Nepomuk took his sweet time in measuring the galleons he handed out to the old man in front of him. It was not for the first time that the notoriously cheery Dumbledore detracted a large amount of gold from the family vault. And, as he was sliding the coins through his fingers, Nepomuk thought, soon there would be nothing to draw from. When the last galleon disappeared into the purse and the old man said his sickly cheery farewell, Nepomuk was once again glad, that he had earned the trust if more than one important and more important: wealthy family. Once again he turned to the contract he was about to set up, reaching for the feather to complete the terms of agreement for his best client, when his beetle eyes caught a glimpse of another paper, which started glowing, as the ink reformed itself. A cracking sound told him that he had crunched the feather in his tight grip. Uncaring Nepomuk shuffled through the stacks of papers in his office and grabbed the inocuuous document. He read it once. Twice. And for the first time that Nepomuk remembered, he was shocked. He, a goblin of a good 87 years, accounant for two of the most well-known magical families. But he guessed, that now it was only one more. And the Dumbledores would not need anybody to take care of their gold in the foreseeable future. He stared at the offending paper. It was a family tree of his most favourite client. He had liked them. With a stress on the past form. The last of the Shafiq family had died. Just a few seconds ago. Qasir Shafiq was dead. And with him the wealth of an empire. Nepomuk was still gazing at the moving pictures when he saw a tendril form from one of the pictures. Qasim, he thought, to what mischief have you been up to once again? And with a toothy grin, which only goblins are capable of, he watched as the new twig grew and grew to end in... nothing. His face fell once again. Merlin and Morgana, how much more emotional should this day become?! But well, Nepomuk thought grimly, there is still hope. Hope for me and my gold. Quickly he stuffed the family tree in his pocket. He had to find out, who Qasims bastard was. And he had to be quick.
Goblin magic is not as other magic. It requires no wand or other directing tool. Neither is it outspoken. But all magic requires a sacrifice. For wizards it usually is their own magical strength, sometimes blood in a ritual or potion ingredients. For a goblin, all magic stems from gold. And jewelry. This is probably the only reason why the goblins had established a banking system for wizards, who they despised so terribly for their ignorant arrogance. But money does not smell.
With a distant look Nepomuk saw his most precious sapphire become liquid on the parchment and form a profile, a silhouette at first, then more and more details appeared. It was the face of a young woman. A pretty but plain little face. However, the eyes undeniably belonged to Qasim and the Shafiq clan. Nepomuk studied the counterfeit until the end of his shift. The small nose, the broad mouth... But the woman did neither reveal the mystery of her name nor her origin. He would have to seek help to find her. But whom should he trust?
It was midnight and Nepomuk was sitting in his bed restlessly. The family tree was clutched in his fingers tightly. Whom should he trust? "Who are you?", he croaked into the dimly lit bedroom. But the spartanian room did not answer him. He was just about to set the parchment aside, when he registered a movement out of the corner of his eyes. He reacted more by instinct than that he knew what he was doing. Without a second thought about his golden ring, he set the parchment aflame. In the brighter light of the burning paper he saw them, just when the first hex hit him. A burning pain shot from his shoulder down to his stomach. He felt a warm wetness follow. He had made a terrible mistake in bringing the document here, he thought, while more cuts were dealt to his arms. "Don't kill him, moron! He is the only one who..." Nepomuk fainted.