October 1992. South Helens.
Megan was unwell.
No, that's not it. She felt SICK!
She sat at her workplace and - what a stupid tautology - she couldn't find a place for herself.
Although, it cannot be said that she felt any malaise or even pain. On the contrary, she was overcome by some kind of unhealthy... weariness.
The woman cast a quick glance at her desk and with an effort of will suppressed the desire to once again rearrange everything on it in a different order. If you distance yourself from the other feelings and desires that were currently overwhelming her - these stupid rearrangements were the most insane of all!
She constantly felt that the arrangement of the glass with pencils, the desk lamp, the folders with the cases and other objects on the table was somehow wrong. Not correct enough, not beautiful enough, not finished enough… not perfect enough !
Megan shook her head, pressing her lips together and squinting. Breathe in… breathe out… in… It seemed to have let go.
And then her ears were pierced by the screeching of a coffee machine, coming from the kitchen nook where the policemen of their station were having lunch and making tea. Her breathing lost its rhythm, her body was pierced by trembling, and in the lower part of her stomach a familiar sticky warmth was born, ready to grow into a real fire!
What's wrong with her?!
To be honest, she had been asking herself that question far too often over the last couple of months. Along with the equally rhetorical questions of "what's going on?" and "how did this happen?"
This unnatural, incomprehensible feeling of constant languor, sluggish overexcitement - it did not leave Megan for a minute! And this concerned not only sexual attraction - but in general any sensation that she experienced.
Ah, if only everything could be written off as ordinary sexual dissatisfaction! How simple it would be to explain: she hadn't fucked anyone for ten years, and even then, the first and last time in her life before meeting Helen, it was more of a disappointment for her - and then to release all her hidden desires in one night! And against this background - she went crazy and turned into a complete nymphomaniac.
But that's the thing, the strange excitement was not only and not so much sexual. It, this feeling, came from the entire spectrum of perception: from hearing to smell and from sight to tactile sensations!
Megan could, as she was now, suddenly become engrossed in the obnoxious screech of a coffee machine, become fixated on a bright poster with a tasteless advertisement, or—what, as already mentioned, annoyed her most of all—try to rearrange the objects on her desk in such a way as to create some kind of "perfect combination."
Madness - there was no other way to describe it. Police officer Megan Cornhill was slowly but surely going crazy!
Leaning back tiredly in her chair again and closing her eyes, the woman managed to even out her breathing with difficulty. Of course, it's hard to talk about logical thinking in such a state - but damn, she worked in the police her whole life! And she didn't get the title of detective for her pretty... eyes.
Anger at the fact that she was once again beginning to slide into something vulgar was surprisingly helpful in helping her focus. The gears in Megan's head began to spin, trying once again to piece together the picture of what had happened.
It all started with Andy and his trash flock - that was for sure!
The chain seemed to be absolutely simple, as it consisted of only two links: Andy - Helen. Megan for some reason became ill in their terrible garbage "church" - and the "reverend" took her to his apartment in that high-rise building. And sent a prostitute, with the order to "help" a policewoman he knew.
Why he decided to "help" her in this particular way could be attributed to the fact that Megan, in one of her conversations with this strangely all-understanding "Reverend," nevertheless let slip that she was "married to her job." And he, in the manner typical of such types, decided to help a woman in need of affection.
"It's a good thing he didn't decide to fuck me while I was out cold," the officer winced, imagining such a picture. After which she shuddered and threw the creepy picture away.
But two glaring elements did not fit into the picture that had been voiced. Namely: the tattoos that appeared out of nowhere on Megan's body and the strange green-eyed boy. Moreover, the latter, as all of Officer Cornhill's senses screamed, was the main source of all the strangeness!
After all, it was this guy who hired, as it turned out, the slut Helen to please his "auntie"! At least, that's what Helen herself said - and Megan had no reason not to believe her. And before that, she got tattoos - also in a completely incomprehensible way!
In all fairness, I should have grabbed this Helen right there, while she was still hot on the trail, shaken out everything she knew, and then moved on to Andy and his gang of trash cultists. But first Megan's brain was devastated after a night of love, and then...
Then she was simply afraid to go to Helen. Despite the fact that the prostitute happily shared her phone number with Megan, writing it on a piece of paper. Not her own, of course, but the phone at the concierge desk - she said that "old Bob" could always tell where someone was and if anything happened - call and pass the phone.
So, Megan was afraid. She was afraid that if she got close to Helen, she would lose her temper and just pounce on the girl, giving free rein to her newly pent-up excitement!
Needless to say, the policewoman tried, almost unsuccessfully, to regain her composure. She forbade herself to think about "that," tried to forget that night. After all, Megan Cornhill had long ago given up on relationships and everything connected with them for precisely this reason — such thoughts were damned interfering with her work!
But this Helen appears in her life - and all the barriers built inside her began to crumble, just imagining a short-haired prostitute. And if they meet in person - Megan did not vouch for herself at all!
Plus, those damn tattoos and that hypersensitivity to any irritant added fuel to the fire of her unstable state. Until she sorted out her feelings and conflicting desires, Megan wouldn't go near Helen.
Another thread in this strange story was Andy. She had wanted to pin this creepy guy down for a long time and ask a couple of uncomfortable questions about his sect - but there was no time, no legal grounds.
And here - it's a real gift! It could almost be a kidnapping of a police officer. It's worth presenting something like that to the vile holy man, and he would sing like a nightingale!
Moreover, Megan even went to the dump where the garbage sect was located, even got out of the car and headed towards their "temple"...
But again some devilry intervened! If before it was disgusting for her to be in this huge cesspool mixed with a garbage dump, but quite bearable - then this time...
That time, Officer Cornhill simply stopped at some border of the sectarians' "possessions" and couldn't take a step! She couldn't force herself to move on: as if some viscous, sticky invisible wall was in front of her. The stench, usual for this place, was felt almost on her skin - the woman had never remembered such a disgusting, unnaturally vile feeling in her life.
To step forward meant to plunge into such terrible, such disgusting slop that even a trained and seasoned police officer, which Megan was, could not overcome herself!
In short, she left with nothing. And she didn't find the strength to return.
The woman rubbed her eyes and bared her teeth in irritation for a moment. At least it was her private business and not an official investigation. It would have been funny if she had been forced to refuse to work on a case simply because she was "unable to approach the suspects"! As it was, Megan's shame remained solely her own.
Outside the window, an October rain was drizzling - almost non-stop since the beginning of September. Those black, dense clouds that hung over the northern suburbs of London for almost a month and a half in summer suddenly burst with the beginning of autumn, releasing a nasty, but long-awaited rain! And with this, the latent sense of threat disappeared from the atmosphere .
It was as if some evil had left these places on the first of September.
Megan shook her head once again, trying to gather together all her torn feelings. The last thing she needed was to start philosophizing and talking about all sorts of esotericism or aliens! She already had problems with her psyche…
And the very next moment, she suddenly had an amazing and crazy idea. Or rather, two.
Well, the first one wasn't that crazy and amazing - just go and make yourself some stronger coffee. And at the same time listen to the surprisingly pleasant squeal of the coffee machine - since her naughty feelings are drawn to it.
And the second… The second was this: after two months of tossing and turning and suppressing her own desires, Megan made up her mind. She wants to feel that amazing sense of peace and satisfaction that came over her after the night with Helen! She wants to feel so complete, so finished… so perfect again.
And so, during a smoke break, Megan went to a pay phone, picked up the receiver and dialed the number scribbled on a scrap of paper from a notepad.
"Hello," she said dryly. "Good afternoon. May I ask if Miss… Helen is at home," Megan corrected herself at the last moment. "Uh-huh… Yes. Please put her on the phone if… if she's not busy."
Megan's last chance to retreat was until the old man who answered her went after Helen and she went down to the counter. Throw the phone down and forget about her impulse!...
But Megan didn't move. Until the familiar voice of a prostitute came through the receiver: smoky and brazenly cheeky:
- Hello, Helen here...
Autumn 1992. Hogwarts. Potter again.
Classes at Hogwarts began... as usual. Simple and straightforward, they just started.
The knowledge breakdowns during the first lessons, checking the completeness and quality of the homework assigned for the holidays, Snape's hissing, Binns's mumbling… As if they had never gone anywhere.
True, a certain zest was added by the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who came to replace the deceased Quirrell. It was… drum roll… Gilderoy Lockhart! The same braggart writer they had the dubious honor of seeing in Flourish and Blotts at the end of August!
"There remains hope that he teaches as well as he writes his books ," Sweet Tooth snorted mockingly. "But something tells me that it will turn out to be false..."
"Hope is the first step towards disappointment ," Dobryak hummed sadly. "An empty shell can't jump above its head, no matter how hard it tries."
"Rotten's right ," snorted Ruffnut. "This Lockhart is a slug and a weakling, a coward and a liar! What can he teach us? How to curl pubic hair?!"
"That's a great idea, I like it!" the Slaaneshi laughed in response. "Sometimes I think the great fashionista inside you is dying, Zu-zu."
"DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME THAT!!" the Khornate immediately became furious, causing Harry to have a headache. It was even more severe because at that moment he was in Herbology class and was transplanting a mandrake - and even with special headphones, this was a serious test for the ears and brain. Because Mordred's plants were screaming like they were being chopped!
Although the same Sweet Tooth found something pleasant in their squealing - but Harry did not quite understand it. However, this was rather caused by the situation: during the "useless digging in the ground", as the boy called Herbology to himself, everything irritated him and nothing pleased him! In a different situation, in a different environment, he might have appreciated all the beauty of these sounds, but like this... No.
The lesson with Lockhart really didn't live up to expectations. Although, considering that the recommended textbooks were the pulp novels that the teacher himself had written, everything was heading in that direction.
Harry liked the pixie trick, though. It was a great way for him and Hermione to practice what Smarty called Battle Precognition! That was exactly what Potter had when he played Quidditch.
They dodged the creatures released by the stupid professor, as well as the objects they threw at the students. And in such a way that, if possible, these objects would hit other pixies!
Their dance was precise and precise, and Harry added to his movements the grace of a Sweet Tooth and the aggressiveness of a Bully!
The latter, by the way, resulted in several creatures being accidentally decapitated by a fallen halberd that was hanging on the weapons stand of the DADA office - but who will count the corpses of pixies, let alone their heads? But the Throne of Skulls got more trophies, albeit small, but - honestly taken in battle!
The fears that someone would notice this oddity were dispelled when an angry McGonagall burst into the classroom, where she was already in chaos, and with one single movement almost annihilated all the little evil spirits! After which "professor" Lockhart immediately crawled out from under the table, cheerfully starting to broadcast on the topic of how "this was planned."
The last phrase, by the way, caused a long snort and loud laughter from Smarty! He laughed so infectiously that almost immediately the other spirits-advisers joined in. Once again, it seemed as if they were laughing at an old family joke, the meaning of which they were in no hurry to tell Harry. But the boy was not offended. There would be time.
As for Hermione, she was the one who was able to surprise Potter!
As it turned out, the girl did not waste time, continuing to meditate, as Harry taught her, trying to carefully probe the warp. Granger could not fully immerse herself in the Immaterium yet, but she learned to sense the thoughts and feelings of those around her!
And when Harry studied the notes and notes she had made, his eyes really popped out of his head!
Hermione, in the absence of her "teacher", managed to understand the basics of mentalistics and empathy. In addition, using the knowledge she gleaned from Harry, she also began to structure her consciousness into several levels, eventually managing to repeat Potter's trick of reading a book and taking notes at the same time. But that was not the main thing!
Harry hadn't said anything to Hermione yet, but it looked like she had unknowingly taken over her parents' minds! That's why it seemed strange to the boy that the older Grangers weren't gawking around the wizarding shop, weren't contradicting their daughter, and were answering all questions in monosyllables.
"The girl is talented beyond her years ," Dobryak once again voiced the truth they had long understood. "Oh, if only she had chosen the right path! She could have made it so that her parents would have stayed with her forever, saving her from tears over their death."
"Hermione's parents are going to die?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Someday it will happen. And it was her love for them that dictated her decision to climb into their heads ," the Nurglite sighed in response. "Sooner or later they will fade away - such is the fate of mortals, especially ordinary people. She must realize this simple and straightforward truth. Death will overtake everyone: both the girl and her parents! She must accept it..."
"It's not my job, Dobryachok ," Smarty interjected. "Especially since the kids don't have time for your tediousness right now – they have a lot of things to do!"
And he was right: Harry and Hermione had more work to do! Despite the fact that Granger could now process and absorb information as quickly as Potter and regular studies were no longer a hindrance for them, there was still practice in their little hobby. And given all the covert measures, it was incredibly time-consuming!
And spectacular tricks like crimson flame or energy balls were far from the top of the list in terms of complexity. It was precisely these techniques, due to their apparent similarity to classical magic, that they used almost intuitively. Much more difficult - and more interesting - were, for example, complex calculations using extended matrix-Forecasts, using various runes and practices. This is exactly what Hermione was beginning to understand almost better than Harry himself! Or deep meditations, with immersion in the warp and analysis of the threads of probabilities entangling Hogwarts like a dense cocoon. Or increasingly complex improvements to potions. Or...
There were many examples. But Harry still decided to devote time to solving one question, to which most of the probabilistic threads stubbornly turned. A question which, judging by his visions in the warp and what he observed in reality, concerned three things at once!
The first thing—or rather, the thing within the thing—was the Philosopher's Stone, currently locked in the Mirror of Erised. Finding the mirror and conversing with the demon within it about returning the valuable artifact was one of Harry's goals for the school year.
The second "thing", or rather the object of attention, was a strange fifth voice coming from the scar. Potter firmly decided that he would deal with this today - he had been putting off solving this problem for too long. And considering that the scar began to strangely reach for the third thing...
Which third thing Harry had already seen before. Only not in reality, but in the memories of Dobby, his prisoner. A black Muggle diary, with a half-erased inscription. Which suddenly turned up in the possession of Ron's little sister, Ginny!
"That's the answer to many questions ," Smarty whispered with satisfaction when they first noticed Ginny with the black notebook. "Now those scraps of memories in the elf's head come together to form a more or less coherent picture."
— "An evil thing" that contains… something, — Harry nodded at this. This time he was alone in his secret laboratory — Hermione still couldn't do without sleep, unlike Potter, who was supported by Ruffnut. — Plant a dark artifact on a foolish girl, provoke an accident at school — and kill two, or even three birds with one stone! At the same time, you get rid of a dangerous object that could have been found during another search, discredit Dumbledore and frame the hated Weasleys — profit! Not a bad plan, — he chuckled. — But a bit shaky…
"No plan in the world can do without adjustments and changes ," Smart Guy responded. "Besides, this is a plan from the series "if it doesn't work, no big deal." Lucius doesn't lose anything if the artifact doesn't work or works incorrectly."
"Unless his son is at school ," Dobryak boomed somewhat disapprovingly. "If something goes wrong, he could end up under attack."
No one answered him. They were going to intervene anyway, one way or another, and, with luck, prevent any useful people from getting hurt.
And then the question arose: who from their circle should be considered useful?
"I think it's clear about Hermione," Smarty said casually. "It's a stretch, but Ronald and Draco, as well as the Weasley twins, can be considered useful."
"And why them?" Dobryak muttered discontentedly. "So far they've only caused trouble!"
And it was true - in a way. Fred and George were unpredictable, completely in their own right, often ruining Harry's carefully calibrated Predictions and calculated plans. No one ever knew what they would do next, where they would appear, or what was going on in their heads. Sometimes Potter found himself thinking that they were harder to evade than the official observers!
He had already become adept at maneuvering outside the portraits' observation zone: especially since, as it turned out, not all of them were inclined to inform on schoolchildren wandering around to the teachers - otherwise, the patrols by the latter would not have been so important. Avoiding ghosts was even easier: there were far fewer of them than living paintings, and Harry could sense them perfectly well. With house elves it was generally elementary: for this he now had Quincy.
But the twins... It was difficult to predict their actions even for him, the owner of the powers and abilities of a warp sorcerer!
"Unification of souls ," Smarty explained condescendingly. "Remember our reasoning that one single soul is nothing compared to the entire Ocean? Well, these redheads, without realizing it, managed to slightly improve the situation in their favor: their souls are connected so tightly that their own magical power and influence on the warp doubled! And therefore ," he chuckled, "friendship with them will be useful to us."
"Okay, accepted," Potter nodded seriously. "Ron and Draco, too. After all, I wanted to take up chess soon, too," he snorted mockingly.
"Oh, dear!" Sweet Tooth's voice rang out like a silver bell. "Believe me, you're about to enter a very interesting age, one in which it will be extremely important to have loyal, strong... and beautiful followers around you. And I'm not talking about little Ronniekins ," he snorted. "I'm talking about Draco. And about Ginny!"
"This snot-nosed brat is too weak ," Bully said contemptuously. "So easy to give in to that spirit in the notebook? Worthless!"
"Well, for an eleven-year-old, she's doing pretty well ," Smarty said thoughtfully. "If she can make it to the end of the year and not quit, we'll help her. If not... Well, our hot-blooded Khorne guy is right - there's no place for the weak in the retinue of the future Champion!"
Even the Sweet Tooth didn't argue with that. As Potter understood his logic, the Slaaneshi thought that there were already plenty of beautiful girls and boys at Hogwarts, there was a choice. And here was an excellent test for one of them, during which Ginny Weasley would prove that she would become not only beautiful, but also strong - in the physical and psychological sense. For all the Chaos Gods, as Harry had already understood, this criterion was one of the first places - after all, a weakling simply would not withstand Their Gifts, either dying or going crazy.
The boy, with a fair amount of self-satisfaction, certainly did not consider himself a weakling. Especially considering that he was accepting Gifts from all the Gods at once!
A small, thin figure of a house elf hobbled up to the table where Harry was sitting, carrying a thin book in his outstretched arms.
After much deliberation, Harry decided not to kill the harmful elf Dobby - he could be quite useful to him in the future! Fortunately, the destruction of part of his mind contributed to a strong weakening, and then the destruction of the connection with the Malfoys - so there should be no problems. Of course, he could no longer, like Quinky, hang around in the company of school house elves, covering his new master from their attention and at the same time looking for potential new servants - but he was still useful.
And the reason for the inability to communicate with his fellow creatures lay in Dobby's new… image.
Harry decided to punish his slaves after all. But if Quinky got off relatively easy - with new runes carved on her back - then Potter decided to radically... modernize the elf-spoiler who stole his mail and almost provoked a scandal with the Dursleys.
Now Dobby's body was cut up with jagged wounds made by rusty barbed wire, wrapped around his torso several times: criss-cross and across - as if forming a crooked eight-pointed star pattern. Its jagged spikes dug into the elf's groin, shoulders and under his ribs, causing serious pain!
But the unfortunate man could not make any sounds except for a strained wheezing - Harry took care to cut out the elf's tongue and part of the larynx. Under the guidance of spirit advisors, of course, and using the energy of Chaos, so that the victim would not die in the hands of the young vivisection enthusiast before his time. The boy also considered that Dobby's eyelids and nostrils would hardly be needed either - and so he removed them as well.
All this happened two months ago, with the performance of appropriate rituals and the application of carved symbols and tattoos on the victim using a dagger.
Now it was hard to mistake Dobby for an elf: close contact with the Immaterium had disfigured him even more, adding several funny - from Harry's point of view - details.
For example, the elongated heels with curved bird claws on the toes. Or the black scales on the sides and the long spikes from the spine. The latter were a strange mixture of bone and iron - as if the vertebrae, having pierced the skin of the back, mixed with the material of the barbed wire wrapping the elf, forming a strange ridge on Dobby's back. Each spike ended in a curly arrow, as if with a claim to depict the symbol of Chaos - an eight-pointed star.
Having accepted the book brought by the strangely twitching head house elf, Harry eagerly opened it and immersed himself in reading.
This book was "borrowed" by Quinkie from Flitwick's office – for a while, of course, so that the half-blood teacher wouldn't notice the loss. To be more precise – only for one night. What made this volume interesting for the boy was that it was the personal book of the charms teacher, and not something from the Restricted Section. Moreover: it had the mark of Gringotts on it!
That Flitwick at least maintains contacts with his goblin relatives had been obvious to Harry and his inner voices for the past year. And now that he had begun training Fulgrim to track other people's owls...
Of course, it was damn risky: the snowy snowy owl was quite noticeable. That's why Potter didn't aim for anything more than regular surveillance - for example, direct interception of letters. But already by where and to whom the letter was delivered, one could draw certain conclusions.
So, the book that Quinkie got was brought to Flitwick directly from the bank - which, together with the professor's origin, led to certain thoughts. Both in relation to Flitwick himself, and in relation to goblins in general.
So, the book was a goblin book! Written by a goblin and in the goblin language, Gobblyduke, which very, very few wizards knew! And no, it wasn't a textbook, or a scientific work, or some kind of fiction (which Harry, thanks to Lockhart's lessons, was already starting to get on his nerves). It was a prayer book!
...O He who brought down the glory of the day,
Shower me with gold treasury!
O he who tore the heavens with his fangs,
Cast your miracles upon me!...
"Close to Khorne, you say?" Sweet Tooth drawled mockingly, clearly addressing Ruffnut. "I've never noticed a thirst for gold among the Butcher's followers. But among the blessed of Slaanesh - very much so!"
"We will not speculate about who the god of the closed, distant universe, in which the Great Four did not appear, is close to. For now ," Smart Guy interrupted the squabble. "As for the prayer book… an interesting little thing. Did everyone notice the code?"
Only then did Harry realize with surprise that he had been looking at the pages of the book through the warp - and that was the only reason he had seen what was written in it at all!
"But how do Flitwick and the other goblins read such books?!" he was amazed. "After all, no one in our world has access to the Immaterium yet!"
"So there are some small loopholes left ," Smarty said thoughtfully. "The prayer book smells of blood – and, what's characteristic, not only Flitwick's blood. And that means..."
"Goblins make sacrifices," Harry frowned. He couldn't help but remember the headache that had pierced him in the bank when he and McGonagall had gone to withdraw money - the wave from the death of a psyker. "Wizards, at that."
"And the prayer books feed the blood of these victims ," Zabiyaka suddenly growled thoughtfully. "The book comes to the owner – he adds his own blood, thereby securing it for himself."
"Zu-zu, did you just build a logical chain on your own?!" Sweet Tooth was amazed. "I'm shocked!"
"Shut up!!!" the Khornate snapped.
Harry shook his head, pushed the noise out of his head and immersed himself in reading. There was still plenty of time before the last ingredients for his and Smarty's dive into the depths of the mind would be ready.
The prayer book itself looked quite simple on the outside. A regular pigskin binding, bronze corners, neatly burned gobblyduck runes that formed one word.
"Blardungar," Harry read, running his fingers over the cover. "The Word of the Bloodthirster."
"Local gods associated with the warp often combine features of different sides of the Great Four. And sometimes they even embody something completely different," the Smart One chuckled against the background of the squabble of the other spirits. "In one of the universes close to our own, and into which the Four Great Ones penetrated, there were such. One of them was called Hashut - and he was worshiped by the local dwarves. A pretty cool person! Especially considering that he was able to withstand and survive when the Dark Origins penetrated that world - which already says a lot about him. So do not underestimate such creatures! Although they do not reach our Lords in power, they are cunning, resourceful and smart. Remember this, student."
"I'll remember," Harry swallowed, leafing through the book to the end and evaluating the prayers and rituals listed there. Quite monotonous, it must be said, differing only in dates and purposes.
What can I say: all prayers had only two purposes - increasing wealth and the death of enemies. The rituals were more interesting, but not much: for fertility, health and luck - but in general everything again came down to an abundance of gold, strength and curses on the heads of enemies.
"Well, at least it's clear why Flitwick keeps this book in a secret place," the boy chuckled, handing the prayer book to Quinky, who immediately disappeared with a characteristic pop - she went to return someone else's property to its place. "Few will be able to read it, even knowing Gobblyduck. But if suddenly something happens…"
"Exactly. This book perfectly illustrates the concept of the Dark Arts that the local magicians use ," agreed Smarty. And then he chuckled: "By the way, about dark books. Isn't it time we did something? Since the rest of our companions are busy for now..."
"Yes," Harry nodded decisively and stood up from the table. After which he headed to the far corner of the room, which served as his laboratory. There, in an alchemical crucible, a strange sparkling liquid was bubbling.
Wearing protective dragonhide gloves, the kind used in potion-making, the boy removed the crucible from the fire and carefully poured the contents into a three-legged brazier standing next to the table. The liquid immediately sparkled with silver light, thickened... and turned into a yellowish-pink-blue powder.
"That's it, actually," the Tzeentch explained. "The Breath of Dreams is a powerful psychic stimulant that allows one to enter one's Mind Halls in pseudo-material form for a period of time."
"I still don't quite understand what this Mind Palace is," Potter commented sullenly, laying out the remaining ingredients around the ritual circle and dragging the brazier to its designated place, not far from the center of the structure drawn on the floor. "To be honest, the name sounds like it was taken from some cliched, highbrow fantasy about wizards*!"
"A little bit ," the Smarty chuckled. "So, are you ready?" he asked when all the preparations were completed and Harry sat down in the middle of the eight-pointed star. "Then let's get started!"
The warp howled around Harry Potter as he, with a familiar movement, cut his palm and sank into meditation…
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