Chapter 2 — Vault No. 9527
"Urgh— blargh—!"
In a quiet, narrow alley off the beaten path, Horatio braced himself with one hand on the wall and the other clutching his stomach. His insides churned violently as if trying to reverse-engineer his entire digestive system.
"Professor… don't you have a gentler way to travel? Urk—! I mean, sure, it's fast, but my poor stomach—ugh— I can taste everything I ate last night—!"
Beside him, Professor Dumbledore watched kindly, as if motion sickness were a rite of passage.
"You'll get used to it, child," Dumbledore said warmly.
"This is Apparition—the fastest wizarding transportation. Due to the risk of leaving parts of your body behind, only wizards seventeen and older with a license may legally use it."
His tone was even gentler than before—understandable, considering Horatio had "accidentally" left a solid gold bedframe at the orphanage as a farewell gift.
A few minutes later, Horatio stood between a bookstore and a record shop. He double-checked the address twice: Diagon Alley?
A peeling sign hung crookedly above a faded doorframe: The Leaky Cauldron.
"Professor… are you sure about this place?" Horatio asked.
"Certainly."
Dumbledore pushed up his half-moon spectacles and opened the creaking wooden door. A wave of stale ale and mildew drifted out.
Horatio peeked inside. The pub looked like a medieval tavern that had given up on life: wobbly tables, greasy cups stacked behind the counter, and several rats scurrying along the floorboards.
"Professor Dumbledore!"
Tom the barman poked his head up. "And this young gentleman is…?"
"This is Horatio Quibble," Dumbledore introduced. "A new Hogwarts student."
Tom squinted at Horatio's Muggle clothing, nodded once, and said, "Right. Follow me."
He led them through a back door into a tiny courtyard surrounded by brick walls. A dumpster sat in one corner, overflowing with rubbish.
Tom pulled out his wand.
"Watch closely, young wizard. Count three bricks up from the bin, two bricks across, then tap three times."
He demonstrated—tap, tap, tap.
The wall shifted, bricks folding back like a puzzle rearranging itself, until a bright, bustling street appeared before them.
Tom stepped aside with a grin.
"Welcome to the wizarding world, lad."
Horatio stared at the bricks and the dumpster thoughtfully.
He had… ideas.
But not while Dumbledore was watching.
"Come along," Dumbledore said. "First stop: Gringotts. Muggle money won't get you far here."
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
They soon stood before a great white building with a gleaming bronze door. Two goblin guards in scarlet-trimmed uniforms bowed as Dumbledore passed.
Inside, the second silver door bore an inscription:
"Enter, stranger, but take heed:
Of what awaits the fool and greedy.
For those who take but do not earn
Must pay most dearly in return.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, beware—your doom is near.
For you've been warned; be filled with fear."
Horatio nodded approvingly.
"Very dramatic. I like the rhyme."
Past the doors lay a grand marble hall where a hundred goblins sat behind long counters. Some weighed coins; others examined gems with magnifying lenses.
A suited goblin escorted them to a counter where another goblin—round spectacles perched on his nose like a tiny capitalist—looked at Horatio with open disdain.
"Hogwarts first-year?" the goblin asked. "Admission letter."
Horatio handed it over.
"First-years may exchange up to 200 Galleons. No more."
He slapped a small pouch of coins onto the counter with the enthusiasm of someone throwing trash.
Horatio blinked.
"Actually, sir, I'd like to exchange these as well."
He took out the bag Dumbledore had gifted him—enchanted with an Extension Charm.
"Muggle money has a—"
THUD!
The goblin's voice died as a golden nightstand and a golden candlestick materialized and slammed onto the marble floor.
Every goblin in the hall jumped.
The goblin behind the counter instantly transformed his expression from "tax office employee" to "luxury car salesman."
"Rodun! You blind bat—see to our VIP at once!"
He bowed deeply. "Honored sir, my name is Zorla. It is my pleasure to assist you."
Horatio rubbed his temples.
"I preferred your arrogant look from ten seconds ago. Can you switch back?"
"Ahem. Of course. Gringotts prides itself on fairness and professionalism."
Zorla's face flipped like a Sichuan opera mask: greed, politeness, seriousness—an emotional pie chart spinning wildly.
"Convert everything into Galleons," Horatio said.
"At once, sir."
After a short wait, Zorla returned holding a bulging enchanted sack.
"Sir, your total comes to 150,000 Galleons. This Extension Bag is complimentary. Would you care to open a vault with us?"
Horatio's eyes lit up.
"Oh? Tell me more."
Zorla snapped his fingers.
"Rodun! Perform the demonstration!"
Rodun somersaulted three times in the air and landed perfectly.
Horatio applauded.
"Impressive."
Zorla cleared his throat.
"Gringotts offers three vault security levels:
Level 1 — Standard
Opens with your key only
200 Galleon annual fee
Level 2 — Restricted Access
Requires key
Requires goblin escort
Door traps intruders even WITH key
1,000 Galleon annual fee
Level 3 — Maximum Security
Requires key
Requires goblin escort
Must pass spell-cleansing waterfall
Must pass dungeon guardians
Anti-magic enchantments inside
Thieves will literally be buried alive in gold
5,000 Galleon annual fee
Horatio stroked his chin.
He'd soon collect rare alchemy ingredients and products; a vault was convenient.
"One question: Can I install my own security measures inside?"
"Absolutely, sir. Use any spell or alchemical device you like."
"In that case, I'll take the highest level. Can I choose the vault number?"
Zorla's eyes gleamed.
"Of course! Which number?"
"9527. Feels… lucky."
Zorla checked a ledger.
"Perfect. Vault 9527 is available. This way, sir."
Horatio and Dumbledore followed Zorla into a narrow stone corridor. A rail line ran beneath, and they boarded a rickety cart that shot forward at breakneck speed.
They passed a vast underground lake filled with glowing stalactites, plunged through a waterfall that removed all spells, and finally reached the deepest level—where a massive, scarred dragon slept.
Upon seeing them, the dragon rose and roared.
"Move aside, you filthy beast! Don't scare my client."
Zorla rang a tiny bell.
The dragon whimpered and slunk into a corner.
Horatio scribbled a mental note:
I must get one of those bells.
They reached Vault 9527.
Zorla traced his finger across the metal; the door groaned open, revealing a giant empty chamber.
"This vault is now yours," he said, handing Horatio a key. "Guard it well—we only recognize keys, not faces."
Horatio nodded.
"Please pile the Galleons inside. Leave 2,000 in the bag. And take 5,000 for this year's fee."
"A pleasure doing business with you."
By the time they emerged from Gringotts, Zorla and Rodun respectfully escorted them all the way to the door, bowing until they disappeared inside.
Horatio slipped the vault key onto a cord and hung it around his neck.
"Professor," he asked, "could you teach me a charm that stops me from losing this?"
Dumbledore chuckled.
"Of course, child. But first—you'll need a wand of your own."
**
T/N:
The number 9527 holds no inherent traditional "special" meaning in general Chinese numerology, but it has gained significant cultural recognition and special status due to its repeated use in films by Hong Kong comedic genius Stephen Chow.
In these films, the number is famously used as a humiliating serial number for characters who are treated as low-ranking or insignificant, most notably:
In the movie Flirting Scholar (1994),Chow's character assumes the identity of a low-level house servant and is assigned the servant number 9527.
The number has since become a popular culture reference for a generic, often menial, identification number or a way to humorously refer to oneself or someone else in an "unimportant" context.
While other numbers like 8 (for wealth) or 9 (for longevity) have traditional auspicious meanings in Chinese culture, 9527 is a modern cultural reference rooted purely in film and comedy.