This was inspired by "He's Not Dead Yet" by Redbayly FFN #9963013. As usual, Harry Potter and the related characters are owned by J.K. Rowling, who is nice enough to let us play in her sandbox. As there's not a 1950 Van Denplas Princess parked outside, I'm not making any money from this.
Apologies to Mike Marino, WEB Griffin, and Janet Evanovitch, whose stories inspired this.
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"Oh, and sir," Harry added, "Kindly return the things you stole from my vault. I would hate to have to send the Goblin Inquisition after you."
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Dumbledore was relaxing, it was Boxing Day, and he'd had a rough first term. The Potter kid was being defiant, Sirius had told him — in front of witnesses — to sod off, Minerva was not her usual co-operative self ... life just wasn't fair.
He was working on his third potions-laced lemon drop when the door to his office burst in a spray of splinters and larger pieces better described as harpoons. A half-dozen strangely-dressed men stormed inside.
"Where's da goods, geezer?" the center one asked harshly.
"Da Potter kid's stuff, geezer. Dat youse stole. Fork it over, or else."
Dumbledore slumped in his grand chair. He'd completely forgotten about Harry's ultimatum. "But ... but ..." he stammered. He stared at the men. "You're not the Goblin Inquisition."
They all laughed. Laughed at him, Albus "too many names" Dumbledore, the Greatest Wizard.
"Dat's rich, geezer. Youse actually tink Da Inquisition is gonna waste time on youse? Dey contracted it out to us."
"Yah. Dey talked to da real Inquisition, an' dey called da Archbishop, an' den he called da Capo. Who tole us to get da goods."
"Archbishop? Canterbury? Hwaaaa?" Dumbledore stammered.
"Philly, ya moron. Now fork over da goods, or else."
Dumbledore straightened himself, sitting erect, his eyes flashing. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with? he asked roughly.
"Yah. A scum-bag geezer who steals from kids. Youse not gonna give us da kid's stuff?"
"I certainly am not, it's too dangerous for anyone but me to possess," Dumbledore stated.
"We's already pissed wit' youse, geezer. Hadda miss midnight Mass wit' da kids, Christmas Day at home, an' den stay in a crummy hotel onna fookin' alley. An' drink warm beer. Now fork over da kid's stuff."
"Absolutely not. You're no better than a bunch of thugs."
"Tony. Hit 'im wit' da bat."