Chapter 15 — A Fine Steel Blade, Enchanted to a Noble Tool
Harry went to the staff offices and knocked. Flitwick opened, surprised. "Harry, what brings you here? Gryffindor doesn't have Charms today."
Harry bowed. "Professor, I have an urgent request. Please, could we go today to find a goblin smith to forge a proper weapon?"
Flitwick frowned. "If I recall, we agreed on the weekend."
Harry wanted to say Hogwarts was in danger, but thought better of it—an eleven-year-old crying doom would sound like childish fancy. He changed tack:
"Professor, my scar's been aching; the nightmares won't stop—I feel uneasy.
"We haven't learned any truly combative spells yet. If I had a solid weapon at my side, I could sleep."
"If your scar hurts, you could ask Professor Snape to brew a sedative," Flitwick said, thinking. "But if a forged weapon helps you rest, going a day early isn't so bad. You are… a special boy."
He flicked his wand; a quill sprang up, twirled in the air, found parchment, and wrote out a leave note.
With the note, Flitwick took Harry to McGonagall.
Faction lines are clear: Harry's Gryffindor; Flitwick heads Ravenclaw. Though friendly, proper form required Gryffindor's Head to sign.
McGonagall read. "Forge a weapon?
"Mr. Potter, what do you want with that? Do you doubt the school can keep you safe?"
Harry repeated his "scar and nightmares" line; McGonagall let it pass, reminding him he could see Dumbledore about the scar, and signed.
Seeing how lenient the magic world was about blades compared to the Song dynasty, Harry marveled. But then—magic hid many wonders. Lose an arm? A spell could set you right as if after a sneeze.
Paper in hand, they left the castle for Nottingham.
Learning the destination, Harry calculated and blurted, "That's seven or eight hundred li from here! And Professor McGonagall only granted a night—did she misread the hour?"
Flitwick smiled. "Don't worry. If things go smoothly, we might still make supper.
"Hold tight to my arm. First time can be dizzy."
Harry obeyed—then, as if a violet-gold gourd had opened with a pull, a suction yanked them. In a blink they were gone.
When his head cleared, everything had changed.
Grass underfoot; quiet woods around. Not Hogwarts.
Displacement Illusion—apparition—mystery profound: a hundred li in a breath. No fasting, no talismans, no red face or weak knees. Even a fleet-footed hero would envy it.
"We're in Nottingham," Flitwick said, smiling.
Harry's head swam; he still praised it. "What a spell—one breath, a hundred li!
"Professor, why teach trifles in class when you know such wonders?"
"That's Apparition—sixth-years learn it," Flitwick said, pleased at the flattery.
Harry's heart itched. Such a gift—and five years to wait.
Flitwick walked to a boulder and flicked his wand. The stone rolled aside, revealing a man-sized cave mouth.
They entered a tunnel—narrow at first, just enough for a person; after dozens of steps, it opened. Lamps hung in pairs; pit props lined up; a tall wooden door loomed.
Flitwick knocked. Presently an elderly goblin with white hair and beard poked his head out.
Seeing Flitwick, he smiled with contempt. "Oh—so a human wizard is visiting.
"O great wizard—what brings you to our dirty little hole?"
Flitwick let it pass; Harry couldn't bear the tone at his teacher. He grabbed the goblin's collar and snarled, "You mangy beast. What kind of talk is that—you dare mock my master?"
The goblin started to cry out at the wizard—then saw the lightning scar. His eyes bulged.
"Heavens… the famous Harry Potter. I heard you were sorted to Gryffindor and threw down the Sorting Hat—braver than Godric—"
Flitwick snorted, wand-tip touching the goblin's brow. "Enough, Ragnak. Harry doesn't know where the Sword of Gryffindor is."
"What's the Sword of Gryffindor?" Harry asked.
"Tsk, tsk." Ragnak sneered. "Don't you know, Mr. Potter? A sword forged by goblins—stolen by that scoundrel, Godric—"
"Enough!" Flitwick barked. "Godric paid your ancestor. The sword was his."
"Silence, you low traitor! Goblin-forged—Godric had usage rights only.
"When he died the sword should have returned to goblins!"
They bickered. Harry caught the gist:
Fine steel, a thousand hammers, a sword is born;
Goblins renege and won't return.
Three hundred rounds of cheat and lie—
Not a glint of blade to spy.
Harry thought: So I really am bound to Gryffindor—our forebear was a master of weapons, too.
He called, "Professor—skip the talk. Let him forge the blade."
"Forge a weapon?" Ragnak narrowed his eyes. "I thought wizards had forgotten our craft.
"Mr. Potter, this won't be cheap."
Harry tossed a pouch of Galleons. "I won't short you. Consider it a deposit."
Ragnak loosened the mouth—gold glowed yellow on his face; his eyes went hot, as if he'd crawl inside.
After a moment, he stowed it, nodding slowly. "Very well, Mr. Potter. Enough for a weapon—
"The ordinary kind."
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