41

Grimmauld Place 12, small dining room, half past 10am on November 2.

*

The agents were warned, so breakfast went right here. Finally, Kreacher put the dishes away, and we got down to business.

"So, imagine this situation. You're Dumbledore. It was your fault young Longbottom died. The media hype is killing the rest of your reputation. You'll be kicked out of Hogwarts in eternal disgrace. Then you'll lose your posts at Wizengamot and ICM in the same way. You have one or two days left, then it'll be too late to change anything. Your actions?"

George took the floor.

"A scarecrow is necessary, sir. The kind that the newspapers, Wizengamot, the ministry, the Aurors, and the general public will switch to. Ideally, one where Dumbledore can be seen as the only protector."

" Good. Name me those scarecrows, Mr. Calhoun."

"It's You-Know-Who and his Eaters, sir."

"Excellent! Mr. Calhoun," I said to my little brother, "where can I get these scarecrows?"

"The You-Know-Who one can be used in many ways, sir. The easiest is the Polyjuice Potion and a little illusion. And the Eaters can be pulled out of Azkaban, sir."

"I think in the same way. I'll be honest with you, You-Know-Who whose real name is Tom Riddle can be reborn by ritual. It's only of little use to him. Not only must it be reborn, but it must also be presented to the public, and that's not a day or two. Well, I've taken action. The creature that comes out of the rebirth will look like the Dark Lord, like Dumbledore on Alastor Moody. So in the coming days, I expect a sudden escape from Azkaban. Given that the Eaters consider me an enemy, I consider them enemies too. These days, there's a unique chance. We can destroy a dozen enemies with a single blow and keep Dumbledore out of political life. Mr. Creighton! Plan the operation from Dumbledore's point of view."

A moment of reflection.

"Phoenix teleportation in stealth to Azkaban. Disabling security, like an accident. "Accidental" camera opening. Withdrawal of fugitives from the building and loading them onto a ship. Personal evacuation by phoenix. He'll have to warn everyone the day before the operation or pretend to be an eater. A "sudden" escape may not work at all."

"Fine! Mr. Ocean, countermeasures plan."

Half a minute's silence.

"Arranging a sentinel watch. The primary focus of vigilance at the likely time the enemy appears is night. Taking into account the possibility of a combat collision. Dumbledore will send someone to meet the fugitives on land. The arrival of the mobile team by code signals. Strike the enemy on land and at sea from a range of effective fire. Retreat."

The best method of leadership! We consulted and I decided. We need to slice through the tasks.

"All right, then! Mr. Creighton, I'm defining the task for you."

*

The village, second-floor pub

*

"Good afternoon, sir!"

"Good afternoon, Anna! I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the publication of your material is delayed. If we publish it now, it will pass unnoticed in the wave of proceedings after Longbottom's death."

"I understand, sir."

"But that's no reason to sit on the bench. I want you to go through the Hogwarts education program, compared to other schools. Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, the Canadian Royal School, and the Salem Institute. I want you to be clear about the weaknesses. You can do that. Compare these problems with how they are resolved or solved in other schools, and propose specific measures to solve them. This isn't just for publications. When I come to power, I'll make this work into account."

Anna smiled when she thought it was a joke. She's a naive girl. If I kill Headmaster, who will take his place at Hogwarts? I'm not one of those fools who gives away what's legally gained strength and magic!

*

Black's Small Dining Hall Mansion

Five-hour tea.

*

I took tea in the society of the most scandalous journalist of Magic England, which, according to the colors of the clothes, very liked the LSD. But the color of creative people is so funny.

"Don't express in words, Miss Skeeter, how glad I am to meet the star of the first magnitude of domestic journalism!"

"I don't meet a national hero every day either, Mr. Potter! And what happened to your eyes, Harry? May I call you that? Would you like to give an interview about it?"

"I will, Miss Skeeter, but later. Mentioning such trifles is not worthy of your talent. Anyway, now that the sensation follows the sensation."

Rita's getting close.

"Harry, I've already realized that your sensational information should be taken as carefully as possible. What are you trying to say?"

"I have information that allows me to assume that an important event is likely to happen in the next couple of days. It will eclipse the current Longbottom hype as the sun eclipses the moon. I'll provide you with materials on this event and give you an interview later. The scandal will be unbelievable. Honestly, it's completely unprofitable for me. But since I can't undo the scandal, I'll lead it. And it's in your best interest to be with me and take off your cream. Now about what I called you directly for.

You'll interview Miss Granger's injured student and her parents. In all that noise, no one paid attention to her. Your job is to do an article in the Daily Prophet."

"But, Harry, by her last name, she's a Muggle-born. In Britain, nobody cares about the Muggle-born."

"That's what we'll use. I find it unfair, Miss Skeeter, that only islanders can touch the fruit of your genius. It's time to go international. We'll start with France. The local cattle will not pay attention to your article. That's when we'll print a couple or three angry articles in the French papers about how Muggle-born babies are neglected in Britain."

"Oh, Harry, thank you for recognizing my humble talents. And where is the victim?"

I've instructed the Grangers in advance what to say and what not to say. Hermione described to Rita how she almost died. The parents reasonably stated that their daughter would never go back to "this madhouse." I gently cut off Rita's attempt to ask her for something.

I walked Rita to the hallway, and I gave her a final warning.

"Miss Skeeter, you've made sure that it's profitable to deal with me. And you could see by example what's happening to my enemies. It's in your interest to deal with me and not fall into the category of my enemies. It would hurt me to lose you. It's a pleasure and convenience to deal with you."

"Of course, Harry, you have a short conversation with your enemies, I remember. Oh, that was a great article!"

***

Soon on screens 

Chapter 3. Saving Private Freddie

Freddy Mercury, born Farokkh Bulsara, born rock singer and composer, was bored and suffered from immunodeficiency virus.

His life faded, she lost her bright colors. Nothing pleased him like before.

But he had no regrets, no regrets about anything. He was used to being bored, lonely, and uncomfortable in his private house. Freddie didn't hear the doorbell. And if he had, he wouldn't have come down to open the doors for another journalist or fan. Suddenly, he felt someone's presence. Freddy turned around.

He wasn't alone. A boy was standing next to him. A strange boy. A shaggy fan of John Lennon. His glasses hinted at that fact. But it was the boy's eyes that drew the most attention. Bright blue, big eyes. And the expression in them was strange, frightening, no! Not frightening, but calling to be careful and serious with the wearer of this piercing look of the eyes of no child.

"Who are you," asked Freddy.

"I am your fae," said the boy seriously.

Mercury didn't understand anything, he didn't appreciate the joke.

"You're too weird for a fairy."

"And you're too weird for Freddie the Queen."

"It's a kind of magic!" suddenly the boy sang. "A brilliant song," he smiled with a clean and sincere smile. "It's a magic album. And a magical movie."

Freddy smiled back, remembering the time he was working on that album.

"And yet, how did you get in? Was the door open there?" The musician decided to clarify.

"Magic, Freddy, it's magic," answered the boy seriously.

Then he looked carefully into the singer's eyes and asked a strange question:

"Do you want to live, Freddie?"

"Everybody wants to live, boy," answered Freddie with a sad suicide bomber smile…