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.

30. In Gotts We Trust

.o0O0o.

Albus had known the assault on his vanity would be swift and severe but had thought himself up to it nonetheless. In truth, nothing could have prepared him for having an entire edition of the Weekend Prophet exposing his worst failings for the entire world to see. For someone as caring and compassionate as he it was well and truly torturous. It saddened him to no end to see battle brought to these shores on his account.

And even if it was only between differing goblin factions, loss of life was still loss of life and therefore always lamentable. Had he known he would have stood between them and urged them to make peace and continue on in fellowship instead. Sadly, that was not to be for at that moment, hundreds of miles away, the Greater Good had declared him unworthy to hold such a post and bid him watch as all his pretensions were stripped away.

And though it disquieted him to know that the two groups who had so despised his good friend Nicholas for centuries were now walking through his tomb of a tower, perhaps now they could learn to see the marvelous man behind their ancient animus. As he continued reading though it seemed as though the maggoty worms of their darker natures were winning the day instead and all involved insistent upon squabbling like loathsome vultures picking at the corpses of those blessed souls who'd gone before.

Death and ruination on l'île de Flamel, dragons in Diagon Alley, Gringotts at odds with the Ministry, the Ministry at odds with the I.C.W., and he was blamed for it all rather than permitted to make peace. It seemed as though it wasn't only his pride that was to be scoured away by the ministrations of the Greater Good but his presumption for independent action too. How else could he truly be called its servant if there was a chance he might do anything other than what it wanted?

All that aside, Albus couldn't deny the next charge was the one that hurt him most. 'Why Does Dumbledore Hate Us?' a banner headline incredulously inquired above an ever-cycling depiction of the terrible moment in the Wizengamot when the charms on his robes were removed and the tiredness of his wardrobe had been left for all to see before the article then turned his own words against him.

'"The truth often proves disastrous to those who strive to hide their hate in glamorous garb and rosy tones," the duplicitous Dumbledore prophetically said before the world-shaking Wizengamot not one day gone. And as the dust settles and his crimes are laid bare we're left to ask: Why does he hate us? What has this country, which has given him so much, ever done to him?'

For someone as just, honest, good, and true as him it felt like an impossible betrayal. How could they not know that all he did was on their behalf and for the good of everyone? Anyone less kind, less compassionate, less thoughtful, and less sincere than he surely would have dismissed the charge as a willful distortion of a deranged and unhinged mind, but no, not Albus. He knew what he had to do. He had to take in this pain and make it a part of himself; to let it transform him into something more than what he was.

Over the next several hours Albus packed up the books from his bedchamber and office – those which weren't too Dark or wouldn't be needed to work out Harry's future – and carried them down to the Library for Madam Pince to find and do with what she will. She had long asked him for more resources she could use to pry into the more secretive parts of their history and he had always come up with something to dissuade her. It was not his place to do so anymore and surely she would find something of use.

Disturbing the common myths that'd been constructed during the last thousand years could be a troubling, and possibly even destructive, thing for it would call into doubt so many of truths people clung to and held most dear. He saw now though was that it was his arrogance, ambition, and pride disguising itself as a mockery of the Greater Good's kindness which had led him to try and preserve them, not any concern he might have for cultural unity. After all, if that legendarium was disturbed and seen as less than perfect figures to emulate then how could Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter hope to one day join the likes of Godric Gryffindor or the mighty Merlin in the annals of magical history?

The lack of a wand and the stabbing pain in his knee made for slow going, but using the old wand he'd kept would've violated the spirit of his confinement and foregoing Nicholas's treatment seemed a small but fitting penance. Besides, haltingly hobbling along the halls of Hogwarts was an honest and humbling act, and pain was the price to pay for providence. Perhaps he'd give the recipe to Severus so that he might donate it to St. Mungo's and others can benefit without suffering the stigma of associating with him at this time.

He also moved his clothes to the bed and had some of the house-elves take the wardrobe and dressing table to one of the unused classrooms so the other professors could make use of them if they had need, though he did linger a moment before having them take the mirror too. The bookshelves that weren't built into the walls he had them take as well since he no longer needed them. Their place on his bedchamber's walls was taken up by the clippings he'd made from the latest Daily Prophets, and he made sure to leave plenty of room for what's to come.

'If the Light of the Greater Good is to hollow me out and scour me clean then let its judgement wash over me like a righteous fire and devour all but that last bit it might see fit to hallow; I shall not look away,' Albus thought as he smoothed the newsprint of his blushing face from yesterday. 'I deserve this; for what I've done, for what I haven't done, and for what there's left to do.'

The bedchamber seemed strangely larger when he looked at it again and his office was still full of vanity. He had the house-elves fetch him a simple wooden chest and spent the next several hours reviewing the memories he'd collected one last time before carefully packing them and his pensieve away. The chest proved just the right height to function as a bedside table and thus he was able to free himself of the one he had as well.

When he'd returned to his office Albus was surprised to see the day's light already coming to an end. He returned to his bedchamber just long enough to change into his dressing gown and pick up his clothes from the bed.

"Bobopsy?" he called to the diligent little elf that'd served the headmaster for the last several years and with a quick pop! it was there.

"Yes, Mister Professor-Head?" it eagerly asked.

"Could you please have this cleaned for tomorrow?" he asked as he passed over the robes he'd worn that day.

"Certainly, sirs," the elf said bowing.

"And if you have something remaining from what you prepared for one of the other professors' dinner, that'll do for me tonight," Albus told the elf before he made his way down the steps to his desk.

A small tray with a bowl of soup and two crusty loaves of bread were there to greet him. Setting down what remained of his colorful collection of buckled boots on one side of the desk he folded the clean robes over and set them on top so that he wouldn't forget them tomorrow. But then, of course, he remembered that tomorrow was Sunday and one of the many customs that've come from the muggle world over the last hundred years was a day on which virtually no one worked. Still, perhaps Kingsley or someone else on duty would be able to find someone to take them.

It turned out the soup, while still warm, was quickly forming a greasy film on top and tasted almost entirely of tomato. The crusty loaves were exceedingly dry and hard enough to break up for croutons. They did taste strongly of garlic though so dipping them into the soup for a while served to make both more palatable.

The next day began relatively early with another simple meal before he sent Fawkes off with a note in a flash of fire. Albus paused a moment to wonder how he did that without consuming the parchment but in the end simply had to lament how little they knew about how magic interacted with the natural world. What they did know was passed down from generation to generation and was kept because it always seemed to work and finding out the why of things or creating truly new innovations were an uncommon event for great minds like his were exceedingly rare.

Chiding himself for starting the day on the wrong foot he made his way around to the spindly-legged tables and moved his shining silver instruments to the desk. When he finished he saw that Fawkes had returned to his perch in the corner and was already preoccupied by looking at him oddly. Albus was unsure though whether it was the act itself or the fact he was still in his dressing gown that made his long-time companion curious.

Either way he didn't want to bother the house-elves for something as trivial as laundering another robe today if Kingsley couldn't stop by or with removing the small tables from the office when he could manage by himself. When he'd returned from the ever increasingly long trips, eager for a moment to rest his knee, he had a surprise waiting for him. It was Fawkes, he'd moved his perch into the center of the room and spared him a look before taking flight for the top of the gothic cabinet again.

Curious as to why, it suddenly struck him: the perch was gold. It had been gifted to him decades before but Fawkes was right, there really couldn't be much more of an ostentatious display of vanity than that, especially considering what the wider world considered him guilty of. Albus glanced up to his faithful friend and nodded in understanding. It proved to be far heavier than he remembered, though he supposed he could've been considerably stronger thirty-five years ago when he'd assumed the office.

It was only when he took a moment to rest in the nearest unused classroom and rubbed the pain from his knee that he realized where he was. Dusty from years of disuse and cluttered with bits of unneeded furniture, this was where he used to teach. It was the third of the three such classrooms he'd used during his time teaching actually, though this was the one he'd been most fond of and the one he'd taken after the fall of poor Gellert.

With a growing sense of sadness Albus came to realize it hadn't been to get away from the bustle of the castle or a desire for contemplation which caused him to move to the seventh floor, it was a sense of pride that'd been worming its way into his heart. This room, at the time, had seemed perfect. It was close to the bathrooms, had a fairly quick route to the hospital wing, there was an entry to the astronomy tower on this level so he could enjoy the view on lovely nights, and the Room of Requirement was not too far away. Looking back though he had to admit that being pressed up almost directly under the Headmaster's Office had been the real motivator.

'After having to face Gellert and bring him to justice, I thought I was safe here at Hogwarts… but in truth I wasn't safe anywhere,' Albus lamented.

Facing him had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, and though every day he delayed had shamed him, he had feared the man more. Things could have gone very differently had Gellert mentioned Ariana, if he had said that Albus had been the one who'd been responsible for her death, for the prospect of learning that had terrified him into inaction. Ninety-three years after her death and he still didn't know the truth of it; his scar gave him hope it was untrue just as his brother, Alberforth, tried to take that hope away whenever he saw him.

Their brethren on the Continent had insisted on wining and dining him after Grindelwald was taken and it seemed that everyone had wanted to shake his hand and tell him how he'd changed everything for them. It'd seemed a balm for the sorrow of his soul, seeing those happy smiles while his heart was breaking. When he'd finally returned to Britain the congratulations had continued; the fawning treatment and protestations that his was a duel to live on in history as the cornerstone of modern Europe came from those who'd never seen it.

'You're wasted at Hogwarts,' they had said. 'Now is your time to really shape the world in your image. We need you.'

If they'd only known just how much of what happened on the Continent had their source in a Dark and twisted form of his image they would not have been so quick to offer him the chance to put his ideas into practice once again. Turning down the post of Minister of Magic had been a simple thing after that but it had gotten him thinking nonetheless.

Unlike what the zeal for change and the impetuousness of youth had led him and Gellert to believe when they were young, age had brought the wisdom to know it was always best to work differences out without resorting to violence. Indeed, never becoming violent at all, if possible, was ideal, but should your opposition be so and deadly, you should never become likewise else you prove to be just as wrong as they are. Albus had proven the rightness of that when the conflict with Grindelwald had finally come; he had only sought to capture, never to kill or maim, though many had urged him to do so.

The truth of it notwithstanding, how could garnering strength in order to push forward with bold change be wrong? Yes, even bold political change the likes Britain had always needed would necessitate some small but acute harm for the few who held power, that much was a given. But when it was done to bring about the greatest good for the greatest number – in essence, working for the greater good of man – wasn't that what was best for everyone?

It was only when he'd returned to Hogwarts that he'd truly started to see glimmers of what the greater good really was at work. He'd been blinded to it for so long but there in front of him, in the lofty cycles and simple acts of day-to-day life, he saw how the simple connections between people in an environment of peace, comfort, security, and love could change the world and its people in miraculous ways those tiny acts could barely hint at.

When life placed hardships on one of them, it fostered friendship and community by encouraging others to share in the burden and lighten the load. When disagreements happened, tempers flared, and harsh words were exchanged – yes, friendships could be strained for a time, perhaps even dissolved and fights ensue – but an opportunity for reconciliation was formed as well where new perspectives could be gained. And perhaps the strangest and most powerful source for good he found was in the precursors of Love itself.

It never failed to bring a smile to his face to see a pair of young people squabble over the most inconsequential things. 'Professor, he dipped my hair in ink!' 'She set my robes on fire!' 'He stole my notes!' 'She shot bats at me!' 'You tried to kill my toad!' Looking back, it was so often those same youths who ended up squabbling again years later, only this time in kindness and jest while on their way to Hogsmeade to enjoy a lovely day in each other's company as something more than friends.

That was when the truly bold change had come, not within the Wizengamot, but within himself! Like a blind man who'd been made to see, it was like Albus had been healed and made whole. There had to be something, some subtle hand, guiding these events, shaping the people and circumstances as the acts played themselves out and existence wended its way towards some ultimate end.

And at last he knew the story of life had some great storyteller! And what a grand one it was for everything happening was a part of it. It left nothing to waste, nothing to chance; it was all designed for some sublime purpose. And if only someone could bring this realization into the halls of power then surely the Greater Good would guide them into the brightest of futures imaginable and make them all a truly virtuous people.

This was what had led him into this room, his arrogance, his vanity, his surety that he was the one best suited to be the vessel, this instrument of the Greater Good, for where better to start than at Hogwarts itself?

'Armando is too old,' he'd thought, 'too out of touch with the world to see the Truth of things. Otherwise he would have known that Tom had been lying about Hagrid's spider being the cause of poor Myrtle Warren's death, just as he'd been lying about not knowing about the Heir of Slytherin's attacks.'

And in a seeming final straw against him, Albus had thought his failure to see Hagrid's right to a Second Chance – that he'd had to be talked into granting a limited one – had been a grievous offense worthy of disqualifying the man from leadership. And thus it fell to him to move into this room, for it was his duty to push Headmaster Dippet out by making it too uncomfortable for him to stay when someone so much better suited for the job was at hand. And when the time had come, his shining example of love and friendship seemed to fill the Great Hall with the Light of the Greater Good.

How his vanity had blinded him; rather than pushing Armando out he should have been recruiting him to the cause of the Greater Good! Who knows what would have happened then? Though there would have been no way to know whether he would have been successful, Albus knew he should have tried. After all, two working together for the Greater Good was better than one standing alone.

Though the presence of the Greater Good had changed the school for the better in many ways and gave them all years of kind and loving fellowship together, there seemed to be something hampering its progress. Still, each new school year brought with it a new Second Chance, even if many in Slytherin House refused to see the Truth to this day. Try as he might, for all his pondering Albus had never been able to see the Truth of why that was.

It was even more unfortunate for things were even worse in the Wizengamot, where this unknown Darker power seemed to hold almost everyone in its grip to one degree or another. What could stand up with such a stubborn resolve, even in such a tiny fashion, against that which ruled everything? What could stymie such a force for Good when those swayed by it gathered together in such numbers?

Voldemort he had observed, watched, and researched for more than forty years and though final and unequivocal confirmation of some small-but-crucial details still eluded him, Albus thought in his most humble opinion that he would be able to predict with reasonable accuracy what the man was most likely to do, if given the chance. How much more would he be able to decipher, not only of the workings of that warlock's hairy heart, but of the inner workings of mankind if that Darker Truth were revealed?

'Perhaps it's not for me to know,' he reminded himself as he stood and put weight on his knee once again and his sigh turned into a groan. 'I should content myself with being rid of impure thoughts so I might better serve the Good, not that other power.'

A knock on the door frame drew Albus's attention to a fellow in auror robes who was just getting old enough to have a bit of a salt-and-pepper look in his hair, though not enough yet to make him look distinguished. He looked somewhat familiar but having seen so many of the witches and wizards alive today pass through his doors there were very few that couldn't be said of. Perhaps he should cover the awkwardness of not knowing him with a joke.

"You're a bit older than what we usually take in for students," he said jovially, his eyes twinkling at the man over his half-moon spectacles. "But your eagerness to learn does you credit. You've arrived a good two weeks early, Mister…?"

"Robards," the auror said with a smile, "and I spent enough time in Detention when I was a kid, I don't need to start adding summers to it too. Professor Shacklebolt told me to go to your office anyway though. Whatever happened, I swear it wasn't me," the man chuckled before a look crossed his face as if suddenly reminded why there were aurors guarding the grounds in the first place.

Instead of dwelling on what he didn't know or couldn't change Albus focused instead of what was ahead of him: ridding himself of the trappings of pride.

"If you could follow me," he said pleasantly as he gestured for them to continue on to his office. "Perhaps we'll be able to get you out of here before anyone remembers if you should still be in Detention for something or if you're still missing an essay. And how is Kingsley?" Albus asked as the stabbing pain in his knee began to make him hobble again slightly.

"He's fine," Robards said with more of a professional distance than before. "He likely would've been here himself but he's got the Alley today."

"Has something happened to Alastor?" Albus asked curious as to why they'd change commands like that. "I heard he acquitted himself quite well there the other day."

The man seemed to hesitate before answering, perhaps trying to determine if keeping him at Hogwarts also entailed keeping him as uninformed as possible.

"He did," the auror said finally. "There's rumor of a transfer or promotion in the works, but even that's wild speculation in my opinion because he's supposed to have asked for it himself."

Albus nodded in agreement for neither of those sounded like Alastor at all. His old compatriot was gruff, and admittedly a little rough, but never seemed to want the burden leadership carried with it. It was easier to second guess a person than open oneself up to the same criticisms.

He chided himself again for thinking poorly of the man. But as for the stalwart and brave fellow leaving the Auror Office? It would take more than Voldemort or a forced retirement to get that old soldier to set his duties down. If he ever did retire though, perhaps Albus should look to him to fill the Defense Against the Dark Arts vacancy they always seemed to have.

"And how is everything at the Alley?" Albus asked as they took the stairwell up to his office. "Was anyone hurt?"

"It's fine. Nothing serious," the man said in a distant tone ringing as a glaring falsehood.

There was something serious going on in Diagon Alley and it had to be bigger than a dragon if he was reading things right. The Prophet from yesterday had been astonishingly pro-Gringotts in their message but even putting events into their proper pro-Ministry frame of reference didn't shed much light on why the alley should be a focal point of contention. Could Cornelius be readying for a genuine attack against them?

His heart swelled with joy. It had been so long since the last confrontation with goblins that Albus had thought never to see one but now here it was! How lucky those little beings will be to be so dispirited and crushed beneath the onerous weight of toil and servitude. Oh, yes, once their sulfurous nature is forcefully removed then they'd be as happy as house-elves to count their coins for a living. If only he could be there to gently nudge the Minister into seeing what a wonderful thing he'd be doing for the goblins then it would make this banishment from public life so much easier to take.

Albus had to work hard to push those vain wishes away as he pushed open the Griffin Door to his office. The Greater Good held sway everywhere and there were sure to be others around the Minister to advise him to do the right thing. There was certainly no way the goblins would be allowed to stake a claim to l'île de Flamel or any research they find in the tower. And no matter what their current cooperation with the I.C.W. may entail that body had always been much easier to sway to the goals of the Greater Good than the Wizengamot, so it would take something truly momentous to make them side against–

'But could it be?' he had to wonder as he stopped a moment to stand and ponder. 'Could the Greater Good really not want the goblins to have the blessing of abject misery and compulsory servitude? Why? For what other Ultimate Purpose would it shape these events for then?'

"Er– Professor Dumbledore?" the other man in the room asked, drawing his attention back to the concerns of the present. "Wasn't there something you wanted picked up?"

"Ah, yes. My apologies," Albus said with a smile. "Getting lost in thought is an occupational hazard. I'll just be a moment," he told the man as he went to his desk to decide what to do.

If he was honest with himself, only one of those silver instruments he never got around to naming would truly be necessary in the future. It dealt with the spiritual health and essence of an individual, be it a person or animal, and may be invaluable to have on hand should Tom's likely course of action involve further mutilation of his soul. Likewise, should the Greater Good clear a path for Harry to survive an encounter with him and thereby be cleansed it would read him as purified.

The one which shrouded what went on near it from magical eavesdropping, showing them only an impenetrable mist through which not even sound could escape, would perhaps find a better home with Alastor. How it would interact with his magical eye he didn't know, but either way, who better to have it than him?

The one that served to expand the mind of its owner was a harder one to place. Albus fought against flattering himself with the thought that his mind had expanded enough but, perhaps, Professor Flitwick might find the charm work on it enlightening. He hesitated before thinking that this gesture might cause Severus or Minerva to seek to mend their rift with him though. Sooner or later the questioners would come and his colleagues would either support him or they would not. Indeed, it might be better if he bore this burden alone, but that was for the Greater Good to decide.

Albus gathered up the shrouding silver… scuttle? – the silver-thing-for-Alastor-to-name along with his remaining robes and boots and returned to the auror. The man looked at him curiously when he explained who the silver tea set-like instrument was for and even more curiously when he explained what he had in mind for the clothes.

"I know there may not be a shop open to take them today, and after the excitement Friday few may want to risk the Alley for a time, but I'm in no rush," he told the auror. "I'd take them myself but…," Albus trailed off since the man already knew why he couldn't go. "I've tried to keep them in good repair so they should be worth enough to trade for something much more basic."

"Oh, I thought it might be… never mind," Mr. Robards said strangely as he shifted the bundle. "Anything in particular you were looking for?"

Instantly his mind leapt to the basic and unpresuming black robes people often wore, but while it would be symbolically fitting for this nigredo phase he was entering many might take it amiss and attribute a Darker intent to the sudden change. Red, he knew, was out for it would claim the kind of perfection he wasn't yet entitled to and white, while fitting for a Great Work that was yet incomplete, carried with it connotations of purity in many people's minds. There had to be a happy medium somewhere.

"Perhaps a light gray would be best," he answered finally, "though any gray at all will do in a pinch. Just whatever they happen to have."

Auror Robards took his leave without further ado and it was hard to see him go; Albus would miss his wardrobe but this was what the Greater Good wanted. In fact, if he could have brought himself to add it he would've given the man his fine dressing gown to exchange for something more plain as well. He had to wear something though for as humiliating as it would've been to walk about nude for a day or two he doubted the man would've seen it for the penance it was and only focused on his Albie and dumbleberries.

Tossing the image aside he looked about for more dazzling displays of pretentious pride and vulgar vanity and decided he definitely had to do something about his desk.

.o0O0o.

'I can't believe this week!' Gilderoy thought to himself as he stormed down a dull and decently deserted Diagon Alley in an absolute huff. 'Not only have I had to suffer the looks of fools for days on end, but it's a week of lost publicity to boot! I can't believe anyone's buying this rubbish!'

He quickly changed his demeanor and smiled his most award-winning smile as he passed a woman in auror robes. Too many people were looking down on him lately to pass on an opportunity to start making things right. As an Obliviated man once said, 'A smile may not do much for you now but next time they'll smile back; a frown will return to you seven times over.'

Gilderoy managed not to cringe at her eye patch until after they passed each other going in opposite directions; him towards the Leaky Cauldron and she towards the continually closed bank. There were less of them today, thankfully, but that hadn't done anything to have most of the shops open yet. Yes, there'd been some excitement – but that'd been a week ago!

He was starting to think he was the only one in the country to value hard work. After all, it really was a difficult job prying out secrets, Obliviating their owners and Confunding entire villages to keep quiet, but no one seemed to appreciate it except him. True, he'd taken great pains to hide it but a life of tantalizing mystery was the price of fame and adulation.

The ability to wrap up everything other people should think about you into one not-so-little package – into immaculate wavy blonde hair, an inspiring presence, and a coquettish grin – was a kind of magic that'd come as naturally to him as breathing. To that end, he learned long ago that lying was where true genius lies. Why settle for the truth when a pleasant fiction made you rich and other people happy? Yes, your image was a very precious thing.

He would've thought his own publishers would've been more helpful at keeping it together though! But no, just go ahead and throw another book on the fire, they're only his good name and income they're toying with. He had half a mind to wander around and find a litigator to see if the contract they had said they could do everything they said it said they could do, though it would've been easier if the bank was actually open.

'Those silly Aurors had been blocking up the place all week,' Gilderoy thought as he passed shop after shop, almost all of them closed until the Ministry stopped having the hullabaloo they were having with the goblins. 'Who cares if the little knut-grabbers had Hit Wizard hostages? Everyone's got problems; that's no reason to keep people from doing whatever they wanted.'

The one in charge, that Kingly fellow or whatever his name was, had been as dull and unyielding as a block of wood. The man had not only refused his offer to mediate peace talks out of hand but almost laughed at him for giving him invaluable advice on how to lead the rescue mission on the bank without loss of life – on their side at least. Who cared about goblins anyway?

Goblinnogoblining, the famous goblin-exploding spell he seemed to recall hearing about was just the thing for the situation, assuming it was the right incantation, of course. Either way, it sounded good and he was sure it'd work. The man really should've been more grateful.

As bad as he was though his publishers had been worse. How dare they listen to whispers and rumors when they weren't coming from him? Didn't they know who he was? He was Gilderoy Lockhart! He could get the Ministry of Magic involved if he wanted to, perhaps even the Minister himself if he blustered enough. Those selfish, stingy scribblers should've fallen to the floor and folded in an instant against someone with as much celebrity status as him.

He'd gotten to be much better at Memory Charms in recent years – a true Master of them, really! – so the chance was slim his calling in the authorities to make people do what he wanted would work against him. There was no reason for those feather-heads to think anything he put in his books was in any way fraudulent. Instead of caving in though they'd given him the same bemused grin everyone else had been giving him since the blasted book signing.

'Making their minds up on their own indeed,' Gilderoy scoffed. 'What's the point of putting things in a book if they're going to think for themselves? Honestly, people, do use your common sense!'

The pesky goblins had failed to tell their truly important patrons like him they were going to close their doors, neglected to send them cheques by mail, and then refused to send them that way at all because of paperwork when he'd asked. Naturally, that unpleasantness on top of the totally misconstrued 'fight' with the old man, the Potter boy being too above himself to know his place as a showpiece for his betters, all those stupid nit-picky questions, and then seeing his own shoemaker tout a product endorsement from the boy had triggered such a tizzy in him he'd been useless for the rest of the day.

It hadn't gotten any better the next day with Rita Skeeter's story, having the woman pestering him herself with her questions, and seeing the perfect poncy prince Potter practically prance past with a girl on his arm while he'd been stuck with a second day of trying to sign and sell books no one seemed to want anymore because that… that boy thought he knew more about Defense Against the Dark Arts than an honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League. What madness!

'Oh yes, I had completely misjudged him,' the golden-haired fellow thought as he caught a glimpse of his striding reflection in a shop window and stopped to admire himself. 'He's no match for the glory that is Gilderoy,' he thought with a smile as he arranged his robes just so and struck his most inspirational standing pose. 'But the same spark, the undeniable drive for stardom at any cost, is strong in him. I will NOT be eclipsed!'

Looking back at his reflection he was shocked to see the sheer power, determination, and confidence he seemed to radiate. Well, he had been radiating it for an instant before the shock shocked him out of it and into shocked staring. He quickly composed himself in case anyone was watching and glanced back to the bank.

'Perhaps there was something to learn from the whole goblin thing after all,' the incredibly famous and talented author extraordinaire thought as he pondered the situation. 'The threat – just the thought – that violence could come at any moment, without warning, had sent wizards running and stopped the Ministry in their tracks. Merlin's beard, even taking hostages wasn't enough to make them strike back! That's power if I ever saw it.'

Replicating what they'd done would necessitate a bit of a change in his image, or at least his public demeanor from time to time. If there was anything that'd get him back the respect he so richly deserved it'd be the certainty that with the eminent Gilderoy Lockhart also comes the threat of imminent violence. Ooo! No, danger! That's so much more alluring.

'Gilderoy Lockhart, the wizard cloaked in danger. Oh yes, that works so well!' he smiled to himself as he gazed into the shop window and tried to rekindle authoritarian magic.

Unfazed by his lack of complete success he continued on his way. Because of the bank being closed, and no one feeling properly respectful of his renown to simply give him what he wanted, his publishers had been his last option. Until those crummy quill-twirlers tracked down his falsely fawning phony foreign friends to verify his story though there'd be no money coming from them. This left him with all but empty pockets, and even worse, those busybody book merchants said they had some fussy bylaw or sub-something-or-other to keep him away from his own money if they found out his books weren't completely accurate. The nerve of them was galling.

A week, a whole week! He'd been in tough spots before in the last several years but never one that lasted this long. Well, not since the three week period he'd had to disappear when he hadn't gotten everyone in that Chesty-Krummy Bohemian village properly Confunded and the warlock behind Gadding With Ghouls snapped out of it and threatened to kill him for what he'd done, but that was years and years ago.

Going back to Obliviate and Confund them all again had probably been the most heroic thing he'd ever done. It was almost a shame he couldn't tell anyone about it. Maybe he'd come up with a way of putting something like it into the next little adventure he had, only changed so he had to charge in against a cadaverous cannibal cabal before they could – oh, he didn't know, curse a child or something.

'Yes, "Gilderoy Lockhart and the Cursed Child" the banner will read when I make my glorious return,' he thought, the image so clear to him he could almost see it fluttering in the breeze. 'Maybe I'll hire a troupe of actors and make it a play – a two-part play! – just to squeeze out as much money from people as possible without ever giving those pathetic publishers a knut. That would serve them right.'

Regardless, even to get to that point he'd have to have the public's good will on his side which left him in a bit of a pickle. Book signings and fan questions could be tricky things because more often than not his fans knew more about his books than he did just from having read them so many times. If there was anything – one possible tiny inkling of a flaw in the perfect package that was Gilderoy – it was an odd… delay… in being able to come up with ways to explain how things in the books really did work out when you thought about it and how everything between them really made sense when you looked at it.

Perhaps he should've had a less thrilling and engaging writer write his books for him but it wasn't like someone that talented, discreet, and susceptible to Memory Charms was to be found on every street corner. No, the grubby little neck-bearded man he had was perfect, and it wasn't like he was going to pay him. After all, he had no sense of style or presence at all and that was the most important part of being an author. He just wished he had the man on hand to whisper inventive answers in his ear, but of course it was impossible since the man wouldn't remember writing the books in the first place.

Perhaps his greatest asset in combating devoted fan questions though was the fans themselves. So often during those question and answer periods they would come up with the most inventive solutions to the very things he had such a difficult time to explain, then all he had to do was give them his most winning smile and congratulate them for figuring it out. Cobbling all those answers together was how he was able to conjure up some of the stuff in his cock and bull autobiography, Magical Me, so people would know enough not to ask him those stupid questions anymore.

'But how are you supposed to stop them from asking them if they won't buy the book?' he thought incredulously as he passed through the archway to leave the alley. 'And what's with their insistence that I demonstrate things? They should already know how incredibly talented I am, it says so in every book!'

As Gilderoy entered the Leaky Cauldron he put on his most confident smile and adopted his most casual sauntering walk. He waved to the barman though the man wasn't looking at him and returned friendly greetings distant nonexistent people gave in case any of the few patrons who were brave enough to be near the deserted alley happened to be looking his way. He wasted no time in making his way to the floo though since none there looked fawning enough to rush forward with an answer as to why he would've let himself get beat by some decrepit old man.

Ash filled his mouth and he coughed as he twirled his way through the nowhere land of the floo network. He hated the floo but taking the Knight Bus was beyond him with his lack of funds and Apparition would do his reputation more harm than good since he'd likely leave half a leg behind splinching himself. If the choice was between being temporarily disheveled or on the ground crying and bleeding though he knew which one he'd pick every time.

Shoved out of the flames, his eyes opened in panic as his left shoe slipped on the grimy floor while his right didn't, causing him to be dangerously unbalanced. Things weren't helped at all as ash fell into his eyes, making him tear up and threatened to make him sneeze. After he righted himself, thanking his lucky stars that the common room of the Hog's Head was abandoned except for the inn keeping barman at this time of the day, he whipped out his wand and cast a quick Cleaning Charm on his face and shoulders before seeing to his hair.

Obviously concerned with his resident celebrity being in distress, the old innkeeper made his way over.

"Pay up or get out," the man scowled at him unexpectedly.

"Excuse me?" Gilderoy asked bewilderedly.

"Don't you 'excuse me' me. You heard," the ungrateful man said, completely ignorant of how simply having a famous man like him staying in his hovel probably doubled his patronage. "I'm not running a poor house and you still owe me for yesterday. So you pay up or get out."

Putting on the sternest face he could possibly conjure, he gripped his wand tightly and puffed himself up in what he'd thought would be a threatening pose.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" the new Gilderoy thundered at the man.

A quick flick of a wand he never saw coming sent him flying back to land on his back with a thud.

"You're the guy who owes me money," the irascible man replied.

'We'll see what you think in a second,' he thought, grabbing his fallen wand and turning to–

He woke to find himself still flat on his back, only this time in a tiny dingy alley with his wand in his mouth and stray cats curled up on him for warmth.

"That wasn't supposed to happen at all," Gilderoy said to himself as he shooed away the furry little hairballs. 'At least he left my trunks though,' he thought as he got to his feet and cast another round of Cleaning Charms. 'I wouldn't have put it past him to–'

Scrambling around to check his pockets, he couldn't find his money.

"That old goat stole from me!" he said with half a mind to march back up there and give him a piece of his mind… on second thought though he decided not. What the man had taken amounted to less than a third of what he owed so when you thought about it he had actually come out ahead. After checking to make sure all his clothes, hairnets, books, curlers, photographs, and fancy quills were accounted for he cast a quick Locomotion Charm to get his trunks to lead the way out of the alley.

Chasing down his trunks and getting them under control took a bit of doing but since the old coot had ditched him on the far side of Hogsmeade he didn't think too many people noticed. Hogwarts Castle dominated the region and though it was the only place truly worthy of being his home – though preferably it would've been with a nice kingly crown involved – Gilderoy had been avoiding it. The last thing he needed was to be linked too closely to Albus Dumbledore at the moment.

Walking up the long road towards the castle grounds he couldn't help but to shudder at what had happened to the man. Yes, if there was one thing this past week had taught him was the way down from the heights of celebrity could be hard and fast indeed and that man's fall had made the little rough patch he was having look good by comparison. No group held an emergency meeting just to kick you out unless you were well and truly poisonous to be around and the I.C.W. had done precisely that.

But even with that happening this past weekend, the Ministry waging a publicity campaign with Gringotts over gold, land, and captives while the I.C.W. tried to do the same over Dumbledore, this had been a completely wasted opportunity for the person who mattered most: Gilderoy Lockhart himself. If the whole mess at the book signing hadn't happened he could have strolled into the Ministry, flashed a few smiles, shaken a few hands, slapped a few backs, and walked out the newly minted Chief Warlock on his way to get those pesky knut polishers to see reason.

'I mean really,' Gilderoy thought to himself as the mental picture of Prophet after Prophet singing his praises as he soared higher and higher played out in his mind. 'Who else in the country had the legendary star power to wow everyone into compliance? Now Dumbledore's done with it's not like the boy could do it for them.'

With that new accomplishment under his belt all it would've taken was some smiles, a little bragging, a few stories about how wonderful he was and this whole international kerfuffle would've been behind them in no time too. With the goblins pacified, the Ministry enraptured, and Dumbledore well in hand he would've been a shoo-in for that Super Mugglewumpus position those internationals took their orders from. After that the public outcry would've been too great and they'd have no choice but to name him Minister of Magic and Headmaster of Hogwarts to boot.

'Now I'll be lucky if they let me stay on until next year at this rate,' he thought sourly of how those lofty dreams had faded away with the I.C.W. and Ministry coming to 'an understanding' about the headmaster and the busybodies now working towards easing tensions with the goblins too. 'That old man lured me here by bandying the boy's name about but I swear he must've known he was bad luck. There's nothing else to explain it.

'Oh yes, the best-selling 'Ida Beeman' couldn't take the competition so he thought he'd trap the two of us in the same place and watch as the boy took me down by accident through sheer thickety thickness. That's not going to happen, Dumbledore, I'm too smart for you and the world knows your game now.'

With as much as Gilderoy was coming to despise even the thought of the grasping little fame seeker for the wealth of opportunities he'd unknowingly ruined for him, he supposed he had to give the boy grudging thanks for that. In trying to take out the obviously superior author, Albus 'Ida Beeman' Dumbledore had been struck down with his own wand's backfire by getting too close to the cursed child himself. It almost made him wish he knew the whole story about how that happened, but not even Merlin would be able to get him to go nearer the boy than he had to now, so figuring it out was out of the question.

His shoes were starting to pinch his toes from the long walk but even with that he felt a certain cheer and a spring in his step as the old school grounds came closer. Perhaps it was the rare weather but he felt so good he actually started smiling in greeting a good bit earlier than he absolutely had to as the aurors drew near. Yes, all told it was a remarkably fine day, plus, interacting with these fine people could be just the start to the turnaround he needed.

"Mister Lockhart," a slightly graying man said in greeting as he got to the gates.

"It's Professor Lockhart, actually," Gilderoy said with his most winning smile and running a hand playfully through his golden hair.

"We'd heard," the other man said as his wand scanned over both him and his trunks. "What we hadn't heard was you'd be arriving today."

"Yes, well," he said with a nonchalant dismissal, trying to make it seem like he had a wealth of other options. "My life isn't all book signings, photo ops, and little adventures," he chuckled out his rote response before chiding himself for reminding them of that blasted embarrassment.

"Good thing, I guess, or you'd always be black and blue," the insolent plain-faced auror said cheekily before he shot off a quick burst of white towards the castle.

Feeling the beginnings of a tizzy coming on Gilderoy couldn't hold himself back.

"Oh, do use your common sense!" he cried at the somehow familiar-looking man as the secret-stealing corner of his mind wondered what the spell he'd cast was. "I'm a highly trained adventurer whose life is full of danger. If I go about getting into duels with every old warlock who wanted to take a pop at me someone around us is bound to get hurt!"

"That's actually a very good point," the fellow conceded. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose taking the temporary embarrassment in order to deescalate the situation was the right thing to do," the man said apologetically.

'Good going Gilderoy! I knew you could do it!' he cheered to himself as his first genuinely happy grin in quite a while bloomed on his face before his good mood started to sink a bit. Since he was well away from everyone when he'd thought of the excuse, sending it to the Prophet or his publishers now might as well come with an 'everything that follows is a lie' disclaimer. 'Well, better late than never,' he supposed.

"Out of professional curiosity, what was that spell you used?" he asked the auror with a falsely knowing grin. "It looked awfully familiar."

"As well, it should," Mr. Salty-hair said. "It's the Patronus Charm, only this one's been adapted to ferry messages. Kingsley came up with it, I think, to aid in communication."

"Ah, of course," Gilderoy said confidently as the man opened the gateway to the grounds. "Good ole Kingsley; it was clever of him to think of using it. I tell you, if I've used it once I've used it a hundred times. Your face looks familiar though, have we run into each other before, say in Hogsmeade or elsewhere?"

"I'm afraid new regulations say we're not at liberty to discuss our schedules," the man said in an evasive way he liked, "but I have been around."

"Ah," he said with a wink and tapping the side of his nose. "Say no more then, I completely understand."

"Anyway, someone should be up there to greet you," the not-so bad fellow said with a gesture to the school.

"Of course," the dashingly handsome author said with a whip-like wand wave which made his trunks shoot through the gates and down the lane towards the school. "And don't you worry what wily old Albus will be up to while I'm here," he said with a charming grin and a wink. "Any funny business and he'll have Gilderoy Lockhart to deal with."

Leaving the aurors behind he hurried off to find where his runaway luggage had ended up. As luck would have it his charm work had proven absolutely masterful again and his spell had sent the trunks directly to the school itself rather than marauding off into the lake. The more peculiar sight though came in the form of Dumbledore himself who'd seemed to have drawn the honor of welcoming him.

'Merlin's beard, the man's lost his mind,' he thought, aghast at the drab old robes the other man was wearing. Being all of one piece, the brackish milky gray didn't match his silvery beard at all, and no doubt they were more than a little threadbare. In short, they were nothing like what the formerly influential wizard had worn in any of the photos he'd seen before.

'No wonder they threw him out of the Wizengamot, it looks like he's wearing my great aunt's night gown! They might as well throw him in Azkaban for crimes against fashion. And best not to even get me started on those sandals!'

"Professor Lockhart," the elderly internationally wanted criminal called in greeting.

"Professor Dumbledore, if it isn't the man himself," he replied jovially as house-elves appeared to take his trunks away.

"Oh, please," the older man said with put upon humility as he looked over his half-moon glasses. "It's just Albus. It's been quite some time since you've been a student here, Gilderoy, so there's no need to stand on formality."

"Of course, headmaster," he said formally, not wanting to get even conversationally nearer the other man.

"I've taken the liberty of having your rooms prepared," Dumbledore said as he motioned for him to follow him inside. "You're free to pick another office or classroom from what we have available if you wish, though I'd ask you to do so before the start of term."

"I'm sure whatever you have picked out will be more than up to the job," Gilderoy said with a casual wave as they started up a stairway though it wouldn't have surprised him if the man had stuffed him into a closet to teach. "Hogwarts has always taken care of its students; I can't imagine it'd be any different for its illustrious staff."

With a slight hiss of inhaled breath Dumbledore leaned more on the banister for a moment.

"Are–are you alright?" he asked the other man.

"As well as can be expected," the headmaster said with a pained smile as he started up again, though he did note a decided hobble to the man's walk and wondered what was going on there. "Just an old dueling injury that's been more painful of late," Dumbledore explained after a moment as if he'd actually asked the question.

"Ah, of course," Gilderoy said with a smile as everything suddenly made sense.

'How could I have been so blind?' he asked himself. 'The man's a genius – though obviously not as much of one as I. Still, the drab robes, the humility, the pained smile, and now the limp… It's all an act! How else could the man ever hope to get out of seeing the inside of Azkaban than to remind everyone of that Grindelwald fellow and play up the 'I'm such a helpless old man' angle? It really is brilliant.'

"Your summer's been well, I trust?" Dumbledore asked rubbing salt into his wounded pride.

"Oh, it's had its ups and downs," he said dismissively, thinking that two could play this game. "They begged me to stay and help with this goblin nonsense and smooth over the international business you started of course, but I'm not really at liberty to discuss all that," he added smoothly. "But I couldn't stay, as I told the Minister himself, there's no telling how much damage could be inflicted on the future generation if they didn't have a proper teacher here to teach them."

"I can imagine," the smut-peddler said as he hobbled along beside him. "I do have a bit of unfortunate news to relate though," the older wizard continued. "Due to some… misunderstandings there's been a bit of a budgetary shortfall which may cause us to have to tighten our belts to make do. And while I hope this is just a temporary concern and easily remedied, I thought you should be forewarned," the headmaster said with another pained smile.

At first he thought the meals here might suffer but then the man's meaning became clear.

'That traitorous old fraud!' he thought, using a great deal of effort to keep his growing tizzy from showing on his face. 'Conniving to ruin my reputation and book deals aren't enough it seems; now he's trying to rob me of my salary! How dare he play the old man game with me?'

"I do hope these rooms make up for that potential inconvenience though," Dumbledore said as if nothing untoward was said as they moved down the third floor corridor. "As you see, being so close to the main stairway means it's well-traveled, which cuts down on the number of tardy students you'll have, while at night it should prove quiet. There's a boys' bathroom on this level and a girls' one level down, and with you having such a fondness for the written word you've no doubt noticed how close we are to the Library."

"Of– of course," Gilderoy said perturbed at the man's manners for making it the completely wrong environment to go off on the old headmaster for his scheme. No doubt the man wanted him to do it though so he could go hobbling around to all the other professors and immediately spread how rude and ungrateful he'd been, further trashing his reputation before he'd had a chance to make a good impression with the other staff. A full charm offensive would definitely be necessary.

"Well, here we are," Dumbledore said as they arrived at the door in question. "I'll just leave you to make yourself at home and if you need anything the password to reach me is: ad maius bonum. I hope you find everything to your liking."

As he watched him hobble away Gilderoy had to wonder what the old man was hoping to gain by continuing to run him down now that he'd been exposed but eventually gave it up as a bad job. Obviously the old man never thought about anyone but himself and if he couldn't cling to the heights of fame then he was going to drag anyone he could down with him. What a pathetic little man he was.

Pushing the door aside he got the first look at his new office... and it was wonderful! It was large, had plenty of light, a nice view out the window, and – most importantly of all – an absolutely smashing desk and a chair to match which looked as if they were made for a king. Staying here wouldn't be bad at all.

"Now that's what I call star treatment!" he beamed.

.o0O0o.

Crouched on the floor on his hands and knees, Barchoke slowly inched his head up until his eyes peeked above the window. He'd been told the aurors had been pulled back, and none of the people he'd sent to confirm it had been attacked, but he still wanted to see it for himself; unfortunately that meant actually having to put himself at risk. Inching his way up even further he slowly changed position until he could see down to the front of the bank itself.

'One: Left. Two: Right. Three: In the alley patrolling up. And four…,' he counted, his eyes darting around intently seeking auror robes. 'Where's Four? They said they weren't hiding anywhere; where's number Four?' he thought before movement at the far end of the alley caught his attention. 'Ah, there it is: patrolling down from the Leaky Cauldron.'

"Ha!" he cried triumphantly before darting back out of sight. "We've got 'em," Barchoke said happily as he crawled cackling back to his desk before standing up, straightening his suit, and leaving the room. It had been the first time he'd been in his office since this whole madness began but he was glad he'd come since seeing really was believing.

So far his bets had paid off, making today a pretty good day to be a goblin. As he hurried down the hallway though the deep-rooted sense of self-preservation made him wonder just how much further they could afford to push the Ministry before they decided to push back. With them caving under pressure and pulling the aurors back from a good two dozen to a paltry four who were there for show, something made him think they could push them quite a bit further and maybe take it all – as long as they didn't let things go to their heads.

All-in-all he'd been surprised with how well things have been working; everyone's ideas had worked together very well, even when they disagreed. Their inability to make six saddles and fill out an additional Flight team by the time they needed to and having to settle for five instead, had led Gutripper to point out the need to bolster their lobby defenses and suggest putting that sixth dragon there. Overseer Fillast had been resistant to the idea for the sake of his precious marble floors but once overruled had quickly arranged everything to keep the dragon restrained, taken care of, and under control for as long as they needed.

As it had been though his plan for what to do with the captives they'd taken on the Isle had been a hard thing to sell. When they'd heard he wanted to make the Ministry buy their hit wizards back by agreeing to their terms Slaggran, Fillast, and Alkrat had been very nervous though what Braglast had thought was anyone's guess; he was starting to think the Dodgy Deals Supervisor had had his tongue removed. Looking at the lack of support written on their faces had him grasping for a way out for it called for the kind of iron stomach goblins had learned from long experience to chunk out the window in exchange for comfortable safety.

'Several goblin heads are better than one though,' Barchoke thought as he passed the Halfwit's rough-hewn statue on his way to the fliplift. 'And keys to someone else's vault can be found in the strangest of places.'

While he had been reaching out to Lichfield for his thoughts the key to the riches behind that particular vault door had been found by Slaggran himself: Rita Skeeter.

'If he's going to meet with her,' the pudgy goblin had wheezed, 'why don't we just get her to write what we want?'

After that everything suddenly seemed doable. Gutripper and the guards might be ready to fight and die but everyone else were bankers. Their battlefield had always been fine print and what you could put down on paper, meaning their form of bravery came from something different: fighting a war of words. If there was something he'd wished he could've seen in the last week though it was the looks on the Minister's, Mockridge's, and Umbridge's faces when the special edition of the Prophet hit them.

Giving her exclusivity on a story she claimed would be seen around the world had seen Miss Skeeter become an energetic advocate for the goblin side of things, at least in that first issue. Lichfield had warned that she was liable to turn on them if pressed though so he'd taken care to keep her as far from Gutripper as possible. In the days following, while the Prophet may not have been as sycophantically pro-goblin as they'd been pro-Ministry in the past, some kind of odd neutrality developed which generally seemed to be working in their favor so far.

The graphic story of brave goblins laying down their lives to protect the wizarding world's gold with fire and blood, only to be stabbed in the back and burned by the Ministry attempting to rob them, had made the explanation of how the Ministry was truly the one to blame for the panic in the alley so readily accepted that he was surprised no one had lost their heads – er, jobs – over it yet. Indeed the excitement might have finally woken those old stodgy wizards up to the fact that the goblin people were a separate part of the magical world and wasn't a force to be trifled with, at least as far as the Prophet goes.

Barchoke had to marvel at anything getting done in the human world at all if people could bungle things so badly and still be allowed to run anything. He couldn't be too judgmental though since something similar had happened to him when he'd been a teller. Closing down and cashing out a hereditary account when the person who'd controlled it had wanted to disappear during the war wasn't illegal, nor were there any rules or regulations against it, so he hadn't been terminated. That didn't mean it wasn't highly discouraged though, which was how he found himself working under his father's direction as what amounted to an unpaid assistant.

While the Ministry still tried to change the story into them 'standing up for British sovereignty,' 'struggling to bring renegade goblins under control,' and 'fighting to free the hostages' the few humans Gringotts was allowing to slip in through their secret ways reported most people thought Fudge was just trying to put a good face on his mismanagement. The Prophet had even stoked the feeling against him by giving daily updates on the Ministry's failures while hailing the goblins for their gold testing plan, the confirmation the Flamels' deaths, and working with the I.C.W. when the Ministry itself refused to.

The shopkeepers in the alley had turned out to be an unforeseen ally too. Since the whole issue with the dragon commerce had been driven away from their shops entirely, which was something they felt in their pocketbooks rather quickly with the start of the school year fast approaching. After only days there were angry letters to the editor appearing in the Prophet demanding the Ministry do something to settle things down with the goblins and reassure the public that Diagon Alley was safe but it hadn't been until today the Ministry had caved, removed the aurors but for a token force, and falsely claimed progress was underway through back channels.

As far as he knew the only back channel progress being made had been the Ministry and the I.C.W. coming to some kind of "understanding" about Dumbledore, though the particulars of it were still unclear. That hadn't kept the Prophet taking it as a good step forward for the country and publicly asking for the I.C.W. to start poking Gringotts about releasing the captives. Still, Barchoke supposed all the activity with the Prophet might amount to a wash since they also called for the Ministry to 'examine the failures in Diagon Alley,' so maybe they were just being opportunistic; if so, he could respect that.

Inserting his key to call the lift and hitting the button for the fifth floor soon had him feeling like he was going to fall to the floor and ram into the ceiling as the whole thing suddenly lurched upwards at breakneck speeds. If it weren't for whatever magic they used to keep people's feet on the floor who knows how much they'd be liable for in terms of damages caused by injury? As much as he liked goblin efficiency, what was wrong with slowly going from one floor to another like they did at the Ministry?

Barchoke pushed those thoughts aside as he pushed open the door and walked across the stone floor towards the doors to the Overseers' meeting place. Since virtually every Overseer had been drawn in to work on one single thing most of their meetings in the last week had been informally done. After being excluded for so long though Marsh had been insistent in calling a formal one and as long as he still had the rank of Overseer it was beyond anyone to deny him; that hadn't stopped him from making the human wait though.

"–What I'm saying is he's put us all at risk," the human Overseer said as the door to the meeting room opened and he should've expected something like this from the man. "We've never been in a weaker position. We need to get out while we still can."

"You humans are in the weaker position," Barchoke countered as he entered, drawing confidence from the dagger he could feel in his inner suit pocket. "The goblin people have never been stronger," he said as he quickly scanned the room while he made his way to his seat close to the door. "The Ministry can't even get their way with a newspaper, what makes you think they're in any position to win against us?"

He didn't know how long Marsh's attacks against him had gone on but the glance had told him all he needed to know about why he'd been allowed to make them at all. Gutripper wasn't there; he must have stayed behind on the Isle of Gringotts to oversee the I.C.W.'s activities and make sure they didn't run off with anything. Well, if the Enforcer wasn't here to threaten the human to keep him in line then Barchoke would just have to do it himself.

"You might feel like your 'people' – however you want to define that–," Marsh said with a dismissive wave, "are winning but all you're doing is stumbling blindly into a trap. The I.C.W. and the Ministry have already come to terms as to who gets to deal with their Dumbledore issues first, and if they're working together on that then they're likely to work together on other issues too."

Fillast looked over to him to see his reaction to this concern while Slaggran looked like the latest cat he'd eaten was having kittens in his stomach. Barchoke had to admit that if all three institutions had been run by goblins the whole thing would've been fertile ground for the kind of backstabbing and bloody betrayals the human seemed to be implying. He thought he'd seen enough of Delacour in the last week to know he wasn't a man to be bought or swayed lightly, if at all. Except for the prospect at spending more time in Flamel's old Observatory the man seemed to pride himself at being neutral for some reason, which just struck him as odd.

"They've already called for us to come to some sort of settlement on these hostages of yours," Marsh continued, still following the Ministry line on the whole affair. "What's going to happen if you keep refusing? Sooner or later the Ministry will win out in the Prophet and all we'll read about then is how no one's seen any of the hostages in weeks and how horrible it is for the families.

"The I.C.W. isn't so deaf as to be able to ignore that," the man said seeming to come to the point of this little romp. "The Ministry will be able to sway them to their side in a heartbeat once it happens. You may have cowed the Ministry for now but once they join with the I.C.W., who already has access to both Flamel's Island and the bank, they'll have a force in here faster than you can blink. If you don't release the hostages now you're putting the entire bank at risk for nothing."

Barchoke had to think about that a moment. There were several issues there he wanted to stab at but knowing which to respond to was difficult when whatever he said was likely to make its way back to the Ministry before the day was out. If the human wasn't there all those concerns could be more easily taken care of between the rest of them but he couldn't just tell him to get out without a valid reason and showing to the others that he was wrong.

It was at times like these he really disliked the fact that binding contracts and non-disclosure agreements they had only worked if the one signing it willingly agreed to what it said because he'd really like to sit Marsh down with a couple of guards and have them 'talk him into signing one.' In the end though it was the last bit of what he'd said that'd proven too irksome to ignore.

"How long have there been Marshes in this country?" he asked the human sitting across the way.

"Pardon?" the man asked curiously, the look on the man's face making him realize the multiple ways the question could be taken.

'If he'd been Lichfield the man probably would've smarted off with "as long as there've been swamps,"' the goblin chided himself.

"Your family," Barchoke clarified. "How long have they been around? Your Account became Hereditary in the sixteen hundreds, didn't it? Three hundred years," he asked knowing very well exactly how long it had been.

"Almost four hundred," Marsh testily correct him as he seemed to try to figure out where he was going with this. "The family history has our first mention being even older, back in the late fifteen hundreds, which isn't surprising–," he hastened to add, "–since there are well documented cases of pureblood families refusing formal education well before that time. We've long maintained that we're one of the formerly reclusive lines of the wild wizards of Wales but nevertheless, we were well established before Secrecy was imposed, why do you ask?"

"Huh," he grunted as the way he'd wanted to attack the issue crashed right in front of him and he had to shift to something else. "Very interesting. We goblins have been here for over a thousand years," Barchoke said firmly, "and we were footing the bill for that island two hundred years before your line ever lied about where they came from."

Marsh stood in outrage and Barchoke reached inside his suit to grab his dagger as he stood as well. Hitting a 'pureblood' in the family myth never failed to ruffle their feathers but at least the man had learned enough from the last encounter to not draw his wand. Something snapped together in his head and he smiled as a way to permanently sideline Marsh bloomed in his mind.

"You'd fight to defend a story you can't prove is true," he shot at the human. "What makes you think we'll do any less to defend what we know to be ours? Everything on that island has been bought and paid for many times over and the Ministry's acknowledged the receipt. No whinging about it can change it; what's ours is ours and the Isle of Gringotts belongs to the goblin people.

"You may think of us as bankers but once we had land and a kingdom of our own," Barchoke continued as cold prickles of excitement danced along his skin from his arms and shoulders all the way up to his shaven scalp as he thought of the glory days of goblin history. "Now that we have a small part of that again you think we won't do everything we can to protect it? But even if your Ministry were foolish enough to raid the bank they'll never find that island or those criminals; they may, however, find out a lot of interesting information about you though."

"What do you mean?" the human asked uncertainly while a small streak of metal flashed next to him, drawing Barchoke's eyes to the ever-silent Braglast only to find what whatever it was had vanished again.

'D–did he just offer to kill Marsh?' he wondered. 'Or was that a threat against doing so? If that goblin insists on not talking, can't he make his intent clearer than that?'

"Are you telling us," Barchoke said instead, "that in all your Prophet reading this week you failed to notice Vault 713 had never been mentioned? Why would we keep that a secret if it weren't to protect the bank and the Hogwarts Accounting Department specifically? It seems to me that we've actually been doing a rather good job at keeping your job safe while your investigation is underway. How's that coming, by the way?" he asked pointedly, pressing the advantage.

"Not well," Marsh said as beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. "Which isn't surprising when no one in my department can enter the building!" the man said defensively. "That's why we need to stop all this nonsense."

"Ah, well, if you're truly interested in the facts coming out and protecting the bank as much as you say, then you should be all for releasing the details of Vault 713 to the public," he said with the same vicious thrill he'd felt when laying waste to quickly forgotten Lognot.

"Wait– what?!" Slaggran interjected in a shocked wheeze as Marsh looked like he wanted to collapse back into his chair and start wheezing himself. "The Ministry would go nuts thinking we're involved somehow and who knows what conclusions they'd jump to!"

"Oh no–no–no!" odd little Alkrat added with an excited shake of his head. "This is no good. They be taking everything."

"I'm afraid I would have to agree," Bankor said, allowing Marsh compose himself well enough to take his seat again with as much dignity as he could as Barchoke did the same. "After bowing to public pressure to step down from a wartime footing in the alley there will be those within the Ministry who would prompt the Minister to take this as an opportunity to show that he's not weak when it comes to goblin matters. After our impressive display of force at the Isle of Gringotts, any response they give would likely be equally forceful," he said in the same obsequious voice he always used.

"Oh, undoubtedly," Barchoke agreed with a smile to the little minister before turning to address Slaggran. "The Ministry may see it as an opportunity to attack goblin credibility but we have to remember exactly what it is we're dealing with here. They'll be so excited to attack any part of the bank they can get their hands on they'd commit themselves to doing so before they ever realize that Vault 713 belongs to the Hogwarts Accounting Department, and that's all staffed by humans."

"So the humans are still at fault," Slaggran said bewilderingly. "All attacking us would do is make us innocent victims."

"Exactly, and that's not without its own opportunities as well. The Prophet would certainly want a comment from us on the issue," he said shooting a glance to Marsh to say he'd make sure they ask for one, "so while Gringotts Bank would lament the thought that any of our departments could've had anything to do with violating our own security–"

"–It was the Ministry's actions in the alley that made us think they couldn't be trusted," Fillast filled in for him. "When we can't trust them not to go back on their word once they put their seal to something then how could we trust them with this?" he asked rhetorically.

"We could likewise point out the entire security issue could have been avoided if the Hogwarts account had never been placed in human hands in the first place," Bankor added thoughtfully. "Mockridge would be irate at the thought but–"

"The Hogwarts Governors would never allow their money to fall into goblin hands!" Marsh said heatedly.

"Their money is already in our hands," Barchoke countered. "We're the only ones who handle investments in the entire country, and we have their personal accounts as well."

"Their personal accounts are one thing but Hogwarts is an ancient and venerable institution–"

"So what are they going to do, withdraw the money?" he batted back at the irritating human. "They can't; not one knut is leaving this bank until all the gold's been checked and if you think the Ministry will front them you can guess again because they're in the same mine cart."

"Neither of them will allow–!"

A quick flash of steel was seen an instant before a dagger gouged the stone table and spelled an end to whatever Marsh thought wouldn't happen. All eyes were drawn to the one who'd done it, not least because it was the last one they thought ever would.

'Good Gotts,' Barchoke thought as he stared at Braglast. 'Is he actually going to speak?'

Whatever was going on in the silent goblin's mind though never passed his lips. Instead he held their attention and directed it with a pointed finger to Bankor and held it there for a moment before withdrawing the dagger and sitting again in silence. An uncertain stillness hung in the air after that.

'Well, with something as articulate as that who could say a word against it?' he thought as he glanced at the others to see if they had any idea what the creepy goblin was thinking.

After a moment it was Bankor himself who spoke.

"That's a very good point," he said as if the other goblin had said anything at all. "You see, Overseer Marsh, everything you're protesting against has already happened with respect to another venerable institution: the Ministry of Magic itself."

"What?" the man asked, looking on in horror as his job faced the chopping block.

"While one can never know how involved another department gets in the affairs of their clients in terms of their day-to-day operations," Bankor said equivocatingly, "suffice it to say that we in Ministerial Matters would never presume to tell the Ministry how it should allocate its funds or raise their revenues. Instead, we safeguard said revenue, distribute allocations to the various departments' vaults in accordance with their budgets, and provide an up to date accounting of what remains. All of the responsibility for proper management and care is up to the Ministry itself to provide while we dedicate ourselves to offering counsel on various policies to further the wizarding economy.

"As Overseer Barchoke correctly pointed out though," he continued with a gesture to him, "their money remains in our vaults – and will for the foreseeable future – and though there has been some… concern about how they will pay their employees while we are still at an impasse," the goblin stated with his delicate choice of words. "With no other option available to them, I foresee no complication in them switching over to cheques in the very near future."

"Your point?" Marsh asked.

"His point is your department's unnecessary," Barchoke answered for him. "There may be more hands-on management involved than a typical landed hereditary account but none of it has to be our concern. If the Ministry wants to go after us for your department being implicated in the theft of the Stone then so be it, we can hand them control of the books and not be any worse off for it. If anything we'll have a lot less of your kind walking the halls and on our payroll."

"Oh! That be a very good point, yes," Alkrat added happily. "We be the downsizing."

"Hogwarts is a semi-autonomous entity," the human complained. "That control isn't ours to give away, it belongs to the Board of Governors."

"And they can make that case to the Ministry themselves when they ask for their books back," Barchoke swatted back at him. "It'll mean more work for the Board, if they're successful, but maybe they can hire what remains of your department to do it for them. Either way, both the Governors and the Ministry will be looking for someone to blame and since plans for Dumbledore has already been arranged, who do you think that will be, Mister Overseer of the Hogwarts Accounting Department?"

Once again Marsh stood abruptly but for once Barchoke had no fear of him.

"I came here to voice my concerns about what's going on in this bank, not to be threatened or undermined for things I can't control–," the man protested nervously.

"–Then I suggest you look to the affairs of your department and leave the affairs of the Goblin Nation to us," he said with the dismissal plain on his voice. "And for your sake," Barchoke added when the man turned towards the door in a furious huff. "I do hope the Ministry doesn't decide to do anything particularly stupid; these meetings just wouldn't be the same without you."

The human left them without another word and he could only wonder if his threat had worked.

"You really think we've never been stronger?" Slaggran wheezed out in question once the doors were closed. "Everything seemed to be going okay but I didn't want to look stupid by saying the wrong thing."

"Definitely," he replied. "You don't back down like they have unless you're unwilling to go all the way and attack. So no matter what Marsh might think, he's wrong on that."

"Well that makes me feel better," the other goblin muttered to himself nervously running his hands long his pudgy belly.

"I've observed that deadly conflict, the likes of which Overseer Marsh described, is a very serious concern for humans," Bankor said in a deeply ingrained attempt to smooth things over with the humans who weren't there. "What we might feel at the loss of an exceptionally close friend or immediate family member, they extend, to varying degree, to a much wider network of individuals throughout their population – even to some they may not even know," the diplomatic goblin explained.

"Why would they do that?" Fillast asked with a look of baffling curiosity that said they were plainly wrong to do so.

"I only have conjecture to go on as to why," Bankor hedgingly lectured, "but Mister Hobson is of the opinion that it's human nature for them to be more sympathetic towards those they perceive to be most like themselves and hostile to those who aren't," the other goblin replied, bringing up the brown-blooded contact he's been taking every opportunity to remind him to find a position for. "While such a thing might strike us as odd, when applied systemically one can see both why humans treat other humans better than they do non-humans but also why they treat each other so poorly over superficial differences."

Immediately Barchoke's dislike of Marsh and the goblin attitude against Brownbloods came to mind. Just how much of the human mindset had become a part of theirs over the centuries? He didn't dislike Marsh just because he was human, did he? No, that was silly; Gutripper might, but surely he wasn't that way. After all, Lichfield was human and he certainly liked him and the Potter boy was okay too. The girl might be alright but it was by far too early to tell with her; after all, how can you come to an evaluation on a person without seeing them multiple times?

Something ticked in his head with that. Did he dislike Marsh because he was human or because in all their dealings the man had never proven to be in any way likable? Or had he never tried to be likable? Certainly a degree of repetition and rapport had to be involved, which made him wonder if that's what happened with Brownbloods as well.

Were they scheming and untrustworthy because they were Brownbloods or were Brownbloods simply seen that way because most goblins already saw them that way and told themselves that the former was the reason why? The Halfwit was said to have been a Brownblood to one degree or another and he had certainly left a deep-seated reason to hate him, but had they been punishing everyone like him for a thousand years over what that one person did, or rather failed to do? He certainly didn't like this thought at all but supposed the only thing to do to make it go away would be to actually put this Hugh Hobson to work and see what he was like.

"Now that I think on it," Bankor said in a contemplative way, "it might be the reason behind something Overseer Marsh said earlier."

"You mean with the hit wizards and their families?" he asked.

"Somewhat related to them, yes," the little minister agreed. "If the human affinity for other humans was called upon in such a general way, it could be used to turn them against us in the way he described. I think we can all agree the events of this week could have gone very differently if the shopkeepers hadn't voiced their concerns about the Ministry's actions, and in such a case I hesitate to think what we could say or do to alleviate those fears outside of giving the captives up, lest the Ministry use them to step up their pressure on us again."

"We do something nice for them, yes?" Alkrat interrupted happily. "The people with the shops."

"Why would we do something like that?" Barchoke asked in return.

"For them to like us," the odd goblin answered with a grin. "We be the happy bank you business like."

Looking over to Bankor he asked, "Did any of that make sense to you?"

"Perhaps," the other goblin said with a curiously thoughtful look on his face. "Our dealings with humans have historically been centered on the Ministry of Magic itself," he began to lecture. "Rarely, if ever, have we concerned ourselves with our image with the general public – the latest weekend issue of the Prophet notwithstanding that is – so establishing some sort of rapport with the shops themselves may lead them to think of us positively."

"Oh, yes–yes–yes," the happy little Alkrat said as if it'd all been agreed. "I get them dates. You buy dates here, yes? Or maybe fruits? I get them fruits. They like fruits."

"And how about we say, 'They're not dead yet'? That'd work, wouldn't it?" Slaggran added as if he were actually helping before looking at them uncertainly. "Wait, they're not dead, are they?"

"Of course the captives aren't dead," Fillast replied for him, looking more than a little perturbed at the question. "Supervisor Braglast and I are keeping them well supplied, now that we know what they eat."

Coming so soon after Alkrat's fruity concern, something in it caught Barchoke's attention.

"You didn't try feeding them cats, did you?" he asked.

"You said to treat them as well as we would the guards," the building's director reminded him, "so we started them out on dogs, thinking we could improve the meals to cats if they remained compliant, or snakes if they failed to do so."

"Oh no," he said with a shake of his head, remembering the frizzy-haired girl's umbrage just at the thought of them doing the same themselves.

"This is problem?" Alkrat asked. "Many places eat dog. Very tasty."

"Not here they don't," Slaggran wheezed in to inform them.

"We know that now," Fillast replied defensively. "Since then we've been providing them through the tunnels with a muggle supply of pig."

"Oh, I love pig! You should try them on pizza too, it's delicious, and there's also a muggle pastry place just down the–"

"This pizza's the what now?" Alkrat interrupted to ask as Barchoke felt the meeting careening away from him.

"It's a circle of toasted bread cut into wedges," Slaggran explained more animatedly than he'd ever seen him be. "There's also sauce, cheese, oily meats – We'll order you one next time they go out for pig."

"Surely there are better uses for our trusted human employees than to get you muggle food," Barchoke said grumpily.

"Well they're doing it too," Slaggran said defensively pointing at Fillast.

"You didn't say any of this to Marsh, did you?" he asked the table in general.

"There was no reason to," Fillast said with a perturbed look at the pudgy overseer.

"Good, let's keep that little embarrassment to ourselves or the Prophet really might turn on us," Barchoke said before returning to the previous topic. "Regardless of what we say about the captives' conditions, saying it like that would likely be taken as a threat."

"It certainly wouldn't be taken in the reassuring manner in which it was meant," Bankor agreed with a nod to Slaggran before turning back to him. "Perhaps now I should tell you, Deputy Inspector General Delacour mentioned them today."

"Did he?" he asked curiously, wondering just how much of what Marsh said could be brewing under the surface. "How so?"

"He said he was sure that, 'a constructive settlement with the Ministry' concerning them 'was in everyone's best interest so we can all work together on more important issues,'" Bankor recited for him. "I informed him, 'our stance has not changed and until the Ministry proves able to live up to their agreements, no settlement can be reached.'"

"Wait– that wasn't our stance," Barchoke said, noting the complete lack of any demand for the true criminals behind the events.

"And no doubt he knew it," the other goblin said placatingly for potentially overstepping himself. "The core part of our demands remains the same: Ministry acknowledgement of our rights to the Isle of Gringotts. Everything else is… implied… to be potentially negotiable. I'd have to say it's become increasingly clear the Ministry will never trade one wizard's life for another; not at a rate of two for five, or even one for five if it really came down to it, so I thought I'd give that more muted statement before raising the issue here of slightly moderating our demands."

He had to give him that. The demands had been purposely steep, yet at the same time simple, in order to get everyone on board with the scheme – especially Gutripper – and how better to do that than to demand Dolores Umbridge be handed over to them? How any human could favor having her out there with them over the five hit wizards in their custody he'd never know but he supposed she might have equally repulsive friends somewhere.

Keeping someone as high up in the Ministry out of their hands seemed the human thing to do now that Bankor had explained how they work, so to get them to negotiate on the rest they'd have to take that off the table. The trainee they had said fired the curse was nothing, a pawn, and rightfully disregarded to get something bigger but when you looked at it, they didn't know who the second person they wanted even was. 'The one responsible for the attack on the bank' could apply to anyone and surely the Minister wasn't going to hand himself over to them if he'd been the one to order the attack. Perhaps they should consider changing what they were after a bit.

"What about the I.C.W.?" he asked instead. "What was their agreement all about?"

"I don't think it's too much to say that it's very good news for us," Bankor said as if that wouldn't single-handedly demolish any agreement the Ministry made that effected them. "The civil case you're overseeing against Dumbledore by the Potter family has been given priority and it's only after the legal issues are all resolved here in England that he'll be given over to the I.C.W. to face the international charges.

"There also seems to be an opening there for a summary judgement on your subsequent fraud case at that time as well, provided the civil case goes well, which the Deputy Inspector General seemed willing to allow," the goblin continued. "It seems the main sticking point in their negotiations, once any Ministry issues with us were removed from the discussion, was their gaining access to Dumbledore and Hogwarts in order to continue their investigation now that there are no further areas on the Isle of Gringotts to search."

"So they've confirmed the Stone is nowhere on the Isle?" Fillast interrupted to ask. "Last I heard only the tower had been checked."

"The tower itself has been extensively checked with every means available," Bankor agreed. "Unfortunately, the Stone was nowhere in evidence and very little sign was seen that anyone formerly of the compound ever ventured far from it. The last few days has since seen the Isle defoliated and a systematic search done, although with similar results."

"So the Stone really is gone," Barchoke said as he clinched his fists on the table, though in truth he didn't know precisely how he felt about it. As bad as the Flamel Agreement had been for the goblin people it had at least provided them with some sense of unity, a kind of identity beyond that of mere bankers. Even without that king they had remained the impenetrable Gringotts, the most feared and respected bank in the world, and the only one to be trusted to house the Stone that could bring down the world – and now, for a second time in their history, their identity was gone.

"We may still find something in the records or personnel of Confidential Affairs–," Fillast tried to add before he overrode him.

"–If we haven't found anything in a week then putting everyone in Confidential to the question isn't likely to uncover anything new," he snapped before feeling like he shouldn't have. Things would have been so much easier if Lognot hadn't been stupid and gotten himself killed. What was a little torture if you were innocent? It was better than death, that's for sure.

"By all means, let's continue the investigation," Barchoke said in a more normal tone, "but we have to acknowledge that however it was stolen, it's out of our hands now. Since the I.C.W. seems keen to take the lead role in pursuing the Stone, I say we silently let them do it. We do our work, report our findings to them, and let them decide who they want to question and where they want to look next; that way it's their responsibility and their failure if the Stone is never recovered. What we should concentrate on is the gold itself."

"Quite the diplomatic thing to do," Bankor said appreciatively. "I suppose that would go for Overseer Marsh as well, assuming he's not soon out of a job?"

"With–with–with him being gone," excitable Alkrat interjected, "does this be meaning that we get bigger offices?"

"What?" he asked, confused as to why that would be happening.

"Gutting the Hogwarts Accounting Department as you suggested would leave a sizable section of the building unoccupied," Fillast informed him in his role of overseeing the building itself. "Most of the second floor is given over for their use since humans dislike being below ground for any extended period of time. Financial Managers are always complaining about the cramped conditions of their hallway; we could reallocate the empty space for their use and expand both the number of managers and the comfort of our clients."

"Let's do that," Slaggran said, his pudgy finger pointing at Fillast in approval.

"Ah! But–but–but the record keeping we be wanting!" Alkrat added. "They be needing space."

"There are ways around that," Fillast said, now in full planning mode. "Once the managers have been moved we can put the new record keeping department in the back hallway and use the wizards to give them all the space they need. Since Flamel is no longer an issue going forward there's the fate of Confidential and their offices to consider as well; who do you foresee getting control of the Goblin Regency's Internal Marketplace?" the orderly goblin asked Barchoke.

"You can take it for all I care," he offhandedly replied causing the other goblin's face to shift directly into thinking about how he could make it work. "I wasn't serious about cutting his department," Barchoke explained, "I just wanted to threaten Marsh back onto our side and to make sure the Ministry didn't do any of the things he said it would. Am I the only one who sees the Ministry pulling his strings?" he asked incredulously.

Bankor, Slaggran, and Alkrat all spared each other curious glances as Fillast at least had the good sense to note how it put a different perspective on what the man said. Something about the unruffled look Braglast gave him made him think he saw what Marsh had been up to too.

"Next time say something," he snapped at the silent goblin though his obvious frustration at the situation only made the bothersome goblin get a slight turn to the lips in what might pass for a smile.

"That means I can't get Marsh's office," Slaggran moaned pitifully to himself. "I don't like mine; the windows keep getting pelted with owl droppings."

"They should be charmed to prevent them from needing cleaned," Fillast remarked.

"Yeah, but that doesn't stop it from splattering all over the place," the pudgy ex-teller wheezed as Barchoke put his head in his hands and contemplated throwing the bank's doors open wide and inviting the Ministry to put them out of their misery. "It just means they slough off after a while, but no amount of tapping from the inside makes them go any faster."

"Incorporating the G.R.I.M. into Gringotts Operations would lead to the eventual closure of Confidential," the conversation continued in the distance as Barchoke was glad Marsh wasn't here to see how truly intimidating the goblin people were. "That would put Overseer Lognot's old office up for reassignment, though at the moment the I.C.W. seems to have commandeered it for their purposes as long as they're here."

"I don't like that office; its window faces a wall too."

"Are we being done?" Alkrat asked no one in particular.

"Your framing of the issues earlier as 'the affairs of the Goblin Nation' raises some interesting issues of its own," Overseer Bankor said, prompting him to stop hiding in his head in his hands.

"Is that just code for Marsh to butt out?" Slaggran asked curiously though Barchoke only spared him a glance. He did note ever-silent Braglast had disappeared when he wasn't looking though.

"Oh, we not done," Alkrat said with a happy grin. "I gave Bill the long lunch. No hurries."

"What do you mean?" Barchoke asked Bankor instead.

"You know he could get more things done if you just let him work on one thing at a time, right?" Slaggran told Alkrat as another round of fragmented conversations started to seem increasingly likely.

"Oh, he good," the foreign goblin said glowingly. "Very talented. No problem."

"While our intentions thus far have been, in terms of business," the careful little minister explained to those of them who were interested enough to listen. "–To ensure a negotiated maximum on the return on our investment, in relation to the Isle of Gringotts an argument can be made that the acts themselves thus far have gone far beyond those of mere bankers and approached the level of a governmental structure pursuing matters of state."

"Overseers have always had a degree of autocracy and quasi-governmental power with the goblin people," Fillast noted.

"Ever since the time of Goblin-King Swinedine, yes, that's true," Bankor equivocated in a lecturing tone. "Looking at our history, with the most recent developments in mind, one can clearly see how his… rather quick departure–"

"–Didn't they kill a Swinedine for something?" the pudgy goblin across the way wheezed. "What?" Slaggran asked when all eyes turned to him. "I never liked reading."

"For all your fondness for eating pig, your parents never told you about Swinedine the Swindled?" Fillast asked disbelievingly.

"Oh, that was him? I thought it might've been somebody else," Slaggran said slowly slumping in his seat.

"How many other Swinedines do you think there's been?"

"I don't know everybody," the slumping sack of suet muttered to himself.

"Can we get back on topic?" Barchoke asked.

"Yes," Fillast agreed before summing the story up, "a lousy king died for mismanagement and his Overseers took power. How is anything we're doing different than what's happened since then?"

"Oh, it isn't," Bankor agreed, though why he'd bother bringing this up was still beyond him. "But it does raise some issues nonetheless. The most pertinent perhaps is that these actions are being taken in the absence of an officially designated leader," he said with a gesture to the large chair that Grand Overseer Largrot had last held. "Secondly, and perhaps most importantly in light of certain suspicions, is that continuing in this mold could lead someone, like Overseer Marsh, to conceivably gain enough support to allow the Ministry to gain control over us without our realizing it."

Slaggran sat up as Barchoke's green blood ran cold and he was very glad to be sitting down. He knew that goblins had a tendency to follow a strong leader, whoever that leader happened to be at the time, but he never thought it could might one day be someone like Marsh – not under any circumstances. Just how much had he risked today just to make the man have to wait on him? Perhaps there was an even greater need for change within Gringotts than he thought.

"We've got to fix this," he agreed numbly. 'I've been so worried about the dangers of taking that chair I never thought about what the dangers might be of not taking it,' he thought to himself. 'But how do I take it without picking up all the potentially lethal responsibility? And that's on top of Gutripper killing me on general principle if I did it without getting his support first. Good Gotts, what a horrible day to be a goblin!'

"This is depending, of course, on whether Overseer Marsh is in fact working on the Ministry's behalf rather than our own or whether an attack is indeed in the future," the little doomsayer went on to beat around the bush, "but the consequences of those become rather difficult to predict as they are out of our control. If we had agreed with him about releasing the Ministry's hit wizards today then tomorrow it could have been about the Isle of Gringotts, any of the underlying treaties between our peoples, or even simple changes to common workplace practices."

"Marsh can't be trusted with any of them," Barchoke said, adding his two knuts worth while trying to come up with a way out of this mess.

"Gutripper's never trusted him, I know that," Fillast said shrewdly, untraditionally omitting the other goblin's title in public. "With him gone the man probably thought it was a good opportunity to put himself forward. I always thought he wanted the top job for himself," he said echoing some of Barchoke's own thoughts.

"Well can't we just have him kill him?" Slaggran asked nebulously.

"Oh no–no," Alkrat answered with his hands raised. "That be messy; red goes everywhere. Feed to dragons," he added with a joking smile. "They eat."

"As much as I'd really enjoy seeing it, that's not going to be a possibility," Barchoke said to take control of the meeting again. "Gutripper's never liked him because he's human; I've never liked him because he's an arrogant little–," he halted grudgingly, disbelieving that he was going to have to cover for Marsh like this.

"And doubtlessly the Ministry wouldn't take well to his disappearance at all," Bankor added when he halted. "Whether they were influencing him or not."

"Regardless," he continued, "We've never had to like each other to do our jobs."

Slaggran nodded as he scratched his chin with a little fat finger before stopping and quickly darting his eyes around to the others uncertainly. The pudgy goblin was probably wondering if anyone liked him, though if he came around again with more of those cream-filled pastries it wouldn't hurt his opinion of him in the least. For all his grousing about proper use of human employees, those things were good. Barchoke could see why he'd become fat in the first place.

"But the matter remains, as long as anyone without the most ardent loyalty to the goblin people retains a position with as much power as an Overseer," Bankor said reiterating his case before the wordy goblin interrupted himself. "–And I presume from your turnabout on the Hogwarts liquidation there's yet insufficient evidence to call for an Inquiry against him?" the goblin asked of him.

"Nothing of any real substance," Barchoke answered in return. "Besides Vault 713 and his questionable motives here today, the only other oddity I've seen are some strange transfers to his department in the case I'm overseeing. The why of that has more to do with Dumbledore than Marsh, so calling an Inquiry against him would be the kind of infringement none of us would support for any one of us."

Bankor nodded in understanding while Slaggran looked to be debating whether he should go to get some of those pastries right then.

"These have been a rather intense past several days," the little minister said in agreement, "and while a period of slightly elevated scrutiny of those who do not share the same cultural history may be an understandable impulse in these situations, any such actions against them would only serve to divide rather than unify. It may well be that Marsh was indeed acting on what he thinks is the bank's best interests, though admittedly in a uniquely human way."

Barchoke certainly had to agree with him on that too. In human eyes Gringotts was a bank, a building and nothing more, and in many respects that's all it was. That bank in goblin eyes though was a building built on many levels: the little old witch who comes to them to withdraw funds so she can eat that day, the overworked wizard who comes to them to pay their rent, the shopkeeper who deposits their daily revenue and speaks to them about finding new investors, the other industries who supply the raw goods to the shopkeepers who come to them about pursuing other markets for what they make, and even the overly affluent who've forgotten what real work was and instead makes their money by having them putting their money to work on their behalf.

If Marsh truly was as just some simple human worker then his actions meant the thought of goblins comprising some separate part of the world on their own was all but gone in the wizarding mind and they might as well be house-elves. In truth it was almost gone in the goblin mind too except when it came to the larger issues affecting all goblins, then what precisely the bank was, what it represented… morphed – not to encompass the various levels of the wizarding world it serviced – but to symbolize the entirety of the goblin society that created it and depends on it to survive.

Gringotts was a bank, a building, as much as the rock you stub your toe on was but the tip of a mountain resting unseen beneath the soil. To threaten this tip though was to threaten to destroy the entire mountain below; to shatter it and bury it forever. And if there was one thing he was glad the humans had remained ignorant of was just how much they depended on that little rock or it would have been crushed long ago.

The tunnels connecting them to secret outlets in the muggle world were their last line of defense, their only way to sustain themselves in a siege like this by taking in resources through less-than-obvious ways. At first they'd all seen the Isle of Gringotts as something along those lines; a new source of revenue ready for the taking, but as the week went on what it was had started to shift in his mind. The Isle wasn't some subsidiary outlet into the wider world like the tunnels at all, it was something else entirely; it was a brand new foundation on which to build something uniquely their own.

"So while our concerns about him may indeed be more temporary in nature," Bankor continued. "As long as the aforementioned quasi-governmental powers remain undefined and in the hands of… what I hesitate to call 'an amorphously structured group of select individuals with no titular head,'" the goblin worry wart droned on with a placating grin, "the danger of take over remains to perhaps express itself again at some later date."

"So what would you suggest?" he asked the slumber-inducing talker in the hopes the obvious solution would garner more support when not coming from himself.

"What I propose is a vote to strip all governmental powers from the Overseers and imbue them into a single individual who would then take on the chief administrative and governmental authority for the Goblin Nation," the other goblin told the dumbfounded audience.

That was nowhere near what he'd expected him to say.

"You want a king?" Barchoke asked disbelievingly as a slight movement announced Braglast coming back to his seat from beneath the table.

"There's no doubt that conversing with the I.C.W. and dealing with the Ministry would best be done with a louder, more unified voice spoke for every goblin in the country, or from one who spoke on that person's behalf," Bankor said in response. "And since the Stone and the creation of the Flamel Agreement ended not only King Swinedine's life but changed the entire core of what the Goblin Nation was, rather than let problems inherent in the current system continue unchecked, how better to proceed than to return to what we were?"

A glint of metal darted his eyes back to Braglast but it wasn't steel he showed, this time it was crown of silver and gold that jangled its way onto the cold black table.

"NO!" Barchoke cried, holding up his hands in front of him to ward it off though what he really wanted to yell was, 'GOOD GOTTS, WHERE'D YOU GET THAT?!' As he stared transfixed at the dangerous circle of gems and precious metals like a shadow snake from Below sent to kill him, he knew he had to put a stop to this now or there'd be no force on the planet that could stop Gutripper from ripping his guts out. Why had he ever wanted Braglast to be clear about what he wanted? Silence was better than gold, or at least it was safer.

"No," he said again with a little bit less panic the second time around. "No kings. What we have now may have its problems but that's no reason to go running back to kings unless we want another Swindine. It puts too much power in one goblin's hands," he said before adding to himself, 'And too much dangerous responsibility put on their heads.'

"Overseers working together like this may have its flaws," he continued a bit more quickly than usual, "but you can't deny it's worked. We've made more progress with the Ministry, the I.C.W., and the general public in the last week alone than we have in the last hundred years, and we did it by working together to make each other's ideas better."

"But how's that supposed to work when we're talking about a government?" Slaggran asked.

"A government official's duty is to work in concert with their fellow officials to pursue a course of action they believe will be in the best interest of their people," Bankor told the other Overseer in response. "And while I cannot say I've ever seen it actually work the way Overseer Barchoke described, I also cannot deny that we have, in fact, been working that way."

"Then if we have a problem in what we're doing we can fix it," he said firmly before pointing at that ominous crown, "but that's going in the wrong direction."

The room was silent afterwards as Bankor looked to be thinking deeply about his concerns and Fillast looked at him with a shrewd uncomfortable look. Still, he'd rather have that look all day long than the unnerving blank stare his brother Braglast was giving him. It was more out of nervousness than to pursue any particular plan that he broke the silence once again.

"If you think we should strip the Overseers of this power then we can see about doing that," he said as he tried to work moisture back into his throat. "But if anyone is going to have it then the responsibility to use it wisely should be shared among an entire group of people."

"It would still open up precisely what those responsibilities were and how this group would go about doing–," Bankor seemed to say to himself before he interrupted him.

"–We can figure all that out later," Barchoke said, really just wanting nothing more than to take a break from them for a while before things get any worse.

"But who would be in this group?" Slaggran asked.

"We would be, obviously," Fillast quickly replied. "The six of us and Gutripper. I'm not going to trust anyone else with this and the point was to exclude Marsh."

"Well then," Bankor said rejoining the conversation from his brief think. "Presuming this governing body would include us, and likewise engaged in voting behavior on the relevant issues, it would also need a leader," he said uncharacteristically quickly. "I nominate Barchoke."

"Barchoke!" Slaggran immediately seconded with a raised hand.

"Barchoke," Fillast agreed with a shrewd look and a nod while Braglast simply raised his hand, though technically that could've meant anything.

"Oh! You win!" Alkrat said happily as he gave a spurt of rapid fire applause before raising his hand as well.

"Wait, we never agreed for sure we're going to do this and Gutripper isn't here," Barchoke pointed out.

"You didn't, but we just did, apparently," Slaggran unhelpfully wheezed.

"Then you all get to explain it to him."

"Ah! It no worries," Alkrat said with a grin as he stood. "I go Flamel, tell to come. Then he vote for you too. I spend time making happy greet cards for the shops. Get fruits," he told Fillast as he headed for the door. "I need."

"Is he talking about fruit baskets?" Slaggran asked when the odd foreign goblin was gone.

"How do you make a basket out of them?" Fillast asked in return. "I can see it if we're talking about gourds but–"

"Well then," Bankor said in the same way he did before that he was really beginning to dislike. "I suppose the only thing to be done now is to see to your predecessor."

Barchoke's head whipped back over to him quickly.

"Hang on," he said, deciding he didn't like the new confident Bankor being his backer at all since all he did was drop boulders on his back when he wasn't looking. "I thought he was dead."

"Why would somebody kill him," Slaggran wheezed out in response, "unless they were the one taking his place?"

Barchoke changed his mind; he didn't want to leave.

.o0O0o.

He usually liked dealing with foreign types because it gave a much wider view of the world, of magic, and all the complexities and eccentricities of both but wherever Gringotts managed to dig up Overseer Alkrat, Bill hoped they left the rest of them right where they were. The goblin was tireless, energetic about everything, and most of the time completely incomprehensible. That hadn't stopped him from running him ragged in the last week though.

'Oh! Beel! Come–come–come be doing this. Oh! Beel! Go–go–go be doing that,' his boss's high voice echoed in his ears. 'Oh! Beel! Do be doing this-thing-that's-the-opposite-of-what-I-told-you-to-do-an-hour-ago!' he grumped to himself as he sat at the dining room table.

Sitting still and having a moment to yourself was a greatly underestimated thing, Bill decided. It was especially nice to do it in the cool comfort of your old home with a decent meal, though he wouldn't have turned down an old musty tomb if he could guarantee Overseer Alkrat wouldn't be able to find him in it. He'd always heard the only way to a promotion was to attract the attention of 'the goblins upstairs' but he hadn't thought it'd end up like this. The pay was a good deal better now but he'd be willing to take an even steeper pay cut if it meant getting his old life back.

Between redoubling the island's wards, trying to read all the books in Flamel's library – or even one of them since very little of it made sense, trying to piece together the wardstone, to indexing what was in the laboratory, hunting around for secret nooks and crannies, demolishing a forest, and trying to find a way to create some kind of discombobulation field to affect everyone on the island so they didn't know where in the world it was when they weren't there and yet have it not affect the dragons – Bill didn't know what he'd be doing from one instant to the next and he'd given up trying to predict.

In fact, in the off chance he actually finished the latest thing he'd been told to do, he didn't know if he was expected to go back to finish what he'd been told to do before, and asking Alkrat only gave him yet another new thing to do. He'd been so busy that he didn't know if he was even still a part of the competing research teams they'd been told would be set up to figure out a quicker way to test for phony gold or not – and that's the reason he'd been hauled back to the country in the first place!

After explaining the complications to Harry last week, the closest he'd gotten to the subject again was sitting at this same table every once in a while. He hadn't even had the time to look at the Séance book that Hermione girl had let him have, though how chemi-something was supposed to be different than alchemy when the names were so close together he didn't have a clue. When magical theory seemed to fail though you had to start somewhere, even if it meant looking at some weird muggle religious ritual chanting, assuming he remembered his Muggle Studies correctly.

"Thank you, Dobby," Bill said wearily as Harry's house-elf wafted the remains of an early midday meal away from him.

"You're very welcome, sir," the elf smiled before a snap cleared the plate and a wave sent it flying to the sink to be washed.

Left alone with him as any evidence the kitchen had even been used recently was quickly removed and the elf himself disappeared, he couldn't deny just how quickly all the work around the Burrow got done now that Dobby was here. True, with so many of them in the house there were always new messes being made but it did make him wonder what things were going to be like when they were gone. His mum had always wanted a house-elf when they were younger but what was she going to do if Dobby stuck around to take care of the house?

As if to answer his question Bill heard someone coming down the stairs. She was roughly the same shape as his mother, and was dressed in what she'd always called 'her best blue dress,' but her Weasley red hair was fixed up in a way he'd never seen it before so this woman bore little resemblance to the one he called his mother. There was something weird about her face too, and why was she carrying a handbag?

"Mum?" he asked disbelievingly as he stood, his words stopping the woman in her tracks.

"Oh! Bill, you startled me," his mother's voice said as her hand flew to her chest in alarm. "I didn't know you'd be here," she said as he started to pick out familiar bits and pieces of her facial features under–

'Wait, is she wearing makeup?'

"Here, you sit down and let me make you something," his mother said as she bustled her way to the kitchen.

"Thanks, mum, but I've already eaten. Are you going somewhere?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, well – I thought I might step out for a bit," his mother said evasively while not meeting his eye. "You know, run errands and the like."

"Dressed like that?" Bill asked not knowing what to make of all this.

"A girl has a right to dress up and feel pretty if she wants to," she fussed at him.

Bill held up his hands and silently admitted defeat, hoping to drop the issue. If his mother wanted to be pretty, let her be pretty; it really didn't matter to him. He certainly didn't want to fill his few good hours of the day picking at this and it wasn't like Ginny was going to run off and do the same when she saw her, not anymore that is.

The Ginny he'd seen a couple weeks ago might've done it – had done it, actually – just to welcome Harry here if his guess was right, but she'd gone through quite a change since then. Instead of trying to be 'the proper little lady' the girl seemed intent on becoming one of the guys. So if anything, seeing their mother like that might just turn her around to go back outside to play some more just so she can come back in again looking even more roughed up than usual.

His mother called it 'trying on hats,' as if figuring out what kind of person you wanted to be was nothing more complicated than that. Either way, dirty, sweaty, and occasionally scraped Ginny did seem better off being what she was this week. Who she'd decide to be next week he didn't know but hoped whoever she eventually became she'd be a Ginny she wanted to be.

"It's not like you couldn't use a bit of prettying up yourself," his mother said coming over to get a good look at him. "You're looking peaky," she said suddenly sounding concerned and turning his head left and right. "Are you coming down with something? When was the last time you slept? You shouldn't let those goblins overwork you like this. You're a growing boy; it's not good for you."

Bill wanted to fight back against the onslaught of mothering but when he opened his mouth all he could do was yawn.

"It's just a busy time right now, that's all. I'm sure it'll settle down eventually," he said when he could. "Might take a quick nap before I go back though," Bill added before catching what he said.

'Merlin, I'm becoming an old man,' he thought as he ran a hand across his face. 'Growing up sucks.'

"Well, since you've eaten, you go on up," his mother said as she ushered him towards the stairs. "I've got some time before I – run errands – I'll make sure everything's quiet for you," she finished quickly.

"Are you sure?" Bill asked still trying to puzzle out what was going on with the woman.

A gout of green flame from the fireplace cut off any answer, especially since it didn't come with any accompanying chime from the Weasley clock. They couldn't see who it was but whoever it was wasn't family, and neither did they call out in greeting before another green flare roared out as well. Something about this didn't sit right with him but while his hand edged down to the pocket of his robes for his wand his mother had charged off to take control of her household.

Coming around into the kitchen area, Bill saw the last two people he'd ever thought to see standing next to each other. And with things being as they were, he didn't know how to respond.

"Mr. Lichfield, I didn't know you'd be coming today," his mother said kindly in welcome.

"The boy didn't tell you we'd be by?" the grizzled old litigator asked in reply while he brushed the ash off his robes and took in her dress.

"Er– No, should he have?" she asked with a glance as the stern-faced, short-haired woman beside him couched a monocle on one eye.

"Molly Weasley," the man said instead, "this is Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's here to talk to Harry about his case."

Suddenly Bill felt the tension in the room jump significantly as everything in the world seemed to come crashing together in one room. Madam Bones was from the Ministry – in many ways she was the Ministry – insofar as their commitment to law and order went – while he and Lichfield worked for Gringotts. The old man though had the 'old bailiff for the Potter family' mantle to hide behind but Bill himself had no such cover.

'How much does the Ministry know about people?' he wondered nervously.

"A pleasure," his mother said as if by rote before turning quickly to face him. "Why don't you go upstairs for that nap now, dear? I can make our guests at home," his mother excused him with a shooing gesture before moving over to Lichfield. "The kids are outside playing Quidditch, I don't suppose I could trouble you with it while I make Ms. Bones some tea?

"I knew you looked familiar," Bill heard his mother say kindly as he slipped out of the room unnoticed as Lichfield did the same in the other direction. "I must've seen your face a time or two in the Prophet. No doubt you know my Arthur, he works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office – Now what kind of tea did you want, dear?"

He only started breathing again on the second landing, and it wasn't until he got into his room that he started to relax at all. One thing was sure, with that woman downstairs the last thing he was doing was going to sleep or he might just wake up in Azkaban for going against the government. Thinking that whatever the muggles did in their meditations might at least take his mind off the danger lurking below, Bill picked up the Séance book and started to read.

.o0O0o.

AN: There's been something I've been avoiding and dismissing ever since Dumbledore first popped up in the story. To be honest, it seemed completely mad to me how anyone would think his character was like this but when we first got to see things from his point of view several reviewers commented that he came off like a religious extremist.

'No, no, that's not it,' I would always say to myself. 'His is a highly embellished philosophical view on life more than anything else, and this Greater Good he attributes things to is more along the lines of Plato's Form of the Good that shines like the sun on all the lesser Forms. My readers are intelligent though so once I have the opportunity to more adequately describe where his ideas come from in the story they'll be able to see what I'm doing.'

After all, as he's described in the books Dumbledore really is the epitome of the classical Greek philosopher, so if I was going to take his contemplative, non-violent, laissez-faire, and always giving people a second chance mentality to its logical conclusion then how better to do that than with a benevolent form of the Greater Good that's put into a philosophical mold? To be sure, the philosophical details were always somewhat nebulous in my mind but with the organic nature of the story I was sure it'd fill itself out in time.

As I had more chances to crawl into his head and allow him to describe how he sees the Greater Good working in the world around him, and how everything was connected to it, what Dumbledore was talking about seemed to become much more synonymous with 'the plot the writer seems to be writing at this point in time' rather than anything else and this other philosophical explanation started to become increasingly untenable. Eventually I had to conclude that many you were right and I'd been just as blind as Dumbledore. I had created a religion with only one follower and made myself a god within it.

I don't know if that's going to affect anything but what do you say to something like that? Oops? Oh! I know:

Thanks for reading. ;)