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These are done in a hurry so translation may not be good
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Chapter 76
Leaving the previous room behind, Draco Malfoy walked calmly down the corridor toward the wards he had asked about earlier. He still carried the basket of fruit in his arms, a picture-perfect image of a young wizard visiting patients. No one spared him a second glance.
He stopped first outside a ward that resembled an intensive-care unit. Through the glass, he saw a cluster of healers in dark green robes moving briskly back and forth, notebooks floating beside them as quills scribbled rapidly. Others stood at the bedside, wands raised, layers of healing magic overlapping in a steady rhythm.
Forgive me for being unable to help, Draco thought coldly, glancing in. You were innocent, dragged into this mess for nothing.
I will avenge you.
Though if he were honest, he himself was the true architect of this farce.
He continued to the end of the corridor. Painful howls and muffled groans drifted from the wards he passed, spell-dampened but still present. At the very last door, Draco stopped. He knocked lightly, then pushed the half-closed door open.
"Long time no see, Mr. Pulring," Draco said with a faint smile.
The goblin lying in the hospital bed stiffened.
Fortunately for Draco, Pulring was awake. Otherwise, he would not have minded using a more… direct method to rouse him.
Propped against his pillows, Pulring was reading a thick book bound in blue and black leather. The title on the cover was written in flamboyant, curling script—goblin runes. Draco didn't recognize the language, but he didn't need to.
Pulring jerked his head up, dark eyes wide with alarm.
"What are you doing here?" Pulring demanded, his voice sharp but uneven. Anticipation and fear warred openly in his expression. "Are you trying to get us exposed? Gringotts is already suspicious!"
He tried to sound stern. Failed.
Outwardly, Pulring had played the role of a daring accomplice. In truth, the past few days had been torture.
To fulfill Draco Malfoy's request, he had betrayed Gringotts protocol and nearly gotten a colleague killed. The same colleague—saved at the last moment out of guilt—had ironically earned Pulring praise and goodwill.
Every night since, Pulring dreamed of Aurors bursting in, dragging him away, stripping his mind with Legilimency and Truth Serum. In the dream, he always confessed everything.
And when the interrogation ended, he was thrown onto a cold, desolate island prison where hope rotted—Azkaban.
Regret gnawed at him.
Fear hollowed him out until he clung desperately to distraction. Immobilized in his hospital bed, the only refuge left to him was reading.
The Autobiography of King Legnak I.
It was his anesthesia.
Through its pages, Pulring immersed himself in the glory of goblin history—of a legendary king who was not only a peerless smith, but whose magical accomplishments rivaled those of any wizard. The more magnificent Legnak's deeds became, the easier it was for Pulring to convince himself that his sacrifice had meaning.
That he had acted for the honor of goblinkind.
Yet no reward had come.
And resentment crept in.
By the time Draco Malfoy stood before him, Pulring's carefully built self-justifications collapsed.
Fear surged back—raw and overwhelming.
Greed followed close behind.
Crime distorted all minds alike, wizard and goblin alike. Some lived in constant terror. Others bragged of flawless schemes. But when Draco spoke a few measured words, the familiar fire ignited once more in Pulring's eyes.
"Our meeting today was arranged by the president," Draco said evenly. "You've been instructed to keep silent. In return, you'll receive what you're owed."
He paused, letting the implication settle.
"Otherwise, I wouldn't be standing here. You're under medical house arrest for a reason."
Pulring's expression shifted instantly.
"The president's compensation is his affair," Draco continued, gray eyes fixing him in place. "Now it's time to fulfill our agreement."
A chill ran down Pulring's spine under that gaze—like a dormant beast opening one eye.
But the moment Draco mentioned the agreement, Pulring's anxiety evaporated.
"Where's the sword?" he blurted.
His eyes darted over Draco's figure. Aside from the fruit basket, there was nothing that could possibly conceal a weapon of that size.
Was he being deceived?
"The Malfoy family always honors its word," Draco said calmly.
As if, he added silently.
"Where is it?" Pulring snarled, suspicion turning feral.
"My dear friend," Draco replied lightly, "have you forgotten the Traceless Extension Charm?"
With deliberate slowness, Draco reached into the basket.
The Sword of Gryffindor emerged inch by inch, its silver blade gleaming even in the dim ward light. The ruby in its hilt burned like a living ember.
For a goblin obsessed with smithing, it was irresistible.
Pulring lunged.
Draco did not stop him.
The goblin cradled the sword as though holding a lover, fingers trembling as they traced the runes, the craftsmanship, the flawless balance. His eyes glazed over in rapture.
This was mastery beyond price.
He had paid dearly for this moment. Now, at last, he reaped the reward.
"However, Mr. Pulring," Draco said mildly, "there's something I should remind you—"
"I know," Pulring interrupted impatiently. "This sword wasn't acquired legally. I'll hide it well. No one will ever find it."
Draco shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"That's not what I meant."
Pulring barely heard him. "What?"
"In terms of narrative," Draco said softly, "I am the villain."
His wand was already raised.
"Obliviate."
White light struck Pulring squarely.
He collapsed from the bed with a look of disbelief and fury frozen on his face, still gripping the sword with white-knuckled strength.
"Relax your grip," Draco muttered, casting another spell to pry the blade free without breaking fingers.
The agreement had never been a sale.
Among goblins, it was always a lease.
And Draco had simply extended the term indefinitely.
Hufflepuff's cup was destroyed. Gryffindor's sword was secured. Wages owed to workers—postponed.
Another piece of the plan fell neatly into place.
"Coveting what isn't yours only invites disaster," Draco said quietly, looking down at the unconscious Pulring. In truth, this had likely saved his life. Had events followed their original course, Voldemort's Killing Curse would have found him soon enough.
What kind of reaction a goblin would have with a dying Dark Lord—Draco had no intention of finding out.
From their very first meeting, Pulring had been stepping into this trap. It was crude. Obvious. Effective.
Because it relied on one thing alone.
Greed.
And perhaps a touch of suggestion—never true compulsion. Emotional nudges, nothing more. When Pulring had passed the waterfall, he had felt nothing amiss.
The choice had always been his.
St. Mungo's continued as usual. Cries echoed where chaos was permitted. Silence reigned where it was required. Healers worked on. Augustus Pye was still being scolded by his superior.
No one noticed that a goblin patient on the fifth floor had lost something far more valuable than a sword.
"Lockhart! You dared to deceive a goblin!"
Pulring awoke not long after, rage blazing. His physiology resisted total magical suppression, and Draco had given him the perfect outlet for his fury.
Better to redirect trouble than suppress it.
Somewhere, a certain fraudulent professor unknowingly inherited a new problem.
"Hmm?"
A witch in lighter green robes—more orderly than healer—nearly tripped outside a ward. A beautifully wrapped fruit basket lay on the floor.
"How careless," she muttered. "Leaving something like this outside…"
A slip of parchment floated into her hand.
I hope our hero recovers soon and walks free of his nightmare.
She glanced at the door.
"Ward 49… Longbottom," she murmured. "A hero, then."
She resolved to pay closer attention.
Under the night sky, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries remained perfectly, deceptively normal.
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