Chapter 117: First Infiltration Of The Underground Vault
The air was filled with an indescribable foul stench, leather boots crushing over wet soft mossy ground, passing by a black magic shop without a signboard, heading toward the end of the damp alley.
The young professor and the student with a youthful face looked out of place in such a place, attracting the gazes of most wizards.
In the dark doorways of the shops along the way, wizards whose faces couldn’t be seen clearly stared at them and whispered, occasionally passing by disabled wizards with withered faces and gloomy eyes on the roadside, who stopped to cast glances, making Harry shudder.
“Don’t barge into those shops without signboards in Knockturn Alley; you don’t know what business they’re in.”
Melvin walked unhurriedly ahead, as if taking students out for a field trip, and even had the interest to introduce to him: “Even shops with signboards require caution, like that candle shop across the way—you only know they sell candles and oil lamps, but you don’t know what the lamp oil is brewed from.”
A student about to enter second year looked up at the skull on the candle shop signboard: “…”
A certain guess surfaced in Harry’s mind, and his face turned pale.
He actually didn’t want to know.
“If you get lost in Knockturn Alley, don’t try asking for directions politely and friendly—try knocking the other person down first, or it’s even more convenient with Veritaserum or the Imperius Curse.”
Hearing Professor Lavent’s words and feeling the malicious gazes around them, Harry felt a bit scared, suspecting that if he hadn’t run into the professor, it would be hard for him to leave intact today.
As if sensing his thoughts, Melvin chuckled lightly: “No need to see Knockturn Alley as some evil dragon’s nest. It gathers many dark wizards and also has many goods not available in Diagon Alley, thus attracting many underground merchants and customers. As long as you find a crowded place, shout that you’re the Boy Who Lived, and show the scar on your forehead, many people will be willing to escort you out.”
Harry’s expression was strange, unable to tell if the professor was joking or serious.
After turning several bends in the winding alley, Melvin continued: “If you’re lucky, you might even run into acquaintances. As far as I know, many professors come here to procure teaching aids before term starts—Sprout, Snape, and Professor Babbling are all regulars, and Hagrid comes here to buy insect repellent.”
“Hagrid hasn’t come back yet…”
Harry said wistfully: “I’ve been staying at the Weasley house this time; The Burrow received a letter from Charlie yesterday saying Hagrid broke his leg in Romania, and Professor Kettleburn can only bring him home in a couple of days.”
Melvin couldn’t help but smile; such things happening to Hagrid were truly not surprising at all.
Near the alley exit, an old witch carrying a stack of dead fingernails passed by, stopped beside them and stared fixedly at the two; Melvin calmly met her gaze, steadily leading Harry away and into the domain of Diagon Alley.
The rest of the journey was much smoother.
Melvin originally planned to take him to the Leaky Cauldron and hand him over to Old Tom, but on the steps in front of Gringotts, they ran into the Weasley family—dragging along the whole household, with children in droves, quite a spectacle.
“Harry! Harry!”
“We hope you only missed the Floo powder; Mother was going mad with worry!”
“Where did you come from?”
“Knockturn Alley! Merlin’s beard, that’s so cool! Mum never lets us go there!”
“Why didn’t you stay longer, so we’d have an excuse to go in and find you!”
As soon as the children met, the scene immediately became lively; the boys pestered Harry with questions, Mrs. Weasley pulled Ginny to check if Harry was missing any limbs, nearly blocking the Gringotts door.
Arthur Weasley, squeezed out of the circle, belatedly noticed the young professor and expressed his thanks with a hearty laugh: “Good thing you found Harry in time, Professor Lavent. If dark wizards had discovered Harry’s identity first, the consequences would be unimaginable.”
Melvin smiled and said softly: “It’s what a professor should do.”
“Got time for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron, Professor? Old Tom always mentions you, saying the projection mirror and films were all invented and produced by you—simply brilliant! Very Muggle-like; inspired by television and movies, right…”
Mr. Weasley chattered on endlessly; Melvin suddenly had a headache, suspecting that the gratitude for finding Harry was just an excuse, and the latter part was what he was truly interested in.
Lingering hesitantly at the door of an illegal repair shop, latching onto a legitimate professor and refusing to let go.
Melvin hurriedly shook his head: “No need, I have other matters.”
“Alright then…” Arthur’s expression was quite regretful.
The fussing over there finally ended; they turned to greet Professor Lavent, and Melvin formally greeted Mrs. Weasley as well.
“Professor Lavent! So thrilled to see you!” Molly Weasley was very excited, gripping Melvin’s hand and shaking it, almost with tears welling up. “Last term I always wanted to invite you to The Burrow as a guest, to thank you for taking care of these little ones, teaching George and Fred the right ideas—especially that performance fee for Ron, really…”
This slightly plump housewife witch choked up a bit, showing genuine emotion: “I don’t know how to thank you; this year’s textbooks are especially expensive, Ginny’s entering school too, need to buy new robes and stationery… if it weren’t for… I really…”
The Weasley children nearby felt a bit flushed; George and Fred’s shoulders drooped, Ginny held her hand—originally thinking Mum’s display was a bit inappropriate, now only feeling they hadn’t been understanding enough of their mother.
Only Ron tilted his head back, his freckles full of smugness, chin nearly to the sky.
This summer had given him plenty to boast about.
Contributing the film fee to the family use without keeping a penny, thus earning Mother’s favoritism and protection, his status even faintly surpassing Ginny’s; George and Fred had to avoid him for these two months.
“It’s nothing…”
Melvin said a few comforting words and finally extricated himself from this sensitive witch housewife, hurriedly bidding them farewell and entering Gringotts.
He pondered in his mind how to pull Arthur into the Magic Mirror Club.
With markets opened in Budapest and Romania, projection mirrors could flow to wizard taverns worldwide; finished products were in short supply, Wright was recently overwhelmed, and while Arthur might lack theoretical knowledge, he’d definitely be fine as a technician production worker.
Vaguely remembering that flying car, which sequentially endured the Whomping Willow and Forbidden Forest creatures’ ravages, and could still be pulled out for a run later.
“Mild-mannered and reliable, guaranteed quality…”
Melvin murmured thoughtfully, planning to ask Arthur his birth year next time they met—whether Ox or Horse.
…
Marble steps led to two bronze doors gleaming with metallic luster, goblins in scarlet and gold uniforms stood on either side; after entering the first door was an inner hall, further in was the second door forged of silver, engraved with several lines of text:
「Enter, stranger
But take heed of the greedy man’s end
He who takes but does not earn
Shall pay the severest penalty…」
The magical bank said to have been established before the goblin kingdom’s fall, hiring wizard staff since the 16th century; besides savings, exchange, and insurance services, this institution also controlled the minting and issuance of wizarding currency.
“Gringotts…”
Melvin continued inward, not seeing the third door of gold, but instead a marble hall nearly ten meters high, over a hundred uniformed goblins on high stools standing behind the long counter.
These goblins were similar in build to Pukwudgies, even shorter than Professor Flitwick, with swollen thick fingers like deformed limbs with enlarged ends, yet slender arms.
Weighing coins on copper scales, inspecting gems with eyeglasses, registering in ledgers, and other goblins guiding customers in and out of the back small doors, unclear where they led.
Melvin withdrew his gaze, found an idle goblin, and knocked on the counter: “I want to open an underground vault.”
The goblin looked up, eyes quickly scanning him over, seeing his Muggle-style attire, wrinkled its nose, voice sharp and piercing: “Very well, sir. What kind of vault do you require?”
Underground vaults varied in scale and security levels.
Smaller shallow vaults had fewer protections; the deepest ones underground, largest in scale and best protected, belonged to a few of the oldest wizarding families.
“The highest security level, deepest underground.”
“Sir, may I ask what you intend to store…”
The goblin advised tactfully: “For normal wizards, an ordinary outer vault suffices; Gringotts security is very reliable, with no prior… only one mishap.”
There would be more later…
Melvin smiled faintly, pulled out a linen pouch, and tossed it on the counter with a dull thud.
The goblin’s expression shifted slightly; with its veteran counter experience, it judged this a pouch modified with the Undetectable Extension Charm—such items themselves signified wealth. Its thick fingers undid the pouch, glimpsing several Galleon-mountains inside, eyes lighting up.
As for the dark magic items nearby emanating ominous dangerous auras, those were ordinary among Gringotts clients.
“Sir, I’ll call someone to handle your business right away.” The counter goblin’s tone grew much warmer and polite, turning to call another goblin: “Ragnok! Ragnok! Escort this…”
“Melvin Lavent.” Melvin smiled and added.
“Escort this Mr. Lavent to open a vault—the highest specification!”
The goblin named Ragnok looked almost identical to the others, except for the uniform style; Melvin saw no difference, nodded in acknowledgment, and followed it through a small door.
Behind the door was a narrow corridor, burning torches inserted in stone fissures on both sides, at the end extending a pit-like railway with a parked cart like an old coal miner, dirty and crudely shaped.
Ragnok walked ahead, boarded the cart, and introduced in a shrill voice:
“Mr. Lavent, before opening the vault, I must inform you of certain precautions. Gringotts sincerely serves all customers; items stored in vaults are guaranteed, preventing any theft, leaks, robbery, or damage—even Ministry of Magic inspections require the account holder’s consent…
The chattering voice mixed with the clacking of cart wheels over the rails.
Seemingly introducing Gringotts’ comprehensive services, the emphasis was on only three points: deposit, inheritance rights, and duration.
Opening the highest-level vault required a deposit, larger the deeper underground;
Vaults defaulted to inheritance via blood relatives and keys; without either, duration became an issue.
Normally, Gringotts charged no fees for access; for long-inactive dead vaults, goblins maintained them for decades to centuries based on deposit amount. Beyond the limit, Gringotts periodically opened them, deducting based on the value of stored items.
Value assessment rights belonged solely to Gringotts.
These goblins knew not to overdo it, generally not emptying vaults after just three to five years.
Melvin nodded thoughtfully; Gringotts’ services were fairly thorough—at least until Voldemort’s return, the golden goblet in Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault wasn’t taken out to offset debts.
The cart sped forward along maze-like corridors, twisting and turning, cold air whistling past, through dim rocky areas, a damp underground lake, then a roaring waterfall.
“This is the Anti-theft Waterfall, able to wash away all spells and magical disguises! If it detects ill intent, it flips the cart!”
Ragnok shrieked the introduction as they began passing through the waterfall; the goblin attendant turned to stare at the customer, icy water cascading down, leaving a shallow layer in the cart.
“This means we passed the check, right?”
Melvin asked in a expressionless deep voice, perfectly matching an annoyed customer’s reaction to being drenched.
“Yes, sir!”
Ragnok also breathed a sigh of relief, hurriedly casting a spell to dry his soaked robes.
Since the last robbery of vault 713, Diagon Alley’s Gringotts goblins had been punished; since then, all new customers endured the Anti-theft Waterfall, and it being back-to-school season, the goblins feared another incident.
However, out of the goblins’ sight, this first-time deep underground visitor’s back and pockets were completely dry, as if not a drop had touched him.
The rest was smooth sailing.
“Apologies, sir; Gringotts will compensate.” Ragnok snapped his fingers, warm comfortable wind swirling around the cart, moisture gradually evaporating.
Melvin nodded slightly; in half a minute, they reached the deepest underground vault area.
At the narrow railway’s end, an ancient fire dragon lay coiled there, scales faded pale and loose like withering falling maple leaves, the nictitating membrane on its eyeballs dry and shrunken, pupils cloudy, hind legs and wing roots shackled by heavy chains embedded deep in stone stakes.
“This is the highest-level vault area.”
Ragnok didn’t even glance at the fire dragon, leading Melvin further in: “There used to be a sphinx guarding; its eyes could discern lies and see truth, but it was too old—the attack on vault 713 made it retire directly, and the new sphinx isn’t trained yet.”
Melvin looked at the surrounding vaults, unmarked and indistinguishable, unsure which was the Lestrange family’s.
Ragnok seemed to sense his curiosity and answered preemptively: “Apologies, sir; to protect privacy, we cannot disclose client information.”
