The Wide World of Magic

X-X

A/N: I approached this idea recently, though differently, in my Common Sense collection. Now that I'm going to make this a multi-chaptered story, I decided to rework the beginning quite a bit. Enjoy.

X-X

Chapter 1

Harry Potter walked up the steps to Gringotts. It wasn't so very long since he'd flown out of the bank on the back of an Ukrainian Ironbelly. Now he was playing the responsible wizard and coming to clear his actions with the goblins. (He was also severely broke unless he got access to his goblin-controlled vault. So he couldn't claim completely honorable intentions.)

Had Harry possessed much of a choice, he would have put this meeting off.

Goblins scared him more than a little. Which was the point, wasn't it? No one would leave their gold and silver with harmless looking bowtruckles or a pack of tail-wagging crups.

Harry got inside the main hall and almost flinched at the unfriendly looks. They all knew who he was. Did goblins make "Most Wanted" posters?

The ones who didn't glare at him were smiling at them, cruel smiles, lots of sharpened teeth. More than one goblin intentionally picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet and began reading some interior article. So that Harry had to walk past more than a dozen copies of his own grimacing face. The papers were from that day and the day before and even the day before that. Harry's picture on all of them, sensational headlines above the photographs. Trash.

Harry trudged across the marble floor to the only goblin who wasn't making a show of reading the paper or counting coins or weighing gems that were bigger than Harry's closed fist.

Harry stopped in front of that counter and waited.

Eventually the goblin stopped his scratching. He put down a quill and stared at Harry.

"Yes?"

"I received a letter from the Ministry of Magic that one of your supervisors wished to talk to me," Harry said.

"Name?"

As if the goblin didn't know. Still, Harry decided to go with polite for as long as he was able.

"Harry Potter, sir."

This goblins smiled for a moment. He had sharper teeth than the others Harry had seen. A voice in the back of his head — the one he usually ignored whenever he was about to plunge into massive trouble — screamed at Harry to run out of Gringotts. Pretend he had no gold at all, consider every coin lost in the war, something Voldemort had treated as personal spoils.

A pity Harry never did listen to that voice in his head.

He just stood there while the goblin sized Harry up. For a funeral shroud, perhaps, or maybe to see if his dimensions would exceed one of their larger roasting pans. A special recipe called Crisp-Roasted Wizard.

"Yes. I had a note about your…situation. Wait here, wizard."

The goblin slammed his ledger shut, dismounted from the elevated stool it had been sitting on, and then wobbled away slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

Harry turned and looked around the marble room. He eyed the door with some envy, but remained where he was.

He looked at the room with more care now. He knew he had to have inflicted some damage in here after he broke into Bellatrix Lestrange's vault. If he had, and Harry was sure he had, he couldn't see it now. The goblins had repaired everything quickly.

Much faster than Harry and the others had managed to repair Hogwarts after the final battle there. They'd gotten the debris moved out. They hadn't gotten intricate stone back into place so one couldn't even see the damage lines.

Harry was a little jealous. He'd helped finish the last of the haulage today; then he'd helped raise a temporary roof over the worst of the damage that extended upwards to the ceiling. Bellatrix Lestrange had perished in the Great Hall — Molly Weasley was still trying to take the credit for that — but she had unleashed all kinds of hell before she'd died.

Harry wondered if the enchanted ceiling would ever be put to rights again.

Harry didn't know enough, none of the volunteers did. Whatever was left to finish would require magical specialists. Portraitists to see if they could repair damaged magical paintings. Enchanters who would need to rework the magical protections on the ancient castle, if such a thing were possible. Masons who could make new stone resemble the old carvings that made Hogwarts look like Hogwarts. An illusionist to work on the ceiling of the Great Hall, assuming such a specialist would consent to come.

The hard, almost mindless work at Hogwarts was done so Harry was moving out. Too many bad memories associated with the place, too many dead faces in his mind. Also, Harry had one of his periodic flare-up of fame-itis. The Prophet was splashing his photograph and name around; the staring hordes were making life at Hogwarts hard to choke down.

Harry agreed some of that was his fault or, at least, his wonky luck playing havoc. Surviving a second Killing Curse. Defeating Voldemort. Assisting in the Hogwarts rebuilding. Then giving a disastrous interview to the Daily Prophet, what he was presently most famous for. A stupid interview published by a reprehensible rag.

To be quite honest, Harry was in Gringotts to beg for restored vault access so he could get out of the public eye for a while. If he hid for a month or two, the stories would wither away; they always had before.

A good, simple plan, right? A broke Harry going into hiding for a couple months. How? He had planned to return to #12 Grimmauld Place — and grub off the food he expected was still available there — until about five seconds after he set foot in the place.

If Hogwarts had been savaged, then #12 Grimmauld Place had been violated, like a pack of feral cats making shreds of a fat mouse. It looked like drunken trolls had tried to learn how to waltz by punching through the walls and the floors nilly-willy. Obviously Voldemort's people had done their worst to the place.

The real reason Harry had come to Gringotts, to beg for access to his vault? Harry needed to buy a wizard's tent — Harry didn't know precisely what had happened to the one he'd spent part of the last year living inside of — and, for that, he needed gold. Fifteen galleons, seven sickles, four knuts for the least expensive model currently on sale.

To get to his vault, he needed to apologize to the goblins. At least that's what Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new interim Minister for Magic, had told Harry.

So, now he waited.

His fear detectors were still cranked up to screaming.

But Harry's wonky luck had to break in his favor some of the time. Right?

Harry turned again and looked…at a bunch of armored goblins carrying spears. Very sharp looking spears. A goblin not in armor stood at the back.

Harry looked around the lobby.

The other goblins were gone. Their ledgers were gone. Their gold coins and jewels and scales, all gone. Harry hadn't heard a thing.

The doors leading to Diagon Alley were shut. Had Harry ever noticed them shut before?

He didn't think so.

The goblin who wasn't armored pushed his way through the military collection. "Mr. Potter, these guards will escort you to your meeting."

Escort?

Right…

"Who am I meeting?" Harry asked.

"The Chairman of the Board of Directors."

Uh oh.

Not good.

Harry should have picked out a nice bit of park. Or even returned to Hogwarts and dealt with the staring. Better than meeting, under guard, with the Chairman of the Board of Directors. His bones were cold just now. Perhaps a fatal chill.

X-X

The situation was definitely not good.

Harry was deep inside of Gringotts, 'escorted' by the dozen armed goblins. He hadn't asked much about the details of this meeting. However, he soon learned he should have.

He had been forced to surrender his wand, his clothing, and much of his reasoning skills. He was freezing. There was also a persistent drip-drip-drip that seemed centered over him.

As if that wasn't bad enough, a pair of goblins had bound Harry's hands before they attached chains to Harry's bare ankles and then unseen goblins had used some kind of a winch to pull an upside-down Harry into the air. He was now suspended over a bit of large, wet, hissing creatures. Harry swore he could see monstrous teeth down in that dark pit. Did these things have chompers that glowed? Hagrid had definitely never lectured on something like that.

Harry could see goblins in the shadows of the room. All the ones he could see were sharpening swords or spear points. Not usually a good sign.

Harry half wondered if he was about to cause the Goblin Rebellion of 1998. Well, if his death would cause it.

He wasn't so afraid of death now, not really. He had walked to his death a week ago, maybe ten days ago. He knew something of what was on the other side.

He just didn't want to add another bit of (posthumous) fame: the starter of a Goblin Rebellion. Harry might just appear in every chapter of a particularly gossipy history text if that happened. Wizard history, goblin history, insurrections, famous Battles at Hogwarts, magical impossibilities, etc.

He dropped those thoughts and tried to see and listen. Unfortunately, the dripping that started on the bottoms of his feet had trailed down his legs, his back, and were now stinging when they got into his eyes and his nose — it was terribly distracting, like slow drowning while hung upside down. Harry thrashed around a bit to sling the water off him.

More than one goblin laughed at him.

Why weren't they getting dripped on?

Harry continued trying to keep the water from drowning him.

He only stopped when the water — miraculously — stopped. Convenient, that.

Harry then noted that the goblins in the cavern had stopped working on their weapons. A larger mass of armed goblins filed into the chamber.

The cavern filled with sound. There was guttural chattering, gossiping at the wizard strung up over a pit or something. Harry thought it looked like spectators in the stands before a Quidditch match. They were here for the entertainment value of Harry being stabbed with spears or fed to whatever it was that lived in the pit below his head.

Harry knew better than to say anything, to curse anyone. He would have to go to his doom silently.

One large goblin wearing an obscene amount of golden armor eventually stepped through the scrum. Harry guessed this was the chairman of their board of directors.

"Quiet. All the people will be quiet." He waited. Then he stared up at where Harry hung from the roof of the cavern. He waved his hand, not a gesture to say hello but rather one with a more martial feel. "The trial of Harry James Potter, thief, is now started."

So this was their version of a courtroom.

Excellent.

Harry had seen how depraved the Ministry of Magic was with its courtrooms. Of course the goblins were worse. The Ministry tried to build their version so it was imposing; the goblins just found the worst-looking cave and then set to making it even less comfortable.

It was filled from end-to-end with armored goblins. Harry could definitely see their sharpened teeth glinting in the torch light.

The room thrummed as the goblins tapped the blunt ends of their spears on the stone. Tap-tap-tap times a thousand equaled a noise Harry had never heard before — and never expected to hear again.

It was the sound of his approaching death.

He would be a few seconds of entertainment to all these goblins.

Harry would have struggled, but he couldn't see how he could free himself from the chains. Even if he did, he'd fall into a pit of things with teeth everywhere.

He was…resigned. He had broken into Gringotts, he had ridden a dragon out and destroyed much of the infrastructure of the bank. It had been a necessary step in ending Voldemort. He had broken one of the first rules he'd learned about the wizarding world: never screw with goblins. If he had to give his life as payment…well, Harry knew all about death, didn't he?

The goblin that had spoken before stepped closer to Harry.

"The charge is that this wizard, with or without compatriots, broke into our hallowed halls and penetrated our security, even getting inside one of our vaults. He stole from our clients and then he stole from us, one of our security dragons. He destroyed infrastructure throughout the tunnels and even into the main hall."

The pounding of spear butts filled the cavern.

"This is among the most severe crimes we know of. Thievery."

No need for evidence, Harry thought. Just head straight to the summation.

He assumed the goblins in the cavern would serve as his jury.

Totally fair. One hundred percent. No bias inside this cavern.

The goblin looked back up at Harry. "You admit to breaking into Gringotts?"

Harry tried to say yes, but Harry found it awfully hard to speak while hung upside down. He could make noise, but making words…that wasn't within his skill set.

"We need to hear the accused give his confession. Lower him."

They did. Harry fell about fifteen feet, but thankfully not into the bug pit. No, the cold stone floor was actually a much better alternative.

Still, it took Harry a good while before the blood in his body gracefully redistributed itself. He wondered if he was going to have a permanent blush now or if the thumping headache would go away in the next hour.

The goblin didn't give Harry quite enough time.

"You admit it?" the goblin asked again.

"Yes."

Harry had recently walked to his death. He could at least be honest when death beckoned a second time.

The goblins in the room began tapping their spears again.

Approval.

Or perhaps they were practicing for some maneuver that involved spearing thieves. Tap-tap-tap-jab.

"Tell us the tale, thief. How did you get in? What did you take? Why did you do it?"

None of those questions could endanger Harry any more than he was at present. So Harry explained, obliquely, about the 'devices' he'd been trying to find, the trinkets Voldemort left behind. He told the tale of rescuing a goblin and making a deal: the device for the goblin-wrought Sword of Gryffindor. Harry told the tale, taking care to leave out Ron and Hermione's names. He wouldn't let them suffer the same fate. Although the goblins probably already knew their names.

Still, it was the thought that counted. Protect them. He wondered if he would get enough time and opportunity to send them notes before he died. Never go into Gringotts again.

The chief goblin stood and listened to all of what Harry said. He asked questions at various points. Harry did his best to answer them. Total honesty.

Finally the tale was done and the goblin had no further questions. The room fell silent until the goblin nodded twice. "This wizard is far too pale and too thin. It hurts my eyes. Bring forth the robes."

Three goblins pushed their ways through the crowd. Each carried a different robe.

The goblin set his hand on a simple robe made of something like burlap. The crowd in the room shouted. The goblin stepped forward and placed his hand on a robe made of a lighter, not-quite-white fabric. The crowd was much louder, two or three times the volume. Then the old goblin touched the third robe, black and blood-red, shimmering in the torch light. The room exploded into noise. Screaming and the gnashing of spear against stone.

The old goblin plucked that third robe from its attendant and threw it at Harry.

"Cover your pale flesh, wizard."

Harry scrambled into the robes. They were damned heavy. Ceremonial robes, ritual fighting robes maybe. Still, Harry didn't enjoy flashing a bunch of goblins his 'pale' nakedness. Just more humiliation before they threw him into a fighting pit of some sort.

The robes did do one thing. Harry was no longer quite so cold. But he didn't think this was a kindness. He was playing a game and he didn't know the rules. Harry turned to the chief goblin once he was attired.

"Tell us why your face has been in the news rag again, wizard."

As if goblins couldn't, and didn't, read English. This was just more humiliation. They wanted Harry to explain this stupidity out loud.

"I gave an interview to the newspaper."

"An interview about the battle at the wizard school?"

"Yes, at Hogwarts."

"Sounds very uninteresting," the goblin said.

"It should have been standard, but as it ended, the interviewer asked me about what I was doing next."

Some of the goblins in the cavern began to laugh.

"I said something they decided to blow out of proportion."

"What did you say?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "I told the interviewer I didn't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. I was honest."

"All goblins know." The old creature was bragging, taunting.

"I guess wizards are different," Harry said.

"You haven't been trained to a career? Apprenticed to someone who will show you a particular skill?" the chief goblin asked.

"No."

"Strange. Unfortunate."

The goblin regarded Harry a moment longer. If his face had an emotion, Harry thought it might be pity.

He said, "We'll adjourn to deliberate, wizard."

Then the entire cavern rapidly emptied, like someone had announced free gold coins were available in the lobby.

Harry felt a chill, a metaphysical chill. He was so screwed.

Harry Potter, Dead from Bravery. No. That wasn't quite right. Dead from Ignorance.

"Damn Binns."

For teaching and teaching about goblins, but never modulating his voice. He was the perfect white noise machine. However, right now, Harry might have wanted to know something of what the ghostly history professor had taught.

You know, before he wound up the main dish at a goblin feast.

"Damn Kingsley."

For telling Harry he needed to meet with Gringotts.

Harry wondered if he could hang around as a ghost for a time and haunt the interim Minister of Magic.

"Damn Dumbledore."

For keeping secrets within…

"I wish people wouldn't call me that," a voice said.

Harry, startled, looked up. Then he looked around and saw a shimmering figure of a human. A dead one. Harry should know. He'd been present when this particular wizard had been murdered.

"Professor Dumbledore…"

The ghost was just as startled as Harry was. It turned around, a complete circuit, and examined the cavern it now stood inside of.

"Harry, my boy, what have you done?"

"I don't know."

"You went to the goblins, huh?"

"I didn't know they were going to kill me."

The ghost began to laugh. "Oh, no. They're not going to kill you. It's much worse than that."

Harry felt a tremendous spike of rage. Damn Dumbledore. Definitely damn Dumbledore.

Laughing about something worse than death.

"What are they going to do to me?" Harry asked.

"First, my boy, I need you to tell me how you brought me to this side. Have you become a necromancer?"

"Ah? No."

Definitely not.

"Yet here I am, Harry. What can you tell me?"

He was always the inquisitor, even when dead. Figures.

"I just…said your name."

"You said Dumbledore and then I appeared?"

That was something, wasn't it? He'd said Damn Dumbledore… Maybe Harry could summon a late potions teacher by calling for Grease-Pot Snape.

He wondered if he could summon his parents or Sirius. Or Remus or any of the others.

"Yes. I just said your name."

"Are you sure that's all you said?" the ghost asked.

"Well, I might have added a curse word or two."

"What did you say exactly, Harry?"

"Damn Dumbledore…."

The ghost wavered a moment and almost popped before it stabilized. Those two words had some power over Dumbledore's ghost. Freaky.

"You can't say those words again, Harry."

Sounded like a typical bit of Dumbledore. Make a pronouncement and expect the serfs to obey.

"Why?"

"You just can't."

"Damn Dumbledore."

Unfortunately for the ghost, this Harry was a more mature, more war-weary person now. He no longer just took the advice offered him by those supposedly wiser and more worldly.

The ghost wobbled and the miasma around him almost popped again. It seemed to generate some pain even.

"Sounds like I can say it. In fact, I can go on all day," Harry said.

He didn't feel good about torturing a ghost, but he needed more than Tight-Lipped Dumbledore cared to explain.

Yes, Harry was threatening a ghost.

Not his proudest moment.

"Please stop saying that," the ghost demanded. He didn't ask. He gave an order and expected it to be obeyed.

"Why does it bother you?"

"I'll tell you. But please stop."

"For now," Harry said.

"We don't have much time. The goblins will be returning soon. They really shouldn't see me…"

"Are they afraid of ghosts?"

Perhaps Harry could get himself out of trouble. Use ghost-Dumbledore to scare off the goblins and all their spears.

"No. Ask me later."

"Fine."

"Those two words you keep saying, the curse word and my last name, are actually my real name. My True Name."

True Name. Something important about magic not taught in Hogwarts, Harry was shocked.

"Really? I thought it was Albus Something Wulfric Something Dumbledore."

"Well, magic is magic, and poorly understood at that. My mother, in my early years, used to call me something else."

Harry got the idea. He smiled and then he almost laughed. Wouldn't do to attract attention to himself by making noise, though.

"She called you Damn…"

"Don't. Please."

"She called you…that?"

"She and my father and my brother. There's a reason I always like my little sister best. She wasn't allowed to swear," the ghost said. "Because of how it was used, I suppose it became my True Name."

Harry smiled. Yeah, he was definitely going to try summoning Grease-Pot Snape, assuming he worked out a way to survive the goblins. "Alright, enough about names. What are the goblins going to do to me? Worse than death?"

"Later."

Damn Dumbledore, Harry wanted to say. But didn't. "You were a handful as a child."

"My enemies would have said I was a handful as an adult, too."

The ghost gave a wide smile. Like he expected Harry to agree.

Dumbledore hadn't been a handful. Harry wasn't sure what word to use, but handful wasn't it. A stinking pile of deception…

"You implied they weren't going to kill me."

"They won't. They can't."

"I've seen their sharpened spears and the armor they wear. I'm pretty sure they can," Harry said.

"Your life is quite safe down here, Harry. They can't — they won't — harm you."

Harry recognized that this sounded like Dumbledore telling the truth. But what wasn't he saying?

"I still have chains on my ankles. I was hung over a pit of whatever those are."

"Gnashing Grubworms. That's the closest translation I've ever gotten."

"Right. Gnashing Grubworms. They sound cuddly."

"No, not cuddly. But their large teeth are meant for gumming through roots. When they get older they'll be more fearsome, I understand. But right now they couldn't puncture skin. They just look and sound scary."

Harry shook his head. He stepped over to the pit and looked inside again.

Those were some very large teeth. They looked plenty sharp. Of course, quantity had a quality all of its own. There were enough of the things that they could do some damage just by squashing a potential victim like Harry.

They might be called worms, but they were larger than the seals Harry had seen in the zoo.

"If they're not going to kill me, then why did they drag me down here, strip me, string me up over a pit of massive worms, and then make me admit how I'd broken in here?"

The ghost almost blushed. The ghost stammered a bit before saying nothing.

"Please," Harry said.

"I can't say. You're doing to find out in a few seconds anyway. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, Harry. Just hold your nose. The taste…well, you'll have to get used to it."

"Damn Dumbledore."

This time the ghost did pop. Oh, the look of surprise on the ghost's face. It was almost worth dying in this cavern.

And no one living would ever know that Harry Potter had become an accidental necromancer.

X-X

Harry turned his body and took every part of the cavern. He noticed that the emptiness was filling. Finally enough returned that they made enough noise for Harry to notice.

Harry looked around for the old goblin in the resplendent robes.

He was evidently the first to leave and the last to return.

Slowly the crowd of spear-wielding goblins parted and the old goblin returned to the center of the cavern.

Harry held off his urge to shift his weight from foot to foot.

The old creature stopped and flashed his sharpened teeth at Harry. "The Board of Directors has voted. Guilty."

The room broke into cheers and more thumping of those damned spears.

Harry had to keep from collapsing. It was one thing to admit to everything, but the word guilty in a cavern like this one. Harry couldn't see a way to escape. He was still chained up.

He now knew that ghost-Dumbledore had been wrong. Harry was going to die in this cavern.

The goblins were screaming and shouting and stamping.

Were they going to push him in with those worm things, the Gnashing Grubworms? Or just chop off his head.

"The sentence shall be as follows…"

Harry couldn't even draw a breath into his body.

What horror had they convened to discuss? Feeding him to a dragon, throwing him from the mine cart tracks into the caverns, forcing him to slave away in some menial task forever in the dark?

"Harry Potter, Wizard, Thief, Warrior, shall drink one gobletful of the Red Stone Wine. He shall spend one hour in the Black Mud Pit. He shall be given his wand and one hour to repair the damage he caused to Tunnel Segment 60203. Then he shall finance one unit of reparations for the Goblin People."

Harry almost lost his ear drums. Both of them. The cavern was overwhelmed with sound, approving sounds.

Harry didn't know what any of these things meant. Was Red Stone Wine a poison that Snape had never covered? Harry didn't know.

He saw one goblin trying to move through the crowd. He carried something in front of him, a vessel that had to be larger than a pewter cauldron meant for potions-work. It was smoking and little bits of lightning erupted from it from time to time.

Had Harry ever watched a film like Animal House, he would have thought the goblins were chanting that he should drink, drink, drink. Sadly, Harry was much deprived in a cultural sense.

He definitely didn't want to drink that.

Poke him with spears or something. Death by electrical poison didn't sound fun…

The goblin bearing the vile-smelling concoction stopped in front of Harry and then held out the concoction for Harry to drink.

"Well?" the head goblin demanded.

He was still chained. There were still at least a thousand goblins with swords and spears and maces. Harry reached out his hands.

"No hands. Lean forward and drink it."

The first sip burned. It was like Harry had his lips burn off before he lost his tongue and most of his throat.

"Drink, wizard, drink."

He did.

This was bad. He didn't want to know what the worse was for saying no.

X-X

It was maybe four hours later. Maybe six. Harry lay on a bed and aimed his head at a silver bucket and puked again. He'd been puking off and on for a long time. He didn't think his stomach could hold so much. He didn't think his entire body could hold that much.

He was alive. Barely.

He had completed three of his four punishments. Harry now realized they had been horrible, embarrassing, and disgusting. Almost as bad as deadly, but less permanent.

Harry also now realized that goblins could laugh. It was a horrible, deep sound, like madmen bashing the crap out of bass drums.

The whole experience had been something Dudley Dursley might have dreamed up when he was eight. If he were aware of alcohol in its most toxic and disgusting form.

Harry had been puking the stuff up while he drank it, then while he climbed through a mud- and creature-filled challenge course (while he continued to puke), and finally while he helped remove stone he'd broken loose when he escaped from Gringotts.

What was the last of it? The goblin who'd pronounced Harry's sentence had used some weasely words. "Finance reparations" or something similar.

Was that just an excuse to empty his vault?

He'd give up all his gold if he could stop puking.

"Wizard, the final punishment starts in five minutes. Leave the vomiting chalice and come with me."

Vomiting chalice. Had Binns told stories about such items, Harry was sure he'd have paid a lot more attention. Out of can't-look-away interest or revulsion, either one.

Harry pushed himself off the mattress, realized the ceremonial robes he was wearing were clean again (he still didn't have his wand to cast a spell), and accompanied the goblin.

They returned to the same cavern as before, but it was now transformed.

Instead of bare stone walls and stalactites with a center pit filled with slithering worms, it was now glistening in gold and crystals. There were hundred of semi-circular and circular tables everywhere inside.

Was Harry paying for all of this?

He was going to need a job, a well-paying one, very soon.

"Guest of honor sits here."

The goblin pushed Harry into a human-sized chair and then vanished. Guest of honor?

Maybe the ghost-Dumbledore had been right. Maybe they weren't going to take Harry's head. Just make him wish he were dead.

The room began to fill with goblins all now wearing robes similar to what Harry wore.

Uh oh.

Another weird thing Harry didn't know about.

His head ached from that horrible stuff he'd drank and he didn't have any idea why he was dressed up like a tall, pale goblin.

Harry watched the room and waited. He was tense, but also a good deal more confident than he'd been crawling through the mud pits.

The old goblin returned and sat next to Harry. "I'm glad you survived."

"I don't understand any of this."

"Well, Thief, let me explain."

He would never lose the title of Thief, would he? Harry was going to have to find a different place to keep his money.

"To the Goblin People, a proud people, we appreciate nothing so much as a person, like yourself, who develops the same skills and talents we treasure. A goblin or a wizard who aspires to steal from us, and fails, we treat harshly. Those who succeed as Warriors or, even more rarely, as Thieves, those we reward. Mr. Potter, you are now a member of the Society of Thieves and also a member of the Society of Warriors. Congratulations."

The room erupted in cheers finally.

"But…"

Everything Binns had said. Centuries of goblin rebellions. What was actually true?

"We treasure nothing so much as success."

Harry was grateful for such a screwy idea. He was also angry that he had no idea.

"So you've just inducted me into these societies?" Harry asked.

"Of course, Mr. Potter. You are a great warrior and an accomplished thief."

"Who else have you inducted?"

"Ah, well, you'll have to attend the annual meetings to learn. There are few wizards involved, unfortunately. The ones who accomplish truly impressive deeds rarely return to Gringotts after their deeds. It seems a few wizards must have let a few stories turn into rumors."

Harry wondered how often Dumbledore had gone to Gringotts after he became famous in the 1940s. After all, he sent Hagrid to collect the most famous magical device ever conceived, the Philosopher's Stone, rather than attend to it himself.

"Let me guess. Nicholas Flamel…"

"He does still come to annual meetings, if they're held in parts of the world he wants to see."

So Flamel was still alive?

"The late Albus Dumbledore…."

"That wizard. He was a member of the Society of Warriors, but he hasn't attended more than fifty years worth of festivities."

Harry nodded.

Dumbledore had been afraid of the goblins. That might just explain a lot.

"How much worse are the annual meetings than what I went through today…"

The goblin laughed.

"You'll find out next summer. Don't miss it. We keep track, you know."

"Right," Harry almost squeaked. He absolutely knew this goblin wasn't lying to him. They would keep track of Harry forevermore.

Servers then brought out platter after platter of meats.

Harry didn't recognize a single thing. There were leathery wings on some of the dishes and tentacles on others. Thankfully no dish had both wings and tentacles.

"What's this one called?" Harry asked.

Harry had pointed at the very largest of the platters, roughly the dimensions of a Cooper Mini.

"Ah, the specialty of the evening. In English, you would call it Gnashing Boreworm."

"Is that related to a Gnashing Grubworm?" Harry asked.

"Yes, the Grubworm grows into the Boreworm."

"I see."

It didn't taste too horrible if Harry kept from thinking about what he was eating.

X-X

The goblins were kind enough to take Harry to his vault after they gave him a private room in which to redress. His head still swam with what he'd been through. His induction into the goblin version of the Masons, the way every goblin he passed referred to him as Thief Potter.

"Vault 687. Key please."

Harry handed over the little piece of metal.

Then he was inside.

But his thoughts weren't on the present or on the gold that had originally lured him to Gringotts.

Harry was still mulling over the long conversation he'd had with the old goblin. He roared when Harry had asked his name. He'd claimed that some called him Gringott, after the founder of the bank. Others called him Ragnok because some wizard had decided that was the name of their leader (it meant floor sweeper in Gobbledygook). In truth, the old goblin — and leader of this colony of goblins — had a name that translated to Slashroot, after a misadventure in his youth. All goblins were named after mistakes they'd made, Slashroot had admitted. Proud of their mistakes, just as Harry should be of his own.

Harry finally started looking around his small, but crowded vault. The Black money was now his, too. It was a good bit to a wizard not yet eighteen, but this wasn't going to last him all that many years. Harry really didn't know how much it cost to live in the wizarding world. Sure a wand cost seven galleons, but how many of those was he going to buy over the course of his life. How much did a flat cost to rent? Or food to purchase?

He didn't know.

"Are there deeds or papers in here?" Harry asked out the vault door.

"Bullion-vault only, Thief Potter."

He nodded. He had hoped. After all, he had seen that the Lestrange vault held other things, insane things but more than gold.

"Did my parents entrust anything else to the bank?"

"No."

"Might I be alone for a while in here?"

"All you had to do was ask, Thief. Have fun stealing your own gold," the goblin laughed.

Harry was very tired of that title, Thief. Do one bad thing one time and it followed you around forever, huh?

"Damn Dumbledore."

As Harry half expected, a ghost appeared.

"What in the world… Harry, did you summon me again?"

"You only told me half the story, Professor, and I'm calling you back for the rest. I take it you're a member of the Society of Warriors?"

"To my shame, yes."

"That rock wine was something."

"I believe it was called Red Stone Wine and it was among the foulest things I've ever tasted. Ever wonder about my addiction to sweets? That taste won't be going away for some time…"

Harry could imagine.

"So…why didn't you just tell me all this instead of hemming and hawing."

"A little terror is good for the soul."

Just like everything else Dumbledore touched. Explain nothing and let the ignorant young man experience the 'thrill.'

"I can see why your mother and brother called you Damn a lot. Not really a humanitarian, are you?"

"It's overrated, Harry."

"You like seeing people sweat."

"Builds character."

"Anything else I need to know about Gringotts?" Harry asked.

"Well, if you'd paid attention in your History class…"

"Impossible."

"…you might not have been so fearful. Cuthbert really tries to entertain by talking about how fearsome the goblin warriors used to be."

"Their spears looked plenty sharp tonight."

"You don't have a high regard for the Ministry of Magic, Harry?" the ghost asked.

"No, not really."

"Well, yes, the incarnation you knew was particularly inept. Cornelius Fudge will go down as perhaps the worst Minister of Magic in five hundred years — and that's saying something. But the Ministry's competence ebbs and flows. Sometimes a Fudge rules the place. Sometimes a witch like Ermilda Flossy."

"I've never heard of her."

"Well, Binns was never a fan of her policies."

"Oh?"

"She helped end a goblin rebellion. She wrote the peace treaty herself. She was the one who enchanted the parchment itself with a few devious, but powerful spells. That treaty wasn't just spellwork; it was magic that could bind wizards and goblins."

Harry knew something about magical contracts. Ahem, the Goblet of Fire. He didn't like them.

"Wizards had to hand over at least some of their gold for the goblins to manage. Goblins could be as grumpy and ruthless as they wanted, but they could never bring actual harm to a wizard."

Harry was startled at this bit of information that Hogwarts also didn't teach. Dumbledore and probably Binns knew it, but they conveniently left it off the syllabus. Excellent.

"Just wizards, you said?"

"Yes."

"Didn't apply to muggles?"

"No. Sign of the times," the ghost said.

"So I was in no danger there?"

"Wizards still keep their gold with the goblins, don't even question it. Bad mouth the goblins, sure, but never close their vaults. Goblins menace wizards as much as they care, but never even dream of cutting a throat. Very few wizards or goblins even know the magic is still in force."

"I'd have been a lot happier if, you know, you mentioned this earlier."

"I thought you'd enjoy the experience."

"Right."

Harry gathered up many, many handfuls of gold coins. He hoped to spread out his visits to Gringotts quite a bit. As in never. That horrible drink, bleh. The promise of more next summer, bleh.

Harry stepped out of his vault, but left the ghost inside.

"Thief Potter, are you done talking to yourself or your gold yet?"

Of course the goblin had heard something. Stupid Harry.

"Is that common? For wizards to talk to their gold?"

"Yes."

Harry couldn't help smiling. Of course wizards talked to their gold.

"Well, I wasn't talking to myself."

"Alright. Talking to the stone wall?" the goblin attendant asked.

"No. There seems to be a ghost inhabiting my vault."

"A ghost…" The goblin pushed forward and surveyed the vault. Then the goblin tapped a section of the stone next to the vault door and a few runes flashed into visibility. "We know this ghost, Thief Potter."

"He can't do anything to my holdings?"

"Of course not. But we can do things to him."

Harry smiled and got back in the mine cart. It really wasn't all that nice to tease the dead, but that wasn't going to stop Harry now.

"Ah, Warrior Dumbledore, yes, you have unfinished business with Gringotts," the goblin explained into the vault.

"Harry, Harry, please."

The words were faint, but Harry pretended he hadn't heard them at all. Let's just see how Dumbledore enjoys some of his own practices turned against him.

"Send me back, Harry. Please send me back."

The goblin closed the vault door.

"We may have to access your vault one more time, Thief Potter, in order to remove the ghost."

"That's fine," Harry said.

He wondered just what goblins could do to a ghost. A dead wizard wouldn't count as a wizard according to the treaty Dumbledore explained, would it? Perhaps these goblins could work out their aggressions toward wizard-kind through ghost-Dumbledore. Harry half hoped so.

Maybe it would loosen Dumbledore's tongue. Not even death had managed that yet. Maybe the goblins would have better luck.

Harry didn't think so, but he was willing to give them a shot.