"Where were you, Harry?" Dumbledore's voice was calm, yet it carried an undercurrent of expectation.
"Just… here and there, you know…" I replied, my words faltering slightly. A week ago, I might have been more confident, but meeting Grindelwald had changed that. It had been a sobering experience, revealing just how powerful the magical titans truly were. The ease with which he had delved into my mind still unsettled me. "Well, if it helps, my task is done."
"It is?" Dumbledore's cerulean eyes twinkled, their color seeming to shift subtly, as though reflecting the light in ways that defied explanation. His gaze was both gentle and probing. "I trust it went well?"
"Well enough," I said with a shrug. "Wouldn't call it a complete success." The truth was, it had gone horribly wrong. But I was alive, and that had to count for something. "Things went down… decently."
His eyes sharpened, the twinkle replaced by a piercing intensity that made me shiver. "You shouldn't be reckless like this, Harry." His tone was stern, yet tinged with concern. Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his thick burgundy robe and withdrew his deluminator. With a soft click, the device emitted small, glowing orbs of light, which darted to various corners of the room. In an instant, seven ethereal torches sprang to life, casting flickering light across the stone walls.
"Uh… Professor?" I asked hesitantly, the sudden shift in the room's ambience making me uneasy.
"Do you recognize these runes?" Dumbledore's question was casual, but his gaze was anything but. Following his eyes, I noticed a shimmering rune etched into the table—one that hadn't been there moments ago.
"Sowilo, of course," I answered, furrowing my brow. It was a basic Elder Futhark rune representing the sun, commonly used in complex arrays. "It's one of the most elementary runes, useful in a variety of magical schematics…"
"Doesn't it look familiar?" Dumbledore interrupted, his voice carrying a knowing edge.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He was stalling, steering the conversation toward something else entirely. "I've heard that before," I replied tersely, running my fingers along the shimmering edges of the rune. It wasn't solid; the image was formed by the light cast from the deluminator's orbs.
"He's comparing it to my scar," I thought, a small flash of irritation surfacing. "But I think it resembles Jera more, don't you?" I countered aloud, referring to the rune associated with cycles and harvests.
"Perhaps… a mix of both?" he mused, his tone deliberately ambiguous.
"Professor, what is it you truly want?" I asked, abandoning subtlety. My patience was wearing thin, and all I craved was a moment of peace to gather my thoughts. Directness wasn't wise, but it felt necessary.
Dumbledore's expression shifted, his jovial facade giving way to something more solemn. "Harry, I may have grown senile in my old age," he began, his voice quieter but no less firm. "Yet I can still recognize the complete absence of magic—a void so expertly crafted that it could only belong to one man." His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. For a fleeting moment, the ring on my finger seemed to weigh more than it should.
He averted his gaze, focusing on the table as the Sowilo rune began to expand. Intricate Runic Arrays emerged from its corners, spreading across the surface like a web of light. The sight was mesmerizing and unnerving in equal measure.
"Tell me about this," he instructed, his tone now that of a strict teacher. "I wouldn't expect you to know it fully, but humor me."
"A magical barrier, designed to isolate the internal environment from external interference," I began, my gaze fixed on the intricate patterns etched into the table. "It's powered by ambient magic, captured and directed by those three triangular arrays…" I trailed off, narrowing my eyes as a creeping doubt took root. "Wait…"
"Go on, Harry," Dumbledore encouraged softly, his tone calm but expectant.
"It's like a Chinese Handcuff," I murmured, the realization dawning on me. "Only… far more advanced and infinitely more dangerous. It doesn't just prevent anything from getting in; it binds a specific person—someone imprinted on it—and stops them from leaving. And the more they struggle to escape…"
"The more it wreaks havoc on them," he finished, the eerie synchronicity of his words mirroring my thoughts. His expression was grave yet tinged with curiosity. "But surely, there's more you've noticed?"
"There's more, I can sense it," I admitted, my eyes tracing the concentric arrays spiraling outward in thirteen distinct rings. Each ring seemed alive, humming with latent energy. "But no… I can't figure it all out. Maybe with enough time…"
"It's a peculiar design," he said, exhaling softly. "An oddity I encountered while still learning alongside Gellert."
The name hit me like a stunning spell. "Gellert?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. "You and Grindelwald… you were friends?"
"Oh, quite close," Dumbledore admitted, his eyes momentarily distant, as if lost in another time. "In our younger days, we shared ambitions—dreams of reshaping the world. There may even have been… lingering feelings." His voice faltered, laden with regret. "But it all unraveled. I had responsibilities to my family, and Gellert… he was consumed by our once-shared vision, twisted beyond recognition."
"So what happened?" I pressed cautiously, my mind reeling with this revelation. "How does this… rune, and everything else, tie back to him?"
"And to your meeting him?" Dumbledore interjected, a faint flicker of mirth crossing his face before fading. "This rune was a rework of a far older, far darker creation—a design once used in the Middle Ages to bind escaped souls from Hell. I adapted it," he explained, his hand waving to transform a nearby chair into a plush couch. Settling into it, he continued, "I couldn't bear the thought of leaving Grindelwald in torment for eternity. The rune I created allowed him some leeway, provided he abandoned his will to escape. A compromise, perhaps… or just my faint heart."
"You fought him," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "But neither of you wanted to, did you?"
Dumbledore's sigh was heavy with emotion. "Reluctant, yes. But I had wrongs to right—wrongs born of my inaction, my naivety. I owed it to those who suffered." He paused, his expression somber. "He was stronger than I, and he wielded the Elder Wand. Yet I knew… I didn't win that duel."
"What?" I murmured, disbelief tinged in my voice. "He said you won because… he was emotional, or something like that."
Dumbledore's smile was faint and wry. "Did he? Perhaps he plays his own games, Harry. But be wary—his motives are rarely straightforward. No, it wasn't merely emotion that caused his defeat. He saw something during our duel… perhaps a vision."
"A vision?" I repeated, the word hanging between us like a question unanswered.
"Yes. But let us return to the matter at hand," Dumbledore said, gesturing back to the table. His gaze lingered on the glowing runes. "This is one of my most intricate creations, despite being outside my area of expertise. Trapping Gellert in Nurmengard was both a bold and calculated risk."
"Nurmengard," I echoed, and asked and asked a question I had for a while. "But wasn't that his stronghold?"
"It was," Dumbledore confirmed, his tone a mix of pride and exhaustion. "His castle, fortified with wards and arrays so complex that even I can't claim to know them all. But every fortress has its weakness. To break his dominion over it, I carved this rune—hundreds of times, into thousands of walls. Each stroke etched by my own hand."
The weight of his words settled over me. This was more than just a story; it was a glimpse into a battle of wills, into the heart of a man who bore the burden of choices too heavy for most to comprehend.
A soft silence enveloped the room, heavy but not oppressive. Dumbledore reached into his robes and retrieved a thermos, pouring water into a conjured mug with deliberate care. He sipped slowly, his gaze distant, as though the weight of his memories made speech a task he had to summon courage for.
"It was a painful job," he said finally, his voice subdued. "For nearly a decade, he tried to escape—relentlessly, obsessively. When he finally stopped, it wasn't relief I felt, but unease. I hadn't foreseen what would come next. He… adapted, in ways I couldn't have imagined. He refined the mind arts to an extent beyond comprehension. Beyond even my reach."
I leaned forward, the unease in his tone mirrored by the chill spreading through me. "What do you mean?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
Dumbledore's eyes turned hazy, unfocused, as though glimpsing a world unseen by anyone else. "He has broken and rebuilt his mind, Harry. Not just strengthened it—transformed it into something… other. You mentioned a dream, or perhaps implied it. But for him to communicate through a dream—such a thing should be impossible." His voice dropped into a murmur, laced with an almost reverent fear. "In that isolation, in that room, he has grown more aware—more conscious—than most of us are in the open world. And yet…"
He paused, shaking his head, as if trying to rid himself of a thought too terrible to voice. When he spoke again, his tone was clearer but no less grave. "That doesn't mean he's as magically strong as he once was. No, his magic is sloppier, unrefined compared to his prime. But mind magic…" His voice faltered briefly. "Mind magic is worse than conventional magic in ways I'd rather you never have to understand."
A shiver ran through me. "So what is it you're trying to tell me, Professor?" I asked, bracing myself for what felt like an inevitable blow.
Dumbledore sighed, leaning back slightly, his face lined with exhaustion. "It took me far too long to understand this," he admitted, his chuckle devoid of humor. "Grindelwald saw it before I did—always a step ahead, even now." His gaze softened, as though recalling a memory that was equal parts fond and painful. "We delved into prophecies together, in those younger, more reckless days. His seer abilities made him drawn to them—Sibyl's prophecy, Ragnarök, Kali Yuga, Frashokereti… and others lost to time. Of them all, the Duskfall was the one we thought might involve one of us."
His voice dropped, and for a moment, it seemed as if the room itself leaned in to listen. "But it wasn't us. We were simply the unfortunate recipients of Sibyl's prophecy. The world burned under the clash of fire and ice during our duel." He sighed deeply, his head resting against the back of his conjured chair. "And yet… I somehow missed it. You, Harry… you are the Duskfall. The last of the last."
A rush of magic coursed through me like fire in my veins, each nerve alight with a consciousness that felt both foreign and innate. The words resonated within me, like an ancient truth stirring awake. "The last of the last…" I repeated, my voice trembling. "You know it too?"
"Probably the last person you'll hear it from, so don't be alarmed," Dumbledore said, his tone almost casual, as though his words hadn't just shaken me to my very core. Grindelwald knew. Dumbledore knew. Who else? What else? My thoughts raced as I waited for him to continue. Finally, he broke the silence.
"I can see now why you've been… different this year," he said, his eyes soft but piercing. After a pause that felt longer than it was, he asked, "Which attempt is this? How many times have you died?"
The question hit me like a hammer. I swallowed hard, my voice trembling as I replied, "Second… it's my second attempt. One death, technically twice, but—one." My words faltered, the weight of them grating against my throat.
"Then let's make sure it's your last," he said, his voice turning steely. "If you are the last of the last, then Gellert won't harm you. But you must understand—my role here can only be to prepare you. I see now why you didn't tell me earlier. Perhaps in your last life, my choices left you questioning. I can be… too soft at times. Gellert took the sharpness out of me, I suppose."
He stood, pulling out his Deluminator. One by one, the orbs of blue light that had illuminated the room were drawn back into the small, lighter-like device. Shadows crept in as the rune on the table vanished, leaving only the soft, ordinary light of the room.
He turned toward the door, but stopped before leaving. His gaze, heavy with wisdom and sorrow, met mine. "I won't send spies, nor will I treat you like a child—because you're not one. But you must treat your life with the care it deserves, Harry. Death is no joke. Even if it leaves no magical or physical mark, it scars. One death hollows you. Ten, a hundred… three thousand. By the end, you might crave an end to your suffering more than anything else."
His words carried a solemnity that made my chest tighten. "Going to Gellert was a needless risk," he continued, his tone carrying the weight of both warning and regret. "What's the worst that can happen? It's not death. It's the butchering of the soul—something unseen by magical, physical, or even emotional ties. It's far worse than you can imagine. And I think, in Voldemort, you've already seen a shadow of that. Though his circumstances were very different from yours, the result is the same: a broken soul."
"Let's talk again, Harry," Dumbledore said softly as he opened the door, his voice carrying a tone of quiet insistence. "But next time, in my office at Hogwarts. After you've had time to reflect on everything you've learned over these past two days." He paused, offering a small, weary smile. "This meddlesome old man can be rather annoying at times, so bear with me."
He sighed, his shoulders briefly sagging under an invisible weight, and stepped through the doorway with a deliberate grace. Just before the door closed, his voice lingered in the air like a whisper of reassurance. "And remember, Harry—you are not alone. You never will be. In unity, you'll find strength through ties far thicker than those you've lost."
As the door clicked shut, his words echoed in the stillness, settling into the corners of the room like the lightest snowfall—quiet, yet profound.
I sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of Dumbledore's words settling over me like a suffocating fog. My mind churned, struggling to piece together the fragmented revelations into something resembling coherence. Two magical titans—each with motives I could barely fathom—were now entangled in my life. Neither could be fully trusted, but Dumbledore, at least, felt safer. Grindelwald, on the other hand... he was an entirely different story.
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head to clear the cobwebs clouding my thoughts. One thing was certain: I had underestimated Dumbledore. That was a mistake I wouldn't make again.
But there was no time to dwell on that now. One more stop awaited me before I could return to Hogwarts—Gringotts.
Compared to everything else, this task seemed almost laughably simple. No spells, no wand work—just questions. The answers I received would guide my next steps, but even if they weren't what I hoped for, it wouldn't be the end of the world.
This particular matter wasn't urgent. There was no invisible clock ticking down, no crushing weight of immediacy bearing down on me. I could afford to wait, to approach this later if needed, through alternative means. While the task itself was prudent, its deadline remained comfortably flexible—for now.
I pointed my finger at the door, locking it shut, then collapsed onto the bed. Hedwig still hadn't returned, and I presumed she was back at Hogwarts.
"Things are getting more complicated... Let's deal with Voldemort first," I murmured, pulling out the ring and examining it closely. It wasn't interacting with the ambient magic around me—not even a flicker.
"Impressive," I whispered, almost in awe. If Dumbledore hadn't already known the ring was magical, he might not have caught on. Sure, there were likely other wizards capable of crafting something like this, but I doubted many could do it with such finesse or in such a short time. Most would need at least a week or two—except, perhaps, a few notable figures like the Flamels or the elusive Russian and Balkan families known for their arcane expertise.
Grindelwald had transformed the ring into a unique type of Portkey. One destination was fixed: his cell. The other was mine to decide. After some thought, I settled on the Room of Requirement. Once I returned to Hogwarts, I would bind it there—it was the safest choice. The dormitory, after all, was far too risky.
After resting for a few hours, I left the room and made my way downstairs. The pub was lively as always, its patrons immersed in conversation and laughter, but I ignored it, stepping out into the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley.
The walk to Gringotts was uneventful but oddly calming. The towering marble structure loomed ahead, its polished white walls glinting in the afternoon light. Goblins bustled about the entrance, their sharp eyes flickering over every passerby.
I stepped inside, the grand hall as imposing as ever. The faint clink of gold echoed in the distance as goblins worked diligently. Steeling myself, I approached one of the counters and waited for my turn, my mind running through the questions I needed answered.
I stepped up to the counter, where a goblin with deep-set, piercing eyes and a weathered face sat, reviewing a stack of parchment. The sharp glint of his silver-rimmed spectacles caught the light as he tilted his head, visibly irritated by my interruption. The nameplate on the counter read Teller Gragnok, etched in bold, angular letters.
"Excuse me," I began, my voice polite but firm as I offered a small smile.
Gragnok's gaze slowly shifted to me, his expression one of practiced disdain. He gave a low grunt, his clawed fingers tapping on the counter. "What do you want, wizard?" he asked gruffly, his tone making it clear he didn't care for the answer.
I maintained my composure, refusing to let his tone unnerve me. "I was wondering if you could tell me about the items banned from being stored in Gringotts safes."
Gragnok let out a derisive snort, leaning back in his creaky wooden chair. "If I started listing, the day would end, and you'd still be standing there gawking. Do your own research. Now, get lost!"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Could you at least tell me if objects related to soul magic are allowed?"
His expression darkened, his sharp features tightening as he regarded me. He leaned forward slightly, the tips of his claws tapping the counter. "Soul magic? Yes. Not forbidden. Though rare," he said shortly.
I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder at the bustling bank lobby. Wizards and witches haggled with goblins, while others hurried past clutching ledgers and coin bags. I leaned closer to Gragnok and lowered my voice. "Would it be all right if I cast a privacy spell for our conversation?"
Gragnok's frown deepened, his lips curling into what might have been a sneer. For a moment, I thought he might refuse, but the goblin finally waved a clawed hand dismissively. "Fine. Keep it brief."
Muttering the incantation under my breath, I cast the spell, and a shimmering barrier enveloped our immediate vicinity. Gragnok glared at the faint shimmer, clearly unamused.
"What about objects enchanted using soul rituals?" I asked, my tone careful but direct.
His eyes flickered with unease, a subtle shift in his otherwise stony demeanor. "Some are allowed. Some… are not," he replied, his voice gruffer than before.
I studied him carefully before pressing on. "And artifacts with a soul stored in them?"
Gragnok stiffened visibly this time, his eyes narrowing further. A tense silence lingered between us before he finally responded, his voice cold and sharp. "Drop the privacy spell."
I frowned, confused. "Why?" I asked cautiously. "I'm only trying to—"
"Drop it," Gragnok interrupted sharply, his tone brooking no argument. "This matter isn't for me to discuss. You'll need to speak with a senior manager."
Recognizing the finality in his voice, I exhaled slowly, muttering the counter-spell. The shimmering ward dissipated. Without missing a beat, Gragnok stood abruptly and turned, clanging a small gong behind the counter.
Moments later, a taller goblin strode toward them, his ornate robes embroidered with golden runes that shimmered as he moved. His expression was inscrutable, though his sharp eyes missed nothing as they shifted between Harry and Gragnok.
"Teller Gragnok?" the senior goblin inquired, his tone clipped and precise.
"This wizard has questions," Gragnok said brusquely, stepping aside. "Questions that exceed my purview."
The senior goblin turned his full attention to Harry, his demeanor calm yet commanding. "I am Manager Ragrim. What is it you wish to discuss, Mr. Potter?"
I shifted under Manager Ragrim's scrutinizing gaze. He spoke first. "Would it be possible to discuss this somewhere more private?"
Ragrim arched a thin eyebrow, his sharp features betraying no emotion. "Privacy can be arranged, Mr. Potter," he said coolly, gesturing toward a side corridor. "But I must warn you: if this matter proves to be frivolous or a waste of our time, you will be charged a fee for the inconvenience."
I nodded, my expression serious. "Understood."
Ragrim gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, leading me down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air grew cooler, and the noise from the main hall of the bank faded into a distant hum. At the end of the corridor, Ragrim opened a heavy wooden door, revealing a small meeting room.
The room was functional, with a large stone table at its center and high-backed chairs carved from dark wood. A faint glow emanated from enchanted lanterns set into the walls, casting flickering shadows. Ragrim gestured for me to sit, then took a seat across from me, folding his long fingers atop the table.
"Speak," Ragrim said, his tone crisp. "But be aware: the discretion of this conversation will depend entirely on the nature of what you reveal."
I hesitated, my fingers brushing the edge of the table. For a moment, I considered my words carefully. Then, exhaling deeply, I met Ragrim's gaze.
"I have it on good authority," I began, my voice steady, "that a vault in Gringotts is storing a very dark object. An object that contains a partial piece of a soul."
Ragrim's composure wavered ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as his hands tightened against the tabletop. The faint flicker of the lantern light reflected in his calculating gaze as silence hung between us, heavy and expectant.
"Continue," Ragrim said finally, his voice quieter now but no less commanding.
I leaned forward slightly, my voice barely above a whisper. "The piece of soul... it belongs to Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Before I could continue, Ragrim cut me off, his tone sharp. "You mean Voldemort."
I blinked, surprised by the interruption. "Yes, Voldemort," I said slowly, my mind still processing the goblin's words. "But... how do you know his name?"
Ragrim's expression remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper. "The Blood Wars were not solely a wizard's affair, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice a low growl. "The conflict put a dent in our nation too. Goblins lost many in that war, and Voldemort's rise affected more than just wizards."
I nodded, understanding the bitterness that lay in Ragrim's words. I knew better than to show sympathy; goblins would find that insulting. "I didn't know," I murmured, more to myself than to him.
"The vault," Ragrim prompted, his patience thinning. "What vault are you talking about?"
I sat up straighter, my fingers brushing the edge of the table as I steeled myself. "It's Bellatrix Lestrange's vault," I said, my voice steady despite the heavy weight of the words. "Inside, there's a goblet. A relic... from Helga Hufflepuff. But inside that goblet... is a piece of Voldemort's soul."
Ragrim's expression shifted immediately, and he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "What type of soul piece are we talking about here?" he asked, his voice low but intense. "Because not all soul magic is allowed. Some types are permissible... others are not."
I paused, trying to grasp the full meaning of what Ragrim was saying. I remembered the nuances of soul magic and how delicate the balance could be. "What do you mean?"
Ragrim continued, his voice steady but matter-of-fact. "Take, for instance, an Aetherbox. It's allowed. It doesn't store a piece of the soul; rather, it stores an imprint, an echo of sorts. It reflects the emotions of the person it's linked to. It was given to a princess by a king, a symbol of his love."
He leaned back slightly, his gaze turning distant as he recollected more. "Then there's Silexstone... an abomination. It requires pure alchemical obsidian, and it stores the entirety of the soul. The person becomes a hollow vessel—if they die, their body simply revives. But if the obsidian is shattered, the body combusts. There's only one recorded instance of this happening, an ancient myth from Southeast Asia."
I absorbed the explanation, my mind racing through the details. I realized just how much depth there was to this subject—so much more than I'd ever thought. Soul magic, a niche so intricately woven into the fabric of magic itself.
Sighing, I muttered, "It's a Horcrux."
Ragrim froze, his eyes widening for the briefest moment before he spoke in a near whisper. "Horcrux?"
I nodded, my face grim. "Yes. Horcruxes are... worse, in a way. Because no one knows how much of the soul is actually stored inside them, and the artifacts are often further protected by enchantments. It's an incredibly dangerous form of magic."
Ragrim's eyes flared with realization. His sharp gaze locked onto mine, weighing my words. "Which vault again?"
I waited only for a moment before answering, my voice steady. "Bellatrix Lestrange's vault. It's inside the goblet of Helga Hufflepuff."
Ragrim's face was unreadable for a few moments, his sharp goblin features betraying little of his thoughts. Finally, he gave a short nod, his expression more serious than ever.
"Then you should not be asking about this here," Ragrim said quietly. "You should be speaking with someone higher up."
Ragrim stood up abruptly, his eyes narrowed. "Wait here for a moment," he said, his voice low and serious. "But remember this, Potter—if this turns out to be false, there will be grave retaliation. The Goblin Nation's decision on matters such as this cannot be rebutted by your Ministry. Do you understand?"
I found the threat somewhat amusing but didn't let my smirk show. I simply nodded, my tone calm but firm. "Sure."
Ragrim shot me a final, calculating look before turning and leaving the room. I sat back in my chair, letting the silence settle around me. The weight of the situation didn't escape me, but for now, I had to trust that the goblins would take this seriously.
Fifteen minutes later, the door creaked open, and a guard goblin stepped inside. "Follow me, Mr. Potter," it said, its voice gruff but respectful. I stood and followed the goblin down the corridors, my mind still racing through the conversation.
We entered a large, ornate office. Behind the desk sat a Director goblin, his face familiar to me—I remembered him from my previous life. The goblin's sharp eyes met mine, and after a brief flicker of surprise, the slightest twitch of his eyebrows, he nodded. "Mr. Potter," he greeted. "I am Director Ragnok."
I gave a respectful nod. "Director Ragnok. It's good to see you again."
Ragnok's expression remained neutral, but there was something in his gaze that suggested he was measuring me carefully. "Have a seat," he instructed, gesturing to the chair across from him.
I sat down, my eyes scanning the room. The walls were lined with elaborate decorations, but one thing caught my eye—a large chart displayed prominently on one wall. It was covered with countless prophecies, some of which seemed oddly familiar. And then I noticed in faint writing a familiar prophecy's name—Duskfall—written beside another familiar prophecy—me and Voldemort's.
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you a fan of prophecies, Director?"
Ragnok snorted, the sound surprisingly human-like. "Sometimes," he muttered, before shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Now, Mr. Potter, tell me exactly what you know about the Horcrux that you claim is stored in Gringotts."
I looked at him with a scrutinizing gaze. "I've been patient with all the goblins I've met so far," I said slowly. "But for this conversation, I need surety that you won't leak it. If I'm going to be providing sensitive information, I need to know it stays between us."
For a moment, Ragnok's eyes flashed with irritation. He glared at me, muttering under his breath. "Insulting, entitled wizard," he grumbled.
I smirked, my expression one of quiet satisfaction.
The goblin suddenly stood, his movements sharp, and walked over to a drawer behind his desk. He opened it, and after a moment of rummaging, produced an artifact—a smooth, iridescent hemisphere with two indentations for hands.
I raised an eyebrow, wondering what this was. Ragnok's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Do you know what this is?" he asked.
I shook my head, intrigued.
"This," Ragnok explained, "is a Goblin's Honor." He held it up so I could see it clearly. "If something is spoken while your hand is on it, only those also touching it can hear the words. And those who are touching it are bound by its magic, unable to speak a word of what was said to anyone else."
I studied the artifact carefully. The hum of magic was palpable in the air around us. It was potent, powerful, and ancient—a binding of trust between its users.
"I haven't heard of it before," I said slowly, "but it certainly feels... magical."
I reached forward, placing my hand on one of the indentations. The surface shimmered, responding to my touch. Ragnok did the same, and the light from the object flickered momentarily, binding us in silence.
I leaned back in my chair, now certain that the conversation could be held in absolute secrecy. The goblin had honored his word.
"Now," I said, my voice steady and serious, "I'll tell you what I know. But first, know that this is no small matter."
Ragnok's gaze remained intense, and he nodded once, indicating that I could proceed.
I studied him carefully, my eyes narrowing. "How much do you believe in prophecies?" I asked, my voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of curiosity.
Ragnok raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the question. "Quite a bit," he replied, his tone firm but nonchalant.
I turned my head toward the chart of prophecies. "Well, you do have two that pertain to me," I said nonchalantly.
"Two prophecies?" Ragnok repeated, his tone suddenly sharp. His entire demeanor shifted, becoming hyper-alert, and the room's atmosphere grew noticeably darker.
Amusing, I thought.
"Oh yes, two," I replied, leaning back in my chair. "That one, of course, involves me and Voldemort." I pointed casually at the prophecy in question. Then, with a hint of curiosity, I added, "I must say, I'm surprised you have it displayed so openly here. But, whatever."
I paused for a few seconds before continuing, "And of course, I'm the Duskfall too." I shrugged, as though it were nothing of significance.
"Duskfall?" Ragnok asked, his voice dropping to a low growl. His eyes widened, and I could see the weight of recognition in his expression. "That's... a secret prophecy."
"Some secret," I said, rolling my eyes. "You've got it displayed right here in your office."
He snarled, the sound guttural and menacing. "No human walks in here freely," he retorted. His gaze shifted from the chart back to me. "And even I only know the prophecy's name. The King never told me its details."
"Oh?" My interest piqued. "So the King knows more about it?" If I could squeeze even a little more information out of this, it would be helpful. Of course, I already knew the tasks set for me—Death had been rather explicit about those—but more specifics wouldn't hurt. "Take me to him."
Ragnok's eyes widened at my audacity. His hand tightened momentarily on the artifact before he released it. "You may be a celebrity in your world, Potter, but among goblins, you are nothing," he said, his tone a warning.
I nearly rolled my eyes. "So, are you going to take me?"
"No, you foolish child," Ragnok growled, exasperated. He shook his head and adjusted himself in his chair. "Taking a wizard to the King? That's a death wish." He scoffed and added, "Not to mention the reprimand I'd face—probably even demotion. It's taken me over two centuries to reach this position."
"Fine, fine," I said, my mind already working on alternatives to force his cooperation.
"You'll tell me about the protections around the Horcrux," he demanded, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. "I'll pretend you didn't insult me with your audacity, and we'll never cross paths again."
I raised my right hand, locking eyes with him. "Imperio," I muttered.
Ragnok's posture stiffened momentarily before his expression turned blank. "Follow me," he said curtly.
I stood and discreetly cast a one-time enchantment anchored to his signature on the door. It would erase his memory of the latter part of our conversation the moment he re-entered the room.
Without another word, I followed him, walking silently in his wake.
Hook, line, and sinker, I thought as Ragnok opened the door and bowed slightly, greeting the figure inside with an air of reverence. "King Blackthorn," Ragnok said, his voice respectful but still carrying the weight of authority.
The goblin on the throne—a figure who exuded power and age—looked up, his eyes sharp like a hawk's. His long beard flowed like a river of silver, and his clothes, ornate and regal, were adorned with intricate patterns that shimmered faintly in the dim light of the room. He regarded Ragnok with a mix of bemusement and annoyance. "What conversation could be important enough to burst into my room with a wizard child, Ragnok?" His voice carried the weight of centuries, commanding attention.
Ragnok opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. I was watching closely, and I realized what was happening—he was unable to speak. The magic of the artifact we had used to bind ourselves had sealed our conversation, keeping it private.
Ragnok tried again, his lips moving in vain. His face was taut, frustrated, but his voice remained silent.
King Blackthorn's eyes narrowed, and with a single sharp glance, he said, "Leave. I want to talk with this child who has made my 300-year-old director forget his manners."
Without a word, Ragnok stood, his face unreadable, and left the room. His posture was impeccable, but I could tell there was something weighing on him.
Once the door closed behind Ragnok, I quickly scanned the room. It was grand, almost regal—dark wood paneling, shelves lined with ancient tomes, and a large tapestry depicting what seemed to be the history of the goblin nation. But my thoughts remained focused on the goblin king in front of me.
After a moment, I spoke up, my voice steady but curious, "Will those guards stay?"
King Blackthorn's eyes flicked to the guards standing at attention, their sharp weapons gleaming in the low light. He waved a dismissive hand. "They are here to watch over me, not you," he said, his tone measured but unmistakably condescending. "Now, speak. What is it that brings a wizard to my presence?"
The atmosphere shifted as I, eyes unblinking, locked my gaze on King Blackthorn. I could sense the goblin's contempt, the sneer still etched on his face, and I wasn't in the mood to back down. "Can they keep secrets?" I asked calmly, pointing towards the guards standing like stone statues at attention. "Actually, can there be privacy here? I don't want my secrets leaked."
The King's sneer deepened into a full-fledged sneer, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. "You think my guards can't keep a secret, you upstart child?" His voice dripped with condescension, and I could almost feel the mocking weight of his words.
My response was unexpected. For reasons I couldn't quite place, I didn't feel a trace of fear in front of these goblins. In fact, I had felt more scared when I thought McGonagall was about to scold me than I did now. Maybe it's because I think I can defeat them? I mused, but I didn't know for sure.
I shrugged and leaned back slightly in my seat, my demeanor casual. "Nice attitude, but my stance will remain the same."
The King's eyes darkened, and the sneer was replaced by a snarl that filled the room. "I have never been a fan of wizards," he growled. "Guards! Get this child to the dungeons. We will take care of him there."
In a blink, everything changed. The air grew taut with tension. My instincts, honed over years of survival, kicked in. Before the goblins could even react, my wandless magic surged forward. The guards, eight in total, lunged at me, weapons raised. I threw my hand toward King Blackthorn, sending a blast of red light that slammed into the goblin, pinning him to his chair. His face contorted in surprise, but his body couldn't move.
In the same heartbeat, dozens of spells shot from my hand, each one expertly aimed at the advancing guards. It was a chaotic blur—shields, curses, and binding spells flying through the air. Within seconds, some guards collapsed unconscious to the floor while others swung their blades in retaliation. But I was already a step ahead.
With a fluid motion, my hand circled through the air, and a dome of green light expanded, encasing all the remaining guards. Their swords and spears clattered to the floor as the dome collapsed, sending them into an instant, dreamless sleep. The room fell eerily silent except for the soft, steady breathing of the unconscious goblins.
I took a moment, surveying the room. My heart was still beating fast, but I was far from out of breath. I turned my gaze back to King Blackthorn, whose wide eyes showed both surprise and grudging admiration. "You seem to have underestimated me," I said coolly, taking a step forward.
The King, still trapped, could only glare at me as he tried to wriggle free. But it was clear—I had already won this round.
The King spat, his face twisted in both frustration and disbelief. "That's impossible!" he snarled. "There are magical blockers in the room—no human should be able to use magic."
My eyes gleamed with cold amusement as I regarded the goblin. My voice was calm, but carried an edge of superiority. "What makes you think it was normal human magic?" I asked. I stepped closer, my presence unwavering. "And what makes you think I didn't feel the blockers ahead?"
The King blinked, taken aback for a moment. I had indeed sensed the magical inhibitors the moment I walked in, but that didn't mean they could stop me. I wasn't using conventional magic, after all. Parselmagic wasn't something ordinary wizards had access to—it was something ancient, raw, and connected to serpentine forces that defied the usual rules. And those blockers, while effective at blocking human magic, were useless against my unique abilities.
The King growled, a spark of realization flickering in his eyes. "There will be war," he threatened, his voice venomous. "You can't kill me."
I chuckled, a sound that held no warmth, only a hint of dark humor. "I have no intentions of killing you," I replied smoothly. "But it was quite rude of you to try and apprehend me." I took a slow step forward, my gaze never leaving the goblin. "I can count the people who can trap me on two hands, and I'd still have fingers left over. And in that list? You're nowhere."
With a sharp snap of my fingers, I dissolved the binding spell that had held King Blackthorn in place. His limbs were freed, but his eyes never left mine, filled with a mix of fury and grudging respect.
I straightened, my posture regal as I observed the King's reaction. "I suggest we keep this conversation civil," I said, my voice low and steady. "Unless, of course, you'd like to test whether you really can stop me."
The King slowly stood, his body tense and his mind clearly working through the events unfolding. For a long moment, neither of us spoke, but the tension was palpable. My power was undeniable, and it was clear that, for the first time, King Blackthorn realized just how dangerous this wizard child truly was.
The King's gaze flickered with wariness as my words settled in the air. The room grew heavier, charged with an energy that even Blackthorn could not deny. I remained still, my posture defiant, but beneath the calm facade, my thoughts were racing.
"So how much do you know about Duskfall?" I asked, my voice steady and demanding, though there was an edge of curiosity beneath the question.
At the mention of the prophecy, the Goblin King's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening like a blade. "Not much," he said slowly, "but enough." He straightened in his chair, clearly preparing to impart something of grave importance. "The prophecy is over 1500 years old. A part of it was discovered by Herpo the Foul in his days... but that part was destroyed. Another fragment was found by Merlin, and Morgana saw to it that it, too, was obliterated. Dumbledore and Grindelwald also stumbled upon a portion, somewhere in Scotland, but that piece, like the others, was probably destroyed as well."
I stayed silent, absorbing the information. But the King's words weren't finished.
"The Goblin Nation," the King continued, his voice taking on a tone of reverence and caution, "we possess a piece of the prophecy. It's stored in the vaults of the Goblin Emperor, in Switzerland." He let that statement hang in the air, his gaze piercing. "The prophecy is said to have been divided into many pieces, but each fragment carries one common line: 'Time rewinds for the Last of the Last, till the age's end.'"
I remained still, my mind spinning as the pieces fell into place. What I had come for—destroying the Horcrux—suddenly seemed less important. This knowledge was far more valuable than any artifact.
Without saying a word, I twirled my finger casually, and my wand appeared in my hand with a soft swish of magic. The King's eyes widened, his instinctive step back revealing a flicker of fear.
My movements were smooth and deliberate, and as I twirled my wand again, a string of Parseltongue flowed from my lips. Eerie, straight arcs of thin, thread-like energy expelled from my wand, and one by one, the magical blockers fell, dissolving into nothingness. The room grew quieter, the weight of the moment sinking in.
With the blockers gone, I raised my hand forward, and as I spoke the words of an ancient oath, white, radiant light enveloped me. My voice was clear, unwavering as I spoke the binding vow. "I, Harry James Potter, swear on my Life and Magic that I am the Last of the Last."
The light flared brighter for a moment—blinding, almost unbearable—but just as quickly, it dimmed, leaving behind an aura of pure, undeniable power. The Goblin King, wide-eyed, stared in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape, his previous sneer now replaced by a look of profound realization.
The room was thick with tension, and I stood there, the weight of the oath hanging heavy in the air, knowing that this moment would change everything.
I lounged casually on the couch, my eyes scanning the room, though my thoughts remained sharp, focused on the task ahead. "Now that we've cleared all the minor things," I said with an air of indifference, "let's get back to what I originally came here for—Voldemort's Horcrux in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault."
The Goblin King gave a slow, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable. "We will take care of it by the end of the week," he replied, his voice clipped and professional.
I didn't bat an eye. "Just give me two goblins and drop me by the Ukrainian Ironbelly," I said, voice unwavering, "I'll take care of the rest."
The King didn't even flinch at the mention of the dragon's name, which surprised me. I had expected at least some reaction, but the Goblin King simply nodded, acknowledging the request without further inquiry. He knew that I was no ordinary wizard. Perhaps, in this case, not questioning me was the wiser choice.
"Well then, I'll wait right here," I added, sinking deeper into the couch as if the matter was no longer of great consequence. My gaze shifted casually around the room. "Also," I continued, my tone becoming more pointed, "don't try getting me the prophecy, don't contact the emperor, and—just so we're clear—I don't care about its content. No one should know who I am."
I raised my wand with a casual flick, and the unconscious guards in the room began to stir, slowly coming back to life one by one. The King's dazed expression seemed to clear, and I caught the shift in his posture. The tension returned to the King's features as he quickly regained his professional demeanor.
I glanced at the King, the cool amusement never leaving my face. "The goblins?"
The King snapped out of his daze, clearly ruffled by my casual handling of the situation. He turned back to his guards, his voice sharp and commanding as he ordered them to find two goblins whose names were... peculiar, to say the least.
I turned to the Goblin King, my expression darkening slightly, the playful air from earlier replaced with cold seriousness. "Swear that you will never reveal this conversation to anyone," I said, my voice steady and commanding.
The King hesitated, his sharp gaze flickering as he weighed the request. The silence stretched on, the weight of the oath heavy in the air. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he agreed. "I swear," he said, but I could see the wariness in his eyes.
I raised my wand with a deliberate, almost imperceptible movement. "Not just words," I said firmly, my voice low and intense. A magical glow shimmered around my wand as the binding oath was activated. White light encased the King, and the room seemed to hum with energy as the oath was sealed, not merely by words, but by the force of magic itself.
The Goblin King's eyes widened slightly as the magic took hold, his expression stiffening as if the oath had physically bound him. The air thickened with the weight of the promise now forged into the very fabric of our magic. He lowered his gaze, clearly not pleased, but he kept his word.
The glow faded, and the atmosphere returned to normal, but the connection from the oath lingered, palpable in the charged silence between us.
"Good," I replied, my tone resolute. There was no turning back now.
A moment later, the two goblins the King had ordered arrived. They were slightly shorter than most goblins I had encountered, but their eyes were sharp, alert. Without a word, they stood silently, waiting for my instructions.
I glanced at the King one last time, my lips curling into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Hopefully our paths will never cross again," I said, my tone final. "The only reason I'll come to Gringotts from now on is for my vaults only."
The King said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes still wary but resigned. I didn't wait for a reply. I turned on my heel, the two goblins following behind me in silence. As I walked out of the room, I couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction. My plan was working, and soon enough, the Horcrux would be within my grasp.
Author's note: Anyways, sorry for the late update, I had a 6-hour Jee Advance mock test on Sunday... and well on Monday my school started again. And my end of year examinations are in February, so this month is going to be hectic. But I will still update once or twice. I will try to keep those chapters this long too
So, this will probably sour Harry's relation with Goblins lol. Also, this chapter will probably surprise many people, because of the Dumbledore conversation and also Harry being so bold. Think of his action as a side effect of his conversation with Dumbledore and Grindelwald, he is high on emotions, and very intimidated that his secret is not a secret. And so, he is reacting. I honestly found it quite funny how he started from telle and slowly talked to goblin of higher and higher status... that was very intentional lol. Also Harry will return to Hogwarts in either the next chapter or the one after that.
Also a couple of mistakes on my part: I forgot that in his conversation with death I had written that Harry died in 1999, but last chapter I wrote Feb 1998. Also, the city I had written from which he entered Austria isn't in German Austrian border (oldkerosen mentioned it in a comment.) ... so a big oops. Also, in earlier chapter there are like hundreds of spelling mistakes... Yeah I didn't have any idea about how to spell check... Now I use both AI and I have autocorrect.
I am thinking about keeping these mistakes because let's be honest, this is a fanfic, so nothing is super official. And I kind of like seeing how I have made mistakes despite trying so hard. Honestly, I have realized that when I worry more, I make more mistakes. But sometimes, like the last chapter, when I write in a flow, there are barely any. Anyways, tell me if you want me to correct all the little mistakes or should I keep them, it's up to you guys..
Also, also, 100k let's gooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Also I made a discord: https://discord.gg/3N552VP5pS
Thank You