(A/N: One of these days I'm going to win the Lottery, and have nothing but free time all day, every day, to play with these characters. Until then, I have to write in my spare moments, which are a lot sparer than I'd like. Apologetics all around.
Thanks be to Mary Caroline, my precious beta-reader, who helps me get things right. If I didn't, despite everything… well, it's my fault, no one else's.)
(Disclaimer: Nothing's changed since I started writing this story… darn it.)
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"Restoring Hope"
by Paracelsus
*
9 August 2009 - Year 11 P.V.
*
"The most recent attack was early this morning, here," Tonks summed up, tapping her wand on a map spread across the kitchen table. "Nothing major, an owl-routing center, but it's disrupted all the owl post in and out of Scotland and Northern Ireland."
It was Sunday afternoon, and the Order of the Phoenix was meeting in Ma Maison's kitchen. It was large enough to accommodate them all - if a tad snugly - and thanks to Bill Weasley's special expertise, only the vaults of Gringotts were more secure. No one could spy on Ma Maison… regardless of whether they served Bellatrix Lestrange or Rufus Scrimgeour.
"It supports our theory about Bellatrix's change of modus operandi," mused McGonagall. She looked up from the map to see several faces (notably Ron's) waiting expectantly. She gestured at the map. "Geographically, there's been little pattern to the most recent attacks, save that none were in Muggle population centers. It's a significant departure from Lord Voldemort's old methods."
McGonagall waited for the inevitable shudder to pass through the room - even after eleven years, many wizards couldn't bear to say or hear that name - and continued briskly, "However, each incident has had its impact on day-to-day functions. This morning's attack on the post, Friday's attack on the Ministry's record archives…"
"By themselves, not large and valuable targets," nodded Arthur Weasley, "but by that same token, not heavily guarded or defended."
"And each attack whittling away, bit by bit, at our ability to maintain a cohesive wizarding society," concluded McGonagall. "The exceptions to this pattern have centered on…" She hesitated, and met Ron's eyes.
"On me," Ron finished for her dully.
"Although the Finnigans' deaths were just as much about Bellatrix as they were about Ron," Luna added, defending her husband.
"Anyone's death would have done for what Bellatrix wanted," said Ron with a weary shake of his head. "She picked Seamus and Lavender to get at me."
"Be that as it may," interjected Hestia Jones quickly, "what do you think this change in pattern means, Minerva?"
McGonagall shook her head. "It's tempting to guess that Bellatrix's ranks aren't as full as she would have the world believe… certainly she hasn't the giants or dementors behind her, as the Dark Lord had. She would have to choose her targets with greater care in such case. But that might prove a dangerous underestimation of the woman. If we're going to err, let us do so on the side of caution."
Upon that consensus, the meeting began to break up, with the members of the Order queuing at the spot in the living room that Bill had made safe for Disapparation. McGonagall raised a finger as Ron and Luna rose to leave. "Professor and Mrs. Weasley, would you stay for just a moment? I need to discuss some personal matters with you, while we have the luxury of total privacy."
"Yeah, us too," said Ron, with a sidelong glance at Luna. They re-seated themselves around the kitchen table, as Fleur hustled a curious Bill out of the room.
"First of all," McGonagall began, drawing two scrolls from her pocket, "Hope is settling in at Hogwarts as well as might be expected. She misses you both, but we've found ways to ensure time does not hang idle on her hands." She handed the scrolls to Ron and Luna. "Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be abetting this contact between you - if I'm to persuade the other members of the Child Welfare Committee, I must not be seen as taking sides in this case. I may already be too involved, merely by being your employer."
"We appreciate your position, Professor," murmured Luna, as Ron tore his scroll open. He ignored the majority of the message and went straight to the signature; he read it, smiled, and re-rolled the scroll.
"Next: Hope will be away from Hogwarts tomorrow. That will give you an opportunity to come to the school and prepare for the new term. We've less than three weeks left before term begins."
"Away from… there's no problem, is there?" Ron worried.
"No, no problems of which I'm aware. But she's requested a trip to Diagon Alley tomorrow," said McGonagall. "She's not said why, but she seemed to consider it important. I'll be escorting her myself, in loco parentis… and we will, of course, have a Ministry representative accompanying us." The momentary curl of her lips showed what she thought of that.
Ron seemed only to have heard the first part of McGonagall's explanation. "Hope'll be at Diagon Alley tomorrow!? When? Did she say where…?"
McGonagall overrode him sternly. "You are not to try to meet her there! You are still under Ministry edict!"
As Ron seemed about to explode, Luna laid her hand on his arm. "If you try to meet Hope, they'll know the Headmistress told you about her outing," she reminded him softly. She didn't need to say more: Ron was quite able to see the implications on his own.
After a moment, Ron gave a grudging nod. "Right. Whatever you say."
"Thank you." McGonagall regarded him with a softening expression. "I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you, Professor. We are doing what we can… and Hope will be starting school soon enough. Which, while admittedly small consolation," she nodded to Luna, "is better than nothing."
She cleared her throat and sat a bit straighter in her seat, obviously trying to put the awkward moment behind them. "Now… you had something to say to me privately?"
"Not simply us," said Luna. She brought out her purse, opened it, and withdrew Hermione's portrait.
"Professor McGonagall. It's good to see you again," said Hermione. She watched carefully, as though trying to reassure herself that the Headmistress's response upon meeting her would be nothing like Ron's.
"Miss Granger," replied McGonagall, without batting an eye. The woman was damnably quick on the uptake, give her credit for that. "So good to see you as well. We would have been delighted to've heard from you years ago…" She left the question in the air.
Ron answered. "She was painted over our last Christmas holiday together. But she only came to light… well, we only found out about her less than two weeks ago."
"Meaning I did," corrected Luna. "You were only told on Monday, Ronald."
"That'd be 'less than two weeks', Love, last I checked."
"And since then," put in Hermione, "they've brought me up to speed on recent events." She chewed on her lower lip in thought. "Professor, I heard what you said about Bellatrix's tactics. I don't see why anyone should be surprised that they differ from Voldemort's. They had entirely different objectives, after all."
"What?!" Ron looked at Hermione in astonishment. "What, you don't think they both played the 'Pure-blood good, Muggle bad' anthem?"
"Yes," Hermione conceded, "but their motives were quite different. Bellatrix is a radical revolutionary - where Voldemort was a Nihilist."
She sighed at Ron's blank look. "They're Muggle political philosophies, Ron, but they have wizarding equivalents." Hermione settled quickly into lecture-mode and began, "Look, Bellatrix is a fanatic; she's taken pure-blood bigotry to its extreme. She's trying to bring down the wizarding world so that she can rebuild it, using only pure-bloods. She truly believes the wizarding world would be better off without Muggleborns - and if that requires getting rid of Muggles, she'd hardly cry about it, would she? She may hate us, but I suspect it's more, well, impersonal: we're a disease, to be purged. Or, a better analogy, she's a surgeon removing a cancer - with each attack being as precise as a scalpel.
"Lord Voldemort, on the other hand, was more pathological, more megalomaniac. He wanted destruction for its own sake. He killed and tortured Muggles - because he could. Yes, he too wanted to bring down the wizarding world - out of hatred. And yes, he wanted pure-bloods to rule - so that he, the half-blood, could in turn rule the pure-bloods. Most of all, he wanted to live forever… because, after all, that's what gods do. And it was that mystique, that hope of sharing in his glory, which attracted his followers."
Hermione's words slowed to a stop. She looked from Ron, to Luna, to McGonagall... taking in their stunned expressions. "Er, am I repeating the obvious again? Oh dear, I'm sorry, I've always had a tendency to run on, haven't I, it's mostly a nervous habit, please don't…"
"Hermione," interrupted Ron, "that's bloody brilliant! Yeah, of course their strategies would be different! Bellatrix is trying to break apart our, what d'you call it, our social order…"
"…without directly harming the wizards and witches she hopes to rule," finished McGonagall. "Thereby opening the possibility that we might predict where she might strike. Voldemort simply engaged in random, indiscriminate destruction, expecting to rule over whatever rose from the ashes."
"So long as he was supremely powerful and effectively immortal," added Luna thoughtfully, "it wasn't a bad plan, actually."
Hermione snorted. "So long as."
"Yeah, Harry took care of the 'effectively immortal' bit," grinned Ron. The grin died quickly as he recalled that Bellatrix, in this one instance, was following in Voldemort's footsteps. And if history continued to repeat itself, this time it would fall to him, Ron Weasley, to take care of it.
And he hadn't a clue how to do it.
*
"Oww!" cried Hope, rubbing her shoulder.
"Too slow," Harry reproved. "Try again. Sweep with the wand, visualize the shield…"
Obediently, Hope raised her wand and faced The Infernal Pain Thing (as it was quickly becoming in her mind). When she'd suggested taking advantage of McGonagall's absence for a bit of revision, she certainly hadn't anticipated anything so… irritating.
Harry had told her to take him to a corridor on the seventh floor of the castle, where they'd paced up and down while Harry had concentrated on something. After the third pass, a door had appeared in the wall opposite a very odd tapestry; Hope had opened the door and entered a room filled with a host of magical devices, including The Infernal Pain Thing. "It's the Room of Requirement," Harry had told her. "I wasn't sure it'd appear for a portrait, but I guess a portrait's never wanted to come in before now."
The magical devices seemed to have been stored in the Room by a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher from years past… one with a hobby, or a collection mania, or something of the sort. At any rate, they were all designed to test a person's defensive skills and reflexes. The Infernal Pain Thing, in particular, would fire stinging hexes at her whenever it heard a verbal command. Harry might not be able to use magic himself, but magical devices would still obey the sound of his voice.
And when it came to Defense, Hope was fast discovering that Harry was relentless.
As if to emphasize that point, Harry cleared his throat. Immediately, The Infernal Pain Thing spat stingers in rapid succession. Caught off-guard, she dodged the first one (ducking was permitted, if not the goal of the exercise) and desperately tried to get her wand to make the motions Harry'd described. The second stinger hit her foot as she yelped, "Protego!"
She didn't have time to make the wand motions, but the Shield Charm worked nonetheless. The remaining stingers ricocheted away harmlessly.
"Double wow," said Harry, impressed. "Finite." The Infernal Pain Thing gave a turkey-ish cluck and settled down to sleep.
"Granddad says… I did a wandless Protego last year… when Death Eaters attacked," Hope panted, straightening. "But I didn't think I could do it again… I mean, isn't that more advanced than…?"
"I wasn't taught wandless magic until my sixth year," Harry agreed. "But they say every magical child shows some wandless magic while they're growing. You know: Vanishing glass windows, blowing people up, that sort of thing."
"I never did… um." Hope fell quiet.
"You were about to say…?
"Nothing." She slipped her wand into her pocket and walked over to the bookshelf where Harry's portrait was propped. She flopped down on a nearby chair and sat with him in silence… a silence both welcome and, oddly, comfortable.
In the last two days, Hope had quickly learned that, just because Harry and Hermione were both living portraits, it didn't mean they were made from the same mold. Hermione seemed to enjoy talking much more than Harry - not that Harry wouldn't answer questions, but he wasn't as spontaneous. Hermione didn't move much within her frame, as though always conscious of her status as a portrait: Harry was far more animated, especially when excited. Hope would frequently hold Hermione in her hands as they conversed: it never occurred to her to hold Harry. And the idea of sleeping with Harry under her pillow…! Hope blushed as she recalled their first night together, preparing for sleep…
"Look, I'll turn my back, okay?" Harry said in exasperation. "I'll turn my back until you say it's clear."
"All night? I thought pictures still had to sleep sometime." Hope reached out to turn the portrait to face the wall.
"DON'T! How can I watch the room if you turn me around?"
"That's my point!" She glared at Harry, embarrassed - and furious with herself for being embarrassed. She'd never worried about undressing in front of Hermione… and Harry was only a picture, not a real boy, but still… "Can't you just… leave your portrait? Go off-frame or something?"
"I don't want to attract attention from the other portraits here at Hogwarts. They'll gossip… you've no idea what gossips they are. So far, they haven't noticed a newbie's here, and if you want to keep that little fact a secret…"
They faced off for a moment longer before Harry sighed and tried for compromise. "Can you dress in the closet?"
"But you'll still see me when I get into bed! I'll be in…!" Hope gestured wildly with the pyjamas in her hand.
"Oh, for…! The lights will be out, for Merlin's sake. I won't see any, er, details… but I'll still be able to keep watch. And we agreed I should keep watch."
Hope maintained her glare another second before calling "Nox!" to the wall candles. Pyjamas over one arm, she marched to the closet as the lights dimmed. "And take off your glasses!" she ordered him over her shoulder. As she closed the door, she could hear a muttered "Definitely your mother's daughter" behind her.
The memory sparked a question that had been bothering her. "Harry? Father?"
"You keep switching back and forth," he noted with amusement.
"You keep acting back and forth…" Or maybe it was her. Sometimes, it really wasn't easy to think of this energetic young man - hardly older than herself, really - as, well, as her father. Fathers shouldn't be so… sexy… Hope hastily marshaled her thoughts and began again. "Father, how far can magical portraits travel? Outside their frames, I mean."
Harry pondered the question. "Well, here at Hogwarts, any person in a portrait can travel to any other portrait in the castle," he said, in his slow thinking-out-loud voice. "And if one person has more than one portrait, he or she can travel between portraits, no matter where they are. But… at the, er, Place I stayed once I turned seventeen…"
"Yeah, I think I know the place. Sort of," Hope qualified. "The inside, anyway. Dad took me there for my birthday."
"Huh. I suppose it's yours now, isn't it?" He shook his head. "Anyway, there were portraits of people there, too - but they couldn't travel between portraits in the house. And a good thing, too."
"So… Hogwarts is special, then? You can't normally travel between portraits?"
Harry shook his head again. "Just the opposite, I think. The Place had so many security spells lying around, they probably blocked the portraits from traveling. Without those, I think it'd be easy… yeah, come to think of it, the portraits at St. Mungo's can move around, too." He cocked an eyebrow at his daughter. "Why? I should warn you again, if we want to keep my existence a secret…"
"You can't visit any of the other paintings in Hogwarts. I know, I know." She twisted a strand of hair around her fingers. "I was just wondering… if you were limited to Hogwarts."
"As long as I'm in Hogwarts… yeah. Anyplace else is too far away. Unless there's another portrait of me somewhere…?"
"I'm pretty sure there isn't. Considering what Mr. Thomas had to go through to get this portrait of you done."
"Yeah. Which reminds me…" Harry stretched his arms and looked around. His hand darted out to capture the Golden Snitch that had been circling in the background. "Now might be a good time to see if…"
"Oh, right. If we need tools, the Room will provide." Hope stood and plucked the portrait from the shelf. She turned it over. "Mm, it doesn't look like it's glued or anything… I see a few metal tabs." Delicately she bent the tabs away from the frame's edge, then removed the backboard. Taking ever increasing care, she slid the portrait from its frame and examined its backing carefully.
Dean had reinforced the original paper sketch with a stiffer backing of vellum, to keep the paper from puckering when the tempera was applied. Gently, watching to ensure the paint didn't crack, Hope flexed the portrait slightly.
"You can't imagine how weird that feels," reported Harry.
She held the portrait up to her ear, flexing it so that it curved around her head, with one edge near the corner of her eye. "How's that?"
In her peripheral vision she could see Harry, pressed up against the edge of the paper. "Excellent! Yeah, I think this is going to work!" Hope straightened the portrait and set it down as Harry continued, "Now don't forget to talk to Dobby. No one will question him, and he can get us the…"
"Yes, Father, I remember. Honestly," she added under her breath. At the moment, he was definitely acting like a father.
*
10 August 2009 - Year 11 P.V.
*
The four glass display cases had been moved outside the Great Hall; they were now strategically placed beside the four hourglasses that measured House points. A display case for each Founder of Hogwarts, each with its own ancient artifact: Godric Gryffindor's sword, Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Rowena Ravenclaw's athame, and Salazar Slytherin's locket. Hope read the tiny placards inside each case, and couldn't help smiling.
Not a word about Horcruxes.
She turned as Madam Manwaring and the Headmistress approached. "Good morning, dear," said Manwaring brightly. "So, where are we going today in Diagon Alley? Some last-minute school supplies, perhaps?"
"Um, not exactly," said Hope. "I do need to go to Gringotts, though."
McGonagall and Manwaring exchanged glances. "We won't be able to Floo there directly," said McGonagall. "Unless prior arrangements have been made, Gringotts's wards prevent anyone from entering other than through the front doors. Had we known in advance, we could have contacted them…"
"I know, and I'm sorry. But I only thought of it this weekend, and the Bank was closed, and today's the first chance to go there. And it has to be today!" Hope pleaded.
"It's all right. There should be no problem," McGonagall assured her, ignoring Manwaring's frown and slight shake of the head. "We'll simply have to Floo to Diagon Alley and walk to Gringotts." She made a gesture of invitation at the great oaken doors. "To Hogsmeade, then?"
Hope nodded and picked up her cloak. She draped it over her shoulders and lifted the hood to cover her head. "Ready."
Manwaring blinked and rubbed her eyes. "Er, Miss Potter? What is that…?"
"It makes people not want to pay attention to me," Hope explained. "I thought I'd better wear it today." Surreptitiously she felt her pockets; yes, the items were there, just in case…
The three left Hogwarts and headed for Hogsmeade. By the time they approached the Three Broomsticks, and none of the locals (particularly the Weasleys) had accosted them, Manwaring began to relax. She leaned over Hope and murmured, "My dear, if you have some expenses for school, there's no need to bother yourself by going to Gringotts. I'd be happy to visit your vault for you… or, if you like, I could front you a few Galleons…"
"No, thank you," replied Hope, pulling her hood a bit farther forward on her head. "It isn't money. You'll see when we get there."
*
Getting into Gringotts proved somewhat more difficult than the last time Hope had visited. That time, she and her family had a scheduled meeting with the goblins and the Ministry, and the Floos had been open. This time, Hope and her party had to enter through the front doors from Diagon Alley - and this time, they were subject to intense scrutiny before they were allowed to enter.
One liveried doorman - well, doorgoblin - seemed ready to bar Hope because of her Cloak of Anonymity. "If you think you can stop us from watching you like a hawk, you're barmy," was how he put it. Hope promptly removed the cloak and let it fall to the floor, presenting herself and her bag for inspection. The goblin glanced at her suspiciously, then consulted a bronze box set into the wall just behind the doors. Grudgingly, he waved her through. Hope gathered up the cloak and draped it back over herself, as they approached the main lobby.
"Nice," came a whisper in Hope's ear. "Friendly. S'pose we should be grateful they aren't using Probity Probes…"
"Shh," Hope hissed back. She may have tricked the doorkeeper into scanning her, not her cloak, but she saw no point in pressing their luck.
"What was that, dear?" asked Manwaring solicitously.
"I, uh, was just wondering how secure Gringotts is supposed to be," said Hope quickly.
"Few places in the wizarding world are as safe - and no place is safer," said McGonagall. "No one enters without the goblins' knowledge - and any magic of disguise is immediately detected at the door. Invisibility, glamours…"
"Even Polyjuice Potion?" Hope put in.
McGonagall's quick glance at Hope was as suspicious as the goblin's had been. "And how do you know about Polyjuice Potion?"
"Erm… Dad did mention it once."
The Headmistress looked as though she would have pursued the matter, but by now they were in Gringotts's main lobby, and conversation had to break off. The lobby was a bustling chaos - usual for a Monday, actually. Customers stood in queues waiting to do business with goblin clerks; another pair of goblins rolled a small cart filled with rubies and sapphires into a side room, where a remarkably ugly old woman (a hag? Well, why not…) watched impatiently.
As they waited their turn in the queue, Hope could feel Manwaring grow tense, and turned her head slightly to see why.
At the far end of the room was a human wearing the scarlet-and-gold Gringotts livery. His back was to them, so Hope couldn't see his face - but he was tall, with long hair whose bright red tones were instantly identifiable. "Uncle Bill," she said softly.
"Not really your uncle, dear," Manwaring sniffed. "Let's trust he'll keep his distance as he should…"
At length they were at the counter facing the clerk. "Hope Potter," she announced, holding up her vault key. "Um, I need to get into my vault."
The goblin clerk nodded shortly and snapped his fingers. He didn't seem much interested in his customers, as though his mind was elsewhere. "Escort these three to… vault #878," he barked at the guide who responded to his summons, and turned away.
"Something's… off, somehow," whispered the voice in Hope's ear again. "Can you pull the hood forward so I can see better?" Silently, Hope obliged.
Their guide led them through a side door into a chilly room, with a cart set on tracks that descended down into darkness. They clambered about the cart, and with a clank their guide started them forward. Amidst a rush of wind they zoomed down the tracks, down into the deepest caverns beneath Gringotts. Except for one near-collision with another cart, the trip was uneventful, and they arrived at Hope's vault unscathed, if not unshaken.
"Very well, Miss Potter," said McGonagall, as the goblin guide opened vault #878 and considerately returned to the cart. "You've brought us down to your vault, and you've indicated you've no need to dip into your funds. I think it's time you told us why we're here."
"Today is Aunt Ginny's birthday," said Hope, unfastening her Cloak of Anonymity. She dropped it casually over the small desk near the vault door - after noting that, yes, there were quills scattered among the loose parchments covering the desktop. Didn't need to bring quills after all… well, better safe than sorry...
"I know, I know," she added quickly to Manwaring, "not really my aunt, but I still think of her that way. Anyway," she continued, "I want to give her a birthday present, so I have to do it today, and I couldn't do it before today because the Bank's not open weekends."
She led them away from the desk towards one of the stacks of gold, with the boxes from the House of Black arranged beside it. Manwaring's gaze fell, briefly but longingly, on the silver instruments that were Dumbledore's bequest to Harry, before coming back to the matter at hand. McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Hope, dear," Manwaring began, "your intentions do you credit, but please consider. If the Ministry thinks it would be unhelpful to continue to associate with, well, with painful reminders of your past…"
"She's always been my Aunt Ginny," said Hope evenly. "I'll probably still call her my aunt, no matter what happens." Inwardly she tracked how much time was elapsing… they'd rehearsed this so many times last night…
As she hoped, Manwaring continued to insist. "My dear, it's usually better to make a clean break with the past…"
"For goodness' sake," McGonagall put in unexpectedly, "don't let's talk about 'the past' in that way, as though the Weasleys had all died recently." She turned to Hope. "So you want to give your aunt something for her birthday?"
Hope nodded. She picked up one of the smaller boxes from the stack, and handed it to McGonagall. "Um, what do you think about giving her this?"
McGonagall opened the box and smiled slightly at the emerald necklace inside. A scrap of parchment, freed from the box lid, fluttered to the floor; she stooped and picked it up. "Ah," she nodded after reading it. "I believe I understand."
"Professor McGonagall," Manwaring protested stiffly, "I don't think…"
The Headmistress overrode whatever Manwaring was about to say. "We've already agreed that the contents of this vault are Miss Potter's property. She may dispose of them as she will," she stated firmly. "And the simple giving of a birthday gift is not the same as 'continued contact.'" As the other woman still looked obdurate, McGonagall added with a slight sigh, "I will deliver it myself."
"Well…" Manwaring looked from McGonagall, to the box, to Hope's determined face, and relented. "I daresay that would be within our guidelines. Very well."
"And I want to put a note inside - may I? A very short note, I'll let you read it first," said Hope quickly, heading back to the desk. With any luck, she'd kept McGonagall and Manwaring distracted long enough… and their main task here was done.
She reached for the cloak, to move it out of the way. But in her haste, the fabric snagged something on the desktop. Parchments, quills, and a kneadable eraser went flying across the vault floor. "Aaaack!"
"Oh, dear," sighed Manwaring. She brought out her wand and, with a muttered spell, collected the scattered parchments. She couldn't resist looking at them as she stacked them neatly, and Hope had to work hard to keep from grinning as she gathered the other oddments strewn about the floor. Ohhhh, yeah! If I'd planned that, it couldn't have turned out better!
Abruptly, Manwaring went still… she almost froze in place, as she stared at one of the parchments in her hand. "Minerva," she said in a strangled voice, "have a look at this."
McGonagall took the parchment from her hand. Her eyes widened as she read it. "What?" Hope burst out. "What's it say?"
"I, Harry James Potter, being of sound mind…" McGonagall's mouth quirked as she added, "It seems he also wrote despite what the Daily Prophet says before he scratched it out. At any rate, Miss Potter, it appears to be a draft of your father's last will and testament."
"He left a will? But I thought the goblins said…"
"Not a will - a draft of a will. He didn't complete it, and it's neither signed nor witnessed." McGonagall turned the parchment over in her hand. "It is, however, unquestionably authentic. This parchment is as old and dusty as the others on the desk, and the handwriting is clearly Harry Potter's. I should know… I had to struggle through it for six years."
"And look at the date," put in Manwaring quietly, "barely a month before the poor boy died."
"May I see?" asked Hope, as she stepped towards McGonagall and craned her neck to get a better look. "What else does it say?"
"Dispositions of his property… not that it matters at this point, you would inherit in any case," said McGonagall. "But… let me see… hrrm. If I'm survived by my wife Hermione and our child to be… Well, at least he considered himself married to Miss Granger, at any rate. I suppose I ought not to call her that anymore…"
"What else?" insisted Hope.
"Ah. If Hermione and I are both dead, and survived by our child, I name Ronald Weasley to be its guardian, as the custodian of its inheritance and executor of my estate. Some further clauses, covering what was to be done if you were also dead, Miss Potter, or if Mr. Weasley were dead… but that is the germane point." She sighed and looked up from the parchment at Manwaring. "I do wish he'd had time to complete this! It would have made things so much simpler now."
Manwaring gave a stiff nod. "Still," she said slowly, as though the words were being forced from her, "I must admit, this is a clear statement of his intent." She looked McGonagall in the eye and said more quietly, "I admit that. But it changes nothing…"
"It changes everything," returned McGonagall. "At the very least, the full Committee needs to be aware of this."
"I think it would only muddy the waters," Manwaring replied, still in that slow quiet voice. "What the lad may have wanted to be done pales beside what the law says must be done. Sentiment cannot, may not, be allowed to sway us."
"May I please see?!" Hope interrupted. She reached up for the document, which McGonagall gave to her. Hope gave it a cursory scan, nodded to herself, folded it, and began to place it in her pocket.
"Miss Potter! What are you…?" spluttered McGonagall. "That is an important piece of evidence for the Committee! Yes it is, Muriel!" she snapped as an aside to Manwaring. "You cannot simply take…!"
It took every ounce of courage Hope possessed to meet the Headmistress's gaze. "I inherited the contents of this vault," she said in a creditably matter-of-fact tone. "That includes this parchment. It was written by my father, on my behalf. So it's mine." She waited a beat, then concluded, "And I'm going to send a copy of it to every newspaper in Britain."
"But you cannot!" cried Manwaring, scandalized. "The public outcry would be… would be…"
"Indeed it would," put in McGonagall. "And in point of fact, Muriel, she can." She turned a stern face to Hope, but the girl fancied she saw a twinkle in the Headmistress's eye. "Nonetheless, Miss Potter, will you trust me when I say that it might not be the most prudent course? Some of the Committee are… easily embarrassed." She held out her hand. "I will see that this draft is given its proper emphasis. I give you my word."
"'Kay. Thank you, ma'am." Hope returned the parchment to McGonagall. "And besides," she added in a stage whisper, "I can always send it to the papers later if I need to." She reached out to Manwaring, who still held the rest of Harry's parchments, and who looked as though she were in shock. Hope gently plucked the parchments from Manwaring's unresisting fingers and set them on the desk.
She'd lifted her Cloak of Anonymity, ready to drape it over her shoulders, when she was struck by a whim that wasn't at all like her: dramatically, like a villainess in a play, she swirled the cloak through the air around her before settling it in place. "Shall we, then?" she asked her escorts, gesturing towards the vault door, and ignoring the snickering in her ear.
*
The cart had nearly returned from the vaults to the surface when a low, harsh warbling sounded throughout the cavern. "What's that?" asked McGonagall, turning to their goblin guide.
The goblin looked straight ahead without answering. His face was an unresponsive mask.
"It, er, sounds like an alarm," ventured Hope. She didn't wait to be prompted, but pulled her hood forward on her head again.
They lurched to a halt at the top of the tracks; the door to the lobby stood invitingly open. "Out," ordered the goblin, and he herded them out of the cart and into the lobby… where a strange scene was playing itself out.
All the clerks seemed to be frozen, motionless, at their windows. Scattered here and there throughout the room were wizards, witches, and various other beings, wearing expressions of stunned surprise. In the center of the lobby, half a dozen grim goblins stood in a circle, facing outward. They didn't wear the livery of Gringotts Bank, but jerkins and trousers of stiff, brown leather. It seemed appropriate, somehow, when worn by goblins, and Hope wondered if this was what goblins wore when they weren't interacting with humans.
"Are these the last from the caverns?" demanded one of the leather-garbed goblins. The guide nodded woodenly.
"What is the meaning of this?" cried Manwaring, every inch the outraged Ministry official.
"The meaning, madam," said the goblin, putting a world of contempt into the word, "is that from this day onward, the goblin race will no longer accept the insults and indignities rained upon us by human wizards and witches. This day marks the end! This day marks our withdrawal from your affairs, forever!"
"By what authority?" cried a Bank director Hope recognized - Brasslock, Uncle Bill's boss. "Our Charter guarantees Gringotts independence! Your political maneuvers in the Royal Court do not concern us, Forgenail…"
Forgenail, who seemed to be the leader of the leather-clad rebels, interrupted Brasslock with a response in some harshly guttural language - Gobbledegook, Hope guessed. They traded increasingly heated barbs, as the lower-level goblin employees remained frozen in place… as though physically unable to act while the power play before them unfolded.
Finally, one of the human spectators, a sallow-faced old wizard, decided to intervene. "Look here," he barked, stepping towards the leather-clad goblins, "I don't know how you people manage your affairs, and I don't care. But I'm a depositor in this Bank, and I have rights. You can't simply shut up shop here without giving notice to…"
Impatiently, another of the rebels lifted a silver whistle that hung on a cord around his neck. He blew into it sharply - a thin, shrill note sounded - and from the ceiling flew a weighted net, such as might be used for snaring birds. It wrapped itself tightly around the sallow wizard, who screamed once and fell heavily to the floor. The net gave off bright electric sparks as it lay atop him, and his unconscious body continued to twitch.
At this, Brasslock and another director shouted angrily at the rebels in Gobbledegook. They reached into their waistcoat pockets, presumably for their own magical devices; but before they could bring them out, Forgenail had quickly raised his own whistle and blown it. Something very like a Bludger zoomed out of a niche in the wall behind Forgenail, flew over his head and struck Brasslock in the stomach. He fell behind one of the counters and disappeared. The other director hastily lifted his hands over his head.
"Interesting," murmured the voice in Hope's ear. "Some of the human types don't exactly look shocked…"
"No more argument!" screamed Forgenail. "Gringotts Bank is now closed forever! All the vaults are now ours! And the content of our vaults is hereby declared forfeit, as restitution for centuries of oppression!" His gaze swept over the remaining wizards and witches as he finished, "Anyone attempting to leave before the vaults have been transferred will be considered thieves - and dealt with accordingly."
And all the wizarding world knew how the goblins dealt with thieves.