I stopped in front of the gate and looked at the small, old house.
I was currently in Bolton, a town in Greater Manchester.
According to Lockhart’s memories, this was his parents’ home.
I opened the gate and walked toward the door along a neatly laid stone path that was gradually becoming overgrown with weeds.
The surrounding garden itself had long since become overgrown; no one had tended it for the last six years.
The front door was unlocked.
It creaked open.
Why was it unlocked?
What was the point?
The house itself was surrounded by Muggle-Repelling Charms, combined with several others aimed at concealment and distraction.
If someone had managed to find it despite those measures, the lock, openable with a simple lockpick or an Alohomora, wouldn’t have been much of an obstacle.
These charms only needed to be recharged every few months, which wasn’t a problem for Lockhart, who had no shortage of magical power.
I took off my shoes in the entryway and used a few cleaning spells to clear away the accumulated dust.
I’d first checked for the telltale scents of undead and, growing bolder, used Revelio with a couple of protective charms.
Some habits from my past life were impossible to break.
An hour later, the house was clean, and the front door and windowsills had been equipped with hastily made protective runes.
I finally collapsed onto the red couch in the living room.
A couple of days had passed since I’d found myself in my British namesake’s body.
In that time, I’d managed to tune my mental defenses, confirm that the money from my predecessor’s book sales was coming in steadily, and get a general sense of the information in the newspapers.
I stared grimly at the white ceiling, where the plaster was starting to flake off, and tried to figure out my immediate goals.
The information I’d gathered from both magical and Muggle newspapers was…
baffling.
Thanks to my Occlumency and thorough study of mental magic, I had an excellent memory of the geopolitical situation and major events in Europe during these years.
Everything matched.
So did many prominent political figures.
But I couldn’t find any articles about my work in Germany.
There was an article about curse-breakers working in the concentration camps, and it listed the names of colleagues I knew.
But not mine.
And I had been the youngest Master of Ritualistics in two centuries.
Aristocrats had lined up for a chance to hire me.
How could anyone have “forgotten” to mention me in a job like that?
Achoo.
“Morgan take it.”
I muttered quietly, wiping my nose with my sleeve.
The connection between body and soul still wasn’t fully integrated, if my cleaning spell had missed so much dust.
For a master of charms, that was a genuine embarrassment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a frame on a cabinet near the wall.
An ordinary Muggle photograph.
A blonde woman and a brown-haired man held the shoulders of a bouncing, grinning little blond boy.
Lockhart’s parents and himself.
This photo had been taken just after little Gilderoy found out he was a wizard.
The father had been doubly surprised.
First, when his favorite sofa changed color under his son’s gaze.
Then, when it changed back with a wave of a branch in his wife’s hands.
Mrs.
Lockhart hadn’t thought it necessary to mention to her husband that she was a real witch.
Gilderoy had a wonderful relationship with his parents.
They were probably the only people close to him who truly loved him and whom he loved in return.
Until July 1979, when several followers of the Dark Lord’s ideology tortured a “traitor to magic” and “filth unworthy of life” to death right in front of dozens of Muggles during a shopping trip in London.
The Ministry Obliviators must have had their work cut out for them that day.
I pushed down the wave of melancholy from the foreign memories and stood up.
The family photo frame was carefully placed in one of the dresser drawers.
There was no point in dwelling on someone else’s memories.
Lockhart hadn’t lived in this house when he returned to England from his travels, partly because of those memories.
The other reason was that he didn’t want anyone to know about the house.
He’d wiped the memories of the Muggle neighbors.
He’d also visited the local administration and utility companies, so for the Muggle government, the house and surrounding plot had become an empty lot where building was forbidden due to high groundwater levels.
How had he managed water and gas?
He was a wizard, wasn’t he?
Lockhart was always meticulous about his appearance and daily comforts.
Using a few charms from literature intended for wizards specializing in construction, he’d made himself a well in the backyard and piped water to it.
Then he’d visited a shop in Diagon Alley that had Ministry permission to sell certain enchanted Muggle items.
He’d ordered a filter and a pump unit, which he installed himself.
Despite the general disdain wizards had for all things Muggle, selling enchanted Muggle devices was one of the Ministry of Magic’s most profitable revenue streams.
Gas wasn’t really necessary anyway.
For cooking, a few spells from “1,001 Spells for the Self-Respecting Housewife” were plenty, and for short winter visits, the fireplace was sufficient.
Lockhart considered the house his secret bolt-hole in case his book fraud was ever exposed.
As someone with a good imagination, he had a clear picture of what disappointed fans, especially disappointed female fans, might do to him.
That’s why he lived in hotels when he needed to receive guests or deal with book-related business.
A couple of weeks ago, he’d submitted his second book to the publisher.
I’d come to this house for two reasons.
To improve the protective charms.
And to take the Galleons my predecessor had left here for a rainy day.
Because right now, I was broke.
Oh, I had enough for everyday expenses.
For an ordinary wizard, it was a decent salary.
But for a Master of Ritualistics and an unconfirmed Master of Artificing, it was…
a few Knuts.
For my plans, even just figuring out whether the Cataclysm would happen here, I needed reputation and power.
To build those, I needed time and money.
I had twelve years until the supposed Cataclysm, and even fewer until the local Dark Lord Lich started making his moves.
I needed to regain my former level of power by yesterday.
I could regain and even increase my power through rituals, which required the right tools and ingredients.
I could get access to certain Ministry archives to understand what those troll-spawn had hidden on the ninth level by bribing greedy officials.
I could gather my former colleagues for the ritual if that necro-virus appeared again, but only with the right connections and reputation.
In short, I needed money.
A lot of money.
“Oh, damn it.
It’s sad to be a pauper.”
Sighing, I headed down to the basement.
In my pocket was a piece of chalk made from special limestone, bought in Diagon Alley for a Galleon.
Standard equipment for students learning the basics of Ancient Runes and simple rituals.
Tonight, I needed to perform a ritual to conceal the house.
Since there was no good magical source nearby to power it, I’d have to calibrate the ritual to the positions of the stars.
Unfortunately, paupers couldn’t be choosers.
Joe Hughes looked boredly at the enchanted “dark” artifacts on the counter.
He knew that everything visible to customers was just for atmosphere and to fool the gullible.
Fleecing the occasional Hogwarts student or other sucker who wandered in was practically a sacred duty for the workers in Knockturn Alley.
If an Auror inspection came, the “sinister” artifacts on display wouldn’t actually be Ministry-banned, or the shop owner would have a permit to sell them.
For more thorough inspections, the owner “bought off” the right people in the Ministry.
And for the truly bold or outright thugs, there was the protection of the “Sharp Hoods,” who controlled a third of Knockturn.
The other two-thirds were run by the “Mad Heads” and the “Black Dogs,” who didn’t dare start a war with each other for fear of a backstab from the third or the emergence of a new gang smelling blood.
So the kid was left to wait all day for the few customers and to toss out drunks who wandered in.
Real clients arranged meetings with the owner in advance, and the owner received them personally.
The bell above the door of “Coffin’s Shop” rang, announcing a visitor.
Joe looked up at the newcomer and saw a man in an ordinary traveling cloak, hood pulled up.
Squinting, he tried to make out the face hidden in shadow but couldn’t.
His hand slowly crept under the counter and gripped a bone ornament.
Activating the one-time artifact would raise a magical shield around him and signal his master.
“What do you want?”
“Merry bones.”
“What?”
Joe tilted his head in confusion until, under the feeling of an invisible cold stare, it clicked.
“Merry bones” was the password used for meetings with the owner by new clients who’d received a “recommendation.”
“I’ll let him know.”
He pulled out a piece of parchment, quickly wrote “new client” on it, and touched it with his wand.
The parchment folded into a paper airplane and flew into the back of the shop.
Silence fell over the store.
“Would you like to buy anything?”
Joe put on a friendly smile.
The guest remained silent, and the feeling of that cold stare didn’t go away.
“Damn pureblood.”
Joe had no doubt he was dealing with an aristocrat.
Only those snobs learned from childhood how to radiate contempt and disgust with their entire posture, just as the visitor was doing now.
Like his very presence was a huge favor to the “ragamuffins who just crawled out of the trash.”
While the shop assistant was lost in thought, shuffling footsteps began echoing from the back of the store.
Soon, the current owner, Joshua Coffin, appeared at the counter.
Dressed in a red Arabic robe with a matching headscarf, he had a large belly and short legs, making him look like a children’s balloon.
He looked at the visitor and asked:
“Who?”
“Not important.”
Frowning at the stranger’s answer, Coffin was about to politely send him packing, but the visitor cut him off.
“I think this will interest you.”
With a slow motion, the visitor pulled a woman’s hairpin from his pocket and placed it on the counter.
After a moment’s hesitation, the owner pulled out his wand and cast a few spells.
Then a few more.
Five minutes later, he was holding a monocle with a faintly glowing runic chain along its edge, muttering under his breath.
Finally convinced of what he was seeing, he put the monocle away and spoke in a bored tone.
“I’m willing to buy this for twenty Galleons and four Sickles.”
“Fifty Galleons and nine more artifacts like this one at the same price.”
“Fine.
We’ll draw up a contract, Mr…?”
“Gegenhain.
No.
Your word is enough for me.
I’ll bring the other nine tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll have everything ready.
Anything else?”
“For a while, I’ll have to stay on the islands.
And I’ll have time for work of a similar complexity.”
“Excellent.
You’ll have a list of available work tomorrow.”
The visitor nodded curtly, took the money, and left the shop.
The friendly expression vanished from Coffin’s face.
He looked hard at the impassive Joe and ordered:
“Kneel.”
The former debtor, now a slave, knelt without protest, allowing the man with power over his life to place hands on his head.
The shop owner’s small, brown eyes suddenly seemed incredibly deep and piercing to Hughes.
After a minute, Coffin IV, descendant of the shop’s founder, removed his hands.
“Forget the last half hour.”
The wizard gave the order and walked into the back of the shop, ignoring the cries of the man behind him, whose memories were being burned from his mind.
A minute later, Joe Hughes stood behind the counter again, boredly eyeing the low-quality artifacts.
He’d long since forgotten the contract he’d signed, the one he hadn’t paid on time, the one that had made him the shop owner’s slave.
He’d also forgotten that he’d only been short four Sickles.
Leaving the shop, I analyzed the information I’d pulled from the dark artifact dealer’s surface thoughts.
He clearly wasn’t neglecting his Occlumency.
Actually finding serious black-market dealers who had what I needed wasn’t easy.
But fortunately, during my first visit to the islands, I’d gotten a recommendation for one trader.
And the password apparently hadn’t changed in years.
There was a tricky moment when Coffin wanted to know who had recommended me, but the artifact I showed him, a “last chance” device, had piqued his interest.
A modified version of an artifact commonly used by curse-breakers and some Aurors.
While the fat man was studying my work, I was studying the contents of his head.
I didn’t get the whole web of relationships in magical Britain’s underworld, but a few names and some rumors could be useful.
“Hey, mister, how about you spare a few Galleons for some respectable wizards?
We need a couple of bottles of Blishen’s finest Firewhisky.”
I looked at the stooped figure blocking my path.
He wore a patched robe that probably couldn’t even scrape together a Knut for pumpkin juice.
I noticed another man in a shabby coat approaching from the side.
“Get lost.”
“Aw, what a skinflint.
Can’t spare a few Sickles for your fellow man?”
The wretch grinned, showing a row of uneven, yellow teeth.
The air stank of vomit, unwashed bodies, and curses.
With a calm motion, as if to adjust my hood, I drew my arm back.
I caught the gray curse beam aimed at my back on the tip of my wand, which had appeared in my hand.
A smooth wrist movement.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the curse beam changed direction.
The man in the coat, who had begun to utter a spell, fell silent as his mouth fused together like a lump of dough.
I aimed my wand at the talkative one, who had lunged at me.
His yellowish eyes clearly pointed to a “furry” problem during the full moon.
“Expulso.”
With a flash of blue light, the broken, torn body slammed into the wall.
I spun around and casually deflected the next curse flying at me.
The second attacker, trying to undo the spell on his mouth, fell to the cobblestones as his limbs began to rot.
The third and last attacker, who had been the first to attack me from behind, clearly realizing the disparity in power, threw a ball to the ground.
But instead of the black smoke that was supposed to cover his escape, his head fell to the ground as well.
My non-verbal Sectumsempra had been faster.
I loved amateurs.
They were so convinced that if a wizard said the words for a spell, he couldn’t cast non-verbally.
So many people had died from that simple trick.
I glanced at the few witnesses, who suddenly started pretending they weren’t there.
I approached the headless body.
Judging by the clothes, this one probably had more money.
A trio of diagnostic charms, a wave of a magical tool, and a coin purse was in my hand.
I shook it.
“Not much.
But…”
I looked at the other two bodies.
“…a Knut to a Knut, a Sickle to a Sickle, and soon enough, a Galleon.”