Chapter 3: The Leaky Cauldron

The Leaky Cauldron. As wizards-and-witches-only places went, she could do far, far worse. According to legend, it was built on a Nordic runestone, left by Viking invaders from the 9th Century. No one's ever found the runestone, but that the place ebbed and flowed with magic couldn't be denied. Throughout all of Magical English history, the Cauldron had stood: when William the Conqueror crossed the channel using a massive Portkey wrought by his loyal mages, the Cauldron's spiny wooden peaks and tiny windows had borne witness. When Oliver Cromwell lopped the king's head off and launched his rebellion, it was here he secured the Wizengamot's loyalty. When the Goblin nation was at last broken after their umpteenth rebellion, it was here that the final treaty was signed.

And when the Master crossed the channel after the defeat of the Muggle armies in Europe, it was on these cold, black steps that he had given the Goblins their rights, reversing old gains.

The Leaky Cauldron, therefore, was less a part of history than it was just history. A crossroads for all things: magical and mundane, simple and not. Of course, there was much to be said about its natural charm, which it had in spades. The fine-grained wooden exterior gave it a nice, homely feel, while the swinging metal sign of the Cauldron bespoke of a medieval inn-which it had been, of course.

Emily reached the entrance-from the Diagon side, it was nothing but a moss-covered wall. Back when Muggles and the Magical didn't interact much, if at all, it was a decent cover. Muggles could enter the Cauldron, of course. But then they'd reach the wall and be forever blinded to the Magical world. Now that the Master ruled, the wall served as a blockage for Muggles-it wasn't proper for the lesser creatures to enter such a historical building. Drawing her wand, she tapped the wall three times and watched as the bricks shifted, shrunk, and parted for her. As soon as she stepped through the threshold, it had already reformed.

An orange haze hung high in the rafts, a powerful hearth burning bright in the center of the room. Above the hearth, the infamous Cauldron itself. For the past eight hundred years, it had been boiling the same perpetual stew. Even during the fall of London, the stew kept churning. It had never been cleaned, and long after Emily was dead, it would still never be cleaned.

The low din of conversation hummed in her ears-as always, there was a bevy of customers. Some scrunched over tiny mirrors and orbs, watching the news or Quidditch. A few drank carelessly and freely, as if their world were ending. Tammy, the bartender, was pouring three pitchers of ale at once, using her wand to curve the ale from the barrel a few feet away from her to the glasses. Emily took a deep breath. The air here was thick with the guzzling stench of frying pork sausages, sizzling chicken, and crisp aurochs. Her mouth watered-she knew she should've eaten before coming.

Her eyes searched for the tell-tale red hair of a Weasley. When she first came to the Cauldron years ago, it had been a guiding beacon to her, like a moth to a wandlight. Seeing the confused 11-year-old orphaned Emily, the matriarch Weasley, Molly, had snatched her at once and practically adopted her as one of her own.

She found him easily enough; the red hair really did do wonders: Ronald Weasley, there stuffing a pork sausage down his gullet, another half-dozen coloring his plate alongside a smattering of other foods. Emily smiled and walked over, plopping down in front of him on the other side of the booth. Saying nothing, she swiped a sausage and devoured it in a single bite-it was so good, a bit of grease dribbling down her chin.

"Oy!" Ron said, his mouth full.

Emily took a chug of his coffee. "I haven't eaten anything."

"Why do I always end up feeding you?" Ron asked, shaking his head.

"Your mother does always say you should eat less and I, more."

At that, Ron rolled his eyes. He had an above-average build: formed biceps and flat tummy; if he ate much more he'd lose both. In fact, he'd grown quite attractive, especially in the low light. His chin and neck formed a sharp edge, his red hair ruffled just right for other girls to raise an appreciative eyebrow. Even his clothes were a step up from the standard Weasley fare: dark green brimmed with golden robes. If they weren't literally, practically siblings, Emily might've been half-smitten.

"Don't remind me," Ron said with a grumble.

"How is Molly, by the way?" she asked.

Ron took a minute to eat a slice of ham; Emily slashed her way through some more of his sausages. "Fine as can be," he said after swallowing. "Burrow's still a bit quiet. Mum's wanting to add another room in Lower Unterlondon. Percy's still living with his git girlfriend, looking to apply to the Ministry, but you know Dad's record. The twins have been asking me more and more to help out. Charlie's fine, Bill's fine. Ginny is still hunting for a Quidditch team that'll sign her on." He shrugged. "Not much, really."

"Another room in the Burrow?" she asked.

Once upon a time the Burrow, the Weasley abode, had been a large, wooden structure in Ottery St Catchpole. It stood as proud as a wizarding house could be-a veritable castle in the countryside. After Ron's dad was captured and sentenced, though, they lost the right to the land, and had to move. Rather than tear their house down and start anew, Molly had instead opted to build it out in low rent places, moving each room across London, and then tying each room together using magic. It was an impressive display of skill-you could enter via Knockturn and exit near Whitehall in as few as a handful of steps. That type of portal magic was very difficult to cast, and even more complex to maintain. But Molly had managed it all, all while raising a veritable brood of children. To add another on top of that would take months of work-and with all her children moved out except for Ginny and Ron, she couldn't see why Molly would put herself in that spot.

"She's restless and lonely," Ron said. "She gets like this every anniversary, you know. But it was better when she had you, and me, and all the rest around. We really tired her out." He smiled, which Emily shared.

"I remember one time, George charmed her to look like Bellatrix Black," Emily said, barely containing her laughter.

"Never say my mother isn't a decent flyer, the way she chased poor George through the dregs."

Emily nodded. "I'll visit some time." She'd been meaning to talk to Ginny for a while now. Out of all the Weasleys, she'd always had a closer, different connection with her.

"Anyways," Ron said, stabbing a hard-boiled egg, "what took you so long?"

Emily shook her head. "Hangover, vampire, and Aurors, in that order. I also walked."

"No wonder you're so skinny. Wait… Aurors?"

"Yeah, they were investigating another murder. One of our own."

"Bloody hell." Both of them knew about the risks of living in Knockturn and London in general. It felt like it was happening every day now.

"And that's not all," Emily said, continuing. "The vampires are on cull."

"Already? Again?"

Emily nodded. "Caught one trying to bleed me soon as I left my house."

"And?"

"He's bone-dust now."

"Good riddance," Ron said, taking another swig of less-steaming coffee. "Think he or one of his fellow vamps did that guy in?"

"Maybe… killing a wizard isn't easy, but it honestly could be anyone."

"Werewolves."

"Mountain troll," Emily said, offering her own hypothesis.

"Snarks and grumpkins."

"Himself." They shared another smile. "So, the job," Emily said. "Well?"

"Mmm!" Ron said, wiping his lips and hands with a napkin, likely remembering the reason he had called Emily here the first place. "You know Griphook?"

"Sounds Goblin."

"C'mon Em. Griphook. Clan leader? One of the 7? Runs a decent part of Unterlondon?"

"Call me Goblinist, but they all sound the same to me."

Ron rolled his eyes, this time so far, they went back into his head. Both of them had little love for Goblinkind-they were brutish, violent, greedy little grubs who would kill all wizards if they could get away with it. Their names even evoked this desire for mass rampage: 'Griphook', 'Hammerthorn', 'Crushjaw', 'Killnut'; Emily wouldn't be surprised if they had a 'Murder McStabyface' leading a clan somewhere.

"Well, Griphook," Ron said. "He wants us."

That didn't bode well. Emily took a glance around the pub, her wrist itching to draw out her wand. There few reasons Goblins wanted to see Wizards and Witches. As they weren't fans of tea and crumpets, it obviously didn't bode well.

As if picking up on her heightened senses, Ron said, "Not like that. We're not in trouble or anything."

"Oh yeah? What in Salazar's name does one of the 7 want do with us?"

"A job."

"A job?"

"A job," Ron said, reaffirming what she thought she heard. She sunk back in her seat.

"Oh."

"You remember that bit of wandwork we did a month back?" Ron asked.

"Gee, what wandwork? The one where we nearly died and you ended up in a coma for a week?"

Ron gulped, scratching his chest, where a scar might've been if not for extensive healing spells. That hadn't been the most fun job, to say the least. Hunting a rampant automaton was a job for Aurors, not for recent Hogwarts graduates. And it wasn't just a plain old automaton either-it was a specially made one: an advanced, one-of-a-kind prototype. Its creator had been the mad inventor type; someone who relished in creating dangerous and often illegal artifacts. The automaton was no exception.

As a Class IX Magical Artifact, automatons were highly regulated by all Ministries. They could be used for grunt work in lieu of Muggles, but their primary function was to kill. They were so dangerous, only Greece and Turkey still actively employed them, and mostly only in a ceremonial role-they were historically used to guard Kings and Emperors. Hence why Emily and Ron had been hired: the automaton was given an ounce too much of self-determination and free will, and turned on its master. True, some sources called automatons nothing more than glorified charmed machines-but that belied their insidious nature.

To start-their bronze armor was often Goblin-quality, and as such, protected against most spellfire. In fact, it could absorb magic, and be used against attackers. Carved wards and runes, infused with an overdosage of magic, reinforced the plates, making the innards practically untouchable. For offense, it carried a slew of deadly weapons: often-poisoned blades that could retract and extend from their arms, Greek fire that spewed from the wrists, and enough strength to punch through a thick stone wall. Even the Weasley twins stayed far enough away from making new automatons.

Realizing he was facing execution if caught by the Aurors, the inventor, one Ludo Bagman, had instead opted to hire them. They took the job, of course. Galleons were hard enough to come by as it was, and their last job (cleaning Doxies out of a Ministry employee's house) was neither too profitable nor that intellectually rewarding. At least Ludo had managed to secure the automaton in his lab.

They went through the roof. Things went wrong almost at once. The automaton, busy slamming on the Protego Maxima'd door, immediately twisted its head 360 degrees to face them, and let out a low, inhuman roar; its face glowed red instead of the sickly blue it had before. Emily, mostly by instinct, launched a killing curse.

Part of the NEWT for the Defense Against Magical Creatures course and the Dark Arts course required one to master the killing curse, and use it to kill at least a Class V Creature. She opted for a Mountain Troll for the highest marks. Trolls were by their nature resistant to most types of magic. And the mountain variety weren't harmed at all by sunlight, so there could be no hasty out by way of an overpowered lumos. One of the only things that was powerful enough to punch through the resistance was the killing curse. As curses went, it was also extraordinarily hard to cast. It required perfect mental concentration and the ability to think illogically. For not only did it need to be powered with undying hatred, enough to want to kill, you also had to be completely unemotional: cold and detached. Other curses could kill just as well, but the killing curse remained the only one that paid no heed to shields, or armor, or resistances. The troll never stood a chance.

Alas, automatons weren't living. They might've had organic components in them, but there was no life inherent in it to kill. The killing curse splashed harmlessly on its armor. Oh well. It had been worth a try. Ron launched his own bevy of destructive spells. Against a normal wizard, it was enough to crush bones, split limbs from the body, and render one's organs into mush. Against an automaton, it just looked tickled.

It took the both of them putting up their strongest shields to stop the oncoming onslaught of Greek fire. Their next plan was to flank it, using apparition. They both zapped to the opposing walls of the high-ceiling, vaulted lab, applying a sticking charm to their clothes to avoid falling back down. The automaton stopped its assault at once, and twisted its neck to see both of them. Before it could react, they launched conjured metal chains, seizing its arms. Then they simply summoned the arms.

It didn't budge. The automaton instead extended its arm blades. Ludo had warned them about this. He'd coated them in the Manticore venom. The conjured chains stood no chance. Before either of them could react, the automaton leaped from the ground, and flew up to Ron. Its right arm stabbed Ron through the chest, and Ron fell to the ground, already pale-the blade, coated red.

In that moment, Emily thought Ron had died. She launched a series of her own harrowing curses-even a diminutive fiendfyre. That had been enough to crack the plating, but it jumped towards her regardless. She disapparated to another wall. It lost no sense of step, and immediately pushed off towards her. She cast another spell and disapparated again. This time, it was even faster in coming after her. It had to end.

Rather than disapparating once more, she held her ground, and put up the most powerful shield she could conjure. A second before it would've clashed with the blade, she let go of both the shield and the sticking charm, and started falling. The automaton was too late in realizing what had just happened. The blade stuck where Emily's head had been. And then-she grabbed its leg and disapparated.

As magical skills went, apparition was bloody hard to learn, but once you had the hang of it, it only got easier with time. The main risk was splinching yourself: going one way while leaving a part of your body behind. It was even riskier when you side-alonged-or when you brought someone along with you. You not only had to keep track of your body, but theirs as well. Emily used this to her advantage.

In the temporal realm of apparition, Emily shoved half of the automaton, in a vertical slice, out of her focus, bringing the other half along with her. When they reappeared, Emily was whole, holding onto half the automaton. The other half appeared a second later, spewing blackish blood as it fell. With the soft underportions exposed, she cast a Finite, and with that, both halves quieted.

Wasting no time, she rushed to Ron's side. A series of spells later and she found he was still alive, but barely. Manticore venom was insidious. It burned the inside organs, melting them into slush. Were it just a scratch or even the full stab, without the poison, she was confident in her own abilities to heal him. As it was, she had to take him to St Mungo's. The mediwitches put him in a magical coma at once, and removed the venom. From there, it was a long week of life support and regrowing his organs. By the time they left the hospital, they had spent all of Ludo's payment.

"Don't tell me we have to fight another automaton," Emily said, her voice lowering into a tiny growl.

Ron threw his hands up. "Believe me, if I never have to see one again I'll be happy. No, apparently Griphook got word of us taking that thing down."

"How? I mean, I thought Bagman wanted it all hush-hush."

"Bugger all if I know. Goblin magic, no doubt."

Not for the last time, Emily silently cursed Goblins. "So we're to be Goblin enforcers then?" A sick feeling sank in her stomach. It was better than a dead-end career in the Ministry, but not by much.

Ron shrugged. "Apparently, it's an audition. Don't know what it is, though. We're supposed to meet him in a few."

"Shit." Emily leaned forward, swiping some eggs for herself. "You sure it's not a trap, that he actually just wants to break our kneecaps and eat them or something?"

"He's more than capable of doing that without inviting us."

"Shit," Emily said again. "All right." She rubbed her eyes, pushing her glasses up. "You wanna do this?"

"I don't want to keep scrounging around for oddjobs, Em. The twins are right, we need to be part of something if we're gonna be anything in this world."

She nodded. They had talked about it many times over. "All right. All right." She took a deep breath and stood up. "Let's go meet this Griphook, then."