Down rich carpeted halls to the most guarded hall in Gringotts stand rows of goblin guards in shining armor holding deadly spears ready. The goblin guards remain alert as Ragnok passes through the rows of guards towards the office of his grandfather, the Goblin King, Grok Gringotts. Ragnok knocked loudly and waited for the door to be answered.
A goblin attendant in lavish livery opens the door. The goblin attendant pompously asks, "It is late, Ragnok, his excellency is ready to retire for the eve-."
A sharp cackle is heard from inside the office at the response. "Move aside, you fool, and let my grandson inside."
The self-important expression on the goblin attendant's face deflates like a balloon. The goblin attendant grudgingly steps aside and permits Ragnok to enter the chamber. Ragnok is greeted by the sign of his grandfather, an elderly goblin who impatiently arches his brow at Ragnok. "Well," Grok impatiently snapped at his grandson. "What is the reason for this late unwarranted intrusion?"
"Auror Alastor Moody requested the legal marital services of Gringotts," Ragnok said with profound satisfaction to witness the genuinely surprised astonishment on his grandfather's face.
Grok Gringotts lips twitch slightly in a leer. "And who is the lucky witch, might I ask?"
"The widow, Druella Black."
"Druella Black?" Grok pensively mutters stroking his chin with his long, crooked fingers. "A good pureblood match, a Rosier by blood and a Black by marriage. Mm, fertile to boot," he observed. "She bore three healthy daughters and is still young enough by wizarding standards that she might even bear another child or two."
Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Grok returns his gaze to his grandson. "Summon Master Crafter Wulm. Irritated and vexed as she may be at the late night summon late, her status as Master Crafter grants her the power to legally officiate a wedding that is legally recognized by the Ministry of Magic."
It was unspoken that only a few goblins had the power to legally officiate a recognized marriage by the Ministry of Magic. Traditional Goblin weddings such as handfastings were not recognized by wizardkind. There was always the tedious necessity to legally register their weddings at the Ministry by Magic unless one of the few goblin officials was readily available. It was one of the many manners in which wizardkind still controlled goblins even after all these years.
"It shall be done," Ragnok bowed and turned to leave.
"And tell, Wulm, that I shall see her after the ceremony is complete."
Ragnok paused in his step and almost seemed to suppress an internal wince. "It will be as thou wishest, your excellency," before departing for the depths of Gringotts.
Grok lips twitch with a suppressed smirk, before coldly eyeing the attendants present. "Now get out, the whole of you. I have personal matters to attend to!"
The clingy attendants and guards begin to protest as always, but a single glare from the elderly figure of Grok Gringotts silences them all. Grumbling with dark expressions the attendants and guards reluctantly depart from the quarters of the Goblin King. Grok keeps himself busy going over ledgers until he is interrupted by the door to his office banging violently against the wall.
"Wulm," Grok arched his brow at the elderly female master craftsman (and goblin council member).
"Grok," the elderly female goblin with rather pointed ears glared ominously at him.
"Take a seat," Grok gestured to the seat before him.
Wulm ignored the offered seat and instead walked over to the liquor case to pour herself a glass of Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey. Grok with a gesture of his fingers, the door closes shut with the aid of goblin magic. With another wave of his wand and the room becomes sufficiently secure to keep curious ears at bay.
"How was the wedding?" Grok curiously asked.
"Disgustingly sweet," Wulm spat out. "The two purebloods only had eyes for each other the entire length of the ceremony. Bah!"
"Just because no one ever wished to tie themselves to you, Wulm," Grok said with a great grin, "does not mean that others do not deserve to share the same fate."
Wulm scowled fiercely at Grok, before downing the entire glass of Firewhiskey and pouring herself another. Cradling her second glass to her chest, she accepts the offered seat. Sipping her glass, she raises her dark, slanted eyes at Grok. "Bodrig has taken the bait."
"Mm, I suspected he would," Grok answered with a shark-like expression. "The unfortunate death of Livius Rowle proved to be quite fortunate indeed. It has offered us a unique opportunity to gather all my enemies in place."
"Are you certain that is how you wish to proceed, Grok?" Wulm cautioned. "There is no turning back from this."
"A dangerous risk it might be, Wulm," Grok agreed. "However, it is a carefully calculated risk." He sighed and glanced at his age-spotted hands. "I am old, Wulm. I feel myself growing weaker with each passing day. I can feel it in my very bones that my tether is nearing an end."
Grok paused to raise his dark eyes to meet that of Wulm "I will see to it that our people are kept safe and that the throne goes to my rightful heir. I failed my daughter in life, but I will not fail again."
Wulm sips her drink in quiet understanding. "Very well, but Bodrig will rapidly begin to move. There are certain to be innocents who will be inevitably dragged in."
"I am aware, and I will pardon them when the time comes," Grok responded, "but that is only if they were truly coerced."
"I expect nothing less," Wulm drily muttered, before asking, "Have Mulciber and Claret carefully leaked the information to ensure that the Death Eaters' ears hear the news as instructed?"
A smug expression appears on Grok's face. "Mulciber for all his kindness is a rather sharp young man. He feigns a clever façade of naivety all the while leading his prey into a trap. He has been most useful as has Claret."
"Speaking of Claret," Wulm interrupted. "How are she and the children?"
Grok arched his brow at Wulm. "If you wish to visit with the widow of your great-great-great nephew by all means do so!"
Wulm regretfully shakes her head. "I am not certain if Claret will receive me," the elderly female goblin gloomily admitted. "I was among those that most opposed the match of my great-great-great nephew Urlort and his choice of a wife with the witch, Claret."
"I cut off all contact after their marriage," Wulm remorsefully said. "Urlaa, the mother of Urlort sent me a photo after each of the children was born, Iarx and Ilx." Her aged face softened at the memory. "They rather take after their witch mother with their flaxen hair, but they have plenty of goblin in them." She visibly preened recalling the two babes' pointed little ears, slanted eyes, sharp cheekbones, and sharp little noses.
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Grok patiently waited for the elderly council member to finish recounting her tale. "I was much too proud," Wulm expressed in a rare vulnerable moment. "I thought I had all the time in the world to make amends and then Urlort was murdered. And then I no longer had the audacity to face Urlort's widow and children. "
"Well, considering that Claret could still die, I would think that would be an incentive to pull your large behind off that chair," Grok crassly muttered without a hint of delicacy.
Wulm glared darkly at Grok and gulped down the rest of her drink. "Oh, it's going to be like that is it?!" she growled staring down her long-pointed nose at the younger goblin. "Just remember I used to clean after you, Grok, you, snot-nosed brat!" Before storming out of the office slamming the door shut behind her.
Grok merely sniffs and returns to check the ledgers before him. He had plenty of things to do if he wanted to put his plans into place. They needed to be done or his entire scheme would fall apart at the seams. He could not afford to lose everything after risking everything.