Autumn 1993. Hogsmeade, the Boar's Head Inn.
- You're nuts. Seriously - two fucking crazy squibs! - Sirius Black shook his head and laughed a little hysterically, rocking back and forth in the chair in the room Andrey and Sam had rented in the local dive. - Mordred and Morgana! There are posters of me on every corner - and you and I just show up at the Hog's Head and rent a room. Well, at least I'll get fat and drunk before the execution, ha-ha! - he burst out laughing again and took a swig of whiskey.
"If you continue to laugh so madly and talk too much, you really could end up on the scaffold," Sam Dillinger responded melancholically, who just happened to be the one guarding either a prisoner or an ally.
"I've never understood Russians," Black shook his head. Despite the fact that he didn't seem to respond to the American's remark, Sirius lowered his tone. And he began to speak a little more seriously, without smirks and certainly not laughter. "This Dolokhov, that one ," he meant Antonin, who was sitting in Azkaban, "and all those I've seen besides that family are very strange guys! But the Dolokhovs, of course, stand out even against the general background.
He took another sip of alcohol and continued, taking advantage of Sam's silence:
- Your friend understands that the only result of his brother's release from Azkaban will be Antonin's attempt to erase the "mudblood" that defiles his noble family name? - he asked. - The Death Eaters are rare assholes anyway, and Antonin, with his long-standing family hatred, is a maniac like no other! He has a real complex about killing mudbloods, and in the most painful way possible. What will he do when he finds out that a Squib was born into his family... I can't even imagine!
"Well, Andrey wasn't killed at birth," the black agent shrugged. "That means there's a chance he'll find a common language with his brother."
"Maybe so," Black shrugged in response. "But somehow I doubt it."
He constantly stroked his perfectly shaven chin with his fingers and ruffled the short hedgehog of black hair on his head with some mistrust - the first thing two Squibs made him do was wash himself, and then shave his face completely and cut off his long hair. And "cut off" did not mean "trim it so that it all went down to the middle of the neck", but cut it off! They would have made him shave his head, but then Sirius reared up: disguise is disguise, but he absolutely did not want to be fooled and flash his fresh bald head!
However, even so, he could now be recognized only with great, great difficulty! Because he had been wearing a beard and moustache ever since they began to grow fully, and he had been proud of his long, thick hair since his second year. So only a skilled physiognomist could immediately recognize him as Sirius Black.
On the one hand, he felt sorry for his hair - after all, it was his pride, one of his "things," as the Muggles said. But considering the dirty tangles it had turned into after so many years in prison, it really was easier to cut it off and grow a new mane than to clean out this one.
The second argument "for" updating his image was his absolutely incredible transformation! Only Muggles - or squibs like that, who grew up among simpletons - could come up with the idea of simply radically changing their hairstyle and shaving for the sake of disguise. Because Sirius, who himself worked in the Auror Office for some time, knew perfectly well that his former colleagues would first and foremost expect him to try to magically change his appearance. Polyjuice potion, some elements of metamorphism, anything - but not such methods! Completely logical and self-evident, if you think about it - but never, NEVER coming to the minds of wizards.
So his statement about the madness of the idea of showing up at the Hog's Head came more from shock and amazement at such an elementary solution to his problem. After all, he himself was a pure-blooded wizard who only occasionally interacted with Muggles, and therefore instinctively looked for all the answers primarily in magic. But sometimes no magic can replace true magic ! Magic that lies in ingenuity, audacity and sleight of hand.
"So, how are you here?" asked Dolokhov, who entered the room, looking very unusual in the long-skirted cloak-mantle he had bought right there in Hogsmeade.
"Okay," Sam smiled with white teeth. "Mr. Black is surprised by our recklessness and the idiocy of our plans to rescue your brother."
- Ah, so the plan to infiltrate a closed magic school, surrounded by a pack of infernal creatures that are hunting for him, doesn't seem idiotic to Mr. Black? - Andrey chuckled in turn.
- Oh, you've pecked me to death, the wits! - Sirius grimaced sourly. - I've already told you ten times: I know a bunch of secret passages that even the headmaster doesn't know about. Getting behind the castle walls is a piece of cake! And then there are a whole bunch of options.
"Our questions are not so much about the methods of infiltrating Hogwarts," Dolokhov crossed his arms over his chest. "But about the necessity of this infiltration. You, of course, want to get to your old friend…"
"That rat is not my 'friend'!" Black immediately grinned furiously, which made him look like his poster image again: an evil psychopath with a dog-like grin. But he quickly pulled himself together under the concentrated gazes of his 'comrades'. "I already told you: that bastard betrayed my friends. Pettigrew gave James and Lily to the Dark Lord!"
The two agents had already heard the story of Sirius Black's friends. And, to be honest, they didn't really believe in its veracity. A couple of former schoolchildren become so interesting to the local Dark Lord with the habits of a psychopathic maniac that he declared a hunt for them and personally came to kill them? What nonsense! Although, given the rumors about the mental health of this self-proclaimed "Lord", he could have imagined something like that - he was a psycho! And the cunningly twisted morals of wizards should not be discounted - but according to ordinary human logic, this whole story looked damn strange.
However, neither Andrey nor, especially, Sam, were keen to discuss this topic. They did not want to get involved in the wizards' affairs any deeper than they already were, and certainly not get involved in their squabbles. But they did have a couple of ideas.
A setup. The wizarding secret services, having despaired of eliminating the dangerous arch-terrorist in an open confrontation, decided to set up an ambush and catch the bastard with bait. The hapless Potter family turned out to be the "bait".
And everything was just like during a model secret operation: a carefully guarded target, carefully leaked information, a slammed trap... Why they really exposed the Potters to such a real blow is unclear. But it was much more convenient to write off such inconsistencies to the same magical quirks. Who knows what kind of magical nuances there were? As already said: the two squibs were not eager to delve into all this.
- And yet, - Andrey gently brought the conversation back to a constructive channel. - What is the practical meaning of capturing Pettigrew? What do you want to prove? Your innocence? I doubt that even if you publicly expose him, anything will change. Just look into his eyes, understand - why?
- And what is the practical point of rescuing your brother, eh, Dolokhov ? - Sirius deliberately emphasized the Russian's name and grinned crookedly in his face, leaning forward from a sitting position, resting his elbows on his knees. Under this gaze, Andrei frowned, but did not turn away. - You also started this whole crazy adventure with penetrating our world only to look your relatives in the eyes! To ask - why are they doing this to you? Isn't that so?
Dolokhov didn't answer. He just closed his eyes for a moment and changed the subject:
- By the way, there's been a strange bustle in the pub on the first floor this morning. About fifteen people, all in strange clothes - strange even for wizards! - he clarified. - Noisy, cheerful, of both sexes. It seems like they're planning a raid on this Forbidden Forest of yours. Not for your soul by any chance? - he raised an eyebrow, looking questioningly at Black.
"I'm not sure," he frowned. "What do they look like?"
— If I didn't know for sure that they were wizards, I would say that they were dressed in raincoats with protective camouflage. They were armed — well, in addition to wands — with all sorts of stabbing and cutting ammunition, some had crossbows...
"They look like scavengers," Sirius nodded understandingly. "At least, that's the kind of gear that professional Irregulars usually wear when they raid places like the forest around Hogwarts."
"Irregulars?" Sam asked.
"If regular Auror units or the Department of Mysteries are going on a raid, then the equipment is much more serious. And not everyone will understand that they have it at all," Black snorted, leaning back in his chair and taking another swig of whiskey. "So, to answer your question: no, it's not for me. These guys are clearly going 'for mushrooms,'" he smiled. But, seeing another silent question in the eyes of his interlocutors, he explained: "They're going for ingredients. Apparently, while I was sitting in Azkaban, the Ministry finally revised its policy regarding the Forbidden Forest and allowed such a trip."
"Is this some kind of special reserve?" the American chuckled in surprise.
- Well, a certain piece of forest is officially considered the centaurs' domain, - Sirius shrugged. And yawned: he was clearly not very interested in the topic raised. - The rest - most of it - is formally empty. But in reality - it's too dangerous, too obvious to Muggles, too many problems with those same centaurs... The last two points can even be combined.
Sam and Andrey looked at each other in bewilderment. Sirius, seeing this, again launched into an explanation:
- In case of any interference or invasion of their territory, the centaurs seriously threaten to establish a Great Embassy in London, in the Ministry of Magic. And they can't do magic and are not able to hide from simpletons! - Black saluted with his glass. - And now imagine a herd of horsemen with horsetails, in bright blankets, trumpeting into bronze trumpets, galloping along some Muggle highway from Scotland to England! - Sirius couldn't help but laugh, seeing the frankly elongated faces of his interlocutors. - Now that's a threat for you.
"And your government just... tolerates them?" Sam asked carefully, seeing that Andrei was still "hanging", thinking over the information he had received. "This is a global threat not only to the British Ministry - it is a threat to your entire vaunted Statute of Secrecy," Sirius had told them about the latter as well.
"Guys, I'm not an expert in all this political nonsense," Black slumped in his chair, tired (probably from the weight of universal problems, not from the booze). "Ask Dumbledore... or You-Know-Who, if he can be resurrected. They'll throw so many of these... what are they called... aces on this topic that you'll understand everything right away!"
- Theses. Not aces, - Andrey corrected the drunk wizard, but in a low voice. He clearly did not strive for precision of wording now, and already understood what Sirius Black meant.
"Of course, if it weren't for me, the raid would have been cooler," Black snorted meanwhile. "We would have gathered about a hundred people for sure! There are more than enough people willing to go in Lyutny..."
"Do you think they're that afraid of you?" Sam chuckled.
"More likely those creatures that fly over the forest," Andrey answered instead of Sirius, frowning at the window, where the dark green massif of the Forbidden Forest was visible. "I'm even surprised that anyone would dare to climb there at such a time."
"They'll probably scare the Dementors away from the Gatherers somehow," the wizard said hoarsely. "These guys definitely have a cool sponsor – such enterprises are not just started. And where there's a sponsor, there are connections in the Ministry, and quite a few! Somehow they got Fudge to give the go-ahead – that means they were able to agree on the amulet against the Dementors. Besides, Hagrid will probably go with them as a guide, and he knows a bunch of secret paths and secrets of the Forbidden Forest! If they don't yawn, they won't get lost."
"Who is Hagrid?" Andrey asked, still looking out the window, as if absentmindedly.
"The school forester," Black shrugged. "A half-giant. Not a bad guy, although a bit carried away. Likes animals," he snorted.
"I see," Dolokhov nodded feigned indifference, although he was catching every word of his interlocutor.
In fact, he saw this Hagrid - a huge fellow! Andrey understood at the first meeting that the forester was not just a man, and now it became completely clear: a half-giant.
Out of old habit, Dolokhov analyzed all the people he met, studied their connections and mutual relationships, building a picture of the world around him. Not like most people do, but like an experienced KGB agent. That is: with the aim of using every, even the most insignificant fact for his own purposes.
Andrey glanced sideways at Sam, who was sitting in the opposite corner. He was the one who was most perplexed in their company! Dillinger did not understand, and could not understand, how his friend - always a practical professional Andrey Dolokhov - could get involved in such a poorly thought-out adventure with minimal chances of success. After all, it was nonsense, complete nonsense: breaking into a super-guarded magical prison to free one single prisoner! Who, moreover, as it turned out, would not be happy with his liberators.
Dolokhov himself, hand on heart, did not always understand himself either. But he felt that he had to act this way and not otherwise! This was how his and Sam's ability to see , that same vaunted intuition, sometimes manifested itself. And, as has already been said, they were used to trusting intuition.
At one point, however, Andrey almost gave in to despair and gave up - that was when they finally caught Black and he told them the circumstances of his escape. Repeating something like that again was simply unrealistic! Not now, at least.
Because for the most part it was pure luck.
No, of course, the fact that he possessed an animagus also played a significant role: after all, Sirius's psyche had not been so ravaged by the influence of the dementors over all these years, and even though he was large, he could still crawl through places where a human could not. But the only openings in the cells were barred windows in the outer walls and doors, the doors themselves were made of heavy oak, covered with steel strips. And they were opened only for the rare cleaning of latrines and the removal of corpses. The dementors also rarely condescended to close contact with the prisoners: they preferred to suck out emotions through the same windows. But there were exceptions...
In fact, as Dolokhov understood, the notorious Dementor's Kiss, sucking out a person's soul, almost completely repeated the effect of their usual long-term exposure. Many Azkaban prisoners, according to Sirius, after several years in the company of these creatures, were no different from the victims of the Kiss. The same execution, only stretched out in time.
So no one, neither the wizarding jailers nor the Ministry, paid much attention if one of the criminals imprisoned on the upper levels finally turned into a drooling, soulless vegetable. Who could prove that he had not gradually become "empty" himself, but had been deliberately sucked out by a Dementor? No one.
But for their rare "pranks" the dementors did not choose everyone. Only those who were themselves approaching the threshold, the state of a vegetable. They felt it perfectly!
So Sirius simply improvised and, on pure adrenaline, broke free!
Of course, it sounds crazy: to fake the fading of emotions, wait for some Dementor to take an interest in him, open the chamber, approach... and recoil, burned by a flash of bright light! An unformed wandless Patronus, made of pure emotion - according to Sirius, he never tried to repeat it even once. At that moment, he simply wanted to get out so much that even this was within his power!
And while the creature was rushing around the cell in pain, he had already turned into a dog and jumped out into the corridor. Finding a wide enough window and jumping out of it into the embrace of the cold North Sea was a matter of technique.
Dolokhov also thought up another point in this whole story: everything worked out, among other things, because the guards relaxed. As Black said, it happened right after a visit from a high-ranking official — that is, Minister Fudge himself. The intense preparation for an inspection "from above," licking the corridors and cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush — a familiar picture. But after such a visit, a "kickback" inevitably follows — the guards, exhausted by the preparation and anticipation of the inspection, suddenly relax and work half-heartedly for several days. That's why Black slipped out of prison so easily after leaving his cell.
One way or another, now the guards there have probably tightened the screws as much as they can, leaving not a single crack, not even a single ghost of a hope of escape! No chance.
At that moment, when Andrei realized this, he almost really gave up. And really: what can two squibs and a runaway wizard without a wand do against the full-fledged punitive-bureaucratic machine of the Ministry of Magic? At first glance - nothing. But that's the point, that only at first!
Of course, neither then nor now did he have any ideas about what was there "at second glance". But the very fact that he almost gave up enraged him beyond belief!
The blood boiled with anticipation of the War! And Andrei Dolokhov was not going to give it up just because something went wrong at the very beginning.
He himself did not understand how he found himself back on the street at the entrance to the Boar's Head. Rapid breathing, clenching fists and a wildly pounding heart. An enraged growl was ready to burst from his throat. What was wrong with him?!
Exhaling slowly, Andrey spent a couple more minutes, closing his eyes, doing special breathing exercises - to calm the anger that had flared up. Anger at himself.
It was strange. Unusual. Wrong! He was never particularly angry and was generally a rather detached person from emotions: it was not for nothing that they called him Iceberg behind his back. More precisely, he did experience emotions - he was not a robot after all - but everything seemed to be... through a filter. At any moment, he could put a leash on his emotions and tame them - and he was rightfully proud of his self-control.
And now, when they had gotten into this magical snake pit, when control of their own feelings was needed more than ever, he began to experience incomprehensible "swings", from almost complete despair to all-consuming rage! This could not help but be alarming.
However, it was unlikely that anyone could help here. Not from among their familiar wizards: Sirius Black and Mundungus Fletcher were hardly great mentalists capable of calculating someone else's influence on the brain. All that was left was to hope for the same intuition, their own skills and... luck, probably. Nothing else.
Speaking of Fletcher, they were supposed to meet in a few hours on the outskirts of the village, near a strange place called the Shrieking Shack. The slippery swindler wouldn't dare to kick, of course: after what the two Squibs had demonstrated, he seriously believed that some influential wizards were behind them. But insurance wouldn't hurt anyway.
Andrey sighed. He needed more people. Recruitment had never been his strong point, but he knew how to do it – just like Sam. The question remained, who to recruit here? How justified was it? How safe was it? For the last ten years, he had participated in almost all the spy wars of the final Cold War, where magic was present in one way or another – but never, not once until now had he gotten involved in the magical world itself directly! And therefore, although he had specific experience, he could not consider himself an expert in magical society.
On the one hand, the wizarding world beckoned with its kind of virginity . A certain naivety, a dark fairy tale, not ready for professional killers - not epic "dark lords" and mythical monsters - but professional killers to invade it. After all, people who have lived in isolation for centuries and relied on magic in everything seem so vulnerable! It would never occur to them that an ordinary person, even an ordinary wizard, who had never touched the Dark Arts, and in principle did not think about anything more than a clerk's position in a backwater department of the Ministry, is quite capable of suddenly finishing off his office neighbor. Or the Minister himself - and with an ordinary fountain pen or tie. The main thing is the right motivation! And people like Dolokhov and Dillinger knew how to motivate perfectly.
But on the other hand, the magical world was frightening and alarming, not allowing a single step to be taken without a thorough check of that very step. Who knows what someone might see, sense, read in the head of a squib who was unable to protect his consciousness? Andrey suspected that all the developments of the KGB and the CIA in terms of protecting the minds of their agents were a complete dud compared to the power of such monsters as Albus Dumbledore or Lord Voldemort. And any other mage-mentalist...
...Or a werewolf.
Apparently, his intuition worked again, because Andrey managed to turn sharply into the gap between the houses, without letting anyone discover him. The crowds of schoolchildren filling the streets became additional cover, and a second later he had already come out onto a parallel street and disappeared into the crowd.
And all because he noticed how one of the Hogwarts teachers, who was on duty on the streets of Hogsmeade to make sure that the students didn't do anything reprehensible, suddenly jerked his head in his direction and sniffed.
The realization that it was Remus Lupin, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and a werewolf, came later. According to rumors that were hanging around the village, and according to Sirius, the two squibs roughly knew the current teaching staff of the school. And Black had even once been friends with this Lupin, so he knew very well about the "furry problem," as he put it.
Andrey, in the course of his work, encountered werewolves - those of them that those guys , as the Americans call wizards, had missed. Most often, they turned out to be ordinary people who were bitten during the full moon. But werewolves still caused a huge number of problems! Particularly nasty was the impossibility of hunting them with firearms - the creatures could smell gunpowder and gun oil from a hundred meters away, so either use a sniper rifle or look for an alternative.
Dolokhov's cheek twitched in annoyance: the idea of carrying a pistol around no longer seemed so good. But not taking it was also not very smart. Some kind of vicious circle...
Of course, this Lupin was not in his wolf form now, he did not have such a keen sense of smell. Besides, they were in the middle of the street, in a crowd, and the wolf could not understand who was giving off the strange smell. But he had to be three times more careful.
Almost reaching the edge of the village, along the path that led to the Shrieking Shack, Andrei looked up and cursed again. Because for a moment his gaze met the black eyes of another professor on duty - Severus Snape! A barely noticeable prick in his brain, a shadow of surprise on Snape's face - and the contact was broken. Andrei hurried away, and the Potions professor frowned as he left...
...But then Snape shook his head and threw unnecessary thoughts out of his head - it would soon start to crack from the excessive load anyway! Something strange that flashed in the superficial thoughts of the unfamiliar big guy with a square chin was too murky and unformed to think about it - for a clear reading of thoughts, long contact, concentration and, preferably, a verbal form of a spell were needed. So, it was difficult to read at a glance, especially in such a crowd. And so the number of strangers and dark personalities in the village had increased, thanks to Malfoy! Reading everyone, looking for oddities - a lifetime would not be enough.
And yet something still bothered Severus. Not the stranger's thoughts, no. Something in his face…
Something familiar.
November 1993. Hogwarts.
"A countless army was gathering like black clouds.
The bronze-snouted boar thirsts for gold and blood!
The choice is: either slavery or an honorable death -
We are not given a third option. The sun has frozen in the sky.
From underground a roar and flame rises,
The forges roar and blood stains the altars!
The cave people raised their black banner -
And in front of their ranks a scarlet demon walks…"
The ancient ballad from the 7th-8th century was cumbersome and long, describing almost every single participant in those events, interspersed with florid digressions and allegories. At least it was a translation, not the original text: even with Harry's abilities, he had absolutely no desire to wade through the thickets of Gaelic or Old English!
And so - it was a completely stunning story in its authenticity, absolutely unlike what they were fed in ministry textbooks or in everyday life! The world, then not yet divided into the ordinary and the magical, appeared in its harsh and gloomy grandeur, filled with magic and the clanging of swords, heroism and betrayal, legends and everyday life!
The Ministry's propaganda ploys looked particularly pathetic against this backdrop. It was becoming increasingly clear to Harry why Professor Binns had despaired of regaining interest in his discipline even in life, and even more so after his death.
The first thing any propaganda does is rewrite history. And in most cases it does it in such a way that history becomes a cardboard cutout, where there is no place for history itself. All that remains are tales of varying degrees of crookedness about "our highly moral, unbending, heroic, invincible" and "our corrupt, evil, cowardly, vile, insidious NOT-ours." For a normal person to read such things, and even more so to believe in them, is boring at best. Harry treated the Ministry's propaganda with a fair amount of disgust!
The Ballad of Aelric Goldgryff - or Eric Gryffindor, as he was later renamed - and the Battle of Blackrock Mountain was truly a heroic epic! It seemed unfair to Harry that the great commander, the mighty wizard and the leader who decided the fate of entire kingdoms was almost forgotten. While his descendant, Godric Gryffindor, only founded a school of magic, but is still one of the most famous historical figures. But such is human memory.
Although, Harry was not very fair to the founder of his faculty: in addition to founding the school, he was famous for many deeds, including on the battlefield, like his glorious ancestor. But it still seemed unfair.
And yes: when Harry first saw an engraving of the same Godric Gryffindor, made during his lifetime, he snorted in indignation: the picture in the official textbook was as different from it as night and day!
"In fact, it is a characteristic of most people to interpret events and people of the past according to the usual modern picture of the world ," the Smart Guy philosophically "shrugged his shoulders. " "In the Middle Ages, many could not even imagine that the legendary Romans, whom they learned about from old books and scrolls, washed in baths almost every day. Or fought mainly on foot - and war was not a privilege of the nobility, but was waged by professional armies! There are plenty of such examples."
"It doesn't even occur to wizards that Godric Gryffindor could wear armor, fight with a sword and spear, and strike down enemies in a mounted knightly skirmish," Harry chuckled to himself as he turned the page. "He's portrayed as some kind of weakling in a robe, but he was a real giant with a wild mane of hair, in chain mail and armor."
"Muggles also like to apply modern concepts and moral principles to their ancestors ," Slastyona chuckled. "The same example of slavery or "human rights" - the first was self-evident in ancient times, it was not even considered something special. And the second, on the contrary, would only cause a puzzled shrug - what rights can a slave or a peasant have? But for some reason, modern hysterics are increasingly trying to denigrate the deeds of the heroes of the past only on the basis that they were slave owners! Nonsense," he snorted at the end.
"People have come a long and difficult way, their worldview and moral principles have undergone many changes ," the Smart Guy reasoned slowly. "The world is changing: every day, every hour! The question is, can you keep up with it… or even get ahead of it? After all, only then will you be able to reshape it according to your will, without looking back at others."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. There was something in the Smart Guy's words - something inspiring! Of course, he understood little about modern political or social realities: first, he was too young and cut off from normal society, and then he simply had no interest in it.
No, they were told a lot at school about the political structure of most developed countries - democracy. At its core is the right of the people to decide for themselves what and how to do, without looking back at tyrants who forcefully wrest a privileged position in society for themselves, giving nothing to this society in return. And then - about the God-blessed queen, who in her wisdom was able to understand the trend of history and do so in order to give the people the rights due to them, and keep her dynasty on the throne...
Harry never understood the last statement. What their teachers in elementary school preached to them about patriotism, loyalty to the Motherland and the throne was a whole other story, contradicting itself, and Smarty was glad of such an opportunity to once again turn his bearer in the direction that was beneficial to him.
"Tell me, Harry… What awaits truly strong people in a society where decisions are made by some "people"?" he asked ingratiatingly. "What will happen to you? After all, you are already so strong that most ordinary people will be afraid of the very fact of your power! They will invent – yes, they have already invented! – a huge number of frameworks and conventions that will never allow you to enjoy the fruits of your power! They will be afraid. Do you know why?"
"Why?" Potter frowned.
"Because the "democracy" extolled by your former mentors is the "power" of the majority. The gray mass, which is disgusted by development, the way forward, the flight of fantasy! Anyone who stands out from this mass is doomed to retreat, to return to the orderly ranks of faceless figures that make up the so-called "people"! But you will not be able to sit in such a swamp. You will always stand out and will always be ahead of everyone!"
"But this is the will of the majority…" Harry thought uncertainly.
"True ," the Smart One suddenly agreed easily. "Or not quite true. Or not true at all. But what do the majority want? Precisely," the Tzeentchite continued, already knowing what his patron would answer. "They want stability ! That is, the preservation of the current order of affairs, the status quo. For the current elites to rule forever, for the current poor to become even poorer and not arise. For scientists to do nothing but confirm previously known truths—or delusions—over and over again."
"Wait," Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly. "How can the majority want to become poorer? This is very strange!"
"People are strange creatures in general ," the Smart Guy chuckled again. "Give them free rein, give power to the crowd – or to those who have risen to the top on the wave of this crowd – and they will silence any free voice. Any initiative will drown in the swamp of imaginary "stability", fear of change! Striving for universal freedom, people renounce personal freedom. They put themselves in shackles, restrain their own talents and aspirations. As the saying goes, easy come, easy go..."
"What do you mean?" Harry frowned.
"True freedom is not universal ," replied the Daemon of Tzeentch. "Modern society does not value the freedom that their ancestors won bit by bit! They think that this is how it should be and has always been - but it is not so!"
The conversation took place, as expected, in Harry's head. The boy himself was sitting in the library - practically empty because it was Sunday morning. Even the most die-hard nerds were sleeping in their bedrooms, not wanting to waste the beginning of the weekend studying, especially at the beginning of the year.
"The gray masses do not need freedom ," the Smart Guy cut in harshly. "All revolutions designed to give people freedom from slavery were carried out by a handful of strong, independent, educated and strong-willed individuals! The Founding Fathers of the United States did not come from the lower classes, George Washington was a very wealthy landowner - and a slave owner. They had everything they needed, in the eyes of some simple worker! But they wanted more, for themselves and their people - and had the courage to risk and take it ," the Smart Guy continued. "The French Jacobins? The Russian Bolsheviks? It's the same everywhere: a few strong people lead a crowd of weak ones. But they are all united not only by this..."
Harry held his breath.
"They won their freedom! By force of arms, their unyielding will and extreme exertion of forces. They did not inherit it, they were not born with it - but they went and took it ! They stood up to their full height and declared: we are people, and no one can humiliate and bully us!"
The Smart One omitted many facts, focusing on individual concepts and facts, ignoring nuances - as always. Of course, Potter felt that his Tzeentchian advisor was not telling the whole story, and in some cases he could even understand at what moments - but he did not interrupt. He wanted to believe the words of the Smart One! And he did.
"Nobody pushes people around anymore either," the boy said, but not very confidently.
"Oh really?" - the Smart Guy chuckled. "The media, propaganda, manipulation of public opinion - there are plenty of tools of influence. And people are too accustomed to the fact that they don't need to achieve anything - those who came before them have already achieved everything. And that's why they don't value it, exchanging freedom for imaginary security and cheap benefits. Like African savages, sold into slavery for glass beads from the hands of white colonizers, they refuse strength and freedom without bargaining - on the condition that their neighbor is not strong and free. Are you going to put up with this?"
"No!" Harry shook his head, frowning. "I won't let anyone limit my power! I'm strong – and I'll become even stronger. So strong that no grey crowd can dictate terms to me!"
"Now that's what I call a conversation ," grumbled Zabiyaka. "Otherwise, your egghead chatter is already making my teeth ache!"
"Really!" , whined Sweet Tooth capriciously. "You could have said right away: all these social contracts of yours, democracy and people's rule are bullshit. Put a slave collar on your neck - and go ahead!"
"Are you on something?" Bully growled incredulously after a short pause. "You, stinking purple pervert, have never expressed yourself so directly and simply!"
"How can I drink anything stronger than pumpkin juice if I'm outside the real world, and Harry is restricted to that until he's sixteen?" the Slaaneshi moaned resentfully. "Let's go for a walk in the Forbidden Forest! Point Ronki in the right direction, check on little Bessie*..."
"They won't even let us near Hagrid's hut ," snorted Smarty. "We've already calculated the probabilities: they're not tracking us specifically, of course, but Lupin, Snape and that Tonks will definitely be keeping an eye on us! As soon as we leave the castle..."
"Let's see what Lupin is like up close," Harry shook his head. "If he can recognize our illusions, then it really isn't worth it to try. If not..." he chuckled meaningfully.
Harry wanted to go for a walk too. But caution and unfavorable probabilities did not allow him to do so without following the rules - he was not yet strong enough to reveal his abilities to the world.
Of course, there was an option to somehow get permission to go to Hogsmeade in ways other than from the Dursleys - they were taken to Mungo's to have their memories edited, so there were no options with them. But they had agreed with Uncle Vernon that he would put his squiggle on the ministry parchment! But it turned out as it turned out, and Harry didn't regret anything.
Another way was to get a signature from one of the deans... But again, this was only possible if the dean was absolutely sure that the parents or guardians had given permission to visit Hogsmeade, they just hadn't had time to put it in writing. Who and how could you convince of this?
Pomona Sprout? They hadn't crossed paths much, she's unlikely to go along with him. Severus Snape? Ha-ha, very funny. His own dean? Too much of a formalist, and she looks to the headmaster for everything - and the headmaster is too concerned about Harry's safety to allow anything.
That leaves only Filius Flitwick. A half-goblin who maintains contact with his kind and apparently shares their beliefs and culture. Forbidden beliefs and culture.
Harry rubbed his hands. He knew what to do! But first, a test for Lupin.
November 1993. Little Whinging.
"Oh, Megan, how kind of you to invite us to the housewarming!" cooed Mrs. Dalyngham, enjoying the roast. "Dolly and I are very, very respectable! And the food is beyond praise!"
Megan Cornhill nodded at the praise, smiling contentedly. The roast was indeed a success!
"Darling," breathed another guest of the new settlers, the rosy-cheeked and round Mrs. Pattern. "Try the fillet - it's amazing, isn't it?"
"Of course, my dear," grunted her husband, Mr. Pattern, a chubby-cheeked man with small pig eyes and a bald spot that glittered in the light of the chandelier. The only hair on his head was a thick, brush-like moustache that disappeared into his wide face. "It just melts in your mouth! What a wonderful taste, what kind of meat is that?"
"A family secret," Megan smiled sweetly, in turn paying tribute to the food on the table.
A deep chuckle sounded nearby - Richard, a big guy with thick wheat-colored hair down to his shoulders, was also attacking the meat and side dish. Only, unlike the rest of those present, he and Helen, who was sitting right there, knew whose meat it was!
Megan and Helen had bought the house in Little Whinging, which was on the very outskirts of the town, three weeks ago, and had managed to settle in quite nicely. Of course, the main factor was that the house had been quite well lived in before they arrived – it had previously belonged to a certain Mr. Princeton, who had recently died of old age. His relatives, who had mostly moved abroad, were not interested in this property, and therefore did not push the price too high – so there were quite a few pounds left from the sums that Angel had left them.
But we still had to spend money on interior items: much of old Princeton's furniture was either on its last legs or simply not to the liking of the new tenants - and therefore was subject to ruthless disposal! And we shouldn't forget about completely reorganizing the basement, as well as deepening and expanding it.
Of course, two women would hardly be able to handle such a large-scale reconstruction on their own. But the Angel took care of this too, sending a couple of his slaves, who possessed amazing powers!
When they first appeared in their new home, Megan couldn't help but smile: they were both touched by the Divine - and probably not without the help of an Angel. Short, gracefully thin humanoids with huge eyes and long pointed ears, they resembled descriptions of brownies or elves from old fairy tales. If, of course, you exclude the somewhat "non-standard" appearance brought to their appearance by the same Angel.
They introduced themselves as the house elves Quinky and Dobby. More precisely, they were introduced by Quinky - a girl, judging by the characteristic curves of her body and protruding parts. Dobby was somewhat... limited in expressing his thoughts. Simply because his vocal cords and part of his facial muscles had been removed, as well as his eyelids and nostrils - so he could not express any emotions with his voice or facial expressions. But Megan, with her newfound power, only needed to concentrate to feel .
Pain. Agony. Madness. Pleasure.
The house-elf was in a state of constant, mesmerizing agony that did not weaken or dull with time. It only transformed into a sick, dark bliss that emanated from Dobby in suffocatingly sweet waves, in which he and Helen literally bathed for the entire time the unfortunate man was in their house. She even considered asking Angel to give them Dobby for good - she had several ideas about how to use him... in certain ways.
Quinky was also of some interest, although she was not as immersed in the power of their Deity as Dobby. But Megan felt that nothing would work with her: not because they would not get pleasure, but because the Angel simply would not give her up. Where this feeling came from, she did not know, but lately she tried to trust her intuition. Then, on the track, after she and Helen dried their first victim, intuition helped her.
And the current gathering was nothing more than a housewarming party! Only a small circle of acquaintances were invited, in whom Megan and her small sect were interested. Outwardly, everything looked as if a young couple, soon to be married, and the bride's niece were moving into a new house, in connection with which they invited their closest neighbors and the realtor who sold them the house, along with his wife, to dinner.
And yes, big Richard was officially Megan's fiancé, and Helen was her niece. At least to the people of Little Whinging, and the rest of us don't need to know.
Richard was the third victim they lured into a threesome, and in the process, drank life away. But the big biker turned out to be a real rascal who, like them, liked it "harder." And so, in a fit of passion, he bit Megan's shoulder, thereby tasting her blood.
Blood, in which one of Angel's potions was seething. Along with a couple of substances that Helen brought - but they hardly played a special role.
That time their threesome turned into a bloody orgy, without even waiting for the "picked up" male to leave. Moreover: this Richard managed to survive and immediately asked for more! So a third member appeared in their "family".
As for the realtor, even at their first meeting he seemed to the women to be a very promising servant of Slaanesh. No, he was hardly impressive in sexual terms, but as for the same gluttony...
When they got to talking a little, he confessed that he and his wife have an unusual hobby: they love to eat. More precisely, they love to try ! Various unusual dishes and drinks, the more exotic the better. They even regularly go on vacation to different parts of the world to try the strangest delicacies from different countries of the world - and every time they find something unusual.
So when Megan invited the fat man and his wife to try something new and celebrate the move, Mr. Pattern couldn't resist.
The neighbours were a woman in her early forties, Mrs Hannah Dalyngham, and her friend, a girl of about nineteen, Edith, who lived in the house opposite. The husband of the former was away, and the parents of the latter worked in London, often spending the night there - so their solitary visit was not something strange. The rest of the neighbours lived a little further away - the cottage was a little out of the way - and so Megan had not yet had time to cross paths with them.
But Megan chose these two not so much because she had only met them. Rather, because these two knew each other. Or rather, they were lovers!
The dark passion of a married woman and a young neighbor, a hint of the forbidden—it was a fascinating cocktail that she savored time after time, anticipating the moment when she would include them in her little games. Indeed, what kind of orgy was it when only three people participated in it? She planned in the future, not without the help of Angel and his henchmen, to expand the scope somewhat and move the main fun to South Helens.
After all, Angel had asked to buy this mansion for him, and they themselves had to find suitable real estate in their hometown. Because there, unlike sleepy Little Whinging, there was a freer... atmosphere.
What's more, South Helens was sliding into complete anarchy! Only the Lord's sharply increased capabilities and strength kept the city from a full-scale gang war, where everyone fights everyone, dividing the skin of a bear that has not yet been killed, but is already weakened. Although, considering that Angel and Andy's sect are now supposedly helping Lord, he has a chance to climb out of the hole he entered by declaring war on Firouz.
But even if the Lord takes control of the city, it will not be control of Law and Order. It will be control of Crime! And the cults that he covers. For example, the cult of Slaanesh, which Megan enthusiastically formed.
She took a graceful sip of wine, returning to the conversation Mrs. Pattern had started.
— ...in broad daylight! Can you imagine? — she exclaimed. It seemed indignant, but more likely with that unhealthy, feverish excitement from juicy news and gossip that gossips like her love so much. — And the girls were only ten years old! What kind of pervert would need to kidnap them? For what?
"Olivia, I don't think this is an appropriate conversation at the table," Mr. Pattern tried to object, not very confidently. Although it was clear that he himself was not averse to discussing "hot" news. "Especially since it happened all the way in Teddingale – fifty miles from here!"
- Exactly! In Teddingale! - Olivia Pattern raised a plump finger, as if emphasizing something very important. - I wouldn't be surprised if it happened in South Helens, but Teddingale!... No offense, Megan, - the woman pretended to apologize. - But South Helens really is a terrible crime hole, especially in the last couple of years. How you are not afraid to work there as a policewoman, I can't even imagine!
"Someone has to maintain order. Even in a 'hole' like this," Megan smiled back, not at all offended. "But, really, this is an outrageous case. The kidnapping of two schoolgirls, in broad daylight, right on their way home from school... I don't know how the Teddingale cops work, but as far as I know, no traces or motives of the kidnappers have been found yet."
"How terrible it is to live sometimes!" sighed theatrically Mrs. Dalyngham, who had been silent until then. She was a tall, striking lady with a perfect figure and barely noticeable wrinkles around her brown eyes. Her wavy dark hair was gathered at her temples, which gave her the appearance of some kind of fantasy queen, who had stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale book. "What next: drug dealers in schools? Or attacks right on the streets of Little Whinging?"
"Well, I think it's still a long way off," Megan chuckled at this. "The local police station, as far as I can tell, works to the envy of many! At least, I haven't heard of any crimes in your city in the last ten years…"
- Pfft! It's hardly our sheriff's doing, ma'am, - snorted their second neighbor, the red-haired and freckled Edith McCray. She was a slightly wild girl, with a wild mane of curly hair on her head and bright blue eyes - and was clearly burdened by the gray reality of Little Whinging. Perhaps her relationship with the older neighbor was some form of rebellion against this philistine swamp? - Fat Dawson can only sit in a chair and eat donuts - and his oafs can't even scratch their butts without outside help!
"Edith!" Mrs. Dalynham looked at the girl with a slightly reproachful look.
"Sorry," Edith shrugged without much remorse. And then, a little more quietly, she added: "Even though it's true."
"And yet," Mrs. Pattern returned to the topic of the kidnapped schoolgirls. "Even if the police can't find the girls, why doesn't anyone do anything? All they do on TV is play the news about this escaped Black ten times – they could have shown an announcement about the kidnapping! At least on local TV. Or maybe," here she leaned forward, "this Black is the kidnapper? They say he's a maniac, a murderer and a psychopath! Who knows what he'll do to a couple of innocent little ones!"
"Hmm," Megan smiled slightly, meeting Richard's equally mocking gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Helen lean over her plate to hide her crooked smile. "I don't think it's Sirius Black. He is a raving psychopath and a murderer, but that's clearly not his style."
Megan had no idea about the "style" of the Black maniac - they were not given any in-depth orientation on him. But this did not stop her from weaving a lace of words that confused the interlocutor in her intricacies:
"He wouldn't keep a murder a secret for long, even if he had decided to do it. Frightening fame is like air for people like him! So no," Megan shook her head. "Teddingale is no South Helens, but it's not short of scum and perverts. And there's the fact that there's a mafia that traffics children.
"Poor girls!" Mrs. Pattern sobbed dramatically again. "They've probably been cut up for their organs long ago! And what about the parents?..."
"More roast?" Helen interrupted the plump woman with a sweet smile, reaching for the platter of meat.
- Oh, thank you, dear, - Olivia immediately lost her minor tone. - And yet the amazingly tender fillet is simply delicious! How about next time , - she emphasized with a hint of continuing the acquaintance, - to try this damn delicious dish?
"Of course, Mrs. Pattern," Megan smiled broadly in response. "Believe me, there's enough meat for now, so organizing another dinner won't be a problem. A dinner to which you and your husband can consider yourself invited in advance."
"Probably something exotic," Mark Pattern sighed briefly. "It's hard to get hold of, right?"
"It depends," Richard, who had remained silent until now, chuckled. "Sometimes I manage to get it… at work."
- Oh, yes, you deal with international shipping, don't you? - Pattern was distracted by the business topic. - We recently supported a deal to lease premises for warehouses in the London port, so...
Gradually the conversation moved away from the topic of the kidnapping, the type of meat on the table, and anything interesting in general. The usual table talk, with the usual compliments to the hostess of the evening and her culinary skills. Even Edith, who had been bored, was in no hurry to show her displeasure - the food was so delicious.
And late in the evening, after seeing off the guests, Megan and her first two cultists went down to the basement and moved to its far corner. There, where under a pile of some garden rubbish there was an inconspicuous hatch to the minus second floor - the very one erected by the magic of the house-elves.
The lamps glowed dully in the vast room, which resembled an operating room, a butcher's shop, and a kitchen all at once. The ceiling was concrete, and high enough that even Richard could walk without stooping. A wide wooden table had four irons attached, each covered in rusty streaks, and the tabletop was dark with blood that had been spilled on it.
The far corner was blocked off by a grid of wide steel strips welded together. In the darkness of the improvised prison, there was a movement - as if someone had tried to hide in the farthest corner of the cage, hoping not to be noticed.
"Alice, baby," Megan said softly, squatting near the bars. "Don't be afraid of me."
"No," someone inside the cage whimpered pitifully. "Please, no!..."
- My dear, what's wrong with you? - the woman sang even more softly. - You said yourself that you and your sister loved to play. Well, let's play! We had to play with your sister... to our liking, - Megan slowly licked her lips, causing the cage's inhabitant to cry thinly, all the while repeating the same thing:
- No... please... Please, don't...
Behind the bars, clasping her legs in stockings, sat a girl of about ten years old. Her once blue dress was dirty, her hair hung in greasy icicles - she had obviously spent more than one day here. However, no signs of physical violence or malnutrition were visible on her - the kidnappers, on the contrary, were interested in her being alive, fresh and healthy. And as well-fed as possible.
The only thing that was truly creepy about the girl's appearance was her gaze.
A look of horror was directed at the wall opposite the cage, on which what remained of her twin sister's corpse was crucified.
There was little left there, however: most of the meat, the liver and heart were used to satisfy the gluttony of the servants of She-Who-Thirsts and their guests. The hanging remains were more likely part of an improvised altar, arranged right underneath them. Well, and as a terrible spectacle for the remaining captive.
"It is a great honor to serve as food for the Lady of Pleasure, girl," Megan smiled again. "But do not tremble. Your time has not come yet. Not yet."
Megan Cornhill straightened up and walked toward the altar. The next Dinner – that was it, with a capital D – was in a couple of weeks. Until then, little Alice, one of the schoolgirls kidnapped in Teddingale, would live. But then, surely you could live without an arm? Or a leg? And you couldn't run away without a leg either…
With a snap of her fingers, the head of the Slaanesh cult summoned a hideously disfigured house elf to bring them the ingredients for the Lesser Prayer. It was time to begin the evening ritual...
More chapters on my P@treon: https://patreon.com/OOOTEN