"Why must the paperwork be so endless?" grumbled a witch, glaring at the parchment as if it had personally offended her.
The goblin behind the high counter smiled politely. "We assure you, Madam, every step is necessary for your own security."
The woman huffed but fell silent.
Watching from the side, Anton saw his own guide return, holding a heavy brass key and a small lamp.
"Everything is ready, Sir. This way to the vault."
Anton blinked. "Wait... don't I have to fill out forms like she is?"
The goblin glanced at his pale hair, then smiled—a look of genuine respect. "For certain families... procedures are... simplified. Some are born privileged."
Ah.
It finally clicked.
With his striking pale red hair and features, the goblin must have mistaken him for a Weasley. Or perhaps some other ancient pure-blood line.
Either way, being seen as "nobility" certainly had its perks.
Gringotts didn't own the wizarding world; they merely managed it. They were servants, no matter how much power they held. In the eyes of the truly elite, they were little better than house-elves—useful, but ultimately disposable.
Resistance was futile.
Anton raised an eyebrow. "Lead on, then."
He knew the truth. Being "pure-blood" meant nothing. There were no real nobles anymore. Even the Weasleys were just hardworking civil servants struggling to make ends meet.
Anton didn't care about bloodlines. After all, the greatest minds often came from the simplest beginnings.
But right now, this mistaken identity was incredibly useful.
He didn't need to pretend. The more aloof and arrogant he acted, the lower the goblin bowed.
They entered a narrow stone passage and climbed into a small cart. The tracks clicked beneath them, and suddenly they were flying—diving, spinning, and rushing through the dark at impossible speeds.
It was exactly like a roller coaster from hell—twisting, turning, and dropping at impossible angles. By the time they screeched to a halt, he felt like he was about to lose his lunch.
They had arrived at the deepest level, standing before a massive, Fire Dragon.
It lay coiled across the path, breathing slowly, its massive body rising and falling like living hills. The heat radiating from it was suffocating, and every scale glinted with deadly menace.
"Mr. Griphook has selected a very fine vault for you," the goblin babbled eagerly. "Small, secure... perfect for a young gentleman who values his privacy."
Anton barely heard him. He couldn't take his eyes off the beast.
"This one guards the High Security sector," the goblin explained, beaming. "Only the greatest families keep their treasures here. One day, perhaps your fortune will grow to fill one of these grand chambers!"
Anton nodded slowly, forcing himself to look away from the dragon.
"So... where exactly is mine?"
"Right here!" The goblin beamed, pointing to a solid stone door set directly beside the dragon. "The very best location. Next to the most protected vault in the bank. You will feel safer here than anywhere else in the world."
"Smart move," Anton nodded approvingly.
Griphook chuckled, delighted by the praise. "Yes, yes! Very smart!"
Griphook took the key and performed a complex series of movements. With a heavy clank, the massive bolts slid open.
"You may enter," he said. "Goblins are forbidden to cross this threshold without permission. I shall wait outside."
Anton stepped inside, and his first feeling was one of disappointment.
Compared to the imposing iron door, the space inside was tiny—barely five square meters. It was smaller than the cramped studio apartment he had rented in his past life. The ceiling was low, barely reaching three meters high.
Three walls were lined with nothing but rough stone shelves.
That was it. The goblins provided security, but certainly not luxury.
"I may need some time to arrange everything," Anton said, stepping back out.
"By all means," Griphook replied politely. "Take as long as you require."
Alone inside, Anton knelt beside the case. He knew the magic holding it together was fading. He had watched Fiennes do this many times before—you couldn't just fill it forever. Eventually, the expansion charm weakened, and everything had to be emptied so the spell could be reinforced from scratch.
He didn't know how to recast the charm. If the magic failed and the case shrank back to its original size, everything inside would be crushed instantly.
Worse still, some of these ingredients were volatile. Exposed to the open air for too long, they might degrade... or even ignite.
Moving with the slow, careful patience of an ant relocating its nest, Anton unloaded every bottle, jar, and crate, placing them safely on the stone shelves.
This was Fiennes's life's work. Rows upon rows of rare materials that couldn't be bought for any price. Anton's arms ached, but his heart soared.
Because Fiennes was a hoarder, there were countless items Anton had never even seen before.
The collection fell into two distinct piles:
1. Potion ingredients.
2. Books and research materials.
But there were no beginner's guides here. Just as a professor wouldn't keep alphabet books in his office, Fiennes only kept works of the highest level.
Most of it was far beyond Anton's current understanding.
Nearly ninety percent of the library was dedicated to one subject alone: deep research on the 'Visual Acutus' potion, and detailed observations of the strange 'Dark Marks' that appeared under its influence.
He rummaged through everything one last time. The only book he actually understood and could use was the one he had found himself: "The Apprenticeship of the Great Alex Fiennes."
"…"
Anton sighed, took off his outer robe, and tucked the book safely into his messenger bag.
Now the suitcase was truly empty. Except for one thing.
Lying in the corner was the broken bed frame, and wrapped inside it... the body of Fiennes himself.
Anton stared at the remains, his jaw tightening.
This old man had tortured him. If he hadn't been born with such a resilient body, he wouldn't have just ended up injured like Lupin.
He would have ended up dead.
Even though Anton was no longer squeamish about death, a cold chill still ran down his spine. He had to get rid of this.
Once the body was gone, he would sell the case. It had served its purpose.
He turned to the small shelf where he had stacked his gold. He counted them carefully.
Exactly one hundred Galleons.
He poured them into the coarse cloth bag Hagrid had given him. It wasn't much to look at, but it was heavy—solid and reassuring in his hand.
He couldn't exactly come running to Gringotts every time he needed change.
This amount should cover his needs for quite a while.
'I should probably get another bag just for carrying coins,' he thought as he walked toward the door, making a mental note.
As if reading his mind, Griphook stopped him upon their return to the main hall. He pulled out a small, intricately carved bronze pendant.
"This is a Goblin Weight-Reducer," he explained. "Forged with our own alchemy. You can store coins inside, and you won't feel their weight at all."
"Of course, it has its limits. It holds exactly one hundred units, be they Galleons, Sickles, or Knuts."
Anton took it curiously. He picked up a gold coin and pressed it against the surface.
The Galleon shimmered and vanished instantly. In its place, a glowing golden number appeared on the metal: 1.
"Wait, isn't this just a Traceless Stretch charm for coins?" Anton asked, turning the bronze medallion over in his fingers.
"No!" Griphook waved his hands frantically. "That charm is forbidden by the Ministry. This... this is pure Goblin-made magic."
"I see." Anton shook the medal, listening to the gold chime inside. "Do you have backpacks or pouches made with this kind of magic?"
Griphook shook his head firmly. "I am afraid not, sir. Because the effect is similar, items of this nature are also restricted. We cannot sell them to the public."
"Fair enough."
Anton shrugged and placed Hagrid's worn, greasy cloth bag on the counter and began to count out the gold one by one, dropping each coin into the medallion.
Suddenly, Griphook let out a sharp gasp.
He scrambled away and returned moments later with an elderly goblin, who immediately pulled out a complex, multi-lensed magnifying glass.
He examined the fabric closely, his eyes widening.
"Unicorn hair!" he breathed. "Hand-woven!"
Griphook looked at Anton with awe. "I knew it! My eyes did not deceive me!"
Anton blinked, feigning confusion.
He knew Hagrid was full of surprises, but this? It seemed almost impossible.
The old goblin plucked a single loose thread, his hands trembling slightly.
"This entire bag is woven from unicorn hair," he explained solemnly. "There is enough wand core material here to craft dozens of wands."
Watching their reverence turn almost into worship, Anton couldn't help but allow a small, knowing smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth.