Goblins didn't mate.
That was the bottom line. The odd little fact of life that was so integral, and yet so strenuously guarded. Goblins didn't mate. They didn't birth tiny squalling wrinkled little goblins. They didn't lay eggs. They didn't reproduce asexually by cellular division. They didn't mass produce themselves in some kind of vast underground goblin factory – although the last was not…entirely…remotely removed from the truth of the matter.
In a certain sense – a very particular sense, that the wizarding world would be wont to lean toward, if they ever realised it – Goblins were more akin to werewolves and vampires than centaurs, fae or dragons. One was not born a goblin. One became one. Unlike vampires and werewolves however, there was a very narrow time period during which a human being could contract the condition, as it were, and a rather more peculiar set of circumstances that had to occur. That time period was exclusively between the ages of birth and five years of age. The peculiar circumstance, was that one had to have been stolen. The realm where the fae, high elves and goblins principally dwelled would work its own strange magic upon any human that entered. All that was required to become a Goblin was to live among the Goblins, eat goblin fare and drink goblin mead. The process was also substantially quickened by proximity to the goblin king or queen.
One might theorize it to be an adaption of the hereditary magic of the royal line, to enable them to replenish the population more quickly in times of war (and there had certainly been a lot of war in the history of the goblin race.) One might theorize it, except of course for the obvious fact that there could be no hereditary magic at all for goblins. No families. No royal line - no bloodlines at all, in fact. Still, it was an objectively measurable phenomenon that human children embraced the change more quickly, the closer they were to the seat of the crown. Resultantly, a large percentage of the goblin peoples dwelt in or around the royal castle, and their labour supplied most of the kingdom's needs.
A smaller number of goblins dwelt on the borders between the old-magic realm and the human realm, entrusted with the sacred duty of ensuring the future of their people. They were seasoned goblins in their prime; Bright and cunning, handpicked by the king to live no further than a shadow from the humans, watching, listening, and when the opportunity presented itself, stealing. They were restricted to stealing only muggle children. It was a matter of serious import, and one that the goblins were careful to abide by. Many tens of thousands of their people had died in the last Goblin war with the wizarding world. Not that the goblins were afraid of death - they were not; they revelled in battle! But…over the aeons, the world had changed. War was once fought for profit. Now, the balance sheets showed that peace was far more profitable than conflict. Any new war with the Wizards was to be assiduously avoided. War was bad for business.
The highest position a goblin might aspire to, in the current age, was the one that Heldak now occupied, as the head goblin of the London branch of Gringotts bank. He had an old tin nameplate at his nondescript desk on the main floor of the bank, and his suit was quite reasonably priced, but he held half of Europe's finances in his hand. He had the entire British wizarding world's future on a tidily handwritten balance book.
and right now, he was worried.
He was busily (and very surreptitiously) calculating exactly what the financial fallout might be, if the wizarding world was, against all expectation, to declare war on the goblins within say…the next seven years. The numbers were not looking very attractive.
The reason for this unusual line of enquiry on what was otherwise a very busy Wednesday morning, was the small envelope with the broken blood red seal on it and a single page of parchment contained within, that lay on the desk next to him.
It read: "Due to higher than usual levels of incompetence, the pact has been broken. There is currently a wizarding child within the castle walls.
It is quite a sweet child, and unusually magically gifted. I am inclined to keep it. I want to know what is likely to happen if I do.
The child appears to be around 3 years old. Its name is not known, but it was stolen from a family at 4 Privet Drive in Surrey, who are apparently called Dursley. It is a thin dark haired child with large green eyes and a scar on its forehead.
I expect your response by no later than sundown. The change may be irreversible if the child is not returned by midnight."
It was not signed. It did not need to be. The royal seal, and the ancient enchantments protecting this particular missive would have been indicative enough, even if Heldak were not long familiar with the King's particular style of graceful calligraphy. He suspected he could have recognised the origin of the letter in a dark room by the heady scent of the magic alone.
And now he had a problem. Or, at least, he suspected he had a problem. There were likely many wizarding children with a scar of some kind. Even more perhaps, when it came to muggleborn children. And, while the issue of a stolen wizarding child might be difficult if discovered – the goblins had many means at their disposal to reduce the chances of such a discovery. However, …there was one very well-known wizarding child with a scar. That scar was a matter of public renown, even if the child itself, one Harry Potter, had not been seen in several years; not since the last conflict with the Dark Lord Voldemort, in fact. And though it was an issue of secrecy, Heldak did happen to know that the Potter's accounts had had, throughout those intervening years, a regular repeating monthly transfer in place to a muggle bank account located in Surrey and listed under the name of V. Dursley.
While it may…may… have been possible to hide the theft of a single wizarding child, Harry Potter was no ordinary child. There was no doubt that this child was likely to have been the most heavily monitored and protected child within Britain, if not even further afield. It was frankly astounding that any goblin had been able to steal him away. The confluence of circumstances must have been quite extraordinary. Harry Potter was important to the wizarding world due to his involvement in the disappearance of Lord Voldemort. As the Dark Lord's vaults were still showing as active on the books, it was not possible for him to have been killed, as much of the wizarding world seemed to believe he had been. And because the Dark Lord still lived, when Harry Potter was supposed to have killed him, it was probable that the boy would be vigorously sought by those on both sides of the conflict. And if it were to be discovered that he was being held by the goblins… well… Quite beyond the issues associated with the child itself, the wizarding world had, over the last thousand years, through great effort by the goblins themselves, "lost track of" most written accounts regarding the goblin race. It would be extremely troubling if the manner of reproduction of the goblin race were to once again become a matter of general knowledge.
The logical course of action would naturally be to return the child, hide the evidence that he had ever been touched by the world of old-magic, and forget the entire incident happened. The problem was that the Goblin King was a frustratingly wilful and capricious being. Once he had determined to do something, there was little logic or reason that could persuade him to change his course. Based on Heldak's experience with Jareth over the past 900 years, he had probably already named the creature.
Heldak cursed under his breath as he read off the red number under the bottom line of the accounts table before him. It was a very long number. He drew a little sigil with a flourish, to extrapolate the figures across the rest of the Gringotts banks. This utilised a painfully complex arithmantic equation that forecast the effect of British financial events on the markets of other countries.
The red number grew until it ran off the side of the parchment. He poked it impatiently and the figures obediently shifted and reorganised themselves to take up four full lines in the column.
Swallowing, he extended the equation to cover the next fifty years. There was a little high pitched squealing sound and the book burst into flames.
Well. That was a clear enough answer, he supposed. The financial repercussions were too great to be calculated.
With an extremely long suffering sigh, he pulled out a piece of parchment and began setting out his response to the king. He had no illusions that his advice would be accepted, but he could no more than try.
