I closed my eyes and brought the cup of hot black tea to my lips, steam rising from it.
Around me, the familiar buzz of wizards who had decided to visit the café “At the Chancellor’s” at this early hour filled the air.
Some rushed to gulp down their food, clearly late for work.
Others sleepily stirred sugar into their coffee, fighting the urge to succumb to Morpheus’s embrace once more.
I, on the other hand, was simply enjoying the aromatic drink.
Waiting.
On the table lay today’s newspaper, dedicated to my recent “exploits.”
“Giant Hunters!”
“On the morning of March 5, 1986, employees of the Ministry’s Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures discovered a dead tribe of frost giants in the Forest of Giant Trees.
The magical creatures, classified as fifth-category danger by international standards, famed for their strength and high magical resistance, whose ferocity was noted even in Muggle myths, lay by the dozens on the ground, completely lifeless.
Employees are currently investigating the details of how the unknown assailants managed to kill so many giants and for what purpose.
But according to some reliable sources, we have received information that has simply blown our minds.
It has been reliably confirmed that one of the giants was killed BY SWORD!
Unknown giant hunters engaged a ten-meter frost giant in close combat!
We do not know the motives of these insane daredevils or even suicide cases, but learning of their actions, we involuntarily recall the stories of the exploits of the Valiant Siegfried or the Fierce Godric Gryffindor…”
I took another sip of tea.
Under my shirt, the weight of the stone was heavy on my chest.
From Káz’gorah, an invisible wave of magic spread through my body, strengthening it.
In my case, the enhancement was minimal, roughly to the level of a Muggle athlete.
Still, the artifact itself was what I needed, not this enhancement, so any bonus was welcome.
I probably knew more about the Heart of the Mountains than any other wizard in history.
And I’d only been able to acquire the artifact thanks to a loophole I’d found in the conditions for becoming its master.
The existence of this unusual object among the giant race became known during the Roman Empire’s conquests.
One legion advancing through Celtic lands was utterly destroyed by a single giant.
For a trained, magically equipped legion with Imperial battle mages, even a dozen giants shouldn’t have been an insurmountable problem.
But this was different.
Roman military commanders, when faced with something inexplicable, always turned to the mages, specifically the Roman Magisterium, where all magic users living within the Empire were required to register.
A large force of battle mages was sent to destroy the creature.
The result?
A third of the force was destroyed, and the rest fled from the enraged fifteen-meter giant.
Golokond the Mountain Giant was one of the largest giants in Europe.
But what truly terrified wizards was his near-invulnerability to magic, a trait unique even among other Frost, Mountain, and Forest Giants.
The Romans eventually ignored him for several years until his rampages finally provoked their fury.
The solution was empirical: basilisk venom could still bring down a giant.
When wizards studied this interesting specimen, they didn’t pay much attention to the missing pendant from his neck.
But when another giant with the same anomalously high magical resistance appeared a few years later, wearing an identical stone pendant, powerful wizards took notice.
They decided to take this interesting object from the children of Imir and study it closely.
It turned out that the giants revered this stone as Imir’s heart, also calling it the Heart of the Mountains.
Only “worthy” giants could obtain it.
Their “worthiness” was determined in a “sacred duel,” a lethal battle between two giants with magically enforced conditions.
If the owner died outside a duel, the stone would transfer to a “random” giant.
There were, of course, those who tried to steal the stone directly from a giant’s neck or ask to “borrow” it.
Such individuals usually ended their lives as flattened pancakes.
During my study of ritualistics and world history, I’d taken a great interest in the first magical races, most of which were now extinct.
In my research, I’d learned about the rather unusual magic of giants.
Simply put, every giant is a magically gifted being.
But unlike human wizards, whose magical power is like water in a lake that requires a “pump” catalyst to set in motion, a giant’s magical power is like a sand dune.
Different density, different properties, a different “weight class.” That’s why all the children of Imir are largely indifferent to the “water” of most spells created by wizards.
But this also makes it harder for them to set their magic in motion.
Their magic is mostly limited to various rituals that require a powerful “push” from outside.
Starlight, All Saints’ Day, ritual sacrifice, and other similar things that provide the “wind” for a “sandstorm.” The “sacred duel” is usually a fistfight between two giants to settle disputes.
Nothing magical about it except the two giants themselves.
But if one of them possesses Káz’gorah, it’s a different matter.
The artifact somehow stimulates the magical power of both participants and imbues the ritual words with magical force.
I’d essentially “cheated” the magic. The source of this chapter is g.com.
By drinking a “Giant’s Strength” potion containing the blood of a Forest Giant, I was nominally considered part of the giant race by the magic, allowing me to activate the “sacred duel.” When the potion’s effects wore off, the stone didn’t disappear, because after the ritual, it was bound to me, not to the potion’s magic.
Only giant magic could unlock the artifact’s full potential in terms of physical enhancement and magical resistance.
But I wasn’t about to complain.
“Oh, my Lord, you don’t let your humble servants rest after their righteous labors.”
Torchwick sat down on the opposite chair with a displeased face.
His hair was currently chestnut brown, and he was wearing Muggle makeup.
Niopolitana sat down next to him, smiling brightly and making no effort to hide her rather unusual hairstyle.
The other patrons, with typical wizard “apathy,” paid no attention to her.
Non-verbal, wandless privacy and interference charms easily flowed from my hand, creating a transparent dome of magic around us.
It prevented even lip-reading, making our words look “smudged” to outsiders.
“Here are the potion recipes and mass production methods.
After you get the license and register the owners, send me a contract giving me 51% of the shares.
For personal contracts with those who agree to work for us, use these contracts.”
I placed a massive notebook filled with my handwriting on the table.
Its enchantments would allow only those who’d signed contracts I’d prepared (which Niopolitana and Torchwick had recently done, though I hadn’t told him about one “interesting” mark on his body) to read it.
Beside it, I placed a folder with a stack of prepared contracts, with all the necessary conditions.
Breach would erase all memories from the moment of signing and severely damage the wizard’s magical source.
Torchwick, flipping through the notebook, let out a low whistle.
“Boss, you either robbed the Potioneer’s Guild in Prague or Nicholas Flamel himself in Paris.
Because with this, we’ll either become some of the richest bastards in the country, or every Potioneer in Germany will bury us six feet under.”
“Your job is to make us some of the richest.
As for bastards, speak for yourself.
My parents were legally married.”
“Well, for some British purebloods, it’s quite common to call the result of a union between a Muggle and a wizard a bastard.”
A memory surfaced, unbidden.
Lockhart’s empty eyes staring at a letter from the Ministry, informing him of his parents’ deaths and demanding he come to the Ministry to claim his inheritance.
Usually, a Ministry official would have come in person, but during the First Wizarding War on the islands, employees had to be more careful about their safety.
Wet spots appeared on the parchment from the tears falling on it.
I shook off the unwelcome memory and glanced at Torchwick, who’d been elbowed by Niopolitana, who’d sensed the shift in atmosphere.
He raised his hands in surrender.
“I confess, I’m guilty, I beg for mercy.
Please don’t turn me into a rotisserie chicken.
I’m not tasty, and I’m far too handsome for the world to lose me so soon.”
I took another sip of tea, using Occlumency to shove the surfacing memory to the “bottom” with the other tragedies from the dozens of wizards whose “minds” I’d had to “fix” in the past.
It was ironic that the same wizards who feared and hated Legilimens, after the Cataclysm began, begged for their memories to be dulled, smoothed over, or even erased.
Memories they couldn’t forget with alcohol or drugs.
Only masters of Occlumency can never forget anything.
“With your talent for provoking people, it’s a miracle you still have all your natural limbs.”
“What can I say?
I’m full of talents!”
Torchwick grinned, his green eyes flashing.
“That’s exactly why I made you my servant, rather than sending you to the bottom of the Spree.”
Niopolitana’s eyes widened in fear.
Torchwick, who clearly hadn’t told her all the details of our meeting, frowned.
“Boss, you’re known from the newspapers and books as practically the cheeriest and most charming wizard of your generation, but your dour face clearly contradicts that.”
With a wave of my hand, I conjured a magical clock face.
Seeing that it was time, I finished my tea and rose from the table.
“Don’t worry, Roman.
Under the leadership of such a wonderful wizard as myself, you’re sure to succeed.
After all, I only choose the best!
But for now, until we meet again.
Foggy Albion awaits me.”
Dispelling my charms, I slapped Torchwick on the shoulder with Lockhart’s radiant smile.
He stared, wide-eyed, at my face.
In my hand was the enchanted, space-expanded suitcase that had been beside my chair the whole time.
In my pocket was the receipt for an international Portkey to London, scheduled for eight in the morning.
The café bell chimed as the door closed behind me.
My feet were already carrying me toward the German Ministry of Magic. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“What was that?”
The red-haired man, disguised as a brunette, asked, slightly stunned.
The girl sitting next to him twirled her finger in the air and pointed at him.
Correctly interpreting her mime, the man twitched his lip in annoyance.
“Yeah, I know that was my Scary Big Boss.
But that was really creepy.”
Torchwick spoke softly, without his usual sarcasm.
He hadn’t even noticed the moment the blond’s expression changed.
One moment, the Briton was sitting there with an indifferent, completely empty face.
Those eyes were something the leader of the Gray Dealers hadn’t even seen in the most hardened killers.
The next moment, he was being slapped on the shoulder by a man practically radiating cheerfulness, his eyes full of life and enthusiasm that made you want to smile yourself.
Such acting, such a contrast, made even someone as socially experienced as Torchwick uneasy.
He still couldn’t determine which behavior was the mask.
The indifferent face was probably the “real” Lockhart.
But maybe that was just another “mask”?
Shaking off his thoughts, Torchwick noticed the girl’s thoughtful gaze toward the door.
“Don’t even say it…”
Niopolitana raised an eyebrow skeptically.
“Agreed, that was weak.
Although you can talk perfectly well now, you just don’t want to!”
The only response to his raised, accusing finger was a dismissive female hum.
“And what was that look toward the British dandy?”
The girl clasped her hands under her cheek and looked dreamily upward.
“Oh, what a man!
Are you really going to abandon your charming adoptive brother for that creepy Brit?”
Torchwick clutched his heart in a theatrical gesture.
The girl spread her hands with an expression that said, “You know how it is.
That’s business.”
“And nothing will change that?”
Niopolitana ran her tongue over her lips suggestively.
“You mercenary soul.
Fine, you’ll get your ice cream.”
Two girl’s hands, fingers spread, went up in the air.
“Fine.
Ten servings.”
Her heterochromic eyes narrowed.
“You can’t eat ten kilograms!”
She lifted her nose in disdain.
“One day, your bottomless stomach will ruin me.”
“Sorry to interrupt.
Here’s the bill for your friend’s order.”
Torchwick stared blankly at the waitress, then looked at the receipt.
His right eye twitched.
“He really is offended.”
Muttering, Roman put the money on the table, carefully placed the notebook and contracts in his bag, and stood up.
“Neo, let’s go.
You can pick out your ill-gotten ice cream.
The shops should be open by now.”
The smiling girl with the unusual hair color jumped up, hugged his arm, and pressed her cheek to his shoulder.
“Your hugs won’t make me forget your mercenary soul.”
Torchwick grinned, clearly saying the opposite.
“Sir, what about your change?”
The leader of the Gray Dealers, soon to be one of Germany’s richest men, just waved his free hand, which held his cane.
“You can keep it.”