Chapter 7
Striding down the Alley in the early hours of the morning as a customer, a newly ascended Lord at that, feels rather different from the skulking about my last visit entailed. Then again, it could simply be me reeling from the monumental face-palm-moment I just experienced.
Having left Griffin's Roost, I made a quick stop at the manor to don attire more appropriate for my first semi-public appearance in the wizarding world. Clothes make the man, after all. It wouldn't do for people's first impression to be marred by me being inappropriately dressed for my station. Nothing is swifter than rumour, and with virtually all the information about me being hearsay, setting the record straight is task enough.
My father's childhood-wardrobe was happy to provide like it has been for the last decade. Even being somewhat broader and a bit taller than my father was at my age, our build after he started regularly exercising on the Quidditch team is well-nigh identical. With my grandparents skimping on neither quality nor quantity, I'm spoiled for choice, if anything.
I had just finished dressing in a white cotton shirt, emerald cravat, tan pair of trousers and a somewhat ostentatious maroon waistcoat embroidered in gold thread. The resemblance of Gryffindor and Potter colours makes it impossible to surmise whether my father's preference for reds and browns accented by gold was a tribute to either, both or just an eccentric sense of fashion - not uncommon among wizardkind, apparently.
Fine silk-lined morning coat and Hebridean leather ankle boots completing my outfit, I was just about ready to throw on the more substantial overrobe lined and trimmed in Jarvey fur when I remembered a significantly more magical garment lying around waiting for me. Having assumed my Lordship the lockdown I had enacted by blind luck more than anything on my first night in this world was lifted granting me access to a previously hidden private library, the family mausoleum in the catacombs beneath the manor and most pertinently the Lord's, now my, study.
I'm still not quite sure what quirk of magic allowed the house-elves to enter them before while barring them further access later on, but regardless the Cloak of Invisibility - my very own Hallow - should be waiting for me. Upon entering the study located on the upper floor of the family wing just off the library, I did indeed spot the Cloak folded neatly on the large oak desk surrounded by some other tomes and objects that were presumably recovered at the same time.
Before I even had the chance to appreciate a priceless artefact coming into my possession, I spotted the cause of my self-inflicted anterior-cranial trauma - a life-sized magical portrait of what I presume to be a previous Lord Potter peacefully slumbering in an overstuffed chair. More than any injury I could inflict on myself, Pride yelling at me for being an idiot stung the worst. After learning that the ruined ballroom was where the family portraits were hung, I assumed they comprised the entirety of the animated canvas in the manor.
For no reason and without proof. Not even checking in with the elves to confirm my assumption. That additional portraits could exist in other Potter properties or in areas of the manor I didn't have access, never even crossed my mind. In all likelihood, it wouldn't have changed anything, seeing as they were outside my reach, but not even having considered the possibility seriously rankles my pride.
As much as I would have liked to avail myself of the newly discovered source of counsel I had places to be, so storing the Cloak in my inventory, I grabbed my overrobes and flamed to one of the more secluded corners of Diagon Alley.
This early in the morning, barely past dawn, open shops and their customers were few and far between, primarily consisting of less reputable establishments and shoppers that preferred privacy to a good night's sleep. Thankfully, my destination offered 24-hour banking, even if not entirely by choice.
Approaching the towering marble edifice and its white stairs from the main square formed by the intersection of all the major and some minor Alleys with Diagon, I take a moment to consider the goblin guardsmen in their red and gold uniform flanking the burnished bronze doors. There is something off about them. They look alert, almost alarmed, and I don't like the look of them one bit.
Making an effort to be as inconspicuous as is possible in an empty square, I expand my senses through my magical empathy. A skill I haven't used since setting foot in Diagon Alley for the first time. While having it active around elves and hippogriffs in the manor or in the muggle world was just fine, even helpful at times, using it in the presence of large numbers of magicals was instantly overwhelming. Where the abstract impressions I get from non-humans and the muted emotions broadcast by muggles are perfectly bearable indefinitely, the raging assault on my mental barriers makes it nigh on impossible to use without being incapacitated.
Fortunately, the targets being goblins and the Alley being empty make for a far less strenuous experience. Almost immediately I get a sense of wariness registering clearly despite the difference in species. As I continue to make my way towards them, I begin to feel their growing apprehension and just a twinge of fear beneath their calm facade.
Now quite on edge myself, I draw on my magic to prepare for whatever has them so spooked. My transformations waiting almost eagerly to be used, be it for fight or flight. Heat spreading throughout my body, long twilight shadows shivering at my feet, teeth, nails and senses just that bit sharper than they should be. As ready as I can be, I step on the marble stairs and immediately feel the guardsmen's fear spike. Far from their usual stoicism, they grip their poleaxes tightly, eyes roaming frantically.
Mindful to not have my own growing apprehension show, I reach the top of the stairs right between the two goblin guardsmen, coiled and waiting for someone to make the first move. In an effort to appear casual, I indicate for the goblin on my right to open the bronze doors, simultaneously removing my ritual dagger from my inventory while keeping it hidden in the wide sleeve of my overrobes. To my surprise, instead of attacking, the guardsman visibly flinches, staring wide-eyed up at my hooded face for a brief second before hurrying to allow me passage.
As I step through the doorway, burnished doors closing behind me, I take a moment in the small entrance hall to compose myself and prevent the mad laughter that is bubbling up to escape. I'm what they are afraid of. Just goes to show how much I have yet to learn even about my own abilities. I hadn't considered what happened with the griffins in any depth, but it seems what made the herd recognise me as one of their own reads to the goblins' instincts as a predator stalking them from the tall grass.
Some aspects of one's Animagus form bleeding through even in human form is something that has been theorised but with how rare they are and with wizards lacking the ability to perceive auras for the most part it wouldn't be surprising if it had never been observed.
Goblins, on the other hand, being much more primal and in tune with their instincts, likely experience this somewhat regularly. True, my conscious control of my aura is amateurish and rudimentary at best, but I doubt I'm that much more threatening than werewolves and vampires, if at all. They should register to goblins and each other as predators too, and I doubt most of them go out of their way to suppress their aura if they are even capable of doing so in the first place.
Ego stroked by cowering guardsmen, I push open the silver doors engraved with their silly little poem entering the bank proper. Despite the early hour, a number of guardsmen line the long marble hall, with maybe a quarter of the counters staffed by tellers serving the handful of customers currently present. Certainly fewer than at peak hours, but seeing them all tense as I enter is satisfying beyond measure regardless.
I hadn't planned on this being their first impression of me. They do however say that it is better to be feared than loved if you cannot be both and if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's the mutual dislike between goblins and wizardkind. A weak attempt at reigning in my aura seems to yield at least some success as the vague impressions I get from them settle back on wariness, most of them relaxing slightly, no longer on high alert.
Heading for the nearest empty teller's counter, I spot one of the other hooded patrons shifting at my approach. A low growl so faint I would assume I had imagined it were it not for my sharpened hearing reaches my ears - if I were a betting man, I'd wager him to be suffering from his own furry little problem.
At the counter elevated off the marble floor, a goblin teller is trying very hard to look as dismissive and bored as humanly - or I guess goblinly - possible. Valiant effort, if I couldn't feel his wariness radiating off him in waves, I might just buy the mask.
I did try, though admittedly not very hard, to stop myself from flaring my magic to get his attention. Eh, fuck it. In for a penny and all that, I might as well reap whatever benefits my inadvertently heavy-handed entrance grants me.
"State your business." demands the goblin, visibly calmed by defaulting to his routine.
"Good day to you as well, Teller. I have need of an appointment with the manager in charge of my family's accounts." I respond primly, though the sarcasm is likely lost on the creature.
"And which account would that be? Appointments as a rule are made in advance. I'm not aware of a manager expecting someone and without first seeing key and signet I will not..." he doesn't get any further, stopping dead as I dangle the vault key from my left hand just inches from his face, the Potter crest clearly visible on both the key and ring.
"My apologies. We were not expecting you, Lord Potter. If you would just give me a moment, I will call for Griphook at once." watching the goblin race frantically towards a corridor located behind the counters, I can't help but marvel at the difference in treatment on display.
Only minutes later the now pair of goblins return, one, presumably Griphook, looking decidedly rumbled. As he alone enters the floor, the Teller having resumed his post at the counter, I can't help but pick up on the mix of anticipation and dread wafting off him like a bad smell.
"Greetings Lord Potter. Junior Account Manager Griphook in charge of the Potter accounts, at your continued service. If you would just follow me, we can get the main vault reinstated and resume full operation." he near babbles before taking off at a rapid walk down the long hall, presumably towards the mine carts.
Thankfully, with him stopping to summon a cart and the advantage of a more long-legged stature, catching up to him is easy enough. I refrain from addressing my guide, unwilling to further discuss my business in a way that may well be overheard, opting instead to wait for the relative privacy of the imminent cart ride.
The awkward silence that had quickly descended was fortunately broken by the arrival of our means of transport, however peculiar it may be. Once we're safely seated in the contraption and begin our journey down-track, I feel comfortable enough to address the goblin.
"Why exactly are we heading underground for what should be administrative work? I was under the impression offices were located on the upper floors? And speaking of administration, is there a Senior Manager hiding out somewhere, or does my estate not rate a personage of such esteemed rank?" I ask him rather pointedly. He seems quite eager to get on my good side. Let's see how far I can push him.
"Ah, yes, of course. I will explain. At the beginning of 1982, we experienced complications with regard to depositing of annual surplus into as well as withdrawing of fees from the main vaults. Upon further investigation, we discovered that with the death of the previous Lord Potter, both the main vaults and all properties classed residential were made magically inaccessible."
He stops briefly after mentioning the death of my father before continuing on with his explanation.
"In the Summer of the same year an individual claiming guardianship of the Potter heir made an inquiry to assume control of selfsame accounts but as they lacked any means to prove their claim beyond a piece of parchment not even possessing the required key, the decision was made to deny them the attempt to reactivate the vault in question."
In a rare use of the carrot, I grace him with an approving nod. I might press him on the identity of my would-be guardian later on, though I have a reasonably accurate guess as to who would be brazen enough to try.
Visibly relieved, he resumes his explanation.
"The Senior Account Manager and later I were able to maintain most ventures for which funds had been previously set aside as well as collect proceeds from existing investments but remain unable to renew contracts with suppliers and buyers, as a result, profits have steadily diminished over the past decade. I have the relevant information..."
Interrupting him before he can launch into a full accounting.
"Hold on a moment. Why don't we wait with reviewing the books until I'm no longer hurtling at speed through cave systems?"
Sheepishly, Griphook withdraws his hand from the briefcase he has been rummaging in.
"I take it you have been managing the accounts on your own?" I ask the goblin.
"Yes, after the Senior Account Manager's death six years ago, I have been the one responsible. We would of course have assigned more senior staff, but any changes require the approval of the account holder which we had no way of obtaining." explains Griphook still radiating pride and apprehension.
So that's how it is. My goblin guide wants the big promotion. No wonder he's this eager. Without answering the implied question, I choose to change the subject instead.
"Why don't you give me an overview of the bank's layout and security while we finish our tour into the depths, and we can address staffing issues once the main vaults are back under my control?"
"With all due respect, Lord Potter, it is forbidden to any goblin working the halls of Gringotts to disclose the secrets of the bank to outsiders." he rattles off stiffly.
Will wonders never cease, a goblin with a semblance of integrity. Had I not been able to pick up on the total lack of outrage and flimsy conviction behind his statement, I may just have bought it. Not from this particular turncoat though. I'd give it better than even odds, that he is similar enough to canon to not only break the selfsame oath only a few years from now, but also backstab the Harry Potter that should have been.
"Griphook perish the thought. I would never ask you to break your oath. I'm merely asking the loyal and dependable manager of the Potter accounts to instruct the newly minted Lord in the benefits and pitfalls of banking at Gringotts as well as the measure in place to safeguard his wealth. If anything, you would be going beyond the strict scope of your due diligence - something to be lauded, surely."
A moment of the wheels almost audibly turning is followed by greed and ambition sweeping aside the barest hint of loyalty. It's hard to say how much his decision is assisted by my abilities or if he is just that much of an opportunist, but as long as I'm the one he caves to, all is well. They do say dragons have a particular taste for goblin flesh. Should he ever step out of line, I might just get to test the hypothesis.
"Certainly Lord Potter. I would be remiss in my duties were you to remain uninformed. As you already addressed, premises on the above ground floors are used for meetings between managers and account holders or as neutral ground in meetings between wizards. Once on the tracks, the archway leading into the caves strips passengers of active enchantments and magical concealments. We are not supposed to reveal this, so I ask the information not to spread further."
He darts a glance at me, equal part conspiratorial and pleading.
"Just beneath the main floor lie the vaults holding our working reserve of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts for small withdrawals and customers only maintaining parchment vaults. From there follow nine storeys of vaults separated into three tiers of security; the deeper the vault, the higher the level of security we provide. Incidentally, we have just reached the tenth floor. To proceed to the highest security vaults, we will have to transfer to another cart. No track leads to them directly from the surface."
No sooner said than done, we come to a stop at some sort of interchange by this point hundreds of metres beneath the Alley, having travelled miles and miles through torch-lit tunnels. This new and separate cave system is noticeably larger in diameter as well as being significantly better lit. Finished messing with the cart's controls, my tour-guide resumes his pitch.
"These high-security vaults are protected externally by beasts, mostly dragons, supplied by Gringotts, while security measures of the individual vaults are taken care of by their respective owners. The beast pens are located just below, separating the bank of Gringotts from the goblin nation deeper down. The mint and smithies are located there, adjoining the mines that provide the raw materials for both. And here we are - the Potter main vault."
Here we are indeed. An expansive underground hall dozens of metres high opens up before us. Massive pillars of rough stone soaring towards the ceiling, the track winding between them. Most eye-catching, however, is the veritable menagerie of creatures positioned in front of the numerous cave entrances hewn into the bedrock. Sphinxes, trolls and multiple species of dragon dutifully guarding or rather forced to guard, judging by the numerous chains straining under their captives, their assigned position.
With a heave, Griphook removes a lantern from the cart, handing it to me while he himself readies the clankers, one in each hand. The loud ringing like tiny hammers on anvils fills the dimly lit chamber echoing off the walls and turning only more deafening when it is joined by fearful roars of dragons and trolls and even the cries of the usually more intelligent sphinxes - a building cacophony triggered by our steady advance.
It is a truly vulgar display to see such magnificent beasts, trolls aside, be reduced to covering wrecks at the mere sound of these contraptions and the threat of unimaginable pain they represent. There could be no clearer demonstration of the goblins' barbarism than the brutal way by which they subvert the natural state - beasts, elevating themselves above their fellow beasts.
Thankfully, Griphook heading towards the nearest cave entrance spares me a long march past agitated predators. Even with the lantern doing a decent job at lighting the way, I would have missed the black creature coiled in the shadows were it not for its brilliant purple eyes catching the flame. To think all that stands between us and a fiery welcome is a noisy piece of scrap metal.
As we pass through the cave mouth, I can just about make out the Potter crest up above. Very soon upon entering the cave, it becomes apparent that calling it a recessed door would be more appropriate. No more than ten yards in, progress is blocked by a solid metal slab spanning the diameter of the entrance. The family crest elaborately engraved into the centre occupies a good half of the area, easily taller than a grown man, with the entrance as a whole probably fitting its scaly guardian at a squeeze.
Raising his voice to catch my attention over the racket of ringing clankers reverberating in the enclosed space, Griphook launches into explanation.
"The exact procedure varies, but placing your left hand on the door should allow it to extract some of your blood and verify your identity. Once done, a keyhole should be revealed. I will not be able to follow inside, so will await your return."
Feeling his eagerness prompts me to address an issue I had been mulling over for a while now.
"How come no one checked beforehand whether I am who I purport myself to be? Surely escorting me down here based solely on a ring and key would constitute a risk?"
"No teller or indeed goblin worth his title would mistake a Gringotts key but even had it been a fake or stolen watching the occasional thief fall victim to the traps is a favourite goblin pastime. The high-security vaults especially are a true delight."
With a shake of the head and no further comment, I step up to the door, left hand outstretched, placing it on the intricate likeness of briars ringing the central crest. An all too familiar pulse of magic and the biting sting of the previously inanimate thorns turning sharp and lively is accompanied by the briefest flash of golden light.
All across its surface thorny vines and branches unravel, some retreating while others latch onto the crest, keeping it aloft and slowly moving upwards and out of the way. The rock beneath my feet trembles from the sheer mass of animated metal, despite the seeming ease and grace with which they move to reveal the entrance to the Potter vault.
The degree to which distant locations can be so intrinsically linked by magic as to feel intimately recognisable is a true marvel. The vault, like the manor and Griffin's Roost before it, feels like coming home so much so that without giving it a second thought or looking back I find myself in the middle of the antechamber - the sound of the vault door snapping me from my trance.
And it is a chamber, a large one at that decorated with carpets and tapestries polished stone reflecting the light of smokeless torches where it peeks through among them. Seven corridors lead off this central chamber, three to each side and one straight ahead. Judging by how close, relatively speaking, they lie to one another, I'd bet them to be an example of the casual manipulation of space-time magic in this universe seems so fond of.
There is a real temptation to spend however much time is required to explore and catalogue every single item; to avail myself of every possible advantage, sure, but also simply to revel in the mind-boggling wealth I can now officially call my own. Sadly, an in-depth inventory of my assets will have to join the ever-growing list of things competing for my attention.
Nonetheless, I'll have at least a quick look around to get an idea of the scale I'm dealing with and who knows, maybe some hidden gem will catch my eye.
Starting with the first passage to my left and moving clockwise, I inspect each depository in turn, saving the largest doorway opposite the vault entrance for last.
My initial pick turns out to be rather lacklustre in terms of practical use. The magically expanded storage space full of artwork and sculptures, magical and mundane, is no doubt impressive but lacking the necessary eye and appreciation I fail to express more than a superficial, amateurish interest in their pleasing aesthetic. If anything, I might be able to come across some more magical portraiture when I get around to lifting the magical stasis covering all the vault's contents.
The second too doesn't yield anything immediately useful. This one, however, I find much more rewarding. Being a craftsman myself, however little progress I may have made on the road to mastery, the opportunity to study and imitate the intricate pieces might just be priceless. Then again, I'm sure there is a less abstract use for dozens of display cases filled with enchanted jewellery and artefacts apart from inspiration.
Discovering their secrets and replicating them will no doubt be the cause of an obsessive mood or two somewhere down the line. For now, I'll have to make do with a couple of pieces minimally enchanted but prominently adorned with my family's crest.
Third time is not in fact lucky, as it turns out. Where in the previous depositories I could at least hope to find something immediately useful, that is not the case behind door number three. Apart from the occasional crate filled with ore, ingots and beaten sheets of metal, the majority of its contents is made up of all manner of skins, leathers, hides, numerous bales of embroidered fabrics and fine silks - in short materials.
Now certainly they have their value both as assets and as resources, but seeing as today may well be the only time for a long while I can act without being the centre of public scrutiny, the work required to benefit from them renders them all but worthless. People would surely call me a lunatic for dismissing them this way, and calling a couple of bales in particular worthless might just land me in St Mungo's for suspected spell damage - namely Acromantula silk.
No doubt one of the most sought after materials of wizarding society, likely matching the value of everything else in the room combined. Not only for the magnificent display of wealth and splendour it represents to the point that even the more ostentatious members of high society would reserve its use for garments of special occasion, but also for its remarkable characteristics. Few other materials, certainly no other fabrics, can compare to the sheer amount of charms and enchantments Acromantula silk can withstand without simply disintegrating under the strain.
Curiously, cultivating giant, intelligent spiders with a taste for human flesh has proven itself a remarkable challenge, even disregarding the danger it poses to would-be entrepreneurs and the local wildlife - who would have thought. Not the first by any stretch, I find myself torn between lauding their creators' rare genius or lamenting their momentous stupidity. I mean really, wizardkind's ability to create unparalleled threats to itself is only matched by its ingenuity in devising methods to survive their inevitable rampage.
Entering the fourth chamber I'm struck by the distinctive smell of old tomes, ink and parchment, after all but living out of the manor's library for the past decade it's a very familiar smell and one I have grown quite fond of over the years. Despite being nowhere near the more extensive libraries in scale, it nonetheless manages to exude an aura of history and eminence. Alongside books and scrolls that were, judging by their titles, deemed either too dangerous or controversial to be displayed in the semi-public library, meticulous records of every transaction and acquisition made by the family fill up a good few of the ancient wooden shelves.
Depository number five is where I finally strike gold figuratively speaking, I'm sure literal gold is yet to come. In shelves, crates and cabinets all around the room are stored all manner of potions, poisons and their ingredients, both animal and plant, from the highly magical to the almost mundane. Even with all the stasis and preservation applied to its contents I don't expect to find something as singularly useful as Felix Felicis seeing as quite as another substance I recently encountered and all the elixirs for that matter it is frustratingly fleeting and volatile.
However, despite the lack of bottled luck, a brief search yields a fair few medical supplies, chiefly among them general healing, Blood-Replenishing and Skele-Gro potions. With Wiggenweld, Girding and Fire Protection potions for good measure and an Invigoration Draught on top, I move on to some less wholesome draughts. Draught of Living Death, Peace, Befuddlement and Confusing Concoction make their way into my inventory.
A selection of poisons, most notably among them Acromantula venom, join them in short order. Lastly, I grab a handful of Dittany, nothing extraordinary true, but it is no less effective for being so common. Much rarer is the small vial of Re'em blood I spot on my way out, hard to come by and not something I expected in this haul but more than welcome.
The last of the side chambers is an armoury, plain and simple. Even with the small selection of wands on display, the overwhelming majority are arms and armour. Ranging in style from the hoplon and lorica of classical antiquity to the early modern cuirass and great sword. Some of them are certainly ceremonial, if the level of splendour is any indication, but a good few are of a much more practical design here and there nicks and dents speak of the instances they served their purpose quite successfully.
It is quite tempting to pocket many of the weapons on display, but on second thought, being spoiled for choice might be just as deadly as being bereft of it in the heat of combat. Of concern to my more immediate plans is the question of equipping myself in weapons of spell-forged steel. One on hand nothing short of a wand comes close in destructive potential, on the other hand however I would more than likely be faced with a murderous goblin horde.
Best case, they hound me for what with their delusional concept of ownership they believe to be theirs. Worst case, they spot a piece not of goblin make and attack me outright. With the monopoly on spellforging being one of their last means of leverage, even the whisper of a different source may well spark another rebellion with me stuck behind enemy lines - not a pleasant thought that.
In the end, I opt for a relatively spartan, pardon the pun, loadout: a medium-sized round shield that while not spellforged had its metal heavily enchanted for durability, a bear spear, a handful of javelins and a pole-axe for good measure are all I choose to take with me.
Ah. Almost forgot the helmet. As I leave back towards the antechamber, I grab a plumed helmet of the appropriate style.
Stepping through the large doorway opposite the vault entrance I know roughly what to expect, of course, I'm in a bank after all, but still, the sight strikes me dumb. It is awesome in the truest sense of the word. From the balcony, I find myself on upon entering I'm overlooking an enormous space filled with coins of glittering gold, silver and bronze, assorted treasures and gems - a stupendous amount of wealth. I can feel Greed shivering in delight. Gaining a new appreciation for the woes of Scrooge McDuck almost tempted myself, to risk the broken neck and take a dive in the gold.
It was definitely worth saving for last. The view alone putting a spring in my step as I take a quick jog down the stairs to stock my inventory with various denominations. Spending a short while stuffing my proverbial pockets with coins, giving preference to those already bagged, I make to leave the vault, not having made a dent in the mountains surrounding me.
Dutifully waiting as I step out of the Potter vault back into the cave is Griphook. Admittedly, where else would he go, but regardless, I could get used to people waiting on me. Exchanging a nod in greeting, we retrace our steps back to the surface. With the fun part over, for now, it's time to see what havoc a decade of minimal oversight left the Potter interests in.
-oOo-
Two long hours of listening to Griphook recount the state of ventures and enterprises ranging back centuries in some cases, all the while never missing an opportunity to extol his own meritorious service, had me barely scratching the surface of the veritable mountain of back-logged paperwork and bookkeeping that accumulated over the last decade. With some matters even dating back to the war, I can vividly picture days and weeks of my near future being spent shackled to a desk.
Displaying truly remarkable willpower, I restrain myself from banging my head against the conference table our meeting has moved to in order to accommodate the precariously perched towers of scrolls and ledgers. It could have been worse. It certainly could have been better, but all things considered, the Potter investments proved to be both broad in scope and resilient to disruption.
True overall profits all but dried up, but to stay in the black despite all major and most minor decisions requiring the Lord's sigil is either a mark of thorough planning or exceptional luck. Probably both, to be honest. And in some cruel twist of fate and irony, both leaders of my future and present opposition have played their part.
None of the Great Houses really escaped unscathed from the war, be it injuries, deaths or just a hit to prestige and reputation the great houses paralysed by their losses all but vanished from the public eye for the first couple of years and with them any chance of a rapid recovery.
Where the broad middle class of largely half-bloods suffered casualties mostly as collateral damage to ongoing skirmishes and strikes on institutional targets and muggleborns fell to highly visible but sporadic displays of sadistic violence and terror, it was the class holding all the actual power that was confronted with the choice to pick a side.
A pressing choice at that, as neither side took lightly to a refusal to join their faction. In hindsight, the most popular choice of neutrality turned out to be the most deadly in the end. With the Death Eaters targeting unaligned families that refused their overtures in order to prevent them from joining the Order's side. Selfsame Order, on the other hand, limited its support and intervention to aiding their allies and dramatic acts of heroism protecting the public good.
Most logical choice it may have been to keep out of the conflict, but ultimately neutrality does neither inspire a sense of purpose and cohesion nor does it foster a drive to action. The lack of unifying force saw them picked off one by one, with the few attempts at an armed, organised neutrality quickly stifled by decapitation strikes - most notably my grandparents.
With Gringotts role restricted to brokerage instead of creditor, the expected post-war boom amounted to little more than a slow fizzle in the absence of the capital needed to fuel it. Recent years did finally see a marked increase in activity and a recovery to pre-war levels of prosperity broadly speaking, and even signs of growth centred around the economic hub of the Alley.
And that's where Dumbledore's part comes in. Having finished rebuilding their existing assets, increasing amounts of funds did eventually find themselves looking for investment opportunities, and yet they steered clear of poaching or otherwise pressuring the Potter estate for the most part convinced of Dumbledore's patronage and protection and unwilling to provoke an escalation.
The petty, vengeful part of me is close to blowing its top at Dumbledore profiting from his perceived control of my holdings. Ultimately, however, more pragmatic thoughts prevail. Any gains he made at least monetarily likely pale in comparison to my savings due to the staggering difference in the wealth involved. Just another of the many reasons I will enjoy his downfall.
Rather than continue to ruminate on the past, I take a last look at my notes, summarising the high points of the current situation.
Land rents make up a good and steady chunk, many being hereditary or perpetual leaseholds they don't require any immediate attention, thankfully. Stakes in various enterprises differ wildly in their profitability, with those outright destroyed or inherited by an insufficiently trained successor being write-offs, while others have seen healthy growth.
Licensing fees for a number of enchantments and potions top the list in per item profits - Skele-Gro in particular, all but minting Galleons. The largest section however is taken up by the summary of enterprises entirely or majority owned by the Potter family. From foodstuffs and fabrics to potion ingredients ranched, pastured and grown, they represent the backbone of the family's economic might.
Unfortunately, the direct control that makes them such a useful tool in the Potter Lord's arsenal also saw them most affected by a decade of lacking oversight. With administrators on the ground lacking the authority to renegotiate existing and signing new contracts, a large number of arrangements for both supply and distribution ceased as their term came to a close.
Most recently, with all but the most long-running contracts expiring they were left no choice but to stockpile yields, scale back production and redistribute resources to maintain capacity. If the records are to be believed, and I have no reason to doubt that at this point they did an admirable job at it, preserving a good three-quarters. Thankfully, I don't have to find out if loyalty alone would be enough to maintain performance once payroll runs dry.
Before Griphook suffers a stroke from the mounting anxiety that has been building in the last twenty minutes, I spent silently finalizing my plans. I look up from my notes, making him go stiff from the sudden attention.
"While I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm pleased with the state of my finances, I'm satisfied that your management of them has been adequate. As such, I see no reason not to elevate you to the position of Senior Account Manager for the Potter Accounts." I address the goblin across the table, watching him go from apprehension to barely contained gleeful triumph at my declaration.
I tune out his assurances and ass-kissing, motioning for him to carry on.
"If you would just place your sigil at the bottom." An obviously long prepared proclamation appears in front of me, not by magic, but the remarkable speed of a goblin fuelled by greed. Despite the impossibility of fooling magic and the consequent inability of magical contracts to bind you to anything but your intent I still take the time to read the document in part to see the bugger squirm but mainly because signing an unread proclamation would be the height of foolishness.
The moment magic emanating from my ring finishes burning my sigil into the parchment, Griphook all but snatches it from my hands, hiding it away like a similarly misshapen creature does a ring.
"Now that we have that taken care of, will you stop dancing around the issue of the fees that have no doubt been accumulating? I have a full schedule and you trying to avoid angering me isn't making this go any faster."
Moments later, an ominously thick stack of documents finds itself in front of me. Despite coming across far larger amounts in the last couple of hours, I can't help but whistle at the magnitude of outstanding payments. Even with the dozen or so vaults dedicated to various businesses and the high-security vault on the lowest levels, the cost to maintain them should be negligible when compared to the revenues involved.
Especially for an account that was practically inactive for the last decade, since usually transaction fees and brokerage commissions constitute the major source of Gringotts' revenue. It seems that conventional wisdom does not account for a decade of having tens of millions in profits unable to be deposited and instead managed in free floating temporary accounts billed by the week.
As I fix the fidgeting goblin with a glare, I can feel the animal mind of my transformation that has been lying in eager anticipation just beneath the surface since this morning, urging me to rip the little bastard to shreds.
With my mood more than apparent, Griphook stiffens before launching into an explanation, clinging desperately to his composure.
"I apologise, Lord Potter, the situation was highly unusual. When we unexpectedly lost access to the main vaults, my predecessor saw no other choice than to make use of internal temporary accounts to administer the profits generated. He was hopeful that access would be restored promptly. At the time we had yet to confirm the happenings of that night and couldn't foresee having to maintain this measure until today. We only charged the rates listed without levying penalties for overdue fees, in light of the importance of the Potter accounts. It was deemed a reasonable solution compliant with our obligations under the treaty."
Trying to restrain my temper and the desire to savage the creature with great effort, I flash my teeth in what outside these walls may charitably be called a toothy grin, but in here under the circumstances is unmistakable as the baring of fangs it is. I savour the shivers going down his back for a long moment before visibly relaxing and pulling back on my aura. After taking a last calming breath, I'm ready to proceed without bloodshed for now.
"A reasonable solution, of course. Who am I to question Gringotts' procedures? Let's address the last bits of administrative work afterwards. I have a somewhat unusual request to make. I assume as a representative of Gringotts you wouldn't deny a reasonable request of mine, hm?" The mocking tone is lost on Griphook frantically nodding as he is. Regardless, reasonably certain I have his attention, I proceed.
"Deduct the payment from the free-floating profits immediately. From the remaining four-fifths, set aside payroll and material funds for all active ventures into the appropriate vaults. Split the remainder three ways, one earmarked to rebuild and further build up capacity to half again of pre-war levels across all ventures. The second intended for acquisition and cultivation of exclusively dittany, mandrake and aconite. The last third is set aside in an unused vault for the reconstruction of damaged Potter properties and the costs of rendering them habitable again. For all transfers bar the fees I want you to wait until week's end, I will contact the local personnel with instructions beforehand."
The routine of work seems to help in calming his nerves as he settles in to note my instructions, compiling them into transfer orders and handing them to me for approval. With the most pressing financial matters taken care of, I broach a new subject.
"I have here two names. I want you to contact and invite them to an appointment at the indicated times. You're free to charge your commission, but I want my name to be kept out of it for now. Promise to compensate them for their time if you think it necessary. I assume I have further use of this room after the conclusion of our meeting?" receiving a nod in confirmation, I hand him the note containing my invitees and carry on.
"Have either of my parents left a will?"
Some quick rummaging later, Griphook re-emerges from a stack of scrolls holding a scroll and an envelope sealed with the Potter sigil. Handing both to me, he briefly describes them.
"The scroll contains the will of the previous Lord Potter, due to the loss of access to the main vault and the disappearance of the heir apparent it was never executed. Accompanying it is a letter addressed to you personally."
Pocketing the letter, now being no time for sentimentality, I break the seal on the scroll and scan its contents. The document is predictably formal, constituting me as the primary heir of all titles and holdings. For all the good that does. While my father's personal assets are significant by your average wizard's standards, they pale in comparison to the wealth of the Potter estate as a whole.
Consisting of the remainder of the no doubt generous stipend he received growing up, his pay as an Auror and some minor stakes in broom and Quidditch manufacturing. They had shrunk considerably during the war, as most of my father's financial contributions to the Order happened before he assumed the mantle of Potter family head. Thank Mother Magic for small mercies.
Had I not successfully claimed my lordship, I would have been limited to my trust vault and those personal possessions my parents left me. Not a pauper's life to be sure, but it would have been a serious obstacle to exercising any power at all. The thought that however rarely the family magicks rejecting an heir does happen is a dreadful one.
Reading on, the will disposes of the question of guardianship and regency, arranging for a succession of candidates from my mother to my godparents and onwards to more distant relations. As I near the end of the scroll, a hot spike of anger threatens my composure, barely kept at bay by my mental shields. Bequeathing a tidy sum to Sirius is neither a surprise nor objectionable in any way. Whatever shortcomings landed him in his current mess are more than paid for in my mind. Even McGonagall's share is bearable despite her complicity, likely unknowing as it is.
What has me close to raging, however, are the numerous other members of the Order listed to be bequeathed with monies from what is now my estate. With bearded goatfuckers, worm-tailed traitors and half-breeds featured prominently among them.
I can just about keep myself from growling as I address Griphook who attuned to my shifts in mood as he proved himself to be has moved subtly to place the majority of the solid wooden conference table between us - for all the good it would do him were I to actually lose it.
"Can you tell me whether or not this is the only copy of the will and if someone is aware of its existence besides the witnesses to its signing?"
Still reluctant to approach any closer, Griphook nonetheless responds promptly. "As far as Gringotts was informed, no other copies of the will exist. How widespread the knowledge of its existence, much less its contents, is, I can not say. We have no records of anyone inquiring about it however, which would imply it not being particularly common."
That's something at least. Dumbledore might know about or suspect its existence, but he should be unlikely to make any public move for it since the will fails to corroborate his assumed guardianship. Maybe it's worth considering for that very reason, but with the Wizengamot, being both an aristocratic legislature and judiciary, having an abysmal track-record of due diligence, it hardly matters. Decision made, a burst of phoenix flame engulfs the scroll, rapidly reducing it to ash, the magicks meant to preserve it yielding easily to their Lord.
"It's truly peculiar for the Lord of a Great House to not leave a will, don't you agree, Senior Account Manager?"
"Indeed, Lord Potter. I will review the records to make certain nothing was overlooked."
Ah, if only Griphook wasn't such a spineless coward, I may just have enjoyed his eagerness. Then again, if goblins had integrity in the first place, neither of us would be where we are. Administrative matters taken care of for the moment, it's time to make a reasonable request of my own. With any luck, he folds just as easily as ever. I don't fancy a trip to Wales or the Hebrides to acquire it myself.
"You remember of course me having a request requiring your services?" waiting for a hesitant nod accompanied by a wave of trepidation, I continue. "What I need from you is... a dragon. A somewhat exotic requirement, but still perfectly reasonable, I think."
Watching a goblin be flabbergasted has definite comedic value. Taking a long moment to compose himself, Griphook makes to speak, stops himself before finally uttering what is no doubt going to be an objection of some kind. "With all due respect, Lord Potter, Gringotts does not conduct trade in dragons and would in fact be in violation of treaties with your Ministry if it did. Moreover, we have no way to remove one of the beasts from below the bank and no safe way to transport it to where you intend to house it."
"Do you think me an imbecile?" denying him the opportunity to give me an answer I wouldn't believe, I continue. "I have no intention to have you herd a grown dragon through the tunnels and out the front door for me to ride off into the sunset. In fact, no dragon will leave the bank not alive and whole, at any rate. I won't even be the one to purchase said dragon, you will be. You see, what I need is for you to organise a dragon for a warrior's rite of passage it just so happens to be my birthday today and I feel like testing my mettle in ritual combat. Surely that's not too much to ask"
Clearly hesitant and uncomfortable comes Griphook's reply. "You put me in a difficult situation, Lord Potter. I want to fulfil your request, of course, but Gringotts couldn't bear the consequence should you be injured or worse. The rite is goblin tradition, after all, and is thus performed without a wand. The cost is another issue. I have no way to afford such an expense. If you insist on performing the rite, maybe I can procure an opponent that is less dangerous and less expensive."
I spent a moment in apparent thought, more for show than any real consideration, before responding. "You make good points, but I must insist. I have every confidence in the goblin's ability to stop a dragon if it comes to it, and even should that trust prove unfounded, I can preserve my life at least with or without a wand. Moreover, I will give you in writing a declaration absolving you personally and Gringotts generally from any liability in the event of my injury. Now as for the cost of acquisition, how do 1,000,000 Galleons sound? Everything not spent procuring the dragon will be your commission. Additionally, I'm willing to leave the meat for you to do with as you please. I hear dragon meat is considered a delicacy among your people."
I leave Griphook to ponder; with the greed radiating off him in waves, there is really no doubt as to his answer. Years of preparation hinge on today's event going at least reasonably close to plan, and all that's required for success is to face a known wizard killer in the arena. Somehow the idea sounded better with years instead of minutes separating me from the fiery death lizard.
-oOo-
Standing in the vomitorium leading to the arena, I can't quite keep a grin off my face. Excitement and anticipation thrums in the air emanating from the gathered crowd, even muffled as they are by the tiered stone seating ringing the colosseum above me. It's no real surprise that their centuries-long association with the Romans left its mark on their society, and under different circumstances having them make a spectacle out of my trial would no doubt drive me spare.
And it well might once it's over. For now, however, I'm revelling in the rush of imminent combat. Even if just for a short while to shed the weight of planning, scheming, strategizing and instead measure myself against a worthy adversary. The conceptual impact of the moment one of transition, growth, beginning and end, of rebirth appealing to the deepest parts of me like little did before. As it does to Mother Magic, if the exuberant flow of my magic is any indication - then again I might just be imagining things.
With a last look at my father's pocketwatch I store it away and check over my equipment for the final time. While I would have preferred more protective gear beyond the shield and helmet, nothing I could afford to reveal has even a hope of resisting a dragon's flame, ultimately just slowing me down. The spear, javelins quivered on my back and the pole-axe waiting in my inventory serving as my weapons for this bout.
The lack of wand, irritating as it may be, is fortunately far less of a handicap than my waiting audience would assume. As much as it pains me to admit my proficiency in wanded spellwork, much less magical duelling is insufficient for the task. Against anyone my age or indeed your regular wizard on the street it wouldn't even be a contest, but facing any half-way competent duellist or dragon for that matter my technique would quickly be exposed for the attempt of an amateur it is.
Looking for a reliable instructor is certainly a priority, not to say I don't have other ways to level the playing field in the meantime. Speaking of one of those means, I should get a move on. The quiver isn't going to last forever. Slowly but persistently, the infernal mixture applied to the javelins' heads is eating its way through the leather. With Draught of Living Death and Befuddlement Draught joining the poisons from my vault, the mixture packs quite the punch, hopefully enough to knock out a dragon.
With just moments to go, it's time for my own bit of liquid magical assistance quaffing prophylactic Blood-Replenishing and Skele-Gro potions joined quickly by Wiggenweld, Girding and Fire Protection. It won't resist dragon fire, but every little bit helps. And last but definitely not least, a sprig of dittany washed down with Re'em blood. It pains the hoarder in me to use a substance so difficult to procure instead of saving it for a later date. Needs must, however, and if there's a more critical use than my survival, I can't think of it.
It's no doubt a testament to my peculiar physiology that imbibing so many disparate and potent substances didn't just take me out. And yet, I can feel their effects and inherent magic roiling inside me, rapidly spreading throughout my body. Without the certainty that Gluttony will be able to purge any substance doing me harm, it would have been a significant risk. Even still, it might be one I would have been forced to take regardless in order to keep up. As things stand, I will have to delay purging until the fight is over, letting them run their course in the meantime - whatever damage they might cause.
No reason to hesitate and every reason to get it over with, I step through the arched entrance onto the sand of the arena. Peripherally, I notice the tiers filled with goblin spectators, the special boxes facing each other from their place along the length of the arena, and the ballistae spaced around the lowest tier trained inwards. Most of my attention, however, is immediately drawn towards the beast chained at the opposite end. Two colossal wings project from its forelimbs, obscuring most of its body, hunched as it is over the remains of the bait they used to get it here - cattle by the looks of it.
…
Ancient Guard Dragon (263)
Level - 106
Race - Dragon (Ukrainian Ironbelly)
Tier - Veteran [2]
HP - 9000 [1200 Regen per Minute]
MP - 1400 [160 Regen per Minute]
SP - 3600 [480 Regen per Minute]
STR - 302 CON - 288 DEX - 208
INT - 76 WIS - 44 CHA - 189
LCK - 23
…
Feeble
Macular degeneration
...
Taking the opportunity of its distraction, I observe my adversary. Measuring at a glance a good two dozen metres and weighing in upwards of half a dozen tons, the creature outright dwarfs the dragon tasked with guarding my vaults. Its scaly hide pale from centuries of captivity, scared by goblin torture, originally deep red eyes milky with age and a life in darkness, and yet it does nothing to diminish its imposing, menacing presence or the danger it poses - awesome in the truest sense. Were I a betting man, I would wager on knowing its previous assignment, but that's no longer important. It won't return to its post in any case.
Unnoticed by either of us contestants, some goblin official had just finished addressing the crowd in their native tongue, apparently signalling for the fight to start. With a deafening crash, solid steel portcullises slam into place, baring the entrances to the arena. The dragon, startled by the racket, looks up from his meal, now only a scant few bones, for the first time spotting me across the arena. Immediately it fixes me with a glare and I don't need my empathy to feel the palpable rage taking a hold of it.
With a growl and a roar, it lunges, covering ground at an astonishing rate despite its massive bulk. All hope of communicating gone as my Parseltongue only picks up incoherent, rage filled roars. The dragon long since driven mad by its life in captivity. Drawing on my magic to reinforce my body and reflexes, I'm coiled, waiting and ready for my moment. And then it comes, having crossed the length of the arena in seconds, the air heating up noticeably with its approach, the chains tethering it around its neck go taut, yanking it into the ground with the full force of its charge.
As it lies there stunned, head grounded just a dozen yards away, I transfer the spear to my shield-hand and with all my magic and Re'em blood enhanced strength heave a javelin at the Ironbelly's right eye. It impacts audibly against the ridge above the javelin's shaft, shattering as the tip glances harmlessly off its hide covered skull. A second throw goes wide, only nicking one of its horns. Before it's all I can do to throw myself out of the way as a stream of flame hot enough to vaporise steel rushes through the air I was just occupying.
Searing heat envelops me regardless, what fire resistance carries over from my phoenix form boosted by the potion, up to the task of shielding me. The same can not be said for my clothing, my right sleeve and the ornamental plumage on my helmet spontaneously combusting. Cursing myself for the stupidity of wearing flammables when facing a dragon, I tear off the burning sleeve before removing the helmet.
I rush to flank the Ironbelly, polished bronze helmet turning hot in my hands. Halfway there, I chuck the still burning helmet in a high arc, the fiery gleam and motion catching the beast's attention despite its lacking sight. As it swats the projectile out of the air with a swipe of its claw, I'm in position. The dragon has just unleashed a second burst of draconic fire at the offending headgear when a slash with the leaf-shaped blade of my bear spear, the full weight of my enhanced strength behind it, carves through the leathery skin of its right wing.
Before the ancient beast can turn to inspect its newest injury, shielded by its own wing as I am, I leap through the opening, boiling hot dragon blood burning me where drops of it touch my skin. Rolling to my feet on the other side, again out of the dragon's sight, a large jagged scar catches my eye. Hopeful weak point spotted, I brace against the arena floor before driving my spear upwards with all my might. The hide is by no means weak despite being on its underside or the previous injury, but where elsewhere the scales form a continuous defence, here the old wound left them uneven and incomplete - a literal chink in the behemoth armour.
A furious roar reverberates in the arena as the poison-laced blade of my spear punctures the hide and finds flesh. The injured beast rears up on its hind legs, wrenching the shaft from my grip and making me stumble as I try to keep my balance. Barely dodging a swipe from its claw that shatters the spear by throwing myself to the ground, I'm unprepared as it rears up again, only to shift its stance, seemingly intent to crush me with its weight. Prone beneath its falling bulk, I have no choice but to shift into the form that has been itching for action since early this morning.
With a mighty pounce, I leap clear of the danger, skidding to a halt a dozen yards away. Every ability I can keep secret is another ace up my sleeve, but needs must, and the [Golden Lion] is the least subtle of them in any case. Standing a good four feet at the shoulder, a quarter ton of pure muscle, covered in bright golden fur and mane that is highly resistant to damage and sporting the famous eyes, it's certainly not built for stealth. Matching the dragon's mad bellow with a challenging and indignant roar of my own, it's only the knowledge of the protective measures in place that keeps the goblins from bolting as two magical apex predators vie for dominance in the arena.
Against an opponent that while still dwarfed by it, is nonetheless significantly closer in weight class, the dragon seems more reluctant to simply charge in opting to posture instead following me by scent as much as by sight as I prowl in a large circle around it, looking for an opening. As if reacting to a mutual signal, I charge my rival at a sprint, dodging beneath a stream of flame at the last moment, the residual heat insufficient to singe my fur. Obscured by the blindingly hot flame until I manage to close the distance, I pounce the dragon aiming for its long neck.
While my claws manage to cling to the dragon's scales, however, they prove unable to penetrate its hide. Fortunately, they don't have to. Halfway up its neck and just behind the head, the two massive chains keeping the beast imprisoned have through sheer attrition and cruel persistence succeeded where most other weapons failed, eroding the guard dragon's scales leaving behind raw and bloody skin. Anchoring myself with my hind legs, the claws of my front legs maul these wounds, quickly drawing blood.
The roar of pain and furious anger seems to shake the arena as blind, desperate swipes try to dislodge me from my perch. I manage to weather the first blow by clinging to the chains, but a second one more violent than the first proves too much, propelling me through the air in an uncontrolled tumble. Only blind luck and the dragon's poor aim save me from taking the follow-up burst of flame head on. Even still, the distinct smell of burned fur tells me all I need to know about how I would fare should I fail to dodge in the future.
Seeing the dragon thrashing wildly, bleeding profusely from the wounds I inflicted, I decide to finish this from a distance. Turning back to my human form, I ready the three remaining javelins in my shield-hand. Moving quickly towards the third of the arena I originally entered from where I'm out of reach of the dragon's charge while it is still raging and roaring madly.
Aiming for just about centre mass, I unleash the first javelin, a full-powered throw meant to get its attention. And boy does it do that, despite impacting harmlessly against the beast's back. It immediately whips around in my direction, showing a speed that is still surprising to me. As it predictably breaks into a headlong charge, I ready the second javelin. I hold until it has covered about half the distance between us before my throw targets the charging beast's eye. The missed throw impacts the dragon's snout instead, which is good enough for my purposes.
Staggered by the blow, it raises its head, roaring towards the domed ceiling. I'm barely paying attention, however, already winding up for the throw of my last javelin. As I release the poisonous projectile on its way towards its target, I reach out with a burst of telekinetic Wild Magic, increasing the javelins speed even further, as well as accurately guiding it towards its target. Faster than the mundane eye can see, it impacts the dragon's neck where my lion form had mauled it before. Poison-covered tip and inches of the shaft embed themselves deeply into the dragon's flesh.
So focused on guiding the javelin, I fail to realise that the behemoth hasn't stopped its charge and as it reaches the end of its tether, the chains fail to stop it. Instead, weakened by the fight, they fracture under the strain of half a dozen tons moving at speed. By the time I realise what's going on, it's barely a handful of yards away and its claw is closer still. Instinct alone sees me interpose my shield as I jump backwards. The swipe of its claw clips my durability-enchanted shield, rending it like it was made of foil, leaving my left arm bruised and battered but otherwise unharmed.
Just as I'm back on firm ground looking for a way to escape, I spot the dragon's tail, so far obscured by the large wing, speeding towards me. With no way to dodge in time, all I can do is shift into my lion form and brace for impact. The swipe of the dragon's tail picks me clean off the ground, despite my added weight, flinging me through the air with such force that I can feel my left side caving, forelimb and rips cracking. Intense pain erupting from my battered side. The arena's walls stop my unwilling flight, reinforced stone cratering around me before I slump to the floor.
Fuck me! That's not how it was supposed to go.
Not giving me any time to gather myself and my reactions badly delayed by the rough landing, the dragon's follow-up burst of flame has all but reached me by the time I even notice it. With no way to dodge, it's all I can do to channel ever more of my magic into strengthening my durability and take it on the chin. The blazing stream of magical flame impacting me on my already battered left. The sand of the arena not so much vitrifying as straight up vaporising beneath me. The cracked stone behind me glowing hot in an instant.
Barely a second passes until I'm engulfed entirely by an inferno on all sides. Large patches of fur burned off, the skin underneath blistering despite my lion form's remarkable resistances. It's only Gamer's Mind that keeps me lucid through the pain of being burned alive. But it does, and with a thought I shift to my phoenix form. The difference is as stark as it is immediate. Heat and fire that was making a decent effort at cooking me now reduced to a sweltering desert day in intensity. With walls of incandescent flame shielding me from view, I flame away.
One instant I'm stuck in my own personal pyre, the next I reappear dozens of metres in the air just beneath the doomed ceiling. Immediately I start plummeting towards the ground, my left wing broken beyond function despite my shifting form. With all eyes glued to the scene of my sudden demise, I take the opportunity to keep this form secret, continuing my fall as a badly mangled feline instead.
Just a handful of seconds after the Ironbelly's attack caught me off guard, I return the favour. Landing heavily on its head breaks my fall, staggering it and interrupting its roasting of empty air. Even as I tumble off towards the ground, my uninjured claw lashes out, gouging out its left eye. It takes some frantic and painful leaps to escape being trampled by the once more thrashing dragon in my injured state, but it's thankfully too distracted by the new wound to chase me down.
Eying the beast warily from a distance, I change back to human form. I'm reluctant to give up the durability, but the mobility of a three-legged cat just isn't cutting it. Tearing off my dress shirt, I take a moment to inspect my injuries. Gruesome would be an understatement: everything on my left side from the jaw down to my hip is severely burned, my arm is hanging limply, it too bright red and tender, with at least a couple of rips crack one of the painfully prodding my lung with every breath.
It's the worst injury I have ever taken, and it pisses me off. I can feel Wrath roiling just beneath the surface egging me on and at this point I'm all out of fucks to give. With a thought, the pole-axe stashed in my inventory appears in my hand. Slightly exceeding my own height, every second face of its irregular octagonal shaft is covered in runes along the entire length, making it one of the most heavily enchanted weapons in the vaults - both for offence and durability. The forged steel head itself, covered in runes and brimming with latent magic, consisting of a reinforced spike in line with the shaft as well as a flared hammer face and wicked hooked beak facing front and back, respectively.
Taking a firm grip of the weapon with my right and a frustratingly weak one with my left, I kick off the ground, racing forwards with all my magic enhanced strength. Still trashing and roaring towards the heavens, the dragon fails to spot my approach, reacting far too late to save itself. With a mighty heave, I land an overhead blow on one of its forelimbs, shattering a claw and cracking the bone. Then it's all I can do to dodge out of the way when the beast's tail whips through the space I was just occupying.
Back and forth we move, circling each other in a deadly dance almost graceful for all that the vicious bout would have long since killed any lesser predators. As the fight continues, I can feel myself growing more and more detached, pure murderous instinct keeping my body moving. Red haze dulling my perception in my trance-like state.
My opponent too, having abandoned any semblance of tactics, stubbornly exchanging strikes, weathering hits that yet fail to shatter its semi-hollow bones through the tough hide while I'm forced to parry those I fail to dodge. With every blow both delivered and received blinding pain lances through my mangled left side, but it fails to break the trance that is keeping my body moving, dodging, striking with single-minded focus.
Almost absentmindedly, I notice the Re'em blood being continuously consumed to fuel my increased strength. The potions' magic burning like acid in my veins as they join the phoenix's healing in keeping my body functioning well beyond its limits, despite the accumulating damage.
Without warning, a swipe of its claws like dozens before it finally overcomes my weapons durability, staggering me and leaving its remains to fall out of my weakened grip. In an instant the beast is on me, closing its jaws around my mangled left arm, snapping the bone like a twig. I dimly notice the ballista crews scrambling, before with a growl of mad fury it yanks its head around, slamming me into the arena wall. The force of the impact great enough to stun even the beast itself and break me from my trance.
The agony coursing through my body is tortuous, but again Gamer's Mind proves its worth. Even with every fibre of my being screaming in protest, I wrench my crippled arm from the dragon's bite, leaving behind chunks of cooked flesh and skin. My ritual dagger appears in my right hand and drawing on every bit of strength I have left, I plunge it into the bloody remains of the Ironbelly's gouged out left eye.
My skin burns and sizzles where it comes into contact with the dragon's blood but ultimately the blade, my magic flowing through the spellforged steel, finds its target driving deep into the beast's brain. As if struck by lighting, the Ironbelly stiffens, rearing up before collapsing limply, my hand still wedged in its skull.
I don't even acknowledge the goblin's swarming the arena beyond repeating my previous instructions as I drag myself back towards the entrance, leaning heavily against the arena wall for support. With the backlash compounding the strain and injuries, I'm utterly spent.
That was far too close for comfort. Far too hard won a victory, but it is a victory, one whose spoils I need now more than ever.
A/N:
Finally managed to finish the chapter, so here you go.
Feedback and constructive criticism is, as always, appreciated. Especially where the fight is concerned, seeing as it's the first major action scene.