[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 506 - 510

Chapter 506

"Lily, it's really you."

Before Harry could find his voice, Sirius stepped forward, his voice thick with emotion as he gazed at the familiar red-haired witch. His heart pounded with a mix of joy and guilt, and he couldn’t help but take a few eager steps toward her. But then, he hesitated, his face clouding with worry and regret.

Because of him, Lily and James had died tragically. The weight of that guilt was something he had carried for years.

"Mom." Harry's voice was soft, hesitant. The word felt foreign on his tongue, yet it was a name he had long dreamed of saying.

For reasons he couldn't fully comprehend, a part of him recoiled from calling her "mom." It stirred something dark and uneasy deep within him. But beneath that discomfort, there was an undeniable yearning—a longing he could neither ignore nor understand.

The contradiction left him confused and unsettled.

"Harry!"

Lily’s voice trembled with emotion at the sound of his hesitant call. Her eyes glistened with tears as she moved toward him, unable to resist the overwhelming pull of maternal love. In an instant, she had him in her arms, clutching him tightly.

"Harry, Harry, my son... I’m so sorry."

Her voice, thick with sorrow and relief, broke the barriers Harry had carefully constructed over the years. His usually indifferent expression crumbled, and his eyes reddened as suppressed emotions surged to the surface.

The memories of Voldemort’s influence, the weight of pain and isolation, were momentarily drowned out by the warmth of his mother’s embrace.

He hugged her back fiercely, saying nothing, simply holding on and savoring the warmth of that fleeting, fragile moment.

This was his mother—the mother who had died protecting him, the mother he had never truly known. And now, for the first time in his life, he felt what it was like to be held by her.

In that moment, Harry’s most primal instincts, stirred by the sudden surge of familial love, took over. The cold detachment born from Voldemort's lingering presence within him began to dissolve, leaving behind a flicker of tenderness amidst the indifference.

Vera, observing from the side, couldn’t help but notice the subtle transformation in Harry’s demeanor. Her eyes brightened involuntarily.

Sirius, watching the tender reunion, quietly took a few steps back, giving mother and son the space they needed.

Lockhart, meanwhile, observed Harry with keen interest, his golden eyes gleaming with curiosity and admiration.

Harry was like a masterpiece—an unintentional miracle. The soul Lockhart had once deemed perfect had just evolved even further.

Truly, he was the child of destiny in this world.

Whether it was the love of the magical world itself or the intricate threads of fate weaving around him, there was no doubt in Lockhart’s mind—Harry was becoming more and more intriguing.

For the Dream of the World, Harry was more attuned than even Wanda Maximoff had been. Especially now, in a reality seamlessly intertwined with Harry’s own life, no one was more suited to wield the power of dreams than him.

Lockhart’s eyes flickered toward Snape, who stood hesitating nearby. An idea surfaced. Should he extend Harry another offer, perhaps with the promise of another resurrection?

But... would that be unfair to Snape?

Snape stood stiffly, his usually composed demeanor shattered. His hands clenched at his sides, damp with sweat. He wrestled with himself, unsure of what to say.

What should his first words be?

Should he offer congratulations?
Apologize for the past?
Simply say he was sorry?

His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. The complexities of his emotions were so profound that even Dumbledore might have struggled to untangle them.

He wanted to step forward, to speak to Lily, but watching the embrace between mother and son froze him in place. The weight of his own regrets and unspoken feelings anchored him where he stood.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lily lifted her head from Harry’s shoulder, her teary eyes scanning the room. She found Sirius and McGonagall standing nearby, their faces filled with warmth and relief.

"Sirius, Professor McGonagall," Lily said softly, her voice still thick with emotion, "thank you for taking care of Harry for me."

She turned her gaze, her emerald eyes locking onto Snape.

"And... Snape," she added, her voice trembling slightly, "thank you."

Her words were simple, but they carried a depth of emotion that struck Snape like a blow to the chest. He felt the sting of tears prick his eyes, and he quickly turned away, wiping them hastily.

"It’s nothing," he managed, his voice rough with emotion. "It’s what I should’ve done."

At that moment, Snape looked less like the stern, calculating Potions Master and more like a vulnerable child, unsure and exposed.

Lockhart, observing the awkward tension between them, couldn’t help but interject, his tone light and teasing.

"Lily," he said, flashing a mischievous grin, "you wouldn’t believe the lengths Snape went to for your resurrection. He even used himself as an experimental subject. I’ve never seen him so dedicated."

Snape shot Lockhart a sharp glare, but the words had already broken the fragile tension in the room.

Lily’s expression softened further, and she repeated, "Thank you, Snape. Truly."

She hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words, and then added, "Thank you for looking after Harry all these years."

A strange look crossed McGonagall’s face at that. She clearly remembered Snape’s treatment of Harry over the years, and it hadn’t exactly been nurturing. She exchanged a glance with Sirius, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Snape’s face flushed with embarrassment, a flicker of guilt crossing his features as he recalled his own bitterness and hostility toward Harry at Hogwarts.

Lily noticed the odd expressions, and realization began to dawn. After all, she had been in Harry’s body long enough to grasp the strained relationship between him and Snape.

But she also sensed something else—beneath Snape’s cold exterior and harsh methods, there had been a protective instinct. It had been unorthodox, perhaps even cruel at times, but he had shielded Harry from the worst of Voldemort’s wrath in his own way.

"This... is what I should have done," Snape stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, before falling silent.

Lockhart couldn’t help but chuckle softly, rubbing his forehead in amusement.

Where was the Snape who could verbally eviscerate a unicorn with his sharp tongue? All that remained here was a man hopelessly entangled in his first love, awkward and unsure.

Remy and Vera watched the scene unfold with fascination. They had never seen the famously stern Professor Snape so completely out of his element.

Vera, ever the opportunist, subtly activated the magical recording ring in her hand, capturing the rare vulnerability in Snape’s expression. This was a moment worth preserving.

Lockhart caught the movement but made no effort to stop her. After all, the Kamar-Taj secret space was enveloped in the dream world. Anything that happened here could be reproduced with perfect clarity—paused, replayed, even altered at will.

But that wasn’t the most important thing right now.

"Lily," Lockhart said, his tone turning serious, "you’ve just been resurrected. Most of your soul is currently sustained by the power of pure dreams."

His golden eyes met hers, his voice gentle but firm.

"I don’t recommend leaving Kamar-Taj in the near future. You’ll need to master some degree of dream energy to stabilize your existence in reality and further strengthen your soul."

Lily’s expression grew cautious at his words, but she nodded in understanding.

"Thank you, Lockhart," she said quietly. "I’ll rely on your guidance for now."

Lockhart smiled, then shifted his gaze to Harry.

"Harry," he said smoothly, "would you like to stay at Kamar-Taj for a few days to spend time with your mother?"

He waved off any immediate concerns. "Don’t worry about your Hogwarts courses. You can attend Kamar-Taj’s classes temporarily—we’ll ensure you don’t fall behind."

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed slightly. She could hear the subtle manipulation in Lockhart’s words. But as she looked between Lily and Harry, she hesitated.

Before Harry could respond, McGonagall spoke firmly.

"Indeed, you should stay," she said, her tone light but resolute. "Lily has just returned. You both deserve time together to make up for the years you’ve lost."

She smiled sweetly, but her eyes gleamed with determination. "And I, for one, am very curious about Kamar-Taj’s teaching methods. I’ll accompany you both."

She praised herself inwardly for her cleverness. If she couldn’t prevent Harry from staying, she’d ensure he wasn’t left entirely in Lockhart’s hands.

No matter what, she wouldn’t let Albus’s beloved Harry be snatched away.

Lily seemed thoughtful at McGonagall’s offer. Harry, on the other hand, nodded slowly, his voice soft and unsure.

"Alright," he whispered. "I’ll stay for a few days, Professor."

But deep down, something twisted in his chest. A subtle instinct to run, to escape, gnawed at him—a lingering residue from Tom Riddle, whispering from the shadows of his mind.

Morning, Malfoy Manor – The Study

Unlike the adult Dark Lord Voldemort, the young Tom Riddle preferred the sun.

Standing at the edge of the study, Tom basked in the gentle warmth streaming through the tall windows, his pale face illuminated by the light. The golden rays danced across the room, casting long shadows against the dark wooden floor.

It was strange—when he had been at Hogwarts, he detested the sun. But that had changed during his imprisonment in the Horcrux.

To be precise, it had changed after Lockhart had trapped him there, conducting endless experiments in perpetual darkness. The absence of light had left him yearning for freedom, for warmth, for the sun.

But his aversion wasn’t only to the darkness—it was to Lockhart himself.

Fear. Disgust. Resentment.

All of it simmered beneath his calm exterior.

"Did you feel it?"

The voice broke through the stillness of the room.

Tom’s eyes remained closed as he let the sunlight caress his face, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He didn’t need to turn around to know who had spoken.

Behind him, Voldemort lounged lazily on a velvet sofa, twirling his yew wand between his fingers, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. The question hung in the air, its weight unmistakable.

"You mean the disappearance of another Horcrux?" Tom replied, his tone light, almost indifferent.

But they both knew there was nothing casual about it.

Voldemort set the wand down, his expression darkening with a flicker of dissatisfaction. "You know what I mean." His voice was low, dangerous. "If we are to cooperate, there must be sincerity. Transparency."

Tom finally opened his eyes and turned, his sharp features reflecting the same cool composure as Voldemort's. "And how do you propose we handle this sudden... development?"

Voldemort's gaze narrowed. "Do you intend to create another Horcrux? Perhaps... another brother?"

Tom chuckled softly, stepping forward to lean against the ornate desk. "Why not?" he mused. "If we can unite, Lockhart and Dumbledore will no longer be obstacles."

A new possibility shimmered before them, tantalizing and dangerous.

"But..." Tom’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing slightly. "The connection feels... weak. Intermittent. And different from our essence."

Voldemort's eyes glinted with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. "What did you find?"

Tom shook his head, a rare sign of uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I don't know."

Voldemort's fingers drummed against the armrest of the sofa, his mind racing. "I can't tell if it’s true resurrection… or if the Horcrux has simply fractured."

He scoffed bitterly, his frustration palpable. "Resurrection isn’t so simple. You know that better than anyone."

Tom fell silent, the weight of Voldemort’s words settling over them both. He knew firsthand the price of resurrection. His freedom had been the cost.

But he had found a way.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Tom shifted the conversation. "The situation at Gringotts is nearing its climax. Although the news hasn't spread completely, there's already unrest."

A sly smile crept across his face. "I have people ready to move within two days."

Voldemort arched an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

"Durmstrang has been secured," Tom added, his voice calm and assured. "Now, it’s your turn. What will you choose?"

Tom’s question hung in the air, but Voldemort’s mind was already made up.

"I’m going to Beauxbatons," Voldemort declared, his tone final, leaving no room for argument.

Tom inclined his head slightly, accepting the decision.

After the heist at Gringotts, resources were no longer a concern—for now. But their next steps were crucial. Voldemort needed a place where he could continue his experiments, free from prying eyes.

The UK was no longer viable. The Ministry of Magic was too entrenched, and Dumbledore’s influence loomed large. Even with Grindelwald having fled to America, Europe was a dangerous yet fertile ground for their ambitions.

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with malice. He knew Grindelwald wouldn’t concern himself with them, not while Dumbledore and Turing, the Goblin King, kept him occupied.

For now, their path was clear.

The Burrow – Kitchen

Snapped!

The Daily Prophet landed heavily on the Weasleys' modest kitchen table, the pages fluttering as Molly Weasley slapped it down with a scowl.

Across the front page, sensational headlines flashed in bold, enchanted lettering, shifting and shimmering to catch the reader’s eye:

"Gringotts Overrun! Dark Wizards Seize Vaults!"
"Wizarding Wealth Vanishes from Goblin Hands!"
"Can the Ministry Recover What Was Lost?"

Molly’s face was tight with frustration, her knuckles white as she gripped the newspaper.

"Arthur," she said, her voice thick with disbelief, "our Galleons... I was planning to take the whole family on a trip to the ancient East during the holidays."

She sighed heavily, her heart sinking. "Now everything’s ruined. Everything will be ruined."

Arthur Weasley, seated comfortably on the sofa with another section of the newspaper, looked up with a weary smile. "Molly, how many Galleons do we actually have in that vault?"

His attempt to lighten the mood fell flat as Molly shot him a sharp glare.

Arthur sighed and set his paper down. "It’s alright. When my salary comes in next month, we’ll just keep it somewhere safer. Maybe even in our own deposit box."

Saving had never been a strong suit for the Weasleys. Most of the time, any money they had was spent on family, adventures, and cherished experiences. Their trip to Egypt after winning the lottery was a perfect example—it had been worth every Knut.

But Molly wasn’t convinced.

"Are you sure you’ll get your salary?" she asked, her tone dark with worry.

Arthur’s smile faded. She had a point.

The Ministry of Magic’s salaries were processed through Gringotts. If the bank was compromised, so were their wages. The thought sent a chill down Arthur’s spine.

Suddenly—

Boom!

A loud thud echoed from the window, snapping them both out of their thoughts. An owl, clearly in a hurry, had slammed into the glass, hooting indignantly.

Molly hurried to open the window, gently coaxing the owl inside. She placed a small dish of food on the counter before retrieving the envelope tied to its leg.

As she read, her eyes widened with disbelief.

Arthur, curious, leaned over her shoulder. His eyes scanned the parchment, and his expression darkened as he read:

"In-Depth Cooperation Between Kamar-Taj and Gringotts!"
"In the Interest of Protecting Wizarding Wealth, Kamar-Taj Proposes a Comprehensive Compensation Plan!"
"The Ministry of Magic Endorses the Partnership, Insisting Gringotts Take Full Responsibility for the Losses!"

Arthur stared at the words, stunned. The style of the article felt... familiar.

It read eerily like something from the Muggle newspapers he admired.

As the head of the Department for the Prohibition of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, Arthur knew more about the Muggle world than most wizards. He recognized the subtle political maneuvering behind the article.

Gringotts was in serious trouble.

And Kamar-Taj was poised to be the first force to step in and capitalize on the chaos.

Arthur snatched the newspaper from Molly’s hands, flipping through the pages as his brow furrowed deeper.

"Gringotts Sincerely Apologizes for the Losses Suffered by Wizards."
"Kamar-Taj Expresses Support for Full Compensation to Affected Wizards, Ensuring Stability in the Wizarding World."

Chapter 507

Morning, Gringotts – Diagon Alley

"Let me in! I demand to be let in first!"
"Give me back my Galleons! You thieves!"
"The sound is deafening!"
"Damn goblins! If the Pravis family doesn’t get an explanation today, I swear I’ll tear Gringotts apart!"

Outside the ancient stone gates of Gringotts, a sea of wizards surged, their voices rising in a chaotic chorus of fury and desperation. The usually bustling Diagon Alley was now a boiling pot of outrage. The air crackled with tension, curses flying like sparks from angry lips, ricocheting off the cobblestone streets.

The crowd pressed forward, their frustration palpable, as their dreams and savings hung in the balance. Years—decades—of hard-earned Galleons, trusted to Gringotts, the safest place in the wizarding world... now gone.

The betrayal stung like salt in an open wound.

A line of Aurors stood at the forefront, their wands raised, scanning the crowd with wary eyes. They could feel it—the fragile line between order and chaos teetering on the edge. If not for their vigilant presence, more impulsive wizards might have already blasted the doors open with spells of their own.

Luckily—or perhaps unluckily—no goblins had dared to show themselves outside the vault's fortified walls. If they had, they’d have risked more than just angry words. The wizards’ patience was wearing thin, and tempers were as volatile as unstable potions.

They had trusted Gringotts. They had believed in its unbreakable security.

And now that trust was shattered.

Despite newspapers insisting that Gringotts would compensate everyone for their losses, no one truly believed it. Compensation? Perhaps. But would it match the weight of the Galleons they had lost?

Hardly.

Many suspected that whatever compensation did come would be swept up by the pure-blood families—those with power and influence. Ordinary wizards, the backbone of the magical community, would be left with crumbs.

Their frustration simmered dangerously.

And then—

Click! Click! Click!

The crowd hushed, their heads whipping toward the sound as the heavy doors of Gringotts creaked open.

Two figures emerged.

One tall, one short.

For a heartbeat, the wizards stood frozen, their anger momentarily replaced by stunned disbelief. They rubbed their eyes, as if they couldn’t trust what they were seeing.

Gilderoy Lockhart.

And beside him, a goblin cloaked in regal purple.

The stunned silence shattered as recognition set in.

"Gilderoy Lockhart?! What’s going on?!"
"Professor Lockhart!"
"The Principal of Kamar-Taj?! Why are you standing with a goblin?"
"I knew it! These pure-blood wizards and Gringotts have been in cahoots all along!"
"Traitors! All of them!"

The initial surprise gave way to a renewed, even more venomous wave of outrage. Angry curses and accusations erupted like wildfire, their targets shifting from goblins to Lockhart and Kamar-Taj.

But Lockhart?

He merely smiled—calm, composed, and utterly unfazed by the verbal barrage.

Nothing leaves a stronger impression than being proven wrong, he mused silently. Whether by words or actions, the outcome was always the same.

"The sound is deafening!" someone shouted again, echoing the growing unrest.

"Principal Lockhart! Why are you standing with these thieves? You owe us an explanation!"
"Did you steal our Galleons, too?!"
"Just like the pure-bloods—using your power to exploit us!"

The crowd surged forward, their fury palpable, the atmosphere primed to explode. The Aurors tightened their grips on their wands, beads of sweat trickling down their temples as they prepared for the inevitable.

Even the Aurors felt a twinge of resentment toward Lockhart. The situation was bad enough without someone of his fame stepping in and standing shoulder to shoulder with the goblins.

Why doesn’t he say something? they wondered, feeling the pressure mount.

But Lockhart remained still, his smile unfaltering.

And then—

Cough! Cough! Cough!

The sound was light, almost casual, yet it cut through the crowd like a blade. It echoed in every wizard’s ear as though someone had coughed right beside them, a strange, invasive sensation.

But it wasn’t just the sound.

It carried power.

An invisible force seemed to seep into their bones, draining the heat of their anger and replacing it with a chilling calm. A wave of powerlessness washed over the crowd, leaving them uneasy and hollow.

For some, especially the darker wizards in attendance, it evoked a memory they’d hoped to forget.

Azkaban.

The feeling was eerily similar to the despair that came from being near a Deheadmaster—that soul-sucking, hopeless void that stripped away all joy.

The crowd fell silent.

Every eye locked on Lockhart, the reality of who they were facing sinking in.

He wasn’t just a charming face or a famous author.

He was the Principal of Kamar-Taj. A wizard powerful enough to stand toe-to-toe with both Dumbledore and Voldemort.

And he was not to be trifled with.

"I know everyone is anxious," Lockhart began, his voice smooth and familiar, the same gentle tone that had once charmed readers and students alike. But now, it carried the weight of authority—undeniable and absolute.

"Today, I’m here to put your worries to rest."

With that, he patted the shoulder of the goblin standing beside him, who remained stoic despite the hostile stares.

"This," Lockhart continued, "is Harmon, the Grand Elder of Gringotts Goblins."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, mingled with skepticism and curiosity.

"Kamar-Taj, Hogwarts, and the Ministry of Magic were all deeply shocked by the events at Gringotts," Lockhart continued, his voice unwavering. "Like many of you, we found it hard to believe. This is the first time in Gringotts’ centuries-long history that such a catastrophe has occurred."

The crowd listened, their anger simmering just below the surface.

"But rest assured," Lockhart said, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, "Kamar-Taj, Hogwarts, and the Ministry have united with Gringotts to ensure that no wizard’s interests are harmed."

He stepped back slightly, gesturing to Harmon. "Now, let us hear from the Grand Elder of Gringotts."

The wizards buzzed with renewed energy, whispering among themselves. The mention of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic added an air of legitimacy, but their trust in goblins was far from restored.

Many still glared at Harmon, their faces etched with skepticism.

Can they really compensate us? they wondered. Can anything truly replace what we’ve lost?

The crowd wasn’t foolish. They knew that in cases like this, the powerful—the pure-blood families—often found ways to come out ahead. Ordinary wizards were left to pick up the pieces.

Their hopes now rested on the alliance of Kamar-Taj and Hogwarts to keep things fair.

Harmon, standing rigidly beside Lockhart, felt the weight of a thousand eyes pressing down on him. Though his face remained emotionless, his mind was a storm of bitter thoughts.

Puppet.

The word echoed in his mind.

Gringotts, once the untouchable bastion of goblin independence and wealth, was now reduced to this—a puppet of the wizarding world. And Harmon?

A senior puppet, at best.

But survival had its price.

Thinking of the promises made to him, and the countless lives lost, Harmon drew a deep breath.

His expression shifted slightly, an apologetic shadow crossing his features.

Then, in a voice that trembled with both grief and resolve, he bowed deeply and shouted, "Esteemed wizards, I am sorry!"

The crowd gasped, stunned into silence.

"The invasion by dark wizards was beyond Gringotts’ expectations," Harmon continued, his voice resonating through the alley. "We were unprepared for such a catastrophic breach."

A heavy pause.

"In this tragedy, 1,348 goblins of Gringotts lost their lives. Our facilities suffered devastating damage—many of which may never recover."

Harmon’s voice wavered as the memories flooded back—the blood-soaked corridors, the shattered vaults, the lifeless bodies of his kin.

"But that is no excuse," he declared, his voice steadying. "Gringotts will bear the full burden of compensating every wizard for their losses."

Chapter 508

"Is this real or a trick?"
"Are they seriously compensating everything?"
"Can we get it today? Or will it be a year from now, after the pure-blood families have taken their cut?"
"This feels... strange. There’s got to be a catch, right? Conditions? Hidden clauses?"

The crowd outside Gringotts buzzed with skepticism, their voices rising into a chaotic hum. The moment Elder Harmon had declared that Gringotts would shoulder the entire loss, the wizards erupted into a frenzy of disbelief.

It wasn’t that they didn’t want to believe it.

But it sounded too good to be true.

The promise of full compensation felt like a cruel joke—too dreamlike, too convenient. These were wizards who had seen their trust shattered, their wealth stolen. Now, they were being told that everything would be restored?

It had to be a trick.

Lockhart, standing calmly at the steps of Gringotts, raised his hand slightly. His voice, as smooth and comforting as ever, floated over the restless crowd.

"Rest assured, everyone," he said, his tone gentle yet authoritative. "This time, Hogwarts, Kamar-Taj, and the Ministry of Magic will jointly supervise the compensation process, while Gringotts executes it."

The murmurs softened slightly as his words settled over the crowd.

"We guarantee," Lockhart continued, "that every wizard will have their Galleons back in their hands. Not a single coin will be missing."

There was something about Lockhart’s voice that disarmed suspicion. His reputation in the British wizarding community was sterling—he wasn’t just a celebrated author and hero; he was a man whose wealth rivaled that of entire magical institutions. The fact that he personally owned a castle—no, a secret space—comparable to Hogwarts was proof enough of his standing.

At Hogwarts, he was known not only for his power but for his generosity. To many, he wasn’t just a wizard; he was a symbol of hope.

The wizards exchanged glances. The tension in the air thinned slightly, though skepticism lingered in their eyes.

Then, Elder Harmon stepped forward, his expression solemn. His voice, though gruff, carried a newfound sincerity.

"Everyone, please form an orderly line," Harmon announced. "We will begin by registering each wizard and confirming the amount of wealth stored in their vaults."

He gestured toward the gates of Gringotts, where rows of blue-robed goblins emerged, each holding a pristine white notebook. They moved with practiced efficiency, their sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

"Once your registration is complete," Harmon continued, "you’ll be able to verify the total in your vault. If any discrepancies arise, our registered goblins will handle them immediately. Afterward, you may withdraw as many Galleons as you wish—even your entire balance, if you prefer."

His voice rang with conviction. For the first time, there was a flicker of belief in the crowd.

As Harmon finished, Lockhart waved his wand. With a soft flick, several tables and chairs appeared in neat rows before the goblins. Above them, large light-blue letters shimmered in the sky:

REGISTRATION OFFICE

Each goblin stood at their station, ready to assist the anxious wizards. Aurors flanked both sides of the area, their presence a subtle reminder that order would be maintained.

The combined forces of Kamar-Taj, the Ministry of Magic, and Gringotts had transformed what could have been chaos into an organized process. However, some wizards still muttered under their breath.

Where’s Hogwarts in all this? they wondered. Why aren’t they more involved?

But those thoughts quickly faded as the reality of the situation took precedence.

The golden Galleons were within reach.

Without further hesitation, the crowd surged forward, forming lines at the registration desks. The promise of reclaiming their wealth had overpowered their doubts. For many, it wasn’t about trust—it was about seeing the money with their own eyes.

Inside Gringotts – The Vault Registration Process

"Hello, Mr. Roman," a blue-robed goblin greeted as the first wizard stepped forward. "Here is your registration slip. Please present it at the bank entrance to proceed with your withdrawal."

The goblin’s tone was unexpectedly polite, almost pleasant. His sharp features betrayed no malice, and his voice carried a calm, measured cadence. It was a far cry from the typical gruffness wizards associated with goblins.

They’ve been trained, Roman thought. Or enchanted.

Either way, he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting his Galleons back.

Snatching the slip from the goblin’s clawed hand, Roman bolted toward the bank entrance, his heart pounding in his chest. The quicker he got his money, the better.

Upon entering Gringotts, he was greeted by a red-robed goblin who bowed slightly.

"Welcome, Mr. Roman," the goblin said smoothly. "According to our records, you have a total deposit of 1,200 Galleons in your vault."

Roman felt a flicker of hope.

"However," the goblin continued, "you have used 957 Galleons, leaving a remaining balance of 243 Galleons."

Roman’s face tightened. Not as much as I thought... but still enough.

"I want it all," Roman barked without hesitation.

The goblin nodded, unfazed by the demand. With a small wave of his hand, a silver bell hanging from his wrist chimed softly.

Buzz!

A ripple of magical energy swept through the air. Before Roman’s eyes, a hidden compartment in the marble counter shimmered open, and 243 gleaming Galleons materialized on the surface.

"If you would kindly verify, sir," the goblin said, gesturing toward the pile of gold.

Roman leaned in eagerly, his eyes scanning the coins.

But something caught his attention.

"What’s this?" he muttered, frowning. He picked up one of the Galleons, his eyes narrowing at the dark green, eye-like symbol etched onto its surface.

The design was unfamiliar—alien.

"What’s with the weird pattern?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

The goblin didn’t flinch. His response was smooth, rehearsed.

"In light of recent security breaches," he explained, "the Ministry of Magic, in collaboration with Kamar-Taj and Gringotts, has introduced a new security mark."

He pointed to the symbol on the coin.

"This," the goblin continued, "is the Eye of Agamotto, a symbol of Kamar-Taj’s magical authority. Additionally, the edge of each Galleon has been engraved with the Ministry of Magic’s seal, alongside advanced protective enchantments."

Roman turned the coin over, inspecting its edges. True enough, the Ministry’s name and intricate patterns shimmered in the light, glimmering with protective spells.

His suspicion began to wane.

If the Ministry and Kamar-Taj are involved... it must be legitimate, he reasoned.

With a nod of approval, Roman began collecting the coins, feeling a strange sense of relief. The fear of losing his savings had been gnawing at him for days, but now, the weight lifted from his shoulders.

But as he turned to leave, the goblin spoke again.

"Mr. Roman," the goblin called gently, "before you go, might I interest you in a new service Gringotts is offering in partnership with Kamar-Taj?"

Roman paused, curiosity piqued.

"What kind of service?" he asked, clutching his pouch of Galleons tightly.

The goblin’s sharp teeth flashed in what almost resembled a smile.

"Starting today," he explained, "wizards who register and withdraw Galleons will be exempt from all transaction fees. Furthermore, Gringotts will now offer an interest mechanism."

Roman raised an eyebrow. "Interest?"

The goblin nodded. "Indeed. For every deposit left in Gringotts, wizards will receive an annual interest."

Roman’s eyes widened in surprise. Interest was a concept foreign to most wizards. Gringotts had never offered such benefits before.

"And," the goblin added, "you may withdraw your Galleons at any time without penalty."

Chapter 509

"You’re not lying to me, are you?"
"Is this really legit? There aren’t conditions, are there? Like… it has to stay in Gringotts forever, can’t be withdrawn, or—Merlin forbid—you need a contract to sign?"

Roman clutched the space extension bag tightly to his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric as if the bag itself might slip away. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the goblin in front of him, his disbelief palpable.

At this point, he was practically spitting in the goblin’s face.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to believe it. But it was just too absurd.

For the first time in his life, Roman was hearing that you could deposit money in Gringotts and actually make money back. Interest. On Galleons. It was almost laughable.

For centuries—millennia—Gringotts had charged storage fees for holding wizards' wealth. The more you stored, the higher the fees. That was how the goblins made their fortune. Everyone knew that. It was common knowledge.

So what’s the catch? Roman thought, his mind spinning.

The very idea that goblins—greedy, cunning goblins—would hand out interest like some kind of charitable organization was ludicrous. It was like tossing a steak in front of a starving Fluffy and expecting it not to bite.

The goblin, however, maintained an eerily calm demeanor. His sharp teeth peeked through a polite smile, and his eyes gleamed with what Roman hoped wasn’t amusement.

"This is true," the goblin replied smoothly. "It is a policy jointly established by Kamar-Taj, the Ministry of Magic, and Gringotts."

Roman snorted. Yeah, sure.

"But," the goblin continued, as if anticipating Roman's skepticism, "as you mentioned, there are indeed some conditions you should be aware of."

Roman’s eyes narrowed further. Aha. There it is.

Pie from the sky? Please. Everyone knew that kind of pie was usually made of solid iron—the kind that knocked you unconscious.

But then the goblin’s next words made Roman’s heart skip a beat.

"Master Wizard," the goblin began, his voice steady and professional, "regarding the interest earned from stored Galleons, there is one condition: the interest rate is 1%, and it is limited to one year only."

Roman blinked. Wait… what?

"Furthermore," the goblin continued, "due to the potential influx of counterfeit currency in the wizarding economy, Kamar-Taj, the Ministry of Magic, and Gringotts have agreed to recall Galleons currently in circulation. This is to identify and prevent the spread of counterfeit coins."

Roman’s head was spinning.

"The interest," the goblin added, "is a small price compared to the damage counterfeit currency could inflict on the wizarding economy. This proposal was made by Principal Lockhart of Kamar-Taj himself, who has vouched for its authenticity."

The goblin gave Roman a reassuring smile, which somehow made him even more nervous.

"And, of course," the goblin finished, "the Ministry of Magic fully endorses this initiative."

Roman stood there, stunned. The explanation made sense, but it also felt like there was a giant, invisible string attached somewhere.

Still… Lockhart’s name carried weight. And with the Ministry backing it? That was hard to ignore.

"The Galleons you store at Gringotts," the goblin continued, "can be withdrawn at any time. However, the interest will adjust accordingly."

Roman chewed his lip, still trying to wrap his head around it.

It was all for the good of the wizarding world, apparently. A safeguard against counterfeit coins.

And yet, that nagging feeling in the back of his mind wouldn’t go away. Something about this still felt off.

But then Roman glanced down at the bag of Galleons in his hand.

One percent interest, he thought. Even for a year… that’s still free money.

The risk seemed minimal. Kamar-Taj, the Ministry of Magic, and Gringotts—three of the most powerful institutions in the wizarding world—were all involved.

What could possibly go wrong?

Without further hesitation, Roman pulled out another space extension bag from his waist, waved his wand, and released a stream of freshly earned Galleons. The coins flew through the air in a shimmering golden arc, pouring into the goblin’s bag like liquid sunlight.

He handed the bag to the goblin with a self-satisfied grin.

"I want to deposit all of it," he declared proudly.

As a black market potioneer, Roman wasn’t a fool. If this had been just Gringotts, he would’ve turned tail and run. But with Kamar-Taj and the Ministry of Magic involved—especially with Lockhart backing it—he felt confident.

After all, Lockhart wasn’t just a wizard—he was the richest man in the British wizarding world. The man had built a magical school from scratch with his wealth. If anyone could be trusted with money, it was him.

Besides, even if the interest only lasted a year, 1% was still a hefty profit.

The goblin took the bag, gave it a cursory count, and nodded.

"Very well, sir," he said smoothly. "A total of 3,256 Galleons. Your deposit has been registered."

Roman finally allowed himself to relax, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. But as he glanced back at the goblin, something about the creature’s perpetual smile made his skin crawl.

The goblin had been smiling like that since he walked in.

It wasn’t natural.

There was a strange, icy feeling creeping up Roman’s spine, and he shivered involuntarily. For a brief, unsettling moment, the goblin’s unnervingly polite demeanor reminded him of a dark magic construct—like an Inferius masquerading as a banker.

Before Roman could dwell on the thought, the goblin slid a sleek, black card across the counter toward him.

"Sir," the goblin said, "this is your Wealth Card. Please keep it safe."

Roman blinked at the card in front of him. It was black as midnight, with an intricate golden dragon etched into its surface, shimmering under the enchanted lights of Gringotts.

"Wealth Card?" Roman echoed, his brow furrowing. "What’s this?"

The goblin’s grin widened.

"This," he explained, "is a new service introduced through the combined efforts of Kamar-Taj and Gringotts, with alchemical contributions from Kamar-Taj and Gringotts’ proprietary information."

The goblin tapped the card gently.

"Master Wizard, you can use this card to withdraw Galleons at any Gringotts branch, eliminating tedious procedures. Furthermore, you may conduct transactions directly through the Wealth Card, both within and outside Gringotts."

Roman’s curiosity piqued. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out, his fingers brushing the cool surface of the card.

As soon as his skin made contact, he felt a rush of energy—a pulse of magic that flowed from the card into his fingertips, connecting directly to his mind.

The interface was instantaneous.

Roman gasped as numbers and information flooded his thoughts. He saw his total balance—3,256 Galleons—displayed prominently in glowing script. Beneath it, a line of text detailed the 1% interest he would earn over the next year.

His eyes widened further when he saw a notification:

Interest Accruing Tomorrow: 43.9 Knuts

Enough for a day’s worth of food and drink!

Roman’s heart raced with excitement. This was better than he’d imagined.

He scrolled through the interface with his mind, discovering that he could even customize parts of his personal information—things like his profile, height, weight, and more.

The only thing he couldn’t change was his name.

Roman was hooked. The Wealth Card was like discovering a new magical toy—fascinating, addictive, and endlessly useful.

"Hello, Mr. Wizard, your registration has been completed. Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

The goblin’s voice, smooth and unchanging, broke Roman from his fixation on the Wealth Card. It was as if the goblin could sense his growing fascination—and perhaps, his growing dependence.

Roman blinked, shaking himself free from the card’s allure. The weight of the sleek, black card in his hand felt heavier now, as if it carried more than just Galleons.

"Yeah, okay… I understand," Roman muttered, his voice slightly distant. He nodded absently and turned, ready to leave Gringotts with his newfound treasure.

But before he could take more than a few steps, the goblin spoke again, his tone as polite and deliberate as before.

"Mr. Roman, just a final reminder," the goblin said, his sharp eyes glinting under the enchanted lights. "The Wealth Card has a transaction function. As long as you input the corresponding payment password or pattern, you may conduct transactions anywhere within the United Kingdom."

The goblin’s gaze lingered on Roman for a moment before he added, "It is strongly recommended that you safeguard your Wealth Card carefully. Should it be lost or damaged, please visit Gringotts immediately for replacement and security management."

Roman frowned slightly, glancing at the card in his hand once more. He felt a flicker of unease—this card, for all its convenience, suddenly felt like a fragile key to his life.

"And," the goblin continued smoothly, as if anticipating Roman's next question, "please be advised: The Wealth Card can only be used domestically. Transactions outside of the UK may not process correctly, due to infrastructural limitations."

Roman stopped in his tracks, turning back with a puzzled expression. As a black marketeer, he wasn’t just limited to Britain. His dealings often stretched into Europe, and he sourced many of his rarest potions and ingredients from continental suppliers.

"Why can’t it be used in Europe?" Roman asked sharply, suspicion creeping back into his voice.

The goblin, ever unflappable, maintained his chillingly perfect smile.

"The Wealth Card functions through the Dream World of Kamar-Taj," the goblin explained calmly. "Currently, Kamar-Taj’s Dream World has been fully integrated into the UK. This allows seamless transactions domestically."

The goblin’s smile never wavered.

"However, to utilize the Wealth Card internationally, the Dream World must expand into other countries. That process is… ongoing."

Roman’s brows furrowed. Dream World? What in Merlin's name was that supposed to mean? The goblin’s explanation felt like a riddle wrapped in bureaucratic language, and the more he heard, the more his unease grew.

Still, the promise of 1% interest echoed in his mind, like a siren song.

"The Dream World," the goblin continued, his tone as soothing as ever, "is a virtual dimension designed by Principal Gilderoy Lockhart of Kamar-Taj. It is also referred to as a fantasy realm."

Roman’s heart skipped a beat.

A virtual world?

The idea of wizards dabbling in something so foreign to traditional magic was both thrilling and unnerving. He glanced down at the card in his hand, feeling the pull of curiosity tug at him once again.

"In the Dream World," the goblin added, "you may access detailed information through your Wealth Card. It is a realm designed to enhance wizarding experiences and transactions."

Before Roman could ask more, the goblin’s tone shifted slightly—still polite, but with an unmistakable hint of finality.

"If there is nothing further, Mr. Wizard, please proceed. The next customer is waiting."

Roman hesitated, then gave a stiff nod. As he made his way toward the exit, his mind buzzed with questions. But even as his instincts whispered that something was amiss, he couldn’t ignore the allure of the Dream World.

Pouring a sliver of his spiritual power into the Wealth Card, Roman felt a surge of energy, as though he’d touched a hidden node in a vast network.

Suddenly, vivid images and information flooded his consciousness.

"The Dream World of Kamar-Taj, created by Principal Gilderoy Lockhart, features 356 unique scenes and 108 distinct terrains…"

The descriptions were elaborate, filled with promises of discovery and power. Roman’s heart raced. There was something mesmerizing about it—this was unlike any magic he’d ever encountered.

He read further, his eyes widening as he discovered a message:

"The Dream World will open in three days. Wizards can enter through their Wealth Cards. Limited to the first 500 participants."

Roman’s excitement grew. The Dream World wasn’t just a banking feature—it was an entirely new dimension.

But as thrilling as it sounded, a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something much bigger than just financial innovation.

Outside Gringotts – Diagon Alley

Just as Roman stepped out into the bright morning light, his excitement was abruptly cut short.

His pupils constricted as he spotted a commotion unfolding not far from the Gringotts steps.

"Damn dark wizard! You’re not getting away this time!"

Several Aurors and Gringotts goblins had pinned a struggling middle-aged wizard to the cobblestones, his black robes torn and his wand confiscated. The man’s face was contorted in pain and fear as he was forced down, his arms twisted behind his back.

Roman’s breath caught in his throat.

He recognized that wizard—Plath, a member of one of the pure-blood families.

"Let’s show everyone who this bastard really is!" one of the Aurors snarled, waving his wand.

With a sharp flick, the wizard’s sleeve ripped apart, revealing an aged arm—and with it, the Dark Mark.

A skull entwined with a serpent, the unmistakable symbol of Voldemort’s Death Eaters.

The crowd gasped, and a wave of whispers rippled through Diagon Alley.

"A Death Eater?"
"They actually caught one?"
"I thought the Aurors were always late to the party…"
"Yeah, they usually show up after the bad guys escape!"

Roman remained silent, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

While the captured Death Eater was being paraded as a trophy, Roman noticed several figures slipping away from the crowd’s edges—moving quickly, but cautiously.

He recognized the subtle signs of retreat.

Those weren’t just onlookers. They were Death Eaters.

They’re still here, Roman realized, his pulse quickening. And they’re planning something.

He knew these pure-blood families wouldn’t let such an opportunity slip through their fingers. Gringotts had been robbed once, and now, with full compensation promised, it was like a second heist—but legally sanctioned.

Only a fool would pass up such easy profit.

But what struck Roman was the inaction of the Aurors.

They clearly saw the retreating figures. Their wands were in hand. And yet… they did nothing.

There’s a deal, Roman thought grimly. A silent agreement.

As long as the pure-blood families didn’t cause overt trouble, the Aurors would turn a blind eye. But if any of them got too greedy—or too careless—they’d be the next scapegoat.

The Ministry of Magic needed someone to blame for the Gringotts disaster. And it didn’t matter if the culprits were real or not.

Someone had to pay.

And the wizard currently pinned to the cobblestones? He was just the first.

From the Shadows – Lockhart's Perspective

Standing a short distance away, Gilderoy Lockhart observed the scene with a detached, calculating gaze.

His eyes flicked from the captured Death Eater to the retreating figures in the crowd. But he made no move to intervene.

Instead, his attention drifted to the wizards entering and exiting Gringotts—each one clutching a newly issued Wealth Card, crafted with the finest magical refinement techniques of Kamar-Taj.

A faint smile curled at the corners of Lockhart’s lips.

The Dream World wasn’t just a financial tool—it was the fulcrum upon which the entire wizarding world would turn.

By controlling the currency, Kamar-Taj now had a hand in every aspect of wizard society.

And with the Dream World expanding, soon, Kamar-Taj’s influence would stretch beyond Britain.

Lockhart’s gaze hardened.

This wasn’t just about wealth.

It was about control.

Chapter 510

Ding! Transaction completed: 100 Galleons deducted.
Ding! 100 Galleons received. Account balance updated.

The faint, ethereal chime echoed in the dimly lit study of Malfoy Manor as Voldemort toyed with the two sleek, black Wealth Cards in his hand. The glowing runes embedded in the cards flickered before dimming, leaving behind an unsettling silence.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes narrowed, his pale fingers tracing the intricate gold patterns etched onto the dark surface of the cards. His mind buzzed with the implications of what he’d just witnessed.

Across the room, Tom Riddle leaned casually against the wall, his expression unreadable. The flickering candlelight danced across his youthful features, casting shadows that seemed to stretch longer than they should.

But Voldemort was far from calm.

He shot a sharp glare at his younger self, his voice low and venomous.

"Do you care to explain this?" Voldemort hissed, the malice in his words almost tangible. "You’ve used me as a pawn in your little scheme. Be very careful, Tom… or you might find the wand pointed at you instead."

His grip tightened around his wand, and the room seemed to grow colder.

The heist at Gringotts—the audacious plan they had executed together—had been a ruse. The Ministry of Magic, Kamar-Taj, and even Hogwarts had been prepared. The entire event had played out like a well-rehearsed performance, and Voldemort was beginning to see the strings.

Especially now, staring at the two Wealth Cards in his hands, Voldemort’s fury boiled over.

With a swift flick of his wrist—BOOM!—the black and gold cards exploded in a violent burst of magic. Shards of dark crystal embedded themselves into the walls, ripping through ancient tapestries, shattering priceless vases, and tearing gouges into the wooden floor.

The once pristine study was now a wreckage of smoking debris and magical scorch marks.

But Voldemort’s rage wasn’t satisfied.

The more he thought about it, the deeper the fire burned within him. These cards weren’t just harmless trinkets—they were the future. A future now firmly in the hands of Kamar-Taj and the Ministry of Magic.

They’ve turned the entire wizarding world into their playground.

Before, Gringotts had strict regulations. Refining Galleons required reporting, oversight, and labor. But now, with these Wealth Cards, currency had become data. With a flick of the wand, wealth could be generated and controlled at will.

And it was all because of him.

I was their weapon, Voldemort realized bitterly. I did their dirty work.

The goblins had been slaughtered. Gringotts had been weakened. And in the aftermath, Kamar-Taj swooped in with a perfect solution—a wizarding wealth system digitizing Galleons and placing them under their control.

The timing was too precise. The plan was too perfect.

They used me.

And Voldemort—Lord Voldemort—did not take betrayal lightly.

His chest heaved, the scarlet glow in his eyes intensifying. The hatred festering inside him for Tom, Lockhart, and Kamar-Taj now dwarfed even his loathing for Dumbledore.

The sheer scale of this betrayal gnawed at him. This wasn’t just about gold—it was about power. The past, the present, and the future wealth of the wizarding world had been compressed into those slim, black cards.

And he had missed his chance.

His grip on his wand tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Across the room, Tom finally spoke, his voice cold and detached.

"Did you really think Gringotts was that easy to break into?" Tom asked, his tone laced with condescension.

Voldemort’s eyes snapped toward him, the rage in his gaze burning brighter.

"Why do you think the goblins put up so little resistance?" Tom continued, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "Why do you think you had easy access to their arsenal of magical weapons?"

The room grew colder with each word.

Tom’s indifference clashed with Voldemort’s seething anger, creating a maelstrom of dark energy in the room. The very air seemed to vibrate with tension as the two versions of the same dark soul stared each other down.

Their hands moved almost simultaneously, fingers brushing the wands at their sides.

The walls trembled, ancient portraits rattling against their frames. The chandeliers swayed overhead, their light casting fractured shadows across the room. Books flew from shelves, and the very foundation of Malfoy Manor seemed to groan under the weight of the dark magic that now filled the space.

Then—

BOOM!

"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"

The twin cries of the Killing Curse echoed through the manor, and two streams of blinding green light collided in mid-air, releasing a shockwave that shattered what remained of the study.

The collision sent out a monstrous wave of energy that tore through the walls, reducing them to rubble. The floorboards splintered, and the ceiling above cracked like thin ice under a heavy boot.

Within seconds, the entire study was reduced to a smoking crater in the heart of Malfoy Manor. Dust and debris swirled in the air, and in the center of the chaos stood the two dark lords, their wands still raised, their faces twisted with hatred.

Outside Malfoy Manor

The explosion rocked the manor grounds, and wizards from across the estate rushed toward the source of the blast.

But as they neared, they froze.

The Death Eaters and pure-blood wizards felt it—the overwhelming magical pressure radiating from the manor’s core. It was suffocating, a palpable force that pressed down on their chests and made their limbs tremble.

None dared approach.

"The… masters… they’re fighting?" one Death Eater whispered, his voice quivering with fear.

The realization hit them all at once.

Their two masters—the two faces of the Dark Lord—were at war.

Loyalty fractured in an instant.

Some of the pure-blood wizards felt a deep pull toward Tom Riddle, whose elegant, mysterious demeanor represented the nobility and tradition of pure-blood supremacy.

Others were drawn to the ruthless power of Voldemort, whose dark magic, unbridled ambition, and thirst for blood had made him a legend among dark wizards.

But none of that mattered now.

Because both men shared a common trait—they did not tolerate traitors.

Any hint of disloyalty would be met with swift, brutal punishment. The Death Eaters had seen it before. They had watched comrades fall, burned away by the very masters they had sworn to follow.

So they stood there, paralyzed by fear, as the duel of death unfolded before them.

Back Inside – The Duel

The two dark lords moved in perfect sync, their bodies twisting and weaving through the torrent of curses that filled the air.

"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"

The Killing Curses flew back and forth like deadly green comets, each one narrowly missing its target or colliding in mid-air with a sickening crack.

The floor beneath them was a war zone—cracked stone, smoldering debris, and the faint stench of burnt magic filled the air.

Neither of them defended. Neither of them hesitated.

They were two sides of the same coin, locked in a deadly dance that only one could survive.

Their movements were eerily similar—the same instinctual footwork, the same sharp flicks of the wrist, the same ruthless efficiency honed over years of dark magic.

Each curse was a mirror of the other, each spell a reflection of their shared soul.

The Death Eaters watched from the shadows, unable to intervene, unable to choose sides.

Because in the end, it wasn’t just a duel between Voldemort and Tom Riddle.

It was a duel between the past and the future.

Between what was… and what could be.

The duel reached its crescendo.

Their wands blurred in the air, their voices blending into a single chant of death.

"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"

The final curses shot forth, colliding in a blinding explosion of green light that sent shockwaves rippling through the manor.

The ground beneath them cracked and split, the very foundation of Malfoy Manor groaning under the force of their combined magic.

And then—

BOOM!

The world went white.