Chapter Text
I own nothing. Least of all this.
Yes, this is the obligatory “Harry goes to Gringotts chapter”. Believe me, I tried extremely hard to keep this out of the story, but my writing had other ideas. That being said, I did try to keep it as short as possible. So if the chapter seems a bit abrupt, my apologies. And now, back to our irregularly scheduled programming.
9) GREAT MEN ARE FORGED IN FIRE
Harry swiveled in his extremely uncomfortable chair, and leveled a glare at the current cause of his discomfort. “I do not suppose you could speed things up?”
Cygnus Black merely sighed in response. “Those who value their continued well-being would do well to avoid rushing a Goblin. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.”
Harry resumed his previous precarious position with a grumble. “I hate waiting.”
Deep down, he felt somewhat vindicated knowing that his sentiments were probably echoed by most if not all of his fellow waiting-room occupants.
For the longest time, Harry had never really understood why it was that Binns had seemed unable to drone on and on about any other subject than Goblin Rebellions. That is, until he actually picked up a decent history book capable of explaining things in such a way that even the slowest of individuals could grasp exactly how much power the Goblins held over Wizarding Britain, and what they had done to gain it.
That he’d picked up said book about a couple thousand years after it would have done him any good was besides the point (he was still more than a bit miffed about his History of Magic OWL, even without taking into consideration the whole Ministry debacle that came after).
Long story short, it had only been after about seven chapters and well over three hundred pages that that he had finally understood exactly why it was that Wizarding Britain seemed so fixated on the threat of a Goblin uprising: the last one had succeeded. And what’s more, it had gotten the Goblins every single thing they wanted.
The Ministry had been forced to hand over control of the entire economy, lock, stock, and barrel. To say nothing of the rights to conduct banking itself. And all to a race that would like nothing better than to leave each and every one of its enemies destitute and penniless. The only reason the Goblin nation as a whole, and Gringotts in particular, had so far failed in that particular goal was quite simple: as beings related to the Fae, they were completely unable to tell an out-and-out lie.
Harry sometimes wondered if the Ahamkara were more closely related to the Fae than they were to dragons or Basilisks.
To sum up, the Wizarding World on the whole lived in fear that the next time the Goblins got it in their collective heads that a little bit of pillage and plunder were in order, they might come away with more than just regulation of the currency flow. Something a little more “in-your-face’ kind of dangerous; like, say, I don’t know, the legal right to own and wield wands.
Harry, of course, knew better. Not only was it completely impossible for a Goblin to even wield a wand (the fact that they suffused their entire bodies with their magic instead of forcing it through a focal point was one reason), but in the entire history of Britain, the goblins had only ever gone to war for one very specific thing: treasure. To take someone’s entire wealth away from them, to ruin them entirely, whether they be alive or dead, was the greatest of accomplishments for a Goblin. Hence why Gringotts employed an extensive team of both enchanters and curse-breakers. Enchanters to do the more delicate work on Runes for the bank’s safety precautions and warding services, and curse-breakers to deal with…well, to put it bluntly, wizards on the whole tended to have the nasty habit of dying and taking the secrets of the location and access methods to their accumulated treasure right along with them into the afterlife. And while Goblin-made weapons could do a lot, there were just some wards they couldn’t cut through without destroying what was under them. Especially in places like Ancient Egypt. And just the fleeting possibility that all of that gold, silver, jewelry, etcetera, could be removed forever from the economy…the very idea was unbearable to the Goblins. So, Gringotts brought in outside specialists to locate and break through all those nasty wards and traps that only a wand-wielder could safely dismantle. And until the day came when Gringotts possessed enough power to set the rates for treasure-recovery themselves, rather than the wizards, things would continue as they had for the last two centuries.
You would think that after a few centuries dealing with beings that made Goblins look like crooked poker dealers, Harry would’ve learned exactly how to get what he wanted from the little buggers in a timely fashion. And yet here he was, sitting and squirming under the harsh lighting of a Goblin waiting-room, as no doubt quite a large number of the blighters scurried around behind the scenes, trying to dig up any and all possible ways to financially screw over the guest of both Cygnus Black and Charlus Potter.
A grimy and grungy looking Goblin chose that very moment to stick his head in the room. “Black and Potter?”
Cygnus and Charlus both rose; Harry thought it best to follow. “That’s us.”
The Goblin gave a grunt. “This way. And be quick about it.”
Well, it looked like someone was in desperate need of an attitude adjustment.
Nevertheless, Harry said nothing as he followed his guides deeper into the bowels of the bank. He was somewhat pleased to note that once in the corridors, the harsh lights were replaced with dim ones. An obvious attempt to induce the feeling of sleepiness in the Goblins’ customers after spending so much time in waiting rooms, which would then lead to poorer decision making on the part of the vic…hmm, hmm, the clients. Psychological warfare. Harry was beginning to look forward to engaging in a battle of wits with whatever poor sap had been saddled with testing his blood.
That was until they were led into a room even dingier than the hallway they had just left. And apparently, the room’s sleep-inducing properties had begun to work on its occupant. Sitting behind a desk piled massively high with paperwork was the tiredest-looking Goblin that Harry had ever seen (true, it wasn’t a staggering number or anything, but still).
The Goblin’s eyelids barely opened to take in his new guests. “Blood test?”
All three men nodded.
“Sit. Bowl’s in front of you. Knife on palm. And don’t use wand to heal.”
With that out of the way, the Goblin proceeded to look back down at…whatever he had been looking at when they’d come in. As he did so, Harry could have sworn he heard a snore.
So much the better. If the Goblins had failed to learn anything useful about him while they had been waiting (probable), then he had no value to them. And so they’d shuffled him off to one of the least-respectable Goblins imaginable, saving their more useful negotiators for bigger things. Either that, or this was one of their best negotiators, with a near perfect disguise. Harry wasn’t ruling out the possibility.
He shrugged, and reached out for the bowl. One swift cut later, and a palm-full of blood fell into the bottom. He gently placed it back where it had been resting, and then clenched his fist. No need for the Goblins to know he was perfectly capable of magically healing without a wand, after all.
The second the bowl hit the desk, the previously snoozing Goblin came back to life with a snort. He leaned over, slid the bowl back towards himself, and then tilted it into a metal tray lined with parchment that had seemed to come from nowhere. Black and Potter both flinched at that; Harry did not. He had seen the Goblin move his opposite hand underneath the desk; an activation of some sort. The odds of this being a formidable opponent in the subterfuge department had just escalated immensely.
Harry had to resist the urge to grin.
The blood flowed out of the goblet and onto the parchment, swirling and twisting this way and that. When it finally seemed to stop moving, Black, Potter, and Harry all leaned forward to see exactly what the test had revealed.
Harry James Potter
Member of House Potter (Active)
Member of House Black (Active)
Member of House Gaunt (Defunct)
Member of House Peverell (Defunct)
Lord Zarathos of the Iron Lords
Owner of Vault #666
Hmm. It seemed Moody had put the Vault under his pseudonym; and the irony of the vault number wasn’t lost on him. He’d have to ask Moody later if he had chosen it on purpose. Everything else seemed to be…in…order.
Harry’s eyes latched onto the last result the test had yielded.
Dredgen Thule
Lord of House Dredgen (Active)
…Bollocks.
Harry’s gaze snapped up…and met the answering stare of the Goblin across from him. Definitely more than just a low-on-the-totem-pole underling, then.
Double bollocks.
Ah, well. At least he knew he had a worthy opponent. He cleared his throat.
“I don’t suppose there’s anyway I can persuade you to forget you ever saw this document; or me either, for that matter?”
The Goblin, to Harry’s surprise, began to sweat. “Ah. Well, you see, sir…”
Okay, something was definitely wrong. No Goblin had ever, to Harry’s knowledge, called a wizard sir.
The Goblin mistook Harry’s expression of worry for one of annoyance, and rushed to finish his explanation. “I’m afraid that I’ve been ordered to report back anything and everything to my superiors. It’s not often Gringotts finds practically no records to a wizard’s name, even counting the one of your defeat of the werewolf. However, I believe that were I to make known the importance and sensitivity of the matter, if not its exact nature, I could avoid disclosing my knowledge to anyone but the Ragnok himself, sir.”
The Ragnok. The Goblins’ equivalent of Chairman of the Bank. And since there was only one title he could think of on that page that would require that level of security…
“This is not Gringotts’ first dealing with a Dredgen, is it?”
The Goblin began to quake in fear. “No sir, it is not, sir.”
“When did the last one come through?”
“Around three thousand years ago, sir.”
Three thousand years…Harry did a few mental calculations.
“…From Atlantis?”
The Goblin squeaked and nodded his head vigorously.
“Hmm. Interesting. Very well.” Harry gave a grin that would do an Ahamkara proud with the number of teeth it contained. “You may report to the Ragnok. But if I find out that you have ever revealed my secrets, willingly or unwillingly, I will send you to the Sea of Screams for an eternity. Do I make myself clear?”
The Goblin nodded once more. “Yes sir, perfectly sir.”
Harry raised his trigger finger, and pointed it directly at the Goblin’s chest. “Go.”
The Goblin practically fell out of his chair in his haste to escape. Once the slamming of the door indicated he was long gone, Harry gave a wave of his hand and Vanished all traces of his blood from the room. Once he was done, he turned back to his companions. “Now. I’d imagine you have questions. One at a time, please.”
Potter cleared his throat. “So. You are a Potter. And, somehow, also a Black. Might the Potter-Black Alliance you mentioned earlier have been something in the way of a marriage?”
“No. Just…no. Definitely not. Good guess, though. Next.”
It was Black who chose the next question. “Dredgen. I’m familiar with neither the name, nor the title. Where, pray tell, do they come from?”
“From within. Only you can make yourself into a Dredgen; and most who try fail miserably. It’s in no way an inherited position. Over a thousand years, I can count the number of Dredgens in that time using less than two hands. And in that time, I’ve never heard of them having a Lord.”
A Master, however,…well, there was a very good reason the name “Dredgen” basically meant “Endless”. And Harry knew for a fact two of the Endless were in at least some way subservient to him.
Potter melded his fingers together underneath his chin. “Gaunt. I was under the impression that all members of that House had either died or been sent to Azkaban.”
“All but two. Myself, and Tom Riddle. He still possesses the rights to their name and properties.”
Including a certain shack that Harry planned on paying a visit to in the very near future.
“But not you?”
“Well, the name at the very least, as you can see. Not so sure about the properties.”
And I have no intention of letting anyone else find out for certain, he added to himself.
Black held up a finger. “Thule. I have heard the name before, but I am unable to place it.”
“A Muggle legend, one derived from the Magical tale of Atlantis. The Muggle one is a fair bit cheerier than its predecessor, I’m afraid. It’s the name I chose after certain…revelations about my heritage.”
Potter and Black shared a glance. “…That’s more than enough for now. If anything else comes to mind, may we ask you at a later date for further elaborations?”
“Of course. We’re partners, aren’t we?”
Potter smiled. “Yes; yes I suppose we are.”
Harry rose. “If that’s all then, gentlemen, I believe we have an appointment to keep with a tailor, and I have a message to send to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.”
As he turned for the door that they had entered just a short while ago, Black’s voice halted him in his stride. “One more thing. The Iron Lords. Who were they?”
Harry’s neatly ordered train of thought derailed quite spectacularly as he was bombarded with images from events that had happened oh so long ago. And also had yet to occur. He took a deep breath that shuddered throughout his frame, and then let it out again.
“…I suppose you could say they were my friends. And some of them…some of them might as well have been family.”
Black and Potter both bowed their heads. “We’re sorry for your loss.”
Harry resumed his march forward. “Oh trust me, gentlemen. I’m not the one that lost.”
“Friends” was a very tame way of describing what Felwinter, Shaxx, Eli, and Harry had become to one another. “Family” wasn’t the right term either; Harry supposed the best way of explaining it was the relationship shared by two characters from the old Muggle TV show “Doctor Who” (well, new show now). Specifically, the one between the Doctor and the Master. Each other’s muses…and also each other’s archenemies. Shaxx and Felwinter simply couldn’t share a room without at least one thing being smashed dramatically, whether it be a wall or an entire building. Of course, each time they did so, they also managed to learn at least one new method of destruction from each other, so Harry counted that as a win.
Shaxx and Eli’s camaraderie was the rare sort shared between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin; one who had removed himself from the world by choice, and the other whom the world had chosen to remove on its own. And somedays not even Harry was sure which was which. They would often commiserate over the general sheep-like attitude that people seemed to exhibit…right before the Firewhiskey set in and they proceeded to demolish whatever their surroundings happened to be.
Eli and Felwinter, to put it bluntly, didn’t trust each other further than they could spit (even though Eli was a master of that particular art). Too many secrets neither cared to share; too many times burned by secrets others had kept from them. But when they inevitably did end up sharing something, whether under the influence of Firewhiskey or something else, it was always something well worth learning.
Such as how to go from a Blink right into a Shoulder Charge mid-air.
They worked as a sub-unit of the Iron Lords; well, nominally at least. In reality, they were pretty much the equivalent of the Avengers (what had become Harry’s second favorite movie series, right after the Star Wars originals and prequels. They did not speak of the sequels). Place got attacked? Razed to the ground? Fallen? Cabal? Human bandits? Harry and his compadres were sent in to make an after-statement. Namely: you hurt us, we hurt you back. You kill us…we walk it off.
The first time Harry had literally “walked-it-off” had fried several circuits in Felwinter’s brain; they’d had to shoot him to get him to reboot successfully. After they’d done that (and Harry had ripped off the offending party’s left leg, beat him to death with it, and then shoved it where the sun didn’t shine), Harry had sat down with the others, and revealed one of his own secrets for the first time.
They had known he was a wizard; and they knew he could speak to snakes (it turned out Parseltongue gave you the ability to discern what an Ahamkara actually meant, not just what they said). But what they hadn’t known was exactly how famous of a wizard he was. And what had happened to grant him that fame.
In the end, he had been forced to summon the Vex Mind that he’d killed just to prove he was what he said he was: the Master of Death, whatever that meant. Felwinter’s eyes had lit up with questions; Shaxx’s with horror. But Eli’s reaction was the only one Harry had failed to read. He had merely shrugged, and turned back to looting the remains of the bandits.
For a while after that, Shaxx had avoided Harry. Even going so far as to return the phoenix-feather wand that he had been using to practice with (the hawthorn one had ended up in the hands of Eli). Felwinter for one was glad for the change of pace, now that he had a wand to use, even if it wasn’t the best of focuses for him. Reducto, Diffindo, Confringo, Expulso…Harry had taught them all those and more.
It was only when Felwinter had begun searching for SIVA that Shaxx began verbally engaging with the both of them again. He made his opinion on the search known quite emphatically; saying it was a fool’s errand, a grand waste of time. The Golden Age was dead and buried; better to leave it lie. Felwinter had then asked if that meant they should leave Harry lie as well.
It didn’t end well.
Shaxx hadn’t accompanied them into the Plaguelands; Eli, however, had. And things had ended…badly. In the end, there were only four Iron Lords left standing: Saladin, Eli (aka Lord Wallach, after an old pre-Golden Age actor), Harry,…and Felwinter.
They had Apparated out, something Rasputin had so far never seen, and thus never learned to block. And immediately after they’d landed, Felwinter had collapsed, buried his head in his hands, and wept. It had all come out, then. Rasputin, SIVA, the Warminds…everything. Felwinter had led them into a trap. And he had been prepared to die with his chosen family, facing his actual one.
Harry had merely sat down beside him, and told him the story of one Sirius Orion Black…and how he came to die.
When he had finished, Eli took up the thread of conversation. He talked about the woman he had loved; the one who had ran away, looking for answers to questions that she shouldn’t have had to ask. And what had happened after.
Through it all, Saladin remained silent. But when it was over, he had stood, replaced his helmet, and stated that Shaxx had been partially right: the past should stay buried. But there would always be those that sought it out, for their own ends. They would have to prepare; train up a new generation of Risen, to fight those who came from the past to kill the future. He would head back to Felwinter Peak, and begin searching for worthy successors.
Felwinter’s reaction to Saladin’s announcement had been absolutely gob-smacking; he had straight-up given Saladin Felwinter Peak in its entirety. When questioned as to why, he had merely said that he would pursue his own methods when searching for a successor. He intended to wander; perhaps starting with Venus or Mercury. Beyond that, he would not say.
Eli had scoffed; if there were anyone at all out there who deserved having people place faith in their leadership, they’d be here, on Earth, protecting humanity. Not gallivanting off into the sunset, looking for enemy bastions to smash. He would wander as well, but certainly not throughout the entire Solar System. If he found others who sought to use the Darkness against itself, he’d learn what he could from them, and pass it on when next they met. And if he found anyone against whom the forces of Darkness broke like a wall…well, he would send them to Saladin.
In the end, Harry had gone with Felwinter. Eli had offered to return the hawthorn wand; Harry had refused. Before they’d all gone their separate ways, Harry had given one last piece of advice to Saladin: go to Shaxx. Get him out of Durmstrang, by any means necessary. He wouldn’t do well on his own.
Saladin had nodded, mounted his Sparrow, and rode off into the distance. Eli had done much the same, but not before making the observation that Harry had gotten lucky on Venus once before; perhaps he would get lucky again.
As he vanished into the setting sun, Felwinter and Harry had both stood there, watching. They were still watching when the moon rose, and when it went down again. Finally, when the pale traces of dawn crept across the horizon, they both turned without a word, climbed aboard Harry’s ship, and flown away.
After all, what was there to say, really?
Harry was brought back to the present by the sudden cessation of Black’s yammering. Apparently, he had been asked a question.
He possessed just enough awareness to nod in agreement with whatever had just been suggested. Judging by how Black’s face had just gone from anxious to pleased, he guessed that he’d chosen the right course of action.
So why did he feel like he’d just agreed to be drawn and quartered?
“Excellent!” Black rubbed his hands together. “The Owl Post Office is just down the Alley; I’ll just send a quick note, and then we’ll be off to Madame Malkin’s!”
Harry frowned. “Actually, it’s just occurred to me that there’s a message I need to send as well. I still haven’t officially said ‘yes’ to Dumbledore.”
Potter made a sweeping gesture. “Well then by all means, Mister Potter. Proceed.”
And proceed they did.
Bellatrix practically exploded into the room. “Dromeda! They’ve found him! Daddy and Uncle Charlus found him!”
Andromeda sighed. There was really only one “him” Bella could possibly be talking about. “And were they able to make a good impression?”
Bellatrix bounced up and down in excitement. “Did they ever! They’re going lunch! In the Alley! And we’re invited!”
“…I beg your pardon?”
“Daddy asked Harry, that’s his real name by the way, Harry, ooo, I quite like it…”
“Bella. Focus.”
“Yes, well, Daddy asked Harry if we could come, so that he could introduce us formally, and he said yes! Daddy said they already have at least the beginnings of a partnership with him, and that he was open to further arrangements!”
Bellatrix was practically squealing in happiness by this point. “And you’ll never guess what else!”
“…I give up. What else?”
“He’s a Lord. Somehow, a half-blood has been appointed a Lord by Magic itself! Don’t you see, Dromeda? Its destiny!”
A little tingle shot down Andromeda’s spine at that. Destiny? She wasn’t so sure about that. But if a half-blood was capable of becoming a Lord on his own merits, then perhaps…
Perhaps things wouldn’t be so grim for her and Ted after all.
Dumbledore barely looked up from his research as an owl delivered a rather plain-looking note to his in-tray. He would have dismissed it entirely, if he had not happened to glance at exactly the right angle to notice the only symbol adorning the envelope:
An emboldened, capital letter “Z”.
One swish of a letter opener later, and he found himself barely restraining a smile at the letter’s terse, but undoubtedly welcome, contents.
He chuckled to himself, popped a lemon drop in his mouth, and immediately pulled out the notification to the Board of Governors he’d written that very morning. It was nice to know his skills at reading people were not quite entirely rusty.
Now, to send a note back informing Mister “Harry Potter” (and wasn’t that an intriguing undercover identity) of the date and time of his appointment with the Governors.
After all, it wouldn’t do for him to be late, oh no, not at all..
The Ragnok looked down at the third-best Account Manager he had in his employ. If the information he had brought was truly worth the secrecy he had demanded, then perhaps that estimation would go up even further. If not…
If not, then the dragons would have a little extra something in their dinner that evening.
Not that they didn’t already get “something special” for meals on a regular basis. The Ragnok resisted the urge to sigh. Why, oh why was it so hard to find good help nowadays?
Where was he? Ay yes, the Account Manager trembling in fear before him.
“Speak.”
“Oh great and mighty Ragnok, may you live forever, this day I was most blessed and cursed to receive in my office a most…interesting individual for a blood-test.”
“I am aware. Continue.”
“Yes, oh great and mighty Ragnok. This individual was brought as a guest of both the Potter and Black families, an alliance that has not occurred for over a thousand years, as I’m sure the Ragnok is well aware.”
“I am.”
“These conditions by themselves were enough to convince us to do a full search on anything relating to the Potters’ and Blacks’…guest. And what we found was…nothing.”
The Ragnok frowned. “Nothing, Account Manager?”
The Goblin gulped. Bad things tended to happen whenever the Ragnok frowned. And when he used your title without your name attached…
You more than likely had a dinner appointment with a rather large reptile in your imminent future.
His voice quavered as he answered the Ragnok’s question. “Yes, oh great and mighty Ragnok. Nothing. There were no records of him in our bank, beyond the scrap of information that he was able to slay a rather prominent Alpha Werewolf last night, with no harm done either to himself or to those he was protecting.”
“Interesting. Proceed.”
“Yes, oh great and mighty Ragnok. Once this lack of records was discovered, I was the one assigned to observe and interact with the client, to see what else could be gleaned from him. He was instantly aware of my purpose, and even noticed the standard mis-direction used to activate the blood tray.”
“And how, pray tell, is that significant?”
“I made sure to move faster than the human eye could see, oh great and mighty Ragnok. And yet, he was still able to witness it.”
“Are you sure?”
The Goblin swallowed once more. “Yes, oh mighty Ragnok.”
“You have left an epithet out of my title, Account Manager. Do not do it again.”
“I hear and obey, oh great and mighty Ragnok, may you live forever.”
The Ragnok grinned. “Much better. Now, you were saying?”
“Once the blood test was administered, the…individual examined the results with what seemed to be bored indifference. As if he already knew precisely what would appear.”
“And what did appear, Account Manager?”
“The name of Harry James Potter, oh great and mighty Ragnok. Member of House Potter, Member of House Black, Member of House Gaunt, Member of House Peverell, Lord Zarathos of the Iron Lords.”
“The Iron Lords. Is there such an organization known to us?”
“There is not, oh great and mighty Ragnok.”
“Strange. And yet the blood test does not lie.”
Goblin magic never did.
“No, oh great and mighty Ragnok. And this was further confirmed when the…client…reacted to the final result that appeared on the parchment.”
“His title as a Lord?”
“No, oh great and mighty Ragnok. One further item appeared well after the blood test appeared to have been concluded.”
“And what was this…item, Account Manager?”
“A third name, oh great and mighty Ragnok. And a title to go with it.”
“A third name?”
“Yes, oh great and mighty Ragnok. A third. It was the name of…Dredgen.”
The candles that lit the room seemed to flicker in an unfelt wind. If it was indeed possible for a Goblin to faint, none had a better chance of it than the Ragnok did in that very moment.
“…A Dredgen? Here?”
“Yes, oh great and mighty Ragnok. And not just a Dredgen; the Lord of the House. Indeed, of all the other Endless. Even…the First.”
If this Potter, or Zarathos, or Dredgen, had indeed managed to become Lord of the First…then things had the potential to go very, very badly for the Goblins as a whole.
“…You have only given half of his third name, Account Manager. What, pray tell, was the other?”
“…Thule, oh great and mighty Ragnok. Dredgen Thule.”
Thule. Atlantis. Peverells. Dredgens…
“Account Manager. You have somehow managed to avoid angering the only person in the world I consider capable of sinking England in its entirety, should he so wish it. If he had not been handled properly, I have no doubt he could have wiped Gringotts off the face of the earth. Congratulations, Senior Account Manager; you’ve just been promoted. Your new duties include…doing whatever is necessary to avoid drawing the Dredgen’s wrath down upon us. You are to send a notice to him, informing him of his new position as ‘Friend of the Goblin Nation’. And…send word to our friend the Count. He will want to know of this…development.”
“…Oh great and mighty Ragnok, may you live forever, I am almost hesitant to mention it, but…”
“Speak freely, Senior Account Manager.”
“…When I spoke with the Dredgen, I promised him that I would reveal his secrets to none other than you, oh great and mighty Ragnok.”
“Ah, but you see Senior Account Manager, you made that promise for yourself. Whereas I…I have made no such promise. Send word. I will inform Alucard of the Dredgen’s appearance…personally.”
The Senior Account Manager decided then and there that if this was the sort of thing being promoted meant, he most certainly did not want the job, thank you very much.
Of course, he never actually voiced his concerns aloud. To do so more than once in the same conversation with the Ragnok was to take one’s life into their own hands. And he had always been a slippery sort of fellow.
Especially when it came to his hands.