A powerful aura mixed with bone-deep, crazed malice poured over the heads of the two Goblins like tangible ice water.
They could feel the aura emanating from the Witch before them.
It was a genuine, even purer madness than what they had experienced countless times from Bellatrix Lestrange.
Griphook's knuckles turned white from gripping his halberd too hard, while his other hand instinctively tightened around the key ring at his waist, the metal clinking with a faint, grating noise.
"We wouldn't dare, Madam," Griphook squeezed the words through his teeth, abruptly lowering his head and retracting his halberd.
His posture was so humble it seemed as if he might kiss the tips of Hermione's shoes at any moment. "Please... please follow me."
Hermione gave a contemptuous snort, the sound like a whip cracking against the two Goblins' nerves.
She stepped into the opulent, high-domed bank hall.
In the hall, hundreds of Goblins were busy behind their respective counters, the clacking of abacuses and the clinking of Galleons weaving into a symphony of wealth.
This was an underground kingdom, a sanctuary of wealth and contracts.
Lia lay on Hermione's shoulder, her sky-blue cat eyes not looking at the glittering gold.
She had no interest in these cold metals.
Her Eye of Truth had already been quietly activated.
In her vision, the entirety of Gringotts was no longer a physical building, but a massive heart composed of countless gold, silver, and bronze magical veins.
Every flick of a Goblin's abacus and every opening of a vault door caused a faint "pulse" in this heart.
Countless ancient contracts and vicious curses, like venom-soaked spiderwebs, were spread across the nodes of the veins, shimmering with an eerie light invisible to mortals; they were the most loyal guards of this underground kingdom of wealth.
Lia could even "smell" the stench of torn souls lingering on some of the thickest "webs," the eternal wails left behind by intruders.
"This way, Madam," Griphook led the way, his back stiff and his attitude respectful to the extreme.
They crossed the hall and came to a deep tunnel. A crude rail cart sat there, looking like a steel beetle.
"Would you like me to drive for you?" another Goblin named Sharpclaw stepped forward and asked cautiously.
"No need," Hermione refused coldly, the impatience in her eyes seemingly saying, 'Are you even worthy?' "I'll do it myself."
She sat elegantly in the rail cart, while Lia leaped lightly onto the front, her small body standing steadily in the dim light like an ominous figurehead.
Griphook and Sharpclaw didn't dare say more, bowing and stepping aside until the rail cart vanished from sight. Only then did they dare to straighten up and exchange a shaken look.
The rail cart jolted into motion, and after a momentary feeling of weightlessness, it plunged into the endless dark tunnel.
Biting cold winds whistled past their ears as the rail cart sped through the intricate underground tunnels, diving steeply at times and drifting sharply at others, the surroundings blurring into streaks of light.
Hermione sat steadily; the grafted, crazed soul made her indifferent to such lethal thrills, even feeling a hint of pleasure born from a desire for destruction.
She could feel the indestructible "firewall" set by Lia deep within her soul, while outside the wall, the echoes of Bellatrix were screaming and reveling in excitement.
Hermione felt it all calmly, like a master rider; no matter how the wild horse beneath her galloped, the reins remained firmly in her hands.
Lia, however, was completely different.
Her cat eyes shone startlingly bright in the darkness.
Under the vision of the Eye of Truth, what sped past them were rivers of magic, flowing incessantly and emitting different "scents."
She could "smell" them.
Every tributary led to a vault, and every vault smelled different.
Some were filled with the glory and dust of ancient families, like a vintage wine aged for centuries;
Others emitted the decaying stench of Dark Arts items, like a slaughterhouse piled high with corpses;
And then there were... Lia's nose suddenly wrinkled hard, and a displeased purr came from her throat.
She smelled it.
It was the exact same "cavity-like" stench of soul rot that she had smelled on that wand and deep within Bellatrix's soul.
Mixed in that scent were the screams of fear and the metallic tang of soul fragments that had been forcibly torn away.
The scent came from below, from an incredibly deep tributary almost entirely swallowed by darkness.
"Hermione," Lia called to her via telepathy, her voice laced with disgust, "Below us, the third fork on the left, the deepest path. The one with the foulest smell is it."
Without a moment's hesitation, Hermione yanked the lever just as the rail cart was about to pass that fork.
"Screeeech—!"
The rail cart let out an ear-piercing screech of grinding metal, sparks flying from the wheels and tracks as it drifted into the pitch-black fork at a terrifying angle that nearly derailed it.
The temperature around them dropped abruptly, and the air began to fill with the fishy smell of scales unique to giant reptiles and the scorched scent of burning sulfur.
The rail cart slowed down, finally coming to a steady halt before a massive circular metal door.
This door was more grand than any they had seen before, covered in complex runes used by Goblins for restraint and punishment.
There was no lock on the door.
"A Goblin's hand is the only key," Hermione whispered. This was knowledge she had gleaned from Dark Arts books, a rule proven by countless instances of bloodshed.
She stepped off the cart and reached out, preparing to use a sophisticated Confundo she had learned from Malfoy Manor—one convincing enough to be real—to force her way past the door.
But Lia leaped in front of her first, her fluffy tail brushing against the back of Hermione's hand to stop her.
"Wait."
Lia's cat ears stood alert in perfect triangles, keenly catching the movements behind the door.
She could hear... a massive, slow heartbeat, like the sound of a worn-out bellows.
Thump after thump, heavy and suppressed, every pulse seeming to cry out in endless agony.
Rumble... rumble... Simultaneously, a heat so intense it distorted the air seeped through the cracks in the door.
"There's a big guy inside."
Lia licked her paw; instead of fear, her sky-blue eyes were filled with the curiosity of an apex predator. "Smells like it's been injured for a long time. Old and tough—not tasty."
Hermione also felt the wave of heat.
She pressed her hand against the cold metal door and closed her eyes.
The grafted soul allowed her to instantly understand what was inside.
It was the ultimate guardian of the Lestrange family.
It was the top-tier security measure the Goblins provided for their most distinguished and crazed clients.
An albino mutant Ironbelly from Ukraine, held captive.
A dragon.
The corners of Hermione's mouth curled once more into that cruel, crazed smile belonging to Bellatrix.
She even unconsciously stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked her lips.
"Just as well, I'm a bit hungry," she whispered; it was Bella's instinct.
She raised her hand and, without chanting any spell, simply pressed her fair palm flat against the cold metal door.
The soul aura belonging to Bellatrix herself was released without reservation, like a unique key inserted into an invisible keyhole.
The runes on the massive metal door lit up one by one, emitting a faint hum as if verifying the identity of the newcomer.
A few seconds later, the heavy sound of mechanical locks disengaging came from within.
Rumble—!
The door slowly opened inward.
A blast of scorching dragon breath, mixed with the opulent scent of mountainous piles of gold coins, rushed out.
And there, at the peak of that mountain of gold, surrounded by countless riches, shimmered the evil, faint light of... Hufflepuff's Cup.
But what first caught the eye was the massive shadow coiled before the mountain of gold.
A giant dragon, snowy white all over.
Its scales appeared pale and sickly from years of never seeing the sun, like the scales of a dead fish.
Its eyes were a cloudy, milky white due to blindness, hollow and hopeless.
Heavy runic shackles were clamped around its neck and ankles, biting deep into its flesh and connected to thick iron chains that locked it firmly within this cramped space.
Hearing the door open, the dragon shifted its massive body uneasily, letting out a pained, suppressed roar as the iron chains rattled.
It jerked its head up toward the doorway; though blind, it could feel the influx of fresh air.
It opened its maw full of sharp teeth, a ball of orange-red, destructive flame brewing wildly deep in its throat.
Hermione stood at the threshold, the hem of her Gothic black dress dancing wildly in the hot wind stirred by the dragon's breath, like a black rose blooming in hell.
She looked at the scarred, dying white dragon and the flames about to erupt from its throat, her smile growing even more brilliant and twisted.
She extended an index finger and wagged it gently at the massive dragon head, an elegant movement filled with absolute contempt.
"Shhh..."
Her voice wasn't loud, yet it clearly pierced through the dragon's roars and the clatter of chains, carrying the cold command of a beast tamer.
"Good boy, down."
... [Ah, writing this part, my mind is full of Mother Jie saying this to me!!!]
...
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