Chapter 16 — The Scarred Boy Sheds Goblin Blood
Hearing Ragnak, Harry frowned. "Why only an ordinary weapon? What about an extraordinary one?"
"My, my—our famed savior, Mr. Potter, comes to goblins for a weapon yet knows nothing of the craft.
"Haven't your parents taught you the basics—urk!"
Before he finished, Harry had jammed his wand at the goblin's throat. "You sneaky cur—oil-slick tongue and pompous airs. No ivory from that dog's mouth!"
Flitwick knew Harry's temper and hurried to pull him aside. "Don't be rash, Harry. I don't know a second goblin smith."
Ragnak tore free and scuttled to a corner, wheezing. He was about to catch his breath when a white flash—Harry's watermelon knife thudded into the wall past his ear; his heart nearly leapt out.
"Spout that two-faced drivel again and I won't spare you!" Harry barked.
Seeing Harry ready to kill, Ragnak dropped the posture and explained the difference:
Goblins were born smiths. When fanning the forge and smelting iron, they poured magic into the metal—thus even a common blade held a measure of the extraordinary.
Take the Sword of Gryffindor: under a meter long, refined from top-grade mithril over a hundred foldings, specialized to cleave foul black magic.
Harry clicked his tongue. "In that case I want an extraordinary weapon.
"If rare materials are needed, so be it—I won't short you gold."
Ragnak was pleased but still shook his head. "Not enough."
Harry scowled. "Still not enough?"
Ragnak rubbed his hands, smiling with creases full of cunning. "Mr. Potter, forging something out of the ordinary doesn't only cost more coin—it costs the smith more… essence.
"And you know: a wand amplifies magic manyfold. Goblins don't dare carry them.
"If you truly want a piece on par with Gryffindor's—oh, why not lend me your wand for a while?"
The cart had rattled all this way just to reach the word "wand."
Harry's body was young, his soul old. He'd heard Flitwick on the wizard–goblin war; how could he not see through Ragnak's ill intent?
Flitwick's eyes flashed with anger. Damn these goblins and their dream of "counterattack."
He was about to warn Ragnak when Harry's eyes turned vicious. He yanked the knife from the wall, kicked Ragnak flat, and roared:
"You thieving goblin—do you take me for a three-year-old? Today you'll learn my measure!"
Harry grabbed a long ear in his left hand and sliced with his right—one ear severed, blood pouring.
"AAAAHHHH!"
Ragnak screamed, rolling on the ground. Flitwick stared, slack-jawed.
Left hand clutching the ear, right hand gripping the knife, flecks of blood on his robe—Harry looked every inch a child fiend.
"This ear is a lesson!" he thundered. "Act up again and I'll take your head!
"If you don't like it, go tell the Ministry!"
Ragnak's courage collapsed. He'd hoped to test a wizard's bottom line, to feel out the treaty's edges—only to prod a tiger. Never mind losing an ear; if the Ministry learned his words, goblins could be dragged into it.
He babbled for mercy. "Mr. Potter—great savior—please forgive Ragnak's moment of madness!"
Harry ignored him. He found paper and pen, wrote down the weapon's form—length, width, thickness—and said:
"You have two months. If I don't see the weapon by then, I'll dig out your heart and liver—soup for the professor!"
With that he turned on his heel.
Flitwick was still stunned. After a long beat he glanced at Ragnak. "If you reach the hospital wing before nightfall, they can reattach it."
Ragnak kept howling.
When Flitwick left too, he shut his mouth, picked up the ear, and kindled a cold, hateful flame in his eyes.
Harry and Flitwick emerged from the tunnel; night wind combed the woods, the smell of plants rolling in.
Wind on his face, Harry's body felt clear and light. He laughed. "Such fine scenery above ground—and goblins insist on living below it all their lives. No fate to enjoy blessings."
Flitwick, who had just watched Harry lop an ear and then chat merrily, felt the absurdity.
He struggled, then asked, "Harry… why did you cut his ear?"
Harry looked surprised. "Professor, why ask that? He insulted you repeatedly, and he dreams of a second wizard–goblin war. For such a slippery rogue, an ear is lenient."
Flitwick blinked. So he was angry—for me?
Warmth bloomed. If only I'd recruited him to Ravenclaw.
"Ahem—Harry, rein it in a little. The last time I saw a youngster this fierce was when You-Know-Who ran wild.
"Back then, you had to be fierce or the Death Eaters would crush you. Today's different—the wizarding world is safe."
Harry shook his head. "Be wary in peace."
It was ancient English; Flitwick paused, pondered—and nodded.
He remembered the old days—dueling with vicious, lethal spells, severed arms and shattered limbs daily—and how such brutality had forged a master. Years at Hogwarts had gentled him; back in the ring, a newcomer might beat him.
Flitwick sighed. "Harry, you keep saying things that make an old man think."
Harry smiled. "Child's chatter—don't mind me, professor."
They chatted a moment. Harry took Flitwick's arm; in an instant they were back at Hogwarts.
Seeing lights blazing, Flitwick grinned. "Looks like we didn't take long—we'll make it for dinner."
"Then I must share a few cups with the professor," Harry said.
They were still joking when a tabby sprang from a statue and became McGonagall.
"Professor Flitwick."
"Good evening, Minerva. We've finished."
Her look was complicated. "Mr. Potter, please come to the Headmaster's office. Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you."
Harry rubbed his belly. "Is the Headmaster so urgent? Might he let me fill my stomach first?"
McGonagall's nostrils flared. "So—you've nothing to say about insulting Professor Snape?
"I'm amazed Severus didn't dock you."
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