HP: A Magical Journey

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Quinn exited a dusty alleyway into a busy street of London. He joined the people and passed by everything from book shops and music stores to hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but none of them were his destination today.

He kept walking until he stopped to peer through the crowd of people going through their lives to the tiny, grubby-looking pub on the other side of the road. If not for him looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the building with the sign, Leaky Cauldron, at all.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. No one paid him any mind as he entered and walked by. Quinn tipped his hat to Tom, the bartender, as he led himself through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Quinn looked over his shoulder to ensure he was alone before knocking three bricks with his knuckle.

The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a second later, they were facing an archway large enough even for the tallest of individuals, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight. He stepped through it and glanced over his shoulder to ensure that it had shrunk instantly into the solid wall.

He walked through the semi-crowded street of Diagon Alley, glancing at the various shops doing business. He even passed by Weasley Wizarding Wheezes, his first investment in Diagon Alley, to arrive at the snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was a goblin.

Quinn snapped his fingers, and a burst of magic coursed out in a dome. Everyone around him, including the vigilant goblin guard’s eyes, went hazy, and they didn’t notice how the gangly, lanky middle-aged man with brown hair and hazel eyes turned into a fit young man with ink-black hair and stone-gray eyes.

He walked up the steps and walked by the goblin, who wasn’t even half his height, and was thereafter greeted by the second pair of doors, silver this time, with the infamous engravings:

[

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

]

“Well, not today,” he muttered quietly.

A pair of goblins bowed him through the silver doors, and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, yet more goblins showed people in and out of these. No matter what time, money always flowed through hands. He made his way to the counter.

“Morning,” said Quinn to the free gobin. “I’ve come here to meet Bogrod for some urgent business.”

“Whom did you say?” asked the goblin teller, his slanted eyes narrowing.

“Bogrod.”

“Director Bogrod?” asked the teller.

Quinn thought of the Bogrod he had met the last time, and from how the old goblin had been treated, he could definitely be a director, so he said yes. The teller, however, seemed skeptical; he asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I do not. But, I assure you, he would like to meet me.”

“I’m sorry, but the director won’t meet a hu— anyone without an appointment.”

Quinn pursed his lips. He didn’t think he would be able to directly get to Bogrod. ‘Time to aim for somewhere low,’ he thought. “Then can I meet Teller Riphook?” he said.

“Floor manager Riphook?”

“Floor manager Riphook it is,” he smiled.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t—” the teller stopped as his eyes trailed behind. Quinn followed the teller’s eyes. While most people wouldn’t be able to distinguish between goblins, Quinn could clearly tell apart every single one. He immediately left the station, ignoring the teller’s calls behind him.

“Riphook,” called Quinn to the goblin, which he and the teller had spotted. The goblin with a swarthy, clever face, and a pointed beard, turned to his name being called. For a moment, the better-dressed goblin stared at Quinn as if trying to identify who the human was, but when it clicked, he exclaimed.

“Mr. West?!”

“Good, you recognized me,” smiled Quinn. He looked Riphook up and down, “It might be late, but congratulations on the promotion.” He had a strong intuition that the deal he had stuck all those years back was the reason for it.

“Thank you,” said Riphook, surprise still lingering on his face.

“It’s good that I found you, Riphook. I have some work that I need to take care of.”

The goblin teller that Quinn had talked to came running on his long-yet-short feet. He said between huffs, “I tried to stop him, sir, but the wizard—” Riphook raised his hand and motioned the teller to go away. The teller looked to confirm before bowing and moving back to his station. “What can I do for you today, Mr. West?” asked Riphook.

“I would like to meet Bogrod,” Quinn got straight to the point. “I have a very attractive proposition for him. Know, I know that it is difficult for a person to meet, Director Bogrod, but if you could set up a meeting,” he smiled, “I would surely put in a good word. . .”

The goblin’s face twitched with emotions. He gulped, “I will see what I can do. For now, let’s go to one of our lounges.”

Quinn smiled, “That’d be perfect.”

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– (Scene Break) –

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It took half an hour after Riphook left Quinn alone in a posh lounge for him to get the meeting he wanted.

“Mr. West,” walked in the old goblin with the wrinkliest skin he had seen on a goblin. “We haven’t met since the time we made the exchange. . .”

“Ah yes, the time I sold you a thousand-year-old set of ancient Gringotts-minted coins. . . which I have to say was a bargain because those coins are a worth lot more as a set,” smiled Quinn. “Then I generously gifted you another set of coins which you then leveraged to get your current position. I heard it is a big deal.” He got straight to business.

“Which I remember was in exchange for the information about the cursed magic that you for some reason wanted to know more about, “Bogrod’s cane clicked against the marble floor as he sat down in front of him. “Bloodpike, your account manager, told me that you have an attractive proposition for me. Why don’t we hear about it?”

“Good, let’s get into it,” Quinn put his hand into his suit and retrieved a long rectangle box of one and a half feet in length. “Today, I have brought you something of great importance to the goblin nation,” he snapped open the locks, opened the lock, and smiled when he saw Bogrod lean forward, putting his weight on his cane. “I checked the age, and you’ll be delighted to know that this is a hundred years old than the coins.”

The way Bogrod sharply inhaled was like music to Quinn’s ears. He turned the box to face Bogrod and said, “I present to you. . . a goblin-crafted knight’s dagger.”

Bogrod’s eyes glittered with gold from the gold inlaid into the grip. Quinn didn’t have much practical experience with traditional blacksmithing, but when he had handled the knife, it was one of the better and more balanced knives he had held in his life. Bogrod picked up the dagger with his bony fingers and pulled the blade out of its sheath.

“The fuller is sturdy, the edges so sharp and smooth, and the central ridge flows right into the sold point,” Bogrod’s hand felt every part of the knife and even got up to swing the blade a couple times. “This is a masterpiece from the Ragnok Era. The craftsmanship with the metal is fabulous,” he flicked the edge, and it produced a voice like a tuning fork. Quinn could feel magic in the sound magic. Bogrod sheathed the dagger, replaced it in the box, and said, “The dagger is the property of goblin; you must return it immediately.”

“We both know that goblin and the human sense of ownership aren’t the same,” said Quinn, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. To a goblin, the rightful and true master of any object was the maker, not the purchaser. All goblin-made objects were, in goblin eyes, rightfully theirs. When bought, it was considered to be rented by the one who paid the price. They had, however, great difficulty with the idea of goblin-made objects passing from human to human. For the goblins kind, the objects ought to have been returned to the goblins once the original purchaser died. They consider the “habit” of keeping goblin-made objects, passing them down to the family without further payment, little more than theft. Bogrod saw the dagger as the property of goblin because of the age of said dagger.

“I’m not going to just hand the dagger back to the goblin nation, and I’m sure that you’ll give me an exuberant amount of money in exchange for the money in exchange for it,” said Quinn, making Bogrod’s vein twitch and nostril flutter. “But if you remember, this is supposed to be an attractive deal, so if you want to listen, I have a deal I think you’ll like.”

Quinn knew that Bogrod would feel as if a hundred ants were crawling over him if he asked for money in exchange for the dagger because in goblin-sensibility, the dagger wasn’t his property, and even the possession of it was theft against the goblin nation. Offering an alternate deal was his way of making Bogrod not feel like he was interacting with a thief, or at least with a dishonest human. That, along with Quinn’s previous generosity, was enough for Bogrod to listen without feeling massively offended.

“Speak,” said the goblin, his eyes on the dagger.

“I have reliable information that one of your vaults is being misused. One of your esteemed clients has exposed the revered vaults of Gringotts to a terrible magic — something so evil that it would horrify the Gringotts goblins to their core,” said Quinn, but his words confused Bogrod as much as he was concerned.

“What magic and vault?”

“I can tell you all. In return, I want the object on which the magic was cast intact. I will take it away from Gringotts, and no goblin shall ever again have to see its sight or feel its presence.”

“No, that is against the rules,” Bogrod thumped his cane on the ground, “Gringotts can’t give a vault’s contents to another person without the owner’s consent. If a cursed item in a vault violates Gringotts law, then we will destroy it and exact fines and penalties for the violation.” A gleam in Bogrod’s eyes said that Gringotts would extort the fines no matter what.

Quinn knew all of that; he had read every Gringotts contract he could get his hands on, and while he wasn’t an expert at law, he had read enough and explored enough tangents to know that Gringotts wasn’t going to let him barge into a vault and take thing willy-nilly even if it was in great violation.

“I understand, and that’s why I offer this dagger to Gringotts. . . or to you Bogrod. . . to make an exception. Gringotts can pretend that they expunged the dark object from their premise. . . just instead of destroying it, you give it to me,” Quinn slightly pushed the box towards Bogrod with a smile. “I’m sure it will help some things up. . . but if you can’t, we can always call off the deal,” he gently pushed the lid, and with a finger twitch, the two locks snapped into their places. “So, what do you say, Director Bogrod?”

Bogrod stared at the knife with hunger in his eyes that even the hardened negotiator couldn’t hide. The goblin-made knife was that much of a temptation.

“. . . What is the terrible magic you talk about?” asked Bogrod.

“Oh, you know, we talked about it before.”

“We talked about it before? When did we—” Bogrod’s eyes almost popped out of their socket as he sought a wild confirmation in Quinn, who smiled with a shrug. Bogrod spoke the next word as if he tasting every syllable on his tongue,

“A Horcrux?”

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Quinn West – MC – I grease some palms with metal.

Bogrod – Director – A possible opportunity of a lifetime, presents itself to him; will he take it, or. . . .

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