《Hogwarts: Wizards of the Wasteland》 Chapter 1 - Seko Maxima One precise, well-practiced movement of the wand and the heads of three inferi rolled along the stone pavement of London. Dressed in shabby Muggle clothes with a dragon skin jacket thrown over them, the wizard froze, listening to the sounds. A mournful wind carried trash along the streets and whistled through the broken windows of long-abandoned shops. Making sure that he had not attracted the attention of other undead, the man quickly and silently entered the nearest shop, hiding behind the counter. Carefully taking an enchanted map from one of his many pockets, he quickly determined his location. Following the owner''s wish, the image on the map "approached" the point of location, clearly outlining the surrounding streets and houses. - Millbank Street. And nearby is the Parliament and even higher is Whitehall Street. Finally. Damn the British with their fucking urban architecture. Whispering a few more unprintable expressions he had heard from his Russian mother as a child, Gilderoy Geysek, a native of Prague, sighed wearily. Then, feeling the growing cold, he pressed himself against the counter and concentrated on Occlumency, completely suppressing his emotions. - Wow! The dementor, flying down the street like a hound that had lost its trail, howled in disappointment. After twirling around the nearest buildings for a few minutes in confusion, the soul eater slowly flew on. The cold, which seemed to be able to freeze the soul itself, began to diminish. The man, having waited fifteen minutes, left the temporary shelter. Under the dim light, barely penetrating the gloomy clouds, he moved along the street of the dead city towards his goal. Gilderoy never particularly liked the lands of Foggy Albion and its inhabitants. He did not like the rainy and cloudy weather of the islands, nor the arrogant and conservative British themselves. And during his last visit to this country during the Quidditch World Cup, he had to leave them urgently because of the damn radical idiots who pompously called themselves Death Eaters. At that time, Geysek despised these imitators of Grindelwald, considering their leader and his followers to be crazy idiots who, even if they seized power, would not last long. The second and third wizarding wars on the islands mainly concerned the islands themselves and their closest neighbor - wizarding France. The only thing that worried the Czech, who had already gained fame as a master of charms and rituals during the second wizarding war, was the violation of the Statute of Secrecy and the problems that followed. Traveling, magic, girls and a small hobby of writing his memoirs - that''s all that interested him in those years. However, in 1998, everything went to hell. An epidemic broke out on the British Isles. The streets began to be filled with corpses of Muggles, because of which all Muggle governments actually isolated England, fearing the spread of the disease, and the magical part of the country closed the borders back in 1997. Only this did not stop the epidemic, and a few months later, wizards and Muggles saw wandering infernals on the streets of their cities. That''s when the MCM and other ministries of magic began to stir, which quickly found out about the magical origin of the virus. A ritual was quickly composed that would deprive the virus of magical properties, which would stop its spread throughout the world, and special squads of wizards began to cleanse the infected, who after death turned into infernals. Oh, this ritual was a masterpiece of ritualism and a contribution to which the wizard himself was proud. On the day that Gilderoy and dozens of other masters of ritualism performed the ritual in Delphi, a Greek city famous for its seers and one of the most powerful magical sources in Europe, tensions between the Muggle governments of the USA and the USSR reached the point of no return. Dozens of atomic bombs were dropped on the largest cities of the world. The image of his hometown, Prague, in ruins turned the cheerful wizard in his early thirties, who liked to joke about the "dandyism" of his last name, into a sullen man in his fifties. As the apotheosis of the coming end of the world, the veil between the world of the living and the dead thinned. Everything was filled with the undead. And the world went mad. From the British Isles came the Death Eaters ¨C mad fanatics who turned themselves into undead and praised their Master who had defeated Death. Fanatics who had studied necromancy. After that, Gilderoy saw only death and despair. Sects praising death as the goal of all life, madly laughing wizards in white masks, also madly laughing companions who are ready to cast a killing curse in your back because of the rolling madness, living people with indifferent eyes who are not always distinguishable from the dead, cursed places where death lurks in every shadow. And so on for ten years. With every step the wizard took the cold grew stronger, until he finally saw in the distance what had become of central London. The famous Whitehall Street, the name of which was sometimes used as a common noun for the British government, lay in ruins. From Westminster Palace to Trafalgar Square, all these famous buildings of departments and ministries, monuments and landmarks were destroyed to the ground. Only piles of stones reminded of the past. But this was not what made the wizard tense up. The view that opened up to him had become familiar to the man after years of wandering around the world. But what really made his hair stand on end was the action taking place above the abyss where Trafalgar Square used to be. Hundreds of figures in dark, torn robes were descending into the abyss, swirling like a whirlwind. The world seemed to have turned grey from so many soul eaters, and Gilderoy concentrated entirely on the meditative and mental techniques known to him, designed to control the mind and emotions. The feelings of despondency and despair rolling over his consciousness diminished, but did not disappear. Like hyenas, they froze somewhere on the edge, ready to pounce on his consciousness in case of the slightest weakness. Exhaling steam, the wizard took out a compass. But the arrow of this compass, unlike the others, did not point north. Turning the artifact given to him for this mission in his hands, the man made sure of the direction indicated by the arrow. Then he slowly walked away to the nearest relatively intact building. Trying not to cause noise, he examined the entrance to the building and the room behind it. The first thing the surviving wizards learned from the beginning of the cataclysm was not to blindly trust search spells. In the first months of the cataclysm, it was not uncommon for a wizard who used a banal "revelio" to soon be attacked by a crowd of undead who sensed the magic. The only thing worse than that was when a wizard, having made sure of the absence of enemies with the help of spells, boldly entered the lair of the same alghouls. Hearing the quiet crunch of the trash under his feet, the man carefully entered the room. Having found a more or less clean corner, he took out a piece of chalk. Soon a circle with a triangle inside was drawn on the floor. The magical formation was framed by ancient runes. Having crouched in the center of the formation, Geysek activated it. The resulting dome enclosed the Czech. The wizard himself took food and a notebook from a bag attached to his belt. Shoving the seemingly tasteless food into his mouth, he began to write down everything he had seen today. Unfortunately, the things and artifacts enchanted for communication no longer worked after entering present-day London. The veil between the otherworldly and living worlds was almost torn. The close proximity of the Death Realm sometimes affected the magic and artifacts he created in the most unpredictable way.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. / Dad, save me! The voice, full of agony, came from a twelve-year-old boy leaning against the wall, trying to put back the organs that were falling out of his torn stomach and starting to rot. If only he had been here five minutes earlier, then¡­/ Crackling. The man looked at the broken feather calmly and took out a new one. He did not risk using a charm to fix it. The failure of his mission would cost too much to the remaining survivors. Several hours later, Gilderoy Geysek, with a specially charmed invisibility cloak thrown over his clothes that could hide him for only six hours, walked up the stone stairs he had found, leading to the British Ministry of Magic. The concealment and Muggle-repelling charms had long since been dispelled, allowing it to be found without relative difficulty. Soon the man came out to one of the departments of the ministry. The premises intended for the work of dozens of ministry employees were empty. There were no ghosts, no dementors, no Death Eaters, whose presence the wizard feared. There was complete silence. Looking at the scattered tables and sheets of paper scattered on the floor, he could not get rid of the feeling of someone else''s gaze on him. / -Minister Scrimgeour has ordered the entrances to the Ministry to be sealed. An attack by you-know-who is expected soon. - And he was right. Avada Kedavra! / Turning around, Gilderoy pointed his wand at the darkness of the stairs he had just descended. His eyes, dimly glowing with an amber light due to the cat''s eye potion he had drunk, could not see anything through the darkness. Exhaling a cloud of white steam, the man pulled out the compass with his free hand. The needle spun madly, stopping in place for no longer than a second. Shaking his hand again, he was completely convinced of the malfunction of the artifact that had guided him before. Cursing under his breath, the man put it back. The darkness became thicker. The man went on, relying only on intuition and feelings. He wanted to complete his task before nightfall. He did not want to know what was happening in this necropolis at night. Empty rooms and corridors created an oppressive feeling. The marble stone of the walls, which was supposed to create an impression of solemnity and grandeur, now looked more like the walls of a crypt. However, soon the man could not go further due to a collapsed corridor. Gilderoy turned around and went the other way. After a while, he determined that about a third of the floor on one side had collapsed. The wizard headed down one of the stairs he had found. He didn''t meet anyone during the entire journey. Silence reigned everywhere, interrupted by the rustling of boots on stone chips and the occasional inaudible whisper. Whispers of the past. A rather lousy property of some cursed places, which become such broken pools of memory. "Visitors" to such places can immerse themselves in past events or hear them. And if you consider that most often it is because of these events that such places became cursed... / - Hahahaha . Cruciatus ! Cruciatus ! Cruciatus ! A woman''s laughter with a hint of madness was heard against the background of shrill screams. / Feeling the cold penetrating his bones, the wizard stopped on the ninth underground level near a doorway with fallen doors. A dusty tablet lying nearby on the floor had a barely legible inscription. "Department of Mysteries" Entering the hall of cracked black tiles, Gilderoy saw twelve doors, only one of which was slightly open. A silvery-white light shone from behind the black door. Clutching his wand tightly, Geysek peered inside. A gust of wind blew into the man''s face. Like a Greek amphitheater, the stone tiers descended to a platform on which stood an ancient arch glowing with silver-white light. Dozens of Dementors descended through the broken ceiling and disappeared into it. The empty space of the arch, from where the light came, trembled. - Avada Kedavra A hissing voice came from behind him. Heightened instincts made the man throw himself forward and to the side even before the curse was cast. A wide green beam of curse knocked stone chips out of the floor. A man... no, a creature slowly appeared from thin air. With pale cracked skin more befitting a corpse, a bald head without a single hair in a black robe, it studied him with its scarlet eyes. A dark brown stick with unusual thickenings pointed downwards. - Bow your head before the Lord of Death. The hissing voice was full of arrogance and madness. Glancing at the arch, Gilderoy took out a notebook. - Portus The spatial force began to twist the body as usual, but somewhere in the middle of the process it stopped. - Fool, no one will leave this place without my permission. Looking with indifferent eyes at the arm missing up to the elbow, as a result of the unsuccessful activation of the portal charm, Geysek waved his wand. The missing arm returned to its place, but without the sleeve and notebook. - Who are you? Pale lips twisted into a grin. Hands with an unusual magic wand and a ring with a black stone spread out to the sides. - Lord of fate and death - Voldemort. Bow your head before your master. Resisting the mental pressure of his enemy''s Legilimency, Gilderoy looked up at the soul eaters descending upon him. A golden flame flared at the tip of his wand. - Centum aurea luminaria armis (parade of a hundred golden lights) --- - Kha Drops of blood fell to the floor. With difficulty, Gilderoy raised his hand and wiped his mouth, smearing red liquid across his face. - Ha-ha-ha. Fool, death cannot take me. In a few hours I will recover and disembowel your soul. - Incendio A stream of flame incinerated the dark lord''s skull, which was disintegrating into a dark mist. Looking at the empty sky and the distant dots of approaching Death Eaters, Gilderoy hobbled towards the exit. His body, exhausted by the battle, barely carried out the commands of his equally exhausted mind, but his steel will and pride did not allow one of the most powerful wizards in the world to simply fall to the floor, awaiting his fate. Suddenly, he noticed a strange silvery cloth on the spot where he had incinerated the body of this true undead. Looking doubtfully at the unknown artifact lying before him, the wizard did not dare to take it. There was a crack. Something in my chest fluttered. The crackling sound was repeated. The wizard''s head began to turn toward the arch, despite himself. The first thing the man''s wide eyes noticed was an anthracite-colored claw clinging to the stone column of the arch. A sense of unreality pierced Gilderoy Geysec. Something grotesque, monstrous, alien was looking at him. A scream died in his throat as the wizard looked into the white pools of eyes. The body, out of control, fell onto the silver fabric. Darkness clouded the consciousness. Knock-knock. - Ooh, bitch! Feeling a headache, I open my eyes and look at the ceiling. There was another knock. A knock in the damn necropolis that London had become. I jump up, reflexively snatching up the magic wand I felt nearby, ready to use protego or combat apparation. And I fall into a stupor. A grey owl was standing on the windowsill outside with an extremely displeased look. Squinting and hooting discontentedly, it stared at the wizard. Alive and not mutated. Although the entire population of magical owls perished in the first years of the cataclysm, not surviving the abrupt change in the magical background. And those individuals who did survive... An encounter with them carried a significant threat to human life. Finally, coming to my senses, I quickly cast a protective spell on myself and with some trepidation open the window with a spell. These beasts are best not to be ignored, as they can attract nearby undead or monsters. The feathered creature flies in, and the incinerating spell is about to be cast on my hand, until I notice something... The owl flew around the strange wizard with disdain, threw the folded newspaper on the table, knocking over the inkwell standing on it, and flew away with a proud look. The wizard himself continued to look at London living its own life. Blue eyes excitedly absorbed the view that opened up. Cap. The man shook his head and looked down at the ink dripping onto the floor. A wave of his wand brought everything back to order, and his trembling hands picked up the newspaper, which had the following clearly written at the top of the first page: "Daily Prophet" Gilderoy looked up and saw the date. September 30, 1985 - What the¡­ Veil of Time: Chapter 2 ----------- Support and read two weeks ahead of WN and Royalroad at:-p atreon.com/FanficWorld I looked at the newspaper in my hands and tried to comprehend what was happening. Too unreal. Strange. An illusion? A drug? Putting the newspaper on the table, I look around the room. A wardrobe enchanted with a weak space expansion charm, a luxurious gold-colored canopy bed, an oak desk, a couple of chairs, a chest with a more serious charm, a coat rack by the entrance, two doors, one of which is slightly open and behind it you can see a washbasin with a mirror. And a photo collage. Dozens of moving images of a vaguely familiar man with gold-colored hair and a pearly smile. And judging by them, he did not suffer from obvious delusions of grandeur, he enjoyed it. I point my wand at the chair and use one not very popular spell from transfiguration, turning an object into an arbitrary harmless form. Essentially useless, it had a couple of features that a Polish transfiguration master told me about. The first feature is that the spell does not work on an enchanted, cursed or living object, and the second feature is that the wizard casting it must be of sound mind. Looking at the avant-garde work that resulted from the chair, I frowned even more. - Finita Returning the chair to its normal state, I close my eyes and sniff. The smells of perfume, wood, clothes and many other things reached my nose. Too detailed. So it''s not a drug, not an illusion based on self-hypnosis, since I''m seeing this room for the first time, not an ordinary illusion or a memory trap, since such a level of complexity and elaboration of such a large-scale illusion that does not conflict with the interacting spells is closer to miracles, not magic. Sighing, I look at the hand with neatly trimmed nails holding a magic wand. Not my hand and not my magic wand. And judging by the magical background, which in recent years in the world has been no different from the same in some burial mound or crypt, then someone has clearly played with space and time. Well, and with souls, mine and that poor guy whose body I occupied. I trace a few patterns with my wand, casting a permanent version of Protego and a couple of other protective spells around the bed, then lay my body down on it. I begin to breathe slowly, remembering the meditations of Tibetan magicians, who could give many a run for their money in terms of working with the soul and its connection with the body. Just getting to that knowledge was a real pain in the ass. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The sensations of the body recede, at some point leaving only the perception of the surrounding magic, developed over years of creating magic. I focus on myself, feeling a tingling sensation. A familiar tingling sensation. I had the same thing when the Dementor almost ate my soul and it spent the next few days reestablishing its connection with the body. Fortunately, this time everything is going much faster. At some point, memories of the previous owner of the body began to emerge in my consciousness. I dive into them, since the most important thing for me now is information. Five hours later, I look into the mirror with a grimacing face. A blue-eyed blond man looks out from the reflection with a hostile, but at the same time handsome and even somewhat charismatic face. Gilderoy Lockhart - writer, wizard, idol of hundreds of witches and a swindler. The one I have now become. I smooth my hair with non-verbal wandless magic and straighten the collar of my shirt. And I freeze. For the last two years, I frankly did not care about my appearance. The ghouls around me valued my "inner world" more, and the survivors valued strength. Therefore, seeing my current body not in the role of a "lumpen a la survivalist" I felt a refreshing feeling. I was beautiful. Knock. Knock. Knock. I banged my head against the wall and looked at the mirror with irritation. The adaptation to Lockhart''s memories had gone too well. In no small part due to a certain similarity in our personalities. A certain. The moment when young Lockhart at Hogwarts sent himself eight hundred cards for Valentine''s Day came into my mind. - Oh, whore. Although I have a slightly narcissistic character. But this... this Narcissus is beyond good, evil and magic. There are no equal people. There are only fans, future fans and problematic people. That''s it. This paradigm of thinking in a wizard whose knowledge of magic barely exceeds the school level was simply freezing. Although no, he is not very fair here. In the field of charms and potions related to grooming, he really had no equal. As well as in masterful possession of the oblivion spell - obliviate. And I myself know about this wizard from memories before the cataclysm. One of the few British wizard-writers whose fiction was spread throughout the world of magic. And I even liked his books. Excellent description of landscapes and cultural features of countries with an unusual disclosure of the characters. The only downside is the fascinating, but far from reality, description of the magic used in the fights. Before the resonant exposure at Hogwarts, I treated this downside with understanding, since truly powerful wizards do not reveal their fighting style to the whole world, as well as knowledge of some semi-legal spells. Now, having mastered the memories and even some of the traits of this adventurer, I felt... offended. For him. Although he did not have great magical powers, he could really become as strong as in his books. After all, in magic, sometimes it was not the strength of the wizard that played a big role, but his will and personality. Lockhart''s pride and arrogance, taken to the point of absurdity, allowed him to create spells in which he was sure that he was really the best,sometimes amazing things. Hair care charms and straightening out wrinkles in clothes? Sometimes performed by sheer willpower, in addition to their direct functions, they could temporarily transfer a bit of the natural charm of the veela to clothes or give hair the properties of some magical animals. Even at Hogwarts, he could create and modify spells. Thanks to his character and some kind of animal sense of danger, he created connections with many people. The experience of being a half-blood at Hogwarts, a school full of purebloods and aristocratic children, allowed him to understand his weaknesses and strengths. Because of this, after graduation, he knew how to make a good impression on strangers. What really limited his potential was little patience and, surprisingly, an inferiority complex. Lockhart quickly lost interest in areas of magic in which he could not achieve perfection in a short time, due to his perfectionism. Only because he was sure that his appearance should be the best, he was closely engaged in the study of charms and potions related to the influence on the appearance of wizards. As for the spell of oblivion ... At the time of my arrival in Lockhart''s body, he had already written two books. "Encounters with Vampires" and "Spirits on the Roads". The "ideas" of these stories were borrowed from a Russian Auror or, as the Russians used to call him, an Auror and a French mage-zoologist. And, having carefully checked the memories of the moment the Briton used Obliviate, I was impressed. These memories once again showed me the influence of feelings and emotions on magic. Envy ... A disgusting feeling, called one of the seven sins by Muggle Christians. Together with the spell of oblivion, it creates an unusual synergy. The spell itself is based on the processes of forgetting inherent in people, which are necessary for the better functioning of the brain and the memory itself. Obliviate allows you to find the desired memory and speed up this process for it. More skilled magicians can replace the memory with another, sometimes even verbally saying what "actually happened." In this way, hammering a mental attitude into a person. For Muggles and weak wizards, it is effective, but already at the average level of strength, some more attentive magicians can notice the oddity. High-level wizards, usually involved in Occlumency in one way or another, can directly overcome Obliviate. The modification of the oblivion spell created by Lockhart could have made him the best Obliviator in any Ministry of Magic. If, of course, it had not been banned, and the creator himself had not been buried or locked in the dungeons of the same Unspeakables. After all, no matter how you look at it, Obliviate itself always leaves even the slightest trace in the mind of a person, and with rough or frequent use it disrupts a person''s mental activity. Lockhart''s oblivion spell was free of these shortcomings. Modified and strengthened by envy, it could now ignore many standard protective charms, and the erasure process itself became something akin to hypnosis or self-hypnosis.The "object" simply did not believe the erased memories and, using its own associative chains, composed for itself the "most probable" memory. In essence, the magician does not disrupt the mental activity of the "object", he simply accelerates the natural process of forgetting, and the "object" will figure out what the memory was about and what it was like. Only when the volume of the erased memory exceeds a certain percentage relative to the rest of the memory will some Legilimens be able to determine its use.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Which makes it all the more offensive that such potential was squandered by Lockhart himself. Never fully developed. But his body and personality can still serve me. Knock. Knock. I turn to the front door of my hotel room. I wave my hand, tidying up the things in the room. The wonderful symbiosis of a robe and a light-colored coat on the hanger falls onto my shoulders. Thanks to the better connection between soul and body, weak household charms no longer require words or wand waves. I cast a transparency charm on the door. The door began to dissolve, revealing a blonde girl impatiently tapping her index finger on her purse. The visitor''s green eyes looked around the hotel corridor and the door with irritation, and she herself was clearly unaware that she was being looked at too. I cast the usual post-cataclysm protective spells on myself and dispel the transparency spell. I hide my wand in my sleeve and approach the door. The usual Lockhart smile appears on my face. - Good afternoon. How can I help such a beauty? The girl standing behind the door smiled sweetly. Hearing the voice full of goodwill and looking at the sunny smile of her new victim, erm, that is, respondent, Rita Skeeter involuntarily felt embarrassed. However, this did not prevent the experienced journalist from taking control of her body. - Sorry to bother you. My name is Rita Skeeter, and I am a journalist for the Daily Prophet. I would like to interview you about your latest book, Spirits on the Roads. The girl spoke in a sweet, joyful voice, taking an unnoticeable step into the room. Green eyes quickly looked around the part of the room visible behind the young man standing there. - So you are interested in my latest book? That is so wonderful. Don''t worry, I am ready to give you my interview. Let''s go downstairs and go to a cafe I know where they serve excellent tea for leisurely conversation. And the already bright smile became even brighter. - No need to bother. We can easily talk in your room. The journalist tried to take another step into the room, but a male silhouette blocked her path. - As a true gentleman, I must take care of the lady who decided to keep me company. And an unmarried girl should not be in a room where a man usually sleeps. Rita had no choice but to nod and hide her irritation behind slightly narrowed eyes. When talking in a public place, some of the "conversation details" that the journalist could "mention" in her future article are automatically dropped. When the increasingly popular writer left the room and closed it with a casual spell without words or gestures with his wand, the girl concentrated completely. "But he is not simple." Following the confidently striding man, she shot him a flirtatious glance. - Do you invite every girl you just met to a cafe right away? Is the money you get from selling books really enough for every girl you know? Gilderoy Lockhart gave her a smile. - And do you strive to get into every man''s room, what does an interview give you? The journalist laughed with a ringing laugh, which is so popular with men who are confident in their "inimitable humor." - You''re a joker, Mr. Lockhart. But don''t forget that it''s my job to ask questions here. And you agreed to give me an interview. - I agreed to an interview about my second book. Everything else is our pleasant conversation. The smiling blond shook his head. At this point they finally approached the caf¨¦ "Chai Paurelyo". Having sat down at one of the tables on the street, the couple waited for the waiter. Having looked at the notepad hovering nearby with a briskly writing pen, the girl ordered her favorite type of tea and the most expensive dessert here. At this the man only smiled mockingly. - So, why did you decide to visit France, and as a result of which you took part in the events that you describe in your book? - Oh, that''s quite an interesting story. At that time, I decided to visit this country rich in history in order to meet several famous potion makers. This area of ??magical art has attracted me since my first years at Hogwarts... The couple spent the next half hour in a "nice" conversation. Riding the "wave", Rita Skeeter smiled while "new" details were written down in a notebook to the quiet squeak of a hovering pen. - Thank you for the interview and the pleasant conversation. I think my future article will attract a lot of attention to you and your book. The fair-haired journalist smiled businesslike, her green eyes flashing slyly as she stood up. Lockhart, who had risen, mirrored the smile. - I will hope for a good evaluation of my work. Walking along the stone pavement, the girl picked up a notebook. Most ideas for an article usually come to her mind during or immediately after an interview. And now she wanted to check what she had written with a quick-writing pen, so as not to miss a single detail. Quickly flipping through the pages, she suddenly froze on the last one. In a beautiful handwriting that was not hers , the words were written there: "Some exotic insects have their own unique beauty, which sometimes inspires me. But this will not stop me from crushing them if they make an annoying chirp. Your good friend, Gilderoy Lockhart." Sharply grabbing the pendant that was supposed to provide protection from Legilimency, the girl looked at the notebook with a pale face. Looking at the leaving journalist with cold eyes, I quietly cursed in Czech. - Bitch. I turn around and go to my hotel. Now I need to properly adjust my mental defense, taking into account new circumstances like a new body, memories, partial change in character as a result of adjusting the connections between body and soul, and other little things. And later I will think over a plan for further action. What I lack most now is information. If... if I did go back in time, then I should be in Germany at this time, performing purification rituals for the places where Grindelwald and his Muggle pawns once had their concentration camps. Which means... that means my wife is... alive. - Maria CHAPTER 3 Stopping in front of the gate, I looked at the small old house. At the moment I was in Bolton, one of the towns of the county of Greater Manchester. And judging by Lockhart''s memories, then in front of me now was the house of his parents. Opening the gate, I walk towards the door along a neatly laid stone slab path, which has gradually begun to overgrow with weeds. And the surrounding garden itself has long since become overgrown, since no one has looked after it for the last six years. With a quiet creak, I open the unlocked door of the house. Why unlocked? What''s the point? The house itself was surrounded by Muggle-repelling charms, along with several aimed at invisibility and distraction. If someone were to find it, despite these measures, then a lock opened with a simple master key and Alohomora would not be an obstacle. They can be fed once every few months, which was not a big problem for Lockhart, who did not suffer from a lack of magical powers. I take off my shoes in the hallway and remove the accumulated dust with a few spells. Before that, however, I sniffed the characteristic smells of the presence of the undead and, having grown a little bolder, used Revelio with a couple of protective spells. Some habits could not be knocked out of me now. An hour later, when the house was cleaned, and the front door and windowsills acquired hastily made protective runes, I was finally able to sprawl out on the red sofa in the living room. A couple of days had passed since I found myself in the body of my British namesake. During this time, I was able to set up my mental defense, make sure that the money coming from the sale of the "predecessor''s" books was coming steadily to my bank account, and familiarize myself with general information from the newspapers. Looking gloomily at the white ceiling, from which the plaster will soon fall off, I try to decide on the immediate goals. The information I gleaned from the newspapers of both mages and non-mages caused... bewilderment. Thanks to occlumency and a thorough study of mental magic, I remember the geopolitical situation and the main events of the countries of Europe in those years very well. And they coincided. Like many prominent political figures. Only I never found articles about my work in Germany. More precisely, there was an article about the work of curse breakers in concentration camps. And it indicated the names of my acquaintances, colleagues in the craft. But not mine. And yet I was the youngest master of ritualism in the last two centuries. Aristocrats lined up for the opportunity to hire me. And someone could forget to mention me in the work? Achoo. - Damn him Morgana. I mutter quietly, wiping my nose with my sleeve. After all, the connection between body and soul is not yet complete, if my spell did not remove all the dust. And for a wizard, this is a real shame. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a frame with an ordinary Muggle photograph standing on a cabinet near the wall. A fair-haired woman and a man with chestnut hair were holding a blond six-year-old boy by the shoulders, who was almost jumping with joy. Lockhart''s parents, and himself. Before this photo was taken, little Gilderoy learned that he was a wizard. However, the father of the family was doubly surprised then. First, when his favorite sofa changed color under his son''s gaze, and then when it returned to its original color under the wave of a branch in his wife''s hands. The eldest Lockhart did not consider it necessary to tell her other half when they met that she was a real witch. Gilderoy had a wonderful relationship with his parents. Perhaps these were the only people close to him, whom he loved and who loved him. Until July 1979, when, right on a walk through the shops of London, several adherents of the Dark Lord''s ideology tortured to death a "traitor to magic" and "garbage unworthy of life" in front of dozens of Muggles. At that time, one could only sympathize with the Ministry''s memory erasers. Having overcome the melancholy that had rolled over me from other people''s memories, I got up from the sofa. The framed photograph of the happy family was neatly placed in one of the drawers of the chest of drawers. It is not worth disturbing other people''s memories. Lockhart did not live in this house when he returned from his travels back to England, partly because of the memories. Another reason is that he did not want anyone to know about this house. He erased the memories of the Muggles who lived next door. He also did not hesitate to visit the administration and other public utilities, because of which the house and the surrounding area for the Muggle government turned into a wasteland, where it is forbidden to build anything due to the nearby groundwater, which prevents the construction of a solid foundation for the house. How then did he provide water and gas in the house? And is he a wizard or did he go for a walk? Lockhart was always attentive to his appearance and daily comforts. Using a few charms from literature intended for wizards specializing in construction, he was able to make a well in the back yard and install water to it. Then he visited one of the shops in Diagon Alley, which had a ministry permit to sell some charmed Muggle items. He ordered a filter and a pumping unit, which he then installed at home himself. Despite the general disdain of wizards for everything Muggle, the sale of charmed Muggle devices is one of the most profitable sources of income for the Ministry of Magic. Gas is not particularly needed. A few spells from "1001 spells for a self-respecting housewife" are enough for cooking, and for short visits in the winter, a fireplace was enough. Gilderoy considered the house itself his secret refuge in case his scam with books was revealed. As a man with a good imagination, he could imagine very well what disappointed fans could do to him. Especially disappointed fans. That''s why he lived in a hotel when he needed to receive guests or deal with problems related to selling books. A couple of weeks ago he submitted his second book to the editors. I visited this house for two reasons. To improve the house''s protective charms. And to take the galleons that the wizard had previously left here for a rainy day. After all, I''m a beggar now. No, there''s enough money for the usual daily expenses of the past Lockhart. And for ordinary wizards, this is generally a good salary. But for a master of rituals and an unconfirmed master of artifact making, this is... a few knuts. For my plans, and even to find out whether there will be a cataclysm here or not, I need reputation and power. To increase these two things, I need time and money. There are 12 years left until the supposed cataclysm, and even less until the active actions of the local Dark Lord-lich. It can be considered that I should have returned to my level of power at the time of death and developed a plan to save the whole world and myself yesterday. You can return and even increase your power with the help of rituals that require the appropriate tools and ingredients, gain access to some ministry archives to understand what these troll spawns have hidden on the ninth level, you can do it with the help of bureaucrats as greedy as goblins, gather past colleagues for a ritual in case that necro-virus appears again, you can only do it with the help of the appropriate connections and reputation. In general, you need money for all this. A lot of money. - Oh, whore. It''s sad to be a beggar. I sigh and go down to the basement. In my pocket was a special limestone chalk that I bought in Diagon Alley for a galleon. A common tool for students learning the basics of ancient runes and simple rituals. Tonight I need to perform a ritual to hide the house. And since there is no good magical source for recharge nearby, I will have to calculate the ritual based on the orientation of the stars in order to receive their recharge. Unfortunately, beggars can''t be choosers.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Joe Hughes looked boredly at the enchanted "dark" artifacts lying on the shelves. He knew that all the "forbidden and creepy" things visible to visitors were needed to create an atmosphere and suckers. The workers of Knockturn Alley considered it their sacred duty to "cheat" the next Hogwarts schoolboy or other sucker who sometimes wandered in here. If another inspection from the Aurors comes, then the "sinister" artifacts lying in plain sight are not actually prohibited by the Ministry or the owner of the shop has permission to sell them. The owner himself "buys off" the right people in the Ministry from more thorough inspections. There is a roof in the form of the "Pointy Hoods", which keep a third of Knockturn Alley under themselves, from the impudent and simply outlaws. The remaining two thirds are occupied by the "Mad Heads" and "Black Dogs", who do not risk starting a war between themselves, fearing a stab in the back from a third or the appearance of a new gang that smells blood. So the boy is left to wait all day for the few customers and throw out the drunks who decided to come in. Real customers agreed with the owner in advance, and the owner received them personally. The bell above the front door of Coffin''s Mart rang, signaling the arrival of a customer. Looking up, Joe saw a man in a regular traveling robe with a hood pulled over his head. He strained his eyes to make out the shadowed face, but he couldn''t. His hand slowly reached behind the counter and clutched the bone ornament. When activated, the one-time-use artifact would create a magical shield around it, and the owner would receive an alarm. - What do you want? - Funny bones. - A? Joe cocked his head in surprise until it dawned on him under the sensation of an invisible cold gaze. "Funny Bones" was the password used to meet new clients with the owner who had been "recommended" by an outsider. - I''ll let you know now. Taking out one of the sheets of paper, Hughes quickly wrote "new customer" on it and touched it with his wand. The sheet curled up into an airplane and flew into the depths of the store. Silence fell over the shop. - Would you like to buy anything? The guy put on a friendly smile. The guest remained silent, but the feeling of a cold gaze did not disappear. "What a purebred asshole. He could have at least refused politely." Joe no longer doubted that one of the aristocrats stood before him. Because only these snobs learn from childhood to radiate contempt and disgust with their entire posture, as the visitor was doing now. As if his presence were a whole favor for the surrounding tramps who had just crawled out of the slops. While the assistant shop owner was lost in thought, shuffling footsteps began to be heard from the depths of the shop. Soon the current owner of the shop, Joshua Coffin, appeared near the counter. Dressed in a red Arab robe with a scarf of the same color thrown over his head, he had a rather large belly and small legs, which made him look like a child''s inflatable balloon. Looking at the person who entered, he asked: - Who? - Doesn''t matter. Frowning at the unknown man''s response, Coffin was about to politely send him away, but the visitor interrupted him. - I think this will interest you. With a slow movement, the visitor took a woman''s hairpin out of his pocket. And put it on the counter. After a moment''s hesitation, the owner took out his wand and cast a couple of spells. Then a couple more. Five minutes later, he was holding a monocular with a chain of runes glittering along the edge, quietly muttering under his breath. Finally convinced of what he had seen, he put the monocular away and said with a bored look. - I am willing to buy it for twenty galleons and four sickles. - Fifty galleons and nine more of the same artifacts at a similar price. - Okay. Shall we sign a contract, Mister¡­? - Gegenhain. No. Your word is enough for me. Tomorrow I''ll bring the remaining nine. - I''ll prepare everything tomorrow. Anything else? - I will have to stay on the islands for a while. And I have time to do work of similar complexity. - Excellent. You will have the list of required work tomorrow. With a casual nod of his head, the visitor took the money he had laid out and left the shop. The good-natured expression vanished from Coffin''s face. Looking hard at Joe, who stood impassively next to him, he ordered: - On your knees. Having obeyed the order of the man who had power over his life without complaint, the former debtor and now slave allowed the man to clasp his head in his hands. The small brown eyes of the shop owner now seemed incredibly deep and piercing to Hughes. After a minute, Coffin IV, descendant of the founder of the Coffin shop, removed his hands. - Forget the last half hour. The wizard gave the order, walking deeper into the store and ignoring the screams of the man behind him, whose last memories were being burned out of his memory. A minute later, Joe Hughes was standing behind the counter, looking boredly at the low-quality artifacts lying around. He had long since forgotten about the contract he had signed in the past, which he had failed to pay on time and had fallen into bondage to the shop owner. As well as the fact that he had been four sickles short of paying off the debt. As I left the shop, I analyzed the information I could glean from the superficial thoughts of the dark artifact merchant, who clearly had not neglected Occlumency. In fact, it is not easy to find truly serious merchants of the forbidden things I need. But fortunately, I was able to get a recommendation for one merchant on my first visit to the islands. And the password clearly has not changed over the years. True, there was a slippery moment when Coffin wanted to know who recommended me to visit him, but the ¡°last chance¡± artifact I showed him interested him. More precisely, a modified version of the current artifact, which is mainly used by curse breakers and some Aurors. And while the fat man was studying my product, I was studying the contents of his head. I did not learn the entire system of relationships of the shadow side of magical Britain, but several names with some rumors can help me. - Hey, mister, would you kindly allow the respected wizards to chip in for a couple of bottles of Blishen''s fancy fire whiskey? I look at the stooped individual in the patched robe that I don''t think even pumpkin juice could scrape off a Knut who is blocking my way. Out of the corner of my eye I notice another man in a shabby coat coming in from the side. - Get lost. - What a miser you are. Are you sorry to give a few shekels for your neighbor? The nonentity smiled, showing an uneven row of yellow teeth. The air was filled with the stench of vomit, unwashed bodies and curses. With a calm movement, as if I wanted to adjust my hood, I pulled my hand back. I caught the gray beam of the curse flying towards my back on the tip of the magic wand that appeared in my hand. A smooth movement of the wrist. As if it should, the beam of the curse changed direction. And the man in the coat, who had started to pronounce the spell, fell silent because his mouth was stuck together like a piece of dough. I pointed the wand at the most talkative one who rushed towards me, whose eyes, giving off a yellow gleam, clearly indicate the ¡°fluffy¡± problem of the wearer during full moons. - Expulso With a flash of blue light from the explosion, a broken, tattered body flies into the wall. I turn and casually deflect the next curse flying at me. Trying to disenchant his mouth, the attacker falls to the cobblestones due to the limbs starting to rot. The third and final attacker, who first attacked me from behind, clearly realizing the difference in the forces of the parties, throws a ball to the ground. Only with the appearance of black smoke, which should have hidden his escape route, the robber''s head fell to the ground. My non-verbal seko was faster. How I love these amateurs. They are so firmly convinced that if a magician says the words for a spell, then he cannot cast a spell non-verbally. So many people have been burned by this simple trick. I glance at the few witnesses who suddenly started pretending they weren''t there. I approach the headless corpse, which judging by its clothes should have more money. Three verification spells, a wave of the magic tool and the purse with coins appears in my hands. I shake it. - Not much. But¡­ I turn my gaze to the remaining two corpses. ¡­Knut to knot, Shekel for shekel, And there is a galleon.