Loyalty
Morrigan's fingers idly traced the rim of her teacup as Mortimer paced back and forth, his face twisted in frustration.
"I don't understand it, chief," Mortimer whined, throwing his hands up dramatically. "Almost all my friends have their own houses by now. *All* of them! And here I am, still stuck in that crumbling Lestrange Manor while everyone else is swimming in gold! It's infuriating!"
Morrigan raised an eyebrow, her expression cool and detached as she sipped her tea. "Perhaps it's the company you keep," she replied calmly, her voice smooth and measured.
Mortimer snorted petulantly, crossing his arms as he glared at her. "The company I keep?" he echoed, scoffing as he resumed his pacing. "What does that even mean? Do you think *that* has anything to do with it?"
Morrigan's gaze remained steady. "I do," she said simply.
Mortimer threw his hands up again, frustration bubbling over as he ranted. "Uncle Monty is hellbent on picking a fight with you and Harry. It's like he has a *death wish* or something, never mind the *destitution* that Flamel is leading us all toward. Why do I always get stuck on the worst fronts."
Mortimer plopped down on the sofa opposite Morrigan in a dramatic fashion befitting a play produced by MystiTech ventures.
"This is just like the battle at Hogwarts," Mortimer whined. "I am once again stuck and left to pick up the broken crockery."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed slightly, her voice even colder than before. "Perhaps it's time you made your choice, Mortimer," she said softly, watching him carefully.
"What is that even supposed to mean?" Mortimer scowled.
Morrigan set her teacup down with a soft clink and met his gaze. "Like Abraxas did," she said, her tone carrying the weight of inevitability.
For a moment, Mortimer just stared at her, the confusion still etched across his face. Then, realization dawned. His skin paled, and he sputtered, taking a step back as if recoiling from the very thought. "You... you can't be serious, This isn't a game, Morrigan." he stammered.
For a split second, a stormy expression passed Morrigan's face before she reigned it in. Then she got up and ominously loomed over the lordling.
"This isn't a game, Mortimer." She said. "And I am not playing."
Mortimer swallowed hard, his mind racing as he tried to process what she was implying. "You mean... you're suggesting that I—"
"House Lestrange is dying. It will die." Morrigan interrupted, her voice cutting through his like a blade. "And its legacy will be left to history books. Books that bored third-year students will cram for the night before their exams and forget immediately after."
Mortimer paused, his mouth half-open as he absorbed the cold truth in her words "Uncle Monty is a problem..."
Morrigan's eyes remained fixed on him. "Then affirm your loyalty," she said firmly, her tone offering no room for argument.
Mortimer looked up at her, his face pale and conflicted. "Is there... is there *any* other way?" he asked weakly, his voice barely a whisper.
But Morrigan's face remained unrelentingly stoic, her silence speaking volumes. She held out her wand expectantly and Mortimer knew what she wanted. He had heard the rumors and seen the aftermath. Mortimer rolled up his sleeve and knelt on the ground.
"My life is yours to command, my lady," Mortimer said and presented his forearm. With frightening strength that belied her appearance, Morrigan gripped his arm and held him still.
"Morsmordre." She whispered, her wand's tip pressing into his forearm, imprinting a magical tattoo onto his skin. Mortimer whined petulantly and tried to yank his arm back in reflex but dared not do anything further than that. Once the mark, had imprinted itself Morrigan released him and Moritmer clutched his arm like a baby.
"Welcome to the new world order, Lord Lestrange," Morrigan said.
Checkmate
Silk webs ruthlessly tore at his skin as Monty Lestrange was hung on a spider's web, bloody and bruised.
"We know Nicholas is planning, Monty," Harry said as he calmly wiped the blood off his hands. "The sooner you tell us, the sooner we can end this and send you home."
Monty grimaced from the pain but still managed to get a laugh through. "You think you are fooling anyone, mudblood?"
He took a few ragged depths and for a brief moment, Harry admired the depth of the man's zeal. But ultimately didn't care. He would be broken. They all did in the end.
"I know you have put that bastard Mortimer on my throne. There is no place for me to call a home anymore." He spat.
"Language, Mr. Lestrange." And he spat at Harry's feet. At Harry's command, a spider chomped on Monty's legs and he roared in agony at that. The spider tore the flesh from his remaining leg. The other had long been "donated" to Nanzi's many-eyed children.
"Still feeling courageous, Mr. Lestrange?" Harry asked. "Again, what is Flamel planning?"
"He has driven circles around you, Petrov," Monty said. "You have no idea of the type of man you have made an enemy of."
Another spider sting, venom mixed with human blood, and Monty let out a pain-filled screech.
"HE IS TRYING TO GET TO BONES!" Monty roared. "SOMETHING TO DO WITH ALCHEMY. I SWEAR I DON'T KNOW!"
"When Mr. Lestrange?" Harry asked, forcing himself to keep his voice calm.
"I DON'T KNOW!" He shrieked. "I don't fucking know you fucking monster!"
Harry affectionately patted the man on the cheek and turned to walk away.
"Wait!" He rasped. "Let me go! I still have money buried! All of it! Take it!"
Harry turned to him, "This gotta be good."
The man desperately rasped an address and Harry jotted it down.
"You- you are going to let me go, right?" Monty asked.
"I thought about that. And no." Harry said, and the man looked at him incredulously. Before he got a chance to protest, a massive shadow loomed over him and chittered viciously.
"Bon Appetit, Nanzi." Harry chuckled and walked away.
A Dud
Any moment now. Nicholas thought as he looked at the Wizengamot proceedings below from the shadows.
Any moment now. His connection rather than another veto would be the breaking news of the night. Soon Minister Bones and the traitor Malfoy would be history. The security establishment, under his wise guidance, would swoop in to restore order. With the full arm of the government establishment, he would drown Harry and Morrigan in sheer numbers alone. The old order which had seen them last the past 5 centuries would be restored. The bloodshed inspired by the muggle French Revolution would be avoided.
Soon, they would control all arms of the state and bring the bolted horse under control. If the push came to shove, foreign aid too could be secured from regimes nervous about the riots in Britain. Nicholas knew foreign aides who would be delighted to help in that matter.
At any moment now, Nicholas thought to himself as his nervous apprehension grew stronger. The explosive was supposed to have been triggered by now.
If that Crabbe screwed up, again…. Nicholas angrily thought to himself. However, nothing happened. Angry politicians shouted at each other as the chief warlock struggled to maintain order. When the time had truly passed by, Nicholas swore up a storm.
He knew his calculations and handiwork; he knew he didn't make mistakes. That Crabbe must have done something. When he was free from here, he would flay that walking landwhale from head to toe. A nagging feeling at the back of his mind kept urging that his former protégé had bested him again.
"No matter, Petrov." Nicholas spat. "That's why you always come prepared with multiple options."
He discreetly took out his wand and whispered a spell. At the other end of the hall, Viktor Epcott stiffened as if he had been stung. Amidst the chaos of the political circus, none noticed Viktor taking out his wand. In the full view of the entire gathering, he lowered it at Bones.
A few of the members shouted at Bones to take guard. Her guard yelled at the senator to stop and fired at him. None of them would be fast enough.
"Avada Kadevra!" Viktor shouted and a green killing curse struck Gloria Bones. She was dead before she fell to the floor. For one absolute second, the hall stood silent before chaos broke out as the mages on either side of the aisle fired spells into the other.
Meeting
Harry glanced around the seemingly empty warehouse, then back at Aberforth. "I thought we agreed to meet alone," he said dryly.
Aberforth snorted softly, a trace of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "I hope you'll forgive me, lad, if I didn't fancy meeting a mage of your power alone without... insurance."
Harry raised an eyebrow, his tone mild but laced with amusement. "And why on Earth would you feel threatened by me?"
"Why on Earth wouldn't anybody feel threatened by you?" Aberforth shot back. He shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Harry. "A firebrand wizard with a legion of followers. Financial backing from the purebloods. And all the rumors point to you partaking in... shall we say, sanguinary delights… A revolutionary…"
Harry's expression darkened, and his voice snapped like a whip. "I'm not here to trade petty barbs with you, Aberforth."
Aberforth sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "Fine, fine. No barbs."
Harry took a step closer, his voice dropping. "Declare yourself. What side are you on?"
Aberforth didn't flinch. He met Harry's gaze squarely, his tone dry but firm. "I stand on the side of stability."
Harry's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Stability?" he echoed, pulling a crumpled note from his coat. "Is that what you call this? Because I know it was you who warned me about the raid on my headquarters."
Aberforth exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face as if suddenly weary. "That was for old favors. Don't read too much into it."
"Then why don't you support me in this fight?" Harry demanded, his voice rising with intensity.
Aberforth paused, his gaze hardening. When he spoke again, his voice was cold, as if the temperature in the room had dropped. "Because I despise revolutionaries," he said. "Albus and Gellert, both of them, thought they were above the so-called petty political intricacies of the lower class. And what did that lead to? A world war with millions dead."
Harry scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "That still doesn't mean people shouldn't have rights. If you were half as smart as your brother, you'd know why people signed up to join Grindelwald en masse in the first place."
Aberforth's reply was blunt, cutting through the air like a blade. "People are stupid in groups, Harry. They need a firm hand to guide them."
Harry's eyes flashed with anger, but he forced a smile as his voice dripped with sarcasm. "You're starting to sound an awful lot like Nicholas."
"I do? I am making sense. If sense aligns with Nicholas Flamel, then I see nothing wrong." Aberforth shrugs.
"Is that so, old man?" Harry said.
"Make peace with Nicholas, Master Petrov," Aberforth says. "Even now, the time for peace talks hasn't slipped by. We can still salvage this and face the goblins."
"The man tried to assassinate me. My girlfriend. He tried to shut down our HQ. He had my people beaten up on the streets and kidnapped." Harry spat. "The man uses executive power like beater uses sticks."
"And you are the one who is trying to undo 1 century of status quo that has brought us precious peace. What do you expect us to do?" Aberforth said. "Need I remind you of the illegal riots and strikes against the government? Who has created a mouthpiece in that Skeeter woman solely dedicated to bad naming us"
"After they trampled on people's rights!" Harry shouted.
"And you who pitted brother against brother. Sister against sister. The entire bureau is leaking like a damned sieve." Aberforth shouted back and Harry glowered at him.
"Arguing here is leading us to nowhere." Aberforth snapped. "Seize him."
Aberforth's escort suddenly grew in number, and they surrounded him. Harry snorted as the men leveled their wands at him.
"I don't want to do this, Agent Petrov. But it's high time you came home and returned to the fold." Aberforth said.
"I have fought in much worse odds. And came out on top." Harry declared.
"No doubt many of us would die," Aberforth said. "But the Bureau is your child. And we all learned at your side."
"What?" Harry asked.
"To hesitate is to die, Agent Petrov." A voice called out from around them and Harry warily took out his wand. "During Unthinkable, we learned when we have an enemy in our sights, to strike mercilessly with the largest weapon at our disposal."
The illusion peeled away to reveal Nicholas walking towards him, wand in hand.
"Nicholas." Harry spat.
"Is that any way to address your master, apprentice?" Nicholas asked and Harry didn't reply. "No matter. We will have plenty of time to talk things over once you are back home."
Nicholas leveled his wand at Harry. "Last chance, Agent Petrov. Surrender. You are outnumbered."
"Blah blah blah and more blah." A voice whispered but everyone felt like it was addressed to them. Nicholas felt goosebumps as he realized who it was.
"Did you spend all these centuries boring people to death to ensure your immortality, alchemist?" The voice said. "Or did you spend it being wrong all the time?"
"Show yourself!" Aberforth demanded and Harry had a shit-eating grin on his face as he nearly vibrated with excitement.
"Because rest assured. He is neither outnumbered nor trapped in here." Shadows formed in the middle of the room and parted away to reveal the pale figure of Morrigan, wand in hand. "You are the one who is trapped."
Before Aberforth could reply, Morrigan shouted "Avada Kadevra!"
The curse flung Aberforth a great distance away from the sheer force of its malevolent will. Curses from all corners flung themselves at him but splashed harmlessly against a blood-red shield. Harry dispelled the shield, and the duo wordlessly got to work. No instructions or sentimental messages were needed. They had run their fingers to the bone running these drills. Muscle memory alone will suffice.
Harry whispered incoherently as darkened claws sprouted from his fingers, row upon row of fangs grew, and his eyes turned glowing red.
Morrigan raised a wand to the roof and whispered, "Nox". The warehouse was immediately plunged into a choking darkness. Several tried to cast Lumos to no effect.
"Remember your training. Init-" The special forces captain attempted to enforce order but to no avail. A sickening sound of flesh being torn from a human body followed the rest of his command. Panic gripped the attackers as they fired random spells in the dark hoping to strike a lucky hit. Pity for them her shields absorbed all the attacks without wavering. Somebody out there was prying apart her dark spell. She got down on one knee and reached out to her Horcrux.
A feeling of cold plunge engulfed her as she entered the spirit realm. The souls of nearby agents were flickers in the ether compared to suppressed light that constantly emitted pulses.
"Gotcha" Morrigan thought as she recognized Nicholas from the chaos of battle. Nearby her, several "orbs" of lighting were snuffed out as Harry hunted like a great white in the deep sea. Each orb going dark was accompanied by a sound of flesh being torn apart. Hearing his men's pitiful cries, Nicholas abandoned caution and worked harder to counter the darkness. Without warning Morrigan struck. So focused was Nicholas on physical danger that he forgot about other forms of warfare.
He initially thought it was Harry attacking his mind with his formidable battle psyche but later realized his error. This was something else as he felt nauseous and wavered. Morrigan meanwhile clawed at his soul with a sickening delight. Raising her arms she chanted,
"FALX!"
The spirit Nicholas's arm was cut, and he howled in pain as his arm in real space rotted. Nicholas felt his heart constrict and he guessed that the enemy was aiming for his heart next. In desperation, Nicholas pulled out a crystal and apparated away. For a moment, there was absolute silence in the room as the darkness faded away and the light returned. Several bodies lay torn about and a bloodied gory Harry stood in the middle.
He smiled at Morrigan in triumph but faltered when she didn't return it.
"We need to talk," Morrigan said and apparated away.
"Like that doesn't sound ominous at all," Harry muttered and followed her.
The Bribe
A whistling sound, a head being burst open, and a body falling. The flies immediately rose around the fresh meat and circled with a hungry frenzy. The sun above was at its peak, shining down mercilessly on the marble mausoleum below.
"All sentries dead. We are free to proceed." Paul said as he pulled the bolt on his sniper and collected the discarded bolt before it fell on the ground. His robotic helm whirred as the lenses zoomed in on seven feel-tall behemoths gathering around an entry point. They placed breaching charges on the door of the mausoleum. The shaped charge blew with a mighty boom and the runes encrusted on the door glowed red as they tried to fight against the damage. The guardians were relentless. A second and a third explosion rocked the area, throwing rubble into the air. Not only the door but the entire area wall was torn down. Sensing his presence was needed, Paul sprinted towards the squad.
A gust of rotten air blew outside, and Michale wrinkled his nose at the corruption. He was skeptical before. But this just proved that the intel was verified. Michael idly ranked their new support higher than the existing one.
The air felt thick and oppressive, and Michael could sense it—the presence of something vile and ancient. "Stay sharp," he muttered through the comms. His voice was distorted by the helm's comms to protect his identity. "We're in their lair now."
David, to his left, checked his weapon and glanced around stoically. "Intel said the vampires are weakened during the day,"
"Even a wounded serpent has one last bite to strike with," Michael said and entered the mausoleum. In all honesty, they should've tried a stealthier approach, but Michael didn't care. The failure of the previous days had heightened his blood lust for abomination blood and screams. He needed to release all this pent-up rage. Moreover, he wanted the vampires to put up a fight and still lose against his onslaught. He wanted to look at the fear in their eyes as he killed them.
The mausoleum's encroaching darkness might have scared the baseline humans with their primitive weapons. But the Guardians units moved without breaking a sweat. Their enhanced night vision supported by target-locking systems pierced the ominous veil with no issue. Soon screams of guttural agony sounded as the sound of footsteps grew large.
"Battle positions," Michael ordered. "Aim for the head and chest."
As if summoned by his command, the stone slabs at the far end of the room shifted. The ground trembled as dozens of rotting zombies, grotesque and malformed, began crawling out of the depths. Flesh hung loose from their bones, eyes glowing with an unholy light. They charged, a writhing mass of undead fury, but the Guardians didn't flinch. Instead, they stood tall, rifles raised, targeting systems locking in.
"Fire," Michael said calmly.
The crypt erupted in light as the Guardians unleashed a volley of precise laser fire. The air sizzled with energy, and the first wave of zombies was reduced to ash and charred remains before they even crossed halfway. But the tide kept coming, more zombies emerging from the darkness like an endless sea of decay.
Behind them, the robotic units stood motionless, awaiting orders.
"Hold until we see the vampires," Michael muttered, eyes scanning the crypt for any sign of their true enemy.
Another roar echoed from the depths—this one guttural and booming. The ground beneath them trembled violently before it exploded outward. A massive figure tore through the earth—a Szlachta, a grotesque monstrosity of bulging muscles, multiple limbs, and grotesque, twisted features.
Michael sadistically grinned beneath his helm. "Robots—engage."
At his command, the robotic units dislodged from their cart forms, transforming into towering humanoid blades, their joints spinning with deadly precision. Without hesitation, they hurled themselves into the zombie horde, slicing through the undead with brutal, mechanical efficiency. Limbs flew as the robots became whirlwinds of cutting steel, dismembering everything in their path.
But the Szlachta, enormous and unyielding, took the brunt of the Guardian's laser fire without stopping. Its thick, unnatural hide absorbed the energy, but it staggered under the onslaught, forced to its knees by the unrelenting barrage. The beast roared again, its anger palpable, but Michael saw its weakness.
"Rocket fire—now!" he ordered.
The Guardians responded instantly, launching rockets from their shoulder-mounted weapons. The projectiles streaked across the crypt, slamming into the Szlachta with explosive force. Its hide finally gave way, and the monster bellowed in agony, dropping to all fours as its body was torn apart by the detonations.
Michael stepped forward, power sword drawn, its blade glowing red-hot with molten energy. With a single, swift strike, he brought the sword down, beheading the Szlachta in one clean motion. Its massive head hit the ground with a sickening thud, and the beast's body collapsed, twitching as the last vestiges of life fled from it.
"Most impressive specimen you boys are." A sickly old voice said from the shadows. "Coming in uninvited, killing all my guests. I will pry your secrets from your blood before the night is over."
The remaining zombies faltered, but the vampires—the true masters of this crypt—finally revealed themselves.
They appeared from the shadows, pale and deadly, their eyes wide with disbelief. They had expected an easy victory, not this relentless, terrifying assault. Their magic, dark and twisted, surged toward the Guardians in the form of blood-red mists, attempting to sap their strength. But the Guardians were undeterred, their armor and augments protecting them from the worst of the attack.
"Vortex grenades," Michale ordered and several grenades went out and blew up.
One vampire, tall and gaunt with aristocratic features, sneered as he stepped forward, his fangs bared. "Is this all?" he goaded, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think your weapons can—"
He faltered. The smirk disappeared as he realized that his magic was faltering, that no spell could take hold. Fear flickered in his eyes for the first time.
"W-what are you?" He gasped.
Michael smiled coldly beneath his helm, his voice low and menacing. "Judgment."
The Guardians advanced with terrifying precision, power swords blazing as they cut through the vampires with ease. The monsters, once the apex predators of the night, were now little more than prey. Their shadows, their illusions, their magic—all gone, leaving them vulnerable. As the Guardians closed in, fear overtook the vampires.
"What wars in existence are there that require your existence?" The older vampire muttered in horror and tried to flee.
Unfortunately for him, Michael was faster. His sword flashed in the dim light, and the vampire's head rolled across the floor. The rest of the coven fell quickly after, cut down by the unstoppable force that was the Guardian unit.
In a silent whisper, Michael spat, "This is for my parents you filth."
The last of the Giovannis that avoided Morrigan and Harry's wrath had been wiped clean.
The Enemy of My Enemy
Michael shifted in his seat, his own imposing frame nearly dwarfing the chair built for normal men. His armored body hummed with hidden power, his genetic enhancements and cybernetic implants making him not just a man, but something far beyond. He smirked, watching the goblins' barely concealed fear with a sense of satisfaction.
Let these wretches envy, he thought.
Let them covet the perfect form they could never attain. Goblins, like the mages he despised, had chosen to wield blasphemous magic. Instead of embracing the purity of science and the might of human ingenuity, they clung to arcane and forbidden practices. Still, they had their uses.
Michael looked across the table to look at his guest.
King Grimmaw, the High King of the Goblins for the British Isles, reclined in his seat, a throne-like construct built from what looked like dark iron and bones. His grotesque appearance was something out of nightmare: leathery skin covered in scars and pockmarks, tiny bloodshot eyes gleaming beneath a pronounced brow, and a mouth full of sharp, shark-like teeth that stretched in a hideous grin. Rows upon rows of those blackened teeth gleamed, and it took every ounce of Michael's control not to recoil at the demonic visage before him.
The AI in his mind fed him detailed information about the goblin leader's state of mind, overlaying readings and metrics that highlighted the goblin's body language. "60% fear," the voice chimed, cold and mechanical in his thoughts. "20% curiosity, 10% admiration, and 10% envy." The rest of the council seated behind Grimmaw mirrored the sentiment, their grotesque forms fidgeting uneasily as they glanced at the towering figure of Michael.
Grimmaw cleared his throat, his voice gravelly and low, sounding as though it had been dragged through centuries of dust and dirt. "Knight Michael," the goblin king began, inclining his head slightly. "I congratulate you on your splendid victory over the blood leeches of the Giovanni. Their screams reached even the deepest corners of our underground halls. It was a display of might, strategy, and… impeccable knowledge. Truly, you are a conqueror among men."
Michael inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, though the compliment did little to stir him. "I find it... reassuring," he replied, voice clipped and polite, "that your majesty approves."
The pleasantries, as expected, didn't last long. They were simply posturing—Michael knew that. Goblins, especially their leaders, never engaged in polite conversation unless there was something they wanted. And sure enough, Grimmaw's toothy grin widened, and the tone of the meeting quickly shifted from flattery to negotiation.
"You must understand, Knight Michael," Grimmaw said, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with cunning. "We goblins have long suffered under the shadow of magekind. Their arrogance knows no bounds. For centuries, we've plotted and schemed, awaiting the right moment to strike. But the rise of Grindelwald… his aggression has forced our hand. We must act sooner than we planned. The madman threatens to consume us all."
Michael listened, his fingers tapping absently against the metal surface of the table. The goblin was posturing, but the content of his words was intriguing.
"We understand your crusade," Grimmaw continued. "Against the witches, the wizards… the sorcerers. Their corruption festers in every corner of the world. Our goals align, do they not? We seek the destruction of magekind as much as you do. We are ready to revolt and bring about the final end of magekind."
Michael leaned back in his chair, an exaggerated look of contemplation crossing his features. His fingers drummed lazily on the armrest of his chair. Then, with a sardonic tilt of his head, he replied, "Grindelwald, is it? History's favorite madman. I do hope you don't think I'm unfamiliar with mage history, Your Majesty." His voice dripped with mockery, the words cutting sharp as a knife. "And speaking of history—how many goblin revolts have there been now? Three? Each more disastrous than the last."
Grimmaw's yellow eyes widened with indignation, the goblin's sharp teeth clenching together, as Michael continued, not giving him a chance to respond. "What exactly could your kind offer this time around?" Michael's smirk deepened, his cold eyes locking with Grimmaw's. "The first three revolts ended in flames, didn't they? Goblins scattered, your cities razed. The last time, if I remember correctly, you were begging for peace terms from the very wizards you sought to overthrow."
He laughed, "And after the last one, they forced you underground, no? To fester in the sewers and much of the Earth. Never to breathe fresh air or to cherish nature's bounty."
The goblin king sputtered, his face flushed with fury. "We have learned from our mistakes, Knight Michael," Grimmaw hissed, his clawed hands trembling slightly as he fought to keep his composure. "Those failures were due to treachery, to wizard trickery— but now their economy is in our vice grip!"
Michael's smile deepened into something more sinister, the predatory gleam returning to his eyes. "If you truly have such control, Grimmaw," he said slowly, "then tell me—why have the Goblins been accepting gold from Nicholas Flamel instead of setting the mage economy ablaze?"
Grimmaw's reptilian eyes widened, the pale skin beneath his sharp teeth betraying a flicker of shock. His gnarled fingers twitched, and Michael could see the goblin king struggling to maintain composure. He took a small breath, but before he could speak, Michael cut him off.
"This is the secondtime your leadership has tried to deceive me," Michael growled, his voice laced with venom. "Do you take me for a fool? If this is how our alliance proceeds, I shudder to think what will happen when the fighting begins in earnest."
Grimmaw's eyes darted downward, his sharp grin fading into a strained expression of forced humility. The goblin king bowed his head low, a gesture as much to flatter Michael as it was to buy himself time. "Knight Michael," he began, his tone laced with forced respect, "you are as wise as you are powerful. We have not sought to deceive you—far from it. We accept Flamel's gold preciselybecause we know his secrets, and in knowing them, we bide our time."
Michael leaned back, folding his arms across his immense chest, watching Grimmaw squirm. "Go on," he said coldly, though the glint of intrigue danced behind his eyes.
Grimmaw straightened slightly, gathering his courage before continuing. "Flamel, for all his supposed wisdom, has been buying our silence for years. He knows that without the goblins, his influence over the wizarding world would crumble. He bribes us to not crash the economy. He uses his supposed influence over us to establish a power base in magical Britain. If Nicholas is harmed, then Goblins takeover. Or so the popular rumors go."
Grimmaw leaned forward, "And we… well, we know that the gold he offers doesn't come from the vaults of Gringotts. It comes from thin air, conjured by his alchemical arts. But more than that… we know how he does it."
Michael raised an eyebrow, feigning casual indifference, though Grimmaw could see the growing interest behind the knight's sharp gaze. "And how does he do it?" Michael asked, his voice dark and pressing.
Grimmaw allowed himself a thin, dangerous smile. "The Philosopher's Stone."
Michael's eyes flickered with recognition but no surprise. "So, the legends are true."
"In a manner of speaking," Grimmaw replied, his voice growing more confident now that he was on solid ground. "The stone allows him to transmute base metals into gold, but the legends are wrong about one thing—it is not eternal. The stone is a vessel, not an endless font of power. It must be recharged, and Flamel no longer possesses the means to do so."
"Recharged?" Michael repeated, a tinge of curiosity creeping into his voice. "How?"
Grimmaw's grin widened, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth. "That, Knight Michael, is a secret only the goblins know. Flamel is desperate. He clings to his immortality by draining the stone's power, but without the proper rituals and resources, he cannot restore it. And every ounce of gold he creates brings him one step closer to his demise."
Michael let out a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes narrowing as he processed the revelation. "And you know all of this because…?"
Grimmaw bowed his head again, his voice dripping with oily deference. "Because, Knight Michael, the goblins have long been the stewards of magic's most dangerous secrets. We are the keepers of vaults, the masters of hidden knowledge. Flamel may think himself untouchable, but he has always relied on us to safeguard his treasures. His arrogance blinds him to the fact that we see everything."
"If you are so powerful, oh mighty Grimmaw, go ahead and lay siege to Diagon Alley right now. Whatever could a pitiful muggle like me do for you?" Michael asked.
"We could do that," Grimmaw said. "We could lay waste to Diagon Alley, to the very heart of wizarding society. But we would need something… more." He leaned forward, his sharp teeth glinting under the dim light. "We would need your help, Knight Michael."
Michael raised an eyebrow, though the smirk never left his face. "Is that so?"
Grimmaw nodded slowly. "The mages have grown stronger under the likes of Petrov and his ilk. He tries to move against the inertia of stagnation but he won't succeed. Alone, we goblins would be forced into another bloody conflict, one that would cost both sides dearly." His grin widened again, the predatory edge returning. "But with yourmachines, your technology, and our knowledge of warcraft—together, we could bring the wizarding world to its knees."
"Pray tell what I get in return?" Michael said. "Aside from you inducing financial collapse? I do hope you have more to offer than graphs showing downward trends."
"We also have allies," Grimmaw began, his voice low and conspiratorial, "hidden in plain sight—silent, unnoticed, and far more powerful than the mages realize. You see, these wizards and witches have grown decadent. They no longer dirty their hands with the labors of their own survival. Instead, they rely on ancient powers, forces whose history and true nature they can't even begin to comprehend. They take for granted what sustains them, unaware of the price to be paid."
He leaned forward slightly, his sharp grin widening. "For too long, the mages have been cashing in on this arrangement. But the time has come for them to reap their dividends. The ones they so ignorantly trust… they are notas loyal as they might think. And they will provide us—you—with the intelligence you need to strike at the heart of wizarding Britain, where it hurts most."
Michael tilted his head slightly, intrigued but suspicious. "Spies, then? You've infiltrated their government?"
Grimmaw chuckled darkly, his sharp teeth glistening in the dim light. "More than just spies, Knight Michael. Sympathizers, agents, even high-ranking officials who see the benefit of a new order. They feed us information on key targets—those you can exploit, eliminate, or manipulate to your advantage. The mages may be growing stronger, but their foundation is crumbling beneath them. All it takes is a well-placed push... and the whole tower will fall. And that tower will fall quicker if your forces strike at their leadership from the shadows. Meanwhile the Goblin kingdoms will move in to engage their main forces."
"And what do you really need?" Michael said.
"A titan. A giant made from the synergy of muggle metallurgy and goblin runecraft. A perfect weapon to strike terror in mages." Grimmaw said and handed a bunch of scrolls to Michael.
The Supplicant
Foolish, arrogant knight," he muttered under his breath, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light.
As he reached the bottom, the air grew colder, and the flickering torches cast elongated shadows against the polished marble walls. A series of secret portals opened before him, each one leading deeper into the heart of the goblin kingdom. Grimmaw pushed past the guards with a scowl, ignoring their nervous glances. "Get out of my way!" he snapped, his voice reverberating in the cavernous hall.
Once alone in the cold chamber, he stopped before an imposing structure: a replica of the Gates of Ahriman, painstakingly reconstructed from the shards stolen during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. The intricate carvings glimmered faintly, and around the gate, various runemasters and void engineers worked, their chants filling the air with a low hum.
"Enough!" Grimmaw barked, his patience fraying. "Leave me!"
The workers scrambled away, their eyes wide with fear. As the last of them disappeared, Grimmaw fell to his knees before the gate. "Mighty Amonet," he began, his voice steady despite the tumult within. "Your humble servant is here. I beseech you for an audience."
A moment of silence passed, heavy and thick, before a mighty flaming eye erupted in the arch of the gate. It opened slowly, locking onto Grimmaw with a gaze that pierced his very soul. The world around him shimmered and faded, transforming into a resplendent garden filled with vibrant blooms and an otherworldly glow. He gasped, momentarily awed.
Above him, the singular eye pulsed with colors beyond comprehension, radiating emotions that surged through Grimmaw. Confusion, urgency, and an overwhelming sense of power flooded him, leaving him breathless. He understood the being above demanded a status report.
"Great Amonet," he spoke, forcing himself to maintain eye contact, "we have finally embarked on the last step to prepare a vessel for your mighty presence in the mortal realm." He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her gaze. "Soon, we will have it. With the keys, we shall free you from the outer darkness."
The eye seemed to narrow, the colors shifting to a deep crimson. Grimmaw felt the pressure of her gaze intensify, and he quickly added, "Do not forget the role of goblin-kind in this endeavor. We have sacrificed much, and we will continue to do so for your return."
In response, the eye pulsed with a fierce light, and he sensed an acknowledgment, though the complexity of her emotions was beyond the grasp of mortal tongues. A promise? A warning? Grimmaw couldn't tell, but he felt a renewed vigor swell within him.
"Thank you, great Amonet," he breathed, bowing his head. "We will not fail you." As the vision of the garden began to fade, Grimmaw remained kneeling, determination coursing through him. The time was near, and he would ensure that goblin-kind would rise with her, their rightful place in the world reclaimed.
Fin.
Author Notes: Read and Review!