Hermione Granger and the Year Hidden from Hogwarts
Harry Potter Fanfiction
Chapter 22
A/N: Woo, here we are, at Gringotts!
April 25th, 1992
The façade of the building, much like the towers of leaning cauldrons, defied gravity. The Corinthian columns on the building face leaned precariously one way, and then, as if it'd happened during construction, corrected the other way.
It wasn't singularly impressive, but she found the shield interesting, a gold plated number set directly into the marble slabs near the door.
"Fortius Quo Fidelius," Hermione read the motto out loud. "Strength through loyalty?"
"Part of your Latin skills coming through?" Flitwick grinned, and it was the first time that he bore somewhat sharper than normal incisor teeth. She'd know, she was raised by dentists. "Yes, the motto calms and reassures the general population."
She got the implication that there were hidden meanings behind that, and considering what she'd read in the goblin books, she could take a few educated guesses.
Did the general population really believe that after such violent wars that all would be copacetic? Paired with Flitwick's somewhat intimidating, sardonic smile, she wondered if it wasn't more of a rallying call to their fellow goblins.
Inside the building, Hermione's eyes took a moment to adjust, but when they did, she could say that it resembled a typical bank with in-your-face grandeur, like it should encourage people to entrust their money to businesses that earned substantial enough profit margin to face their walls with shiny sheets of granite and chandeliers big enough crush a car.
Lines of tellers lined either side, towering above the patrons behind dark, gleaming podium booths of polished espresso walnut.
She was certain, since goblins were naturally shorter than witches and wizards, that the height difference was purposeful.
Flitwick led her over to an open one as the goblin ignored them, scratching away with his quill until he was finished. Then, he set his writing utensil aside and moved his black, beady eyes to them, giving a disdainful sniff at Flitwick, and then further at her.
"What can I do for you?"
Hermione, already buzzing with nervous energy from all the knowledge of the goblin wars, told from the side of the goblins, already knew they wouldn't like her on principle, so she let Flitwick do the talking, instead pulling the strings of dark earth brown energy around her and guiding them around her ears in case anyone was speaking Gobbledygook. She was excited to try it out, especially since she hadn't been able to switch to her metavision to ensure she'd achieved the correct brown.
"We would like to open an account for Miss Granger here." Flitwick announced.
"Muggle-born?" the goblin replied in a way that said it wasn't actually a question. And why would it be? Her jeans and jumper stood out like a sore thumb compared to the dress she'd spied on the witches and wizards wandering outside. "You would need to sign this paper giving us the authority to—"
Flitwick cleared his throat. "Ah, we'd actually prefer the more extensive paperwork."
Silence fell over the goblin before them as he gave them another assessing glance, this time with more disdain. "I'm afraid we would not—"
"Excuse me, Bloothrope, but I'll take them from here," a voice interrupted.
The goblin before them, Bloothrope, lost his superior attitude, tripping over his feet to explain himself to this newcomer. "But, sir, it's only a Muggle-born and a half-breed that thinks too highly of him—"
"Enough, Bloothrope. I would have eyes in my head as well. It was Miss Granger, and…"
"Flitwick. Filius Flitwick."
"Of course, Miss Granger and Mister Flitwick, I would be having you come with me so we would discuss this delicate matter in private."
Hermione glanced at Flitwick as they followed the surprisingly expedient goblin dressed in a fancy suit. He gave her a reassuring smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Her nervousness ratcheted up, wondering if they'd committed some slight to offend them.
The goblin ushered them inside a small room and closed the door, climbing to his seat behind an overly large desk. He steepled his fingers in front of him, his glassy black eyes impossible to determine which direction he was looking other than forward. "Now, I would believe my colleagues assessment, that you are a Muggle-born and you would be a half-breed."
Flitwick sat taller in his seat. "Maybe not quite half, but I have more than a working knowledge of the goblin customs. We would ask for a blood test to be performed, Mister…"
He sniffed, leaning back in his seat. "No titles such as the bastardized wizarding customs like that. I am Wudrok. And so what? You speak our tongue. That proves little when you demonstrate your ignorance and outsider status in other ways. Now, if you would know my beings' customs so well, why are you requesting a blood test for a Muggle-born?" His eyes shifted, glancing Hermione over in a predatory way as he flashed his teeth. "Would it be that you suspect she's not really Muggle-born?"
Hermione couldn't help herself. "I'm not adopted!"
Both whipped in her direction.
She sighed. "I'm sorry for my outburst. This is—as you can probably tell—very distressing news to—"
"Miss Granger?" Flitwick repeated, his voice a little shriller.
She blinked. "What?"
Before Flitwick could reply, Wudrok sat up in his seat. "I would perform this blood test you speak of, but I would speak with Miss Granger alone."
Flitwick paled. "No, that's unacceptable. I would not agree with—"
"I would have you silenced, half-breed! She can obviously speak for herself," Wudrok interrupted.
Hermione's power shimmered at him talking down to a man she'd grown to admire, not just from their brief conversations together, but from his thoughtful, advanced choice of reading material, the fact that he kept a dozen books on him at all times, just in case, how he'd volunteered to take him under his wing, essentially, and how he'd obviously been judged for his mixed heritage but sought out books to learn about his goblin side despite the less than warm welcome he would've received if what she'd witnessed was any indication.
"I am a minor, and as such, I would be allowed a spokesperson. It is in your very rules, Wudrok," Hermione interjected, her voice firm, her nerves washed away in the face of adversity.
Wudrok snarled. "Ah, I see it now. You would suspect she is of your blood relation and have been teaching her our customs. What's wrong, half-breed? Was it not enough that your parents crossed between species? You also needed to mix in with non-magicals?"
Hermione bristled, her palms heating, and it was all she could do to rein in her temper to prevent igniting the leather upholstery she sat upon. "I'll have you know—"
"Yes," Flitwick interrupted. "Yes, it would be as you say. I made a mistake a while back and would like to know if we are of blood."
Hermione glanced at him sharply but bit back her retort at the quelling, pleading look he shot her.
She realized he was scared.
Wudrok's eyes narrowed into a flinty stare. "And you, Muggle-born. You know our customs so well, surely you would realize that you must perform a ritual to allow a spokesperson in your stead when the patron in question can speak our tongue so well as you."
Suddenly, Hermione realized her snafu. It'd become instinctive to call on energy to protect herself during her training. With all the tension and implications of the bad blood between wizardkind and goblins, she must've kept her hold on the translation spell without realizing, in an effort to gather information on the situation. She cleared her throat. "Surely you must realize that your law saying that any wizard that can speak your tongue would not have a spokesperson is only because most, if any minors, don't take the time to learn Gobbled—err, Goblish," she finished when Wudrok's eyes lit with fire at the insulting name the wizards had termed their language.
"And yet here we are, a minor in my office, claiming to be a Muggle-born, but can speak Goblish and wants a blood ritual performed. They would not call me Wudrok the Wise if I didn't see that something was amiss in this scenario." He gave a shrug as if the matter wasn't too important to him either way, but it contradicted his sharp, pointy-toothed smile. "I intend to find out what you two are hiding. And since we follow the law, and not the color of the law here, it backs me. Either you can swear him in as your spokesperson on all matters Goblish, or you can dig yourself out of this hole. Either way, it would matter little to me."
Hermione's breath rushed out.
Wudrok steepled his fingers once more, as if he'd called checkmate on the dance that'd posed as their conversation. "Make your choice, Miss Granger. My time would be valuable."
Flitwick cleared his throat. "Might I be permitted time to explain the implications of both choices you've presented, Wudrok?"
Luckily, Hermione had long ago learned to quell her need to prove her intelligence, so she kept her expression neutral.
Wudrok nodded. "That would be wise. You may have five minutes."
When he climbed to his feet to leave, Flitwick interjected. "Oh, no, this is your office. Allow us to speak out in the hall."
Wudrok flashed sharp teeth. "I would allow you the courtesy of speaking in private. Do you disdain this courtesy?"
Flitwick shook his head rapidly. "Ah, no, we will discuss in here then."
Wudrok nodded and closed the door behind him.
The second they were alone, Flitwick hopped down from his chair, raising his wand. It shook ominously, glowing dull red. He huffed as he cancelled the spell.
"Was it supposed to do that?" Hermione questioned, feeling the true enormity of the situation with the fraught actions the professor displayed. He'd earned the title of World Champion Dueler once. That was not a personality suited to panicking at the drop of a hat.
"I had hoped…but no, it's not that surprising." Glancing at her after he shook himself from his thoughts, he explained, "It's a spell-blocker. We can't perform magic within here if we're not keyed in to the wards. That means I can't put up a privacy charm."
Hermione wanted to tell him that wasn't entirely true, that at least some magics could be performed within these walls if she'd been talking in Gobble—err, Goblish this whole time, but without the assurance of privacy, she doubted that would be a good idea.
He approached her. "Okay, suffice to say, I don't think he's going to back down on the blood test, even if we try to back out of it at this point. Technically, all people are supposed to have their blood drawn when opening a vault, but they don't enforce that for Muggle-borns because, well…"
She could guess based on the snobbish look the first goblin had given her faded jeans. "No need to explain, professor."
He nodded, looking relieved on that aspect.
"What I don't understand is why we don't just perform the blood test. Isn't that what we wanted?"
Flitwick sat. "I'm afraid of what it might reveal at this point. Why didn't you tell me that you could…?" he trailed off, staring at her pointedly.
She obediently connected the dots, glancing around to see if she could spy any listening devices, but she supposed, with magic, any number of objects could suffice. It could be the very chair she sat on, and she wouldn't know one way or the other.
Unless she switched to her metavision…
Oh, but what if they had "eyes" inside to supplement their ears.
She hated not knowing things. "It was a fairly recent development," she replied neutrally.
Flitwick snorted. "I'll say."
"Professor," she began. "What are you so afraid of being exposed by the blood tests?"
He sighed. "Since you obviously read those goblin books I left you, maybe you picked up on the fact that it's a bad idea to get on a goblin's bad side. They can hold a grudge unlike any other. I'm worried that if you're not a Muggle-born, and your parents never told you of being adopted, that you were placed somewhere in hiding for your own protection. And now, we just might have unwittingly led to the discovery of whatever secret someone went to such lengths to hide. It could've been to hide you from goblins, for all we know. If you're shown as having a blood relation to someone who's slighted them, I'm not sure what they'll do."
Hermione's mouth gaped. "Would they really foist off the repercussions of a parents' actions onto a child?"
He glanced at her. "Think of it this way, Miss Granger. How do they view the interaction when a patron comes to them to commission a goblin-made piece?"
She recited it like rote rehearsal. "To a goblin, the rightful and true master of any object is the maker, not the purchaser. All goblin-made objects are, in goblin eyes, rightfully theirs. They believe that commissioners 'rent' the object from them, and that when they die, the object should return back to the maker. Should the patron wish to pass down the object to their ancestors, each subsequent own must ask permission and purchase the right to borrow it during their lifetime."
"Exactly."
"So you think I'm, what, adopted and in hiding, a relation of someone that slighted a goblin long ago?"
"Godric Gryffindor comes to mind. He famously fought off the team of goblins that Ragnuk the First sent to retrieve when he fell in love with the sword he'd created for him and wanted it back."
Hermione gasped. "But Gryffindor had already purchased it for his lifetime, according to Goblin rules."
Flitwick shrugged. "Bad blood is bad blood. It's not always rational. Wizards haven't always treated them the best, either."
Hermione deflated in her seat. "What if we perform the ritual to accept you as my spokesperson? Would that help?"
"It might, but that is a highly personal ritual. I'm not sure you understand the implications—"
Unable to offer her knowledge before, she did so now. "Of course I do. You would be able to shield me and act as my head for many instances. Essentially, in the eyes of the goblin nation, you would be my guardian."
"Exactly! That is a lot of power to put in someone you don't trust. I would have as much authority as your parents. And conversely, if I did something to upset the goblins, that burden would fall on you to a degree. You heard how they look down on me, calling me half-breed."
"I trust you, professor."
He paused. "Oh." He shook off his surprise. "But you've no reason to—"
"You're a Hogwarts professor, kind, brilliant, and considerate. The fact that it bothers you so much, shows that you are the perfect person for this." She hesitated as a new thought came to her. "Unless you're protesting because you would rather not be—"
"No, not at all, Miss Granger. I just want to make sure you're sure—"
"I am."
"Okay then."
The door opened the second they'd come to an agreement, proving the need for their caution.
"Have you reached a decision?"
Hermione nodded. "I'd like to perform the ritual to accept him as my spokesperson."
