even if he was but courtesy required it nonetheless. "Excuse me," he murmured as he took his leave of her.

A few steps later she was back at his side again. Floating next to her was an azure colored quill perched on a parchment like a peculiar parrot; the bright blue seemed to pop next to all the green she was wearing.

"Hello again," he said politely, peering at her over his half-moon spectacles. "No Quick-Quotes Quill today?"

"Oh, no," she said with a predatory smile as the quill scratched away furiously. "This one's True Blue. It's the finest one for speedy dictation and as a – recently made friend pointed out, when the truth is salacious, it really needs no embellishment."

Albus felt a niggling sense of unease for a moment before he simply had to reprimand himself.

'Truth has always had a well-established liberal bias,' he reminded himself. 'If Rita is moving towards embracing what is true rather than what's profitable, it should be supported.'

"And even if it's not salacious," he said in his most grandfatherly voice, "the truth often proves disastrous to those who strive to hide their hate in glamorous garb and rosy tones."

Rita smiled, her eyes sparkling behind her rhinestone bespeckled spectacles, but before the woman could say anything more he was ambushed by two of the lowest-ranking members of the Wizengamot. Misses Woodbead and Nithercott were like peas in a pod: loud, boisterous women uninterested in anything but the most frivolous of affairs who spent most of their time talking amongst themselves. They were the worst sort person to have in a legislative body but the Wizengamot simply had to accept them; they were the only freeholds in their respective boroughs so as long as they kept voting for themselves they would always be voted in.

"Professor Dumbledore, we were hoping to speak to you today," Miss Nithercott said with a soppy grin. He had no idea what they would want with him and Merlin alone knew what Rita would make of them talking to him.

"And what fashionable robes," Woodbead cooed. "I should have known you'd be a Quidditch fan. Tell me," she prompted, "what's your favorite team?"

"Hogwarts has four teams we are very proud of," Albus said in as dignified a fashion as he could. "And I find myself enjoying a game well played for its own sake rather than for which teams are participating in it."

"But surely you have a secret favorite," Woodbead said with a smile.

"Especially when Harry Potter is the Gryffindor Seeker," Nithercott giggled.

"Many famous witches and wizards have graced the skies of above Hogwarts," Albus resolutely replied, sparing a glance to Rita and her scratching quill as he mentally measured how much further there was to go to the Wizengamot chamber where he could finally be rid of them. "As Headmaster, it would be unseemly to even imply I favored one above another, even in private."

"And how would you describe your relationship with Harry Potter?" Rita asked, the question earning quick approval from the other ladies.

"Relationship?" he asked, wondering what precisely she was implying.

Rita seemed to be concerned by this herself momentarily.

"How do you two get on, that is," she clarified. "Both in your role as Headmaster and outside of class, so to speak."

"As well as can be expected," he replied.

"But you are the one who allowed him to play for the Gryffindor team, were you not?" Rita pressed.

"The youngest Seeker in a century, I've heard," Woodbead agreed.

"That was mostly due to Professor McGonagall," Albus explained, trying his best to stay above House partisanship. "She requested the exception as Head of House citing Gryffindor's need for a Seeker and the boy's natural talent. I can't say for certain though whether his 'Youngest Seeker' distinction is strictly confined to Gryffindor, to Hogwarts as a whole, or whether other schools' histories were checked as well. He does play the position quite admirably though," he added lest it sound like he was being too standoffish.

"How do you think he measures up when it comes to the books?" Miss Nithercott asked, causing Albus to pause a moment to consider the odd wordage.

"About as well as any other boy his age, I'd have to say," he admitted curiously, though it felt as he wasn't being positive enough of Harry's accomplishments, current misplaced hostilities or no. "His teachers speak well of him and he seems to be getting on well with his classmates. And when it comes to books, while he has often been seen in the library, I think his inclination is towards more active and adventurous extra-curricular pursuits, as young men often are."

And with that Albus heaved a quiet sigh of relief as they entered the Wizengamot's bright Lobby area where they would all separate to go to their different sections.

"Oh, if I don't say this now I'll positively burst!" Miss Woodbead exclaimed. "I absolutely adore every word you've ever written! I have the whole collection at home," she told him with a beaming smile, clasping his hand as if she could now die a happy woman.

"Oh yes, me too," Miss Nithercott agreed.

Albus was dumbfounded. "I had no idea you two ladies were so well read," he said after a moment, feeling positively dreadful for having misjudged them for so long. "Which did you like the best?"

"How can you choose amongst them?" Miss Woodbead beamed. "They're a masterpiece from beginning to end."

"Which one do you like best?" Miss Nithercott asked in response.

"Nelly! You can't ask him something like that," Miss Woodbead chided her friend. "That's like asking a mother which of her children she loves most."

"Oh, I never thought of it like that," Nelly Nithercott confessed. "I hope I didn't offend you," she said to Albus.

"Not at all," he said soothingly. "There is something I wrote back in my school days which – while not a groundbreaking masterpiece in itself and often overlooked," he said humbly. "–It nonetheless laid a framework for much of what came later. Its publication in The Practical Potioneer put me in touch with those more learned and more connected to scholarly circles than myself who could help me in exploring the topics in depth. Many of the issues raised in it would be addressed more fully in later works, but much of my success had its root there."

"Really? I didn't know that," Miss Nithercott breathed, seemingly in awe of receiving this little nugget of information.

"We've absolutely got to rush out and find it, Nelly," Miss Woodbead told her, taking her friend by the arm and starting to pull her away. "Thank you so much for talking to us, Professor, I'm sure it'll shed new light on everything!"

As the two most unlikely academics scurried their way down the hallway to the lifts Albus had to wonder what this would do to today's vote total. He never relied on them as core supporters for anything but they had always been good about jumping on to support any measure that looked pleasant enough or sure to pass without them. He just had to hope the other votes stood firm.

'First bagpipes and now this,' he pondered to himself. 'This day is getting more and more peculiar.'

"Well, I'll let you go and find a good seat," Dumbledore said to Rita with a much clearer – though nonetheless still pleasant – dismissal this time around.

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said as she surely slithered away. What some men saw in women Albus would never know.

Finally free of frustrating females Albus was able to surrender the great weight which had settled on his shoulders in the last several minutes and return to his quiet center of calm. This was the nice and stately Wizengamot; there was nothing to trouble him here for even in the fiercest of debates the orderly system provided a naturally soothing ebb and flow. It was very much like the daily routine of Hogwarts with its well-ordered motion, only here his students were old enough to be trusted to work out the answers for themselves – most of the time.

The polished floor was pale and perfect, the walls and columns politely peach pillars reaching up to support a blue sky-like ceiling hosting a remarkable runic array which – while it actually accomplished nothing – certainly looked attractive as it constantly shifted about. It was almost enough to make one forget they were underground and not in one of the grand muggle statehouses they loved to construct to show their political might.

His high-heeled buckled boots rang forth loudly on the smooth marble floors in ways the ancient stone hallways of Hogwarts couldn't compare. One simply couldn't help but to stand a little straighter and become a bit more in tune with your own personal poise and purpose when that sound echoed out.

'Of course,' Albus thought as he saw the third charmingly-rugged representative who was half his age and on his side of the political spectrum quickly blush at the sight of him and scurry for the doors to find his seat. 'Such personal poise did have other benefits, if one was of a mind to pursue them.'

Though he knew he should be concerned with conquering his own vanity lest he become mired with a peacock's tail, Albus also knew that even at one hundred and eleven he was still very much a man and would always fall short, would always look at that which was tempting. It made no sense to dwell on such things though; he'd seen what came from indulging in such wants before. A second war with Voldemort was on the distant horizon and now was no time to distract oneself with such thoughts while there was still so much work to be done. A much greater concern was the presence of a pair of Hit Wizards at the Wizengamot's double doors and why one of them was preventing a distinctly disturbed Dedalus Diggle from entering.

"I've been sitting this seat for more than ten years," Dedalus's high voice squeaked as he rung his top hat in frustration. "I insist you let me through!"

"And I've told you, sir, I have my orders," the broad-shouldered, cold-eyed man said brusquely. "You insist on anything again and you'll find yourself in a holding cell until they have time to deal with you."

"Well, I never," the little man grumbled as he stuffed his purple hat back on his head.

"Is there a problem, Dedalus?" he asked as he approached the man in question.

"Albus, there you are! I was wondering how to get a hold of you; the Ministry's shut off most of the Floo Network for some reason," Dedalus digressed, as he often did when under stress. "There very much is a problem. These men won't let me inside."

"While I salute the ardor with which you do your jobs," Albus said to the two men with his most grandfatherly voice and comforting smile. "I assure you, fine officers, that Dedalus has every right to be here. He sits proxy for one of the most ancient of families and the legitimacy of his claim has never been questioned."

The burly man in front of them said looked to the one by the other door before responding. "I'm sorry, sir, but he's not going in," he said a bit more politely than he did with Dedalus. "You can take it up with the Minister, if you like, but until he says otherwise my orders stay the same."

That actually gave Albus a bit of mild surprise. While muggle protection was not a part of the Minister's political agenda – and even in private Cornelius had been ambivalent at best – he never flatly stood in its way before. Albus didn't like the implications of this at all.

'Making his displeasure known once the proposition had gained enough support to come to the floor on its own would have been enough to free himself of any political responsibility if the measure passed,' he quickly surmised. 'Even making a speech against the proposal would have been the most any reasonable anti-muggle backer could expect from him. Doing this risked ethics charges and reeked of rank corruption.'

"I shall look into this, Dedalus," he said matter-of-factly as he marched towards the door.

"A–Albus," the little man squeaked. "What they said in the Prophet – is it true?"

Albus paid him no mind for as crossed the threshold he was no longer the kindly old man he was before, he was the Chief Warlock! Garbed in the full force of his political might and mind filled with thunderous fury at those who sought to deprive the Greater Good its due, he marched up the aisle towards the two people who were behind this. The fact that Lucius sat beside the Minister in the Senior Undersecretary's seat at the very heart of the chamber told him everything he needed to know.

"Buzz-buzz," one of the Traditionalist toadies said with a smirk as the smarmy man passed him. The drone of conversation increased and Albus shut himself off from anything else the semi-circular room might bring to his attention so he might better focus his thoughts.

'Now we see the mechanizations of Lucius Malfoy at work,' Albus thought to himself as the picture snapped together in his mind. 'The Hit Wizards are here to cow the sympathetic and imply a dangerous threat looms in the distance while ordering the delay of ever-diligent Dedalus sows doubt and causes disruption on the pro-muggle side.'

The man had steadily spread his influence throughout the Board of Governors until they no longer respected his opinion; singling him out so he was but one voice amongst thirteen. He could not be allowed to do the same here in the Wizengamot. What end the man had in mind today he couldn't be sure; to cause the vote to collapse was a certainty, but he couldn't rule out sending a signal to their bigoted kindred that they were free to target muggles again indiscriminately.

It was a more heavy-handed approach than he had ever taken before, much more akin to the Darkness which had surrounded the suspected deeds of his father, Abraxas, when he tried to strangle the world into doing his bidding, but his father hadn't been the only Dark master the man had served in the past. Political disagreements in other areas aside, Albus hated to think Lucius would so casually throw his Second Chance away like this. Had he learned nothing from the Dark times of his youth?

As he reached the desk-like series of raised tier seating housing the Officiating Seats, Albus regained his composure so he was walking in a stately huff rather than a militant and murderous march. Striking the man down was the quick and easy path but it would do nothing to prove the rightness of his cause. Worse yet, it would serve to justify violence as a means to political ends and leave him ignorant of what he needed to know, and knowing was more valuable than being temporarily triumphant.

Going around to the left to climb the small series of steps, he passed through the first tier of scribes, time keepers, and vote counters with barely a glance. Stopping at the second tier, on which the Minister and his retinue sat, would have its uses in easing the talk between them but in the end Albus decided the added height might lend extra weight to his cause and climbed to the third tier where the Chief Warlock sat alone.

Staring out at the assembled representatives of Wizarding Britain it was hard not to feel a little in awe of the responsibility, a responsibility not lessened by gazing up and seeing the almost vacant public viewing area for the politically minded. Rita Skeeter's green and dash of blue drawing his eye instantly as did the red of Arthur Weasley's hair. It was a pity the man's office was so disliked as not to merit its own chair anymore but needing to work together on issues in the future would help heal the rift between him and the man's family. Albus sat in the cushioned throne-like chair and arranged his robes before speaking to the men directly in front of him.

"There's nothing wrong with our Senior Undersecretary, I trust?" he asked Cornelius.

"She's fine; just fine," the Minister replied without looking back at him but rather busied himself with looking through the folder in front of him. "Dolores is on a mission of vital importance to the Ministry. Since she couldn't attend I asked Lucius to sit in her stead," he said casually.

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded, the statement ringing mostly true to his ear. Cornelius had sent her away, and on something he considered vital, but what the mission was he could not begin to contemplate. The last part though was a lie, or at the very least untrue. "That's very civic-minded of you, Lucius."

"Yes," the affluent aristocrat-in-all-but-title drawled, giving off the air of complete indifference as he looked out on the crowd. "As loath as I am to be a part of such... displays," he said with a gentle wave, "when the Minister asks, who am I to decline?"

Albus could read nothing from that. As with everything Lucius said over the years this read as neither the truth nor a lie, taking it with the Minister's untruth though it was easy to piece together what likely happened. Cornelius had indeed sent Dolores out on some "vital mission" – one perhaps concocted by Lucius Malfoy himself – and he was the one who suggested to the Minister that he take her place.

This had much sadder implications than just an exchange of political favors for someone Cornelius had always called "a prominent member of wizarding society." Lucius Malfoy was meeting the Minister in secret and had gained his ear. Albus had wanted to believe Cornelius was simply a little naive and inexperienced, and would soon learn that listening to the other side was one thing, consorting with them was another. Now it seemed as though the man had gained a march on him.

'No wonder he wished to correspond rather than meet with me,' he thought, feeling more than a little betrayed. 'So much for respecting me and my time too much to waste it; he simply didn't want to be caught out in his deception since my ear can't tell when what's written is false.'

As hard as it was to resist diving into people's minds, shutting off the ability to identify a falsehood when you heard it was nigh impossible for a Legilimens. It then fell to those of an unsavory sort who wished to go about undetected to find the means to do it. Those with the most mental discipline found their solution with Occlumency, a mental magic of closing one's mind to the outside world so they may speak without giving anything away, like Lucius did, though only true masters of it could convincingly lie. What a fool he'd been not to see this lesser evasion.

'Still,' Albus thought, coming back to his ever-positive look again. 'Now I know, I can redouble my efforts at friendship with him so I might sway him to my cause. After all, everyone deserves a Second Chance.'

"There was an altercation brewing outside between Dedalus Diggle and a Hit Wizard," he said, trying to add as much pointed weight on them as possible through connotation alone. "The man seemed to imply, Minister, that you had barred him from this meeting."

Cornelius sniffed and turned to another parchment before commenting.

"I did," he said eventually, rendering his conversational tactics frustratingly ineffective when the man you're talking to won't turn to look at you. "I've been made aware of a substantial problem with his legitimacy as a proxy. The Ministry will have to look into it ourselves, of course, but that requires time. Surely you can see it'd be inappropriate to have him here until it's resolved; there were some very serious charges involved."

"I can imagine," Albus replied stoically, though of course he didn't have to imagine at all; he had heard them from Harry himself: Abandonment.

He had hoped time and distance would give the child a chance to think things through and gain a different perspective so they might reknit their friendship at Hogwarts, but alas, it seemed not to be the case. The goblins were going to press ahead and use the boy against him to viciously extract as much blood and life as possible, leaving him weakened and unable to act just when he needed to be strong for the Greater Good.

'Although,' he thought, trying to gauge Lucius's thoughts as the man turned to the Minister. 'They were not the only ones who would want that to happen.'

"If there's a problem with the Potter proxy here," the man drawled in that neutral-sounding voice. "Could it be the same with their proxy on the Board of Governors?" he asked. "I always thought it absurd anyone would appoint a man like Diggle to anything."

"I'll leave that to your good judgement, Lucius," Cornelius said with a ring of falseness evident; Malfoy must have already informed him of what he was going to do. "But there may well be. Merlin knows what trouble they could do at the school from there," he finished truthfully, giving away that he was already inclined to believe the man's version of events.

"I can imagine," Lucius replied as he finally turned to glance up at him those gray eyes that were just as emotionless as Severus's, or anyone else who practiced Occlumency. Whether from a slip of control or deliberate intention the corner of his mouth turned up in smug triumph. 'Double check,' the man's smirk seemed to say with an air of mate not far behind as a gong resounded through the chamber signaling everyone to find their seats.

'Beautiful,' Albus thought, for once not thinking about the silky luxuriousness of the man's long blond hair. It had been so long since his last chess match with such a skilled player that he thought he'd see the end of his days without another being played outside of his own mind, and here he was already deep into a game which had started with such an elaborate feint as to lower his guard rather than cause him to respond.

'So this is what's caused all of this,' he almost cheered as Lucius resumed his leisurely pose. 'He's used his influence at Gringotts to discover my connection to Harry and now he's twisting the truth into these allegations to finally elbow me aside and gain control but the pride of the man couldn't help but be here to let me know it was him.'

In a sense Albus had to admire the brilliance of the plan, even if it was doomed to fail. What did Lucius know or care about children? Nothing at all, obviously, or he wouldn't be so obsessed in engraving his likeness onto his son. While the particulars regarding young Draco amounted to nothing – at least at the moment – the same shortsightedness and inability to understand the great mysteries of Love which had proven to be Lord Voldemort's downfall would no doubt be his father's undoing as well.

Love had always been Albus's greatest defense though and Love would see him through this as well for it was evident in everything he had done on Harry's behalf. If the goblins insisted then they would have their day in court and the truth would come out – what parts of it it'd be prudent to tell at least – then he and the boy would be closer than ever. Lucius may strengthen his grip on the Minister and stranglehold on the Board in the meantime but with the truth revealed Lucius would be rendered powerless, his support would flee from him, while he and Harry would prove an unbeatable team and recoup all the influence they had lost with their squabble.

"Are we waiting for anything in particular?" Lucius asked the Minister in a slightly annoyed tone.

"Come along, Dumbledore, start us off," Cornelius called back to him.

The polished desk before him held only the Chief Warlock's gavel and was devoid of the customary orderly clutter of prepared remarks, schedule of speakers, or daily outline. None of the clerks two levels below him looked in any way eager to bring them to him either.

'Yet another minor annoyance to trip me up,' he thought as he withdrew the tentative outline and schedule from his inside pocket. 'It's always good to be prepared.'

Albus rapped the gavel twice sharply and saw Dedalus's anxious face peek through the door on the other side of the chamber. He quickly held up his hand to tell the man to hold off and that things were going to be alright lest he take it into his mind to see if the Hit Wizard was bluffing. With a querulous look on his face the man subsided and decided he'd rather be elsewhere than where he wasn't wanted, which, seeing as the alternative was a holding cell, was probably for the best.

"This meeting of the Wizengamot is now in session," he announced loudly. "I believe the first order of business was–"

"Apologies, Chief Warlock," Cornelius said as he jumped up from his seat, "but I have a matter of supreme importance to bring to the floor regarding a threat to our national defense."

With that the chamber started buzzing like a hive of angry bees as the members turned to their neighbors to ask what was going on. Most of the disruption was at the rear of the chamber where the Borough Seats were, though if Misses Woodbead and Nithercott had attended it would have sounded like a riot – if they had been paying attention. The Ministerial Seats in the midsection merely looked inquisitive while the old family heads and proxies sat in their Counselor Seats at the front of the pack with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance at the outburst.

'Well now they're overdoing it,' Albus thought as he rapped the gavel again. "The Chamber will come to order!" he declared and rapped the gavel a few more times to instill quiet. 'It isn't enough to disrupt the vote; they mean to bury it too.'

'A threat to national defense' hadn't been uttered in the chamber for over ten years when the power the Aurors had been given — the power to kill rather than capture — had been revoked. The phrase alone would've been enough to cause the membership to forget about any other issue today, even without labeling it a matter of supreme importance. The absence of the customary paperwork now made ample sense since Lucius had convinced the Minister to toss it all aside.

"The Chair recognizes the Minister and his right to speak," Albus said reluctantly, though he really had no other choice. After all, what could take precedence over a matter of supreme importance? 'I wonder what cock and bull story they've come up with to turn things in their favor,' he thought. 'Muggles starting an Inquisition to round up supposed witches for public execution?'

"Honorable Lords and Ladies, Ministerial Notables, and elected Representatives from around the country," the Minister began, calling out each section in their respective titles as so few speakers ever did anymore. "The welfare of Wizarding Britain, of the entire wizarding world, is in peril from a threat caused by one of our own."

A chill wind froze the Wizengamot in their seats as the name none but him would say hung in the air unspoken, and even Albus felt the shock of it. How could the Minister know Lord Voldemort was still alive? The fact his spirit remained tethered to this side of death was a secret known to very few, and with the deaths of Nicholas and Quirrell fewer still were left to share the secret at all.

Harry would never have told, Albus was sure. He was the leader of his little heroic group and Heroes do not foist their burdens upon the world at large for them to deal with as they would. If they shared them at all, they did so reluctantly, and with their most trusted companions. And Severus, while not the glowing Champion of Light as he was its Dark Knight, still relied upon the utmost secrecy if he was ever to see the one who struck down his lost love be vanquished. He would have told no sooner than Albus would, which left only Voldemort himself to make his presence known.

'He is too prideful; too desperate not to be seen as weak in front of his followers to ever approach them in such a powerless state,' or so he always thought. 'Why would he do so now? And more curiously, why would Lucius bring this to the Minister, much less be so calm? Had he received clemency, a pardon?

'And what of all those other poor unfortunates who made the same mistake in the past? They've had ten years to build new lives for themselves and this would have their Second Chances snatched away in the following mayhem. Why would he do this? Why disrupt his own base of political support when he was ascendant, just to show he could have won if he'd wanted to before upturning the chessboard?'

This couldn't come out now; Harry was far too young. He'd have nothing to do, no trials through the years to strengthen him for what lies ahead or the sacrifice he had to make. It didn't make any sense!

"To be clear," the Minister said to a rapt audience, "I speak not of a threat posed by a new dark wizard, but by a wizard who has betrayed the great trust we've placed in him."

The relief in the room was almost palpable, though Albus was sure he felt it the most.

"For centuries the safety and security of our world has been guaranteed by strict adherence to international treaties, laws, and agreements for without them we would always be at threat from wizarding armies popping from country to country, strange new creatures rampaging through our streets, and our populace flaunting their gift before muggles in ways we cannot contain," he went on to say. "Forsaking and forbidding these kinds of acts on a global scale is what allows our society the freedom to develop in the way we wish, for if we allow these things to occur and threaten the Secrecy of our world then others would take it upon themselves to step in to make sure that Secrecy is kept, and by force if necessary.

"And now, one of our own stands accused of willfully violating one of the first of these treaties which can devastate not only our economy but our sovereignty itself," Cornelius cried, cajoling his curiosity with that comment. "As we speak, foreign 'investigators' from the International Confederation of Wizards are swarming into our country to find and arrest the ones responsible for this terrible breach of trust. They do so without our consent or cooperation – for we were not informed until it was too late to stop them!"

Distressed and disgruntled murmurs sprouted in the chamber but all Albus had were doubts. That certainly didn't sound like the I.C.W. of which he was a part. He could think of no treaty which would spell certain doom of that magnitude should it really be broken, and they wouldn't have flown off to intervene in a country's private affairs, he would have made sure of it. They deserved the opportunity to resolve whatever the matter was themselves and become better people for it, and surely they would have recalled him for an emergency meeting if the situation was truly so dire. Even were he not Supreme Mugwump, how could they hope to handle such a crisis without him?

"This cannot stand!" Cornelius declared, pounding the desk in front of him with a fist. "They are bypassing our Ministry, spitting on our laws, and conspiring with non-humans to bring this about. How can Magical Britain call itself a sovereign nation if we let this go unanswered?"

Elderly Lord Fawley stood up and clutched his cane is if he meant to march off and fight them by himself. Next to him, Dowager Lady Selwyn motioned him to retake his seat.

"British lawbreakers are British lawbreakers and they are ours to deal with as we choose," the Minister continued. "The I.C.W. has no right to swoop in and take our rights away and imprison citizens of Magical Britain on their own. They should be down on bended knee, begging us to take this criminal cabal in hand, not conspiring with our adversaries against us!"

This statement gained a grumbling support from from the chamber and even a smattering of applause.

"This international band of thugs will not get what it's come for and will find no welcome here," Cornelius declared, leaving Albus to wonder how he was to play peacemaker between the two misguided groups. "To ensure the safety and security of our society I've sent an agent to tell them to get off our lands, dispatched the Auror Corps to protect our main centers of activity against attack, and Hit Wizards now stand guard on certain vulnerable targets in the countryside – such as your homes," he said looking at Fawley, who subsequently returned to his seat on shaky knees.

Albus could see this was quickly spiraling out of control. Unless something could be done to moderate the situation some irrevocable change could occur, and it was always uncertain if such a change would be in accordance with the Greater Good. 'Yes,' he thought, a plan forming in his mind. 'Already the Greater Good seeks to redress the imbalance caused by Lucius's plotting by placing me in the perfect position to come to the aid of the country in this trying time.' Who better to calm the international waters than him?

"Minister," he interjected politely as the Minister paused for effect.

"Yes, yes, Dumbledore, I was just getting to that," Cornelius replied with a dismissive wave before returning to address the chamber as a whole. "After speaking to the one at the heart of these allegations, and explaining the complications involved, they have agreed to step down from their positions of power within the Ministry and the Wizengamot itself."

Silence once again overtook the chamber as the implications settled in. It was one thing to know an international incident had been caused by a countrymen and quite another to have been in close quarters with them, possibly for years. The Minister's last statement didn't ring true for Albus in the slightest though.

Had he not spoken to the one at the heart of the issue? Had he not explained what he said he had? Had they vowed never to step down and thus taint the Ministry with the allegation? Had he been forced to take them into custody, both for their own protection and to prevent them from causing a scene? There was simply too many ways it could have gone and without knowing the person in question it was impossible to guess which was the most likely. The absence of Dolores Umbridge took on a more telling tone though since she was hardly the person you'd send on such a diplomatic mission.

"Though this comes as an unforeseen shock to us all," the Minister said somberly, "I would like to commend Professor Dumbledore for doing the responsible thing in this regard by stepping down. And I want him to know that as long as I am Minister of Magic, everyone in this country is still innocent until proven guilty in a court of law."

Albus didn't know what point Cornelius thought he had been going to raise but that certainly wasn't it, and by announcing he still was innocent until proven guilty the man might as well have pronounced him guilty on the spot. How could he have been this mysterious bogeyman? What international treaties had he broken to cause the I.C.W. to conspire with... A color change had him look down to notice to his horror that his robes had returned to their normal state of moons on purple. Someone had negated the charms!

Glancing over to Lucius he saw the man's steely gray eyes looking up at him and suddenly everything made sense. The I.C.W., in league with the goblins of Gringotts, and at odds with the Ministry, raises the concerns around him into a new level of discourse which would only serve to tarnish his reputation in all areas simultaneously while putting them in a standstill. Trying to ignore the hit to his vanity, Albus tried to admire the level of planning and political gamesmanship involved in pulling this maneuver off, but in truth he knew the victory didn't belong to Lucius either.

"While we see to mitigating the damage the alleged breach can cause, if Security could please escort Professor Dumbledore into protective custody," Cornelius said, gesturing to the two Hit Wizards by the door. "We can make sure he's safe until he can be returned to Hogwarts where he can prepare his defense. Merlin knows how much he loves his books," he added with a smile Albus didn't have to see to know was there, gaining a few chuckles from isolated corners of the crowd.

'Now I see that even you do the work of the Greater Good,' Albus thought sadly as he looked on Lucius. 'How could this be anything else but its work?'

Choosing to descend in a stately manner and meet the approaching Hit Wizards at the base of the steps rather than throw a childish tantrum over the fact he never agreed to resign, Albus tried to reconcile himself with the arduous burden ahead of him. The Greater Good wanted him defamed, wanted him humbled, wanted to test his resolve to keep the secrets he had pledged to keep so he might become a more perfect vessel for the Light of the Greater Good and thus was casting him down into this darkness alone. Albus followed behind his Hit Wizard guide as they escorted him from the chamber amidst fierce whispering.

This was his task, his burden to bear, and when these trials were done, when he had passed the tests, when the truth was known, and he was vindicated in all eyes so the Light shined forth from him like the sun itself it would be as if he were reborn like a phoenix; awesome and inspiring to behold. Harry would be returned to his friendship and his tutelage, the country would hail him as the great man he was, and the international community would be humbled before him. Then, surely then, would be the time to tell the boy of his destiny and reveal to the world the truth of Voldemort.

'Yes,' Albus thought as the doors to the Wizengamot closed behind him. 'They would all see the truth of things then.'

.o0O0o.

AN: I don't like Guest reviews for one particular reason: I see reviews as a conversation starter since they give me a chance discuss things with the reviewer themselves and Guest reviews don't allow that to happen.

One particular Guest review made on this chapter was how "it's not remotely believable" for Dumbledore to simply go along with people maligning him and being thrown out of the Wizengamot. I find this particularly short-sighted because it's precisely what happened in OotP. He announced Voldemort had returned, the entire wizarding world turned against him, booted him out of office, and he not only accepted it without a fight but allowed the Ministry to put Dolores Umbridge in place at Hogwarts as DADA professor when he had to know their goal was to take over the school as well.

And why would Canon Dumbledore do this? Because he believed the truth would eventually be revealed and everything would go back to being the way it was before, that's obvious. So why is it acceptable and believable for him to act this way in the canon books and unacceptable and unbelievable for him to do the exact same thing here? Your argument makes no sense.

Anyway, as always, thanks for reading.