Chapter Text
With every word the elders spoke, Albert’s skin became clammy. He felt a chill run down his spine, his heart and throat seemed to occupy the same space, though whether because his heart was being pushed up or his throat was being pulled down as of yet inconclusive. His head spun. Randolph watched in confusion, and after a while he only watched him , which made Albert feel worse. Don’t say anything , he thought. He already knows too much .
“Albert?” Randolph asked, staring at him with those pale blue human eyes. “What did they say?”
“I have to go,” he said, and bolted as fast as his legs would take him.
There comes a time in every young English goblin’s life, where they must choose between their people, and something else. Sometimes the “something else” presents as country and patriotism. Sometimes, it is their career, or friends, or some personal cause. Most goblins believe that the right answer is obvious. You are your blood above all . The reason for this is that if you ever forget you’re a goblin, it does not take very long for a wizard to remind you. Still, it didn’t feel very obvious to Albert.
He ran down to the Prophet, still torn by the time he arrived with his two impossible stories. He had achieved what no one else at the Prophet could, and it would mean nothing within two days. It might mean nothing by the end of the workday. At least the goblin workday ran long…He was too busy looking within for answers on what to do to see where he walked, and so he stumbled upon Winkus Oddpick, who was talking to Ms. Potter.
“Watch your step, halfbreed,” Oddpick spat as Albert bounced off his leg and landed squarely on the floor.
Ms Potter looked at him aghast. “Winkus!”
“It’s all in jest , Ginevra, don’t you–”
Albert didn’t bother to listen to the rest of his excuse. He had never wished for Oddpick to factor into any of his decisions, but in that moment, it was made. Ginny Potter pressed her lips as she saw him fall. It seemed to Albert that she knew she ought to say something of substance, but could not think of anything, and knew not what he would like her to say to Oddpick. Then the moment had passed, and she felt guilty, so she turned to him with tainted pity in her eyes.
“–show you the draft later,” Oddpick finished, walking off to talk to one of the other photographers.
“Albert, are you alright? I’m so sorry,” Ms. Potter said, crouching down to help him up. She was the only person who seemed to care about him in that whole newspaper. The only one he might want to spare the incoming disaster. He took her hand, and stood with her help, then pulled it down so her face would be closer to his and he would be better able to whisper.
“Get as much as you can out of Gringotts before the day is done, Ms. Potter,” he said. “I have to go.”
She looked at him, bewildered, and he just gave her a nod. She nodded back. She understood. He let go, ran down to his desk, gathered his things, and rushed into the nearest chimney. He slammed powder at the ground, and shouted “Twenty-Five Eargit Street.” It spat him out into Ragnok’s neighbourhood and he rushed to his cousin’s door. His hand froze before he could knock. Albert always struggled to make decisions and keep to them. It occurred to him that he could break the news of the century. He could be instrumental in preventing the wizards’ economy from collapsing. He could be their saviour.
Or could he? Would he simply be overshadowed and forgotten after-the-fact? He would definitely be an exile. A traitor. Hated. And for what? To save the likes of Winkus Oddpick from having to give goblins what they actually wanted, for once in a millennium?
Wizards, who hated him even as he begged to join them. Wizards, who had no business using goblin blood, sweat and tears every day, only to decry them for it. Oh, greedy goblins, scary goblins, well somebody had to keep the financial system running, didn’t they? And it wasn’t about to be those wizards. If it was up to them, all loans would be done with no interest, only to friends and family, and soon enough you have feudalism all over again.
He swallowed. It did not help the pit in his stomach. The decision would have been easier if he had any goblin friends. If he had ever trusted Ragnok and his fellow ideologues. It was a question of principle. Was he a journalist, or was he a goblin?
He wanted to be a journalist. Above all, more than anything, he wanted to be a good journalist. Sometimes, wanting something badly enough is all it takes to become who you need to be. Other times, it is not. Other people must deign to give you the life you need, provide permission, consent to your becoming. Albert realised in that moment that he would never be a journalist in England. Even to the likes of Hermione Granger-Weasley, he would at most be a goblin journalist. Which meant that the decision was not really his.
A moment later, he was pounding on Ragnok’s door, like a caffeinated, debt-collecting woodpecker. He did not answer.
Albert rushed to the next house, some distance away given the size of Ragnok’s estate, and pounded on that one. No answer.
He looked around, suddenly noticing the bizarrely quiet street. It seemed like nothing was happening at all. Uncovered windows showed no one inside the doors. Nobody wandered from one place to another. There was no smell of fresh bread in the air, no quiet murmurs coming from distant parties. No bells. No arguments.
Whoever heard of a goblin street where not a single argument could be heard?
He looked at the time. Was he late? Had it already begun?
Goblins understood perfectly well that sometimes you need to move underground. This wisdom could be applied in many ways, but one of them was literal. He rushed to that blasted bar, because it was the only entrance into the catacombs he could remember off the top of his head, his throat dry and his head pounding. Whatever happened next, he had to know what the plan was.
He had to know where he could fit in it.
For the first time in his life, the Brotherhood seemed like they might solve problems instead of create them. Or, at least, they might solve problems while creating new ones.
Unlike the deserted Eargit Street, Bodrig’s Bonkers Bar was crowded, with all seats by the bar taken and all spaces between the seats where one could comfortably stand taken as well. Every booth was full, and people were sitting on the tables, or on the armrests, or on the floor. Bodrig’s primary dining area, made to host perhaps a eightypeople at once, had clearly run over the hundred-and-fifty mark. Portraits of historical Goblin leaders were all covering their ears as the noise continued to escalate.
He saw, more than heard, Ragnok shouting for him, waving him over.
“Guffric! Cousin, you made it!”
“What?!”
“This way!”
“Okay!”
Ragnok ushered him in through one of the side-entrances, shoving him into a meeting room with a few much older goblins.
“I told you he’d make it!”
The oldest goblin looked at him. He had long white whiskers and a border of hair trailing from his ears down to his shoulders. Albert couldn’t tell if he was glad or somehow disappointed. “Ah, yes. Good. And the Canadian. Has she finished her story?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “I will check on her after.”
“Please do it right away, we need to stay on top of this,” the old man said. “Guffrick, we need your help as a communicator. You have been living with them for years, you know them better than all of us. So we will need you to work with our other writers as we settle on a clear and united message.”
He nodded. “Of course. Yes, sir I–I can do that.”
“You will be the second to arrive,” he said, looking at a map. “The meeting is in catacomb on five-three-twelve.”
Albert repeated the numbers in his head. Five-three-twelve, five-three-twelve. Five levels deep, on the third spiral, twelve out. That was… Close to Hogsmeade. Easy enough. The old man patted him on the shoulder with a smile. He seemed less disappointed, having seen something in Albert's face, though he didn't know what.
“Thank you so much for coming, Guffric. We need journalists on board. Most of our writers are academics.”
“Yes. We’re incredibly glad you’re here,” Ragnok said, and grabbed him to drag him out as unceremoniously as he’d done to drag him in. “Go on. Catacomb five-three-twelve. He’ll be waiting for you.”
The next hour was a blur. First it was a floo trip over to the Hogsmeade Post Office, wandering over to the catacomb entrance on a hidden cave, a ride down to the center of the third spiral, and a walk over to the twelfth hall. The whole time all he could think of was the old man’s smile. He had not been working for the cause for a whole twenty minutes, and already in his eyes he was a journalist.
He found the door open and walked inside tentatively.
“Is this… The place where the writers are supposed to meet?”
A man in his thirties, a little older than Ragnok, was startled awake.
“Yes! Yes, I’m so sorry, I… Have we met?”
“We have not,” Albert said, and offered his hand to shake. “Al–Guffric. Guffric the, um… Tame.”
The older goblin chuckled at that. “Thinking of changing it? There will be many opportunities to fish for an epithet in the coming weeks.”
He took Albert’s hand and shook it heartily.
“...I hope so,” he said. “And you?”
“Ricbert. Ricbert the Rigorous.”