August 1994. England, Devonshire County, Quidditch World Cup.
"Not bad," the Lord commented reservedly as he entered the tent. He tried to keep his face impassive, but it was difficult. The wizarding tent had clearly made an impression on him. "Very good." Harry just grinned, exchanging glances with Hermione. What he really liked about the Lord was his ability to remain outwardly calm even in the most extraordinary situations. For example, finding himself at a huge tent festival of wizards gathered for the Wizarding Quidditch Championship. Dartmoor National Park in the late summer of 1994 was the center of an unprecedented crush: thousands of wizards flew to old England for the Quidditch Cup final. The Ministry of Magic of the United Kingdom began preparing for this event almost a year in advance: an agreement was reached with the Muggle government on measures to close the reserve to visitors for the duration of the event, the site was prepared, the necessary buildings were erected. Including a huge stadium. The stadium was truly impressive. At first, Harry, as well as Hermione, were somewhat skeptical about its stated capacity of one hundred thousand people - and this was the figure mentioned in the boastful interview taken by Rita Skeeter personally from Minister Fudge. Well, really, even the Muggles in the whole world had such huge stadiums in the whole world, God willing, three, no more*! But when they saw the huge structure itself, built in the middle of a vast field, the skepticism of the young Chaosites subsided. But the real admiration for the work that the Ministry had done to organize the event arose when looking at the huge tent city that spread out at the foot of the stadium. It was no joke: in addition to those almost one hundred thousand wizards who came to England for the Championship, there were also many service personnel, security, all sorts of vendors and traders - the total number of this crowd was simply difficult to imagine! And it was certainly not worth thinking about what efforts it took for ministry officials and the Muggle government to hide this sea of people from the eyes of ordinary people. Harry sincerely enjoyed the atmosphere that reigned at the Championship. A huge sea of emotions, thoughts, feelings and conflicts swayed around, motley with paths and threads of destinies, dangers and opportunities. It seemed that you could create some kind of bloody ritual right behind your tent - and no one would even notice, such a fuss and flickering of faces reigned around! Hermione felt the same - and therefore the two Chaosites were in a real euphoria and experienced a spiritual uplift, prompting them to do and act for the glory of the Gods!
"Sir, the cargo has been delivered," an awkward young man looked into the tent, addressing the Lord. As Harry understood, he was something like a mixture of a freelance adviser and an errand boy in the Lord's gang - a relative of one of its members, a student from some London university. In fact, Potter wouldn't have paid any attention to him, if it weren't for one "but." There was something bad about this student. More precisely, "bad" in the understanding of the average person, but not Harry Potter! For him, this "something" was rather "interesting". So interesting that Harry made a note to himself to ask both the guy himself and the Lord about him later. And no, the student was definitely not a wizard - Harry had already learned to determine the difference between wizards and muggles by the trace in the warp. The guy simply emanated some otherworldly... rot. It had nothing in common with the corruption of Nurgle, as well as with the traces of any other Gods. It was just some Darkness that was eating away at him from the inside, some strange thirst that demanded an outlet, and which the student skillfully hid behind the mask of a pimply clumsy person. But which the Chosen of Indivisible Chaos could sense perfectly well with his otherworldly "sense of smell".
And in the tent bought in Knockturn Alley and improved by the wizard Flitwick, the business bustle continued. The Lord's "bulls" with tattoos in the form of the stars of Chaos and the signs of Slaanesh and Nurgle scurried back and forth, carrying weapon boxes and bags with things outside - the action they had planned implied an option with an open confrontation with wizards, should such people stick their noses at the place of the supposed ritual, and therefore the cultists approached the issue of arming more than seriously. Judging by the predictions and Forecasts of Harry and Hermione, the chance of such a thing was far from zero. Something was hovering over the vicinity of the stadium, a certain threat and premonition that even those hundred thousand minds that were seething around could not drown out. As for access to the tent city for Muggles, there were no questions. But as for access for wizards... Let's say this: the same Lord, when Flitwick led them inside the contour of Muggle-repelling charms, only snorted contemptuously. And indeed: the access control system at the Championship... was absent. More precisely, it was probably present at the stadium itself, but almost any wizard could enter the camp next to it and pitch his tent. And bring Muggles with him, which the organizers clearly did not take into account. The entire security system is the wizard on duty, periodically casting Confundus and Obliviate on the park ranger and his wife, who lived in a house nearby, so that they would not be surprised by the large influx of guests who seemed to disappear into nowhere. Near which house, by the way, the Lord's bandits parked their cars - which the same duty officer simply ignored. Still, as Harry had noticed, despite the fact that most wizards claimed to be kind to Muggles, there was a certain… disdain for mundane people ingrained in the culture and mentality of the wizarding community. So what if some stupid Muggles left their primitive carts a few hundred yards from a gathering of wizards? They wouldn't get past the perimeter anyway. And not only did they get through, but they also brought a bunch of weapons and ammunition - something like that would never even occur to the average magician!
Harry smiled as he recalled the characteristically naive old article from the Daily Prophet, which called a gun "a rattling tube that Muggles use to shoot each other." Wizards simply didn't believe that Muggles could have "tubes" that were much heavier than a simple gun, and that they could pose a serious danger. What could I say: the majority of wizards believed that Muggles were harmless fools, dull oafs that even a simple housewife could handle. Well, today would probably be the day when many would doubt such a statement.
"The ingredients... are there. The victims are too early. The subjects of research?" muttered Smarty in Harry and Hermione's heads, while they were examining everything that the Lord's men had dragged along with them. "Hermione, where is the s... Well, I mean, did you bring your parents?" the demon easily corrected himself, obviously leaving such a reservation on purpose. Or not on purpose. Neither Potter nor Granger were still sure of the Tzeentchite's motivations. "By the tent. Waiting for a room to be set up for them," Hermione said evenly, involuntarily squeezing Harry's hand, which she was holding on to. She was very worried: of course, considering that today's event had been conceived precisely for the sake of healing her parents! The Granger couple really did show up at the entrance to the magic tent. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were sitting on one of the boxes, unnaturally frozen with straight backs and glaring somewhere ahead of them. Having cast an impenetrable glance at them, Hermione quickly turned away and resolutely moved towards the two wizards standing right there, a little further away. "Professor Flitwick, good afternoon!" — Harry and he politely greeted the little professor, who was enthusiastically discussing something with a stranger in a shabby robe and disheveled gray hair, who was only slightly taller than the half-goblin. — Introduce us to your companion? — Eh? Miss Granger! — the half-goblin reacted somewhat nervously to the girl's request, so absorbed was he in the conversation. — Actually, I was just discussing with Mr. Sharpenstone, er, your question. Your last letter was quite detailed, but it would be better for everyone to take a look together: was everything done correctly… — What? A schoolgirl? And such knowledge? Interesting, — the wizard named by Sharpenstone suddenly jumped up to the dumbfounded Hermione. At the same time, he was almost sniffing the frozen girl, who flared up in the warp like a bright star of surprise and even apprehension: despite her new abilities, such as reading the emotions of others and foresight, she was not ready for such behavior of the interlocutor. And the disheveled Mr. Sharpenstone continued to chatter quickly, examining Granger with almost gastronomic interest: - Complex calculations. Specific knowledge. Family methods? No - a mudblood. What then? Your own skills? Talent. Genius. Not bad. I would undertake to teach. With each phrase, the strange little man nodded finely, as if confirming to himself what he had just said. - Actually, Mr. Sharpenstone is one of the best jewelers and artefact makers in Britain ... - Flitwick began, but was almost immediately interrupted again by the indignant exclamation of the artefact maker himself: - Not "one of"! I am the best! Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool and a liar! — Mr. Sharpenstone jumped up from the emotion that overwhelmed him, and his grey hair and short beard bristled angrily. — Yes, yes, Matthias, that is certainly true, — Professor Flitwick sighed heavily, looking apologetically at Harry and Hermione, who had already managed to pull herself together. — Actually, you said that they needed the best jeweler in his field, not connected with Gringotts in any way — and this is Matthias Sharpenstone, my old friend and colleague in some, hmm... research. - Stones. Metals. Gold. Any, - Sharpenstone commented. - Goblins have a monopoly. But! There are loopholes. Filius will confirm. - Yes, yes! - the half-goblin hastened to take the conversation into his own hands again. - My relatives from Gringotts really do hold a monopoly on the circulation of gold throughout Europe. As well as on most precious and semi-precious stones suitable for artefact making. But I, by virtue of my origin... have some preferences. - Are the stones ready? - Hermione leaned forward. She had already recovered from her initial surprise and now her eyes were burning with a feverish fire. A real storm reigned in the girl's soul: the thirst to conduct a complex experiment, to gain new knowledge and to witness something interesting, mixed with the desire to heal her loved ones. Harry involuntarily narrowed his eyes and purred softly, like a contented cat - the emanations in the warp from his girlfriend were more than exciting! - Yes, yes, - meanwhile, Granger the artefact maker answered a little grumpily, taking out from somewhere a small bronze box with a simple ornament interspersed with runes. - Two stones, made exactly according to the given patterns. But their internal structure suggests preliminary drinking for a long time. A VERY long time! - he shook his finger up, as if threatening the heavens. - Such things are charged by generations. Generations, young miss! - And if we tell you that there is a possibility ... to speed up this process? - Potter finally joined the conversation. - Say ... up to one or two hours? Mr. Sharpenstone looked at the young man with a puzzled look - as if he had just seen him. Or noticed some ridiculous magical animal trying to gnaw on his heel. - Sorry, Mister... - Potter. Harry Potter, - Harry smiled brightly at this. made exactly according to the given patterns. But their internal structure suggests preliminary drinking for a long time. A VERY long time! - he shook his finger up, as if threatening the heavens. - Such things are charged by generations. Generations, young miss! - And if we tell you that there is a possibility... to speed up this process? - Potter finally joined the conversation. - Say... to one or two hours? Mr. Sharpenstone looked at the young man with a puzzled look - as if he had just seen him. Or noticed some ridiculous magical animal trying to gnaw on his heel. - Excuse me, Mister... - Potter. Harry Potter, - Harry smiled radiantly at this.
Yes, yes, very nice to meet you, Mr. Garter, - the artefact maker waved his hand absentmindedly, causing Harry to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Not recognizing the famous Boy-Who-Lived?! This Sharpenstone turned out to be a most interesting shot! However, for now, such things could be ignored. - I don't know what you heard there, but such "acceleration" is basically impossible! Yes, yes! - this "yes, yes" was clearly his favorite saying. - "Wild" magic stones found in mines were filled with the energy of the Universe for millennia and even millions of years. Millions of years! Think about this figure! Oh, Harry understood perfectly well what Mr. Sharpenstone was talking about. Especially after a long and productive conversation with the Smart Guy, Hermione, and numerous visions gleaned from the warp. And the gray-haired artifactor continued in the same didactic tone: - Structured, specially processed and cut stones are much better suited to the absorption of magical energy. But! All the same, even with targeted manipulations, sufficient drink occurs only after at least a couple of centuries of constant rituals. This is the basis of the magic of ancient families, Alpha and Omega, yes, yes! - And nevertheless, Matthias, - Flitwick carefully interrupted the heated master. - I saw with my own eyes the calculations of Miss Granger and Mr. Potter. With certain ... manipulations, everything will work out. Moreover: this is not just a theory pulled out of thin air, but ... - Yes, yes, Filius, I remember! - Sharpenstone winced. - Ancient methods, rituals, ceremonies - the old races were once very strong in this. But! More often than not, everything found turns out to be absolutely useless! What was quite effectively used by the same goblins five hundred years ago is now absolutely inapplicable! And that's not to mention that something like that is only mentioned in really old and unreliable sources. Fairy tales? Legends? Nonsense! - the master cut him off categorically. - And yet, as it turns out, the legends don't lie, - Hermione said in an ingratiating voice. - Ahem, young miss, - the artefact maker smiled indulgently. - At your age, it's forgivable to believe in fairy tales - yes, yes, fairy tales! With your talents, you would be much more comfortable doing something serious. Magic. Research. Fine crafts! Judging by what Filius sent me, you have an undeniable talent! Don't waste it chasing chimeras. - Well, master, we've heard you out and even agree with most of your calculations. It was informative, - Harry smiled thinly, stepping forward. - Moreover: under other circumstances I would have subscribed to every word you said, but... we have already had the opportunity to test these "chimeras" in practice. And successfully. The professor is my witness, - he pointed his hand at Flitwick, who coughed in embarrassment under Sharpenstone's inquisitive gaze. The half-goblin had indeed witnessed their practices. More precisely, those that Megan Cornhill's cultists from among the Lord's people and the bikers of Richard, her "consort", carried out in their lair. And, it must be said, this action made a very strong impression on Professor Flitwick! To be honest, Harry doubted until the end that the little professor would be able to accept the bloody realities of being a Chaos cultist. But everything turned out exactly as he and Smarty predicted: morbid curiosity, innate greed and goblin cruelty prevailed over superficial intelligence - Flitwick, it seemed, did not care a damn about the suffering of some Muggles, chosen by the cultists as the next victims. And therefore, the half-goblin looked at the ritual started by Megan with any feeling, but certainly without unnecessary reflections. Certainly, in some moments, Harry liked working with xenos much more than with people. House-elves, centaurs, half-goblin Flitwick - all of them did not cause him such problems as representatives of the human race did! From a certain point of view, it could even seem boring: neither resistance, nor any particular surprise or horror upon meeting the messenger of the Gods were demonstrated by all this motley non-human race. And it must be said: with the same centaurs, no special efforts were required. It seemed that they greeted Harry Potter, the Champion of Chaos, as a long-awaited hero from legends! However, this was indeed not far from the truth. Although, it was worth admitting, the same Quincy was still panicky afraid of him for almost the entire first year of their acquaintance. But this only further emphasized the general rule: xenos interacted with Chaos much easier than people. "Well, we'll see," Sharpenstone pursed his lips, clearly not abandoning his skepticism. "We sincerely hope that you will condescend to our research and become a witness to the planned ritual," Harry smiled. "We plan to hold it in the forest, at midnight, after the Championship." "The Championship?" the artefact maker blinked his eyes in bewilderment. — What Championship? Harry almost burst out laughing: the disheveled old man amused him. Such amazing absent-mindedness and inattention to the world around him, combined with undoubted genius, were very harmoniously combined in him. Not recognizing the famous Harry Potter? Why not, anything can happen. Not being aware of the main sporting event of the year? Moreover: not all wizards were fans of Quidditch, many simply did not care. But not when you are in the middle of a huge tent camp of fans gathered for this very event! Potter left Hermione with Flitwick and Sharpenstone to discuss the intricacies of the planned event: in this, his friend could be relied upon. Especially since they delved into discussing calculations and details, which the boy, although he understood, was stupidly lazy to delve into. Especially considering that he was eager to enjoy the festival in honor of the Championship to the fullest! "Ah, Potter," said Draco Malfoy, who Harry found a little later, in the area of the camp, drawing out his vowels in his usual manner. where they sold all sorts of fan souvenirs. - You show up on time as always. We were about to go look for you.
Hello, Harry! - one of the Weasley twins waved to him. Fred... I think. - We've been waiting for you. - We would never dare to disturb the Great Harry Potter, - the second twin immediately picked up - Harry decided to call him Dread for himself. And the first one - Forge. Even with his abilities, it was still not easy for him to tell these Weasleys apart. - Of course we wouldn't! - Forge spoke again. - But here's the thing... - The noble Mr. Malfoy... - a mocking bow towards Draco. - He deigned to enlighten us on the intricacies of doing business... - Using the souvenir and trinkets market as an example! - And we learned that you, it seems, are... - One of his business partners... - And investors! - the twins finished in chorus, leaning slightly towards Harry. Obviously emphasizing the last word, as if hinting at something.
"Hinting, of course," snorted the Sweet Tooth in the young man's head. "You remember what their dream is, right?"
"To open their own joke shop and magical mischief," Harry grinned, continuing to watch the twins' antics. "And Malfoy and I are their lucky ticket."
"Malfoy's money and your fame - for them, this will be a real space launch!" commented Smarty. "When you become, according to Malfoy Sr.'s plan, the face of the Triwizard Tournament - you two will become equal to the Gods for them, he-he!"
"The main thing is that you almost reconciled these two families," boomed Kindly in his deep voice. "What must happen will happen. But the confrontation between the Weasleys and the Malfoys will no longer bother you."
"Hm," chuckled Smarty incomprehensibly. "I thought it was my job to predict the future and speak in mysterious phrases." Harry heard a hidden mockery in his voice, which the Nurgle, however, chose to ignore. But Ruffnut did not ignore Kindly's own phrase:
"Peace?! PEACE?!!!" he was furious. "There will be no peace here!! Only Chaos! Only blood and carnage! The youngest Weasley tasted blood on the battlefield - and now she will never come to terms with this shameful compromise! Very soon she will decorate the Throne of Skulls with a couple of blond heads!!!"
"Why do you always yell like that, huh?" Sweet Tooth sighed deliberately dejectedly. "You could have said that you decided to go against our beloved Champion and his friends."
"What?!" the Khornate was taken aback. "I did not! ..."
"That's enough," Harry snapped at the spirit advisors. "Ruffnut didn't mean that, I'm sure. He was simply reminding me that there can be no weaklings in my future retinue - and those who claim a place in it will have to prove themselves in battle. Is that right, Ruffnut?" he asked with emphasis. And the Khornate, surprisingly, succumbed to this pressure:
"Yes. Yes, that's it," after which the voices fell silent and Harry returned to the conversation in reality. "... The trinkets on sale here are mostly ordinary consumer goods," Malfoy was saying meanwhile, as the four of them walked along the row of stalls with souvenir trays. He did not bother at all to lower his voice, which earned him several rather unfriendly looks from the sellers and some of the customers. Considering that they were walking through the part of the camp where the Irish and other Irish fans had settled, this could have been dangerous. The sight of a sleek English teenager dressed like a London dandy and ranting about "low quality" and "squalor" could provoke them to… do something. And Harry didn't interrupt or pull Malfoy up precisely because he was counting on that – he could practically feel the tension in the air! The Weasley twins, on the contrary, began to glance nervously around. "Um, Malfoy, you…" Dread said carefully. "Keep it down…" Forge muttered through clenched teeth, glancing at the huge wizard with a red beard and in a tartan robe**. "No need to offend people for no reason!" "No need – you can, no need – you can't." Now it's definitely in vain!... - As for not in vain - we'll tell you... - Oh, come on! - Draco snorted contemptuously, not noticing anything. - You wanted to know my opinion about the junk that all sorts of simpletons buy in sacks - so... - And why don't you share this damn valuable opinion of yours with me, huh, young whippersnapper? - the same bearded man boomed, approaching their group and demonstratively flexing his fists. Two more appeared behind him: an angry, narrow-eyed girl with red curls, like the man's, and a gloomy muscular guy. Also red-haired. All three of them simply wafted through the warp the desire to give the impudent English girls a good thrashing! Only at that moment Draco finally realized WHAT and WHERE he was chatting! Turning pale and swallowing nervously, he began to mumble some excuses, but it was perfectly clear to everyone present: this would not stop the Irish. And Harry was already looking forward to admiring the amazed face of the red-haired giant in tartan when he shortened him, but...
But they were interrupted. "McDonagh, that's enough," said a strong voice with a noticeable accent from behind the red-haired Irish family. Harry glanced sideways in displeasure and raised an eyebrow in bewilderment. The owner of the voice was a thin, dark-haired man of indeterminate age with a distinctly southern appearance - Spanish or Italian. At first glance, he was about forty, but he could have been older. The man was dressed in a long black robe with a white priestly collar, and on his chest hung a gold cross on a chain. A priest? "Padre?" the older Irishman looked back at him sullenly, clearly not too pleased that he was not allowed to teach the impudent people an object lesson. "You shouldn't be angry with children who chatter in the street," the priest shook his head. "After all, that's what distinguishes an adult from a child, isn't it?" "Yes, padre," the elder one, the bearded man McDonagh had called him, winced. He gave Malfoy one last angry glance, waved at the girl and the guy behind him, and left. "Thank you… er, padre," Harry smiled at their "savior." He wouldn't tell a stranger that he could have easily scattered the red-haired aggressors himself, and without any magic, at that. "You're welcome, my son," the priest smiled at them sparingly, but quite sincerely. True, he was looking closely at Potter's face, as if searching for… something in it. "Tell me, child," he suddenly said. "How long has it been since you went to confession? Have you taken communion?" Harry, to be honest, was a little taken aback by such a question. "Um… padre?" he began uncertainly. "I'm not really a Catholic." - Hm, - the priest drawled vaguely, examining the guy standing in front of him even more closely. - But don't Anglicans confess their sins? After all, despite the heresy of this teaching, do you still have some remnants of faith and conscience?
"I don't like his tone!" - Zabiyaka instantly became enraged by the disdainful intonation of his interlocutor. "How dare he slander the customs of the country he came to, even though no one invited him?!"
"Well, technically he was invited," - Slastyona chuckled. "At least he has access here, which means this guy was invited."
"I don't like this priest," - Smart Guy unexpectedly agreed with the Khornit. "He has an overly intense gaze. He reminds me of something... Does no one else feel this?"
"That's how confessors and inquisitors look, looking for heresy in those worlds that have fallen under suspicion of the Ministorum and other Ordos," gurgled Dobryak. "But where could the Imperial Ordos come from here?" Harry wondered to himself, outwardly continuing to smile and maintain a meaningless conversation.
"Perhaps from nowhere.", — Smarty drawled tensely. "But no one can guarantee that there is nothing similar in this world. Even if it is smaller in scale."
— And what is my sin, padre? — Potter feigned bewilderment, raising his chiseled eyebrows and looking at the priest with clear green eyes. And slightly lowering the Love Gaze for a test — well, just for the sake of an experiment. And then dispelling it. The strange priest reacted very characteristically: he jerked and literally stared into the boy's eyes, as if he had caught a glimpse of something familiar and was trying to understand: was it a fantasy or not? Harry even thought with concern that the priest began to resemble a hound sniffing the trail of a hare. This image turned out to be surprisingly… uncomfortable. But the spell dissipated on both sides very quickly. Harry continued to look into the priest's eyes, in response to his tense gaze. — A sin? — the man finally broke the silence. — We are all sinners. Only God has no sin. The question is whether we acknowledge these sins and are ready to repent of them. You, young man, repent? Harry was even more surprised... and then thought about it. And indeed: did he repent? Perhaps. But not of what the priest in front of him might have been thinking. Not even that: he regretted. But again, not of what normal people are supposed to regret. Only of the fact that he had wasted a lot of time on trifles, while he could have served the Gods, become stronger and more powerful. Instead of hiding and dodging, he could have... could have!... Harry shook his head and frowned. The strange priest had caused a wave of unusual reasoning and introspection in him, somehow naturally. Not that he disliked it so much, but still... Still, Harry Potter himself was used to influencing the minds of those around him, but not the other way around! And so, in response to the priest's question, he repeated: - I am not a Catholic, padre. "Well… everyone has their faults," he said neutrally, and, slightly bowing his head, he walked away. "Wow!" one of the twins breathed. It seemed as if Harry had been trying to hold his breath the entire time he was talking to the priest. "That was close." "Closer than I would like," the other twin picked up.
Malfoy, you... - Next time you want to bully someone... - At least warn me! - they said this phrase in unison, in their own manner. - Big deal, - Draco muttered resentfully as they walked back to their part of the camp. - I only told the truth... - Are you really a Slytherin? - Harry chuckled at this phrase. - I thought that in your dungeons they teach you how to hide your true attitude to others. - Why should I hide my attitude to some dirty Irlashki? - the blond threw an angry look in his direction, but, running into Potter's mocking look, seasoned with Love Magic, he blushed and preferred to retreat. - Yeah, it's good that Finnigan is not with us, - Forge sighed at this. - He wouldn't like this crap about the "Irlashki". - That's for sure, - Dread echoed him. — Malfoy, of course, is a good guy for the most part… — For a Slytherin, — Forge clarified again. — For a Slytherin, — Dread accepted the clarification. — But sometimes he gets carried away. — And he really gets carried away! That was how they parted. Harry said that he wanted to go for a walk on his own, and the twins wanted to catch up with Malfoy and straighten him out a bit. And talk about business in a more constructive way, of course. Potter himself had actually lost all mood for a walk. He was overcome with paranoia and anxiety: the meeting with the creepy Catholic priest had provoked these feelings, forcing him to see the people around him as spies and voyeurs who were trying to expose the underage warp sorcerer.
"A bit of healthy paranoia never hurt," whispered Smarty in his head when they had already returned to the Weasleys' tent, not risking going to the location of the Lord's boys. "After all, Lord and Flitwick will do just fine with the preparations themselves. And we came here to relax, right?"
"Hey! That's my line!"— Sweet Tooth was indignant, but more mockingly than truly indignant. In response, the Tzeentchite only laughed, but said nothing. In principle, Harry had nothing better to do before nightfall. The match itself was about to begin soon — and he still wanted to buy a couple of souvenirs as a keepsake. Which he did — though he tried to do it in another "quarter" of the camp, away from the aggressive Irish and Catholic priests. That's how he got a figurine of the Bulgarian team's Seeker, Viktor Kramm, a rising star of European Quidditch. The figurine was naturally enchanted, and therefore moved and moved its thick eyebrows very naturally. Harry had already managed to read a few things about him, and much of it appealed to him. For example, the agility and audacity of the young Bulgarian on the field - judging by what we managed to find in the press and sports reviews of wizards, during the chase for the snitch, Kramm did not disdain any tricks at all. The only thing that was a little alarming was the almost complete lack of information on the rest of the players of the Bulgarian team, their playing style, etc. Are the Bulgarians so obsessed with conspiracy? Are they afraid that someone will figure out their playing style? But why then is their main trump card - Viktor Kramm - discussed by almost all the media from Istanbul to New York? Strange ... But a review of the players of the Irish team was present in almost every wizarding newspaper. Names, portraits, favorite tricks. The red-haired Celts smiled impudently from the photographs, as if provoking their opponents: well, here we are, we have nothing to hide - but still, try to take us!
"Eastern mystery and Western openness," Smart Guy chuckled. "Which is more effective in terms of hiding real secrets is a question. But it's almost certain that the Irish have much better PR managers."
"And their signs are more interesting," Slastyona added. "Greenery, clover, leprechauns, bagpipes, dancing and fun. And the Bulgarians? Portraits of Kramm on every corner," he snorted contemptuously. "Like North Korea or something."
"The Irish don't hide at all. At first glance," Smart Guy continued his idea. "But if you dig a little deeper, it turns out that they actually hide their secrets much more carefully than the Bulgarian team does. Stupidly conceal information? Stupid: everyone has already studied the general playing style of each team during the Championship. But filling the information field with a pile of garbage, while preparing some kind of surprise, is a much more effective strategy. And at the same time earning a reputation as an open and popular team. Now that's what I call planning!"
"In short, we're rooting for Ireland!"— the Slaaneshi laughed cheerfully. And no one, including Harry, objected to him. Despite such reasoning, Harry did not take any attributes of the Irish team to the match itself, despite the admonitions of Ruffnut and Sweet Tooth. The first demanded a bolder expression of his position, whatever it was, and the second simply liked the beautiful green top hats with clovers and bright scarves. But Potter was adamant: out of habit, developed under the influence of the Smart One, he did not like to clearly show his preferences for any factions and teams. The Ministry box was truly elite. At least as far as its location was concerned: at the very top, so that the entire field and the rings of both teams were visible. Exactly at the height where the game usually took place.
Harry was already being met there. "Mr. Potter, I am very glad to see you again!" Minister Fudge greeted him joyfully, literally grabbing the boy's hand and shaking it vigorously. Harry automatically smiled at him and the others present. And besides Fudge, there were several other people present, all of them filled with their own importance: senior officials of the Ministry, the Malfoys with Draco, and several other wizards. Among them stood out a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black and maroon frock coat of an old cut. His thick black beard was neatly styled, his dark, attentive eyes were intently examining Harry the entire time that the British Minister introduced everyone to each other. "And now, allow me to introduce Mr. Oblarski... Oblarski... Anyway," Fudge coughed awkwardly, trying to pronounce the bearded man's surname. "The Minister of Magic of Bulgaria - he's come to support his team!" "I am very pleased to meet you," the Bulgarian said with a pronounced Eastern European accent, slightly bowing his head towards Harry. He responded in kind. "You speak English?!" Minister Fudge was surprised, looking back at his bearded colleague. "Of course I do," the Bulgarian shrugged. "But why didn't you say anything?!" "Well, you didn't ask," Mr. Oblanski answered with barely noticeable irony. "Since our meeting today, you have spoken for both of us perfectly well, my intervention in the conversation was simply not required." "Ahem," Fudge hesitated for a second, but quickly came to his senses. "Well, as I was saying, Mr. Oblanski…" "Oblanski," the Bulgarian corrected him. — Well... in general, I hope that this event is only the beginning of fruitful international cooperation, strong friendship for the mutual benefit of our countries... It was obvious that Fudge was repeating this monologue for the umpteenth time - judging by the ironic look of the Bulgarian minister and the bored look of the officials. Harry did not interrupt him. Sometimes it was amusing to look at examples of someone else's stupidity, to once again be convinced of your own intelligence and superiority. However, considering that they finally reached the ministerial box, where this entire procession was actually heading, Fudge's chatter could be perceived simply as an amusing soundtrack. They sat down in the first two rows. In front were the ministers and their entourage, a row further back were the young people, among whom were Harry, Draco, Hermione and several of their acquaintances from school, whose parents had the status and money to be here. "Granger," Malfoy nodded to the girl, and his constant companions, Crabbe and Goyle, repeated after him. Harry glanced curiously at Draco - he clearly wanted to tell them something, but he didn't dare in the company of so many people. Something like that... flickered in the warp. And judging by the way Hermione flared with excitement, she felt it too. But he and the girl limited themselves to exchanging glances, deciding to pick out Malfoy a little later and ask him what he was so worried about. The match began with a short show put on by the mascots of both teams. First, short, broad-shouldered dwarves with red hair and bright green clothes appeared on the arena - leprechauns. Frock coats, top hats, even shoes - everything was the rich color of spring grass! Even from this distance, Harry, looking through the Omnioculars he had bought earlier - I think that's what this magical analogue of binoculars is called - could see that in addition to the ubiquitous greenery, all the dwarves' clothes were hung with gold jewelry. The plaques of their belts and shoes, the ribbons on their top hats, gold chains and other trinkets - everything was completely gold. The boy chuckled, looking at the people dancing to the sounds of the bagpipes playing the Irish anthem "Ev Chistr `Ta, Laou!" — "Ireland is Free" — leprechauns. Interesting guys. What was especially piquant was that almost all the English wizards present at the match tried to sing along to this anthem, as if they did not understand FROM WHOM Ireland was calling in this anthem to be "free". From Britain, of course. However, Harry did not care about the local wizards' ignorance of their own, even relatively recent history. Well, "their"… Muggle. Although, as he understood, those same Irish wizards did not separate this history from their own. As well as Christian culture. He frowned. He remembered the meeting with that Roman priest. His disturbing visions, which changed like a mad kaleidoscope, for some reason constantly returned to this chance meeting at the fair. And the young chaosite did not really like it… Although… Although, as he understood, those same Irish wizards did not separate this history from their own. Just like Christian culture. He frowned. He remembered the meeting with that Roman priest. His disturbing visions, which changed like a mad kaleidoscope, for some reason constantly returned to this chance meeting at the fair. And the young chaosite did not like it very much... Although... Although, as he understood, those same Irish wizards did not separate this history from their own. Just like Christian culture. He frowned. He remembered the meeting with that Roman priest. His disturbing visions, which changed like a mad kaleidoscope, for some reason constantly returned to this chance meeting at the fair. And the young chaosite did not like it very much... Although...
"That's right, student," the Smarty did not fail to remind about himself. "Any doubts are a blessing. Any fears and paranoia are for good luck. Listen to them - and the Dark Side will open its arms to you..."
Harry couldn't help but grin: "Star Wars" that he and Hermione had recently watched on a VHS tape had amused both him and his mental lodgers. A naive fairy tale about the confrontation between "Darkness and Light", tyranny and freedom, malice and kindness... He knew the price of all this. And he knew that the true Darkness is not where people sometimes think it is. It is simply EVERYWHERE! It depends on who is directing this or that activity. Centralization of power does not mean the existence of such a concept as social justice. Or justice in general. The Supreme Ruler, no matter what he calls himself: king, president, Guarantor of the Constitution, God-Emperor, even the whole Party - this scheme has never worked for the benefit of the people. Never. Only for the benefit of those whom this king-president-emperor-party has brought close to him, who fawn before him, flicker under his gaze and to whom he listens in one way or another.
In essence, the same oligarchy as in ancient times, only with an alpha oligarch at the helm. However, democracy does not change anything much either. "The power of the people", well, of course... The same as "God Emperor", only dispersed between several influential clans, rich and practically omnipotent, limited only by the notorious "checks and balances", that is, the balance between these clans and their influence on the crowd. A little better - for the people - but what about those to whom Harry counted himself? That is - with those who stand out from this very "people", from the crowd, from the general bio-garbage mass? That's the point... And nevertheless - the adherents of these two concepts, idiotic in their essence, relying on isolated cases of their successful application, with enviable persistence tried to impose their vision on each other and others. Which is what George Lucas showed in his films. Harry, on the other hand, adhered to what is called the Third Way. Power to the Strong! Not to an alpha oligarch, an insignificant little man, or a group of them with the formal right to punish and pardon, in one form or another, but to the truly Strong, and truly Power! Over the bodies, thoughts, and aspirations of those who are less strong! In the end, all these concepts that all sorts of "populist democrats" and "centralist autocrats" operate with boil down to a clumsy and stupid lie in an attempt to gain power over the workforce. Chaos, in his understanding, was more honest. Because it made it clear and straightforward: the best system is ordinary slavery. The strong owns the weak, does what they want and when they want within the framework of their niche in the food chain, to the extent of their perversion and cruelty. And the weak are free to become strong and move up in this chain by finishing off their former superior. It's simple. A simple vertical of power, without any equivocations - honesty and only honesty. Pure social Darwinism. What is the truth, brother? Money, status, respect - all dust! I think that truth is in force. The strongest is right. So the warp itself whispered to Harry. And so he thought lately. But returning to his fears about the Catholic priest: Harry seriously thought, should he not add a couple more to the already designated victims of today's performance? Those with pectoral crosses under their clothes...
"I don't think this is a good idea," grumbled Kindly in his head. "These Catholics led by a priest are an unaccounted variable. What to expect from them? What are they even doing here?!"
"Rooting for their Irish team?" snorted Smarty in response. "After all, I even knew entire inquisitors from not the least of the Ordos*, who were very sincerely fans of various kinds of sporting events..."
"Are you talking about that inquisitor from the Ordo Hereticus, who came to investigate the cult of the Blood God on Yavinga Quartus**, and ended up getting hooked on gladiatorial fights herself?"— Ruffnut chuckled with a strange mixture of indignation and humor. "Oh, Harry, that was when we clashed with the servants of that slippery Deceiver in earnest... Anger against cunning, treachery against pressure, the desire to go head-on against a sophisticated mind... And in the end, the soul of the inquisitor still went to us - the true servants of the warp, and the skull of this woman now belongs to the Throne of Skulls!! Her fury is directed by Khorne, and the motley sparkling bastards then sat in the corner and sucked the consequences of their weakness, ha-ha-ha-ha!!!"
"Ah, yes... I remember that campaign. Yaving Quartus, huh?" — Smarty seemed to think, remembering. However, both Harry and the other inhabitants of his mind, except for Ruffnut himself, were fully aware that the Tzeentch was simply playing a comedy. "We had a good laugh when we learned that you, Scarlet, swallowed our bait. Moreover, you swallowed it so deeply that many a Slaaneshi whore in the Eye of Terror would envy such a depth of swallowing, haha!"
"Well, I would ask," coughed Sweet Tooth. "Comparing the masters and masters of swallowing in the Gardens of Slaanesh with... THESE - well, that's beyond good and evil."
However, no one heard the Slaaneshi. And he himself said this with considerable mockery.
"What?!..." meanwhile, Ruffnut was taken aback. "We won then. WON! The soul of that inquisitor woman became ours! She herself went over to the side of the Throne of Skulls!! You dare not belittle Khorne's victory in this!!!"
"Under no circumstances," chuckled the Tzeentchite at this. "You have indeed won... in what WE allowed you to win. But our original goal there was not to get the soul of the lady inquisitor. She is just... a side project, playing at someone else's cults. Pretending that we need her, portraying a fierce struggle for her soul, demonstratively losing this struggle - an excellent performance was played out! I am glad that you sincerely believed in it," he laughed openly under the angry snorting of the Khornite. "But under the noise of this "intense" struggle for the soul of one single babe, several planets of the Yawing system and a bunch of ancient relics of the Thousand Sons, left by them on the planet since the Great Crusade, fell into the net of Tzeentch.
"So that's what those spineless Rubrician dolls were doing there..." Ruffnut exhaled in amazement. "And that idiot Zaire, who for some reason became the leader of the cult, was seriously saying that the servants of the Deceiver were completely desperate, since they decided to get involved in a direct conflict and sent mortal puppets for a forceful solution. And they, it turns out..."
"Some distracted you with a fight, and some took relics from Yaving. As a result, the Scarlet, of course, received a share of power on the lower levels of the planet," the Smart Guy explained to Harry, who was listening attentively. "And we founded our own cult in the sub-sector leadership, making a nice profit along the way. And ALL the Imperial forces now know about the Khorne cult on Yaving, but know NOTHING about us in that area. Neat, isn't it?"
Harry was ready to admit that this was indeed the case. It was quite in the style of Tzeentch and his servants: tactical defeat and strategic victory. Truly elegant.
"Distant relatives of humans and, oddly enough, elves," commented the Smart Guy on the performing leprechauns. "Although, even if it is hushed up in the textbooks, I think that they are more likely relatives of goblins. Characteristic aura."
When the leprechauns, as soon as the bagpipes fell silent, threw their hands up and a rain of gold coins fell on the stands, Harry also thought that there was something goblin about these shorties. The passion for gold certainly came from somewhere there. He did not even reach for the golden galleons falling from the sky - they were reflected in the warp completely differently than ordinary coins. The only one in their circle who tried to pick up the coins was Ron Weasley, who, as a friend, Draco had dragged him into the second row of the box. "Weasley, don't disgrace yourself!" Malfoy's hissing shout pulled the red-haired boy back. And when he stared at him in confusion, Draco continued with an arrogant expression: "Firstly, this is completely unworthy behavior for a normal pure-blood wizard! And secondly: don't be stupid, this is leprechaun gold! It's not real." "Mordred!" Ron cursed in embarrassment and sat back down. "I thought..." "A solid illusion," Hermione explained to him, shrugging her shoulders indifferently. "I read about it - quite interesting magic. Wizards developed their spells in this direction, relying on the knowledge of the innate ability of leprechauns to create illusions that are hard to distinguish from reality. - Doppels? - Draco asked knowingly, ignoring the bored faces of Crabbe and Goyle and the rolling of Ron's eyes. The latter in the old days could have spoken out about "bookworms who are always discussing all sorts of egghead nonsense." But this time, trained by communication with Malfoy's company, he remained silent. - Including, - Granger nodded. - But specifically doppels are doubles of living creatures, only the strongest and oldest leprechauns are capable of creating such. But a pile of fake gold that will disappear in half a day - quite possible. Weasley sighed sadly. And it was unclear what depressed him more: the abstruse talk or the fact that there were a bunch of galleons lying around, and collecting them was a completely useless exercise. Meanwhile, everything changed again at the stadium. The Bulgarian team's support team came out.
"Now this is much more interesting," the Smart Guy whispered again. "Look, student! They are emitting warp energy. And specifically..."
"The Dark Prince!"— the Sweet Tooth laughed joyfully. And indeed: from the group of girls of truly unearthly beauty, who ran out onto the field with a light gait, emanated energies that were perfectly familiar to Harry. Warp. Chaos. Slaanesh! Yes — frankly weak. Yes — it was clear that these were not even "emanations" as such, but rather a targeted impact almost at the limit of their powers. But the nature of this impact was completely unambiguous. "They feel quite familiar," Harry thought in surprise. "How... Charming?"
"Exactly!" the Sweet Tooth laughed again. His passion, curiosity and lust were felt almost physically. "This, unlike the green shorties, is not an illusion or a deception. They really look like they look — beautiful maidens, gentle and attractive. And at the same time, they have their own inner essence. A dark essence, the appearance of Chaos!"
"Well, they're a bit... far from being demonettes," Harry snorted, feeling the boundaries of his mental defenses being tickled by someone else's influence. These "under-demonetes" emitted an aura of sexuality and passion around themselves, turning the heads of the male part of the spectators and even partly the female ones. But this influence was clearly unconscious, absent-minded and frankly weak. At least for Harry James Potter, who himself indulged in such dirty tricks. "Veela," Draco winced, looking at the sorceresses dancing on the field and holding on to some amulet on his neck. A mental influence blocker - Harry had heard of such a thing and even made a note to himself to study it in more detail sometime. In his spare time, as gymnastics for the mind - these wizards' crafts were not worth a more serious attitude. Even the diffuse influence of the Veela was clearly having an effect on Malfoy, and quite a bit, despite the protection of the amulet - this was evident from the embarrassed blush. - Father says that you won't find dirtier mudblood whores in all of Europe... ahem, I beg your pardon, Granger, - the blond was clearly a little embarrassed. - Don't worry, Malfoy, I am aware of both your views on my origins and how sometimes pubertal boys react to a walking set of juicy tits and ass in combination with a cute face, - she nodded at the dancing Veela, ignoring Draco, who had blushed even more deeply. - But you're right: nothing special, if you know how to close yourself off from their simple hypnosis. The leprechauns, whom the Bulgarian Veela had practically interrupted at the moment of the climax of their performance, did not look pleased. What's more, they got into an ugly fight with these beautiful creatures! At the beginning of which, it seemed, the muscular shorties would gain the upper hand... But! Several Veela flared up in the warp with emanations of She-Who-Thirsts and their limbs turned into some kind of bird's paws, with claws and feathers. A characteristic pink-pearlescent color, though. Which the people around them, actively discussing the upcoming match under the noise of the crowd, seemed not to notice. But they noticed Harry and Hermione!
However, to the disappointment of the latter, the fight did not reach its climax: a squad of wizards in scarlet Auror robes jumped out onto the field and, with simple words, with outright swearing or even a couple of spells, called the talismans to order. The conflict was broken up, again to the disappointment of the two young chaosites. Although, they did not really want it. Soon there would be a spectacle more interesting than the showdown of small xenos and a bunch of warp mutants. And the spectacle, it must be said, did not disappoint them! It all began with a furious attack by the Irish on the rings and players of the Bulgarian team. The hunters deftly passed the quaffle, sometimes giving absolutely fantastic combinations! Almost in the first half minute of the match, the first goal was scored. Which, as expected, was not the last. Harry noticed how the bright red-haired Irish Chaser, having taken possession of the Quaffle, moved her hand with it slightly behind her back. There, where her emerald robes fluttered, skillfully hiding the ball in its folds. Both Bulgarian Beaters were on her at once: Bludgers were flashing around her, forcing her to furiously maneuver on the way to the rings. The Bulgarian Chasers were also circling around her, trying to knock her off course and waiting for the moment when a well-aimed Bludger would knock her down. But when it finally happened... It turned out that the Irish Chaser no longer had the ball in her hands. Concentrated on her, the Bulgarians missed the moment when she released the Quaffle from her hands and, kicking it with her foot, sent it towards another Chaser in a green robes, who rushed at full speed below her, deftly catching the red ball and rushing in an arc towards the goal. While the Bulgarians were trying to figure out why the girl had been hit by a Bludger and the Quaffle hadn't fallen out, the Hunter had managed to score two goals at once! However, the entire match followed almost the same pattern. The Irish were desperately maneuvering, so it seemed that each of them was acting on their own. But at the next moment it turned out that this was absolutely not the case: it was just that each tactic they used was so delicate, so complex and so rehearsed that the Bulgarians, acting according to practically standard patterns, simply had no chance. The Bulgarians themselves... were not impressive. Well, who goes on the attack on the enemy rings in a closed wedge, which in addition to the Hunters also includes Beaters. The latter, in general, on par with the Seeker, should have been constantly running around the field, catching and directing Bludgers, knocking out the key players of the enemy at the moment. Although, there was something interesting in this "battle wedge". A sort of analogue of a Muggle bomber, a B-17 Flying Fortress, for example. The hunters in it are the bomb load. The beaters are the anti-aircraft guns. But in order to defeat the Irish "mosquito fleet", in Harry's opinion, it was necessary to have much more, at least "anti-aircraft guns". However, the Bulgarians still managed to score one goal in this way. One and only goal. Their "pig" formation managed to repel all the attacks of the Celts, all the blows of the Bludgers, after which they broke through the enemy goalkeeper's defense and one of the chasers ceremoniously threw the Quaffle into the ring. However, considering that the Bulgarians were awarded a penalty for the rough ramming of the goalkeeper, this goal was not worth it. Moreover, the Irish successfully took the penalty, getting another ten points. However, judging by the satisfied faces of the Bulgarians themselves, for some reason they were very proud of this "meat assault". At some point, it began to get boring. But Harry did not have time to get bored: simply because a golden stroke flashed on the horizon. The Snitch was released. Potter did not understand at all why Viktor Kramm was praised so much. Although, probably, if you approach the work of a seeker from the position of completely standard rules and approaches, then he was almost an ideal seeker. Taken separately from the team, a seeker. To be exact, an ideal lone seeker. And a disgusting team player. Harry didn't pay attention to who was the captain of the Bulgarian team. It wasn't interesting: he lost this interest the moment he realized that these guys really loved cheap secrecy over little things, missing the very essence of working with information. And here's the result: where Harry, essentially playing in a school novice team, helped the Gryffindor team throughout the game, interfering and disorienting the enemy, constantly changing tactics and strategy, maneuvering and fussing - the "professional" Seeker Viktor Kramm spent the entire game... simply flying over the stadium. And with such an air that all this fuss with Quaffles and Bludgers did not concern him at all. And here's the result: the score of the game was already frankly crushing! In favor of the impudent Celts, naturally. And even if Kramm catches the Snitch right now, nothing will essentially change. However, the fact that the Bulgarian Seeker did catch the golden ball was not the last straw in Harry's disappointment. Disappointment had befallen him much earlier - when he saw the proud smiles of the Bulgarians after a single, miraculously snatched goal! What were these wretches so happy about?! That they managed to snatch a dozen miserable points with a stupid frontal assault? Unthinkable stupidity... And even Kramm's filigree application of the Vronsky Feint failed to delight the young chaosite. Rather, it disappointed him even more. This dangerous and filigree trick performed by the Bulgarian catcher looked somehow... formulaic. As if the entire Bulgarian team did nothing but stupidly practice the simple-to-perform "pig", and the main efforts of the coach were spent precisely on Viktor Kramm. And the latter, in turn, spent time exclusively on mechanically practicing the Feint. What an abomination. A stupid, mechanical abomination! As a result: due to the actions (or rather INactions) of Kramm, the Bulgarians lost with a score of 170-160 in favor of Ireland. But Harry kept the REAL score in his head: 170-10. Because the actions of Viktor Kramm, who simply applied SOMEONE ELSE'S trick according to a pre-tested template, Potter did not consider as a game. If the Irish catcher had been a little more well-read, a little more agile and a little more attentive, the score would have been downright disgraceful.
Harry walked towards the tent camp, sullen and angry. He paid no attention to the joyfully chattering Weasleys - especially the twins, who were very happy about something. Images of gold rush flashed in the warp ... but Potter did not care at that moment about the twins' raging greed! For a long time he had not been so ... hurt? Depressed? And by what?! The stupid performance of a stupid foreigner!
"Disappointed expectations mean only one thing," sighed Kind. "That they will be deceived again and again. So maybe we should just not expect anything from people?"
"Shut up, rotten!" - Smarty suddenly roared furiously. "Idiots!" - and he had already growled this at all of Harry's lodgers. And at Harry himself. And to himself, as Potter thought - but Smarty would never admit this of his own free will. "While we were basking in the ocean of emotions at the stadium and analyzing the tactics of insignificant sentient beings in fucking Quidditch, we were outflanked!"
"What's going on?" Harry asked sullenly, simultaneously accelerating in the real world and feverishly scanning the space around him. Nothing was happening yet, but... But Smarty was right. A threat was rapidly accumulating in the warp. A piercing, burning feeling of something... More precisely, Something! Something huge, shining and inescapable. Something hostile to Harry personally and his Gods.
"Malfoy wanted to warn us about something," Sweet Tooth said carefully.
"It's obvious what it was about," Smarty waved his hand. "A bunch of offended old-regime degenerates decided to have fun at this holiday beyond the established boundaries of decency. Former Death Eaters. "They're basically just downtrodden losers with complexes who want to show the locals that they're still got it!" he snorted contemptuously. "Just grown-up hooligans in scary masks - they're no threat to us. At least until they have a consolidating force in the form of their quasi-Lord Voldemort. But the real threat is..."
"That priest," Harry gritted his teeth, practically running towards the place where the Lord's guys were located. "And the Irish are under his command."
"I'll bet a galleon against a broken Knut that there are plenty of Italians there in addition to the Irish. Considering that this Catholic priest himself is clearly Italian," Sweet Tooth added tensely.
"What, is there finally a real fight?!" Ruffnut laughed rather frivolously. Considering that frivolity was the prerogative of his Slaaneshi opponent, who in this situation was clearly focused and collected, it sounded strange. Although expected - a Chaos demon, after all, you can expect anything from them. "It's been a while since we've properly flexed our muscles with a truly Strong enemy! We're surrounded by weaklings and idiots, no fun at all.
"I hope they don't 'flex' us! These emanations are very familiar to us," Kindly squealed anxiously, almost on the verge of hysteria. "The servants of the false Emperor are emitting very similar radiation!"
"Calm down," Smarty said, still tense, but much more balanced than everyone else. "The so-called 'God' of the local Muggles is by no means an analogue of the ruler of the Imperium. He is at the same time much more powerful than the Emperor of Mankind... and less dangerous to us.
"In what sense?!" Harry didn't quite understand. How is it that a much more powerful super-being is still less dangerous?
"He is... much closer to the concept of "God" than this insolent mortal who sits on his Throne in our Universe, paying for his pride and self-confidence," the Tzeentch chuckled. Harry frowned: again it seemed as if the Smart One was not telling him something, hiding something. But there was no time to look for what exactly. "But the details later! Now our task is to ensure that the ritual is carried out with all our might! And if something goes wrong..."
Harry swallowed. Despite his teenage self-confidence and faith in his own strength, he remembered the complexity and danger of the Rubric of Ahriman. Even if the scale was incomparable with the original, even if it only extended to two people... The slightest interference in the ritual, inaccuracy, mistake - and everything would go to hell! He smiled wryly. He remembered that the motto of the Thousand Sons, the Astartes Legion that swore allegiance to Tzeentch in their time, sounded like that. All is dust!
August 1994. England, Devonshire County, Quidditch World Cup. Late evening - night. Andrei Dolokhov and Sam Dillinger.
Damn! I don't like this movement, - Sam Dillinger muttered, looking through binoculars (ordinary, Muggle, though with absolutely monstrous bells and whistles) at the unfolding action in the wizards' tent camp. - There are clearly almost military actions going on there! - Good, - Andrey answered him laconically, with an unperturbed look continuing to sort through his modified Kalashnikov and other weapons. Including - especially carefully sharpening the bayonet-knives, which for some time now had become a permanent part of his ammunition. Although before, the black CIA officer did not notice any craving for cold weapons in him. And in the wizard camp at the foot of the huge stadium, the same "action" was really in full swing. Beams of spells flickered, screams were heard, a couple of tents were even burning. The wizards were running around in panic, trying to find their lost relatives and friends in the darkness of the night, or simply trying to escape this bacchanalia of horror and chaos. "More precisely, Chaos," Andrey thought for some reason. He himself did not understand why.
— Andrew, — judging by the way his American friend addressed him, he was very worried, since he had slipped into an English pronunciation. After all, he knew how much Dolokhov did not like such things. But in this case, he was inclined to forgive his friend this liberty. — Are you sure that it is worth sending our sharks into this sea of lawlessness? — Where did you see sharks there? — the Russian chuckled calmly. — Just some local pike. The rabble from Lyutny Lane, riff-raff. — Werewolves and vampires? — the American glanced in his direction tensely. — A fierce criminal rabble, pushed to the bottom of life by wizards? What do you think they will do there, armed with darkness, panic and impunity? — a nod towards the camp. — How many will they maim, rape, even kill! There are children there, after all! And all just for the sake of creating this "man-made chaos" of yours?! "Sammy," Andrey returned the taunt, turning his icy gaze to his partner. He also knew how Dillinger got mad when he was called in a diminutive and affectionate way. "How long did you work for the CIA?" "No less than you worked for the KGB. What are you getting at?" the black man frowned. "How many times have our Offices pulled off something similar in different parts of the world? Dozens? Hundreds of times? You should know," Andrey shrugged indifferently, continuing his work. "Oh, yeah, go ahead, tell me!" malicious sarcasm was practically oozing out of the former CIA agent. "I remember a bunch of operations when ordinary, - he emphasized the word, meaning agents not associated with magic, - operatives from both sides provoked... Good God, this is not even genocide, but just some kind of bacchanalia of brutality and abuse! And you want to repeat this... just because... just - WHY?! - The greater the resonance, the wider the reaction to it, - Andrey answered evenly. - Everything is textbook. - You know... - Sam somehow hung his head. And continued very quietly: - I saw how in one country in Asia, where the CIA operation was taking place together with our "regular" agents, a company of local "guards" raped a girl of about ten years old. They tied her to a table and approached her one after another... The company, Andrew! How the child endured the first six dozen rapists is beyond me. But the remaining forty people were raping a corpse. And they didn't care! You want to repeat this here?! "First of all, this isn't Asia, no matter what part of that continent you mean," Dolokhov snorted. He realized that his friend was trying to hide some details of his Office's operations to the very end. Well, that was understandable, since he himself wasn't particularly eager to reveal the secrets of his own defunct Motherland. "And secondly, this rabble," he waved his hand, pointing to the criminals from Lyutnoye hiding in the bushes, "would hardly be enough to rape all the kids in this camp. But they'd be enough to distract the law enforcement agencies from our affairs." "All of them," Dillinger chuckled bitterly. "Andrey!" This time he pronounced his partner's name correctly. "We're not the butchers from the main staff of our Offices. We're not obliged to provoke genocides and all sorts of dirt to achieve our goals! We…" "And you still have to remember about the 'ideals of democracy' and the 'socialist duty'!" — Dolokhov suddenly barked furiously in his friend's face. — Go ahead, tell me, in the style of some red commissar from the beginning of the century, about my "duty" and other meaningless crap! So, answering in advance, — he recoiled, returning the expression of Iceberg to his face. — I. Owe. No. Anything. More! — he said through clenched teeth. Making Sam raise his eyebrows in surprise — it was so at odds with Andrey's usual calm state. — My Motherland does not exist. That means — there is no duty to it either. Just as there is no oath, honor, loyalty to the flag and other poebeny, — Andrey hissed. He turned away and, taking a deep breath, returned to a calm tone: — Just as there is no room for unnecessary conscience here, Sam. I have a goal — and I will endure all obstacles to achieve it. You are either with me - mind you, of your own free will - or you go to your wonderful States, which, unlike my defeated Motherland, have remained in the same form as before! Otherwise... - here he turned to his partner again, which made the latter involuntarily break out in a nervous sweat. It was too scary Andrey Dolokhov looked like at that moment. - Otherwise, I might decide that you are an obstacle to my Goal. You are not an obstacle, are you, Sam? - No... no, End... Andrey, I am not an obstacle, - Sam Dillinger stammered embarrassedly to his own surprise. Something so terrible and insurmountable emanated from his old friend that there was nothing else left. - Wonderful, - was all Dolokhov answered. After which he returned to cleaning his weapon. - Give the order to this rabble, - a nod towards the bushes where the criminals they had gathered from Knockturn Alley were located, - let them move out. They are allowed to do whatever they want, as long as the main task is not harmed. - Malfoy? - Dillinger switched to a businesslike tone. - Yes, - Andrey nodded. - This gang of enthusiasts called the Death Eaters interests me only insofar as. They can't tell me much - small fry, nothing more. But Malfoy... - he narrowed his eyes slightly. - If he doesn't want his business to come to light, the blond will tell me all about it. After today's mess - even more so. When he indirectly becomes an accomplice. - "Indirectly"? - Sam snorted. - What the former Death Eaters themselves were planning is child's play compared to our plans. Shouldn't you know? - He turned his cold gaze to his partner. Which, to his credit, he withstood.
August 1994. England, Devonshire, the night after the Quidditch World Cup.
The victims were dragged in closer to midnight: twenty wizards, both sexes, of different ages. Harry didn't really pay attention to who the Lord's fighters had kidnapped, he just insisted in advance that old people were no good for them! The bar was up to forty years old, otherwise their souls wouldn't have enough life force for their plans. "Hey, this is one hell of a hot chick!" one of the Lord's fighters whistled, pushing some young witch towards the ritual circle, managing to pinch her on the ass right through her robes. She squealed, fell to the ground to the laughter of the bandits, and tried to crawl away. In vain: she was immediately kicked back into place. "This is not for you, cattle," the Lord commented calmly. "She's needed for the ritual." "But she's beautiful!" "And what a bad ass," the militant replied, slightly embarrassed but no less brazenly, who with a group of ten comrades with the signs of Slaanesh and Chaos Undivided on their bodies were currently guarding the ritual circle. The Lord glanced sideways at Potter and Granger, but they only shrugged their shoulders indifferently. There was still plenty of time before the ritual itself. "Okay then," the Lord rolled his eyes. And he shook his finger at his drooling subordinates: "But then - as a sacrifice. Keep in mind - we need her alive!" A crowd of hooting bastards dragged the screaming sorceress into the darkness. However, Harry and Hermione were not particularly interested in the fate of the gang rape victim. As long as she was really alive by the time of the ritual. "Are you ready?" Potter asked his beloved. Well, why not? Who else, if not a beloved, can you call the one with whom you share your darkest and most terrible secrets? Except that they weren't sleeping together yet, but that would come with time. It would come with age, he thought with a flash of irritation, cursing at the Sorting Hat once again. "Always," Granger answered quietly, squeezing his hand. She was clearly worried. No joke: they had to perform no more, no less, an extremely complex ritual from another Universe, which turned out to be beyond the power of a psyker of unimaginable power. But the young Chaosites thought that they could do it! Despite everything. The circle in the form of a huge Chaos star, drawn with triple lines and surrounded by terrible ancient runes, was already ready - drawn with blood and other ingredients in a clearing not far from the tents of the Lord's gang. So far, the star did not glow and did not emit the fire of the Immaterium - the ritual had not yet begun. But Chaos sorcerers like Potter and Granger, or those who had willingly given their souls to the Warp Gods, could feel some tension even in such an inactive state. around this place. Like a ripe abscess, ready to burst at any moment, spreading around itself a vile liquid that had been hidden under the oppression of rotten flesh for a while. Harry chuckled. Even though the ritual was dedicated to Tzeentch, associations with his antagonist still slipped through. Apparently, Kind was trying to somehow compensate for his opponent's luck in this way — by transmitting images and pictures in his own spirit into Harry's brain. In vain. Although, Potter liked them. But he decided to put these visions off for the future. Now he was full of the power of the Architect of Fates, and therefore images and visions from Grandfather Nurgle were of no use to him now. "In half an hour, when there," a nod towards the anarchy flaring up in the wizards' tent camp, "everything reaches its climax, we should already be conducting the rites of the Second Circle. Is everything ready?" — Harry asked Flitwick and Sharpenstone, who were standing nearby. The latter, completely ignoring what was happening around him, was engrossed in calculating something on a piece of parchment. — Yes, yes, almost there! — Flitwick's friend waved him off, and the latter coughed awkwardly. — This is simply incredible! Fantastic! A wonderful challenge to my abilities, — Sharpenstone nodded briefly. — So, take this here, — he nodded to one of the Lord's fighters, who was just dragging some accessories to the ritual circle. — And move this! — a gesture towards a sprawling candelabra or a stand for some crystals. — Keep an eye on these clumsy ones!... Harry was pleased: he definitely liked this crazy little man. Matthias Sharpenstone was so immersed in his calculations and ideas, so absorbed in his own genius and exceptionalism that it seemed he didn't give a damn what was happening around him - as long as it happened according to his plan and with the goal of proving even more to himself and others that the best magician-artificer and ritualist in nature does not exist. Meanwhile, it was completely dark, and the glow of the fire over the World Cup camp could probably already be seen from space. Harry squinted slightly. In the Forecasts and visions there were so many twisted threads of probabilities, so many intertwined destinies, and flashes of horror, pain and hatred filled the Great Ether around so much that one could easily get lost. And initially, as far as he understood, the night performance of the Death Eaters did not imply such a terrible bacchanalia! And it was certainly not assumed that someone would not only resist them, but also compete with them! To Harry's some surprise, the camp heard not only flashes of spells, but also... shots from Muggle weapons? But the Lord's boys weren't there: who was shooting then? And he clearly sensed there, in the sea of fire and death, a multitude of lights of the souls of non-humans. Very evil, blood-drunk non-humans. Specifically, werewolves and vampires! After talking to Lupin, he had become adept at identifying werewolves from afar. And so, at that very moment, a whole gang of bloodsuckers and werewolves were creating a fierce trash and bloody frenzy on the ruins of the camp, pursuing, tormenting and killing wizards indiscriminately and without mercy. To be honest, they and Granger had not expected this... Although, it played into their hands.
Something else was more important: someone was putting up very effective resistance to the bloody inhuman bastards! Those same shooters, along with the magicians helping them. For some reason, Harry again remembered that Italian priest with an evil squint. And his Irish hangers-on, who had definitely come here as an organized group. And if Harry himself and the Lord's bandits were able to smuggle weapons into the Championship, then what could stop others from doing the same? Their plans needed to be accelerated. The ritual had to be performed! Not only and not so much for the sake of Hermione's parents. Harry himself needed it! To understand the action of the Horcruxes, the principle of their creation and destruction. And also - how they are connected with the Killing Curse.
"Voldemort is a very interesting character," Smarty drawled. "He owns not only the material magic of wizards, not only the ungodly necromancy - this heresy of the C'tan! He knows and can do a lot in ordinary warp magic. Horcruxes, for example. This is manipulation of the soul, the very soul that is the reflection of a person in the Immaterium! Without knowing some sections of our magic, it is impossible to pull off such a thing. Only," the Tzeentch chuckled, "he is not open to the warp. Like all local wizards, he was born and raised in a closed world, deprived of contact with Chaos! Whatever he has mastered, no matter how brilliant he is, these are only crumbs of the power that is available to you, Harry."
"I want to know how to master this magic!" Harry Potter nodded sharply. "Or better yet, improve it. I am the messenger of the Gods in this world!" His eyes glittered feverishly in the darkness. "And I will not allow some self-proclaimed quasi-lord to disgrace the title of sorcerer and, as if in mockery of the Gods, use their power to satisfy his pathetic ambitions!"
"Bravo, Harry!" laughed Sweet Tooth. "I like your attitude. But perhaps we should begin: just a little more, and our Clever One will jump out of his pants with impatience: his anticipation of the ritual dedicated to Tzeentch is already physically felt in the warp.
" "I don't have pants," the Clever One said dryly.
"Oh?" the Slaaneshi drawled, feigning surprise. "Have you already managed to get rid of them? Well, Harry, as I was saying, it's time to begin. Otherwise, you've already jumped out of your pants, and now we'll start to bend over backwards..."
"Great Schemer, what kind of humorists did I end up in this world with," the Clever One sighed sadly, but immediately pulled himself together: "So, let's begin! The first batch of victims - to the Circle!"
Harry glanced back to see several wizards being pushed into the ritual structure by the Lord's bulls. He chuckled as he noticed that some of the girls had torn clothes, bruises on their faces, and tear-stained eyes. They didn't know what they were going to do to them yet. And if they did, they would be willing to let the bandits run them around again. Anything was better than being victims of Chaos.
August 1994. England, Devonshire, the morning after the Quidditch World Cup.
This... this is just a massacre! - exclaimed a young Auror behind Al Pym. The latter only sharply glared at the Chief Auror Scrimgeour, who was standing there, and he immediately jumped up to his impressionable subordinate and gave him a slap on the back of the head. This helped to bring the others to their senses... for a while. Al himself, however, remained calm only with a furious effort of will. Well, and a little - secret Occlumency techniques from the arsenal of the Department of Mysteries, which seasoned agents used in the most extreme cases, so as not to go crazy when faced with Alpha-class threats. Like here, for example. - Sir, are these... children? - someone swallowed. And this "someone" was no longer an impressionable Auror. But one of Pym's subordinates. An agent of the Department of Mysteries. However, the sight that opened up did not leave even him indifferent. Apparently, earlier it was several huge, pompous two-story magic tents, set up in the form of some kind of quadrangular "castle". The "towers" in this "castle" were the tents themselves, painted scarlet and made in the style of the Middle Ages, like the same mini-castles, connected by long skeins of magic fabric imitating "walls". According to Pym, this was a children's preschool camp "Knights of House Gryffindor". A charitable organization that gathers children of wizards and squibs to instill in them the ideals of "courage and nobility". Clarification: WAS a children's camp. Now - a ruin with fifty children's and several adult charred corpses. And Al Pym wouldn't have been surprised or shocked if it had been the damn Death Eaters who did it! There were plenty of hardcore child killers among the surviving supporters of the maniac Riddle. What's more, there were plenty of real pyromaniacs among them, who preferred not to waste their time on the pinpoint and expensive Avada Kedavra, but to immediately hit the area with something like Hellfire, not sparing even their own! Not to mention children. But no. There was little magic in this act of monstrous genocide. The fire that burned fifty children aged seven to ten, who had come on an excursion with their mentors to the Championship, was completely ordinary. Muggle. "Flamethrowers, sir," one of the wizard-forensic experts of the Department reported to him. He reported in a completely dispassionate voice - well, yes, these guys, in addition to forbidden Occlumency practices, also dabbled in equally forbidden calming potions. To avoid breakdowns. - Muggle devices that spew fire based on incendiary mixtures...
I know what a flamethrower is! - El snapped back irritably. - Can you give me a picture of what's going on? - Yes, sir, - the analyst replied just as dispassionately, like a golem. - A hooligan attack by Death Eaters began. Nothing special: they smashed up tents, made fun of a couple of Muggle caretakers, nothing special, - Pym gritted his teeth - the dry tone in which this sedative-fueled idiot described the mockery of two old caretakers offended him. But he restrained himself. Although the male caretaker had to be urgently evacuated first to St. Mungo's, and then to a Muggle hospital with a heart attack: after removing the Muggle-repelling charm and forced levitation in his underwear, he was... not very well. The shock of meeting the otherworldly did not pass for the old man in vain. However, this was really "the little that mattered". — And then some kind of... bacchanalia began, — here the analyst's voice finally wavered. Despite all the potions and mental practices. No wonder. Because such... SUCH has never happened in their practice!
Those people— That's how the Department defined the Muggles who stormed into a wizarding camp with guns, flamethrowers, and otherworldly magic — literally slicing and committing genocide against the magical population of Britain… …And not just Britain. The Bulgarian camp was also attacked. And by pure chance, the Irish camp wasn't attacked. A coincidence? A coincidence? Oh, I don't think so… — According to our information, the Death Eaters weren't alone. They were joined in the attack by a large group of werewolves and vampires, as well as just a crowd of criminal scum from Knockturn Alley, — the analyst continued. — If earlier we assumed that a bunch of fools in masks would simply play pranks and go home, then this… we didn't expect, — he shrugged his shoulders, a little confused. — They staged a real massacre! But the worst thing is that… they were resisted. Using Unforgivable Curses and Muggle weapons. "But how does that fit in with the fact that these 'resistance' started cutting up wizards themselves?!" Scrimgeour blurted out. "We… don't know, sir," the analyst replied, glancing sideways at Al. Of course, he knew everything perfectly well – he just didn't want to voice classified information in the presence of the Aurors. "We're working on that." "Ugh!" Scrimgeour grimaced and walked away. He still had a lot of work to do. When he was far enough away, Pym waved his wand, casting a Curtain of Silence on himself and his subordinates. "Give me your full report," he nodded towards the dispassionate analyst. "Yes, sir," the analyst nodded clearly. "We've identified one of our 'resistance': he's the former Vatican emissary, Fra Felipe Torquemada." "The Cuban Butcher?!" — Pym turned in surprise towards his subordinate. — What is he doing here?! Fra Felipe's nickname was, as they say, telling. About ten years ago, when the Cold War between Muggles was still in full swing, and the wizards of the two camps looked at each other with rage, the Vatican actively interfered in the affairs of the magical part of Catholic countries. It relied on the forces of the NATO Ministries of Magic and neutral conservative countries to conduct what was dubbed a "soft Crusade." In fact, this Crusade was aimed rather at getting into the magical world and dictating the will of the Church to it again. And sometimes, it was far from "soft." This is what happened in Cuba. Felipe Torquemada, notorious to many magical special services, established a real dictatorship of the Inquisition in the magical world of the island for several weeks, purging "black magicians" and generally everyone who was against the pro-church course among wizards. At that time, Perestroika, which had just begun in the USSR, including its magical part, did not allow the communist bloc to blow up the scandal and rein in the Vatican, and with it all the conservative forces on the planet. But the SMM — the Soviet Ministry of Magic — even sent a squad of liquidators from among the most powerful Aurors to Cuba. But that time Torquemada managed to escape, and subsequently kept a low profile. That time he left behind the same trace. Many wizards burned alive, torture, murder, public executions of "warlocks". Even the so-called "NATO" wizards were so outraged by the Church's interference in their world that many broke off relations with it. The Vatican authorities excused themselves by saying that this was "an unhealthy initiative of an individual priest" and sent the inconvenient subordinate to some monastery. But, apparently, they decided to pardon him. And now, the Last Inquisitor, the Cuban Butcher, has returned again. And again he does his dark deeds, punishing "heretics" and "sorcerers". Regardless of gender and age. — We were able to take one Irishman. "A squib, by the way," the analyst said, checking some parchment. "Apparently, he's a soldier of the former Irish Republican Army, whose fighters Fra Felipe won over to his side. The IRA is..." "I know what the IRA is," Al Pym cut him off dryly. "And what did he say? What was the point of this act of aggression against British wizards?" "He couldn't say much," the analyst shrugged. "You know that sincerely and fanatically believing Christians are extremely difficult to legilimency and specific potions. But he repeats one thing over and over again," he nodded. "They came to 'protect wizards.'
— What? — Pym raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. — Exactly, sir, — the forensic expert nodded. — To protect. Ourselves and our souls from the influence of the "Ancient Darkness." That's what he said. And he repeated it several times. Al fell silent. This complicated everything. Or rather, it wasn't this that complicated everything. Everything was complicated by literally... everything. Because even the simple analysts weren't told that initially all this Death Eater fuss at the Championship was intended to introduce Barty Crouch Jr. into the game. Everything was planned: what they would do, and Crouch launching the Dark Mark, and the Boy-Who-Lived's reaction to it. Everything was leading up to the final confrontation between the Hero and the Villain, Light and Darkness! And then... some kind of chaos happened. A fairly organized gang of bastards from the Black Knight, a squad of a renegade inquisitor, and also... monsters. Then, at some point during the night, the chaos in the tent camp reached parity. The Aurors who had arrived managed to kill the rabble of the Devourers, who by that time, having seen the Mark in the sky, had fled. After which the forces of law and order grappled with the pressing fanatics of the Cuban Butcher. That's when they appeared. The demons. There was no other word. Something exploded in the forest on the outskirts of the camp, a multi-colored glow flared up, something exploded in that direction and the sounds of gunfire were heard. And then they crawled right out of there! Multi-armed, awkward creatures with huge mouths and pink-pearlescent skins, making unimaginable sounds. However, about the skins it was debatable: the skins of these creatures shimmered, it seemed, with all the colors of the rainbow! Well, of course, the creatures were far from harmless: they threw clots of fire that ignored most magic shields and burned the Aurors in a matter of seconds! And one of the survivors later said that they also possessed something like legillimency, getting into the fighters' heads and disorienting them! This was simply not only beyond any plans, but also beyond good and evil! But the most terrible thing ... The most terrible thing is that it seemed that the appearance of these creatures was exactly what Mordred's Crusaders were waiting for! — Before the demons appeared, — the analyst reported to Pym, still dispassionately, — Torquemada's fanatics simply defended themselves from attacks by werewolves and vampires. Well, and suppressed the resistance of the Aurors, if they put up obstacles. But after the monsters appeared… they began to kill and burn everyone in sight. Al Pym nodded dryly to the analyst, dismissing him. The agents needed to think. The Death Eaters… Even in their best times, both they and their opponents from the Order of the Phoenix were just a militia. In essence, ordinary people united around their banner, nothing more. Enthusiasts, former shopkeepers, pharmacists and officials – nothing more. Of course, the lack of professional skills did not prevent them from dealing with each other quite cruelly – after all, civil war is the most brutal. The rabble from Lyutny? Whoever trained them, they were already somewhat more dangerous. Within their capabilities. Not professionals yet, no. But behind them were obvious professionals! As for the Christian fighters... Now they were obvious professionals! Trained, coordinated, and well-armed! No matter what the idiot purebloods said, well-trained and equipped Muggle soldiers could give most wizards a run for their money. And then there were those monsters that only the fanatical crusaders could destroy. With huge losses, but they could! And there was another squad. An escaping squad, armed with the same Muggle weapons! They were noticed, an attempt was made to capture them... But, unlike the captured Irish, not a single one was caught. Not even a single corpse remained! Only the next morning, when the main forces of the Auror Office and the Department of Mysteries arrived, when the ministry's investigation began, Pym's squad was able to reach the base of this mysterious squad. And they found traces of a black ritual there! How else to describe a huge star-shaped hecatomb, covered with several dozen mutilated corpses of wizards? And no trace of who performed this ritual and why? It was definitely not the Death Eaters! Enthusiasts cannot do this: perform a ritual amidst general hype and disappear without a trace! Only professionals. And El Pym, Gritting his teeth and watching Fudge's hysterical speech to journalists in the middle of the ashes, he realized that in this game the ratio of enthusiasts to professionals was not in their favor.
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