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[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 456 - 460
🕑 Added 2025-01-22 01:00:01 +0000 UTCChapter 456
The night sky over Birmingham, England, stretched vast and unbroken. As the second-largest city in the UK, Birmingham pulsed with life, its millions of residents contributing to the bright lights and bustling streets. From the shimmering reflections on the canal waters to the twinkling cityscape, it exuded a vibrancy that rivaled London’s.
Above, the full moon cast its soft glow over the city, and the stars shimmered like scattered diamonds. It was a picturesque scene, almost serene in its beauty.
Standing by a tranquil lake on the city’s outskirts, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, looked up at the heavens with an inexplicable smile. His expression radiated satisfaction, as though he were privy to a vision that others could not see.
Not far behind him, Dolores Umbridge watched her superior closely. Her thoughts, however, were far less charitable.
What’s he so pleased about? she thought irritably. It’s just Birmingham—a Muggle city, nothing special. Unless there’s some hidden magical ruin here, I don’t see the cause for his excitement.
Despite her internal grumbling, Umbridge wore her trademark sycophantic smile, a façade honed to perfection over years of navigating Ministry politics. She had long since mastered the art of flattery, and her current expression suggested she was basking in the glow of Fudge’s achievements.
After all, her career was built on such performances. It wasn’t mere loyalty or blind obedience that had propelled her rise from a Ministry clerk to a high-ranking official. No, Umbridge excelled at reading people, manipulating them, and ensuring her competitors either bowed out gracefully or left in fury.
Still, she couldn’t suppress a flicker of irritation as she observed Fudge. If only I knew what he was up to…
Her musings were interrupted by an extraordinary sight.
Before her very eyes, a glowing seed of faint blue light floated upward from Fudge’s hand. The tiny, radiant orb drifted over the lake, casting ripples of luminous blue across the water’s surface.
As the seed ascended higher, its glow intensified, bathing the entire area in an otherworldly light.
A soft breeze swept across the lake, rustling the nearby trees. Umbridge instinctively wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, but then something else struck her—a pressure, vast and oppressive, like an unseen force pressing down on her chest.
Her breath hitched, and her rosy complexion drained to a ghostly pale.
She turned her wide eyes to Fudge, disbelief etched on her face. The man she had known for years—a politician, a manipulator, a man of middling magical ability—now radiated a spiritual force so immense, so profound, that it defied comprehension.
This… This can’t be real, she thought, her mind racing. Not even Dumbledore possesses such power. How could someone like Fudge…?
But the overwhelming energy emanating from Fudge was undeniable. It wasn’t just powerful—it was vast, like an ocean crashing against the limits of her mind. And yet, strangely, she detected a fragility within it, a delicate instability that made the sheer scale of the force even more disconcerting.
Her instincts screamed at her to flee, but her feet remained rooted to the ground.
Above the lake, the blue light coalesced, forming a swirling phantom image. Shapes began to emerge within the glow—rolling grasslands, dense forests, bustling cities, and shadowy figures of moving creatures.
The vision shifted and twisted, each detail morphing into another. The phantom was not yet stable, but its magnificence was undeniable.
Fudge stood before the spectacle, his wand tracing intricate patterns in the air. His movements were fluid and precise, and with each motion, the phantom’s transformations grew more pronounced.
The immense spiritual energy in the air gathered above him, feeding into the phantom and causing it to expand.
From her position, Umbridge could only stare in awe. The radiant phantom, initially a simple blue, began to glow with other hues. Pure white radiated holiness, golden yellow dazzled like sunlight, dark green exuded vitality, and deep black pulsed with an eerie, deathly aura.
Something deep inside Umbridge stirred—a primal, overwhelming desire. Greed flashed in her eyes as she gazed at the vibrant, shifting phantom. She couldn’t explain it, but she wanted it. She needed it.
If I had that… I could have everything. Power, respect, control… everything.
Meanwhile, Fudge was completely absorbed in his task. His breathing quickened, his eyes alight with fervor as he watched the dream world take shape. Each motion of his wand drew him closer to his goal, the phantom expanding and solidifying with every passing moment.
He felt a surge of strength course through him, a sense of invincibility unlike anything he had ever experienced.
This… This is the power of the dream world, he thought, his excitement mounting. Even in its nascent state, it’s extraordinary. With this, I can accomplish anything.
Though Carter had advised him to focus on creating a small, bright, and stable dream world for his first attempt, Fudge found himself craving more. He wanted to pour every ounce of his newfound spiritual power into it, to expand it beyond its initial parameters.
But he held himself back. Carter’s teachings were clear—overreaching could destabilize the entire process. Reluctantly, he began to rein in the phantom’s growth, carefully adjusting its proportions and consolidating its energy.
Step by step, he refined the dream world, ensuring it was both powerful and sustainable.
As Fudge moved closer to the center of the phantom, his figure began to blur in Umbridge’s eyes. The pressure in the air grew even more intense, pressing down on her like an invisible weight.
Her instincts screamed at her again, warning her of the sheer danger radiating from Fudge. Yet, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
With each adjustment, the phantom grew more refined. Its swirling shapes stabilized, the colors blending into a cohesive, mesmerizing whole. Fudge’s concentration was absolute, his mind fully immersed in the task.
As the dream world’s power anchored itself to him, Fudge felt a profound transformation. Strength filled every fiber of his being, a confidence so absolute that he almost laughed aloud.
With this… I could defeat a dozen of my former selves. No—more than that.
The dream world wasn’t just a tool—it was a source of endless potential, a realm that magnified his abilities beyond anything he’d ever imagined.
Fudge smiled to himself, his thoughts racing. Even a micro dream world holds this much power. What would a fully developed one be capable of?
For now, though, he focused on perfecting the miniature version. It was his creation, his alone, and he would see it through without relying on anyone else.
Here’s your text proofread and edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, readability, and flow while keeping the storyline and context intact. The word count has been increased slightly by adding descriptive details for better readability and immersion.
The miniature dream world, newly formed, was quietly undergoing internal changes. Towers emerged one after another, each unique in appearance and hue. Some had a primitive design, others gleamed as though crafted from bronze metal, and a few were entwined with vibrant green plants. Their heights varied greatly, yet they shared a common characteristic: the closer a tower stood to the dream world’s core, the taller it rose.
At the very center of this dream world stood an immense tower, its height dwarfing all others. It was the most conspicuous and imposing structure, symbolizing Fudge's unbridled ambition. He yearned to stand above everyone else, to see farther than any other, and to look down on the world with an air of supremacy. He envisioned others unwaveringly defending his reign, perpetuating his dominance.
In a secluded corner of this surreal realm, unnoticed by both Fudge and Umbridge, two pairs of eyes observed the unfolding scene with quiet intensity. These eyes belonged to Principal Lockhart and Vice Principal Peggy Carter of Kamar-Taj.
"Lockhart, are you sure the dream world’s overflow won't lead to unforeseen problems?" Carter asked, her sharp gaze fixed on Fudge, whose demeanor had shifted dramatically. His newfound confidence radiated from him, and even his facial expressions hinted at burgeoning ambitions.
Carter sighed inwardly. She had seen this pattern countless times. In any world, the stronger someone became, the more insatiable their hunger for power grew. And while Carter could handle a few individuals, even exceptionally powerful ones, the notion of empowering the entire wizarding world was a far more perilous endeavor.
If things proceeded as Lockhart envisioned—if the dream world truly spread to encompass all—then the wizarding world's collective power would surge exponentially. This escalation could disrupt the delicate balance of their reality.
Lockhart, sensing her unease, responded with a calm smile. "Carter, trust me," he said, his tone reassuring. "Every new order emerges from the sacrifice of the old. Chaos is an integral part of establishing order."
He paused deliberately, as if to choose his words carefully. "The dream world will be the catalyst for change in the wizarding world," he continued, his voice measured. "And, more importantly, it will secure the wizards' position in the new reality. Never forget, we are agents of progress."
In the Ministry of Magic’s Office for International Magical Exchange and Cooperation, Barty Crouch Sr. reclined in his chair, eyes half-closed in a rare moment of respite. Though he initially struggled to adjust to his current life, he had little choice. Mistakes had consequences, and he had paid dearly for his missteps. Yet, deep down, a shadow of regret lingered. He had been so close to becoming the Minister of Magic—just one step away.
What a pity.
Shaking off the unwelcome thoughts, he focused on maintaining his composure. But his reprieve was short-lived.
A sudden whoosh of green light erupted from the magical fireplace, and two figures materialized before him. Startled, Crouch sat up straight, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the unexpected visitors. One was a tall wizard, clad in a black robe with blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and an array of magical trinkets adorning his neck and wrists. The other was a goblin, dressed in a tight black suit and clutching a staff. The sight of the goblin leading the wizard was enough to alarm Crouch, his mind racing with possibilities.
The magical fireplace in his office was designed to connect with international floo networks, reserved for emergencies or critical communications. The presence of these two could only mean one thing: the news they bore was of the utmost importance.
The wizard, Narm, wasted no time. "Director Crouch, there’s trouble—serious trouble," he said, his voice tinged with panic. "Grindelwald has invaded. The Magical Congress of the United States is on the brink of collapse."
Crouch’s heart skipped a beat. He had heard whispers of Grindelwald’s return but hadn’t anticipated such rapid developments. He steeled himself as Narm continued, his tone almost pleading.
"We need to speak with Minister Fudge immediately. Grindelwald's forces are overwhelming, and the Congress can’t hold out much longer. Could Dumbledore intervene? He defeated Grindelwald before—surely he could do it again?"
Throughout Narm’s desperate entreaty, the goblin beside him remained stoic, watching the scene with detached interest. Crouch recognized the calculated indifference; goblins thrived on the disarray of wizards. To them, internal conflicts among humans were a chance to seize opportunities, so long as the chaos didn’t extend to their own kind.
Gathering himself, Crouch spoke, his tone measured but firm. "I understand the gravity of the situation," he said. "But before we act, we need a clearer picture of the current circumstances. Narm, tell me—what is happening in the American wizarding world? What exactly has Grindelwald achieved so far?"
The goblin, Katu, stepped forward before Narm could respond. "The Dark Lord Grindelwald has taken Ilvermorny and enslaved its students," he reported. "The Magical Congress narrowly repelled an attack on their headquarters, but their Speaker was gravely injured in the battle. Vice President Chenos is now overseeing matters."
As Katu recounted the dire state of affairs, Narm interjected occasionally, adding details that painted an increasingly grim picture. Crouch’s expression darkened with each revelation. Though no stranger to conflict, the scale of Grindelwald’s resurgence was staggering.
When Katu mentioned that wizards and goblins had formed an alliance to resist Grindelwald, Crouch’s sharp eyes immediately caught an inconsistency. Goblins rarely fought alongside wizards unless there was a hidden agenda. He would need to tread carefully—this was no ordinary alliance.
Chapter 457
Ministry of Magic, Office of the Minister
" Crouch, are you joking?"
Although seated in his office chair, Cornelius Fudge leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk as he fixed a piercing gaze on Barty Crouch Sr. His expression was one of disbelief.
Rufus Scrimgeour, the Director of the Auror Office, stood nearby, his face equally cautious. Both men were well-acquainted with Barty Crouch. The three had once been colleagues, and among them, Crouch had held the most distinguished position as the former Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Known for his rigor and often ruthless efficiency, Crouch had been a figure of immense authority. If not for the scandal involving his son, Barty Jr., many believed Crouch would have ascended to the position of Minister of Magic, a role Fudge now occupied.
Now, Crouch stood before them, claiming that the Magical Congress of the United States was on the brink of collapse, with the American wizarding world poised to fall under Grindelwald's control.
It was an extraordinary claim, and neither Fudge nor Scrimgeour could bring themselves to believe it outright. The idea that Grindelwald could dominate the American wizarding world in just two or three months seemed absurd. After all, the American magical community was not weak, and Grindelwald had suffered defeats there in the past.
Yet, as they scrutinized the seriousness etched on Crouch’s face, doubt began to creep in. Finally, they chose to hear him out.
"Minister Fudge, Scrimgeour," Crouch began, his voice steady. "The wizards and goblins from the Magical Congress are waiting outside. If you have any doubts, you can meet and speak with them directly."
He paused, then added with a hint of suspicion, "By the way, there's something odd about the goblin accompanying them. I believe any investigation into the validity of their claims should start with him."
Fudge sat back, considering Crouch’s words. After exchanging a brief glance with Scrimgeour, a faint, knowing smile crept onto his face. Both men understood exactly what Crouch was implying.
Despite the goblins’ elevated status in wizarding society—managing Gringotts, excelling in alchemy, and wielding considerable influence—many wizards, especially purebloods, still viewed them with disdain. To such wizards, goblins were little more than high-ranking servants, begrudgingly tolerated because of their unparalleled skill with money and magical artifacts.
For Fudge and Scrimgeour, the idea that a goblin could be at the heart of this matter was both intriguing and suspicious.
Snorting softly, Fudge gestured for Crouch to bring the visitors in. Almost immediately, the doors opened, and two figures stepped into the room.
The first was a tall wizard with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a black wizard’s robe adorned with various magical trinkets. Beside him stood a goblin dressed in a tailored black suit, holding a staff that seemed both ceremonial and functional.
The wizard bowed respectfully. "Minister Fudge, I am Narm, an envoy sent by the Magical Congress of the United States. It is an honor to meet you."
The goblin beside him inclined his head in a similar gesture of respect, though there was a glint of something unreadable in his sharp eyes.
Before Narm could continue, Fudge raised a hand to interrupt him. "Narm, is it?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with authority. "What is your position within the Magical Congress? Who authorized you to come here?"
Fudge’s pointed questions completely ignored the goblin, whose expression flickered briefly with irritation. Scrimgeour, observing this subtle reaction, narrowed his eyes.
Interesting, Scrimgeour thought. The goblin seemed unusually invested in this situation, almost as if he couldn’t afford to be overlooked.
Unperturbed by the goblin's reaction, Narm quickly answered, "Minister, I am a Captain in the Auror Enforcement Department. I was sent here under the orders of Vice President Chenos, as our President is recovering from severe injuries sustained in battle."
He hesitated briefly, then pressed on. "The Magical Congress has joined forces with the goblins to resist Grindelwald’s invasion. The situation is dire. We need immediate support from the British Ministry of Magic, particularly from Principal Dumbledore. Grindelwald is unmatched in power, and without Dumbledore’s help, we cannot hope to prevail."
Fudge leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. Grindelwald’s power was undeniable, but was the situation truly so desperate? Still, Narm’s urgency left little room for doubt.
The war in the wizarding world was not unlike warfare among Muggles—those with the most formidable powers were akin to nuclear weapons. They didn’t need to be used, but their mere existence could determine the outcome of a conflict.
For decades, Britain’s greatest "weapon" had been Albus Dumbledore. Even now, as age caught up with him, Dumbledore remained a force to be reckoned with.
Fudge’s lips curled into a small, calculating smile. If the Magical Congress needed Dumbledore, this could work to his advantage.
The dream seeds he had been nurturing were still evolving, their potential untapped. Dumbledore’s presence had always been a hindrance to his plans, but if he could persuade the elder wizard to leave Britain, even temporarily, it would give Fudge the freedom to proceed without interference.
And the Magical Congress wasn’t just asking for manpower. Their plea for assistance presented an opportunity to secure resources—magical knowledge, rare materials, and perhaps even political leverage.
Fudge turned his gaze back to Narm, his tone suddenly softer, almost sympathetic. "Grindelwald once wreaked havoc on the entire wizarding world. He remains a threat to all wizards. Your plight is a shared concern."
He paused for dramatic effect, then continued, "As allies, the British Ministry of Magic will not stand idly by. I will personally advise Principal Dumbledore to assist you. Additionally, I will dispatch Aurors to support your efforts against Grindelwald and his followers."
Narm’s face lit up with relief and gratitude. "Thank you, Minister! The Magical Congress will never forget your support."
Chapter 458
"Thank you, Director Crouch. Thank you, Director Scrimgeour. And thank you, Minister Fudge."
Narm bowed deeply to the three leaders of the British Ministry of Magic, his voice filled with gratitude. The successful completion of his mission left him visibly relieved.
As a captain of the Auror team, Narm had endured harrowing losses. Many of his friends and comrades had perished in the sudden war. He himself had narrowly escaped death on more than one occasion. Had it not been for sheer luck, he wouldn’t have survived long enough to make it to England.
The hatred he bore for Grindelwald was bone-deep, a fire that burned relentlessly within him. He wished nothing more than to see the Dark Lord utterly destroyed—his flesh torn apart, his bones shattered, his soul obliterated.
"Don’t worry, Narm," Fudge said with a kind smile, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth. "In the face of the Dark Lord, all wizards are united as one."
After a pause, Fudge shot Barty Crouch a meaningful glance before continuing. "For now, you should rest. Director Scrimgeour and I will discuss the specifics of the support we can provide."
Taking the cue, Crouch stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Narm’s shoulder. "Come with me," he said.
Narm blinked in surprise but followed obediently as Crouch led him out of the room.
The goblin, however, remained behind, standing stiffly in place, his small eyes darting around the room. Forgotten and unacknowledged, Katu seemed an odd, lingering presence.
As the door closed behind Crouch and Narm, Fudge turned his full attention to the goblin. Beside him, Scrimgeour, ever the vigilant Auror, fixed Katu with a scrutinizing gaze.
Unlike Narm, who had come as a formal envoy from the Magical Congress, the goblin had no such diplomatic shield. To the British Ministry of Magic, Katu was a mere tool, and Fudge knew this. Interrogating him would carry no political risks. If need be, a memory charm would erase all traces of their actions.
Scrimgeour moved to apprehend Katu, but just as he reached for his wand, Fudge raised a hand in a subtle gesture. A faint, bluish glow shimmered around his sleeve and flitted through the air like ethereal butterflies, heading straight toward the goblin.
The lights enveloped Katu before he could react. In seconds, his small body stiffened, his eyes glazed over, and he stood frozen like a puppet.
Scrimgeour hesitated, lowering his wand as he observed the goblin’s sudden transformation. His sharp instincts told him something was amiss.
The power Fudge had just displayed wasn’t ordinary magic.
Scrimgeour, a seasoned Auror, knew that as Minister of Magic, Fudge could draw on the Ministry’s innate magical protections, much like Dumbledore wielded the wards of Hogwarts. Yet this felt different—more personal, more primal.
Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes, keeping his thoughts to himself. Whatever Fudge had done, it wasn’t the time to question it directly.
Meanwhile, Fudge casually brushed his forehead, masking the act of wiping away a bead of sweat.
The Dream Seed...
He had tapped into the power of the Dream Seed, a fragment derived from the dream world he was cultivating. After absorbing the spiritual energy of an entire city, the seed’s power had grown far beyond his current ability to control. For a moment, the strain had been overwhelming. If he had faltered, the goblin would have been reduced to little more than ash.
Despite the risk, the results were worth it.
Now, with Katu under his control, Fudge turned to the goblin and spoke firmly. "Introduce yourself and explain your purpose here. Additionally, tell us the true state of affairs in the American wizarding world."
Katu responded in a monotone, his voice devoid of emotion. "My name is Katu. I am the Deputy Director of the Wizards’ Bank Association and a member of the Brave Fighting Army. I am proficient in magical firearms, possess knowledge of goblin magic, and excel in melee combat."
He paused briefly before continuing. "In this mission, my role is not only to seek aid but also to establish contact with the goblins of Gringotts."
The revelation caused Fudge and Scrimgeour’s expressions to darken. What had initially seemed like a routine plea for assistance now carried far more sinister undertones.
At Kamar-Taj, Lockhart sat cross-legged at the core of the dream world, his mind immersed in the intricate workings of its structure.
This was no ordinary creation. The dream world he had built was forged from fragments of a dimensional demon god’s soul and pieces of the dream dimension itself. Its existence teetered on the edge of the mystical and the divine.
Lockhart had obtained the fragments through a unique agreement with the Ancient One, the Supreme Sorcerer. It was both a gift and a task, granted in recognition of his past contributions to Kamar-Taj.
His goal was ambitious yet clear: to construct a new magic system that allowed mages to operate independently of divine entities, even the Vishanti.
Such an endeavor required more than his individual efforts. He needed the collective wisdom of the world’s greatest wizards and the latent potential of the wizarding community.
The dream world was the key.
Lockhart’s gaze shifted inward, focusing on the Dream Seeds he had distributed. Each seed, while derived from the original, was a fragment—a defective yet potent replica. Through them, Fudge, Dumbledore, and others could harness the dream world’s power to enhance their magic and further their ambitions.
Yet Lockhart remained the ultimate arbiter. As long as no one reached god-like levels of power, the seeds—and the dream worlds they created—remained under his control.
Already, he had gleaned invaluable knowledge. Fudge’s seed had provided advanced magical techniques and even access to rare, forgotten materials. But today’s revelations were particularly intriguing.
The goblin’s covert mission to contact Gringotts hinted at deeper schemes within the magical financial world. It was a development Lockhart had long anticipated. Gringotts, with its intricate ties to every facet of the British wizarding world, represented a critical point of leverage.
Lockhart allowed himself a small, knowing smile. The time to act was drawing near.
Chapter 459
Gringotts.
The wealthiest establishment in the British wizarding world, Gringotts, stands as a monument to unimaginable riches. Towering mounds of gold Galleons gleam like mountains of light. Dazzling magical materials and intricately enchanted tomes line its depths.
Gringotts is not just a bank—it is the epitome of affluence, the very symbol of wealth.
To the goblins who inhabit its halls, Gringotts is akin to paradise itself. The air is thick with the intoxicating scent of gold and power, a fragrance that enchants, obsesses, and consumes their kind. It is the dream and desire of every goblin to climb its ranks, for those who dwell within its upper levels live in a world far removed from the shadows of their underground brethren.
At this moment, deep within the bank’s labyrinthine quarters, Goblin Turner lies in his bed, soundly asleep.
His current living space is a stark contrast to the cramped quarters he once inhabited. Closer to the surface and outfitted with newer, finer furnishings, Turner’s room reflects his rising status.
Generally, goblins of Gringotts live underground, their living arrangements directly tied to their station. The closer a goblin's quarters are to the surface, the higher their rank. The lowliest goblins labor in the deepest reaches, toiling endlessly to keep the great bank running.
For some, Gringotts is a paradise. For others, it is a gilded prison. Many goblins live and die in its depths, never glimpsing the light of day.
For those consigned to such lives, the surface world holds a nightmarish reputation—an unforgiving land teeming with dangerous wizards and ferocious magical creatures. These tales, spread and exaggerated over generations, have cemented a belief among the lower goblins: that survival is only possible under Gringotts' protection.
Yet, not all goblins accept this doctrine. Some rebel against it. Those who defy the system either perish or become part of the Gringotts guard—a force tasked with enforcing the bank's rigid hierarchy.
Among goblins, a belief endures that their race will outlast wizards through sheer numbers. While some cling to dreams of eventual dominance, others succumb to resignation.
Turner, however, dreams of change.
In his sleep, Turner’s consciousness drifts into a dream—a serene and enchanting world known as Fairy Paradise.
Bright sunlight spills across vast oceans, golden beaches, and lush islands. Gentle waves lap against the shore, filling the air with a soothing rhythm. The tranquility is otherworldly, an escape from the cold reality of Gringotts.
On the sandy shores, goblins bask in the sunlight, reveling in the idyllic setting. Some gaze at the endless blue sky, savoring the fresh, clean air. Others play joyfully, their laughter echoing through the dream.
Turner stands upon a large rock, surveying the scene with quiet pride. Beside him is an older goblin clad in deep purple robes. His lined face speaks of age and wisdom, but his sharp eyes and the wand at his side exude an air of authority and danger.
This is Bruno—a master alchemist and former wanderer. Once a loyal servant of Lockhart, he now leads the Goblin Revolutionary Army.
“Master Bruno,” Turner begins solemnly, “as per your instructions, we’ve gathered intelligence on the Gringotts elite.”
Bruno’s expression remains unreadable as Turner continues.
“Just as we suspected, Gringotts has noticed our movements. They’re stockpiling weapons—hundreds of magical firearms, according to our scouts. Their source remains unknown.”
Turner’s voice hardens, a fiery determination lighting his eyes. “They’re not ready yet. If we strike now, we can seize the weapons and arm our forces. Our soldiers, trained extensively in the dream world, can achieve immediate combat effectiveness.”
Passion fills his voice as he speaks of revolution.
“With their dictatorship toppled, we can liberate every goblin and realize the dream of equality!”
Bruno listens silently, his sharp mind processing every word. Though he feels a surge of admiration for Turner’s zeal, he keeps his emotions tightly controlled.
“We’re aware of the upper goblins’ actions,” Bruno finally says, his tone calm but firm. “They’re preoccupied with their dealings in America. This gives us an unprecedented opportunity to weaken their grip and sow division among their ranks. If we miss this chance, it may never come again.”
Turner trembles with excitement. Memories of past atrocities flash through his mind—a goblin in red robes beating his comrades to death over a minor dispute.
These injustices opened his eyes to the cruelty of their world.
For far too long, the goblins of Gringotts have been exploited. The elite thrive on the labor and suffering of their kind, hoarding wealth and power while others live in squalor.
Turner’s hatred for the Gringotts aristocracy burns like an unquenchable fire.
“They are no longer goblins,” Turner growls, his voice trembling with rage. “They are parasites—leeches feeding off the essence of our race. To rise, we must cast them aside. They will serve as sacrifices for a new dawn!”
Bruno watches silently as Turner’s resolve solidifies.
The Goblin Revolutionary Army is no longer just a dream. It is a movement—a beacon of hope for the oppressed. Their goal is clear: to overthrow the Gringotts elite and restore dignity to every goblin.
“Equality will prevail,” Turner declares, his voice ringing with conviction. “Every goblin will see the sun. Every goblin will know freedom.”
Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office.
The soft light of the enchanted candles illuminated the room, casting long shadows over the ancient bookshelves and shimmering trinkets that lined the walls. Fawkes, the majestic phoenix, perched near the window, tilted its head with curiosity, observing the tense scene unfolding below.
Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge and Auror Director Rufus Scrimgeour stood opposite Dumbledore, their faces grim with purpose. Beside them, a goblin—clearly under magical compulsion—stood motionless. Its dull, glassy eyes betrayed the loss of its free will, an unsettling reminder of the lengths some wizards were willing to go.
Fudge broke the silence, his voice low but resolute. “Headmaster Dumbledore, you’ve now been briefed on the situation at MACUSA. I trust you understand the gravity of what we face.”
The minister’s demeanor had shifted significantly. Gone was the man known for his timidity and indecisiveness. In his place stood a more confident figure, exuding an air of authority. This change hadn’t gone unnoticed by Dumbledore.
The headmaster’s piercing blue eyes narrowed as he regarded Fudge. There was a familiarity to the newfound confidence radiating from the man, and Dumbledore’s mind quickly pieced together the puzzle. The aura surrounding Fudge was unmistakable—he had received a dream seed.
Dumbledore’s expression softened into one of quiet contemplation. The dream seeds were an enigma even to him, bearing qualities that defied the limits of wizarding creation. Each seed seemed to contain an entire world, its intricacies and beauty unparalleled. Yet for all their wonder, they were also a source of deep concern.
Could a wizard truly craft something so extraordinary? Dumbledore wondered. This is the work of gods, not mortals.
His thoughts were interrupted by a deliberate cough from Fudge. The minister’s newfound self-assurance clearly extended to his interactions with the venerable headmaster, a stark contrast to his past deference.
Dumbledore quickly refocused, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he acknowledged Fudge. “Minister, I must admit, the news you’ve brought me is quite troubling,” he began. “If you’re seeking my counsel, I would advise caution. The goblins are not a force to be underestimated, and Gallert in particular is… formidable.”
Fudge’s face tightened with frustration. He had hoped for a more decisive response. His ambitions stretched far beyond the current crisis, and Hogwarts held a treasure trove of knowledge and magic that he longed to exploit. Yet as long as Dumbledore remained at its helm, the school was beyond his reach.
Still, Fudge pressed on. “Headmaster, we cannot afford to delay,” he urged, his tone almost pleading. “Look at what has happened in the United States. MACUSA, once a symbol of power and order, has fallen into disarray. Goblin interference has left them vulnerable—crippled, even.”
Scrimgeour stepped forward, his expression as stern as ever. “Gringotts is stockpiling weapons, Headmaster,” he said bluntly. “Magical firearms, hundreds of them, ready to arm their forces. We cannot turn a blind eye to this.”
Fudge nodded in agreement. “If we wait any longer, we risk losing everything. Gringotts could drain the wealth of our entire wizarding world, leaving us powerless.”
Dumbledore sighed, leaning back in his chair. The history between wizards and goblins was long and fraught with tension, but the idea of open conflict filled him with dread. The goblins had managed wizarding wealth with remarkable efficiency for centuries. While there had been minor disputes, they had never threatened the stability of the wizarding world—until now.
But if the goblins truly harbor such ambitions…
Dumbledore’s thoughts turned to MACUSA, a once-proud institution brought low. The signs were there, hidden beneath layers of secrecy. Goblin influence had slowly infiltrated their systems, weakening their resolve and leaving them vulnerable to Grindelwald’s invasion.
Fudge, sensing Dumbledore’s hesitation, leaned in. “Headmaster, Lockhart supports this effort,” he said, his voice firm. “He has offered his full cooperation in dealing with the goblins of Gringotts. With the Ministry and Kamar Taj united, we can handle this.”
Dumbledore’s sharp gaze met Fudge’s. The mention of Lockhart was no accident—Fudge was reminding him of the shifting power dynamics. The Ministry, the pure-blood families, and now even the mystical forces of Kamar Taj were aligning against the goblins. Hogwarts was the only major player yet to take a clear stance.
The implications were clear: if Dumbledore refused to act, he risked leaving Hogwarts isolated.
Finally, Dumbledore spoke. “Very well. I will travel to the United States and assess the situation with MACUSA and the Wizarding Banking Association. If a confrontation with the goblins is inevitable, it is best that Hogwarts remain neutral for now.”
Fudge’s face lit up with triumph. “Thank you, Headmaster. You have my assurance that the Ministry will handle matters here in your absence. Together, we will safeguard the future of the wizarding world.”
Malfoy Manor, Night
The study of Malfoy Manor was brightly lit, the warm glow of enchanted sconces banishing every shadow from the room. It was a peculiar preference of Tom Riddle—he seemed to abhor darkness, a stark contrast to his reputation as the Dark Lord. Perhaps it was a lingering effect of his years spent fragmented in the void of Horcrux existence.
At the center of the room, Tom sat behind a grand mahogany desk, his fingers steepled and his expression unreadable. Opposite him sat Voldemort, his eyes gleaming with madness and suspicion.
“I told you,” Tom began, his voice smooth and measured. “The British wizarding world is no longer conducive to our plans. Dumbledore and Lockhart have created an environment that stifles growth. We need new territory to realize our vision.”
Voldemort’s gaze flicked to the large map spread across the desk. A glowing point in the upper left corner caught his attention, accompanied by the label: Durmstrang.
Chapter 460
Gringotts, War Preparation Office
The War Preparation Office within Gringotts was vast and imposing, its spacious interior filled with a multitude of weapons displayed in meticulously organized cabinets. The collection was diverse: gleaming melee blades, intricately crafted magical firearms, enchanted bullets shimmering with latent energy, and even volatile alchemy bombs, each radiating a menacing aura.
Some weapons exuded a feral savagery, as if their very presence conveyed the destructive power they wielded. Others, deceptively small and unassuming, concealed an incredible destructive force capable of leveling entire spaces with just a touch of activation. The room hummed with an undercurrent of latent power, a silent testament to the goblins’ readiness for war.
At the center of this arsenal stood Elder Harmon, clad in a dark purple robe that signified his status among goblins. His sharp features were softened by an expression of reverence as he moved through the room, his gnarled fingers occasionally brushing against the cold steel of a weapon. His eyes gleamed with an obsession that bordered on fervor.
This is the hope for the rise of goblins, he thought. The weapons symbolized more than simple tools of destruction; they embodied a vision—one where goblins reclaimed their place of power.
To fight their way to the surface. To seize lands rich in magical resources. To reclaim their dominance and the wealth that rightfully belonged to them, rather than merely serving as stewards of wizarding riches.
Despite the outward politeness of wizards who frequented Gringotts, Harmon could always sense the disdain lurking beneath their composed façades. He felt it acutely, even as one of the leading elders of the goblin community. It was a quiet indignity he had endured for far too long.
As his thoughts wandered, he sighed inwardly and continued his inspection. The British goblins had received word of the events unfolding in America, thanks to the Wizarding Bank Association’s network of informants.
The collapse of the goblin infrastructure across the Atlantic was undeniable. The reports spoke of chaos—entrenched corruption in the American Magical Congress had left their goblin counterparts vulnerable. Even the vice-chair of the Congress had fallen under their sway, an enviable level of infiltration.
Here in Britain, the goblins faced far more resistance. Centuries-old traditions clung stubbornly to the magical community, bolstered by the Ministry of Magic's arrogance. And then there was Dumbledore.
The mere thought of the venerable wizard sent a shiver down Harmon's spine. Dumbledore's sharp gaze and keen intellect were formidable. Two generations of Dark Lords had fallen to him. If the elder wizard ever turned his attention toward Gringotts and found discrepancies, the consequences could be catastrophic.
“Elder Harmon,” a voice interrupted his musings, pulling him back to the present.
The speaker was a goblin guard dressed in ceremonial red, his crimson hat marking him as the leader of the group accompanying Harmon. The guard took a step forward and addressed the elder in a measured tone.
“The goblin envoy from the Wizarding Bank Association has arrived.”
Harmon nodded, his expression unreadable. Without another word, he turned and began making his way out of the weapons room, his personal guard, Kale, following closely behind.
Kale was more than just a bodyguard—he was a confidant, handpicked by Harmon for his unwavering loyalty and skill. Trained in goblin-specific magic and even mastering the three Unforgivable Curses to a degree, Kale’s sole purpose was to protect Harmon at all costs.
The rhythmic sound of their footsteps echoed in the corridor as they ascended toward the reception hall. Harmon cast one last glance back at the weapons room, a flicker of nostalgia in his eyes before he continued onward.
Gringotts, Reception Room
In the elegantly appointed reception room, the goblin envoy, Katu, sat stiffly in a high-backed chair. His posture was calm, but his furrowed brows and the occasional twitch of his fingers betrayed his unease.
Why does something feel off? Katu wondered, his thoughts racing. He replayed every step of his journey from the United States to Britain, searching for any anomalies.
The envoy closed his eyes briefly, attempting to calm himself. He attributed his unease to the uncertainty surrounding the British goblins’ response to his request for aid.
Unbeknownst to Katu, his altered memories were the handiwork of none other than Albus Dumbledore. The elder wizard’s expertise in memory charms was unparalleled, seamlessly weaving false recollections into Katu’s mind.
When Fudge had brought Katu to Lockhart for additional scrutiny, the author-turned-wizard had marveled at Dumbledore’s skill. “If Dumbledore ever wanted to influence someone’s actions, it would be almost effortless,” Lockhart had remarked.
The sound of the door opening broke the silence, and Katu opened his eyes to see Elder Harmon enter, flanked by his retinue. The elder strode confidently across the room, his sharp gaze briefly assessing the envoy before he spoke.
“Welcome to Gringotts. I am Elder Harmon,” he said, his tone courteous yet firm. “You must be Katu. Your director, speaks highly of you—a rare talent among our kind.”
Katu’s heart skipped a beat. Harmon’s detailed knowledge of him was unsettling, but he quickly composed himself. Bowing slightly, he replied, “Elder Harmon, I bring greetings from the Wizarding Bank Association and express our gratitude for your support.”
Harmon took his seat opposite Katu, steepling his fingers as a faint smile played on his lips.
“By the way,” Harmon began, his voice carrying a hint of amusement, “when are you planning to change your name? The ‘Wizarding Bank Association’ lacks the charm of the ‘Goblin Banking Association,’ wouldn’t you agree?”
The remark caught Katu off guard, but he masked his discomfort with a forced chuckle. “Elder Harmon, I am not privy to such decisions in my position. Perhaps Elder Nass could provide you with a satisfactory answer.”
Harmon waved dismissively, leaning back in his chair. “Very well, I’ll discuss it with Nass later. For now, let’s focus on the matter at hand.”
With a slight gesture, Harmon summoned a bag from behind him. It floated gently onto the table, its enchantments evident in its shimmering surface.
“This contains the weapons you requested,” Harmon said. “I trust you’ve brought the resources we agreed upon?”
Katu’s eyes lit up as he retrieved a gray, reinforced space-extension pouch from his belt. Placing it carefully on the table, he pushed it toward Harmon.
“As promised, everything is here,” Katu said softly. “Additionally, Elder Nass has authorized me to discuss further cooperation. Our forces have suffered heavy losses against Grindelwald’s followers. We urgently require not only weaponry but also goblin combat support.”
Katu produced another pouch, identical to the first, and placed it on the table.
“This,” he continued, “is a token of our gratitude. Should your forces perform admirably, additional rewards will follow.”
Harmon opened the pouch, his expression impassive as he examined its contents. The wealth within was substantial, a tempting prize for any goblin.
A faint smile spread across his lips. “Very well,” he said, his tone decisive. “For the glory of our kind, let us forge ahead. May your warriors prove their mettle in the battles to come.”
