South Helens. January 1992.
"Tell me, Andy," said a tall, neat gentleman in a tweed suit, who sat at a massive table opposite Andy Thatchfield, the preacher of the "garbage cult" of South Helens. "Do you really think I'm going to take your word for it? That, forgive me, nonsense you just told me?!"
The action took place in a small, dimly lit office on the second floor of a small building on the outskirts of town. A building in which, as everyone who could hear and listen knew, a local crime boss nicknamed Lord had set up his lair. And it was he who was now sitting opposite Reverend Andy, smoking a cigar and flashing his horn-rimmed glasses.
This time Andy looked a little more decent than usual. But that's right - "a little." The greasy black cassock hid the rash and ulcers all over his body - that's true. But the white priestly collar was distended by a swollen goiter, smoothly turning into a swollen chin, covered with tufts of what was once a light-brown beard. The Reverend's hands were thin, with bulging veins and gnarled fingers. And his face: with whitish eyes, as if covered in cataracts, a sweaty bluish-white forehead and disgusting boils.
Lord's "bulls", who were standing slightly behind Andy, who was sitting on a chair, winced in disgust from the foul smell that couldn't be overcome even by the toilet air freshener that they had practically doused the former pusher with before letting him into the boss's office.
The Lord himself seemed not to notice the deplorable state of his interlocutor - he only slightly twisted his thin lips and drilled the face of the reverend, disfigured by illness, with a cold gaze of gray eyes.
Under his brown tweed jacket, the South Helens crime boss wore a beige waistcoat and a white shirt with a dark tie. His long, thin fingers were adorned with several gold rings, and a watch chain dangled from his waistcoat pocket. His long, aristocratic face, with its neatly styled reddish-blond hair, was marred by a sloppy scar running from his cheek to the back of his head, an old wound from a razor blade that had passed him at a tangent. If it weren't for this gruesome mark, Lord would have passed for a well-to-do and respectable gentleman, perhaps even of noble blood, which was the type of persona he maintained in his behavior.
- You see, Andy, - Lord sighed with deliberate concern, not waiting for an answer. - I am a very busy man. I run a reputable organization, - at these words the "bulls" grinned slightly. - A business in which a lot of money is circulating! And for businessmen like me, reputation is not an empty phrase. Do you understand?
Andy only smiled at this, causing Lord to shudder inwardly with disgust. Those rotten black stumps that replaced the "Reverend's" teeth were disgusting! But outwardly, of course, he remained calm.
"As you know," he continued, "many people in our city buy my goods and enjoy my high patronage. Very many!" Emphasizing the importance of what he was saying, Lord raised his ringed finger. "And then it turns out," he leaned forward, "that some recently formed sect has begun… to poach my clients. Even completely hopeless drug addicts suddenly stop buying my dope and turn… to God," he grimaced. "And I would very much like to know…" Here Lord leaned forward and hissed menacingly: "Are you sure you're not off the rails, Andy?"
"The Lord directed these people, not me," the reverend shook her head.
The lord sat back down in his chair. He was silent for a few moments, his face expressionless. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at Andy.
At that moment, one of the "bulls" — a bald fellow in a white T-shirt and leather vest, as well as light jeans and grinders — gave his boss's interlocutor a hefty slap in the face. As a result, the latter fell to the floor along with his chair, smacking his head hard and spitting out fragments of rotten teeth.
Lord slowly walked around the table and stopped in front of Andy, who was disorientedly groping around on the floor with his hands. Squatting down, Lord took off his glasses and began to wipe them deliberately slowly.
- I wanted to talk intelligently, - the authority said coldly. - But, apparently, I will have to express myself in simple terms. Don't give me that nonsense about "the Lord" and other scams for suckers*! - the Lord said harshly, throwing off the mask of a refined aristocrat. - You, half-baked bastard, can fool around as much as you want. But I know perfectly well that this whole dirty sect of homeless people, alcoholics and homeless people that you have gathered - it is held together by the same thing that holds together my little kingdom!
He rose from his crouch and sauntered over to the cane stand that also stood near his desk. It was one of the Lord's trademarks, one of the things that made up his aristocratic image. He pulled out one of the canes and weighed it in his hand before turning to the Reverend.
- Who supplies you with dope, Andy? - the Lord asked in a harsh voice. - Not one of those junkies who smoke weed and sniff coke goes down as fast as you and your, forgive me, Lord, "flock"! And what is this? - he looked at the swollen throat and the ulcers on the reverend's skin. - Heroin? Who sells it to you? - the authority hissed, leaning on his cane and leaning forward.
- And they wander blindly: without faith, not knowing the true Light, looking for guilt where there is none, and not seeing their own emptiness, - Andy suddenly seemed to quote something. - You are blind and trying to find familiar explanations where all you need is to believe and accept the Light of the Lord! - sitting on the floor and smiling blissfully, he said to the Lord, fearlessly looking straight into his face.
The Lord looked at the preacher for a while, raising his eyebrows slightly, as if he were examining something strange. And then, suddenly, without transition, he jumped up to Andy and hit the Reverend with his cane several times with great force!
"You stinking bastard, you pissing drug addict!" he growled, bringing his cane down on Andy's shoulders and head again and again. "Are you trying to mess with me, you fucking piece of shit?!"
He calmed down only when the wheezing reverend began to twitch on the floor, splattering blood from his broken head onto the parquet.
The lord spat and walked away from the body, taking out a checkered handkerchief and wiping his blood- and brain-stained cane. Putting it back on the stand, he sat down in the chair and began drumming his fingers on the table.
The "Bulls" tried not to move unnecessarily: their boss did not bear the title of the crime king of South Helens for nothing - he was famous for his very tough temper. And therefore, at such moments it was better not to irritate him - otherwise it was quite possible to join the body cooling on the floor.
- So, - Lord stopped drumming on the table, finally turning to his subordinates. - Remove this carrion, - a nod towards Andy, who was sprawled on the floor. - If these drug addicts don't understand the good way, then it will be the bad way. And who supplies them with the goods... well, - he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. - I'll find out anyway.
The "bulls" breathed a sigh of relief: the storm had passed. Taking the stinking body of the "reverend" by the arms and legs, they dragged him down to the basement. There was everything needed to get rid of the corpse - after all, it was not the first time. And an elderly Filipina cleaner, hired specifically to clean up the aftermath of such "incidents", immediately slipped into Lord's office. Considering her complete ignorance of English, lack of documents and absolute indifference - there was no need to worry that she would blab to anyone about what she saw in this house.
The basement of Lord's gang headquarters consisted of several large rooms. An underground garage with three black SUVs, a warehouse for "goods" nearby, and also a "butcher shop", as the rank and file members of the gang nicknamed it.
The latter was a kind of mixture of a laboratory, a torture chamber and a medical center. In the middle there was a real surgical table with an operating lamp, along the walls there were glass cabinets with various medical preparations and dressings, and in the corner there was a real bathtub with rusty-scarlet streaks on the sides. It was to this bathtub that the "bulls" carried their burden.
"Oh, another one," someone muttered discontentedly from the semi-darkness in the far corner of the room.
A thin, elderly man with a pale face, sunken cheeks, and bulging eyes came out from the metal chair he had been sitting on. He was dressed in what looked like a greasy doctor's coat and a leather butcher's apron.
The man's name was Donald Higgs, but the Lord's gang simply called him Donnie. Or Donnie Six Pieces, but that was only behind his back. No one wanted to be dismembered and stuffed into black bags one day, and Donnie had a reputation for doing it just for fun.
Donnie himself did not comment on such rumors in any way - he only chuckled meaningfully. As long as such nonsense worked for his reputation, he was fine with it. After all, he had to somehow win respect and fear among the Lord's thugs - why not this way?
"That's it," he nodded languidly toward the bathtub in the corner. Donnie himself, without turning around to look at the "bulls" who began to carry out the order with a puff, began to collect a set of tools for cutting up the next "meat."
And after about ten seconds he froze. Because behind him there was a unified sigh of "bulls" and the sound of a heavy body falling onto the tiles.
"You, clumsy, clumsy!..." Donnie began, turning around. But seeing the expressions on his assistants' faces, he stopped short and frowned. "What is it?"
"This is… Donnie," one of the "bulls" – Phil, I think – swallowed and nodded at the corpse. "This… dead man moved!"
- It was already cooling down - we answer! - the second one interjected. - And then suddenly...
- Nonsense! - the doctor waved his hand irritably. - Firstly, corpses don't cool down that quickly. Secondly, you definitely can't live with a split head! So I come to one and only correct conclusion: you're just two little cowards, - at these words Donnie spat, and the "bulls" scowled. Six Pieces even croaked mockingly at the invented tautology - he loved such jokes.
But when he himself approached the corpse lying on the tiles, it suddenly opened its eyes wide!
"Holy shit!" Donnie jumped back, crashing his back into the tool table.
It was creepy, wrong, disgusting, but at the same time it was an indisputable fact. Right in front of them, a real walking dead man was getting up on his feet!
- D-Donnie... - one of the "bulls" said in a trembling voice. - What is this - a zombie?!
"What the hell?!" the doctor himself croaked, his eyes bulging even more.
Andy slowly and carefully, using his hands to help himself, rose to his feet. When he straightened up, his distorted face, covered in blood and terrible bruises, broke into a smile.
- And the Lord said to Lazarus: get up and go! - he said, raising his hands. - Truly, your miracles are innumerable, God!
"Your mother!" one of the "bulls" exclaimed in horror and tried to pull out the pistol that had been tucked into his jeans belt. But he didn't have time.
Two bloated, puffy hands grabbed both thugs by the tops of their heads and slammed them into each other with monstrous force. The force of the blow was such that the heads of the bandits that met burst like overripe watermelons!
"What the?!..." was all Donnie could exclaim, pressing himself against the surgical table.
"The Lord did not heed the Word of God," Andy shook his bloody head sadly, slowly approaching the dumbfounded gangster. "He goes against the will of our Father, who has looked after our world, and rejected His Blessing! Well," he smiled kindly at Donny. "Then we'll have to show him the Truth in another way."
Six Pieces wanted to slip to the left, along the table, to the inconspicuous spare door that led to the landing - but he didn't have time. A massive figure appeared from behind the Reverend - the same one with swollen and ulcerated hands that had finished off two experienced and far from weak "bulls" of the Lord with one movement - and hit him with a pood-sized fist in the solar plexus.
Gasping for breath, Donnie slid to the floor and fell onto his side, wheezing loudly.
"Accept the mercy of our Lord!" Andy proclaimed, and Donny watched in horror as the reverend's swollen goiter began to move horribly, and his mouth opened to an unimaginable width, revealing a black hole of rotten mouth.
Something moved in that blackness. Something so disgusting that the poor doctor couldn't even scream from horror!
A huge black maggot, which, as it became clear, had been resting in Andy's throat all this time, crawled out of the reverend's mouth. Moving its blunt "muzzle" back and forth, the worm, covered in mucus and blood, gurgled and opened a small mouth, covered in a circle of small sharp teeth!
"Ah… ah…" was all Donnie could say as the worm quickly jumped, immediately penetrating his mouth, and then into his throat!...
...When Lord and the other gunmen broke into the basement, it was a mess! The mafia boss, his jaw muscles twitching furiously, looked at the spare door to the garage that had been torn off its hinges, two corpses with smashed heads, and the destruction that had been caused by those who had attacked the headquarters - his, Lord's, headquarters!
- It was a black man! - Donnie hastily spoke six pieces - the only one who was at that moment in the basement and managed to stay alive. - From the Pakistanis, I tell you exactly, Lord! Imigrant scum of people Bastard Firuz - I answer. If I had not hidden behind the bitch boxes, they would have killed me!
Firuz, the head of a Pakistani ethnic gang from the poor outskirts of London, was one of Lord's main competitors. They had not gotten along for a long time: Lord wanted to enter the capital market, pushing his goods, among other things, into ethnic ghettos. Firuz, on the contrary, tried to sell drugs only to white infidels, "protecting from temptation" his co-religionists and fellow tribesmen (and at the same time fleecing them with the usual racketeering "taxes"). And therefore, he oh, how he did not like Lord's claims! And in return, he would not refuse to quickly grab an entire independent town, where, moreover, the routes of truckers, bikers and other pushers' clientele converge - that too.
And now, apparently, the damn "blacks" decided to launch a surprise attack!
They will find the bodies of those who guarded the approaches to the headquarters from the garage, but not all of them. As well as tire tracks on the asphalt road along the forest belt behind the headquarters.
The Lord, suppressing a new wave of rage, returned to his thoughts: how did this happen and who was to blame?
The headquarters building was located in a rather seedy area: on one side there was an abandoned textile factory. On the other side there was a forest belt, smoothly turning into a wasteland overgrown with wormwood and thistles. The third and fourth sides overlooked a garage area and all the same wastelands.
Of course, armed guards were posted on all sides from which it was possible to enter the building, surveillance was conducted - Lord was not an ordinary street thug, and discipline in his group was at its highest! That is to say...
"That is, someone betrayed me!" he gritted his teeth. The thought surfaced that those sentries whose corpses they had not found were probably those traitors! "To expose one of the directions... Everything could have turned out much worse if Firuz had known that half of the gang was not at headquarters on that very day!" - here the Lord turned pale and squeezed his cane.
"Then it becomes clear why the attack was so… weak," he suddenly thought. "But still strange! Several of Firuz's fighters broke into our base to… what? Kill a couple of people and steal the corpse of a stinking homeless priest?!" the Lord thought in surprise. "Something doesn't add up…"
However, this was not so important. The main thing was that the evidence of the Pakistanis' guilt was more than convincing. Attempts to penetrate his territory through "garbage sectarians", a direct attack with dead men on the way out - all this was an excellent reason to deal with his old enemy once and for all!
"Oh, Firuz, do you want war?" the Lord thought, grinning angrily. "Well, I'll give it to you!"
Lost in his thoughts and reasoning, the authority did not look at Donnie, who was modestly huddled in the corner of his laboratory, trying not to attract special attention. But if someone had looked at him at that moment, they could have noticed with amazement and horror the instant grimace on his face! A spasm passed over his skin, his eyes rolled several times independently of each other, and his throat swelled for a moment, as if something large was crawling inside it. But almost immediately Six Pieces took on his normal appearance.
Meanwhile, a broken-down and rusty minibus rolled towards the drains, carrying in its belly a very much alive Andy with a throat deflated to almost normal size, his friend Martin, who killed two "bulls", as well as several more sectarians who imitated an attack by Pakistanis.
Andy smiled. New seeds of evil have been sown. Not all of them will sprout to the glory of Grandfather, but they will sprout – that's for sure! And then… Then let the Angel figure out how to use them.
Hogwarts. February 1992. Hermione Granger.
This place resembled either a grotto, or a dark vaulted cellar. Or a strange black ocean. Or not a place at all, but a state. Or…
The black - or was she trying to convince herself that it was black? - mass swayed around her, forming either long tentacles, or mouths, or even entire faces!
Whitish eyeballs with vertical pupils floated in this eerie "fuel oil," like cherries in grandma's jam, turning every now and then in all directions, as if feverishly looking for something.
At some point, the "ceiling" of this place-state began to leak, falling in thick black drops onto the conventional "floor." The eyeballs in these drops spun especially quickly and furiously — as if this "fall" was causing them serious pain!
And then…
Then a gap opened in the "ceiling", through which otherworldly light poured into the cocoon of amazing "fuel oil"!
More precisely, this amazing, strange, scary and simply unimaginable radiance could not be called light. Or could. If we perceive this phenomenon as light, that is what it would be, right?
And then He stepped into the gap that had formed!
She didn't recognize Harry right away. A tall young man several years older, with perfect features and bright green eyes - he was an Angel of Light in the flesh! Alabaster-white skin, blue-black locks falling to his shoulders. Six graceful golden horns, shining robes and wings blazing with warp fire on his back!
Hermione gasped in admiration!...
And woke up.
"Are you awake?" someone asked her mockingly from somewhere above. Raising her head, the girl met the mocking gaze of her best friend's emerald-green eyes. And only then did she realize that she was lying with her head on his lap.
"Yeah," Hermione relaxed slightly, settling herself more comfortably on Potter's thigh. Thoughts and feelings were simultaneously seething in her, as if pushing her to jump up and do something – and at the same time, as if holding her in place with the need to think it all over and put it all in her head. "It's… it's wonderful!" Granger listened to herself and smiled, not wanting to clarify anything else.
Harry only chuckled mysteriously at this, not rushing to get his girlfriend off his foot. Moreover: he, out of habit acquired during the year and a half of their acquaintance, began to sort through Hermione's lush chestnut hair - which almost made her purr with pleasure, closing her eyes and enjoying the rolling sensations. From Harry's fingers massaging her head, from the blissful emptiness in her thoughts and from the noise, similar to the surf on the edge of consciousness - this was the Ocean of Souls swaying behind the thin curtain of reality...
Later, they were already discussing in a businesslike manner everything that Harry had managed to achieve.
"That's why I thought: Ginny has been acting suspiciously lately," Granger nodded to herself, thoughtfully biting her lower lip. "And what are you going to do with this… Horcrux?" she asked.
"I've already subdued one," Harry chuckled smugly, settling comfortably into an old, worn-out chair that he'd dragged into his lab from some abandoned office on the floor below.
- Another one? - Hermione's eyes widened, jumping up. But seeing Potter burst out laughing, amused by her astonishment, she frowned and tried to portray a businesslike tone: - So... There's more than one and you found another one?
- Exactly, - the boy nodded. - And I plan to enslave all the rest! The Dark Lord's soul particles have extremely fragmented and damaged memories, but they are still there. If only I could capture him himself... - Potter threw his head back dreamily. - All the scattered knowledge and skills of one of the greatest dark wizards of the century - and in my hands!
Hermione wanted to ask why this was necessary if there was a vast "library" of the Immaterium, but she stopped herself. Even a brief acquaintance with the Ocean of Souls was enough to understand: this is an interesting, incredible, but changeable and dangerous dimension! It gives a lot of knowledge, but, according to the well-known saying, also a lot of sorrow. You can draw knowledge and strength from there endlessly, constantly finding something new, and at the same time finding difficulties and problems.
So if there was even the slightest chance of gaining knowledge without risking her own soul in the warp, that was good. What's more, her friend was going to share it with her too!
"And your plans include little Weasley?" Hermione asked, listening slightly to something - she was catching echoes of the Immaterium, trying to calculate Potter's intentions and answers.
"As Smarty has probably already told you," Harry nodded, "Ginny is currently going through something of a probationary period. Just like Ron and Draco," he chuckled. "If she survives, she'll endure it - let's say she'll join her own company. No... well, what can you do?"
"You talk so casually about someone's death," the girl shrugged. "That... creature," she nodded at the ritual circle where a house elf had recently been brutally killed, "is a common magical evil spirit. But Ginny is a human! And your friends' sister," she cast a wary glance in Harry's direction.
"Hermione," Potter said, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking trustingly into her eyes. "Ginny is already in this mess. And she really doesn't have much of a choice: either survive and succeed, or fail. If you take the diary from her right now, what do you think you'll achieve?"
"Will the influence of the dark artifact fade and she will return to her previous state?" the girl asked, not very confidently.
"Maybe so," Potter shrugged. "Or maybe not. But even if so: is she really not worthy of such a chance?"
"A chance?" Granger frowned.
- A chance to prove yourself. A chance to rise higher, to become stronger and luckier, to gain recognition from people... and the Gods, - he flashed his green eyes slightly from under his brows. - When you find yourself on the edge of a cliff, - as if quoting someone, Harry recited, taking a step back, - do not be afraid - and jump! Only then will you understand whether you can fly.
Hermione nodded, liking that statement.
As usual, they had a lot of things to do! But now that Hermione had become a full-fledged assistant for Harry, he believed that it would be much easier.
It was worth figuring out where to put the second captive elf - or rather, the elf named Pinkie. And it was desirable to do this in the next couple of weeks: before the start of the all-European chess tournament, to which Snape would take their club - Harry was also a member, so the likelihood of him getting to this event was far from zero.
And it was absolutely necessary to come up with a list of victims and attack scenarios: with the calculation that Voldemort's spirit would simultaneously feed on the deaths of others, but at the same time not get too fat. Just enough so that he would more or less restore his knowledge, but would not become a problem during a fight.
At this point in the discussion, Hermione intervened:
"We'll have to be very careful with the attacks!" she explained. "If we overdo it, the entire Auror Office will descend upon us, and eventually the basilisk will be discovered and killed."
"Hmm," Harry thought. But after a few seconds he grinned. "Well, then we'll make do with victims outside of Hogwarts," he chuckled. "After all, Draco and Hagrid were discussing something like that - about the stubbornness of centaurs. If their kind start disappearing one after another, those horsemen will become much more accommodating!"
"But distraction attacks…" Granger frowned.
"They will too," Harry shook his head. "But we'll have to play it out so that there are no fatal outcomes. Can you handle it?" He looked questioningly at Hermione.
"If you mean the influence on little Weasley," she chuckled, twirling a lush lock of hair around her finger, "then yes, I'll handle it with flying colors. Only…"
"What?" Harry raised an eyebrow in a questioning gesture.
— I take it there is an exit from the Chamber of Secrets into the Forbidden Forest, since you are planning an attack on the centaurs?
"I think so," Potter shrugged. "Basilisk said so."
"But it won't turn out that," Granger narrowed her eyes slightly, "that, following the tracks of the missing centaurs, the pursuers will find this entrance?"
"Moreover," Harry grinned. "I'm really counting on it!"
Hogwarts. March 1992. Nymphadora Tonks.
— ...Actually, there are several specialized spells against grindylows, — said the girl with short hair changing color, sitting on the teacher's table and waving her hands amusingly. — But they are used either to guarantee the death of these creatures, or to catch them. In addition, they are quite difficult to master — they are used only in highly specialized professions. If you just need to fight back — it is easier to break these water devils' fingers! This completely neutralizes grindylows…
To be honest, Tonks liked teaching. And why does Severus get so annoyed with this activity? A crowd of funny kids who are ready to practically look into your mouth - just sing like a nightingale, tell and explain. A person who knows and loves his subject - like Snape - will definitely find something to teach the younger generation!
The girl didn't think about the fact that Tonks herself had recently been that same "younger generation". But about Snape - a lot and with pleasure!
For example, in the area of her thoughts on teaching, Tonks was very surprised by the fact that the Head of Slytherin hated his job. Could a person so brilliant that he could perfect almost any potion on intuition alone not be able to pass on his knowledge and skills to another? Why did this irritate him so much?
The lesson ended, Tonks handed out assignments to the students - in accordance with the recommendations of McGonagall and the same Snape - and stretched tiredly. Enjoyment of work is, of course, good. But sometimes even a favorite job was tiring.
What happened when Tonks was leaving the classroom, she later justified by fatigue. Well, and shadows. And a bunch of other things. However, as the girl suspected, her mentor, if he had witnessed this incident, would hardly have been satisfied with such excuses.
The thing is, when she actually left the DADA office, a cold, mocking voice came from the shadows, almost at arm's length:
- Miss Tonks.
"Oooo ...
The noise and swearing of the portraits hanging in that corridor was enchanting! Tonks stood and looked at the one who had frightened her with his sudden appearance - Severus Snape. She stood, extremely embarrassed by her fear and shrinking her shoulders after each new falling armor and scream of the portrait on the wall.
The helmet of the last suit of armor in the row rolled across the stone floor with a mournful ringing sound and froze. Tonks smiled sheepishly at Snape, who, with an ironic eyebrow raised, waited with a half-smile for this farce to end.
"Miss Tonks," the Potions Master said at last, his tone utterly mocking, "I thought that since you had left Hogwarts, smashing up school property had ceased to be a particularly desirable pastime for you, had it not?"
"He remembers everything," the girl thought, recalling many similar cases during her time as a student.
"Well, if you're done here," the potion maker said with the same sarcasm, "then perhaps it's worth doing some investigating?"
"Yes, of course," Tonks replied, pouting. Apparently, bloody Snape was enjoying making fun of her.
He just chuckled again and turned around dramatically, striding off down the corridor, apparently expecting Tonks to follow. Sighing, she did just that: she had no choice anyway.
"And… where are we going?" she asked uncertainly after about five minutes of following her involuntary partner in the investigation through the corridors.
"To the edge of the Forbidden Forest," Snape answered laconically.
"But…" Tonks said, even more surprised and uncertain, catching up with the man and trying to keep up with him. "Shouldn't we be looking for the most likely entrance to the Chamber of Secrets to catch the basilisk…"
"That's what we do," the potion maker replied in the same even voice, as if explaining obvious things to a small child. That is, mocking again!
"It's like you and the boss are in cahoots," Tonks scowled. "You even sound the same! Can't you explain everything?"
"Miss Tonks…" Snape sighed, but she interrupted him:
- I told you: you can address me in a simple way. Otherwise...
"Yes, yes, I remember: you feel like an old maid," the potion maker grinned in response. "I'll take that into account, Nymphadora ."
Tonks only hissed something furiously in response, immediately falling silent and deciding not to ask any more questions: everything would soon become clear anyway.
They found Hagrid at the edge of the forest: the half-giant was just talking to someone tall. It was hard to see who exactly: it was already late afternoon, so it was hard to see anything in the gathering twilight and in the shadow of the spreading fir trees.
But, having come closer, it was still impossible to see Hagrid's mysterious interlocutor: having noticed Snape and Tonks approaching, the stranger turned around and... galloped off into the forest along a snowy path. Tonks only managed to notice a white horse's rump, and nothing more.
"I see the centaurs have finally condescended to negotiate," Snape said in a cold voice, without any hint of mockery, approaching the forester.
- So... that's it. Yeah, - Hagrid answered sullenly. - Hello, Tonks! - he noticed the girl and smiled. After she also greeted the half-giant, he frowned again. - They're in trouble. A couple of weeks ago, they say, foals started disappearing. Of course, they stopped letting the kids go alone from the herd, and Bane immediately started looking for what was going on - but he found nothing, - he shook his head. - And so they sent Firenze to negotiate. They say that now two adult hunters have disappeared - and that's a completely different story!
"And now these… centaurs," Snape said through gritted teeth, no doubt meaning "idiots," as Tonks thought, "have only now decided to turn to wizards for help?"
"They're afraid of people. And they don't trust them," Hagrid shrugged. "Bane keeps saying that asking wizards for anything is like death! We barely managed to persuade him with Firenze - it's a nasty business..." he sighed sadly.
"I see," said the Potion Master, taking a step forward into the shadow of the Forbidden Forest. "I hope this Bane of yours will keep his word and not hinder us?"
"It won't," Hagrid shook his head. "They don't even go to that 'dangerous place' where that… well, whatever scared them comes from." He swallowed. "Professor, it can't be… well, the Slytherin Horror?"
"That's what we're going to find out, Rubeus," Snape replied dryly, shaking his head at Tonks. It was time to move.
As Tonks understood, Hagrid himself was not going to go with them - for unclear reasons. But Snape clearly knew where the "dangerous place" was and what the forester would be doing.
He strode briskly along the path trodden between the trees in the snow, waving his wand as he went, casually casting a warming charm on himself and—Tons sniffed indignantly—on her too.
Well, yes, she was a slob and didn't think to put them on herself - but you can't so... blatantly demonstrate to the girl her own absent-mindedness. And Snape didn't say a word about Mordred - but it felt like Tonks was put on display naked for everyone to see, she was so ashamed at that moment!
It was strange: at school she hadn't reacted so sharply to Snape's attacks on her clumsiness and other unflattering epithets, which he was a master at. But now she blushed not even from the words - from a fleeting gesture! Some kind of unhealthy reaction.
"Okay, Tonks, pull yourself together!" the girl hissed angrily to herself. "It's like you've missed Snape in the year since you've seen him. That's what I've been missing!"
Tonks shook her head, trying to push the stupid thoughts away and focus on something else.
"Why don't centaurs… well, like wizards?" she asked Snape, catching up and trying to get into the rhythm of his steps.
"Centaurs believe that people will twist any request for help so that the one asking will end up in bondage," the potion maker answered unexpectedly calmly. Maybe he, too, is bored of just walking silently? "In this regard, they really like to recall the history of the enslavement of house elves."
"Ah… I see," Tonks didn't want to look like an uneducated fool, so she held back the next question that was on the tip of her tongue – even though she really wanted to ask it.
But Snape seemed to read her mind!
"It's written right on your face that you have absolutely no idea what this story with the house elves is," he chuckled, returning to his recent sarcasm. "But don't worry," he shook his head, "almost no one knows. It's a very... sensitive topic."
"Will you tell me?" the girl asked cautiously.
"Are you interested?" Snape paused and raised one eyebrow.
"Well…" Tonks herself didn't know why she needed all this, but she still answered: "Yes!"
"Well," the Potions Master chuckled. "In that case, come over for tea sometime. Moody told you to keep an eye on me anyway."
"I didn't!..." the girl began to protest, but stopped herself. Because Mordred's Slytherin bat had hit the nail on the head again! "And how does he do it?" she muttered under her breath as Snape walked forward a little.
And then her eyebrows went up in surprise. Tonks only now realized that Snape (!) had invited (!!) her for tea (!!!).
Well, if she ever happens to meet her Hogwarts classmates, she'll have something to shock them with...
They walked on in silence, and after half an hour they came to the place Hagrid had mentioned. A wide ravine, surrounded by gnarled trees and bushes, filled with windfalls covered with snow - that's what appeared before them.
To Tonks's surprise, Snape immediately moved forward confidently, raising his wand with the burning Lumos on the end higher. With a wave, a rotten log lying at the edge of the ravine flew off to the side, revealing...
Passage. A round passage dug directly into the ground.
"It seemed like you knew where the entrance was beforehand," Tonks said in surprise, not having anything in particular in mind.
"That's because, Nymphadora ," Snape said, causing a new wave of indignation from the girl, "I, unlike you, am not in the clouds and try to use this," he tapped his finger on his head, "for its intended purpose."
But, looking at Tonks's frowning face, he sighed and condescended to explain:
"The basilisk - if that's what it is - is crawling out into the forest from the Hogwarts dungeons. Centaur foals disappear in the area of this ravine, and that edge of it," he pointed to the mouth of the passage, "is facing the castle. Elementary, Tonks!"
She didn't agree with this statement - at least, for her the location of the passage was far from obvious! But Tonks didn't argue: she had already managed to understand that, unlike her boss, who was not the most inclined to jokes, it was unrealistic to outsmart Snape.
They did not immediately climb into the discovered passage, deciding to return the next day with reinforcements.
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