Ch. 3
The castle was seven stories. And they had to walk up seven flights of stairs to reach Dumbledore's office. By the time this was over, Lucy was wondering if she'd reached the Utter West.
Dumbledore's office, once they'd passed the gargoyles, was immense and perhaps one of the oddest places Lucy had ever been.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little objects and noises. A number of curious instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of older people, all wearing odd outfits in varying degrees of decadence. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tainted wizard's hat, which Lucy thought the magician might wear if the day suited it.
Amelia Bones strode over to the fireplace.
Lucy watched as she took a handful of dirt and threw it into the ebbing flames. Suddenly, they sprang up again in ferocity and turned, to her amazement, a vivid sort of green.
"Ministry of Magic!" Amelia announced, stepping into the fire with Black. In a moment, they'd both disappeared.
"You next," Dumbledore gestured. "Just copy Madam Bones."
"I...I've never...what?"
"They're not real flames," the Headmaster explain patiently. "This is called Floo Travel. If you step into the fireplace and call out your destination, you'll appear in the corresponding fireplace. Don't think too hard about it."
Lucy turned and gave him her most incredulous glance. He seemed perfectly serious.
So, praying to Aslan, Lucy stepped into the green fireplace and shouted, "Ministry of Magic!"
The vivid green obscured her vision, and then, for the second time in only a few hours, everything went black.
It felt as though she was being sucked down a gigantic drain. She seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in her ears was deafening — she tried to keep her eyes open but the whirl of darkness made her feel sick — something hard knocked her elbow so she tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now it felt as though cold hand were grasping at her face — squinting through her lashes she saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond — her stomach was churning — she closed her eyes again wishing it would stop, and then... she fell, face forward, onto cold stone, and the lights came back on.
Groaning, Lucy pulled herself up from the floor and looked around.
They were standing at one end of a very long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor. The peacock-blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that were continually moving and changing like some enormous heavenly notice board. The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them. Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh; on the right- hand side, short queues of wizards were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart.
Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of a circular pool. Tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with a stick — or wand, Lucy realised — pointing straight up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, a goblin, and an odd-looking elf. The last three were all looking adoringly up at the witch and wizard, which Lucy considered extremely inaccurate; she had rarely come across a centaur or goblin that were anything but prideful, and while she didn't have much experience with elves, the expression seemed off. Unnatural. Glittering jets of water were flying from the ends of the two wands, the point of the centaur's arrow, the tip of the goblin's hat, and each of the elf's ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling water was added to the pops and cracks of the surroundings and the clatter of footsteps as dozens of people, most of whom were wearing glum looks of night-shift resignation, strode toward a set of golden gates at the far end of the hall.
"Watch out," Amelia Bones gestured towards where she and Black were standing. "Out of the way for Dumbledore and Pettigrew."
Lucy joined the two adults off to the side and waited for a few moments until the fireplace sparked up again and Dumbledore and Pettigrew appeared.
"This way," Amelia Bones said.
They turned in the direction of the rest of the throng, surpassing the majority of the Ministry workers, many of whom turned to stare blatantly at the party, until they reached the security desks.
"Wand?" a bored-looking guard grunted.
Madam Bones cleared her throat and he looked up.
"Apologies, Madam Bones, Professor Dumbledore. Go on through." His eyes glanced over Lucy and then to Black. "Why — that's—!"
Amelia shushed him and continued through the gates.
They approached an empty lift and Amelia set the lever for the second level.
"We'll approach this matter in my office," she told them. "I will send for Shacklebolt and Robards."
The lift shuddered to a stop and Amelia lead the way down a hall and into her office. The bronze plate on the door read:
Madam Bones
Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Beneath the letters there was a seal with the letters DMLE inside it.
Lucy made a mental note to ask Dumbledore later about the government structure of wherever she was. As far as she knew, Scotland didn't have a Ministry of Magic.
Madam Bones's office was much less cluttered than Dumbledore's had been — and smaller too, although it was still a nice space; a heavy oak desk stood on a slightly raised section of floor, near the opposite wall, lined with stacks of paper and a cup of quills. This desk was surrounded by chairs — a large red leather one facing the door, clearly Amelia's, one on each adjacent side, bound with chains, one of which Pettigrew was shoved into — and the chains, to Lucy's utter surprise, sprang up on their own to bind him, and four more, smaller black chairs, facing Amelia's. Lucy, Dumbledore, and Black each sat down in one of these chairs; they were clearly for whoever was visiting her office.
Amelia took her seat and began to rummage through the top drawer in her desk, withdrawing a clipboard with several pieces of paper — or rather, parchment — attached.
"Name...Peter Oliver Pettigrew," she mumbled, and Lucy realised she was filing out an arrest form. "Date of birth...3 February, 1960...aged thirty-four..."
Lucy glanced over at Pettigrew; the man — rat, whatever — seemed resigned. His eyes were dull and nearly lifeless. Black, who so resembled Caspian, looked like a man who'd just seen the sun after a decade of rain.
"Scars, marks, tattoos," Amelia continued. She glanced at Pettigrew's severed finger. "Missing right index finger."
Pettigrew let out a small whimper.
"Ah...charges..." Amelia said satisfactorily. "Remind me if I miss anything, Dumbledore."
He nodded; her quill scratched against the parchment.
"Intentional and violent homicide on twelve counts," Amelia listed. "Otherwise labelled terrorism. High treason. Aiding and abetting a known enemy of the state...I believe we originally prosecuted Mr. Black as being an accessory to murder on two counts, so we will redirect that charge. And...tax evasion."
Lucy looked up.
"Mr. Pettigrew wasn't paying taxes for twelve years," Amelia shrugged. "Also, there is the matter of him being an unregistered Animagus, which is not a felony, nor usually a crime worth more than a fine, but given the circumstances, I'm going to also list that. And yes, Mr. Black, I have indeed reached the conclusion that you are also an unregistered Animagus, but given your twelve years of false imprisonment, I expect that, granted you register as soon as you are officially pardoned, you will only receive a warning. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Dumbledore, if you will sign here—"
There came a knocking at the door.
"Enter!"
Two men opened the door; both dressed in scarlet robes with a golden A on their chests. One also wore a strange little scarlet cap, and they both seemed only slightly startled by the group in the office.
"Madam Bones, ma'am," the taller of the two said.
"Shacklebolt, Robards," Amelia Bones said. "Things have changed. This fellow is Peter Pettigrew — the not so dead victim of the not so guilty Sirius Black. Please take Pettigrew into custody, Robards — and keep in mind that he is an Animagus, so fit him with magic-supressing cuffs. Shacklebolt, I want a message sent out to all the Auror forces, tell them to stop their search for Sirius Black, and after that, you can give this to the Minister for his signature. One moment."
She finished scribbling on her clipboard and handed it to Dumbledore, who signed at the bottom. She hesitated, then passed it to Lucy.
"Just on the line there. You're a witness."
Lucy took the quill Dumbledore was offering her and carefully signed her name:
ℒ𝓊𝒸𝓎 ℋ. 𝒫ℯ𝓋ℯ𝓃𝓈𝒾ℯ
She handed the clipboard back to Madam Bones.
"I expect," the woman said, as Shacklebolt and Robards and Pettigrew bustled out of the room. "That a Wizengamot meeting will be called in the morning. But in the meantime, I am going to sign you into St. Mungo's, Mr. Black."
Sirius opened his mouth to protest, but Amelia held up a hand.
"I cannot legally process the documentation to free you until the motion has been passed by the Wizengamot — which it will be, on account of the evidence and witness testimonies of both Dumbledore and Cornelius — but there is no denying that you are unwell. I am no Healer, Mr. Black, but I am familiar with Azkaban's affects on individuals, and you are extremely emaciated. If you were to attempt to do magic now, I do not see good results as being very probable. Also, your only other option is spending the night in a holding cell, like Mr. Pettigrew will be doing. Am I understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," Sirius Black muttered miserably.
"Good," Amelia clapped her hands together, and Lucy recognised her expression as the kind Susan wore whenever she won an argument that wasn't really an argument but an order.
"As soon as Kingsley and Cornelius return, I shall take you, Mr. Black, to St. Mungo's. The morning's Daily Prophet will have a statement regarding your innocence and Mr. Pettigrew's capture, and Dumbledore, Pevensie, thank you for your assistance in this matter. I will be in touch."
"We had better get going, I think," Dumbledore said, glancing at his watch. "Goodness, it's past midnight."
Lucy frowned. Her own pocket-watch was still set to Narnian time and did not read the same as Dumbledore's wristwatch.
They used Amelia's fireplace to Floo back to Hogwarts. Once they were in Dumbledore's office again, they sat down at his desk and he contemplated her for several minutes.
"Well," Dumbledore said eventually. "That was an exciting ordeal."
Lucy didn't reply.
"I think...the only sensible course of action now is to Sort you."
"To what?"
Dumbledore stood and reached for the dirty hat Lucy had noticed earlier — the one that seemed so very Coriakin-like. He put it atop Lucy's head.
"Hmm," said a voice in her head. She startled. "How very curious."
"What's curious?" Lucy thought back. "Dear Aslan, I'm speaking to myself."
"Not to yourself, dear girl," the voice seemed to chuckle. "I am the Sorting Hat."
"And...what do you do, exactly?"
"Why, I Sort you into your House. You've got to have a House here. If you're going to be attending Hogwarts, that is."
"Well, I don't know what I'm doing here."
"That's perfectly alright, none of us do."
"I just got sent here by—"
"Aslan. The talking lion of Narnia. Yes, I see that," the Hat told her bemusedly. "That's alright, I won't tell anybody. Now, let me think."
Lucy sat patiently as memories of the past eighteen years — some Narnian, some on Earth, many days she'd long forgotten, of hiding in bomb shelters and negotiating peace treaties — flashed through her mind. Occasionally, the Sorting Hat would say hmm, or interesting, but it — it? he? — largely remained silent.
As easily as they'd begun, the memories stopped. The Hat still didn't say anything.
Then, "Where do you want to be Sorted?"
"I don't really know what my options are."
"Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin. Gryffindor is the House of the brave, Ravenclaw the wise, Hufflepuff the loyal, and Slytherin the ambitious."
"Well, in Narnia they call me Lucy the Valiant. Which House do you think that applies to?"
"Gryffindor, certainly."
"Do you think I would succeed there?"
"My dear Queen, I think you would succeed anywhere."
"Gryffindor sounds like a Peter sort of House," Lucy thought.
"Perhaps," the Sorting Hat sounded like it was smiling.
"But that's not a bad thing," Lucy added quickly. "Peter's very good — he's a very good king. Best brother in the world, besides Ed. He's kind, too."
"Kindness, as Helga Hufflepuff once said, is the strongest bond of magic there is. Kindness, patience...love."
"Sounds like something Aslan would say."
"Aslan is a great lion."
"What House do you think I'm fit for, then?"
"You are brave, valiant, chivalrous. You have proved that time and time again. These are all traits of a great Gryffindor. You are also, however, incredibly kind and imaginative and loyal, traits of a Hufflepuff. However, my dear Lucy, you are brilliantly clever, learned, and you have the good sense of reason; you would do brilliantly in Ravenclaw. And, like any great king or queen, you are also resourceful, a strong leader, and incredibly determined. Those are traits of the brightest Slytherins. Therefore, I leave the decision to you."
"Why must I choose? It seems like each House has something I represent; why can't I—"
"Everyone must choose," the Sorting Hat said benevolently. "Perhaps think of it this way — we have established that you possess the traits favoured by each of the Houses, but which traits do you take the most pride in? Which do you wish to foster? Which do you feel encompass your person best?"
Lucy was thoughtful.
"I suppose I want to be brave," she said eventually. "Aslan once said that if I was any braver, I'd be a lioness, but I'm not sure that's true. At least not yet."
"Then GRYFFINDOR it is!" the Sorting Hat roared.
Smiling, Dumbledore removed the Sorting Hat and sat it back on the shelf.
"Well, congratulations. I need hardly say that I was a Gryffindor myself once, a very long time ago. I enjoy welcoming every new student, but it's especially exciting when that student turns out to be a Gryffindor."
Lucy smiled, not knowing what to say.
"You've already met Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore continued. "She'll be your Head of House. And how old are you exactly, Miss Pevensie?"
Lucy thought about it.
"Thirteen?" she guessed; her age changed depending on whether she was in Narnia or England.
"Alright, then. And do you have your wand?"
"Uh...no."
"We'll go to Ollivanders in the morning and get you one then. Have you had any prior magical training?"
Lucy hesitated. Did Aslan count? Or that time they'd met Merlin?
"Not very much," she said eventually.
"Alright, then," Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "I will have Minerva tutor you, then, for the time being. Then we'll figure out what year you should be in. Does that sound amenable?"
Lucy nodded.
...
The very next morning, as promised, Dumbledore took Lucy to buy a wand. They used Floo Powder again, appearing in the fireplace of a dusty and narrow shop, which was filled wall to wall with thousands of thin boxes, piled to the ceiling, which apparently contained wands.
They were greeted by a very old and very odd man, with pale eyes that seemed to look through Lucy rather than at her.
"Good morning, Garrick," Dumbledore said pleasantly.
"Dumbledore, how are you? How's the wand?"
"Both very well, thank you. I have a student here who needs a wand. I considered visiting the Hogsmeade branch but thought it might be best to bring her here."
"Ah...is that so? And this is Miss...?"
"Pevensie," Lucy supplied. "Lucy Pevensie."
"Is this your first wand or a replacement?"
"First."
"Curious...which hand is your wand hand? That is to say, which hand do you write with?"
"My right hand."
"Very well, very well..." Ollivander turned and picked up a tape measure. "If you don't mind."
Lucy blinked in confusion.
"Hold out your arm," he elaborated. He stretched the tape measure from Lucy's shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round her head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."
Lucy suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring her left ear for some reason, was doing this on its own.
"That will do," Ollivander said, and the measure fell back onto the table. "It's very curious, you know...very curious."
"What is?" Lucy asked. Dumbledore was somewhere behind her, unobtrusively browsing the shelves of wands.
"I get thousands of young witches and wizards in here every year," Ollivander said, shaking his head. "And each of them find a wand...but it is rare that the wand is remarkable, or that the person is remarkable. After so many years, so many thousands of young folk...they blend together. I remember them all, of course, but..."
"But what?" Lucy pressed.
"But it is rare that any make any particular impression. The last was Mr. Potter — but I doubt he would have if not for the preceding recognition of his name. His wand was curious, yes...phoenix and holly, eleven inches, nice and supple. But you, Miss Pevensie...you do not strike me as the average witch. Wandlore is a very imprecise branch of magic, you see, ancient and mysterious. It is not something that can be learned from a book, or even from experience. It is something that must be understood innately, intrinsically. Like Divination, wand-making is the understanding of magic, the ability to conceptualise something abstract and sempiternal. Every witch or wizard who comes into this shop has an aura of their own, a magical footprint if you will — an identity.
"But very few who visit my shop have such a strength to them. In fact, in over two hundred years, I cannot think of a time that this shop has been so full of magic. It is overflowing, Miss Pevensie. Like a well that cannot contain its water — a well that is fed by the ocean. I do not know what it is about you — for I have never met any Pevensies before — but there is something in you that speaks of the ancient magics, like Hogwarts, perhaps, but not half-sentient. You are alive, that is to say. You are alive and I suspect magic flows through your veins rather than blood."
"Oh, no," Lucy said, almost laughing. "I bleed. Trust me, I bleed. I'm not that magical. My brother Ed stabbed me once in a sword fight and Lord, I bled. I think you're mistaken, Mr. Ollivander. I mean...I appreciate it, what you've just said, but I really am not that magical.
"I've known magicians, though — great magicians. Coriakin, he mapped the entire world and heavens. Aslan — he's a talking lion. Myrddin...he was fantastic at enchantments. Absolutely brilliant. Great magicians. I'm not one of them."
"You may be surprised, Miss Pevensie," Ollivander said warningly.
Lucy smiled.
"But, in the meantime...a wand."
He paused.
"I am not entirely sure a wand would in fact help you in any way, Miss Pevensie. Wizardkind did not originally use wands — or even enchantments. But since it is the way we teach magic now, I think the best course of action would be for you to use a wand without a core. The core is where the semi-sentience of a wand emerges, and the strength of your inner abilities would rather overpower it. I don't see any way to balance that...so I am going to give you a wand without a core."
He disappeared momentarily into the back.
"This," Ollivander said, returning with a wand box, "is what I thought to be an unfinished wand. I could not find a core that worked with the wood — this is English oak, a wood for good times and bad. It requires a user of strength, courage, and fidelity, but will not conflict with your magic. This, due to the lack of a core, is less of a partner, like the typical bond between a wand and wizard, and more of an instrument by which you can learn to control your magic."
"Thank you," Lucy said, accepting the wand. She didn't really understand his comments about wandlore, but it was interesting to have one of her own.
It was perhaps eleven or twelve inches long and a beautiful stained brown colour. The handle had a very small ruby encrusted in it, similar to her dagger. When Lucy lifted it in the air, a few golden sparks flew.
Dumbledore paid the wand-maker three golden coins for Lucy's wand, and they left the shop.
"I think, next, we'll go to Madam Malkin's," he said. "That's where you'll get your uniform."
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"Well, it's not the uniform."
Lucy frowned.
"And, I'm afraid, we don't allow students to carry weapons," he continued, glancing pointedly at the dagger that hung at her belt.
"It's for self defence."
"I hope you don't expect to be attacked at Hogwarts."
"My expectations for Hogwarts are entirely in the air. So far I've been accosted by the caretaker, found a rat that turned out to be a criminal, met the Minister of Magic, and watched the nurse choke her patients with chocolate bars."
Dumbledore chuckled.
"Well," he said, "let me elaborate a bit on Hogwarts, then."
Lucy nodded.
"Hogwarts was founded in the tenth century by the four most powerful witches and wizards of the age. Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, and Helga Hufflepuff. They each created their own House, in which they taught the students that fit their particular parameters of what constituted a wizard. Gryffindor taught the brave students, Ravenclaw the wise, Slytherin the cunning, and Helga said she would teach them all and treat them all the same. Now, each House has a Head; Minerva McGonagall, whom you've met, is the Gryffindor Head of House. She also teaches Transfiguration, or the art of altering the form or appearance of an object, animal or person, via the alteration of their molecular structure. And Severus Snape you've also met; the Head of Slytherin and our resident Potions Master."
"What about the other two?"
"Filius Flitwick is the Head of Ravenclaw and our Charms professor. In his class you will learn spells to change what an object does — for example a Levitation Charm. And Pomona Sprout is our Head of Hufflepuff. She teaches Herbology, or the study of magical botany."
"Like talking trees?"
"Well, I'm not sure those exists, but conceptually, yes, they would fall under her area of expertise."
A world where magic existed but talking, dancing trees didn't?
"At Hogwarts we also have Defence Against the Dark Arts, in which you will learn to defend yourself against all manner of dark creatures and spells; History of Magic, in which you will learn, as the name suggests, the history of wizardkind; Astronomy, in which you will learn the names of the stars and constellations and planets and comets and their placements; Arithmancy, which is the study of the magical properties of numbers; Care of Magical Creatures, which, as the name suggests, teaches students about all sorts of magical creatures and how to take care of them; Divination, which is the art of predicting the future and involves crystal balls, tea leaves, and dream interpretation; Muggle Studies, which is the study, from a wizarding perspective, of non-magical folk; and Ancient Runes, or the theoretical study of ancient scripts."
"I have to take all those classes?" Lucy asked in despair.
"No, no," Dumbledore smiled. "Not all of them. Our core subjects are Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, History of Magic, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Astronomy. Other than that, you can choose at least two of the electives."
"That's still a lot!"
"Well, in the beginning Minerva will tutor you until we reach a comfortable grasp of your abilities. Then your schedule will be crafted. Although...it is June. There are only two weeks until the end of term."
Lucy frowned. "What do I do then?"
"Go home?"
"But it's...it's...1994!"
"Yes?"
"I can't go home," Lucy said, not sure how to explain. "I got sent here. I can't go home until I've done whatever I'm supposed to do here. Until I've learned whatever lesson I'm supposed to learn here."
"Well, that's certainly something to think on...later. This is Madam Malkin's."
Dumbledore had stopped and now he gestured at the rather squat purple purple building to his right, with the words "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions" painted on it in peeling gold.
Lucy entered first, Dumbledore right after.
Twenty minutes later, Lucy had her uniform and some extra clothes besides.
"Anywhere else we need to go?" she asked tiredly.
"Well, I think a stop at Gringott's would be a good idea," Dumbledore said, gesturing towards the tall white building at the end of the block. "Gringott's Wizarding Bank."
"I don't have any money in there," Lucy said.
"We mustn't be certain of that yet," Dumbledore said calmly. "And besides, you have money in your pocket, do you not?"
Lucy's hand went to her money satchel, which had formerly contained Pettigrew.
"Yes," she said. "But it isn't...it's not..."
It's Narnia coin, she wanted to say. But that wouldn't work.
"It's not currency," she explained haltingly. "It's just...gold? Coins?"
"Currency or not, gold can be translated into wealth," Dumbledore raised his hands placatingly. "I am not, by any means, asking you to pay for your robes or wand. Those are school materials. But money is an essential, and I have a feeling you may be surprised by whether or not you have gold in Gringott's."
Lucy, despite her misgivings, followed him down the street.
Gringotts was large and its columns were crooked. It was made of white marble, much like the halls of Cair Paravel (which had been restored by Caspian after the War of Deliverance), and people streamed in and out.
A pair of goblins guarded the doors, bowing when Dumbledore and Lucy approached. They passes through the burnished bronze double-doors, only to be met by a second set of doors, these ones silver. Upon them, engraved in a stylistic cursive, was the memorandum:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
Lucy read the message and decided the goblins here were quite similar to the Dwarves of Narnia. She and Dumbledore (who had paused, to allow her to read what was written upon the doors) passed through the silver entrance and found themselves in a vast marble hall.
Lucy looked around. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Dumbledore gestured for them to approach the counter.
"Good-morning," he said to a free goblin. "I'd like to meet with a registry goblin, if one is available."
The goblin peered at him. "Albus Dumbledore."
"Yes."
"Who is this?"
"Miss Pevensie, a new student of Hogwarts."
The goblin's lip curled. "Hmph. Pevensie." He peered at her. "No relation to the Narnian Pevensies, I suppose?"
Lucy opened her mouth, shocked. "I...I am Lucy Pevensie. I have just come from Narnia — from the edge of Aslan's Country with Edmund and Caspian."
"You have?" the goblin leaned back, looking only mildly surprised. "Well, that changes things." He glanced at Dumbledore. "No registry goblin needed. Griphook will take you down to the Pevensie Vault."
Dumbledore seemed surprised, but pleased. "Thank you, Odbert."
The goblin bowed his head slightly and turned to another goblin — Griphook, apparently.
"The Pevensie Vault," he said, then turned back to Lucy. "there is a charm upon the entrance, which I suppose you will be able to undo yourself."
"I don't know any magic yet," Lucy protested, even as she followed Dumbledore and Griphook towards another door.
"You will figure it out, daughter of Eve!"
"My mother's name is Helen," Lucy grumbled.
Griphook had led them into a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. He whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in — Lucy with some trepidation — and were off.
At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Lucy tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn't steering.
Lucy's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but she kept them wide open, not wanting to miss anything. Once, she thought she saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.
When the cart stopped at last beside a circular bronze door, Lucy stumbled getting out.
"That was fun," Dumbledore said cheerfully, and she turned slightly to glare at him.
Griphook gestured towards the door and Lucy stepped forward to look at it.
The bronze was dull — it clearly hadn't been touched in years — and filled entirely with designs, like a quilt. Lucy recognised the symbol in the centre as the Narnian crest, an homage to Aslan. Around it, however, were a variety of images. The silhouette of Cair Paravel was etched at the top, surrounded by trees; on the side was the centaur, General Oreius, blowing the horn that signified war; there was Peter on his unicorn; the broken Stone Table; Edmund on the griffon; Susan with her bow and arrows at the Battle of Aslan's How; Lucy herself next to Aslan at the Ford of Beruna; even Caspian, barely discernible, with his sword to Miraz's throat.
Lucy gently traced the crest in the centre.
"You must open it yourself," Griphook said, almost respectfully. "This door was made by magic, not by us goblins."
"There's no doorknob."
"Not yet."
Lucy frowned and glanced over the door again. She ran her fingers over the different scenes — Mr. Tumnus with his umbrella; the beavers; the River God of Beruna; even little Reepicheep with his sword and gold band. She glanced back up at the image of the Stone Table.
Calmly, she reached for her dagger and unsheathed it. Dumbledore frowned and backed away slightly, but if the gleam in Griphook's eyes was anything to go by, she was on the right path.
She brought the dagger up to rest on her first finger, and then, in a move so quick that her eyes could barely trace it, dragged the blade across the pad of her finger, drawing blood. She put the dagger back in its sheath and pressed her finger against the crack in the image of the Table. Her blood sizzled as it made contact with the bronze, trickled into the crack, and disappeared.
Aslan's crest separated from the door and jutted out, becoming a doorknob.
Lucy opened the door.
Inside was a vast circular room not unlike the Treasure Room at Cair Paravel. It was lit by torches, which Lucy suspected would burn forever, regardless of oxygen or fuel. Twelve columns lined the walls, between each stood a gilded chest.
"I have never been here before," she said, turning to Griphook. "How—?"
"You will have to ask someone else for the full story. But know that all magic originally comes from Narnia. It makes sense that other things would flow over...objects, memories, people. There are always gaps between the world of magic and the world of the mundane. What escapes is unpredictable."
Lucy frowned but nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Griphook."
She walked over to the nearest chest. It was almost identical to the ones in the Treasure Room, down to the curved lid's engravings.
Carefully, she undid the clasp and opened the chest. Inside were unfamiliar gold coins. Not pence coins, and not the Lions of Narnia. She frowned.
"Galleons," Griphook said, as if reading her mind.
She left the lid open and walked over to another chest. Silver coins.
"Sickles," Griphook said.
A third chest — bronze coins.
"Knuts," Griphook said.
"What...what's the conversion rate? To pounds?"
"Five Galleons to a pound, seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle."
"I see," Lucy said, though she felt slightly queasy at the numbers. Why couldn't they be fifteen and thirty? Ten and twenty? Easy numbers. "How much do I need?"
"A handful of each," Griphook said, with what passed for a shrug.
Lucy frowned thoughtfully and stuck her hands in her pockets. Then she pulled her moneybag off her belt and scooped some of each type of coin inside. It would no longer fit a rat, but she had money, and she'd be able to buy...a broom. Whatever witches used for school. A cauldron?
"Next is your cauldron," said Dumbledore.