Chapter 270: The Goblin, Raphael

Upon seeing the scene unfold, Wentworth froze for a moment. The young goblin, meanwhile, looked back at him with a hint of provocation in his eyes after an initial flash of surprise.

Then, without hesitation, Wentworth raised his wand once more.

"Diffindo!"

The spell shot forward, a sharp flicker of light streaking toward the hide in front of him. However, just as it made contact, the golden runes embedded in the hide glowed brightly, and the spell was absorbed instantly, like a drop of water vanishing into a sponge.

The young goblin's face lit up with satisfaction, a smug smile spreading across his features.

But before he could gloat further, Rosier stepped forward calmly and picked up the hide.

"Riiip!"

Gripping the hide with both hands, Rosier tore it apart with a sharp, decisive pull. With a crisp snap, the hide split in two. Almost immediately, its once-shimmering surface dulled and faded. Within seconds, it crumbled into ancient dust, as though it had weathered centuries in an instant. Rosier gave a gentle puff, and the hide scattered from her hands, disintegrating completely.

The young goblin stood frozen in shock, eyes wide, yet the Goblin High Elder appeared utterly unsurprised. Watching silently, he finally spoke in a slow, steady voice.

"So tell me, Mr. Grindelwald… are you satisfied with this answer?"

Wentworth sighed lightly and gestured with his hand.

"You may go. The Alliance will depart shortly after."

Without another word, the High Elder nodded and, leaning on his cane, began to make his way slowly into the depths of Gringotts.

Wentworth watched the goblin's retreating figure as it disappeared into the shadows. His face darkened. Only after the goblin was completely out of sight did Wentworth speak again, his voice filled with restrained fury.

"How far are we expected to tolerate this? Gringotts… or rather, these goblins… what exactly are they playing at?"

Though certain suspicions had begun to form in his mind, Wentworth still couldn't quite believe that they were truly prepared to go that far.

After a moment of silence, Wentworth turned suddenly, fixing his gaze on Lockhart, who had been trying very hard to fade into the background. With a polished smile, Wentworth gestured to the seat beside him.

"Professor Lockhart, please—have a seat."

Caught off guard, Lockhart instinctively began to offer his trademark grin—only this time, it carried a distinct, bitter undertone.

At the same time, deep beneath Gringotts, the Goblin High Elder dismissed the young goblin and proceeded alone into a lightless corridor, leaning on his cane as he walked.

Despite the total darkness, the High Elder seemed to navigate the path with ease. The only sound echoing through the tunnel was the rhythmic tap of his cane against the stone floor.

At the end of the corridor stood a heavy iron door. The High Elder reached out with a clawed finger and gently traced a pattern across its surface. A deep, grinding rumble echoed as the door slowly swung open.

He stepped inside and slammed the cane against the ground. The pitch-black space was instantly illuminated.

The room was a square, ten meters across. From the four corners, thick iron chains stretched inward, suspending a goblin in mid-air. Each of his limbs was bound, and he hung there, motionless.

As the sudden light flooded the chamber, the suspended goblin stirred. His head had been drooping, his eyes closed—but now, he slowly opened them and lifted his face.

To the untrained eye, most goblins appeared similar—but even at a glance, this one was clearly different. His most distinguishing feature was a striking mane of silver-white hair.

The High Elder stared at him silently, pain flickering in his eyes before he masked it swiftly.

"Raphael," he said at last. "Just moments ago, the Alliance broke into Gringotts. They wreaked havoc, and many of our employees were killed."

Raphael showed no reaction. His voice was calm, indifferent.

"Elder… when you consulted me, I told you—some things, if you're going to do them, must be done completely."

"You should have killed the Alliance wizard on the spot, eliminated all witnesses—goblins and wizards alike—and had someone Obliviate you. Then perhaps you could have deceived them."

"Or… you could have welcomed them with fine food and hospitality, and escorted them politely from Gringotts. But you didn't do either."

The High Elder was silent for a long while before speaking again.

"Just now, the leader of the Alliance—the heir to the Grindelwald family—hinted that he wants me to hand you over."

At that, the previously indifferent Raphael suddenly perked up, his eyes sharp, alive with intensity.

"I refused," said the High Elder.

Raphael's gaze dimmed instantly. He gave a bitter chuckle.

"I suppose that refusal came at a price, didn't it?"

The High Elder nodded slowly.

"I handed over the Charter."

For a moment, Raphael looked puzzled—then as realization dawned, his eyes widened in shock.

"You… you gave them the Charter?! Elder, are you out of your mind?!"

The High Elder frowned, confused by Raphael's intensity.

"Raphael, I've always believed you to be the most intelligent of our kind. Even after the great mistake you made, I couldn't bring myself to execute you—that's how much I valued your mind."

"Surely you can see that, even without that Charter, no one could possibly challenge Gringotts' supremacy. Even if the International Confederation of Wizards tried to establish a new bank, the wizarding world wouldn't trust it."

"To us, that Charter is nothing but a piece of parchment now."

Raphael shook his head with a sad, knowing smile.

"You're wrong, Elder. This time, you're truly wrong. That parchment wasn't just paper. As long as it existed, any witch or wizard daring to establish a rival wizarding bank would be cursed—by the combined will of the most powerful witches, wizards, and goblins of the past. No one could bear that curse. Not even Dumbledore."

"And now… the sword that once hung over the heads of all wizard bankers—it's gone."

The Elder bristled.

"Gringotts still has a thousand years of—"

"You don't need a thousand," Raphael interrupted sharply. "Not even a hundred. A few years… or just one war… and everything we knew—all the old order—will be swept away."

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