More than half an hour later.
Ian returned to the surface from the vaults, led by the Eight-Character Moustache Goblin. The Granger family had already finished all their business and were waiting for Ian at Gringotts' grand entrance, enduring the scorching sun.
For the goblins of Gringotts, when a family comes to deposit money, they worship the customer as a god; but as soon as the money is deposited, they instantly turn atheistic.
Enthusiastic service is impossible to maintain for long—the benches in the lobby are even packed away by them. This is why so many wizards like to complain about goblins as a race.
Even the wolves of Wall Street are amateurs compared to them.
If you want to see what real power-chasing is, just look at the goblins of Gringotts.
"Ian, the goblin who took us to the vault said you were in a special zone near the earth's core. Did your VIP vault look any different from the regular ones?"
Hermione instantly switched to her "ten thousand whys" mode the moment she saw Ian, like a ravenous kitten greedily trying to devour every piece of magic knowledge she could find.
Before Ian could answer,
the Eight-Character Moustache Goblin jumped in to correct Hermione's wording.
"The greater-than-great Mr. Prince would never stoop to use Gringotts' VIP vaults! His vault is unique, the only one, a super secret chamber reserved for the sole co-owner of Gringotts like him!"
After coming out of the underground vault, the Eight-Character Moustache Goblin's attitude toward Ian shifted subtly, perhaps because it had now confirmed Ian's identity through the vault.
Of course.
Though the goblin's attitude had changed a bit, some things in its nature were still untouched. After pausing, it added some clarification about Ian's identity.
"Of course, the greater-than-great Mr. Prince does not enjoy ownership of Gringotts' property. Besides that, he's the most distinguished person in all of Gringotts!"
The goblin's emphatic and emotional speech made Ian feel a bit speechless. Distinguished? Where, exactly? The whole thing felt suspiciously like "spirit shareholder" nonsense.
"Let's just head out." Ian didn't want any more insincere flattery. He hurried the Granger family out through Gringotts' imposing doors.
Behind them,
the Eight-Character Moustache Goblin kept bowing deeply until Ian and the Grangers disappeared at the end of the street. Then it finally straightened up and wiped sweaty beads from its forehead.
The mark on its forehead was beginning to fade, but the goblin's inner turmoil was anything but calm.
"It's him, definitely him, only he could open that vault... The third goblin uprising we've been plotting for so long... Looks like it'll be postponed again for who knows how many years."
Its muttered complaints carried a hint of regret, but even more relief and lingering fear—a bombshell of secrets woven quietly into its self-talk.
However.
Nobody, not the little wizard nor anyone else, knew about the goblin's whispers. By the time it turned to go back to work inside Gringotts, Ian was already long gone.
"Want some ice cream? I can treat you to a little something," Lady Granger asked as they passed a cold drinks shop, her gaze caught by the peculiar frozen treats—Ian suspected that this thirty-something lady mostly wanted some herself, so she made a show of asking him and Hermione.
"Mum! I want two!"
Hermione certainly wasn't going to be polite with her mother. It was sweltering, and ice cream was exactly what she needed. Her attention was drawn to the animated ice creams that seemed to wiggle on their own.
That little brain of hers was probably busy analyzing what sort of magic was imbued in the ice cream.
"One is enough for me."
Ian glanced at the nearly empty shop—he suspected the flavors might not be all that good, otherwise why would there be only two or three customers on a hot day?
"All right, wait here for me," Lady Granger said as she pulled out her wallet and headed to the shop, while Ian, Hermione, and Mr. Granger stood on the street, checking out the nearby storefronts.
On both sides of the street, the window displays gleamed enticingly, drawing the eye of every passerby. The "Magic Potion Fun Workshop" to their left had bottles of vibrant potions slowly spinning on a carousel.
Some glowed blue, as if hiding the secrets of the deep sea; others shimmered warm gold, like wheat fields under the setting sun. Each bottle was labeled with names that could spark wild imaginations.
"Is there really such a thing as Dream Weaving Potion?" Mr. Granger seemed tempted, his expression quite amusing. Ian suspected he wanted to secretly meet his white moonlight or first love in his dreams.
"Just a gimmick, nothing special, and way overpriced." Ian's words squashed Mr. Granger's hopes—he felt he'd just saved Miss Hermione Granger's family happiness.
The time ticked by, minute after minute.
After more than ten minutes, Lady Granger was still at the window; she seemed to have run into some trouble, so Ian quickly walked over to try to help her.
However...
"Question: In what era was the world's first automatic feather pen invented?" The drinks shop owner was suddenly quizzing Lady Granger, the Muggle, with a trivia question so obscure that even Ian had no clue.