Albus Dumbledore looked at the assortment of Slytherin students currently gathered in the dining room of Potter Manor. He then looked at the one responsible for bringing them in.
"When I said you had my tacit approval in aiding the Order, Harry," the aged wizard said, "I didn't mean for you to commit a full-scale assault on Lord Voldemort's manor."
"You didn't," the boy-turned-warcaster said back, "I decided on my own that it was the correct course of action."
Dumbledore sighed.
"We are going to have a talk about that."
"Of course."
The old headmaster turned to the crowd of children. Most of them were staring at their rescuer as though they were trying to decide if being rescued by him was either a good thing or a bad thing.
"You have been through much these past days. Please rest with the knowledge that you will be safe and under the Order's protection until you are reunited with your parents," Dumbledore glanced at the adults currently in the room, "James?"
The Auror Captain stood up from his position leaning against the wall.
"I'll contact their parents to pick them up."
"What? And have the Death Eaters kidnap them all over again?" Harry interjected, "No. You're going to put them in an Order safehouse and hold them there until the situation has changed significantly for the better."
James looked at his son unsurely before looking back at Dumbledore.
"How does that make us any different from the Death Eaters?" Sirius asked.
"One," the boy held up a finger, "you are not kidnapping them with the intention of making them carve giant skull-snakes on their arms. Two, you are not holding them against their will, but for their own protection. Three, their parents will feel far more secure knowing that their children are being held by the Order rather than a bunch of people who have carved giant skull-snakes on their arms."
"It's called the Dark Mark, Harry," Remus said, trying hard not to look amused.
"I know what it's called, but it looks like a skull-snake."
"The Death Eaters carve it on their bodies to show their loyalty to the Dark Lord," Lily explained further, also trying hard to not look amused.
"I know a place where they can carve it where the sun doesn't shine," Rose muttered darkly from her place sitting on the dining room staircase.
"In which case the snake part would become very lively indeed, wouldn't it?" said Harry seamlessly.
Everyone present stared at him. Then the entire room burst into sniggers, giggles, and barely-suppressed mirth.
"He's right," Daphne said after the laughter had died down. A ghost of a smile had flitted over her face, "Even if we did go back to our parents, there's no guarantee the Death Eaters won't be back to make us take the Dark Mark again. Also, if we're being held by the Order, then the Death Eaters can't do anything to our families because technically we're being held hostage."
"Yes," Harry gestured at her, "Listen to Daffodil."
"Daffodil?" grinned Rose from her vantage point, "Really?"
Daphne glared up at her with all the pent-up fury of five years spent in the midst of Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry.
"Don't make me come up there, Potter."
Harry frowned.
"But I'm right here?"
"She wasn't talking to you," said Rose.
"I wasn't talking to you," said Daphne at the same exact time.
Both girls looked briefly surprised at what the other had said before they resumed glaring at one another.
Dumbledore's eyes had not stopped twinkling ever since the boy mentioned skull-snakes. Nevertheless, the old headmaster held up a hand for attention.
"I agree with Harry. At the moment, it is still unsafe for these children to be returned to their families. For the time being we will keep them safe in an Order affiliated residence. Sirius, is Grimmauld Place still available?"
"It is."
"Would you mind setting up the children there temporarily? Visitation with their parents can be arranged after."
"Works for me," the man grinned, "Maybe now that there will be some 'real' purebloods in the house, dear old mom will finally shut up."
A low rumbling growl made them all focus on Blaise Zabini. The boy looked mildly embarrassed.
"Sorry about that… It's just that we haven't eaten yet. We were locked in that stupid atrium for an entire day."
"Oh, you poor dears," tut-tutted Molly, "Come with me to the kitchen. I'll whip up something for you right away!"
The children followed her out of the room, but not before Tracey elbowed Blaise in the side.
"Hear that Zucchini? You're going into the kitchen with the rest of the vegetables."
"It's Zabini," the boy complained under his breath.
Dumbledore watched them file out. The old wizard's expression had turned serious once more.
"May we have that talk, Harry?"
"Very well," the boy stood up and followed Dumbledore up the staircase.
Rose was still seated on the top steps, waiting for them. She gave her twin brother an inscrutable look.
"How did you beat him?"
Harry paused and regarded her silently.
"How did you beat him?" he asked back.
"We shot spells at each other. They connected by chance. Priori Incantatem. The memories of the people he killed. They helped me," the Girl-Who-Lived stared into the eyes of the Boy-Who-Disappeared, "What about you?"
Harry returned her gaze stoically.
"I rammed four heavy warjacks down his throat, killed sixty of his followers in pitched battle, and stole everything of value not bolted down in his mansion."
The corner of Rose's lips twitched.
"Yeah, I like your way better."
Harry nodded.
"I thought you might," he said and stepped past his sister.
++++++
"I will not ask why you decided on this course of action," Dumbledore said as soon as they closed the door, "But I will ask what you hoped to accomplish."
"The primary objective was to seize the initiative," Harry replied without breaking stride, "The Order is currently on the defense. The recent attacks performed by Death Eaters have inflicted a siege mentality upon its members. My assault was designed to upturn this status quo. To inflict so much lasting damage upon the enemy that they will think twice before launching another attack. To even the balance, so to speak. The secondary objective was to kill Lord Voldemort."
"Do you think it will be that easy, Harry, to kill one of the most powerful dark wizards in the magical world?"
"Probably not," the boy looked contemplative, "If he is anything like the dark beings where I came from, he would have most likely split his soul into separate portions through some arcane ritual and sealed them into magical artifacts littered around the world," he turned towards Dumbledore, "Is my assumption correct?"
The old headmaster blinked.
"Yes," he said for a lack of better things to say.
"In which case we will either need to send a separate task force to find these magical artifacts and destroy them or we kill Voldemort enough times that the spiritual backlash of his continued resurrections erodes his mind to the point of insanity."
"I was aiming for the first one," said Dumbledore.
"The second one will work just as fine," Harry shrugged.
The aged wizard looked at his counterpart with interest.
"It sounds like you've done this before, Harry."
"I have. When I was younger, I played a support role in the hunt for an athanc shard. It was a multi-nation effort incorporating thousands of men and hundreds of machines. We failed. The dragon that we hoped to hunt had created a false shard and lured the expedition into a fruitless chase for months. We returned empty-handed and without half of our starting force."
"A dragon?" Dumbledore mused, "The First Task of the Triwizard Tournament involved besting a dragon. Your sister completed that task with flying colors, I might add."
"Is that so?" Harry looked mildly impressed, "How did she dispose of the heartstone? I'm assuming that after the dragon fell to the ground she had to carve open its chest and tear the athanc from its still beating heart."
"She… ah… flew circles around it on a broom."
The boy stared stonily back at him.
"I'm assuming," he finally said, "that this world's dragons don't spontaneously mutate their surroundings into twisted parodies of themselves with their mere presence."
"This world's dragons don't do that," confirmed Dumbledore.
"That makes what she did slightly less impressive."
"Just slightly," said the aged wizard with a small smile.
Harry stood up.
"If that is all then?"
"Wait, Harry. Might you have time for another question?"
The warcaster inclined his head.
"Proceed."
"What you said in the beginning. When you spoke of objectives, it sounded very formulaic. Perchance, is what the Order currently experiencing something you have experience in?"
"It is very formulaic because it is indeed something I have experience in."
"There is precedent, then?"
"Yes, the Liberation of Llael."
"Please explain."
Harry nodded.
"The initial plan was executed in three distinct phases. Phase One was the reestablishment of Llaelese control over the countryside. This was done by wresting control of the smaller townships and enclaves from their Khadoran garrisons. Once Llaelese Resistance was entrenched in these smaller population centers, it would take a sustained effort from Khador to remove them. Which led directly to Phase Two. The complete annihilation of three full Khadoran field armies. The enemy was safe whenever they were based in the main cities of Llael, but once they were outside, Llaelese resistance fighters would cut supply lines, ambush patrols, and make life generally unpleasant for them. On three separate occasions, Khadoran forces launched field expeditions to take back townships controlled by the Resistance. And on three separate occasions, resistance fighters, backed by partisans, converged on these troop columns from all sides and erased them off the face of the map."
"Erase…" Dumbledore murmured, "…That is a very strong word to use, Harry."
"I use it because it is technically the correct word. The Resistance, while supported by the common population, could not spare the resources to care for prisoners of war. There was also the intimidation factor. The Resistance wanted to send a message. The more soldiers you send, the more we will kill. Therefore, all Khadoran affiliated captives were summarily put to death after they surrendered."
The old wizard furrowed his brows but motioned for the boy to continue.
"Phase Three culminated in the conquest of Llael's capitol city. This last stage involved the entire Llaelese Resistance, seconded Cygnaran field elements, detachments of Crucible Guard from the Order of the Golden Crucible, and no less than eighteen different mercenary companies hired by the Highborn Convenant. The Khadorans were bled dry from guerilla operations but they had entrenched in the city for years. It was a grueling battle. To dislodge the enemy, the fighting had to be done street by street, block by block. Progress was recorded not by how much area was taken, but by how many houses were cleared."
"Is this how you see the struggle with Lord Voldemort will play out, Harry?" Dumbledore said quietly.
The boy shook his head.
"No. The three phases I described were, metaphorically speaking, the easy part. There was a fourth phase. One that no one foresaw. I was actively involved in all three phases of the war, but this last one not even I could have prepared for."
"What was it?"
For a split second, the old wizard thought he saw a flicker of something pass over Harry's face.
"Llael was heavily compromised by Khadoran infiltrators before it was invaded. Years spent under foreign occupation only increased this malign influence. The circumstances were as such that you could not tell if the common person walking on the streets was a patriot or an informant. If Llael was to ever function again as an independent nation, this issue would need to be resolved decisively and thoroughly. This was Phase Four. The systematic purging of treacherous elements within the Llaelese government, her military, and at the very end, her people."
Dumbledore closed his eyes. Memories of the war with Grindelwald surfaced in his mind.
"The Order of the Phoenix is currently at Phase Four," said Harry.
The old headmaster looked sadly at the Potter twin, the one he should have done his utmost to protect.
"Did you participate in the last phase as well?"
The boy returned his gaze neutrally.
"It was… difficult work. I did not particularly enjoy what I had to do. No one did. But it had to be done."
"I heard those words said too many times during the Global Wizarding War," Dumbledore said softly.
"Yes," Harry's eyes bored into his, "And you won that war. Now you're losing this one. Perhaps hearing it too many times wasn't the problem, but hearing it too few."
"What you are proposing, Harry," said Dumbledore after a few seconds of silence, "will require a regime change in the wizarding government."
"Correct. It will require a fundamental shift in how the wizarding government functions besides the regime change. The institutions may remain in place but the people operating those institutions will need to be removed."
"And have you accounted for the human cost in all of this? The lives that will be inevitably lost in the conflict to come?"
"Taking decisive action will always cost lives. Taking no action at all will always cost more."
Dumbledore smiled slightly.
"Was that directed at me, Harry?"
"It was directed at the situation at hand," said the boy politely.
The old wizard stroked his beard in thought.
"The Order of the Phoenix was not created to instigate regime change. It was created to protect innocent people from ideals like those belonging to Voldemort. But I am beginning to realize that by allowing Voldemort to thoroughly control the government, I am, in fact, harming the very people I am trying to protect. Still, I have my doubts," Dumbledore looked at his counterpart and sighed, "A great wizard once thought similarly like you. A great wizard but a terrible one."
"Whom do you refer to?"
"Myself."
Harry stared wordlessly at him, waiting for him to continue.
"So many great things were done to end the Great War," the aged headmaster said dejectedly, "Great, but terrible. The enemy was once a dear friend of mine, which made the war all the more terrible. Eventually, his cause grew to be so diametrically opposed to ours, to all of wizarding society's, that it felt right to do all that was possible to stop him. It was a great rush to fight his army for we believed in the righteousness of our cause, but when the battle ended, when we gazed upon the fallen bodies of both friend and foe alike, all we felt was emptiness. Such a thing must not happen again. It must never happen again."
Dumbledore gazed forlornly at the boy.
"What would you say to an old wizard who thought like that?"
No emotion showed on Harry's face, but understanding was alight in his eyes.
"You move on. You accept that bad things happen, as they will inevitably happen in war. You do what you can to limit them but realize that you cannot stop them. You accept that these things will happen and you move on," he bowed his head slightly towards Dumbledore, "Because it is all you can do."
++++++
He walks towards the line of prisoners, his warjacks in tow.
"How many?"
"Six," answers the Llaelese sergeant-in-arms accompanying him, "We nabbed them in an ambush on a supply column."
"Their commanding officer?"
"Shot himself to prevent being taken alive."
"Smart man."
The sergeant grunts.
"Quite so. Saved us the effort."
He approaches the captives. They have all been bound by their arms. Most of them look glumly at the ground.
"They're getting younger," the detail does not escape him.
"Noticed that myself," the sergeant scratches at the stubble on his chin, "Wonder what that means."
"It means they are running out of real soldiers to send."
"So it's true then," the man grins, "Rumor has it that the Cygnarans have opened a second front. There's also talk of Cryx harvesting fleets running roughshod over Khador's coast due to their manpower being sent elsewhere. Never thought I'd ever thank those undead bastards for anything."
"Because you never should. Every soul they harvest, regardless if they are Khadoran, Cygnaran, or Llaelese, is another mechanithrall added to their armies."
"Right. Sorry, sir," the sergeant has the decency to look ashamed, "Forgot myself."
The first Winter Guard is the oldest out of the bunch. There is a worn, veteran look about him. A career soldier. The man glances up as he halts in front of the procession.
"When are we to die?"
"Tomorrow," he replies.
The Khadoran nods and resumes looking at his feet.
The next prisoner in line is the direct opposite of him in both age and sex. There is a paleness to her that can only come from a lifetime spent in the frozen hinterlands. She is, by the standard and metric of her people, beautiful.
"How old?" his Khadoran is not nearly as fluent as his Llaelese or Cygnaran. The words come out far cruder than he intended them to be.
The girl looks back at him. Her long blonde hair has been twisted into a military braid favored by women employed in the Winter Guard.
"Sixteen."
"Why are you here?"
Her eyes are as blue as winter ice. There is no hatred in them. Only resignation.
"The motherland sent me to die," she says quietly, "so here I am."
He nods. It is as about good as an answer as he can expect.
He turns towards the Llaelese sergeant.
"Mark her down."
"Right away."
One of the prisoners in the line lets out an ugly bark of laughter.
"Shouldn't have told him anything, girl. Now you're going to get it. Once these Llaelese bastards are done with you, you'll wish you had a bullet in the back of your head."
The Llaelese soldier guarding him smashes the butt of his rifle into the Khadoran's face. The Winter Guard reels back, spitting teeth.
The girl's shoulders shake, but she makes no other sound.
He moves on. He doesn't stop again until he reaches the last one in line. The boy is older than the girl, but not by much. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Unlike the others, he has been staring at him all this time.
"You're the Sword of Llael," it's not so much a question as it is a statement of fact.
He inclines his head.
"I have been called that."
"I have a request to make of you."
"Go on."
"Tomorrow, when the deed is done… I want you to be the one to do it. That way… That way when I go to my ancestors," the boy smiles sadly up at him, "at least I can tell them I died at the hands of a hero."
He nods.
"It will be done."
He turns to the sergeant.
"Mark him down as well."
++++++
James had known that it would not be easy to convince someone who was unfamiliar with magical society on the merits of wizarding culture. This was the reason new witches and wizards from muggle families were always guided through the process at first. To alleviate the culture shock. To lessen the impact of seeing a magical world come alive before your very eyes when all you were used to was the mundane.
So when his own son had requested that he be taken to wizarding society's version of a financial institution, James had felt that it was only right for him to be the guide. Whatever talk Harry had with Dumbledore must have gone alright for the old headmaster had agreed with the boy's plan on principle. Lily had volunteered for the expedition as well, but it had always been a dream for James to take their long-lost son on his first trip to Diagon Alley.
However, it soon became apparent that Harry was not at all interested in the sights and sounds of what many considered to be their first view of magical society. He passed by Flourish and Blotts without a second look, walked past Eeylops Owl Emporium without commenting on the various breeds of pets displayed behind its windows, and didn't say a word towards the Firebolt showcased in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. He marched towards their ultimate destination with an almost dogged determination.
It was perhaps the most uneventful trip to Diagon Alley that James had ever participated in.
The elder Potter realized what it was midway into their trip. The problem was not that his charge was unused to magical society. The problem was that his charge was already used to a different magical society and predisposed to believe in the merits of that culture rather than this one's.
Which was why they had spent the last five minutes arguing over the virtues of goblin transportation amid the vaults of Gringotts Magical Bank.
"Harry, get into the cart," the older wizard had said with the tones of infinite patience.
His son looked at the cart. Then he looked at James.
"I'm not getting into the cart."
"Harry, it's perfectly safe. There are charms in place that will protect the rider from falling out."
Compunction Spells had been cast over the boy's form to make the average bystander ignore him after a cursory look. They did absolutely nothing to hide the expression of skepticism etched over his face.
"You can stick a charm in the seat that will root a colossal in place and I'm still not getting into the cart."
"May I ask why?"
"It looks like it's going to fall apart midride."
James frowned at goblin trolley. The depth they were about to descend to meant that the usual pristine carts that ferried witches and wizards to their personal vaults near the surface were unavailable. The one that was chosen to take their place was an especially old and antique specimen of its kind.
"Appearances aside, I can assure you that we will be perfectly safe while we're inside the cart."
"Why? Are you certified to be a cart operator?" before James could reply, Harry had turned to the goblin manning the controls, who for the past five minutes had been watching their conversation with no small hint of amusement, "Is he certified to be a cart operator?"
The creature raised a bushy eyebrow.
"Only goblins are certified to be cart operators, sir," it drawled.
Harry turned back to James.
"Are you a goblin by any chance?"
"If I was," grinned James, "I'm pretty sure Lily would have noticed by now."
"Right," Harry said, "Because you are not a goblin, you cannot possibly be certified as a cart operator. Therefore, your assurances mean absolutely nothing."
"Well, if you're worried about the danger, it shouldn't be too different from those machines of yours, right? I mean handling those warjacks can also be unsafe, so this shouldn't really bother you."
"See, that's where you're wrong. Warjacks are perfectly safe to handle once they have been certified by the mechaniks involved in their production. Even when they have been pushed to their limits and are in the midst of catastrophic overheat, they only explode ten percent of the time! This thing looks like it will fall apart as soon as you step into it!" the boy turned to the goblin operator again, "No offence meant."
"No offence taken, sir," the diminutive figure said back, "You are quite right. Some of the older service carts in Gringotts are in dire need of upgrade. Fortunately, the next batch of upgrades are in the works and have already been approved by bank management."
"And when is the next upgrade?"
"There are other parts of the bank that are prioritized for renovation and refurbishment, but for this specific part of the Vaults, the next batch of upgrades is expected to be on schedule in approximately three hundred and fifty-four years."
Harry nodded. He looked back at James.
"I will come back and ride this cart in three hundred and fifty-four years."
"Harry, you said it yourself," the older wizard tried a different tactic, "We need to do this. To win the war, we need to do everything possible to make sure the advantages are on our side. And this is something that will help."
The boy glared back at him. Then he glared at the cart.
"Very well," he stepped into the trolley, "But I must make it clear that I do this in protest."
James smiled and stepped in after him. Both Potters sat down. Harry began looking around as soon as he was seated.
"Where are the restraints?" he asked.
"Restraints?"
"Safety harnesses. Throne fetters. Seat belts."
"The Ministry does not require Gringotts bank carts to have seat belts," the goblin said helpfully from behind them.
"That means we will be traveling at speeds where seat belts are not required?"
"At these depths, goblin-operated carts only move at two speeds, sir," their operator supplied, "Fast and very fast."
The trolley lurched into motion. The metallic squeal of wheels rasping against the tracks did not help the situation in any way, shape, or form.
"How do I keep myself secure if we're traveling fast?" Harry all but growled.
"If the method of locomotion is disagreeable to you, it is recommended that you hold the side of the cart tightly to stabilize yourself."
"How do I keep myself secure if we're traveling very fast?"
"It is recommended that you hold the side of the cart very tightly."
The trolley began accelerating. The last sight James had of his son before their surroundings started to blur was Harry holding on to the side of the cart with both hands so tightly they turned white.
"Morrow preserve us," James heard him say.
++++++
The goblin's name was Griphook. They sat in the creature's office, watching him pour over the samples they brought him from the personal stash of Lord Voldemort.
"These are very good," the goblin peered at the various jewelry, trinkets, and gemstones that were laid on his table through a magical magnifying glass, "Very fine quality. As one would expect from their source."
James beamed from his place seated in front of the creature's desk.
"I knew you could help us, Griphook."
The creature leaned back into his chair.
"I said these were of very fine quality. I didn't say anything about helping you."
The older wizard frowned.
"I thought you agreed when I described the situation."
"I did. But you didn't tell me that the items in question were stolen, which these quite clearly are. And Gringotts does not deal with stolen property."
"Griphook, I mentioned that in our last conversation. I know I did."
"Gringotts does not deal with stolen property," the goblin smiled back.
James looked flustered and ready to argue further when a hand reached out to stop him.
"What he is saying," said the boy seated beside him, "is not that the notion is disagreeable, but the terminology is."
Harry turned to look at Griphook.
"These items were not stolen. They were requisitioned."
"Requisitioned?" the goblin splayed his fingers together, "Perhaps the better word to use would be repossessed?"
"Whatever you wish to call it."
"Are you insinuating that the ownership of these items has passed from their previous owners and onto you?"
"I am confirming it."
Griphook swept his arms out in an inviting motion.
"In which case, how can Gringotts assist you, Mr. Potter?"
James looked at his son and then looked back at the goblin.
"Was all of that really necessary, Griphook?"
The creature's smile turned unpleasant.
"You don't know half of it, James. The Ministry is pressuring the bank on all fronts. Very soon those guards outside my door won't be goblins, but wizards. Maybe even Death Eaters. There's also talk that the ultimate goal is to have goblins working for wizards and not the other way around. Gringotts management has become very sensitive about these issues. The bank has resigned itself to this fate and has no wish to expediate the process."
"Then why are you willing to help us now?"
"I said we were resigned to this fate," Griphook replied with a slight sneer, "I didn't say we had to like it. The plan now is to make the process as painful and prolonged as possible. You wand-wizards will discover very soon that certain administrative issues can cut just as deeply as a blade."
"I'm sorry about this, Griphook," James murmured, "All of this."
The creature snorted.
"Goblinkind is well used to wizard apologies. We have a word for it in our own language. You won't like the literal translation," the goblin lost some of his sneer when he looked at the elder Potter, "I know you had no part to play in this, James, but your society has continuously degraded and mistreated ours. This isn't the first time wizardkind has taken what goblins created and made it your own, and it won't be the last. But back to how we make the takeover of Gringotts Magical Bank as painful as possible for the Death Eaters. You will be wanting to open a vault, yes?"
"Not a vault," Harry replied, "Vaults are physical locations holding tangible things. They can be repossessed just as easily as the items I requisitioned. I need something different."
"This is true," Griphook said thoughtfully, "Should Gringotts be fully aligned with the Ministry in the immediate future, it is highly likely that vaults not affiliated with the Dark Lord's followers will be scrutinized in detail and perhaps even sealed to prevent their further use by his enemies. That would make a vault a liability and not an asset. If that is the case, maybe a credit line will be more suited for you."
"What? Like a credit rectangle? Was that it? Lily told me that's how it works in the muggle world."
Griphook stared at James.
"Sometimes I wonder how wizards came to rule the magical world, before I remember you can do magic out of little sticks of wood."
The older wizard smirked slightly.
"If it helps, I'm beginning to doubt the superiority of wizardkind in this magical world when in another magical world wizards use their magic to power multi-ton fighting machines."
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
"If that was directed at me, I have already come to the conclusion that there is no logic at all in this magical world as both wizardkind and goblinkind have apparently agreed that building a long, winding set of tracks underground is somehow more conductive to transportation rather than a simple flight of stairs."
Griphook looked at the boy before turning to James.
"He's your son, alright."
"How could you tell?" the older wizard looked faintly proud, "Was it because that he looks like me or was it because he looks like me?"
"The attempts at humor made in the most inopportune of times has something to do with it."
"That's a Potter trait," said James.
"I wasn't trying to be funny," Harry frowned.
"Not knowing when to be funny and having it come out funny anyways is also a Potter trait."
"Back to the issue at hand?" growled Griphook, "I can open an account with for you without a vault assuming that you will be selling these items directly to Gringotts. I will warn you though you won't get full price. We're a goblin banking institution, not some old collector's shop. If there's no profit for us, there's no point in doing the work."
"I figured as much," the boy replied, "However, in exchange, I expect the account to be kept secret. No transactions can be recorded. For all intents and purposes, this account must never exist in public record."
"The financial term for this is shadow banking," the goblin looked Harry dead in the eye, "Do you believe a vaunted and famous financial institution like Gringotts would perform services related to shadow banking? Go on. Ask the question."
"How am I phrasing the terminology?"
The creature's smile showed teeth.
"Phrase it first as though everything was normal."
Harry inclined his head.
"Does Gringotts offer shadow banking services assuming that there isn't a Dark Lord out there who would very much like to take over your bank."
"Gringotts Magical Bank is disallowed by Article Fourteen, Section One Hundred Eighty-Five of our founding charter to perform any services related to shadow banking as that would be strictly illegal in both a goblin and wizarding court of law," answered Griphook, "Now ask me the question again knowing what you know."
"Does Gringotts offer shadow banking services assuming that there is a Dark Lord out there who would very much like to take over your bank."
"Welcome to Gringotts Magical Bank, Mr. Potter," the goblin spread his arms wide again, "How can we serve your shadow banking needs today?"
++++++
The doorbell of 4 Privet Drive rang on a normal sunny day in the perfectly average town of Little Whinging located in the perfectly average county of Surrey. Which suited Vernon Dursley just fine, thank you very much. There was absolutely nothing strange or mysterious about the Dursleys because that was nonsense, and they just didn't want anything to do with nonsense.
"Can you get that, dear?" Petunia simpered from the kitchen, "These muffins are taking far too long!"
"Of course, love," Vernon heaved himself up from his favorite seat near the television and shuffled towards the door.
He swung it open and all his dreams of normalcy was spontaneously shattered.
"Y-You…" he sputtered.
The man on his porch smiled back awkwardly.
"Hello there… ah… brother-in-law."
The only thing that prevented Vernon from shutting the door in the man's face was the boy that looked almost identical to him standing by his side.
"Vacant Door Key, I presume," the miniature version of James Potter said politely, as though butchering names was a perfectly average and normal thing to do.
++++++
"I understand that you are the manager of a manufacturing company."
Vernon glared at the boy, though the tacit recognition made him puff up his chest.
"I am the Director of Grunnings," he growled back, "But what's that to you?"
Seated by Vernon's side on their good couch, Petunia put a soothing hand over her husband's arm.
"If you are the director of a manufacturing company, you must have contacts with other manufacturing companies. Armament factories. Weaponsmiths. Steel mills."
"I grew some of those clients myself," Vernon confirmed, "But again, what's it to you?"
"We would like to meet those clients."
Vernon's face twisted into an ugly expression.
"If you think I'm going to let my clients meet up with a pair of trumped-up, amateur magicians---"
"We will make it worth your while," the boy interrupted him.
"How?" Petunia narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
The boy nodded at his father. James looked unsure but nevertheless lifted a heavy brown suitcase onto the table. He undid the locks and swiveled the hefty case until it faced the Dursleys.
Both Vernon and Petunia stared at the contents.
"The wizard to muggle exchange rate was… extremely favorable," said Harry Potter.