January 1994. Somewhere in England.
— What is he doing there?
— Drinking.
— Got it.
A laconic question — a laconic answer. Clear and precise. As expected in special operations. Although, their affairs in Britain were not a full-fledged special operation. However, it depends on how you look at it...
— Well, we assumed something like this, — Andrey said calmly, carefully peering out the window from the side, from behind the curtain — a habit that had become ingrained during his time working for the KGB. — Let's move on to plan B.
Sam glanced at him sideways, but said nothing. He knew that his Russian friend was irritated. What's more, he was furious! Of course, you have to be a professional spy, and communicate with Andrey for a long time to discern true emotions behind his stony face. It was not for nothing that he was given the call sign Iceberg — which grew out of a banal everyday nickname.
Despite his poker face, Dolokhov was annoyed, angry and irritated! Of course: his goal was being pushed back again, when it seemed that they had already reached it. Was it a shame? Probably a damn shame! And what it was like for Sirius Black, who was drowning in booze in the next room - Sam Dillinger had no idea. If there was anyone who felt worse than him, it was their ward. To literally hold by the throat the one he had hated and dreamed of finishing off for many years - and then let that slip away the next moment. Anyone would go on a drinking binge from that!
It's time to stop his binge, - Andrey said dryly, as if he had read Sam's thoughts. - Not only do you need to get down to business, but this house... does not encourage relaxation.
The house... Or to be more precise, more like a townhouse - at least on the outside. Inside, it's a real mansion! The house at 12 Grimmauld Place belonged to the Black family for at least several centuries. Charmed with a modified Fidelius spell - a special camouflage charm that hid him not only from visual detection, but also from tracking by surveillance charms, which, as the two squibs realized, was very popular with the British Ministry of Magic.
Dark corridors, ominous rustling sounds, house-elves' heads in the hallway - this was far from a complete set of creepy things in this place. However, to Sam's taste, the title of the most disgusting piece of shit in this house was shared between two factors: the shrill portrait of Sirius's mother in the same hallway, and the creepy wrinkled house-elves Kreacher. The latter, however, has been confidently taking the palm from the portrait over the past two weeks.
What was the portrait? Throwing a curtain - and the psychotic grump depicted on it shuts up. Well, clearly a parrot with a towel thrown on its cage! With real grumps this would work... But this Kreacher... He was really creepy!
"The prodigal master Sirius time and again brings down the honor of the noblest and darkest Black family," the house-elf creaked mournfully, pretending to shake dust off the dressing table. "Dirty squibs in the house of a pure-blood family, what a disgrace...
Feeling the suddenly thickening bloodthirsty aura around Andrey, Sam hastened to give the impudent evil spirit a slap in the face and throw him out of the living room where they were sitting. For its own good.
"Thank you," Dolokhov said, also outwardly dispassionately, after which he exhaled loudly... and the tension around him dissipated.
"Okay. So, plan B...
To be honest, this "plan B" had been worked out almost as well as the main one until now. At least, developing various contacts among the magical criminal world through Mundungus Fletcher, building up a base and authority among the lower classes - they were very active in this. The image of a dark magician from Eastern Europe, in which Black acted, went down well with the locals! Sam was rightfully proud of the fictitious surname Chorney. Quite witty, actually: the word black sounds exactly like that in Russian and a number of other East Slavic languages. So Mr. Chorney was a kind of ironic reference that the British, far from Slavic linguistic sophistication, would not immediately figure out. Well, and if they did figure it out, who knows how many relatives the Blacks have on the continent? As Sirius told them, he had plenty of relatives in Eastern Europe and even Asia. And all of them, as if hand-picked, hide from the law and practice the Dark Arts - so the British would hardly be able to figure out who this mysterious Mr. Chorney is. Of course, they will be much more vigilant, but... But it's better than if they figure out that Mr. Chorney is the fugitive Sirius Black.
"We need to go to the Point," Sam said, distracting Andrey a little from his oppressive thoughts. "Leave a message and instruct Fletcher. We're not going to drag him here, are we?"
Definitely, - the Russian said evenly, continuing to look out the window. - A list of places where these former Gluttons go...
Eaters, - Andrey corrected him, wincing.
Sam only chuckled at this: his friend was clearly "dying out." I mean, recovering from the causeless rage that was almost burning the air around the Russian.
Eaters, - the black CIA officer agreed easily. - Moreover: it looks like we have a candidate for recruitment.
Let me take a look, - Andrey became interested, and Sam finally calmed down: his friend had finally come to his senses. At least temporarily.
Meanwhile, Andrei was looking through the contents of the folder that the American handed him.
Photographs, a character reference from Sam, newspaper clippings, Fletcher's opinion, and so on. Not a lot, but for professionals like them, this was bread and butter.
"Lucius Malfoy, right?" Dolokhov drawled thoughtfully. "That's right: of all the former Death Eaters still at large, he's the only one who could put pressure on us."
"There's also the option of McNair," Sam said. "But he got a job at the Ministry and is under surveillance."
"It looks like he got into the Ministry through the bed of that fat woman... what was her name?"
"Dolores Umbridge," the American nodded. "One of the key figures in Minister Fudge's team. She promoted her lover to a lucrative position and protected him from the attention of the cops. Only..."
"Nobody has canceled the attention of the secret services," Andrei shook his head. — Unlike Malfoy, he doesn't have a closed manor to hide from them.
— Do you think he works for them? — asked Sam.
— Who knows? — the Russian shrugged. — If I were them, I'd recruit this guy — at the very least to keep an eye on Umbridge and Fudge. And at the most — to keep an eye on the remaining Death Eater gang. But I'm not in their place, — Andrey grinned wryly. — We don't know what part of the wizarding secret service thinks with. In the same way or differently — we don't know. So we'll go with the worst-case scenario.
— So, Malfoy, — Sam nodded.
— Yes. McNair remains as a backup option.
— Well, simple blackmail might work with Malfoy, — the American leaned back in his chair. — Fletcher has a practically complete list of what old Lucius has been selling since mid-1992. And not only the list, but also proof of ownership and use at the time - such things, as it turned out, have something like their own memory, if the new owner did not have time to use them himself. So we can definitely grab Malfoy by the balls!
Andrey nodded. As they found out, in wizarding Britain in 1992 there was a wave of searches and arrests among the former comrades of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, which did not bypass Malfoy. And last summer - another one, already much more massive and circulated in the press, against the backdrop of hysteria around Black's escape. In both cases, the inhabitants of Knockturn more than once or twice saw on its streets a certain richly dressed blond man who walked between such dark shops as "Gorbin and Burkes", selling ... all sorts of small stuff. Coincidence? Definitely not. Especially if you study the list of "trifles" that Sam attached that Lucius Malfoy was unloading on dishonest traders. The mummified head of a Muggle baby was the most harmless item among these "trifles". If something like that had been found in his manor, Malfoy would not have gotten off with a fine! Of course, in certain cases, the explanation that it was an ancient family heirloom could work, kept in the estate since the time of William the Conqueror, and serves simply as a decoration and historical souvenir. But according to Fletcher's friends, the artifacts sold by Malfoy were far from all ancient, there were also modern replicas. The same mummified head of a baby. Moreover: these objects were regularly used for their intended purpose!
Why the brilliant Lord Malfoy used dark artifacts was not important. The Aurors would be interested in this to some extent. But for Lord Malfoy himself, finding such evidence in his home would end with government rations and a cold bunk in Azkaban. And he would be lucky if they assigned him to the lower levels - after all, he was already "on the Aurors' watch" as a former Death Eater, and then such a fly-by-night...
Our gray-skinned friends wrote, - Sam noted. - They were very interested in our movements in Knockturn. They write that they will gladly buy any surplus of such artifacts, if we have such a surplus. They even sent you something like a deposit personally.
A deposit? - Andrey was surprised. - For what?
The hell knows! - the American winced. - It seems they believe that you will bring them something. Sirius tried to explain something about goblin customs... and then got drunk.
His binge needs to be stopped, - Dolokhov said sharply again. - So what about the deposit?
They write that "to Mr. Dolokhov, as recognition of the merits of his family" - what an exaggeration! In general, they are sending you some kind of artifact as a gift, - Sam shrugged, taking out a parchment package with some long object inside. - If I'm not mistaken, then it is a weapon, - he weighed the package. "They don't expect me to be stupid enough to pick this thing up, do they?"
Andrey snorted, weighing the package without unwrapping it. He and Sam were experienced operatives in the "special departments" of their Offices, and so they had no illusions about the safety of any packages from magicians or other inhabitants of the magical world. Especially such creepy ones as goblins!
"Moreover, in the letter they don't recommend touching it with bare hands," the CIA officer chuckled. "They only specified that 'without preparation', but they didn't say what 'preparation' consisted of."
Andrey weighed the package with the unknown artifact and then noticed a small note attached to the side.
"Hm? What's this?" he unhooked the envelope.
"Wow!" Sam was surprised. "I hadn't seen it until you picked it up! It's clearly enchanted to get to you personally! Interesting," he chuckled.
That's not good, - Andrey said incomprehensibly, putting aside the package with the artifact and unfolding the envelope... and then screaming, covering his eyes with his other hand.
What's in there?!... Oh, damn it! - the American also looked at the strange letter and began to rub his eyes. - What kind of crap is this?
I don't know, - Andrey extended his hand with the letter to the side, blinked and glanced sideways at the insidious note. - It looks like... it looks like you can still look at this crap with your peripheral vision.
However, your peripheral vision played strange jokes: it seemed to Dolokhov that the letter in his hand was floating like a haze over a fire, releasing some tentacles that stroked and scratched his palm. Strangely, he didn't have the slightest urge to throw the dangerous thing! What blinded them at first was the strange glow emanating from the contents of the letter. Which, however, the longer Andrei peered at it with his peripheral vision, gradually faded away, and at some point he was able to look at the strange parchment directly.
"Some kind of creepy goblin magic," Sam muttered next to him, also managing to peer at what was written in the letter. "What's there?"
"You don't see it?" Andrei asked, almost without surprise, without taking his eyes off what was written. "I see strange scribbles that look like children's scribbles," the American snorted. "Only that big rune is clearly visible," he pointed to the middle of the sheet.
There really was a big rune there, around which the rest of the text was formed. Two vertical lines pointing upwards with a slight tilt to the left and right. Between them was a horizontal crossbar, crossed out in the middle by several small oblique crosses, and above them were four circles arranged in a diamond shape.
Like a schematic representation of a concentration camp, - Sam winced. - Especially the crossbar with crosses - just like barbed wire, heh! - he chuckled nervously.
You don't understand what's written in the letter at all? - Andrey interrupted him.
Do you understand? - Sam asked in turn, worried. - Andrew, you know what this means!
That the letter is intended exclusively for me alone, - Dolokhov nodded at this, reading the text of the message and ignoring his friend's worries. - What nonsense! - he finally shook his head. - Either bad poetry, or a threat, or a promise.
Will you translate?
Are you sure this is a good idea? - Andrey asked seriously.
Yes, yes, the first rule of an unfamiliar magical inscription is not to pronounce it out loud until you are sure of its safety, - the CIA officer raised his hands in a protective gesture. - What if it's in writing?
Andrey only silently picked up a notebook and pen lying nearby. When he finished writing, Sam took the sheet of paper covered with writing and read to himself:
"Take this gift - it will become a flame,
It will light up like lightning in your hand.
Having crushed the boundaries of the cramped universe,
You will rake in riches with a mighty right hand.
But when you crush skulls, always remember:
Your head can also become a cup.
This is a very dangerous game:
Greed and rage will gnaw the weak!
Take the cup to the full, but do not forget:
Mortal weakness has a sinful essence!
If you are weak, do not fall into euphoria and rage,
For the much you take, you will give even more."
So what kind of nonsense is this? - Sam looked up at Dolokhov.
I don't know. But it seems to me that this is something like the full version of the inscription in Gringotts bank, - thoughtfully looking at the parchment with runes. - More precisely ... the bank has a version written for people. This is an extended one, for internal use.
Well, yes, well, yes, - Dillinger grinned. - There they warn against greed. Here too, but...
But with a hint of "greed is for the strong," Andrey nodded.
He picked up the bundle with the unknown artifact again... and then resolutely moved into the next room, where they had stored the tools they had purchased. And almost immediately returned with a pair of dragon skin gloves - bought just for such occasions. Taking the bundle in his hands, he unfolded the parchment. The bundle contained a bronze pick, the end of which was made in the form of an artfully cast figure of a boar with disproportionately long fangs protruding from its mouth, merging into the actual beak of the weapon.
Quite a thing, - Sam shook his head with the air of a connoisseur. - If only I knew what the goblins had in mind when they presented such a gift.
Andrey only gritted his teeth at this: the issue of Sirius Black's binge came up again. Shaking his head, he turned to his partner:
Take the bottle away from Black and give him some anti-hangover potion! - he said harshly. - He's depressed - and that's it. We need him sober and relatively adequate.
Already leaving the living room, Sam glanced sideways at Andrey, who was still there. He was thoughtfully twirling the strange note and the pickaxe he had given him. Sighing, the American turned away and left. For some reason, he stubbornly thought that this gift would come back to haunt them very badly!
January 1994. Hogwarts.
Smoke rose to the ceiling of one of the abandoned classrooms, and it smelled of burnt skin and slightly fried meat. Eerie lights danced along the walls of the room from the runes on Harry Potter's dagger, with which he performed a sacred sacrament: marking another slave with the signs of the Dark Gods. More precisely, this is how he presented it to Quinkie, who was also present at the ritual, greedily peering at what was happening. In fact, he, with a hint from Smarty, decided to conduct a small experiment.
A muffled groan was heard - the house-elf chosen for the ritual stoically endured the pain, despite the fact that Harry did not stand on ceremony, burning the runes on the elf's back. However, the boy was not sure that it did not bring pleasure to him - the cult led by Quinkie worshiped Chaos Undivided, and therefore aspects of Slaaneshim were also present in it. In any case, this "lucky guy" was eager to become the object of the ritual - and even broke a couple of his relatives' heads in a fight for this right.
Harry drew another symbol on the house-elf's flesh and straightened up, stretching his back. Standing over the heavily breathing elf, he thoughtfully glanced at the mirror standing a little to the side: old and dusty, three times smaller than Erised, but relatively suitable for the boy's purposes. Squinting slightly, Harry raised the dagger in front of him, which was gradually turning into a full-fledged scimitar, and, holding it parallel to the floor, began to read the words of the spell.
Now, three years later, it was funny to remember his timidity and horror during the first rituals, after the first victims. How naive and innocent he had been then! Now, having tasted the Power, that past fear seemed like something very distant.
Under the influence of Harry's voice, the freshly carved symbols on the house-elf's skin began to emit otherworldly smoke, and the victim himself began to wheeze and twitch in terrible convulsions. There was a crunch of breaking bones and a wet smacking sound: the flesh was parting, emitting stinking pus and blood, sprouting jagged thorns. A short swing of the dagger from left to right - and the mirror, located on the boy's right hand, is covered in a scattering of scarlet drops, and the house-elf, with his throat ripped open all the way to his spine, finally sinks to the floor.
Harry continues to chant the spell, pointing the scimitar towards the mirror, which begins to strangely flicker and emit the same smoke as the runes on the dead house-elf earlier. Drops of blood are absorbed into the mirror surface and ... ... The mirror goes out.
Mordred! - Potter stamps his foot in annoyance. - How is that possible?
The experiment of opening the mirror dimension to free the prisoner of Erised from the crystal captivity was already the third in line. And just as unsuccessful as the previous two. Of course, it was assumed that Luna Lovegood would help him with penetrating the Looking Glass, but... There was always some nasty "but"! Of course, Hermione did everything and even a little more, dragging Lovegood into their company, but very little time had passed. It was too early to involve the Ravenclaw in their rituals - she had not yet become mired in Chaos, had not been saturated with its influence, and therefore would not have appreciated their... peculiar methods. Use her blindly? One option. But after that time, when Hermione penetrated her dream, Luna closed herself off - as Smarty explained, she had a warp protection hanging on her, which had been placed on the girl at one time... by someone. But who?
"Most likely, her mother," the Tzeentchian's voice whispered in his head, having caught Potter's thoughts. "Remember what we found out about her history?"
"She studied the warp," Harry nodded mentally. "And she cast something on Luna like the protection my mother cast on me."
"She just didn't calculate something correctly," Smarty purred like a well-fed cat. "So her protection is full of gaps, which we are using! There is just one alarming moment... I'll tell you when I know more!"
Harry only nodded silently at this - Smarty was again studying something interesting, and therefore distracting him was not the best idea. He would tell him everything later. For now, it was worth changing the direction of activity. The boy had already noticed: if a temporary dead end is looming in some direction, switch to something else, and the problems will soon be resolved.
He winced. Now, during the Christmas and New Year holidays, there was absolutely nothing to do at Hogwarts! McGonagall had clearly said a month ago that Harry should not leave school, and before the holidays this soft ban was confirmed by Headmaster Dumbledore. According to the latest news, Sirius Black had apparently fled Britain, but they suspected other dark - literally - individuals who could hunt the legendary Boy-Who-Lived. So, insisting on problems with guardians, they left him in the castle.
On the one hand, he understood that now in Little Whinging there was also nothing to do - with such an attitude from the headmaster, tight control from Mrs. Figg and his other supporters was expected. And you can't really go to South Helens too often. And on the other hand: what Mordred?! He's not a baby to be looked after and protected from all sides! Especially since Harry was being looked after selectively: he went to Hogsmeade without any problems on a regular basis!
Harry felt a burning rage rising in his soul. The bully began to stir in his head, hinting at the need to vent his aggression! A sharp pain pierced his right arm, and Harry groaned and fell to his knees, leaning against the wall in the semi-darkness of the corridor - thank the Gods, in that abandoned wing that was completely controlled by the Quinqui cultists and where there were no portraits.
A glance at the hand - and again a groan escapes from the lips! Something is seething under the skin, the fingers are twisted and bent at the most incredible angles. Claws of yellowish metal grow and disappear again, in the same way scarlet scales appear and disintegrate into stinking smoke. Strips of rusty iron with a grinding sound and splashes of blood crawl out from under the skin, to almost immediately crumble into orange dust. And a roar. A roar, grinding and howling in the head, from which it splits, as if nails were being driven into it! "What is happening?!" - flashed and went out a panicked thought, suppressed by growing rage.
"Do not dare to resist the will of the Blood God!" - Zabiyaka screamed meanwhile. Harry realized with the edge of his consciousness that he himself was in some kind of inadequate state, as if something had spurred him on and driven him forward, making him bark madly and foam at the mouth. "BLOOD! BLOOD!! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!!"
Then a completely terrible sound was heard in Harry's head: as if Something huge and incredibly Powerful was laughing measuredly against the background of the howling of warp storms! ... - Harry ...
The white armor with streaks of rust, worn on him, is covered in blood. Not enough. NOT ENOUGH!!!
... Harry! ...
The vibration from the chain axes in both hands sometimes, for a split second, pulls the mind out of the embrace of endless, uncontrollably enraging pain! And it would be fine if it were real PAIN - no! The itch, nasty and annoying, killing any adequate thoughts - was screwed into the head like... like nails!... More precisely, not nails - Nails! Those Nails that are implanted in the head and hang in metal dreadlocks from the shaved head. Those Nails that cause this irritating and infuriating pain...
...Harry!!! - the voice finally broke through to consciousness.
Through the screams in his head and the induced visions of another world, he screwed himself... with pain, as trivial as it may be after what he had experienced. But compared to what he had experienced in the hallucination, this was a pleasant pain.
G... Ginny, - the boy croaked, squeezing his right hand with his left. Covered in scarlet spots and streaks of blood - but already clean of warp mutations. Clean FOR NOW!
And Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, was leaning over Harry Potter, who had fallen to the floor of the corridor. And in her gaze, feverish curiosity and anticipation competed with serious anxiety!
Harry... I'm going now!... To the Hospital Wing!... My mother told me: an awakened metamorphosis, if not controlled, can lead to death! - she muttered.
Stop... No! - Potter finally came to his senses. He grabbed Ginny's arm hard, causing it to crack and the girl to scream. He wanted to say "pitifully", but it didn't work: the youngest Weasley did not writhe in pain for long, almost immediately furiously slapping Potter with her good hand - purely on reflex.
"What have you done?!" Ginny hissed angrily, cradling the broken limb. "I just wanted to!..."
"Shut up!" Harry screamed through clenched teeth. Because again, something Enormous and Very Evil was ramming his brain, forcing... what?
"That girl raised a hand against us!!!" Ruffnut roared in his head. "She'll fight back! Gut her!!"
"Where's that fucking Tzeentchian manipulator when you need him?!" Kindly One's unexpectedly loud voice cut in. "Harry, it's an attack! An attack from Blargolag - he's trying to take control of you! Fight!!"
"Oh, come on!" - the Sweet Tooth's voice laughed feverishly at the same time. With that feverishness that Harry really didn't like! "I smell gold! I smell it!! We just need to take it! And kill everyone who stands in our way to it!!!"
Surprisingly, the Slaaneshi's voice brought a little relief. And enlightenment, which made Potter realize that in reality he had fallen on Ginny and almost strangled her.
What?!" the young man shook himself in alarm, trying to crawl away from the girl who was coughing hard and trying to lift herself up on her hands. - What happened?! A-a-a-a-!!!!
Again the pain, again the roar of Ruffnut and the mad laughter of the Sweet Tooth, again the obsessive visions...
He sat on a golden throne, in golden robes, in a hall, every inch of which seemed to be covered in gold! The purple and gold colors of the courtiers' robes filling the hall do not hurt the eye, but only please, elevate... satisfy. But not completely! Something was still missing... Something important! Gold! More gold was needed! The golden ziggurat with six massive steps had to be completed - and for that, gold was also needed. And not to forget about continuing to decorate the entire subject planet in precious metal: this entire world must shine like the greatest jewel in the Galaxy! Everyone, from the Astartes brothers of the Emperor's Children, to the very last slave, must walk in gold, sit on gold, eat on gold and drink from gold. What's more: they must also eat and drink GOLD!!! By the way, the cup in his hand is also made of gold. And in it - molten gold! The Drink of the Gods...
"Oh, I didn't want to do this ahead of time!" - the Dobryak's groan brought Harry out of his terrible hallucinogenic delirium. "But I have to. Forgive me, Harry, but you'll thank me later."
Again pain... but now mixed with heat. The body temperature rose sharply, and the second - left - hand, filled with heaviness. Stuffy, some kind of damp heaviness and numbness. Looking at it, Harry involuntarily swallowed convulsively: the skin on it was rapidly turning black and cracking, emitting a foul-smelling pus.
— What... are you?... — was all the boy could croak, cowering in the niche. Ginny, standing some distance away from him, even stopped cradling her broken arm and once again stared at what was happening, mesmerized.
"I'm saving you, Harry," Kindly said sadly. "And the only way to level out this two-sided madness is to introduce a bit of madness from a third!"
Oddly enough, the more his left arm rotted and went numb, the clearer it became in his head. The screams of Ruffnut and Sweet Tooth were replaced by a ringing hum — as if a swarm of fat flies had suddenly soared into the sky over rotten meat. Sweating profusely, pale and weak, but already completely recovered in his thoughts, Harry somehow sat up, leaning against the wall.
— Sp... s... — he breathed out barely audibly. And then he switched to mental communication again: "So what was that?"
"Attack," came the cold and, surprisingly, very angry voice of the Smart Guy. "A fucking attack by a fucking goblin god. Which, to my chagrin, was repelled by our rotting friend.
"And Sweet Tooth and Ruffnut?" the boy frowned. "What happened to them?"
"Blargolag is a kind of symbiosis of two familiar forces of Chaos, that is, Khorne with his bloodthirstiness and Slaanesh with his greed. Well, and a little bit of Tzeentch with his cunning," he chuckled. "So he struck these directions of your mind - and our two friends are sitting on them. Here they are, overflowing with free power and floating a little," he chuckled. "Don't worry - they'll recover soon."
"But you said that Tzeentch is there too... Ah, so that's it!" — Harry's eyes widened in surprise.
"You!" — the Kind One, who had also realized everything, hissed like an angry snake. "You deliberately left Harry's mind at that very moment! So that you wouldn't be hit by that wave! You sly, slippery Mordred bastard!"
Perhaps it was the wild situation when the usually quiet and polite Kind One started swearing like that that finally brought Harry out of his trance and into reality. And in reality, he was still lying in a dark corner, and Ginny Weasley was staring at him.
"How inconvenient," — despite the content of the phrase, the Smart One was clearly pleased with the situation. "It looks like we've been figured out."
"And what should we do?" Harry asked distantly, examining his hands: the bloody right one and the rotting left one.
"What should we do? Hm. For example, grab Ginny quickly and take her away across a hundred seas... " the Tzeentch laughed a little madly.
"What are you talking about?!" Dobryak couldn't stand the idiocy of what was happening.
"I'm presenting a completely working version," Smart Guy replied in a completely serious tone."We grab this little one, call the house-elf and Apparate. To a place where no one will stop us from initiating the girl into the followers of the Great Butcher!"
... Probably, if Harry were in a more whole and healthy state, he would have hesitated for some time. But then he would have done it anyway.
Quinky! - he exclaimed and, when the house-elf appeared, he rushed to Ginny and, grabbing her hand and not giving her time to come to her senses, barked: - Transference!
And only at the last moment he realized that he had not specified where. Still, his hand continued to rot, and the ringing of fly wings was darting around in his head. And Quinky was a little discouraged by such a quick summons and ... the aura emanating from her Master. An eerie, powerful residual aura of something so alien to everything elven that it was hard to imagine! This Something needed to be sent somewhere far away, more tricky and dangerous. And first of all, for some reason, an image of a town in the suburbs of London arose, where Quinkie had recently teleported several times, delivering test tubes with Angel Tears and spying on the local Muggle mafiosi.
Teddingale.
More chapters on my P@treon: https://patreon.com/OOOTEN