I stood on the stone-paved path, staring unblinkingly at the headstone.
Gilderoy Julian Geysek
(January 1, 1945 – September 30, 1960)
“Death sometimes takes those who have not lived long.”
“I’d rather be in that grave than read this epitaph.”
Then, realizing what I’d said, I laughed.
So much effort had been spent searching for information about myself from this world.
So many thoughts about what would happen if I met my counterpart from this timeline.
Would I disappear if I changed this past?
Would this world be subject to some temporal anomaly because of my active participation?
What if, by meeting this version of myself, we’d discover firsthand what happens to those who misuse Time-Turners?
So many guesses, so many ideas…
And in the end, this version of me had died of Dragon Pox at sixteen, never knowing love, life, or the deeper mysteries of magic.
In short, he died a virgin.
Haha.
“Don’t you dare mock the dead, you heathen!”
A shrill, elderly voice came from beside me.
I shifted my gaze to a hunched old woman in a headscarf.
She flinched back, clutching her heart.
“I’m already leaving.”
With calm steps, I headed toward the cemetery’s exit, which was near Prague.
I’d taken care of all the urgent business in foggy Albion and immediately traveled to my former hometown.
Not so much to find information about my counterpart in this world, though I could now think of it as a parallel universe, but to reestablish connections from my past and acquire ingredients for future rituals.
The differences between my past and this world had both advantages and disadvantages.
On the plus side, I didn’t have to worry about my counterpart here.
And there was a chance the Cataclysm wouldn’t happen.
On the minus side, I’d have to verify everything, including the properties of runes and the effects of spells.
In this parallel world, magical and physical laws might be completely indifferent to mine.
I could deal with that later.
I’d already checked the basics of the most common branches of magic, like Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration.
Runes and rituals required more thorough testing, and Artificing I wouldn’t even touch.
A few weak artifacts of at best intermediate complexity, made on the fly, didn’t count.
I looked doubtfully at my magical focus.
Cherry wood, nine inches, dragon heartstring.
Perfect for illusions, so beloved by the French, and for fire-based charms, judging by the spiritual connection.
The wand suited me well enough for now.
I could feel the signature of old Ollivander in it.
It was a shame I’d have to replace it after the enhancement ritual.
The spiritual connection was largely maintained by the body, which had been with it for years, and by some similarities between my personality and the former Lockhart’s.
After the ritual, my soul would be fully anchored in the body.
The gap between a master of over sixty and a wizard barely twenty-five would surely break that connection.
But for now, I had business to attend to.
I’d start with an old friend whose existence I’d already confirmed.
Reconnecting with Korvin Kretzko would be the easiest step.
Green liquid slowly swirled clockwise in a copper cauldron.
An old man with a neatly combed and tied beard leaned over the brewing potion, carefully watching the magical reactions between the reagents.
According to his calculations, he needed to add two crushed goldenflower petals in thirty seconds, then reverse the rotation.
“Troll’s Resilience” was to become another masterpiece, one he’d present at the masters’ gathering in five years.
The only problem was that his previous two attempts had failed.
This third attempt was more about identifying the problems preventing the desired result.
Squinting, the old man reached for the ingredient table.
“Master!”
Korvin Kretzko quickly caught a vial of Ukrainian swamp snake blood that almost fell.
“Ah, you piece of dragon dung!
May a Jiangshi bite your backside!
What did I tell you about interrupting me during potion-making?”
Cowering under the gaze of the master potioneer, who looked ready to breathe fire, the young man, also his nephew and assistant, quickly threw the crushed goldenflower petals into the cauldron and began stirring the brewing potion counterclockwise with a special crystal rod.
“T-there’s a v-visitor…” the young man began timidly.
“And?
Do I need to teach you how to sell potions to customers?
Did another hole open in your head, and all your common sense leaked out?”
“He says that…”
“Even if he’s the Minister of Magic himself, he either buys potions from you or waits until I’m finished.”
“…he can brew a better version of ‘Gaia’s Blessing’ than yours.”
“What?”
Eyes bulging, Korvin completely forgot about the cauldron and stared at his nephew.
Then, quickly recovering, he snapped:
“Kick that lying braggart out of the shop and get back to work.”
The young man hesitated.
“What?”
“I tried to get rid of him, but he refused to leave.
When I tried to use magic, he took my wand and started pulling out a cauldron and ingredients in the middle of the shop, saying he’d prove his words with action.”
A fountain of spray erupted from the cauldron, and the faint green glow of the liquid began to fade.
The old man waved his wand, cleaning up the spilled drops, then tapped his slipper on the runic circle drawn around the cauldron, activating preservation charms.
A failed result was still a result, one worth studying.
“Where is he?”
Seeing the twisted face of the Master Potioneer, the young man swallowed nervously.
Soon, Kretzko saw the disturber of his peace.
In the middle of the shop, surrounded by stunned witches and wizards, stood a golden-haired young man in a light robe trimmed with gold patterns.
Loudly discussing something with a couple of people nearby, he noticed the old man emerging from the back.
“Mr.
Kretzko, you’re finally here!
I, Gilderoy Lockhart, challenge you!”
“Challenge?”
Feeling a bit foolish, Korvin asked, staring at the dazzling smile.
The wizard before him seemed to radiate energy and life.
“A challenge.
But not a duel.
A comparison of whose ‘Gaia’s Blessing’ potion is better!”
“You’ve completely lost your mind!”
The old man was furious.
The potion in question was the first masterpiece he’d created, the one that had earned him the title of Master in the Potioneers’ Guild.
He’d even modified it once, increasing its effectiveness by twenty percent.
And now, some upstart was threatening to brew his own creation better than him, its creator.
If the old man wasn’t about to explode with rage, he might have laughed out loud at the joke.
“And since masters’ time is valuable, and a competition without stakes is dull, I pledge to forfeit this bag of one thousand Galleons to Mr.
Kretzko if I lose.”
Under the surprised murmurs of the customers, the wizard approached the counter and placed a bag of coins on it.
The quick-witted assistant, who’d gotten his wand back, checked it and nodded.
Korvin frowned for a moment, then grinned broadly.
If this fool wanted to lose his money, who was he to stop him?
And he needed to put this pup in his place before the other masters started laughing at him.
“I’ll match your bet.
Martin, get my pewter cauldron.
Young man, I’ll show you the art of a man who was brewing master-level potions when you were still walking under tables.
I hope you brought all your ingredients and tools?”
“Of course.
I, Gilderoy Lockhart, wouldn’t come unprepared!”
A small table with reagent holders, sections for dry ingredients, and other equipment was already set up next to the cauldron.
By the time the assistant brought out the needed potion ingredients, the shop was packed with people.
More were gathered outside, having heard about the unexpected competition between the Czech master and the British wizard.
The thousand-Galleon stake only added to the excitement.
No one dared to approach the competitors or make noise, though.
The “fame” of Master Kretzko’s temper was as widespread as his name.
When everything was ready, the assistant, acting as a “second” by mutual agreement, announced:
“Begin!”
With a thought, the ingredients next to the British wizard rose into the air, eliciting gasps of surprise from the crowd, and were sent into the cauldron with wandless, wordless magic.
The Czech master snorted dismissively.
“A powerful fool.
Doesn’t he know the residual magic from the Levitation Charm on the ingredients can interfere with future magical transformations and reagent mixing?
This Englishman just wants to give me his money.”
Throwing his own ingredients into the cauldron, the old wizard focused entirely on the work of his life.
As a master, he couldn’t afford to be careless with his beloved art because of pride or contempt for his opponent.
He always gave it his all.
Three hours later, the potions were finished.
“How.
Did.
You.
Do that?”
Hypnotized by the golden liquid, from which glowing particles rose into the air, Master Korvin Kretzko asked in an awed, slow voice.
The Potions Master, satisfied with his own amber potion, had immediately switched his attention to his opponent’s creation.
It didn’t contain the same vast amount of magic as the original modification, which could turn a barren wasteland into a flowering garden in hours.
But it seemed more natural, or maybe correct, to the old wizard.
The young golden-haired man grinned broadly.
“If Master had studied Chinese waidan, external alchemy, more closely, you’d have figured it out yourself.”
Korvin frowned and looked at the wizard questioningly.
The outcome of the competition no longer mattered to him.
“You must have noticed I added a pinch of one of the magical birch species and five grams of cinnabar to the recipe.
And I levitated each ingredient with my own magic before adding it.”
The pleasant male voice carried easily through the shop, revealing its speaker’s knowledge.
“Your potion is excellent for enriching large areas with common or widely available magical plants.
But due to the rapid saturation of nutrients and the almost forced growth acceleration, more delicate magical plants either die or weaken.
To solve this, I turned to Chinese alchemy, specifically the five-element star of Wu Xing.
I wouldn’t say it can accurately characterize the universe, but Chinese potioneers use Wu Xing to create amazing potions with virtually no side effects.
It’s only because most of their potions are relatively weak that the Western school of Potions and Alchemy holds a dominant position.
Ahem.”
Coughing awkwardly and glancing at some of the visitors whose eyes were starting to glaze over, the wizard continued with an understanding smile.
“In simple terms, I added wood and metal to your fire, water, and earth.
Then, by influencing the residual magic in the ingredients, I guided them through all the necessary reactions.
Thanks to the balance of the five elements, the potion no longer causes such rapid growth stimulation as yours.
But it can now be used on any magical plant.”
Listening, Korvin scribbled notes in a notepad that appeared in his hand as if from thin air.
At the young wizard’s last words, he sighed and looked into his blue eyes.
“I’ve lost.”
“Yakov, get my ten Galleons.
The Brit won!”
“Oh, damn.”
A commotion erupted.
The old man turned to the wizard who had just astonished him.
“What’s your name?”
The wizard smiled proudly.
“The magnificent wizard and writer, Gilderoy Lockhart, at your service.”
He pressed his right palm to his heart and bowed his head slightly.
“Master Potioneer, Korvin Kretzko, pleased to meet such a talented wizard.”
The old wizard bowed his head in return, then grinned slyly.
“Listen, have you ever tried vodka?”
“Haha.
Let’s drink to talented witches and wizards!”
“Cheers!”
“Drinks are on me!”
“YEAH!”
The tavern echoed with the cheerful sounds of a guitar, a singer at the bar strumming a lively tune over the general drunken din.
Looking at the flushed face of my old friend, just as it had been in this world, I smiled sincerely.
A warmth spread through my chest from the presence of someone I could trust with my back.
Although, maybe it was just this body’s lack of tolerance for heavy Slavic drinking.
Taking a couple of breaths, following a breathing technique I’d learned from Tibetan wizards, I cleared the drunkenness from my mind.
Then, I attacked the boiled potatoes and the plate of salted mushrooms.
After these months of British roast beef and shepherd’s pies, I was ready for a change.
They were a million times better than the dry rations or magically purified food, of course.
“Hey, can you sing something romantic?”
“Not getting enough romance, Yakov?
Your wife will give you a romantic ‘chat’ about those ten Galleons you lost.”
“Get lost.
Maybe I want to hear a song before my demise.”
But the drunken wizard’s request was taken up by others.
“Yeah, sing something romantic!
With magic in it!”
“And something new!”
“Your face will crack!”
“Come on!
After a moment’s hesitation, the brown-haired singer cheerfully announced:
“Well, if you insist, don’t complain later.”
A fresh gulp of vodka burned my throat, and my hand reached for the appetizer.
“Breaking through the earth, fingers worn to the bone,
I’ll break the graveyard silence, the forest’s mournful groan,
The wind howls, carrying your voice to me,
This time, I believe, luck will set me free.”
The singer’s beautiful voice began to fill the room as she strummed her guitar.
I closed my eyes, listening to the lovely melody.
“Don’t be frightened, my dear, my betrothed, my own,
Life won’t part us now, don’t run, don’t be alone,
You can’t hide from me, or from fate’s design,
God heard my pleas from the underworld’s decline.”
“Maria!
Maria!”
Stumbling through the ruins of Prague, I ran toward the female figure in a white dress, visible near a destroyed house.
“Feels like my heart is beating in my chest once more,
I’ll open death’s gentle door for you, I swore,
We’ll leave the world of the living, our place is not here,
You’re the living groom, I’m the dead bride, my dear.”
“Gil, no!
Don’t come closer!”
“Why?
I finally found you.”
Ignoring her weak attempt to push me away, I embraced my love.
Something wet streamed down my face.
“I took our son to a safe place.
He’s waiting for us.”
“Why is your face so sad and full of pain?
The wedding ring on my finger remains,
Perhaps you don’t like my pallid hue,
Or are you in love with something mortal, too?”
“Gil, step back.
I can’t hold on much longer.”
“What do you…”
I froze as I realized the familiar body was no longer warm.
An unfamiliar cold burned my fingers.
“Maria.”
Eyes filled with pain, brown irises against black sclera, stared back at me.
“Didn’t you pledge me your love and your faith?
Pain holds no fear for me, no pulse in this wraith,
Why then does emptiness within me ache?
A remnant of bitter tears is all I take, look for my sake!”
“Gil, step back.”
“Don’t worry, darling.
We’ll figure something out.
There must be a spell or a ritual that can help.
And if not, I’ll invent one.
Just don’t…”
Pain lanced through my shoulder as jaws clamped down with inhuman force.
Gnarled strands of necrotic energy began to spread through my body.
I fell onto my back.
“Feels like my heart is tearing in my chest,
I’ll open death’s faithful door for you, my quest,
You’ll leave the world of the living, your place is here,
You’re only my groom, and I am your bride, my dear.”
“Depulso!”
With a sickening sound of tearing flesh, Maria’s body flew away from me.
Red liquid quickly flowed from the wound on my shoulder.
“Why did you go hug a ghoul, you idiot?
Have you completely lost your…”
I looked at my love’s rising body.
Drops of black blood streaked from her eyes.
“Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.”
The silent Kretzko, who had stood up beside me, pointed his wand at me.
“Somnium.”
“Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.”
Darkness enveloped my consciousness, and I still couldn’t understand.
Who was asking for forgiveness?
Maria?
Or was I, for not being able to protect her?
For coming too late.
“Feels like my heart has no beat in my chest,
Forever closed is the door to my happiness quest,
I leave the world of the living, my place is not here,
You’re the living groom, I’m the dead bride, my dear…”
(Green Apelsin – Corpse Bride)
I stood up from the table, careful not to disturb a wizard who’d fallen asleep under it.
“Hey, you, hic, where are you going?
We haven’t drunk to the combination of Western and Eastern schools of…
magic yet!”
“Stepping out for some air.”
I replied to the old friend who was nodding off, his nephew-assistant sighing beside him.
Unsteady applause for the singer came from behind me as I finally left the tavern.
The scents of nighttime Prague, or rather its magical quarter, hit my nose.
I inhaled the clean, alcohol-free air and looked at the full moon in the sky.
My hand involuntarily touched my face.
There were no tears.
For some reason, the emptiness in my chest felt even more painful because of that.