Just Another Day

  Gringotts was Gringotts.

  The bank’s Doric columns tilted at the same acute angles they always had. Enough to make anyone who'd learned how gravity works squirm.

  He stepped in from Diagon's mid-morning bustle. It was cooler inside, away from the rarely seen London sun. His boots clicked against white marble veined with grey, each step bouncing back at him from a dozen different angles as he entered the main lobby.

  A witch in magenta robes stood three counters down. He couldn't hear what she was on about, but judging by the wild arm movements, she wasn't best pleased. The goblin across from her seemed somehow unaware of her displeasure. Odd that. Customer service was a hallmark of the institution.

  Nearer, a wizard with a pronounced stoop clutched a leather folio to his chest. He looked like he was trying very hard not to fidget, to only marginal success. The goblin in front of him was moving coins from one pile to another. One at a time. Slowly. The wizard's knuckles were white, and he shifted foot to foot. The goblin didn't seem to notice. More likely it did. Hard to tell with goblins, really.

  Harry approached the sole open teller, adjusting the cuff of his new herringbone tweed jacket. Dress to impress.

  The goblin behind it had a narrow, pinched face, like it was suffering through an acute bout of hemorrhoids. It didn't look up. Its quill scratched across parchment in tight, deliberate strokes. A ledger lay open beside it, columns of figures marching down the page in cramped script.

  Harry waited.

  The quill kept right on moving. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  He shifted his weight, quietly clearing his throat. The goblin's ear twitched. Otherwise, nothing.

  He couldn’t find a bell to ring for service.

  Right then.

  He began to hum.

  Celestina Warbeck's A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love. The crown jewel of Britain’s musical canon. Beloved by grandmothers everywhere. It was the soundtrack of Harry's most cherished moments. From the Yule Ball, to the Ministry elevator, to his one visit to Ron's Aunt Muriel's house. And it lodged itself in your brain like a worm.

  Fortunately for everyone involved, he could carry a tune and had nothing better to do.

  He hummed a rousing rendition, pausing after he’d gotten into the third verse. Forgot the bridge. He started again from the top.

  The goblin's quill faltered, its rhythm lost. Then back to work, strokes a bit more aggressive now.

  Oh, what's this? Do I detect a challenge?

  By the third repetition, the stooped wizard was tapping his foot in time, the goblin before him no longer moving coins. Harry smiled and hit the bridge with enthusiasm. The acoustics in here were excellent. The marble amplified everything. A witch passing behind him shot him a bewildered look. Harry nodded pleasantly.

  The goblin set down his quill slowly. His jaw was clenched. The poor chap seemed rather put out by the paperwork. Rough job, banking.

  "State your purpose," it said flatly, "and be quick about it. There's no time to waste."

  Perish the thought.

  "I have business that requires a director."

  The goblin's brow furrowed. It leaned forward, staring. Harry hadn’t noticed him blink once this whole time. The goblin continued its gaze. Harry looked back, smile pleasant. The teller finally sighed, and adjusted his glasses. Seemed knackered, like someone who had to deal with wizards far too often.

  "And what, pray tell, would justify an audience with a director?" It asked, lips pulling back just enough to reveal a row of sharp teeth. "I can assure you they would not tolerate having their time misspent on trivialities, wizard."

  These blighters really did enjoy being as disagreeable as possible.

  Harry let the silence stretch. The goblin's irritation was visible now. Tension in his jaw. Fingers drumming once against the counter.

  Harry continued to smile, his eyes half lidded. Just as the goblin looked ready to jump across the counter, Harry spoke.

  "I have mutually profitable business to discuss." He paused, let the moment hang. "Assuming, of course, that Gringotts would be interested in reclaiming a cache of its misplaced silver."

  The goblin went very still.

  "I'll check the director's availability."

  The goblin vanished through a door behind the counter and returned a few minutes later with a different goblin.

  This one was tall and broad. Hefty? Not a bit of flab on it. Burly. That’s the ticket. It was a brick shithouse crammed into pinstripes. It had a bulbous nose, far less pointed than most goblins. A bit more human, somehow. Maybe another curious case like Flitwick. His ears sat close to its head, just small points at the tips, really. Harry'd never seen mutton chops bridge across a brow before, but here they were. The thick, bushy, luscious eyebrows dominated his face. Small, close-set beetle-black eyes were tucked beneath them. Sideburns and a dramatic widow's peak worked together to frame a truly formidable forehead.

  The old boy was dressed to the nines. Small, circular wire-rimmed spectacles perched on that bulbous nose. A pocket watch chain glinted at his waistcoat. Wingtip shoes shone brightly, polished smart.

  Now that is a proper goblin. Wonder what his name is…

  "This way."

  Harry followed him. ‘Course he did.

  Onward Strongbrow, into the breach.

  No, that’s probably not it.

  The hard-man goblin led him through a door and down a corridor. It was a bit whiffy; smelled like brass polish, mostly. S’pose goblins did like to keep a proper shine. A hovering stack of ledgers that looked ready to topple headed their way. As it passed, Harry confirmed his suspicion that there was a goblin behind it. The corridor ended at a platform. A mining cart sat waiting on rails that disappeared into darkness.

  The goblin gestured. "Get in."

  Harry got in. The seat was uncomfortable. The goblin settled across from him. He leaned back, looking right cosy. Damn. Wonder if Boomfist’d trade seats. Nah, that’s not it.

  The cart dropped. Then kept dropping.

  His stomach lurched into his throat. The world became wind and darkness and the shriek of metal on metal. Harry was beginning to wonder if the goblins of Gringotts had delved too deep. The cart hurtled onward. Its grip on the rails made a strong case for the existence of magic.

  His ears popped. Then popped again.

  The wind slapped his cheeks like a Veela. Merlin, the legs on her—

  The cart whipped around a hairpin bend. Harry's spine compressed against the seat. His vision went white at the edges. Only years of Wronsky Feints kept his Full English from decorating the cavern walls.

  The cart juddered to a stop.

  Harry spilled out onto stone. His legs wobbled beneath him. Brad looked wholly unfazed.

  Apparently, to this diamond geezer, it was just Tuesday.

  Harry, meanwhile, was reflecting on how it had all come to this.

  No time to wallow, though, Straightooth was already on the move. Harry followed him down the corridor. As he walked, his stride grew steadier. He rolled his shoulders back, standing up taller.

  Right. Game face, Potter.

  They turned right into a narrower hallway. The walls were wainscoted: speckled black granite below, white marble above, separated by a gilded band. Sconces lined the walls, casting warm light across the polished stone. Harry took slow, deep breaths as they walked. Negotiations with goblins were no different than battle. He couldn't exactly walk in there unarmed.

  They turned into a short hall flanked by suits of armor. The goblin-sized plate mail stood at attention along the wall. Likely enchanted, like the ones at Hogwarts. Patent law was rather loose outside the Muggle world.

  They stopped at a set of double doors. Heavy oak, dark with age. The wood was carved in goblin-labyrinthine relief: geometric patterns that twisted and doubled back on themselves, then did it again. They were eye-boggling to try to follow. The bronze handles were shaped like claws.

  The goblin rapped twice.

  Nothing happened.

  Nothing continued to happen for a while longer. Harry shifted. Scratched an itch at his nose.

  Then the doors swung wide on hinges Harry couldn't see.

  The office opened onto a floor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the far wall. The minecart system spread out beyond the glass in a dizzying web of tracks and stone, lit by amber lanterns that cast everything in warm, shifting light. The arteries and veins of the place laid bare.

  He'd seen Gringotts from above once before, from the back of a dragon. Not exactly his finest hour. This time, he had the chance to properly take it in. Didn’t manage it last time. Might’ve been the battalion of enraged goblins that distracted him.

  Alright. That's impressive.

  Mahogany tables jutted from the floor, each one buried beneath towers of parchment and scattered relics. Jewels, blades, the sort of things museums kept behind glass, just lying about like paperweights. One table had what looked like a ceremonial dagger from the Third Dynasty. Another had a jeweled chalice that might've been Pictish work, or a very good fake.

  Filing cabinets stretched toward a ceiling he couldn't quite make out. A library ladder leaned against the shelves. Halfway up it, a goblin was bent over, half-swallowed by an open drawer.

  His escort cleared his throat. "Senior Director Grimfang."

  Grimfang hauled himself from the drawer. Peered down over half-moon spectacles and a nose that could charitably be called crooked. His waistcoat was tailored within an inch of its life, though creased where he'd spent the morning wrestling paperwork. Muttonchops framed a square jaw. Eyebrows like overgrown hedges twitched as he adjusted his spectacles with one ink-stained claw.

  "Yes, Borgdo, what is it?"

  Borgdo drew himself up slightly. "It's Bogrod, sir."

  Damn. ‘Brad’ was pretty close.

  Grimfang waved a hand, already looking back toward the cabinet. "That's what I said. Now get on with it. Time is money, Bogdor."

  Harry glanced at Bogrod. Then looked more closely at Grimfang, metres up that ladder. Take away the mutton chops and draw on a pencil moustache—

  Weatherby

  Barty Crouch. Goblin edition.

  Harry's mouth twitched.

  Grimfang didn't bother climbing down. Just waved a dismissive hand. "Vault access? Account management? Borgdo handles such matters. I've more pressing concerns."

  He was already turning back to the cabinet.

  Harry waited. One, two, three.

  "Actually," he said, "I thought you might be interested in discussing a rather substantial quantity of goblin-wrought silver. Gringotts' silver, specifically."

  Grimfang's hand paused.

  He turned around, looking at Harry. Thought that might do the trick.

  "Is that so?"

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "Quite a bit of it."

  Grimfang slid down the ladder. His feet touched the ground, and he was moving to his desk. Quick on his feet, this one. A tower of parchment was pushed aside, and Grimfang leaned forward, interlocking his fingers.

  "Come here."

  Harry stepped forward. Bogrod moved with him, then circled around to stand beside Grimfang.

  The Director’s eyes were locked on Harry.

  "Explain."

  Harry crossed one ankle over a knee and leaned back. "Around 87 AD, the legions were pushed back from their furthest expansion into the isle. At the time, several goblin clans were supplying arms to the Roman Legions during their campaign to pacify the highlands."

  Grimfang's eyes didn't leave his face.

  "One of those border forts was abandoned in haste." Harry paused. "The full armoury was left behind."

  Grimfang leaned forward slightly. "And you… found this previously unknown fort on your own?"

  "I'm an arcanist. It's what I do."

  "And where precisely is this installation?"

  "The Gask Ridge, just into the highlands. The wards are still active, concealing it these past two thousand years."

  Grimfang's fingers tapped once against the mahogany. Behind him, Bogrod had produced a small notebook. The hulking goblin stood with his pocket watch chain glinting, jotting notes with an orange-feathered quill that looked absurdly tiny in his thick fingers. Fwooper, probably.

  "We did supply cohorts along that frontier," Grimfang said. "Most returned their equipment during the withdrawal." His eyes narrowed. "You're suggesting this one didn't."

  "The fort was evacuated too quickly. Just about everything was left behind."

  "How much is everything?"

  "Enough to equip a full auxiliary unit. Call it five hundred gladii. The same in pila. Scuta to match. Plus officer equipment: lorica segmentata, helmets, specialized weapons."

  The tapping stopped.

  Grimfang sat back. His claws interlocked. "That is substantial."

  "Yes, it is."

  "And you can access it."

  Harry met his gaze. "The wards are complex, but yes. I can."

  Grimfang studied him. Bogrod's quill scratched quietly in the silence.

  "An arcanist," Grimfang said finally. "You'll be documenting the excavation, I assume."

  "Just so. The site has significant historical value beyond the weaponry. I'll be publishing my findings."

  "All in pursuit of knowledge. How admirable." Grimfang leaned forward, squinting. "And you've come to Gringotts because...?"

  "Because the silver's yours, naturally. It seems a damn sight better than letting it fall into the Ministry’s hands, tied up in red tape for the next decade."

  Grimfang's mouth twitched. "Bureaucrats. Yes. They do have unfortunate tendency to drag their feet or ‘lose’ property of Gringotts." He tilted his head. "Of course, for such a generous contribution, Gringotts would pay a handsome finder's fee. For each item that makes its way back."

  Harry kept his expression neutral. A finder's fee for five hundred gladii, plus the rest. Cha ching.

  "That seems fair."

  "Treating one another fair is important." Grimfang's claws drummed once. "Regarding the other artefacts at the site: Roman material, I assume. What are your intentions there?"

  "Those will be mine for publication and sale. But I'm prepared to offer Gringotts right of first refusal on anything I don't keep."

  "At what valuation?"

  "Market rate. Independent appraisal or competing offers. You match it, it's yours."

  Grimfang nodded slowly. "And what you don't sell?"

  "Goes to my personal collection, much of which will naturally be stored in a Gringotts’ vault. Standard banking relationship."

  "How tidy." Grimfang's gaze was calculating. "You have this all remarkably well arranged, Mr...?"

  "Halloway. Harry Halloway."

  "Mr. Halloway." Grimfang tested the name. "This is quite the undertaking. Returning goblin property, publishing academic findings, establishing banking relationships." He paused. "However, one might wonder is that was all you’d be hoping to gain, beyond the finder's fees."

  “Now that you mention it, I don’t have an account with Gringotts just yet.” Harry held his gaze. "Perhaps you could reopen the Peverell vault for me?"

  Bogrod's quill stopped mid-stroke.

  Grimfang's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. He was very still.

  "The Peverell vault," he said finally. "That's an old family vault."

  "It is."

  Grimfang leaned forward slowly. His ink-stained claws pressed flat against the mahogany. "The Peverell line has been dormant for six centuries. You're claiming descent?"

  "I am."

  "While I’m sure your claim is valid, would you happen to have any corroborating evidence to support it?" He raised his eyebrows. “Anything at all would be most beneficial in ensuring any claim hold up to scrutiny.”

  Ah, yes. Not to worry, a healthy serving of plausible deniability, coming right up. Harry reached into his coat and withdrew two items. He placed them on the desk. The first was the book from the chamber. The second was smaller.

  A ring, set with a jet tetrahedral shard.

  Grimfang looked at the items, then lifted his gaze up to Harry..

  "A family grimoire," he said quietly. "And that stone..."

  "The Resurrection Stone." Harry kept his tone matter-of-fact. "One of the Deathly Hallows."

  Grimfang arched a brow. Then he leaned closer, his eyes fixed on the ring and the book. His claws flexed once against the desk.

  Behind him, Bogrod had set down his notebook. His small spectacles caught the light as he adjusted them, peering at the artifacts.

  "May I?" Grimfang's voice was careful.

  Harry gestured.

  The Director picked up the ring first, turning it slowly. The black stone seemed to swallow the lantern light. He examined the setting, how the metal had been worked, then set it down carefully. He looked down at the fragile state of the book, then reached a hand out, carefully pinching the cover and turning it.

  The pages were covered in a linear script of vertical lines and diagonal slashes. His eyes scanned the first page, then the second. His eyebrows rose slightly.

  He looked up. "Where did you acquire these?"

  "They've been in my family for generations."

  "Hmm."

  Grimfang set the grimoire down. "These are extraordinary artifacts, Mr. Halloway." He paused. "Borgdo, fetch Ironwort. Immediately."

  Bogrod straightened. "It's Bogrod, sir. And… do you mean Silverwort?"

  "That's what I said. Now go."

  Bogrod went. The uber goblin was quick on his feet. The door closed behind him without a click. Considerate too.

  Grimfang looked down to the grimoire again, turning the pages slowly. "The craftsmanship is remarkable. The binding alone..." He looked at the symbols on the cover. "The Hallows sigil. And these—" his claw traced a triskelion "—Are the Manx?"

  "I think it likely."

  Grimfang nodded, and set the book down. He studied the ring again, holding it at different angles.

  The door opened. Bogrod returned with another goblin in tow. This one was an elderly, reedy goblin, with a jeweler's loupe hanging from a chain around his neck. His robes were immaculate, and he walked carefully. Brittle bones, probably.

  "Ironwort," Grimfang said. "Your assessment, please."

  The appraiser approached the desk. He looked at the ring and grimoire without touching them. Then, with Grimfang's nod, picked up the ring, producing his loupe and examining the stone. The old chap took his time. Not that Harry was in a rush.

  "Well?" Grimfang's voice was tight.

  Silverwort set the ring down carefully. "Very interesting. I've only ever read about such things, but this matches the descriptions." He glanced at the grimoire. "May I?"

  Grimfang gestured.

  Silverwort picked up the book and opened it. His eyes scanned the Ogham script. After several moments, he turned a page. Then another.

  "Old Ogham," he said finally. "Very old. The orthography is archaic. I can transliterate the script, but many of these words..." He shook his head. "I'd need reference materials to translate properly. The language predates Middle Irish."

  "But it's authentic."

  “Well, It would be hard to say definitively—”

  Grimfang cleared his throat. Loudly.

  Silverwort paused, then looked from Harry to the Senior Director. A look of comprehension crossed his face, eyebrows rising and mouth opening in a small ‘o’ shape.

  "That is to say, the script is certainly genuine. The binding, the materials, the construction. It’s all consistent with the period suggested by the language." He traced the symbols on the cover. "The Hallows sigil is very well-executed." He looked at Grimfang. "The provenance is fairly compelling."

  "Fairly?" Grimfang repeated.

  "Rather, I meant to say. For a lineage claim it is more than solid" Silverwort glanced at Harry. "The physical evidence is substantial. Difficult to forge work of this quality."

  "Thank you, Silverwort. That will be all."

  The appraiser left, walking more quickly than when he’d arrived. The door closed.

  Grimfang sat back. His expression was unreadable. "This is substantial evidence, Mr. Halloway."

  Harry waited.

  "Documentation of this nature," Grimfang continued slowly, "combined with physical proof..." He paused. "That provides considerable weight to a claim."

  "I’d hoped it might."

  Grimfang's mouth twitched. He stood up and crossed to the window. The minecart system glittered beyond the glass. He stood there for a long moment, hands clasped behind his back.

  Then he turned. "Gorbdo, get the Peverell file from archives. And the standard contract templates for archaeological consultation."

  Bogrod moved immediately. Crossed to the filing cabinets, he started rifling through documents.

  Grimfang returned to his desk. "Let's discuss particulars. The silver must be delivered intact. Any discrepancies in quantity or condition will result in penalties proportional to the shortfall."

  "Understood."

  "Timeline?"

  "Three weeks. Maybe four if the wards are more intricate than expected."

  "Weekly progress reports. With documentation."

  "Of course."

  “And I’d like a representative of our own to attend as well. That will be fine?”

  “Completely. I’m sure you have a stable full of the best Curse-Breakers.” He glanced over at the top goblin, Bogrod. “Could even send your personal assistant along, to make sure your interests are seen to, if you’d like.”

  Bogrod returned, setting a thick file and several parchment templates on the desk. Then picked up his notebook again, quill poised.

  Grimfang glanced at his assistant. “Yes. He is quite competent. Very well, he and a senior Curse-Breaker will accompany you, then.

  Grimfang opened the Peverell file, scanning the contents. "The vault was emptied and sealed in 1351 when the last confirmed heir died. The contents were combined with those of the Potter’s, as Iolanthe Peverell was the last known member of the family." He pulled a contract template forward. Started writing. "Your finder's fees will be calculated at standard rates: fifteen percent of appraised value per returned item."

  Harry kept his face neutral. Fifteen percent of that much goblin silver. Plus whatever the Roman artifacts brought. He'd be wealthy. Properly wealthy. Could maybe do with one of those canes Lucius always strutted about with.

  "As for the artifacts," Grimfang continued, his quill moving steadily. "Right of first refusal as discussed, and we'll split appraisal costs. If we decline purchase, you're free to sell elsewhere or deposit here."

  "Agreed."

  Grimfang wrote. Bogrod's quill scratched as he took notes. The only sounds were parchment and ink.

  After several minutes, Grimfang turned the contract around. "Standard archaeological consultation agreement. We handle legal filings, you provide access to the site and return all goblin-wrought silver. We compensate you per item at fifteen percent of appraised value, grant access to the Peverell vault, and extend right of first refusal on supplementary artifacts. Penalties for non-delivery are outlined in section seven."

  Harry read through it carefully. The terms matched what they'd discussed. Though the penalties were steep. Triple the estimated value if he failed to deliver. But the vault access clause was clear.

  Upon completion of the contract, he would be recognized as legitimate holder of the Peverell’s family vault.

  He picked up the quill and signed Harry Halloway at the bottom.

  Grimfang signed opposite. His script was elaborate, ceremonial. He blotted the ink carefully, then looked up.

  "Borgdo," he said. "Prepare the vault access documentation."

  "Bogrod, sir."

  Grimfang waved a hand. "Yes. The key will be awaiting you upon completion of the project. Bogdor will be your personal liaison for all your personal banking needs."

  Harry glanced at Bogrod. Excellent. The massive goblin looked his way, then nodded and adjusted his spectacles before looking down to make another note.

  Grimfang stood, extending a hand across the desk. "It’s been a rare pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Halloway." His mouth twitched. "Or should I say, Mr. Peverell?"

  Harry shook his hand. The goblin's grip was firm. "Halloway will do. For now."

  "For now. Yes." Grimfang's eyes glinted. "Welcome back, Mr. Peverell. It's been far too long."

  · · ·?

  Harry trotted down the stairs of Gringotts after a job well done.

  The goblins were handling the legalities, and he didn’t remember the wards being anything he couldn’t tackle with just a bit of time. Helped that he’d done it once before. A quick shopping trip, packing his bag, and he’d be ready to go.

  Honestly, it was as easy as setting the date, colouring by numbers and Bob’s your uncle.

  As a holder of the Peverell family vault, he’d have a good angle on claiming the Lordship as well. That’d take some convincing, but he’d put pounds to pennies he knew a certain old man that’d be overseeing things down his crooked nose.

  Amusing, really. He was finally free of the fame, and here he was scrabbling to get it back.

  Least it’d be useful this go around. Tom was so successful in his first rise because the fires were already burning so hot no one noticed when he doused them in petrol. Now he was here to see if he couldn’t put together a bucket brigade to douse it before it was too late.

  Seemed better than hedging on another botched infanticide doing him in.

  Harry stepped onto the alley, intending to grab a well deserved chicken and a can of coke in London, but the sound of chanting made him pause. It was rhythmic, raw, and punctuated by the buzz of cheap enchanted megaphones.

  A small crowd had formed just ahead, gathered around a makeshift podium at the centre of the neighbouring square. Placards floated lazily overhead, charmed to display bold script.

  WORK WITHOUT FEAR

  MAGIC FOR ALL

  PUREBLOOD JOBS ≠ WIZARD JOBS

  An older witch stood at the front, voice crackling. Not exactly captivating oratory, was it? But it was loud and urgent. Maybe a bit tired, though.

  ‘Course they were bloody tired. They’d been at it for years by now. Unfortunately, things were about to get far grimmer.

  Harry turned around and made to walk away. A headline caught his eye at the nearby kiosk, where a folded Prophet sat half-open, the subheadline peeking through.

  NEW MOTION SEEKS TO RESTRICT MUGGLEBORN ENTRY INTO KEY MINISTRY ROLES

  He stepped closer, digging into his pocket for a sickle.

  When he looked up a flyer had been extended before him. A man’s hand was attached to it. A familiar face was attached to that body. And a familiar voice spoke.

  "Morning, sir. Hope you'll give it a look."

  Harry blinked.

  It was Arthur Weasley, barely into his twenties, though his bright ginger hair was already thinning at the crown. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were bright and smile wide.

  Mr. Weasley, face carved with deep grooves.

  “It’s not your fault, Harry. Never was.”

  Thin hair now white at the tips.

  “Come by and see us more often, Harry. Please.”

  “We miss you.”

  “This will always be your home.”

  He blinked.

  The sound of the chanting returned.

  Arthur's smile was starting to go brittle. He reached out and accepted the flyer with a quivering hand.

  The thing was hand-drawn and uneven. The ink was smudged, but the message was clear.

  THE MINISTRY WORKS FOR EVERYONE—OR IT WORKS FOR NO ONE.

  Arthur moved on when he hadn’t received a response, weaving through the crowd, eager to hand out more.

  Harry watched him go.

  Arthur Weasley had every reason to stay home.

  Pureblood.

  Wizarding family.

  Connected enough.

  Comfortable.

  But he was here. Handing out smudged leaflets.

  That was Arthur. A decent man who never asked for credit.

  Harry folded the leaflet carefully and slipped it into his coat, next to the Gringotts contract.

  "Back off!" someone shouted.

  The sound of the square shifted.

  Voices grew louder. Angrier. Counter-protestors pushed in from the edges, jeering.

  The chants faltered. Tempers were heating fast.

  Aurors stood off to the side, arms crossed. One yawned.

  Not good. Whole thing's ready to blow.

  Harry scanned instinctively.

  He froze.

  Arabella Figg stood near the front of the crowd. She was in her early twenties, but it was her. She held a sign that read "WE MATTER TOO" and faced a growing knot of pureblood bigots with wands being drawn. She didn’t draw hers. Couldn’t. Didn’t have one, just like most of the protestors.

  This wasn’t good.

  A crack of spellfire split the air.

  Someone screamed.

  Chaos.

  Spells were flung into the crowd. Nothing looked lethal, but that didn’t seem to be the intent.

  Arabella was one of many squibs targeted, now dancing and laughing uncontrollably as the panicking crowd jostled around her.

  Nearby, a young girl sported pig's tails.

  A large man charged the purebloods. His face red. He knocked one or two onto their arses.

  A rainbow volley impacted him.

  He went down hard. Body crumpling. Convulsing. Face twitching. Whinnying projecting from his lips. Purple boils blooming across his skin.

  The crowd broke, surging in every direction.

  Arabella vanished beneath the wave of bodies. Oh, bugger.

  Harry moved.

  He pushed through the side, wand held low. A burst of wind to part the press. Another flick lifted Arabella from the ground before she was trampled. She flailed in the air, giggling madly, clutching her sign like a lifeline.

  He set her down near the edge of the alley behind a vendor's stall. A shielding charm shimmered between her and the chaos.

  By the time he turned back, it was over.

  The square was in shambles. Signs trampled. Podium shattered. A pink doll with one eye missing lay near a bench, forgotten.

  The Aurors chose now to get involved. Directing the stragglers to disperse.

  No arrests. No statements.

  Just another day.

  Arabella sat there, tears and snot streaming down her face, even as giggles bubbled out of her too-wide smile.

  Harry cast the counterspell.

  Arabella wailed.