Chapter 128: Goblin Headquarters

Lingering outside until nightfall would present itself as a precarious venture. To exacerbate matters, the unkempt elderly man operating the bar had an air of watchfulness about him – most likely safeguarding his establishment with multiple protection charms after hours. Consequently, the most prudent course of action was to book a room there.

They stepped into the dilapidated pub and were immediately met with the unique amalgamation of dimmed lighting and an all-encompassing smell of goat wafting through the premises. Among the tavern's patrons sat a small assembly of wizards, inconspicuously dispersed, their faces veiled within cloaks and masks. Hilke blended in seamlessly with these patrons, whereas Professor Sherlock Forester's attire was rather conspicuous.

The ambience within The Hog's Head possessed an unusual tranquillity; its clients maintaining their anonymity with hushed exchanges, a stark contrast to the bustling streets outside.

Upon their arrival, Sherlock and Hilke made a beeline for the bar, promptly drawing the attention of the weathered barman who was absentmindedly cleaning a glass with a filth streaked cloth. "What'll it be?" he queried, a gaze of vacant recognition greeted them – they had been his unsuspecting tenants a mere two months prior.

Though instead of an immediate reply, Sherlock turned his attention towards Hilke. "One room or two?" The slightest shift of perplexity flickered across the barman's worn features. A smirk slithered across his lips, enticing an ill-timed chuckle from within. "I've got a rather cozy couple's room, good price too. One night is only..."

"One room each," Hilke interjected, plopping a single Sickle onto the bar counter.

Mumbling complaints to himself, the barkeep stashed away the silver coin beneath the counter. "Room 3 for the lady then," decreed the barman, shifting his attention towards Sherlock. "Though a single Sickle barely pays for one room."

Without expressing any form of resentment, Sherlock nonchalantly produced another silver Sickle, positioning it on the counter. "Room two for me then," he firmly stated. "And please do favor our neighbor in Room 1 with a friendly admonition to refrain from any disturbances, we wouldn't want any unwelcome interruptions."

Content with the transaction, the grizzled tavern keeper resumed his habitual cleaning routine. Together, Sherlock and Hilke climbed the aged stairs to the second floor. Outside rooms 2 and 3, they conversed in hushed whispers their proposed meeting time.

"1am, maybe later?" Hilke asked before simply stating, "I'll find you in time."

Sherlock returned a congenial grin. "Alright, then sleep we-" But before he could finish his sentence, the sound of Hilke's door slamming resoundingly cemented their goodnight.

Eyeing the resolutely closed door, Sherlock arched a curious brow. "Impeccable manners, indeed," he murmured under his breath, gently easing his own door open.

On entering, the room mirrored the pub's unattended nature. One couldn't possibly harbor high expectations from a man who favored a single rag for both tables and glasses. Nevertheless, the bed linen was neatly folded, courtesy of the wave of a wand.

Despite the likelihood that these bedcovers had been subjected to cleaning spells, Sherlock remained hesitant to touch them. He chose to seat himself on a chair after liberally brushing away the accumulated dust.

As time trudged along, the outside darkened, a calm retaking the streets of Hogwarts as all students returned to the Castle no later than six. It was not just an ordinary week at Hogwarts, but also the evening of Halloween.

Despite the professor's absence, celebrations ensued at the annual Halloween feast, while Harry Potter spent the evening in the company of Professor Lupin. He observed Lupin consuming a dubious potion brewed by Snape, which raised Harry's suspicions.

Nearly every inhabitant of Hogwarts knew of Snape's aspiration to ascend to the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, evident from the venomous glances he frequently directed at Lupin, so it seemed unwise to Harry for Lupin to consume anything made by Snape.

Ron and Hermione managed to snag a bevvy of candies from Hogsmeade for Harry, exchanging them for tales of Harry's encounter with Sherlock Forester earlier that day. "Hermione was spot-on with her suspicion that Professor Forester's unusual behavior this semester is related to that witch," announced Harry assuredly.

He narrated their encounters within the castle, enduring half a day without understanding what actually occurred. In the end, they resigned to their confusion and joined the Halloween feast. Even amidst the lurking threat of Dementors and the unresolved matter of Sirius Black, no pressing issue had emerged, providing a welcomed respite for both students and staff alike.

The banquet was filled with merriment, though its brevity was disheartening, with the joyous act concluding prematurely. Since Harry's matriculation into Hogwarts, it seemed that each Halloween invariably invited an unfortunate event. In their first year, a troll had intruded upon the castle. The second year hosted the first attack by the heir of Slytherin and now the third year did not differ from this pattern.

Exiting the Great Hall amidst laughter and camaraderie, the Gryffindor students discovered a jagged tear in the Fat Lady's portrait – a forcible intrusion into their common room. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall speedily arrived on the scene, their respective expressions hardened with resolve.

The presumed infiltrator was of course none other than Sirius Black...

But Sherlock Forester remained oblivious to this upheaval at Hogwarts. Seated comfortably, he found himself absentmindedly twirling his wand, focusing his gaze on the nearly full moon outside. The recent streak of clear weather beckoned a starlit sky, inciting a meditative peace.

Consulting his wristwatch, Sherlock noticed it was already past the stroke of 2am. The sound of snoring was distinctly audible from Room 1 – a feature attributable less to the snores being loud and more to the dismal soundproofing provided by the thin wooden partitions between rooms.

Just as questions started crowding Sherlock's mind about this strange quietude, his door received a soft tap. Instantly alert, Sherlock gripped his wand and cautiously opened the door to find Hillcroft towering in the corridor. No words were exchanged as they exited their rooms and descended the stairs.

In the late hours, the bar was enveloped in darkness. Sherlock silently cast an illuminating charm with a wave of his wand. Guided by the feeble radiance it cast, they maneuvered towards the bar.

"So, what's our plan?" Sherlock inquired. Ignoring his question, Hilke produced her wand, tapping the ground under the bar, seemingly scouting for a specific spot. Upon finding the desired location, she spoke, "Hold on to me."

He complied dutifully while Hilke traced a circle on the floor with her wand, muttering an incantation along the way, "Open sesame."

This antiquated unlocking spell precedes the use of the modern Alohomora. Considered brutish, it had long since been supplanted by the sophisticated 'Portaberto' and later by the 'Alohomora' spells. However, Hilke's incantation seemed to have no effect.

Bewildered by the apparent lack of activity, Sherlock contemplated whether Hilke messed up the spell, when suddenly his body jolted! The sensation mimicked that of Apparition; he felt as if sucked into a cyclone, spinning uncontrollably like being trapped inside a laundry drum.

The eruptive sensation subsided as swiftly as it had arisen. Sherlock found himself steadily on his feet, albeit in pitch darkness. He flicked his wand again, casting a lumos spell that had been disrupted due to the abrupt teleportation.

The potent white illumination shone on their immediate surroundings. Hilke stood by his side, Sherlock's other hand firmly gripping her arm. "Don't you think it's about time you let go?" she questioned. He hastily let go and offered an apologetic, "My apologies."

Despite his thoughts being rather brusque, he couldn't deny the lingering softness of her touch.

"Are we underground?" The environment seemed that of a claustrophobic underground passage, with a dead end to their rear, while the front veiled by insurmountable darkness.

"Underneath Hogsmeade," confirmed Hilke , crossing over to a wall behind them. Sherlock's keen eye spotted barely visible writings on the wall. His steely focus managed to decipher snippets of the text. "Beware of the goblins and their lies!" "We will fight to our last breath!" "Every goblin will defend their treasure!"

These declarations resonated seamlessly with the purported function of this underground hallway, transformed into an elaborate war room during the goblin revolt two centuries prior.

"Weren't you casting an unlocking spell earlier? Why was there a teleportation effect?" Sherlock interrogated curiously.

Surprisingly, Hilke offered a more substantial response than her typical curt one-liners. "The goblins crafted a unique defense mechanism. The unlocking spell aggressively tears open a concealed portal beneath the ground. A set Portkey spell is subsequently triggered, commencing a teleportation sequence for anyone standing on the door, leaving no traces behind."

"An exemplary piece of craftsmanship," Sherlock admitted willingly. The reputation of goblins as master artisans extended way back: even the sword of Godric Gryffindor boasts of their finesse. Creating such detailed underground fortresses impeccably showcased their prowess.

After pausing for a brief respite near the entrance, Hilke also cast an illumination spell. They delved deeper into the tunnel, their collective lumos guiding them through the darkness.

As they ventured further, Sherlock noticed his lumos spell's radius seemed to dwindle, gradually shrinking as they ventured further.

After trudging for roughly twenty minutes into the tunnel, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt. "Something's not right," he claimed.