The sentry guarding the bronze gate was no ordinary man.
"Yes, it's a Goblin," Hagrid whispered, though his voice was a deep, rumbling wave as he began walking up the white marble steps toward the figure.
The creature was roughly a head shorter than Harry, yet radiated a chilling, meticulous intelligence. Its face was dark and sharp, its beard trimmed to a precise point, and its hands and feet were unsettlingly long, terminating in thin, powerful digits that seemed designed for counting, gripping, or striking. This was not a fairy tale creature; this was a manager of terrifying, efficient greed.
The Goblin bowed curtly as they reached the entrance—a shallow, professional gesture devoid of warmth. Beyond the bronze gate, a second set of doors appeared, crafted from polished silver and etched with a severe, elegant inscription. Tierra read the words, recognizing the underlying philosophy instantly:
Come in, stranger, but take heedOf what awaits the vice of greed.For those who take but do not earnMust surely suffer, must surely burn.So if you seek to steal what is not yours,Thief, be warned: you face eternal wars.
"If you ask me, anyone who thinks about robbing a bank protected by Goblins is absolutely mad," Hagrid muttered, shaking his great head.
They're not mad, Tierra corrected internally, her gaze fixed on the intricate runes. They're merely desperate, or arrogant. But the warning isn't a bluff. The Goblins don't defend against theft with magic; they use pride and vengeance. It's a far more effective deterrent.
She remembered the future, the single break-in, carried out by a wizard with unparalleled cunning. Harry had managed it, in his seventh year. The very thought of challenging this fortress made her spiritual core—the one infused with the Outer God's cold logic—tremble slightly.
Two more Goblins, less imposing than the sentry, bowed and directed them into the main hall: a vast, cathedral-like expanse of white, cold marble. Hundreds of Goblins sat on high, uncomfortable-looking stools behind a single, impossibly long counter.
The air buzzed with frantic, focused energy. Some Goblins were meticulously weighing Galleons on antique copper scales; others squinted through lenses at raw gemstones, furiously scribbling calculations into ledger books thicker than the children's chests. Numerous archways led deeper into the earth, and Goblins continually escorted bewildered wizards through them.
Hagrid steered them toward an unoccupied section of the counter, where a particularly bored-looking Goblin was tapping its fingers impatiently.
"Good morning," Hagrid announced, his voice muffled by the cathedral-like acoustics.
"We are here to retrieve funds from Harry Potter's vault and process the paperwork for Tierra Woo's student loan," Hagrid stated, keeping his large hand protectively on Harry's shoulder.
The Goblin did not look up. "Key and Hogwarts certificate," it rasped, its voice sharp and grating, like metal scraping stone.
"Yes, yes, I know I had it. Where did I put it now?" Hagrid began a characteristic, noisy rummaging, plunging his hands into the cavernous pockets of his leather jacket. He pulled out a cascade of miscellaneous items—a broken pocket watch, a string of sausages, and, disastrously, a handful of moldy dog biscuits that scattered directly onto the Goblin's pristine ledger. The Goblin merely wrinkled its nose in a gesture of refined disgust, not bothering to waste energy on an outburst.
While Hagrid continued his chaotic search, Harry's eyes drifted to the Goblin next to theirs, which was weighing a pile of rubies, each the size of a glowing ember. Tierra, meanwhile, used the delay to study the financial transactions around her, absorbing the dizzying scale of wealth being moved.
"Aha! Found it," Hagrid finally declared, triumphantly producing a small, tarnished key and a folded piece of official parchment, which he handed over.
"Unacceptable," the Goblin instantly replied, having already scanned the paper. "There is another letter."
Hagrid cleared his throat, suddenly solemn. He reached into his breast pocket and produced a heavily sealed envelope. "It's from Professor Dumbledore," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "It concerns the item in Vault 713."
Tierra's heart, which she usually kept caged by sheer force of will, gave a sharp, terrifying lurch. Vault 713. The number struck her with the force of an unsealed truth. This was not a fictional setting anymore; this was the precipice of her future, the fulcrum of the entire timeline.
She subtly reached out, her small, cold hand quickly gripping Hagrid's thick forearm, squeezing the material of his shirt right near where Dumbledore's protective letter was tucked. It was a silent, anxious plea for vigilance, a reminder to the oblivious half-giant that the stakes were impossibly high.
The Goblin, recognizing the seal, read Dumbledore's missive with chilling, unhurried focus.
"Very well," the Goblin pronounced, handing the first, non-secret letter back to Hagrid. With a flourish of its quill, it made a heavy, black mark on the parchment concerning Tierra Woo's application. Then, it counted out exactly one hundred Gold Galleons from a nearby cache and placed them into a dark-brown cowhide bag, which it pushed toward her.
Tierra accepted the bag and the marked letter. The parchment, she noticed, was divided into seven solemn columns, each representing a year of the loan. The heavy black quill stroke had just crossed out the first column, confirming the withdrawal of 100 Galleons and the commencement of her debt.
"The first installment of your educational grant is processed," the Goblin said, its voice rasping with dry efficiency. "You are entitled to six further withdrawals in the subsequent academic years. Additionally, we are authorized to conduct a one-time exchange of Muggle currency, limited to a total yield of 100 Gold Galleons per student."
One hundred Galleons. Her antique money was currently safe, locked away on another planet. This was the only chance she had to avoid the debt obligation entirely.
"Understood, Mr. Goblin," Tierra said, making her voice sound as small and hesitant as possible, playing the role of the intimidated orphan. "I... I would like to exchange the maximum amount, please. One hundred Galleons worth."
She reached into her cowhide bag, retrieved the bundle of Muggle pounds she had "borrowed" from her sleeping roommate, and meticulously counted out five hundred pounds—the precise amount needed for the exchange rate of five pounds per Galleon.
The Goblin examined the currency with disdainful precision. "An acceptable sum. However," it interrupted, its eyes gleaming with predatory hunger, "all external currency exchanges incur a one percent processing fee."
Tierra felt a spike of internal frustration. Five hundred pounds meant five pounds extra for the privilege of converting her own money. She hated the tax, but she needed the financial independence more. She quickly peeled off the additional five pounds—the last of the pilfered cash—and slid it across the cold marble.
The Goblin snatched the fivers with astonishing speed, its long fingers disappearing back into the mountain of gold before returning with a second cowhide bag, heavier than the first, containing a hundred freshly counted Galleons. Tierra carefully transferred the new bag of wealth into her own small satchel, the clink of the coins a solid, comforting sound of self-sufficiency.
"Your business here is concluded," the Goblin stated, dismissing them with a flick of its wrist. "I will now summon an escort for the underground vaults. Griphook!"
A new Goblin, even darker and more dour than the first, appeared instantly. Hagrid and the two children followed Griphook through one of the cavernous archways leading into the depths of the bank.
They hadn't taken three steps when Griphook spun around, his sharp gaze fixing purely on Tierra. "This student's business is complete. What is this... child doing accompanying us into the lower chambers? She will wait here."
Tierra immediately knew she couldn't let this opportunity pass. She needed the spatial familiarity of the bank's lower levels—the mental map of the complex security.
"Oh, Hagrid, Harry," Tierra stammered, deliberately shrinking behind the half-giant's bulk, making her voice tremble. "I... I think I would really like to see the Wizarding Bank vaults. It's supposed to be incredible, isn't it, Harry? Could I come with you?"
It was a masterstroke of manipulation. By appealing directly to Harry's nascent sense of adventure and protection, she instantly rendered the Goblin's objection useless.
"She's with us. What's the matter with you, Griphook?" Hagrid roared, immediately stepping between the Goblin and Tierra. The movement was so aggressive it felt protective. "This is a student of Hogwarts! Surely you're not afraid that a little witch like her is going to relieve your precious bank of its meager funds, are you?"
Harry, taking his cue from the intimidating half-giant, nodded emphatically, stepping closer to Tierra in solidarity.
Seeing the combined, stubborn front of the powerful half-giant and the Boy Who Lived, Griphook's shoulders slumped—a minute sign of defeat. He said nothing further, simply turning on his heel and marching deeper into the subterranean world of Gringotts.
Tierra knew the Goblin's silent hatred wasn't personal; it was an innate, visceral aversion to anyone taking gold, regardless of the legality. They were, truly, like greedy spiders guarding their web.
As they walked, Harry, his curiosity reignited by the drama, asked the crucial question. "Hagrid, what is the thing in Vault 713?"
"Ah, now that's where the fun ends," Hagrid replied, his tone shifting into one of great, mysterious importance. "I absolutely cannot tell you that. It's top secret. It concerns Hogwarts' highest security. Dumbledore gave the task to me because he trusts me completely. It is my duty, Harry, and I cannot breach that trust."
They reached a solid iron door. Harry expected to see more marble, but was confronted by a narrow stone corridor, dimly lit by ancient, flickering torches. The corridor plunged steeply downward, following the line of a miniature railway track. Griphook let out a piercing, three-tone whistle, and almost instantly, a small, black minecart shot towards them along the rails, slowing with a metallic screech.
They climbed in. Hagrid had to contort his giant body severely to fit into the narrow, low-slung carriage, emphasizing the claustrophobic nature of the ride.
Then, they began their descent.
The speed was instantly dizzying. They shot through a maze of winding, lightless tunnels. Harry tried desperately to memorize the route—left, right, right, left, a terrifying fork, right again, another punishing left—but the sheer velocity and the nauseating twists made it impossible. The rattling cart seemed to navigate itself, a possessed vehicle that needed no visible towline or guidance.
The cold, damp air whistled past Tierra's face, stinging her eyes and making the bone finger on her left hand feel like a shard of ice. Unlike Harry, who was shouting with exhilarated, boyish terror—the kind of terror that makes you laugh—Tierra was instantly plunged into a deep, primal panic.
This wasn't fun. This was a violation of her newly fragile, transmigrated body. The relentless speed, the sickening g-forces, and the lack of any visible control mechanism triggered a deep, Cthulhu-centric psychological response.
It felt like being pulled through a non-Euclidean space, the kind of displacement that preceded the psychic trauma of the Xuanjun Seven Chapter Secret Scripture. She was no longer riding a roller coaster; she was plummeting into the mouth of a hungry, chaotic entity.
She clenched her eyes shut, her knuckles white as she gripped Hagrid's thick, warm arm, clinging to the mundane reality of the half-giant's flesh. Her entire existence, honed by Outer God magic, screamed at her: This much speed without a stable reality is a breach!
The cart rattled on for what felt like an eternity, descending past glowing fungal growths and rushing waterfalls that vanished into unseen pits. Finally, after a series of particularly brutal, stomach-lurching turns, the minecart shuddered to a full stop.
Tierra gasped, her face pale and clammy, the familiar shadow of nausea rising in her throat. She fought it down with sheer willpower, knowing that to vomit here would be a catastrophic loss of control. With a scowl of deep discomfort, she uncurled her fingers from Hagrid's arm and followed Griphook out to a large iron gate.
Griphook produced a tiny, intricately carved key and inserted it into the lock. As the latch turned, a thick plume of emerald-green smoke billowed out, smelling faintly of ozone and old, preserved gold. Harry gasped in astonishment as the smoke cleared.
Inside, the light from the torch illuminated an astonishing sight: a cavern packed, floor to ceiling, with shimmering piles of gold Galleons, towering columns of silver Sickles, and veritable mountains of bronze Knuts. The coins weren't neat; they were scattered and heaped with careless, overflowing abundance.
"It's all yours, Harry," Hagrid said, his face beaming with proud affection.
Tierra's eyes widened, a momentary, powerful wave of awe washing over her. Even with her newfound two hundred Galleons—money that represented her freedom—this was an incomprehensible fortune. Harry Potter, the orphaned boy, was suddenly a king of currency.
Harry, equally stunned, could only gape. Hagrid, with Tierra assisting him (carefully stacking the coins in the bags with her good hand, keeping the bone finger hidden), helped Harry fill the cowhide bag.
Harry, in a moment of overwhelmed, genuine generosity, looked at Tierra, his face earnest. He recognized the stark difference between her humble student loan bag and his inheritance. He reached into his full sack, considering instantly giving her a handful of Galleons, a token of his gratitude and his new wealth.
Tierra, sensing his intent before his hand fully moved, gently shook her head, a small, firm gesture of denial. I can't. Not a single coin.
Her independence was the only shield she had. Taking charity, even from Harry, would compromise her spiritual focus. She had worked too hard, sacrificed too much (even her roommate's five pounds), to owe anyone—even a benevolent, accidental savior.
Her money was clean, earned through negotiation and Muggle exchange. Harry's gold, while glorious, was a golden chain of destiny, and she refused to wear it.
"We must hurry, Harry," she said instead, her voice now steady and businesslike, pushing him gently toward the minecart. "We have one more stop, and I do not want to go back through that maze."
Griphook, seemingly satisfied by their refusal to linger in the personal vault, was already back in the cart. He waited, his expression impatient, his long fingers drumming on the metal rail, anticipating the far more important transaction at the deepest, most secure vault in the entire bank. The vault that held the most dangerous object in the wizarding world.
The terrifying climax of their descent was yet to come.