Chapter 1: Prologue

A/N: Full Summary: The Goblin race is feared and misunderstood, not because people haven't tried, but because when the powerful are also insane, it is easier to let them carve out their own part of the world and let you carve out your own. This was the sound reasoning of the Wizards and Witches that finally stopped the carnage of the last Great Goblin Rebellion, so named by them in their bitterness. But such wisdom is finally come undone, as the child of Prophecy, governed and blessed/cursed by Time comes from them.

Essentially: Harry was raised by the Goblins, and they are not just misunderstood. Unlike most stories, these Goblins are going to operate by a set of rules that aren't just a bit weird or spooky. Instead, this will be an attempt to create a fairly functional society that would scare the shit out of wizards enough that trying to really delve into their culture is pretty much suicide, but seeing as how if they can't at least begin to understand Harry then the whole of England gets put under the heel of the most powerful and evil Dark Wizard this side of the millenia. So, sacrifices must be made, and well, culture shock is a pretty tame way to put it.

Silk, as he was known by the public, was so even tempered, so mellow, that he had the unfortunate but prestigious job of dealing with wizards. Insults and the stupidity of others flowed off of him like oil on steel. And it was because of his particular constitution in this regard that he had dealt with wizards and humans and others of unsavory and horrific sense for decades now. He had wilted under the arrogance of wizards, filling out their poor documents on the dead flesh of living plants, like some sort of ignorant savage.

His day to day was depressing. He woke up, thankfully, in the sweet caves under his own power. Not deigning to stay in Gringott's rooms, despite the annoyingly long commute to his office. And he had meant to set up a basic teleporting array, the runes for which weren't necessariy difficult, but the as much of his work, would be insanely time intensive. And despite the prestige his job might bring, as a necessary evil more than anything else, it required a eeriy amount of work, due to the fact that no young Goblin wanted to end up behind a desk similar to his. Even the fact that the desk was his was enough to roil most Goblin's stomachs, and he had not even won it or murdered some nice sentient creature for the right to bear it. Shameful, for the most part, although at least it had been made rather than transfigured! And yet Silk bore all of this without a single tell, except for his feet, which tried their best, every day, to burn through the stone of Gringotts so that he might fall to his death, consumed by Essum and to never appear again. At least then no one coudl blame him; their gods were not ones to spit back up what they gained.

Silk sat at his desk and, despite himself, began to catalogue the tasks he needed to complete so that he might return to the Goblin Caves, forge a trinket, and then try his best to steal another piece of the almost finished tea set that his neighbor had the glorious habit of burying around the greater Goblin area. His neighbor was quite excellent, and he suspected heavily that the Goblin hid so much stuff for his benefit, that he might have an excellent and distracting and fun challenge once he got back from his utterly unsatisfying job. An uncharacteristic but greatly appreciated sympathy that Burrow showed for him. He bared teeth at the thought. What two Goblins did in their own time were their own business, even if one could construe it as a bit of charity; he doubted the Elders would truly mind though. An insane Head Administrator for the Portfollios of Particularly Pensive and Precocious wizards would do no one good. Especially since Silk had been, so long ago, named for his perchance of strangling his enemies rather than any sort of gentle countenance he might have.

A strangled vampire was a lovely sight, to remove their burning desire for blood from even their death, it had made him a bit of a name.

Regardless, his own work beckoned, and it would be best to start now so that he might get back all the sooner. His main work for the day would be centered on making sure that no wizards were murdered, as it was the duty that most of his days revolved around. He would need to check both Griphook and Sunder for any exceptionally dangerous arrays, and do his best to check them for any of their more combat orientied knives. Although that tended to be a task in futility. Removing a knife from a Goblin was about as easy as removing a tooth from a dragon, and many Goblins took that comparison as a near insult. Still, it was one of the few work related duties that actually created a challenge for him, and both Griphook and Sunder had gotten good enough and comfortable enough in the job that they had started hiding their knives in particularly complicated and esoteric ways. One of the few times he had actually caught a weapon it had been a giant's claymore, wrapped in a runic array that converted it into a seemingly endless runny nose, and that had, really, only been discovered because Sunder had sneezed, and the whole thing had popped out. They had all shared a laugh at that, for more than one Goblin joke started with an absurdly large weapon, a Goblin, and the nose cavity of a Giant.

It had also averted a crisis as he had later seen Sunder's hands twitching towards his nose several times as a particularly idiotic Wizard had let them know that the Goblin Democracy had continued only through the helpful benevolence of wizarding-kind. Silk had been forced to choke the old man out when Sunder had, remembering his claymore had been confiscated, picked up several scissors and made his way towards the wizard, who, had been looking towards the sky while reciting the various "gifts" that wizards had "bestowed" upon the Goblins. It had been a colossal act of self-control, inner fortitude, and understanding of consequences that had prevented Silk from letting the wizard sleep forever.

The jokes had stopped for a long while since that incident, and it was later learned that that particular wizard had been killed, an accident. Certain, ah, parties hadn't been particularly careful in their execution, but wizarding arrogance could never be underestimated, as they ruled it, unequivocally, an accident, because what else could have killed a wizard besides a wizard? The closest they had ever come was thinking that maybe some of the old guard from Voldermort had perpatrated it. Still, a long discussion had been had between the Elders and Sunder after that, and he had returned to his position with a bit more control, though truly, no one had blamed her for her reaction, and she had taken some steps to cover it all up.

Before he could go inspect his fellow Goblins though, he needed to take care of a few quick things. He had a recent piling up of mail that had been transferred to his desk, and with the recent problems regarding Sunder he hadn't been able to get to it.

There were several, and they each said about the same thing, Mr Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, was not responding to his bank statements, and as this meant that Mr Potter now qualified to be a troublesome wizard, and so it had been sent to his department, never mind the fact that the boy was only a year old at most. Still, the account was significant, even to the Goblins, despite the fact that most of the wealth was tied up in such fanciful and useless trinkets such as gold. The name carried weight though, and so such a thing needed to be responded to immediately, even before he took time to make no one was going to die today. And so Silk went, to Little Whinging, to find, just exactly why, Mr Potter or his legal guardian had not been responding to their statements.

Standing in the room of one Vernon Dursley, Silk's mind was whirling.

He had imagined wizards and a sprawling home, he had imagined House-Elves, useless snacks, and a long-winded discussion about the preciousness of wizards time. He had been fortified against the likelihood of the long hours it would take to get a straight answer from whoever had been deemed mysterious and crazy enough to look after the jewel of the wizarding world, Mr Potter, Boy Who Lived.

He had not expected Vernon Dursley.

And he had not expected for the same vitirol that was thrown at him to also lay at the feet of young Mr Potter. That had been especially surprising. He had long been innered against the judgement of wizards, although it usually manifested in condescension not such loathing, but still, it had been almost oddly refreshing to have it all out there so clearly, but when that same disregard and anger had been turned to the boy himself, well, that had changed everything.

Within moments of introducing himself and mentioning the boy, Silk had been thrown into the house, insulted in a rather uncouth way, and then had been commanded to take the boy away. It was bizarre. The idea that a human, magical or not, would have wanted a Goblin to take one of their own. There was a reason there were so many cautionary tales regarding morphlings, changelings, and the like. To straddle both worlds was powerful, and almost all species, all entities, knew this, not even Zeus, king of the olympians, could override Terminus.

And so, Silk's mind was whirling.

He took several minutes, and wrote up a contract, the like of which had much experience with, working as he did, and he made it correct, and he made it right, and he triple-checked it, because if this was going to work it had to work under wizarding law. And if it didn't work, they might very well have another war on their hands.

Silk had just handed offical documents to the fat man that said young Harry Potter, of the Potter Fortune, would be legally transferred, to be raised, under the Goblin Lineage and Goblin Law. And this fat human, seemed to be caught between his thunderous dislike of Silk's ancestors and the glee of getting rid of such a person.

Silk waited for an answer.

Vernon Dursley was an arrogant man. Arrogant of his superficial looks, his character, his importance, and his place in the grand scheme of all things but he was also not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially since he had absolutely deserved each and every one of those gifts, in his own mind at least. So now, confronted with such a vile thing come bearing such a wonderful gift, he could only say, "Yes."

And with that word, a series of scrolls and papers were presented to Vernon, who did not read it, as it had been written by a short thing, and such a thing could probably barely write anyway. He just wanted it out of his house, along with the no good child that had been dumped upon his family. Looking up from the last form, Vernon signed it with a condescending grin, spoke slowly and said, "Done. Now if you could just leave." He pointed the way with a chubby arm.

Silk took the fat man's arm off at the elbow, his blade bright and bright and bright with the blood gleaming off of it. The man began to scream, and Silk had the swift, swift, swift pleasure of thrusting his blade into the oaf's throat, cutting him off before he began. Ah, what a joy it would have been to actually do that. For his entire line of ancestry to have been removed for the insult and pains it had given to one whose line was governed and blessed/cursed by time itself. And yet, Silk would simply have to appease such governance by ending this man's male line.

And so, with a light step and quick hands that lifted a few items, just to add further insult, Silk made his way up to the boy's room, Dudley, and quickly ended his life as well, his blade sharp, sharp, sharp against the wood and comfort of young flesh. The same treatment was given to Petunia Dursley, who arrived hours later.

Coming down the stairs, Silk held the baby in his left hand as his right pilfered more items, in a sense, now that Vernon and Dudley were dead this all belonged to the baby that slept quietly in the crook of his arm. And so, he would have some of it, but not much, the taint of those two upon the metal here would probably be great, and seeing as how the baby could not carry much, it would not be appropriate.

Heading out the door, Silk reflected upon his name and turned back to the house. What many people did not understand was that silk, while soft and pleasant, could also be used to strangle and kill, and it did so too soft to hear. Silk hunkered down with his new charge, lighting the house on fire, and threw the cutlery and other various items upon the soon blazing furnace. These fires would probably be hot enough to burn away any lingering trace. And in his arms, Harry Potter giggled as the light danced over his face.

AN #2

So here we go. I'm going back and re-doing every chapter, because I think I fucked some things up, and I wanted this to be better, and I'm hoping doing this will clear the path for more chapters.

As to why I fucked off and stopped updating like some sort of syphillis ridden whore horse; I managed to climb my way into a full time job that decided to reinvent the words "full time" to something far more than 40 hours a week, and while I reviled in the "mad bankz" I was hoarding; I also stopped writing and let my soul deteriorate into a kind of sludge that might be best likened to the stuff that clogs up your shower drain.

AND SO LET THE PURIFICATION BEGIN.

I also want to quickly thank everyone, with the ferocity of a drunken, bitter hand-job, all of you who managed to stick around, and all of you who have been here since the beginning. The rest of you are just posers, bow to those who started reading this nearly a year ago.

show drain sludge kisses,

ian

A/N

Should just take a moment to say that the whole Goblin idea is not new, but I did suddenly decide to start writing this quite suddenly while reading a different story. So props to Robst and his story Harry Crow. Also for a bit of a rant, feel free to stick around.

Rant:

Okay, guys, here's the deal. If you want to have an internally consistent story, then the blatant racism against the Goblins needs to make sense. There are really only two ways for this to be true: 1. The dominant powers that be, meaning the wizarding government and those who are its head, are absolutely doing their everloving best to totally fuck over the poor Goblins in every single way they can. They want their banks run well, and they just do not give a shit what they need to do to get those banks run cheaply. Which also sort of means that while you can have Good Wizards, they are also hugely racist wizards. I'm not super down with that. Dumbledore, from his canon picture really does seem to give two shits about creatures, from the Centaurs to the House Elves. And I don't really want a world that I'm writing to just be, "well, fuck, everyone is racist, let's fix that." It isn't a very interesting problem. So here is number 2. The Goblins are so scary and weird that trying to understand them is a better way of committing suicide then shooting yourself in the face with an Avada Kedavra. And it turns out that as long as the Goblins get to run their banks and no one goes very far underground then no one has to engage in a fucking long and bloody ass war that decimates the wizard and the goblins (but for whatever reason the goblins are more than willing to carry on). So... no one has tried to really understand them, maybe a few people have, and I'm sure their deaths are pretty amusing, heck, maybe even a few of them did well, wrote books and then the Goblins killed them and burned the books for sharing secrets, or maybe, just maybe, the people who did well, shut the fuck up, and went to their grave with a few cool secrets and an even greater appreciation for just how scary goblins are. I'm going with option number 2, cause I like internally consistent worlds.

if you do ever find something I've written and you go, "Why the fuck did they do that when they could have done this!?" please let me know. There's, like, a 75% chance I'll totally change the story and re-do it all just so that it all makes sense, cause that is what I am super into. Thanks for reading!

-ian