.o0O0o.
If there was one thing guaranteed to spell doom and gloom for the rest of the summer, a fire-breathing dragon burning down Diagon Alley and throwing the entire wizarding world into a panic – on top of what'd already been caused by a stone small enough to fit into the palm of your hand – really should have been it. And while it had caused the adults to go mad for a while when it happened, strangely enough, in the week which followed it seemed as though things had gotten even better at the Burrow than they were before.
Harry didn't know if it was the addition of Hermione being there most days or not but it was like the rock hard steadiness she brought had somehow melted off her and blended into the ground beneath the Burrow. It wasn't as if she had changed at all, Hermione was still Hermione, but it was as if just her being around had made everything else seem that much… more. It was like the portable little island of calm had ballooned outward and now everything at the Burrow was resting happily on top of it.
Even all the big stuff going on in the rest of the country didn't seem to be able to touch them there; well, not really. The Daily Prophet still arrived every morning carrying news of what happened the day before and Bill and Mr. Weasley still went to their jobs every day and brought back tidbits of what they learned, though Bill was hard to catch since he seemed to be working even more than his dad was and more tight-lipped about what he was doing even when you caught him. But all that seemed to take place in some far off elsewhere though so he doubted anything could ruffle the Burrow that didn't come from the Burrow itself.
The closest thing which came close to disturbing the newfound sense of calm was when rumors of his case against Dumbledore had made it into the Prophet yesterday. They seemed to think it was all about the Boy Who Lived books and he didn't know whether he'd prefer the truth coming out about it or not. Luckily Hermione was soon on hand to distract him with studying and to show him what the real danger was in the situation: having a herd of first years following him around, calling him Doctor Jones, and asking him to sign their fedoras.
Ron had noticed a change too, though he called the differences guy days and girl days. Guy days were the days they spent doing what they'd always done: playing Quidditch, chess, and hanging out with Fred and George; girl days had almost none of that because those days were Hermione days. Harry wasn't sure what Ron did on those days but he spent them talking with Hermione, studying with Hermione, or explaining how all the muggle things were supposed to work to Mr. Weasley, who seemed to make a special point of getting home early those days so he can "do research," though it pretty much boiled down to listening to Hermione be Hermione.
After asking him on several occasions, Ron had finally joined them when they were studying yesterday, so maybe he'd start calling them something else. It was kind of silly to call them 'girl days' anyway since Ginny and Luna were there with them on the 'guy days' but nowhere to be seen on 'girl days,' though Harry still tried to keep his distance with Ginny even then. He'd been right about Ron not having touched his homework though, but as amusing as it was to watch Hermione get onto him about his studying, watching her check what Ron had done that day only to hand it back with a "you'll never get an A with that" was even better. So much for getting his homework done without having to try.
It looked as though the Quidditch matches were starting to become grudge matches too, at least where Ron and Ginny were concerned. Unlike what he had claimed before, Ginny's success had nothing to do with beginner's luck. She was actually pretty good, and had been sneaking out to fly for years without everyone knowing, if what she yelled at Ron one day was true.
But it wasn't just that she was good which was making things rather explosive between the two, for some reason Ron had suddenly gotten rather bad at Keeping. Whenever he went for a save he seemed to dive to one side way before he had to be there and then have to scramble back the other way to try to stop the Quaffle. George's comment that he had gotten too used to having a crummy broom didn't help, though it could've been Fred saying they should give the broom to Ginny instead that really soured his mood.
To lighten things up, or at least give them something else to complain about besides each other, Luna had started throwing apples at them when they played. After all, she said, it wasn't a real game if you didn't have bludgers hitting you. That had slowed the game down a bit so Ron had more of a chance, plus it gave whoever wasn't playing something to do.
That's where he was when Lichfield found him.
"Sorry," Harry called out to Fred as the boy wiped bits of rotten apple off his face. "Bludger!"
"You having fun?" the gnarled wizard asked as Luna skipped off to find more apples. "If you really wanted to make a mess you could always use eggs," Lichfield said with a smirk.
"But then we wouldn't have anything to eat tomorrow," he pointed out.
"You'd have the apples, unless you've already used them all," the older man said gesturing to the ground around them. "Judging from all the collateral damage you've caused to these unfortunate fruit, I'd say that's a fair bet."
"I wasn't the only one," he said defensively.
"Wouldn't matter if you were," Lichfield said carelessly. "The trees were here before the Weasleys, so the apples are yours anyway."
"Oh," Harry said flattening his hair, still uncomfortable with the fact he owned his best friend's home.
"Damn, now I want apple bread," the old litigator said to himself.
With a rustle of leaves Harry saw several apples tear themselves off their limbs and soar through the air to meet up at the same spot. That spot happened to be in Mipsy's arms and she gave them a big excited grin before disappearing with them. It was kind of odd to see her without Hermione in tow but he still had to wait more than a week to be able to see his girlfriend two days in a row.
"Well, I know what I'm eating when I get home," Lichfield said with a smile. "I'm taking those as part of my salary."
"Help yourself," he said with a shrug.
"Hey Harry!" Ron called from behind him and above. "Game's over and you're up. You playing?"
He turned around just in time to see an apple arc out of nowhere to hit his friend in the back of his head.
"Oi! We're not playing again yet."
"Bludger!" Luna's voice called from somewhere.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to borrow him for a bit," Lichfield answered for him, making him wonder why the man was here in the first place.
"What's going on?" Harry asked once they were on their way back to the Burrow.
"You remember what I said about how the head of the D.M.L.E. will want to talk to you about your case?" his litigator asked in reply.
"Um– vaguely," he lied. "Why?"
"Because the head of the D.M.L.E. is here to talk to you about your case," Lichfield said with a look.
"Wait– now?" he asked, wondering just how stable a place the Burrow had actually become.
"No need to worry," Lichfield said seeming to push aside his silent concerns. "Unlike what you're used to with us, the purpose of this meeting should be fairly straight-forward."
"I've definitely heard that before," Harry replied.
"Yeah, well, we don't have a goblin running the meeting and she's not here to talk to me," the old man countered with a grin. "It's pretty much just to make sure everything's on the up and up, this is what you want, and it's in your best interests."
"That doesn't sound so bad," he said to himself trying to get the gigantic block of ice that'd settled in his stomach to disappear.
"Speaking of best interests though," Lichfield said in a lower voice. "It might be best not to mention what happened at the end of your last school year unless she brings it up."
"Last time someone mentioned it we had our brains sucked out," he reminded him. Ron might've liked it but Harry wasn't looking forward to repeating it anytime soon.
"No, not that bit," the old man clarified, "the bit about the man with the ridiculous turban having an evil dead wizard growing out of the back of his head."
Voldemort. Somehow just having someone mention him made the block of ice in his stomach shatter, melt, and start to boil. It settled down quickly though when he imagined what kind of chaos having everyone learning he really was still alive and lurking out there somewhere would cause. The Stone had been bad enough and everyone treated Voldemort like the bogeyman already.
"One panic-inducing emergency at a time, right?" Harry asked, sending the man's own words from before back at him.
"That's the hope," Lichfield agreed with a nod. "I passed the information to someone I trust almost as soon as I got it so they could start working on it themselves. They work for the Ministry so the lady inside may be aware of it already, but with something as sensitive as this you can't be too sure. If she knows then she'd know you know, but she may not mention it even then. If she doesn't know, mentioning it may step on his investigation and who knows what could happen."
"So keep my mouth shut or the world might explode again," he agreed.
"I knew you'd get it," Lichfield grinned. "You just had to be burned before you learned not to play with fire, didn't you?"
Instead of responding Harry pushed open the door to see a strange woman sitting at the table. She had red hair, a blue dress, and looked vaguely like–
"Mrs. Weasley?" he asked wondering why she was dressed up for a special occasion.
"And would you listen to that?" she said to the woman he'd completely overlooked. "He's always so polite. I swear my boys could learn a thing or two from him."
Embarrassed, Harry flattened his mop of unruly hair, not knowing if Mrs. Weasley was helping things or hurting them. Was this one of those times when being seen as a mature adult rather than a kid was supposed to help? And how did being seen as polite work with that? The woman in question though didn't seem to notice as she was preoccupied scratching down notes on a parchment as steam rose from her teacup.
Lichfield gave him a poke to get him to move so the man could enter.
"Harry, dear, you have a visitor," Mrs. Weasley said as she stood to give him her seat and a reassuring smile before retreating to the living room, trailing a flowery scent behind her.
As he sat, not knowing if he was supposed to say something or not, the stern-looking woman finally looked up at him.
"Good afternoon, Mister Potter," the woman said her short-cropped gray hair, square jaw, and monocle making it seem as if she was trying to out McGonagall professor McGonagall. "There's no need to worry," she said a bit more friendly than before. "I'll try not to take up more of your time than I have to. I know how jealously students guard their summer breaks. My name's Amelia Bones, I trust you got my letter?"
"Er– no," he said before he thought of saying otherwise.
"No?" she asked, monocle threatening to fall from its perch and looking to Lichfield.
"He's had some difficulty with his mail in the past," the man said by way of explanation as he took a seat next to him. "But I'd thought we'd taken care of it."
"Has he now?" the woman asked looking back at him studiously. "How would you say your fame's treated you? Have you been deluged well-wishes, Christmas cards, or fan mail for instance?"
"No," Harry said a bit more at ease from the sheer silliness of anyone sending him fan mail at all. "Except for my friends no one's ever sent me letters at all – except Hogwarts," he added quickly at the end.
"That's odd," the woman said as she drew her wand and waved it over his head. "I know for sure you should have had at least one birthday card back when you were six."
Something about how the woman said that made his mind take a sharp left turn.
"You didn't know my parents too, did you?" he asked.
"I'm familiar with the story but I can't say I ever met them myself," the woman said smoothly as she sat back and withdrew her wand. "They were good bit younger than I was. Why do you ask?"
"Since this whole thing started it seems like everyone's connected to my family somehow," Harry shrugged.
"I suppose it's to be expected, considering," the woman said as she made a note of something on the parchment. "The wizarding world is a rather small place, smaller than most people realize. Does the name Susan mean anything to you?"
"Er– no," he said at a loss and scrounging his memory for anything he could find. "Is it supposed to?"
"Not particularly," she glanced up with him this time with a bit of a smile. "When I was at Hogwarts I didn't notice anyone outside of my own house for years. My niece is one of your classmates; the card came from her," the woman remarked before she turned somber for a moment. "Her late father ran in the same circles as your parents during the war, so perhaps he knew them."
That was a particularly hard poke to the gut he didn't know how to deal with. Fortunately, she just continued on without him having to do so.
"It appears you have a Wandering Wizard's Ward on you, Mister Potter," she continued.
"A–a what?" Harry asked.
"It's a charm, more commonly called a Redirect, that most high Ministry officials use to prevent the public from being able to send them curses through the mail," Ms. Bones explained. "Though I'm told that some celebrities find it preferable to have all their fan mail waiting for them at one specific place and time rather than showing up whenever it wills or following them from country to country."
"But if this Redirect messes with my mail then how could my friends write to me this summer?" he asked wondering if Dobby had actually been doing him a favor by intercepting his redirected mail, though that didn't seem to make sense either somehow.
"There are various exceptions that can be applied to such a system," the woman explained. "It could allow only certain owls to go through, any owl from certain people, or people you know personally – though exceptions are usually made for official Ministry business."
"I'm willing to bet that if the letter had come from the Improper Use of Magic Office he would have gotten it just fine," Lichfield said, finally choosing to add his opinion into the mix. "What other owls are twelve year olds likely to get from the Ministry? My concern is him getting control of it."
"It would be a simple enough job for the Ministry to do," Ms. Bones said as she made another series of notes. "The problem is that with Mister Potter being underage, control of the Redirect would be the domain of his guardian and with that in dispute–"
"–I have to wait until the case is over to get it," Harry said reaching the obvious conclusion, though for a very different reason. "I don't want fan mail," he whined before turning to Lichfield. "Can we not get rid of it?"
Lichfield chuckled a bit.
"I suppose. If you've got a tenant with a problem though it'll make getting in touch with you rather difficult," the litigator explained. "I suppose you could always send the mail to someone else to take care of but–," he cut off when Harry looked at him expectantly. "–Oh no, I'm not doing it," the man groused.
"But you're my bailiff," he reminded the man.
"I'm your litigator. I was your grandfather's bailiff," Lichfield corrected him with a threatening poking finger and an amused look. "And your father's for a bit there – but that's neither here nor there," he gruffed with a wave. "–The point is there's a difference; this whole quasi-bailiff set up's temporary. Either way, I'm an old man and you're already running me ragged. We can set you up with an assistant and train them up, but I'm too old to be messing around with some prepubescent heartthrob's fan mail."
Harry chuckled at that, even while he wondered how much of it the man was actually being honest about. Lichfield might be an irascible old coot but no one knew more about what was going on than him, so he'd really be lost without him. Plus, it seemed like he'd somehow become a friend.
"There's also the issue of the publisher that'd be a concern," Ms. Bones said, adding another complication along with more notes. "Even if the Wizengamot rules in your favor, the publisher of those storybooks may take issue with losing the rights to... well, you. The Redirect may have been put in place to help separate the literary figure of 'Harry Potter' from the living, breathing one.
"Regardless," she said looking up from her notes again, "those are issues for later. What's important now is something else. How do feel about Mr. Lichfield coming back to serve in this 'quasi-bailiff' capacity, Mister Potter?" Ms. Bones asked.
"Er– Besides him being perpetually grumpy and liable to wander off," Harry replied giving the old man a verbal poke in return, "I can't say he doesn't get everything done. Plus, I've learned more about my family from him than anywhere else."
"And do you enjoy living here?" she asked as she went back to scratching out more notes.
"Oh, yeah, the Weasleys are great," he said honestly, wishing he could read things upside down so he'd know what the woman was writing. The last thing he needed was this woman thinking he was lying.
"And whose idea was it for you to pay rent?" she asked looking up at him again.
Harry was trapped and had no idea what to say; and it was even worse because with the woman staring at him he couldn't even look at Lichfield for any kind of clue. When they were at the bank the man had said they wanted the case to look like he was an adult and able to take care of himself, so would Lichfield have said it was all his idea or that he offered up the idea because it got what he wanted done done since that's what litigators do? And what had Mrs. Weasley said about it? She knew that Lichfield had been involved and he'd told her it had been his litigator's idea in the first place.
"Well, Ron had invited me to stay," he said, trying to find a way to tell it so it matched up to what anyone else could've possibly said about it. "But it didn't seem right to stay for nothing. And with me leaving the Dursleys behind, Lichfield said it'd be best if I had somewhere I could stay more permanently, and Ginny had needed money to go to school, so it all just kind of came together," he finished weakly as the woman made even more notes about him.
"And you acquired a house-elf?"
The image of Barchoke running down the hallway yelling "BREACH!" exploded in Harry's mind. He tried to push all those thoughts aside and concentrate on how happy Dobby was to be working here rather than the illegal stuff the elf did to get him here.
"I – felt bad springing all this on Mrs. Weasley," he said uncertainly, double and triple checking everything he thought of saying. "I didn't want to put her out any more than I already had so – I thought having some help around the house would make up for it. I didn't ask her about it," Harry said wondering now if he should have, "but everyone seems to like it, especially Dobby and Mrs. Weasley."
"The lawsuit Mr. Lichfield's filed on your behalf states that you were left in the care of your muggle relatives," the woman said looking up at him sharply as if she knew he'd been weaseling around with his words. "Surely they would have told you of your parents. Why would you wish to 'leave them behind,' as you put it?"
His stomach fell but when it landed it felt like it'd been stuffed with red-hot coals. As he met her eyes his stomach started to settle back into place while the coals got hotter by the minute.
'Fine,' he thought. 'If she wants the unvarnished truth then that's exactly what she's going to get.'
.o0O0o.
'This is all Lichfield's fault,' Barchoke thought to himself as he slowly opened the door to what should be the Grand Overseer's bedchamber. 'I never should have gotten involved with the boy, even if my job did demand it. No,' he countered as he tried to make out anything in the blackness he saw inside, 'that would've only seen me dead for mismanagement when the problems came to light and what goblin could pass up the possibility for the vengeance they'd sworn to have?'
He stuck his head inside only to get a blast of stale air, solid waste, and rotting offal straight in the nose so pungent he could practically taste it.
'Gah!' Barchoke wanted to cry, but couldn't lest it give away his position. This was all the little female human's fault. Females always caused problems, even with a good merger under your belt, and one word about the Stone from that one had been enough to make this whole thing inevitable. 'Curse every frizzy hair on her fuzzy little head,' he thought sourly, 'I should have chained her to a desk in Legal whether they liked it or not.'
His dagger led the way as he slowly entered, eyes searching for any hint of movement as they grew accustomed to the deeper blinding blackness, ears straining for any hint of sound. Largrot had to be here, he had to. There was nowhere else to check unless the goblin had abandoned sense entirely and tried to disappear in the teeming swarm of goblins Below, and what was there to gain by doing that? No Grand Overseer had done anything for them in Gotts knows how long, they certainly weren't going to rally behind one they didn't know to overthrow his would-be supplanter.
'Maybe he's already dead,' he thought to himself hopefully, and not for the first time. 'He hasn't been seen in over a week, he might have decided to end it before anyone else could.'
Barchoke didn't think he'd be so lucky, otherwise he wouldn't be here now. Just three weeks ago he'd had a corner office that was practically nothing but windows, a cushy job where no one expected him to do anything, and a secretary who never expected any sort of advancement from him at all. Now he consorted with foreign wizards, defied the Ministry, seized an island, everyone looked to him for what to do, and he was pretty sure the Ministry wanted his head.
Yes, even with the boy dragging him into his Dumbledore mess his life would've settled back down again eventually and he might've been able to let his hair regrow when they were done. When he thought of it though, he'd been shaving it for so long it'd probably feel funny to have hair. Now, because of the girl and that blasted Stone, he was going to be made Grand Overseer whether he wanted to be or not.
If she hadn't said anything and things had died down, that would've been a perfect time to get things started with Trixie, not a week and a half ago when people had started deferring to him and a promotion seemed imminent. Now it was hard to find his own secretary and he suspected she wouldn't turn up again unless he had a different title. It was hard to believe how much you could want another merger once you've had your first one, and now if he saw her again he might not let her leave until she had a little acquisition on the way.
As the moment lengthened he was gradually able to distinguish differences the various shades of shadow all around him. There was a great dark blob some distance to the right which might be a bed and Barchoke thought the far wall may have a dark curtain on it to black out any light from outside. He decided it'd be best to inch his way across to the window. If he could only get there then maybe he could find out–
His foot suddenly slid forward on what he could only hope was rotten food to clatter into unseen dishes in the darkness. Was it too much to ask for a shut-in at least to be clean about it? He heard more than saw something move somewhere in front of him and regained his footing just in time to be blinded by the harsh light of day as the curtain was ripped down and with a grunt was thrown at him.
Stumbling blindly aside to avoid the hurled cloth, he tried to force his eyes to work properly. Landing against a chest of drawers, he spun around just in time for his chest to erupt in pain as a wooden chest collided with him, knocking his dagger aside. He looked up to see Grand Overseer Largrot standing between the window and a large four-poster bed with only his meaty mounds of fat to preserve his modesty.
With a roar showing far more strength than Barchoke had ever thought possible, the other goblin hefted a nearby table and threw it sending him scattering, slipping, and sliding away before it could crash down where he was. Breath coming in short panicked pants as he crouched next to a large four-poster bed, he looked around for what happened to his dagger – or anything he could use as a weapon against the lumbering ogre of a goblin. What happened to this being just a technicality?
Out of sight to his right, Barchoke heard the sound of wood splintering. He didn't know what it was but whatever it was promised him a good bludgeoning if he got close to Largrot and probably a good poking if he stayed back. Spotting a glint from his dagger across the way as the other goblin's fat feet flapped along the stone floor, he abandoned the crazy notion of running out to get it and instead shimmied under the bed as quickly as he could.
The underside of the bed was cramped and dusty. As well it should be since it seemed to be the prime dumping ground for Largrot's trash for the past week. It left him with precious little room to move and he realized too late there were more noise hazards down here than anywhere else. If the other goblin did have something he could reach in and spear him with this fight would be over before he ever got started and hiding under a bed was an undignified way to die.
"BARCHOKE!" Grand Overseer Largrot heavily puffed as he shuffled around the four-poster bed as Barchoke became as still and quiet as possible. "You? You?!"
Directly in front of him Barchoke saw the flabby foot of his would-be killer and against the wall behind it, the blade of his own dagger. If he could get to it then maybe he would stand a better chance, maybe running about getting slices in where he could while dodging the slower goblin's attacks. ...If only he had been trained in how to do it without being killed it might've been a sensible plan, but as it was…
"Where are you, you spineless whelp!" the Grand Overseer croaked out. "Come out… so I can rip your head… off," the other goblin panted as an idea started to form in Barchoke's mind. "You're not… fit… to lead… anything."
Grabbing a cup and quickly dumping out in front of him what he hoped was water, Barchoke tossed the goblet to clatter along the floor to the left. As he'd hoped, Largrot lumbered in that direction as he scrambled across the puddle to flee his vulnerable position. He turned and tried pushing with his feet to get free from the bed but his stupid little suit buttons were stuck on something and wouldn't let him move.
Largrot let out another roar at finding he'd been tricked and an instant later the bedpost to Barchoke's right splintered as a club as thick as his head smashed through it.
'Good Gotts!' he thought and with one mighty shove hurled himself out from under the bed, ripping the buttons off his jacket as he went and feeling a sharp pain in the flesh of his scalp an instant before he rammed into the wall. Pulling his hand away from his head, it came back green with blood. Scrambling up, he grabbed his dagger, not knowing if he wanted to attack or flee.
Huffing and puffing with shallow breaths, a sweaty Largrot clumsily tried to untangle his club from the dark bed hangings one-handedly as the other clutched his chest with a pained expression on his face. Thinking this could be his chance Barchoke darted forward, only to jump back immediately when the other goblin weakly thrust part of the makeshift club at him like the butt of a spear.
'I can take him. I can take him,' he danced back, trying to tell himself his victory was all but assured. 'He's tired and weak. He's used up his energy, so end him!'
Barchoke stood rooted to the spot wondering why they had to do this at all.
'Just send him off somewhere,' part of him said. 'Fire him and send him to live on the Barracks level or Below for the rest of his life. It's not like anyone would respect him now.'
He shifted his blade but the now sweaty Largrot took his indecision to launch another attack. The bed hanging was ripped off and streamed along behind the club like a wicked black banner. Barchoke only had time to deflect it to the side before club and goblin collapsed to the floor with a crash.
Gripping his dagger with both hands, Barchoke kept his eyes on the downed goblin. Was it a trick? A trap? Was Largrot trying to lull him into lowering his guard and coming close so he could crush his throat with his bare hands? Nothing he'd ever gone through had prepared him for this. Facing down adversaries in an Overseer's meeting was one thing but he was a banker, why was he expected to actually kill anyone? They had guards for this sort of thing!
Looking about for something longer than his dagger, Barchoke grabbed a broken table leg off the floor and poked Largrot's exposed hand with it. The large goblin didn't make a sound but the club had tumbled from his grasp a bit. Remembering what it was he'd been sent to do, Barchoke raised the table leg again to give the hand a good whack which should've at least broken a few of its fat fingers, and still Largrot hadn't responded.
Inching a bit closer, Barchoke gave the other goblin's fat head a good poke. Still nothing. Throwing the table leg as far from the other goblin as he could, he darted out to drag Largrot's makeshift club away from him before stepping back and readying his dagger again just in case. The moment held but still nothing happened – and then it struck him. The only breaths he heard in the room were his own.
Noises came from beyond the bedchamber door and he knew the others could be here in moments. Looking down at his uninjured opponent and a dagger clean of anyone's blood but his own, this was hardly the kind of victory any of them would expect or respect, and if there was one thing he needed to have if he wanted to survive it was a respectable victory. One thing was certain though; however they set up their new way of doing things he was going to make sure a non-lethal retirement was waiting for him if he ever fell out of favor.
So resolved, Barchoke went up to the folds of the Grand Overseer's neck and stabbed his dagger in as far as he could. When it came back a dark green he almost lost his lunch and part of him hoped the fat old goblin had already been dead before he did that.
'Some great goblin warrior I turned out to be,' he thought.
"Grand Overseer?" a voice he was sure was Bankor's called out from beyond the other room. "We heard a disturbance," the far-off goblin said as if he hadn't been the one to corner him into doing this. "Is there anyone there?"
Barchoke slipped out of his ruined jacket and took off his tie, leaving them both on the befouled floor, which was slowly getting more so with the growing pool of blood. He'd add his soiled shoes and pants too but he wasn't about to go out there almost naked; he wasn't Largrot and never would be. Somehow he'd find a way to avoid that fate, even if it meant not eating any more of Slaggran's cream-filled muggle pastries.
He pulled open the bedchamber door feeling more alive and confident after the fight than he had any time previously. If anyone took a swing at him now he was sure he could outrun any of them; he'd done it once, he could do it again. If there was one good thing he could say about Largrot though it was that he had at least not soiled his office like he had his bedchamber.
One or two other Overseers looked in on him as he came towards them back in the meeting room, but it was Bankor who looked like he was going to speak. Barchoke shot him a spiteful glare for getting him into this mess and for almost asking how it went; just showing back up again should've told the other goblin. The reaction he was most concerned with though was Gutripper's.
The scarred and sinewy Overseer of Security looked down at the blasted crown of gold Braglast had provided as if weighing what it meant before looking up at him with his mismatched eyes.
"Do you have any idea what in Gott's name you're doing?" he asked with what appeared to be a strange case of non-hostile curiosity.
"Yes," Barchoke said decisively, pointing his blood-coated dagger at him as disparate thoughts came together in his mind to form a plan. "You said the I.C.W. wanted a settlement," he continued, quickly moving the dagger to point at Bankor just so the temperamental Overseer wouldn't think he'd been singled out for aggression. "We're going to give them a settlement like they've never seen before, but if the Ministry wants their wizards back they're still going to have to pay. And send someone to get this Hobson; I've got a job for him."
Bankor seemed so surprised at the sudden turn of events he stood there in stunned silence.
"You heard him, MOVE!" Gutripper yelled at him, though it seemed for some reason he wasn't fully behind these nebulous new developments yet.
"Yes, Grand Overseer!" the little minister said to Barchoke before darting towards the door.
"Tell them to find my secretary, pack up my office, and bring me new clothes," Barchoke shouted for good measure. 'Yes,' he thought. 'Now things are going in the right direction.'
"Oh!" Slaggran cried his eyes wide with joy. "Does this mean that I can have your old office?"
.o0O0o.
Eavesdropping was a nasty habit, completely improper, but it's not like she could have avoided it, even if she wanted too. She told Arthur vertical wasn't the way to go when it came to houses but he was so giddy to get on with it that it was hard to crush his enthusiasm, much less make him see sense. Whatever the children did with their lives she was going to make sure they learned from that mistake; they'd thank her for it later.
What she'd heard about those Dudsley-muggles was – was – Well, it was so bad she didn't know a word for how bad it was. Even if it came through a little muffled there was no mishearing it. What was Albus thinking leaving Harry with people like that? Did the man even bother thinking at all? He might as well have given the child to a female You-Know-Who to raise, like Bellatrix Lastrange, or one of the other foul families who thought they were better than everyone else.
It was remarkable the boy came through it in one piece let alone come out being such an honest, wholesome, and likable boy. Surviving the Killing Curse was one thing, surviving the household he described to Madam Bones defied all explanation. Albus certainly had a lot to answer for, as did this Petumpa Derpley. Drunken parents, car crashes, Harry hunts, and cupboards under the stairs? What kind of mother would allow that to go on in her house? Certainly not a respectable one, that's for sure.
Molly took in a big breath and let it out as she smoothed her favorite blue dress and tried to get rid of all those thoughts because now was not the time for them. Merlin knew she was anxious enough as it was without adding all that to it and this was too important to go wrong. It couldn't go wrong, it couldn't. Somehow she'd make this work.
Things would be so much easier though if she wasn't so terrified. Why couldn't she just stay in her nice comfy kitchen forever? It'd certainly worked for her so far. Staying in her kitchen when her children needed more than what she and Arthur could provide though was the same now as quitting; and worse, it was quitting without even bothering to try.
Perhaps these people wouldn't be willing to give her a shot – and yes, it'd be hurtful and embarrassing if they didn't – but it wouldn't change what had to happen. This had to be done for her family, for her kids, so if this didn't work out then she'd have to pick herself up and find somewhere else that would take her on. After all, if Harry could throw himself out into the great wide world not knowing where he'd land or how he'd end up, much like she and Arthur had in the past, then certainly she could do the same again.
When she thought of it like that it sounded like some sort of grand adventure. She had never liked adventures though – that's why she had never liked flying, it made her tummy all jumbly just thinking about it, and how could you gamble like that? It felt like she was on the roof of the Burrow when it was engulfed in flames, and no one had a broom to save her, so she was being yelled at to jump. But how could you jump when you didn't know what was going to happen and where you were was okay for now? But how could you not jump when you knew, eventually, you'd burn and fall and die anyway?
She really needed to stop thinking about this. What she needed now was something to distrac–
"Sir!" a young man said as he darted through the collection of desks towards the thin, gray-haired man with an unlit cigar who'd spent the last fifteen minutes pacing back-and-forth while reading the latest offering this hive of bees had produced for him. "Sir, this just came in. A dispatch from Gringotts."
Molly's stomach turned over and took a dive to the floor. So much of what's been happening involved the bank somehow that anything could be on the parchment. The Hit Wizards would be freed, they were officially at war with the Ministry, there was no funny gold created and the bank doors would be opened again, all the gold was worthless and everyone was doomed, and that's not even considering the possibility that something could've happened to Bill. She needed to get him into a boring job with a nice girl and making little Weasleys as soon as possible; that would keep him safe.
"Merlin's baggy y-fronts!" the man said from around his cigar. "How do those tricky goblins think they're going to be doing that?"
"What do you think?" the eager young person said, practically jumping from one foot to another. "You think it's Weekend-worthy?"
The older man grunted, "It might be lead-worthy on Monday, unless something bigger happens to walk in today, but you'll need more to go on than that. Work with Honoria on this," he said gesturing off to someone else. "One of you find what specifics you can while the other sniffs out the Ministry's response."
As if soaring down to pounce on her prey, a woman with the most remarkable blonde ringlets swooped in from the side as the young man left.
"Sir, you know I've been following the Gringotts stories," the woman protested. "I have quite a few contacts there. If anyone's going to–"
"I know how big you are, Rita, you don't have to remind me," the man said in return. "Or do I need to remind you I'm the one who made you that way?"
The man dismissed all that with a wave.
"You've been everywhere and doing everything lately and it can't continue," the man went on to say before gesturing around them. "I've got other people to put to work or there's no point paying them. If Gringotts insists on making news then it's time we spun that off as a beat on its own. You can take it," he said with a bit of a look, "but it seems a bit beneath you. You're our biggest name so I want to give you our biggest and best stories – if that's okay with you."
The woman, who had to be their top reporter, Rita Skeeter, seemed torn about it for a moment before seeming to see it was for the best.
"I suppose next you'll want me to tell those two who to talk to and how best to approach things so they don't mess up all my hard work?" the woman said in such a snippy tone her own mother would've popped her on the mouth for it.
"If you'd be so kind," the man said cordially before the woman stormed off in a huff.
'This is it,' Molly thought as the gray-haired man came her way. 'Merlin, please let this go well.'
"This'll do," he said as he stopped by a woman's desk outside the office and handed her the piece of parchment he'd been reading. "Send anything else to me at home and I'll look it over tomorrow. I'm heading out early."
"Mr. Cuffe, a woman was interested in talking to you about taking over the Glenda Goodwitch column," the woman said to her boss as Molly felt a rather large jumble in her tummy.
"Write back and tell her to come by sometime next–"
"She's right over there," the woman said, gesturing to her and Molly tried to seem like she hadn't been listening.
The man named Cuffe took the cigar out of his mouth and turned to look at her. Molly gave him a polite smile and a bit of a nod as if her entire life wasn't resting on this moment. The gray-haired man then turned back to the other woman, murmured something silently, and then walked into his office without sparing her another look.
Molly had never felt so rejected in her life. Maybe the woman would know somewhere that was hiring so she wouldn't have to go crawling from shop to shop and–
"You can go in now," the woman said, rousing her suddenly free-falling spirits so fast the swoop in her stomach reminded her of those cursed flying classes back at Hogwarts.
Molly wobbly got to her feet, smoothed her dress, and clutched her handbag like it was a shield.
"Good luck," the woman whispered to her with a smile while all Molly could do was nod in response.
The office was a small, cramped thing smelling strongly of old paper. Barely big enough for his desk and two small chairs, and virtually every bit of space taken up with stacks upon stacks of old Daily Prophets, it was easy to see why Mr. Cuffe did his pacing outside. The man himself sat behind his small desk, rooting through one stash of paper and another before finding a piece that seemed suitably clean.
He took his unlit cigar out of his mouth and stuck it in a large cup with several others as he gestured for her to come in and take a seat. Judging from the state of them the man may not have smoked them but he certainly liked to chew on them. Perhaps it was the chance of burning things down that stopped him from lighting them.
"You've got Ministry Secretarial Pool written all over you," the man said as she sat on the very edge of her seat.
"Um, no, I've – I've never worked for the Ministry," Molly said uncertainly, having never even considered the possibility before. "My husband Arthur does though."
"Someone important?" Cuffe asked with a raised eyebrow.
"He's the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office," she said with more than a bit of pride.
The gray-haired man dismissed it with a wave.
"So what's your work history like, Mrs…?"
"Measley – I mean, Weasley. Molly Weasley," she quickly corrected herself as she tried to calm her jumpy nerves. "I've been a wife, mother, and homemaker for twenty five years," she said hoping to puff things up a bit before having to deliver the worst bit. "But besides that I – I can't say I've got anything in the way of work experience, professionally speaking."
How quickly the man went from jotting down her information to only politely disinterested was very worrisome.
"Hogwarts or home-schooled?" Mr. Cuffe asked, though he made no move to record her answer.
"Hogwarts," Molly said, sure that would've surprised him. "And I always did well on my essays for class."
"O.W.L.s? N.E.W.T.s?" he asked, spinning a quill around between his fingers and scrutinizing her the way she would a shifty broom.
"In the Acceptable range or a bit above, though I don't recall precisely," she said wondering why it'd make a difference after so long. "I never actually took my N.E.W.T.s though; I left after my sixth year since I was already married by then. Most of what I've learned came from outside of the classroom," Molly added hoping to keep the man from sending her away. "Practical spells for housekeeping, child-rearing, mending odds and ends, all sorts of things they never taught us in school."
"So why do you want to take over for Glenda Goodwitch?" Mr. Cuffe asked, picking up one of the unsmoked cigars and leaning back in his chair to sit with it awkwardly hanging out of the side of his mouth. "To be honest, I never saw the appeal."
"Oh, no, she was wonderful," she said honestly. "Reading her helped immeasurably when we were just starting out. The Daily Prophet wouldn't be the same without her. The woman knew everything about everything."
"She certainly likes to think so anyway," the man said with a smirk and then went on at her puzzled look. "My mother-in-law; I thought I could keep her out of my hair by letting her tell everyone in the country how to live. It's worked remarkably well. Now that she can barely hold a quill though…"
"Oh, that's too bad," Molly said sympathetically.
"Not for me," Mr. Cuffe replied. "It means she can't hound me with howlers anymore. Even with that, I don't know if I'm in the market for continuing the column."
"But they'll always be people looking for advice," she countered, "and the woman was an institution. With her gone they won't have anyone to turn to."
"Good point," he said thoughtfully. "Even if it's never been popular with advertisers, why have those readers go elsewhere? Still," the man said taking the cigar out to gesture with it. "I don't know if I'd trust it to someone whose only qualifications are raising a couple of kids."
"Seven," Molly said firmly, seeing an opening and hopping on it with both feet.
"What?"
"I've raised seven children, six of them boys, and all of them are Hogwarts age or older," she informed him. "The oldest, Bill, was Prefect and Head Boy; Charlie was Prefect and Quidditch Captain. Percy is a Prefect and may well be Head Boy by this time next year unless something goes disastrously wrong, which isn't likely knowing him. The twins are rambunctious, so there's that I've had to deal with too, and that's on top of Arthur and me literally building a home of our own."
"Now that's a narrative I can market," Cuffe said with a smile and a glint in his eye. "You don't have some kind of objection against a bit of brand promotion, do you? We don't pay much unless writers prove popular with ad buyers."
"I – I'm not sure I follow," Molly said curiously.
"Ads," he repeated as if it was supposed to be something obvious. "Advertisements; a newspaper can't run without them. They're what give The Daily Prophet a daily profit rather than a daily layoff. With a bio like yours though I could just see them queuing up to have you describe how great their products have been in a house with nine people in it. Merlin!" Cuffe exclaimed, "I should have done this thirty years ago but that old hag wouldn't have done it."
"Does – does this mean I've got the job?" she asked hopefully.
"We'll have you on a temporary basis until we know whether you're working out or not," the man said going back to making feverish notes about something or other. "You don't mind waiting a few weeks to start, do you? We'll need to make sure the readers are aware and comfortable with the change before we start to phase you in."
"Oh, no, that'll be fine," Molly said with a smile she couldn't contain. "I was hoping to wait until Harry and the boys went off to Hogwarts anyway."
"This Harriet's your daughter?" Mr. Cuffe asked without looking up at her.
"Uh – no, Harry's a friend of my youngest son, Ron," she explained, "more of a friend-of-the-family, really, as well as a renter. Ginny's my daughter, she'll be going too; her first year."
"Hold up," he said looking at her curiously. "If your third son isn't in his seventh year yet and your youngest is this Ginny, who just made it in, how is it your youngest son has a friend who's able to rent a room? He couldn't be more than third or fourth year, at most. And where're the boy's parents in this?"
"Second year, actually," Molly couldn't help correcting him even though she felt like she'd just stepped in something that she shouldn't have. "And there are… extenuating circumstances with him that I wouldn't feel comfortable going into."
Cuffe looked at her for a moment before letting out a cry of "Ha!" as he put it all together.
"You stay right where you are," the man said, pointing at her with his cigar as he got up and quickly worked his way around his desk to the door. "Rita!" he called, "Rita, get in here!"
Molly knew things were getting worse and worse but if she made a break for it now who knew what would happen. 'Merlin, they already know my name. And if I leave now I may never get another chance.'
"Rita, this is Molly Weasley," Mr. Cuffe said when he finally returned, the woman in ringlets following along behind him. "She may be taking over the Goodwitch column in a couple weeks."
The indefinite way he said that didn't make her feel well at all.
"We're not going to keep her with that name, are we?" the new woman asked as she scrutinized her. "Sounds much too lowly. What was your maiden name?"
"Prewett," she replied, defying her to say anything against that one.
"Not that Prew–?"
"–Doesn't matter," Cuffe interrupted as he settled back into his chair. "She also happens to be renting a room to a twelve year old Hogwarts student named Harry," he said with heavy emphasis.
"So you're the one housing young Mister Potter," Rita Skeeter said with a smile as she took a seat beside her. "That grouchy old contact of mine's been playing cat-and-mouse with me whenever I ask about him," she said in a confiding manner that had none of the warmth. "The stories he's tossed my way to distract from it have been worth the wait but he's fooling himself if he believes I actually think that a lawsuit about some tawdry books was as bad as it gets. Now you're here I'm sure it'll be enough to finally get the boy's story out of the grizzled old–"
The woman stopped suddenly and mouthed a two syllable word often heard around only one individual she knew.
"You know Mr. Lichfield?" Molly asked, putting unspoken occupation together with the man's description.
"You're my witness that I never said the man's name," Miss Skeeter said with a smile to Mr. Cuffe.
"Duly noted," the man agreed. "Mrs. Weasley seems to be quite the accomplished child-raiser," he continued before going on to paint a rather rosy picture of her home and children. "Plenty of good role models there for the boy, so I can see why he'd be placed there. The question is 'why now?' because the impression I got was that it's a recent development."
Molly stubbornly kept her mouth shut though her stomach protested at holding back all the bile and urge to give her opinion.
"Not to me it isn't," Rita said with a considering look. "Going on to describe what a warm and welcoming home he now has would be just the way to end the story; it's certainly not the whole of it though. The real crux of it to me has always been these muggle relatives he's lived with – even that fellow confirmed he's lived there – and he's implied they weren't very nice people at all."
"Of course they're not nice people," Molly said bitterly. "If I knew where they lived I'd curse them within an inch of their lives. The household he described is – is abhorrent," she proclaimed, finally able to conjure up a word repulsive enough to describe those people. "The fact he came out of there being the wonderful boy he is, and in one piece, is astonishing."
"You two keep talking," Cuffe said eagerly as he got up to make his way around the desk again.
"Barney," the other woman said, motioning him to come closer so she could whisper in his ear for a moment. "Send that message to him, those words exactly."
"I'm not your messenger boy, but yeah, I'll send it," the man complained as he headed out. "Heads up!" he cried as he stepped out the office door into the common work area. "Whatever you're working on, push it as fast as you can and no one goes home 'til they're done. We've got a Weekend to fill."
"He doesn't mean you, of course," Miss Skeeter said with a pat on the hand that had no softness to it.
Whipping out her wand, the woman pointed it at the open office door and a moment later a quill came flying in that was almost the exact same shade of blue as her dress. Reaching over, Rita grabbed the notes Mr. Cuffe had taken, shook her head, blanked them out, and then enlarged the parchment before putting the quill upon it.
"Now what have you heard about Harry's muggle relatives?" the woman asked inquisitively.
"If you're going to get the story from him anyway I don't want my name mentioned anywhere in it," Molly said, doubt making her bounce back and forth between wanting to tell and not. "I don't want the house flooded with owls and the last thing we need is for Harry to think I betrayed him in some way."
"You're worried about being flooded with owls and you're taking over for Glenda Goodwitch?" Rita asked with an overly arched eyebrow. "Are you sure you know what you're getting into?"
"That's different," she said firmly. "You mention me or my family's name and I'll curse you worse than Lichfield ever could, and he was an Auror."
"Fine, your name won't be mentioned," Rita agreed with a roll of her eyes. "It's not you I'm after anyway."
Years as a mother had the silent "not yet" at the end of that sentence come through loud and clear and it only redoubled her doubts about what she should do. It was three things that finally decided her: first, everyone deserved to know what a wonderful young man Harry was. Second was that if Harry did take seeing his story in print the wrong way his little girlfriend, Hermione, was due to be on hand tomorrow to help them deal with it. Third, and most importantly, everyone deserved to know the name Patina – no, it was a flower – Petunia.
Yes, everyone in the country deserved to know the name Petunia Dirtly and that what she did, what she allowed to happen, was no way to treat children.
.o0O0o.
Lester looked at the little strip of paper that had arrived at his apartment a short time ago and read it again as he mulled over his response.
'Come in. Big changes. Settlement on Isle planned. Input needed. G.O. Barchoke.'
It was remarkable how such a simple line of fragmented thoughts could hint at so much more and at the same time convey the feeling that the earth was sinking beneath your feet. At least the goblin's ability to comically understate the obvious was still intact.
The fact there was some sort of settlement on the Isle of Gringotts issue in the works was definitely a big change; huge from the goblin point of view, though what it would mean was anyone's guess. The more curious and unexpected part was the G. in front of Barchoke's name. He rarely ever used his title in their notes or conversation but 'O. Barchoke' had been seen before. 'G.O. Barchoke' was something he'd honestly never thought would happen, or if it did he'd never live to see it.
'Well, congrats to him on the promotion,' Lichfield thought, raising the last bit of his apple bread in salute before gobbling it up and washing it down with the remains of his apple juice.
As soon as he set the cup down it was whisked away and a smiling house-elf stood before him.
"Does Mister Lichy want some more?" the excitable Mipsy asked.
"No, thank you," he said with a smile. "It was very good but I think I'm appled out for today."
Mipsy went on her way without another word. The changes in the last few weeks had definitely seemed to improve things with her, though now being over-stuffed at meals was starting to become a minor concern. The last thing he ever expected to do was to die fat, but now it seemed a distinct possibility.
Still, with Barchoke getting bumped upstairs he was left in a rather odd position. He was now the trusted human adviser to the most powerful goblin in the country at a time when the divide between them and the Ministry was frayed to say the least. The divide might be coming back together for all he knew but the last thing he needed was the Ministry attaching any ill feelings to him simply because of where he worked and who he worked with; that wouldn't be doing the kid any favors.
He wearily scrubbed a hand over his face before rooting through his open briefcase for a scrap of parchment to write on. Strange to think his first act in such an important and powerful position would be to tell the leader of an entire people that he couldn't help him at the moment, but it's exactly what he had to do. Lester supposed it was a good thing he hadn't been put in Slytherin after all because just the thought of doing this probably would've had him die of a heart attack.
'Besides,' he thought as he scratched out his short reply. 'It sounds like he's got everything well in hand anyway.'
Folding it up, Lester went over to the back window in his apartment, opened it, and gave a sharp whistle. Soon after, a white-faced, mottled-brown barn owl landed. As much as he would've preferred to use Mipsy to run messages back and forth to give her things to do, rather than give the goblins any reason to be mean to her he'd decided to buy the services of an old post owl instead. The problem with those were you could never tell what kind of owl you were getting until it was too late and this one had the habit of turning its head completely upside down and staring at him.
"Quit it," he said with a poke as the owl looked downwaysup at him. "That's damn creepy."
As he tied the note to its leg he briefly considered taking the damn thing back to where he got it. It'd probably been as cheap as it was though because no one else would take it and they wanted to get rid of it. In the end he just gave the no-named bird another poke and shooed it away. With a low groan he settled back into his chair to look over everything he'd compiled for the kid's case again.
Now that they'd spoken to Madam Bones the suit would be privy to more and more people within the Ministry, meaning a leak to the Prophet was bound to happen in days. Hopefully by the time word got around to Rita Skeeter he'd have a way of framing the issue so Dumbledore loomed large enough that full responsibility stayed focused on him for leaving the boy at the Dursley's. The problem was that conditions there had been even worse than he'd known. If the old man tried to act surprised, people might–
Another owl landed on the windowsill and cried out, interrupting his thoughts. Mipsy was there in a flash before he could even let out a frustrated cry of his own. Before he knew it the bird had flown away again and he was reading another piece of disconcerting mail.
'I know where he lives. Three Broomsticks, one hour. You're finally paying up. Rita.'
"Ah crap," Lester said as he pushed himself up and gathered all of his things and threw them into his briefcase. How long did it take for this thing to get here? He was probably already late. The last thing he needed was to be on the foul woman's bad side because he had no intention of taking the blame for what'd happened to the kid.
"Mipsy!" he called.
.o0O0o.
Things had gotten a lot quieter for her since the rumor-filled day and the long, slumberous night at Hogwarts. For one, Mad-eye's office now sat vacant and no matter how often you slacked off in your cubical you didn't have to fear the thunk! of his wooden leg coming up behind you to chew you out. For another, – and she knew she shouldn't think of it this way but… – she never got to go outside and play anymore since most of her training was confined to reading books of procedures dating back to before the war.
Still, things could've been worse. Word around the Auror Office was the goblins had wanted Jameson to be handed over to them for what he'd done and it was only Madam Bones who kept it from happening. That hadn't kept Scrimgeour from reading him the riot act for putting everyone in the alley at risk though or from threatening to run him out of the program entirely. As it was they were under strict orders not to discuss what happened at Diagon Alley with anyone and not to mention any internal matters with outsiders.
It all made for a very quiet, cautious, and oppressive-feeling work environment. Things had gotten so bad that no one was quite sure what had happened to Jameson. Some said that he had cracked up and had to be put into a long-term ward at Saint Mungo's. Others said he had tried to off himself, but all of his stuff was still here, which spoke against the 'he quit' and 'thrown out' theories too. Personally, she was of the opinion it was more along the lines of being sent home and told to stand in the corner and think about what you'd done more than anything else.
The blonde buffoon may have been irritating to no end but that didn't mean she wanted anything bad to happen to him. It was almost enough to make her reconsider going out with him, at least once for pity's sake. Almost, but not quite.
After all, if he really was in such a fragile state she didn't want to be responsible for keeping it up. It felt like a shallow thing to do but if the only options were a lifetime spent bending over backwards to constantly reassure an emotionally damaged person you weren't really into that you'd never leave them, maintaining your distance by not becoming involved, or feeling responsible if things didn't work out and they ended up offing themselves, what choice did you really have?
She tried to focus enough to read another line out of the Big Book of Boring Boringness but it was no use. Things had changed so much that she didn't even recognize the world it described in its pages so it was like suffering through History of Magic all over again. There were no constables, fly-by-night patrols, or any other whochadosits, so what's the point of knowing about them? It wasn't like they were going to suddenly pop back into being overnight; it'd take years to train up enough people run it, and even then it'd be horribly out of date.
If they didn't want her to get any dueling practice anymore then maybe she could just close her eyes and–
"Nymphadora Tonks!" a woman cried out, making her jump in her seat and look around for where her mother was.
She breathed a little easier when she realized the voice was all wrong for her mother though. Plus, it was both too far away and far too near because there was no way her mother would be in here in the first place. She tried to put thoughts of Jameson aside and get a hold of herself; those days were safely behind her.
'There's no need to pretend to be plain, boring Dora Tonks anymore,' she told herself. 'Not all attention from girls is negative.'
As she put her head above the walls of the cubical though she saw the one thing she'd hoped she wouldn't see. Department Head Amelia Bones was looking across the room and right at her, and she did not look happy. The reputedly harsh taskmistress crooked a finger at her and Tonks felt all the color drain out of her hair and face.
'Ah crap,' she thought as she made her way to the older woman in zombielike fashion. 'What did I do? I haven't done anything. Why am I getting in trouble?'
Professor Sprout had never been the kind of Head of House to dress someone down the way Professor McGonagall did in class but she'd always thought the woman's weapon was worse. Sprout would be your champion all day long and encourage you to do your best, which made you feel so horrible for disappointing her when you inevitably got into trouble that she never had to say anything at all. You ended up setting yourself a punishment more severe than what she'd give you but you knew you deserved every second of it.
Madam Bones singling her out made her feel like she was being called into the office by the sitting professor, her Head of House, the Deputy Headmistress, and the Headmaster all rolled into one but the last thing she needed was to start inventing things to be sorry over just because she didn't know what she'd done. Heads of other people peeked above their cubicle walls, the looks on their faces clearly communicating they wondered what she'd done too. It would've been the first time any of them had seen "Pinkie" Tonks with mousy brown hair but she probably couldn't get it to change now if her life depended on it.
The feeling of being in trouble didn't get any better when Madam Bones led her to Mad-Eye's old office and Scrimgeour was there. Now she was going to have images of Mad-Eye standing behind them both and scowling at her to contend with too. Knowing the old Auror's fondness for invisibility cloaks though she couldn't rule out the possibility he was secretly there wanting to yell at her too but unwilling to break his cover.
The door was barely closed before they started in on her.
"Do we have to remind you who you work for, Miss Tonks?" Madam Bones asked nostrils flared with anger that was tightly under control.
"Er– no ma'am," she answered.
"Then how is it I was left to go into a meeting with a child with an enormous future ahead of him," she asked, gesturing as if the boy was sitting on the other side of the door, "and who's influenced this country almost since the day he was born, only to discover what a horrible life he's truly had, with no warning at all? And worse, to then find that one of my trainee officers knew about it and said nothing?"
What her boss was talking about hit her like a lead weight and Tonks knew what she had to do.
"It was Mad-Eye's doing!" she said defensively. "Him and that friend of his. I didn't even know why I was there until he said the man really was a bailiff – as if that's supposed to excuse him from kidnapping an old woman earlier – and I'm not even sure if that was the real reason I was there and not some kind of one-upmanship between them."
"And you think that makes it any better?" Scrimgeour asked, clasping his hands in front of him as he leaned slightly against the desk. "There doesn't seem to be reports on any of it. Care to explain how that could be? I've never known Alastor to let anyone get away with being so lax but I can't deny the evidence when it's right in front of my face."
"Mad-Eye probably sat on it like the old man wanted us to sit on the kid's relatives," Tonks said wondering how many times she'd have to give that excuse and whether it would work at all. "He said he'd take care of it because it wasn't something that happens every day. I wouldn't even know where to start looking for how all that bailiff stuff is supposed to work."
"So you're making good progress and taking the new reading assignment seriously, I take it?" the lion-like man asked with an arched eyebrow saying she'd been caught in something she'd never seen coming.
'Wait, was there bailiff stuff in that useless rigmarole?' she asked herself as she tried to remember anything the hardback pillow said.
"Well, if she's looking for an education in 'all that bailiff stuff' then she's in luck," Bones said waspishly. "This Lichfield fellow made it clear his position is only temporary. Since she's shown more loyalty to the Potter boy than the Ministry, she can go find a job with them. I have it on good authority that once the suit against Dumbledore is over they'll need someone to sort through the boy's fan mail."
"That counts her out then," Scrimgeour interjected. "It'd require a penchant for paperwork."
"You can't throw me out for this," Tonks almost pleaded, unable to believe that this was happening.
"Have you any idea what'll happen when the Prophet finds out about this?" Bones asked. "We're talking about a very serious and politically sensitive issue you helped 'sit on.' Is there any reason why we shouldn't throw you out?"
"Because I'm good," Tonks said heatedly. "Kingsley's said it, Mad-Eye's said it. I've thrown Jameson around the dueling ring so often I'm surprised he hasn't left a permanent mark on the floor, and he's been here two years. There's even a rumor going around I'm an ex-Hit Wizard or something; no one believes I'm just out of Hogwarts. You put me up against anyone and even if I don't beat them, they'll definitely need a mediwizard," she said staring at Madam Bones defiantly, eager to give the witch a taste of her own medicine.
"Well, that's a reason but not necessarily a good one," Scrimgeour said as Madam Bones put in her monocle and looked at her oddly. "This country's no stranger to power-hungry madmen without us training another. You're here to protect and serve the people, not to go around imposing your own kind of order on them. And it's not enough to know how to use force," he continued, leading Tonks to wonder if this was lecture time. "Knowing when to use it is just as important – maybe even more so. And that's a lesson you're going to have to learn if we let you stay."
She set her face stubbornly. They weren't going to force her out without a fight.
"I think I have just the way to do that," Madam Bones said with a smile. "If there's anyone that's sure to be a pain to protect and a chore not to choke it'd be the boy's muggle relatives, and since you already know where they live..."
Tonks swallowed any complaints she had and said, "I can do it."
"A good rule to live by," Scrimgeour said, "is when in doubt, call for help."
.o0O0o.
The door was barely closed before she spoke.
"Do you think it's a mistake, keeping her at a time like this?" she asked Rufus.
"Any mistakes she's made aren't faults on her part," he said with a shake of his tawny mane of hair. "It's ours for letting this apprenticeship-like training continue for so long. It made sense during the war when we needed to throw everyone into the field as fast as we could but now, rather than picking up all the Senior Aurors' survival techniques they're picking up our worst faults."
"Diagon Alley showed what that does when combined with youth," Amelia said with a nod. "It doesn't seem fair to keep her on when we're not sure what we want from our officers anymore, much less out of our recruits and trainees. I can't deny the benefits of having a metamorphmagus though and if we cut her loose until we know what we're doing, Merlin knows if we'd ever get her to come back."
"At least she fought for it, which is more than Jameson did," he replied. "He just meekly tucked his tail between his legs and slunk away. Didn't expect her to morph into you when talking about dueling people, though the pink spiky hair was a nice touch. You think we could get her to have more conscious control over that? She'd soar through Stealth and Tracking if she got it under control."
"I'd prefer if she not practice with me, if it's all the same to you," she said dryly. "The rest I leave to you; I had quite an eyeful already. Jameson officially left then?"
"Not officially, no," Rufus with another shake of his head. "I've given him an extended leave so he can clear his head, evaluate what he wants, and be far enough away from here not to be savaged by some sanctimonious bureaucrat or visiting goblin once things get back to normal. I think he's more likely to leave though to be honest.
"I've kept his things as they were, in case he makes the right call," the man went on to say. "Since the motivation for his mistake was concern for his family and the safety of Hogsmeade, I'd thought to steer his training towards reestablishing a local Constabulary there. We've got to shake the blind obedience to authority out of him first though because Alastor was right, we need people to start thinking on their own again. It's a far better option than turning them into a military force."
"A new, standardized way of training them en masse is what we need," Amelia added. "Including a fully fleshed out listing of what the duties and responsibilities are, maybe even requiring a full scale change in Defense education going back all the way to first year at Hogwarts. It would take years to figure out even without all the problems the school's had finding qualified professors, to say nothing of keeping them."
"Whatever those new roles turn out to be," Rufus said sagely, "the new people coming in, whenever we finally take them, will need leaders to look up to who've already filled those roles. Ones closer to their age will make them feel like they're part of something new rather than a bunch of old timers like the rest of us. Alastor saw something in her, and her combat training was going well, as were the reports on her as a field agent, so Tonks could be that. Jameson too, if he comes around."
She nodded thoughtfully. As much as she'd like for everything to be resolved right then it was impossible to change the entire culture of law enforcement overnight, even when they recognized the need to change. When it came to rebuilding a tumbled down house though, correcting the foundation and having two solid bricks on hand was better than a muddled mess of miscellany any day of the week. Once the appropriate processes were figured out and put into place, all they required would be time, a lot of time, so the only thing to do was to get started.
"So how's Alastor taking to his non-retirement retirement?" she asked, hoping to end on a more positive note.
"I asked but he said it's better if I don't ask," Rufus said with an odd look on his face. "He said very strange things tend to happen when you try to get an Unspeakable to speak about the Unspeakable, so I decided to drop it. He looked ready to murder someone though, and I honestly can't say if it's a good sign or a bad one, so I guess we'll have to wait and see."
.o0O0o.
AN: The bit with Tonks and the need to reform the DMLE is something I hadn't foreseen dealing with and is an outgrowth of a response to badkidoh's review on Chapter 25, so yes, your reviews can help shape the story in unexpected ways. That said, certain subjects which went along with the idea of police reform was in no way intended to be a commentary on any modern real-world movements or any other thoughts on the matter. They were simply issues which had to be addressed in the story if I'm going to show the situations I'm depicting in a realistic manner.
As always, thanks for reading.