It's amusing. No, really.
I was sitting at the table in the room allocated to me in the house on Grimmauld Place; rain drummed against the window in a rapid staccato of large drops, and lightning flashed periodically—the weather had deteriorated in just a couple of minutes, almost immediately after I returned here from the "job." And now, sitting in the dark room, I was thinking about how amusingly one's vision of a situation and set goals can affect instant reactions and behavior. Was it good that I treated the mercenaries the way I did?
Why did I even think about this? It's simple. You need to be able to analyze your actions, which you perform without thinking, under the influence of only your worldview, set goals, interests, or emotions. The latter can be excluded, as they were under control and remained unchanged. That leaves the analysis of the rest.
And why did I leave those wizards untouched? Because it was the most profitable option. First, one must consider that I had a specific task before me—to remove the curse from the land, and getting distracted by other things would have been impractical. Someone had to be watching the land, and the surroundings within this lacuna also belong to one wizard or another. Yes, I checked everything around for the presence of people, but am I so sure that Homenum Revelio would show truly well-hidden wizards? Am I sure that there were no artifacts or charms there? Is it worth thinking that Moody's eye is so unique that no one, nowhere, and never thought of a similar enchantment? The answer, of course, is negative. One should always take into account that you might be watched, and this is not paranoia, but the harsh reality of the magical world.
Was it worth taking the mercenaries with me and interrogating them? Definitely not. Right now, the image of the Plague Doctor must work for reputation, and kidnapping three people, even if they attacked or waited in ambush, is not an indicator of a good wizard. Maybe they wouldn't have said anything themselves, but some character might always surface who will sing like a nightingale about how his three friends were walking home by a night road, and then a dark wizard from the forest rolled over them all in a crowd. And they might be under various contracts or Unbreakable Vows, or some other crap that doesn't allow blabbing something about the employer. As a result of the interrogation attempt—only minuses. Yes, there was a chance to learn at least something, but it wasn't worth it.
Another option is killing the aggressors. I won't recall the same reputation that the Plague Doctor is working for now. Murder is murder—Sirius Black sat in Azkaban not at all for the ephemeral betrayal of the Potters, but for the murder of Pettigrew and ordinary people, and the nails in the coffin lid were the disclosure of the Statute of Secrecy. Well, and, of course, the same reputation. But besides other things, there is another important factor. Responding to aggression with instant death is a passed stage, seen by local mages many times. This makes a wizard with such a reaction predictable. A banal example—if the image of the Dark Lord from various sources is more or less correct, it means that if you meet him and shout at him: "Loser! Schmuck!", you will get a quite predictable result. The question is—what will happen if you say such a thing to Dumbledore? Hell knows what this old man will invent! It is completely unclear what to prepare for.
As for the source of the threat itself, the one who hired these guys, his reaction cannot yet be known for sure regardless of the decisions I made. I would have killed those wizards, and the employer would have thought: "Damn, how dangerous, I won't meddle anymore." Only with the same success he could have thought: "Clear, next time I'll bring more people." Or something else. In exactly the same way, he might think when he learns that I didn't kill them: "Aha, got scared, need to press harder, I'll bring more people." Well or: "Defeated and didn't notice, dangerous, need to be careful." Absolutely any option has a place to be, but for an accurate assessment, one needs to know exactly who the instigator is. And yes, this leads mentally back to the interrogation of mercenaries, but the chances that they could have said something are minimal. But the probability of surveillance of my actions and the chance of a reaction unknown to me in case of serious aggression on my part are very high.
Another lightning bolt flashed brightly outside the window, and almost at the same moment a sharp thunderclap rang out, not rolling at all.
"Very close," I exhaled, looking out the window. "I'll busy myself with artifacts; I have an hour or an hour and a half."
Yes, I sent the letter to Delacour, saying: "Work is done." Didn't mention any ambush—I'll look at the reaction directly during the meeting. We'll see, yes. We'll see. But I will allocate the amount requested by the Frenchman to him—let there be additional motivation. Greed is a very bad helper.
. . . . .
I waited for Delacour's answer for a whole day. I don't know what he was doing there, but really, one must have a conscience! Good thing I sent Pigwidgeon with instructions not to wait for an answer. Yes, by the way, this little owl, whom I let out of the house even before my parents left, found me here, on Grimmauld, almost immediately after moving in. At least that's what Ginny says, with whom he hung out until I needed him. This bird, it seems, decides for himself when he will perform his postal duties, while knowing exactly when it is required of him. And all the rest of the time he looks for adventures on his tail. Well or receives goodies from other friendly wizards purely due to the fact that he is a cute and funny lump of feathers.
What was I doing while waiting for Delacour's answer? Well, the next day, from morning until lunch, I forged artifacts, and met exactly by the start of the meal. Now will need to write to Cedric about readiness, and let him accept the goods, distribute there, or whatever he plans to do. And money... When he receives everything—then he will give.
Here came lunch time, at which Mr. Weasley was not present, but for some reason Nymphadora was, a girl with multi-colored hair, whose name had to be learned in roundabout ways at all, overhearing a casual conversation. When it was time to sit quietly, drink tea and digest what was eaten, I decided to start a small conversation.
"Tonks."
"Yes?"
"Don't get me wrong, but I have a feeling that every time you are waiting for someone here."
"Ha-ha," Sirius laughed. "Niece is waiting for a mutual friend of ours. See, Tonks, how quickly they figured you out?"
"You bet..." Ron grumbled, and everyone looked at him, waiting for an answer. He just quickly finished his tea and began to get up from the table. "Granger does nothing but communicate with Slytherin snakes. Learned to be cunning and see cunning... I'm off..."
Ron quickly left the kitchen, forcing everyone either to exchange puzzled glances, or shrug indifferently, as for example the twins did.
"Hector, dear," began Mrs. Weasley. "Are you busy until dinner?"
"By the way, yes," Sirius nodded suddenly. "We could use a little help in tidying up a couple of rooms."
"And us?" the twins spoke simultaneously.
"And you..." Mrs. Weasley thought. "In principle, things are done in the Burrow, and leaving you idle is more trouble than it's worth. Only there is one moment, a nuance that you will have to strictly follow."
The twins looked at each other, conducting a silent dialogue for whole three seconds, and only after that looked at their mother again, expressing readiness to at least hear this condition, and then decide.
"No magic and mischief. Help is needed exactly as help."
"This we can..." nodded one of them.
"...true, not for long," smiled the other.
"Well excellent."
Nymphadora ran off to work after lunch—Auror Office does not wait. Well and we went to one of the halls on the ground floor.
Despite the large amount of expensive furniture, decoration, carpets and other things, there was an impression that there had been no living people here for at least fifty years. Everything looked worn, in a thick and dense layer of dust, cobwebs in the corners. And behind the curtains, or rather what was left of them, generally some darkness was happening. Even Doxys settled there—small dark fairies, biting and creepy aggressive. In dusty cabinets, some of which looked like sideboards, and others—purely for books... There, in these cabinets, terrible dirt lurked in the literal sense of the word, and the glass in the sideboard doors was so dusty that it ceased to be transparent.
"Well, gentlemen," Mrs. Weasley examined everything around in a businesslike manner. "We don't touch cabinets and sideboards, start with checking curtains, drive out Doxys, and then deal with cleaning the rest."
"And cabinets?" the twins were extremely interested in their contents.
"Last of all. In our house, remember, one could run into surprisingly harmful things in such cabinets. Doubt that things are different here."
"You speak correctly, Molly," Sirius nodded. "There can be a sea of such goods here. I won't even remember what is where, and after my departure from home everything could have changed more than once. So with extreme caution, folks. If you don't want to lose fingers or hands. Or something else important."
So we started cleaning. Driving Doxys with hands was difficult at first, but the twins and I quickly figured out the logic. Substitute a hand wrapped in fabric, these stupid fairies immediately rush at it, trying to bite so as not to stick hands into their dwelling, well and there you grab them, and into the cage—Mrs. Weasley brought, or to be more precise, transfigured and fixed the result, although she did it in another room. So, just in case, so that possible dark and not very trinkets do not react to magic.
While catching Doxys, Sirius and Mrs. Weasley dealt with the rest of dust and dirt. Sometimes I glanced at the result, and I must say, it turned out more than worthy for them, true, Sirius mostly just got in the way. Immediately visible—not used to doing at least something around the house. But tried.
When only cabinets remained untouched and uncleaned, we gathered in the center of the room. Nearby was a large cage with Doxys—they made noise, frantically beat inside, trying to get out, get away from daylight and, if possible, punish intruders.
"All sorts of muck bred," Sirius looked with dislike at these small pests. "Good thing at least other animals didn't appear. Only all sorts of mold, moss and cobwebs."
"And spiders?" I asked a reasonable question.
"And what do you think these small creatures ate?"
"Hmm... Yes here is a whole ecosystem."
"So the house stood completely closed from everyone and everything for how many years. Surprised how Kreacher didn't kick the bucket."
"Hmm..." from the entrance to the room came the creaky, but much softer than the first time, voice of the local stooped house-elf Kreacher. "Old Kreacher will die no sooner than unworthy master Sirius."
"Go and don't grumble here," Sirius waved him off. "Do something useful already."
Kreacher left, and I only chuckled.
"What?" Sirius looked at me with a question in his eyes.
"Think Kreacher meant not at all what you thought."
"Yes? And what?"
"He won't leave his, so to speak, post, while at least one of the Blacks is alive. Think the meaning was exactly this."
"And why then does he try to pour shit on everyone all the time?"
"His loyalty to the family does not prevent expressing his opinion," I shifted my gaze to the cabinets. "Maybe, get down to business?"
While we were talking, Mrs. Weasley took off torn, spoiled curtains and examined them.
"Magical fabrics. Such cannot be restored. Pity," she threw them on the floor to a pile of other spoiled junk. "To the trash."
Work with cabinets dragged on much longer. Now and then various trinkets or books came across, touching which was completely unsafe. And if some trinkets even in my opinion are better and easier to get rid of, then with books...
"Throw them to Mordred," Sirius looked with dislike at some of the books, judging by the spines, some dark darkness.
"Your business," Mrs. Weasley shrugged, snatching one of the books from the twins' hands. "We are helping here, generally."
"Well mom. It's about potions there."
"Let them take," Sirius waved it off.
"And the rest shouldn't be thrown away either," I made my contribution, reading into the spines, and with sensorics looking for protected or cursed books, of which there were not few—I marked such with a piece of chalk that Mrs. Weasley gave me.
"Yeah, and these here?" Sirius nodded with a smirk at the marked books. "Not only can they maim or kill, but their content is also... Controversial. I wouldn't wish anyone to know such things."
"Well, knowing and applying are different things," I marked another cursed book. "With curses and protection can be dealt with, and knowledge... Let's say, if suddenly Dark Wizards go to war against the whole world, I would like to know exactly what to expect from them and how to counteract this."
"Think correctly, rookie."
Turning to the voice, I saw Moody in the doorway, leaning his shoulder on the jamb to unload the leg with the prosthesis.
"Good day, sir."
"Already evening. Look, Sirius, the guy has a brain. I know your situation in life, but don't leave others without knowledge and weapons just to amuse yourself. And dangerous books will be collected and transferred to one room, to be under control... And so that especially gifted..."
Moody's artificial eye looked sharply at the twins, who pretended not to be involved in anything at all.
"...don't kill themselves on this knowledge. Been there, know how it happens. And here's another thing, come on, wrap it up, housewives and househusbands. We have a meeting."
Moody disappeared into the corridor, and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley exchanged glances.
"Got carried away, it seems," she smiled. "I'll go make tea for everyone."
"Well and I..." Sirius stretched his neck. "Will go to the hall. Head of the house, after all. Eh..."
Only the twins and I remained in the room.
"Hector, friend," one of them approached and put a hand on my shoulder.
"And don't you wish to eavesdrop?" the second approached from the other side.
"Nope."
"And not at all interesting?"
"A tiny bit. But, as they say, the less you know—the sounder you sleep."
"Hmm... They say they are building plans against You-Know-Who there," the first one smirked. Fred. Yes, exactly. This is Fred.
"Let them build."
"O-o-okay," Fred drawled. "Let's take at least some book. This is the Black house, the most ancient and noble family. There is surely something special here."
"Everything is special here, guys," I smiled, and the twins looked at the books in the cabinet. "But I am not going to abuse Sirius's hospitality. And it seems to me, such a thing will not go unnoticed."
"Well just one, this one," George spoke. "Thin one."
"Damn, guys, are you weak to agree with adults?"
"Psh-sh," they drawled simultaneously, but only Fred continued. "No streak in you, spirit of adventurism. Agreeing is too simple."
"Moreover we will return..."
"Return what?" the Headmaster's voice made the three of us turn to the passage.
Dumbledore, invariably gray-haired and with permanent half-moon glasses, walked into the room and stood next to us, looking at the books.
"Um... Nothing special, Headmaster..." the twins hurried to leave the room with smiles on their faces. "So many pranks not invented yet..."
"...Yes, brother Fred, cannot waste time."
When they left, the Headmaster spoke:
"See, you stumbled upon a small part of books in this house."
"Looks like it, Headmaster."
"Interested?"
"No more than all other books. Mr. Black wishes to throw them away, and this is sad."
"Why so?"
I looked carefully at the spines of the books. Some were clearly handwritten and very, very old. Very old.
"This is too impulsive and unreasonable. Still, the Black family collected this knowledge for years. Maybe not specifically these, but... Think you understood me."
"Of course," the Headmaster nodded. "Specifically here is not so unique knowledge."
Dumbledore thoughtfully looked around all the books.
"Many I even read in my time. Remember like now. Creepy, frankly speaking, reading. But need to know this, because ignorance breeds ignorance. Events of the last fifty years sharply turned simple townsfolk and the Ministry against Dark Magic. Too many dark ones among criminals. Fortunately, the Ministry is unable to push through prohibiting laws. Ignorance, Mr. Granger, breeds fear. And fear deprives of reason, blinds."
"Like love."
"Like love, right," the Headmaster nodded. "In the Ministry they don't understand that the problem is not in dark magic, but in people. Ban on the practice of dark magic will give absolutely nothing except retaliatory aggression, and users of dark magic will not become fewer, but they will hide better, and if now there are still several specialists on the islands dealing with such things and solving issues, then later they will not remain. Because it will become illegal."
"And what is the opinion of you and your faction?"
"Faction? Well, you, Mr. Granger, perhaps, went too far, but in general—correct. Fresh transcripts haven't reached Hogwarts yet?"
"Didn't see."
"Then, worth noting that so far regarding all sorts of minor bans on dark magic, which the Ministry and those loyal to them in the Wizengamot try to promote, are safely boycotted by everyone else, and even those who usually abstain from voting."
"Amusing."
"Exactly. Think the problem is that in the Ministry work purely young people. Not in terms of years lived, although this too, but in terms of family. Couple of generations, maybe a little more. Representatives of old families there are very few. So they rage out of fright, because they know nothing about dark magic."
"And how to make them know?"
"Well, for example, give money to Hogwarts for another... two years, eighth and ninth. For specialists, teachers. Then can engage in educational program. And so—everything in old families."
"You know, I used to think that you don't perceive dark magic at all as something that has a right to exist."
"We are people, Mr. Granger. It is characteristic of many of us to seek power, but not many of those who seek it choose a difficult path. And should admit that Dark Magic, Dark Arts, contain a huge amount of what is simply impossible to achieve with ordinary magic. True, there are some things that would be better forgotten, but these are nuances, trifles. It's the same as judging a nation by a couple of its representatives. You know..."
The Headmaster and I looked at each other.
"...it seems we got carried away with conversations, and I am waited for. I will try to convince Sirius to keep the books, but this is all for him... Too painful a topic."
"Nothing terrible, Headmaster. There is the Restricted Section, and I am not sure that even by the end of Hogwarts I will be able to comprehend its contents sufficiently."
"Possibly it is so. I myself often visit there for many years already, and still haven't finished reading."
"Are you looking for something specific?"
"We are all looking for something, Mr. Granger. The question is only whether we realize it."
Having said an abstruse phrase, the Headmaster left the hall, and I went to do something productive, and the choice fell on writing a letter to Daphne.
That's how the day after the "job" passed, a day waiting for an answer from Delacour. And only late in the evening of this day, July eighth, the answer came—the Frenchman would like to meet in the morning in one of London's restaurants. Even indicated the address. Well then. Will meet.