This place was weird as hell. At first glance, it looked like a library of some sort – well, exactly as the "Palace of the Mind" was described in the mentalistic books from the Forbidden Section or in that same cheap fantasy. But at second and third glance…
Surrounded by raging storms of absolutely unimaginable colors, in an unknown void, an island of land hovered. On which twisted, amazing structures towered!
They resembled bookcases, buildings, and machines all at once, and yet they resembled living beings. A jumble of steel, stone, wood, strange mechanisms with heavy gears, living, seething flesh—that was what these structures were.
And books. Lots of books! Among which Harry recognized both those he had already read and those he planned to read in the future. And also something that could not exist in the form of books in the real world.
"That's right, Harry," a familiar rustling voice came from his side. "Your thoughts, feelings, emotions, and knowledge - all of this took the form of books in your imagination. And here they are... in front of you!"
Turning towards the voice, Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Smart?" the boy said doubtfully, looking at the creature standing before him: a strangely iridescent and sparkling primate with skinny limbs and dexterous fingers, as well as crystalline spikes on its skin and a clot of strangely pulsating light instead of a head. A cloak of rainbow feathers was casually thrown over the creature's shoulders, and in its hands it clutched a sorcerer's staff with a familiar symbol - a circle framed by two tongues of flame. The sign of Tzeentch, the Architect of Fates.
"Did you expect someone else?" the demon answered with a question, in his usual manner.
"Anything is possible," Potter chuckled in the same tone, causing the Tzeentchite to burst into loud laughter.
"You are truly a diligent student, Harry Potter!" he exclaimed. "That's right. In the warp, you should never relax. Even with the protection and patronage of the Immaterium itself, even in alliance with four powerful spirits" - he apparently meant their little quartet - "you still shouldn't relax! Do that - and there will be a bunch of people who want to devour you."
"I remember, teacher," Harry chuckled.
"I see," Smart Guy murmured with satisfaction. "Now let's go! Things don't wait."
They moved along a corridor formed by strange, moving "racks" that stretched their tentacles, mouths and mandibles towards them. And while Smarty deftly maneuvered between them, Harry used what the Tzeentch had taught him earlier - he surrounded himself with a halo of Black Fire. It was a technique that warp sorcerers used in order to be able to use the powers of Chaos, but at the same time not fall victim to entropy or possession prematurely.
The unholy flame that ignited around the boy simply burned away the overly impudent tendrils. No pretense, no games of hide-and-seek with demons - none of the things that the "loyal" psykers used in the home world of the four spirits. Force against force, face to face! Whoever wins is the master. The loser will become the winner's eternal slave.
However, right now Harry was required to simply avoid touching the small Neverborn and simply foreign "breezes" or "offshoots" of the Immaterium. Let him touch himself - and at the very least in reality he would receive some random mutation, most likely very noticeable and unsuccessful. At worst - he would start the process of destruction of part or all of his mind. Approximately the same as what he himself did to Dobby, feeding the house-elf's personality to Chaos, allowing all these greedy jaws that now surrounded him to tear the elf's soul to pieces.
"Hmm," Smarty said suddenly, looking over his shoulder at Harry. "You've changed."
"What do you mean?" the boy frowned.
— Here in the warp, as you already know, your image is somewhat different from the one you possess in reality, — the Tzeentchite explained. — The basic appearance, the Gifts, the abilities… all of this is preserved — after all, you have become accustomed to them and they have become part of your consciousness. But some details are added… of those that are not immediately visible. For example, probable changes. Or what you secretly dream of acquiring. But it is easier to show than to tell!
The smart guy raised his hand with four long fingers ending in black bird claws, and a... mirror appeared in front of Harry?
The ghostly oval-shaped film hung in the void, giving us the opportunity to admire its image. Quite interesting, I must say!
Here, in the Realm of Thoughts and Dreams, Harry looked even older than in reality. If strangers there confidently gave him thirteen or fourteen years old, then from the mirror a young man of sixteen, or even seventeen, was looking at him!
But that wasn't what caught his eye first! The first thing Harry stared at was his forehead!
- Horns? - he was surprised. - I dream of having horns?!
And indeed. From the boy's forehead, on either side of his lightning-shaped scar, gracefully curved horns extended. Six of them, three on each side. The tips of the top pair of them curved diagonally upwards, the middle pair parallel to the ground, and the bottom pair downwards, forming two almost even rings. It looked like some kind of crown or marvelous headdress - especially considering that the horns were gold!
- Do you dream? Perhaps, - Smart Man shrugged. - Maybe not about horns, but about a crown on your head? Or just about gold? Or about something else? Who knows...
Harry scowled at the demon but said nothing. Because there were a couple more changes.
For example, his hands. Potter's left hand began to blacken strangely and deform, as if covered in black bruises. His nails grew longer, cracked and sharpened, also blackened by the blood and dirt caked underneath. The blackness reached somewhere up to his forearm, turning into a pale yellow, parchment-like pallor near the elbow. Moreover, if you looked closely, it seemed that the blackness continued to spread higher!
The right hand had also changed. It was covered in scarlet scales, the nails had acquired an ominous copper hue and had also become sharper. Rough horn pads in the form of jagged iron spikes appeared on the knuckles of the fist, and on the forearm there were iron plates implanted directly into the skin, resembling broken parts of a gauntlet.
The boy's clothes had hardly changed. The only thing was that his black school robe had become more of a cloak, and his shirt and vest had been torn under the pressure of his powerful, muscular chest.
And the final touch were two strange trails behind the reflection. As if two wings, consisting of black smoke and crimson flame - they were unstable and unformed, like the other characteristic details, but quite visible and perceptible!
"Wow..." was all the boy could finally say.
- Your body is lagging behind your soul in evolution, - the Smart One whispered softly. - Here, in your dreams and fantasies, and by the will of the Gods, you have already achieved and received much. But the more you receive in the real world, the more you will want. So do not worry: the physical will always lag behind the spiritual, and both will constantly change. Do not think that this is the final and unquestionable version of your future appearance and state. Everything will depend on your desires and abilities!
"I understand," the boy nodded seriously in response. After which, having spun around in front of the improvised mirror a couple of times, he waved his hand with a sigh: it was time to move on.
And in just five minutes - according to Potter's subjective feelings, since time was a very conditional concept in the warp - they reached their destination.
In this part of the strange library, the jumble of shelves formed a platform in the shape of an irregular circle - a sort of hall with a ceiling in the shape of shimmering warp lights. The floor here, unlike the corridors they had passed, did not move or try to dig into their heels. Moreover: it consisted of absolutely ordinary parquet - such was the flooring in many houses, both Muggle and wizarding.
Here and there, no less "ordinary" household items were visible: bedside tables, beds, some magical devices - in general, the furnishings were very similar to the furnishings of Hogwarts or, say, the same "Flourish and Blotts". One could even, with a stretch, assume that this was part of Harry's own mind: his feelings and memories were precisely about these places.
But no. It was a piece of someone else's, artificially implanted consciousness! This was indicated by some details that could not possibly be in the boy's memory. For example, an obviously Muggle old cabinet, a glass display case with a severed hand inside, a part of a stone door in the form of intertwined snakes... And, of course, the feeling of someone else's presence!
"Come out, my friend," Smarty sang, as if parodying Snot, walking in a circle along the edge of the hall. "Come out yourself, and we'll think about an easier fate than could have been…"
Harry didn't say anything: he looked around carefully, looking for prey. And finally he saw it!
"Found it!" he shouted to Smarty, rushing forward. There, where some movement flashed between the strange objects of the furniture.
To the boy's amazement, he didn't just rush forward. He soared!
Those wing-like trails behind his back became a little more defined for a moment than they were, and helped Potter jump high above the island of someone else's mind and freeze at the top for a couple of moments, getting used to the sensations and looking around. And the next moment the boy abruptly swooped down, like a kite on a hare!
"Gotcha!" Harry bared his teeth, showing his snake-like fangs and sticking out his long, barbed tongue. In front of him, cornered between a pile of chairs, a Muggle wardrobe, and a stone door, was an ugly creature pressed against the wall.
Resembling a small monkey, a human baby, and a piece of raw meat all at once, this freak bared its large, sharp teeth in fear at Potter and Smarty as they advanced on it. Skinless, with vertical pupils in its scarlet eyes, it had a strangely distorted, snake-like face. A strangely familiar face...
- You! - the creature suddenly hissed, trembling all over. - What are you?! You are not the Potter boy! You are... you are Mordred knows what!
Harry didn't answer, he just raised an eyebrow in surprise and tilted his head to the side. The smart guy didn't move at all, perched on top of the very same Muggle wardrobe that stood nearby.
- It can't be... - the freak suddenly seemed to understand something. - That mudblood Evans... She found some Forbidden Knowledge! Something from Ancient Magic! And somehow influenced you. But how?! It's dark, forgotten magic! A Muggle-born wouldn't be able to find it, let alone use it!...
"If I'm not mistaken – and I'm very rarely mistaken – then we have before us none other than Lord Voldemort," Smarty suddenly chuckled from his perch. "But you, student, have already clearly guessed it yourself."
"A piece of him," Harry nodded in response, looking at his prize with increasing curiosity. "But how did you end up here, underlord?" This mocking phrase was clearly addressed to the prisoner.
- No! - the fragment of Voldemort seemed not to hear them. - This cannot be! Never! No way! Even I - the Great Lord of Fates - could not understand those scraps of ancient knowledge that I managed to obtain! The Ancient Magic was sealed, it no longer works, does not respond to those who turn to it! How could an insignificant mudblood?!... Arrrrghhhhh! - the Dark Lord suddenly wheezed painfully, shaking all over and clutching his throat.
"I already said that once to another piece of you," Harry hissed, his eyes glowing an eerie emerald light and the scar on his forehead emitting crimson-black smoke. "Don't. Dare. Insult. My! Parents!!!"
It seemed that the unfortunate Lord would now simply be smeared across the entire warp! But suddenly the torture stopped - and Voldemort, breathing convulsively, looked up in horror at the demon who appeared before him...
Well, at least he finally had his full attention on the approaching Potter.
- Incredible... - the freak swallowed. - The power of the Ancients! And in whose hands?... - he sobbed almost pitifully. But, more likely, it was annoyance and hatred. - So many years, so much effort spent to comprehend... And some... - he stopped short, looking at the interlocutor's eyes that sparkled with emerald fire. - And this Evans was able to find and use it.
- It's a shame, isn't it? - Smarty said mockingly. - So much effort in vain... And all that's needed is the favor of the Dark Gods! But it doesn't matter now, - he shook his glowing ball that replaced his head. - Harry, I think it's time to ask our guest... more details.
"Don't come any closer!" the freak hissed almost pitifully as Harry took a step forward. "You!... You're a monster! You're not human anymore!"
"Harry Potter is now much more than a man or even a wizard," the Smarty shook his glowing head with a laugh. "And it is in your interests, self-proclaimed lord, to voluntarily tell him everything that interests him. And me, of course," he added modestly.
Harry tilted his head to the side and waited.
Finally, after almost a minute's pause, the freak in front of them squeezed out:
- What will happen to me?
"Slavery," Potter spat. "That's if you agree to cooperate. If you refuse..." He gestured demonstratively around the room, pointing to the tentacles, snouts, and mouths raging around the even patch of ground, growing right on the walls and shelves. "I'll still tear everything I'm interested in out of you. But in the process, you'll disappear, devoured by the creatures of Chaos!"
The creature's red eyes darted from side to side, but he himself was silent, frantically considering the proposed conditions. Harry and Smarty did not rush their victim - there was no time in the warp, so there was nowhere to rush.
Finally, the shard of Voldemort swallowed and hissed:
- O-okay. I agree!...
"Checkmate!" Harry announced, leaning back in his chair in one of the empty classrooms with satisfaction. It was here, with the tacit consent of Snape and McGonagall, that the impromptu chess club was meeting. However, any day now it would cease to be "improvised", having received official status. For this they were waiting for Dumbledore, who had gone to some conference overseas, but promised to be back soon.
In any case, it was here that what Harry had been preparing for for almost a year and a half happened: his rematch with the Weasleys.
- Mordred... Potter, but how?! I don't even remember you playing with anyone during your first year! How?!
"I've been thinking a lot. And analyzing," Harry said vaguely, chuckling smugly. "And of course," he added, "just because you haven't seen me play chess doesn't mean I haven't actually played it with anyone!"
Which was also true. Only he was playing with Smarty inside his own head - the structuring of his mind allowed him to create a simulator of any game in his imagination, without even diving into the warp and creating his own projection in it.
And while Ron and Draco - he, along with the rest of the club, was present at the fateful game - were figuring out how Potter managed to defeat the Weasleys, Harry himself closed his eyes and listened. And then he felt a distant rustling in the castle walls and a terrible voice, hissing about blood and murder...
Voldemort's shard turned out to be a Horcrux, that is, a piece of a whole soul. As the enslaved spirit of the Dark Lord explained, at the time of his entry into Harry Potter's mind, there were already six such shards. And he was going to limit himself to this number: increasing the number of Horcruxes was damn risky! In addition, the number seven: that is, six Horcruxes and the original soul itself - was quite symbolic. And Lord Voldemort loved symbolism!
They managed to find out the location of another Horcrux - the same black notebook that Lucius Malfoy planted on Ginny Weasley. And which Horcrux had already begun to slowly influence the girl, whispering and driving her crazy, subordinating her will to its own. For example: it made little Weasley open the Chamber of Secrets and release the Terror of Slytherin - a thousand-year-old basilisk! Which had already begun to get used to the Hogwarts sewer system and look for exits to the inhabited corridors. Harry understood this from its bloodthirsty hiss, which, by the way, he understood quite well - thanks to the Horcrux in his mind, that he was now forced to cooperate with the owner of said mind and the rest of its inhabitants.
As a bonus, there was knowledge of Parseltongue, the snake language, which allowed him to track the basilisk and relatively control its actions.
As for Voldemort, he was somewhat of a disappointment to the boy. Harry was happy: the main enemy, the Dark Lord, was in his hands with all his knowledge and memory! But even a crude intervention in the semblance of reason that remained in this scrap of a soul did not give clear knowledge about the rest of the Horcruxes, only vague images and hints. Of course, one was enough for them for now, but in addition to these facts, Harry was counting on knowledge of the Dark Arts and Ancient Magic, which the freak in his head was muttering about! But, apparently, he needed to at least incarnate at least a little in order to gain the fullness of his memory. Or no - after all, the Horcruxes were very different from the Eldar stones, about which the four demons told a lot. And they were not designed to protect against the warp.
"You, Harry, are much more accustomed to the proximity of the Immaterium ," explained the Smarty to Potter in between sessions of squeezing the necessary information out of the unfortunate captive. "Even an adult and powerful wizard like Voldemort - not to mention a small part of him - will be seriously damaged in mind if he climbs into the warp without preparation. And that is exactly what happened to our personal Horcrux when you opened yourself to the Undivided!"
"I see," Harry nodded. "It's a shame Voldemort himself can't be enslaved so easily. Having the entire Dark Lord at our disposal would be something!"
"I'm afraid, student, we were just lucky with this Horcrux. It was inside your consciousness, which means it came into contact with Chaos and weakened ," the Smarty shook his head. "It will be much more difficult with the rest! In order to enslave the others, and especially their owner, you will have to train and study for a long time. Make sacrifices, proving to the Gods that you are worthy of Their Gifts, capable of helping you defeat such an opponent."
"In the meantime, all this needs to be done in such a way that my actions don't become too noticeable," the boy sighed, emerging from his fantasies. "The eternal conspiracy is starting to irritate!"
"We will have to hide only until a certain moment ," the Tzeentch chuckled in response. "All we have to do is wait."
"I hope not for long," Harry concluded discontentedly.
"Only until you gather your army, student ," the Smart Guy chuckled. "This process can begin in the next couple of years. And when it appears... Who will dare to object to you?"
"Maybe so," the boy sighed sullenly anyway. "But you said yourself that those warriors… well, the ones you showed me are Fallen Astartes. It will be a long time before we can open the way to our world for any of them. Besides, before that happens, I have to become someone they will listen to. And that's definitely not the schoolboy wizard Harry Potter!"
"First of all ," the Smart Guy chuckled. "An army isn't necessarily someone on the level of the Chaos Astartes or something like that. An army is some sort of well-organized fighting unit. One can be created here, in your world. It just takes time and a little effort."
"But…" Harry was still unsure.
"A year or two, and you'll have your own cult ," the Tzeentch whispered ingratiatingly. "Two or three years, and the cult will begin to grow fighters. And not just lone duelists from among the mages, but ordinary Muggle soldiers as well! You've already founded two separate cults, and that's two potential armies. A good start!"
"Well, let's say," Potter calmed down a little, watching as a couple of Ravenclaws, one serious Hufflepuff, and Ron and Draco continued to enthusiastically argue about the past game. "And these… Chaos Space Marines – what's wrong with them? In a couple of years, you won't achieve anything that would impress them. And the resources to create a road through the warp for them…"
"It's all connected ," laughed Smartass. "Build an army, grab resources. Grab resources, call in at least a couple of Chaos warbands with a core of Dark Astartes. Then..."
"After what?..." Harry encouraged his spirit advisor.
"After which they will submit. Because you will have power, an army and resources - that will be enough for a start. Especially if they are not the ancient mastodons of the original Space Marine Legions, with a sense of self-importance comparable only to the Himalayan mountains!"
That's what they decided on.
And the school year continued. And it continued even stranger than it had been in the first year!
To begin with, the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts was as bad as it could possibly be! Even the stutterer Quirrell tried to teach his students, to give them something. Gilderoy Lockhart, of course, also gave some knowledge... mostly concerning his tastes in clothes, perfumes and quotes from books! Which eventually stopped amusing even the Sweet Tooth.
"Maybe we should drag him down to the catacombs after all?" the Slaaneshi moaned during one of his DADA classes the night before Halloween, when Lockhart tried once again to call Harry to help him act out a scene from his book. "And then skin him and butcher him. Everyone will thank us!"
Potter himself was refusing the intrusive tasks of the blond teacher as best he could! Which at first caused Lockhart's slight irritation - visible only through the warp or on his face. Then the creepy teacher began to speak on the topic of "you can't let pride and the thirst for cheap glory cloud your mind, my dear Harry!" - which was generally funny, especially against the background of Lockhart's own behavior! And then he began to demonstrate open hostility and deduct points worse than Snape - and much more unfairly!
Harry suspected that it was not only due to the boy's almost open disdain: Lockhart clearly hoped to gain a little more popularity if he could be seen in the company of the legendary Harry Potter - but the latter avoided such things, which undoubtedly irritated the blond teacher. Mostly, the DADA teacher's dislike stemmed from a simple and banal fact: Potter was simply more popular than him!
Of course, the parrot-bright Lockhart made quite a strong impression on the uninitiated population of the wizarding world - especially on its female part. Accustomed to dark or pastel tones, the inhabitants of the wizarding world were impressed by the image and behavior of the writer - which he clearly copied from Muggle scandalous stars.
And Harry... Not only was he the hyped-up Hero and the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, but he also stood out from Lockhart in appearance. Instead of the latter's bright and frankly tasteless image, Potter was truly handsome! In addition, unlike the fussy, noisy and... empty Gilderoy, Harry showed an elusive and noble dignity. Breed!
But the boy was in no hurry to improve his relationship with this windbag. This little man's passions were too insignificant, and he himself was too weak to interest the Gods of Harry. Except as a victim - and even then, not the best one.
Speaking of victims...
As always, the school made its own adjustments to the young wizard's plans. The rituals, due to the lack of those very victims, could not be carried out on a regular basis - this was irritating. Harry even promised himself that next summer he would make up for lost time with interest! He had already worked out a disguise scheme - the errands to South Helens are an example of this.
Of course, he could have chosen the right moment and escaped to the Forbidden Forest - the same unicorns had proven themselves to be very promising resources! But if the unicorn killer returned again - it would be damn suspicious. And he did not risk slipping away from the Gryffindor dormitory too often - despite the hassles and illusions that imitated his presence when tracking with the help of a spell, there was a risk that the same McGonagall would come to check personally! Of course, many students - especially older ones - sometimes allowed themselves to hang around the corridors at night. And they were caught - after which they were punished. But Harry himself did not intend to get caught, as well as to get "on the watch" of his stern dean! Less negative attention - easier to carry out dark deeds.
But despite such restrictions, there were advantages to being at school. For example, access to the Restricted Section of the library or Snape's ingredient warehouse. Again, it was not possible to visit there very often: after each time he overcame the protective spells by micro-jumping in the invisibility cloak, Harry had a terrible headache and blood flowed from his nose and eyes. But, nevertheless, the benefit from this was undeniable!
For example, he found several more old books on the history of the Goblin Wars - not "rebellions", as in the censored version recommended by the Ministry. In fact, they were far more detailed than even the volume Binns had recommended! Some included quotes in Gobblyduck from goblin chieftains - some even from Blargolag himself - and engravings of the altars and ritual circles that wizards had found in captured enemy camps.
Another undoubted advantage was the opportunity to communicate with Hermione.
- Can you imagine - I can now predict what my parents will say or do at any given moment! - she whispered to him admiringly, when they were sitting in the far corner of the library on Halloween Eve. The smart guy in Harry's head chuckled mockingly. - I haven't figured out yet how it works with others - but I will. Apparently, blood allows you to easily feel this with relatives... But at such a distance! Amazing!
"Practice," Harry smiled. "This is a very interesting direction of our magic. I'm glad it comes so easily to you."
"I wouldn't say it's easy," the girl frowned. "When you're not around, much of what I've learned and studied doesn't work! It's like… I don't have enough strength," she thought. "Or like I'm running into some kind of wall that won't let me look… there," she jerked her head.
"Into the warp" was the word that was on the tip of her tongue. But they tried not to say strange words in public - you never know.
As for the girl's phrase...
"Isn't it time for our dear Hermione to take a new level of initiation?" Smarty chuckled. "What do you think, student?"
"She might be scared of having to make sacrifices," Harry frowned.
"She sacrificed her blood almost without thinking ," the Tzeentch replied. "She greedily swallows new knowledge, wanting more. And the inability to use this knowledge to its full extent is like a knife in the heart! I think one lousy cat is worth it to get what she wants."
"The question is, how desirable is this desire..." drawled Dobryak, clearly not particularly pleased with the new follower of Tzeentch in the entourage of their host.
"I have a solution to your independence problem," Harry frowned, feigning concern. "But… you might not like it…"
- Anything! - Hermione immediately jumped up. However, she immediately wilted under Madam Pinns' displeased look. - Anything, - she said much more quietly, but still just as excitedly. - God, Harry! It's... I just can't describe it, - she rubbed her forehead with her palm. - It's like you're terribly thirsty, but the nearest water to you is a swimming pool! The damp air, the feeling of water on your skin, but you can't drink it - chlorine and human excrement make this water undrinkable, - she grimaced. - If there is some way... I'm ready for anything! - she whispered feverishly.
"Oh, girl! Someday you'll understand that it's better not to throw around such phrases!" - Sweet Tooth chuckled.
Harry, barely hiding a satisfied smile, leaned back in his chair. This very night he would have not just a like-minded person, but a full-fledged sorcerer comrade! If only he could find a victim…
It was just such a coincidence that he had the idea of sacrificing old Filch's kneazle, Mrs. Norris, and they had stumbled upon her on their way down from the library to the celebratory dinner. Only someone had beaten him to the sacrifice of the evil cat!
For Mrs. Norris's lifeless body was hanging in one of the corridors, suspended by her tail from a torch stand, and on the wall next to her was scrawled in red the words:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED AGAIN! ENEMIES OF THE HEIR TREMBLING!
Autumn 1992. Somewhere in central London.
The Old Toby's Pub, nestled in one of London's historic quarters, was almost no different from other old English pubs. The heavy dark oak front door opened onto a narrow, cobbled street adjacent to a noisy avenue. However, the sounds of cars and crowds barely penetrated this cozy corner of old London - so this establishment was quite popular among those who valued silence, comfort... and privacy.
Moreover, for some, privacy was the deciding factor. And often these were not just ordinary people.
The elderly sleepy barman who was wiping beer glasses behind the bar always seemed to sense in his gut which of the customers were worth paying attention to and which ones to ignore. This allowed him to avoid many incidents and misunderstandings. After all, what do such establishments need? For customers to buy drinks and snacks. And the last thing they needed was for them to bring trouble! And so the presence of special customers, ignored in time, was a quality that the pub owner valued in his employees. But "ignoring" and "not remembering" were two different things. And the old man who was wiping mugs behind the bar had no complaints about his memory!
However, even his instinct and intuition could not help the barman to see and remember truly special visitors, if one of them decided to come to their pub. For example, like now.
The bell of the front door rang, letting in the figure of a man with a woolen cap on his head and in the same suit. The barman glanced at him - and immediately forgot about his presence. Gray clothes, the most ordinary face and colorless eyes - there are eleven of them in London for every dozen. The newcomer, it seemed, simply slipped out of the zone of attention of any ordinary person! Which is not surprising - given the spell cast on him.
Looking around the bar, the grey man found what he was looking for. Or rather, who. After which he resolutely stepped towards the farthest and darkest corner of the pub, with professional and practiced movements avoiding the waiters and customers. Fortunately, there were few of the latter: it was the middle of the working day, not at all the time when pubs are crowded.
"You're late," croaked the man who was waiting for the grey man at one of the tables in the corner of the pub. One-eyed, with a prosthetic leg and a crutch leaning against the tabletop - Alastor Moody himself!
"Had to stay in the Atrium," the man in the cap answered dryly, taking it off... and immediately transforming. If before he looked unremarkable and impossibly ordinary even to the eyes of an ordinary wizard , now he became much more individual and recognizable. For those who even knew him by sight. "Crowds of these Ministry slackers who were given access to our disguise protocols - it was hard to avoid a collision with them all.
"I see," Moody nodded in response. Then, in a more benevolent voice, he said, pointing to the table: "Have a seat, Al, and help yourself. It's rare that you get a chance to get out into Muggle London and drink something other than the slop that Tom serves at the Leaky Cauldron."
There were two tall mugs of ale on the table – good English ale! And Alastor was right: there were no proper drinking establishments in wizarding London – legal ones, at least. So connoisseurs of good drink had to either apparate to other cities, or even to Scotland, Wales or Ireland, or go out into the Muggle world. That's how they are now.
Moody's interlocutor, named Al, also looked quite ordinary for England without disguise. Reddish-brown hair framing a bald spot, an elongated, lenient face, pale eyes. Against the background of his suit, it seemed that this man did not need a disguise - he was so ordinary. However, such an appearance was one of the criteria by which people were hired into the most closed organization of the British Ministry - the Department of Mysteries. And it was its employee who came to meet Alastor Moody.
- Eh... - the man who came rubbed the bridge of his nose and sat down opposite the Auror. - Alastor, I'm not against good ale, of course. But the sooner you and I settle our affairs now, the less likely it is that we'll be noticed together. And you know what that's fraught with.
Alastor nodded - he knew. And so he silently set his own mug aside and leaned forward, resting his chest on the tabletop.
"So what?" he asked tensely, as if resuming an interrupted conversation.
"I found something," Al nodded, taking a thick parchment envelope from the inside pocket of his gray coat. "The materials you provided me are very similar to goblin runes. The ones engraved on some of the… objects of our study."
"Mordred!" Moody swore quietly. "This is bad. If goblins are involved..."
Almost half a year had passed since his investigation into the strange wizard who had been hanging around Harry Potter before his first year had finally yielded some success. Once again sifting through the sand of one of the rituals that the unknown dark wizard had performed, the old Auror had found one stone. To be more precise, a melted piece of asphalt, miraculously preserved after the criminal had cleaned up the place – he had a nasty habit of going over crime scenes with magical flame, burning away all the evidence. But this time… this time he hadn't done his job!
A piece of asphalt, an elongated shard with symbols burned into it, clearly left over from a bloody ritual in which one of Old Lady Figg's kneazles had been brutally murdered. A colloquial image of one of them, repeated several times in a chain, was what Al laid out on the table.
"Some of the elements are very similar to the central figure of the ancient goblin altars that are kept in the most distant and protected basements of the Department," the gray man commented sullenly... and then he nevertheless reached out and, grabbing one of the beer glasses, took a deep sip. "Merlin the Wise, how good!... And this is bad, Alastor!"
"Bad, what's good for you?" the old Auror couldn't help but joke.
"You know what I mean," El pursed his lips dryly. "The bad thing is that someone you don't know about is conducting truly Dark rituals in an attempt to get to someone you stubbornly won't talk about. And I — mind you — am not asking! Even though I can guess. Considering your connections with the Order of the Phoenix…"
"Let's continue not asking each other about things we shouldn't divulge," Moody winced. He was sometimes irritated by this manner of his old friend - and any other employee of the Department - to say "I still know everything about you, but appreciate that I don't talk about it."
"Okay," nodded Al, watching thoughtfully as the waiter, his gaze completely blank – the Muggle-repelling charms were in full effect – brought Alastor a plate of steaming steak and potatoes, took a couple of Muggle banknotes, and left. "So," he returned to the topic of discussion. "I don't know how anyone conducts goblin shaman rituals without the shamans themselves – but you've encountered exactly such a ritual, Alastor! And nothing good can be expected. Unless, of course," here Al smiled slightly, "you decide to slightly lift the curtain of secrecy over the plans of the "Great Light One" and your own developments."
"And if the Department of Mysteries finds out the details, will it make things better?" Moody snorted, starting on his steak. "Do you know why the Russians call people like you osobist?" he asked. "Or another, more derogatory word, oprichnik? The idea is the same - a separate squad of scoundrels, placed ABOVE THE LAW , who do whatever they want according to their own twisted understanding - or the understanding of the current Minister. And their goals are usually the most mercantile and vile. With rare - extremely rare - exceptions!"
- Alastor, we've argued about this many times before! - Al winced, taking another sip of ale from his glass. - And I'm not going to renew that argument. Not now, when we have so little time. If you don't want to give out information about who is guarding Harry Potter and how, don't give it out. But it won't make the boy feel any better!
At that moment, Moody clenched his fists, holding his fork and knife. Suspecting that the British wizarding secret service knew his client's name and finding out definitively were two different things.
"I may be an oprichnik," El parodied Moody's expression, raising his chin haughtily, "but that doesn't mean I have no conscience, Alastor! And no, my own guesses and our negotiations with you will not leak to my colleagues. I know perfectly well that you and Dumbledore hid Potter, including from the Ministry officials and their rotten political moves. And I will not expose you. But!" El leaned forward in turn. "What you brought me... It concerns such Ancient and extremely Dark things that it is hard to imagine! This is no longer a private matter for your home-grown Order - it may affect the security of all of Britain, or even Europe! Are you sure that now is the time to play at secrets?"
"You're the one talking..." Moody gritted his teeth. It was obvious that he was already regretting the harsh words he had spoken to his friend in the heat of the moment, but the old Auror was not the type to admit it openly. But Al could clearly guess it himself. "If your vaunted Department thinks that goblin shamans don't exist, that doesn't mean they don't exist! Someone must have performed those rituals! And I still remember the history lessons on non-humans in the Auror Training Center, and I know that no one but them could have pulled something like that off. That's why they're forbidden to have shamans..."
- Alastor, I ask you to listen to me calmly and carefully, - the Special Officer clenched his hands tensely into a lock, pressing his lips into a thin line. - Yes, goblin magic is very specific. What's more! It has hardly been studied: Merlin, his students and Muggle associates led by Arthur burned this abomination to the roots, as contradicting humanity itself! And yes - we were not taught this in the Training School, - he raised his chin again and chuckled. - There is no evidence left of what goblin shamanism was. The Magic Treaty with the goblin race after their final pacification, in its latest edition, stipulated that they themselves would get rid of potential shamans who had not yet been born. So I can say with complete confidence that goblins cannot have wizards - well, shamans, as they were called before!
"You say that as if you were holding the candle and controlling it," Moody muttered stubbornly, eating the steak with an independent air… And suddenly he stopped short.
Because his old friend, an employee of the Department of Secrets El, suddenly turned pale and clenched his teeth.
"El, what?..." Alastor began, but was interrupted:
"You know," he muttered. "Not literally, of course, but I do hold a candle to you. On a regular basis. You eat," he nodded at his old friend's half-eaten steak. "Mind you don't choke," he grinned.
"Is this some kind of secret?" It was clear that Alastor was uncomfortable with the tone of his interlocutor, but the old stubborn man did not want to show his uncertainty and back down.
"Oh, no!" Al exclaimed mockingly, clearly hurt by Moody's behavior. "Disclosing something like that would only be worth five hundred years in Azkaban or three Dementor's Kisses - a mere trifle!"
For a minute they measured each other's gaze: Al's two hard pale-gray stares and the old Auror's mismatched eyes, one black natural and one bright blue artificial. Then they looked away simultaneously.
"You said they kill shamans before they're born," Moody tried to get back to the conversation—and the steak. "Maybe you meant 'AT BIRTH'?"
- No. They identify a potential mage in their ranks in advance. They inform us that they are going to destroy him - rank by rank, according to the Treaty. And they invite someone from the Department - to witness the ritual. They call me too often... - El suddenly shook his head and closed his eyes. - I am a goblin specialist and I speak Gobblyduke. I hate my job! - he suddenly exclaimed.
"El…" Alastor frowned, but was interrupted:
"Eat your steak," Al said crisply. "Because he's going to want it back soon!"
Another exchange of harsh glances, after which the security officer continued:
— Precisely "before", not "at" birth, — he sighed tiredly, taking another swig of ale. Which he hadn't wanted to drink before. — How many rituals like this have I witnessed… They bring a female goblin — pregnant with a potential shaman — to one of the lower levels of Gringotts. One of the departments, — he specified. — One of the halls is always equipped for rituals — it's a common practice with them. The woman — they are ugly, of course, but slightly less so than the men — is tied to a special machine. A spiked structure, made in such a way that under the goblin's swollen pregnant belly there are blunt rusty spikes. You won't cut yourself too much if you just lean on it by accident! But if you stand in an uncomfortable bent-over position for 24 hours and a hundred men rape you…
"Merlin the Wise!..." Alastor spat out a piece of steak.
— ...Then gradually lacerated wounds remain on the stomach — as the victim's legs weaken and she falls to her knees. The vagina turns into a hole torn to a bloody mess — goblin penises have scales, you know. Females rarely survive multiple copulations. Lucky are those whose pregnancy is detected by the shaman at the earliest stage, — Al says coldly and distantly, watching Moody straining to keep the meat in his stomach. — After a couple of rapists, those simply have a miscarriage. And what happens in the later stages of pregnancy...
"Enough…" Alastor said hoarsely. "Enough, Al! Damn it…"
"Oh, Muggle swear words? So now you believe that I have any knowledge of goblin customs and the existence of shamans?" the official asked with fury in his voice, looking at Moody, who was trying not to vomit the steak he had just eaten. "Are you ready to hear my arguments on this matter?"
Alastor Moody, a seasoned, battered, and crippled Auror from the war with Voldemort, managed to catch his breath. It occurred to him that no matter what nasty things he had learned or seen, there would always be something that could surprise him. It seemed like it was time to apply his motto of "constant vigilance" to conversations with friends! It would take some effort to break through his emotional shields. But he had known in advance that he shouldn't tease Al! And now… the steak, half eaten, was already too much to swallow. After what he had told…
"What do you suggest?" the Auror squeezed out, putting down the knife and fork – he wouldn't need them anytime soon anyway.
"The Death Eaters, of course," Al shrugged, casually grabbing a potato from Moody's plate and washing it down with beer. "He-Who-Cause-Us-So-Trouble-Is-Not-Someone-Knows-A-Little-Of-Goblins'-Magic. At least in theory. Those creatures were his allies, after all! So someone close to him might know…"
"But to use…" Alastor frowned.
— ...He couldn't. Or maybe he could, — Al shook his head. — That option is also possible…
"Or it's possible that you and your Department screwed up and let some fucking shaman through," Moody snarled.
And again it's time for staring contests: eyes against eyes, will against will…
But Al just sighed tiredly and closed his eyes. Then he stood up and pulled his cap over his head, casting a gray haze over his face again.
— I won't whine to you here, Alastor, about how hard it is for me to attend every single Destruction ritual. Especially seeing the vile faces of these fucking creatures, destroying their own women and unborn children before my eyes, — here his voice trembled slightly. — Sometimes I get the feeling that they came up with this damn ritual, which is supposedly intended to comply with the terms of our agreement with them about the absence of magicians among the goblins, especially for us! — Al suddenly banged his fists on the table. — So that people like me — the keepers of the Secrets — would watch, grit our teeth, vomit and lose our minds! Understanding that this is happening because WE — the wizards — demand such things! Sometimes it seems to me that… that!.. — he suddenly clutched his head convulsively — which is why Alastor Moody suddenly saw not a faceless and arrogant special agent from the Department of Mysteries, but his old friend Al Pym! He hadn't seen anything like that for a long time…
"I sometimes think," Al continued, finally calming down. "I think that, just like with the formation of Gringotts Bank, the grey-skinned creatures turned these rituals of Destruction to their own advantage. I don't know how the brutal destruction of the most valuable thing any people has brings profit, but… I sense it," he whispered. "And I advise you to think about the fact that someone ," here the Specialist grimaced, "managed to adopt the goblins' vile practices. Think about it carefully!"
After which the mysterious Al Pym left the Old Toby's pub, leaving Alastor Moody in even more deep thoughts than before.
More chapters on my P@treon: https://patreon.com/OOOTEN