Daggers and Deduction

The click of the cam lock breaks the silence and fully unlocks the door. The familiar pop of Apparation causes my head to turn back. Giving Amos an I-told-you-so smile, I motion him to follow in.

"No wands!" The Half-goblin barked as we started to enter, gesturing to a talon hung on the wall. Under the talon read a plaque labelled "Wands".

"If you prefer we could just-," Amos started to threaten. Nudging him to stop, I mentally tell him to do it my way.

"Why?" I ask, the weight of my wand holster, slung across my hip, feeling heavier.

"Bloody wizards thinking it's their birthright to hog wands. When you're in my shop, you play by the rules my ancestors and almost every owner of this shop had to put up with. That means no wands," Wright rants, sliding behind the counter.

Dust coated every surface in the small store. Racks of weapons hugged the walls, leaving only a small counter off to the side and a door. Glancing at each other, we mentally debate what to do. Wining, I sip my wand out of its holster and hand it to the talon. I wrench my hand back as it snatches the wand.

Wright chuckles as Amos does the same. "What's the item?"

Unsheathing the dagger out of the makeshift scabbard, looped into my wand holster, Wright's eyes grew wide. The dagger's thud radiates through the store as I set it on the counter.

"Remarkable craftsmanship, I can tell you that," Wright explains, closely admiring the hilt.

"Can you tell us who made it?" Amos muttered, his words sharpening.

"Potentially," his eyes sparkled at the topic, "As you know, Goblins are very protective over their work. They believe that no matter the deal struck or if the Goblin's ok with it, Goblin-made items will always belong to Goblins. That is, aside from me of course." His eyes twinkle in a nervous chuckle. "Because of this, many Goblins hide distinct characteristics of their work. If the Goblin is very skilled then I should be able to recognize the 'smith."

His shoulders relax some as he goes on, focusing on his lecture more than the dagger or us. "It could also hide a signature of the 'smith. Blacksmiths, even Goblin ones, are like any craftsman; they want acknowledgment for their work and skill. For example, my weapons always have a curved "W" at the butt right…" his voice trails off as he gestures to the bottom of the dagger.

As if a child lost control of their magic, a chill fractures around him. His eyes grow wide as his wrinkled face grows hollow. The clink of metal reverberates through the room as Wright takes a small step back from it. His shaky hands, boney and calloused, look as though a puff of wind could snap them.

"This isn't. How could…" desperation filled his eyes as he ducked under the counter. The rustle of paper joined his muttering as I grabbed the dagger. Looking at the butt of the dagger, a W stood engraved there. Catching Amos' arm as he moves to get his wand, I shake my head.

Sighing, Amos releases the tension in his body, "Who did you sell this dagger to?"

"I don't know," Wright answers, dropping a stack of paper on the counter.

"What do you mean you don't know?" My question falls on deaf ears as he continues to souffle through paper.

"About a month or two ago, I had a customer come in. I heard the door and then next thing I know, the door's closing and a bag of Galleon's in my hands."

"They Oblivated you? Why didn't you go to the Goblin Liaison Office?" Amos asks, inching away from the wands.

"Because I let him," letting his words hang in the air, he separated one specific paper from the stack. A chart with multiple columns sprawls across the paper: name, item, cost, time, and OI. Shorthand notes cram their way between the words. "This is my sales record from that day. Every time I make a sale or commission, I jot down the name, item, and any information about the sale."

Flipping the paper around, he points to a specific line. The buzz of a lead pings into my head as I read the row. "Unknown, dagger, 40 Gallons, Unknown, +10 Gallons for OB."

"What does OB stand for?" Amos asks, analyzing the chart quicker than I.

Just as he asks, everything clicks. "Why would you agree to be Obviated?"

Wright weakly sighs, "as I said, Goblins are protective over their work. As a show of faith, this shop has an extra cost to Obliviate my mind of the customer. I don't actively display this and have it very expensive so it's rarely used."

My mind checks out as Amos asks a few more questions: when was this added, how many times has it been used, what did they buy, are there any special features of the sword, and so forth. It's not like these questions are unimportant, it's just not my cup of tea. Amos has always been better at monotonous, desk-type, work. How noticeable has my condition gotten? Is it some kind of Goblin identification magic that allowed him to tell? Worries growing, I decided to schedule a checkup at St Mungo's soon.

"Are you opening back up anytime soon?" I ask, rejoining the conversation.

"Of course! I close down for a day or two after every kill but this bloody bastard isn't going to stop me from selling my wears." He slaps the counter at the mention of the killer.

Amos picks up on my thinking, "We're sending two Aurors to watch the area. If he comes back, signal them and they'll come running."

"If you can think of anything, owl me," digging through my pocket, I hand him a card with my name, rank, and desk number.

"They used my dagger," Wright mutters as we leave the store.

"We should use Aurors from your department, not everyone in Magical Creatures is fond of Goblins." Amos wraps his coat tighter as we step onto the street.

"Definitely. Any luck IDing the Vic?" fear of a dead-end teeters on the edge of my voice.

Amos groans, combing his fingers through his hair and flopping on the steps. "I couldn't find a record for him. So, I visited Gringotts to see if he had a vault but nothing. He's not enrolled in Hogwarts and all of my contacts have come up dry."

"There has to be something. Five half breeds and we can't identify half of them. There are very limited places that will hire a Half-breed and none of them had anyone with even a smidgen of Troll, Elf, or Hag ancestry."

"Their parents must still be hiding their existence," Amos inferred, scratching his head, "Aside from Hags, Trolls and House-elves hate Half-breeds more than You-Know-Who. They must have been a part of the Wizarding community in some way."

"What if they're not? We know that the Half-troll can't be a part of the Forest Troll community, and we can't find them anywhere in the Wizarding community. Are there any Half-breed communities?"