The marble hall of Gringotts glowed under bright lights. Before Dobby stood a long counter, where over a hundred goblins perched on high stools, handling transactions for a bustling crowd. Copper scales weighed coins, monocles inspected gems, and quills scratched across ledgers. Goblins, with their small statures and long fingers, looked strikingly similar to house-elves, yet their scarlet-and-gold uniforms and the absence of any whipping overseers set their work apart from manor chores. Watching their swift, precise movements, Dobby felt an odd, indescribable stirring in his chest.
It was a busy Saturday morning. Wizards streamed in and out, and the goblins were in constant motion—some at the counters serving customers, others guiding clients through passageways to the underground vaults.
Melvin stood by the counter, scanning the room until his gaze settled on a younger goblin clerk who had just finished with a wizard and was resetting a scale.
Melvin shuffled forward, his movements frail. "Good morning. We're here to retrieve an item from Bellatrix Lestrange's vault."
The young goblin clerk glanced up. "Do you have her key, sir?"
Melvin was certain this goblin was too young to have witnessed the Death Eater era, or perhaps hadn't worked at Gringotts back then, oblivious to Muggle-side news.
The Lestrange vault was likely under close watch. With the family's bloodline dwindled and its last heir rotting in Azkaban, the goblins probably anticipated claiming the vault's contents once the family was officially extinct.
"Of course." Melvin produced a golden key, handing it over slowly.
He'd used Human Transfiguration to age his hand—wrinkled, trembling slightly, every detail meticulously crafted. After all, Melvin had worked on Broadway; he knew how to embody a role.
The goblin leaned in, inspecting the key. Whatever markers Gringotts used, the mention of Bellatrix's name hadn't fazed the clerk, but the key sparked recognition—details of a high-security vault and its associated records.
The goblin looked Melvin up and down, puzzled. According to the records, the Lestrange family had no heirs, and the vault was practically abandoned. Why was an old wizard suddenly here to access it?
"Sir, I'll need to verify your identity," the goblin said, hesitating. "As far as we know, the vault's owner—"
"Is in Azkaban, yes?" Melvin cut in, feigning impatience. "I'll make this clear: this has nothing to do with Bellatrix. By the Lestrange name and blood, I have the right to open that vault."
"And you are?"
"Corvus Lestrange. Corvus the Fifth."
The clerk wavered, then signaled to the back. Soon, a goblin manager arrived, carrying a small leather satchel filled with metal plates.
The two goblins huddled, whispering and occasionally glancing at Melvin and Dobby.
Melvin's aged disguise eased their suspicions. A frail old wizard, barely able to hand over a key, couldn't possibly be plotting to rob Gringotts. The house-elf matched the description in their records, though they'd assumed he was long dead. His odd, homemade clothes—complete with frayed threads—fit the eccentric pureblood aesthetic.
Fine. Gringotts' security was ironclad. Any wizard with ill intentions would only trap themselves.
"…Records say he perished in a shipwreck… long dead…"
"Wizards are crafty… especially these pureblood families. Who can say for sure?"
Dobby kept his head down, glancing at his new, self-stitched clothes, loose threads quivering like his racing heartbeat.
He suddenly thought Harry Potter, great as he was, could be wrong about people. His view of this professor, for instance, was utterly mistaken.
Thankfully, Gringotts valued its reputation, especially after the Goblin Rebellion. The manager, though greedy, knew better than to cause a scene.
"My apologies for the delay," the manager said with a slight bow. "That vault hasn't been opened in years, and our staff is a bit rusty. I'll personally assist you."
"Get on with it," Melvin snapped, imperious.
As the manager led them deeper, a goblin usher stopped Dobby. House-elf magic differed from wizards', and Gringotts didn't allow elves into the vaults, wary of letting a potential thief inside.
Melvin boarded the cart. "You greedy, stingy lot—can't you provide a decent carriage? I'm ninety-three, for Merlin's sake…"
The manager started the cart, bowing slightly. "I'll suggest improvements to the board."
"I hear the dodge in your voice…"
"I swear by the Goblin King's name."
The manager stole glances at Melvin, his eyes flickering like candlelight.
The Lestrange vault lay in the deepest caverns. The cart's tracks were empty, descending steeply with a rhythmic clack echoing through the silent depths.
"I hear water. Is there a waterfall ahead?" Melvin asked, noting the damp air as they neared the Thief's Downfall.
"The Lestrange vault has been sealed for years—no one's used this track," the manager explained. "The Thief's Downfall is a security measure. It washes away all enchantments and disguises to protect our clients' treasures."
"You're going to ruin my robes!" Melvin huffed, playing the part.
The cart twisted through maze-like tunnels, plunging through the waterfall as the goblin watched expectantly. Emerging drenched but unchanged, Melvin grumbled loudly.
The goblin blinked, glancing back at the cascading water, then at the cranky old wizard. This time, it believed him.
"We're almost at the vault. To apologize, we'll offer generous compensation," the goblin soothed.
Melvin muttered complaints, scanning ahead. In a shadowed corner crouched an ancient dragon, its cloudy eyes and patchy scales marred by scars. Heavy chains bound its wings and legs, anchored deep into the stone.
Beyond the dragon lay the deepest vaults, including the Lestranges'. Melvin's eyes caught a bronze plaque on the right wall, matching the key's design, etched with goblin runes and a raven emblem.
He recalled this dragon being docile on his prior visits, but now it stared, wings twitching against its chains, sparks flickering from its snout.
"No need to worry. This dragon's trained," the manager said, pulling a metal clanker from the satchel. It rang sharply, like a hammer on an anvil. "We got a new Sphinx, and they're not getting along, so it's been restless."
At the sound, the dragon let out a hoarse roar, shrinking back.
Melvin glanced deeper into the passage, spotting a Sphinx, its human face buried in its paws, whimpering in pain.
This wasn't training—it was prolonged cruelty, conditioning the dragon to fear the clanker. If Romanian dragon handlers tried this, the Ministry would have them in court.
"Open the vault," Melvin said.
"Gringotts is at your service."
The goblin pressed its palm to a panel on the vault's stone door. It swung open, revealing a chamber sealed for twelve years.
Mountains of Galleons and golden artifacts gleamed inside, alongside polished silver armor, rare creature pelts, potions in gem-encrusted bottles, and even a crowned skull.
Melvin used a gust of wind to dry his robes, stepping forward, only to be stopped by the goblin.
It touched a golden goblet, which split in two and glowed red-hot. "These treasures are enchanted with Gemino and Flagrante Curses. Touching anything causes it to multiply and burn. If buried under copies, you could be incinerated."
The goblin pulled a glass vial of clear liquid from its satchel and sprinkled it over the treasures. "There. It's safe now."
"What was that?" Melvin asked, feigning confusion.
"Water from the Thief's Downfall. It neutralizes the curses," the goblin said smugly. "Thieves who bypass the waterfall would be trapped by their own greed and burned alive."
Melvin paused, nodding, and began searching the vault.
Golden goblets of every kind sparkled—engraved chalices, gem-studded coffee cups, ornate wine glasses, and countless other treasures. The dazzle was overwhelming.
Guided by his sense of magic, Melvin focused on a shelf against the wall.
Shields, goblin-forged helmets, and jeweled clocks lined the shelves, each a lavish relic. The manager's eyes gleamed with greed, lamenting how close these treasures had been to becoming Gringotts' property.
Melvin ignored the display, his gaze locking on the top shelf. There, a small, ornate golden cup shimmered.
Two finely crafted golden handles adorned it, the cup etched with intricate carvings, including a charming badger.
"This is…" The goblin manager stared, mouth agape, recognizing the legendary item. "Hufflepuff's Cup!?"