“You’re not reconsidering the trip?”
“No, the road of adventure calls me!”
The old wizard sighed in disappointment.
If things had been different, I might have stayed in Prague longer than a week.
The city, sometimes called the magical capital of the world, sits in the heart of Europe and possesses one of the strongest magical sources in the world.
Many who wield magical power have sought to claim it, from the witches and healers of ancient tribes to the battles between Grindelwald’s followers and the adherents of the Statute of Secrecy.
Today, it boasts the largest number of spatial folds in Europe: territories hidden and expanded by space charms.
If it weren’t for the fact that maintaining all these centuries-old enchantments and runic clusters required a constant, massive flow of magic from the source, the ritual to stop the necro-virus would have been performed here.
Add to that the numerous magical libraries, the former residences of great alchemists and wizards like Faust and Mephistopheles, the headquarters of Europe’s largest guilds, the official residence of the ICW, one of the world’s largest magical markets, and the largest branch of Gringotts Bank.
It’s no wonder the word “Prague” can be translated as “threshold.” It truly was a threshold to the great world of magic, knowledge, money, intrigue, the arrogance of pureblood aristocracy, who have carved their place in the sun for centuries, and the nouveau riche, whose greed rivals that of Goblins and whose audacity is considered a virtue.
And for all of this…
I currently had neither the time, nor the resources, nor the reputation.
I’d managed to restore a few old connections, refresh my memory of the current situation, and earn a decent sum from selling artifacts I’d developed in the last decade of my previous life.
But that was all for now.
Behind me was no title of heir and later head of the Count Geysek family.
No grandfather’s name, a leader of the International Guild of Artificers.
No tens of thousands of Galleons hidden in Gringotts vaults, protected by hundreds of deadly traps and fifth-category magical creatures like dragons.
I was a powerful wizard now, but I still had to regain the strength that would let me break through the wall of inertia, tradition, and wealth blocking me from what I wanted.
Undoubtedly, I could settle here for ten years, quietly restoring my former power and connections, amassing a decent capital.
A Master of Ritualistics and Artificing can always find well-paying work.
It would be a peaceful, wonderful time, ending with a zombie apocalypse and the appearance of that thing from the British Isles, whose presence caused me to “kick the bucket” after decades of the Cataclysm.
No, thank you.
I don’t want that outcome.
“Ah, what a waste of your youth.
You clearly have a talent for Potions.
Focus on that, and with your skills, in fifteen years you could become a Senior Master like me, or even a Grandmaster!”
“I find the art of creating life and death, love and fame, all stoppered in a vial, beautiful and unique.
But life and magic are so multifaceted that I can’t settle in one place.
The feeling of beauty and curiosity drives me forward.”
“A thorn in the ass is what’s driving you, just say so.
Your flowery speeches make my teeth ache.
Can’t you talk normally?”
“Ladies love a man with a silver tongue.
And readers love beautiful, heroic characters who save witches from Dark wizards.
So talking ‘normally,’ i.e., cursing like a shoemaker and burping at the tavern owner, would be counterproductive to my reputation among future fans.”
Steadfastly ignoring the jab about his drunken antics the night we “met,” Korvin asked:
“So where are you headed next?
Where will you look for ‘windmills’ for your new book?”
“Can’t say anything about ‘windmills,’ but I’d like to visit a couple of places in the city, then head to Germany.
By the way, have you heard anything about the Jotun tribes lately?”
“You mean the giants near the Germans?”
I nodded, looking at my frowning old friend, at whose house I was currently sitting and drinking tea.
We’d been discussing the Western and Eastern approaches to magic.
It was strange to talk about this again after so many years with Kretzko.
After all, it was thanks to a past conversation like this that he’d improved his “Gaia’s Blessing” potion.
And it was that very modification I’d used to win our “duel” in this body.
I wondered what the future Kretzko’s face would look like if he ever found out about my “prank.”
Taking another sip of black tea, I closed my eyes in bliss.
Slightly tart with nutty and malty notes, it flowed down my throat, warming my body.
In the last two years before that trip to London, I’d barely been able to taste food or drink.
I didn’t even know why.
Was it the magical background, which sometimes made it feel like I was constantly surrounded by Dementors?
Or the accumulated toxins from frequent potion use, slowly poisoning me?
Or maybe it was the poorly regenerated tongue after one failed attempt at creating a fifth-class charm?
I took another sip.
“If I survive, I swear I’ll stop drinking.”
“You’ve said that the last three times, but you haven’t stopped brewing ‘moonshine’ in your cauldron.”
“Then I’ll swear again.
And the ‘moonshine’ is for healing.
A ‘healer’s potion’ to soothe the soul.
Hehe…
cough…”
I glanced worriedly at the old man, who was limping.
I wrapped my left arm tighter around his torso and moved my legs faster. This story is hosted at g.com.
My right hand gripped my wand tightly, while my eyes scanned for danger among the snow-covered pines of the Tuchola Forest, a forested area in northern Poland.
I felt blood flowing from the wound on my left side.
“Vulnera Sanentur” had “come off” the wound again.
I pointed my wand at the wound to cast healing charms again.
White steam puffed from my mouth.
“You can just use a Portkey to get to the camp.
They’ll patch you up there.
I can manage on my own.”
“Damn it, as if I don’t know you’ll die without me.
And with that damned curse on your bald head, you wouldn’t survive Apparition or a Portkey.”
“I’m not bald…
cough…
I just have a few less hairs!”
A few drops of blood fell onto the snow.
“Idiot, shut up.
The last thing I need is you dying on my shoulder!”
Korvin Kretzko only smiled bitterly in response.
Black, swollen veins stood out on his pale, corpse-like face.
Damn it, if there were more unwounded people, the Potions Master wouldn’t have had to drag himself along with me.
This raid on the city of Tuchola, or Tuchl in German, for supplies and searching for survivors had ended badly.
We’d found supplies and survivors.
But we hadn’t been happy to meet the cannibal wizards.
Crack.
My mind barely registered the blurry black-gray silhouette, and my wand was already tracing a pattern in the air.
“Baubillius Tria.”
A large, bright yellow lightning bolt knocked the attacker back with a flash of light.
The anthropomorphic wolf with disgusting gaps in its fur, revealing rotting patches of skin, fell onto the snow, convulsing from the yellow discharges running through its body.
A wolf’s howl echoed from the trees.
Cold dread spread through me as I realized a pack of werewolves had picked up our scent.
Grrrrr.
I spun around quickly, aiming my wand at the charging werewolf.
“Bombarda.”
Pain flared in my left side.
The colorless curse beam missed the slightly dodging werewolf’s ear and splintered the pine tree behind it.
My wand traced the next spell pattern, but I already saw the approaching open jaws.
A jolt.
I stared in disbelief at the old man, who had somehow found the strength to push me aside.
The massive wolf’s jaws clamped down on his shoulder, crunching bone, and the werewolf’s massive frame knocked him to the ground.
Rage surged in my chest.
The words of a Banishing Charm flew from my lips.
“Depulso!
Bombarda!
Bombarda!
Bombarda!”
Gasping for breath, I stared at the scattered chunks of the creature’s flesh.
The stench of rotting meat and dog hit my nose.
Another howl echoed.
I turned to the fallen wizard, a red stain spreading on the white snow beneath him.
“That mutt really roughed me up.
Bulb.”
Streams of blood ran down Kretzko’s pale chin.
I hesitated.
A werewolf bite.
Now that mutated werewolves could no longer return to human form, it was a one-way ticket for those infected with lycanthropy.
From a distance, I heard the crunch of snow being trampled.
“Lean down.”
I knelt beside my friend.
My wand began tracing a protective dome.
“Just try writing anything about my baldness in your memoirs.
Portus.”
I stared dumbly at the wand pressed against my belt, enchanted as a Portkey.
With a loud crack, space began to twist around my body.
The stubborn, foolish old man, his shoulder shattered, reached into a protective pouch on his chest and pulled out a vial of boiling ruby liquid.
“Damned dogs, come to Uncle Korvin.
I have a present for you…
cough.”
The world turned into a kaleidoscope of images, then I landed on the ground near the survivor camp.
“Hey, are you asleep?”
“No, just enjoying this wonderful tea.”
I smiled at the living Korvin Kretzko, who looked at me suspiciously, then at the cup in my hand.
“You’re a strange man, Gilderoy.
I’ve only known you for a few days, but it feels like you’ve known me for years.”
“You’ve fallen under the spell of my eloquence, old master.
But unfortunately for you, I’m only attracted to beautiful ladies aged eighteen to thirty.”
I took another sip of tea, watching the wizard’s face begin to turn red.
“My SORROW?
What are you implying, you golden-haired bastard!”
I ducked my head, letting the teacup fly over it.
To my disappointment, a few drops of that precious liquid landed on me.
With a smooth motion, I rose from my chair and moved toward the door, dodging various objects thrown by the enraged wizard.
“Goodbye, Master Kretzko!”
“May your foot never cross this threshold again, you wretch!
May the Jotuns, who should be in eastern Germany right now, beat the hell out of you!”
“Thanks for the tea!”
With a grin, I headed to my hotel, the old master’s curses ringing in my ears.
We never did learn how to say goodbye properly.
Prague’s main railway station, also the main railway hub of Czechoslovakia, never fell silent.
Crowds of people arrived and departed, following their own goals and desires.
Wizards were no exception, though Muggles couldn’t access the platforms where wizards boarded their trains.
On Platform 4⅔, where the train to Berlin stood, dozens of wizards had gathered.
Some were seeing off departing friends.
Others were supervising the loading of objects that couldn’t be sent by Portkey or stored in enchanted, expanded-space luggage.
The entrance wall rippled, and another group emerged, which knowledgeable people immediately recognized as an aristocratic woman, her daughter, and their escort.
“Mom, can we stay a few more days?
That circus had such a beautiful cat with a tail longer than its body.
And they wouldn’t let me pet it!”
“No, Ilia, your father asked us to come home soon.
He’s worried since he hasn’t seen us in a while.”
“Muuum.
Why couldn’t he just come to us by Portkey?
I remember he did that before!”
The white-haired woman, who some might mistake for the girl’s older sister, sighed in resignation.
“Creating and using international Portkeys takes a long time to arrange between countries.
It’s faster and easier to travel by train.”
“Then why didn’t he come to us?”
Ayrisfil von Winter knelt and gently cupped her daughter’s cheeks, which had pouted in offense.
“You know your father is the head of our family and one of the leading figures in the German Ministry of Magic.
He’s a very busy man who does a lot for his country.
So let’s not worry him with our long absence, okay?
I promise, next time we’ll visit my relatives again and go to that circus, and you can see your Zuva again.”
“Okay.”
A smile bloomed on the mother’s lips, and her daughter mirrored it.
“My lady, the train departs in five minutes.”
A forty-something man in a butler’s uniform spoke.
With regular features, grey hair, and a neat beard, he had broad shoulders and a massive figure that would have looked more fitting in a military uniform than a servant’s livery.
Shifting her ruby-colored eyes to the platform clock, Ayrisfil gasped.
“Lead the way, Tian.
It would be awkward to miss the train after we’ve already arrived.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The butler bowed, then walked quickly but at a comfortable pace for the von Winter ladies toward the train entrance.
Two men in grey robes flanked the group, their eyes scanning the surrounding wizards, and silently followed their charges.
No one paid attention to one of the porters near the end of the train, who, noticing the group, quickly stepped behind a pillar.
A piece of paper appeared in his hand, and he quickly wrote a message:
“Target has arrived.”
A minute later, a reply appeared under the message:
“Good.
Follow the plan, and don’t mess up, animal.”
The porter’s dull yellow eyes flashed with anger.