Chapter Eighteen: Vault 1111

As Professor McGonagall had predicted, Gringotts had reopened, and the previous theft incident appeared on the surface to have caused no trouble for the goblins.

“Let’s go open your vault,” Professor McGonagall said as they walked, advising Roger on what to expect. “Every first-year student has their own vault at Gringotts with a corresponding key.”

“The lower the vault number, the older it is, and the higher the level of secrecy.”

“Wizards can store money and other valuables in their vaults, and they can transfer funds worldwide through the goblins. But all such transactions require their supervision.”

As she spoke, the street lamps along Diagon Alley lit up automatically. Leading Roger forward, Professor McGonagall approached the brightly illuminated Gringotts. The bronze doors gleamed with a polished shine, flanked by goblins dressed in crimson and gold uniforms, bowing respectfully to visitors.

Roger looked up at the second set of silver doors, engraved with a caution: “Enter, stranger, but do not be greedy…”

Without a doubt, the entire building was protected by multiple layers of seamless extension enchantments. Unlike the gradually quieting Diagon Alley outside, inside Gringotts the atmosphere was bustling with activity.

Dozens of goblins sat behind counters, methodically handling various transactions. Parchments marked with special magical seals floated through the air, shuttled under the direction of the goblins.

In the center of the hall, carts laden with gold coins and jewels queued as they headed toward the vaults.

“Please hurry, sir! There are other customers waiting!” urged a goblin clutching a ledger, prompting the queue to move forward.

Nearby, a goblin wearing goggles carefully examined a gemstone, while another weighed gold on a scale. This gold came from ancient tombs, steeped in the aura of death. Curse breakers from across the world delivered these artifacts to Gringotts, where the gold was melted, refined, and cast into Galleons.

“Forda, is the remittance form ready?” one goblin reminded his companion.

“Almost done!” Forda replied without looking up.

The entire hall resonated with the clinking of coins, the goblins’ calls, and the rustle of parchment, blending into a symphony of bustling commerce…

“What if one could sneak into the vault?” Roger pondered, taking in the overwhelming scene before him.

In the original tale, characters like Quirrell and Harry had managed to breach Gringotts’ underground vaults. The goblins’ defenses were not as impenetrable as they claimed.

***

“Roger, it’s our turn,” Professor McGonagall reminded him, prompting him to present his acceptance letter.

“Welcome, Professor McGonagall,” said the goblin behind the tall counter. “A new Hogwarts student—I’m sure you’ll soon fill your own vault!”

After carefully examining the letter, he handed over an agreement form. Roger reviewed it thoroughly and signed his name with a quill.

“Beautiful calligraphy! Mr. Roger Travis, congratulations on opening your vault at Gringotts. From now on, you can deposit and withdraw items through Gringotts branches worldwide,” the goblin declared, stamping the agreement with solemnity.

“This is your key; please keep it safe.” He handed Roger a golden key numbered 1111, indicating that his vault was located on the eleventh floor, vault number eleven.

“Would you like to see your vault now?”

“No, thank you. Not this time.” Roger patted his pocket, noting he had little money left.

“Mr. Travis, even a single Knut can be stored in the vault!” the goblin said, hearing the faint clink of coins on Roger and looking at him expectantly.

“Next time for sure.” Roger shook his head, wishing he had developed a backpack system back then. A digital storage item would be far safer and more reliable.

After bidding farewell to Gringotts, Roger concluded his first visit to Diagon Alley. Though he had not encountered Harry Potter or Professor Quirrell, their legends seemed to permeate the entire street.

“Mr. Roger, we agreed on this,” Professor McGonagall said as they stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron, turning to him.

“Ah, beloved wand, see you again at school!” Roger reluctantly handed over his wand, a mix of reluctance and anxiety on his face, fearing that Professor McGonagall might discover the old wand hidden in his bag.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see it again once you start school,” she reassured him, taking the wand. With a gentle grip, it transformed into a swirling vortex and vanished at her waist.

“Wands belonging to underage wizards are subject to trace spells. Casting magic in forbidden places will notify the Ministry of Magic.”

“Also, don’t perform magic in front of Muggles,” Professor McGonagall said, aware that Roger had mastered wandless magic, cautioning him not to misuse it. She was confident that Roger would master all the spells in his textbooks before school even began.

“Don’t worry, Professor, I won’t cause any trouble!” Roger promised hastily.

***

Professor McGonagall nodded approvingly. Today, Roger had left her with the impression of a steady, independent, and likable young wizard. Yet, given that they were staying in the Malfoy family’s sickroom, she couldn’t help but worry. Lucius Malfoy was a bona fide Death Eater, with fervently extremist pure-blood ideals. She hoped the Ministry’s compensation would come through swiftly so that Roger and his mother could be distanced from the Malfoys.

Back at St. Mungo’s Hospital, Jessica smiled warmly as she looked at the many bags hanging from her son. She felt a twinge of regret for not being able to accompany him to Diagon Alley.

“Quick, Roger, put on your robe so Mom can see,” Jessica said, holding Yumi and silently noting the valuable owl Diana without comment.

Roger took out the Hogwarts robe, personally made by Madam Malkin, and spun around a few times for his mother.

Jessica nodded, eyes moist with tears. “Wonderful, my son is a young wizard now!”

“Mom, when I go to Hogwarts, Yumi will keep you company. If you miss me, Diana can deliver letters.”

“All right, all right!” Jessica hugged her son tightly, wishing there were a camera to capture this moment.

She breathed in the scent of Roger’s new clothes, her heart becoming calm and serene in the face of tomorrow’s Wizengamot trial.

The Wizengamot, a subordinate institution of the British Ministry of Magic, had in recent years grown increasingly independent, slowly becoming renowned as an austere and just tribunal.

This ancient circular hall, built from dark gray stone, lay deep beneath the bustling streets of London. Two Aurors pushed open the heavy doors, and a profound, mysterious breeze of history greeted them.

“Please follow me,” one Auror said, leading Jessica and Roger to the center of the hall.

This was a special trial. The prisoner, covered in spikes, was suspended, and a slightly oversized chair was placed for Jessica. She held her son close, advising Roger to wear his protective mask.

Leaning against his mother’s arm, Roger curiously surveyed the surroundings. The circular tiered seating encircled the hall, with shimmering walls reflecting faint candlelight.

Light shone upon wizards clad in flowing purple robes, who Apparated in succession, looking on at Jessica and her son with curiosity and kindness.