Chapter 324: The Audacity of Pink and The Defied Torrent

The morning crowd in Diagon Alley was typical for late January: sparse, hurried, and thoroughly chilled by the biting wind.

Moving through the cobblestone streets with an aggressive, waddling strut was a squat woman in an eye-searing, fluffy pink wool cardigan, a matching tweed skirt, and a velvet bow pinned into her mousy brown curls. Levitating effortlessly at her hip, bobbing with every step, was a heavy black leather trunk, while her gloved left hand firmly gripped a ridiculously wide, rigid pink parasol.

Several shoppers glanced at her and instinctively recoiled, muttering about the Ministry’s atrocious lack of taste, before quickly looking away.

Beneath the flabby, Polyjuiced exterior, Bellatrix Lestrange was mentally scoffing at them all.

Orion had explicitly instructed her not to exhaust herself trying to mimic Dolores Umbridge’s exact vocal cadence or peculiar walking habits.

’Nobody at Gringotts remembers your physical mannerisms from twelve years ago, Aunt Bella,’ Orion had reasoned with that maddening, brilliant calm of his. ’And Umbridge spends every waking second of her miserable life strutting around as if she were the Queen of England anyway. If you try to force an imitation, you introduce inconsistencies. Just act like you own the room, despise everyone beneath you, and are perpetually irritated by the existence of lesser beings. That covers both of your personalities flawlessly.’

It was liberating advice. Bellatrix marched straight up the snow-dusted marble steps of Gringotts, her sneer pure, unadulterated venom.

The silver doors opened. The uniformed goblin guards flanking the threshold gave a slight, formal inclination of their halberds, entirely indifferent to the Ministry bureaucrat passing between them.

The vast, echoing marble hall was humming with the quiet business of wealth. Dozens of goblins sat behind towering counters on either side of the wide hall, weighing galleons, inspecting rubies through jewelers’ loupes, and scribbling furiously in heavy parchment ledgers.

Bellatrix didn’t glance at the gold. She marched down the center of the hall, her sensible heels clicking loudly on the stone, the master trunk trailing faithfully behind her.

She bypassed the main queues and stopped directly before the highest counter at the far end of the hall, where the Head Teller was reviewing a stack of withdrawal slips.

"I am here on urgent Ministry business," Bellatrix announced, her stolen voice coming out in a high, breathy, demanding snap. "And I require the presence of Bladehurl immediately."

The Head Teller looked down over the edge of his mahogany desk, adjusting his spectacles. His dark eyes flicked across her hideous pink ensemble, lingering briefly on the floating trunk, before settling into a mask of bored, professional efficiency.

"Madam Umbridge," the goblin replied, his voice a gravelly croak. "Bladehurl will be informed of your arrival. Please wait in the designated—"

"I am exceptionally busy, goblin," Bellatrix interrupted sharply, her eyes flashing with a lethality that made the teller’s pen pause mid-air. "The Minister’s business does not tolerate administrative delays. Fetch him now."

The teller gave a curt nod and tapped a bronze chime on his desk.

Less than two minutes later, a small, wizened goblin wearing dark, heavily tailored robes stepped through a side door. His face was a web of deep scars, his ears elongated, and his sharp, calculating eyes immediately recognized the pink monstrosity standing in the hall.

Bladehurl. The goblin whom Cornelius Fudge paid a fortune in private kickbacks to manage the off-the-books slush fund.

"Madam Umbridge," Bladehurl greeted her, offering a shallow, remarkably perfunctory bow as he approached. "You could have simply sent an owl. I would have arranged for the specific ledgers and deposits you required to be securely brought up to a private parlor. There was no need to visit the public floor."

"I have personal, highly sensitive business in the vault itself," Bellatrix lied effortlessly, adopting the arrogant posture of a superior addressing a hired hand. "There are assets to be audited. Lead the way."

Bladehurl’s brow furrowed, but he did not argue. Discretion was what he was paid for.

"As you wish," the goblin sighed, turning toward the heavy, iron-bound doors leading to the subterranean tunnels. He glanced at the massive pink parasol clutched in her hand. "You may leave your... canopy... here in the upper coatroom if you wish, Madam. Luggage is awkward on the tracks."

Bellatrix sneered, clutching the rigid handle tighter. "And leave my personal property where some sticky-fingered clerk might steal it? Certainly not. It remains with me."

Any ordinary goblin dealing with an ordinary customer would have found the insistence on dragging a three-foot-wide, non-magical pink umbrella into the deepest caverns of the bank thoroughly suspicious.

Bladehurl, however, had dealt with Dolores Umbridge for more than five years. He knew her to be an intensely paranoid, deeply eccentric, and profoundly unpleasant woman who valued her gaudy pink accessories above all reason. Arguing with her was a waste of breath.

"Very well," Bladehurl grumbled. "Follow me."

He led her through the iron doors and out onto the rough stone platform overlooking the yawning, pitch-black abyss of the subterranean cavern. A small, rusty iron cart sat idling on the narrow tracks.

Bellatrix flicked her wand, guiding the master trunk—containing Orion, Dobby, the real Umbridge, and the custom-built dragon stadium—into the cargo space at the rear of the cart. She squeezed her flabby, Polyjuiced frame into the front bench, positioning the massive pink umbrella across her knees.

Bladehurl climbed into the driver’s seat and yanked the heavy iron lever.

CLANG.

The cart shot forward with violent, gut-wrenching acceleration.

The wind instantly roared in Bellatrix’s ears, freezing and deafening as the cart plunged over the edge of the platform and hurtled straight down into the subterranean darkness. The tracks twisted violently, banking at impossible angles through stalactites and sweeping past narrow, bottomless ravines.

Deep down the spiraling line, a low, ominous sound began to rise over the screech of the iron wheels.

The roaring crash of falling water.

Bellatrix’s senses dialed to maximum. The manic, battle-hardened reflexes of a Death Eater locked in beneath the flabby skin.

She remembered Orion’s strict, explicit briefing:

’The moment you hear the falls, raise the canopy. Hold it with both hands. Lock your elbows. If the wind pressure catches the lip, it will rip your shoulders out. And if a single drop touches your skin, or if the Polyjuice fails... do not panic. Draw your wand and immediately cast the Imperius Curse on the goblin before the cart stops.’

The tracks leveled out slightly, hurtling down a narrow, rocky canyon.

Ahead, stretching across the entirety of the cavern from ceiling to floor, was a colossal, churning curtain of pale, luminous water.

The Thief’s Downfall.

The cart screamed toward the torrent at sixty miles an hour.

Bladehurl didn’t even flinch; the goblin merely leaned forward, entirely accustomed to the routine purging of enchantments on the lower levels.

Bellatrix didn’t reach for her wand. She reached for the runner of the pink parasol.

She pushed the mechanism upward with all the physical strength her short arms could muster.

SNAP.

The massive, rigid carbon-fiber canopy locked into place with a definitive, mechanical crack. The synthetic, non-magical pink fabric stretched taut across the wide, aerodynamic frame, creating an impenetrable, curved dome directly over her head and shoulders, extending backward to shield the cart’s passenger compartment.

She braced her boots against the iron floor, locked her elbows, and tucked her chin tightly into her chest.

ROAR!

The cart smashed through the waterfall.

A wall of pure, concussive water slammed into the pink canopy. The sheer physical weight of the downpour was immense, rattling her teeth, the water roaring like a tidal wave as it struck the rigid, curved surface.

The enchanted liquid sought out magic. It sought out transfigurations, compulsions, and glamours to unravel.

It found only a mundane, Muggle-manufactured synthetic shield.

The water simply broke against the curved, aerodynamic frame, cascading harmlessly off the wide edges and splashing down into the dark chasm below. A few stray, atomized droplets drifted through the air, hitting the iron sides of the cart, but Bellatrix held the canopy steady, entirely sealed within the dry pocket beneath.

Not a single drop touched her clothes.

Not a single drop made contact with her skin.

WHOOSH.

The cart burst out of the roaring curtain, screaming into the silent, freezing subterranean gloom of the deep caverns.

The waterfall fell behind them.

Bladehurl blinked the water from his eyes, shaking his head like a dog, and glanced casually back at his passenger.

Sitting on the bench behind him, still holding the ridiculous, dripping-wet pink umbrella, was Dolores Umbridge. Her hair was still mousy-brown, her face was still flabby and toad-like, and her hideous tweed cardigan was completely dry.

The Polyjuice held. The enchantment remained absolute.

Beneath the tweed, Bellatrix Lestrange felt the manic thrill of victory course through her veins. A wide, completely unhinged smirk spread across her stolen face as she slowly lowered the canopy.

My godson, Bellatrix thought, her heart swelling with pure, fanatical pride, is an absolute, terrifying genius.