Chapter 65
Several carts split off at different forks in the tunnel. As one of the most senior employees, Pullring and the veteran goblins were assigned to the deepest vaults — where the most valuable and dangerous artifacts were kept.
A chained fire-dragon glared at them.
Its enormous body was plated with scales that should have been bright and tight, but decades underground had left them pale, loose, and dull. Years without sunlight had ruined its once blood-red eyes; now they were a washed-out pink, cloudy and exhausted. Heavy shackles clamped both hind legs, the chains driven deep into the rock. Its spiked wings — weapons in their own right — hung limp at its sides. Even folded, they looked large enough to fill the entire chamber.
The dragon's stare simmered with resentment, but it didn't matter.
The goblins produced small metal tools from their belts — rods that chimed sharply when shaken, like tiny hammers striking steel.
The moment the dragon heard the clanging, the fury vanished. It shrank back, trembling, curling in on itself.
Who said goblins didn't understand science?
This was pure conditioning — pain paired with sound, etched into instinct since the dragon's youth. Now even the faintest chime sent terror rippling through its bones.
Still, the beast let out a hoarse, shaky roar. The wave of sound rattled the goblins' skulls until their vision blurred.
Carefully, the goblins edged toward the vault door. One placed a fingertip against the wood. The door dissolved, revealing a cavern glittering with treasures from floor to ceiling — heaps of gold, goblets of purest metal, ceremonial swords and armor, pelts of rare magical beasts, and glass vials of potions in every color imaginable.
After their rebellion was suppressed centuries ago, goblins lost the legal right to use wands. A flick of wandlight could have lit the vault — now they carried enchanted lamps instead.
Not that it mattered; talented goblins had never needed wands to work magic. But somewhere along the centuries, many had forgotten that truth.
The lead goblin reminded them briskly, "Old rules. Mind your limbs — do not touch anything barehanded. You know the consequences."
With that, he pulled on a pair of specially crafted anti-curse gloves.
Everything inside the Lestrange vault was enchanted twice over — Fiendfyre Heat Curse and a Duplication Curse. Together, they created a deathtrap. Touch the treasure without proper protection, and the object would burn hot enough to char bone — while endlessly multiplying until the thief was crushed alive.
Goblins, accustomed to handling such dangers, forged their own gloves that neutralized activation of the spells.
Pullring scanned the piles. Immediately, he spotted it — the golden cup Malfoy had described:
Two refined handles. Intricate symbolic engravings. And the tiny badger.
"You don't need to bring it out," Malfoy had told him. "Just destroy it."
And destruction was far simpler than smuggling — records in Gringotts were meticulous. Anything missing would be noticed.
Malfoy's only instruction:
"Let the liquid in the bottle touch the cup."
Pullring had no idea what that liquid was. Malfoy had not explained — only that the job was revenge. The vault belonged to the Lestrange family; pure-blood feuds were none of his business.
Under dozens of watchful eyes, Pullring couldn't act yet. He continued tallying items, keeping a steady rhythm, though his pulse hammered in his ears. To everyone else, he appeared perfectly calm.
Time slipped away. Fewer and fewer items remained to be catalogued.
If I panic now, I'm dead.
Suddenly, an idea sparked.
"Travers—Merlin help us—look at your feet! The gold coins—your trousers touched them!" Pullring cried, flinging the goblet he was holding onto the floor.
"What?" Travers jolted, startled. The coins he'd been counting slipped from his trembling hands and landed directly on his trousers.
Disaster ignited instantly.
"No—no!" Travers shrieked as the coin began duplicating. Burning replicas cascaded down his legs, sticking, clinging, multiplying. He tried to shake them off, screaming as the heat melted through fabric and skin alike.
Nobody knew whether gold coins had actually been under his feet — but it didn't matter now.
"Out! We'll return when the curse burns itself out!" the lead goblin barked, fleeing first.
If Malfoy were present, he would have "praised" the goblin for behaving exactly like a man named Fudge — vanishing at the first sign of trouble.
"Don't leave me! HELP!" Travers wailed, but the others had already abandoned him. No one would risk their life dragging a doomed colleague out.
In seconds, only Travers and Pullring remained. Gold coins surged like a molten tide, filling the chamber. Travers's voice cracked as he slipped toward unconsciousness.
Pullring's face twisted with anguish. His conscience trembled.
But it was too late to turn back.
He withdrew the glass bottle Malfoy had given him and hurled it at the golden cup.
Glass shattered — lost beneath the roar of multiplying gold.
The basilisk venom seeped instantly through the metal.
Pullring felt cold pierce the blazing air. It was like hearing a soul scream — a shrill, despairing wail that rattled thought itself. Even in this furnace of heat, the chill crawled into his bones.
Shaking violently, he staggered to Travers, wrapped thin arms around him, and began dragging him toward the exit.
Ten meters.
Five.
One.
A distance small enough to be called the span between hell and salvation.
At that critical moment, a few goblins who had hesitated earlier rushed back, grabbed both of them, and yanked them out of the vault. The entrance slammed shut.
Pullring collapsed on the stone, heaving for breath.
"We must report this to the Director immediately!" the lead goblin exclaimed, bolting away. The others watched him with undisguised contempt.
He had run first. He was running again.
The remaining goblins stood in stunned silence, savoring breath and life after near death. The chained dragon yawned, exhaling a cloud of foul air, thoroughly unimpressed with their panic.
Crack.
The vault door groaned. A visible fissure crawled across it, widening rapidly. Through it, blinding gold light flickered.
"No—damn it!" the goblins shouted together, then sprinted for their lives.
They escaped just in time.
The door split open — and a tidal wave of molten, multiplying gold exploded into the tunnel, carrying suffocating heat and unstoppable force.
The dragon, long accustomed to misery, was forced to brace its body against the blast. The goblins weren't kind enough to unlock its chains.
For once in its life, the dragon hated gold more than any treasure-hungry human ever could.
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