"Ian, Wanda, let me test you with a question."
Lockhart's voice carried an easy, almost amused lilt as he turned his attention to his two students. His relaxed posture suggested casual conversation, but there was a razor-sharp edge to his words, a hidden weight that neither Ian nor Wanda failed to notice.
"You have observed the Gringotts meeting from start to finish. Tell me—given the current state of Gringotts, even with individuals like Elder Harmon at the helm, do you believe the goblins still have hope for the rise they so desperately seek?"
Ian and Wanda exchanged a glance. Their expressions were thoughtful, calculating. They had been analyzing every word, every shift in expression among the goblins, and now Lockhart was asking them to put that analysis into words.
Ian was the first to respond, his tone decisive. "Teacher, I don't believe there's much hope for them. Gringotts is too rotten from within. No matter how capable an individual might be, corruption runs too deep to be solved by a single leader or even a handful of reformers."
Wanda, however, had a different perspective. "Mentor, I disagree with Ian," she countered, her voice steady. "If a true strongman were to emerge within Gringotts—someone willing to cut away the rot and purge the corruption—then there is still a chance. Even the most decayed institutions can be reborn under the right leadership."
Lockhart smiled slightly, as if entertained by their debate. "I can understand Wanda's perspective," he mused, steepling his fingers. "But don't forget—Gringotts' problems are long-standing. Rooted deep in its foundations. Simply killing off a few bad elements won't cleanse something that has been rotting for centuries."
The words, spoken with ease, carried a chilling finality.
The unsettling part? Lockhart, Ian, and Wanda weren't merely discussing Gringotts. They were discussing it in Gringotts, in the very heart of enemy territory, as though they were distant observers dissecting a carcass rather than trespassers in a den of wolves.
At this moment, it was as if the goblins gathered in the conference room were no more than livestock, mere chickens or ducks waiting on the butcher's block, incapable of protest.
Ian and Wanda, unconcerned with the growing hostility in the room, continued speaking freely, their voices rising in animated discussion. There was no fear in their tones, no hesitation. If anything, the debate had become more engaging for them, more enjoyable.
The goblins, however, could do nothing but glare, their sharp teeth grinding behind tightly clenched lips. Fury burned in their eyes, but their bodies refused to obey them. They were trapped—paralyzed like puppets with their strings cut, unable to even summon their magic.
It was only then that they realized—
Near the head of the table, seated comfortably in a brown chair, was him.
Lockhart.
Beside him stood Vice Principal Carter, coolly surveying the room. Behind them, standing proudly like students before their master, were Ian and Wanda.
Elder Harmon, who had been deathly still up to this point, stirred slightly. His fingers twitched as he slowly realized something both terrifying and surprising—he could move.
His sharp goblin mind processed the situation in an instant.
They're toying with us.
They had deliberately left him mobility while locking down everyone else.
Why?
The answer was clear—because they wanted him to perform.
"Mr Harmon," Lockhart's voice was almost playful, as if inviting him into a game, "you taught my two students a valuable lesson today." He gestured idly to Ian and Wanda, then leaned forward slightly. "How about you offer your own evaluation? Do you agree with their judgments?"
Harmon exhaled slowly, carefully schooling his features. "Dear Principal Lockhart," he began smoothly, "I must admit, your students present insightful arguments."
He had survived this long by knowing when to speak and when to hold his tongue. And now, he was speaking.
No goblin rose to the rank of Elder in Gringotts without a keen sense of survival. Harmon wasn't about to let his pride blind him to the fact that he was in the presence of beings far stronger than himself.
However—
His fingers crept toward the bronze key at his waist, moving slowly, deliberately, so as not to attract attention.
The portkey.
It had saved his life before. It would do so again.
If he could activate it, he would be whisked away—far from this doomed meeting room, far from the iron grip of Kamar Taj.
And once he was free, he would expose them.
He would tell the entire wizarding world about Kamar Taj's treachery. He would lay bare the deception of their so-called wisdom and peace.
His heart pounded.
His fingers brushed against—
Nothing.
What?!
His pulse surged as he realized—there was no metallic texture under his fingertips. His fingers passed through where the portkey should have been, as though it were an illusion.
His stomach turned to ice.
When he looked up, he was met with Lockhart's infuriatingly calm gaze. The wizard's eyes glowed with quiet amusement.
That was when Harmon knew—his fate had already been sealed.
"Mr. Harmon," Lockhart mused, tapping his chin. "Which of my two students perspectives do you prefer?"
Harmon shut his eyes for a brief moment, his mind racing. His only chance of survival was adaptation. If escape was impossible, then negotiation was his only option.
He forced himself to appear composed, as though he were weighing his response carefully. When he opened his eyes, his voice was steady. "Both perspectives hold merit," he admitted. "The corruption within Gringotts is undeniable. Without serious reform, we will stagnate and fall."
"Then tell me," Lockhart asked, ever intrigued, "do you think you can fix it?"
A long pause.
Harmon lowered his head slightly, feigning contemplation before responding in a quiet, almost somber tone. "If I were alone," he admitted, "I would say the odds of success are no more than 20 or 30 percent."
Then, his eyes glowed with something else—something dangerous.
"But," he continued, his voice gaining momentum, "if the Great Elder Hampton were to take action, I believe the probability of success would rise to 60, perhaps even 70 percent."
At the mention of the name, Lockhart's gaze flickered toward Carter.
The vice principal, ever composed, offered a succinct report. "Great Elder Hampton—Gringotts' highest-ranking figure, its chief helmsman. Little is known about his exact whereabouts. Our intelligence suggests he has not been active in the British wizarding world for some time—likely traveling through other wizarding domains. He is rumored to possess the true inheritance of goblin magic. If these claims hold any truth, he is a top-tier opponent."
Lockhart exhaled through his nose, intrigued. "Interesting."
For a moment, he was silent, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his chair. Then, his gaze turned once more to Harmon, his expression unreadable.
Then he spoke.
"You goblins have caused quite the disruption to our plans today," he remarked lightly. "Tell me, Harmon—how do you intend to compensate us?"
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room.
The goblins' eyes widened in disbelief, then burned with rage.
Kamar Taj wants to destroy us. They seek to dismantle Gringotts, to erase us from history. We resisted—fought for our survival—and now they dare ask for compensation?!
If not for their magical restraints, they would have erupted in furious protest.
But the restrain remained.
And Harmon, their leader, was left to answer.
Lockhart's voice carried a final, ominous weight.
"Come, Harmon. Tell me." His tone was silk, but the steel beneath it was undeniable. "What price will you pay for interfering with our plans?"
Harmon's jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. His pride warred against reality. His instinct screamed at him to bow, to concede, to survive.
And yet—
"Ian, Wanda," Lockhart continued, unbothered by the goblins' silent fury. "How much did you suffer today?"
His smile widened.
"Come, your principal will help you settle the score."
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