[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 471 - 475

Chapter 471

On the surface, Elder Harmon’s demeanor exuded regret and sincerity: bowing humbly, admitting fault, promising compensation, and vowing to help find the missing gold. But beneath the polished facade, it was all a calculated ploy: fabricating facts, downplaying serious matters, and deflecting accusations with practiced ease.

Ian's gaze hardened, though a flicker of smirk came his features. Beneath his calm exterior Ian finding it amusing seeing the true form of the goblin.

A sly, shameless foe? They're the hardest to vanquish.

“Mr. Harmon, I hope you’re not trying to fool me,” Ian spoke calmly trying to fan thje flame. He knew that Harmon wanted to manipulated him, Rejecting Harmon's seemingly earnest apology outright would paint Kamar Taj as petty and tyrannical, a reputation Ian could not allow to stain his home.

Harmon, ever perceptive, seemed to catch Ian’s hesitation. Without missing a beat, he tightened his grip on the neck of Valen, the green-cloaked goblin accused of treachery. The traitor struggled weakly, fear flickering in his eyes.

"Warren," Harmon hissed, his voice cold as winter frost. "Who compelled you to betray Gringotts? Speak."

The goblin's wide, glassy eyes darted frantically. His lips trembled as though words were forming, desperate to escape. But the malice in Harmon's gaze snuffed out any hope of reprieve. Warren’s shoulders sagged, resignation sinking in.

Then, with startling resolve, the goblin snarled, “Goblin never surrender to wizards!” His voice rose in defiance. “You goblin traitors will learn nothing from me!”

Before anyone could intervene, Warren reversed the flow of his magic. A black flame erupted, consuming him in an instant. The raw, otherworldly heat forced Harmon to leap back. All that remained of Warren was a scattering of ashes, swirling to the floor in eerie silence.

Harmon wiped his hands on his robes, masking his unease with a carefully neutral expression. "My apologies," he said, his tone measured. "The traitor’s will proved too strong. He chose to burn himself before we could extract a confession."

Ian's fists clenched at his sides. The goblin elder’s apology dripped with insincerity, a thin veneer over what Ian knew to be a deliberate action of sacrificing the black sheep. The black flames of Warren’s sacrifice had burned away more than flesh—they had consumed any hope of creating more chaos

"Rest assured," Harmon continued, bowing slightly, "Gringotts will not allow this matter to go unresolved. Compensation will be provided, and justice will prevail. We value our alliance with wizards deeply."

The farcical display gnawed at Ian. Harmon's maneuvering had turned an embarrassing incident into an opportunity to consolidate Gringotts' image as an upholder of justice. Publicizing the incident would now only serve to strengthen their narrative, not weaken it.

Umbridge, who had been skulking on the sidelines, stepped forward with her usual sycophantic flair. "Truly abominable behavior from a goblin traitor!" she exclaimed. "Rest assured, Elder Harmon, the Ministry of Magic stands ready to assist in rooting out any such elements in the future. This vile act must be punished severely."

Her face froze mid-sentence, her expression twisting as she realized the insult she had just hurled at goblins—directly in front of their elder. Flustered, she stammered, "That is to say, such betrayal is deplorable, of course…"

Harmon, the consummate diplomat, chose to feign agreement. "Indeed, Ms. Umbridge. Treachery knows no bounds and must be eradicated."

Ian’s jaw tightened, and Wanda, standing beside him, cast him a worried glance. She could see the frustration etched into his features. Every attempt to steer the conversation toward the counterfeit galleons to create more chaos was met with Harmon’s deft redirection, framing the incident as a mere act of treason by a rogue goblin.

As the farce drew to an unsatisfying close, Ian turned to leave.

Back in the secretive halls of Kamar Taj, Ian and Wanda stood before Peggy Carter in the vice principal's starkly minimalist office. The sunlight streamed through the wide windows, casting sharp shadows against the marble floor. The black-and-white decor reflected the mood perfectly: grim, cold, and unforgiving.

Ian lowered his head, guilt heavy in his chest. “Teacher Carter, I take full responsibility for this failure,” he said, his voice subdued. "It was my inadequacy that allowed Harmon to seize the narrative. I accept any punishment."

Peggy Carter, seated at her austere desk, rested her chin on her interlaced fingers, her gaze fixed on Ian. Despite her calm exterior, tension radiated from her. The plan to destabilize Gringotts had been hers, and its failure gnawed at her.

Wanda stepped forward, her voice soft yet imploring. "Teacher Carter, please don’t blame Ian alone. The goblins’ cunning caught us all off guard. Ian did his best, and the fault lies with all of us."

Peggy exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. Her students’ loyalty was admirable, but it did little to solve the predicament. The objective had been clear: dismantle Gringotts’ dominance over wizarding currency and position Kamar Taj as the arbiter of financial stability in the magical world. The counterfeit galleons had been their opening gambit, meant to discredit Gringotts and erode trust in their institution.

But Harmon’s quick thinking had turned their accusations into baseless slander in the public’s eye. Now, not only had the plan failed, but Kamar Taj faced potential retaliation from the goblins.

Peggy’s fingers drummed against the desk. Her mind churned, searching for a way to regain the upper hand. Gringotts could not be allowed to maintain their stranglehold on magical finance. If Kamar Taj was to establish true influence, this obstacle had to be removed—permanently.

The oppressive silence thickened until a voice broke through, calm yet commanding. "I see the weight of failure has dampened your spirits."

Ian and Wanda turned, startled, as an imposing figure emerged from the shadows of the room. The newcomer’s voice carried an air of absolute confidence.

"Carter, Ian, Wanda," the figure continued, stepping into the light. "Let me remind you of a fundamental truth in the wizarding world: the strong dictate the rules."

Chapter 472

Gringotts, conference room.

Clatter. Clatter. Clatter.

In the vast, dimly lit chamber, the rhythmic tapping of Elder Harmon’s fingers against the polished stone table echoed ominously. Each soft yet deliberate click seemed to drill into the goblins’ nerves, a slow, methodical rhythm that sent chills down their spines.

The oppressive silence of the room was stifling. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on the foreheads of the goblins seated around the long, dark mahogany table. Some discreetly dabbed at their brows with their sleeves, but the moisture returned almost instantly, an endless cycle of anxious perspiration.

The tension in the air thickened with every passing second.

Then—abruptly—the clicking stopped.

But instead of relief, a sharper, heavier silence fell over the room. The goblins, each already on edge, felt their throats constrict as they braced for the final verdict. Their small, sharp claws clenched against their seats, their hunched postures stiff with apprehension.

"Does anyone wish to speak now?" Harmon’s voice, cool and composed, carried a lethal undertone.

Dead silence.

No goblin dared to move, let alone respond. Those who had been about to open their mouths hesitated, sensing the wary, watchful gazes of their peers. The unspoken rule in the room was clear—whoever spoke first might as well be walking into a trap.

Harmon’s eyes swept across the assembly, his gaze a blade seeking weakness. His lips curled slightly, though it was not in amusement. "No one has anything to say?" His words were polite, but his tone suggested that their continued silence would only make things worse.

Finally, after an unbearable pause, one goblin hesitantly stood. The movement drew immediate attention. Elder Harmon’s eyes narrowed slightly, and the others watched with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Lunda, a mid-ranked goblin, took a cautious breath before speaking. "Elder," he began, forcing a calm tone, "I believe our first priority should be retaliation against Kamar Taj."

The words acted as a release valve for the room. The unbearable pressure lessened just slightly, and a murmur of agreement spread through the assembled goblins. Lunda, emboldened by the reaction, straightened his back and spoke more fluently.

"Kamar Taj attempted to disgrace Gringotts, to damage our credibility among wizards. This cannot be ignored. Thanks to Elder Harmon’s quick thinking, their scheme failed." He paused, then repeated emphatically, "Without Elder Harmon, the situation could have been disastrous."

Flattery dripped from every syllable, and for a brief moment, Harmon allowed himself the indulgence of approval. It was good to see that at least some of them recognized his value.

But as Lunda continued, Harmon’s patience began to wear thin.

The goblin was circling around the point, showering praise but failing to present any real solutions. Harmon’s fingers twitched slightly—a sign that he was growing irritated. You’ve made your point, Lunda. But where’s the strategy?

With a practiced sigh, Harmon cut in smoothly. "And what is your plan, Lunda?"

Lunda’s words faltered. He opened his mouth, then shut it. The goblin’s confidence visibly wavered.

The silence that followed was damning.

Harmon’s eyes flashed with cold amusement as he realized Lunda had no concrete proposal at all—only empty rhetoric. So, you’re a talker, not a doer. Typical.

"Sniveling coward," Harmon muttered under his breath. He shifted his gaze to the others in the room, wordlessly daring them to speak up.

Predictably, the goblins around the table averted their eyes, suddenly finding their hands, their papers, or the floor immensely interesting. None wanted to be the next fool who failed to deliver a solid course of action.

Then, a voice broke through the silence.

"Elder Harmon, retaliation against Kamar Taj is imperative, but perhaps our immediate focus should be identifying and the true traitors within Gringotts."

Another goblin stood up, clearly attempting to steer the conversation away from the dangerous topic of openly confronting Kamar Taj.

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, and the goblins quickly latched onto this new, safer discussion.

"Yes! We must inverstigate the treasury guards!"

"Veritaserum, memory probes, soul searches—we must leave no stone unturned!"

Harmon leaned back slightly, listening as the chamber filled with a rising clamor of increasingly vicious suggestions. The more merciless the proposal, the more the speaker sought to prove their loyalty.

Disgusting.

Outwardly, he remained impassive, but inwardly, he felt only frustration. His kin were wolves—vicious, ambitious, but ultimately too self-serving. They would eagerly rip each other apart in the name of loyalty, yet when faced with a true external enemy, they cowered.

It was a tragic irony.

And one he would soon have to correct.

He allowed the chatter to continue for a moment longer before raising a single hand.

Silence fell instantly.

"You have all made excellent points," he said smoothly, his tone a calculated mix of approval and authority. "I will consider your suggestions regarding the traitors."

Several goblins sighed in relief.

"But," Harmon continued, his voice cooling, "let us return to the matter at hand. What concrete strategies do you propose against Kamar Taj?"

Once again, the chamber descended into uneasy silence.

This time, however, Harmon had expected it. He had already determined what needed to be done.

Enough was enough. If the goblins of Gringotts feared making the first move, then he would make it for them.

His expression darkened as he stood, placing both hands on the table and surveying the goblins before him.

"Gringotts will not sit idly by while Kamar Taj seeks to destroy us." His voice rang with icy determination. "They have gone too far. They must be made to suffer the consequences of their arrogance."

A shiver ran through the gathered goblins as they listened. This was not empty posturing—Harmon was serious.

He took a breath before delivering his orders:

"Summon the wandering goblins. Place bounties on Kamar Taj students."

"Contact the Dark Lord—inform him that Gringotts is willing to lend support in dismantling Kamar Taj."

"Exert pressure on the Ministry of Magic—force them to distance themselves from Kamar Taj or risk losing financial stability."

"Manipulate the Daily Prophet. Twist the narrative. Turn the wizarding world against them."

Each command fell like a hammer, solid and inescapable.

Gasps filled the room, and wide-eyed goblins exchanged looks of alarm.

This… this was war.

Some swallowed nervously. Others, like Lunda, quickly recovered and straightened their spines, nodding vigorously. "Yes! Brilliant! Elder Harmon’s wisdom is unparalleled!"

One by one, the other goblins echoed their agreement. Some out of conviction. Most out of fear.

Harmon’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

This is how you crush an enemy. With precision. With force. With utter ruthlessness.

As the last affirmation was spoken, he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a quiet, lethal whisper.

"Now, tell me… can you do it?"

For several agonizing seconds, the only sound was the faint creak of the wooden chairs as goblins shifted uncomfortably.

Then, one by one, the responses came.

"We can do it."

"We will do it."

"We must do it."

Harmon smiled—a thin, merciless curve of his lips.

And then, just as the final echoes of their declarations faded—

“Clap…Clap…Clap”

A voice, cold and unfamiliar, drifted into the chamber.

" That was quite the performance."

Chapter 473

"Ian, Wanda, let me test you with a question."

Lockhart’s voice carried an easy, almost amused lilt as he turned his attention to his two students. His relaxed posture suggested casual conversation, but there was a razor-sharp edge to his words, a hidden weight that neither Ian nor Wanda failed to notice.

"You have observed the Gringotts meeting from start to finish. Tell me—given the current state of Gringotts, even with individuals like Elder Harmon at the helm, do you believe the goblins still have hope for the rise they so desperately seek?"

Ian and Wanda exchanged a glance. Their expressions were thoughtful, calculating. They had been analyzing every word, every shift in expression among the goblins, and now Lockhart was asking them to put that analysis into words.

Ian was the first to respond, his tone decisive. "Teacher, I don't believe there's much hope for them. Gringotts is too rotten from within. No matter how capable an individual might be, corruption runs too deep to be solved by a single leader or even a handful of reformers."

Wanda, however, had a different perspective. "Mentor, I disagree with Ian," she countered, her voice steady. "If a true strongman were to emerge within Gringotts—someone willing to cut away the rot and purge the corruption—then there is still a chance. Even the most decayed institutions can be reborn under the right leadership."

Lockhart smiled slightly, as if entertained by their debate. "I can understand Wanda's perspective," he mused, steepling his fingers. "But don't forget—Gringotts' problems are long-standing. Rooted deep in its foundations. Simply killing off a few bad elements won’t cleanse something that has been rotting for centuries."

The words, spoken with ease, carried a chilling finality.

The unsettling part? Lockhart, Ian, and Wanda weren’t merely discussing Gringotts. They were discussing it in Gringotts, in the very heart of enemy territory, as though they were distant observers dissecting a carcass rather than trespassers in a den of wolves.

At this moment, it was as if the goblins gathered in the conference room were no more than livestock, mere chickens or ducks waiting on the butcher’s block, incapable of protest.

Ian and Wanda, unconcerned with the growing hostility in the room, continued speaking freely, their voices rising in animated discussion. There was no fear in their tones, no hesitation. If anything, the debate had become more engaging for them, more enjoyable.

The goblins, however, could do nothing but glare, their sharp teeth grinding behind tightly clenched lips. Fury burned in their eyes, but their bodies refused to obey them. They were trapped—paralyzed like puppets with their strings cut, unable to even summon their magic.

It was only then that they realized—

Near the head of the table, seated comfortably in a brown chair, was him.

Lockhart.

Beside him stood Vice Principal Carter, coolly surveying the room. Behind them, standing proudly like students before their master, were Ian and Wanda.

Elder Harmon, who had been deathly still up to this point, stirred slightly. His fingers twitched as he slowly realized something both terrifying and surprising—he could move.

His sharp goblin mind processed the situation in an instant.

They’re toying with us.

They had deliberately left him mobility while locking down everyone else.

Why?

The answer was clear—because they wanted him to perform.

"Mr Harmon," Lockhart's voice was almost playful, as if inviting him into a game, "you taught my two students a valuable lesson today." He gestured idly to Ian and Wanda, then leaned forward slightly. "How about you offer your own evaluation? Do you agree with their judgments?"

Harmon exhaled slowly, carefully schooling his features. "Dear Principal Lockhart," he began smoothly, "I must admit, your students present insightful arguments."

He had survived this long by knowing when to speak and when to hold his tongue. And now, he was speaking.

No goblin rose to the rank of Elder in Gringotts without a keen sense of survival. Harmon wasn’t about to let his pride blind him to the fact that he was in the presence of beings far stronger than himself.

However—

His fingers crept toward the bronze key at his waist, moving slowly, deliberately, so as not to attract attention.

The portkey.

It had saved his life before. It would do so again.

If he could activate it, he would be whisked away—far from this doomed meeting room, far from the iron grip of Kamar Taj.

And once he was free, he would expose them.

He would tell the entire wizarding world about Kamar Taj’s treachery. He would lay bare the deception of their so-called wisdom and peace.

His heart pounded.

His fingers brushed against—

Nothing.

What?!

His pulse surged as he realized—there was no metallic texture under his fingertips. His fingers passed through where the portkey should have been, as though it were an illusion.

His stomach turned to ice.

When he looked up, he was met with Lockhart’s infuriatingly calm gaze. The wizard’s eyes glowed with quiet amusement.

That was when Harmon knew—his fate had already been sealed.

"Mr. Harmon," Lockhart mused, tapping his chin. "Which of my two students perspectives do you prefer?"

Harmon shut his eyes for a brief moment, his mind racing. His only chance of survival was adaptation. If escape was impossible, then negotiation was his only option.

He forced himself to appear composed, as though he were weighing his response carefully. When he opened his eyes, his voice was steady. "Both perspectives hold merit," he admitted. "The corruption within Gringotts is undeniable. Without serious reform, we will stagnate and fall."

"Then tell me," Lockhart asked, ever intrigued, "do you think you can fix it?"

A long pause.

Harmon lowered his head slightly, feigning contemplation before responding in a quiet, almost somber tone. "If I were alone," he admitted, "I would say the odds of success are no more than 20 or 30 percent."

Then, his eyes glowed with something else—something dangerous.

"But," he continued, his voice gaining momentum, "if the Great Elder Hampton were to take action, I believe the probability of success would rise to 60, perhaps even 70 percent."

At the mention of the name, Lockhart’s gaze flickered toward Carter.

The vice principal, ever composed, offered a succinct report. "Great Elder Hampton—Gringotts' highest-ranking figure, its chief helmsman. Little is known about his exact whereabouts. Our intelligence suggests he has not been active in the British wizarding world for some time—likely traveling through other wizarding domains. He is rumored to possess the true inheritance of goblin magic. If these claims hold any truth, he is a top-tier opponent."

Lockhart exhaled through his nose, intrigued. "Interesting."

For a moment, he was silent, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his chair. Then, his gaze turned once more to Harmon, his expression unreadable.

Then he spoke.

"You goblins have caused quite the disruption to our plans today," he remarked lightly. "Tell me, Harmon—how do you intend to compensate us?"

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room.

The goblins' eyes widened in disbelief, then burned with rage.

Kamar Taj wants to destroy us. They seek to dismantle Gringotts, to erase us from history. We resisted—fought for our survival—and now they dare ask for compensation?!

If not for their magical restraints, they would have erupted in furious protest.

But the restrain remained.

And Harmon, their leader, was left to answer.

Lockhart’s voice carried a final, ominous weight.

"Come, Harmon. Tell me." His tone was silk, but the steel beneath it was undeniable. "What price will you pay for interfering with our plans?"

Harmon's jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. His pride warred against reality. His instinct screamed at him to bow, to concede, to survive.

And yet—

"Ian, Wanda," Lockhart continued, unbothered by the goblins’ silent fury. "How much did you suffer today?"

His smile widened.

"Come, your principal will help you settle the score."

Chapter 474

"Lockhart, what exactly do you intend to do?"

Harmon’s voice, unlike those of the trembling goblins around him, was steady, composed. He did not cower in fear, nor did he beg for mercy like some of his underlings who were now shifting uneasily, their gazes darting toward the ground as if seeking refuge in their own shadows.

Instead, he looked Lockhart in the eye, calling him by name—not with reverence, nor with defiance, but with a strange sense of resignation.

In his cold, piercing gaze, there was no panic. Only the grim understanding of a man who knew that all exits had been sealed, all backup plans had failed, and all chances of escape had withered away.

It was not just himself or his fellow goblins that were on the chopping block. It was Gringotts itself.

This… this is the power of a true wizard at the peak.

If only Gringotts had a force capable of standing against such an opponent, if only they had cultivated a power to rival the legendary wizards of Kamar Taj, then none of this would be happening.

Why?

The question echoed in his mind, reverberating like the toll of a funeral bell.

Why is this happening?!

For centuries, goblins had clawed and scraped their way toward a future free from wizard oppression. After hundreds of years of struggle, after so many sacrifices, they had finally begun to see the faintest glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel.

And now, in a single day, that hope was obliterated.

All because of this man.

Harmon felt a surge of hatred boil in his chest. It was not the wild, thoughtless rage of a cornered beast but the deep, smoldering hatred of someone who understood—who knew exactly what had been lost.

Regret threatened to creep into his thoughts, but he shoved it away.

No.

No time for regret.

But if he had to admit one thing—if he had one moment of weakness—perhaps he regretted not killing these Kamar Taj wizards the moment they set foot in Gringotts.

If he had acted decisively, cut them down where they stood, perhaps things would have played out differently.

Perhaps.

But he had been too slow.

And now—

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then, when he opened them again, all emotion had drained away.

Harmon stared at Lockhart as if he were trying to etch his enemy’s face into his memory.

Or perhaps… he was simply looking upon the man who would deliver his death.

But Lockhart’s voice, ever smooth, ever calm, interrupted his thoughts.

"Does it really matter what I intend to do?" Lockhart mused, tilting his head slightly, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "What’s far more important is what my students want to do."

He gestured lazily toward Ian and Wanda, who were standing just behind him, watching the scene unfold like spectators at a theater.

"After all," Lockhart continued, his voice light yet dripping with an unmistakable authority, "when a student makes a mistake, it falls to the teacher to ensure it is corrected."

Harmon let out a quiet breath, his gaze unwavering.

"So, we at Gringotts… are the price you must pay to correct that mistake," he finished, his voice even.

Lockhart offered a small nod, pleased at Harmon's understanding.

Then, without another glance toward him, he turned to his students.

"Well then," Lockhart said smoothly. "Do either of you have ideas? Speak freely."

Ian and Wanda remained silent for a moment.

They knew their mentor well.

This was a test.

Not just a test of their intelligence, but of their instincts, their ability to think beyond the immediate and into the larger picture.

After a moment of thought, Ian spoke first. His voice was measured, analytical.

"Mentor," he began, "since this failure ultimately came from our miscalculation, our focus should be on correcting that mistake and ensuring the plan moves forward without further obstacles."

He cast a sidelong glance at Harmon before continuing.

"Harmon was the key figure in disrupting our plan. However, killing him outright would be a waste. Instead, I suggest we control him—turn him into our puppet."

A ripple of unease spread through the gathered goblins.

Ian’s voice remained unnervingly calm, as if he were discussing the most logical course of action in a simple game of chess.

"Our objective remains the same—to control wizarding currency. With most of Gringotts' high-ranking officials already compromised or subdued, we are in a position to dictate its operations entirely."

The goblins' eyes widened in horror.

Was this wizard truly suggesting that they keep Gringotts intact, but force it to serve Kamar Taj’s will?

Ian’s next words confirmed their worst fears.

"By allowing Gringotts to continue operating under our control, we create plausible deniability. Any aggressive policies or controversial actions can be blamed on Gringotts itself, insulating Kamar Taj from backlash while providing us with a buffer for the future."

Ian's gaze remained level. "In other words, we use Gringotts as both a tool and a shield."

Cold sweat dripped down the backs of the goblins.

This was… too cruel.

They weren’t just being defeated.

They were being used.

Like a tattered old rag—useful while it lasted, and discarded the moment it was no longer needed.

Lockhart, expression unreadable, turned toward Wanda.

"And you?" he asked, his eyes glinting with curiosity.

Wanda smiled—a mischievous, almost playful smile. She stuck her tongue out slightly, her demeanor in stark contrast to the grim seriousness of the situation.

"I think Ian’s plan is great," she said cheerfully. "But we should add something extra."

She tilted her head, her fingers playfully twirling a lock of her hair.

"Mentor, have you forgotten?" she teased. "Gringotts holds the entire wealth of the British wizarding world."

Lockhart chuckled softly. "Ah. You want to take it."

Wanda beamed, her eyes shining with delight. "Of course! It would be such a waste to leave all that gold just sitting there."

Lockhart glanced toward Carter, who had remained silent throughout the discussion. The vice principal was idly examining her surroundings, showing little outward reaction.

Lockhart sighed inwardly.

At a glance, my students seem more and more like villains.

And yet, he found himself pleased.

Hogwarts had produced wizards like Harry Potter, noble and righteous to a fault.

Meanwhile, his own students…

They were something else entirely.

And he had no complaints.

Turning back to Harmon, Lockhart posed his next question.

"Harmon, what do you think?"

The goblin elder clenched his jaw. He had remained silent throughout the conversation, refusing to acknowledge the words being spoken about him and his people as if they were nothing more than assets on a ledger.

But now, as all eyes fell on him once more, he snorted.

He refused to speak.

What was there to say?

Nothing he said would change his fate.

And he would not entertain these wizards by giving them the pleasure of watching him beg.

But while Harmon held onto his silence, the other goblins in the room—

They did not share his pride.

"Lord Lockhart, I am still useful!" one of them blurted desperately.

Another scrambled to follow. "We know everything about Gringotts’ assets—every vault, every hidden chamber!"

"Sir, there is something you may not know," another goblin piped up frantically. "Gringotts has been secretly working with Muggles to develop lethal weapons for wizards!"

Lockhart and his students paused.

Ian raised an eyebrow. Wanda's mischievous smile widened.

Lockhart simply exhaled softly.

Ah. So now the betrayals begin.

And that was precisely what he had been waiting for.

Chapter 475

"Sir, I know everything about Gringotts! Whatever you need, just give me your orders!"

"Master Wizard, don't listen to him! Cassie is an incompetent fool who has failed more times than he has succeeded!"

"Lord Lockhart, do you remember me? I was the one who managed your last collaboration with Gringotts!"

"Master, I’ll sign a slave contract if I have to! Just let me live!"

The goblins spoke over one another, their desperation rising like a tide, each scrambling to outdo the others in their pathetic pleas for survival.

Harmon closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

He had known for a long time that his people were not warriors. That despite their centuries of hatred toward wizards, most goblins valued their own survival above all else.

But even knowing this…

Even expecting this…

To witness it was a disgrace unlike any other.

Harmon felt disgust coil in his chest, an acidic, burning sensation that made his stomach churn. Pathetic. Cowards. Weaklings.

Had he not fought for these same goblins all his life? Had he not sought a future where they would stand as equals to wizards, not groveling at their feet like mangy dogs?

Bah.

What a cruel joke.

Harmon stood straight, his head held high—his proud stance a stark contrast to the whimpering, bowing goblins behind him.

It was as if they were two different species entirely.

Ian and Wanda, observing the scene, exchanged a brief look.

Their previous encounters with Gringotts had led them to believe that the goblins were a formidable adversary—cunning, ruthless, difficult to manipulate.

And Harmon had seemed to embody that belief.

But now?

Ian had been both right and wrong.

Yes, Gringotts could be dangerous.

Yes, Harmon was formidable.

But the rest of them?

The moment pressure was applied, they crumbled like old parchment.

However, Ian’s sharp eyes caught something—off in the corner, a handful of goblins had not joined in the desperate chorus of surrender.

They stood apart, glaring at their fellow goblins with barely concealed hatred.

Ian smirked.

Even in a situation like this, even facing the destruction of their own kind, there were still those who despised traitors more than they feared death.

Good.

He had a use for goblins like that.

Lockhart’s voice broke the tension.

"Ian, Wanda, you must remember something." His tone was calm, but it carried the weight of a lesson—one not meant to be forgotten.

"If, one day, you ever find yourselves in dire straits… I would rather you die with your pride intact, like Harmon here, than see you grovel for your lives like them."

His eyes swept over the sniveling goblins.

"As your mentor, it is my duty to ensure that you never fall into such a position. But still, watch this moment. Remember it. This is the fate of the weak. The powerlessness of those who lack strength. The inevitable end of those who cannot stand on their own."

His words settled into Ian and Wanda’s minds like stone tablets carved in unshakable truth.

Both of them nodded solemnly.

Then, with a lazy wave of his hand, Lockhart silenced the goblins once more—freezing them in place.

"Carter," he said, turning to the vice principal, "let's hear your next plan."

Carter, who had been watching with amusement, did not seem surprised.

She knew Lockhart far too well.

For all of Lockhart’s power, for all his ambition, he still had a tendency to delegate when possible.

He enjoyed the role of a mentor, enjoyed guiding his students, enjoyed showing off.

But work?

Ah. That was another matter entirely.

"Alright," Carter said simply. "Ian, Wanda, your suggestions weren’t bad, but they lacked some key information. Since you didn’t have the full picture, your plans contained errors."

Both students straightened slightly, listening intently.

Peggy Carter’s expression turned serious. "To Kamar Taj, Gringotts is not just a vault of wealth. It serves a far more important function."

Ian and Wanda glanced at each other, intrigued.

"And what is that?" Ian asked.

Carter smirked. "It is a petri dish—one that accelerates the spread of new wizards into the world."

Gringotts, Deep Underground Vaults

Huff. Huff. Huff.

The rhythmic sound of heavy breathing echoed through the cavernous chamber.

On a massive stone platform lay a curled-up dragon, its massive, scarred body coiled in restless slumber.

The pale creature, its silver scales dulled with age and captivity, let out slow, misty breaths through flaring nostrils. Each exhale sent faint tendrils of white vapor curling into the cold air.

Though it appeared to be resting, the occasional twitch of its eyelids betrayed something else—troubled dreams, perhaps.

A whisper of displaced air.

Three figures materialized near the edge of the platform.

Yet, despite its usual wariness, the dragon did not react.

It continued to rest, seemingly unaware of their presence.

"Teacher," Wanda said softly, stepping forward, her voice tinged with fascination. "This is the dragon I was telling you about. They say it’s an Ukrainian Ironbelly—one of the largest and most ferocious breeds."

Lockhart, his gaze sharp, nodded in understanding.

The goblin affairs had been left in Carter’s hands—he trusted him to deal with it.

This, however—this was something else.

Wanda, standing close to the dragon, suddenly hesitated.

She felt something.

Something unusual.

A strange wave of emotion—not her own—washed over her, thick with sorrow, pain, and longing.

Her fingers twitched slightly.

"Teacher," she whispered. "This dragon… its soul is filled with sadness. A deep, mellow grief… but also determination. It longs for freedom."

Her expression softened, almost entranced.

"It’s… beautiful."

Lockhart tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction with interest.

Ian, standing nearby, frowned slightly.

Something about Wanda’s behavior felt off.

She had always had a strong spiritual connection to magical creatures, but this was different.

Was she being affected by the dragon’s emotions?

No. That shouldn’t be possible.

Unless…

Ian’s thoughts were interrupted as Lockhart stepped forward.

Slowly, he extended a hand toward the slumbering beast.

The moment his palm hovered just above the dragon’s massive scales, he felt it.

A deep, pulsing heat.

Powerful.

Ancient.

Lockhart narrowed his eyes.

Fascinating.

His magic flared slightly, and a transparent ripple appeared around his hand.

Gently, he pressed his palm forward, allowing his spell to sink into the dragon’s body.

Information flooded his senses.

Scarred muscle.

Years of captivity.

Physical atrophy from prolonged imprisonment.

All of it was expected.

But something else stood out.

Something wrong.

Lockhart’s eyes flickered.

Then, he took a step back.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the power of the dream world—one of the abilities he had been refining.

A shroud of magic gathered around his gaze, allowing him to see the threads of fate entangling the dragon.

And what he saw made his expression darken.

Tangled within the dragon’s fate were strands of energy—strange, colorful threads that pulsed with something beyond ordinary magic.

A signature he recognized.

Lockhart’s jaw tightened.

Grindelwald.

Not him personally.

But his magic.

Instead of seeking Lockhart, Grindelwald had woven his influence into Wanda’s path.

Lockhart’s eyes narrowed.

What are you up to, old man?