Chapter 21: The Greedy Goblin Opens His Mouth and Names a Sky-High Price
Because Hermione hadn't raised a hand in that flying-class brawl and only tried to stop it, the first-year Gryffindors drifted away from her.
Unless forced, none of them wanted to talk to her.
She was only eleven; how could she bear being treated like this?
Every lesson, she just kept her hand up. Even when the professor didn't call on her, she'd press in and seize the floor for a single grain of sand in the hourglass of house points.
She thought if she piled up great merit, the others would turn back to her. But the more she did it, the less they liked it. Now they wouldn't just avoid talking; if they saw her, they'd dodge far off, like skirting a stray dog with distemper or a rat with plague.
Several days in a row, Harry saw her growing haggard and wan. He urged, "Big Sis, why grind yourself down like this? You'll harm your health."
Hermione forced a smile. "It's fine, Harry. I've just been a bit insomniac."
"If your face is thin, I'll go speak to those bird-brains! Treating a sister or brother so coldly—what kind of heroes are they supposed to be?"
Ron listened from the side, saying nothing.
Hermione, though grateful, feared the opposite effect. She waved him off in a hurry. "Don't! This is my business. Let me handle it."
Seeing her insist, Harry could only drop it.
That weekend, Harry called Ron and Hermione to go walking. No sooner had they stepped out of the castle than a squat, round figure waddled their way.
It was Flitwick hurrying up.
Harry bowed. "Professor, whom are you seeking in such haste?"
Flitwick smiled. "You, of course, Harry—your weapon is finished."
Harry was overjoyed. "Ah! Then please, Professor, take me to Nottingham once more."
"My dear boy, I came precisely for that. I've already handled the leave—"
He didn't finish. Harry scooped him up under one arm and sprinted out of the grounds.
In just a few breaths he was gone, leaving Ron and Hermione staring.
Ron scratched his head. "Uh… Hermione, fancy a run? I'm starting to see why Harry wanted a weapon so badly. When you can't use spells well, fitness really matters."
"No. I haven't written Snape's essay." Hermione coaxed, "You should join me, Ron. You don't want to lose more points in Snape's class, do you?"
Hearing points again, Ron bristled. "Forget it. So what if we lose a few!" He jogged off.
Watching his back, Hermione fumed, "You don't care about our house's honor at all!"
Two flowers on separate branches, each with its tale. Ron and Hermione parted unhappily; Harry reached Nottingham grinning.
Back into the burrow, knock on the door—Ragnok was waiting.
"Good morning, esteemed savior. You've come to collect your weapon?"
Hearing the respectful tone, Harry smiled. "If you'd been this tame earlier, I wouldn't have needed to meet you with blade in hand."
Ragnok lowered his gaze. "Yes, Mr. Potter. That was my fault. I'm glad you don't hold it against me."
They entered. Harry, seeing Ragnok full-face, blinked. "Eh! Why only one ear? Isn't there a decent healer in Nottingham to tend you?"
Ragnok touched the hole and half-smiled. "Please don't mind it, Mr. Potter. I felt I should keep the mark.
"So each morning when I wake, I'll think of you first."
There was barbed wire in the words; Harry only sneered. "There you go again, speaking sideways. If you want my life, I'll be waiting."
Ragnok ignored him, fetched a long silk-wrapped bundle, and laid it on the table. "Your weapon, Mr. Potter."
Harry unwrapped it: a white-frost mithril backsword.
The blade was a full yard long, breathing cold. A fingertip flick loosed a dragon's hum. The steel shone blue, single-edged, a rippling blood groove running bright. The hilt was bound in red silk, filling the palm; runes coiled along it with a dim, ghostly glow. At first glance it seemed plain, but a closer look showed power sheathed and killing intent restrained.
It weighed six or seven pounds. Harry swung it with effort but couldn't put it down.
"Truly a good weapon! Even better than my old patterned-steel backsword!"
If you ask where that comparison came from: in his past life the Scarred-Browed Man had sheltered with the Military Monk at Crossroads Slope; when the authorities hunted them, the Inn Couple handed over a monk's remains to disguise them. Harry wore a rosary of 108 human skull-caps; the martial one took the papers. Two backswords of snow-patterned steel, one each. Together they felled many villains, earning the nickname Twin Fiends of Wu, Life-and-Death Monks.
Harry played with the blade, delighted. Ragnok drawled, "Mr. Potter, I am curious why you want a blade over a meter long.
"At your current size, it must be tiring."
Harry sheathed it. "I know my measure. No need for you to say more."
Tall bodies have tall methods; short ones, short tricks. Once there was a fellow nicknamed the Short-Footed Tiger—under five feet but deadly with a weapon. Harry had sparred him, and learned the secrets of a small man's killing art.
He belted the blade. "It's excellent. Name your price."
"Ten thousand Galleons."
The goblin's words could kill by shock. Flitwick's eyes bulged; his soul nearly flew.
Ten thousand?!
"Are you joking, Ragnok?" Flitwick narrowed his eyes. "Even Gryffindor's Sword wouldn't run ten thousand."
Harry barked, "What kind of bird-blade costs that much?
"I can buy one for thirty Knuts to cut meat and tofu. What's so great about yours that you dare ask ten thousand?"
Ragnok snorted. "This isn't some crude kitchen cleaver. It's a magic weapon forged from precious materials!
"The whole blade is mithril and fine iron, quenched in the blood of a Spanish Spike-Tailed Dragon. The hilt's wrap is unicorn tail-hair, and the runes are in the oldest Latin…"
He rattled on. "Finally, I used the most ancient goblin forge-craft. Do you understand!"
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