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Harry Potter: Forging the Flame Ch. 24
🕑 Added 2025-04-12 15:53:14 +0000 UTCChapter 24.
Harry didn’t hear the goblin at first.
His eyes were on the wall. Not looking at it. Just… stuck. It was cold and cracked and probably hadn’t been scrubbed since the first goblin war, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t look away. His brain just refused to go anywhere else.
It had been a long day. Long enough that his skull felt full. Not pain exactly. Just pressure, like something inside was bracing for impact.
And all of it, somehow, came back to Richard.
Sirius told him through the mirror, late one night when neither of them could sleep. His voice came through a bit warped, like it always did, but the words were clear.
“I know a guy,” he said. “Met him in Azkaban. Name’s Richard. Bit odd, doesn’t like people much, but he’s brilliant. If you’ve got rare ingredients, he’s the one who’ll actually know what they’re worth.”
Then he leaned closer to the mirror like someone might overhear, even though they were both alone.
“The shop’s called Aqua & Umbra. No sign, no door handle. Down the third alley off Knockturn.”
So Harry went. Down the third alley off Knockturn, past a cart selling what looked like preserved eyes and a window lined with cursed teeth.
The door was exactly how Sirius described it. No handle. No window.
Harry hesitated, then pushed.
“…Aqua and Umbra?” he called out.
The door clicked shut behind Harry.
The shop was narrow and dim, built like a cellar more than a storefront. The air smelled of soot and salt and something that might once have been alive. The walls were lined with crooked shelving, scroll canisters, and jars filled with unfamiliar matter.
A voice came from the back.
“Mind your step. Some of the wards remain incomplete.”
Harry stepped forward carefully. The floor was worn stone. There was no counter, only a single passage that led into a back room, where pale green light glowed from glass spheres suspended above a worktable.
A dwarf stood behind it, writing on a piece of vellum with a long brass-tipped quill. He was bald, broad-shouldered, and dressed in thick robes layered with functional enchantments.
He looked up once and held Harry’s gaze.
“You are a Potter,” he said. “That much is unmistakable. The family resemblance is not subtle.”
Harry nodded. “I’m Harry. Sirius said you might be able to help me.”
“Sirius Black says many things. On occasion, some of them are true.”
He put down his quill, rolled up the parchment, and stepped to a side shelf. He retrieved a second chair, placed it beside the table, and gestured toward it.
“Sit. Articulate your purpose.”
Harry sat. He pulled the Gringotts letter from his bag and passed it across the table. Richard took it without comment. His eyes moved quickly over the contents.
After a moment, he spoke.
“Very well. Let us examine the assets in order.”
His eyes returned to the top.
“Eleven vials of venom. Grade-A. Stabilized. This is not a reagent. It is dissolution incarnate. It unbinds magical structure at its core lattice. If misused, it does not harm a spell—it erases it. Permanently.”
Harry leaned forward. “So it’s good for destroying cursed objects?”
“It is ideal for destroying anything magical. Including wards, enchantments, or bonded items. Use requires an advanced containment protocol. Handling must be precise, measured in micro-dosage. Most potion masters cannot manage it safely. Most who try do so once.”
Richard continued, his voice steady and clipped.
“Next, cured hide. Eight and a half square meters. Highly resistant. Physically durable. Immune to common hexes and standard-grade potion exposure. It is difficult to shape, nearly impossible to transfigure. Enchantment layering is viable if prepared on an active spellforge.”
He looked up at Harry.
“I operate such a forge.”
Harry nodded, not interrupting.
“Seventeen intact fangs. Trace venom remains in the marrow. Structurally stable. These are viable for use in ritual implements, core focuses, or wardcasting tools. Their utility depends on the engraving discipline. Without appropriate runic structure, they will degrade. Violently.”
Harry glanced at the letter again. “Could one of them be used in a wand?”
“Technically. Though wandlore rejects unstable cores. Basilisk fangs are rarely chosen because they amplify volatility. You would not get finesse. You would get raw disruption.”
Next came the line about bone.
“Five-point-seven meters of skeletal material. Most of it arc segments. Not valuable in the commercial sense. Highly valuable to artificers and wardcrafters. Basilisk bone conducts magical resonance and retains structural charge. Inert until integrated into a circuit. Useless on a shelf. Dangerous in motion.”
Harry gave a slight nod, following most of it.
“And the last thing. Magical residue.”
Richard paused. This was the first item he gave real weight.
“Crystallized ambient magic. Harvested from the Chamber walls. This is not residual in the passive sense. It is linguistic imprint—magic anchored by repetition. Likely Parseltongue. Possibly command-based. This is not byproduct. This is cultivated saturation.”
Harry blinked. “So someone filled the room with magic just by… talking?”
Richard’s tone remained even.
“Repeated incantation in a magically active environment can leave behind structured echoes. Not memories. Instructions. You are holding a material that may still be listening.”
That landed harder than Harry expected. He was quiet a moment, then spoke again.
“So what do I do with all of this?”
Richard folded the letter once, clean and deliberate, and set it aside.
“You attend your meeting. You express confidence. You do not entertain liquidation. Not yet. Goblins value simplicity. They will encourage you to convert your claim into gold. That would be short-sighted.”
“I wasn’t planning to sell it,” Harry said.
Richard let out a quiet hum, not really to Harry, more like to himself. He folded the letter again, neat and slow. Then he looked at Harry, eyes squinting just a bit.
Harry didn’t say anything. Just sat there while Richard looked at him like he was solving a puzzle no one had explained yet.
“You’ll need a report,” Richard said finally. “I’ll put one together. Bring it to your meeting. If Ragnok kicks up a fuss, tell him I handled the Black Forest Hydra claim. Or Dragonfire. He’ll get the message.”
That was yesterday.
“Mr. Potter.”
The voice cut through the fog in his head like a knife.
A goblin stood in the open doorway, narrow-shouldered, his silver-rimmed spectacles hanging low on his nose. Not one Harry recognized. Definitely not Ragnok or Griphook. Just one of the many who seemed to run Gringotts like clockwork and expected everyone else to do the same.
“They are waiting.”
Harry stood, his knees stiff from sitting too long, and rolled his shoulders once under his robes. The report from Richard was still tucked in his inner pocket, sealed and heavy against his side.
He followed the goblin through a short corridor lined with plaques and ancient-looking vault keys, past a pair of reinforced doors marked Assets & Legacy – High Clearance Only, and into a room colder than the rest of the bank.
Two goblins were already seated at the end of a long black table—one sorting documents, the other writing something with a pen made of blackened bone.
Harry recognized Ragnok immediately. The Claims Liaison wore layered bronze cuffs and a dark green coat with gold threading, his expression unreadable as ever. Next to him sat Griphook Ironquill, flipping through a ledger. He didn’t look up.
Between them sat a long reinforced case. Matte black. No lock. Just three glowing seals, each in a different magical script.
Harry took the seat offered to him without a word. His palms felt too warm, and his head was still crowded with Richard’s voice.
Ragnok looked up. “You have reviewed the material list, Mr. Potter?”
“Yes.”
“And your intention?”
Harry exhaled once through his nose. He reached into his robes and pulled out the sealed report, sliding it across the table.
“I brought documentation. From a specialist.”
Griphook stopped flipping pages. Ragnok took the scroll, broke the wax, and began to read. His eyes moved slowly, methodically and when he reached the end, he set the parchment flat on the table and folded his hands over it.
“We are familiar with the author,” he said. “Richard’s credentials are not in dispute.”
Griphook spoke next. “What is in dispute is the timeline. This proposal delays liquidation. Prolonged storage increases risk. And under Goblin Code, minors cannot hold independent liability for hazardous magical assets without oversight.”
Harry’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t ask to be the only one who could kill a basilisk.”
“You filed the claim,” Griphook said. “That makes it yours.”
“And I’m dealing with it,” Harry replied. “I’m not throwing it in a vault and pretending it doesn’t exist.”
Ragnok cut in. “Where is your guardian, Mr. Potter? Gringotts requires an adult proxy in high-risk asset negotiations. That is standard.”
For a second, Harry hesitated. Sirius flashed in his mind, but there was no way he could show up here without someone drawing a wand.
“I don’t need a guardian to hold my hand,” Harry said carefully. “I filed the claim myself. I came here myself. I can manage my own business.”
Griphook raised a brow. “That’s a bold assertion for someone who just turned fourteen.”
“And who is still more informed than half the clients you deal with,” Harry shot back..
Ragnok leaned back slightly in his chair. “The bank prefers liquidation. Gold is safe. Gold is stable. A pile of venom and cursed bone is not.”
“I’m not selling,” Harry said.
“Not even a portion?” Ragnok asked. “The bones? The fangs? Several buyers have already submitted sealed bids.”
Harry shook his head. “Not until the materials are assessed and processed. You said Richard’s credentials aren’t in question. So trust the process.”
Griphook’s tone flattened. “Gringotts does not operate on trust. We operate on terms. You have thirty days. If no progress is shown by then, the bank may reassess its position.”
Harry nodded once. “Fine.”
“One final item,” Ragnok said. “The fang designated for historical archiving. We request it be transferred immediately to the Archive of Magical Anomalies.”
Harry hesitated, just briefly.
“All right. You can archive it.”
Ragnok made a note on the form. Griphook reached for a stamped envelope.
Harry stood before either of them could add another condition. He slipped Richard’s report back into his pocket and adjusted his robes.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Harry stepped out of the room and let the door click shut behind him. For a second, he just stood there in the hallway, then brought his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose like that might squeeze the stress out of his skull.
It didn’t.
Thirty days. That was what they gave him.
Which meant the venom, the one thing he actually had a plan for, was off-limits until then. Locked up behind layers of security and Gringotts procedure. He couldn’t touch it.
The rest of it though—the hide, the fangs, the bones, the residue—that was still his responsibility. And he didn’t have a plan for any of it. Not yet. But he needed one. Fast. If he didn’t show progress, they’d take it out of his hands and sell it off for convenience.
He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. The hide had to be forged, which meant scheduling time with Richard. The fangs couldn’t sit untreated much longer. The bone might be useless unless it was crafted into something. And the residue… he wasn’t even sure looking at it too long was safe. Richard had called it linguistic imprint. Magic that might still be listening.
He’d have to go back to the shop. Get a real breakdown. Make a list. Figure out what came next.
He dropped his hand and started walking toward the lift. One fang was already archived. The rest was his. Five pieces. Thirty days.
It was going to be a long month.
Before heading back to Hogwarts, Harry needed to pick up one last thing. Dragon blood. They were finally getting somewhere with their potion project. Breccius and Company was just next to the apothecary, so it wasn’t far. He kept his head down to avoid any extra attention, and a few minutes later he was inside the shop.
A witch behind the counter looked up.
“Name?”
“Harry Potter. I’m here for a pickup.”
She checked the ledger, disappeared through the back, and returned with a wooden case.
“Seventeen Galleons.”
Harry paid. She slid the box across the counter. The label read Dragon’s Blood – Certified Pure.
“Use proper containment. Do not unseal in open air.”
He gave a nod, tucked it into his bag, and left without another word.
~~~~~~~~
The scratch of Harry’s quill was the only sound in the room. He sat hunched over a desk in the far corner of an unused classroom, parchment spread out beside a half-empty bottle of ink and the library copy of Elementary Defensive Applications in Charms, Year Four. His handwriting had started neat but was slipping fast.
“While Glacius is not traditionally considered a dueling spell, it has high utility in terrain manipulation, control of motion, and neutralizing fire-based threats…”
He stopped, tapped the quill against his chin, then crossed out “not traditionally” and rewrote it as “rarely.” That sounded more like something Flitwick would say.
He kept writing.
“In colder climates, Glacius is often taught as a survival charm, but in combat contexts, its true value lies in tactical interference. A thin layer of ice beneath a duelist’s feet can force repositioning or disrupt spell accuracy. Ice buildup on wands, gloves, or sleeves has been recorded as a cause of spell misfire in at least three historical duels.”
Harry blinked and scribbled in the margin: Check if those are in the footnotes.
He shifted slightly in the chair, stretching out his writing hand. The library copy of Elementary Defensive Applications sat open to a faded illustration of a witch freezing a hallway mid-battle. The caption underneath read: A cooling field may halt flame but also complicate escape routes.
He frowned, then added:
“However, its drawbacks include low offensive pressure, high visibility when cast, and environmental instability. Slippery terrain can hinder allies as easily as enemies. For this reason, Glacius is best used in combination with direct control spells or to support an escape.”
That was probably enough. He scratched his name across the top of the parchment, underlined the title with a slightly crooked line, and set the essay aside to dry.
His eyes drifted toward the slim red book beside the ink bottle. Duelling: Art and Precision.
It had been weeks since Sirius gave him the book, and Harry hadn’t even cracked it open until now. Weird, really. Since when was he too busy to check out a book on throwing spells at people?
He flipped past the introduction and skimmed until he landed on a section labeled Precision Under Pressure. The next spell listed was one he didn’t recognize—Confringo. A blasting curse. Not as controlled as Expelliarmus, but effective. The book called it “volatile but efficient at short range,” especially in close-quarters combat.
He pushed the essay aside, stood up, and drew his wand. Forty minutes till dinner.
Might as well make them count.
~~~~~~~~~~
Finished with testing his aim on Confringo, Harry muttered, “Tempus,” just like Sirius had shown him last week. Thin silver numbers blinked into the air—17:42.
He winced. Late. Bag over his shoulder, he headed for the stairs.
Between Diagon Alley, goblins, dragon blood pickups, Charms homework, and blasting desks in an abandoned classroom, Harry felt like someone had packed three days into one. At this point, all he wanted was dinner and maybe to not think for a few hours.
He was halfway down to the Entrance Hall when he spotted a familiar ginger mop standing near the base of the stairs, adjusting his tie with one hand and yawning wide enough to dislocate something.
Harry blinked. “You? Late for dinner?”
Ron squinted up at him and scratched the back of his neck. “Ehh… I took a nap. Overslept. You know how it is.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “No. I really don’t.”
“Well, it’s a new thing I’m trying,” Ron said, stretching. “Very experimental.”
Harry snorted and fell into step beside him. “You didn’t miss much. I think I burned a hole in the floor with Confringo.”
Ron looked mildly impressed. “Nice. Just wait till you try it on Malfoy.”
“Tempting.”
They crossed through the main doors into the Great Hall, voices and clatter already echoing off the high ceiling. Just before they reached the Gryffindor table, Ron nudged him.
“By the way, apparently Dumbledore’s doing some big speech tonight.”
Harry sighed. “Let me guess. Something about the tournament?”
“Yup. Ginny said she saw a giant wooden cup being carted in earlier.”
Harry made a face. “Of course she did.”
“Bet you five Sickles he tries to make it sound exciting.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Deal.”
By the time they dropped onto the bench at the Gryffindor table, the smell of roast chicken and buttered potatoes was already dragging Harry out of his exhaustion. He didn’t even look before reaching for the closest serving spoon. All he wanted was to eat and maybe not think for a few minutes.
Ron was already piling food onto his plate. Across the table, Hermione was seated with her arms tight at her sides and a plate of untouched vegetables in front of her. She didn’t say anything. Just kept eating in small, sharp movements, like every bite was a decision.
Harry noticed but didn’t ask. He figured if it mattered, she’d tell them. Probably loudly.
He passed Ron the gravy and asked, “So what’d I miss while I was being emotionally bludgeoned by goblins?”
Ron shrugged. “Bit of Charms revision, bit of napping. Might’ve accidentally slept through the whole afternoon.”
Harry blinked. “You skipped class?”
“I didn’t mean to. I sat down in the common room and woke up at dinner. It was educational, in its own way.”
Harry snorted and reached for a bread roll.
The noise in the Hall was off. Like everyone was waiting for something, talking faster than usual and throwing glances toward the far end of the room. That’s when Harry saw them.
Two new tables, long and polished, had been added past the Ravenclaw and Slytherin sections. Empty for now, but clearly not by accident.
“Those weren’t here this morning,” he said.
“They’re for the visitors,” Hermione said without looking up.
Before Harry could ask what visitors Dumbledore stood at the staff table, and the room quieted immediately.
“If I may have your attention,” he said, voice carrying through the Hall with ease. “As many of you are aware, this year marks the return of the Triwizard Tournament.”
A low buzz swept through the students.
“And as tradition demands, we are joined by our fellow schools in this endeavor.”
The great doors at the end of the Hall opened with a slow creak. Every head turned.
Two groups came through the front doors.
First were the girls. All of them tall, kind of glowing, dressed in these soft blue robes that looked way too nice for a school. They moved together like they were in a play or something, all graceful and floaty, and it hit Harry that every single person at the Gryffindor table had stopped eating just to watch them walk.
He caught the scent of something sweet as they passed, like flowers or perfume. Jasmine maybe.
Ron was staring with his mouth open. Not even blinking.
Harry elbowed him under the table.
Then the second group showed up. These guys didn’t float. They marched. Big coats, big boots, serious faces. They looked like they could punch through a door just by walking at it. One of them at the front was taller than the rest, and somehow even more intense.
Harry narrowed his eyes. Wait. That face. He leaned forward a bit.
No way.
“Ron,” he said, “is that who I think it is?”
Ron didn’t answer. Just kept staring.
“Ron.”
Ron blinked, then grabbed Harry’s arm. “Mate. That’s Viktor Krum.”
Harry leaned back. “Bloody hell. It is.”
Just as the last of the Beauxbatons girls were settling at their table, the doors swung open again.
Two adults entered this time.
The woman was massive. Towering, actually. She wore the same pale blue as the girls, but on her it looked almost like armor. Hair pulled back tight, posture perfect. Every step she took echoed.
“Blimey,” Seamus muttered from further down the bench. “She’s huge.”
Harry couldn’t argue. Even Hagrid might have looked up at her.
Next to her came a man in dark, sweeping robes, all cold grace and polished buttons. He had that kind of face that made you think he was about to insult you and then smile like he didn’t. Pale, thin, with a neat little goatee and hair slicked back like he was heading to a vampire council.
“That’s gotta be their headmasters,” Harry said under his breath.
The tall woman strode straight toward Dumbledore and leaned down slightly to shake his hand.
“Albus,” she said, voice deep but warm.
“Madame Maxime,” Dumbledore said with a small bow. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”
The man stepped forward, offering a bow that was just a little too smooth. “Headmaster Karkaroff. An honor, truly.”
Dumbledore gave a polite nod. “Welcome back, Igor.”
Harry noticed McGonagall’s expression twitch. Not a smile. More like she was swallowing one.
Once the headmasters reached the staff table, Dumbledore gave a small wave of his wand and a massive chair appeared out of thin air. Madame Maxime settled into it.
Karkaroff stood behind her for a second, clearly expecting his own moment of showmanship. But there wasn’t a second chair.
He turned, ready to sit somewhere, when he spotted the only empty seat left at the far end. Right next to Snape.
Harry watched him hesitate.
Snape hadn’t moved much but he smiled. It was thin and cold.
Karkaroff walked over, stiffly, and sat down. But Harry saw the way he angled his chair ever so slightly away.
Dumbledore stood again, lifting his goblet and the whole room turned quiet.
“As many of you now know,” he began, “this year marks the long-awaited return of the Triwizard Tournament.”
A wave of low murmurs rolled through the Hall again, a few excited whispers slipping through. Dumbledore let it ride out before continuing.
“In the spirit of unity, and frankly, good old-fashioned challenge, we’re joined by students from Beauxbatons Academy and Durmstrang Institute who will, starting tonight, be considered part of our Hogwarts community.”
He gestured warmly toward the two new tables. Some students actually clapped. Harry spotted Parvati and Lavender giggling behind their hands in the direction of the Beauxbatons table.
“And of course,” Dumbledore went on, “the tradition of the Tournament requires a champion from each school. These champions will be selected by a truly ancient artifact.”
He nodded toward the side doors.
Right on cue, Filch shuffled in, red-faced and sweating, dragging a wooden chest that clearly wasn’t meant to be handled by one very grumpy caretaker. He gave it a final shove and popped it open with a grunt, stepping back like he wanted nothing more to do with it.
From the chest rose some kind of goblet.
Blackened wood, cracked edges, intense blue flames that gave off no heat. It floated just above the box, humming with quiet power.
“The Goblet of Fire,” Dumbledore announced. “Over the next several days, those who wish to compete may approach and submit their names.”
“But be warned,” he added. “This is not a game. This is a binding magical contract. If your name is chosen, you are bound to compete. There is no stepping down. ”
He let that hang for a second. “And as agreed upon by all three schools, no student under the age of seventeen may enter their name.”
A low ripple of whispers spread through the hall. Harry didn’t need to look to know Fred and George were already plotting something. He caught Angelina Johnson murmuring to Alicia and Katie, something about odds and dragons. Percy, a few seats down, was sitting unusually straight, eyes narrowed.
Harry shook his head slightly. Some people were already in it.
“To ensure this rule is followed,” Dumbledore continued, “a strong Age Line will be placed around the Goblet. Anyone who tries to cheat will find themselves… disappointed.”
Dumbledore smiled again, raising his goblet. “To friendship, to courage, and to a year of magic like no other.”
A wave of applause broke out, but Ron didn’t join in. He slouched back against the bench and muttered under his breath, “Seventeen. Like your brain magically gets better the second you hit it.”
Hermione didn’t even look up from her goblet. “Well, it certainly can’t get worse.”
Harry snorted quietly into his pumpkin juice, but Ron just scowled and stabbed a potato with unnecessary force.
Before he could launch into a proper rant, a soft voice cut through the noise beside them.
“Pardon. May I… take zis?”
They all looked up.
The girl standing there wasn’t from Hogwarts. She pointed, a bit hesitantly, at one of the fancier dishes near the end of the table, something delicate, definitely French.
Harry recognized her from the Beauxbatons procession. One of the first girls through the door.
Ron made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Dean elbowed Seamus hard enough to make him sit up straight. The entire table seemed to freeze like someone had cast Petrificus Totalus on it.
The girl glanced between them all, clearly waiting.
Harry reached over, grabbed the serving dish, and passed it to her. “Here.”
Her eyes landed on him with surprise. “Thank you,” she said.
Her accent was heavy, but the words came clear enough. “You are kind.”
Harry shrugged. “Just dinner.”
She gave a small, graceful smile before turning to leave.
Ron looked like he’d just been stunned.
“Did you see her?” he said weakly. “Did you hear her?”
Dean was still staring after her. “Mate… I think I’m in love.”
“She’s part Veela,” Hermione said coolly.
“What?” Ron turned, blinking at her. “Seriously?”
“Not completely, but yes,” she said. “It’s obvious. Part-Veela charm is magical. It affects people. Boys mostly.”
Harry frowned. “I didn’t feel anything.”
Hermione turned to him, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t?”
“No.” He looked a bit baffled now. “I mean, she’s pretty. But I just gave her the food.”
Hermione studied him for a moment too long, then smirked slightly. “Well. That’s interesting.”
Ron looked between them. “What? What’s interesting?”
Hermione gave her goblet a final sip. “They say people who are in love already don’t feel the Veela effect. Their magic doesn’t take.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not in love.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m not!”
Hermione didn’t say anything else. Just set down her goblet and reached for a bread roll like the conversation was finished.
Ron, still looking dazed, said, “I need to lie down.”
Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.
Comments
Tessa Faron
Huh, I wonder if Veela get a bad rep as homewreckers once someone sees their lover gawking and fawning over a Veela?
