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Damien gazed up at the magnificent building before him—its walls carved entirely from pure white marble, its great doors clearly cast in bronze—and couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him.
One of the core lifelines of an entire world—the power to mint money and safeguard its wealth—was in the hands of a race of long‑rebellious Goblins.
The leaders of the Ministry of Magic really did have nerve.
Still, no matter how much he wanted to grumble about it, he was only eleven.
So Damien obediently climbed the steps and followed his friends through the doors of Gringotts.
As the children beside him read out the familiar warning carved there, Damien’s sense of irony sharpened.
The greediest creatures in the whole place were the very Goblins who’d written those threats to warn wizards.
The sword forged for Gryffindor had used materials provided by Gryffindor.
It had been crafted with labour paid for by Gryffindor, then bought outright by Gryffindor—only for the Goblins to later claim that Gryffindor had shamelessly stolen the Goblin King’s sword.
Honestly, Damien couldn’t make sense of it.
Wizards wielded such overwhelming magic, yet they had willingly handed over their economic lifeline—and even the right to mint currency—to a race that had taken up arms against them several times in history.
Letting a species famed for cunning and greed define their own peculiar notion of “ownership”… no wonder the ownership of Gryffindor’s sword had become a classic historical controversy.
Led by a Goblin in a scarlet uniform with gold trim, they passed through the bronze doors into a second set of silver doors, which, as always, were engraved with the Goblins’ ominous rhyme.
Beyond the two sets of doors lay a vast marble hall.
Hundreds of Goblins sat behind high counters, each busy with their work: appraising gems, recording transactions, weighing piles of gold and silver…
The scale of it left several of the children visibly overawed.
Minerva turned to the leading Goblin and said,
“Please take the student’s parent, Mr.
Evans, to exchange some Galleons first.”
The goblin gave a vague grunt in its rasping voice, then led Mr.
Evans to an empty counter and said, in a drifting tone.
“A Muggle here to exchange for Galleons.”
The Goblin behind the window narrowed its eyes, looking down its hooked nose at Mr.
Evans as it said, with a touch of arrogance,
“Five pounds for one Galleon.
You have a limit of fifty Galleons.”
Mr.
Evans let out a cold chuckle at the short goblin trying to talk down to him.
He drew five gold bars from his briefcase, set them on the counter one by one, and asked quietly:
“And now?”
“Oh, dear sir.” The Goblin, who had been lounging with its legs crossed, straightened at once.
A fawning smile spread across its slightly grotesque face, made all the more ridiculous by the bars of gold gleaming between them.
“Gold can be exchanged freely.
Would you like me to introduce you to Gringotts’ vault services?”
Mr.
Evans laughed coldly again and, under the Goblin’s anguished gaze, picked up four of the gold bars and put them back into his briefcase.
“Because of your attitude, I’ve decided to exchange only one.”
Despite the Goblin’s hurried pleas, Mr.
Evans merely narrowed his eyes, watching as the creature repeatedly weighed the bar before finally announcing in a lifeless tone.
“Because this sixteen ounces of gold is not pure enough, there will be a fifteen percent loss, plus a five percent tax.
In the end, it can be exchanged for forty‑two Galleons.”
Mr.
Evans frowned and tapped the counter lightly.
“This is gold publicly issued by Rothschild Bank, and you’re telling me it’s not pure enough?”
The Goblin’s neck went rigid.
It bristled and snapped, “There’s a problem with Muggle minting; you simply cannot produce real gold.”
“Is that so?” Mr.
Evans sneered.
“Then give the gold back; I’m not exchanging it anymore.”
At that, the Goblin let out a shrill screech, its claws flying to shield the bar as it protested, “According to Gringotts regulations, once an item enters the valuation process, the customer must complete the transaction!”
“Must?” Mr.
Evans gave the goblin a thin, icy smile.
“If you dare to embezzle even a single ounce of my gold, I’ll go straight to the Ministry of Magic and report you, you cheating fool.
Your ID number.
Your name.
Answer me!”
At those words, the goblin behind the counter seemed to wither, as if someone had sucked the marrow from its bones.
It stroked the gold bar in its hands twice, reluctant to part with it, then, with visible effort, pushed it back across the counter to Mr.
Evans.
Mr.
Evans coolly counted out 250 pounds from his wallet and flicked the notes toward the Goblin at the window.
“Now exchange 50 Galleons for me, you fool.”
When the grudging exchange was finally complete, another Goblin in a scarlet guard uniform appeared soundlessly behind the counter.
It leaned in and murmured a few quick words in harsh, clipped Gobbledegook to the teller.
The Goblin that had been so arrogant moments before went instantly pale.
Without protest, it was led away from its post.
The guard escorting Damien and the others merely swept them with a cold glance, then remained where he was, continuing to accompany the visiting group.
Watching this strange little scene, Damien could only shake his head.
With gold prices jumping around this year, sixteen ounces came to about 250 pounds.
That greedy idiot had not only failed to profit—it had cost its kin money.
The punishment waiting for it would undoubtedly be…memorable.
Mr.
Evans came back, still fuming. You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
Minerva spoke slowly,
“Now, does anyone else need to withdraw money?”
Robert Jr.
and Prince both shook their heads, while only Lyall lifted the small mokeskin pouch in his hand to show he was already prepared.
Guided by the Goblin, Robert Jr., Damien, Prince, and Severus Snape filed down a narrow stone passage and climbed into the same cart.
At the Goblin’s signal, the cart jolted, then shot forward.
It tore through a twisting maze of tunnels that plunged sharply downward.
As they picked up speed, the torches lining the walls on either side flickered weakly in the rushing air.
The forks in the tunnels spread out like a spider’s web.
Wind howled past Damien’s ears as the cart hurtled along, turning the ride into something like a wild roller coaster before it finally screeched to a stop beside a small passage.
A heavy door beside the track bore the number 556.
The four of them climbed out, a bit unsteady on their feet, and watched as the Goblin traced one long, thin finger across the stone.
The seemingly solid door vanished at once.
Damien peered inside.
The vault glittered with gold.
There were no bronze or silver coins in sight, but judging from his rough estimation, the pile of galleons easily ran into the thousands—far beyond anything he could hope to count at a glance.
Snape stared, equally stunned by the flood of golden light.
Then, all at once, his shoulders tightened.
He took a small step back, discomfort flickering over his face.
Prince noticed, but kept silent, only watching as Robert Jr.
scooped up several neat stacks of Galleons and stepped back out of the vault.
“I’m done.
Close the door,” Robert Jr.
said with a nod to the Goblin.
Muttering a few low, unintelligible syllables, the Goblin restored the door and sent the cart racing off again toward the next vault.
After another familiar rush of cold wind and rattle of wheels, a door very much like the one at Robert’s vault slid into view, except for the number engraved on it: 483.
Severus stared at the door that looked no different from any other, his thoughts slipping into a tangle.
He couldn’t quite name what he felt—a touch of fear, a flicker of expectation, and even a faint, shameful wish that the door would never open.
At least, not in front of his friends.
But his frantic thoughts had no effect on reality.
At Prince’s calm instruction, the Goblin lifted its long finger again and opened the vault.
The door vanished, exposing the vault’s interior.
Severus leaned forward carefully.
Inside were heaps of silver sickles and bronze knuts and a more modest stack of galleons arranged in a deliberate pattern.
In that moment, he heard his mother’s voice in his mind, soft and low, threaded with a pride he could not quite put into words:
“We are wizards, Sev.
Exceptionally talented wizards are never troubled by money.
Now, take the purse and go fetch one hundred Galleons.”
Severus drew in a slow breath.
He glanced at the mounds of gold; there were slightly fewer coins than he’d seen at Damien’s, but not by much.
Taking the purse his mother handed him, he stepped into the shimmering, golden cavern.
Mrs.
Prince stood behind him with her arms folded, watching in silence.
Robert Jr.
edged closer and murmured, very quietly,
“Forgive me for meddling, but Severus doesn’t seem very confident about his family.
Perhaps—and it’s only a suggestion—you could give the boy a little help building that confidence.”
“His feeling is accurate,” Prince replied calmly.
“I only began making money last year, after developing a low-cost, simplified formula for a beauty potion.
I did neglect Severus’s feelings before, but I won’t anymore.”
She turned and inclined her head slightly to Robert Jr., her tone softening.
“I should also thank you for raising such an outstanding son.
If not for him, my child and I might be living a very different life.”
The gravity of her words caught Robert Jr.
off guard.
He could hear the sincerity in her voice, yet for a moment he couldn’t fathom what Damien had done to move this demanding woman to speak so plainly.
He opened his mouth to ask, but Prince had already lost interest in further conversation.
“I think you also need some time to get to know your son again,” she said.
“He really is excellent.”
Robert Jr.
watched Mrs.
Prince rise and move toward her returning son.
Helplessly, he turned back to find Damien observing it all with a small smile.
Robert shook his head and let out a wry chuckle.
“Having a son who’s too excellent and too mature doesn’t seem to be such a wonderful thing either.”
Both families climbed into the cart.
With a lurch, it tore through the tunnels like the wind, rushing back toward the surface amid the echoing howl of air.
When they finally rattled to a stop aboveground, Severus climbed out clutching the money bag, his palms slick with sweat against the leather.
He even stumbled slightly as he stepped down.
Prince’s brows knit in displeasure.
Remembering Robert Jr.’s words, she hesitated, then bent close to Severus’s ear and whispered.
“Today, spend every Galleon in this purse, my son.
You must accept the reality of being a noble wizard.”
Severus froze. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Instinctively, he tightened his grip around the heavy bag.
One hundred Galleons—Mr.
Evans had only exchanged fifty.
His gaze drifted from the purse to his mother.
He noticed the fraying at her sleeves, the way she’d tried to hide the wear, and how it still couldn’t fully conceal the tired traces left behind by the years.
He inhaled deeply, forced down his unease and hesitation, and nodded with solemn resolve.
“Okay, Mum.”
Once they were finished at Gringotts, the large group moved on to their next stop—a small, rather shabby shop front.
Its gold-lettered sign was cracked and fading, but every child there knew the words by heart.
“Ollivander: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.”
Minerva smiled at the children.
“Form a line and go in one at a time.
Believe me, this is a day you’ll remember for the rest of your lives.
Oh, and don’t forget, each of you bring seven Galleons.”
After a polite round of “after you” and nudging back and forth, the three young gentlemen managed to ease Lily to the front of the line.
She reached back and gently tugged at the hem of Severus’s robe, as if drawing a bit of courage from the contact, then stepped into Ollivander’s with a hint of nervousness.
The others waited quietly outside the door.
Before long, Urquart—who had vanished who-knows-where—came pelting back.
With a flick of his wand, he handed out portions of Fortescue’s ice cream to everyone.
Once each person had received theirs, there was still one last serving balanced at the wand tip, neatly cradled in a small ice tray—saved as a surprise for Lily when she came out.
They savoured the cool sweetness in the summer heat.
Minerva watched Urquart carefully holding the extra ice cream, a few beads of sweat already standing out on his forehead.
A faint smile, too subtle for anyone else to notice, flickered in her eyes.
After a brief hesitation, she quietly offered him her handkerchief, flicked her gaze toward his forehead, and murmured, “Don’t lose your composure in front of the children.”
Urquart brightened at once, but it was Robert Jr., standing behind him, whose eyes nearly bulged out.
As the unfortunate younger brother who’d been on the receiving end of Minerva’s scolding since childhood, when had he ever seen his sister show such gentleness?
Off to the side, Catherine simply smiled.
Leaning on her husband’s arm, she shared her ice cream with him and whispered into his ear.
“Looks like we’ll soon have a new member in our big family.”
While everyone savoured the coolness of the street, Lily came hurrying out of the shop, face alight with excitement.
She held up her wand for Petunia to see.
“Petunia, look!
It’s made of willow and unicorn hair.”
As the Evans family clustered around to admire the wand, Severus—who should have gone in second—gave Remus a nudge, urging him to choose his wand first.
He then took the ice cream from Urquart’s hand and passed it to Lily.
Watching her son devote himself so wholeheartedly, Eileen Prince consoled herself helplessly, “At least he’s not like his father.”
For some reason, the ice cream in her own hand tasted a little sweeter.
Compared to Lily’s smooth experience, Remus spent longer inside the shop.
When he finally emerged with a wand of his own, there was clear relief on his face.
He ran toward Lyall and Hope, holding the wand high.
Looking at his son’s radiant expression, Lyall patted him on the shoulder, eyes complicated, as if remembering the day he had chosen his own wand.
Severus was still speaking with Lily.
Seeing this, Damien decided not to wait any longer and stepped into the wand shop he had dreamed of for years.
The bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open.
In the middle of the narrow, dim room stood an old man, his large, pale eyes resting on Damien with a gentle look.
“Ah, another young one.
You look somewhat familiar.
Tell me, whose child are you?”
“McGonagall.
My father is Robert McGonagall Jr.,” Damien answered, forcing down his excitement and keeping his voice low.
“Ah… another little McGonagall.” Mr.
Ollivander smiled mildly and beckoned him closer with a leisurely sigh.
“Your family has always had a talent for Transfiguration.
Your father chose a wand tailored for it back then—ten inches, fir, with a dragon heartstring core.
Excellent for Transfiguration, but it demands strong conviction to truly draw out its power.”
Finishing his customary bout of nostalgia, Ollivander turned back to Damien and asked gently,
“So, which is your wand arm?”
“The right, sir,” Damien replied quietly.
Surrounded by shelves packed with wands in the cramped space, he couldn’t help feeling a touch nervous.
Ollivander nodded and drew a silver-marked tape measure from his pocket.
With a wave of his hand, the tape sprang to life, measuring Damien from shoulder to fingertip, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and even around his head…
Watching Ollivander take down each figure so earnestly, Damien’s thoughts began to drift.
What did any of these numbers actually mean?
Was the final wand length based on some precise ratio, or was it a matter of adding and subtracting the measurements?
While Damien was lost in thought, Ollivander had already reached his conclusion.
Another light wave of his hand, and the tape snapped back, coiling neatly into his palm.
The old wandmaker, still hale and quick, flicked a hand toward the shelves behind him.
A wand box flew into his grasp.
He opened it and said slowly,
“Fir with dragon heartstring, eleven inches.
A classic combination for the McGonagall family.
Care to give it a try?”
AN: