Summer 1994. The outskirts of London.
The stacks of boxes along the wall had not collapsed and seemed to have appeared here in an instant, materialized out of thin air, rather than being dragged from city to city over the course of several months. The awnings under which they had previously been located had been torn down by the nimble "bulls", and now Lord and his officers were recounting what was here.
"We weren't able to evacuate everything," reported one of the crime boss's new assistants - after sacrificing Terry, he had not yet appointed a new consigliere, but he still dragged a couple of smart guys along as backup. Or he simply consulted with the officers who "held" the corresponding area. Like now. "Here is equipment from the laboratories, raw materials, finished goods. But the bobbies had still covered several places."
"The money to compensate for the losses has already arrived," commented Lord's second assistant: a skinny guy who did not look "businesslike" at all. It seems that this is the brother of one of the "bulls", some student with a shady history, brought by a relative to "sit it out" and eventually remained in the gang on a permanent basis. Recently he showed himself well in a skirmish with Pakistani bastards - and Lord decided to bring the smart and, as it turned out, quite decisive guy closer. And so far he believed that he did not do it in vain. "The first income from Lady's establishments, the transfers of the reverend - we are establishing connections."
The nickname "Lady" was assigned to Megan Cornhill about a couple of months ago, when Lord's gang had already begun to take root in Teddingale and were in full swing dragging property from South Helens. The new owner of the largest club in the city managed to present herself in a truly royal manner, so the nickname seemed to have come naturally. Someone had blurted out that the former cop was "the Queen", but Lord quickly put a stop to it - so that there would be no illusion that this woman was above him!
Reverend Andy also contributed to the common cause. Mainly, of course, with his London connections among the elite, thirsting for a miraculous healing at the hands of the "new prophet". Reading the provided data and stories of that very "healing", Lord grimaced with disdain. After all, the capital's overfed rich kids no longer knew what to do with their time and money, since they were falling for the charm of the dirty and stinking Andy Tetchfield. But money has no smell, so he was not at all averse to using the dodgy reverend.
The task for at least the next month was to restore and expand the drug business in the new location. Prostitution, which made up the second half of the previous income of Lord and his people, was taking root in Teddingale much more difficult than in South Helens. There aren't many disadvantaged areas, not many migrants or just homeless people - there's no one to bend to himself and force to engage in the oldest craft. But Lord was working on it. After all, he was planning to reach a much higher level anyway - so maybe it was worth moving from street whores to respectable brothels and clubs like that, what did the Lady hold? To centralize the process? And then perhaps he would be able to return to South Helens. After all, cheap and accessible drugs played a significant role in the formation of disadvantaged strata of the population - people hooked on the same coke, not to mention crack, rolled down the social ladder at the speed of a bullet.
And he still had to decide: to remake Teddingale in the image and likeness of his criminal "Homeland" or to leave it as it was - a respectable and outwardly quiet town. Sometimes the Lord thought: shouldn't he miss the city that gave him a start as a major authority, South Helens? Where he was practically an absolute shadow ruler? But no. No nostalgia, no special "sickness for home." He took a step forward and upward, leaving the town of bikers and truckers behind. But the satisfaction of the neat trick he had pulled off, getting out of South Helens in time to settle in quiet Teddingale, was still there. He had taken most of his belongings and equipment with him, he had kept his men and got himself some new toys! And he had a supernatural patron - a boy nicknamed Angel.
Yes, Lord had left South Helens. But not left it for good. Not even completely left. More like he had stepped aside slightly, allowing his enemy to stumble headlong into the trap he had set. Bitch Firouz and his Pakistani monkeys, as far as Lord knew, had already felt the hard way what it was like to be popular with the law enforcement agencies. And the law enforcement agencies had become incredibly active, as if waking up from a long hibernation, harshly clearing the suburbs of London and the towns in its environs of any suspicious elements. And suddenly in South Helens there was no one more suspicious than the "bulls" of Firouz and his allies who had descended there. Because the Lord had gone to Teddingale, Eddie Tetchfield's sectarians had gone into hiding - and voila. The impudent Pakistani had expected to grab a fat piece in the form of a city that had caved in to the mafia with an established underground business, but he got pitiful crumbs and the attention of the police, who were already pulling all their available forces there.
Of course, checks and raids would not bypass Teddingale either. But it was still not a criminal cesspool like South Helens. So it was a piece of cake to mimic a law-abiding businessman and lie low for a couple of months here. Especially with the capabilities of the Angel. His magic - and he could not call all this devilry with brownies, demons and mutations anything else - allowed him to do a lot, a lot. With the right amount of imagination and resourcefulness, a smart man like Lord could do a lot of things!
They spent some time inspecting the new warehouse of property evacuated from the previous rookeries. Oh, how much Lord would have given to see Firuz's face when he realized that they had taken everything away, leaving him with nothing but a poor city filled with angry bobbies! Dreams, dreams... However, it's no use complaining. And without seeing his victory in person, he got what he wanted, and maybe even more.
"My Lord," one of the "bulls" called out to him at the warehouse exit. He was holding a huge mobile phone with a long antenna. "The Chaplain is already waiting for you at the Estate."
He smiled slightly and nodded. It was time to finish here and head back. New level — new names. For example, this respectful address to him — "my lord." But he hadn't forced anyone, hadn't said anything to anyone about it. It just stuck. And not as a mockery of his pompous nickname, but rather as a natural recognition of his superiority.
The Estate was the name of a vast underground cache dug by the brownies on the Lord's orders and now actively inhabited by his gang. The name was precisely that, because the "Estate" was located on the territory of a real noble estate! Who knows how many impoverished aristocrats there are in old England? Enough. An old, famous name, a family castle with a vast territory... and practically no money in their pockets. Gone are the days when the lands granted to these families for their faithful service to the throne brought in enough income to maintain a large house, farmstead and servants. Now a different era has come, different social relations between people - and the former lords, proud prototypes of Doyle's Baskerville, are increasingly impoverished, depressed and drinking themselves to death, vainly trying to make ends meet. And the owner of this land - Lord Dalesingham, a sad young man who did not at all resemble an aristocrat - with great difficulty found the means to maintain the vast territory inherited from his ancestors. But he did not even think of selling the estate.
The Lord ordered Andy Thatchfield, the head of the Junk Sect, to be called the chaplain. Of course, someone would say that the usual "Pastor" or "Reverend" would be enough, as almost everyone called Andy that, even those who were not in his dirty cult. But, as in the case of Megan, it seemed to Lord that by calling him Chaplain, he was somehow delimiting their powers, rising above Tetchfield "in rank". Lord is the head of everything and everyone in this mystical chicken coop, above him only the Angel. Andy is Chaplain, a kind of spiritual person, who feeds Lord's subordinates. And not all of them.
It took about an hour and a half to get to the Estate - they chose a quiet place and on the opposite side from London. In fact, the owner of the land's estate itself was another twenty minutes away by car along a country road. Here, on the edge of a vast farm field, stood several skeletons of abandoned agricultural machinery, shipping containers and even a dilapidated grain elevator. The latter was the disguised entrance to Lord's base. And no, he wasn't afraid at all that the cops would find and open this place. Because to do that, he needed to know one little dark secret.
"Well, Sesame, open up," Lord muttered under his breath with a grin, pricking his finger and concentrating on the feeling of a thin stream of Force, that now connected the tip of her finger to the seemingly monolithic concrete floor of the elevator. He noted to himself that when the previously invisible pattern on the floor, in the form of a small Chaos star and several runes, lit up with a scarlet smoky flame, and barely audible whispers were heard in their heads, the "bulls" and officers behind his back carefully exhaled. He smiled again: every time they hold their breath, looking at the miracles happening next to them. Like children who have been disappointed in magic all their lives, but at the last moment still waited for Santa Claus on Christmas night. Lord was amused by this.
This peculiar bunker included three spacious underground floors. The upper one was allocated for chemical laboratories and a packing room, where all the production of dope taken from South Helens was concentrated. The second floor was an arsenal and a kind of barracks for the gang's fighters. Although, it was more likely just a recreation area, where the thugs relaxed after work or, on the contrary, prepared to go "on business" and armed themselves. The third floor was the Lord's personal fiefdom.
The office, located in a large oval room, resembled the lair of some super-villain from a movie of the 60s or 70s. At least, this was the association that the Lord himself had. Although, as he suspected, when Angel's brownies accepted the order to furnish this office, they somehow misunderstood it. In general, it seemed like they were half a century behind fashion and modern realities, and from their reservations one could assume that this was still normal. But their former owners, whoever they were, lived in the nineteenth century.
The "bulls" remained on the second floor, only two officers came down to the office with him. The chaplain was already waiting for them, modestly sitting on the edge of the leather sofa. Lord twitched his nose, catching the miasma in the air, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Ever since Andy had accepted his vile faith, he had stank in one way or another: barely noticeable or unbearable, depending on how much air freshener was poured on him - but he stank. Although, even with air freshener, he smelled like a clogged old toilet in a public toilet, but with a hint of sea breeze. Now he smelled almost nothing. There were hints of pine and church incense in the air, but the characteristic smell of rot and feces of a plague-stricken reverend seemed to be almost absent. Very strange!
However, everything fell into place when Lord stepped into the office and felt something. Not a smell, not even something from the physical spectrum of perception. Some kind of oppressive, stuffy and rotten aura that saturated the office. And it did not come directly from Andy Tetchfield, but from the large sports bag that he placed next to him on the sofa. The Lord did not take his eyes off this bag the entire time that he walked through the office to his desk. He already imagined what, or rather who, was in it. And he was not mistaken.
As soon as he sat down on the chair, Andy, with his usual otherworldly smile, zipped the bag, opening it, and almost immediately a creaky voice came from it:
"Isn't that purple monster around?"
"No, Snot, everything is fine. It's just the Lord and his boys," Andy said softly in response.
"Great! At least we can discuss business," exclaimed a voice from the bag, after which its owner appeared from it: a small, plump demon with greenish-pink skin, tiny horns, whitish bowl-shaped eyes and a wide mouth full of needle-like teeth. "I've had enough of these forced hugs," he grumbled grumpily, finally climbing out of the bag.
Lord grinned: the moment the two demons, Snot and Charming, met was imprinted in his memory for a long time. The Slaanesh Daemonette, a monstrous, toothy creature that combined scorching beauty and disgusting ugliness, squealed like a girl at that moment, grabbed the indignantly squealing Snot and began to squeeze him, under the astonished gazes of those present. The Nurgling grunted, squealed, cursed filthily and tried to break free - but the spawn of Slaanesh did not let him go, continuing to circle the room and squeeze the unfortunate demon, purring contentedly. From then on, Snot, if he got out of the Junk Temple on business - like now, for example - observed increased precautions. He moved exclusively in a closed sports bag and climbed out only after he was firmly convinced that the Precious was not nearby.
"Filthy Slaaneshi spawn. It was much calmer while she was gone," Snot grumbled, carefully getting off the couch and waddling to the Lord's desk. "I have to hide in my bags even on friendly territory - this is beyond the pale!... Help me out, my friend," he turned to Andy, holding out his tiny three-fingered hands to the reverend. The latter smiled softly and lifted the Nurgling onto the office owner's desk. Snot immediately plopped down on his butt opposite the Lord, folded his arms over his chest and frowned. "Well, since there is no danger, we can chat."
"You don't like hugs, do you?" the Lord couldn't help but grin, looking at the demon sitting in front of him.
"With crazy toothy bitches who confuse a Nurgling with a teddy bear - no, I don't like it!" Snot snapped bitterly. "What the hell is she even bothering me with?! Since when do the slaves of the Thirsty Bitch harass good Nurglings?! What did she like about me in the first place?!"
"Well… you're pink and warm," Reverend Andy commented, still smiling.
"Andy, my friend, stop being funny — it doesn't suit you," Snot winced. He was clearly not in the mood. "So, your lordship, are you ready for a stunning new wonderful life??"
"What do you have for me this time?" the Lord said calmly, sitting down in his place. He tried to seem deliberately indifferent: this was the only way to communicate with these cultists, as well as with any other representatives of the criminal world. Show even a hint of feelings — and they will stop taking you as seriously as you need to be taken.
"Tell him, Snot," Andy smiled again.
The Nurgling immediately forgot to pout and, taking a deep breath, blurted out: "And we found a tank!"
Silence. Only a lone fat fly was circling around the little demon, obviously attracted both by its shape and by its undoubtedly pleasant, in its fly's opinion, aroma. But the Lord did not pay attention to this. He raised an eyebrow and asked again: "A tank?"
"A tank, a tank," Snot nodded smugly. "A real 'Chieftain'! It was gathering dust in a warehouse, unwanted and abandoned," the little demon sniffed. "And we grabbed it! And expr… expropriated…"
"Expropriated," the reverend prompted him.
"Exactly!" the Nurgling nodded at this. "But don't think about it, your lordship! Everything is done properly, legally and with a bunch of papers. Our friends from London have really tried."
"Wait a minute," Lord rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Are you saying that you stole a tank from military warehouses?"
"Not stolen, expropriated," Andy calmly corrected.
"According to the law!" Snot added importantly.
Lord's eyebrow rose even higher. "In the United Kingdom, even ordinary weapons in private hands arouse unhealthy interest from the authorities," Lord winced. "Politicians have already broken so many spears in parliament on the topic of a final ban on the ownership of firearms, and you ... stole a tank?"
"No, we didn't steal it, but! ..." the little demon began to object again, but was interrupted by Andy: "Snot did not specify that we were allowed to take this tank only because its warhead was dismantled. In fact, the gun in its turret has been turned into an ordinary decorative ornament."
"Of course, the laws of Great Britain prohibit its restoration," the Nurgling immediately "caught" the thought of the reverend, "but we will not restore the old shooting system. We will simply install a few... upgrades."
"So, knowing you, it will be a rusty, crumbling structure with a tank of some kind of poison in the turret?" the Lord winced. No, he was not satisfied with such a layout! To give such a weapon to the damned Trash Sect, even if it is unfinished and semi-legal - no fools. "Where is your tank now?"
"They are bringing it to us from the warehouses in the north... Stop, your lordship!" Snot suddenly became indignant. "You do not want to take away from us everything we have acquired through backbreaking labor, do you?!"
"That's exactly what I'm going to do. Any objections?" the crime boss narrowed his eyes menacingly. But his gaze didn't really affect the Nurgle demon.
"This is robbery in broad daylight!" squeaked Snot, throwing up his hands so expressively that he almost fell off the table. "We got the tank, which means!..."
"Which means - the one the Angel put in charge will be in charge of it," the Lord finished harshly for him, and the evil evil was forced to shut up, snorting in resentment. The Angel's name always had a wonderful effect on him, as well as on the other minions of Chaos in the two cults subordinate to the Lord. "So the tank will be brought here, and then... then I will decide for myself what to do with it."
"A tank with a sawed-off warhead is one thing. A tank with a bioweapon tank attached to it is quite another!" Lord thought to himself, watching as the disgruntled Snot loaded himself back into the bag and Andy carried him away. "Especially since the Nurglites already have plenty of weapons, even heavy ones. If we leave them a tank, expect trouble. But then what to do with the fucking Chieftain?" he frowned. And then he remembered that the principle of "divide and conquer" had not been canceled. He even chuckled at the thought. "What did Megan tell me about the acoustic systems that were recently delivered to her at the request of the Charming? No one will find it suspicious if a crazy nouveau riche businessman installs a music center with a couple of large speakers on a tank? It will be pretty funny," Lord thought, happily lighting a cigarette. He definitely liked his idea. By the time Angel decides to visit them, Lord will have something to demonstrate.
Summer 1994. In the same London environs.
Getting from Little Whinging to Teddingale was a bit more difficult than getting to South Helens. If Harry could just follow the highway towards London before, now he had to look for more winding routes - the new location of the cults' base was in a completely different direction, although relatively close. However, for the young Chaosite this was not a problem: a bright purple star shining in the warp led him to his goal. To Megan Cornhill's club "The Den of Charm" - that's how the former policewoman renamed the establishment of the late authority Shalom. But before he went there, he had to meet and take a couple of companions with him.
Potter liked Teddingale. One could even say that this was his first acquaintance with the city - last time he was a little... out of his mind when he found himself here. Now everything was different: It was a clear sunny day. A few clouds floated across the sky, and the trees rustled in the town square. It was the middle of a weekday, when even the scant traffic that was seen on the town streets at other times had practically dried up. Harry walked along the sunlit sidewalk and simply enjoyed the stroll.
He and Hermione had agreed to meet not far from the club itself. Harry's four demonic companions conveyed the direction to him via warp, and now he was standing in a dead-end courtyard that looked unusually shabby for Teddingale: cracked asphalt, construction waste, and thickets of thistles. There was not a single window looking out onto this stone bag - on all sides towered the back walls of neighboring buildings, with air conditioner boxes sticking out here and there. The perfect place to Apparate.
They were already waiting for him, as he had expected. Hermione Granger waved happily at him and smiled, the girl in the Immaterium was radiating joy. The second wizard standing in the dead end, on the contrary, was positively emitting discontent and some confusion. This second was none other than Professor Filius Flitwick, the Charms teacher at Hogwarts and the head of the Ravenclaw faculty.
"Good afternoon, Professor Flitwick!" Harry smiled broadly, in contrast to the half-goblin's mood. "Hello, Hermione!" he greeted his friend.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Potter, hello," Flitwick nodded to him somewhat absentmindedly and nervously. "You know," he emerged from his reverie a little and perked up, "the method of Apparation demonstrated by Miss Granger is simply amazing! This was incredible: completely new principles of magic, capable of creating effects similar to ordinary spells, but not requiring subtle manipulation of processes!"
Harry smiled again: Flitwick simply could not remain depressed for long when he found some interesting scientific topic for research. As the boy understood, Hermione had teleported them here using a warp portal, which she had laid earlier with the help of her faithful house elves. An excellent demonstration of abilities. Which caused the natural admiration of a true Ravenclaw. "If a schoolboy is able to use something like this, what can an adult and experienced wizard achieve?" the professor almost jumped from the feelings that overwhelmed him. "What other miracles are you preparing for me, Mister Potter?" he turned to Harry with burning eyes.
"Professor, I'm even embarrassed," the boy spread his hands. "It is you, a wizard and undoubtedly a brilliant researcher, who every day show true miracles to children like me, raised by Muggles. And this ... so, an ancient exoticism, dug up by chance," a new smile. They both understood perfectly well that these words were just routine politeness. After the abilities demonstrated by Potter, this was quite obvious.
Over the past six months, they almost did not cross paths: Harry hid after his breakdown, playing the role of an ordinary schoolboy, and Flitwick was trying to figure out his new status in the goblin community. And his attitude towards it. If before meeting Harry Potter he was almost happy - well, of course, the goblins seemed to accept him, allowed him to celebrate religious rites with them, in a way showing considerable trust. But that fateful meeting happened six months ago and doubts settled in the half-blood's heart. More precisely, not like that: doubts were present in him from the very beginning. Well, the goblins, greedy for secrets and gold, could not completely accept a new, not very full-fledged relative from their point of view! It was wrong. False! But he ignored this feeling. He convinced himself that this was temporary, that full trust must be earned, and that this process is not quick... But he waited for this very "full trust" for a good fifteen years! In such a period of time, anyone would have passed any tests and trials. Anyone, but, apparently, with the exception of the "incomplete" Flitwick.
For the last six months he had been constantly lost in thought, becoming even more absent-minded than he usually was when pondering some new research or popular magical innovation. And these thoughts were not exactly joyful. Rather, a dull irritation and suspicion were growing in him. What's more, Professor Flitwick had almost developed a real suspiciousness, turning into paranoia! What he had previously not noticed or ignored in everyday life became somehow more contrasting and convex. Whispers of students, glances of colleagues - everywhere he seemed to sense disdain and contempt for his origin. He almost forced himself to teach classes to the Slytherins - they were certainly not particularly embarrassed by their attitude towards all half-bloods. Even if they knew how to skillfully hide it behind hypocritical masks.
The last straw was today. Summer holidays had come, and he could finally fully distract himself from school duties. But this year Flitwick was most looking forward to not a trip to book stalls in search of interesting literature, and not to antique shops in the hope of finding some unusual magical trinket. He was waiting for an audience with the head of the Knoxcall clan. Which took place today. Actually, his depressed mood was a consequence of this meeting. The little professor tried to put the question, as they say, point-blank: do the goblins accept him as one of their own, a relative and a co-religionist, or not? And if they do, can he not just receive small consultations on conducting the rituals of Blargolag, but fully participate in large ceremonies along with the rest and undergo the appropriate initiations. And what did Knoxcall answer him? Nothing. No, the head of the clan was impeccably polite and friendly - as then, fifteen years ago. As always. They talked for about thirty minutes, after which Flitwick left the headmaster's office... and realized, that, in essence, he had said neither "yes" nor "no". Although, given the context and the general message, it was more likely a "no". And what do you mean "more likely" — a definite and unequivocal "no"! Empty wordplay, toothless promises that everything would be "in due time", and so on and so forth. That's why he was now so confused, devastated… and angry.
Did Harry and Smarty know about all these circumstances? Oh, they had made Forecasts many times and simply reasoned on this topic, and therefore had some idea of the professor's feelings. And they were ready to make him an offer, all the more advantageous against the background of the goblins' blatant disdain.
"You are very kind, Mr. Potter," Flitwick smiled sourly, shaking his head. "And the phrase 'merely ancient exoticism' in relation to what you practice is a somewhat, umm… underestimating judgment."
Harry only chuckled at this phrase. The little half-goblin had no idea how underestimating it was.
"You're very upset, Professor," Potter shook his head. "I think I have a slight idea of why, but you're hardly ready to discuss it now, are you?"
"Hm. Yes, I need some time to… reflect on some aspects of my life, Mr. Potter," Flitwick smiled wearily in response.
"We all rethink things sometimes," Harry replied. "Some sooner, some later… But I invited you to show me some of what I've achieved in my… research," he said promisingly.
"Yes, yes!" the half-goblin perked up. "Miss Granger outlined the scope of your work back at Hogwarts. Without details, of course – there are too many ears there," he winced. "And now I'm ready to look at the, so to speak, practical aspect of the new magic!"
Harry exchanged glances with Hermione, a barely noticeable twinkle in his eyes: everything was exactly as Smarty had told them. Disappointment in his relatives and colleagues literally pushed Professor Flitwick to try his own religious and scientific quest. With which quest Harry Potter would be happy to help him!
"What do you think of Muggles, Professor?" he asked the professor when they had already approached the back entrance to the club.
"Um... I don't think so," Flitwick tried to joke a little nervously. "I mean, I have nothing against them, but... what do Muggles have to do with it?" he blinked in surprise.
Harry only smiled mysteriously and opened the door to the basement, letting his companions go first.
"Ahem!" the half-goblin coughed - the room was filled with a strong and thick smell of incense from the brazier standing in the corner. It was the middle of a weekday, so there were almost no visitors in the club. And yet, a couple of bodies detached from the world were still present in the dark corners. As were the waiters, the half-naked guys and girls already familiar to the Lord and his people, but seen for the first time by Flitwick. "Em, well, actually ..." the professor, blushing, it seemed, to the roots of his hair, tried not to stare at the practically naked young girl with rather curvaceous forms, who approached them with an inviting smile to lead them into the depths of the establishment. "And what is this place?"
"The Lair of Charm club," Hermione explained instead of Harry. "It is home to ... a group of Muggles who use the same religious practices as we do."
"Muggles use magic?" Flitwick almost jumped at this phrase. The new shocking information made him immediately forget about the half-naked girl. "But how?! This is!..."
"It's normal if we're talking about our magic, professor," Harry commented emphatically.
"Yes, yes, of course," the half-goblin immediately frowned in deep thought, while they were already walking along the corridor along which the Lord had been led on the day when the Precious was summoned in his presence. "Of course!" Flitwick slammed his fist into his palm. "What is modern magic? Manipulation of the ethereal emanations of the world with the help of certain structures of the mind, the presence of which makes a wizard a wizard. This same magic is an ancient primordial force, which itself has a semblance of reason! The principle of interaction is more truly religious than magical. But this does not mean that one cannot study the principles…" Then he muttered under his breath, almost not paying attention to the surrounding reality.
Meanwhile, they approached the elevator in which the Lord had once descended into the underground hall. He was guarded by one of the cultists, Megan Cornhill, and she was the first living soul they met here, besides the waitress and a couple of drug addicts in the first room. He was dressed, by the way, to match the waitress. True, he was not so naked: he was wearing a black T-shirt with neon patterns that glowed in the dark and reflected from the mirrors on the walls, tight leather pants with chains hanging from the belt and high black boots with iron rivets. Painted nails and lips, makeup - everything gave him away as one of the initiates of the cult of Slaanesh. On his clean-shaven head there was a tattoo going out onto his forehead: the Star of Chaos.
"Angel!" exclaimed the cultist and knelt before Potter. "The Lord is already waiting for you in the distant garage."
His appearance and behavior made Flitwick return to reality again and look at the new character with surprise.
"The garage?" Harry raised an eyebrow in a half-question. He knew that it was the Lord and Megan who wanted to demonstrate something to him, but he wanted to keep the intrigue in front of Flitwick and Hermione.
"Yes, Angel," the "bull" inclined his bald head. "That's exactly why they asked to invite a specialist in... well, what kind of specialist did they need?" here he glanced sideways at the half-goblin, examining him with almost the same interest as the latter was examining the cultist himself. "Got it. Lead the way!" Harry magnanimously waved his hand towards the elevator.
The elevator cabin stopped one floor above the large ritual hall. Potter sensed that there, in the thickness of the earth under his feet, in that very hall, someone's powerful, evil and hungry mind was pulsating, painted in the purple colors of Slaanesh for him in the warp. This, apparently, was the same Precious, summoned by Officer Cornhill relatively recently. Harry planned to talk to her too, but a little later. First he needed to finish the business for which he had actually invited Professor Flitwick with him.
The short corridor beyond the opened doors of the elevator ended at rectangular louvered doors, the kind that usually covered the entrances to warehouses and parking lots. When they slid upward with a metallic rustle, a large room opened up to them, resembling exactly that very parking lot, a garage and a car service at the same time. If car services were accepted to draw Chaos runes on the walls with blood. Flitwick even stumbled, his eyes wide with amazement, looking around at the picture that opened up. However, Harry and Hermione were also looking around with great interest - the sight was quite amusing.
"Hello, Angel," Megan Cornhill, who came forward and greeted them in a deep chest voice, like the "bull" above, kneeling in front of Harry. She was dressed almost normally: tight trousers, a jacket with a very deep neckline, revealing a view of her lush chest. True, both were latex, but that was already a detail. High-heeled shoes completed the image. "We are glad that you came."
"Angel," the Lord, standing a little to the side, nodded dryly to him. He watched with an unreadable gaze as Megan and her cultists bowed before Potter.
"Jealousy?" Smarty chuckled thoughtfully. But then he answered himself: "No-o. More like thoughtfulness. And analysis."
"He's trying this worship on himself," Sweet Tooth giggled. "He sees the power Chaos gives and wants to have it too. Good," he summed up with satisfaction. "The more he wants it, the sooner he'll bow to one of us. But who will he choose?"
"He's a warrior!" Ruffnut barked contemptuously. "In the end, he'll come to the Throne of Skulls and become its faithful slave!"
"Perhaps we should make a bet?" Sweet Tooth immediately exclaimed excitedly. "I predict that in the end he will choose what suits him best - that is, Slaanesh and me! After all, it suits his business and way of life best," he chuckled smugly, as if he knew everything in advance. "And there are warriors among the Slaaneshi. And much more skilled than ... everyone else," he finished dismissively. And everyone understood who he meant by "the rest". Oddly enough, Ruffnut understood it too.
"STORYING PINK WORM!!!" the Khornate growled, so loudly that Harry, for the first time in recent years, seriously got a headache. "In less than a year, he will become the most loyal follower of the Blood God and cut out this vile sodomite circle to the last Slaaneshi faggot!!!"
"Oh-oh, how scary!" Sweet Tooth drawled mockingly, not at all embarrassed. "Smart girl, what do you think?
"That he won't accept any God as the one and only. But to bet on that? Probably not," the Tzeentchite commented calmly.
"Ugh, that's not interesting!" the Slaaneshite was indignant. "Come on, join the bet! Because if..."
Harry was no longer listening to the "what if", concentrating on reality. The conversation of the spirit advisors was once again turning into a regular squabble, which could be ignored as background noise. Interestingly, Dobryak did not express his opinion in this discussion. His presence was felt, but he himself was silent: either he was offended by something as usual, or he simply was not interested in any betting.
In the meantime, they were led to something large, covered with a thick tarpaulin. It was still too big for a car, but the approximate shape of the object hidden under the cover was somewhat similar to it. However, they did not remain unknown for long: the "bulls" pulled off the tarpaulin and opened the car hidden under it in front of him. A tank painted dark purple with gold patterns.
"Andy and his flock were taken out on occasion," the Lord commented boredly, while Harry, Hermione and Flitwick were curiously examining the Chieftain from all sides. "I thought that they had already expanded their… business sufficiently. And I handed this little one over to Megan," a nod towards the former policewoman. "Our people have already made some modifications, installed powerful speakers, but…" here he spread his hands. "We were unable to achieve that the sound became a weapon similar in power to the original tank gun. Still, we don't have any design engineers here," he winced.
The idea of a sound weapon was mentioned to Harry a year ago personally to Megan and her friend Helen, and the latter received it with great enthusiasm. The former prostitute, as it turned out, had loved loud music before, and now this love had grown into a real passion! Back then, there were neither the means nor the time for something like that. But not now.
"That can be fixed!" Harry smiled broadly, turning to the dumbfounded Flitwick. "I just brought us someone who can advance this issue. Meet Professor Flitwick, my school teacher!"
A discordant welcoming roar was heard from the "bulls" present. Megan and Lord nodded and began to study the half-goblin intently.
And from the tank, a clear voice was heard: "Hey! Angel, hello!" A slender figure of a short-haired girl in leather pants and a frivolous top, which was stained with machine oil, climbed onto the armor. Helen. "So our little one will be able to sing his song after all, huh?"
Harry waved his hand at her. The girl deftly jumped off the armor and came close to Flitwick, practically ignoring everyone else. After studying the dumbfounded professor with her eyes for a few seconds, she suddenly extended her hand for a handshake: "Helen. Nice to meet you, Professor!" she blurted out. When Flitwick, still in a daze, shook the outstretched palm, she clasped her hands and jumped a little: "Hurry, hurry, fix my steel pimp for me! It will be a mega-acid RE-E-AYE!!"
"Helen, go tell our guys to get ready to show themselves to the Angel," seeing that the shorty who came with Harry was completely lost from such pressure, Megan took matters into her own hands. Smoothly approaching the frozen half-goblin, she put her arm around his shoulders and pressed him to her wide hip. "Later, no doubt, the time will come for the Kid."
Flitwick was almost completely lost, but Hermione's voice brought him out of his thoughts: "Professor, I already even know what can be done with this machine!" she exclaimed. "I think you won't refuse to look at my calculations?"
"What? Uh... um, miss? ..." Flitwick perked up a little and tried to move away from Megan. She did not hold him back, and he succeeded. "Thank you, yes ... Ahem-ahem!" trying to hide his embarrassment, he coughed. "Miss Granger, uh ... I'm not sure that interacting with a Muggle machine ... what was it called? "A tank, yes. Well, isn't that expressly forbidden by the Statute of Secrecy? What am I even talking about? Hmm," he shook his head, looking around. Discussing the Statute was a bit out of place in a garage covered in witchcraft symbols and filled with the Muggles who were apparently the ones who drew them. "In any case, I'd very much like to see your calculations. And study the mechanics of these... runes, if you'll allow me."
"Come on, Professor," the Lord said with a grin, gesturing toward the door in the opposite wall of the garage. "You and I and the Angel have some business to discuss. I assure you, if everything is as he told us, then much of what you'll find here will be of great interest to you."
"And that's what you call this tank - the Baby?" Hermione asked.
"That's what Megan and Helen call it. Like it's their favorite child," the crime boss snorted at this. "My guys call it something else. They liked the story that Andy and Snot stole it from the military warehouses. So for most people here, it's the Stubborn Tank."
Harry grabbed Flitwick, who was still not fully recovered from his conversation with the cultists, by the elbow and they moved towards the exit of the garage. There were some aspects of the interaction of the wizarding world and the mundane under Potter's leadership to discuss. And the head of Ravenclaw would play a significant role in it.
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