August 1993. England, South Helens.
- Lord... I'm sorry, I... screwed up... - wheezed the bloody man lying on the couch - namely Danny White, the boss's main assistant, nicknamed the Dapper. He was given this nickname because, in imitation of his boss, he dressed deliberately expensively and flashily - but, unlike the Lord himself, absolutely tastelessly. True, now it was not so noticeable - mainly because his clothes were covered in blood. His, Danny's, blood.
"Take a rest, Dan," the Lord smiled tensely, looking at the pale, bloodless face of his most loyal and devoted man. "Will you have a smoke?"
Dan puts the cigarette Lord offers him into his mouth with trembling hands. But he doesn't light it - it falls onto the couch following Danny's last breath.
With a stony expression on his face, Lord straightened up and walked away from the cooling body of his "consigliere", approached the desk and, out of old habit, began drumming his fingers on the tabletop. This was his office: it was here that the mortally wounded Dapper was brought, at his own insistence, despite the persuasion of Donnie Six Pieces, as the gang's staff medic.
"Boss," one of the "bulls" who had gathered in the Lord's office at that moment finally decided to speak up. "Something needs to be done, boss…"
A heavy bronze paperweight flew past the speaker's head, missing him by a few centimeters, and crashed into the wall with a clang.
- They. Fuck. Killed. Danny! - Lord growled distinctly, causing the assembled to turn even paler in face. - Bastards! - He slammed his fist on the table.
After taking a few deep breaths, the mafia boss finally managed to calm himself down. He glanced at the cigarette lying on the couch next to the consigliere's body, picked it up with a deft movement and lit it.
He was silent for about five minutes, finally calming down. After all, it wasn't enough to be the strongest and most ferocious to make a gang of a couple hundred thugs obey you. If the boss could only get mad and raise his hands, then he would gradually begin to resemble not a boss, but an unbalanced hysteric who was tolerated only for a while.
The Lord understood this, unlike many, many gangster leaders. And therefore, despite everything, even now he managed to maintain clarity of thought, not allowing blind rage to take hold of him. Although, even without Danny's death, there were more than enough problems!
The blow to the Pakistanis did not have the effect Lord expected. Of course, the killed pushers and even one destroyed warehouse of "dope" dealt a tangible blow to Firuz and his business - but that's all. They failed to develop their success and gain a foothold on the outskirts of the capital, and this was not at all due to the fucking "blacks".
Everything, in fact, was simple and banal: police raids!
Lord simply chose the wrong time to start a war with Firuz. Because at the very moment when the shooting started in the immigrant slums, the mug of some particularly dangerous terrorist maniac with the idiotic name of Sirius Black, who had escaped from an unnamed closed prison and who was wanted by the entire police force of the Island together with the secret services, began to flash across all the channels and in all the newspapers!
So, if earlier the London police could ignore the showdowns of local mid-level bandits, which they and Firuz were, having already shown up for the debriefing, now the bobbies got involved in their war almost immediately, and immediately stuck their little hands right up to the elbows!
But the worst thing was that now this idiotic war had spread to his territory! South Helens was on fire, as if someone had deliberately set it on fire from all four ends.
"We got cornered near the dump, boss," a gunman from Danny's squad said about ten minutes later. "Bull" was wounded, but not fatally, and so he could tell us what had happened. "We were expecting reinforcements from Bob's guys who went to deal with those homeless cult members from the "garbage cult." But they never came. The dandy even gave the order to get out, when..." the bandit winced in pain, grimacing - at that very moment Donnie Six Pieces was stitching him up. "When one of those Pakistani monkeys fired a burst from an ultrasound - and Danny got what he deserved.
Bob. One of Lord's officers. A dull and not the most competent commander, but an amazingly strong and resilient fighter. Usually Lord gave him the simplest and most basic tasks. For example, clearing out the remains of the damn cultists from the dump - what could be simpler? After the death of their pissing reverend, they quieted down for a couple of months, but then again began to suspiciously rustle in the slums, luring new followers from among the regular clients of his pushers - and therefore Lord, who initially planned to forget about them, decided not to leave the insolent vagabonds in the rear.
In all fairness, of course, he should have knocked the crap out of this stinking rabble six months ago, when he finished off their leader Andy. But the efforts to unite the disparate small gangs of South Helens into a single fist to strike at Firouz, current affairs, and then the war itself, distracted his attention. Especially against the backdrop of the suddenly active bobbies, who brazenly got involved in gang squabbles!
Now, when the cultists began to appear on his territory again, the Lord decided that it was necessary to put an end to this matter: and therefore one of the combat groups, under the command of Bob, had to turn off on the way to the dump and cause a pogrom there.
Just a "drop-off" along the way, taking a short break from the main task - that's all! And now it turns out that for some reason this dumb "bull" was late in carrying out an elementary task - which is why Dan died. And fucking Bob will have to come up with a damn plausible excuse for this failure, otherwise the Lord himself will cut off his leg with a rusty saw!
"Boss," one of the "bulls" called to him half an hour later. "There… Bob's guys are back."
"What do you mean, 'Bob's guys'?" Lord squinted irritably. "Where is Bob himself?"
"I don't know, boss," the bandit was slightly embarrassed under his gaze. "Only Richie and Millan came back, no one else."
The Lord ordered them to be taken to the office immediately. At the same time, he suppressed the desire to curse with an effort of will. Had Bob really fallen into an ambush? How could the damned "blacks" have calculated the movement of his troops so accurately and prepared traps?! Betrayal again?
Rich and Millan were just the "bulls" in Bob's squad, the rank and file "meat." But Lord still tried to more or less remember the faces of his gang members, and keep track of their accomplishments and screw-ups, if any. These two were listed in his memory as the luckiest sons of bitches - in Bob's group, at least.
Only now they didn't look particularly "successful". Dirty, smeared in some foul-smelling muck, and covered in blood from head to toe.
But the most terrible thing is their eyes. Eyes in which horror is frozen!
When they told us what happened at that dump...
- Stop! What do you mean the "scavengers" had weapons?!" Lord shook one of the "bulls" by the collar. - What nonsense?! Where could they have gotten them from?!"
- Boss, I swear, that's how it was! - he stammered in fear in response. - Not only knives, rebars or sharpenings - but also pistols, and even UZI! I swear by the Virgin Mary!
The Lord thoughtfully let go of the "bull", recalling in passing that this Millan was Irish, and therefore a Catholic. As for the weapon...
They should have destroyed the fucking "garbage" sectarians at the very beginning. But they underestimated them, didn't put the squeeze on them! And now the shabby Pakistanis - who else? - armed these homeless people and threw them against his guys. Shit!
Outwardly remaining calm, the Lord sat down on a chair and continued the conversation:
"Okay, we'll deal with that later," he pursed his lips. "But why didn't you get out of there when you realized everything had gone to hell?!"
At that moment, the "bulls" sitting in front of him suddenly turned pale and looked at each other nervously. But then, apparently deciding that silence would cost them much more, they started talking…
...Already at the end of this damn shitty day, Lord was sitting in his office and drinking. Regular whiskey, no fancy frills, and no snacks - just puffing smoke from a cigar. There was a reason to get drunk: because the world, it seemed, had stood on its head and was happily kicking its legs up in the air, teasing him and driving him crazy.
Lord was not some kind of super-cool psychologist and could not read minds. But he could determine when a person was lying or not telling the whole story. And so he knew: the two "bulls" who miraculously escaped alive from that meat grinder at the dump were telling the truth! Or, at least, they believed what they were saying.
Although their stories were one more amazing than the other! What was the news worth that they saw Andy Thatchfield alive and well, leading his sectarians. And yet the Lord himself had smashed the bastard's head in, spilling his stinking brains all over the floor of this very office! But the guys swore by God that they had seen him.
Or the sudden appearance on the battlefield of the Devil himself in the form of a black-haired, slender guy with a long cleaver, with which he cut three seasoned fighters into pieces in a few seconds, and at the same time yelled something about blood and skulls! He cut up, perhaps, even more - but by that time Richie and Millan had managed to retreat.
It sounds like nonsense. All of it! But the two survivors weren't high or drunk - Lord knew how to determine that too, after all, the nature of his business obliged him to. So what really happened at that fucking dump?!
The whole situation smelled bad. Both figuratively and literally.
The lord twitched his nose, actually catching some kind of foul odor. Then he frowned and turned to the man in the leather apron, who stood frozen in the doorway.
"Donnie? What do you want?" the crime boss frowned, pouring himself another whiskey as if nothing had happened.
Six Pieces glanced sideways at the door, where the figure of one of the bandits who took turns on duty near the office loomed. Lord had established such a routine even before the war with the Pakistanis, and now God himself had ordered him to adhere to paranoid habits.
"Boss," Donnie smiled ingratiatingly and took a couple of steps forward. "I'm talking about our... situation. You do realize we're in deep shit, right, boss?"
The Lord frowned, fixing a heavy gaze on the Aesculapius. Of course, Donnie Six Pieces was one of those who had the right to say everything to his face - but to come at such a moment with such speeches...
"What you're going to tell me now must be something damn important and valuable - otherwise I'll twist your mug sideways," Lord said harshly and clearly. Not so much threatening as coldly informing his interlocutor that it wasn't "they" in the shit, but specifically he himself.
- Sure, boss, - Donnie smiled even more as if he hadn't noticed Lord's warning. Lord himself noted with surprise and slight disgust that their regular quack should brush his teeth better - his breath smelled like absolute garbage. - The situation is tense, this whole fucking war has gone a little beyond the scope of... what was planned, - he jerked his chin strangely. - And soon the cops might start taking us and the other gangs seriously! Have you considered the idea of finding allies?
"O'Hara and his thugs won't get involved in our conflict with Firuz - they won't get any benefit from winning," Lord finally joined the conversation. He suddenly became interested in what new thing Donnie, who never went above and beyond his duties, could offer. "Shalom went into hiding with the start of the raids on this Black - and the fucking Jew would hardly have gotten involved in the war without them, you see, he has a legal business!" He snorted sarcastically at this phrase.
A man nicknamed Shalom, or "Rebbe" Shalom, as this Jewish mafia boss from a neighboring town liked to call himself, actually owned a conditionally "legal" business: a chain of pubs… combined with bookmakers and dens. There you could drink, place a bet… and also pick up a girl or a boy and shoot up some kind of dope. And the "Rebbe" bought the dope from Lord – north of London, he offered the best combination of price and quality of goods, in the required quantities.
But despite their fruitful cooperation, Shalom would definitely not get involved in openly gangster showdowns. This Jew valued his image as a "respectable Jewish gentleman" very much, just as Lord valued his own role as an "aristocrat in exile". It was not for nothing that Shalom called himself "rebbe", hinting at his alleged spiritual rank – he tried to seem more righteous than he actually was. He was involved in charity work, restored the synagogue in Teddingale, financed schools…
But Lord was not deceived by this image, unlike the local Jewish community and other ordinary people. He knew that Shalom was the same "rebbe" as he himself was – a "nobleman". An ordinary mafioso, hiding behind imaginary "legality". And demonstratively not interfering in wars for territory.
And there were no other big players in the area. All the small gangs in South Helens, the local biker gangs and other riffraff, were either lying low or already on Lord's side. So what did Donnie have to offer?
"Oh, just turn our attention to those we underestimated, boss!" Six Pieces answered the question. He leaned forward slightly, looking penetratingly straight into the Lord's face. "Those who so easily chopped up both our guys and Firuz's bastards - you know they showed up at the dump too, right?"
- No... What?! You don't want to offer me to become friends with those piss-takers from the "garbage church"? - snorted Lord... but Donnie only smiled again.
- Exactly, boss! Moreover: Andy is not at all offended at you for that... expressive prank with the cane. The Lord commanded to forgive! That's why he forgave, and is even ready to talk, - the doctor grinned in a completely idiotic manner.
The Lord pulled himself together. In all fairness, he should have called the guards and tied up Donnie - the boss had already realized that he was the rat who had betrayed him! The familiar speeches about "the Lord", the idiotic proposals - the case was solved, as they say. When Six Pieces managed to get hooked on dope - or whatever the fucking Reverend Andy feeds his sectarians - it didn't matter anymore...
But as soon as he opened his mouth to call the "bulls" at the door to restrain the crazy farrier, he continued:
"Oh, boss, I almost forgot," Donnie chuckled. "I was tasked with demonstrating a few of God's miracles to you. To convince you of the seriousness of our proposal.
After that, to the Lord's amazement and disgust, Donnie opened his huge, stinking mouth, reaching all the way to his chest...
South Helens scrapyard. A few hours earlier. Potter.
— Die! Die!! Just die already!!! — the gangster, leaning against a pile of garbage, screamed hysterically, shooting at the bloody figure approaching him with eyes glowing with green fire. But the shots did no harm to the figure: with each hit, a translucent sphere flared up around it, from which the bullets bounced harmlessly.
At some point, the gun in the bandit's hands clicked, letting him know that the magazine was empty. Reflexively clicking a few more times, he stared in disbelief at the treacherous weapon. And the next moment, he turned his terrified gaze to the figure of that nightmare that was slowly approaching him.
"If you're done," said the nightmare, who had the appearance of a fifteen-year-old boy with long black hair, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light, and long, narrow fangs protruding from his mouth, "then be so kind as to give me your head. And your blood. And your soul, too!"
"N-no," the gangster sobbed in horror, putting his hands forward in a defensive gesture. "Oh, my God, no!"
The nightmare's hand shot forward, grabbing the man by the hair and forcing his chin up, exposing his throat. The other hand, holding a long, curved dagger, cut the gangster's head off his body with a smooth, unhurried motion.
After admiring his handiwork, Harry Potter - for it was he, of course - walked to the other end of the area between the piles of rubbish where everything had happened, and threw the severed head into a pile of others like it.
The bloody veil before my eyes and the howl of the Bully in my head, which had just been seething in my soul as a terrible and beautiful symphony of madness , were replaced by an itch in the back of my head and a strange apathy. But some kind of... contented apathy. As if after a long diet I had finally eaten my fill - I wanted to lie down and calmly digest what I had eaten.
"Amazing absorption of the Gifts of Chaos!" the voice of the Smart One was heard. Harry chuckled: no matter what happened, the Tzeentch daemon extracted some information from any situation, conducted tests and research. "Usually after the bloody madness induced by Khorne, it is very difficult to recover. It is like a hangover or any other addiction: without blood and battle, you become weak, irritable and sick. And to cure this state, you need to spill blood again and again ... But you, surprisingly, quickly quenched your thirst. To gain power without any special consequences - many servants of the Gods can only dream of such a thing!"
"I'm a unique person," Harry chuckled smugly, returning to his usual state. The anger had subsided, had moved into the background, along with the rest of his desires, emotions and aspirations.
"That's for sure ," Sweet Tooth said, a little grumpily. "Now if only I could eat something tasty… And sleep. We've had quite the workout!"
"You're a weakling and a sissy!" - Bully snorted almost peacefully. "That's right - we were just warming up! We missed so much meat, so much blood and trophies for the Throne! It was worth continuing the fun!"
"Let me remind you that this is the territory of the All-Merciful Nurgle ," Dobryak boomed discontentedly. "And we came to help His children fight off the attack, and not to collect trinkets in honor of the Great Executioner!"
"I'll show you the 'trinkets'! You!!..." the Khornit began again, but Harry interrupted him:
- Enough! We chopped up more than ten people, the rest were neutralized by Reverend Andy's guys. That's it, there's no one left to fight.
The bully muttered something incoherently about how "there's always someone to fight, you just have to look," but didn't continue the argument.
"The main thing is that in the process we were able to learn two very important things ," Smarty murmured contentedly. "First, the Ministry's supervision does not affect your wands. Second, the Protego shield holds pistol bullets very well!"
At these words, Potter reflexively put his left hand on his jeans pocket, where his wand made of puhutukawa wood rested - it was the one he used in the battle, covering himself with Protego from the gangsters' bullets. Of course, Dobryak assured that the Gifts of Nurgle would allow Harry to regenerate almost any wounds very quickly, but he didn't feel like testing it like that, in the field.
"By the way, these don't look like locals ," Sweet Tooth suddenly noticed a couple of heads in the general pile.
Harry looked at the faces of the gunmen he had killed, their eyes rolled back in their heads and their mouths gaping bloody. Two of them were indeed much darker than the rest of the dead, and the only ones with full black beards.
He frowned, remembering the fight. Indeed, in the heat of Khorne madness he hadn't paid much attention to it, but now, analyzing the actions of his opponents, he came to certain conclusions.
"They are not from the Lord's group," he nodded.
"Yes. Most likely, these are the same Pakistanis with whom Lord had a fight ," Smart Guy said thoughtfully. "We need to ask Andy who they captured there and analyze the situation. It might be useful."
Harry just shrugged. Having detached himself from the four voices a little, he opened his consciousness to the warp, listening to its whispers and immersing his mind in the agonizing waves…
Even though the battle that suddenly broke out in the dump had enraged him and forced him to adjust his initial plans somewhat, those same plans were still in force. What's more, they were worth expanding!
Harry suspected that Andy and his flock had already performed human sacrifices. Probably not as often as they would have liked, but they had performed them. So the captured bandits would probably be used in some capacity, too, making tomorrow's service that much more interesting.
"What seems at first glance to be an accident is not an accident, but only part of the Great Plan of my master, the Architect of Fates ," whispered Harry Smart. "And what seems to be an annoying hindrance or failure may turn out to be a much greater success than one could have imagined! By retreating, you are advancing. By losing, you win. One step back - two steps forward."
Harry chuckled, thinking that Hermione would have liked this reasoning.
"It's nice here, of course," Harry said suddenly, thoughtfully looking at Andy's cultists bustling about in their lair. "But something's missing. Everything's too… monotonous."
"Indeed ," the Smart Guy chuckled in response. "There aren't enough emanations from the other Gods."
"This is Nurgle's territory!" Dobryak shouted again. "There are no and should not be any other Gods here except Grandfather!"
"Nobody is going to take your pigsty away from you!" Sweet Tooth snorted contemptuously. "Our Smarty is just reminding us that Harry is a versatile boy. And the monotonous background in the form of your body-positive friends is starting to irritate him."
"I do enjoy the company of Andy, Snot, Barbara and the rest," Harry hastened to assure the Good Guy before he became seriously offended. "But the guys are right: we need to create a full-fledged sanctuary where the servants of all four Gods could feel at ease."
"In other words, to establish a normal base. With an altar, guards and followers who will open a passage to the warp with their faith and sacrifices and will maintain it. But at the same time, dedicated not only to one single deity," - Smart Guy deciphered the meaning of the conversation.
"But isn't that why we decided to buy the Princeton house?" the boy raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Not quite ," the Tzeentch chuckled. "Little Whinging is too small a town, almost a village. Decent, quiet… and under the watchful eye of wizards," he explained. "So Princeton Cottage will be our personal laboratory, so as not to stray too far from Privet Drive. But nothing more!"
"Well, yes, if you create a cult there, it will be too noticeable..." Harry thought.
The smart guy chuckled again. Despite the fact that Harry Potter was already much older than his peers in mind and partly in body, deep down he was still a thirteen-year-old boy. And therefore, even with the analytical mind and multi-layered consciousness granted by Tzeentch, he sometimes missed many things or treated them too frivolously. Although the latter, in many ways, was also a consequence of the influence of other Gods.
"Our goal is to get you to the top of the local food chain ," said Smarty. "You will take your rightful place in the world and bring the voice of the Gods to it! But focusing on any one aspect of Chaos will not lead to greatness ," he whispered ingratiatingly. "So after we visit the hospital and help Andy with the service, there are a few more preparations to make before school."
"Shall we visit our perverted cuties again?" Sweet Tooth giggled.
"Not only that," Harry chuckled, already approaching the "trash" church. "We have almost a week ahead of us, during which we need to do something. We'll have time to visit not only Megan and Helen, but also build some new bridges."
"Are you talking about the connections Andy made?" Dobryak asked warily.
"And about them too ," whispered Smart Guy. "But, in fact, this is just the beginning. The start! Andy, Megan, their friends and connections, will allow you to acquire your own connections. And we haven't even mentioned the wizards yet!"
"We'll think about wizards after Marge leaves the Dursleys' house," Harry spat. The mention of his "beloved" aunt briefly stirred up his anger, which had subsided. "Especially since we have the whole school year ahead of us for that."
They had to linger a little longer at the dump: as already mentioned, Andy's guys captured a couple of people from among the attackers. As Snot grumbled when Harry showed up at the temple, they would have captured many more, but "someone went crazy at the wrong time and turned dear guests into bloody mincemeat." The disgruntled Nurgling did not point a finger, but his condemning look made it clear where the demon's displeasure lay. Potter only shrugged: what he definitely would not do was regret what he had done.
There were four prisoners: three of Lord's guys and one Pakistani. And if the first ones are clear what they were doing here, then the second one...
- He mumbles something in their language, mentions his "Allah" every other word and calls himself some "shaitan". In general, he doesn't really make contact, - the Nurgling snorted irritably, looking with disdain at the tied up bandit, similar to those whom Harry had finished off: also dark-skinned, black-eyed and with the same black thick beard. He also looked at them, especially at Snot - only his gaze was full of undisguised horror! - Maybe you can somehow influence him?
"I'm not very good at reading minds. It requires subtlety..." Harry sighed... and then stopped.
He remembered why he tried not to pry into the thoughts of Hogwarts students: he was afraid that the more experienced Legilimens Dumbledore and Snape would notice. In order to hide mental interference, it was necessary to show miracles of this very subtlety. Harry could only roughly break into a person's mind, either crippling him or leaving such evidence that it would be a nightmare!
But in this particular case, everything was different. Who would think of digging into the memory of an uninteresting muggle migrant from the very bottom of society in search of traces of unauthorized mental influence? Especially since this muggle was very soon to end up on the altar of one of the Dark Gods, where he would give up his soul to this very God.
So Potter just hissed in annoyance: he could have thought of this earlier. Especially since, as it turned out, the Ministry's supervision did not apply to his wands.
Taking out his main wand from the cryptomeria, he carefully reproduced the gesture of the required spell and said:
— Legillimens!
It was different from how he penetrated thoughts through warp magic.
On the one hand, for the better: the penetration was almost painless and almost as fast. Although, this was more likely due to the fact that last time he was digging around in the head of the elf Dobby, who had a bunch of blocks and barriers in his mind, but with the mind of a simple Muggle there were no such difficulties.
On the other hand, the warp allowed not only to view memories, like Legilimency, but also to feel them, literally bathe in the mind of the victim, instantly finding the necessary segment and snatching the necessary facts. And if you strain yourself, you can even correct the memories of a weak mind with just a wave of your hand.
Of course, the latter was also possible with Legilimency. But, as Harry realized, no one who could do it at the proper level had appeared since the time of Grindelwald - it was too difficult an art for an ordinary person. Many people could see a bunch of changing images and try to redraw them with sheer willpower, especially by manipulating their own memory. But almost always it looked like a crude fake or a completely gray background with an unnatural voice accompaniment. But the warp...
Harry had long wanted to practice summoning small unborns. Not creatures on the level of Slaanesh's daemonettes or Khorne's bloodletters, not even Nurglings! Just thrashing, unformed souls, warped by malice and centuries of painful non-existence in the warp. These under-demons were perfect for inhabiting the minds of people sensitive to the Immaterium and correcting their minds and personality. The person slowly but surely changed his own memories, desires and emotions, feeding the unborn, limiting its personality with his own feelings and aspirations. And eventually, he grew a full-fledged daemon in his own soul.
But he could do it the same way he had done with Dobby: simply launch his own mental claws directly into the victim's very soul, merging with his personality for a moment, cutting out the necessary pieces or replacing them with others. This was perhaps easier and faster than the other methods.
Although, it was worth admitting that for the victim, the same Legilimency is as much safer than warp magic as it is less convenient. So after ten minutes of digging in the brain of a twitching Muggle, Harry felt an unpleasant migraine and at the same time - disappointment. After all, he would use mental techniques of classical magic last of all.
But he still managed to fish out the necessary information from among the pile of flashing memories.
"Nothing interesting," Potter shrugged, putting his wand away and letting the Muggle fall to the ground with a groan. "The Pakistanis have connections in South Helens: some small community of either Indians or their countrymen – and some of them work as pushers for the Lord and are aware of local developments. They monitor the movements of his troops and report to them," a nod towards the quietly whining Pakistani.
"Well, not much," Snot grumbled, smacking his lips. "But oh well. There's something to work with. And to offer the Lord..."
"Are you going to cooperate with the Lord?" Potter asked, not particularly surprised.
"And you're not going to?" the Nurgling answered a question with a sly grin.
"Well, I thought…" Harry hesitated a little.
"Well, while you're thinking, we're preparing the ground," snorted Snot. "Very soon it may turn out that there will be many more followers of Grandfather in this town - a good help, don't you think?"
"But it seems to me that this is hardly feasible," the Smart Guy chuckled.
"Yes, because that piece of rotten lard is a piece of crap, not a whole city!" Sweet Tooth also put in his two pence. "I have plans for him too!"
"From what we have learned of the Lord ," the Tzeentch snorted, " it is unlikely that this authority will easily succumb to the influence of Nurgle. At worst, he can be seduced by the power of the Undivided Chaos, but not by the Gifts of Rot and Despair."
"We'll see ," Dobryak muttered sullenly in the depths of his consciousness. He was still sulking at Harry and the others for being so unceremonious in their rule over the Nurglites' territory and, in addition, for putting him in his place.
"If Snot and Andy fail to recruit the Lord, you will, Harry ," Smarty grinned at the same time. "You really do have something to offer him!"
"By the way, Reverend," Harry suddenly turned to Andy, who was standing there. "Tomorrow's service is still on, right?"
"Of course, Angel," the priest smiled kindly. "But why do you ask?"
"I want to invite the Lord to it," the boy shook his head. "And yes: those three of his men that you took prisoner - do not touch! From now on, they are under my protection.
"As you say, Angel," Andy bowed his head slightly disappointed, and Snot grumbled discontentedly. But they still did not object. Seeing this, Potter grinned:
- Don't worry. If everything goes as I plan, soon Nurgle and the other Gods will receive much more than a measly trio of souls.
When he had already approached the edge of the dump and was about to throw on the invisibility cloak, the boy saw a pile of severed heads he had left behind. There were two of them: one here, the other a little closer to the dwelling of the "garbage" flock - in those places where he had entered into a fight with groups of bandits and exterminated them.
Something caught his attention, some almost invisible haze hovering above the pile of heads. Running his hand over the top head – previously belonging to a shaved, pale boy of about twenty – Harry felt a slight tingling on the pads of his fingers. And also – a crack in reality, pulsing there, like a jagged wound in the flesh of the universe!
"The Blood God's power is always great on the battlefield ," said Zabiyaka with an uncharacteristic dreaminess. "His temple is the battlefield, his service is slaughter and carnage! All these sacrifices are dedicated to Him, and He was pleased. But more is needed! Do you hear me, more! " he roared.
Harry didn't answer, as if fascinated, peering into the haze hovering above the pile of heads. It wasn't a full-fledged breach in the material world, after all - otherwise, hordes of demons would have rushed to the dump. What's more, even an entire sect led by Andy, with their daily services, couldn't summon anyone from the Immaterium other than the boy Snot, who had already appeared at the call. But if he were to come now...
"As we have already said, summoning demons of the level of Khorne's bloodletters is quite simple ," Smarty interrupted Potter's thoughts. "Moreover, if it is them, in reality they can maintain themselves for quite a long time. They will just attract attention... Should I continue?"
"No," Harry muttered sullenly and pulled his hand back as Ruffnut grumbled. He knew perfectly well how the thoughtless call for bloodletters would end: the massacre in South Helens and the collapse of most of his undertakings. "But one can dream, right?"
"Dreams - what could be more beautiful?" Smart Guy chuckled vaguely. "Andy and the others aren't fools, so they won't touch these totems. They'll disguise them so that the cops don't bother them, but nothing more. And then... someday, you see, they might come in handy."
Harry shrugged and, throwing on the invisibility cloak, set off at a measured jog towards the highway.
Summer 1993. England, London. Severus Snape and Nymphadora Tonks.
The café was small and Muggle-owned through and through. Not that Tonks cared – after all, her father was Muggle-born, and her grandparents were muggle-borns. So she felt equally at home in both worlds.
But to expect that the former Death Eater Snape would behave just as confidently in a Muggle café?! Another stereotype from school days crumbled right before Tonks' eyes!
However, he was dressed almost standardly for himself. Black pointed shoes, a black three-piece suit, even a black shirt and tie! In general, the most ordinary, "canonical" Snape.
The girl herself was dressed almost the same as usual. The same jeans and black top, laced boots and pink bob haircut. With a stabilizing spell cast so that, Merlin forbid, her hair color would not change under the influence of emotions in front of Muggles! Except that she decided not to wear the scarlet Auror robe this time: it would be strange to show off in the middle of a rather warm summer in a leather coat, under which she usually camouflaged the robe.
"You'll soon burn a hole in me with your gaze," Snape said in the meantime, not looking at the girl, holding a newspaper in one hand and stirring black coffee with the other. And yes: the newspaper was Muggle! "While we still have time, you can ask your probably very important and timely question," the potion maker added with his usual sarcasm.
- Well... - Tonks immediately buried her face in her ice cream socket. What should I tell him? - What do they write? - She couldn't find a smarter question.
"There's a war in Yugoslavia now," Snape said neutrally, not wanting to be sarcastic about the "importance" of the issue. "Muggles cutting each other up based on nationality and religion - nothing new."
- Um... - Tonks was again at a loss for words. Despite the fact that her relatives were Muggles, she did not go into such details of the events of the mundane world. - Well... they will probably be able to come to an agreement... sooner or later. It is unlikely that they will find their own immortal You-Know-Who to resume the war over and over again...
That's when she realized she'd said something incredibly stupid. Because Severus looked up from his newspaper and gave Tonks a look that seemed to indicate he was suddenly doubting her sanity.
"Tonks, I'm always surprised... Oh, never mind," he leaned back wearily in his chair. "After all, it's hard to expect an accurate understanding of human stupidity from a person who's never thought about such things."
"Er?" Tonks mumbled, not very intelligently. But Snape seemed to ignore the sound, suddenly asking:
- Tell me, Tonks, why was the conflict in Britain never resolved after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named died?
"Well…" the girl was embarrassed, but still tried to answer: "Because many of his followers remained alive. And he himself, as it turned out…"
- "As it turned out," Snape repeated mockingly. - But then, twelve years ago, no one knew this "as it turned out"! Everyone only knew that the Dark Lord was dead. But still there were those who continued the resistance - and continue to this day, despite all the losses. Why?
"And I'll tell you," Severus continued, not waiting for Tonks's answer. "Revenge. Revenge and the unwillingness to bend over backwards for those who caused these people so much pain."
- Pain? - Tonks' eyes widened. - The Death Eaters themselves unleashed this terror! And anyway!...
"There is no right or wrong in war, Tonks," Snape cut her off harshly. "Purebloods have ruled the wizarding world for centuries, increasingly suppressing the 'Muggle scum', as they contemptuously called anyone with 'dirty' blood in their veins. Given the closed nature of our community, this policy has ultimately turned it into a closed, seething cauldron. Purebloods have frozen in their perfect little world, resting on their laurels, while barely increasing – or even decreasing – in numbers. While Muggles have become more numerous, and therefore Muggle-born wizards too."
He took a graceful sip of the barely sweetened black coffee, the mere thought of which made Tonks's jaw ache. Inconveniently, she remembered the bitter thyme tea that Snape had served her at his home.
— But instead of reviewing their policies, showing flexibility, integrating all these people and once again ascending to the top of a new society, the purebloods stubbornly continued to bend their line. To maintain the status quo, — the Potions Master grimaced. — The Muggle-borns did not understand and did not want to understand why they were obliged to bend their backs to some arrogant degenerates only because they had more generations of wizards in their family! — he chuckled, as if remembering something funny. — The Muggle-borns, to whom no one bothered to explain or clarify anything — like, you are outsiders here, figure it out yourselves — shrugged their shoulders and simply... reshaped the world of magic for themselves, taking advantage of their numerical advantage. And one day, the purebloods of Europe woke up and discovered that with their policy of "we are in charge here simply because it has always been this way" they spectacularly fucked up all their positions!
Tonks couldn't help but snort with laughter. Snape, who was taking a dig at the wizarding community with his caustic and sarcastic tone - that was something!
- The purebloods took offense and tried to take back "their" world, "captured" by the insolent... mudbloods, - he winced, having pronounced the last word. - As a result, at the present moment in the history of the twentieth century we have one world war and at least one local war, in which, in essence, neither side won. The result: hatred, a bunch of mutual blood scores, paranoia and disunity.
"Wow," was all the girl could say. And then, with a gasp, she hurried to finish the ice cream that had begun to melt with a few movements of her spoon. "So it turns out... You yourself are now confirming that it was the Death Eaters who started the terror against Muggle-borns!"
"At first it was just the usual political squabbles," Snape chuckled. "But, as I said, the old families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, like the rest of the ancient purebloods, had no political program other than 'bringing everything back to the way it was.' So that everything would be 'homespun, like our great-grandfathers had,'" he snorted contemptuously, clearly parodying someone. "But considering that the 'great-grandfathers' in many parts of Britain up until the end of the 19th century still practiced the right of the first night with local Muggle-bloods, such an ideology was not understood by the general public."
"Yeah," Tonks swallowed, slightly taken aback, her eyes approaching the size of saucers. "They don't teach such details at school…"
- Professor Binns is too limited by the Ministry's censorship and his own passion for the Goblin Rebellions, - Snape commented evenly. - As for the war with You-Know-Who - it was an attempt by purebloods to regain their ancient privileges and rights. A stupid, clumsy, idiotic attempt! - Gritting his teeth, he bowed his head for a moment at this phrase, so that his black hair fell over his face. - Armed with the illusion of their own exceptionalism, the Death Eaters decided that they could easily overthrow the power of the "pro-Muggle" Ministry, and the remaining philistines would quickly bow their heads - after all, what can this cowardly plebs do against True Wizards? - the Potions Master quoted someone again, snorting once again.
Tonks no longer commented on his outpourings, carefully catching every word. Such facts and interpretations are not only heard in school - you won't even hear them in the Auror training room!
- And they were wrong, - Snape spat out tiredly. - And I along with them, - he smiled bitterly. - As a result, drunk with imaginary impunity, many young Death Eaters began to do... all sorts of things, - he winced. - Someone crippled someone's parents, someone raped someone's daughter - they thought it was self-evident. They thought that "mudbloods" should accept such an attitude towards them as a given - and even be glad that the "masters" condescended to them! But then they were answered. In the same manner.
Tonks almost stopped breathing: such details could not be learned, not even from her mentor Moody, let alone from the Auror Office!
"The purebloods were very, very surprised when the 'cowardly plebs' gathered in a crowd and burned down several manors - which at that time were considered impregnable for non-purebloods," Snape continued sullenly. "I think we'll skip the details of what the Muggle-bloods, enraged by the loss of their loved ones, did to the families of those they considered Death Eaters. But since then, the conflict has finally lost the possibility of being resolved peacefully. Revenge begets revenge, blood begets blood," Snape slightly closed his eyes. "Do you know the story of Frank and Alice Longbottom?" he suddenly asked Tonks.
"Well…" she didn't immediately join the conversation. "The crazy Bellatrix Lestrange, her husband, brother-in-law, and Barty Crouch Jr. who had joined them tortured them to the point of madness…"
"But a week before that, Longbottom and a couple of Muggle-born Aurors tortured Bellatrix herself in exactly the same way, trying to find out the location of Rabastan Lestrange and a couple of his accomplices. The problem was that Bella was two months pregnant at the time, and the torture caused a miscarriage," Snape commented indifferently.
Tonks gasped in horror.
- Merlin... So she... They... they were taking revenge on Frank for this?!
"Exactly," the Potions Master answered just as evenly, steepling his fingers in front of him. "Although, it's also worth considering why Frank did it. Before that unfortunate incident, Rabastan and a couple of his werewolves friends raped and brutally murdered Frank's Squib sister," Tonks gasped again. "And even earlier, there was a major purge of several werewolf communities, during which the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix used very, very inhumane spells… Should I continue?" he raised an eyebrow.
"This…" the girl swallowed, looking into space with a glassy gaze. "This is some kind of vicious bloody circle…"
"Exactly," Snape shrugged indifferently. "At some key moment, the two sides of the conflict locked horns and refused to give in or negotiate. And as a result, they moved from arguing and swearing to forcefully 'persuading' the opponent."
He took a sip of coffee and, while Tonks stared blankly at one point, trying to comprehend what he had heard, he rounded off his excursion into recent history:
- Purebloods could have tried to compromise, understand and accept the changes in the world, join it and start influencing it in their favor again. But they preferred to stubbornly dig into the ground and blame everything on the Muggle-borns who "steal magic." And the latter, instead of talking normally with words through their mouths - and again, as if Snape was parodying someone - declared everything old and "pureblood" Dark, and began to thoughtlessly destroy the world they came to. As a result... we have what we have, - he finished tiredly.
They sat in silence for a while, Tonks picking at an empty ice cream bowl with her spoon, Snape ordering more coffee from the waiter, who looked blank, the Muggle-repelling charms they had cast ahead of time.
Finally, Tonks died down. And the first thing she did was call the same waiter - she urgently needed another portion of ice cream!
"Well…" she began again while waiting for her order. "What do Muggles have to do with Yugoslavia then?"
Snape gave her another very strange look. At first there was a flash of genuine bewilderment, then mockery, and finally he answered condescendingly:
"And all the same," the potion maker shrugged. "Representatives of two different cultures: Christian and Muslim, have butted heads and are spinning the flywheel of mutual hatred time after time, unwilling to compromise and resolve the conflict peacefully."
He would have ended there, but seeing the lively curiosity in Tonks' eyes, Snape briefly expressed what he had originally meant:
"Once upon a time, the Balkans were ruled by the Ottomans and their Empire," he said reluctantly and dryly. "They brutally suppressed the non-Muslim population, committed horrific atrocities and committed genocide against entire nations. Then their power weakened and many territories were lost. And the Muslim population that remained in those territories found themselves alone with embittered Christians, who happily began to take it out on their former 'oppressors' – although these people in particular were hardly guilty of the Ottoman crimes. Now, when Yugoslavia is falling apart, history is repeating itself again, and again in the other direction: Muslim territories are breaking away from it, and the Christian minority living in them ends up at the mercy of the Muslim majority thirsting for 'vengeance'. And so it will continue over and over again: blood for blood, a tooth for a tooth. Both wizards and Muggles are still the same people." "And their cretinism always manifests itself in the same way," Snape waved his hand tiredly and somehow indifferently, burying his face in the newspaper again. He himself was no longer glad that he had started this long speech - because it looked as if he was trying to pour out his soul to Tonks.
But he regretted his "breakthrough" even more when several quiet claps of palms were heard near the table and a male voice said:
- Bravo, professor! I never expected that in our troubled times at least someone would share a rational view of the world.
The stranger spoke the last words already at the sight of two sticks. Which, however, did not bother him too much.
"How are you?..." Snape grinned angrily.
"Sneaked up on you?" the stranger finished the question for him. "Let's just say that when necessary, the Department of Mysteries can seriously surprise even mastodons of the level of the Dark Lord or Headmaster Dumbledore. What can we say about you and Miss Tonks?" he smiled thinly.
Snape looked at the uninvited stranger warily. Ordinary clothes, ordinary face... ordinary woolen cap. Which the stranger took off under his gaze, dispelling the gloom and becoming... slightly less ordinary.
"May I sit down?" the stranger raised his slightly reddish eyebrows on his elongated, purely English face and, without waiting for an invitation, immediately sat down on the empty chair. "Please forgive my impudence," he smiled thinly at the wary glances of Snape and Tonks, who had not even thought of lowering their wands. "Allow me to introduce myself: Al Pym, an agent of the Department of Mysteries. And part-time friend of Alastor Moody, so unfairly removed from service.
Snape relaxed a little, but still didn't put his wand away.
"We were expecting you a little later," he said dryly. If he was annoyed that with all his experience he had not noticed the creeping inexpressible, he did not show it.
"A professional habit," El Pim bowed his head slightly. "If you are expected, it is better to arrive early and be annoyed that you are being kept waiting than to listen to similar reproaches addressed to you."
"And those who are not expected, but who arrive on time, are also challenged to a duel," Tonks snorted.
- Are you familiar with Muggle folklore? - the agent smiled at the corners of his mouth. - Commendable. But let's get down to business, - he stopped smiling. - We have very, very little time. Moody has been suspended, all Ministry services are on alert and closely monitoring any suspicious activity. Therefore, I will warn you right away: the investigation started by Alastor will be very difficult to continue.
"And you won't help us?" Snape said half-affirmatively.
"I'll give you a tip," Pym pursed his lips. "Don't expect more. What's more: most likely, we'll never meet again. Do you agree to these terms?"
Snape and Tonks exchanged glances, as if communicating mentally, and then nodded in unison. Al Pym just chuckled at the coordination - given what he knew about the two, it was especially funny.
"Very well. Then let's get straight to business," he said, and pulled a rectangular canvas package out of thin air. "Careful!" he warned as Tonks instinctively reached out to him. "I advise you to handle this thing only with the utmost caution."
"A dark artifact?" the girl swallowed, jerking her hands away and staring at the bundle.
"Worse," Al Pym answered dryly. "It's an ancient goblin artifact. An object of their cult, something like a holy book. And one of those copies that you won't find on ordinary goblins!"
Snape made several passes with his wand, which caused his hands to become covered in some strange haze. And only then did he slightly open the cloth that was wrapped around... a prayer book?
"Is that leather?" Tonks frowned.
"Yes," the Department of Mysteries agent smiled strangely. "Goblin skin. And don't ask how and from whom it was taken - you'll ruin your appetite."
Tonks turned pale and almost moved away from the table, away from the creepy book. Snape only raised his wary gaze to Pym.
"And how will this help us in our investigation?" he asked tensely.
- What you are looking for is tied to the magic described here, - the Unspeakable nodded at the prayer book. - How, why, who and in what way - look for yourself. Neither I nor anyone else from the Department will give you more - we all walk under so many oaths that our meeting is a real miracle! Besides, Moody gave you the rest of the materials of his investigation, - he shrugged and began to get up from the table. Already putting on his cap with the haze, Al Pym said: - And yes, Mr. Snape, I'm glad we were not mistaken about you.
"You're not mistaken?" Severus squinted suspiciously in response, looking at Pym.
"In assessing your intelligence and convictions," he smiled in response. "Where others are guided by empty slogans, follow the lead of rigid ideologies and religions, it is rare to find someone who tries to reason sensibly. When all this is over," the unspeakable waved his hand vaguely, "and if you are still alive by then, consider working for the Department of Mysteries."
With these words, Al Pym slipped silently out of the cafe and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Snape and Tonks alone with the strange and sinister book.
Having already packed the terrible prayer book into a bag with an extended space - deeper, so to speak - they paid and left the café.
"So, where to now?" Tonks asked as if nothing had happened, grabbing Severus by the arm, causing him to turn his astonished gaze to her.
"Now?" he asked again.
"Well, yes, now," she nodded, holding back a smile. "It's terribly suspicious: we met, sat in a café, met a mysterious wizard, and then went our separate ways. Anyone who might have noticed us would suspect something was wrong…"
"And what do you propose?" Snape hissed, already guessing with horror what his involuntary partner would propose.
"Let's pretend this is a proper date!" Tonks exclaimed enthusiastically, pulling the Potions Master along the street.
He didn't resist. Although he could have: after all, the theory about mysterious observers and their conclusions was far-fetched! But... he didn't.
Severus suddenly realized that he would not mind "pretending" to be on a date: walking around London, going into a couple of shops, just gawking at the Muggles. For once he had some free time away from everything that had been weighing on him all these years: from Dumbledore's multi-move schemes, from his hateful work, from keeping an eye on Mordred's Potter, finally! And he didn't want to waste this time even on his small studies – on what he had found an outlet in before.
And so, with a resigned sigh, he offered Tonks his elbow and they walked away down the pavement. Today, for once, he would truly rest.
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