[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 491 - 495

Chapter 491

Cough! Cough! Cough!

Wisps of dark green mist curled through the air, twisting and slithering like spectral serpents. The chamber was vast, its high stone walls barely visible through the haze, the eerie green glow casting unnatural shadows that flickered and danced like living things. The atmosphere felt thick—dense with magic, pulsing with an ominous energy that clung to the skin like damp fog.

At the very center of the secret chamber, an old man sat cross-legged, motionless. He wore flowing purple wizard robes, their fabric slightly tattered from years of wear. His face was lined with deep creases, betraying the weight of decades of wisdom, struggle, and power. Though his eyes were closed, his body betrayed the subtle signs of life—his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

Every few moments, a rasping cough would break the silence, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

The mist coiled around him, drifting lower and lower, seeping into his skin as if being absorbed by his very essence.

The floor beneath him was covered in intricate, glowing lines of magic—dark red, deep blue, and pale green interwoven in dizzying patterns. The sheer complexity of the runes would have overwhelmed a lesser wizard, their shapes pulsating with a power that bent the very fabric of space.

For those skilled enough to sense it, faint traces of time itself lingered here, woven into the runic array.

This man, this weathered figure engulfed in mystery and power, was Jack Riddle—Speaker of the Magical Congress of the United States of America for decades.

Through the rise and fall of political tides, through shifting allegiances and betrayals, he had remained.

Deputy Speakers had come and gone, each attempting to claw their way to the top, but none had succeeded in unseating him.

Not until now.

Now, fate had turned its gaze upon him.

Jack Riddle inhaled deeply, forcing himself to focus. He needed to recover.

Decades ago, when Grindelwald’s shadow loomed over America, he had barely held his ground. And yet, against all expectations, Grindelwald had returned, stronger than ever.

The years of imprisonment should have weakened the Dark Lord, stripped him of his power.

But they hadn't.

Instead, Grindelwald had grown, his strength surging to levels Jack had never anticipated. The man had evolved beyond his previous limits, transcending into something even more dangerous.

Meditation.

Jack gritted his teeth. It was the key, the secret behind Grindelwald’s newfound might.

And he had ignored it.

For years, he had dismissed the whispers of its potential, deeming it little more than a philosophical exercise.

But then came Lockhart.

A mere writer—an insignificant name among wizards—who had risen with unnatural speed, climbing to a position of influence in just a handful of years.

It defied all logic.

It shattered his understanding of power.

Now, forced into a position of weakness, he had turned his attention to meditation, finally acknowledging the art he had once scorned.

And the results were undeniable.

His body, once on the brink of collapse, was healing at an unprecedented rate. The life-threatening injuries that should have left him crippled were slowly fading.

So he continued.

Not to defeat Grindelwald—that was no longer his goal.

But to survive.

Because he knew, beyond any doubt, that another threat loomed.

Turan, the Goblin King.

The thought of him sent a pulse of irritation through Jack’s weary mind.

And then there was Chenos, the current Deputy Speaker.

A sharp, calculating young wizard—intelligent, resourceful, and, in Jack’s eyes, wasted potential.

For all his brilliance, Chenos had made a grave mistake.

He had chosen to align himself with goblins.

Jack exhaled slowly, shaking his head. The boy was still young, still naive. He had seen the future of the wizarding world, and instead of seizing it with his own hands, he had thrown his lot in with creatures whose sole purpose was to manipulate wizards for their own gain.

A sigh escaped his lips.

If Chenos had chosen pure-blood alliances, he might have had a chance.

But goblins?

His fate was already sealed.

Not by assassination. Not by war.

But by the inevitability of history itself.

The goblins, under Turan’s rule, had been steadily usurping the Magical Congress’s power. The Wizard’s Banking Association—an institution forged from Jack’s bitter struggles against Turan—was evidence enough of that.

And Chenos was helping them.

Jack Riddle could not help but scoff at the absurdity of it all.

Foolish boy.

He thinks he can control them.

But if not for Grindelwald, if not for Jack himself, the goblins would have already devoured the Magical Congress whole.

Meanwhile, above ground, in the grand chambers of the Magical Congress—

"Speaker Jack Riddle is still recovering from his injuries," Chenos said, his voice carefully measured.

He stood before Dumbledore, his expression unreadable, though a hint of worry laced his words.

"The Dark Lord was too powerful," he continued. "The Speaker used every ounce of his strength to defeat him but suffered serious wounds in the process."

"But he lives."

Chenos’s gaze flickered, gauging Dumbledore’s reaction.

"He's healing as we speak."

Dumbledore listened intently, his sharp blue eyes studying Chenos with an unreadable expression.

Silence stretched between them.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Chenos spoke again, this time his tone shifting—taking on an almost pleading quality.

" Headmaster, you’ve seen the state of things yourself," he began. "Our entire wizarding community has unified against the Saints. Our Aurors fight to the death. Our alliances grow stronger."

He inhaled.

"And yet, even with all of this—" his voice dropped slightly, his fingers clenching at his robes, "—even with all our sacrifices, even as our limbs break and our blood spills—"

"—we still cannot stop Grindelwald alone."

His next action was drastic.

Chenos bowed.

Right there, in front of Dumbledore, before the assembled Aurors, he bent at the waist—a rare, calculated display of submission.

But the moment he did, an invisible force locked his body in place.

His breath hitched.

He could not move.

A silent spell had been cast—he was frozen, stiff as a statue.

Dumbledore’s voice followed, calm yet firm.

"Do not worry," the old wizard said, his tone final. "I was invited here by Minister Fudge and the Wizengamot to assist."

His piercing gaze settled on Chenos.

"I will ensure the Magical Congress finds true peace."

The spell lifted.

Chenos exhaled sharply, his body relaxing.

But instead of feeling insulted, he felt a rush of triumph.

He had won.

Dumbledore was now in the game.

The thought of Grindelwald’s smug arrogance shattered beneath Chenos’s exhilaration.

Finally—finally—someone could match the Dark Lord’s power.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Chenos said, his voice shifting from formal to something more familiar.

Now, it was time to seal the deal.

"I will have all recent intelligence on Grindelwald compiled for you," he assured. "You’ll have everything you need."

Dumbledore gave a slow nod.

"Good," he said. "And while you’re at it, I also require a full report on the Magical Congress’s military strength."

Chenos didn’t hesitate. "Of course."

But what Dumbledore said next froze him.

"And," Dumbledore added, "a detailed report on the goblins."

Chenos stiffened.

"I need to assess their true position in this conflict," Dumbledore continued, his tone deceptively mild.

"And arrange a meeting with Turan, the Goblin King."

At that moment, across the Goblin Kingdom—

Turan’s face darkened.

"Dumbledore wants to meet me?" he murmured, his fingers tightening around his goblet.

For a fleeting second, fear flickered in his eyes.

Was this an opportunity?

Or a trap?

The Goblin King exhaled, then made his decision.

"Nass," he commanded, his voice like steel.

"Go in my place. Make it clear—the goblins need Dumbledore now."

Chapter 492

"Dear Headmaster Dumbledore, it is truly an honor for us to join forces with a great wizard such as yourself."

In the grand conference hall of the Magical Congress, a goblin elder named Nass spoke with measured enthusiasm, his sharp, beady eyes fixed on Dumbledore. His voice carried a polished elegance, but beneath it lay the unmistakable undertones of a shrewd negotiator.

"We, the goblin clan, possess a secret treasure—one capable of obscuring Grindelwald’s fate from those who seek to peer into it," he continued, his long, clawed fingers pressing together thoughtfully.

"Among the Saints, there are wizards of considerable skill. Wayne, their Potions Master, is a formidable force in his own right. Tull, the Battle Mage, is another—a warrior who wields magic like a seasoned duelist on the battlefield."

He paused, then smiled faintly.

"But with your arrival, Principal, the tides are shifting. Your presence alone has brought us, and the Magical Congress, a great sense of security. Grindelwald has been a thorn in our side for too long. Every time he appears, it ends in our defeat."

Chenos, seated quietly at the side, listened to Nass’s words with a carefully neutral expression.

He allowed the goblin elder to continue his speech, watching Dumbledore’s reaction.

The old wizard nodded from time to time, a look of quiet contemplation on his face. His fingers rested against the polished wood of the conference table, his demeanor giving the impression that he understood the magnitude of the battle they faced.

After a brief moment of silence, Nass’s expression turned grave.

"My esteemed Principal, I must apologize," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Our King has been grievously wounded. Grindelwald’s latest attack placed a terrible curse upon him. Even now, he remains in recovery."

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Nass continued, his voice thick with barely suppressed anger.

"But know this—once my King regains his strength, he will meet with you personally. He wishes to discuss our next course of action against that despicable assassin."

At the mention of Grindelwald as an assassin, Dumbledore’s expression barely flickered. A subtle, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before disappearing.

"Very well," he said finally. "When your King is ready, I shall meet with him."

Nass’s sharp ears twitched slightly, detecting Dumbledore’s tone of approval. He nodded eagerly, almost too eagerly, and began speaking once more, reinforcing their mutual goal.

The conversation continued, but little of substance was exchanged beyond formalities.

Recognizing the natural lull in the discussion, Dumbledore took the opportunity to excuse himself.

He left the conference hall without much fanfare, stepping into the quiet corridors of the Magical Congress, his footsteps muffled by the luxurious red carpeting beneath him.

Soon, he arrived at his temporary quarters.

The lounge he had been given was vast—almost ostentatiously so.

Tall-backed chairs upholstered in velvet stood around a polished wooden table. A thick woolen carpet spread across the stone floor, its intricate patterns woven in deep blues and silvers. Sapphire gems adorned the armrests of the seats, catching the golden candlelight.

Everything about the room screamed opulence.

Dumbledore chuckled softly to himself.

It was said that this very room once belonged to Speaker Jack Riddle.

Chenos had been the one to arrange his stay here, though Dumbledore had no desire to question his motives. He had simply accepted the arrangement without hesitation.

Settling into one of the high-backed chairs, he gazed out the large window, his eyes trailing across the brilliant blue sky.

And then, almost lazily, he spoke.

"Can the assassin come out now?"

The moment his words left his lips, a faint shift occurred in the air.

A shadow lengthened across the floor.

And in the blink of an eye, a silver-gray figure appeared by the windowsill.

Leaning against it with an air of casual arrogance, Grindelwald crossed his arms over his chest, his silver-gray robes draping elegantly around him.

His sharp eyes, filled with both amusement and deep irritation, locked onto Dumbledore.

"You truly have a talent for summoning me, Albus," he said dryly.

Dumbledore merely smiled.

Grindelwald let out a sharp exhale, his irritation surfacing.

"That coward, Turan," he spat. "He dared not meet with you himself. Instead, he sends his pawn."

He scoffed.

"It is no wonder the goblins have remained stagnant for all these years. Their greatest achievement? Establishing an American Wizarding Banking Association." His tone dripped with contempt.

"They deserve their failures," he continued, his voice filled with disdain. "A race of cowards—spineless and scheming. They lack the courage to act decisively."

Dumbledore’s smile deepened as he listened, his amusement barely concealed.

"Now, now, Gallert," he said in a soothing tone. "There’s no need for such impatience."

He leaned back in his chair.

"This situation was entirely predictable."

Grindelwald studied him, then slowly nodded.

There was understanding in his expression.

He and Dumbledore had made a deal—an arrangement of mutual benefit.

And in all their long years, Dumbledore had never wavered from his fundamental beliefs.

Wizarding supremacy.

The only thing that had changed over time was how he pursued it.

His methods had softened—become more diplomatic, more refined—but beneath it all, the core of his ideals remained unshaken.

Grindelwald exhaled, running a hand through his silver hair.

"Tell me, Albus," he murmured. "What exactly is your plan?"

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with knowing amusement.

"The American wizarding world has shown signs of progress," he said, not answering directly. "They may have abandoned meditation, but they have begun self-innovation."

He paused.

"It started with the goblins," he admitted. "But now, their advancements are reaching human wizards as well."

A thoughtful silence settled between them.

Then, Grindelwald’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

"Ah," he mused. "So you’re suggesting that if the Saints do not adapt—"

"They will be left behind," Dumbledore finished for him.

Grindelwald chuckled.

"How interesting," he murmured.

Then, his expression turned sly.

"I have plenty of time now, Albus," he said. "Why don’t we work together?"

Dumbledore arched a brow.

Grindelwald’s smirk widened.

"At least, let’s research a weapon suitable for wizards," he suggested. "Something to modernize magic."

Dumbledore didn’t hesitate.

"I would be delighted," he said smoothly.

Because after all—

This was a new age.

An age of great change.

And those who failed to evolve would perish.

Meanwhile, at Kamar-Taj, in the Office of the Vice Principal—

In a room decorated in sharp black and white contrasts, Peggy Carter sat behind a pristine white desk.

Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp as they studied the two young wizards standing before her.

Ian and Wanda.

Ian, tall and lean with dark hair, wore a light gray wizard’s robe. His youthful face was strikingly handsome, his expression calm and unreadable.

Beside him, Wanda stood with her arms crossed, her long burgundy hair cascading past her waist. Her presence was radiant, her beauty impossible to ignore.

Peggy Carter nodded thoughtfully.

Lockhart’s proposal echoed in her mind.

This arrangement would benefit everyone.

"Wanda," she said evenly, "What’s the latest status?"

Wanda’s lips curled into a mischievous smile.

"It’s all set. The conflict among the Gringotts goblins is nearing its peak."

"Now," she added, her voice brimming with satisfaction, "we wait for the right moment to ignite the flames."

Chapter 493

The Irish Sea, the cliff cave, the location of the fourth Horcrux.

The cave was an abyss carved into the sheer cliffside, its entrance hidden beneath layers of jagged rock and crashing waves. It yawned like the mouth of a forgotten beast, dark and foreboding, untouched by time. The sheer isolation of the place made it nearly impossible for ordinary people to reach.

Muggles, should they ever attempt to approach, would require extensive climbing gear, battling the ruthless winds and treacherous waves just to set foot inside. Even then, they would likely never return.

For wizards, however, the means of entry were far simpler—broomsticks, levitation charms, apparition, or other magical methods could bypass the physical challenges.

Yet none of that made the cave any less dangerous.

This was a place Voldemort had once deemed worthy of safeguarding his Horcrux.

And as with all things the Dark Lord touched, it was laced with death.

Traps, curses, protections woven deep into the very stones. Any who dared enter uninvited would find their fates sealed long before they ever realized their mistake. Muggles would be corpses before they even reached the inner depths. Ordinary wizards wouldn’t fare much better.

Tonight, however, the cave was filled not with silence, but with the low murmur of voices.

A flickering light illuminated the once-dark interior, revealing an eerie sight.

Glowing orbs, akin to enchanted night pearls, were embedded into the cavern walls, casting an ethereal glow upon the rough stone. The chamber had been transformed from a place of desolation into a gathering hall—one filled with wizards clad in flowing black robes, their faces obscured by darkness and shadows.

Death Eaters.

They stood in orderly ranks, motionless as statues, all eyes fixed upon the high platform at the front of the cavern.

There, two figures stood side by side.

At first glance, they seemed to contrast in every possible way.

One possessed the elegance of youth, his features sharp and striking, his presence enigmatic—magnetically compelling yet impossible to decipher.

The other was pale, skeletal, exuding an aura of malevolence so thick it sent shivers down spines. His very presence was suffocating, his gaze piercing, cold, and devoid of anything resembling human warmth.

Tom Riddle.

Lord Voldemort.

Two faces of the same man.

Two halves of the same entity.

And yet, standing together, their conflicting auras did not clash.

Instead, they merged into something far more terrifying.

"You may be wondering why I summoned you here," Tom Riddle spoke first, his voice calm and deliberate.

It was a voice that commanded attention, even without the threat of force.

The Death Eaters stood rigid, their focus absolute.

"Many of you hail from pure-blood families," Riddle continued. "You should already be aware of recent events. The goblins have begun to show signs of rebellion."

A ripple of unease spread through the crowd.

Riddle’s gaze flickered across them, his expression unreadable.

"You may have already noticed it when attempting to withdraw from your family vaults at Gringotts," he said. "Delays. Unusual restrictions. Increased scrutiny where there should be none."

A heavy silence followed.

Among the gathered wizards, those belonging to ancient pure-blood families exchanged tense glances.

They had, in fact, noticed.

The rumors had spread swiftly through their circles—whispers of Gringotts restricting access to gold, of treasuries being scrutinized, of funds mysteriously disappearing under the guise of "security measures."

At first, many dismissed the concerns.

But when the delays persisted, when once-simple transactions were met with obstructions, skepticism had turned to alarm.

And then came the most damning revelation—news that wizarding wealth was being funneled away.

Gold, siphoned from their vaults, was allegedly being used to support the American goblins in their war against Grindelwald and his Saints.

It was a betrayal of the highest order.

And now, standing before their Dark Lord, the pure-blood wizards felt their unease solidify into something far more dangerous.

Rage.

They had remained indifferent when war raged in America.

It had been someone else’s problem.

Grindelwald’s growing influence had been something to watch from afar—entertainment, nothing more.

Britain had Dumbledore, Lockhart, and two Dark Lords. Grindelwald would not dare challenge all four.

And so they had felt safe.

But this—

This was personal.

Their fortunes, their legacy, their birthright—were being tampered with.

And that, they could not tolerate.

"Now," Riddle continued, his voice laced with quiet amusement, "I must ask—how confident are you in the integrity of your wealth?"

Silence.

Then—

A single word cut through the air, sending a fresh wave of dread rippling through the chamber.

"Counterfeit."

The word was like a curse, and it struck deep.

Some among them paled visibly.

Others clenched their fists, their expressions twisting into fury.

Even among the dark wizards—those less attached to pure-blood traditions—the revelation was met with shock.

Gold was everything.

And if even that had been compromised…

For the first time, true chaos stirred within their ranks.

Voldemort, who had remained silent thus far, observed the scene with cold detachment.

His gaze flickered briefly to Riddle, irritation flashing through his crimson eyes.

The other half of him was dragging this out—too much talk, too much manipulation.

Voldemort preferred fear.

Fear was simple.

Fear was effective.

You did not need to convince a man who feared you.

You simply commanded, and he obeyed.

During his reign, he had built his empire upon that philosophy.

And yet, here he stood, forced to share the stage with another version of himself—one who delighted in carefully stoking resentment and ambition.

He detested it.

But for now, he tolerated it.

Because even Voldemort could not deny the power in it.

Tom Riddle, sensing the shift in atmosphere, took a step back, smoothly ceding the floor.

Voldemort wasted no time.

He strode forward, his movements precise and deliberate, his aura dark and all-consuming.

A hush fell over the chamber.

Not a single Death Eater dared to breathe too loudly.

Then, without a word, Voldemort raised his wand.

A violent explosion of dark green sparks erupted into the air.

Boom.

The walls of the cave were instantly bathed in sickly green light.

The flickering skull and serpent of the Dark Mark spread across the stone like a creeping plague, twisting and writhing as if alive.

For many, this was a familiar sight.

A reminder.

A warning.

When Voldemort finally spoke, his voice was not loud—but it commanded the air itself.

"Pure-bloods. Wizards."

He did not need to say more. The way he spoke those words already carried the weight of exclusivity, of power, of purpose.

"Follow me," Voldemort continued, his voice as smooth as silk, as deadly as a blade. "And let the goblins understand this—wizarding wealth is theirs to protect, not to control."

He raised his wand higher.

"Follow me," he whispered, and yet it resounded like thunder.

"I will lead you to reclaim what is rightfully ours."

A hush.

Then—

A single voice rose.

"We follow you, my lord."

Another joined.

Then another.

And another.

Until the entire cavern roared with devotion.

Chapter 494

Night had fallen over Gringotts, yet the grand reception hall was still bustling with activity.

The bright chandeliers bathed the marble floors in golden light, illuminating the massive space as if it were still daytime. Goblins scurried about, their sharp eyes scanning parchments, stamping documents, and processing transactions with mechanical precision.

Despite the late hour, a steady stream of wizards entered through the towering bronze doors.

Clatter. Clatter. Clatter.

The rhythmic clicking of goblin stamps echoed across the hall, accompanied by the murmuring of transactions.

"Horn, take this guest to vault 3025."

"Leif, handle this one."

The sharp voices of goblins calling out assignments blended with the shuffling of robes and the clinking of coins.

It was usually much quieter at this time of night.

But today, something was different.

A lot of wizards had come.

And they all had the same demand.

They wanted access to their vaults.

Russo, a middle-ranking goblin responsible for processing transactions, felt an uneasy weight settle in his chest. His hands moved automatically, stamping yet another document, but his mind was elsewhere.

It was those damn rumors.

Gringotts had been robbed.

Fake gold galleons had appeared.

Goblin treasurers had been siphoning wizarding wealth to fund the American goblins in their war against the Saints.

At first, Russo had dismissed these rumors as nonsense.

But then came the Kamar-Taj incident.

A wizard had caused a spectacle in the middle of Gringotts, drawing far more attention than anyone had wanted. In the aftermath, investigations had indeed uncovered a problem with the gold galleons—a problem that, however swiftly corrected, had already damaged Gringotts' reputation.

And now, the consequences were unfolding before his eyes.

Wizards—especially those from pure-blood families—had been appearing with increasing frequency, demanding full access to their fortunes.

Russo bit the inside of his cheek.

He didn’t like this.

The goblin leadership had ordered stricter withdrawal procedures to slow the bleeding.

Now, all wizards attempting large withdrawals had to provide extensive documentation—family seals, bloodline certificates, and even treasury inheritance records, an absurd requirement given how ancient some of these vaults were.

It was a deliberate delay tactic.

And it was working—at first.

Many wizards, frustrated by the red tape, had given up and left.

But then, some had returned with every document in order.

And once a few succeeded, others followed.

The pressure was mounting.

If this continued, it would only be a matter of time before things turned ugly.

Russo exhaled and forced himself to focus. There was no point in worrying about things beyond his control. He simply had to follow orders and do his job.

Clatter.

Another document. Another stamp.

"Ms. Almeida, your vault number is 3312. What would you like to withdraw?"

Russo barely looked up as he addressed the next wizard in line.

"If you’re purchasing items, Gringotts offers an owl delivery service for maximum convenience. We work with all major shops, allowing you to send a signed magical check to Gringotts via owl, and we will handle the payment on your behalf."

He barely paused before launching into his well-rehearsed pitch.

"And if you don’t already own a Gringotts checkbook, I highly recommend acquiring one. It allows for real-time deductions and is a symbol of financial prestige among wizards."

Russo finally looked up, expecting the usual eager nod or polite interest.

Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of cold, dark green eyes.

The woman standing before him had long, curly black hair and an expression as still as a frozen lake. Her features were pale, almost sickly, and a quiet aura of something unsettling clung to her like a shadow.

Russo’s instincts flared.

A dark wizard.

His posture instinctively stiffened, his tone immediately shifting to one of politeness.

Dark wizards were volatile customers. Their research into forbidden magic often left them mentally unstable, and many were prone to erratic bursts of violence.

But they were also some of Gringotts' most valuable clients.

They dealt in rare materials, forbidden artifacts, and high-value transactions, making them incredibly lucrative—if handled properly.

So Russo adjusted his approach.

"Ms. Almeida," he said smoothly, adopting a more deferential tone. "Would you be interested in acquiring rare materials or exclusive magical knowledge? Gringotts has extensive connections with pure-blood families and high-profile wizards. We can arrange direct access to items not available through normal means."

Information was one of Gringotts' most powerful commodities, and Russo never missed an opportunity to upsell.

He waited, watching for interest.

But instead of responding, the woman simply stared at him.

Then, in a slow, deliberate movement, she reached into her cloak and placed a small, blue magical suitcase on the counter.

"I need a vault," she said, her voice low and icy.

Russo blinked.

"Of course," he replied, recovering quickly. "Gringotts offers vaults of varying levels of security. Do you have any specific requirements?"

"The deeper, the better," she said. "The more secretive, the better."

Russo nodded. Standard request for a dark wizard.

"I understand completely," he said smoothly. "Per protocol, I must ask—what type of items will you be storing?"

Without waiting for an answer, he reached out to take the suitcase, intending to inspect it.

He never got the chance.

A sharp slap sent his hand recoiling.

The impact was not hard, but it was deliberate.

Russo's eyes widened as the woman—no, he realized with sudden clarity, not Almeida, but Bellatrix Lestrange—stared him down with a gaze as sharp as a dagger.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, Bellatrix spoke, her voice like ice cracking over a frozen lake.

"There’s something I need to know," she said.

Russo swallowed, suddenly very aware of the volatile nature of the witch standing before him.

"I heard a rumor," Bellatrix continued, her voice dropping even lower.

"That the Strange family's vault—which was under Gringotts’ protection—was robbed."

She tilted her head, her dark green eyes narrowing.

Chapter 495

Russo’s face shifted subtly as the question hung in the air. His hands instinctively gripped the parchment a little tighter, and the bitterness that crept across his expression was hard to mask.

The Lestrange vault, one of the most prestigious and heavily guarded within Gringotts, had been robbed. This was another scandal that painted the already tarnished reputation of Gringotts in even darker hues. The fact that Hufflepuff's golden cup, a priceless artifact said to have been crafted by goblins themselves, was inside that vault made the situation even worse.

At first, the goblins had no idea that the cup had been taken. It wasn’t until the thief had revealed the treasure’s worth that the true depth of the robbery came to light.

The scandal had rocked the very foundation of Gringotts.

The goblins were furious, especially Elder Harmon, whose rage had nearly torn through the entire institution. The backlash was severe, and many goblins—Russo included—were forced to take responsibility, some even enduring prison sentences.

"Ms. Bellatrix, don’t worry," Russo said, trying to regain some semblance of control over the conversation. "The treasures that start in Gringotts are certainly the safest. Even if something goes wrong, Gringotts ensures proper compensation."

He paused, carefully watching Bellatrix’s face as she seemed to suppress an emotion boiling just beneath the surface. The Lestrange vault had always been hers. It contained the master’s treasures, treasures that had been compromised.

Her eyes were hard, her lips thin as she fought to keep her rage in check.

The goblins had failed.

Russo could feel the cold weight of that anger, and he knew there was nothing more dangerous than a dark wizard’s wrath. Bellatrix’s heart was a furnace of fury, and yet, for now, she remained quiet.

The seconds stretched painfully, until she broke the silence with a simple command.

“Take me to the vault.”

Her voice was calm, but there was a dark undercurrent to it that sent a shiver down Russo’s spine. He nodded quickly, his respect for her now mixed with a deep-seated fear.

“Of course, Ms. Bellatrix,” he replied with exaggerated politeness. He turned to a goblin at his side. "Please assist with this special customer, make sure everything goes smoothly."

While normal customers were handled with casual professionalism, this was a big customer. The kind of customer whose wealth was unmatched, and whose favor could turn the tides for any goblin in Gringotts. Russo could already see the potential rewards he might receive if he handled this right.

He had no intention of letting the opportunity slip by.

Soon, he was leading Bellatrix through the twisting corridors of the vault section, the air growing cooler as they descended deeper into the heart of the bank.

“Ms. Bellatrix,” Russo continued, trying to engage in conversation despite the palpable tension in the air. "Gringotts also collaborates with Hogwarts. As you know, the Forbidden Forest is rich in magical resources."

"We also work with the Centaur from the Forbidden Forest. Their divination skills are unlike any other.”

Bellatrix, however, was not interested in his idle chatter. She walked silently, her movements purposeful, and her mind far from the conversation that Russo was trying to maintain. Every word he said was met with a cold indifference. The only sound in the corridor was the faint clack of their shoes against the marble floors.

Russo’s nervousness increased. The silence was deafening. He glanced sideways at her, trying to gauge her mood, but her expression remained stone-faced, her gaze fixed forward, her mind clearly far from the mundane chatter about resources and divination.

The further they descended, the more the weight of the atmosphere seemed to press down on them. Bellatrix’s robes, black as night, fluttered slightly in the strong wind that swirled through the vault tunnels. Russo couldn’t help but notice how her robes seemed to absorb the wind, as if rejecting it altogether. The sheer power of her presence made even the most powerful charms feel irrelevant.

Finally, the two arrived at the famed Anti-thief Falls, a large waterfall that marked the boundary between the regular vaults and the secure vaults at the deepest levels. The waterfall sparkled with all the colors of the rainbow, though the beauty was only superficial. It was a magical defense, designed to prevent even the most skilled thief from entering without proper clearance. The raindrops from the falls shimmered with an otherworldly energy, falling in slow motion before evaporating just before touching the ground.

Russo stole a glance at Bellatrix’s face. Despite her usual impassive demeanor, her eyes flickered slightly. He was aware of how many dark wizards revered the Anti-thief Falls, and it seemed that even Bellatrix was momentarily impressed.

“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” Russo ventured, trying once again to break the silence. But Bellatrix simply nodded without a word, her attention on the falls before them.

The cart they were riding in came to a sudden stop, the brakes screeching sharply as it arrived at the edge of the waterfall. Russo quickly jumped out and gestured for Bellatrix to follow. He led her to the goblin who was stationed at the vault’s entrance.

They exchanged a few words, and Russo quickly grabbed a bundle of keys, handing them to Bellatrix with a flourish.

"Ms. Bellatrix, your vault number is 777, one of our most secure and spacious locations. I thought it might suit your needs very well."

Russo had a flair for flattery, speaking in an almost reverent tone. He smiled broadly as he handed her the keys, but Bellatrix’s gaze was cold and distant, as if she were evaluating him like one might evaluate an object of little consequence.

“Lead the way.” Bellatrix’s voice was like ice, and Russo did not need to be told twice. He nodded quickly, walking in front of her to the entrance of the vault.

With a click and a whirr, the heavy door slowly began to open, revealing the vast, empty vault within.

Russo was certain that the vault was large enough to accommodate an entire fortune—just the right size to allow for massive transactions to take place without raising suspicion. As he led Bellatrix inside, his eyes flickered nervously around, hoping she would be pleased with the space.

He hoped that Bellatrix would be inclined to make a large deposit—after all, the larger the deposit, the more Gringotts earned, and the more Russo would stand to gain.

As Bellatrix stepped into the vault, Russo stood by, his hands clasped behind his back, watching her with a nervous smile. She surveyed the space briefly before raising her wand, the tip of it glowing faintly.

Just then, Russo felt a strange shift in the air.

Bellatrix, in an instant, turned, her wand now trained on him.

"Imperio."

The words came like a whisper, but their impact was like a thunderclap.

Before Russo could even react, a sickly green light flashed from her wand, sinking into his chest like a dagger of darkness.

A wave of cold washed over him, and his limbs locked in place, paralyzed by the Imperius Curse.

His eyes widened as his body was no longer his own. He could feel everything, yet he couldn’t control a single movement.

Bellatrix’s cold voice echoed in his mind. “You will now listen to me, and do as I say.”

Russo, now a puppet to her will, could only stand still as she turned her attention to her suitcase on the ground. Bellatrix’s wand flicked again, and the suitcase began to change.

With a series of clicking sounds, the black suitcase transformed before his eyes, steel pillars extending from it like an ancient relic, reshaping into something far darker.

A door emerged, shimmering with cyan ripples, like the veil of death itself. Bellatrix’s smile was wicked, knowing what would come next.

She raised her wand high, the final words falling from her lips, "Welcome to the master!"