Chapter 75: Gringotts' Gratitude
"Now," Voldemort said softly, "drink the water from the goblet."
His voice was gentle, but to Mimiron Selwyn it struck like thunder.
Mimiron's hands began to tremble. His back was soaked through with cold sweat. Every instinct screamed in resistance, yet in the end he could not withstand the pressure. Staring at Voldemort's grotesque, terrifying face, he drew a deep breath and shut his eyes.
Gulp. Gulp.
The surroundings fell deathly silent, broken only by the sound of Mimiron drinking.
Clang.
His grip failed him. The golden goblet slipped from his hands, fell to the floor, and rolled away.
Mimiron's face flushed red, then drained deathly pale. Veins bulged across his forehead as he let out a guttural, inhuman roar and collapsed to his knees. His chest began to writhe, as though something were about to burst free from within.
In panic, he tore open his robes and stared in horror as a human face emerged beneath the skin of his chest, twisted in agony, struggling desperately to force its way out.
At the same time, his skin crawled as if swarmed by countless ants—an unbearable itch. Forgetting everything else, he clawed at his chest instinctively.
With every frantic scratch, the itching eased.
Then he felt something caught between his fingers. Looking down, he saw that his chest was already torn open, flesh mangled and skin ripped away in bloody strips that fell to the floor. Blood poured freely—yet strangely, he felt no pain at all.
As he staggered to his feet, intending to tend to the wound, a wet rip sounded from his chest. A human head burst forth, pushing through flesh and blood, slick and dripping.
The face was unmistakable.
If it was not Voldemort, who else could it be?
Voldemort inhaled deeply, greedily savoring the fresh air, a look of profound satisfaction spreading across his features.
At last—he was alive again.
"M-Master…?" Mimiron stammered.
For reasons unknown, once Voldemort's head had emerged, the wound in Mimiron's chest rapidly healed. Apart from the extra head protruding from his torso, there was nothing else amiss.
"I am still somewhat weak," Voldemort said coldly, "so I will borrow your body for the time being. You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not—of course not," Mimiron replied with a stiff, forced smile. At this point, what meaning could objections possibly have?
"Excellent," Voldemort said, a savage smile curving his lips, though his voice carried no mirth at all.
"Do not worry. Once I am fully restored, you will be my greatest contributor—second only to me, above all others."
Sensing the reluctance buried deep in Mimiron's heart, he added the promise casually.
As a Horcrux crafted in the Dark Lord's earlier years, Voldemort's soul had not yet descended into the complete madness of his later days. He still knew how to tempt, how to promise rewards—otherwise he could never have gathered so many Death Eaters to his banner in the first place.
Had this been the Voldemort of his final downfall, the mere flicker of unwillingness would already have sparked murderous intent.
Already courting death.
"Very well, Master. What should we do next?"
Mimiron sighed. At this point, there was no turning back—he could only walk this road to the end.
"Not yet," Voldemort said calmly. "Listen carefully…"
…
"Honored Mr. Fythorne," Kevin said, his deeply wrinkled face squeezed into a smile like a blooming chrysanthemum. "A true hero at such a young age! To think you managed to bring such a vicious criminal to justice—I am truly full of admiration."
Russell frowned at the two goblins standing before him. They had been waiting outside his home since early morning, insisting on having a proper talk with him.
What could there possibly be to discuss?
"Oh, there is plenty to discuss," Kevin said firmly. "After all, you helped Gringotts eliminate a grave threat."
If word ever reached The Daily Prophet that Corvey and his accomplices had once successfully robbed Gringotts—and that Russell was the one who exposed it—Kevin would be finished. His position as branch manager might well be handed to someone else.
What's more, Corvey had once been a Gringotts curse-breaker. Even though the theft occurred after his resignation, that detail wouldn't stop a certain reporter—one infamous for twisting words, embellishing facts, and accepting no bribes—from having a field day.
Rita Skeeter.
She treated rumor-mongering as a hobby. If she caught wind of this, who knew what headlines would appear?
"Head of British Gringotts Secretly Colludes with Former Egyptian Curse-Breaker—Joint Embezzlement for Massive Profits?"
Just imagining it made Kevin shudder, his scalp tingling.
So he grew even more enthusiastic, sliding a key across the table toward Russell.
"This represents Gringotts' sincerity. It is the key to a vault opened in your name—no maintenance fees for one hundred years. And inside, you'll find a small… surprise."
Kevin hadn't planned on offering so much. At first, he'd thought Russell was merely a lucky young wizard. But once he learned about the Addams family behind him, his attitude changed immediately.
Seeing that Russell still hadn't spoken, Kevin grew uneasy. What if he refused?
Gritting his teeth, Kevin reluctantly produced a beautifully crafted dagger and placed it before Russell. Seven gemstones of different colors were set into its sheath.
"And this," he added, "is my personal token of gratitude—an ancient goblin-made dagger. I hope you'll find it to your liking."
"Mr. Kevin, I can feel your sincerity," Russell said. He had only been lost in thought, yet in that short moment another dagger had appeared before him.
Understanding the wisdom of knowing when to stop, he picked up the dagger and turned it over in his hands.
"And Corvey…?" Kevin ventured.
"What Corvey?" Russell shrugged, exchanging a knowing smile with him. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Then I'm relieved," Kevin said, finally exhaling—though his gaze lingered on the dagger with visible reluctance.
After Kevin left, Russell drew the dagger and examined it closely.
It looked exceptionally sharp. He tested it by lightly slicing toward a ceramic teacup that was still steaming.
He felt no resistance at all—the blade passed straight through. Yet the teacup remained intact, as if nothing had happened.
Just as Russell began to suspect the dagger was merely decorative, a thin red line of tea seeped from the cup's surface.
Sensing something amiss, he touched it gently. The cup split apart at once, tea spilling across the table.
Russell's surprise quickly turned to delight. He studied the cross-section carefully—perfectly smooth, without the slightest roughness.
Goblin craftsmanship really is something else, he thought. And this is only a dagger.
At that moment, he finally understood why the Goblin King had wanted to reclaim Gryffindor's sword after forging it.
He couldn't help wondering—could this dagger damage a Horcrux?
Pocketing the blade, Russell picked up the key.
A pillow arriving just as one needs to sleep. Even if Kevin hadn't offered it, Russell had been planning to open a vault anyway—for storing things that weren't suitable to keep at home.