November 1993. Hogsmeade.
— …We missed such a moment! — Black almost growled, furiously pacing the room in the Hog's Head. — Halloween, the whole school in the Great Hall, the corridors and common rooms are empty — perfect!
"Calm down, Mr. Black," Andrey said calmly, with the most imperturbable expression, loading cartridges into the clip of his pistol, the model of which Sirius did not know. "Your 'moment' is pure idiocy. Judging by what we managed to dig up, it would be much easier to wait for the target here in the village. This Weasley drags a rat with him everywhere – that means that during the feast it will be with him. Thus, an attempt to break into the Gryffindor common room is not only damn dangerous, but also useless.
"Gr-r-r!" was all Black could answer.
"But it also means," Dolokhov continued, as if nothing had happened, loading the last cartridge, pulling the bolt and putting the gun on safety, "that Pettigrew will be with him during the trip to Hogsmeade. It seems to me that kidnapping a single rat in the middle of a crowded street is much easier than a person. And believe me, we are great specialists in kidnappings!"
"It's not hard to believe me," Sirius grumbled, calming down a little. "I've seen it for myself…"
Of course, he wasn't kidnapped in the middle of a crowded street. But still, the skills of these squibs were at least admirable!
"I'm sick of sitting within four walls," Black said bitterly, plopping down on a sagging chair in the corner and covering his eyes with his hand. "How much longer do we have to wait?!"
"As long as it takes," Andrey answered evenly. "But don't worry, Mr. Black. According to my calculations, it won't be long. Soon the entire crowd gathered in the village will move and go on their hike through the forest. And then the younger students will finally be allowed to go to Hogsmeade."
"Dumbledore's worried about the students, of course," Black grimaced at his thoughts. "He doesn't want the rabble gathered in Hogsmeade to come into contact with children. Aww..."
Andrey frowned, but said nothing. Sometimes Sirius behaved inappropriately - but that was understandable. Spending more than ten years in the company of those cute little creatures that scurried over the Forbidden Forest and the lake was no cakewalk. Anyone would go crazy. You could only sympathize with him in that regard.
And yet. Sometimes Sirius Black changed his mood several times within a minute. One minute he would whine about not having saved James and Lily, and that he was the one to blame for their deaths. Then he would rush to Pronglet - that's what he called his godson Harry Potter in a fit of emotion. Then he would start hissing furiously at the "vile, corrupt rat" - his former friend Peter Pettigrew. And sometimes, like now, he would start mentioning Hogwarts' headmaster Albus Dumbledore with some bitter causticity.
No, Andrei understood a lot from Black's stories and, as already mentioned, quite sympathized with the former Azkaban prisoner. After all, for Sirius it was not just imprisonment. It was, literally, the collapse of all ideals! But still, these mood swings were disturbing.
Albus Dumbledore, as Dolokhov suspected, could have easily resolved the Black problem by simply pressuring the investigation and forcing them to acquit their former student due to lack of evidence. But either he couldn't do it, or he didn't want to. For one reason or another.
In principle, for a former KGB agent this was a common occurrence. If the operatives were exposed, if they were caught doing something and their actions were made public, they were immediately disowned on the "mainland". They declared that this was either a private initiative of certain individuals who, moreover, had long been fired from the Office or had never been members of it. Or that this was a setup and provocation by the opposite side. In short, they declared their people to be "their-nothings". They threw back their tails, like a lizard.
How many times had he witnessed similar situations involving the intelligence services of both sides in the Cold War? Many. The offices at Lubyanka and Langley shuffled their people like playing cards, tossing them around the world, pitting them against each other and sending them to corners. And if necessary, sending them to the dump. Such was life. Such were the realities of secret war.
But for wizards, such tactics were frankly new. That is why Sirius Black could not fully accept and understand what had happened to him. And what had happened was banal: Albus Dumbledore had discarded a card that discredited him. If he had stood up for Black, had tried to rescue his former student in the conditions of the anti-Death Death Eater hysteria of those years, it would have caused a terrible scandal! And it would have caused one now. If Sirius' escape had provoked such a stir...
But who is Andrey Dolokhov to chew up the truisms to this creature of the wizarding world? Especially since Black might not perceive everything that way. He might even start throwing tantrums at Dumbledore and expose their operation one step before the climax! It would be better to let him think that his former teacher and all his friends and comrades were disappointed in him and sincerely believe in his betrayal. Until a certain time, of course.
- Okay, Siri, don't be sad! - Sam smiled with all his thirty-two white teeth. If there was someone who would always and everywhere find a common language with everyone and switch to a friendly tone, it was the good-natured guy Sammy Dillinger. - Soon you'll be able to have fun and communicate with people.
"What do you mean?!" Black immediately tensed up, baring his teeth like a dog and turning his head towards the American.
Andrey chuckled. They were expecting this reaction.
"In the very sense that very soon you will need to go out into the world," Dolokhov said, still evenly and calmly, taking up the sharpening of the bayonet knife. "You remember our agreement, Mr. Black?" Unlike Sam, Andrey was in no hurry to switch to a familiar tone of communication and "poke" his interlocutor.
"Yes," the wizard said, still wary. "I get Pettigrew, and in exchange I legitimize you in the wizarding world and play the role of some 'mysterious dark wizard' who… Mordred!" His eyes widened. "So you've been seriously selling me this crap for over two months?!"
"Siri, don't be stupid," Sam said in a very serious tone, sitting down opposite him on a chair turned backwards. "Andrew and I are professionals in this kind of thing. And believe me, no one will recognize you or catch you in anything if you don't act stupid! And especially nothing will happen if you do what you're told."
"It's not about being exposed!" Sirius threw up his hands. "Or rather, I'm afraid of him too, but that's not the main thing. Pretending to be a dark wizard is, you know, too much!"
- What's wrong with you, Black? - Dolohov said, noticeably more sharply than before, turning his entire body to Sirius and gazing into his eyes with an intent gaze. - We made a deal according to which you are obliged to help us find the former Death Eaters and corrupt guards of Azkaban so that we can free my brother. Note, I'm not asking you to do the impossible, - he softened his tone. - I'm not asking you to fraternize with the Death Eater scum, I'm not asking you to actually go over to the side of this Dark Lord of yours, no! Just help us find them ourselves and deal with them in detail. And you, in the most favorable scenario, will get a review of your case and, at a minimum, a mitigated sentence. At most - and a pardon, as an innocent person convicted!
"Myagko stelish, Dolokhov - I think that's how it sounds in Russian," Black muttered. "But I still can't figure out how to get to know these... these!..." He waved his fist in a fit of emotion, not knowing how to express all the contempt he felt for the damned Death Eaters and their ilk. "In short, it looks rather the opposite - like an excellent way to further aggravate my situation. And it's unlikely that Mordred's lackeys of You-Know-Who will accept me with open arms!"
"They will accept you. If they don't know who you are," Andrey simply shrugged.
For a while there was a puzzled silence.
- What do you mean? - Sirius blinked his eyes stupidly. - Most of these guys know me, if not by sight, then certainly by my description. And the Lestranges, Malfoys and my dear cousins - here he grimaced - are almost like family!
He said the last phrase with such obvious sarcasm, while spitting on the floor with disgust, that it became clear how he really felt about such "relatives." But the Russian and the American only exchanged glances and chuckled cheerfully.
"Don't worry, Siri, we've thought this through," Dillinger waved his hand. "And we'll soon explain how we plan to lead this whole gang by the nose."
Black was about to say something in response, but then there was a knock on the door of their room.
"You asked me to warn you when that thief Fletcher was coming," the owner of the Hog's Head, Aberforth Dumbledore, muttered not very kindly as he burst inside. As the two Squibs had managed to find out, he was the brother of the Hogwarts Headmaster, but he openly neglected family ties, preferring to communicate with his brother in a much more marginal environment. Those same collectors were much closer and dearer to him than his brother, who had achieved success. As well as openly shady types, like Mundungus Fletcher and his friends.
Aberforth frowned at the group, casting a particularly suspicious glance at Sirius. But he said nothing.
"Let him sit downstairs for a while. About ten minutes," Dolokhov grinned, approaching the innkeeper and putting a handful of coins in his hand. The younger Dumbledore grumbled for show, but still muttered something approving and moved away.
"And now with you," the Russian turned to the bewildered Black. "Remember what image we developed for you?"
- A distant relative of the Blacks from the continent, a dark wizard, and connected to crime. Including Muggle crime. Whoa, wait a minute! - Sirius suddenly smiled broadly. - Am I supposed to appear before Fletcher in this capacity? He'll shit himself with fear! - he chuckled. The former Azkaban prisoner's mood swung in the other direction again.
- The main thing is that he carries the news of this further. To Lyutny, to all the shady magical dens, taverns, hideouts and other clubs for dark interests, - Dolokhov said, already rummaging through the wardrobe. - Here, here, a small new thing for you, - he handed the wizard the folded clothes.
Five minutes later, Sirius Black was looking at himself in the mirror in amazement. He had thought that his hairdo was the pinnacle of his transformation. But when paired with a dark blue two-piece suit, a crisp white shirt and a silk blue scarf, he was completely unrecognizable! Throw on a black velvet robe over it… and the look was complete.
"Holy shit!" was all Sirius could say. "Where did you get such an expensive robe?"
"The less you know, the better you sleep," Sam grinned broadly, adjusting his less pretentious, but also rather formal suit. "You need to know the places!"
Of course, they weren't going to reveal to Sirius ahead of time the fact that they had connections in the wizarding world, besides him and Fletcher. Amelia Johnson, the very lady with whom Sam had been actively "communicating" and whose daughter Angelina was currently studying at Hogwarts, turned out to be a real find for them!
As Andrey understood, Amelia was something like an "undermining" of the CIA paranormal department — that is, a potential agent who could be recruited at any moment. No one had approached her directly before — they were afraid of the reaction of the magicians. They only observed, collected information and dirt — a standard procedure, in general.
But now that she and Dillinger have almost infiltrated the wizarding world, and are officially "free floating" — why not? Especially since no one will notice anything like that from the outside. So what if a widowed woman in her thirties decided to start dating a charming American. So he's also a Squib? Great — less of a threat to the Statute of Secrecy! Judging by what Amelia herself said, this will be more than enough for the overfed bureaucrats at the Ministry of Magic — no one will be checking anything in depth.
Of course, the British wizards relaxed during the peaceful decade after the war. Oh, they relaxed... But it only played into Andrey and Sam's hands, so they didn't complain.
Of course, strange requests like buying an expensive robe or a magic cane - it was also now present in Black's wardrobe - could alert a woman who was far from stupid. But Sam swore that Amelia would not ask questions, he had already worked through this issue with her. And in this Andrey completely relied on the professionalism of his friend.
"And now - the cherry on the cake!" Sam said, smiling from ear to ear and with a magician's gesture he took out a silver cigarette case with some kind of monogram. Clicking the latch, he took out a long cigarillo and handed it to Black. "Voila, as they say! The image is complete."
"Mordred, this is quite pleasant," Sirius said thoughtfully a couple of minutes later, settling into a heavy chair, leaning on his cane and puffing on a cigarillo. "I feel like a lord. I probably look just like my father did in his day!"
At the same time, he smiled bitterly at some of his own thoughts, but did not develop the topic.
"Okay, let's go," Andrey grinned. "I officially declare the operation to capture Peter Pettigrew has begun!"
"Hey, what's the name of the operation?" Dillinger asked indignantly. "What kind of operation is this without a name?"
"Sam, sometimes you behave like a child," Dolokhov rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Well, let's call it some stupidity in the style of thick-headed army men: Typhoon or Storm in a Teacup - what's the point of it?"
"Oh, don't tell me, bro," Sam smiled again. "If there's a code designation for an operation, it's easier to identify it, and more fun to participate in. Ever notice?"
"It's easier to identify, including those who shouldn't be identified," Andrey grumbled in response, but still thought about it. Then he chuckled and said, "Okay, there's a name."
"Go ahead, announce it," Sam adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.
"Operation Hamelin is about to begin," Andrei said, putting on the round dark glasses he wore in Hogsmeade to hide his distinctive appearance. "Fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen!"
November 1993. Hogwarts.
"Hmm, that's odd," Flitwick said as the boggart emerged from the trunk and hovered in front of Harry. "It took on a completely different appearance during Professor Lupin's class!"
"An illusion, Professor," Harry swallowed palely. "A delusion created with the help of that very 'religious magic', as you so aptly put it."
The boy stood, raising both wands and looking with a glassy gaze at the spirit floating towards him. It had taken the form of a dementor. More precisely, something very similar to a dementor.
What scared him most of all. What had been pounding in his mind like horror and echoing in his nightmares for the last two months. Pariah!
"I must say that the Dementor in your imagination has become quite… unconventional," the half-goblin said vaguely. "Apparently, you didn't see it clearly enough, and therefore you thought up many details. But this is even… scarier, or something?"
The Boggart, as already mentioned, did indeed take the form of something other than a Dementor. A tall figure made of black and grey smoke, it was a hovering humanoid with a tattered shroud and bony limbs - but that was where the resemblance to the guards of Azkaban ended.
In his right hand, the figure clutched a reaper's scythe, as if woven from the Darkness itself. Under the hem of the ghostly cloak and under the hood, deathly green lightning flashed every now and then, each of which made you want to duck and close your eyes. Or better yet, look for a deeper trench, so that Merlin doesn't let a bolt from the damned Gauss gun fly at you!
Gauss cannons... Weapons of the soulless Necrons, slaves of the hated C'tan! Harry had already cursed the day many times when he had dared to ask the spirit advisors to show them to him in his dreams. This nightmare, the nightmare of the Void, had haunted him since the first of September. And it was made worse by the presence of Mordred's Dementors near the school!
This… This entity that the boggart had taken on was not just a Pariah. It was the embodiment of terror – the Bringer of Night!
"What Muggle cinema does to children's psyches," Flitwick muttered, as it seemed to him, inaudibly, but Harry heard him perfectly. And this phrase made him shake himself and throw off the shackles of fear.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on happy memories.
…The taste of blueberry soufflé, melting in the mouth. The tongue unnaturally bends, releasing short shoots - to embrace the delicacy as fully as possible. It feels like he has never eaten anything more delicious in his life!...
"Expecto Patronum!" Harry exclaimed, his eyes wide and waving his wands. A crimson flash, the smell of ozone and a howl in his ears. And it was unclear who was howling: either the burnt Boggart, rushing around the room, or the warp, rearing up from the boy's actions, the window into which he had involuntarily opened.
"Hmm," Flitwick commented, somewhat disconcerted, rising from his hiding place in the form of a mountain of books and with a flick of his wand sending the boggart back into the chest from which it had appeared earlier. "You're still trying to overwhelm with brute force, Mr. Potter. That energy... um..."
"Warp," Harry nodded at this, frowning at the wands clutched in his hands. "Warp energy."
- Amazing! - the half-goblin threw up his hands. - Who would have thought that the Patronus is a charm built on completely different principles than classical magic! The energy of a parallel world built on the emotions of the intelligent! Phenomenal!
Harry just shook his head wearily and glanced sideways at Hermione, who was grinning against the wall.
Her admiration of Flitwick with the knowledge that was opening up was amusing - it reminded her of her own delight when she was just beginning to comprehend the magic of Chaos. Granger was especially amused that she, a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, possessed the secrets of the Universe, inaccessible to an adult and experienced wizard, and was already much calmer about such power - while the professor was almost jumping up and down in excitement.
Of course, they tactfully kept silent about such "subtleties" as aggressive inhabitants of the Immaterium, like demons. Of course, the existence of the same Blargolag implied other inhabitants, and not the kindest ones… But what if meeting them is rare? Or is the Boar God just some kind of allegory for the goblin egregor or other abstruse definitions? Who knows.
In theory, of course, they had Professor Flitwick firmly by the balls anyway, as Uncle Vernon liked to say. Harry could hand him over to Dumbledore, or better yet, to the Ministry, at any moment. And the Charms teacher wouldn't have time to do anything! But it was better not to take risks and not give the half-goblin a reason to think about revising their little agreement.
"Flitwick's right ," Sweet Tooth lazily drawled in Harry's head. "You're using force, just dumping a sea of raw energy on the unfortunate Boggart. No grace, no precision ," he said discontentedly. "You've been listening to little Zu-Zu too much lately, so you've probably picked up his habits ," the Slaaneshi couldn't help but quip.
"Shut up!" Ruffnut barked back. "That was just a weak blow! And anyway, it's easier to tear a fucking Dementor apart in hand-to-hand combat, they certainly don't expect that!"
"And run into their devastating impact? The Kiss?" Sweet Tooth snorted contemptuously. "The creatures must be burned at a distance, with precise and accurate blows, saving strength and maneuvering, avoiding close contact!"
"I have to agree ," Dobryak hummed sadly. "You shouldn't get any closer to these offspring than necessary – it's fraught with danger!"
"Besides, the Patronus spell can be used in a slightly… improved form ," added the Smarty, his five knuts, whispering ingratiatingly on the edge of consciousness.
"Which one?" Harry immediately became interested, automatically switching to a separate "channel" with the Tzeentchite.
"You'll see ," Smarty chuckled in response. "We need to prepare some things, Hermione needs to finish her project, and it wouldn't hurt to recruit some people…"
Potter chuckled at this: if he wasn't mistaken - and he rarely was lately - then he had an idea of what Smarty was up to. He didn't, of course, talk about his knowledge.
— …any emotion! — Flitwick was meanwhile crucifying himself. — And what if it is not joy, but, say, fear or anger? Truly, this knowledge was really not kept secret for nothing, yes, yes!
The shadow of Blargolag and the blood of goblins, spurred by the sharply increased contact with the Immaterium, caused noticeable changes in the little professor. No, no physical mutations were observed in him - yet. But an increased, almost morbid curiosity was, as they say, evident! Professor Flitwick, all the correct and wise head of Ravenclaw, plunged headlong into studying a new section of magic, completely ignoring the fact that this section was frankly Dark.
Although, if you think about it, what was so special about what they shared with the professor? Meditation skills, the ability to see through the warp? Or the beginnings of Prediction? They hadn't shown Hermione any openly forbidden knowledge yet. Flitwick, of course, probably suspected that they were turning to much more dangerous forces than the ability to predict events. But, as already mentioned, curiosity and thirst for power were too strong in him - and therefore he was in no hurry to raise this topic.
And, despite the demonstrated strength and already frankly unchildish behavior, the charms professor subconsciously did not perceive the two third-year students as a serious threat. And even more so, he did not believe that they could fool him. This was another argument for not telling him about Harry's inner interlocutors. Because a simple schoolboy and a schoolboy with four ancient demons as advisers are, as they say, two very different things!
- Well, this is truly phenomenal, - the professor said much more calmly. - But this power clearly does not manifest itself fully. The throughput of... hm, warp energy, is very limited. Do sacrifices really force a breach into this, ahem... parallel reality to be created for some time?
"That's right, Professor," Hermione smiled back. "You yourself made sacrifices as part of the worship of Blargolag, didn't you?"
"Well, mostly pigeons, roosters..." Flitwick was embarrassed for some unknown reason: either because of the reprehensibility of the very fact of killing animals, or because of the frivolity of such victims.
Harry chuckled. If he was embarrassed by the latter, then the half-goblin was absolutely right to be embarrassed.
"That's absolutely not enough, Professor," he voiced his last thought. "The Warp is called the Ocean of Souls in many sources, and it reacts precisely to manipulations with the mind and soul. And what kind of mind and soul can a rooster or a dove have?"
"Oh," the little professor frowned, thinking about something. "Then my unsuccessful attempts are quite understandable…"
Harry already had a slight idea of what was weighing on Flitwick. The half-goblin was trying his best to show his Gringotts relatives that he was one of them, that he was a full-fledged ghob-uruk and so on. But for almost fifteen years he hadn't been very successful, and now it became clear why.
The goblins were waiting for him to come to the point of needing real, not toy victims. When the bloodthirstiness of the underground people would flare up in him and he would slaughter at least a semi-intelligent magical creature on the altar. Or an intelligent one. Or even a human.
Maybe Flitwick would have come to this conclusion himself someday. But Harry couldn't wait!
"There are quite a few alternatives, actually," Potter said, slightly ingratiatingly. "Kneazles, some magical animals… Isn't that something that's provided for in goblin rituals?"
- Well, Knockskull seemed to hint at something like that a couple of times... - the half-goblin drawled thoughtfully. - But he really likes to express himself in the style of the texts in the prayer book - that is, extremely allegorically!
- In short, it's the law of conservation of energy in action, Professor, - Harry smiled. - What is the energy from the death of a pigeon? Zilch, nothing! The Immaterium cannot influence purely physical manifestations and actions. And the killing of soulless feathered meat occurs almost entirely in the material world. It does not cast a shadow into the warp! And Blargolag simply does not notice your offering - that's all. And therefore - does not thank you for it.
This was not quite true, of course. The response from the death of an unreasonable creature was indeed insignificant. But the response from the soul of the donor himself, who cruelly kills an innocent creature? However, this was also a drop in the ocean - but Harry did not mention this nuance. Emphasizing the cruelty of the ritualist himself is not the best argument now. The client is not yet mature.
"Hmm, hmm, hmm," Flitwick frowned even more. "I need to… digest this information, Mr. Potter. When would be a good time for you to come for your next Patronus practice?" He shook his head, clearly lost in his thoughts again.
"Next week, Professor," Harry said. "We'll finally be allowed out to Hogsmeade this weekend, and I wouldn't want to miss the chance to go for a walk."
"Of course," Flitwick nodded absentmindedly, and with that, their latest private lesson ended.
From the Charms room they headed straight to the Gryffindor common room. It wasn't too late, and they couldn't afford to wander around just anywhere - sometimes they had to spend time with the faculty. Otherwise, bad rumors could start - and the two young Chaosites didn't want that at all! It was one thing to wander the school corridors when you weren't suspected of anything yet - and quite another to do the opposite.
Having already opened the portrait of the Fat Lady, they heard a scandal growing inside.
- When I was six, I could fly better than both of you! - a girl was ranting, Harry identified her voice as Ginny Weasley. - You are two clumsy, self-absorbed clowns! - She practically growled the last phrase, it sounded so vicious.
- Ginny...
- Little sister...
This was where Harry was genuinely surprised. The tone in which Ginny's interlocutors - namely Fred and George Weasley - responded to her was truly surprising.
The Weasley twins were confused for the first time in their lives !
"Gin, don't say that..." Fred (or was it George?) began again as Harry finally entered the Red Banner common room and looked over the heads of the crowded Gryffindors who were staring at the escalating row. "We were just a little slow and..."
"You were chatting among yourselves again and didn't give a damn that the team was suffering because of you!" Ginny snapped.
It was then that Potter understood the reason for the younger Weasley's rage: yesterday was Quidditch practice! And the twins really did behave somewhat... relaxed. Which is why Harry himself was forced a couple of times at the most crucial moment to change his flight path in order to dodge the Bludgers they missed - but with his skill, abilities and the maneuverability of the Nimbus 2000, these were such insignificant trifles for him that he did not pay attention to them at the time.
But Ginny did notice.
- I am much more worthy of playing Quidditch for our faculty! I can replace both of you if necessary!...
- Oh, of course! - came the sarcasm-laced voice of an older girl from the other corner - dark-skinned Angelina Johnson. - I'd rather welcome McLaggen to the team than a thorn like you! - she snorted dismissively. Fortunately, McLaggen himself was not in the living room, otherwise the scandal would have spread even wider.
Harry was enjoying the scene in some ways. The Weasley twins, taken aback by the furious onslaught from their younger sister, stood closer to the fireplace and looked from their angrily puffing sister to Angelina, who folded her arms across her chest.
"Look at yourself, Weasley," the Gryffindor huntress continued. "You can't control yourself, why would you want to be on the team? You've only been in your second year for two months, and you've already wasted a whole mountain of House points, causing scandals and fights in the corridors!"
"These points are a fucking sham!" Ginny growled back. "But the fact that these two idiots could have caused Ga... someone on the team to suffer is much more important!"
At the last moment, Ginny had already managed to correct everything - and it seemed that no one noticed the slip of the tongue. But Potter chuckled cheerfully.
"Points are an indicator of the faculty's prestige," the dark-skinned girl snorted in response. "And your presence in it clearly lowers that prestige!"
"Angie, this is a bit too much…" George carefully tried to stop Angelina, who was already going crazy, but she was already going further:
- She was out of her mind last year! She snapped, questioned the authority of her elders. She wandered around all over the place, and in the end - what?! - Angelina almost shouted back. - She ended up in the Hospital Wing, under the blow of the Slytherin Horror! Even though she was warned - and more than once!
Harry noticed Ginny clench her teeth and turn very pale: Johnson's words had obviously struck a nerve. Angelina didn't know the whole picture, with the Dark Lord's Horcrux in the diary and how he had subdued little Weasley last year. It all looked as if Ginny was just one of those who had been reached by the basilisk. And, in Angelina's interpretation, due to her own stupidity.
"Angie!" George tried to protest, but he didn't have time to continue: the little Weasley, with an inarticulate roar, rushed at the confused Johnson and grabbed her hair with one hand, while the other struck her in the face.
It all happened so unexpectedly that for the first couple of moments everyone looked on in confusion as Ginny beat up the older girl. And the latter, apparently taken aback, offered almost no resistance - she only squealed when Weasley's fist hit her nose.
But the redhead was only able to land a couple of blows—the Gryffindors, who had come to their senses, rushed to separate the fighting girls.
- There! See? - Angelina muttered, holding her bloody nose. - She's inadequate!
Harry didn't hear Ginny's growl in response. He shook his head and grinned widely as he headed towards the boys' dormitory. Hermione looked after him, shrugged, and headed in her direction.
"Yeah!" Ruffnut roared in Potter's head. "Another soul has bowed before the Skull Throne!! This girl will be ours! Ours!!!"
"How little it sometimes takes for mortals to fall into the arms of the warp," said the Smart Guy, much more calmly and with a certain chuckle. "And how ironic that pure girlish love pushed the youngest Weasley towards the Great Butcher. Chaos works in mysterious ways... But we still have a lot of things to do," he immediately reminded Harry when he entered the empty bedroom.
"Yes," the boy answered seriously, reaching into his school bag and taking out parchment, a quill, and ink. He sat down at his desk and, taking a deep breath, prepared to write a letter. "I need to get ready for the holidays a little…"
And half an hour later, Fulgrim flew off into the rainy sky, carrying a flask of strange liquid and a parchment with instructions for it. Of course, he did not fly to the Muggle settlements, attracting the attention of those who should not, no. Having flown beyond the boundaries of Hogwarts, he landed in a clearing in the forest rustling under the November storm - so that the load could be received by a house elf wrapped in a pillowcase. As soon as the elf disappeared with a pop, the bird leisurely rose into the air and slowly returned to the school owlery.
The cargo had been delivered. And whoever it was intended for had to take action.
December 1993. Teddingale.
The bass in the club's common room was pounding at full volume, causing the floor and walls to vibrate slightly even here in the meeting room. Considering that it was located in the back of the building, separated from the hall by a long corridor and the security guard's smoking room, one could imagine how loud the music was.
However, this was even a good thing: there was less chance that someone outside would hear what the two crime bosses of the northern suburbs of London, Shalom and Lord, were negotiating about.
"I am so glad to see you, my friend!" exclaimed a corpulent, grey-haired man with a neat moustache and goatee, as well as long sidelocks on the sides of his round face and a black yarmulke on his head. "Rebbe" Shalom, the owner of the club. "To what do I owe this rare pleasure of beholding your most exalted presence here?"
If it weren't for his many years of criminal experience, as well as the fact that he had known Shalom for a long time, Lord might have been deceived by the old Jew's simple tone. But he knew the criminal master of Teddingale too well, knew what he was doing, and therefore had no illusions about his feigned good nature. Before him sat a gangster just like himself: cruel, calculating and ready to do almost anything to achieve his goals.
- Well, I was passing by, I thought I'd drop in and see a respected man, - the Lord answered calmly. - I see things are going well? - he asked simply out of politeness.
"I'm not complaining," Shalom said, a little tensely. "So what are you doing in Teddingale, Lord?" the Jew asked, no longer feigning kindness. "As far as I remember, we've already agreed on everything. I've paid for the supplies for months in advance, so I'm expecting the goods to be shipped as usual. We've already discussed everything…"
"There will be no shipment," the Lord interrupted him as if nothing had happened, playing with the top of his ever-present cane. "Unfortunately, under the current circumstances, we had to somewhat... cut back on the production of secondary items."
Shalom's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Minor names" was the unspoken wording he and Lord used to mean methamphetamine. Which was what Shalom mostly bought for his clubs.
- Lord, you understand that this is somewhat...
"Not kosher?" he chuckled.
"Unacceptable," despite the neutrality of the phrase, it was said in such a cold tone that it could, perhaps, freeze the interlocutor in the most literal sense. "So," the old Jew leaned back on the sofa on which he was sitting, "you came to discuss the return of my money and the payment of compensation for… moral damages?"
"No," the Lord answered just as evenly, even slightly lifting the corners of his lips. "Even more: I came to discuss additional payment from your side."
For a moment, Shalom looked at his interlocutor in disbelief, and then his eyes flashed menacingly, and his fists clenched. His "bulls," who had been standing behind him until then, moved forward, sensing the boss's displeasure.
- Ha! - Shalom smiled with his lips only. - Very funny, Lord. But I don't think you came here, to my territory, - he waved his hands around the room, - just to make not very smart jokes. Explain!
"Willingly," the Lord smiled openly. Then he snapped his fingers, calling one of his lackeys, also present at the negotiations. The "Bull" deftly placed a small suitcase on the table between the people sitting and unfastened the lock.
Inside, in neat rows, lay about a dozen flasks filled with a slightly glowing pink-purple liquid.
"Hmm," Shalom said, carefully hiding his curiosity. "And what is this?"
"A new product, esteemed rabbi," Lord explained. "Already tested and ready for use. I figured you'd be more interested in it than regular meth."
Without waiting for his interlocutor's answer, the Lord picked up one of the test tubes with his long aristocratic fingers.
— I remember that your plans for the future included opening an elite club for particularly demanding clients. And not just anywhere, but right in London, right?
Shalom winced, and Lord grinned. He knew very well that not all the whores in the old man's dens were of legal age. And that not all the entertainment of some of the regulars was particularly humane. As well as about the corresponding preferences of the owner of these dens himself.
And also about the fact that Shalom had long dreamed of entering the capital's market of special entertainment for rich and jaded clients. Not the one-time orgies of his perverted friends, but the gold mine of providing forbidden services to the powers that be! But for a local mafia boss, this was and remained a practically unattainable dream. Until now.
And all because Angel, a creepy boy whom Lord met a few months ago, offered a very elegant solution to the problem.
"And how does this relate to… this," Shalom nodded irritably towards the open suitcase.
- The most direct, - smiled Lord. - This substance is quite specific. In short, it is an aphrodisiac, psychotropic and stimulant at the same time. Very strong, but in certain doses quite suitable for sale. Moreover - completely undetectable in drug analysis! - At these words Shalom chuckled skeptically. - In your business - absolutely necessary!
"I'll ask again," the old Jew rubbed his temples. "How does the nature of my business relate to the fact that you're trying to disrupt a meth shipment and sell me... some fuflo!" he said at the end of the word in an incomprehensible language. Out of the corner of his eye, Lord noticed how the huge, bald "bull" Shalom in the black leather jacket grinned at this.
- As I already said, it's a psychotropic drug, - the gangster smiled in response. - It works at the level of... hidden desires, so to speak. It intensifies and deepens the high from any other substance or entertainment: from caffeine to heroin, from regular sex to hardcore BDSM - the sensations, even in diluted form, are amplified many times over!
- Hm, - Shalom looked at the suitcase with much more interest. Not noticing how the Lord, with the thumb of his right hand, which was lying on the top of his cane, was stroking the ring with a black stone, which was pointed right at the old man's face. A small gift from the Angel, allowing you to slightly shake the critical perception of the interlocutor - so that he at least listens to you without interrupting. - Now this is more interesting. A psychotropic, you say? - he glared sullenly in the direction of the Lord. - I hope this shit won't cause problems with the government or the secret services?
- If you mean whether this is a stolen government development, - Lord smiled at this. - Then I assure you: no. Moreover, this thing was developed and is being produced by one... enthusiast, - he chuckled. - Subordinate to me! Well, so what?
"I'll take a sample," Shalom said dryly, pursing his lips and snapping his fingers like Lord. But instead of one of the "bulls," a completely different figure jumped up to the table in response to this snap: a slender girl, or maybe a girl, in a revealing maid's costume. Smiling sweetly at the guest, she carefully placed the flask with the "sample" on the tray and left.
The Lord's sixes quickly closed the suitcase with the remaining flasks and put it away in turn. Looking at this, Shalom said:
- I'll run some... tests with my eggheads. And if I'm not satisfied with them, - he looked meaningfully at Lord, - we'll go back to talking about moral damage. And believe me, I'm not that Pakistani monkey Firuz, I won't stand on ceremony with you, Lord!
At this point the fat gangster, deciding that their conversation was over, stood up and left without saying another word. The guests were given the impression that it was time for them to get out of here.
Already at the exit of the club, putting on the coat handed to him by the other "bulls", Lord allowed himself to grin angrily. This fat Jew dared to threaten him! Him, Lord!! This flabby piece of rotten aspic will regret that he addressed the criminal king of South Helens in such a tone!
The Lord inhaled and exhaled, pushing away the voices from the warp that had come rushing in so inconveniently. The angel had warned him that using the abandoned artifacts could trigger such outbreaks, so the man was prepared.
Nothing. Let Shalom try the Tears of an Angel - that's how Lord decided to rename the potion that creepy kid shared with him. Otherwise, "snake tears" sounds downright stupid. So: let the old man try the new product! Let his clientele get bogged down in perverted "entertainment": fucking minors, using the most vicious dope, letting each other's blood - it doesn't matter! What matters is that soon the fatso will lose control over all of this. He simply won't be able to satisfy the growing needs of all these perverts - and they will demand more! That's when Lord's new acquaintances and himself will come onto the scene.
By the way, about friends. Perhaps it's worth visiting them?
"Where are we going, boss?" the "bull" sitting behind the wheel of a black tinted SUV looked back at him.
"Little Whinging," the Lord chuckled. "And remember that route. We'll be making a few trips there soon."
The convoy of SUVs set off from Teddingale, followed by many glances. Considering that it was a relatively quiet and grey town, such road trains were at least curious! And for some, irritating.
"Mordred's Muggles!" muttered an old man with one eye, tangled grey hair, a bright blue false eye and a wooden leg, who was standing in a nearby gateway under a distraction charm, watching the black cars go by. "I'd deal with those bastard gangsters, but then I wouldn't be of any help to Albus and the Potter boy from Azkaban, would I?" he muttered, as if trying to convince himself. Then he shook his head and hobbled away - there was still a lot to check.
For example, that woman over there looks pretty weird. She's looking straight at the poster of Sirius Black with the words "WANTED! Armed and Very Dangerous!"
Alastor Moody - and it was he - didn't even understand why he hobbled closer. And then he stared with interest at the strange woman, who looked clearly older than her real age.
It was as if some grief had devoured her in a matter of weeks. Untidy, though obviously good clothes, disheveled hair, dull eyes - how many of these Alastor had seen in his time. Coming closer, he listened to the woman's muttering.
"I just put up this notice half an hour ago," the woman sobbed quietly. "But it's already been covered with these horrible posters. Who's doing this to me? What's going to happen to my girls?..."
Alastor frowned. He had just come to Teddingale to sniff around about the disappearance of two Muggle schoolgirls - who knows whose handiwork it was? Maybe Black, or maybe those unknown Dark wizards who had been following Potter? It was unlikely that he could save the girls, but tracking down traces of witchcraft... In the end, Mordred's Ministry hadn't even bothered to do that!
Taking a closer look at the leaflet with the motionless portrait of Black grinning at passersby, Moody winced. It was clear why the woman was in such shock - a spell from the Ministry's PR arsenal had been cast on this block. It magically transformed any ads except those approved by the government into those the Ministry needed after about fifteen minutes. In this case, they needed as many leaflets about Black as possible. So the inconsolable mother watched in complete stupor as her missing daughters' ad was mockingly replaced by the portrait of a criminal and psychopath that had become so boring to everyone.
She turned silently and walked away. And Alastor, in a sudden fit of pity, raised his wand and said:
- Finite Constant!
When he left, a missing persons notice about twin sisters was left on the pole. A stupid sentimentality, which, moreover, could later cause Moody trouble with the Ministry officials.
But for some reason at that moment he couldn't act differently.
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