7

Diagon Alley, noon 29 July 1991

Yesterday I spent the whole day shopping for clothes, backpacks, belts and other nonsense for tourists. I stacked things in backpacks, it's a good thing they fit in a bottomless bag. And it didn't make the bag full and fit perfectly in a small backpack. The problem with revolver ammo was easy to solve. I went to the shooting gallery. A hired instructor explained how to clean a gun, safety rules.

"Never point a gun at people."

Very funny! What am I, going to fight rabbits? The instructor showed me how to hold a weapon, a comfortable stand. When asked, "Why did one come?" I honestly said it was my birthday soon. My uncle and aunt paid me to go to the shooting range. I want to grow up strong, fight villains. So I decided to practice. The Confundus was only needed before I left when I said I'd already spent all my ammo.

Remembering the training, I got to Gringotts. Today I was without the amulet hiding my appearance. Muggle methods work perfectly, if not insolently. Instead of an amulet, there was a tactical Panama from a travel store. Panama was two sizes larger than it needed. So the average person wouldn't have seen not only my scar but my eyes as well. The sight of wizards didn't stay on me. They were wrinkling their noses. I understand them very well. Magic is solid, but who put a shit golem in Diagon alley! I wanted to shout out loud, "This is military-style!" The revolver was under my arm in a homemade prototype holster, and the Cutthroat was in its place in the sheath. I bought the sheath in a travel store along with a cheap knife, which I threw away immediately. The robe was replaced by a dark tent cloak. Clothes of Muggles just didn't annoy me, unlike the stupid robes. The wand in the case, like the weakest weapon, slipped into the breast pocket of the shirt. Here's the Knockturn Alley bookstore, where a good salesman recommended me a wand shop. I wore an amulet in front of the door that hid the appearance. My hand unwittingly grabbed the wand and hid it in my sleeve.

Ding-ding! There was a bell ringing on the door. The main thing for me is to see the seller's eyes. Did that scum send me to the slaughter, or is it a worthy man... He just recommended a shop where the owners go crazy from time to time. Unfortunately, I'm not an expert on souls, or maybe just a fool. I couldn't understand anything about the shopkeeper's face. In principle, after this hike everything will be clear, but the main thing is not to be too late.

"Greetings, a very watchful young man with an interest in self-defense. Have you mastered "40 battle spells" yet?"

"No, sir, unfortunately not yet. But your advice on where to get a spare wand helped me a lot" I put on a happy and grateful smile, like a salesman.

"What brings you today?"

"Book and advice, sir. I need a book about the simplest healing and protective potions. A potion that even a schoolboy can make," I didn't need the book, but playing the role of a young Alastor turned out by itself. And this book can be useful to me. "I also need to buy a house-elf, sir. Can you tell me where I can do that?"

"That'll be ten galleons, sir. Go on down the street to the fourth junction. Then you have to turn right. Go until you see the house with the "Service" sign on it. That's where you'll find what you're looking for," the salesman must have stroked the sideburns.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, sir. Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, sir."

There was a nice breeze outside, it made me wince for some reason, like the cold. I don't want to see if he's scum or an honest man. And I don't want to check on myself at all.

I went away so that I couldn't be seen from the shop windows. Then I stopped and looking at the shop, I tried to remember the meeting and find hidden signs in the mimic of the salesman during the conversation. Still, I'm not going to that weird address. There are a lot of house-elves, I'm the only one. A heightened sense of danger signaled a ghostly threat to me, taking information straight from the astral. At that moment, an owl flew up above the roof of the store, and the direction was the same as the one I had been told. Operation "Enslave the Eared Slaves" is canceled." I was betrayed! I've been sold out!

Anger tells me to cut the sideburns off the salesman's face with the skin. My reasonableness is discreetly silent. I took a quick step back to the "bookstore". I had a stupid idea in my head that throwing a grenade at a window was a great solution. It's just a holiday with fireworks. Yeah, yeah, yeah! First the grenade, then the raid of the Rambo team with the big knives, and the disguise stripes on everyone's faces. I counted to seventeen and went to Diagon Alley, to the post office.

Yes, of course, this dealer, and he did not deserve to be proudly treated as a "seller", betrayed me. But I'm not allowed to pretend to be a gangster! This is a respectable country in a respectable kingdom. We need to do more with words and money. Then my negotiations will go better. Although, of course, the traitor's shop is a tempting target. It has many books, and they are all useful. Okay, great. Mr. Whiskers is deservedly on the list of doing good and causing justice.

Here's the post office. I got the envelopes. I had my paper, pen and sheet with Protean Charm in my backpack. In a hurry, I wrote a letter and paid for it with an owl.

*

Longbottom Manor, the evening of July 29, 1991.

*

Lady Augusta was checking the envelope brought by the public mail owl. It's not dangerous. A letter on paper and folded parchment fell out of the torn envelope "Lady Augusta Longbottom, in-person". Magic was only on parchment.

Dear Lady Longbottom,

By chance, I have learned some important information. One of the scums responsible for the incident with F. and A. has now escaped a vengeance and is in his home. I am ready to give you information about his stay and other details without any conditions in case you take over the elimination of the criminal. Otherwise, I will take revenge into my own hands. However, I will not be able to take up this task directly until a year later.

The envelope contains parchment with Protean Charm. If you take over the removal of a criminal, use parchment. We can discuss the details of July 30th, at noon. Otherwise, the tied parchment will be burned.

The victim of the Death Eaters

Tears of fury came to the lady's eyes, her fists squeezed themselves, and her breath became more frequent. What an evil joke! Although there's a chance it's not a joke. If she writes on parchment, she won't lose anything. We can play these games together!

*

London, Park Zone, the evening of July 29, 1991.

*

I sat on a bench in the park and read "Defense of Mind" from a suicide bookstore. I was always confused by the descriptions of "organizing thoughts into regiments" and "cleansing the mind" in the canon and films. What kind of nonsense? Maybe we should give the aggressor who breaks into consciousness another alphabetical index? So that the aggressor can more quickly search in shelved ordered thoughts? In my opinion, this recommendation was given so that the defender could distinguish his thought from the "search" thought of the aggressor. That is, "putting thoughts on shelves" is meaningless, and damaging occupation. However! You can mine gold from seawater, but nobody does that. Methods of pushing the aggressor out of consciousness, as it should be in the magicians, were deprived of a sensible approach. I never understood what the aggressor should be pushed out of. Maybe he should just get tired of the stupid thoughts of a degenerate defender. Besides: a) the Defender in his consciousness, where the magic of his native brain helps him; b) why not just burn the uninvited guest with the fire of anger and shards of icy hatred and contempt. The methods of mental struggle are the Jedi way. No emotion! Unfortunately, it's all very far from me. I could use fire. And that's when my pocket with the contact sheets warmed up.

The old lady couldn't wait till tomorrow! She wants to kill her son's tormentor quickly to make a cake for her grandson's boiling day, whom she loves so much that she ate his whole brain. It wasn't for nothing that Neville came to Hogwarts with doubtful mumbles.

A mistake! That sheet is not the right one. It's the Grangers. Ho, ho, ho, ho! I'll be a terrorist consultant for a change!

"She's being pressured. Is there anything you can do?"

"Burgers at the Blacks, Brighton Road in Pearly, in an hour and a half."

Some unsolid dentists! Can't go to France in peace. Where did I get to!