Leaving the tavern in Knockturn Alley, I couldn’t help but congratulate myself on my luck.
Not every day you get someone to willingly hand over unicorn blood, phoenix tears, and a seven-flower root for practically nothing.
Even with the right money, you couldn’t find those ingredients on the open market.
In the past, I’d had to work with them, but only after spending a fortune in gold and providing services as a Master Ritualist.
Here, it felt like I’d downed a vial of Liquid Luck, put on a belt with a dozen rabbit’s feet, and danced a shamanic “blessing of the ancestors” ritual.
If that gangster who thought he was elite hadn’t tried to stun me and force me to sign a contract that would have made me his slave, I might have even thanked him.
But fools aren’t like firstborn elves; they never die out.
Still, I would have liked to take the entire contents of the chest.
But Jones would have put up a fight.
Besides the ingredients, there were finished potions in there, one of which the wizard needed.
One of the Sharp Hoods’ leaders wouldn’t have robbed his own leader’s relative out of greed.
But for a son suffering from a rare magical analogue of Down syndrome, he would.
Because the disease was so rare, magical doctors hadn’t studied it thoroughly.
The magical world only knew of one treatment, the same one used for most mental illnesses and brain damage.
The “Clarity of Mind” potion.
A tricky thing to brew, but one that could help in my time.
Pushing the useless thoughts out of my head, I headed home.
Not directly, of course.
I took several detours, Apparated to various places five or six times, covering both magical and non-magical tracks.
Fortunately, I didn’t need to “clean” my cloak; I’d enchanted it with a whole set of spells designed for saboteurs.
Thank the ancestors that they’d managed to amass a vast library of charms for all occasions in my past.
And thank the aristocrats whose manors I’d “opened” during the Cataclysm.
Their libraries had been invaluable to my self-education.
With these thoughts, I entered the house where the body’s parents had lived.
The memories of them no longer provoked such a sharp reaction as in the first few days.
How many other people’s tragedies had I seen and experienced?
All my thoughts were now focused on the calculations for the planned ritual to improve my current body.
Though the strength and power of magic depended mostly on the soul, the body itself greatly influenced the soul.
It was similar to the connection between a wizard and their magical focus.
A properly chosen wand, staff, ring, or other object serving as a magical focus and conduit could enhance or ease the magic being performed.
The same applied to the wizard’s physical body.
That’s why aristocrats paid so much attention to blood purity and genealogy.
The blood of a wizard’s descendant naturally attracts surrounding magic.
Of course, the body could adapt to my soul over a decade or two.
But I didn’t have that kind of time.
And I had templates for the planned body enhancements, ones I couldn’t perform in my past-future.
Mostly because I’d had to use cruder, more brutal modifications out of necessity, needing to become more resilient and stronger right then and there.
Now, with more suitable ingredients for the planned ritual, I could fully unleash my skills as a Master Ritualist.
I just needed to acquire a couple more ingredients.
And first, I should visit that journalist.
It had been a month and a half since our last meeting, and I wanted to thank her for such a flattering article about “my” second book.
And, while I was at it, ask for a couple of “favors.” Or maybe more than a couple.
The blonde woman slammed her front door shut with a loud bang.
Her thin lips, painted with bright red lipstick, twitched in irritation.
Her green eyes practically glowed with the rage that filled her.
And she had good reason.
Her latest article had been rejected “for excessive criticism.” Morgana take it, “excessive criticism”!
Rita Skeeter was angriest when she was forced to write “boring” articles to please certain people.
What was the point if readers loved conflict, unflattering facts, and shocking news?
They wanted passion and doubt, news that made their blood boil with excitement!
Other “sycophants” who proudly called themselves journalists could write the flattering pieces.
And the fact that she’d had to go against her “nature” twice in a row was especially infuriating.
“Bad day?”
Rita froze.
Her blonde head slowly turned toward the kitchen, where a dazzlingly sympathetic young man sat at the table.
Dressed in a stylish cream-white robe, white trousers, and brown half-boots, he looked more like an heir to one of Albion’s noble and ancient pureblood families than a half-blood writer who’d graduated from Hogwarts less than five years ago.
“You do know, Mr.
Lockhart, that breaking into someone’s home can result in a fine of several hundred Galleons or even a two-year stint in Azkaban?”
“And I thought we got along so well.
We had such a lovely conversation over tea that day.
And we learned so much about each other.”
Carefully avoiding eye contact with the wizard, the woman frantically thought about why he might be here.
And the more she thought, the more she frowned.
What could a young man who knew her “most intimate secret,” one she’d do anything to protect, possibly want?
“You know, sleeping with an angry, resentful witch who hates you isn’t something I’d risk.
The fear that ‘the end’ might, at any moment, actually be the end of my sex life really ruins the experience.
But on a voluntary basis, I’m open to offers!”
Blushing with anger and embarrassment, Rita realized with irritation that the wizard sitting across from her didn’t even need to look her in the eyes to read her thoughts.
She exhaled in defeat and stared into his blue, sapphire-like eyes, which betrayed no emotion.
“What do you want?”
“Mutually beneficial cooperation.”
The wizard leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach, a calm smile on his face.
“And what’s my benefit?”
A jingling bag of coins landed on the table.
The woman looked at it doubtfully.
“Money, help, connections.
And my protection.”
“From a beginning writer?”
“A future Knight of the Order of Merlin, a recognized fighter against Dark forces, and a very rich, famous writer.”
The witch wanted to make a snide remark about Lockhart’s rather high-flying imagination, but she gasped as an invisible pressure of magical power settled on her shoulders.
The previously attractive wizard’s figure now seemed mystical, ethereal.
His blue eyes resembled two placid lakes, ready to swallow her without a ripple.
“I have plenty of chances to find someone more agreeable, so don’t get too big for your britches.”
With the last word, the invisible pressure vanished.
The young witch suddenly desperately needed a shower to wash away the sweat that had broken out on her skin.
“What do I need to do?”
“The same as before.
But for the people and events I’m interested in, I want all the information you can gather.
Also, sometimes I’ll need information about specific individuals, so you’ll have to use your talents.”
Lockhart paused for a second, then pulled a pair of women’s earrings from his pocket and placed them on the table.
Skeeter was surprised to see that the gold earrings with small emeralds perfectly matched her eyes and her favorite emerald dress, the one she’d worn for the interview.
“This paired artifact is better than your locket, which some apprentice made.
It won’t protect you from a master Legilimens, of course, but it will alert you to any attempt at mind-reading and will protect you from deep probing for a time.
So don’t neglect your Occlumency practice.
If your work yields good results, I might even throw a few books on mind magic your way.”
“Where do I sign in blood?”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”
Gilderoy Lockhart stood and walked over to her.
Tilting his head slightly, he looked her in the eyes with a pleasant smile.
“Your fear and curiosity will be stronger than any magical contract’s chains.
But if you do decide to betray me, you won’t even remember it.”
The woman listened, mesmerized, to the voice that seemed to penetrate her very soul.
It enveloped her, made her want to submit.
Submitting to the strong was only natural.
“Have a good day.
Oh, and thank you for the article.
My book sales have increased significantly since it came out.
And don’t bother contacting me.
I’ll contact you.”
Waving his hand, the wizard strode out of the apartment.
A few seconds later, there was a soft pop of Apparition.
The witch stood still for a moment, trying to process what had just happened in less than fifteen minutes.
Then she moved.
With a groan, she collapsed into a chair and glared at the floor.
“He could have at least taken his shoes off in someone else’s home, idiot.”
Rita Skeeter steadfastly ignored the fact that she herself was still wearing high heels.
An intruder had entered her home, so she was perfectly entitled to keep her shoes on!
Besides, she was always entitled to!
Admiring the earrings he’d given her, she decided to empty the money bag to see what advance her new “boss” had given her.
Gold coins began spilling onto the table.
A minute later, the witch’s eyes widened.
“F-five hundred Galleons.”
Staring at the sum, which was equal to the monthly salary of Mungo’s head Healer, the woman swallowed.
For some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just been “picked up” like some kind of high-class courtesan.
The payment had been made.
Now she had to “earn” it.
She looked at the earrings again.
“Well, if I’m a courtesan, at least I’m an elite one.”
If sarcasm could be materialized, hers could have been scooped out by the bucketful.
Walking through Diagon Alley, I checked the availability of the ingredients I needed in the local shops and worked on my plans.
Rita Skeeter was a decent addition to my expanding network of informants.
And, for now, my most expensive one.
I could have used blackmail and forced contracts, but that would have been counterproductive in the long run.
Free-spirited people like her worked better when they saw the benefit and didn’t see the “leash.” And when they thought they were smarter than their boss.
Better she didn’t know about the mental trigger in her mind that would alert me if she ever revealed anything about me.
Or about the earrings’ property of erasing any important information about me from Rita’s memory if there was a risk of a third party getting it.
In the future, when she knew more about me, I’d need to use a few more precautions.
Paranoia isn’t a disease; it’s my life principle, reinforced by years of surviving in a world spiraling into the abyss.
“And, Gilderoy Lockhart!
Emily, it’s Gilderoy Lockhart!
The one who wrote ‘Voyages with Vampires’ and the recently released ‘Wanderings with Werewolves.'”
“Calm down, Marley.
You’re scaring people.
Hello, Mr.
Lockhart.
Could you give us your autograph?”
“Of course.
It would be a sin to refuse such beauties.”
I smiled happily at the two flustered witches who were staring at me with delight.
The always-carried enchanted quill that created its own ink was already in my hand, so I didn’t need to pull out an inkwell.
Nearby, a man in a stylish suit with long, platinum-blond hair let out a contemptuous snort as he passed by.
An expensive cane beat out a rhythm with his steps.
“Kill all the adults.
Children are to be taken alive for the master.”
A loud order came from a figure in a black robe and a silver skull mask, from which several strands of platinum hair escaped.
Dozens of werewolves, vampires, and wizards in identical skull masks roared with delight before attacking one of the survivor camps.
I placed an ornate, beautiful signature on the two books presented to me, said goodbye to the two charming witches, and turned my head for a fraction of a second to look at Lord Malfoy’s silhouette heading toward Gringotts.
Several rituals, banned by the ICW centuries ago, spun through my head.
Rituals involving the sacrifice of wizards, allowing one to increase their magical reserve or magical power.
What a shame.
But I’d make sure no one found out about one such ritual being performed on British soil.
Or maybe more than one.
There were plenty of free Death Eaters outside Azkaban.
With Lockhart’s characteristic radiant smile, I continued on my way.
It was too early to tangle with those bastards before regaining my former level of power.
I knew too little to take such risks.
The Cataclysm, the apocalypse, the end of the world, the necro-virus, the death fanatics, that thing emerging from the arch in the British Ministry of Magic’s Department of Mysteries…
Why hadn’t anyone known about this in advance?
Why hadn’t there been a single prophecy about this from all those seers who could predict World War II, the Spanish flu of 1918-1920, or the mutated Dragon Pox of the 1960s that killed thousands of wizards worldwide?
But they couldn’t foresee a global rising of the dead and the death of most of the world’s population.
It was only when hordes of Inferi began walking the streets that they noticed someone had been “blinding” them.
Worse than that, no one in the ten years of the Cataclysm could figure out how the world could have been changed so drastically.
What could have been done to so thin the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead?
To me, it was like a Muggle physicist realizing that one of Newton’s three laws had stopped working.
Nonsense, absurd, impossible.
To the uninitiated, magic might seem omnipotent, capable of achieving anything with enough effort and desire.
But it’s not.
Magic relies on its own laws, often fickle, even more often incomprehensible, with countless loopholes.
But there are laws, and attempts to break them end badly for those who try.
The magic that supposedly managed to overcome these laws, some wizards jokingly called a “miracle,” riffing on the Christian religion.
They thought it was funny to tell Muggle-borns just entering the magical world this stupid phrase:
“There are no miracles yet, only magic.”
But I didn’t find it funny at all.
Especially considering what had happened to the wizards who’d “visited” hundreds of years in the past.
It would be really sad if, say, a year from now, I found myself in London, 2008, right next to that thing crawling out of the arch, and the surrounding crumbling world felt the effects of some temporal anomaly as payback for encroaching on time itself.
So I’d just have to hope that I’d found a “loophole” in the so-called “law” of time, or that this was a “miracle,” and that I wouldn’t be smeared into molecules across the world by some supposed “backlash.” Or, if I was smeared, it would be after I’d achieved my goal.
And seen Maria alive.
The nearby wizard in a frock coat and a tricorne hat flinched in fright as the young man with golden hair walked past him, his eyes briefly glowing with an neon blue light.