"Sir, I know everything about Gringotts! Whatever you need, just give me your orders!"
"Master Wizard, don't listen to him! Cassie is an incompetent fool who has failed more times than he has succeeded!"
"Lord Lockhart, do you remember me? I was the one who managed your last collaboration with Gringotts!"
"Master, I'll sign a slave contract if I have to! Just let me live!"
The goblins spoke over one another, their desperation rising like a tide, each scrambling to outdo the others in their pathetic pleas for survival.
Harmon closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
He had known for a long time that his people were not warriors. That despite their centuries of hatred toward wizards, most goblins valued their own survival above all else.
But even knowing this…
Even expecting this…
To witness it was a disgrace unlike any other.
Harmon felt disgust coil in his chest, an acidic, burning sensation that made his stomach churn. Pathetic. Cowards. Weaklings.
Had he not fought for these same goblins all his life? Had he not sought a future where they would stand as equals to wizards, not groveling at their feet like mangy dogs?
Bah.
What a cruel joke.
Harmon stood straight, his head held high—his proud stance a stark contrast to the whimpering, bowing goblins behind him.
It was as if they were two different species entirely.
Ian and Wanda, observing the scene, exchanged a brief look.
Their previous encounters with Gringotts had led them to believe that the goblins were a formidable adversary—cunning, ruthless, difficult to manipulate.
And Harmon had seemed to embody that belief.
But now?
Ian had been both right and wrong.
Yes, Gringotts could be dangerous.
Yes, Harmon was formidable.
But the rest of them?
The moment pressure was applied, they crumbled like old parchment.
However, Ian's sharp eyes caught something—off in the corner, a handful of goblins had not joined in the desperate chorus of surrender.
They stood apart, glaring at their fellow goblins with barely concealed hatred.
Ian smirked.
Even in a situation like this, even facing the destruction of their own kind, there were still those who despised traitors more than they feared death.
Good.
He had a use for goblins like that.
Lockhart's voice broke the tension.
"Ian, Wanda, you must remember something." His tone was calm, but it carried the weight of a lesson—one not meant to be forgotten.
"If, one day, you ever find yourselves in dire straits… I would rather you die with your pride intact, like Harmon here, than see you grovel for your lives like them."
His eyes swept over the sniveling goblins.
"As your mentor, it is my duty to ensure that you never fall into such a position. But still, watch this moment. Remember it. This is the fate of the weak. The powerlessness of those who lack strength. The inevitable end of those who cannot stand on their own."
His words settled into Ian and Wanda's minds like stone tablets carved in unshakable truth.
Both of them nodded solemnly.
Then, with a lazy wave of his hand, Lockhart silenced the goblins once more—freezing them in place.
"Carter," he said, turning to the vice principal, "let's hear your next plan."
Carter, who had been watching with amusement, did not seem surprised.
She knew Lockhart far too well.
For all of Lockhart's power, for all his ambition, he still had a tendency to delegate when possible.
He enjoyed the role of a mentor, enjoyed guiding his students, enjoyed showing off.
But work?
Ah. That was another matter entirely.
"Alright," Carter said simply. "Ian, Wanda, your suggestions weren't bad, but they lacked some key information. Since you didn't have the full picture, your plans contained errors."
Both students straightened slightly, listening intently.
Peggy Carter's expression turned serious. "To Kamar Taj, Gringotts is not just a vault of wealth. It serves a far more important function."
Ian and Wanda glanced at each other, intrigued.
"And what is that?" Ian asked.
Carter smirked. "It is a petri dish—one that accelerates the spread of new wizards into the world."
Gringotts, Deep Underground Vaults
Huff. Huff. Huff.
The rhythmic sound of heavy breathing echoed through the cavernous chamber.
On a massive stone platform lay a curled-up dragon, its massive, scarred body coiled in restless slumber.
The pale creature, its silver scales dulled with age and captivity, let out slow, misty breaths through flaring nostrils. Each exhale sent faint tendrils of white vapor curling into the cold air.
Though it appeared to be resting, the occasional twitch of its eyelids betrayed something else—troubled dreams, perhaps.
A whisper of displaced air.
Three figures materialized near the edge of the platform.
Yet, despite its usual wariness, the dragon did not react.
It continued to rest, seemingly unaware of their presence.
"Teacher," Wanda said softly, stepping forward, her voice tinged with fascination. "This is the dragon I was telling you about. They say it's an Ukrainian Ironbelly—one of the largest and most ferocious breeds."
Lockhart, his gaze sharp, nodded in understanding.
The goblin affairs had been left in Carter's hands—he trusted him to deal with it.
This, however—this was something else.
Wanda, standing close to the dragon, suddenly hesitated.
She felt something.
Something unusual.
A strange wave of emotion—not her own—washed over her, thick with sorrow, pain, and longing.
Her fingers twitched slightly.
"Teacher," she whispered. "This dragon… its soul is filled with sadness. A deep, mellow grief… but also determination. It longs for freedom."
Her expression softened, almost entranced.
"It's… beautiful."
Lockhart tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction with interest.
Ian, standing nearby, frowned slightly.
Something about Wanda's behavior felt off.
She had always had a strong spiritual connection to magical creatures, but this was different.
Was she being affected by the dragon's emotions?
No. That shouldn't be possible.
Unless…
Ian's thoughts were interrupted as Lockhart stepped forward.
Slowly, he extended a hand toward the slumbering beast.
The moment his palm hovered just above the dragon's massive scales, he felt it.
A deep, pulsing heat.
Powerful.
Ancient.
Lockhart narrowed his eyes.
Fascinating.
His magic flared slightly, and a transparent ripple appeared around his hand.
Gently, he pressed his palm forward, allowing his spell to sink into the dragon's body.
Information flooded his senses.
Scarred muscle.
Years of captivity.
Physical atrophy from prolonged imprisonment.
All of it was expected.
But something else stood out.
Something wrong.
Lockhart's eyes flickered.
Then, he took a step back.
With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the power of the dream world—one of the abilities he had been refining.
A shroud of magic gathered around his gaze, allowing him to see the threads of fate entangling the dragon.
And what he saw made his expression darken.
Tangled within the dragon's fate were strands of energy—strange, colorful threads that pulsed with something beyond ordinary magic.
A signature he recognized.
Lockhart's jaw tightened.
Grindelwald.
Not him personally.
But his magic.
Instead of seeking Lockhart, Grindelwald had woven his influence into Wanda's path.
Lockhart's eyes narrowed.
What are you up to, old man?
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