Chapter 12: Fantastic Animals – The Marten

Voldemort needed the Philosopher's Stone, and the Stone was still locked inside a vault at Gringotts. Gringotts was widely known as the safest bank in the wizarding world—nothing stored within had ever been lost.

But that wasn't the point. There was no fortress in the world that couldn't be broken into. If it couldn't be breached from the outside, it could be destroyed from within. But all of that hinged on one crucial fact: Quirrell first needed to know exactly which vault the Philosopher's Stone was kept in.

According to information Quirrell had acquired on the black market, the Stone's original owner, Nicolas Flamel, had sensed someone was plotting to steal the Philosopher's Stone from him. To protect both himself and the Stone, Flamel had entrusted it to his old friend—none other than the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.

Now the Philosopher's Stone was secured in Dumbledore's vault. But Gringotts was notoriously secretive—vault numbers were among its most closely guarded pieces of information. No one knew which vault belonged to whom, except for the owner and Gringotts itself. And to expect Quirrell to stumble upon the right vault in a bank that spanned miles underground? If he had that kind of luck, he wouldn't have ended up enslaved by Voldemort in the first place.

So, in order to confirm the location of Dumbledore's vault, Quirrell had spent a fortune on a forbidden magical creature purchased from the black market.

He reached into his luggage and pulled out an old, scratched-up leather suitcase. After placing it gently on the floor, he opened it and whistled twice into the empty space.

The whistle echoed oddly within the suitcase—because it wasn't ordinary luggage. It had been enchanted with an Extension Charm, giving it an enormous interior. Such suitcases were commonly used for smuggling and contraband, and for Quirrell's purposes, it served another function: a temporary home for the magical creature inside. With enough space, it could be customized to mimic the animal's natural environment.

Moments later, the suitcase vibrated. Then, out of its depths climbed a massive, snow-white marten. It sniffed the air, looked around with bright, beady eyes, and twitched its pink nose. Despite its large size, the creature looked almost dainty—adorable, even.

But Quirrell knew better.

He stared at the animal without a trace of affection. His face tightened.

"Oh, bloody hell, is this where the poor people live?" said the marten, spitting foul language that stood in stark contrast to its delicate, fluffy appearance.

Quirrell's eye twitched. He had to remind himself—again—that he'd spent years saving up for this creature. Killing it now would mean losing his best shot at infiltrating Gringotts.

Like it or not, he needed this foul-mouthed magical beast to carry out the mission. Voldemort had ordered it, and Voldemort didn't tolerate excuses—or failure.

The creature was known as a Marten, a magical species native to Britain, Ireland, and North America. It had a unique set of skills.

Martens could speak human language, read written text, and, after proper training, hold basic conversations. A marvel in terms of intelligence—but sadly, they came with a rather glaring flaw: they had absolutely no manners. In fact, Martens loved swearing and vulgarity. The more obscene, the better.

Despite their annoying personalities, they were surprisingly effective. The Ministry of Magic had classified them as a Class XXX magical creature—not particularly dangerous but officially banned for sale due to their abilities.

Why? Because the marten had a terrifying talent: it could burrow and travel underground, bypassing almost every known magical barrier. That ability alone made it a security risk. No vault was safe from a determined marten, which was why they were so valuable on the black market.

Quirrell had emptied nearly all his savings—over a thousand Galleons—to purchase this particular beast. His years teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts had gone into this single investment.

"Tonight's your time to shine," Quirrell muttered, grabbing the marten by the scruff of its neck. "You're going to Gringotts. I want the number of Albus Dumbledore's vault."

"Got it, got it, now let go of me, you uptight b**tard!" the marten shrieked, wriggling in his grip.

This one, Quirrell had been told, was a professionally trained marten. It could understand tasks and follow its owner's intentions with surprising accuracy. But apparently, no amount of training could wash the filth out of its mouth.

Quirrell glared at it in frustration. He tried to stuff the creature back into the suitcase, but it began kicking and cursing even louder.

"Let me OUT! I need to stretch my legs! I'm not a damn pet, I'm a magical superweapon! You owe me respect, you half-wit!" the marten barked, every word more offensive than the last.

Quirrell very nearly strangled it right there.

But no—he couldn't. The marten was crucial to the plan. Voldemort would have his head if anything happened to it.

And unfortunately, the seller had been clear about one condition: martens couldn't stay locked inside Extension-Charmed spaces indefinitely. They had to regularly come into contact with real earth, or their underground-burrowing abilities would start to weaken.

Quirrell had tested this once before—under heavy supervision, of course. He let the marten roam while following from a safe distance.

Surprisingly, the creature didn't run off. In fact, it seemed to return willingly, as if it knew who its master was. It was fast, smart, and agile—so clever, in fact, that it always made it back before Quirrell, no matter how closely he tailed it.

After a while, Quirrell gave up the pursuit entirely and just let the creature out every few days, trusting it would return on its own.

But this time… he hesitated.

They were in Diagon Alley, a crowded, chaotic place full of unpredictable people and unpredictable magic. If he lost the marten here, it would be nearly impossible to recover. He would lose everything.

He stared at the beast, who by now was screaming, "Let me out or I swear I'll s**t in your shoes!" and thrashing violently in his arms.

Quirrell gritted his teeth.

The marten added with a hiss, "If you don't let me out, I'll die on you, and you'll have no one to blame but your stingy, rat-faced self!"

That was the final straw.

Quirrell sighed, loosening his grip. "Fine. Go. But come back soon."

The marten gave him a disgusted look. "Whatever, peasant."

Then it vanished with a rustle—right into the stone floor, slipping beneath it as if it were made of water.

Quirrell stood there, staring at the empty spot where the creature had disappeared. His jaw clenched.

He had staked everything on this mission.

This talking, cursing, arrogant, and highly illegal creature was his only ticket to uncovering Dumbledore's vault—and ultimately, stealing the Philosopher's Stone for Voldemort.

Now all he could do was wait and hope the marten didn't run off or get caught… or worse, start cursing random people in the streets of Diagon Alley.

As he picked up the old suitcase, Quirrell murmured, "Please don't make me regret this."

The marten was gone. The plan was in motion.

All that remained was whether or not this unholy alliance between a disgraced professor and a foul-mouthed magical animal would be enough to breach the most secure bank in the wizarding world.