"I'm not going!
"Why not?
"I'm not going, and that's final. I'm fine here." Harry clearly decided to demonstrate that he was not just a necromancer, but also a rebellious teenager. "What am I going to do there anyway?
"Socialise and adapt to a society of people just like you.
"Really? — A genuine look of interest flashed across Harry's eyes. — What, has the Hogsmade cemetery risen up and now instead of Hogwarts there's Necrosite?
"What?!
"What?
"There's no Necrosite there!"Then I'm not going," Harry insisted. "People love me, appreciate me and respect me here, but there..."
"You're fifteen, you're supposed to be making friends at that age, not wandering around graveyards..." the master reminded him, although he couldn't really blame his protégé. He was the same himself.
"Don't mention the cemetery!" Harry protested immediately. "We had a nice time there... I have friends there, I was with them."
"Really? — A hint of a smile appeared on Gideon's face. — Who were you with?
"Right now..." Harry closed his eyes and waved his wand towards a small fence. From the neighbouring graves (the conversation was taking place in the middle of a village cemetery, where the master had found his negligent apprentice), several well-preserved fresh corpses immediately emerged, breaking the slabs and tearing the earth with their dead hands. "Here, for example... A real intellectual, blue-blooded, Sir Skull," Harry pointed to one of the corpses. "And here's the life of the party — Mr. Bone. And this one," he nodded toward a very fresh corpse, clearly buried only two days ago, "is just a simple lad, Ribby..."
"Harry, you do understand that THIS," the master gestured with his palm, sending the corpses back to their graves. They had no business being in a Muggle cemetery when it wasn't time for a lesson on types of undead. "So these undead creatures are a substitute for normal social interaction?
"I don't know anything! They're cool guys. They're broad-minded people... You can really feel the team spirit in their presence..."
"Yeah, and the smell of celebration too," the master waved his hand to dispel the smell of death, which did not bother his apprentice in the least. "Now finish this kindergarten. A contract on behalf of your parents is...
"One of the types of contracts based on blood ties that cannot be circumvented even by the death of the drafter," Harry finished for the master. "I know... Maximilian Strauss perfectly described the basic laws of thaumaturgy. But still, I don't want to..."
"But you'll have to..."
Harry sighed heavily, pulled his hoodie hood over his head, and tried to look as if he was giving in only out of personal indulgence, not out of iron necessity dictated by both the Master's words and the contract signed by his parents, who must have been drunk or brainwashed. Because Harry couldn't physically explain it any other way. No, of course, he could have summoned his parents' souls from the Granite and had a proper chat, but what would be the point? The contract was unbreakable, and why waste time on a rather precise and laborious ritual for the sake of idle conversation? What was the point?
"All right...
"I'll cheer you up a little now," Gideon patted his protégé on the shoulder. "There are advantages to Hogwarts.
"What good can there be in a place like that...
"There are ghosts.
"Ghosts and soul casts, you told me. Not interesting.
"And there's a poltergeist there too.
"A real one?!" Harry licked his lips. "A mischievous one? A poltergeist?"
"Better," the master smiled. "Material."
After looking at his protégé for a while, Gideon smiled. Of course, as befits a normal mentor, he knew his protégé's weaknesses, one of which, apart from playing the guitar and being addicted to coffee — the latter could even be considered a professional disease of necromancers (when you regularly work at night, coffee becomes one of your main drinks during the day) — was ghosts and spirits of all kinds. And while you can talk to ordinary restless souls in any reasonably large cemetery, a material poltergeist is a rather rare and powerful magical parasite. Harry had wanted one for a long time — either for his portfolio or as a servant — so Gideon deliberately didn't tell him about this feature of Hogwarts...
"Well, what do you think?
"I'll say that this is where we should have started...
"So you're going?
"Of course!
Gideon smiled. He knew Harry wouldn't be able to resist the temptation. And his student was arguing more for form's sake and out of his own stubbornness, instilled in him by his mentor.
"Excellent. Then you're in for the worst nightmare of your life...
"No!
"Yes!
"That's not fair!
"Shopping in Diagon Alley!
"Can I skip it?" Harry swallowed. "Well, what am I going to find there? I've got a wand, clothes, an alchemy kit, ingredients..."
"They don't teach you how to brew potions from drowned people's brains at Hogwarts. Trust me, most of the ingredients you're used to are completely unacceptable in a teenage environment. And the fact that you can dissect corpses without any problems or gagging is also something you'd better keep to yourself...
"I remember... Necromancy is illegal in Britain. But I can say that I'm interested in witchcraft...
"Harry!" His mentor's gaze hardened. "Stop fooling around!"
"I'm sorry, master," Harry apologised immediately.
"Remember, no necromantic rituals on the castle grounds...
"Yes, master..."
"At least not above the second order.
"As you say, master.***
"And I thought that when I saw you, Mr. Potter...
"Good day, Master Ollivander," Harry approached the counter, not reacting at all to the sudden appearance of the master wandmaker.
"You're not surprised..." the salesman said with a hint of childish hurt in his voice.
"Leave the surprise effect to Muggle-borns, you can't fool me with those tricks. The first time, I might have been surprised, but not now.
"Ahem... Well..." The old man approached the counter. "And what brings you to my shop this time?"
Harry smiled slightly. He had known the old man Ollivander since he was seven, when he bought materials to make a wand — yes, Ollivander sold those too, though not entirely officially. But what was there to hide? The old man openly sold materials for making illegal wands. True, he didn't sell them to just anyone, only to those who had been recommended by good acquaintances. And, most importantly, he never gave away any secrets, never reported to anyone, and never obeyed anyone. When you sell what is essentially a universal tool that is also a weapon, it's best to keep your mouth shut. So Ollivander kept quiet about his unusual customers. At least he didn't reveal any secrets to Harry and Gideon, which the latter, in general, lacked.
"I need a clean, official wand registered with the Ministry. No less than nine, no more than twelve and a quarter inches. Spruce or fir, with a dragon heartstring core. With it, a maintenance kit and a holster to wear on the forearm.
"Since when did you need an official wand?!" asked Ollivander, apparently out of professional interest.
"I need to visit Hogwarts," Harry sighed. "And there it would be better to use something more official than a homemade wand made of black wood filled with grave dust, and with traces of the death curse..."
"As you say, Harry," Ollivander nodded, walking away to the shelf where his wooden wands lay. "Now... Let's see what we have here that might suit you..."
Harry waved his real wand and turned the three-legged stool standing by the counter into a comfortable armchair, and sat down to wait for the shopkeeper. An enthusiastic fellow... Perhaps he'll find the perfect one in five minutes. Or maybe he'll rummage around for hours, trying to find something more or less suitable...
"You know, Harry, a long time ago I had a wand that I was strongly advised to sell to you as soon as you came in for your first wand..."
"Really? — Harry smiled slightly." — And what was it, if I may ask?
"Holly and a phoenix feather, eleven inches.
"Light and purifying flame..." Harry grimaced. "No, thank you... Let it gather dust in the storeroom. Fir is much more suitable.
"Oh, I'm sure you would," Ollivander smiled slightly. "However, even if holly suited you, I couldn't sell you that particular wand...
"Why not?
"Because this wand has already found its owner," Ollivander placed seven boxes on the counter. "Here, please... Try them and see which one suits you best.
"And you won't tell me the owner's name, of course...
"Client confidentiality is sacred, Mr Potter. I respect your secrets. Perhaps you will respect mine? — Ollivander looked out of the window. — And maybe you could remove the protection from the door? I think another customer is waiting for me...
Harry nodded, gestured to lower the shield he had put up out of habit, and returned to sorting wands, paying no attention to the witch who had entered.
"Ah, Miss Tonks! I'm glad you're here," Ollivander nodded to the girl. "What can I do for you?"
"The usual, Mr. Ollivander," the witch handed the old man her wand. "It's not working. Again..."
"Miss Tonks, if you had listened carefully to my instructions regarding your gift, you would know that your changes affect your perception of magic, which is transmitted to the wand. Perhaps you should give up your masquerade?
"Mr. Ollivander!" Tonks pointed to Harry, who was listening intently to the next wand. "I would ask you..."
"You don't need to hide your metamorphosis. To people like me, it's as clear as the fact that it rained last night, even if it's only of anatomical interest. And the master is right, you should stop changing your disguise so often. Or carry five or six wands with you for different looks." Harry listened to the fourth wand, nodded to himself. "Mr. Ollivander, I'll take this wand. How much do I owe you?"
"Seventeen Galleons, including the accessories, sir..."
"Raven," Harry helped him, realising that the master did not want to reveal the real surname of a customer who, if necessary, could literally dig him out of the ground.
"Yes, Mr. Raven..."
Harry laid seventeen gold coins on the table, strapped the wand holster to his belt, and immediately tucked the new tool inside, first dispelling the spell on the chair.
"Good day, sir. My lady," Harry nodded politely first to Ollivander, then to the girl named (or rather, by her surname) Tonks, and then headed for the exit. "My honour...
***
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