Chapter 552: The Goblin Contract
Hogsmeade was buried under a blanket of heavy, powdered snow. Ice crystals hung
like jagged jewels from the soft white eaves of the village cottages.
A black cat moved like a shadow across the rooftops, occasionally passing a
chimney puffing out a thin trail of smoke, before vanishing once more into the
white haze.
Inside the Hog's Head, the air was dim and stagnant—much like Aberforth's own
eyes, where the spark of life only appeared in brief, flickering intervals. He
sat in the gloom, his lips moving as he muttered words that were lost to the
stale air.
The silver Pensieve sat on the table beside him. Within its depths, the
shimmering threads of memory—the ones Sean had brought from the other
side—swirled in a slow, hypnotic dance.
Beside the cold hearth, a different kind of pain began to rise within him.
Aberforth found it difficult to breathe. He couldn't wrap his mind around the
reality of it. Without his care, how had she survived those long, torturous
years behind the Veil?
In the ninety-fifth year since Ariana's death, Aberforth Dumbledore found
himself thinking of her for the thirty-thousandth time. He remembered that after
their mother died, he was the only one who could truly reach her. When her magic
would spiral out of control, he would talk to her about the days they spent
feeding the goats together. She would hear his voice and know he had come for
her.
After she was gone, he had surrounded himself with goats. But no matter how
loudly they bleated, they couldn't bring back the life he had lost.
Very few people knew that his favorite story was The Grimy Goat Crumb—not a
particularly sophisticated tale. But whenever their mother had told it, Ariana
would listen with a quiet, suppressed joy that brightened her whole face.
Aberforth didn't have many things he loved. But he loved Ariana.
"Albus!" he growled, the memory of the funeral surfacing again. He remembered
the satisfying crack of his brother's nose breaking under his fist.
But would his sister—his poor, sweet little Ariana—ever return along with that
twisted bone and his own twisted heart? The girl had paid the price for his
arrogance. In his crusade to stand up for her, he had forgotten that his rage
was supposed to be for her. His fire had scorched everyone and burned his world
to ash.
Ariana, whom he had protected; Ariana, whom his mother had shielded; Ariana,
whom his father had died for... she had fallen in the crossfire.
"It was my fault..."
Aberforth's tangled beard was wet with salt. The weight of a century's worth of
guilt felt like a glowing coal pressed against his throat.
"Master of Dreams and Mists... Bridge between Life and Death... Eternal Symbol
of Luck..."
He whispered the prayer, wiping his face with a rough sleeve. The voice from the
memories in the Pensieve seemed to overlap with his own.
"Make a wish, fortunate Ariana."
"I make my wish... Divine Sir..." Aberforth whispered, sounding like a drowning
man clutching at a final straw.
"If the night should serve as a prologue, and the mist should blur the
boundaries... at the coming of dawn, the bridge will open for you."
"Let the bridge open for me," Aberforth pleaded. "I will give everything.
Anything."
His voice was so small it was swallowed by the shadows of the pub.
The Fairy Tale Workshop.
Professor Quirrell had been waiting for a long time.
Sean and the Professor exited through the back door, shielded by a powerful
Disillusionment Charm to avoid the cluster of wizards still lingering near the
storefront after closing. Within minutes, they had vanished from Hogsmeade
entirely.
They bypassed the crowds of Diagon Alley and stopped before a towering,
snow-white building that rose high above the surrounding shops. Beside the
burnished bronze doors stood a figure in a scarlet and gold uniform.
The Goblin spotted Quirrell and immediately stepped forward.
"Quir—rell?" its voice sounded as though it had a piece of toffee stuck in its
throat.
Quirrell gave a curt nod and scanned the street.
"And... this is...?"
The Goblin's eyes flared with a sudden, intense heat. It looked at the young
wizard standing beside Quirrell and bowed its head in a gesture of extreme
restraint. A second later, realizing it might have shown too much, it snapped
its mouth shut and nervously ushered Sean and Quirrell into the marble halls of
Gringotts.
They stood in the vast entrance hall. Behind the long counters, rows of Goblins
sat on high stools, attending to the day's first customers. The scarlet-clad
Goblin led them toward an elder—a high-ranking official who was currently
examining a thick gold coin through a magnifying lens.
The elder Goblin looked at Quirrell with a flash of professional disdain, but
the moment his gaze shifted to Sean, his entire demeanor transformed.
"You... you have come—Ah! Sir! How may I serve you today?"
"I believe we have already reached an understanding, Verne," Quirrell said,
stepping forward to partially shield Sean from the Goblin's prying eyes.
"Oh, naturally, naturally... we can provide the artifact you require, and
perhaps much more. But..." The Goblin named Verne narrowed his eyes. "There is a
price. A substantial one."
"What do you want? Gold?" Quirrell asked, casting a furtive look at Sean.
"We have no need for gold," Verne said dismissively. "We have more gold than we
know what to do with." His dark, watery eyes glinted in the light.
"Then what is it?" Quirrell frowned. "I must advise my Master, Verne...
Gringotts is not the only place where such contracts exist. The Goblins do not
hold a monopoly on the ancient ways."
Sean remained silent. He stared at Verne, his mind calculating. He needed a
contract that was unbreakable—one that would ensure Peter Pettigrew remained
under his control regardless of Voldemort's influence. In Rowena Ravenclaw's
memories, he had learned that the Goblins had held the secrets to absolute
contract magic since before the founding of Hogwarts.
Verne looked at the boy. Sean's face was youthful and expressionless, but the
Goblin knew the weight that name carried. It knew the "Legend of the Green" and
the rumors of the future. The sheer potential radiating from the boy made the
creature's hands tremble slightly.
"Please, do not misunderstand us. We are not thieves, sir," the elderly Goblin
said, taking a respectful step back. "We do not seek wealth that is not ours by
right."
"Tell my Master your terms," Quirrell demanded.
He knew Goblins were shrewd and often treacherous, but he also knew they rarely
broke a formal oath once it was sworn.
"You must understand, sir, that the deeper secrets of Gringotts are not shared
lightly. The buried contracts... they are our most guarded heritage. We are but
the keepers of the great hoard, and we are responsible for the magic we have
forged with our own hands."
Verne straightened his back. "We will grant you a magic that can never be
betrayed. But..." He looked toward the inner silver doors, where the warning to
thieves was engraved in the metal. "We must receive something of equal value in
return. Despite your fame and your power, there is only one currency you possess
that is worth the trade."
"And what is that?" Sean asked, his emerald eyes flashing.
He remembered his Ravenclaw mentor describing Goblin magic as a system entirely
separate from wizardry—one that didn't rely on the same laws. Verne's words
confirmed it.
"Your friendship, sir," Verne said, bowing with a wide, toothy smile. "We
require the favor of the Great Green."
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