August 1994.
In the darkness of the forest, lit only by the glow of the burning camp behind him, it was uneasy. If anything could be "calm" near the site of a monstrous massacre! There, behind the trees, in the wizards' tent camp, a grand battle had broken out! Combined, it is true, with the slaughter of defenseless wizards - but that was not the main thing. All this was happening behind him. The main thing was - in front! Instinctively, he reached for his wand ... but, wincing, pulled his hand back. It was useless here. His eyes simply found the silhouette of a wizard hiding behind a tree, who was breathing heavily, as if trying to catch his breath after a long and exhausting run. Although, why "as if"? It was precisely after such a run from the burnt camp that he was trying to catch his breath. Archibald Weatherby, an inconspicuous clerk of the Ministry - that's what he knew about him. There are eleven of them out of a dozen in the official fraternity, let alone the Department of Mysteries with their vaunted inconspicuousness! But "inconspicuous" does not mean "not successful". Mr. Weatherby was from that pool of officials who are not noticeable in public life and do not splash out in the press, but at the same time are one of the members, no more no less, of Minister Fudge's administration! In reality, one of the closest minor servants. And just as in reality, someone who can indirectly influence the policy of all of magical Britain. But that was not important now.
What was important was that this particular official was an informant for the Order of the Phoenix. And he could lead them to the solution of what was happening on the Island, and who was behind the ritual that Lily Potter performed on her child. As already mentioned, Weatherby was not an athlete. Flabby, with a thin beard, in a standard ministerial robe, he gave the impression of a lout. And yet, this "oaf" had enough courage for ten! Because not everyone would dare to openly spy for the Order, even in relatively "calm" times. And even more so, the "oaf" would not climb into the forest, following a strange group of people dragging prisoners captured in a burning camp. It was necessary to hurry: the "oaf" was jumping very briskly through the bushes, and if you let him out of sight for even a moment, then the chance would be missed. And the one who was now carefully watching Archibald Weatherby did not want to miss any chances at all.
Finally, the race through the bushes ended: the official, breathing heavily, stopped at the edge of the clearing to which the prisoners were dragged. The eyes of the one watching Weatherby widened in surprise. Because in the clearing, in addition to several wizards, there were plenty of armed Muggles! And quite colorful ones: shaved, tattooed Muggles. The Observer knew this type of simpletons very well. Actually, there were plenty of such "types" in the wizarding world, they just dressed differently. The essence is still the same. Bandits. Real bandits!
The observer, like Weatherby himself, could not hear what they were talking about: the latter did not risk getting close enough to the strange people to hear anything intelligible. Perhaps a couple of times there were plaintive pleas and cries from the captives, and the laughter of the captors - but that was all. The observer carefully examined the wizards who stood among the Muggles like black statues dressed in thick cloaks. Neither faces nor figures were visible, but a couple were shorter. Teenagers? Goblins? The first is extremely unlikely. The second - I really don't want to admit. Because if Gringotts got involved ... then it smells like a bubontube.
At some point, when all the captives were dragged to the center of the clearing, to a huge eight-pointed star painted on it, one of the wizards, one of the taller ones, stepped forward, raised his hands and spoke. More precisely, he started something. Recite! The observer became wary. It was not very audible from here, and the voice was clearly imbued with some kind of magic that distorted perception, but... There was something extremely familiar in that voice. Something important and at the same time irritating! He shook his head. Let's think about it later. The main thing now is to understand what happened at the World Cup!
When the figure in the black cloak finished his speech, the Muggles roared joyfully and raised their hands with clenched fists and weapons. Apparently, the speech was inspiring. And then... Then they began the sacrifice. He did not know what kind of magic it was, what kind of brutal dark ritual, but even he was moved! And the observer had witnessed all sorts of shit in his time, including dark magic. He had even done a lot of crazy things himself. But this... he did not remember this. The victims were stripped naked and crucified, their hands and feet nailed to the ground with rough wooden stakes. The screams of the unfortunates, the cracking of pierced bones, it seemed, would forever remain a terrible ringing in the ears of the observer.
Then the figure in black, who had previously been giving a speech to the jubilant bandits, began the main action. And the observer realized that all that had gone before was just the beginning. Here were the berries. From under the black cape appeared a hand. The right one, as far as one could see. It was clad in what looked like black and red armor... Oh, no. It was not armor. More like a jumble of bloody flesh and black-rusty iron, ending in long steel claws. A glove? Perhaps. In any case, it looked extremely disgusting! In his hand was clutched a sword: a curved scimitar, covered in something like moving flesh and covered with glowing runes. It was impossible to see it from such a distance, but the observer was almost certain that the runes were goblin. There were no other runes on the Island.
The figure began to chant some boring quatrain, which made even the observer swallow convulsively and shudder: it seemed that the air itself was vibrating, and Reality was hesitating, ready to burst and let into their world... something. The hand raised up with the scimitar smoothly descended towards the first victim: a young guy, almost a boy, who was writhing on the ground, pinned with stakes. The blade touched his chest and slowly went down, cutting the skin. It seemed that it was just a very long scratch, but the boy howled in a bad voice, as if his skin was being peeled off alive! However, the effect caused by the "scratch" was not much different from the flaying. The long wound on the guy's chest emitted thick smoke and an ominous crimson glow, and its edges seemed to be spreading out to the sides, as if... As if turning the man inside out.
If the observer was still more or less ready for the spectacle of a dark magic ritual that opened up to them, then Mr. Weatherby clearly was not. Because the latter, upon seeing the victim screaming in unbearable pain, suddenly turned pale and with a convulsive "boo-o-o" vomited the contents of his stomach under the nearest bush. And the ritual continued. One after another, the victims burst into wild screams and began their terrible transformation. That's right - transformation! What the observer initially took for turning inside out was essentially a transformation... into something. He had become adept at identifying such metamorphoses in his time. "Run already, run, Mordred take you," the observer muttered, glancing sideways at the official frozen in horror. Although he knew that his advice was not only unheard, but also belated, and he would have liked to gather more information, but… the irrational instincts of a man accustomed to combat took their toll.
When all the victims were writhing on the ground in monstrous agony, the figure with a scimitar in his hand raised his sword and uttered some strange word. The key word! At that moment, the main transformation began. The bodies of the unfortunates, who were writhing on the ground and not just screaming, but howling in unbearable pain, while somehow still remaining alive and sentient, began to turn into what the unknown Dark Arts adept in a black robe and a mutilated hand had decided to turn them into. Into monsters. Broken, bloody, emitting an eerie glow and smoke, their bodies no longer even remotely resembled human ones. A jumble of bone fragments sticking out in all directions, bloody flesh, wriggling tentacles, sharp spikes and fins. All of this was an unnaturally bright color, fluorescent against the background of the night darkness. Two dozen eerie monsters, completely unlike each other. And a dozen of the same... but not the same - accompanying ones. The latter were, if this can be applied to them, more orderly. At least they didn't look like broken pieces of bloody mince bristling with bone spikes.
Strange creatures with huge mouths, disproportionately long dexterous limbs and different-sized eyes nimbly danced among the huge carcasses of monsters transformed from wizards. They jumped without any rhythm or meaning, like monkeys, muttered something unintelligible, stupidly giggling and squealing every now and then, and sometimes even seemed to speak in two or three voices at the same time - it was difficult to determine exactly at such a distance. The entire body of these creatures was covered with iridescent scales and crystalline spikes, between which fluorescent translucent tentacles stuck out here and there. By the way, these creatures did not always have four limbs, like normal humanoids: they always had additional arms and legs, and rarely did their total number become even. The observer shuddered. As already mentioned, he had seen a lot in his time. Infernals, blood magic, the blackest of black magic. Give Homo Sapiens a tool - and he will definitely turn it into a monstrous weapon to savagely deal with his own kind. And whether this knowledge is ordinary or magical - it does not matter. But these ... these monsters, clearly did not belong to the creations of the gloomy human genius. They simply screamed with their entire appearance and behavior that they are not from here!
The observer was forced to emerge from the depths of his thoughts and return to reality. That is, to Mr. Weatherby. Who at that very moment decided to approach the strange group of wizards who had just brutally dealt with twenty innocent victims, turning them into horrible bloody carcasses. On the one hand, it was logical. If you don't get closer, you won't hear anything. But on the other hand, it was Mordred stupid! Because everyone knows: curiosity killed the cat, but it didn't spare the clever kneazle. Dark wizards accompanied by a crowd of angry armed muggles, not to mention strange, frightening monsters who were certainly able to sense the hapless scout from a distance – what was this Weatherby thinking?! And then the observer remembered that, despite his remarkable talents, courage, and devotion to the Order of the Phoenix, Mr. Weatherby had one very significant drawback. He was an official. And among this fraternity the percentage of intelligent people was extremely low.
However, the observer himself risked almost nothing. And so, shrugging his shoulders, he followed. And he was right. Because he heard another voice, which seemed quite familiar to him! Not so much in its sound, but in its manner of speech.
— Hm. As expected. Variability is within 30%. Mortality is zero. The number of accompanying probability lines, — he glanced from under the hood of the multi-armed crystalline creatures that continued to jump between their larger "brothers", ... — exceeded all and any forecasts!
— Matthias, we can't ... — another painfully familiar voice! The observer did not even immediately believe that he was hearing it.
— We can or we can't, who cares! We must! — "Matthias" roared back. — Probability lines. There are too many of them! We need to reduce them! To a minimum! Otherwise, the model will not converge!
— Good, — the speech of one of the wizards in black, who were slightly taller than the others, ingratiatingly joined their conversation. The same one who had previously swung a scimitar sword, turning people into twisted monsters. The observer even shook his head in surprise: this voice was also familiar to him! True, due to the magical distortions, he could not determine WHO exactly he recognized, but... But something familiar there was clearly something in that voice! Something painfully familiar... Something irritating, something that caused a subconscious negative reaction... Something close and at the same time inaccessible!
The Observer shook his head. Now his main task was to clearly and thoroughly memorize what was happening. If anything happened, it would be extremely difficult to extract such memories using the Pensieve! And about familiar voices... He would think ten more times before stuttering about it in the presence of those who sent him to spy on Mr. Weatherby.
If the honorable Mr.... Matthias, - the wizard in black suddenly did not give the name of his interlocutor, preferring to limit himself to such a familiar address. To which Matthias himself paid absolutely no attention. What could this be for? - If Matthias says so, then we need to filter out unnecessary probabilities, leaving only one. The one that suits us. Which means — the Horrors will go to the camp and clash with our enemies. And only one will survive!
— We can't know which of them will be eliminated! — the short man named Matthias flared up. — Young man! This requires planning. Preparations. Programming — if you like the Muggle terms. We need!...
— We. Will send. The Horrors. There, — the man in black spoke distinctly, and his voice clearly clanged with steel. And the assertive Matthias clearly became frightened at this. — Let the lot of the Architect of Fates determine further events.
The Observer peered tensely into the dark abyss under the speaker's hood. Who was it?! What kind of voice, despite its obvious familiarity, he could not recognize?! One of the Death Eaters with whom he had communicated long ago? Possibly. What's more — absolutely definitely! Who else could have been involved in all this terrible carnage, at the end of which the Dark Mark hung in the sky, as if the dark times of fifteen years ago had returned? And what kind of magic was it that allowed one to hide one's face behind a veil of shadow? And the voice! Ordinary Death Eaters used ominous silver masks in the shape of a skull for this.
Meanwhile, nine creatures (still not a dozen, only nine "individuals"), obeying the gesture of the hand raised up with a scimitar, howled in a trilling voice in bad voices. And when the hand with the sword fell, they rushed down the slope of the hill, into the ruined camp to sow death, destruction and Chaos. For some reason, the observer even pronounced the last term with a capital letter to himself. What happened next in the fans' camp did not pull on ordinary chaos. The observer, despite such a title, was not particularly interested in "observing" further. He knew the outcome.
Mr. Weatherby was finally spotted, and the chase began. A couple of the unknown warlocks' creatures remaining in the camp roared, sensing their prey and somehow pointing it out to their robed masters. The Muggles joined in, and the shooting began. And the Order of the Phoenix spy, relatively prepared for magical counteraction, a Ministry official, simply caught a bullet in the shoulder. Then... The rolling of a wounded, semi-conscious body down the slope of a wooded hill where it all happened. A fall into a ravine. Loss of consciousness and... And at that moment the observer, aka Severus Tobias Snape, emerged from the Pensieve.
"Is that all?" he asked dryly.
"In principle, yes," the wizard in the gray robe standing next to him shrugged. "The process of cleaning up loose ends, I think, is not so interesting."
"I'm more interested in how the Department of Mysteries managed to intercept an agent of the Order of the Phoenix before his comrades!" Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"'His' comrades, and not 'ours'?" Al Pym raised an eyebrow slightly - and he was the wizard in the gray robe. - "You, Professor, are quite clearly distancing yourself from the Order of the Phoenix, as if you yourself were not a member."
"You dodged the question," Severus pursed his lips with displeasure, coldly examining the agent with an unremarkable appearance.
But Pym only snorted at this. - "And you did not ask any question, Mr. Snape. And is the answer to it so important? - He shrugged his shoulders. - But, so be it, I will explain. Mr. Weatherby rushed into this peculiar reconnaissance spontaneously and on his own initiative, without warning any of his friends and comrades. But the surveillance assigned to him on our part did not fail and signaled where it was necessary. In the bloody chaos that reigned that night, it was not easy, but, as you can see, we managed."
"Okay," Severus frowned darkly again. - "It really is not important. What is more important is, What did I see in the Pool?" - He looked intently at the Department of Mysteries agent.
"The same as us, Professor," Pym smiled with the corners of his lips. - "A hint. A very, very big hint!"
"Yes, I recognized two of those mysterious wizards in black with almost a hundred percent guarantee," Snape said evenly. - "And if with 'Matthias' anything is possible, then the second ..." - he shook his head, so that a black strand of hair fell on his face. - "I simply cannot believe in the participation of the second!"
"Filius Flitwick," Al Pym nodded his head understandingly. - "An intelligent, cheerful professor, a favorite of children, a passionate scientist and a rather talented teacher. Indeed, at first glance it is difficult to believe that this half-blood can participate in a ritual of the Dark Arts, especially in the company of xenophobes from among the Death Eaters. But only at first."
"Explain," Snape narrowed his eyes.
"Firstly, I seriously doubt that those wizards were members of the Dark Lord's group," Pym began. - "After all, there are many groups of dark wizards in the world that do not preach xenophobic ideas, but still remain monstrously dangerous psychotic bastards?"
"What are you getting at?" Severus grumbled discontentedly.
"I mentioned Flitwick's half-blood origin not to emphasize his ideological incompatibility with the Death Eaters," the agent said evenly. - "But to point out his connection ... with another group."
Snape thought for a split second. - "Goblins!" - he spat.
"Exactly. I relatively recently ... although, as for 'recently', almost two years have passed," Pym grinned at something incomprehensible. — "In general, a couple of years ago, when we were still working on this issue with Alastor Moody, I was firmly convinced that the goblins, if they were involved in these strange dark rituals, were only indirectly involved. They collaborated with some terrorist groups, financed them, and so on — nothing more. But now my confidence has been shaken…"
"And what is this… uncertainty connected with?" asked Snape.
"Partly in the research we conducted," answered Al Pym willingly. - "But my convictions about the goblins were completely dispelled when I saw this," a nod towards the Pensieve.
"Flitwick is connected with Gringotts?" Severus was hardly surprised.
"Anyone who has even a drop of goblin blood is connected in one way or another with the ghob-uruk people," Pym pronounced the last word in beautiful Gobblyduke. - "But that's not the main thing now. I was talking about the research we've been doing all this time. About goblin magic. Are you interested?"
"Considering that most wizards are convinced that goblins are not capable of magic at all?" Snape raised an eyebrow in his signature gesture. - "You've intrigued me, to say the least."
"Goblin magic did exist in ancient times, and right up until about the 14th century AD. That's the time when the last full-fledged goblin shaman was destroyed."
"The time of the last goblin uprisings…" the potion maker said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
"You're quite knowledgeable about the history of magical Britain," Pym nodded, as if acknowledging Snape's merits. Although, perhaps, that was the case. - "Indeed, when King Arthur and the great Merlin banished the monsters that the goblins worshiped as gods from the real world, it was the beginning of the end for the ghob-uruk people. The subsequent wars with the goblins, these 'rebellions', each time became less dangerous and large-scale - the support of the 'gods' weakened, these creatures lost the last threads connecting them with our world. With the death of each priest, each goblin shaman, another thread was broken. And until recently, we believed that we had cut them all off and were not allowing new ones to appear," at this phrase, Al Pym imperceptibly winced, as if remembering something extremely vile. - "But it turned out to be wrong."
"Strange rituals..." Snape narrowed his eyes in understanding. - "This is not just classical magic. This is ..."
"Religious rites," Pym nodded sharply. - "An appeal to entities from the outside in an attempt to obtain free power. Such practices have been around for a very, very long time..."
"And why do you think it can't be people?" Severus snorted. - "Why goblins right away? And why were you previously convinced that they had nothing to do with it?"
"We previously thought it was something else," Pym grimaced. - "Classic sorcery, necromancy, some manipulations with fairies as a last resort... and there were grounds for that. As for your first question..." - he looked strangely at Snape. - "These are indeed people."
"I don't understand anything anymore," Snape sighed. - "So people or goblins? What are you sure of and what are you not?"
"It is impossible to be sure of everything," the Department of Mysteries agent grimaced. - "One can only assume and draw conclusions of varying degrees of logicality. And as for goblins or people... Until now, I believed that goblin magic was impossible for a representative of Humanity to repeat! This... religious magic, let's call it that, is tied to the worship of specific entities from beyond the edge of reality. And among all the entities connected to our world, only one remains - the rest have been finally banished from our world. And this is the supreme 'god' of the goblin pantheon. Does the name 'Blargolag' mean anything to you?" - He looked intently at the potion maker.
"I didn't think that was a name," Snape said evenly, in turn boring his gaze into Al Pym's face. - "Usually this word is used by goblins either as a curse word, or, on the contrary, as a thankful one. Like some kind of force that can both punish and reward. Hm," he grinned. - "But it really is a wonderful description of a deity. And you are sure that a person will not be able to adapt the rituals to himself?"
"For this, they need to be directed at some otherworldly 'deity'. Until recently, there was only one Blargolag in our world — the only one that our ancestors were never able to completely banish from reality," Pym shook his head. - "People lost their own 'gods' much earlier, so it never occurred to me that they could be our relatives! And the goblins... We control them tightly, tracking magical abilities among their population. More precisely, we used to control them," he pursed his lips in displeasure. - "How they managed to pull this off — I can't imagine!"
"As a result, we have a certain group of people and goblins who perform rituals with the worship of otherworldly 'gods'. Although, in principle, they cannot technically carry them out!" Snape snorted at this. - "Goblins — because, according to you, they do not have even one shaman. People — because they do not have 'gods' to worship. It's one of two things: either you missed one of the shamans…"
"That's impossible," Pym shook his head.
"…Or," Severus continued, ignoring the agent's remark, "we have another entity besides Blargolag. One that is focused on people."
There was a heavy silence. The prospect Snape had described was… not a good one. And both of them were well aware of it.
"In ancient times, there were several large and a bunch of small pagan cults worshiping similar entities," Pym drawled thoughtfully, walking from one end of the room to the other — this was happening in the depths of the Ministry of Magic, in one of the halls of the Department of Mysteries. "And I don't mean entities from our own dimension that can lay claim to the title of 'gods': like local spirits like the Lady of the Lake or other incarnate elements. Specifically, cults of creatures from outside." They were worshipped under different names by different peoples in different parts of the world, but they were all driven out in one way or another after some magical cataclysm that happened at the beginning of the Common Era. What kind of cataclysm it was, what were its consequences, and what has changed since then - not even the Department knows," Pym sighed and sat down heavily on a chair standing nearby. - "And something has changed, since they started to return!"
"But what does the Dark Lord have to do with this?" Snape frowned. He had a vague idea about why the effects of the ancient cataclysm had been reversed, but he didn't voice it or even think about it. Later.
"And what makes you think, Professor, that he has anything to do with this?" the agent looked at him calmly.
"And who else on the Island could dabble in something so dark and forbidden?" Severus grinned. - "As far as I know, of the large dark magic groups in Britain, only the Death Eaters are still present. And in the last half century, the world has not seen a dark wizard stronger than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The conclusion is obvious."
"Obvious, yes..." Pym winced. - "When you decide to work for the Department... If you decide to work for the Department," he corrected himself, catching Snape's stern look. — "In general, you will understand that if something looks so obvious, it is most likely far from obvious. But I think we have enough beating around the bush, indulging in assumptions and building unfounded theories," the agent shook his head. — "Look at this," he laid several drawings and photographs on the table. All of them showed strange runes and lines inscribed on various surfaces from different angles.
"This?..." — "Traces of the rituals we found," nodded Al Pym. — "Do you recognize anything?"
Severus did recognize many of the drawings and runes in the pictures. Much of this, albeit not in such detail, was in the folder that Moody had given to Tonks at the time. Circles and arrows, many small angular runes, as well as four repeating symbols. A square rune resembling an extremely schematic image of a skull, consisting exclusively of straight lines. A circle with two tongues of flame: a larger one at the top and a smaller one at the bottom. A distorted and jagged sign, similar to the symbol of the male gender principle. Three circles arranged in a triangle, and three arrows emanating from the center of their intersection. And everywhere, at each place of the ritual, there was always one large drawing: eight arrows emanating from one center, connected by a circle.
"In most cases, the ritual sites were very carefully cleaned, so this," Al Pym nodded towards the collographs, - "is actually a drop in the ocean, and collected as a result of hard and careful work with chrono-artefacts and mental magic."
"Yes, in his notes Mad-Eye mentions that the perpetrators each time went over the crime scenes with something like Hellfire," Severus nodded at this. - "Is that why you couldn't use something like a Time-Turner?"
"That would be the easiest thing," Pym winced. - "But these guys are clearly professionals, and quite powerful ones at that. Considering that Hellfire is Mordred-like difficult to control…"
They were silent for a few seconds. The silence was broken again by Al Pym: "So, Professor? I've shown enough cards. Are you ready to help us in this matter?"
"Do I have a choice?" Snape answered evenly.
"Oh, well, of course I do," Pym answered deliberately indifferently. - "You can run away, change your name and even your appearance. After all, the world is big, you and your wife can get lost somewhere in the vastness of Siberia, America or the Pacific islands. But here's the question: will Miss Tonks herself agree to run away... that is, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Snape," the agent corrected himself under the narrowed and tense gaze of the potion master. - "That's the first thing. And secondly, think about it: do you believe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has finally disappeared and will never return?" At this, he turned his entire body to Snape, forcing him to clench his lips angrily.
"Moreover: I know for sure that he did not die," he said coldly.
"Then you will not be able to run for long," the agent shook his head. - "The signal from the Mark will find you anywhere in the world and force you to return to the Island. To the problems that not only remained unresolved, but also accumulated like a snowball! Wouldn't it be better to strike a preemptive blow yourself?"
Severus grinned. Agent Al Pym, who had called him through a closed fireplace channel here, to the most closed department of the Ministry, hid a very clear and distinct answer behind his flowery verbosity. There was no choice. However, this does not mean that there will not be one in the future. Severus knew the price of any such ultimatum statements!
"Good," he relaxed his jaw, stopping clenching his teeth. - "I will help you with this... investigation. Since Albus cannot pay attention to it," he winced, although he knew perfectly well the real reason why he was getting involved in all this. But the slippery 'special officer' should not know this at all. - "But you know perfectly well what a mess there will be in Hogwarts this school year! Take this into account when you demand something from me."
"We will take this into account," Pym nodded at this. - "Moreover: agents of the Department, the Auror Office and representatives of the Ministries of the countries participating in the Triwizard Tournament will be secretly on duty in the school and the surrounding area. An agreement on this has already been reached at the highest level."
"I hope so," Snape said dryly.
Actually, there was nothing more to tell them, and so five minutes later he stepped into the fireplace and disappeared in a flash of green fire.
September 1994.
Luna flinched and involuntarily moved aside when Ginny, sitting next to her on the carriage seat, took out a small vanity mirror and began examining her face with an extremely gloomy look. "What's wrong with me?!" she blurted out when the carriage with thestrals harnessed to it had already moved away from Hogsmeade station towards Hogwarts. "How am I worse than that curly-haired beaver nerd?!"
Luna did not quite understand what her best friend meant, and whether she was even talking to her. She continued to warily watch the mirror in Ginny's hands. "Ginny, could you..." Luna said, swallowing nervously. "Could you remove... this."
"What?!" Weasley asked sharply, turning to the blonde in bewilderment. But when she saw the growing panic in Lovegood's gaze, she came to her senses: - "Oh! Sorry," and hurried to close the compact with the mirror and put it in her bag. - "I forgot what a coward you've become," the red-haired girl snickered mockingly, looking down at her friend a little, which only made her turn away to the window with her usual thoughtful expression.
In her heart, Luna... wasn't exactly offended. No. She saw perfectly well that these weren't exactly Ginny's words - these were whispered to her by the Brain Snarls that had recently settled in the head of the youngest Weasley. More precisely, not like that: the words were definitely hers, only they were spoken under the influence of those moods, desires and thoughts that the Brain Snarls were radiating into Ginny's mind. In general, everything was complicated with the Weasleys, and therefore it was somehow... wrong to be offended by her. Especially considering that with Luna herself, everything was even more complicated!
Brain-sneakers... strange whispering shadows that hovered on the edge of perception and penetrated people's heads, influencing them and suggesting various things. Most often, completely stupid fleeting thoughts, in large quantities capable of causing psychosis or even driving one crazy - softening the brain, as the girl's father jokingly said. Luna herself had never seen anything like this, but her late mother's notes on this topic contained a lot of similar examples. The girl felt sad just thinking about her mother. She remembered little about that day, only bright flashes and sounds, analogs to which simply did not exist in the real world. Well, and a sense of loss, when the last bright flash put an end to the life of Pandora Lovegood. She shook her hair with its multi-colored ribbons, returning to her private inner world, filled with contemplation and fantasies, illusions and dreams. It was simpler there. Cozier. Calmer. At least until recently.
Luna frowned, no longer listening particularly to Ginny's irritated hissing about "beavers and nerds." Since the end of the last school year, even her such a calm inner world had ceased to be a safe haven for her. A multitude of new discoveries - mostly unpleasant ones - had changed the place to which she escaped every time reality became unbearable. In particular - the danger of mirrors. Who would have thought that, having escaped from the bullying of older girls from your faculty and having fallen asleep in an abandoned classroom with an old mirror, you can not only physically enter the world of your own dreams, but also encounter a ferocious predator crawling out of the Looking Glass? And almost immediately - find help? Find another friend? Although, with the latter, too, it was ... ambiguous.
Hermione Granger simultaneously frightened and delighted Luna. Admired by the ease with which she dealt with creatures from beyond the Edge, including the mysterious "Ole Lukkoye" who drove away the mirror brainsnatcher in that terrible dream-reality, as well as her incredible intellect and erudition, as well as judgments quite adult for their age. Scary ... Luna shuddered slightly. Shadows. Those same Brain Slithers, only… bigger. Smarter. More active. And scarier! She immediately realized that the spirit that called itself Smarty, that had taken the form of Ole Lukkoye, was also a Brain Slither. Just like the mirror monster that had hunted the girl in her sleep. And those were just the ones that were visible, the ones that caught her eye, the ones that Lovegood could more or less identify. But there were also much larger… shadows. Or rather, black, seething clouds that rumbled in the depths of her dreams, as if from afar. Also Brain Slithers. Only much, much stronger than any she had ever seen before!
Four of these cloud-spirits constantly loomed behind the back of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. They growled with the peals of their eerily tempting whisper in the girl's thoughts, which even surprised her: how come those around her do not hear this thunder next to Harry? And they were clearly not addressing her directly, but communicating exclusively with the boy with the lightning scar! What would happen if one of them spoke directly to her? Invisible tentacles seemed to stretch out in all directions from these huge voices, stroking and testing the strength of the minds of the people around Harry. One of these tentacles, as if woven in Luna's imagination from multi-colored scales, reached out to Hermione. And Luna was almost one hundred percent sure that the giant Brain Slither, who whispered especially clearly and at the same time indistinctly, was speaking directly to Granger as well. And that every now and then, he glanced at Luna. Two more formed tentacles: disgustingly putrid and cloyingly sweet - stretched somewhere into the distance, beyond the range of any of Luna's sensations. The fourth, "smelling" of burning and blood, now and then twined around Ginny, now and then securing itself in her mind, and then breaking away again. Luna even noticed a connection between such "connection sessions" with outbursts of unreasonable anger of the youngest Weasley. Like now.
"Are you even listening to me?" Ginny barked indignantly, her eyes flashing furiously at Lovegood.
The latter, sighing heavily to herself, turned her gaze to her friend and said: "You settled on a shaggy, nondescript washcloth with a stupid colorful rope in mud-colored locks. And I hope you'll stop there," Luna frowned slightly. - "Father says that if you compare someone to dirt, you can end up with some very nasty words. For example, mudblood…"
"I get it!" Ginny interrupted her angrily, blushing deeply.
Luna smiled slightly: after all, the Weasleys' upbringing and the constant teasing about their status as "Blood Traitors" played their role. The tentacle smelling of hot iron pulled away from the red-haired girl's head, thrown back by her embarrassment at the fact that she almost said that word. Even if alone with her friend. For how long?
Luna didn't know if what she was doing was right. Maybe it was just her "madness" progressing, as the same Cho Chang, a girl from her faculty a year older than her, called this thoughtfulness and words? And indeed: Luna had never seen these tentacles before, had never seen giant brain-sniffers… and she treated people better. At least, she had never seen a symbol of the exact date and circumstances of death above each of them before. As if someone had replaced her eyes. Should she… turn to Harry Potter or Hermione? The part of her consciousness that was hovering in that world of dreams that Luna had been afraid of for some time now, but was forced to dive into, was all for it! And the other part… an even stranger part… Luna took a deep breath and shook her fair-haired head. Putting on her pink Astral-Spectral glasses, she pretended to look at the people around her. But in reality, she was concentrating on two things in her pink, awkward handbag. A bag of flat stones with runes on them. One large stone of a bright scarlet color, the size of the entire first bag. At the moment, it was the last stone that interested her.
Having waited until Ginny turned to the window, looking at the approaching Hogwarts, Luna sighed and squeezed the scarlet stone with all her strength. And in a split second, the stone answered her. As usual for the last month. She reached into the essence of the stone. Brushing aside the whispers of the Wracksnakes hovering around Hogwarts, throwing away their tentacles and other influences. Fortunately, she had driven the gaze of the Builder-of-the-Giant-Chair away from Ginny for a while. For now. Luna clutched the red oval stone that her father had recently given her and sighed and…
Cold… - a whisper sounded on the edge of Luna's consciousness as she tuned in to the scarlet stone. Ginny turned sharply in her direction, saying something… It seemed they were approaching Hogwarts… Luna shook her head, breaking the mental connection.
Luna did not remember Headmaster Dumbledore's introductory speech, the feast and other details of the evening that followed. She was eager to get to her bedroom, to her bed, to draw the curtains and… And finally, to pour out of a nondescript brown bag a pile of shards with crude ancient elven runes of Concealment inscribed on them… And the scarlet stone. For which everything had been started. Which gave rise to doubts about the sincerity of… anyone. Which… Which!...
Luna swallowed and pointed her hand towards the red gem that had risen and glowed. She said, "Well, hello... mother."
" Hello... hello... my child! " the stone answered after a short pause.
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