FicWad

Sorry about the long wait. As you can see, i put more quantity into this. I have excuses, i swear! Exams, moving out of my dorm, writer's block...it's all there. Let me know what you think.
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Disclaimer: It seems i have been remiss in putting this little tidbit in. I own nothing. JK owns all. Peace.
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Chapter 5


The rain dripped off the over hangings, the filthy awnings fashioned out of old rugs failing to keep the area dry. The pitter-patter of the raindrops on the awnings added a symphonic percussion to the sounds of the alley, the guttural shouts and grumbles coming together to form a militaristic drumbeat of noises. The sharp staccato of noises went unnoticed by those habituated to the environment, but caused some discomfort in those unconditioned to living in such an environment.

One would expect that a certain decorum would be in order, especially when attempting to sell items...but Gilmore Alley was not a place that catered to preferences. An Alley branching off from within the depths of Knocturn Alley, it had a singular purpose: smuggling. From the rich to the poor, all who frequented Gilmore Alley came to find illegal items at cheap prices. Prices were at an all-time low...bargaining was not worth the effort when all one could hope for was a few knuts knocked off the price of an item. Tight-fisted dealers baring snarling lips intimidated all that clamored for further reduction in price. It was futile; they would much rather kill you than lower the price by a handful of knuts.

Deep within the bowels of this very alley stood the symbol of the Light: Harry James Potter. Being a Metamorphmagus was an advantage for him, especially in this case. Unlike the others, he was free to make whatever threats he wished to.

His features changed, he now resembled one of the few people in the Wizarding World who was likely to receive special treatment in Gilmore Alley: Lord Voldemort. Of course, he was not impersonating the Dark Lord. Harry couldn't possibly carry the charming tone of voice while snarling simultaneously...it was an art that only Voldemort knew. But yet, his eyes gleamed, glinting a vicious red that showed the suppressed hate. His skin was pale, but not the waxy white hue that the skin of the Dark Lord was. A tall, imposing figure, he stood firm and resolute as people scurried around to satisfy him.

No, he was certainly not impersonating the Dark Lord. He had created an identity for himself...one that none of the Gilmore Alley residents would dare to call into question. He was the Heir of the Dark Lord, the son of Lord Voldemort.

The fools did not dare charge him for his 'purchases'...they valued their lives far more than the potions ingredients that the Lord's Heir demanded.

All others had been evacuated...the Heir of the Dark Lord was far more important to their businesses and to their lives, to be treated as just another customer. Explanations had been terse...a man had come, one of great power. One who could not be refused. He would be served alone. Protests had been quashed forcefully, a look of desperation on their faces as they tried to convey the dire nature of the circumstances. Flashes of red and green light had followed immediately after the arrival of the Heir...warnings were terse, and second warnings were more than unlikely. Persistence was dealt with harshly.

One approached, head bowed submissively. Drops of water streaked his face, hair sopping wet as it thrashed about in the strong gales that blew through the Alley. The workers watched, impressed, as the Heir of the Dark Lord stood resolutely, unwilling to bend before a force to puny as the wind. He seemed to be the one constant in the alley, the one being who did not move. All others scurried to avoid his wrath, fulfilling his orders almost before he carried them out.

Crouching down, the man spoke. The harsh, guttural tones of his Arabic ancestry perverted the polite, fearful tone of his speech. "My lord, your orders have been carried out. Your ingredients are ready for you to take."

The harsh, cold voice emerged as a haunting whisper. "You have done well, Salim. For your services," he said, his pale hand dropping a small bag of gold into the man's hand. Delight played across the man's features as he kneeled further in the mud, pressing kisses on the hem of the Heir's robes.

Before a second kiss could be applied, the Heir had swept away. His hand waved, causing the lid of the chest to lift. Unforgiving eyes traced over the contents of the chest. A satisfied nod caused a sigh of relief to circle through the edges of the alley, a hundred or so vendors all prostrated on the ground.

He resembled an idol...an altar at which the masses prayed. Their reverence was visible, the look of admiration plastered across each of their faces. One such as he could easily be taken as a god among people with such a lack of values and morality. It was a dog eat dog world in Gilmore Alley...competition did not exist, for it lead to homicide. The lesson had been learnt well; each vendor peddled his own wares, entirely unique in the alley. The presence of one so untouchable heightened the tense atmosphere. At once, admiration and excitement played upon the faces of the watchers; admiration for the position of the young Lord, and excitement as they dreamed of situations where they overcame the young Lord in a duel. Such situations existed only in dreams...it would, very literally, be suicide to attack the Heir of Lord Voldemort.

Harry, though outwardly sneering and self-assured, quailed on the inside. He was secure in his position, knowing that he was free form attack. But his passive legilimency was going haywire. With the hundreds of thoughts projected towards him, his mind was embroiled in a sea of uncertainty, torn between maintaining the sneering façade and exhibiting incredible paranoia. Half his mind was struck by the admiration of the vendors, but the other half was struck by the violent fantasies involving him dying gruesome deaths. It took every last measure of his control to keep his façade up and avoid having his eyes dart in every way. An experienced duelist, if he dared to come close enough to the 'Heir', would have literally smelled the fear emanating from Harry.

A second wave of the pale hand cause the chest to snap shut with a click, and lift off the ground to hover next to him. He turned, his posture more relaxed than it had been a minute ago. Still, sinewy muscles remained tense, prepared for an attack.

As he began to speak, a war cry was heard.

A man leapt, wand in hand. Two devastating words were on his lips.

A man fell, the flash of silver being missed by some.

Flagstones were blasted to rubble as the flash of green light missed the Heir by a foot.

Blood leaked on the ground, the morbid setting enhancing the quick, emotionless kill.

Red eyes glared at the fallen man. A simple word was spoken, one that would instill fear into the hearts of all those who heard.

"Beware."

And he was gone.

The vendors released held breaths, fear and admiration warring in their eyes as they regarded the fallen man. The one who had died...he was no pushover. An able Wizard, with experience in dueling. Yet, the Heir, ostensibly a teenager, had eviscerated him. Entirely unprepared, the Heir had still overcome his attacker in one movement. Without magic. The blood seeped into the cracks of the stone, simply adding to the blood that had stained the flagstones of this alley over the centuries. The body was removed, two gobsmacked men carting the body of their fallen relative back to his wife.

Life returned to normal, though the shivers remained. The aura of intimidation had done its job.

Disgruntled customers streamed back into Gilmore Alley, their glances met by blank looks. A crook knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Harry Potter's escapade would forever remain unknown outside Gilmore Alley.

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The old man tottered as he paced towards the front of the shop. Age had wearied his bones, making him vulnerable to even the slightest change in weather. This dreary wetness had renewed old aches, a damnable thing. He sank into the chair with a grateful sigh, gnarled cane now propped against the wall.

The bells tingled as the door opened, causing the old man to groan in annoyance. He had just sat down! What injustice this was...but business was business, and he would eat well tonight if he sold something. With a heave, the old man rose to his feet.

His hand swiped out for the cane, but missed, and he tottered helplessly for a second, before falling in a graceless arc. As he was about to hit the floor, an impact that surely would have loosened a few bones, he felt a pair of hands grasp him by the shoulder. Slowly, they helped him back to his feet, the cane miraculously flying straight into his hand. Straightening himself, the old man turned gratefully.

"Thank you-?" he said, the question denoting his confusion as he could not place the face. It was odd to see new faces in a locale like this...not many knew of this shop, if it could be called that.

"Unnamed," said the man, his face shrouded by a thick cloak. Droplets of water still dripped from his cloak, making slight- no! The water seemed to drop off the hem of the man's cloak, but made no impact against the ground! Miraculous, the old man mused, with no small amount of wistfulness, what magic could do.

"Understandable," the old man said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I was given to understand that you would be in possession of a few items that I am in need of. A Ritual Scalpel, for one, and a Trace Bowl." The voice was smooth and cultured...a pureblooded sort, for sure, but one with exquisitely crafted mannerisms. Every aspect of the man's posture screamed elegance, power and personality, but the quality of the cloak belied these evaluations. Useful, though it was, it was obvious that it was being employed to distract attention rather than attracting it.

The old man's eyes widened. Ritual magic? Of course...it was something common amongst the pureblooded families. But a Trace Bowl? The only known use for a Trace Bowl was in Blood Magic...an art that was lost, and banned. These days, they were simple mementos, and it was possible that the customer simply wanted to buy one to serve exactly that purpose. But something informed him to the contrary. Perhaps it was that the young man wished to buy the two items together...an entirely innocent statement, at least in the circles that the old man used to frequent, but somehow loaded with innuendo.

"You know." It wasn't a question. The old man sounded accusing, yet inquisitive at the same time. Eyes curiously swept to and fro, attempting to take in each and every inch of the man's features. Immaculate could not describe the perfection of the way the customer had hidden his identity.

"I do," the man nodded. Diplomatic, concise...unforgiving. Shaking his head, the old man reached into the breast pocket of his robes, and withdrew a pair of spectacles. Half-moon spectacles: a mocking, yet self-depreciating tribute to the man who ruined his life. Settling them on the bridge of his nose, he peered at whatever he could see of the young man's features.

Red eyes...ones that told volumes about exactly what sort of person this was.

The old man made a noise of understanding, and led the customer towards the shelves.

"I wonder," he said, "how you learned of this establishment. I, of course, do not advertise myself, so I am led to believe that one of my previous customers led you here." It was not a statement, it was a question.

The customer's tone brooked no argument. "Curiosity is the fallibility of age, Sir."

Ouch. Harsh, but fair. It was true...the old man, cooped up in this dusty old shop, yearned for knowledge of the outside world. Of course, taking a step into Diagon Alley would lead to his immediate arrest.

Being Augustus Grindelwald, ex-Dark Lord, would do that to anyone.

And he was incapable of defending himself. That dashing, young Dumbledore fellow had somehow managed to rip his magic away from him. Bastard. A retreat to the family business had been his last recourse, one that he had settled into reluctantly. Save for this small room, his family business, loathe as he was to admit it, was a Muggle book shop. This little room of nick-nacks hardly constituted a tenth of his shop. It had taken the use of a very valuable life-debt to have the room warded appropriately. He was not a Muggle, but neither was he a Squib...an unidentified entity somewhere on the fine line that separated one from the other. Luckily, anti-Muggle wards had not affected him, so he was free to enter this secluded area and sell parts of his collection of trinkets.

He had a very select clientele...a facet of his business more due to the fact that he had limited stock than the fact that he wished to evade Magical Authorities. Of course, no self-respecting pureblood, the only kind he catered to, would ever betray the location of such a treasure trove to Magical Authorities. He was safe in this location, one which was passed on between families only by word of mouth. Apparently, even the cruelest of hearts held some sympathy, for none of his customers had tried ever tried to betray him. Business with the magical folk had always been spotless...hardly even a squabble over prices.

Harry, still disguised in his 'Dark Lord Persona', found the location of the shop with ease. Draco Malfoy, ever the inquisitive little bugger, had eavesdropped on one of his father's floo chats. The address had come up, and a valuable little weapon was mentioned. Malfoy, ever hateful of Harry, had been thinking about using the weapon on Harry during one of their pleasant confrontations. Passive Legilimency, Harry decided, was a gift from god.

"Of course," he said pleasantly. "A hint, then? If you know who I am, then you must know that information is always greatly appreciated."

"Legilimency."

The old man's eyebrows rose comically. "A forbidden art. You dare to use my mind as a playground?"

"I do what I must. Besides, you were projecting thoughts like a muggle." An insult...to one such as him, the distinction created by the meager magical traces left inside him was a point of pride. Being called a muggle was a rather grievous insult.

Anger shone in the depths of the old man's eyes. "Perhaps your needs can be met elsewhere."

"Perhaps not...I desire quality, and I have no qualms against taking what I need." The statement was delicate...a threat neither veiled nor obvious. If the time for reflection was available, Harry would have realized the folly of his comparison. Why find a quarrel where one was not needed? This transaction could be completed with the barest of words, yet things had gone awry. Success or not, Lord Slytherin would be displeased.

"You underestimate me, boy. I am able to defend myself...like so," he spat, raising the cane and pressing a button cleverly hidden in the gnarled handle. A sharp pike exploded out of the end, flying right into the chest of the younger man.

And out the other side.

A gasp was heard as the young man merely blinked.

"An illusion. Excellent."

From the corner, Harry Potter gave a slight nod. Following the old man to the bookshelf had allowed him enough time to conjure an illusion to take his place. The shrouded face had made it easy to create the illusion...the movement of lips was unnecessary when the old man could not see them. A pre-emptive measure...a Dark Lord, albeit a former one, was still not to be trusted. The perversion of a Wizard's mind was not treated by healers...it was condemned by the all-too-famous Dementor's Kiss. It was best not to put any faith in the old man possessing even a shred of decency.

Still, Lord Slytherin would be displeased. Stupid! Don't attract attention!

"Will you now lead me to the items I require? My time is precious, and this dusty shop, though interesting, is not sufficiently so to deserve my attention for much longer. And," he added delicately, "any further tomfoolery will be met with quite effectively."

Grindelwald bowed. "Of course." The cane carried another dart...one which could be used on his customer as soon as he could catch the intelligent young man unawares.

Harry sneered. "Must I repeat myself, you doddering old fool? Your mind is as easily legible as a book...make another move towards that cane, and I will cause you pain."

Chastised, Grindelwald tottered over to the register, pressing a button on the paneling. The bookcase lining the wall behind him gave way to show a small room.

"How cliché," Harry said in a bored tone.

"True...but Wizards have not the imagination to look for such obscenely muggle contraptions. Which, in fact, casts some light upon who you are."

"Are you prying? I, unlike you, am not without the means to remove such knowledge from your mind. In fact, Obliviate!" A dazed look spread on the face of the old man.

"Awfully sorry, Sir. I seem to have forgotten what you were looking for..." he trailed off, uncertain.

Harry repeated his order, satisfaction heavily veiled in his tone. The old man nodded happily, reaching for the correct items, and laying out a selection for him to choose from.

He pored over the items, glaring at the ones that were obviously fake. The runes weren't even traced on one of them!

Finally finding a Trace Bowl that met his specifications, he pointed it out, and picked up one of the Ritual Scalpels. The latter was constructed exquisitely, the blade magically sharpened, and the long handle properly instilled with a collector stone. It would minimize the pain sufficiently; carving runes into one's body would inevitably lead to loss of blood, which, in turn, would lead to shaking hands - a blunder that could ruin everything, especially when runes had to be immaculate to avoid some rather colorful explosions of magic.

He dropped a bag of galleons on the table, the gold making a satisfying 'chink' as it impacted against the tabletop. The old man smiled genially, knowing that the gold was worth more than the items were.

"Thank you, kind sir. Oh...I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name; would you forgive an old man's mistake?"

The answer was given in a bemused tone, the younger man finding this second cliché too good to pass up. "No offense taken...I never gave it."

Ignoring Grindelwald, Harry pulled his cloak around him tighter, and prepared to apparate. Then, he paused.

Turning, he spoke with the slight ring of regret in his voice. "Apologies. Diffindo."

The Cutting Curse performed admirably. A thin red line appeared on the old man's throat, quickly oozing blood. With his jugular severed, the old man died quickly, his lack of physical fortitude forbidding him from fully removing the vial of healing potion from his pocket in time. A murderous expression still on his face, he died.

Harry sighed. Loose ends were dangerous, and an ex-Dark Lord with information was even worse. Extracting his wand, for he had not used it to cast the weak cutting curse, he waved it. The summoning spell revealed what he thought it would.

Three video cameras, torn wires protruding from them. Another wave of the wand elicited a few crashes from the depths of the shop. In seconds, a video tape flew into Harry's hands. Well...the tape came, the recording device still wrapped around it and sparking. The magically crippled Dark Lord apparently knew the wisdom of turning to Muggle devices where he could not aid himself.

He ducked, thanking the deities for his reflexes, and watched with some satisfaction as the recorder flew straight into the shelf of fake trace bowls, shattering them in a rather just manner. Waving his wand, he muttered "Evanesco." The vanishing spell did its job, causing the cameras and the tape-containing recording device to disappear.

Lastly, the wand was waved again, lips whispering "Revealo."

A slight haze of blue shimmered in the air. All clear...no magical recording devices in the wards or the surroundings. The accio spell, in the hands of an Occlumens, was a very useful tool. Bill Weasley, on his Gringotts excavation trips, could simply use it to summon all valuables from the pyramids. Sure, they would break as they flew through walls, but magic had a three-syllable remedy for that. Too bad he wasn't an Occlumens.

His eyes fell to the corpse on the ground. Slight grief shone in the depths of his eyes. It was both an unnecessary, and a necessary kill. Such an...emotionless reaction was not something expected form the Golden Boy, but Salazar had done his job. He had inured the boy to death. After all, when facing the Death Eaters, an attack of grief in the middle of a fight would certainly cause his death. Afterwards, time could be spared to reflect on the murder he had committed.

He consoled himself. This was his first kill, at least his first human kill. Innumerable rats, monkeys and other transfigured animals had died at his hand. 'He deserved to die, anyways," his mind reasoned, 'I simply did what Dumbledore could not."

With that, he was gone, a slight pop announcing his departure.

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White marble gleamed with the taste of opulence, a sharp contrast to the dreary setting of Diagon Alley. Where the rest of the alley was deserted, people feeling for shelter due to the gales of wind and the torrential downpour, Gringotts stood strong and beautiful. Goblin guards, helmed in thick iron, guarded the gates to the bank, pikes crossed menacingly, barring wrongdoers entry into the Goblin stronghold.

Red eyes blinked a few times as their color changed, dissolving into a powerful emerald green. Pasty white skin slowly gained color and texture, once again looking human. The reptilian features softened in places and morphed into human features, once again restoring the persona of Harry James Potter to the young man. Within the hood of the thick cloak, Harry Potter's eyes seemed like searchlights, roving to and fro as they regarded all that could be seen. In the distance, two Aurors patrolled the Alley, looking particularly impotent in their quest to 'defend' the Alley.

What stupidity, Harry mused. The Dark Lord had better things to do than to attack a place where Purebloods were as common as muggleborns. At least, he hoped, Fudge would have had the sense to install more security in places such as Hogsmeade and Godric's Hollow. Such locales were mostly populated by lesser Purebloods and mixed-bloods, a far more worthy target for the ire of someone as calculating and powerful as Lord Voldemort.

With purpose evident in his mannerisms and gait, he stalked up to the large doors, ignoring the gilded gold that lined the walls in a manner more ostentatious than simply opulent. The Goblins shrank away under his gaze, making him wonder what pitiful resistance such purportedly 'fierce' creatures would give to one as charismatic and intimidating as the Dark Lord. A wave of his hands caused the doors to open, startling the Goblin Guards. Wandless magic, even at this low level, was something heavily uncommon amongst humans. Goblins, while capable of it on a higher level, were far from powerful, thus the emphasis on weapons rather than magic.

It was a source of guilt for him...well, correctly speaking, they were a source of guilt for him. While House-Elves, uppity Centaurs, Half-Giants and Merfolk alike were rather tolerable in Harry's book, he had a strange, unexplainable dislike for Goblins. Avoiding the understatement, it was more appropriate to term his dislike for Goblins as a vehement distaste. Perhaps it was their tight-fisted, gold-digging natures...perhaps it was simply their appearance, but Harry Potter, Symbol of the Light, could not stand Goblins at all.

He utterly hated them

He strode in, not particularly concerned with the look of interest on the Guards' faces, as they thought in vain for a way to somehow make money off him. Striding up to a teller, he paused.

In typical Goblin fashion, the teller paid him no interest, continuing to scrawl numbers down on the roll of parchment before him. He cleared his throat, invoking no reaction.

Perhaps it was the fact that he had, no less than a minute ago, been impersonating a Wizard corrupted by Dark Magic, for he felt anger well up within him.

Snapping the words, he said "Goblin! Cease your irritating games...I assure you my business here is far more valuable than whatever garbage you are dealing with."

The Goblin snapped to attention, immediately realizing that this was a customer who meant business. In a sickly sweet voice, he asked "What can Gringotts do for you today?"

"Direct me to the office of Curledtoe."

"Oh, is that all?" the Goblin asked, humor evident in his bored tone. Simple people asking to see the Head of Gringotts? A laughable prospect.

Leaning in, Harry smirked. "There are things that you should not worry yourself with, Goblin. I assure you, this meeting can either mean profit for Gringotts, or further devastation for the Goblins as a whole. Do not venture into places where you are ignorant of things."

Raising an eyebrow, the Goblin asked "And what do I stand to gain for allowing you this favor?"

The smirk widened. "Your life, Goblin."

Dirty yellow eyes widened. "You assume that you could even dream of killing a Goblin within the confines of Gringotts? A laughable idea, human."

"In fact, Goblin, if I leave Gringotts today without the blood of a Goblin on my hands, I shall be sorely disappointed." The yellow eyes widened further, some amount of fear settling in...much to Harry's satisfaction.

"I understand. I cannot allow you to meet the Director without knowing your identity." Slight tremors in the Goblin's voice made his fear evident.

"Potter, Harry Potter." Another opportunity too good to pass up...after all, if clichés were the flavor of the day, why not set a new trend?

The Goblin laughed. "Something believable, human."

Emerald eyes that promised suffering stared into the yellow ones of the Goblin. "Are you accusing me of lying?" The threat wasn't vocalized, but it was more than obvious. His scar, a scant two inches above his eyes, was veiled by the wet hair plastered to his forehead.

The bloody Goblin wasn't going to have his way here. There was no way he would willfully bare his scar to the creature. It was a matter of principle to Harry. In a few weeks, that scar would be like a museum exhibit, displayed for the world to see and judge him by. The human world. This puny Goblin could verify Harry's identity in some other manner than a simple glance at an easily faked scar.

The Goblin, now scared that his blood might eventually end up staining the human's robes, quailed as he murmured "Very well. Follow me."

Harry, satisfied, gave a curt nod, and followed the Goblin through a maze of hallways, each more opulent than the last. The gold seemed to overflow the deeper they reached within the bowels of Gringotts, gilding the walls, the frames of the portraits, and eventually being crafted into exorbitantly large statues of haughty looking Goblins.

Eventually, they reached a door made out of solid gold. The Goblin leading him paused. "Wait here, please."

Nervously, the Goblin opened the door, just in time for a gout of blood to splash across his face. Harry sneered in distaste. Looking beyond the opened door and the Goblin's shocked face revealed the source of the blood.

A pompous looking Goblin gurgled a few times before falling face-first onto the floor. Applause rang through the assembled crowd inside, providing an answer as to why the bank seemed so deserted. Apparently, Goblins were rather like werewolves...they fought for leadership like savages. A fitting description, no matter how obnoxious it would sound coming from the lips of the Savior of the Light.

Curledtoe, bearing a few gashes on his arms and torso, stood, blood staining his teeth as he bared them in a savage grin. A demure Goblin woman, judging by the misshapen lumps on the front of her armor, stepped up, bearing a tray covered in potions vials. Curledtoe selected a few of them, apparently a blood restorative, a bruise-medicating potion, and a minor healing draught, and tipped them down his throat. Hawking up a gob of red spit, he spat on the body of his challenger, eliciting yet another roar of approval.

The distaste never left Harry's face as he regarded the action. Desecrating the bodies of the fallen was, though exciting during the moment, something that detracted from the honor of the kill. Apparently, though, it was a mark of honor in Goblin customs. Disgusting.

Burping, a perplexing action that drew yet another round of applause, Curledtoe glared at Harry, and then at the Goblin that brought him in. In a flurry of furious words, the Director castigated the teller, who bowed in fear. The sound of Gobbledygook was particularly displeasing to Harry's ears, but he kept a straight face, matching the glare for its intensity.

In stuttering words, simply prolonging the torture of Harry's ears, the teller told Curledtoe exactly what had happened. The Goblin leader's eyes widened in anger, his teeth settling into a snarl of rather vicious proportions. Then, Harry's name came up. The snarl disappeared, replaced for a moment by a look of confusion until a deadly smirk settled on the Goblin's face.

Turning to Harry, Curledtoe said "Come in." His English was thick with an accent that made it sound remarkably like Gobbledygook, making Harry wince inwardly as he pondered the torture that a simple conversation would affect on his ears.

He strode in haughtily, acting every bit the perfect Pureblood, looking down his nose at each of the creatures assembled inside the vast room. Turning, Curledtoe barked out an order, causing all the assembled Goblins to rise at once and file out of the room. As they shuffled away, Harry's hand darted out, catching one Goblin by the throat and lifting him into the air such that his feet kicked helplessly. For all the armor, the creature still weighed just a little more than a few house-elves would.

At once, the Goblins pulled out various sharp objects, brandishing them threateningly at Harry. Harry simply met their threatening looks with a sneer, looking particularly unconcerned about the sudden change in tension. Curledtoe looked at him appraisingly, Harry meeting the look firmly. The resolution in his gaze convinced the Goblin leader, who barked out a laugh in a rather animalistic way.

Waving his hand dismissively, he ushered the others out of the room, calling for two guards to stand by the door. The teller, face still slicked in blood, bowed his way out of the room, relief strangely apparent on the creatures face. It was odd how Harry was able to discern emotions on the features of one so obviously not human, but he shrugged it off, attributing it to some oddity in his passive legilimency. Interpretation, after all, was dependant on perception.

Curledtoe motioned towards a desk in the far corner of the room. Harry took a step to walk towards it, but was caught unawares when the table, the rug it stood on, and assorted knick-knacks all dragged themselves across the cavernous room and settled a few feet from them. Looking unconcerned, he managed to avoid faltering in his step due to the sudden movement, and somehow made the whole action look seamless, as if he wasn't surprised at all.

Curledtoe barked another savage laugh, saying "You hide it well, human. The best I've seen yet, really. Take a seat, my guards will restrain the one you hold."

Shrugging, Harry carelessly threw the aforementioned Goblin on the floor in a heap, the two guards shuffling forward brutishly to grab and restrain it.

Satisfied, Harry turned to Curledtoe. "You know exactly why I am here. This is not the time for games."

A nod. "I do. Where do we go from here?" He was trying to raise Harry's ire, playing games that the young Wizard had just expressed his impatience for.

"I will not repeat myself, Curledtoe. I demand vengeance upon Griphook for violating the terms of his contract with my Family."

Ouch. Score: Harry - 1, Goblin - 0. Chastising the Head of Gringotts was not usually conducive to business, but then again, playing games with an easily irritable Harry Potter was not good for one's health, especially if one is a Goblin.

"The use of capitalization is duly noted, Heir of Potter." Once again, the smirk made an appearance. "I shall acquiesce...you have found me at a good time. My geniality is always at its greatest after a successful fight. You will have a chance at revenge...but on equal terms. A fight to the death; a contract signed and countersigned to avoid reprisals on Gringotts by your fawning supporters amongst the Wizards."

Despite the thick accent, it seemed, Curledtoe had a level of prolixity generally unmatched by the dolts at Hogwarts.

The Goblin Griphook, formerly thrashing in the arms of the guards, now went rigid as a deadly smirk crossed his face. This would be easy, and a victory would certainly erase all his wrongdoings in the eyes of the Director.

"Of course. Terms?" asked Harry, his tone as neutral as ever. Griphook was confused...the boy, barely nascent in his magical education, could not honestly hope to have a chance, could he?

A gleam in his eye, Curledtoe replied, "Physical, no magic except for that imbued in weaponry. Now, is this acceptable?"

Griphook's eyes gleamed brighter than they ever had before...killing a human had always been a dream of his, after hearing of the tales of his Grandfather, who had fought against the Wizards in the last rebellion, killing more than a simple few. Bloodlust showed in the pits of his yellow eyes, the Goblin almost frothing at the mouth with the prospect of killing a Wizard without fear of reprisal.

"It is. You realize, of course, that any future rubbish along the lines of this fight," the word was sneered, "will be met with harshly. A Wizard of my status can hardly be expected to fight for the right to access his Vaults. I have little patience for your games, Curledtoe...and I will modestly claim to carry more weight within the Wizarding World than Gringotts does. I agree to this farce of a settlement only because nothing would make me happier than to cleave this Goblin's head off."

"Was that a threat, Lord Potter?" the Goblin asked.

Harry nodded, smirking. "Indeed. You need me far more than I need you, Curledtoe. You might throw a fit and leave me wanting, but it will only delay my work. I'm rather sure that the Boy-Who-Lived, redeemed as I am in the eyes of the media, currently carries rather weighty support. You would not want to deny a Lord his right, would you, Curledtoe?"

All through, his smirk was pleasant, though the dangerous undertone was more than obvious to the Goblin.

"Of course not, Lord Potter," Curledtoe said, a smirk on his face. They understood each other perfectly. While the Goblin Chieftain had sought to receive some amusement from the fight, he knew that the human before

I must, however, ask you to provide me with suitable weapons."

The daggers he currently carried were ordinary, save for a slight strengthening charm placed on the blade. He was far from qualified in enchanting objects as of yet, what with the immense exhaustion coming from even a simple levitating enchantment. His theory, of course, was spotless. His daggers would not stand up to the fortified weapons of the Goblins...the strengthening enchantment would bend and break under the force of the Goblin weapons.

Confusion. 'Disregard it!' Griphook commanded himself, 'The boy seeks to intimidate you! A false hope...he shall die at my hands, his blood staining my teeth!'

Curledtoe grinned. "I can provide you with weaponry. Your weapon of choice?"

"Long daggers. Two of them." For the first time, Griphook noted the similar gleam in Harry's eyes.

Grinning, Curledtoe snapped his fingers, shouting out something in Gobbledygook. A moment later, the doors were thrown open, two Goblins scurrying in with a large chest held up in the air. Why they didn't levitate it, Harry would never understand. Gingerly, they opened the chest, removing a felt covering. Below lay jewel-bedecked daggers, varying in sizes. Looking at them, Harry grimaced openly, disgusted at the obvious opulence of weapons that were purely ornamental.

Rummaging through the chest for a few seconds, he finally straightened, bearing a pair of plain daggers. They were about eighteen inches long, simply crafted, with a seaweed-like twine wrapped around the handles. Although he couldn't identify the enchantments on the blades, he knew that they were strong. From the enchantments on his own daggers, he noted the presence of a powerful strengthening charm...rather adequate for his needs.

Curledtoe grinned again, pleased by Harry's choice. "Simple and straightforward. Very good, but for your sake, I certainly hope you know how to use them. The enchantments are rather....responsive."

A wave of his hand sent the two Goblins scurrying away.

"And now, the contract." Expectantly, Harry looked at it. It was simple and straightforward, nothing written in fine print. Waving his wand over it, he cast a spell to reveal any hidden writings. The search revealed nothing, and he signed it. The quill jabbed into his finger, blood flowing freely onto the parchment as he signed his name.

Griphook obediently bowed in subservience, respectfully avoiding an overt examination of the contract before signing it...it would not do to show suspicion of the Leader of the Goblin Nation.

Curledtoe nodded in a satisfied manner, tossing the parchment onto his desk. Turning back to the prospective combatants, he grinned sadistically. Clapping his hands, the blood from his own altercation still evident on his clothes and teeth, he said "Let the games begin!"

What a joke. A Goblin, of all things, knowledgeable about ancient Muggle traditions?

Harry shrugged the cloak off, a smirk on his face as Griphook caught sight of the two sheathed blades hidden within its folds.

Taking a relaxed stance, he held the blade in his right hand upwards, the other with the blade emerging from the bottom of his fist. Cocking an eyebrow at Griphook's choice of weapon, a sword nearly as large as he was tall, he readied himself for his first true physical duel.

Granted, he had experienced all that Salazar could, quite literally, throw at him with the limited magic he could cast from within the portrait, but as his Master said, there was no substitute for the real thing.

A war cry rang out in the air as Griphook charged, wielding his sword with some manner of grace. With his left blade, Harry deflected the blow to the side, spinning at the same time. His right hand flipped the blade around as he spun, and in a stabbing motion, he slammed the blade downwards. The Goblin was unfortunately able to dodge, but received a gash on the forearm regardless of his efforts.

Seething, Griphook approached, this time in a more restrained manner. Harry feinted forwards, pushing the Goblin on the defensive, and then attacked, swinging gracefully. He batted the sword sideways as it came, and on its return, formed his blades into an X-shape, capturing the downward swing between the blades. With a heave, he pushed Griphook backwards, lashing out with his foot and hitting the Goblin's wrist. The sword wasn't knocked out of the Goblin's hand, but it loosened the grip.

Beads of sweat accumulated on Griphook's brow as he panicked; he was far from a true warrior. His strengths lay in accounting, as it had always been in his family, with the exception of his warrior Grandfather. Still, he fought on, to save his honor, and to save his life.

The Potter accounts had been managed by his family for over two centuries, and the post had been filled faithfully, until Griphook came. With a devious mind, he had capitulated on the demise of the elder Potters, and had almost frozen the accounts. Siphoning off a percentage of the returns from investment of Potter money, he fell into cahoots with Albus Dumbledore. He found it odd that the old man had vehemently refused to steal from the boy, but had attributed it to a 'human thing'. On Dumbledore's orders, he had purposely neglected to inform the Potter Heir of his status, thus making it easier for Dumbledore to control the boy.

Now, he was paying for his wrongs.

Desperately, he swung the sword, aiming to cleave the Potter Heir in half, the blade swooping towards the boy's abdomen. Due to his height, it was impossible for the boy to duck under a blow like that...Griphook was shocked when his opponent displayed great agility, leaping over the blade as it swung, and landing on one foot, still carrying his momentum. He pivoted, his elevated, boot-clad foot lashing out one final time to knock the great sword from the Goblin's hands entirely. With one graceful move, the spin was completed, the reversed blade in the human's right hand swinging down hard as he crouched down on one knee, embedding the sharp point of the blade through the Goblin's ear.

Drool dribbled out of Griphook's mouth as he died instantly, the slim, long blade of the dagger going in through one ear and coming out the other, cleanly slicing through his brain. A small torrent of blood erupted from the creature's ears, trailing down his neck and under the armor.

With a sharp noise, the blade was extracted, allowing blood to flow freely as Griphook collapsed; the only thing holding him up was the force of Harry's blade being extended through his skull.

Applause was heard as Harry turned, flipping the blades around to hold them upright. Curledtoe still bore his grin, although the blood that had stained his teeth had mysteriously disappeared. Harry didn't even want to imagine where it had gone...certain images were best left alone.

A Goblin eyebrow was raised, the expression only increasing the savagery of Curledtoe's expression. It was expectant...the Goblin leader was waiting for something.

Ah.

Irritably, Harry turned around, and spat, the gob of saliva landing squarely on Griphook's forehead. The applause came again, the two trollish guards joining in eagerly.

'What disgusting, simple creatures...' Oops...guilt, again.

Tossing the two blades onto the table, flecks of blood flying off them to stain the finish, Harry took a seat.

"Impressive. I wonder who taught you to wield daggers like that," Curledtoe said, expecting an answer. He was satisfied, if not by the answer, then by the terse reply, brooking no further tomfoolery on the Goblin's part.

"Keep wondering."

Curledtoe grinned as Harry continued, "Now, about my vaults. You will lease them to me immediately. I claim Right of Heir on the Potter, Black and Crowen Vaults."

Curledtoe inclined his head in agreement. He sat forward, waving a hand at the two guards, who dragged Griphook's body out with them as they exited. The motion caused the gob of Harry's saliva to streak on Griphook's forehead, making Harry thankful that it wasn't attached to his tongue any more.

Reaching into his cloak, Harry removed a scroll of parchment. Silently, he pushed it across the desk towards Curledtoe, his other hand nudging the quill.

Raising an eyebrow, Curledtoe lifted the scroll, opened the seal, and began reading. Harry watched as a look of concentration appeared on the Goblin's face, finally replaced by some frustration.

"You wrote this well, Lord Potter. There are no points that I can exploit."

"Of course," Harry drawled, "that would be the general point, wouldn't it."

"Very well," Curledtoe said, "if you require an Oath of Silence, you shall have it." Reaching for the quill, he signed the parchment, his blood once again coming out as a nasty shade of green. The parchment glowed blue for a second, before reverting to the drab beige that it used to be.

"Good. I have found Gringotts' service to be rather lacking. While my Vaults will remain here, out of convenience and adherence to tradition, they will no longer be managed by Goblins. Within a few weeks, I will appoint a manager for my vaults, and inform you of his identity in person. Now, we must talk numbers," he said, ignoring the slight shock on Curledtoe's face.

After all, the loss of money paid to the Vault manager was considerable, since it was the Potter and Black Vaults in question.

"Understood. I daresay that I cannot persuade you to change your mind. What numbers do you refer to?" The harsh accent seemed much less emphasized now, Harry noticed with some relief. He made a mental note to try and shock Goblins in future conversations; it would be better for his ears.

"I do not require official emancipation. However, you will make available to me the Family Rings that I control. Also, I desire that Dumbledore be kept out of the loop. I understand that he has some way of checking on my accounts. If he checks, or if you are due to send him a Bank Statement, you will fabricate it to show that no withdrawals have been made from the Potter vaults. On the 31st of July, next weekend, you will personally hand me a comprehensive statement of all my holdings: Investments, stock, real estate, heirlooms, everything. Clear?"

The Goblin nodded slowly, and then once again, in a more assured fashion. "There will be a problem."

"Oh? Do elaborate."

"The Black Vault...your claim will be contested. Narcissa Malfoy has greater claim on it than you do, since she is a Black by blood and magic. The fact that she is pureblooded while you are not will also count against you. The will reading has been scheduled for the 5th of August, at 2:00 PM. Of course, since it is the will reading of a Family as important as the Blacks, it will be done at the Wizengamot itself, immediately prior to the first Convention in August. If your claim is contested, it will be done then. Until that date, you cannot take the Black Ring."

"Leave that to me. Any issues concerning the Crowen vault?"

"No. As a Potter, you have claim on the Crowen vault regardless of magical or blood ties to the family."

"How so?" Harry asked, somewhat surprised.

"In the late 12th Century, the Crowen Family swore fealty to the Potter line. Without a living Heir, the Potter family controls their vault. It should not matter...the vault is meager compared to the Potter one."

"Be advised that a test of Blood Purity will be required, so you may take the money from the Potter Vault to buy the ingredients and prepare the potion. This can be done on the day of the will reading itself, to prove my claims. The Family Rings should attest to what my lineage is in a manner sufficient for the Wizengamot."

Curledtoe nodded. "Very well. You ask a lot of me, Lord Potter..."

"Oh. I must have forgot," Harry said, looking anything but embarrassed or forgetful, "you may, for the next three months, take an extra 2 percent of the returns from investment on the Potter Vault."

"Make it 10 percent, and you have a deal," Curledtoe said, eyes gleaming.

Delicately, Harry studied his fingernails. "I was under the impression that you were aware that I get irritated by your games. I have hardly asked you for anything too strenuous to accomplish without the added 2 percent. Perhaps, Curledtoe, you forget that Griphook helped himself to my money for years? That money is not recoverable, so my offer of any bonus at all is being rather generous."

Curledtoe shook his head. "Of course, Lord Potter. Very well."

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Harry Potter left Gringotts Bank as a satisfied man. In his possession was a rosewood box containing the Family rings of Potter and Crowen. The next two weeks would be absolute hell. Preparations had to be done, for power would not shift its balance so easily.

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Love.

What was it? A question to muse upon...one that the raven-haired young woman had been forced to consider recently.

The Wizarding World was rather stagnant in its beliefs. Over thousands of years, change had taken place so slowly that it was almost redundant by the time such change took place. Women, ones as beautiful, skilled and intelligent as her, were a commodity. In her world, they were traded; a means of ensuring allegiances that could never be set in stone, but simply reaffirmed to some extent.

Of course, apart from her beauty, none of her other qualities were actually worth that much on the 'market', as it were. They were simply regarded as additions...a wife who could think for herself, and make decisions for the benefit of the family. Once married, she would fill a role that made her rather useless...a trophy to be displayed at society parties, beauty that could be bragged about.

But then a similarly dark-haired young man had come along, turning everything she had dreaded on its head. He was, to be extremely clichéd, her Knight in Shining Armor. And she had fallen in love, painfully deep love, pledging herself to him in mind, body and soul. She would not be his servant, she would be an equal...she would have the opportunity to exhibit each and every one of her qualities and skills. He had an agenda, she knew, but he would not tell her what it was until the time was right.

He made her learn, teaching her skills that had been largely disregarded over time. He taught her to protect her mind, and with her typical Ravenclaw attitude, she had taken it as yet another challenge, slowly but surely approaching the point where he could trust her with each and every secret.

But now things were falling apart. Her dream, to love and marry this man, to take part in his battles as he took part in hers...it was being endangered. By none other than her parents.

A marriage proposal had come by mail, not three hours ago. The second one this week. The first had been from a family in China. It had been rejected forthwith...her Family, old as it was, had made a conscious effort in leaving the depravity that had taken their homeland. Tying their only daughter to such an oppressive society had been blasphemy for them, thus the rejection. But the second was from a well known family in England.

The Malfoys.

She had been shocked, but rationality, ever present in her mind, had held its own. The little snot, ever hateful of her beloved, wanted her. It was a simple means of revenge for him...to be able to walk into Hogwarts on September 1st, her arm linked in his. It would be a slap in the face, a just reply for the imprisonment of his father.

The proposal, though unsettling, was not what had shocked her. It was the fact that her parents were seriously considering it that stunned her. She had, with perfect control over her emotions, pointed out that Malfoy Senior had just been sent to Azkaban. Her parents had nodded pensively, but come to the conclusion that an alliance with a Family such as the Malfoys, regardless of their allegiances, was beneficial at this time. The Dark Lord had returned, and he would certainly bring grief to all those that opposed him. Luckily, none of the Changs were of any use to him, the parents being too old to join the Death Eaters. Their oldest son currently worked in South America as a Curse-Breaker leading an expedition. Marrying Cho to the Malfoy boy, at the very least, would insure that there were no attacks on their family.

The Changs were a well-off family, but not particularly rich. Their trade had never been firm, as each generation possessed entirely different skills compared to the last. Their son was a perfect example, far from the Ministry quill-pusher that his father was.

Cho, ever a rational woman, had simply nodded.

"All I ask is for you to give me two days. Once those two days are up, if I haven't convinced you otherwise, you may promise me to anyone you desire."

And she returned to her room. Alone in her room, she allowed her fears to come to the forefront of her mind. The contract was disgusting...it demanded a large dowry, yet another abhorrent practice, and quite unequivocally stated that Cho would fill the role of a lesser wife, despite the Malfoys having Lordship over only one Family. She would end up as nothing but a concubine...a piece of flesh for that rat Draco to work his frustrations out on when his whore, Pansy, was unresponsive.

Harsh? Of course...but it was a fair description of the situation. Modesty aside, Cho knew she was far better looking than the whore Draco had already been promised to. While Parkinson would fill the role of the high-society wife, Cho would be relegated to the bedroom as a form of amusement for the two of them. Disgusting.

A lesser wife...a title that she had already been prepared to accept, as long as the husband was Harry Potter. She was far from deluded...her convictions had always served her well, and they told her that he was meant for another. A large part of him belonged to her, she knew, but a larger part belonged to someone else.

She tried to distract herself, attempting to put faith in Harry. As much as she wanted to believe that he could solve this problem with a snap of his fingers, seventeen years of life with her parents had taught her to never underestimate her father. The man was convicted beyond reasoning, and it would take a lot to change his mind. Calling on her friends was impossible. Marietta was working in the Ministry over the summer, but she had become introverted after the 'sneak' episode. It was somewhat relieving to Cho, as she no longer had to endure Marietta's screeching voice as she complained about everything. At the very least, being with Harry had matured her even more; she had noticed an increasing dislike for the vapid conversation that her friends indulged in. While she, too, had been guilty of that to some extent in previous years, she found some of the comments they made to be entirely useless. Justine Bauer, her roommate at Hogwarts, was in Egypt this summer, and the last of her good friends, Sonya Parks, had the flu.

Not convenient at all, as she had nothing to distract her.

As night fell, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was now safe to make the call that she had to. Her hands unclasped, revealing the hand-mirror that had been encased in her soft grip. A slight smile crossed her face as she remembered the events leading up to the presentation of this mirror to her. She had frankly been surprised that Harry could be so romantic. Rose petals and - NO!

Digressing into her thoughts was an activity for another, more relaxed time.

"Harry Potter." The words were whispered hauntingly, her despair evident in the muted speech.

The image swam for a second, now reflecting the smiling face of her lover rather than her own, saddened reflection.

"Sweetheart, what happened?" asked the concerned voice of her lover, his smile evaporating immediately. It had been two days since they had last spoken.

Steadfastly centering her emotions, she smiled back at him. She conveyed the whole story to him, guiltily enjoying the look of possessiveness that simply increased as Malfoy's name came up.

"Alright. Wave the mirror around slowly, so I can see what the room looks like. I'll be with you in a minute." She did as he asked, anticipation swirling in her loins.

He cut the connection on the mirror with a whispered "Finite." True to his word, he arrived there within a minute, having dashed out of his house and created the portkey.

In his hands was a rosewood box, the crest of Gringotts engraved into the lid in an artistic manner.

The contents of that box would decide Cho's future.

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Tonks, having heard the explanation, watched sadly as he left. He was lost to her, she felt...with determination and love so great for another, there was no hope for her. She was far from the sort of person to be cruel and seduce Harry...she could not do that to Cho, having been her housemate for two years. In any case, Harry would not fall for something like that.

She should have expected that Harry, with all his secrets, and with all his qualities, would not be single. She had not bothered to ask. Finding out, two days after she had begun living with him had been a shock, but her feelings had not been as deep then as they were now.

Seduction had never been something she was interested in, but a sizeable part of her now wished that she had seduced Harry the previous summer. After spending two and a half full weeks with him, a rather short time if she was honest, she could honestly say that it was not simple infatuation that she felt for the emerald-eyed young man. She had both love and lust for him in great proportions...a perfect recipe for a beautiful relationship. And she had hoped for the best, seeing their relationship develop over the past two weeks.

It was an intimacy of a different kind, a relationship on a different level that they shared. He told her about his life, revealing the hardships and the abuse that he had weathered, while she poured out her soul to him at night, sobbing desperately into his chest as he held her. Her nightmares had persisted for two years, witnessing a graphic near-death experience during Auror Training being the root cause of her problem, a source of great shame to the happy-go-lucky, yet hardy Auror. But while he held her, her fears evaporated, leaving her liberated and at peace. It was a friendship that they had moved to an extremely deep level, one that she was reluctant to damage in any way. She didn't want to jeopardize their friendship, not when it was beginning to mean this much to her. From the second she had seen him the day he got back to Privet Drive until now, she had had to keep her occlumency shields at maximum strength at all times. She would not put passive legilimency past him, seeing his skill with Occlumency, and some of her thoughts concerning him...they were rather explicit. It wasn't particularly taxing to do, but it was irritating having to fortify ones shield all the time. She sympathized with Harry on that point, for he had to constantly maintain his shields to keep Voldemort out. The Dark Lord had begun striking out at his shields within a week of the altercation at the Ministry.

He was an incredibly quick learner as well, she found, as he managed to swim through Metamorphmagus training easily. At the rate he was going, he would be able to reach her level within six to eight months, a rather remarkable feat. Admittedly, his previous knowledge of Occlumency was a certain benefit, but he still had extraordinary skill at it. Currently, he was able to change every feature on his body, some which she had to take his word for, and do them within an hour and forty minutes. Since holding one's change was not an issue, Metamorphmagi were rated in proficiency by measuring the time taken to maximize the size of their bodies. This meant that at the end of the process, a Metamorph would look rather like a Giant, albeit with properly proportioned features rahter than the blunt, murderous ones on the faces of most Giants. Harry had, at this point, managed to incorporate every last ounce of magic in the second core within a time that was remarkably fast for how long he had been learning. Tonks, on the other hand, could do it in nine minutes.

She sighed sadly. She had hoped that she could, someday, be loved by him.

NO! Giving up was not an option, the rational part of her mind screamed. He meant too much to her to simply give him up without a fight, regardless of what her nature was.

At times, the best motto was 'Fuck everyone. I come first.'

Despair gave way to yearning, as the young Auror swore to herself, possessiveness glinting in her eyes, that Harry Potter would be hers. It was not in her nature to seduce a man...but somehow, this was different.

Seduction or not, she would make sure he loved her as much as she loved him. She did not want to fake the love; using love potions or some such thing would leave her feeling hollow, she felt.

No, this would be about seduction.

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A small swirl of blue light heralded Harry's appearance into Cho's room. Immediately, he swept her into a hug, relishing the familiar contact once more. She let her despair show, but held her tears, her strength of mind coming through.

She had faith in him...he would help her out of this mess. He, it seemed, never failed to do things right when it came to their relationship. Her previous worries melted away as she indulged in his embrace.

His lips found hers, the kiss both passionate and loving. She swooned in his arms, indulging in the security of his grasp as they kissed. When he withdrew, leaning his forehead against hers, he whispered "Well, that felt familiar."

She smiled, pecking his lips.

Then, he pulled away, grabbing her hand tightly. His features hardened as he seemed to grow in power and stature, his stance at once powerful and self-assured. Without that band in the way, he looked positively regal, filling the robes deliciously. After all, while being as intimate as they had been, it was rather hard for her to fail to notice the band. Being a Ravenclaw, she had surmised the rough meaning of some of the runes immediately, giving her a vague idea of what it was about. He ahd come clean with her, but had not told her his full reasoning for it until a few days ago, in one of their chats.

That had simply increased the protectiveness she felt for him. She wanted to be close to him throughout his campaign against Voldemort. Truth be told, the idea was also something of a turn on for her. Perhaps it was the uniform she pictured him wearing to battle, or the lack thereof...

"Lead me to your parents, Cho. I need to make a proposal that I'm sure they'll want to hear."

Shellacked, she led him out of the room, an expression of stupid happiness on her face.

Ah, well...she could easily forgive him for not being romantic with his proposal.

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Elsewhere, at the same time:

A knock sounded on the door of Number 4, Privet Drive.

A few minutes later, the door was snatched open from the inside, a woman with an exceptionally long neck glaring out from inside.

Without really glancing at the offending person, she snapped "Knocking on the door...haven't you heard of a doorbell?!"

Then, she realized exactly who she was talking to. A squeaked "Eeep!" later, she had scurried back into the house, screaming "Harry Potter! Come down here now! Your...your teacher is here!"

Dumbledore entered, a serene expression on his face. While looking at peace, he was prepared as ever.

He began to grow somewhat impatient, and was about to start towards the stairs when Harry Potter rounded the corner. Nothing much had changed...the boy had a few dark circles under his eyes, but nothing solid to suggest depression.

"Hello, Harry," the old man said. "How are you?"

A slight blush crossed Harry's face as he sat down across form Dumbledore. He placed a black slate on the table between them, glancing at Dumbledore apologetically.

Bending over, he took a piece of chalk and began scratching away. Dumbledore, perplexed, waited to see what this was about.

A few moments later, Harry sat up, and turned the slate around. It read:

Sorry, Professor Dumbledore. I have a Muggle disease called Laryngitis. I caught it from Dudley earlier this week. It makes it very hard to talk, and trying too hard can make your throat bleed. I'll be fine in a day or two. How are you?

Dumbledore stared at the words for a second, and then blinked.

"I'm sorry this had to happen, Harry. I'm sure you'll be fine. If it gets worse, please tell Auror Tonks to contact me, I'll have Madam Pomfrey take a look and see if she can do anything for you."

Once again, Harry blushed, scrawling:

Thank you.

Dumbledore smiled genially. Things were going well; the boy held no more anger towards him. He seemed pliable. A small reward, like being given a fabricated position in the Order as a 'Special Informant' to Dumbledore, based on his dreams, would make him easily malleable.

"Harry, if you remember, Professor Snape came by two weeks ago to pick up your wand-"

As soon as the word 'Snape' crossed his mouth, Harry scribbled on the board. Dumbledore took the proffered slate from Harry, looking at it in confusion.

It was a circle, with smaller circles and a semicircle inside it. He was utterly confused.

Seeing his confusion, Harry grinned, and pointed at the semicircle. Then, he put the tips of his index fingers at the corners of his mouth, and pantomimed a frown. Bending over again, he scrawled:

Frowny-Face.

Dumbledore blinked, then chuckled happily. "I'll remember that one, Harry, oh, yes, I will. In fact," he said, removing his wand, "I think I'll use it now."

A wave of his wand later, his robes were dotted with Smiley-Faces and Frowny-Faces, while his floppy hat had a large yellow Smiley-Face on it.

"Now, Harry, back to the matter at hand. You see, Severus was mistaken. In his hurry, he gave a random reason as to why your wand was required. I certainly don't think you would attack your relatives, Harry, not without provocation. You see, I think I've found a way to stop your connection with Voldemort."

Harry's eyes widened, and a huge grin appeared on his face.

"See, with the brother wands business, and since I am bonded to Fawkes, I might be able to terminate the connection entirely. I will need your wand for a few days, and I'll have it sent back through Fawkes. He has grown since his little accident with Voldemort's Killing Curse at the Ministry."

Harry still had the stupid grin on his face, but it suddenly evaporated.

Bending over, he erased the board with the sleeve of his oversized jumper. Furiously, he began scrawling away for a few minutes, and then handed the slate over to Dumbledore with a sheepish grin.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry's actions, and took the board, turning it around to read the scrawled handwriting better.

Sorry, Professor Dumbledore. Last night, Tonks talked me into giving my wand to you, and I agreed. I felt bad about it, because I thought you were disappointed in me and you wanted my wand because I was irresponsible. I'm happy that that's not the reason, Professor. She left a few minutes before you came, something about needing 'women's clothes'. She has some work to do somewhere, and then she said she would drop by Hogwarts and deliver the wand to you. She left her spare wand with me for now, just in case.

I'm sure she'll have it to you soon.

When Dumbledore left, a few minutes later, without the wand he had come for, he missed the flash of pink in 'Harry's' eyes.

At the top of the stairs, 'Harry Potter' gradually turned into a curvaceous woman by the name of Nymphadora Tonks.


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Okay. Tell me what you think. REVIEW!

I'd like to thank Zero for beta-ing this chapter. Also, IP82 and cj_cold contributed a lot of ideas and constructive criticism. Guys, you have my thanks.

Err...updates will be faster now that i have nothing to do this summer.

Cheers,

Apocalypso