HP: A Magical Journey

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“A Horcrux?” Bogrod’s expression went through a journey from a journey from shocking-surprise to stern anger and finally ended on a negotiating poker face. “There’s a Horcrux in a Gringotts vault? Mr. West, do you understand—” His pupils shrunk as his eyes widened; the goblin snarled and punched down his cane, sending a wave of magic out. “You knew! You knew there was a Horcrux in our vaults! That’s why you asked. You were discerning Gringotts’ attitude towards Horcrux! You cretin wizard!”

Quinn took no offense at the harsh words. He lightly shrugged with a serene face and ran a hand through his hair ruffled by Bogrod’s magic. “If that’s how you want to put it, I won’t deny it. But do you think it matters now? The fact remains that there may or may not be a soul container in a vault somewhere down underground.”

“May or may not?”

“It depends on how would you like to proceed,” said Quinn. Decline him cooperation, Gringotts could forget the Horcrux. “Gringotts can try to find the Horcrux on their own by searching every single vault, or you can barter my help and get the job done. . . which I’m bringing along with an incentive none could decline,” he pointed at the dagger box. “What do you say? How about we ink this deal in, and by the end of the day, both parties will be on their ways happy.”

The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but continued to frown at

Quinn as though he had never seen anything like him.

“I need to think about it. Give me a week—”

“No,” Quinn shut that line of thought down, “this needs to happen now. You need to make your decision right here, and we need to end the entire operation by the end of the day. I don’t want this to get covered by red tape full of pointless discussions about Gringotts law and the cooperation between goblin and human— it will only serve to make things complicated and slow. Director Bogrod,” he emphasized the title, “make the call— do you want to do it now or never.”

Bogrod growled threateningly at Quinn, who sat still and unperturbed. The way he had put it wasn’t pretty, but it was the truth; if he let Bogrod sleep on the matter, the chances of this succeeding would plummet faster than a brick in the sky. He needed to green-light the deal before Bogrod stepped out of the room.

“If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek

personal gain,” said Bogrod finally, “you would be the last person I think of, Quinn West. It is people like you who have kept the right to carry the wand away from goblins and refuse to share the secrets of wandlore with other magical beings; they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!”

Quinn raised both his hand and showed his palm. “I don’t use wands, so I couldn’t care less who gets to use a wand. And it’s not like your kind is any better— goblins won’t share any of their magic either; you won’t tell us how to make swords and armor the way you do. Believe me, I have tried to find something that could stand up, but goblins know how to work metal in a way I could kill for.” He had consoled himself by reminding himself of the fact that he founded Aegis and created the entire product by himself, which was now giving goblin-made wards a competition.

Quinn shrugged.

Bogrod gave a nasty laugh. “It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers.” The goblin stroked the cane, and his black eyes roved over Quinn. “I will help you. I shall lead you to the vault, and you shall take away the Horcrux; in return, I get the goblin-made dagger.”

“Excellent, a quick and simple deal, just the way I like it,” Quinn smiled, but his smile drained from his face. “But beware goblin, try to cross me in any way, and the aftermath will not be desirable. . .”

His eyes turned purple, and an eruption of magic saturated the air in the room, and then it began overflowing, creating a suffocating atmosphere in the room. Bogrod started to breathe heavily as he stared at Quinn. He looked around the door as though expecting something.

“Don’t expect the guards,” said Quinn. “They will only come in if the wards are triggered,” he shook his head, making Bogrod’s eye tremble. The next second, the suffocating magic disappeared like it never existed, leaving behind a refreshing gust of wind, cooling down the room.

“I simply wish for a day on betrayals, but if I’m faced with a situation where I feel threatened, I shall try my hardest to damage Gringotts reputation of being the safest place in the country,” he delivered flattery amongst the threat by sidelining Hogwarts from the competition. “Don’t be greedy, Bogrod. Take whatever is being offered and be satisfied.”

Quinn uncrossed his legs before folding them the other way. He put on a polite smile, “Please tell me when you’re ready. I can start anytime.”

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Bogrod led Quinn to the front hall with all the tellers. As they walked behind the long row of counters, the old goblins spoke, “I need to know the vault in question, so I can ask for the key for it.”

Quinn gave Bogrod a studying glance before casually saying, “Bellatrix Lestrange.” Bogrod’s face twisted exactly the way Quinn was expecting. Bogrod stopped in his steps with the cane skidding a mark on the white marble; he looked at Quinn as though he was seeing a vampire allergic to blood.

No words were exchanged, and Bogrod resumed walking, but he had taken mere a couple of steps when he again came to a halt. Bogrod whipped his head towards Quinn and sputtered in disbelief, “A-Are you saying that it is. . . his?!” Even the goblins feared Voldemort not speaking his name while being inside Gringotts.

“It might or might not be,” said Quinn

Bogrod made a grunt before continuing onto an office behind the counters. He knocked on the door with a door sign that said: Riphook, Floor Manager. Before they entered, Quinn stopped Bogrod and whispered, “Let’s keep the conversation in English exclusively, shall we?”

Bogrod glared at Quinn before opening the door. Riphook hastily stood up from his chair. “Sir, you didn’t have to come down here; you could’ve called sent for me; I would’ve come to you.”

“Riphook, I’m going to ask you to do something for me; I hope you can keep it a secret. Can you do that for me, Riphook?” asked Bogrod, getting straight to the point.

“Of course, sir. You have my tongue,” said Riphook, with a warrior’s look.

“Good man,” Bogrod said proudly. “I want the Clankers to the Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault—” Riphook furrowed his brow in confusion, but as he looked between Bogrod and Quinn, a shock painted his face, but as he was about to express his thoughts, Bogrod cut him off “— No questions asked, Riphook. This matter is of utmost importance and concerns greatly to Gringotts. . . the Clanker to Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault.”

Riphook looked conflicted, but under the orders of his superior, so far above the chain, he couldn’t refuse and retrieved a leather bag that seemed to be full of jangling metal, which he handed to Bogrod.

“Thank you, Riphook. You will have the Clankers within an hour,” said Bogrod.

“Do you know how to work the vaults?” asked Quinn after they left Riphook’s office.

“I started as the teller, Mr. West. I have made my career one ladder climb at a time.”

The keys clanking, they hurried toward one of the many doors leading off the hall. Bogrod whistled to summon a little cart that came trundling along the tracks toward them out of the darkness, which they climbed into. With a jerk, the cart moved off, gathering speed, hen the cart began twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward all the time. Quinn could not hear anything over the rattling of the cart on the tracks: His hair flew behind him as they swerved between stalactites, flying ever deeper into the earth. He had never been down in the underground tunnels— his vault only had galleons, and most of the time, he paid and ordered money by check.

He leaned near Bogrod and yelled against the wind, but the goblin didn’t hear. He facepalmed and quoted the iconic line that Ron Weasley had once said to Hermoine Granger to himself— and then used magic to send his voice to Bogrod. “This is pretty exciting,” he said. “Can we go faster?” He got no response from Bogrod.

They were deeper than Quinn had ever been underground; they took a hairpin bend at speed and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a waterfall pounding over the track. Quinn snapped his fingers to keep the water away, but unexpectedly, the water didn’t obey and soaked him.

Then he heard Bogrod’s voice in his ear, “The Thief’s Downfall! It washes away all enchantment, all magical concealment! We entered the section that hosts Lestrange, Black, Malfoy, Nott, among many other pureblood families’ vaults — the waterfall is a requirement.” His voice sounded as though he was trying to convince Quinn that he couldn’t break into the vaults without his help

Quinn sighed and snapped his fingers again; this time, the water disappeared. He was of two minds to pull off a heist involving not vaults with human wealth but goblin wealth.

They turned a corner and saw the thing for which Quinn had been

prepared, but it still made all of it seem insignificant. A gigantic dragon was tethered to the ground in front of them, barring access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the place. The beast’s scales had turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground; its eyes were milkily pink; both rear legs bore heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked wings, folded close to its body, would have filled the chamber if it spread them, and when it turned its ugly head toward them, it roared with a noise that made the rock tremble, opened its mouth, and spat a jet of fire that sent them running back up the passageway.

Bogrod took out the leather bag. They advanced around the corner again, shaking the Clankers, and the noise echoed off the rocky walls, grossly magnified so that the inside of Quinn’s skull seemed to vibrate with the din. The dragon let out another hoarse roar, then retreated. Quinn could see it trembling, and as they drew nearer, he saw the scars made by vicious slashes across its face and guessed that it had been taught to fear hot swords when it heard the sound of the Clankers.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine and came to a stop in front of a vault without a keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Bogrod. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers, and it simply melted away to reveal a cavelike opening crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armor, the skins of strange creatures — some with long spines, others with drooping wings — potions in jeweled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown.

“Does anyone have access to the vaults?”

“I’m the Director of Vaults; I have access to all vaults. . . Now enter and search fast!”

Quinn didn’t step inside. He motioned for Bogrod to go in first. “I’m not going there alone. . . in case you trap me in there alone to die. Go on, Bogrod.”

“You have no trust,” Bogrod sneered.

“Of course not; our relationship is purely transactional,” smiled Quinn.

Both of them stepped inside, and Quinn started searching for the Hufflepuff’s Cup. He sent out various light orbs into the air and lit up the entire vault. He didn’t have to search for long; Bellatrix had placed the Cup at a height like a prized possession. He tapped his feet, and the winds rose him up to the height of the shelf at which the Cup sat. Quinn stared at the little golden Cup that sparkled in a three-way spotlight: the cup that had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, which had passed into the possession of Hepzibah Smith, from whom it had been stolen by Tom Riddle.

He directed his magic towards the Cup and eradicated the Gemino and Flagrante curses laid on it externally. After confirming that it was safe to touch, he retrieved a glass box made from a unique material that could withstand Basilisk venom for some time. Usually, the Basilisk venom needs to be made inert to be stored or kept in preserved Basilisk venom sack. He conjured a pair of tongs, picked up the Cup, and carefully placed it inside the box before sealing it inside for later.

“That makes it five,” he muttered to himself with a smile.

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Quinn West – MC – I should get a skull. . .

Bogrod – Director of Vaults – I don’t believe I’m doing this.

FictionOnlyReader – Author – Going to college campus tomorrow.

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