Gringotts stood for order. It was built to resist dragonfire – a potency greater than Fiendfyre – and the massed skills of every English wizard alive. It was a beautiful edifice, white stone of deceptive brilliance, hardened through the secret arts of his people to the point where diamond failed to leave scratches. Arrow slits, disguised by illusions and height, gave a commanding view of all Diagon Alley, plus Vertec Alley and the disreputable Knockturn Alley. Hidden byways revealed themselves to those in power, and the saying Aurum es Pestos rang true: Gold is Power.

His long, clever, fingers tapped a rhythm on the stone balustrade. Public nomenclature called him Wrathdrinker in the custom all goblins that met Outsiders. Behind closed doors, he was simply Osman Halsson, of the renowned Granite Order. It was not as feared as the Obsidian Order, nor as beloved as the Order of Marble, but it was enough for him.

Osman looked down at the populace. Wizards loved sunshine and warmth, expanding along the earth's surface whenever possible. But over the thatch roofs and brick walls rose the higher towers of steel and glass, shut out by glamour and illusion, the realm of those Without. Powerless though the tower-builders were, their very presence drove a shard of terror in every wizard's heart, bringing the mightiest sorcerer to their knees. It was amusing – where would the wizards flee if they caught the attention of such demigods of metal and chrome? Or how vast would the wand waver's vengeance be if the tower-builders thought to penetrate the mystery behind such a colossal waste of valuable real estate?

Footsteps tramped down the hall, bringing Osman's attention back within Gringott's walls. He turned to see Su, member of the Quartz Order coming his way. He grimaced, but rose in the half-bow requisite to greeting those of slightly lower ranks. Seated once more, he gave the younger goblin his full attention. "What is your task, Clerk?"

The other goblin's deep baritone resonated in Osman's chest. "We made another Friend of the People."

"Ach." Osman clutched at his forehead; the practice was unsettling, if necessary to the other's Order. "Muggleborns. Fools the lot of them."

"Half-blood, actually," a wide, mirthless smile spread across his counterpart's visage. "Father was a muggleborn, never had enough courage to face the dangerous creatures in the Temple to Finance."

An eye-roll expressed Osman's opinion of that particular epithet. Not inaccurate, he supposed, but flippant. "Smarter than he looked. Usual rates?"

"Of course, plus ten percent overall." Another smirk crossed Su's face. "He requested we take a tip for good service."

Osman's opinion of the wizarding race fell to a new low. "Idiots. All of them. But, it will grow in time, if he works hard."

"Indeed," they exchanged papers, Su's copies now updated with proper seals and the Senior Account Manager's signature. He gave a low bow. "For the Accounts."

"For the Accounts," Osman returned the salutation, and sat down behind his desk once more. Su departed, a mellow ditty about audits and slashed percentage rates rumbling from his unimpressive chest. It showed the goblin's character, to sing such off-color songs out in the open.

Shaking his head, Osman rose once more. He needed to lift his spirits, deflated by foolish naiveté.

Long hallways stretched along his path, images of the past etched upon their walls. Nearest rested the Ballad of Urg, the most recent Rebellion's mastermind – a true genius. If the wizards had failed to check the fine print on the Final Treaty, it was their own blame fault. Following that mighty strategist's display rose the Tale of the Kin-Slayer, better known amongst his kin as Clover. It was said his mother was terrible at spelling, which led to the ironic fate of the greatest single warrior for a thousand years. Had she bestowed Cleaver as intended, the world might yet retain two more wizarding cities, and a goblin capitol in Ireland.

Osman paused to caress the Helm. There was no other name attached to the object. It wasn't even exceptionally ornamental, save for the basic workmanship. Masters came to view the helmet, spending days touching the metal, feeling the utter lack of welds, listening to the rich sound emanating from the interior when struck. The Helm had been discovered within the remains of what most believed to be Atlantis, made of Goblin Silver, constructed to fit their pointed-ears and longer skulls than wizards could boast. Contracts were etched along its dorsal surface, enumerating the materials spent in its creation, while the ventral surface displayed a mirror-smooth finish. No fingerprint nor talon stayed on that surface, a technique lost to wizarding kind.

Somewhat buoyed by the Helm, Osman continued. He continued apace, looking neither to the left nor the right, until he reached the viewing balcony above the Gallery. Here he stopped, resting upon a comfortable bench, and meditated upon the sight.

To each side stretched more benches, some occupied by the faithful, others waiting patiently. Those sitting on the benches held differing patches on their cuffs, representing the various departments and Orders. But they all shared a similar expression; peace, trust, and a hidden hope.

Below was the Gallery floor. Thousands of desks sat in equidistant points, each occupied by a busy goblin. Half of each desk was covered in parchment, visible from his height as a pale rectangle. Runners sped between the desks on soundless feet, their movements summoned by the occupants. If one knew where to look, one could see samples of every branch within International Gringotts.

Osman could see the Actuary division to one side, running scenarios in complicated arrangements. Tiny projections simulated events at many times the speed of life. With luck, new risks would be discovered – and duly set down for fee appraisal.

Further over he could see a group closer to his heart, the Account Managers section. He'd worked his way up to his current position, but loved to see the floor occupied still. Clocks sat on each desk, tracking the time left in contracts, watching payments flow in and out of the accounts. True to their creed, nothing would be mislaid by goblin hands … but if so much as half of a fraction of a percent became an issue, they would summon the full fury of the Audit Department upon the poor sod's soul.

His eyes widened. A Manager was doing that very thing as he watched. Far below a goblin hammered a fist upon the activation sequencer, summoning the Audit representative. That representative appeared with frightening speed, dark robes and billhook a touch rumpled but invisible to all but the practiced eye.

Activity scurried across the floor, carrying information back and forth with all the skill a goblin could muster. This, was the heart of the local branch, a miniature replica of the International organization. Someday, Osman aspired to see that Great Place, to watch the Accounts balance on the massive hangings while contractors wrestled with oiled limbs and sharpened daggers.

His eyes closed in bliss at the thought.

All too soon, the pangs of responsibility drove him away from the balcony. There were more contracts to observe, and Accounts to manage. If one were to be crass about it, he hoped for a flawed contract, something to give a little more room for interpretation. Increasing the Account's holdings by assassination was no strange thing, so long as the victim was a Wizard, and a Wizard without the helpful Gringotts Insurance Policy. Most wizards held such protection – but not all.

Perhaps he'd be lucky today. Maybe the Contracts would fail to account for the constant shifts in the Wizengamot, highlighting financial destitution for a lucky Family. Repossessing an Ancient home was always entertaining – and might provoke armed conflict. Such a threat to the Accounts would necessitate armed response, driving the price of both military-grade metal up, and transportation costs down. War was profitable that way.

Happiness tempered with resentment filled half of Osman's smile. Such was the fate of his race. To care for the Accounts, to nurture them, help them grow, and sometimes prune the deadwood away. It was all for the Accounts' Greater Good.