The most difficult part of the task was complete.
Barty allowed himself that much satisfaction.
The woman was secured. The vessel… no, the future body had been found at precisely the right stage. The wraith in the cave had been almost… pleased. That alone was worth something, even if it was only an echo of the approval he truly sought.
Now, unfortunately, came the inconvenient part.
Transport.
Barty stood at the edge of a narrow road, watching a cart rattle past in the distance, pulled by two exhausted horses and driven by a man who smelled faintly of sweat and cheap tobacco even from here. The woman lay behind him, concealed beneath layered Disillusionment charms and a carefully maintained Stasis spell, her breathing slow, her condition stable.
He had seen to that personally.
Nutrition, the wraith had said.
Protection and stability, nothing can go wrong.
Barty's jaw tightened slightly.
"I am aware," he murmured under his breath.
The problem was distance.
Albania to Norway was not a journey one simply walked, particularly not while transporting something so… delicate. Apparition was out of the question. Even under ideal circumstances, it was inelegant. Jarring. And in this case…
His lip curled.
Unacceptable.
He would not risk damaging the vessel. Not after coming this far. Not after he was so close to completing his task.
Portkeys were little better. Violent and unpredictable. Crude tools for crude wizards.
And as for Floo…
He almost laughed.
Yes, of course. Drag a magically pregnant woman through a network of public fireplaces, risking detection at every turn, all while hoping the journey did not disrupt the very thing he had been tasked to preserve.
Brilliant.
No.
There were standards to be maintained.
Which left, regrettably, more… mundane solutions.
His gaze drifted again to the distant road.
Muggle methods would be the simplest.
Carts, trains, or ships. A long, tedious journey hidden in plain sight, surrounded by creatures so oblivious to magic that they would never suspect what traveled among them.
Efficient, practical, and completely safe.
Barty's expression darkened.
He would sooner fall dead where he stood.
The very idea of entrusting any part of this task, any part at all, to Muggles, made something in him recoil with quiet, vicious disgust. Their filth, their ignorance, their incessant noise… to rely on them, even indirectly, would be an insult to everything he stood for.
No.
If there was a magical solution, however obscure, he would find it.
Which was how he now found himself standing at the edge of a very different sort of road.
The entrance was easy to miss.
A narrow alley between two crumbling stone buildings, choked with shadow and the lingering scent of damp rot. To any passing eye, it led nowhere of interest. But to Barty, it shimmered faintly with layered concealment charms, old and poorly maintained but functional enough.
He stepped through without hesitation and the world shifted around him.
The alley widened and twisted into something else entirely. Stalls lined the uneven ground, patched together from wood, canvas, and scavenged materials. Lanterns burned low, casting a sickly yellow light over goods that ranged from merely questionable to deeply illegal.
Voices murmured in low tones. Deals were struck in whispers and threats. Magic hung thick in the air, unregulated and unstable.
The black market.
Barty took it in with a measured glance, his expression settling into one of faint, aristocratic disdain.
Predictable.
Useful, but predictable.
A cloaked figure brushed past him, clutching something that writhed faintly beneath the fabric. Another stall displayed a row of cursed objects, their surfaces glinting dully under the lantern light. Farther down, a man argued in harsh tones over the price of what looked suspiciously like a restricted potion ingredient.
Barty ignored it all.
He had no interest in curiosities.
He had a purpose.
A flying carpet.
The thought alone would have been laughable under normal circumstances. Restricted, regulated, frowned upon in every respectable magical society except for India. Associated with smugglers, traders, and those who lacked the refinement to use more… dignified methods of travel.
And yet.
He glanced back briefly, toward the concealed form of the woman he had left hidden just beyond the entrance, secured well enough that no casual observer would notice her presence.
A broom was out of the question.
Even he had limits.
Balancing a pregnant woman on a narrow shaft of wood, exposed to wind and speed, was not only impractical, it was stupidly careless.
His mother had not raised him to be careless.
The thought came unbidden, and for the briefest moment, something flickered behind his eyes.
A memory.
A voice, soft but firm.
Stand properly, Barty. A gentleman does not rush.
He blinked once, sharply, and the memory vanished as quickly as it had come.
Irrelevant.
What he had become… what he had chosen… had nothing to do with her.
And everything to do with him.
Still.
Standards remained.
He smoothed an invisible crease from his sleeve and moved deeper into the market, his posture straight, his steps unhurried, as though he belonged here entirely and found the surroundings mildly disappointing.
It did not take long.
A stall near the far end displayed what he needed, though it attempted to disguise itself as something else; rolled fabrics, patterned textiles, a merchant with a too-wide smile and eyes that flicked constantly toward passing figures.
Barty stopped before it and the man looked up.
For a moment, they simply stared at one another.
Then the merchant smiled wider. "Looking for something… special?"
Barty's gaze drifted lazily over the display before settling back on him.
"Yes," he said.
A pause.
Then, with quiet precision, "A carpet."
The man's smile did not falter, but something sharper entered his eyes. "I sell many carpets."
"I'm sure you do."
Barty stepped closer.
"I require one that flies."
Silence stretched between them.
Then the merchant leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Those are… difficult to come by."
"I imagine," Barty said, equally soft, "that you would not be displaying them so openly if they were not."
Another calculated pause.
Then the merchant straightened, his smile turning more genuine now, though no less dangerous. "For the right price," he said, "many things become available."
Barty reached into his robes without breaking eye contact.
Gold gleamed briefly in the dim light.
Not a great deal, but enough to signal seriousness.
Enough to say: I am not here to haggle like a peasant.
The merchant's gaze flicked down, then back up.
"Wait here," he said.
He disappeared behind the stall.
Barty remained where he was, perfectly still, listening to the murmur of the market around him, the distant drip of water, the rustle of fabric, and the faint hum of unstable magic.
Soon.
Very soon, this would be finished.
He would take the vessel north.
He would see the wraith handed over to his real Master.
And then…
His eyes darkened slightly.
Then he would return to where he truly belonged.
…