In snow-feathered Hogsmeade, under soft silver-white eaves hung with icicles, a black cat moved across the rooftops where smoke occasionally rose from chimneys—then vanished again.
Inside the Hog's Head Inn, the light was dim.
Just like Aberforth's eyes, which only now and then sparked to life.
He slowly closed his eyes, muttering words too blurred to make out.
The silver Pensieve sat to one side, and the floating silver strands of memory began to unfold inside Aberforth's recollection.
By the hearth, the fire rose with a pain like needles driving into flesh.
He could barely breathe. He simply could not imagine it.
On the other side of the veil, without his care—how had she endured such long, punishing years?
In the ninety-fifth year after Ariana's death, Aberforth remembered her for the thirty-thousandth time.
He remembered that after their mother died, he had been the only one who could calm her.
Whenever her magic spiraled out of control, he would talk about the days when they used to feed the goats together, and as soon as she heard his voice, she knew he had come.
So after she was gone, he kept goat after goat after goat.
But no matter how loudly they bleated, they could never bring those old days back.
Very few people knew that his favorite story was Grumble the Dirty Goat, not a particularly interesting tale.
But whenever their mother told it, Ariana would always listen with such careful, restrained delight.
So the truth was, Aberforth didn't really like much of anything.
Except...
He loved Ariana most of all.
"Albus!"
That funeral rose before him again—the one where he'd punched the bastard's nose crooked.
But would his sister, his poor sweet little Ariana, come back just because of a twisted nose and the twisted misery in his heart?
And so that fifteen-year-old boy paid for his mistake. So consumed was he with standing up for himself and for his sister that he completely forgot the original reason for his fury had been her.
The rage lit everyone on fire.
And it burned everything down.
Ariana, whom he had cared for so fiercely. Ariana, whom their mother had cared for so tenderly. Ariana, whom their father had begged him to look after…
She had fallen in a pool of blood.
"It was my fault…"
A drop of something clear after another sank into Aberforth's tangled beard. Boundless guilt and regret made it feel as though a burning coal had been lodged in his throat.
"Master of dreams and mist, bridge between life and death, symbol of eternal good fortune…"
he muttered, scrubbing hard at his face.
The voice in the Pensieve memory overlapped with his own.
"Make a wish to me, fortunate Miss Ariana."
"I make my wish to you, honored god…"
Aberforth clung to it like a drowning man clutching his last straw.
"If one day night becomes the overture, and the mist blurs the border, then when dawn arrives…
the bridge will open for you."
"Let the bridge open for me."
"I would give everything I have."
Aberforth's voice dropped so low it could hardly be heard.
…
At Fairy Tale Workshop, Quirrell had been waiting a long time.
Together, he and Sean carefully slipped out the back door under an invisibility charm, avoiding the witches and wizards who still lingered outside even after the shop had closed.
A few minutes later, the two of them had disappeared completely from Hogsmeade.
Crossing past the still-surging crowds of Diagon Alley, they arrived before a snow-white building that towered over the surrounding shops.
Beside its shining bronze doors stood a figure in a crimson-and-gold uniform.
The moment it saw Professor Quirrell, it hurried over.
"Q-Quirrell?"
Its voice sounded like it had a chunk of toffee stuck in its mouth.
Professor Quirrell gave a faint nod, then swept a glance around.
"Then… you… you must be…"
The goblin in crimson immediately grew feverishly intent, then lowered its head with restraint as it looked at the young wizard.
A second later, it seemed to realize it had said too much, abruptly sealed its mouth shut, and hurried the two of them into Gringotts with visible nerves.
Within seconds, they were standing in the vast marble hall.
Behind the long counter, goblins sat perched on tall stools, receiving the day's first customers.
The goblin in red led them toward an older goblin who was examining a thick gold coin through a lens.
That goblin looked over Quirrell with a mix of scrutiny and disdain, but after the first instant of recognition, its expression changed at once.
"You—you've come—ah! You—what can I do for you today?"
"I believe we've already reached an understanding, Vernar."
Professor Quirrell stepped forward, blocking the goblin's line of sight, and spoke seriously.
"Oh, certainly, certainly… We can provide that, and much more besides, but…"
The goblin called Vernar narrowed his eyes.
"But it comes at a price. There must be compensation."
"What do you want? Gold?"
Quirrell traded a subtle glance with Sean.
"Not gold,"
said Vernar.
"We have all the gold we could ever need."
His murky black eyes gleamed. They had no whites at all.
"What is it you want?"
Quirrell frowned and tilted his head slightly.
"Sir, I must advise you—Gringotts is not the only place where such contracts exist, nor are goblins the only ones who possess them."
Sean did not answer. He simply stared at Vernar and thought.
He needed an unbreakable contract to ensure the plan went smoothly.
In Professor Ravenclaw's memories, goblins had held tightly to their mysterious contract magic since the very founding of Hogwarts Castle.
And yet there stood Vernar before him. All it faced was a young, expressionless boy—but once it considered the identity tied to that name and the future already visible before its eyes, it could not keep from feeling tense.
"Please don't worry. We are not thieves, sir. We do not covet wealth we have no right to possess."
The old goblin relented slightly and stepped back.
"Tell my master your terms,"
Quirrell said, watching the aged goblin.
He knew goblins were shrewd, crafty creatures.
If there was one thing they could be trusted for, it was that they did not lightly break their word.
"Please understand—speaking of Gringotts' deepest secrets is forbidden. Those buried contracts are among Gringotts' greatest secrets.
So we are no more than custodians of a vast fortune, and we are duty-bound to guard the things entrusted to us—even when those things were often forged by our own hands."
The old goblin straightened.
"We can give you a kind of magic that can never be betrayed, but…"
His gaze shifted toward the second door knocker, toward the silver door engraved with its warning that thieves would be punished.
"We must be given a price great enough to exchange for it. And though you are both powerful and famous, there is only one thing you possess here that can serve as payment for this magic."
"What?"
Sean's eyes flickered.
He remembered Professor Ravenclaw describing goblin magic as a uniquely alien kind of magic, a system wholly unlike wizard magic.
And Vernar's words now only deepened that impression.
Contract magic...
"Your friendship, sir."
Vernar bowed with a small smile.