Chapter 26 - We'll Get It Done
"Is this even a good place to hide?"
"Of course it is." came the reply.
"How did you even find this?" Remus said sceptically into the mirror in his pocket, looking around, "this is too dodgy to be really something you'd be travelling around on an evening walk with Harry."
"Someone told me," Sirius pointed out, "and you're right about the dodgy bit, that's what makes it perfect."
"This is a terrible idea, Padfoot," Remus said.
"No, Moony," Sirius replied, "This is a brilliant idea, and a brilliant time and place to do it too."
"You mean in the middle of the city?"
Sirius chuckled. "Not quite, in the middle of the city where they won't be recognized quite so easily."
"Are you sure Harry needs to be involved in this?" Remus asked instead, knowing it was too late to actually do something about this insane plan. If it even ended up working.
He could almost hear Padfoot rolling his eyes on the other end. "He's better at handling these things than you'd think, Moony."
"Alright," he said reluctantly, and then his eyes widened, "Wait, they're moving."
"From the shop?"
"Yes! They're—"
"I'm on my way!"
But Remus didn't listen because he was busy following the father-daughter duo they had their eyes on.
Cyril Rosier stepped out of Le Temps Magique, adjusting his expensive dragon-hide gloves. His daughter, Cerise, followed a step behind, looking a mix of curious and bored as they followed what Remus thought was not an unusual path for them.
Remus slipped into the flow of the crowd, pulling his collar up. He kept a safe distance, using the reflection in shop windows to track them. They turned left, heading away from the main thoroughfare and towards a quieter, narrower street lined with older buildings.
"Where are they going?" Sirius's voice buzzed from Remus's pocket.
"Heading towards Rue des Ombres," Remus whispered, pretending to examine a display of self-cleaning cauldrons. "It's a dead end. Unless they're visiting the antique bookshop there."
"Or the Apparition point behind it," Sirius corrected. "They're leaving. Moony, you have to stall them."
"Stall them? How?" he said with incredulity, "Ask for the time?"
"Just improvise! I'm two streets away. Harry's with me. We just finished with the shack."
Remus grimaced. "This is a terrible plan."
"It's a brilliant plan! Just stop them! Get it done!"
Remus picked up his pace. The street was emptying out. The Rosier duo were walking briskly now. They were fifty yards from the apparation point, a secluded archway at the end of the lane.
"Sirius, I can't just—"
"Hey! Watch it!"
Remus blinked. Ahead of him, a small figure had just barrelled out of a side alley and collided directly with Cyril Rosier.
"Oof!"
The impact sent the man stumbling back. He tripped over his own daughter, and both Rosiers went down in a heap of expensive silk robes and indignant shouts.
"What is the meaning of this?" Cyril roared, scrambling to his feet.
The small figure lay on the ground, groaning. It was a boy with messy black hair and glasses askew.
"Harry?" Remus breathed, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Harry!" Sirius's voice spoke from the mirror, "He said he'll go create a distraction—"
"And you let him!? Sirius what the fuck!"
"—I didn't realize he'd tackle them!"
Cyril Rosier was dusting himself off, his face purple with rage. He looked down at Harry, raising his cane. "You little hooligan! Do you have any idea—"
"Imperio."
The word was spoken calmly, almost casually, from the shadows of the alley Harry had emerged from.
The angry Frenchman froze. The rage vanished from his face, replaced by a blank, dreamy expression. He lowered his cane slowly.
Sirius stepped out of the shadows, wand raised, a reckless grin on his face.
"Dad?" Cerise Rosier was meanwhile scrambling up, looking from her father to Sirius. Her eyes narrowed, her hand reaching for her wand.
"Imperio," Remus cast, stepping forward quickly. He hated using the Unforgivable, but he couldn't let the girl raise the alarm.
Cerise's hand dropped. Her expression went slack.
Remus let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He turned to Sirius, his eyes blazing.
"Are you out of your mind?" he hissed, striding over. "You used Harry as a battering ram! He could have been hurt! And using Unforgivables in the middle of the street—"
"It worked, didn't it?" Sirius said, helping Harry up. "You alright, pup?"
"Fine," Harry said, dusting off his knees. He looked unbothered. "He's softer than he looks."
"See?" Sirius grinned at Remus. "He's fine. Now let's get them to the—"
"NON!"
The shout came from behind them.
Remus spun around. Cyril Rosier's eyes were suddenly clear and quite furious as he shook his head once and then twice, like he was shaking off the curse.
He whipped his wand out faster than Remus would have given him credit for.
A jet of red light shot towards Sirius and he ducked, the spell shattering a window behind him.
"Bloody hell!" Sirius shouted. "He threw it off!"
Passersby at the end of the street stopped and stared. A woman screamed.
"We've been seen!" Remus yelled, shielding Harry as a curse flew wide.
"Imperio!" Sirius hissed again, putting more power into it this time.
Cyril's wand arm wavered. He fought it the invisible curse, his face contorted in concentration, sweat beading on his brow.
"Damn it, just stun him!" Remus whispered in half-panic.
"Can't carry him, will attract attention!" Sirius grunted, focusing his will. "Obey me."
"—and this won't? What are you even—"
Cyril's resistance crumpled. His arm dropped as he stood panting, his eyes glazing over once more.
"Right," Sirius gasped, looking around at the gathering crowd. "Show's over! Nothing to see here! Just a… family dispute! Move along!"
He grabbed Cyril by the arm. "Walk. To the shack. Act normal."
Remus grabbed Cerise, who was still under his control. "Harry, stay close."
They hurried down the side alley, away from the prying eyes, guiding their captives towards the abandoned shack Sirius had prepared.
"That," Remus hissed as they bundled the Rosiers inside and slammed the door, "was the sloppiest extraction in the history of kidnapping."
"We got them, didn't we?" Sirius panted, leaning against the door. "Besides, it's not really a kidnapping, is it?"
~~ .
Twenty Minutes Later
Remus stood nervously near the pristine steps of the Gringotts branch in Toulouse. He checked his pocket watch for the tenth time.
"Stop fidgeting, Moony," Sirius whispered from beside him. They were both disillusioned, leaning against a pillar. "You'll give us away."
"This is madness," Remus muttered. "We sent them in alone. Under the Imperius, no less. What if it wears off? What if the Goblins notice?"
"They won't," Sirius said confidently. "I gave Cyril very specific instructions. Nothing's gonna go wrong."
Remus rolled his eyes. "Or everything will."
"It won't," Sirius said confidently, "There is literally no room for error."
A small chuckle came from nearby, making Remus shake his head. Both the godson and godfather were somehow ridiculously alike in their stubbornness and absolutely mad risk tolerance and sheer recklessness.
"Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?" Remus sighed again. He'd been doing that a lot these past few days.
Harry was sitting on a bench nearby, eating a chocolate croissant, looking entirely too calm for a boy involved in a high-stakes pseudo-kidnapping cum Imperius heist. His small grin did give him away though.
"Anytime now, Sirius?" Harry said quietly.
Sirius nodded, flashing him a grin as they looked at the scores at the scores of people both entering and leaving the bank.
"Yep, aaaaanytime now," murmured the Padfooted one, his dark eyes rooted to the bank's entrance where a string of Goblin guards stood, acting as the usual security personnel.
"Should we even be seen here?" Remus said with concern, "We could wait for the news from home too."
"This place will be crawling with reporters, won't it?" Harry whispered.
"But that won't be nearly as fun as—"
The sudden blaring of alarms made them all stop in their tracks as they straightened, or in Harry's case, stood up from the bench.
It was an extremely high-pitched, wailing siren coming from the bank that made the passersby cover their ears and a small crowd to begin to gather near the white marble steps, which were now suddenly deserted.
"Look, the guards are going in!" Sirius pointed out.
"Well, that's a success," Harry said, a gleam of satisfaction in his avada-green irises.
"Indeed," Remus breathed, just as nearly a dozen Goblins, and not just any goblins, but Goblin warriors wearing plates of armour and long, threatening spears began to spill out of the bank.
"We should go."
Remus looked at his childhood friend with a stinky eye. "That's the first time I've heard you speak sense in days."
Sirius scoffed while Harry looked like he was hiding a grin.
The terrible influence of a godfather turned to his godson and wagged his finger at Remus. "You see it Harry? This is exactly how he's always behaved when your father and I used to plan some elaborate pranks!"
"Elaborate, you say?" Remus scoffed in return, "Ridiculousmore like. And this is not just a prank, Padfoot."
"I know," Sirius replied, "it's the beginning of our giant fuck you to the wizarding world."
Harry laughed heartily as they slipped away from the scene of the pandemonium.
~~ .
Daphne Greengrass was worried.
Not because she didn't know what was happening. No, that was quite normal, and she usually got a gist of anything significant from her father anyway.
No, this time, worry clawed at her spine because her father hadn't been home for two nights now.
The manor felt unusually large and silent without his quiet, reassuring presence. Even the portraits seemed to hold their breath.
Daphne paced the length of the drawing room, her silk slippers making no sound on the plush carpet.
Every creak of the house made her jump. She had tried to distract herself with textbooks, then with a novel, but the words swam before her eyes. Astoria, usually a ball of energy, was sitting quietly on the sofa, hugging a cushion and watching Daphne with wide, fearful eyes.
"He's fine, Tori," Daphne said, forcing a calm she didn't feel into her voice. "He's just… busy. Ministry business."
"He promised to read to me," Astoria whispered, her voice small. "Two nights ago."
Daphne's heart clenched. "I know. I'll read to you tonight. Come on, it's late."
She extended a hand, but Astoria shook her head stubbornly. "I'm waiting. He'll come."
"Tori, please—"
Just then, the heavy oak front door groaned open. A gust of cold night air swept through the hall, extinguishing a few of the floating candles.
She spun around, her wand dropping into her hand instantly.
Her father stepped into the light. He looked exhausted. His usually immaculate robes were rumpled, his hair windblown, and there were deep, dark circles under his eyes.
But he was alive. He was whole.
"Father!"
She didn't care about decorum. She rushed forward, Astoria scrambling off the sofa to follow her. But Daphne reached him first, her eyes scanning him frantically for any sign of injury like blood, a limp, the tremors of the Cruciatus or anything.
She'd known enough of the horrors of the war from her parents to imagine the worst.
"I'm fine, Daphne. I'm fine," he said, his voice rough with fatigue but warm. He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. "Just exhausted."
He looked down as Astoria crashed into his legs, wrapping her small arms around his waist. He let out a soft sigh and rested a hand on her head.
"I'm sorry I'm late, little star."
He led them into the drawing room and sank onto the sofa, pulling both girls down beside him. He didn't let go of them, his arms forming a protective shield around their shoulders.
Daphne leaned into his side. "Where were you? We were… we thought…"
"I know," Cyrus said quietly. He looked at Daphne, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something terrifying in his eyes, not fear, but the grim resolution of a man who has just made a very dangerous bet.
"We're okay," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "We're safe. But listen to me carefully, girls."
He looked from Daphne to Astoria, his expression solemn.
"Tomorrow is going to be a very, very bad day for our country. Our world is going to change. A lot of people will be angry and scared."
Daphne felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft. "Father… what did you do? What is happening?"
He just offered her a small, tired, but strangely triumphant smile.
"A storm of uncertainty is about to come over. You'll see it soon. But we'll be okay, my sweet, I promise."
"Are we going somewhere, father?" Astoria asked.
He shook his head. "If we do, we'll miss the celebration, won't we? No, we'll be right here, safe, enjoying the chaos."
"The papers have said nothing," Daphne observed. "Are they shielding the people who are in the know?"
"No, not this time, my sweet," he answered thoughtfully, his eyes wandering towards the windows, "This time, they don't know."
"Malfoy is involved?"
"Sharp," he praised her, "and of course. He's always in the midst of things like these. We'll know soon if he had the foresight to prepare. For now, though," he sighed, "let me go and lay your mother's mind at rest too. She must be quite worried."
Daphne rose with her sister to take the stairs to their bedroom. "Goodnight, father."
He kissed their foreheads and murmured the same as he trudged away, knowing that he was gonna have a drink in his office before going to bed.
She took Tori to tuck her in for the night, knowing that she'll have more questions for her as she prepared to sleep.
She wasn't wrong.
"Where was he, Daph?" Astoria asked the moment her head hit the pillow. She pulled the duvet up to her chin, her large eyes wide and searching in the dim light of the enchanted candle. "He's never gone this long without telling us."
Daphne smoothed the covers, forcing a calm smile she didn't quite feel. "He was just busy, Tori. We do have businesses to run and it's all very complicated. Sometimes those meetings run late. You needn't be worried."
"They run late, but two days?" Astoria pressed, not buying it for a second. "Was he in trouble? Was it… was it the bad people?"
"No," Daphne said firmly, perhaps a little too quickly. "Father knows how to handle himself. He wasn't in trouble. He was just working hard to make sure everything stays safe for us."
"Promise?"
"I promise." Daphne leaned down and kissed her sister's forehead. "Now, that's enough questions for one night. You need your sleep."
"But I'm not tired!" Astoria protested, sitting up slightly. "Can you stay? Just for a bit?"
Daphne sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. She wanted nothing more than to retreat to her own room and process the knot of anxiety that had been tight in her chest for forty-eight hours.
"Tori, it's late…"
"Please?" Astoria unleashed the full power of her puppy-dog eyes, widening them and letting her bottom lip tremble just a fraction. It was a weapon of mass destruction, and she knew exactly how to wield it. "Just one story? Please, Daph?"
Daphne groaned, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. "You are impossible."
"But you love me."
"Debatable," Daphne muttered, but she sat down on the edge of the bed anyway. "Fine. One story. Which one? 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune'?"
Astoria shook her head vigorously and pointed to the bedside table. There, resting on top of a stack of parchment, was a brightly coloured, rather battered paperback.
"That one," she said eagerly. "Harry Potter and the Goblin King's Gold."
Daphne grimaced, picking up the book as if it were contaminated. The cover depicted a cartoonish boy with a lightning scar riding a mine cart filled with gold, looking nothing like the cold, calculating boy she sometimes thought about.
Why did she think about him, though? She had no idea, only that Tori's bad habits had made her wonder about the subject of a boy her age who had been heralded to be the saviour of not only her country but the entire continent.
She was naturally curious and wondered if he'll be silly and talkative or cold and calculating. Or if he'll be good at magic, or average like everyone else was.
"This drivel again?" she sighed, flipping it open. "Tori, you know this is all made up, right? It's absolute nonsense."
"Just read it!" her sister giggled, snuggling down into her pillows. "You look so grumpy and it's not even that bad!"
"Not bad?! The whole book is just a series of silly bits," Daphne grumbled. She cleared her throat and began to read in a flat, unimpressed monotone. "'Harry Potter raised his wand fearlessly, his emerald eyes flashing. "Halt, foul goblin!" he cried heroically. "You shall not steal the people's gold today!"'"
Astoria dissolved into giggles. "See? You sound like you're eating a lemon."
"He would never say that," Daphne critiqued, lowering the book. "Who even talks like that? 'Foul goblin'? Honestly."
"It's a little silly, but true," Astoria insisted, her eyes shining.
"It is not true," Daphne argued, closing the book with a snap. "Harry Potter is our age, Tori. Ten years old. No child our age is riding mine carts and fighting Goblin Kings. He's probably just a normal boy, somewhere, eating porridge and…I don't know, doing his homework or something."
"Maybe not today," Astoria said softly, her gaze drifting to the window where the moon shone bright. "But one day. One day he'll do big things. I just know it."
Daphne looked at her sister's earnest face and felt her annoyance melt away. She sighed, flipping to a page that looked a little less silly. It was hard but she found it.
"Maybe," she whispered, brushing a stray hair from Astoria's face. "Maybe one day. But for now, sleep."
Chapter 27 - A planned doomsday
November 25, Malfoy Manor
"And the Wizengamot?" Narcissa asked concernedly, "Do you think he has the majority?"
Lucius nodded, leaning back against his comfortable chair, his quill forgotten for the moment. "Our faction is quite eager to vote for Fudge, at last we'll have a Minister who is sympathetic to our cause."
"Indeed," Narcissa murmured, coming to stand beside him. "The mudblood faction has rallied this country for too long and strongly against issues that have no basis in reality."
Her hand found its way into his hair, and he closed his eyes at her soothing touch. Her chest swelled at the small, but tangible indication of how close they both were, regardless of how the world saw them.
"They will surely try their best to get someone like Bones as a candidate," Lucius snarked softly.
"That would not be good for us," she said. "Hopefully your hard work has paid off with the XXX."
"It has indeed," he replied, smiling a little, "except Greengrass' little group, there are no one opposed to our way of thinking, at least on this issue."
"Greengrass didn't entertain the idea?"
He scoffed. "He is weak. A non-believer who hails from the family of an eternal, everlasting curse, and yet, refuses to put his faith where it belongs."
"I have not been able to get Lavinia's ear," Narcissa admitted, "although, at this point, I don't think it'll be long before we know."
"Whether they're both touched by the curse?"
"Yes, we have to think about Draco," she pointed out.
He adopted a thoughtful look at that. "We do, but I do not want to rush it. He seems to be close with Parkinson."
It was Narcissa's time to scoff loudly. "That pug faced girl? She'll be nothing more than a mistress, I can tell you that right now."
Lucius laughed. "I believe you. I wouldn't go as far as to—"
A crack, signifying the arrival of their house elf interrupted their thoughts and they turned to him.
"What is it, elf?" Lucius said.
Dobby wrung his hands into a dirty towel, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Dobby is sorry, Mistress. Dobby tried but the Goblins... are refusing Dobby access to the vaults!"
Lucius raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, the movement sharp in the quiet luxury of the study. He shifted his gaze to his wife, his expression one of mild confusion rather than concern.
"Access? Narcissa, what business did you send him on at this hour?"
"Just a minor withdrawal in the evening," she answered, a flicker of genuine worry marring her smooth forehead. She walked over to the desk, her silk robes whispering against the floor. "Five hundred galleons for our new dress robes I ordered from Twilfitt. They require a deposit by morning if we want them ready for the Yule Gala."
Lucius hummed, turning his cold, grey eyes back to the trembling elf who looked as if he expected to be hexed at any moment.
"And they refused you? Did they give a reason, elf?"
"No, Master," Dobby squeaked, pulling anxiously at his large, bat-like ears until they turned pink. "They just said 'No entry' and shut the big doors in Dobby's face! They is being very rude! Dobby asked if it was a mistake, but the goblins just growled!"
Lucius sneered, his lip curling in distaste. "Arrogant creatures. They get a little autonomy and suddenly they think they can dictate terms to their betters."
He waved his hand dismissively.
"Get out of my sight. Go polish the silver in the dining hall. And do it quietly."
"Yes, Master!"
With a loud crack that echoed in the high-ceilinged room, Dobby vanished.
Lucius swirled the wine in his glass, watching the crimson liquid catch the light of the fire. His expression darkened.
"Incompetence everywhere. First the Ministry, now Gringotts. It seems I shall have to have a word with them."
"Ignore it for now, Lucius," Narcissa said soothingly, placing a hand on his arm. She took the glass from him and set it on the table. "Focus on the Ministry. You have Fudge right where you want him. That is the prize as of now."
She smoothed the lapel of his robes. "I will go to the Alley myself tomorrow. They won't dare refuse me to my face. Whatever game they are playing, they will fold when a witch of proper standing demands entry."
He nodded, relaxing into her touch. "You are right, as always, Cissa."
"And while you are looking into matters," she added, her voice dropping to a lower, more serious register, "I want you to dig a little deeper regarding the Greengrass daughters."
Lucius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Must we? Draco is a year away from Hogwarts. He is a boy, Cissa. He cares for broomsticks and sweets, not betrothals and alliances. Or at least not right now."
"We can wait," Narcissa conceded, walking over to the window to look out at the dark, expansive grounds of the Manor. "But we shouldn't delay."
She turned back to him, the firelight casting long shadows across her face, highlighting the fierce determination in her eyes.
"You know the history as well as I do, Lucius. The Greengrass women… they have always been the most sought-after witches in the country. Beauty, grace, and a bloodline that rivals our own. They are rare creatures."
"Only one of them, though, yes?" he frowned. "The other one will likely be cursed?"
"That is why I'm asking you to find out more and do so soon," Narcissa stepped closer, her voice laced with determination. "If we want the best for Draco, we shall get a headstart. We secure the alliance before the others even realize that the game has begun. If we wait until they are at school, we might be fighting off other families in a stupid posturing game which can have no winners except Cyrus Greengrass."
Lucius looked at her, seeing the steel behind the beauty, the calculating mind of a Black that matched his own Slytherin cunning. He smirked, a look of genuine affection crossing his face.
"Very well," he agreed. "I'll set some things into motion."
~~ .
November 26, Auror Department, Ministry of Magic
The air in the Auror Headquarters was usually thick with the scent of ozone, spilled potions, and the lingering residue of high-energy spells from the duelling chambers, but today, it smelled mostly of stale coffee and aggressive boredom.
Nymphadora Tonks was currently losing a war against gravity and consciousness.
Her chin was propped precariously on a stack of parchment detailing the misuse of aggressive shrinking solutions in Bristol. Her eyes were heavy, her bright pink hair was fading to a dull, sleepy grey, and a small pool of drool was threatening to compromise a witness statement regarding a biting doorknob.
It had been a slow week. The kind of week where the most exciting thing to happen was Scrimgeour shouting at a filing cabinet for a misplaced file.
She let her eyes drift shut, succumbing to the sweet embrace of a midday nap.
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"
The roar was less of a sound and more of a physical assault on her eardrums.
Tonks didn't just wake up, she detonated.
Her arms flailed outward in a panic reflex, her left hand connecting solidly with a heavy brass goblet full of water sitting on the edge of her desk.
The goblet flew.
It sailed through the air with majestic, terrible grace, rotating once before dumping its entire icy contents onto the polished stone floor of the main aisle.
"Wha—?" Tonks gasped, scrambling to stand up, her chair legs screeching against the floor.
But the chaos had only just begun.
Auror Proudfoot, walking by with a stack of files in his hands and a look of self-importance on his face, stepped squarely into the puddle.
His eyes went wide. His feet went up.
"Whoa!"
He windmilled his arms, the files exploding into the air like a flock of startled doves, before he crashed heavily sideways into the desk of Auror Savage.
Savage, who had been leaning back in his chair balancing a quill on his nose, let out a surprised yelp as the impact sent his desk skidding a foot to the left. The jolt knocked his chair off balance, sending him toppling backward into the lap of a startled trainee, who promptly fell over backwards in his own chair, taking a coat rack down with him.
CRASH. THUD. CLATTER.
Silence descended on the bullpen.
Every head turned.
Tonks stood frozen, her hands covering her mouth, her hair cycling rapidly through a spectrum of apologetic colours, red, purple, and a sickly green.
From behind her, a low, grinding sound started. It grew louder, turning into a bark, and then a roar.
Alastor Moody was laughing.
He was leaning on his staff, his magical eye spinning wildly in its socket as he wheezed, his scarred face contorted in mirth.
"I didn't mean to!" Tonks squeaked, looking at the pile of groaning Aurors. "I swear, Moody! It was an accident!"
Moody wiped a tear from his good eye with a gnarled thumb. "I know, lass. I know."
He thumped his staff on the floor, still chuckling. "If you had done that on purpose, with actual tactical intent, you wouldn't have taken out three men. You'd have summoned the Knight Bus into the briefing room and killed us all. Your clumsiness is a weapon of mass destruction that defies the laws of magic."
"That's not funny," Tonks grumbled, her hair settling on a sulky violet. She waved her wand, vanishing the water and helping a glaring Proudfoot to his feet. "Why did you have to shout in my ear like that? I was reviewing evidence!"
"You were drooling on a Section Seven form," Moody corrected, his face hardening instantly. The mirth vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the grim mask of the veteran hunter. "Get your cloak. We're moving."
Tonks blinked, the sudden shift in tone giving her whiplash. "Moving? Where? Is it a raid?"
"Diagon Alley," Moody growled, turning and limping towards the Apparition point at the end of the hall. "There's a disturbance. A big one."
"What kind of disturbance?" Tonks asked, scrambling to grab her dragon-hide jacket and hurrying to catch up with his long strides. "Dark wizards? Smugglers?"
"Don't know," Moody grunted. "Patrol called it in three minutes ago. Said the street is packed. People are angry. And the Goblins… the Goblins are in war gear."
Tonks nearly tripped over her own feet again. "War gear? They haven't worn plate since the rebellions."
"Exactly," Moody said. He grabbed her arm as they reached the designated Apparition zone. "Stay sharp, Tonks. And try not to knock over any buildings while we're there."
He twisted on the spot. Tonks kept her feet steady as she herself felt the familiar squeeze of compression, and the Ministry vanished in a swirl of darkness.
They reappeared in the alleyway behind the Leaky Cauldron with a double crack.
Immediately, the sound hit them.
It wasn't the usual cheerful bustle of shoppers, the hooting of owls, or the cries of street vendors. It was a low, angry roar. The sound of a mob.
"Wands out and stay vigilant," Moody muttered, stepping out onto the main cobbles.
Tonks followed him, and her jaw dropped.
Diagon Alley was unrecognizable.
A sea of witches and wizards, practically hundreds of them, filled the street from storefront to storefront. They were pressing forward, a surging tide of pointed hats and angry faces, all moving towards the white marble colossus of Gringotts Bank at the far end.
But it was the bank itself that made her blood run cold.
The massive double doors of the sky high building, usually open and welcoming, were slammed shut.
And standing on the steps, forming a glittering, impenetrable wall, were two dozen Goblins. They weren't the hunched figures in suits she was used to seeing behind counters. These Goblins stood tall, clad in overlapping plates of gold and steel armour, holding long, wicked spears that glinted in the cool sun.
"Back! Stay back!" one of the Goblins shouted, his voice amplified magically. "By order of Director Ragnok, the bank is closed! No entry! No exceptions!"
"It's my gold!" a wizard in the front row screamed, shaking his fist. "You can't keep me from my gold!"
"Thieves!" a witch shrieked from the side. "They're stealing it! Just like the paper said!"
The crowd surged forward, and the Goblin line braced, spears lowering in unison.
"Merlin's balls," Tonks whispered. "It's a riot."
"Crowd control," Moody barked. "Now!"
He raised his wand and pointed it at the sky.
"PERICULUM!"
A massive blast of red sparks exploded overhead with a sound like a cannon shot.
The crowd flinched, heads ducking instinctively. For a second, silence reigned.
"Aurors!" Moody bellowed, his voice magically magnified to a deafening roar. "Disperse! Step away from the bank! Now!"
He began to limp forward, the crowd parting reluctantly before his terrifying presence.
Tonks followed, her wand held high, scanning faces. She saw fear, she saw panic, but mostly, she saw fury.
"You tell them to open the doors, Moody!" a large man in a butcher's apron shouted, not backing down. "I've got a business to run! I need coin to pay my suppliers!"
"What the hell is going on here, Diggory?" Moody asked, spotting Amos Diggory near the front, looking pale and sweaty.
"They've locked it down, Alastor!" Diggory cried, wringing his hands. "I came to make a withdrawal for Cedric's school fees, and they… they pointed spears at me! They say all accounts are frozen!"
"Frozen?" Tonks asked, stepping up beside Moody. "Why?"
"It's the French!" a witch yelled from the crowd. "Someone hit their branch in France! There's rumours that sombody broke in and robbed them or something! The Goblins are blaming us! They're blaming the Ministry!"
"It's a retaliatory freeze," Moody muttered, his magical eye spinning madly as he scanned the Goblin line. "They're holding the economy hostage."
"We want our money!" the crowd began to chant, the momentary pause broken. "Open the doors! Open the—!"
Someone threw something and it clanged harmlessly off a Goblin's shield, but the reaction was instant.
The Goblins snarled, taking a synchronized step forward, spear-tips glowing with menacing magic.
"Hold!" Moody roared at the Goblins, then spun to the crowd. "Stop throwing things, you idiots! Do you want a war?"
"We want our gold!" someone screamed.
The crowd surged again, harder this time. The Aurors were being pushed back. Tonks felt an elbow in her ribs and stumbled, barely keeping her footing. The pressure was immense. There were too many of them, and they were too angry to care about two Aurors.
"Moody!" Tonks yelled over the din. "We can't hold them! If they rush the steps, the Goblins will slaughter them!"
Moody blasted a Cushioning Charm into the front row to push them back, but it was like trying to hold back the tide with a spoon.
"You're right!" Moody grunted, blasting another warning shot into the air. "This is going to turn into a bloodbath in about thirty seconds. Call it in!"
"Backup?"
"Everything we've got!" Moody roared as a spell flew from the crowd, sizzling past his ear. "Hit the badge! Code Red! We need the whole damn department down here before this street turns fucking red!"
Tonks didn't hesitate. She grabbed the silver badge pinned to her jacket and pressed her wand tip to it.
"Protego!" she hissed urgently, throwing up a shield as an empty firewhiskey bottle smashed at her feet.
She channeled her magic into the badge, sending the distress signal screaming through the magical channel to every available Auror in the Ministry.
The situation was going rapidly out of control and she had no idea what to do. And judging by her old mentor's face who stubbornly refused to retire, she knew he was a bit lost too.
~~ .
A little distance away, seated amidst a cacophony of wizards and witches who were steadily increasing their volume, decaying their tone of discussions and finally, deciding to make their way towards the bright marble steps of the bank, Cyrus Greengrass sipped his firewhiskey with a quiet demeanour as if he had no care about anything in the world.
"Oi Greengrass—aren't you coming?!"
He shook his head. "No, you go on."
The man—Turner, his name was, a Muggleborn that'd been in his year at Hogwarts—looked incredulously at him. He was clutching a leather coin purse so tightly his knuckles were white. "Not worried about your gold, are you?"
"I'm worried, naturally," Cyrus admitted, his voice smooth and unhurried amidst the rising panic. "But I have a feeling it isn't worth going over there. Not today."
"It's the only way to—"
"I know," Greengrass interrupted him gently, giving him a look that was polite but firm, "that it may seem as if it's the only way, but trust me, it'll only be for a week or so before everything evens out."
Turner blinked, his panic arrested for a moment by Cyrus's absolute calm. "How do you know that?"
Cyrus offered a small, coy smile. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him.
"Sit down, Turner. You're making me nervous with all that fidgeting."
Turner hesitated, looking back at the mob pressing against the Auror lines, then at the composed pureblood. The ancient instinct that Greengrass usually knew something others didn't won out. He sat.
"You didn't answer the question," Turner pressed, though he lowered his voice. "How do you know it's just a week? The Goblins look ready for war."
"They are always ready for war," Cyrus corrected. "They just usually lack a good enough excuse. But this? This was bound to happen."
He took a sip of his drink, savouring the burn.
"Bound to happen? Why?"
"Because of what they did to the Potter boy."
Turner frowned, confusion crinkling his brow. "Potter? What's he got to do with a bank run? He's… well, nobody's seen him in years, have they? Dumbledore says he's safe."
"Dumbledore says many things," Cyrus murmured. "But the Goblins… they did something rather foolish a few years back. They got greedy."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.
"Imagine, Turner, a fortune. A vast, ancient fortune. The kind that builds nations. Now imagine the owner is missing, presumed dead, and the guardians are… incapacitated. The Goblins, being Goblins, decided they didn't want that gold gathering dust. So they took it. All of it."
Turner's jaw dropped. "They… they stole Harry Potter'smoney? The Boy-Who-Liv—"
"Seized," Cyrus corrected with a dry smile. "Liquidated. A legal theft, ratified by our very own Ministry. But now… well, it seems the boy, or perhaps someone acting in his interests, has taken exception to that."
"So… this is revenge?" Turner whispered, looking fearfully at the armoured line of Goblins down the street. "Potter is attacking the bank?"
"Not with a wand," Cyrus said, tapping his temple. "With the truth. And a little bit of chaos."
He glanced around the pub, ensuring no prying ears were leaning too close, before continuing.
"You don't read the foreign press, do you, Turner?"
"No," Turner muttered. "Haven't even read ours in a few weeks."
"A pity. You missed a fascinating article in the Athenian Oracle a few weeks back. It detailed the theft quite explicitly. Since then… the Goblins have been twitchy. Paranoid. They know they've been exposed, and when the Goblins get paranoid, they make mistakes."
"What kind of mistakes?"
Cyrus smiled thinly. "The kind that involves an important French family and a sudden, rather aggressive withdrawal."
Turner leaned in, hooked. "Go on."
"It's a whisper, you understand," Cyrus said, his voice dropping to a silken thread. "Only a few of us in the upper circles of the Wizengamot have heard the half tale. But word is, a couple of weeks ago, a very prominent, very, shall we say, historical French family walked into a Gringotts branch."
"In France?"
"Indeed. They demanded a withdrawal. A massive one. Far more than the standard liquidity treaties allow for a single transaction. The Goblins refused, citing the treaties from 1754. The family insisted."
Cyrus paused for effect, watching Turner's eyes widen.
"They insisted with their wands?" Turner guessed.
"Wands were drawn," Cyrus confirmed. "Or so I've heard. And threats were made. And then, something happened. The reports are muddled. Some say the family had a beast with them. Some say they used a curse the Goblins hadn't seen in centuries. But the result was chaos. The branch was compromised. The Goblins panicked."
"Compromised how?"
"I cannot say for certain," Cyrus said smoothly. "But whatever happened in that bank scared the Goblins so badly that they have locked down every branch on the continent. They are terrified that whatever magic was used there… is contagious."
Turner looked pale. "Blimey. A French family? Who? They must be mad to take on Gringotts."
"Or desperate," Cyrus mused. "Or perhaps they were just the distraction."
"Who were they?" Turner asked again. "Sounds important."
"Oh, very important," Cyrus answered, swirling his glass again. "The Rosiers. Old blood and quite a dark, bloodya history. Not the sort of people you say 'no' to without consequences."
He finished his drink and set the glass down with a satisfied clink.
"So you see, Turner," Cyrus said, sitting back and adjusting his cuffs. "This isn't a collapse. It's a standoff. The Goblins are puffing their chests, trying to regain control after being humiliated in France and exposed in Greece. The Ministry will panic, Fudge will bluster, and someone will probably try to buy a solution."
"And you?" Turner asked. "What will you do?"
"Me?" Cyrus smiled, a genuine, sharp expression that reminded Turner why the Greengrass family had survived every war in the last five centuries unscathed. "I shall go home, have dinner with my wife and daughters, and wait."
He stood up, throwing a galleon onto the table.
"The Goblins are greedy, Turner, but they are not suicidal. They cannot keep the economy frozen forever. They will cut a deal. They always do."
He clapped the bewildered Muggleborn on the shoulder.
"Go home. Read a book to your children. Have a drink. By Christmas, the doors will be open, the gold will flow, and this will all be just another bad memory."
And then he buttoned his cloak and stepped out of the pub, turning away from the riot and walking calmly in the opposite direction.
He didn't know exactly what game was being played, or who was moving the pieces with such terrifying precision. But he knew one thing for certain.
The board had been reset. And for the first time in a decade, the outcome was wonderfully, dangerously uncertain.
Chapter 28 - What Happens When Two Minds Collide - Part One
Somewhere In Paris
"The most important thing to remember is that we are completely innocent. Alright Moony?"
"Fuck off Padfoot."
Harry snorted.
"That's the spirit! Let us away!" Sirius whooped as they walking down the path to the French Ministry of Magic.
"Where are you going?" Remus said, not a little irately, which, to Harry's knowledge, only seemed to give Sirius more ammunition to be annoying.
Not that he felt annoying to him. He would always love Sirius' antics because that's exactly what his own inner self felt like. If he could live his life doing pranks on people, he absolutely would, and he wouldn't regret a single minute of it.
It's just that his inner self had to be constrained a little since his ambitions, his long term plans, his vision for himself took the front seat instead of the pranks.
"At least let me see see you off until the gates, Moony," Sirius said, pouting like a child. Remus only shook his head, looking away.
"There are Aurors here," he said, and Harry saw the blue robed individuals patrolling the streets nearby.
"Is this the norm?" Harry asked. "Nothing's out of the ordinary, right?"
"That's what I want to know too, pup," Remus murmured under his breath, the Auror presence a little concerning.
"Goblins aren't being stupid about the whole Rosier thing, are they?" Harry said with a straight face.
"Of course they are!" Remus said with more than a little worry, "The shutdowns are real in every Goblin bank on the continen—oh, you're having me on, aren't you! You cheeky litle—"
Harry laughed, while Sirius simply held his hands up in a high-five.
"You're both mental," Remus said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just be ready."
Harry caught Sirius' wink as he turned to his old friend. "For what?"
"For the contingency if this insanity doesn't work out," Remus said without humour, "Be ready with that infernal motorbike of yours."
"We won't need it, Moony," Sirius said with confidence.
"How do you know? You haven't met Delacour before, have you?"
"I haven't," Sirius admitted with a shrug, leaning against a lamp post that was lazily twisting itself into the shape of a vine. "But I know the type. Men like that don't get to the top by being nice. They get there by being useful."
"He's more than just useful," Harry interjected, his voice taking on that familiar, lecture-hall cadence that made him sound decades older than ten. "Henri Delacour is a pragmatist of the highest order. He secured his first election in June by exposing his predecessor's financial ties to Grindelwald's last campaign of '44, effectively crippling the opposition. He is also married to Apolline, a high-ranking Veela, securing the creature and liberal vote while simultaneously silencing the pureblood critics who would love to claim that he is too 'traditional', but now they can't without looking like a fool. He plays both sides of the board, and he plays to win."
Sirius grinned, pointing a finger at Harry. "Exactly. Ruthless, calculating, and entirely self-interested. Just the sort of man we can do business with."
Remus looked at Harry, impressed despite himself. "You've certainly done your homework, Harry."
Harry adjusted his collar, his expression neutral. "No thanks needed, Moony. Knowing the terrain is the first step to conquering it. Besides," a small, cold smile touched his lips, "it's all for my benefit in the long run. If I'm to be a player, I need to know who else is sitting at the table."
"Right," Remus sighed, the weight of the moment pressing down on him again. He stopped, turning to face them both, his expression hardening. "One last time. The contingency. If this goes south. If Delacour decides that handing over the Boy-Who-Lived to the British Ministry is a better political play than listening to us…"
The playful glint vanished from Sirius's eyes instantly. He straightened, the slouched posture of the prankster replaced by the rigid tension of a coiled viper. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, his grip tight.
"If that happens," Sirius said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal growl that made a passing witch hurry her steps, "then diplomacy is over. You trigger the portkey immediately. Do not wait for explanations. Do not wait for their mood to turn dark. You get Harry out. I will burn the Ministry down if I have to."
Harry looked up at his godfather. He saw the fierce, terrifying protectiveness burning in those grey eyes, knowing that his godson's safety was, at the moment, both his armour and his sword, both his strength and weakness.
Harry internally swore once more to build himself in a way that makes him a source of strength for Sirius, rather than remain a weakness.
"We'll be fine, Padfoot," he said softly. "The plan is solid."
Sirius held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, forcing himself to relax. "I know. I just…" He looked at the imposing gates of the magical district, frustration etching lines around his mouth. "I hate that I can't be there. Standing on the sidelines while you two walk into that unknown building full of stupid bloody wards that may or may not interfere with the portkey, it just goes against every instinct I have"
"The portkey will work, Padfoot," Remus said confidently this time, clapping his friend on the shoulder, "we've tested it quite thoroughly for short distances."
"Yes it will."
"And you're still a wanted man," Remus also reminded him gently. "Your face in there would turn a diplomatic meeting into an international incident before we even opened our mouths. We need you on the outside. You're our cavalry, you know."
"Yeah, yeah," Sirius muttered, scuffing his boot on the cobblestones. "Just… don't have too much fun without me."
With a final, lingering squeeze of Harry's shoulder, he stepped back into the shadows of a side alley, disappearing with the silent grace of a grim.
Remus took a deep breath, straightening his own robes. "Ready, Harry?"
"Always," Harry replied.
They walked towards the entrance of the Ministère des Affaires Magiques. It wasn't a telephone booth or a toilet, but a magnificent, sprawling mural painted onto the side of a historic theatre. It depicted a bustling Parisian street from the 1920s, alive with moving figures and carriages.
As they stepped towards it, the paint seemed to ripple like water. Remus took a step, and his foot sank into the stone wall. Harry followed, the sensation like walking through a cool, refreshing mist.
They emerged not into a dark, underground bunker like the British Ministry, but into a cathedral of light.
The Atrium of the French Ministry was a breathtaking expanse of glass and gold. The ceiling was a massive, enchanted dome that showed the true sky above, currently a brilliant, cloudless blue. Fountains of sparkling water danced in the centre, surrounding statues of some famous French wizards that moved and bowed to the passersby. The air smelled sweet and fresh, and the floor was a mosaic of polished marble that seemed to glow from within.
It was elegant. And it was imposing. It was everything the British Ministry pretended to be but failed to achieve.
Harry walked with his head high, mimicking the stride Sirius had taught him, shoulders back, eyes forward, owning the space he occupied.
"Mon Dieu!"
The gasp came from a witch in elegant lavender robes who had just bustled past them. She stopped dead, her eyes wide as they fixed unerringly on Harry's forehead.
"C'est lui?" she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. "Is it him? The Boy-Who-Lived?"
Remus stiffened slightly, but Harry didn't falter. He stopped and turned to her.
The witch rushed forward, ignoring the stack of files levitating behind her. "Oh, it is! Monsieur Potter! I never thought I would see the day!" She grabbed his hand, shaking it fervently in a broken English accent. "Thank you! Thank you for what you did! You saved us all from the darkness!"
Harry felt a surge of cold annoyance. He hadn't saved anyone; he had been a baby in a crib while his parents fought Voldemort, and did their best to save him.
But he remembered Sirius's lesson: Appearances are a currency, Harry. Spend them wisely.
He forced a small, shy smile onto his face, dipping his head in a humble nod. "You are very kind, Madame. I only did what I had to."
The witch beamed, looking as if she might faint from delight. "So humble! Just like the stories! Bienvenue à Paris!"
She scurried away, undoubtedly to tell everyone she knew within screaming distance.
"You're getting good at that," Remus murmured as they continued walking, a wry smile on his face. "A little too good. James would have preened, and Lily would have hated it."
"It's useful," Harry said simply, his smile vanishing the moment the witch was out of sight. "Trust is easier to gain when people continue to believe that you're a hero, regardless of how you became it."
They were approaching the security desk when a wizard in the distinctive navy-blue robes of the French Aurors stepped into their path. He was young, with a friendly, open face and a neatly trimmed moustache.
"Bonjour," the Auror said pleasantly, though his eyes were sharp as they swept over Remus's slightly shabby appearance. "Can I help you gentlemen? The tourist entrance is actually through the Place Cachée."
"We are not tourists," Remus said, his voice calm and authoritative. "We are here to see Minister Delacour. It is a matter of some urgency."
The Auror's eyebrows rose, a hint of apologetic amusement colouring his expression. "Ah, I see. Well, Monsieur, the Minister is a very busy man. He does not typically see walk-ins without an appointment booked several weeks in advance. Perhaps I could direct you to the Department of International Cooperation's public liaison desk?"
It was a polite dismissal. Harry prepared himself to speak, to perhaps drop a name or two, but before he could, the sound of rapid, clicking heels echoed across the marble floor.
"Auror Bassett! Step aside!"
A witch was coming barrelling towards them.
She was short, stout, and looked as though she had run a marathon in high heels. Her face was flushed, and she was clutching a clipboard to her chest like a shield.
"Madame Bernard?" the Auror asked, looking confused. "I was just explaining the appointment protocols to—"
"Forget the protocols!" she huffed, waving a hand dismissively. She turned to Remus and Harry, her eyes wide and frantic. "Monsieur Lupin? And, Monsieur Potter?"
Remus blinked, surprised by the recognition. "Yes?"
"Thank Circe," she breathed, looking immensely relieved. "Come with me, please. The Minister is expecting you."
As she turned to prod the lift button, Harry looked up at Remus.
Remus looked down at him.
A slow, victorious smirk spread across Harry's face. The article. The rumours. The banking crisis.
The bait had been taken.
Remus returned the look with a grim smile of his own.
"After you, Monsieur Potter," Remus said, his eyes gleaming.
Harry hid his smile and repeated in a perfectly calm tone, "After you, Monsieur Lupin."
They stepped into the lift, the doors sliding shut on the confused Auror's face, rising towards the seat of power in France.
~~ .
The British Ministry of Magic
The Emergency evening session of the Wizengamot was called at such a short notice that most of the members, especially those of the Dumbledore's corner in the Light faction, hadn't even bothered getting appropriately dressed for the occasion.
Elphias Doge was wearing a travelling cloak over what looked suspiciously like flannel pyjamas, and Dedalus Diggle had arrived with his top hat askew and a cup of tea still clutched in his hand. Arthur Weasley didn't even have his dress robes on. The chamber, usually a bastion of solemnity and tradition, looked more like a panicked marketplace. The air was thick with the murmur of three hundred frightened witches and wizards, a sound that rose to a deafening roar as Dumbledore ascended the podium.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Dumbledore slammed the gavel down, the magical amplification making the sound crack like thunder.
"Order!" he bellowed, his voice straining against the din. "I call this emergency session to order!"
"What order, Dumbledore?" a voice sneered from the tiered benches of the Dark faction. Lord Nott stood, his expression twisted in a scowl. "The entire economy has ground to a halt! The Goblins have shut the doors! Where is the order in that?"
"We are here to address precisely that, Lord Nott," Dumbledore said, his face grave. He didn't waste time with pleasantries. "The situation at Gringotts is unprecedented. Director Bones, if you would?"
Amelia Bones stood from her seat near the floor. She looked as though she hadn't slept in two days, her monocle glinting in the torchlight as she surveyed the room.
"Thank you, Chief Warlock," she said, her voice clipped and professional, cutting through the murmurs. "At 14:00 hours yesterday, the Gringotts main branch initiated a total lockdown. All vaults are sealed. All transactions are frozen. My Aurors attempted to approach the doors to open a line of communication."
"And?" shouted a wizard from the mercantile seats, a man named Abbott whose apothecary business relied heavily on daily liquidity.
"And we were met with a phalanx of armed guards," Amelia replied grimly. "They refused to speak. They also refused to acknowledge the Ministry's authority and simply stated that the bank is under internal review and will remain closed until further notice. Any attempt to breach the perimeter will be met with lethal force."
The chamber erupted.
"Lethal force?!"
"They can't do that! It's our gold!"
"This is a declaration of war!"
"My shipments are rotting on the docks in Bristol because I can't pay the release fees!" roared Lord Greengrass's business rival, Mr Patil. "I'm losing hundreds of galleons by the hour! Do something, Dumbledore!"
"I have tried," Dumbledore's voice boomed over the chaos, silencing them momentarily. He looked older than anyone had ever seen him, the lines on his face etched deep by stress. "I personally went to the bank steps not an hour ago. I requested an audience with King Ragnok. I invoked my position as Supreme Mugwump."
"And?" prompted Augusta Longbottom, her vulture hat trembling.
"They would not receive me," Dumbledore admitted, the words heavy. "They ignored my request entirely. It seems my influence does not extend past those golden doors today."
A stunned silence followed, quickly replaced by a wave of angry and fearful shouting.
If Dumbledore, the defeater of Grindelwald, the only wizard Voldemort ever feared, couldn't get a meeting, what hope did any of them have?
"Useless!" someone screamed from the back. "The great leader of the Light, and he can't even get a goblin to open a door!"
"Perhaps," a smooth, drawling voice cut through the panic like a knife, "it is because the Goblins are tired of the old ways. Tired of the old rhetoric."
Lucius Malfoy stood. He was perfectly dressed, immaculate in black silk robes, looking like the only sane man in an asylum. He leaned on his cane, surveying the panicked masses with a look of calm, pitying authority.
"The Goblins are businessmen," Lucius said, his voice carrying effortlessly. "They do not care for moralizing or grand titles. They care for stability. And right now, they see a Ministry that is flailing. They see a Chief Warlock who is more concerned with international treaties than domestic commerce."
"Do you have a better idea, Malfoy?" Doge snapped, bristling.
"I have a practical one," Lucius replied smoothly. He turned, gesturing to the man sitting in one of the Ministry seats.
Cornelius Fudge, at his dictation, sat up straighter, clutching his lime-green bowler hat, looking terrified but determined.
"The Goblins feel threatened," Lucius continued. "They feel that the Ministry is adversarial. Sending Aurors in battle-robes? Sending the Supreme Mugwump to lecture them? It is aggressive, to say the least. We need a different approach. We need negotiation. We need a man who understands cooperation, not conflict."
He held up a red spark with his wand and waved it towards his good old friend, Fudge.
"Cornelius Fudge has spent his career building bridges. He is the Head of the Wizengamot Administration Committee. He is a man of the people, not a warlord. I propose we send him. Not to demand, but to talk. To assure the Goblins that the Ministry respects their sovereignty and wishes only to resolve this, well, misunderstanding."
Murmurs broke out again, but this time they were thoughtful. Fudge? Perhaps, he was unthreatening, amiable even, for the job.
But will it work? Seemed to be the question on everyone's minds.
"I…" Fudge stood, his voice wavering slightly before he cleared his throat, puffing out his chest. "I am willing to go, if this chamber wills it. I have… I have always found that a polite word opens more doors than a hasty curse. I will go to Gringotts and I will speak to them. I will get our gold back."
"He's brave," whispered a witch in the neutral rows. "Going in there alone, with them in war gear?"
"It's better than sending Dumbledore to lecture them again," grumbled a wizard nearby.
Dumbledore watched from the podium, his blue eyes piercing. It was a good thing that neither the public nor the reporters had been allowed for this session.
He sighed then, seeing the trap quite clearly.
Lucius was pulling the strings, positioning his puppet as the saviour of the crisis. But then he looked at the faces of the Wizengamot, all fearful, angry, and desperate for a solution he could not provide.
He had no choice.
"Very well," Dumbledore said, his voice resigned. "If Mr. Fudge is willing to undertake this hazardous duty, the Chair has no objection. Does the chamber support this motion?"
Wands lit up across the room. Not just the Dark faction, but the Neutrals, and even terrified members of the Light who just wanted their vaults opened. It was a sea of light, a unanimous plea for salvation.
"It is decided," Dumbledore ruled. "Mr. Fudge, you have the mandate of the Wizengamot. Go to Gringotts and please, for the sake of our great country and Europe, negotiate a peace."
Fudge nodded, looking grave and important. He shot a glance at Lucius, who gave him a subtle, approving nod.
"I shall not fail you," Fudge declared, and marched out of the chamber, looking for all the world like a hero walking into the dragon's den, unaware that the dragon was already waiting, and it wasn't the Goblins he needed to worry about, not really.
It was the ten year old boy who everyone and their mother had underestimated and forgotten, and done so after hailing him as a hero.
Chapter 29 - What Happens When Two Minds Collide - Part Two
Diagon Alley, Britain
"Dolores, can we really have our wands out when we meet them?" Fudge asked, a little nervously, wiping a bead of sweat from his upper lip with a lime-green handkerchief.
The silence of Diagon Alley was oppressive, the usual roar of the mob had been replaced by a tense, watching stillness as the Ministry delegation approached the white marble steps.
"Ahem," the tall Auror rumbled from behind them. His deep voice was calm, but his hand hovered near his holster. "Madam, it is wise to keep it hidden. Goblins do not like it."
"I don't care what the Goblins do not like," Dolores said with a sniff, her toad-like face set in a mask of haughty disdain. She clutched her stubby wand as if it were a sceptre of authority.
"Madam Umbridge," the Auror retorted with some urgency, stepping closer, "It is important that they do not see your wand. They take it as a sign of aggression. We are here to negotiate, not to start a war."
Fudge held up a trembling hand. "It's okay, Kingsley, she'll keep it inside. Won't you, Dolores? Lucius assured me that they respect strength, but we mustn't be provocative. He said I have a knack for this kind of thing. Diplomacy. Building bridges."
"Oh, alright, Cornelius," she simpered, tucking her wand into her pink cardigan sleeve. "If you think it best. You are the expert, after all. The people are looking to you."
They reached the top of the steps. The bronze doors were shut tight, flanked by a phalanx of Goblins in full plate armour. They did not look like bankers. They looked like the vanguard of a horde.
"H-hello!" Fudge called out, forcing a jovial smile that looked more like a grimace of pain. "I am Cornelius Fudge! Head of the Wizengamot Administration Committee! I come to… to parley!"
The Goblins did not move, their black beady eyes staring unblinkingly.
"Please," Fudge lowered his voice, desperation creeping in. "The economy is bleeding. We just want to talk. Just a quick word with Ragnok? To clear up this dreadful misunderstanding?"
For a long, agonizing minute, nothing happened. Then, with a groan of heavy metal, the bronze doors cracked open just enough to admit a single file of people.
"Enter," a guard barked. "King Ragnok is not meeting anyone."
Fudge let out a breath of relief. "Then who should we speak to?"
They shuffled inside like a clumsy trio.
The vast marble hall of Gringotts, usually a hive of activity, felt like a tomb. The counters were empty. The weighing scales were still. The only sound was the echo of their own footsteps.
In the centre of the floor stood two Goblins. One was old, wearing ornate robes beneath a breastplate, and the other was scarred and holding a double-bladed axe that rested heavily on the stone.
"I am Bludrogt," the older Goblin said, his voice scraping like stone on stone. "Speak your piece. Then leave."
"Now, see here," Fudge began, puffing out his chest. "This lockdown is entirely unnecessary. The Ministry wishes to simply ask what is it that needs to be done to restore normalcy. We respect the sanctity of Gringotts! We simply want the doors open so commerce can flow. Surely, we can come to an arrangement?"
"There is no arrangement with thieves," Bludgrot spat. "The magic does not lie. The blood does not lie. You stole the child's legacy. The bank remains closed until the debt is paid."
"Stole?" Fudge sputtered. "I assure you, everything was legal! Ratified! It was a protective measure!"
"It was theft," the Goblin with the axe growled, stepping forward.
"Now you listen here!" Dolores stepped in front of Fudge, her face flushing an ugly mottled red. "You will not speak to a future Minister of Magic in that tone! You are subjects of the Ministry, living on our land! You will open these vaults, or we will pass a decree that will make the restrictions of 1612 look like a holiday! Everything we ever did was because you notified us with the stewardship obtained from the Potter boy! You filthy little half-breeds should learn how to talk to your betters!"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Kingsley closed his eyes and breathed once, and then twice. "Run."
Bludgrot snarled, revealing pointed, yellow teeth. "Subjects of the Ministry?"
The Goblin with the axe didn't speak. He simply roared and hefted the weapon. From the shadows of the teller counters, a dozen more armoured figures emerged, spears levelled.
"Out!" Bludgrot screamed. "Get out before we paint the floor with your blood!"
"Retreat!" Kingsley shouted, grabbing Fudge by the back of his pinstriped robes and shoving Umbridge toward the sliver of light at the entrance.
They scrambled back, dignity forgotten. Fudge lost his bowler hat as he tripped over his own feet. Umbridge shrieked as a spear tip sparked against the stone inches from her heel.
They practically fell through the bronze doors, landing in a heap on the top step outside as the massive gates slammed shut with a deafening BOOM.
Fudge sat up, gasping for air, his face ashen.
"My goodness," he wheezed, trying to adjust his robes as hoards of eyes turned to them. "They have become insensible! What do we do now?"
~~ .
The Ministry of Magic, Paris
The French Minister for Magic was sitting behind a grand desk made of white, unblemished marble.
And to Harry's annoyance and a little frown, he didn't even stand up to welcome his guests.
He was reading a file, his quill hovering over the parchment, and he let the silence stretch for five full seconds after the door clicked shut behind them.
Sirius had told him that Henri Delacour was a man who wore his power like he wore his impeccably tailored silk robes, with an ease that bordered on negligence.
Harry could tell that he was handsome, in a sharp, aquiline way, with greying temples that only added to his distinguished air.
It was a power move. A classic and petty assertion of dominance.
Remus stiffened beside Harry, but kept his face neutral as they waited for the esteemed Minister to acknowledge them.
Harry suppressed a snort at his stupid power play. When he grew up, he'll eat these men for breakfast.
Finally, Delacour looked up. His eyes were dark and hard, showing none of the warmth that his slightly hyper secretary had displayed.
"Monsieur Lupin," he said, his voice clipped. "And… Monsieur Potter."
He didn't smile. Nor did he offer a hand. He simply gestured vaguely to the two uncomfortable wooden chairs opposite his desk.
"Sit."
Remus sat, his posture rigid. Harry climbed into the chair beside him, folding his hands in his lap, letting his feet dangle slightly to emphasize his size. He kept his face open, curious, and the picture of innocence.
"You are hard men to find," Delacour began, leaning back in his chair. "My Aurors have been turning all major cities upside down for a frantic Englishman and a boy with a scar. And yet, you walk into my Ministry as if you own the place."
"We were difficult to locate for safety reasons, Minister," Remus said diplomatically. "We apologize for the trouble."
"Trouble?" Delacour let out a sharp, humourless laugh. "Trouble is a spilled potion, Monsieur Lupin. Trouble is a minor diplomatic spat. What I have is no less than a catastrophe."
He slammed his hand down on the marble desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"The Gringotts branch in Toulouse is under martial lockdown. The public is panicking, and soon, every other branch on the continent followed suit within days. The magical economy of France has effectively flatlined. Traders are rioting in Marseille. The Goblins are threatening to execute anyone who approaches their doors."
Delacour's eyes narrowed, fixing Remus with a glare that could peel paint.
"And my intelligence tells me that the epicentre of this disaster was a visit paid to the bank by Cyril Rosier. A man who, quite coincidentally, was seen arguing with two Englishmen and a boy just minutes before he entered the bank."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"So, do not speak to me of safety. Speak to me of why I should not arrest you both right now for inciting a banking insurrection and hand you over to the British Ministry as a peace offering."
Remus opened his mouth to speak, likely to offer a reasoned defense or a plea for understanding.
Harry decided it was time.
"Because," Harry said, his voice clear and cutting through the tension like a silver blade, "arresting us won't open the vault doors."
Delacour froze. His gaze snapped from Remus to the ten-year-old boy. He blinked, as if seeing him for the first time. The "shy boy" mask was gone. In its place was a look of cold, analytical boredom.
Harry realized his tone might've thrown the Minister off.
Good.
"Excuse me?" Delacour asked, arching an eyebrow.
He didn't fidget. He didn't look away. He met the Minister's gaze with an intensity that made the older man sit up straighter.
"You can arrest us," He continued calmly. "You can hand us over to Fudge or Bagnold or whichever random moron has decided to occupy the seat of the Minister there. You can even give us to the Goblins. But none of that will fix your economy. In fact, it will ensure that Gringotts remains closed permanently. Because the Goblins aren't striking, Minister. They are terrified."
Delacour stared at him. The silence in the room shifted. It was no longer the silence of a headmaster scolding a student, it was the silence of a chessboard before the first pawn is moved.
"Terrified of what?" Delacour asked slowly.
"Of themselves," Harry said. "Or rather, of their own magic."
He hopped off the chair. He was too short to look Delacour in the eye while sitting, and he refused to look up at anyone while negotiating. He walked to the window, looking out at the panoramic view of magical Paris, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture he had unconsciously copied from Sirius.
"Sirius Black told me you were a pragmatist, Minister," Harry said, turning back to face the room. "So I will be pragmatic. The Rosiers didn't break the bank. I did."
Remus watched Harry, a mixture of pride and anxiety warring in his eyes.
Delacour frowned. "You? You are a child."
"I am the Head of the Noble and Ancient House of Potter," Harry corrected, his voice hardening. "And the Rosiers were merely a delivery system. For me. A blunt instrument I used to deliver a message."
"What message?"
"A vial of blood," Harry said simply.
He walked back to the desk, placing his hands on the cool marble.
"You see, Minister, the British Ministry of Magic, in their infinite wisdom and greed, declared me dead in 1981. They legally liquidated the Potter assets. Gringotts, eager to seize a fortune that had no protector, complied. They altered their central ledgers. They marked the Potter line as 'Extinct.'"
Delacour's eyes widened slightly. As a politician, he understood exactly what that meant. "They stole from you."
"They seized it," Harry corrected with a dry, cynical smile, glancing once at Remus. "But they made a mistake. They forgot that Goblin magic is not based on paper. It is based on blood. On magical intent. On the Ancient magic that underpin their entire institution."
Then he leaned in and subconsciously, Delacour stiffened in his chair.
Harry's eyes gleamed.
"Cyril Rosier walked into that bank with a document, a Treaty from 1792 between our families regarding artifact stewardship. It was obscure, dusty, and gave him the legal right to demand an inspection of the Potter vaults."
It was a lie, of course. The treaty had been a magnificent forgery by Sirius, aged with potions and filled with archaic legalese that would take months to disprove. But to the Goblins, and to Delacour, it was real enough to be the catalyst.
"The Goblins refused him," Harry continued. "Because there was nothing to inspect. They had melted it all down. So, Rosier played the ace I gave him. He smashed a vial of my fresh blood on the counter and invoked the Witness of Life."
Delacour hissed in a sharp breath. "The Protocol of the Living Heir."
"Exactly," Harry nodded. "The bank's wards tasted the blood. They recognized the Potter signature. They recognized that the owner is alive. But the Bank's Ledger, ratified by the British Ministry and the ICW, says the owner is dead."
Harry spread his hands.
"A paradox, Minister. The Goblin Magic has now concluded that the current management of Gringotts is committing treason against a Living Client. Their security system has turned inwards. The Goblins are locked inside by their own magic, Minister. They are being treated as thieves in their own home. And because the ward system is networked..."
"It spread," Delacour whispered, sinking back into his chair. The arrogance was gone, replaced by the horrified realization of the scale of the trap. "It spread to every branch. Their own magic thinks that they are are compromised."
"And they cannot fix it," Harry finished ruthlessly. "They cannot override the Blood magic without the Living Heir present to verify his identity and reset the status. They are helpless."
Harry slipped back into his seat and leant back, folding his arms which he wished were longer and wider.
Looking straight at the Minister who had been too arrogant to stand up to greet him, he delivered the killing blow.
"And so are you."
Silence descended on the office again. But this time, it was heavy with calculation.
Delacour looked at the boy. He looked at the scar. And he realized he had made a severe error in judgment. This was no shy orphan. This was a monster in the making.
Or at least that's what Harry hoped he saw.
"You crashed the European economy," Delacour said slowly, "to prove a point?"
"I crashed it to get my property back," Harry countered. "And to expose the thieves who stole it."
"And the Rosiers?" Delacour asked, his eyes narrowing. "They are your allies?"
Harry scoffed. It was a perfect, dismissive sound. "The Rosiers are useful idiots. They hate the British Ministry. They wanted a chance to embarrass Dumbledore and Bagnold. I gave them a loaded gun, and they pulled the trigger. I have no love for them, and they have no love for me. It was simply a transaction."
Delacour stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a look of grudging, profound respect began to dawn on his face.
He hated the Rosiers. The idea that this boy had used Cyril Rosier as a disposable pawn to blow up the banking system was frankly, delightful.
Harry's face remained blank.
"So," Delacour said, his voice steady. "The Goblins are trapped. My economy is frozen. And you hold the key."
"I am the key," Harry corrected.
"What do you want?"
"I want justice," Harry said. "But not the slow kind. I want my fortune restored. I want the British Ministry to publicly acknowledge their theft. And I want specific legal emancipations granted to me immediately."
"And what do I get?" Delacour asked, the negotiator in him rising to the surface. "Why should I help you, instead of handing you to the British and letting them force you to open the doors?"
Remus shifted in his seat, his hand drifting towards his wand, but Harry didn't flinch.
"Because if you hand me over," Harry said coldly, "I will deny everything. I will refuse to bleed for the Goblins. The lockdown will continue for months. Your economy will collapse. Your rivals will eat you alive."
Harry stepped closer to the desk.
"But if you help me, think of the narrative, Minister."
He framed the air with his hands.
Remus spoke then, clearing his throat to bring the Minister's eyes back upon him. "The British Ministry lost their hero. They stole his gold. They declared him dead. But you, Henri Delacour, you found him. You sheltered him. You negotiated with the Boy-Who-Lived to save the European economy when the British incompetence threatened to destroy it."
Harry gave a nod, and then smiled, and it was a sharp, dangerous thing.
"You get to be the saviour, Minister. You get to humiliate Bagnold and Dumbledore and any others you want in the process. You get to slap sanctions on Britain for gross negligence. And you get the credit for reopening Gringotts. All you have to do is stand with us when the British arrive."
Delacour was silent. His mind was racing, calculating the political fallout. It was risky. It was aggressive.
It was absolutely brilliant.
Meanwhile, Harry simply waited. There was no need to rush.
Delacour indeed looked like someone who liked where this had gone.
It destroyed his enemies, elevated his standing in the ICW, and made France the broker of peace.
A slow smile spread across Henri Delacour's face. He stood up.
"You are," Delacour said, "a very dangerous young man, Monsieur Potter."
"Thank you," Harry replied.
"And your guardian? Remus Lupin, I believe?" Delacour asked, glancing at Remus. "Where does he fit in this?"
"Remus is not my guardian. My godfather—Sirius Black—is my guardian. And he is innocent," Harry stated. "He was imprisoned without a trial. It's just another failure of the British justice system. Part of my price for opening the vaults is a guarantee of asylum and a fair trial under ICW observation for him."
Delacour waved a hand dismissively. "If we pull this off, obtaining a trial for one man will be trivial. The British will be begging for mercy, not making demands."
He walked around the desk and extended his hand to Harry.
"Very well, Monsieur Potter. We have an accord."
Harry took the hand. It was a firm shake. "We do."
"Now," Delacour said, his energy returning, vibrant and commanding. "To business. I have received a frantic communiqué from London. It seems they have sent an envoy to negotiate with the Goblins here, as their own branch is unresponsive."
"Who did they send?" Remus asked.
"Cornelius Fudge," Delacour sneered. "A man with the spine of a jellyfish. He has been sitting in my outer waiting room for the past six hours, demanding to speak to someone in charge."
Harry and Remus exchanged a look. It was even better than they had hoped.
"Perfect," Remus said.
Delacour moved to the fireplace, throwing in a pinch of Floo powder. "Get me the Director of the ICW Press Office. And send in Monsieur Fudge. Tell him the Minister has found a solution to his Goblin problem."
He brushed the ash from his hands and turned back to Harry and Remus, looking at the former with an air of seriousness that he had probably never had to muster when speaking with a mere ten year old.
"I assume you want to be the one to break the news to him?" he said to Harry.
"It would be my pleasure," Harry said, resuming his seat. He adjusted his robes, crossed his legs, and waited.
A moment later, the heavy doors opened.
Cornelius Fudge bustled in, looking harried, sweaty, and clutching his lime-green bowler hat as if it were a lifeline. He was flanked by a woman in a rotten shade of pink and another nervous-looking wizard.
"Minister Delacour!" Fudge exclaimed, rushing forward, completely ignoring the two figures seated in the shadows. "Thank heavens! This situation is intolerable! The Goblins are refusing to speak to me! They attacked me! They have spears! Spears and axes, I tell you! We must—"
"Monsieur Fudge," Delacour interrupted smoothly, his voice cool and amused. "Calm yourself. The situation is under control."
Fudge blinked, wiping his brow with a spotted handkerchief. "Under control? But the banks... the lockdown..."
"Is a misunderstanding," Delacour said. "A matter of, shall we say, identity verification. Fortunately, I have located the source of the confusion."
He gestured to the chair where Harry sat.
Fudge frowned, squinting at the boy. "A child? What does a child have to do with—"
Harry turned his head. The light from the enchanted window caught his face. The messy black hair. The piercing green eyes. And the scar.
Fudge stopped dead. His hat slipped from his nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a soft thump. His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
"Harry?" he wheezed, his voice barely a squeak. "Harry Potter?"
Harry offered him a polite, razor-thin smile.
"Hello, Mr. Fudge," Harry said, his voice calm, pleasant, and utterly terrifying. "I believe you have my money."
Delacour leaned against his marble desk, crossing his arms with a satisfied smirk.
"Take a seat, Cornelius," the French Minister said. "We have much to discuss."