Chapter Text
Hermione Granger and the Year Hidden from Hogwarts
Harry Potter Fanfiction
Chapter 27
A/N: The Trials are over. Woo, now we can move on. Hopefully they weren’t too drawn out. It’s the only boss battle for this story in the series, and I didn’t want to skim over it after we’d spent so long building toward it.
April 25th, 1992
Hermione assumed they were yelling at her until she glanced around and saw that they were actually cheering her on.
Her sluggish mind couldn’t process the abrupt change in attitude since, until this point, they’d been eager for her death.
The announcer came on. “Dear goblin nation, our cherished horde, I would welcome and introduce to you our winner, Wand-Waver the Willful!”
If she’d had more energy, she’d have scowled.
After all that, and they were still going to call her their derogatory term for wizards? But then she’d heard the rider added on at the end: Wand-Waver “the Willful”
Apparently, passing the Trials was what earned the status of having undergone great adventure and heroics.
She could hardly believe it, even when the outer dome disappeared and the nundu’s herders returned to guide the creature away. It was much more docile this time, especially when she ordered it to go with them, and she kept her eye on it as it disappeared from sight.
Flitwick and Wudrok rushed out to greet her as the spectators began to spill out into the arena from the stands and join in celebrating her.
She leaned in close to her original “team,” rushing out her words to beat the crowd’s arrival. “I don’t get it. They hated me as an outsider. Why are they cheering now?”
Wudrok flashed his teeth. “Because, Wand-Waver, goblins would only take in that which makes them stronger.”
With that, Hermione was whisked into the air, held up on the wave of the crowd as they chanted her name with none of the derision they had before. “Wand-Waver the Willful, Wand-Waver the Willful!”
It took an order from the announcer and a repeated one by the head of Gringotts for the crowd to leave her be and dissipate, but she was thankful they’d stepped in. She was a stiff breeze away from collapse.
Gorlug ventured out onto the emptying arena to meet the three of them. “Wand-Waver the Willful,” he greeted at length.
She bowed her head. “Gorlug the Greedy.”
He nodded and turned. “You would follow me. Come Goblin Spokesperson of Granger and Wudrok the Wise. You would be at this meeting.”
Hermione followed in a state of shock, distantly taking in the arched viewing portals in the bedrock to the left of the walkway that overlooked an entire metropolis buried deep beneath the ground. She glimpsed activity and celebrations in the narrow streets that bisected the town into individual buildings and houses, all crafted from the existing stone, nearly glittering with the pockmarked pattern of uneven chips.
It was no less fascinating that Diagon Alley, and she itched to explore the city. Only her body’s limitations quelled the urge to insist, especially when she stumbled, and Flitwick had to reach up and catch her hand to steady her.
“Thank you, professor.”
“Of course, Hermione. Though I must insist you stop giving me heart attacks with your antics. You’re worse than the Potter and Weasley boys.”
She grinned at his use of her given name. “I’m sorry, who?”
He waved off her question as they reached the end of the walkway and piled into a cart that brought them up a physically impossible, heart-stopping track to spill them out into a familiar hallway.
They were back in the goblin side of Gringotts.
Gorlug led them to his office, snapping his finger at the attendant who took that as his cue to gather more chairs for them.
Hermione collapsed gratefully into hers, not caring for Flitwick’s barely concealed amusem*nt at her lack of decorum. She’d had a long day.
“Now,” Gorlug began after giving them a measuring look. “First, I would welcome you to the horde, Wand-Waver the Willful and Goblin Spokesperson of Granger.”
Flitwick’s amusem*nt vanished as he squeaked out, “Me?”
“Indeed. Your ward’s success had brought you much status as well. We would discuss if you wish to keep the title of Goblin Spokesperson of Granger or if you would change it to Goblin Spokesperson of Wand-Waver the Willful?”
Flitwick was at a loss for words, so Hermione stepped in. “The second.”
“Of course.” He glanced at Wudrok who snapped his fingers and brought the original Spokesperson contract into being. “If you’ll sign the amendments.”
They did so, and again, Hermione felt the change settle into the skin of her wrist somehow. She really couldn’t wait until her core replenished so she could study the bond.
Bonds, she corrected recalling the nundu.
“With that taken care of, we would ask that Spokesperson of Wand-Waver the Willful fill his charge in on what it means to belong to the horde?”
“I-I would.”
Gorlug nodded, noting something down with his ostentatiously plumed quill. “Excellent, then we will skip over some of the formalities for now. I would expect you are eager to rest.”
Hermione only barely stopped herself from nodding. Her newest cut was still bleeding at her temple, and that wasn’t the only place. She was bruised, bloodied, exhausted, and covered in dust. She could only imagine what her hair looked like. Ignis snuck away from Flitwick and curled back into said nest of hair, as if he’d heard her thoughts directed at the mangy bush.
“Now, since you would be considered to be of the horde, we would take your blood and open your vault on the goblin side of Gringotts and assign Wudrok to take you on as one of his selected clients.”
Hermione glanced at Wudrok, but his face was blank. He didn’t seem opposed though. “Okay,” she agreed tiredly.
“We want the Release of History before any blood is drawn,” Flitwick insisted, shaking himself from some of his stupor.
Gorlug flashed an all-teeth smile. “Quite.” He snapped his fingers and a pure gold document appeared. “This Release of History absolves you, Hermione Granger, Wand-Waver the Willful, of any and all previous obligations to the horde, even if incurred by your ancestors.” With a flick of his long nail, he sent the document and quill across the table to her. “It would be a clean slate, Wand-Waver. I hope you can appreciate the importance of that.”
Hermione nodded, swallowing through a dry mouth. “I understand.”
She and Flitwick both signed their names, and then after that, it was time for her blood test and to open her account.
Gorlug rounded the table, a long, golden pin in hand with a sapphire buried at its handle. “Your finger, if you would, Wand-Waver.”
Hermione eyes the litmus paper, supposedly woven with the ritual to run a bloodline, ready for just a drop of her blood to activate. With a deep breath, she held out her hand.
The needle bit into her skin, and she watched as the blood welled before a drop, no larger than a tear, fell free, sucked up instantly and vanishing into the parched paper.
A flash of lemon yellow echoed out from the point of impact like an electric ripple in the water, and then, words began to appear.
Gorlug read out loud, an eager gleam in his beady eyes.
He too, had been curious of her origins.
“Hermione Jean Granger of Richard Daniel Granger—Muggle, father and Emma Jean Granger nee Darveaux—Muggle, mother.”
Hermione collapsed back in her seat with a relieved sigh. Her parents were her parents.
Gorlug’s brows furrowed, and he continued to read. “Heiress of the Founding Huse of Ravenclaw, maternal.”
Beside her Flitwick punched the air. “I knew it! Ravenclaw, through and through. Eat my dust, Minerva!” Then, he adopted a serious mien. “Remember, she signed the Release of History. I know all about the rumors claiming Ravenclaw’s diadem was goblin-made.”
“And conveniently lost,” Wudrok added. “Reparations should be paid—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” Flitwick chided. “Release of History.”
Gorlug grunted, redrawing her attention and interrupting their argument. He looked up from the parchment, his stare pinning her in place, a trapped butterfly, fluttering ineffectively. “And Heiress Enchantress of the Most Ancient Magic le Fay.” He tacked on as if he’d nearly forgotten, “Paternal.”
The room fell into silence.
Hermione broke it after a while, unable to dampen her questions. “Le Fay? As in Morgana le Fay? From Arthurian legend?”
Nobody spoke.
Hermione shook her head in frustration. As thrilled as she was that her parents were both her parents, she hated having the rug pulled from beneath her. “If my parents are muggles, how could they be descendants from two powerful magical lines?”
“Squibs,” Flitwick offered. “That is, a nonmagical child born of magical parents. Oftentimes, they are banished or killed, so it wouldn’t be a stretch for Muggles to be direct relation from a branch of squibs.”
Gorlug crossed his arms, studying the paper. “Yes, to be the inheritor for both, it would be a direct connection, and neither names ring a bell in correlation with the families. Although, after witnessing your subduing the nundu, I would not question you are a direct descendant of the le Fay line.”
Hermione tilted her head. “Why do you say that?”
“Because Morgana was famous for her affinity for creatures. I believe your kind today would refer to it as being a bestiamagus. That would be how you controlled the nundu, would it not?”
Hermione glanced at Flitwick for direction, and he nodded. “Yes, it would be. Do we need to venture to these vaults and unseal them?”
“It would be best,” Gorlug agreed. “Once they are unsealed, we will conduct a thorough audit of the vaults’ contents for your ease, but you are also welcome to anything you see fit.”
Hermione nodded numbly.
“Hermione,” Flitwick added, his hand a gentle weight on her forearm. “We don’t need to unseal them today if you are not up to it. I figured though that you would have questions, and there might be journals or diaries within them to fill in some of the blanks—”
Hermione perked up. “What do we need to do? Are we ready to go now?”
“We would if you have no opposition,” Gorlug claimed, looking eager. “I would accompany you.”
He stated it as a declaration instead of asking permission, and neither Flitwick nor Hermione chose to argue.
They’d fought enough battles today. They didn’t need to add the overlord of the magical world’s bank to that list as the cherry on top.
“If you would, follow Wudrok, Wand-Waver and Spokesperson,” Gorlug instructed, sandwiching them in the middle of their procession as they crossed back into the wizarding side of the bank.
Hermione’s excitement dimmed when she saw the more refined walls of the polished Gringotts veneer give way to rough-hewn tunnels once more that opened up into an echoing cavern so enormous that she couldn’t make out the boundaries through the ominous blue mist. At the mouth of this opening, her fears were confirmed as she spied another cart waiting for passengers.
If she thought flying up from the goblin stronghold was horrifying, second only to facing the nundu, it had nothing on the stomach-in-throat sensation of hurtling down at breakneck speeds into the dim lighting on an impossibly delicate track, especially when she nearly choked midscream as they passed through a veil of water cascading down from countless stories up.
“Thief’s Downfall,” Wudrok explained with a mean grin at her terror.
Flitwick also chuckled in amusem*nt. “You faced a nundu, Hermione. How are you scared of a perfectly safe cart?”
She wanted to reply in a manner his flippant comment deserved, but the rollercoaster from hell cut into another ninety-degree turn, sending her hurtling into the short edges of the carriage and terrified she’d topple over the top and fall to her death.
“Don’t worry, Wand-Waver,” Gorlug all but demanded in what he probably thought was a reassuring manner. “We would not have far to go.”
Hermione nodded, and a terrifying roar nearly shattered her eardrums, followed by a plume of awful flames. She was too terrified to peek over the edge, but she glanced at Flitwick rounded eyes. “Was that a dragon?”
The cart jolted in the opposite direction, corkscrewed down a tight spiral that took them several stories deep into the ground below the heated cove that held a dragon of all things, and jerked to an abrupt stop outside a rocky alcove where the markings of a door lit by the dim light of a flamed torch could just be discerned.
“Vault 2,” she read aloud. “Vault 2?”
“Indeed,” Gorlug agreed, pulling out a ring of keys. “Morgana le Fay’s line is one of the first lines of magical blood.”
Wudrok frowned. “I would think Blake Moore and Carter Waugh were Vault 1 and 2, respectively.”
Gorlug glanced back briefly at his subordinate. “Ah, but those are of the regular vaults. These are the ancient vaults.”
Hermione turned beyond them, scrambling to follow them out of the cart and eager to get on steady ground. “Who’s Vault 1?”
Gorlug blew the dust off the key and inserted it into the hole, turning it with a reverent click. “Merlin,” he answered and pushed the door open.
At first, she assumed he used the name as a type of mild swear as she’d heard Flitwick do a couple of times, but then her brain clicked. If Morgana of Arthurian legend was real, why wouldn’t the famed Merlin be?
The other three had already made their way inside frozen just beyond the threshold. Luckily, she could see over the top of all of them, and she mimicked their awed reaction at the interior of the vault. Stacks of trunks, piled with priceless beholden antiques filled the area, interspersed with the odd furniture piece and piles of gold. She could spend weeks in here, and she still wouldn’t be able to thoroughly explore all the contents, but her attention caught on the perimeter of the two-story room, lined with bookcases recessed directly into the stone walls. There had to be hundreds of ancient tomes nestled on the shelves.
“Oh,” she breathed, swaying on her feet.
“Wand-Waver?” Wudrok called, staring at her.
“Hmm? You would be okay, yes?”
The implication that if she wasn’t this day would draw to an official close, and she just couldn’t bear it if that happened. “Sorry, I’m perfectly fine. I was just overwhelmed by all the knowledge. Can you imagine?”
Wudrok nodded but Flitwick cautioned, “Do not get your hopes up too much, Hermione. Most of these texts must be nearly indecipherable due to their age. Language is a living, changing thing.”
Yeah, but she had a lovely little trick up her sleeve for that problem. Unfortunately, she was depleted currently, so she grabbed a couple promising ones, breaking the cardinal rule of bookworms the world over and judging the books entirely on their covers.
“We would have the standard account hold for reclaiming lost vaults waived,” Gorlug informed. “If you wish to do any shopping, simply ask them to charge it, sign your name on any receipts—your born human name—and it’ll automatically tag your purchases for Wudrok to balance. Large withdrawals over a thousand galleons should be handled in person, otherwise, you would be able to do most spending through the charge account. We’ve expedited adding the appropriate tracking charms to allow such magic, and your account should be fully operational before your leave. We would only not have a complete and thorough record of what is within your vaults until our team of auditors has had a chance to do their job. Your charge account will also work through the owl order system if that is a route you’re willing to take.”
Hermione paused. “Owl order?”
