“Then said Caesar: ‘Let us go where the gods have shown us the way and where the injustice of our enemies calls us. The die is cast.’”
--Suetonius, The Lives of the Caesars
14 April, 1945
The headmaster stood quietly, patiently, stoically, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his eyes fixed on the western sky. The sun was sinking, blood-red, below the mountains of Scotland, and in the darkening sky above, the stars began to glimmer like tears. The wizard sighed and shakily lowered himself onto a tree stump by the side of the lake, across from the slumbering castle. A bowtruckle clambered up the trunk of a tree nearby, and blinked at him curiously, assessing him, until it lost interest and continued climbing into the branches.
The sound of hoofs on the grass met Armando Dippet’s ears, and he looked up to see an ancient gray centaur standing nearby. They both stared at each other without expression, until Dippet asked quietly, “I take it that I’m expected?”
The old centaur bowed his head. “You came to inform me of yesterday’s happenings in Germany.”
“Then you already know?”
“The brothers were victorious,” the centaur replied. “The Triskelen have fallen.”
Dippet nodded. “You have a way of knowing things before news reaches you, Sage Tiresias, but yes. Grindelwald is dead, and the Muggle dictator will soon follow. It is over.”
Tiresias shook his head solemnly. “I wish that were the case.”
The wizard’s brow furrowed. “You think the Triskelen will remain a threat?”
The sage shook his head again, and looked up into the sky. “They were just a canker. It seems sturdy now, but the Wizarding World was built on a splintering column. If corruption and depravity seeps into the cracks again, that column will crumble, and wizardry will topple.”
Dippet stared in consternation. “What do you mean? Can this be prevented?”
Tiresias smiled sadly. “It cannot be prevented, and unfortunately, you cannot help. You can only warn. Pass my message to the Dumbledore brothers.”
“What you said about the breaking column?”
“That,” Tiresias confirmed, “but also this warning: it will begin at Godric’s Hollow. Even as Rudolf Grindelwald lies dead, a new evil is stirring within this very country, greater and more formidable than ever was Grindelwald, or even Herpo the Foul. Even now, Armando Dippet, at this very moment.” He paused for a moment, and turned his gaze to the twilight sky. “This morning Mars shone brighter than ever, and it will begin at Godric’s Hollow, when a child is marked for battle. Then begins the War of Blood, professor, when the sevenfold fiend battles the War Mage. Then watch for the virescent eyes of the War Mage.”
Dippet’s bewilderment showed, but even so, he visibly shivered.
“Even now, a great evil is stirring,” Tiresias reiterated. “The War of Blood will begin at Godric’s Hollow. Tell Professor Dumbledore.”
Without another word, the sage of the centaurs of Scotland retreated into the forest.
“…and so I would suggest holding your shares until the crisis lessens, Mr. Macmillan.”
The client nodded.
“Will that be all, sir?” the goblin asked. At Macmillan’s nod, the stockbroker turned to his left. “Alphard, if you could deposit Mr. Macmillan’s earnings…?”
“At once, Mr. Grobschmied,” the young assistant replied, moving to his employer’s desk to take the check.
Macmillan scrutinized Alphard. “Are you not of the Black family?” he asked curiously.
Alphard nodded. “Pollux Black is my father, sir.”
Macmillan raised an eyebrow, and Alphard awkwardly looked away. Grobschmied shot the intern a sympathetic glance, having already heard of the trouble the boy received from his mother, Irma Black, for having such a “commonplace” occupation, and Alphard had already received numerous comments about it from patrons. But fortunately, Mr. Macmillan had the sagacity not to continue the topic. He nodded to Grobschmied, and then quitted the room.
“I’ll take care of his documents, sir,” Alphard told him as he stepped toward the office door.
Grobschmied nodded. “Try to be back by half after six,” he said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Prewett.”
As Alphard left the room, Grobschmied returned to his desk and opened a drawer, which contained a few books and a couple dozen phonograph records. He browsed through the small collection for a moment, and his eyes fell upon a disc labeled “Le Sacré du Printemps.” Grobschmied considered it for a moment, and thinking it oddly appropriate, he pulled out the record and set it inside his gramophone. He then carefully set the needle in place, and sat back in his chair as the notes of a bassoon issued from the speaker. He then picked up his decanter and poured himself a glass of brandy.
At that moment, the door opened, and Grobschmied looked up in time to see an older goblin enter the room, and he sat up abruptly. It was Garnok Gadlak, the wealthy proprietor of Gringotts. He stopped as he entered, and his eyes fell on the gramophone.
“Muggle composition?” he inquired. “Sounds like a bassoon concerto, except it’s a bit… modern?”
“It’s a ballet, actually,” Grobschmied replied. “By a Russian composer. And yes, it is modern. I was at its opening. I remember Saint-Saëns remarking that if that was a bassoon, then he was a baboon. Always thought Saint-Saëns a pompous git.”
Mr. Gadlak smirked. “You were there, huh? You took care to make yourself look more human, I trust?”
“I hope so,” Grobschmied replied. “Otherwise I’d have to wonder if the riot that ensued that night was my fault, and not a result of the unusual music.”
His employer chuckled. “On a different but related note, I hear we are to call you ‘Dr. Benedict Grobschmied’ now.”
Grobschmied determinedly kept his expression neutral, but Gadlak merely raised an eyebrow.
“Well done on your discretion,” he said, “and congratulations on your Oxford degree. And for God’s sake, don’t let the Ministry of Magic find out!”
Still chuckling, Gadlak quitted the room, but just before he closed the door, an owl fluttered through it. Grobschmied, however, stared after the Gringotts entrepreneur for a few more minutes, until the owl clicked its beak impatiently, and Grobschmied detached the letter from the bird’s leg. He smiled as he recognized the handwriting, and he relaxed in his chair again, and broke the seal to begin reading.
My dear Benedict,
Thank you for your last letter. The story of your little adventure in the Goblin Liaison Office was very entertaining. I don’t believe I’ve laughed so hard in years. You are excellent. It’s goblins like you who make me wonder sometimes at the Ministry’s attitude toward the Tylwthteg people.
Things are quiet for me at the present moment. I’m afraid Hokey’s taken ill lately. I do what I can for her, but she soon will be unable to continue her work. She has difficulty climbing the stairs without assistance. She’s fortunate that the Black family does not employ her, knowing what they do to their house-elves when they get too old to do their duties.
Caractacus Burke is after the set of Koboldrang armor again. He’s made an offer of five hundred Galleons for it, but he’ll have to do much better than that for it. I’ve told him that he’ll have to pay at least the amount that I had to pay for the locket. I have to admit, though, that Burke’s young assistant is a very charming man, quite the gentleman. He even brought me flowers today, when he arrived.
Grobschmied stared at this last bit. He supposed that it was only a matter of time before Burke, swinder that he was, would send his useful little assistant to Hepzibah, but he could not stop the chill that went up his spine as he thought of the strange clerk at Borgin and Burke’s. It was odd, but Burke’s assistant made Grobschmied uneasy. Perhaps it was Mr. Riddle’s extraordinary ability to procure artifacts for Burke at astonishingly low prices, or perhaps it was simply the old cultural assumption many Tylwthteg and Koboldic goblins made about wizards concerning such treasures, but Grobschmied’s dislike of Riddle grew every time Burke stored a new artifact in his vault, and Riddle appeared with an immense pay raise.
As for his manners… well, Grobschmied could almost understand Hepzibah’s opinion of Riddle. Almost. The young man certainly was very charming, but there was something in his eyes that belied that appearance. Grobschmied thought him too smooth and ingratiating. He knew that demeanor. He’d seen several people attempt that act when trying to cheat Gringotts, gain favoritism from the deans or professors at Oxford, or sidestep prosecution in undoubtedly illegal transactions. Frowning, Grobschmied returned to Hepzibah’s letter.
Of course, I made it clear to Mr. Riddle that Burke would have to offer a better price for the armor, but Riddle accepted this politely. I believe he works at Borgin and Burke’s because he appreciates the history of the artifacts there, not how much they’re worth. I thought it would interest him, so I showed him the cup and the locket.
Grobschmied, who had just taken a sip of brandy, choked at this last sentence, his astonishment growing. Hepzibah didn’t show just anyone those particular artifacts, and for many years, she had carefully kept her possession of Hufflepuff’s cup secret, in case someone like Burke learned of it.
He enjoyed examining them, of course, particularly the locket, although he went a bit funny when I put them away.
I was glad to hear that you’ve employed young Alphard Black. His family’s been giving him such trouble lately. All he needs is for his sister Walburga to get on his case about his anti-Triskelen leanings, and he’ll find himself disowned. I tell you, Benedict, that that family isn’t going to come to any good. You should have seen Cygnus Black’s reaction when his daughter Dorea got engaged to young Charlus Potter, a perfectly respectable young man from a wealthy pureblood family. I ask you…
Hokey’s just brought me my supper, so I had better close. Hope to hear from you soon.
Hepzibah Smith
Grobschmied stared at the letter. The unease which he felt about Riddle increased tenfold. Hepzibah normally would die rather than hand either the cup or the locket to any procurer, and personally, Grobschmied felt that the two artifacts ought to be in a museum, or perhaps in the historical gallery at Hogwarts, rather than in anyone’s hands. But on the other hand, Hepzibah usually kept their existence secret. Normally she didn’t tell just anyone about them, yet somehow she told Riddle, a youth she hardly knew.
He looked at the date at the top of the letter, and saw that it had been written two days ago. Curse the Eeylops postal service for its tardiness! He glanced at the clock, and upon seeing that the appointment with Ignatius Prewett wasn’t for another hour, he stood abruptly.
Normally he didn’t intervene in Hepzibah’s trade in medieval artifacts, but Grobschmied was absolutely certain that Riddle and Burke would cheat her if someone didn’t talk sense into her. His conscience wouldn’t be swayed unless he visited Hepzibah and at least warned her about Riddle.
As he stepped out of his office door, he bumped into Alphard, who appeared to have just returned from depositing Macmillan’s check.
“Alphard, could you look after things for an hour?” Grobschmied asked. “I have to run an errand, but I’m not sure I’ll be back in time for Mr. Prewett’s appointment.”
“Of course, sir,” Alphard said. Seeing Grobschmied’s troubled expression, he then added, “I hope everything’s all right, sir.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Grobschmied assured him, “but I hope so too.”
He then turned and hurried down the hall until he reached the lobby. He fairly ran toward the fireplaces at the right side of the chamber, and reached into a flower pot next to one of the fires, scooping up a handful of Floo Powder. Then, scattering it into the fire, Grobschmied stepped inside the emerald flames and shouted, “Smith Manor!”
He tensed as he started spinning rapidly, trying not to breathe in the soot, and closing his eyes against the whirl of green flame. Floo Powder wasn’t his preferred method of travel, but in this case, it certainly was the fastest.
Finally, Grobschmied stumbled out of the fireplace in Hepzibah’s tidy front room, and brushed soot from his coat.
“Hepzibah?” he called out.
There was no reply. Grobschmied frowned, and called out again, but there was nothing. He sighed, hoping she hadn’t gone out, and raised his voice again.
“Hokey?”
There was a loud pop, and the elderly elf Apparated before him. Before she could greet Grobschmied, she swayed, and the goblin stepped forward and steadied her.
“Thank you, Mr. Grobschmied,” she croaked.
“I’m sorry to get you up, Hokey,” Grobschmied told her gently, “but I must see your mistress. Is she at home?”
“Yes sir,” Hokey said quietly. “She is in her dining room. I just took her her dinner.”
“Has anyone else been by today, Hokey?”
She frowned for a moment, and shook her head. “No, sir. I hasn’t seen anyone.”
Grobschmied exhaled. “Show me to her, then.”
As Hokey slowly led Grobschmied down a well-kept hallway, they passed the suit of armor that Burke had been after for so long. The unease returned and then, as they quietly approached the dining room, Grobschmied realized that it was very quietly, abnormally quiet. He couldn’t hear the sounds of cutlery on china dishes or the sipping of tea, not the slightest stirring.
Grobschmied waited tensely as Hokey opened the door and stepped inside. She opened her mouth to announce him, and then she stopped, staring stock-still at something within. Then she screamed.
“Mistress Hepzibah! Mistress Hepzibah!”
Without a word, Grobschmied followed the elf into the dining room, and he froze as he saw his old friend slumped back in her chair, her glassy eyes wide and staring, but her face ashen, with an expression of shocked terror in its elderly features. Hepzibah Smith was dead.