Echo apparated to the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, the sudden shift in scenery doing little to alleviate the turmoil raging within him. His black hair was a frantic, agitated red, a physical manifestation of the storm in his mind. He pushed open the familiar door of the Three Broomsticks, the scent of warm butterbeer and woodsmoke offering a fleeting, illusory comfort. He ordered a butterbeer, then another, and another, hoping the sweet, frothy drink would somehow calm the ceaseless clamor in his head.
But it didn't. Every sip accompanied a fresh wave of infuriating thoughts: Dumbledore's manipulative contract, the horrifying prospect of losing a cherished memory, the desperate plea in Pip's eyes, Frieze's terror-stricken face. He took a long, fortifying gulp of butterbeer, trying to focus on the immediate, tangible present.
"Master Echo, sir?"
Echo nearly choked on his drink. He spun around, his red hair flaring even brighter. Pip, his small frame trembling slightly, stood a few feet away, his enormous eyes fixed on him with profound concern.
"Pip!" Echo hissed, his voice a furious whisper. "What are you doing here? I told you to stay in the castle!"
"But Pip was worried about Master Echo, sir," the house-elf squeaked, wringing his tiny hands. "Master Echo was so distressed. Pip thought Master Echo might need Pip."
"Well, I don't need you!" Echo snapped, immediately regretting the harshness in his tone as Pip's eyes welled up. He took a deep, frustrated breath. "Look, Pip, I need to be alone right now. I need to think. You need to go back to the castle. Please. Just… just go."
Pip's ears drooped, and with a soft pop, he vanished. Echo slumped back onto his seat, running a hand through his flaming red hair. He ordered another butterbeer, trying to force the image of Pip's tear-streaked face from his mind. It was Dumbledore's fault. All of it.
He finished his drink, the sweet taste now cloying, and decided to return to the castle. Sleep may offer some respite. He apparated back to the Room of Requirement, willing it into a simple, comfortable bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed, pulling the covers over him, and closed his eyes.
Sleep, however, was a cruel mistress. His mind raced, a chaotic merry-go-round of events and emotions. Frieze's betrayal, his own accidental cruelty. The Dementor, the feast, the shame. Minerva's exasperation, Dumbledore's infuriating smugness. Granny Ethel's grim solutions. And Pip, always Pip, a constant, nagging reminder of his helplessness. He tossed and turned, the soft blue of his hair flickering with unrest. He longed for the blissful oblivion of a dreamless sleep, but his mind refused to quiet. He saw Frieze's face, heard his terrified cry, over and over again. The image of the Dementor, a gaping maw of despair, flashed behind his eyelids. He felt the cold touch of the contract, binding him, binding Pip.
He awoke hours later, not at all rested, the first rays of dawn doing little to dispel the gloom. His grey hair was dull and lifeless, reflecting the utter exhaustion that permeated his very bones. He dragged himself out of bed, a profound sense of weariness settling over him. He needed to think. He needed more butterbeer.
He found himself back in Hogsmeade, the village still quiet in the early morning light. The Three Broomsticks was still closed. He sighed, his breath a plume of mist in the cool air, and decided to walk. He headed towards the Hog's Head Inn, hoping it might be open, or the fresh air would clear his head.
"Master Echo, sir?"
Echo groaned. He turned, his grey hair flashing a brief, agitated red. Pip stood beside him, looking even more disheveled than before.
"Pip, I told you to stay at the castle!" Echo exclaimed, rubbing his temples.
"But Pip was worried, sir," Pip insisted, his voice a frantic squeak. "Master Echo looks so sad. Pip wants to help Master Echo."
"You can help me by staying in the castle!" Echo snapped, his frustration boiling over. "Go! Just… go away!"
Pip's ears drooped dramatically, and he vanished with a soft pop. Echo sighed, the anger draining away, leaving him feeling even more hollow. He continued his walk, eventually finding himself on the small, stone bridge that connected Hogsmeade to the Hog's Head pub, arching gracefully over the narrow, babbling river. He leaned against the stone railing, staring at the swirling water, trying to lose himself in its hypnotic movement.
His brief moment of peace was shattered by a sudden cacophony of shouts and grunts coming from beneath the bridge. Despite his exhaustion, his hair flared a curious blue. He peered over the edge. A small group of older Hogwarts students, all boys, was surrounding a smaller figure. They were kicking and punching, their faces contorted with cruel glee. The figure on the ground was small, hunched, and clearly in pain, its distinctive, guttural cries echoing under the bridge. Echo didn't know what a goblin was, but he knew cruelty when he saw it.
His blue hair flared a righteous, furious green. "Hey!" he roared, his voice cutting through the morning air. "Leave him alone!"
The students paused, their kicks stopping mid-air. They turned, their faces sneering, and looked up at Echo on the bridge.
"Well, well, if it isn't Echo," one of them drawled, a tall, burly sixth-year with a cruel smile. "Come to play hero, have we?"
Echo scrambled down the embankment, his heart pounding. He was tired, he was frustrated, and he had stupidly left Shimmer and Sniffles back at the castle, wanting to be utterly alone. He was in no state to fight. But he couldn't just stand by.
"Let him go," Echo repeated, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. "Or you'll have to deal with me."
The burly student laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You? What's a pathetic little git like you going to do?"
The others advanced, their wands already drawn. Echo drew his own, his green hair blazing defiantly. He tried to think, to conjure a powerful spell, but his mind was a foggy mess of exhaustion and lingering despair. The first curse hit him squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling. A kick to the stomach winded him, and then another, and another. He curled into a ball, trying to protect his head, but the blows rained down, relentless and brutal. He heard a sickening crack as his nose broke, and felt the warm gush of blood. They continued for what felt like an eternity, their shouts and curses echoing in his ears. He tasted dirt and blood, and a bitter, humiliating defeat. Finally, mercifully, it stopped. He heard their retreating footsteps, their jeering laughter fading into the distance.
He lay there for a long time, bruised and battered, his body aching, his face a swollen mess. His grey hair was matted with blood and dirt, a stark reflection of his utter defeat. He had tried to help. And he had gotten his butt kicked for it. Just another failure in a long line of failures.
He finally managed to roll onto his back, wincing at the pain that shot through his ribs. Above him, a small, hunched figure stood, silhouetted against the pale morning sky. It was the goblin he had tried to protect, its features obscured by the glare.
"Get up!" a raspy, guttural voice commanded, surprisingly loud for such a small creature.
Echo pushed himself into a sitting position, every muscle screaming in protest. His nose throbbed, and he gingerly touched his cheek, wincing as his fingers came away bloody. The goblin, now clearer in the light, had a broad, flat nose, pointed ears, and sharp, intelligent eyes that regarded Echo with suspicion. Its skin was a leathery, earthy brown, and it wore tattered, practical clothing.
The goblin stepped forward and, to Echo's surprise, roughly grabbed the front of his blood-stained robes, pulling him closer. "What's your game, human?" it snarled, its breath smelling faintly of metal and damp earth. "What was all that? You think I'm a fool? You think this is some elaborate trick, some way to get close, to scheme against me?"
Echo stared at him, bewildered. "Game? Trick? What are you talking about?" His grey hair flickered with genuine confusion. "I saw those older boys attacking you. They were kicking you! I just… I wanted to help! Now look at me," he gestured vaguely at his bruised and battered face, "I look like ground beef!"
The goblin released him, stepping back, but its eyes remained narrowed, distrustful. "Help? Humans don't help goblins without a reason. There's always a price, always a catch. What do you want? Money? To get on my good side for some favour?" It suddenly patted its tattered pockets, its eyes widening with alarm. "My coin pouch! It's gone! Those brutes!"
Echo watched, then reached into his own robe pocket, pulling out his rather plump, leather coin pouch. "Here," he said, extending it. "Take this. The older boys must have taken yours. Consider this… an apology, of sorts. For not being able to stop them fully."
The goblin snatched the pouch, weighing it in its hand. Its eyes flicked from the pouch to Echo's battered face, a flicker of profound bewilderment on its face. It clutched the pouch tightly, then glared at Echo, suspicion returning with full force. "What game are you playing, human? Do you think I'm some gullible house-elf, easily bought with a few galleons?"
Echo blinked. "A… a house-elf?" His grey hair shifted to a puzzled blue. "I… I don't know what you are. I really don't."
The goblin stared at him, genuinely astonished. "You've never seen a goblin before?"
Echo hesitated, then admitted, a faint blush creeping up his bruised cheeks, "Well, I… I kind of thought you were a larger, well-dressed, well-groomed, and… pointier-featured house-elf?"
The goblin's mouth dropped open, its jaw almost hitting the ground. It stared at Echo with an expression that was a bizarre mixture of outrage, disbelief, and something that suspiciously resembled suppressed amusement. Its pointed ears twitched violently.
"A… a house-elf?" the goblin finally spluttered, its guttural voice rising several octaves. "You think I, a proud warrior of the Goblin Nation, a master craftsman of metal and magic, am a… a domestic servant for wizards?" It gestured wildly at itself, then at Echo, its eyes blazing with indignation. "I have seen many ignorant humans in my long years, but never one so utterly, magnificently foolish!"
Echo, despite the throbbing pain in his face, felt a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over him. His blue hair flickered with a deep crimson. "Right, no, sorry," he mumbled, trying to wave away the goblin's anger. "My apologies. I'm… clearly not myself today. I just… I don't really get out much. And the only other small, intelligent magical being I've encountered was, well, house-elves."
The goblin stared at him, its outrage slowly ebbing, replaced by a profound, if still suspicious, curiosity. "You… you don't 'get out much?' And you confuse a goblin with a house-elf?" It narrowed its eyes. "Who are you, human?"
"Echo," he replied, extending a still-shaking, bloodied hand. "Echo. And you are?"
The goblin hesitated for a moment, then, to Echo's surprise, it took his hand, its grip surprisingly firm and calloused. Its skin felt rough, like ancient leather. "Ragnok," it grunted. "Of the Gringotts banking clan. And you, Echo, are the strangest human I have ever had the misfortune of encountering."
Echo managed a pained smile. "The feeling is almost mutual, Ragnok." He pulled his hand back, wincing. "Though I've had worse misfortunes recently, I assure you." He then looked at the coin pouch in Ragnok's hand. "So, those older boys… why were they beating you? And why were you carrying a coin pouch if you're… a Gringotts banking clan goblin? Don't you… work there?"
Ragnok snorted, a plume of dust escaping his broad nostrils. "I was getting off work for the day, human. A simple transaction, nothing more. And those overgrown oafs… they believe goblins are nothing but thieving, manipulative creatures, only good for being beaten and robbed. They tried to take my coin pouch, assuming it was filled with gold, not realizing it contained something far more valuable." He patted the pouch protectively, a fierce glint in his eyes.
"What was in it?" Echo asked, his blue hair flickering with genuine interest.
Ragnok's expression softened slightly, a hint of pride in his ancient eyes. "A rare, intricately carved mithril lock, a masterpiece of goblin craftsmanship. It was a prototype, a new security measure for the deeper vaults at Gringotts. Worth more than all the gold in their pathetic pockets combined."
Echo nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his bruised face. "Right. So, they were just… prejudiced idiots, then."
"Indeed," Ragnok agreed, a rare smile, sharp and knowing, twisting his lips. "And now, I suppose, I owe you a debt, human. A life debt, perhaps, for saving me from further indignity, if not from physical harm."
Echo's eyes widened, his blue hair flaring with surprise. "A life debt? No, Ragnok, you don't owe me anything. I just… I just couldn't stand by and watch."
Ragnok scoffed. "Nonsense, human. Goblins do not forget kindness, nor do we forget insults. You helped me, at considerable cost to yourself, it seems." He gestured at Echo's battered face. "A debt is owed, and a debt will be repaid. What is it you desire? Gold? Favours at Gringotts? Information?"
Echo considered this, his blue hair shifting to a contemplative black. Gold, he had plenty, thanks to Sniffles. Favours at Gringotts… that could be useful, but not what he truly needed right now. What he really needed was a, but before he could finish that, guess who decides to show up out of the blue once more.
"Master Echo, sir? Are you alright, sir? Pip was worried."
Echo jumped, his head snapping up. His red hair flared, a furious, agitated crimson. Pip stood before him, his large, tearful eyes fixed on Echo's battered face.
"Pip!" Echo roared, his voice raw with a sudden, overwhelming surge of anger and despair. "What did I tell you? Just go! Go away! I don't want to see you! Don't pop up, don't talk to me, just stay out of sight! Do you understand? Just… just go!"
Pip flinched as if struck, his ears drooping dramatically. His large eyes welled up, and a single tear rolled down his little cheek. He said nothing, but with a barely audible whimper, he shimmered and vanished, becoming invisible.
Echo watched the spot where Pip had been, a fresh wave of agony washing over him. The anger, frustration, and sheer exhaustion finally broke him. He stumbled backward, sinking onto the cold stone edge of the bridge, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with unshed tears, the stress of the past few days, weeks, months, years—all of it—pressing down on him until he felt he might shatter.
A rough, calloused hand patted his back, surprisingly gentle. Echo looked up, his vision blurry, to see Ragnok standing beside him, his expression a strange mixture of gruff concern and bewilderment.
"Not sure what all that was about, human," Ragnok grunted, his voice still raspy. "But I still owe you a debt, and I'm off work. How about we go to the Hog's Head for a drink? On me, of course." He paused, a glint in his eye as he held up the money pouch. "With your money, naturally."
Echo managed a weak, watery chuckle, the absurdity of the situation almost comical. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the renewed protest from his battered body.
Together, they made their way to the Hog's Head Inn. Inside, the pub was dimly lit, reeking of stale ale and something vaguely unpleasant. They found a secluded booth in the back, and Echo ordered a butterbeer. It arrived, a murky, lukewarm concoction that bore little resemblance to the sweet, frothy drink at the Three Broomsticks. He sipped it slowly, the bland taste doing little to soothe his frayed nerves, but the quiet, the mere act of sitting, slowly began to calm the frantic storm in his mind.
After a long silence, during which Ragnok merely observed him with his keen, intelligent eyes, the goblin finally spoke. "So," he began, his voice a low rumble, "what was all that yelling about to the… house-elf? You certainly seemed quite agitated."
Echo sighed, running a hand through his now dull grey hair. He took another sip of his unappetizing butterbeer. "It's a long story, Ragnok," he began, his voice flat, "and it all started with Dumbledore." He then recounted everything, from the manipulative contract and Pip's desperate fear of freedom, to Frieze's terrified reaction after the Dementor attack, the feast, the shame, Minerva's fury, Granny Ethel's unhelpful solutions, and his own crushing sense of helplessness. He spoke of his isolation, the feeling that no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to make things right, couldn't regain the trust and friendship he craved. He laid bare the raw, chaotic turmoil of his life, the relentless pressure, the constant feeling of being misunderstood and manipulated, all while trying to hold onto his principles.
Ragnok listened intently, his sharp eyes never leaving Echo's face, his expression unchanging even as the story became more convoluted and emotionally charged. He sipped occasionally from a small, dark flask he'd produced from within his tattered robes, its contents smelling faintly of iron and something acrid. When Echo finally finished, his voice hoarse and raw, a heavy silence descended, broken only by the distant murmur of the pub.
"So," Ragnok finally said, his voice as gruff and unyielding as before, "the Headmaster of your school, a wizard of considerable renown, has seen fit to enslave a sentient creature to you, against your will, and has done so through deceit." He took another sip from his flask. "And you, a human, who by all accounts should be reveling in such a position of mastery, seek to free this creature, even though it actively resists such freedom due to the prejudices of its kind."
Echo nodded, his grey hair a picture of utter defeat. "That's about it, Ragnok. I'm stuck. Pip is stuck. And I don't see a way out that doesn't end in misery for one or both of us."
Ragnok leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes glinting with a shrewd, calculating intelligence. "And the hag, this 'Granny Ethel,' despite her claims of ancient knowledge, offered you only two choices: a memory sacrifice, which you refused, or emancipation leading to eventual isolation for the house-elf. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Echo confirmed, a fresh wave of despair washing over him. "She said there was no other way."
Ragnok let out a low, rumbling chuckle, a sound like stones grinding together. "Foolish hag. Hags are powerful, yes, and their magic is ancient, tied to the earth. But they are not all-knowing, especially when it comes to the intricacies of magical contracts forged by wizards. And Dumbledore, for all his infuriating manipulations, is a wizard of immense magical power. Their magics are… different, complementary, but not always entirely understanding of each other."
Echo looked up, a flicker of something—a tiny, fragile spark of hope—igniting in his dull eyes. "What do you mean, Ragnok? Do you… Do you see another way?"
Ragnok's sharp smile widened, revealing surprisingly pointed teeth. "Indeed, human. Indeed, I do. Goblins, you see, are the masters of contracts. We practically invented them. Every Galleon, every Sickle, and every Knut that passes through Gringotts is bound by contracts and intricate magical agreements. We understand the nuances, the loopholes, the hidden clauses that even the most powerful wizards often overlook." He paused, his gaze fixed on Echo, as if weighing his worth. "And you, Echo, have shown me kindness, a rarity among your kind. You saved me from indignity, and at a cost to yourself. A debt is owed, and a debt will be repaid."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper that held the weight of centuries of arcane knowledge. "There is a third option, a way to free your house-elf, to give him dignity and choice, without dishonoring him among his kind, and without severing a piece of your own soul. It is a goblin ritual, ancient and complex, one that binds not to life force, but to intent and purpose. It requires a specific kind of magic, and a very precise understanding of the threads of the contract."
Echo held his breath, his blue hair flaring with a desperate, burgeoning hope. "Tell me, Ragnok. Please. What is it?"
Ragnok sat back, a satisfied glint in his eyes. "It is a ritual of 'Shared Purpose.' It will rewrite the contract's core, transforming it from a bond of servitude into a bond of voluntary employment. The house-elf will still serve you, yes, but he will do so by choice. He will be compensated, housed, and treated with respect, as befits a free being. The magic will then adapt so that upon your death, the contract will simply dissolve, releasing him fully and honorably. He will have served his 'purpose' to you, and his freedom will be a natural conclusion, not a forced act of shame."
Echo stared at him, stunned. It was everything he had wanted. A genuine smile, the first truly unburdened one in days, spread across his bruised face. His blue hair shimmered with pure, unadulterated relief. "Ragnok," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "you… You can do that?"
"Goblins," Ragnok stated, a note of profound pride in his voice, "can do many things that wizards, in their arrogance, fail to comprehend, especially when it comes to the subtle arts of contract law and the bending of ancient magical bonds. However, it will require certain components and precise timing. And it will require your unwavering focus and a direct link to the house-elf in question. We cannot do this here, in this… establishment." He gestured dismissively around the Hog's Head.
"Of course not," Echo said, pushing himself to his feet, a renewed energy surging through his battered body. "The Forbidden Forest. We can do it there. The ancient magic of those woods will muddle anything we do and keep it from the ministry's detection. And Pip." His blue hair pulsed with determination before shifting to a sad purple.
"Why the long face, human?" Ragnok grunted, his keen eyes observing the sudden shift in Echo's demeanor. "You just found a solution to your house-elf predicament. Why the sudden gloom?"
Echo sighed, his purple hair dimming to a troubled grey. "Pip," he mumbled, running a hand over his face. "When I yelled at him back there, I told him to go away, to stay out of sight, not to pop up or talk to me. House-elves, Ragnok, when given an order, follow it to the letter. He won't appear, he won't speak. He's probably hiding somewhere, terrified, thinking he's disobeyed me by simply being visible."
Ragnok grimaced, a rare expression of discomfort twisting his features. "Ah," he said, a low, knowing sound. "You did indeed make a mess of that, human. A rather significant mess, for an intelligent being."
Echo's shoulders slumped, the familiar weight of self-reproach settling heavily upon him. His grey hair dulled further, mirroring the fresh wave of despair threatening to engulf him. "I didn't think," he whispered, his voice tinged with self-loathing. "I was so angry, so frustrated, I just… I wasn't thinking."
"Enough of that," Ragnok interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through Echo's self-pity. "You can figure out how to untangle your house-elf's literal obedience later. This ritual, the 'Shared Purpose,' requires preparation. It will take time to gather the components and to prepare the site. Time enough for you to formulate a plan to retrieve your… overzealous house-elf."
Echo looked up, a faint flicker of relief warming his chest. His grey hair softened, a hopeful blue returning. "Time? So I can fix this?"
"Indeed," Ragnok confirmed with a nod. "But first, human, you are looking rather… mangled." He gestured to Echo's bruised and bloody face.
Echo, remembering his own injuries, reached into his magic satchel. "Oh, right." He pulled out a small, amber vial filled with a shimmering, viscous liquid – a powerful healing tonic he kept for emergencies. "Here," he said, extending it to Ragnok. "This will fix you up fast."
Ragnok snatched the vial, uncorked it with a practiced flick of his thumb, and downed all the contents in one swift gulp.
"Hey!" Echo exclaimed, his eyes widening. "You didn't need to drink it all! I was going to need some of that myself!"
Ragnok blinked, a faint flush appearing on his leathery cheeks. He coughed, then looked at the empty vial in his hand, then at Echo's still-battered face. "My apologies, human," he grunted, a rare note of genuine embarrassment in his voice. "A goblin does not often encounter such… readily available healing. I assumed it was for me alone." He paused, then narrowed his eyes. "Why did you not use your magic to heal your own injuries? You carry a wand, do you not?"
Echo sighed, his blue hair flickering with a renewed exasperation. "It doesn't work like that, Ragnok. I tried once. Madam Pomfrey nearly killed me for the end result. It was… unpleasant."
"Right," Echo said, his blue hair returning to a more confident shade. "Now that you're all patched up, there's one more thing."
Before he could elaborate, a flash of vibrant pink and orange feathers darted through the open door of the Hog's Head. With a graceful flutter, a small, brightly colored Fwooper landed squarely on their table, its large, black eyes blinking innocently. In its beak, clutched carefully, was a glint of polished silver—a small, intricately carved mithril locket.
Ragnok stared, his jaw slowly dropping. His eyes, usually so shrewd and impassive, were wide with a mixture of profound shock and utter disbelief. He recognized the locket instantly; it was the very prototype he had been carrying, the one the students had stolen. The Fwooper, seemingly unconcerned by the sudden tension, gently deposited the locket into Ragnok's outstretched hand.
"How… how did you do this?" Ragnok finally managed, his voice a guttural whisper, his gaze fixed on the Fwooper, then on Echo.
Echo offered a small, almost wistful smile. His blue hair softened to a contented, reassuring shade. "Well, I may not have any human friends anymore, but I've made friends in other ways." He reached out, gently stroking the Fwooper's soft feathers. "I've always had a way with animals and magical beasts."
Ragnok stared at the Fwooper, then at Echo, a slow, almost imperceptible smirk twisting his lips. "You truly are the strangest human I have ever met, Echo."
Echo chuckled, the sound devoid of bitterness. "Yeah, that's pretty normal for me."
Ragnok tilted his head, his sharp eyes scrutinizing Echo. "So, if you have these… 'friends in other ways,' these creatures, and even this hag, why do you still want to 'pal around' with humans, when all of them seem to despise you? You have other companions, from what you've said and shown."
Echo sighed, his blue hair dimming to a thoughtful grey. "I am incredibly thankful for my relations with my creatures, and a few professors, and even Granny Ethel now. Truly, I am. But it's… It's not the same, Ragnok. At the end of the day, we're all pack animals. We like to be in a group of our own kind." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's just… different, you know?"
Ragnok grunted, a sound of reluctant agreement. "I can't fault you there, human. Even goblins, for all our solidarity, butt heads very often when we're not busy hating on something else." He paused, then his gaze sharpened. "Now, this 'debt' I owe you. You mentioned it earlier. What do you wish for it?"
Echo shook his head, a genuine smile returning to his face. "I don't want to call it a debt, Ragnok. Rather, I'd prefer to call it two friends helping one another out, if you're okay with that."
Ragnok blinked, then let out another low, rumbling chuckle. "You really are one strange wizard, Echo."
Echo's smile widened. "And Ragnok," he added, a hint of steel in his voice, "please don't call me 'human.' I have a name, and I would never refer to you as 'goblin.'"
Ragnok stared at him for a long moment, a flicker of something akin to respect in his sharp eyes. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible smile spread across his lips, revealing surprisingly pointed teeth. He raised his murky butterbeer mug. "Friends, then, Echo," he grunted, the word a rare concession from a goblin.
Echo grinned, his blue hair sparkling with genuine pleasure, and clicked his own mug against Ragnok's. "Friends, Ragnok."
They both drank, the lukewarm liquid surprisingly palatable in the shared camaraderie. Ragnok set his empty mug down with a thump. "Another round, on you, Echo," he commanded, a familiar glint in his eye.
Just as the camaraderie began to settle, the battered door of the Hog's Head creaked open again, admitting a blast of cold, damp air and a figure that instantly seized the attention of every patron. A hush fell over the bar, the low murmurs dying down to an uncomfortable silence. All eyes turned to the newcomer: a grizzled, heavily scarred man with a shock of coarse, greying hair and a deeply unsettling magical eye that whirred and swiveled independently in its socket, scanning the room with unnerving intensity. He leaned heavily on a long, gnarled staff, his gait a pronounced limp.
After a long, awkward moment, during which the man's magical eye seemed to pierce through each person, the patrons, as if on cue, all turned back to their drinks, suddenly engrossed in the lukewarm contents of their mugs. The man, seemingly oblivious to the palpable tension he had created, limped to the bar and gruffly ordered a drink. He received a mug overflowing with a dark, pungent liquid and, without a word, brought it over to the secluded booth where Echo and Ragnok sat.
He stood there, his magical eye fixed on Echo, then on Ragnok, its whirring sound unnervingly loud in the quiet booth. "Mind if I join you?" he grunted, his voice like gravel.
"Piss off," Ragnok snarled, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of a small, unseen dagger under his tattered robes.
The man merely grunted, a humorless sound, and slid into the booth opposite them, his good eye unwavering on Echo.
A long, intense silence descended, broken only by the man's heavy breathing and the occasional whir of his magical eye. Echo, his blue hair flickering with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, finally broke the silence. "Can… can we help you with something, mister?"
The man took a long, slow gulp from his mug, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Couldn't help but notice you two," he rasped, his gaze sweeping from Echo to Ragnok. "A child, and a goblin. Not a common pairing, even in this establishment."
"If you've got something to say, human, then say it," Ragnok growled, his pointed ears twitching with irritation.
The man drained his mug, then set it down with a decisive thud. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. "I've been looking for you, boy. Heard things. Bad things. Need to talk to you. Privately." His magical eye locked onto Echo, ignoring Ragnok completely.
"If you have something to say to Echo, you can say it to me as well," Ragnok interjected, his voice flat and dangerous.
The man finally turned his good eye to Ragnok, a flicker of something akin to surprise in its depths. "I've never seen a goblin protective of a human before," he mused, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Let alone a child."
"Today's been a lot of firsts for the both of us, human," Ragnok retorted, his eyes narrowed.
At that moment, a flash of vibrant pink and orange descended from Echo's shoulder, settling gracefully onto his arm. Beaky, the Fwooper, blinked its large, black eyes at the man, its head cocked, as if studying him.
The man's magical eye swiveled, fixing on the Fwooper. "You're playing a dangerous game with that wild Fwooper, boy," he rasped, a hint of grudging respect in his voice. "A few minutes listening to its call or song, and you'll go mad, even if it is pretty to look at."
Echo gently stroked Beaky's feathers. His blue hair pulsed with a hint of warning. "Beaky won't do that unless he feels threatened, mister. And right now, you're doing just that." He then added, a thought suddenly occurring to him, "Mister…." not catching the man's name and expecting an introduction.
The man let out a long, weary sigh. "Alastor Moody," he grunted, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his scarred mouth. "Or 'Mad-Eye' to those who know me."
Ragnok stiffened, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. "Moody? I know that name. Comes from one of the best and craziest Aurors in the Ministry. How do we know you're the real deal?"
Alastor Moody, with a theatrical flourish, pulled out a tarnished silver badge from beneath his tattered robes. The emblem of the Ministry of Magic, unmistakable even in the dim light, glinted faintly. Ragnok grunted, a sound of grudging acknowledgment. "Fuck, he's legit."
"So, Alastor Moody," Echo said, his blue hair flickering with a renewed wariness. "What do you want with me? And why do we need to speak privately? You heard Ragnok, we're friends."
Moody's magical eye swiveled, taking in Ragnok, then the Fwooper, then returning to Echo. "Fine. If he's your goblin, then he can stay. But what I have to say is not for every ear in this establishment."
Moody leaned closer, his gravelly voice dropping to an even lower, more intense whisper. His magical eye fixed on Echo, unblinking. "I've heard whispers, boy. Things about a particularly nasty bit of magic unleashed at the Forbidden Forest. A rather… dark display, even for a seasoned Auror." He paused, letting his words hang in the air, thick with unspoken accusation. "And then there's the talk of certain… unconventional means employed at Hogwarts, designed to deal with rather… stubborn individuals."
Ragnok, who had been listening with a scowl, frowned, his pointed ears twitching in confusion. He looked from Moody to Echo, then back to Moody, his eyes narrowing.
Echo, however, remained outwardly calm, though his blue hair flickered with a subtle, defiant crimson beneath the table. He met Moody's unwavering gaze without flinching. "I've done what I've had to do, Alastor," he said, his voice level, devoid of any discernible emotion. "To protect those who couldn't protect themselves. To right wrongs that others ignored." He took a slow breath. "My alliances, such as they are, lie precisely where they should. I stand against… that which seeks to dominate, to control, to inflict suffering. I stand against anyone who believes in a hierarchical world, where some are meant to be masters and others slaves, where some lives are deemed less valuable than others. And if anything, I am fully against him and his foolish followers."
Moody studied him for a long moment, his magical eye whirring softly. A faint, almost imperceptible nod of approval barely touched his grizzled chin. "Good," he rasped, his voice still low, but with a new, grim undertone. "That's very good, boy. Because if you ever were to stray, if you ever were to turn to his side…" He leaned even closer, his good eye boring into Echo's, a chilling intensity in its depths. "Then I, Alastor Moody, will be the first one to come for you. And I will be the last you see."
Echo merely met his gaze, his blue hair flaring with a silent, fierce defiance. "Understood, Alastor," he replied, his voice equally devoid of fear. "And I expect nothing but the best from you."
Moody held his gaze for another moment, then a slow, almost predatory smile creased his scarred face. He leaned back in the booth, taking another long pull from his mug. "Good. You keep it that way."
He drained the last of his drink, the dark liquid clinging to the sides of the mug. With a final, piercing glance at Echo, a look that seemed to weigh his very soul, Moody pushed himself up from the booth with a grunt. He tossed a few coins onto the table, a clatter that broke the lingering silence, and then, without another word, limped towards the bar. He placed his empty mug on the counter, a silent dismissal to the bartender, and then turned, his magical eye sweeping the room one last time. Every patron instinctively flinched, their gazes dropping to their drinks, until, with a final, heavy creak of the door, Alastor Moody was gone. A collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the Hog's Head. The hushed murmurs slowly returned, the clinking of mugs and low conversations gradually filling the void left by Moody's departure. The tension that had permeated the air dissipated like mist, leaving behind a faint, almost lingering scent of unease.
Ragnok turned to Echo, his sharp eyes narrowed. "What in the name of all that is shiny was that about, Echo? That man… he carries a heavy aura. And what were those 'whispers' he spoke of?"
Echo leaned closer, his blue hair shifting to a conspiratorial black. "Can you keep a secret, Ragnok? A really big one?"
Ragnok merely grunted, a single, decisive nod. "Goblins are sworn to secrecy when it comes to the affairs of our clients. And you, Echo, are quickly becoming a very… intriguing client."
Echo frowned, his black hair flickering with amusement. "Friends, Ragnok. Not clients. We're friends."
Ragnok paused, a thoughtful expression on his leathery face. "Friends," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "Right. Friends. Still not used to calling anyone but another goblin a friend, but… friends, then."
Echo took a deep breath, then whispered, his voice barely audible above the renewed din of the pub. "I've been practicing the Dark Arts, Ragnok. Not for evil, not for power over others, but for protection. For survival."
Ragnok's eyes, usually so impassive, widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his leathery face. He stared at Echo for a long moment, then slowly shook his head, a low, rumbling sound escaping his chest. "The Dark Arts? You, a human, delving into such forbidden knowledge?"
Echo nodded grimly. "Precisely. And it's not a choice I made lightly, Ragnok. It's… It's part of me. My magical core has a natural affinity for dark magic. It's almost as if it pulses with it and thrives on it. The Dark Arts don't feel unnatural to me. They feel… right. Instinctual." His black hair flickered with a deep, unsettling purple. "I've tried to fight it, to suppress it, but it's like fighting against the tide. The stronger I push against it, the more powerfully it pulls back. I have two choices: Ragnok: learn to wield it, to control it, or be consumed by it entirely. There is no middle ground for me."
Ragnok listened, his initial shock giving way to a profound, almost analytical interest. His pointed ears twitched, absorbing every nuance of Echo's confession. He took another long pull from his flask, his sharp eyes never leaving Echo's face, tracing the subtle shifts in his hair color, the tension in his jaw. When Echo finished, a heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the distant clatter of mugs and the low hum of conversation.
"So," Ragnok finally said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, "you possess a natural affinity for what your kind calls 'Dark Arts.' And you are attempting to master this power, not for conquest, but for self-preservation." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a shrewd, calculating light. "Fascinating. Most humans who dabble in such magic are consumed by it, driven to madness or tyranny. But you… You seek control, balance. A difficult path, even for a goblin."
Echo nodded, his purple hair shimmering with a quiet intensity. "It is. And it's a lonely path, Ragnok. No one understands. Even the professors, if they knew the full extent, would likely try to suppress it, or worse. Dumbledore especially. He'd see it as a threat, a dangerous deviation."
Ragnok snorted, a plume of dust escaping his nostrils. "Dumbledore," he scoffed, the name dripping with disdain. "A wizard who believes he alone holds the reins of destiny. He fears what he cannot control, boy. And a human with a natural affinity for wild, untamed magic would be precisely the kind of force he would seek to shackle." He paused, then gave Echo a long, scrutinizing look. "This is why you sought the hag, then? To understand this 'Dark Arts' within you, to find a balance?"
Echo shook his head. "No, not directly for that. Granny Ethel is powerful, but her magic is ancient, tied to the earth. She understands curses, hexes, and the magic of the wild. But the kind of magic that pulses through my core… It's different. It's elemental, raw. It's what allows me to connect with magical creatures on a deeper level, to command them without words. It's why I can do things that others can't, like… like what I did at the feast." His purple hair flared, a brief, angry red. "But it also means I have to be constantly vigilant. One wrong step, and I could lose control. That's what Moody fears, I think. That I'll become another Dark Lord."
Ragnok nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his leathery face. "A valid concern, from his perspective. Aurors are often blinded by what they expect to see. They see 'Dark Arts,' they see 'Dark Wizard.' They do not often see the nuance, the intent behind the power." He took another swig from his mug, then fixed Echo with an intense stare. "But you, Echo, are different. You seek balance. You seek control. And you seek to use this power for… what did you say? To protect those who cannot protect themselves. To right wrongs." He leaned back, a rare, almost respectful gleam in his eyes. "A noble goal, for a human. But a dangerous one. The path of balance is often the most treacherous."
"Tell me about it," Echo muttered, running a hand through his hair. "It's a constant battle. Every day."
"Indeed," Ragnok grunted, finishing the last of his butterbeer. "At least you have companions, Echo. Friends, if you insist on that ridiculous term. Friends who do not judge you for your unique… proclivities." He gestured vaguely at Echo's hair, still shifting with a subtle, purple hue.
Echo offered a genuine, heartfelt smile. His blue hair shimmered with warmth. "Thank you, Ragnok," he said softly. "That… that means a lot."
Ragnok's sharp smile widened, revealing his pointed teeth. "But first, we must prepare for the ritual of Shared Purpose. It cannot proceed without its willing participant, so make amends with your house elf. Until then, another round, Echo," Ragnok commanded, his voice a low rumble. And of course it's on you."