I smiled and poured another portion of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky into the offered glass.
“Oh, Mr.
Lockhart, you have no idea how difficult the work is in the Department of Magical Education.
Ever since Minister Spencer-Moon’s time, when he was involved in the war with Grindelwald, things have been in complete disarray.
Not just in Ness and Ramingholl, but in Hogwarts itself.
Hogwarts!”
Firtwick Lionel, a former acquaintance of Lockhart’s and now my unwitting informant, waved his fat finger.
After taking a gulp from his glass, the wizard eyed the plates of fried sausages and heartburn crackers with a critical eye.
“I understand.
It’s such an important responsibility, shaping the education of the younger generations.
And I’m sure you handle that responsibility admirably, despite all the problems.”
The plump man in the dark blue robe puffed up his chest.
Finally deciding, he grabbed the largest sausage.
“Exactly.
Exactly.
Just recently, we managed to put together an excellent curriculum for all seven years at Hogwarts and the five years at Ness and Ramingholl.
The only problem we’re still having is with DADA.
Ministry specialists can’t agree on the material to be taught, and the fact that Hogwarts has a different Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher every year doesn’t help matters.
But we’ll overcome this problem too!”
I nodded along, a bright smile on my face.
Around us, the murmur of other patrons of a tavern on Silver Street filled the air.
My privacy charms ensured no one else could make out our conversation.
“And what’s the problem exactly?
They can’t decide whether to teach Expelliarmus or Petrificus first?”
“Oh, my friend, it’s more complicated than that.
The whole issue is…
hic.”
Trying to make a dramatic pause, the official hiccuped, blowing a small tongue of flame onto the heartburn crackers.
The snack for the drink began to crackle.
“…
Muggle-born wizards.
Or rather, the conflict between the pureblood and Muggle-born factions.
Since the war with You-Know-Who, the Muggle-born position has strengthened, and they’re demanding an expansion of the list of spells taught in magical schools.
And that would be fine, if they weren’t also demanding the inclusion of spells and knowledge taught only at the Auror Academy.
Idiots who don’t understand that some areas of magic require preparation and discipline.
Where are schoolchildren supposed to get that?”
“As a specialist in fighting Dark creatures, I couldn’t agree more.
Without the right preparation and self-discipline, I could have easily become a vampire’s snack in Romania.
Any other Hogwarts graduate could have met a far more tragic fate.
But fortunately, I was there!”
“During this pleasant conversation, I almost forgot who I was sitting with.
You know, after reading ‘Voyages with Vampires,’ my wife talked about you so much I almost started getting jealous.”
“Haha.
Don’t worry, charming married women isn’t what a real man should be doing.
Besides, how could your wife even look at other men when she has such a responsible and strong husband?”
With cheeks flushed from the alcohol, Lionel beamed at my blatant flattery.
I carefully and methodically sifted through his thoughts, memorizing the names and surnames of important Ministry officials and anyone who might be useful in the future.
Tonight, I’d have a headache from all this Legilimency use, but compared to saving the future of the world, it was a small price to pay.
I found it quite ironic that I’d become a master Legilimens during the Cataclysm.
You’d think the ability to “rummage” through someone’s head would be useless when you’re fighting undead and monsters every day, creatures whose only thought is to devour you.
But it was useful.
Mostly for your own side.
When you see the risen dead, who might have been your friends or acquaintances, day after day, your sanity can slip.
The change in the magical background wasn’t like swapping fresh air for stale.
It was far more serious.
Magic in the world always affected the mental state of sentient beings.
Just as emotions can strengthen magic, magic can also strengthen emotions.
And what mood can a person be in after the death of loved ones, with those emotions amplified by magic saturated with emanations of death?
Nightmares, paranoia, and nervous breakdowns were the mildest consequences.
For more severe cases, you needed “brain healers,” as one Muggle-born had aptly called Legilimens.
Who better to help with internal fears and “demons” than someone who could literally feel your pain, experience what happened from your point of view?
For the first five years of the Cataclysm, I was that “brain healer.” Though some “brain healers” didn’t even last six months.
As the Russians say, “another’s soul is darkness.” My own “incredibly long tenure” could easily be explained by the fact that I was just a callous bastard.
Haha.
“Your words, Lockhart, have really put my mind at ease.
You certainly don’t have any problems finding a partner.”
I smiled proudly, with a hint of visible embarrassment.
Lockhart, and now I, could convey many emotions and feelings through facial expressions.
“I won’t argue with you.
There’s a reason my smile ranks first in Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Charming Smile’ poll.
But regarding the Muggle-born demands…
that’s actually quite amusing.
They might as well demand the Department of Mysteries archives be opened and its books added to school libraries, accessible even to first-years.”
“Exactly.
Exactly.”
Amber liquid filled new glasses.
The pudgy official decided to take a break from the sausages and moved on to the heartburn crackers, a popular snack among British wizards.
A crunch echoed, and the official breathed out a satisfied puff of steam.
“And what does the Minister think?”
“Bagnold leans more toward a moderate position.
She generally agrees to expand the list of taught spells, but not beyond the third category of danger.
She still remembers what happened at Ilvermorny in the late thirties, when those Muggle-born ‘communists’…”
He made a face.
“…decided they knew everything.
I still don’t understand how they got their hands on a book with the Fiendfyre curse written in it.”
“Right.
Dozens of students dead from one spell, even if it’s the most common one in its category.
Hard to imagine what would happen if, say, the Department of Mysteries archives, where most spells of that category are recorded, became available to everyone.”
“I have no idea what’s recorded there or not.
Those smug bastards always keep to themselves.
Secretive, with faces like Malfoy’s, they don’t let anyone onto their level.
I’ve long suspected they’ve just set up a corner for exploding cards and Firewhisky and keep everyone out so they won’t get caught.
And who can order them around?
They’ve already told one Minister to get lost, so what’s stopping them now?
Cunning bastards.”
Firtwick clicked his tongue in admiration.
“Many people must want to get in there.
Such independence, and the salaries in the Department of Mysteries must be substantial.”
Firtwick waved his hand dismissively.
“Good luck getting in there.
They recruit their own people.
And they only put on their Malfoy faces behind their masks.
The only employee who shows his face is the head of the department.
And he practically lives on the ninth level.”
Smiling, I looked into Lionel’s eyes.
His thoughts flickered with figures in black robes, completely concealing their bodies, and white masks without a single pattern or opening.
At the mention of the department head, a blurred face of an unremarkable middle-aged man appeared.
But given the years, the entire figure was indistinct, so the face might be slightly different.
Memories are like moving photographs.
They can change due to the influence of the person’s personality and their memory training.
Just as I was losing hope of finding a lead to the source of the information I needed, I stumbled upon a name.
Rookwood.
“So absolutely nothing is known about the others?
No names, no appearances?”
Belching, the pudgy official nodded.
“Yep.”
I, however, was “looking” at the face of a dark-haired, pockmarked man with a sharp gaze in the memory, being escorted by Aurors.
Augustus Rookwood.
Death Eater and former Department of Mysteries employee, now a “resident” of Azkaban.
Interesting.
Maybe I should find out what the visiting hours are at the most terrifying prison in magical Europe?
Albert Jones impatiently tapped his foot.
Joshua Coffin sat nearby at the table, his face relaxed, sipping a purple brew from a cup.
“Do you think he can really do it?”
“I showed you his artifacts.”
“One thing is creating an artifact; quite another is understanding how another wizard created it.”
At the words of the Sharp Hoods member, the shop owner remained silent.
Arguing with a dilettante who thought quoting experts made him look more educated was pointless.
Albert looked at the portly man with displeasure.
He doubted it was worth coming here for some shady artifact maker, about whom nothing was known.
But he didn’t have much choice.
Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door of the private room in the “White Wyvern” tavern.
One of Jones’s men poked his head through the open door.
“Boss, the man you’re expecting is here.”
“Let him in.”
The man who entered was dressed in a black robe with a hood pulled up.
He was met by the calm, commanding gaze of one of the Sharp Hoods’ leading members.
“Gegenhain” nodded silently to the two men and sat down at the table.
A box with space-enlargement charms appeared before the two men, containing the artifacts from the last order.
While the portly man was checking the order, Albert felt the newcomer’s questioning gaze on him.
“Do you take on orders for removing enchantments from artifacts?”
“Yes.”
The man’s voice carried a hint of surprise.
Albert frowned.
“Something wrong?”
“Wouldn’t it be more logical and cheaper to hire a Curse-Breaker?”
The man’s face didn’t change, but internally he winced as if he’d eaten a slice of lemon.
“This is a special case.
The Curse-Breakers I know couldn’t handle it.”
A small chest was placed on the wooden table.
Half a meter high, made of wood with dark iron bands nailed to it, it looked like it had just been taken from some mid-nineteenth-century aristocrat’s mansion.
“You want the contents to remain intact?”
The hooded wizard’s question was more of a statement than a question.
“Of course.”
Albert nodded, carefully watching the wand that appeared in the man’s hand.
“Gegenhain” silently pointed it at the chest.
Golden light swept over the object’s contours.
“Five hundred Galleons for removing the enchantments.”
“Agreed.
But you do it here, in front of me.”
He got only a nod from the hooded figure.
A large scroll of parchment with an alchemical circle drawn on it appeared on the table.
The chest was quickly moved to the center of the circle.
For the next hour and a half, Albert Jones and Joshua Coffin watched the wizard-artificer gesticulate with his magical tool and mutter unintelligibly.
The nineteenth-century masterpiece vibrated, glowed with various colors, and even crackled.
At one point, there was a particularly loud crack, and the chest’s lid swung open.
“That’s it.
I’ll take my payment.”
“Of course, of course.”
With a barely audible rustle of fabric, a man appeared from thin air in the corner of the room, his arm raised, wand in hand.
“Petrificus…”
A red curse beam slammed the wizard into the wall before he could finish his spell.
Albert, his eyes wide, watched as the red beam of his Immobulus (the paralyzing curse) was casually deflected by the robed figure’s gloved hand.
A straight left hook to his nose followed, knocking him and his chair to the floor.
“Colloportus.”
“Shit!”
Albert cursed from the floor, staring at his opponent, who had just magically sealed the door.
Joshua Coffin, who had risen from his seat, moved aside with a neutral expression.
Another powerful red beam struck the Sharp Hoods member, who was trying to cast a new spell.
It tore through the protective film from his artifacts, knocked his wand from his hand, and sent him skidding across the floor.
“Gegenhain’s” wand flew to his hand, and he kicked the other wand away with his boot.
“What’s your life worth?”
A bored voice asked with a German accent.
Albert glared at the hooded figure twirling a wand in his hand.
Coffin watched with interest.
“My men are outside.
And if I die, every Sharp Hood will hunt you down.”
“And I wonder how the leader of the Sharp Hoods would react if he found out that his right-hand man robbed his own relative, stealing a chest with ingredients that belonged to his great-grandfather, a Master Potioneer?
Would he Cruciate you?
Or throw you, bound, into a basement with hungry rats?”
Albert felt a cold dread spread through his chest as he realized his Occlumency shields were no match for the man standing before him.
He glanced at Coffin, who was standing in the corner, with barely concealed panic.
“Don’t worry.
Thanks to the privacy charms, only you can hear me.”
The hooded man’s reassuring voice said.
In less than a minute, he had instilled terror in Jones’s heart.
“What do you want?”
He asked slowly, feeling cold sweat on his temple.
“Obviously, payment for the work done: five hundred Galleons…”
With a wave of his hand, three objects flew out of the chest.
Jones stared at the items floating above the wizard’s palm: a bundle with some root and two vials of clear and silver liquid.
“…Your life is worth these three ingredients.
Your secret is worth a few more ingredients.
I have a short list; getting them shouldn’t be too much trouble for you.
And, of course, as civilized people, we’ll draw up a written contract.
All within the bounds of business law.”
“Business law, my ass.”
Faced with the impending “situation,” Jones felt like howling like a werewolf.
But remembering why he was doing this, he just gritted his teeth.
From the hooded figure came a mocking question.
“So, are you buying, or not?”