Episode 12. Part 9

Episode 12. Part 9

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- Lord Potter, would you be so kind as to calm your spouse down," Dolores asked irritably, ready to simply strangle the veil with her own hands. She had enough headaches from these noisy children all the time, and now this one with her quirks, clearly indicating her inferiority as a rational being.

- Miss Umbridge, do I look like a suicide? - Harold responded ironically, but it was not only the Pink Toad who stared at him demandingly, but literally the entire Hogwarts, including students, teachers, ghosts, and the Headmaster. Potter rolled his eyes to the ceiling: why didn't all these people understand how beautiful the true essence of a Vaila was, consisting of selfishness, mild insanity, and hysterical? Of course, the perfect control of their essence was beauty, too, but only superficially. He knew another side of them. He was deeply honored that his Weyrwoman had revealed that side of herself to them. Lord Potter, however, allowed the possibility that he was only madly in love, and that the beautiful aspects of his wife's character only seemed to him to be so. - With tenderness in his voice, grinned the Boy-Whose-Life-Is-Not-Meaning-Boy. Naturally, this simple phrase pissed Fleur off even more. She grabbed a plate from the first student on the table and threw it at her husband.

- What do you think I am, so petty?! - She shouted, sending the chosen one plate after another. And it's not that she was not throwing tantrums for his broken fingernails, it's just ... Oh, yeah, a couple of times. Or a couple dozen times. When she realized that, Fleur stood still for a moment, as if she were a monument to herself: how did her Harry put up with all this? But she paused only for a moment: he could be absolutely unbearable too sometimes, especially when he began to sneer, making fun of her every word.

- You're disgusting! But you're so beautiful when you're angry..." Harold leaned his chin on the crook of her chin and looked lovingly at his wife, who was protected from the plates by the magic of the pile he had stacked so neatly on her shoulders. The Potters, by the way, didn't care that it was in the great hall at breakfast, the last one before the students left for Christmas break. They both didn't care that Fleur was the envy of all the female students and Harold of all the male students, because despite their frequent scandals, the couple seemed perfect. - I'm willing to piss you off for the rest of my life just to see you like this," the Boy Who's Crazy stated. The only other Weyrwoman present at Hogwarts dropped her hands exhausted from his words, carefully placing the last of the plate she'd taken from someone else on the table.

- Potter..." the girl exhaled with tenderness in her trembling voice. How she loved him, for moments like these, which made her life even too bright. Harold, realizing that his veela's explosive temper had subsided for the time being, stood up and walked out from behind the professor's desk to walk leisurely over to his wife:

- My Lady, let's go home," he suggested. He'd had his last class of the year the day before, and today was the beginning of the Christmas vacation, which allowed the professors to leave the school walls, too. - Shall we ask the housekeepers to bake us a big chocolate cake and eat it all in one sitting, together?

- Sweets spoil your figure," said Fleur, cringing, but actually thinking seriously about the tempting suggestion.

- Honey, you need a giant's portion to satiate you," Lord Potter reminded her with an ear-to-ear grin, picking her up in his arms. - Just a big cake won't be enough to change your glorious figure by even a gram.

- Oh, really? - Acting angry Lady Potter. - I'll get fat and you'll know how to tease me! - she promised.

- Don't worry, I'll hate you as much as you hate me," Harold smiled mockingly, dodging a slap. When that didn't help, Fleur grinned slyly, "But then you won't be strong enough to carry me fat in your arms. - She thought about it. "Hmm, that's an idea. And then you have a habit of, at the slightest thing - immediately into my arms.

- This is so that you do not break anything and did not kill anyone, - no less maliciously responded her husband, and did not let go of the embrace. The Frenchwoman mentally noted that she liked traveling in her arms through ancient castles much better than on her own two. In addition, she liked feeling the strength of Potter, who didn't seem to feel her weight, twice as much. And Harold was just moving toward the exit of the great hall.

- What a bastard you are, honey! - Fleur exclaimed, crossing her arms across her chest as she realized that her husband hadn't been joking when he'd spoken of the broken or the dead. What could she do, she had a temper that had already made the Potters' house elves cry, restoring some unique china there, and Sirius Black was wary of dropping in on his godson when he was sure Lady Potter was home, for she had too often tried to kill him over innocent jokes. And, come to think of it, she was calming down just as Harold was taking her in his arms..."

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the family scene," Harold said, turning to all the witnesses to the drama who never understood what the fuss was about. - I'm afraid my wife's character has some... peculiarities. I have to put up with her if I'm going to argue with her. Though she may be insufferable at times," Potter smiled wickedly, white-toothed. - But take it as a performance. It's easier that way, believe me. - He opened the door of the great hall with his foot and went out with a not very heavy burden in his arms, so as to thank his wife with a kiss for her excellent acting in the usual performance: Dumbledore, thanks to this, definitely did not notice that not all the students were at breakfast and that at certain moments he worked, fixed on the sleeves of his robe, the signal charm for the penetration into the headmaster's office...

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- So, did you find out anything?

- He's planning something at the Ministry. Neville's going to use... I'd like to find out more about that.

- Hmm, I think I know someone who can help us...

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- Frank, I swear, by the end of the school year, all influence over Neville will have fallen.

- I believe you, Potter. But remember, you swore by magic...

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- Sohatic, I found out what you asked. - The Potters celebrated Christmas according to magical traditions. In fact, they didn't celebrate Christmas, they celebrated a completely different holiday. But it was fun, because Harold's family turned out to be big: the Flumleys, the Blackies, the Delacurs. The only thing missing was Dudley, who had decided to go to Rhiona's house for Christmas to meet the parents who had invited him.

Honestly, Harold wasn't really in the mood for serious talk. He was still reeling from Appolyn Delacour's remark about wanting to babysit his grandchildren sooner. It wasn't that it embarrassed the Boy Who Survived, but when he had just reconciled himself to the idea that he was married, he had not had time to consider the very likely consequences of married life. He couldn't imagine himself as a father in any way. No, the thought of his own children didn't scare him either, but... Anyway, he was not mentally ready for a serious conversation with Sirius, having fallen out of reality for a long time into the thought of children. But the godfather, apparently, couldn't wait to show himself useful to his beloved godson, almost a son. Of course, he was aware that he was a little off his game. Especially since Fleur and Appolyn were still throwing mocking glances at Harold, and his father-in-law were throwing sympathetic ones. But it really seemed to matter, so Lord Black spared no effort to shake his godson and bring him back to reality. And when he did, he told him everything he'd found out.

Potter was thoughtfully silent for about ten minutes before he asked again. "So Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix are guarding the record of the prophecy from me and Lord Gaunt?

- Yes. That is verified information. But I thought Dumbledore let me know about it. I think this is also a trap for you and Gont," Sirius warned seriously. - "Albus wants to exonerate himself in the public eye and become commander-in-chief of the 'supporters of the light' again.

- That will play into our hands as well. The Department of Mysteries, you say? Pity. It's a bad scene for the last act of an extended play," remarked Harold.

- Why? - Sirius asked curiously.

- There won't be an audience. We need publicity. - Black shook his head: the idea of godson was both insane and brilliant, and unacceptable, because it was dangerous with unpredictable consequences, both in case of success and failure. But there was nothing he could do to stop his best friend's son. Not now.

- So the task of Lord Gaunt and his... lackeys would be to move the scene and the last act to the Ministry Hall," he grinned wryly at Harold. - Well, the House of Lords will see to it that the play is seen by the right audience.

- Thank you, Siri. What would I have done without you? - If Sirius had been in the form of a dog at that moment, he would have wagged his tail desperately with pleasure: his godson appreciated him after all. And only in the depths of his blue eyes did a barely perceptible, serious concern glow: Too much in the plan depended on variables and unknowns... And Harold himself was thinking of his brother. He couldn't stop thinking about him because he knew he would find out about his plan and be sure to get involved. And he was risking not his reputation, not his freedom, not himself, not the rat-catchers, but his brother, and only him...

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The subterranean goblin settlements were impressive. No, there were none of the golden or at least gilded palaces Potter had expected, none of the magnificent stone cities, none of the things he'd expected to see. But once he realized that goblins were not dwarves to build such things, he stopped wondering. The dungeons were impressive in scale and the extreme conditions in which this people lived. Their houses were like nomadic dwellings. Something like yurts of wood and the skins of unknown beasts were built right at the bottomless abysses. The richer goblins lived in large yurts, the poorer in smaller ones, and the more status-conscious such as shamans, healers, elders, and the like lived in caves. And no, despite appearances, their way of life was very well developed. Their homes were cozy, richly decorated, furnished with quality furniture that the rich of the human race could only dream of. And unique weapons or ornaments or household items of goblin work flaunted in goblin homes alongside the skulls and scalps of their enemies. And overall, Harold liked the way this race lived, though he didn't understand how one could live without sunlight, compensated for in the dungeons by strange, obviously magical drives.

He didn't like the other thing: the goblins' way of getting around underground. Roads? Or at least trails? Oh no, they hadn't heard of such a thing. The Russian slides in Gringots Bank were made for humans. The goblins moved through their dungeons with systems of elevators, horizontal and vertical, and with ropes strung right over chasms and leading from one rock site to another, from one settlement, to another. No belaying! Fell? Your problem!

Grapbukh had kept his promise and arranged for Harold to meet the elders. And even volunteered to escort him, grinning nastily. No, Potter survived the cart ride easily, but it was only a warm up, for when the goblin ordered him to jump into a sort of bucket, dangling from a decrepit-looking rope, which was then to be lowered into the abyss, his stomach churned. The single bucket (or whatever it was) was clearly not designed for the height and volume of people, so Harold had been trying to squirm for at least half an hour to get comfortable in it. He thought too late that they just wanted to get rid of him, when he flew with the bucket at free-fall speed into the darkness of the crack in the rock. He regretted having spent so much time trying to settle when the bucket braked sharply and flew away, driven by invisible counterweights on the ends of the ropes. Yes, it was a waste of effort, because he was actually smeared on the bottom of the bucket anyway. Though some magic must have insured the bones against fractures, but not the contents of his stomach against finding a way out... Grabuch was almost disappointed when, on arrival at the warned elders, he found the human brat not only alive, but still in a condition worthy of the Lord of Magic: Potter was only slightly green, having clearly already gotten used to restraining his gagging, and his gaze was completely unthinking and blank, and overall he was even standing on his own legs, which were not trembling at all. Harold himself was mentally considering whether it would not be easier to jump straight into the abyss than to return to the mortal world, the same way!

The elders showed surprising respect for Potter, as if they knew something about him that he himself did not know. But it was not without a lecture for hours about what a great honor it was for him (to be in the goblin world, and to visit the elders). When they got down to the subject, the eldest, gray-haired, gaunt, gaunt, and short goblin man said bluntly, "Yes, Lord. We will allow you to explore our knowledge on a subject of interest to you, but we elders have a condition for you. - Potter rolled his eyes: well, he had no doubt that the goblins would demand their price.

- I'm listening.

- You must be aware that our race has been at war with yours more than once," the old man began from afar, speaking the language of men perfectly: "Those were bloody wars, and they were won, with varying degrees of success, mostly by wizards.

- Potter, already well aware of how long such lectures could drag on, especially since, though respectfully, the elders were not unreasonably treating him like an unreasonable infant, did not hesitate to interrupt: - I beg your pardon, but let's have no introductions. You'll give me a price for the favor on your part, and that's it.

- The elder grinned at the eternal haste of people, especially those so young, but agreed that lectures could be shortened to the point: "All right. After the victories, the wizards appropriated many of our valuables. Some of them were very important to my people because they held bits of our history. They are the people's treasures. There's no magical power in them, at least not for you people, but that's not what they're worth to us, either. - The younger elder handed Harold a rolled parchment, and then another. And this is information about where or who is keeping them. Give us back at least two-thirds of the items on the list, and the knowledge you are interested in is yours.

- How am I supposed to do that? - Harold said curtly, as he spotted the names of several pureblood wizards on the second roll.

The goblins grinned. "You are powerful and wealthy, Lord, as are your kin. You are also cunning and clever, and your uncommon talents for a wizard and, indeed, for a good citizen have been a result of your harsh childhood.

- Harold squinted dangerously: the runts obviously knew more about his criminal past than they needed to. - But I don't care how you get these things for us, or whether it's legal or not. That's your problem... Potter sighed: there wasn't much choice. Of course, one could live his whole life in ignorance, using his own power, but without understanding its essence and its consequences. But it was not for nothing that the goblins had been crucifying him about the honor bestowed upon him. Honor not honor, but family pride kept Harold from retreating...

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