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Bella's head slammed against the thick iron bars with a sickening crack and blood splattering everywhere.
Everyone froze in shock.
"Restrain her—now!" Ethan shouted, raising his wand without hesitation.
A binding spell shot from his wand, wrapping around Bella.
No one had expected her unwavering loyalty to Voldemort to drive her to such extremes.
She knew the truth—only she could access the Lestrange family vault and retrieve the Horcrux hidden inside.
To keep it from falling into their hands, she had chosen death without a second thought.
Despite Ethan's quick reaction, the damage was done.
Bella lay motionless, her head bleeding heavily from the impact.
"Damn it! Damn it!" Moody roared.
He grabbed a long string of keys, fumbling through them in frantic urgency. Time was slipping away.
Finally, his fingers found the right one. He jammed it into the lock, twisted it, and opened the cell door.
The group rushed inside, their eyes fixed anxiously on Bella.
Her survival was critical. If she died, retrieving Hufflepuff's cup from Gringotts would become nearly impossible.
Ethan dropped to his knees beside her and pressed two fingers to her neck. A faint pulse. Weak—but there.
"She's alive," he exhaled.
Bella's forehead was slick with blood, the deep gash exposing bone.
Snape wasted no time. He pulled out a bottle and poured a few drops onto the wound.
A faint hiss filled the air as green smoke rose from her skin, the potion sealing the injury almost instantly.
Flesh knitted together before their eyes, leaving only a faint mark—days of healing compressed into seconds.
But Bella remained unconscious.
"She knocked herself out. Madwoman," Snape muttered, glancing at her with disdain.
He uncorked another vial, ready to revive her—
"Don't," Moody snapped, raising a hand.
"She's easier to move this way."
Without another word, he spread a large blanket, wrapped Bella tightly, and hoisted her onto his shoulder as if she were nothing more than cargo.
The exit from Azkaban was eerily smooth. No guards intercepted them. No alarms rang out. They stepped into the cold, salty air outside the prison within minutes.
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon glasses, his voice calm yet firm.
"Gentlemen, our next stop—Gringotts."
Everyone reached for the person beside them.
Above them, Fawkes let out a sharp cry, his wings unfurling as he grasped Dumbledore's shoulder with his talons.
In a burst of golden fire, they vanished from the desolate shores of Azkaban.
Moments later, red flames erupted in the dimly lit back room of the Leaky Cauldron.
They had arrived.
Ethan stood still, inhaling deeply. No matter how many times he experienced teleportation, the disorientation never faded.
"Severus, it's time to wake Bella," Dumbledore instructed calmly.
Moody unwrapped Bella from the blanket. She remained unconscious, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
Snape retrieved the potion again, uncorked it, and waved it under her nose.
Almost instantly, Bella's brow furrowed. A second later, her eyes snapped open.
At first, she looked dazed, scanning the room in confusion. But as awareness dawned, her gaze darkened.
Her eyes—sharp and venomous—flickered between each person in the room before she suddenly sprang up.
Without hesitation, she searched for a sharp corner, spotting the edge of the wooden table.
She lunged toward it, ready to slam her head against the surface.
"Imperio!" Moody barked, flicking his wand.
The Imperius Curse took hold, stopping Bella mid-motion. Her body stiffened, and her expression turned eerily blank.
"Bella, you're going to help us open the Lestrange vault at Gringotts," Moody commanded.
"Of course, Mr. Moody," Bella responded in a sweet, obedient tone—so unnaturally compliant that it was almost unsettling.
No trace of Voldemort's most devoted servant remained in her voice.
With everything in place, Moody covered Bella with a black cloth, and the group exited the room.
As they stepped into the main hall of the Leaky Cauldron, Tom, the barkeep, blinked in bewilderment.
He could have sworn he hadn't seen this group enter his inn earlier—yet here they were, descending from the upstairs rooms as if they'd been staying there all along.
"Apologies for using your space, Tom," Dumbledore said with a polite nod.
Tom snapped out of his daze.
"Oh—oh, of course, Mr. Dumbledore! You're welcome to use whatever you need," he replied quickly.
The group moved through the bar, stepping into the bustling alleyway beyond.
The cobblestone path of Diagon Alley led them straight to the towering white structure of Gringotts.
As soon as Dumbledore entered, the goblins sprang into action.
The head goblin on duty—a shrewd-looking creature—immediately rushed forward, his expression shifting into a well-practiced smile.
"Mr. Dumbledore! What an honor to have you at Gringotts today!" he said enthusiastically.
"What business would you like to conduct? No need to queue—distinguished clients like yourself may use our priority service!"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled knowingly.
"Bogrod," he greeted, addressing the goblin by name.
"We do have some business to attend to, but first, could you arrange a private lounge for us?" he asked pleasantly.
Bogrod's sharp gaze flickered briefly over Ethan and the others before he nodded briskly.
"But of course," he replied.
"It is, after all, the perfect time for afternoon tea. Please, make yourselves comfortable."
With efficient steps, Bogrod led them through the grand marble hall and into an opulent lounge.
The space was more akin to a private suite than a simple waiting room.
Gold-trimmed furnishings gleamed under soft lighting, and plush sofas—crafted from magical creatures' enchanted hides—offered warmth and an automatic massage function.
A polished coffee table held an array of delicacies: cakes, fresh fruit, and steaming black tea.
Dumbledore, however, was not interested in hospitality.
"We're here to make a withdrawal, Bogrod," he stated plainly.
Bogrod clasped his hands together, nodding.
"Of course. Whose account shall we be accessing?"
Though goblins were notorious for their deep-seated resentment toward wizards withdrawing gold from their vaults, Bogrod's expression remained perfectly neutral.
He bowed slightly, his smile unwavering, betraying no hint of displeasure.
The business at hand was about to begin.