CHAPTER 3 Money decides everything

Stopping in front of the gate, I looked at the small old house. At the moment I was in Bolton, one of the towns of the county of Greater Manchester. And judging by Lockhart's memories, then in front of me now was the house of his parents.

Opening the gate, I walk towards the door along a neatly laid stone slab path, which has gradually begun to overgrow with weeds. And the surrounding garden itself has long since become overgrown, since no one has looked after it for the last six years. With a quiet creak, I open the unlocked door of the house. Why unlocked? What's the point? The house itself was surrounded by Muggle-repelling charms, along with several aimed at invisibility and distraction. If someone were to find it, despite these measures, then a lock opened with a simple master key and Alohomora would not be an obstacle. They can be fed once every few months, which was not a big problem for Lockhart, who did not suffer from a lack of magical powers.

I take off my shoes in the hallway and remove the accumulated dust with a few spells. Before that, however, I sniffed the characteristic smells of the presence of the undead and, having grown a little bolder, used Revelio with a couple of protective spells. Some habits could not be knocked out of me now. An hour later, when the house was cleaned, and the front door and windowsills acquired hastily made protective runes, I was finally able to sprawl out on the red sofa in the living room. A couple of days had passed since I found myself in the body of my British namesake. During this time, I was able to set up my mental defense, make sure that the money coming from the sale of the "predecessor's" books was coming steadily to my bank account, and familiarize myself with general information from the newspapers.

Looking gloomily at the white ceiling, from which the plaster will soon fall off, I try to decide on the immediate goals. The information I gleaned from the newspapers of both mages and non-mages caused... bewilderment. Thanks to occlumency and a thorough study of mental magic, I remember the geopolitical situation and the main events of the countries of Europe in those years very well. And they coincided. Like many prominent political figures. Only I never found articles about my work in Germany. More precisely, there was an article about the work of curse breakers in concentration camps. And it indicated the names of my acquaintances, colleagues in the craft. But not mine. And yet I was the youngest master of ritualism in the last two centuries. Aristocrats lined up for the opportunity to hire me. And someone could forget to mention me in the work?

Achoo.

- Damn him Morgana.

I mutter quietly, wiping my nose with my sleeve. After all, the connection between body and soul is not yet complete, if my spell did not remove all the dust. And for a wizard, this is a real shame. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a frame with an ordinary Muggle photograph standing on a cabinet near the wall. A fair-haired woman and a man with chestnut hair were holding a blond six-year-old boy by the shoulders, who was almost jumping with joy. Lockhart's parents, and himself. Before this photo was taken, little Gilderoy learned that he was a wizard. However, the father of the family was doubly surprised then. First, when his favorite sofa changed color under his son's gaze, and then when it returned to its original color under the wave of a branch in his wife's hands. The eldest Lockhart did not consider it necessary to tell her other half when they met that she was a real witch. Gilderoy had a wonderful relationship with his parents. Perhaps these were the only people close to him, whom he loved and who loved him. Until July 1979, when, right on a walk through the shops of London, several adherents of the Dark Lord's ideology tortured to death a "traitor to magic" and "garbage unworthy of life" in front of dozens of Muggles. At that time, one could only sympathize with the Ministry's memory erasers.

Having overcome the melancholy that had rolled over me from other people's memories, I got up from the sofa. The framed photograph of the happy family was neatly placed in one of the drawers of the chest of drawers. It is not worth disturbing other people's memories. Lockhart did not live in this house when he returned from his travels back to England, partly because of the memories. Another reason is that he did not want anyone to know about this house. He erased the memories of the Muggles who lived next door. He also did not hesitate to visit the administration and other public utilities, because of which the house and the surrounding area for the Muggle government turned into a wasteland, where it is forbidden to build anything due to the nearby groundwater, which prevents the construction of a solid foundation for the house. How then did he provide water and gas in the house? And is he a wizard or did he go for a walk? Lockhart was always attentive to his appearance and daily comforts. Using a few charms from literature intended for wizards specializing in construction, he was able to make a well in the back yard and install water to it. Then he visited one of the shops in Diagon Alley, which had a ministry permit to sell some charmed Muggle items. He ordered a filter and a pumping unit, which he then installed at home himself. Despite the general disdain of wizards for everything Muggle, the sale of charmed Muggle devices is one of the most profitable sources of income for the Ministry of Magic. Gas is not particularly needed. A few spells from "1001 spells for a self-respecting housewife" are enough for cooking, and for short visits in the winter, a fireplace was enough. Gilderoy considered the house itself his secret refuge in case his scam with books was revealed. As a man with a good imagination, he could imagine very well what disappointed fans could do to him. Especially disappointed fans. That's why he lived in a hotel when he needed to receive guests or deal with problems related to selling books. A couple of weeks ago he submitted his second book to the editors.

I visited this house for two reasons. To improve the house's protective charms. And to take the galleons that the wizard had previously left here for a rainy day. After all, I'm a beggar now. No, there's enough money for the usual daily expenses of the past Lockhart. And for ordinary wizards, this is generally a good salary. But for a master of rituals and an unconfirmed master of artifact making, this is... a few knuts. For my plans, and even to find out whether there will be a cataclysm here or not, I need reputation and power. To increase these two things, I need time and money. There are 12 years left until the supposed cataclysm, and even less until the active actions of the local Dark Lord-lich. It can be considered that I should have returned to my level of power at the time of death and developed a plan to save the whole world and myself yesterday. You can return and even increase your power with the help of rituals that require the appropriate tools and ingredients, gain access to some ministry archives to understand what these troll spawns have hidden on the ninth level, you can do it with the help of bureaucrats as greedy as goblins, gather past colleagues for a ritual in case that necro-virus appears again, you can only do it with the help of the appropriate connections and reputation. In general, you need money for all this. A lot of money.

- Oh, whore. It's sad to be a beggar.

I sigh and go down to the basement. In my pocket was a special limestone chalk that I bought in Diagon Alley for a galleon. A common tool for students learning the basics of ancient runes and simple rituals. Tonight I need to perform a ritual to hide the house. And since there is no good magical source for recharge nearby, I will have to calculate the ritual based on the orientation of the stars in order to receive their recharge. Unfortunately, beggars can't be choosers.

Joe Hughes looked boredly at the enchanted "dark" artifacts lying on the shelves. He knew that all the "forbidden and creepy" things visible to visitors were needed to create an atmosphere and suckers. The workers of Knockturn Alley considered it their sacred duty to "cheat" the next Hogwarts schoolboy or other sucker who sometimes wandered in here. If another inspection from the Aurors comes, then the "sinister" artifacts lying in plain sight are not actually prohibited by the Ministry or the owner of the shop has permission to sell them. The owner himself "buys off" the right people in the Ministry from more thorough inspections. There is a roof in the form of the "Pointy Hoods", which keep a third of Knockturn Alley under themselves, from the impudent and simply outlaws. The remaining two thirds are occupied by the "Mad Heads" and "Black Dogs", who do not risk starting a war between themselves, fearing a stab in the back from a third or the appearance of a new gang that smells blood. So the boy is left to wait all day for the few customers and throw out the drunks who decided to come in. Real customers agreed with the owner in advance, and the owner received them personally.

The bell above the front door of Coffin's Mart rang, signaling the arrival of a customer. Looking up, Joe saw a man in a regular traveling robe with a hood pulled over his head. He strained his eyes to make out the shadowed face, but he couldn't. His hand slowly reached behind the counter and clutched the bone ornament. When activated, the one-time-use artifact would create a magical shield around it, and the owner would receive an alarm.

- What do you want?

- Funny bones.

- A?

Joe cocked his head in surprise until it dawned on him under the sensation of an invisible cold gaze. "Funny Bones" was the password used to meet new clients with the owner who had been "recommended" by an outsider.

- I'll let you know now.

Taking out one of the sheets of paper, Hughes quickly wrote "new customer" on it and touched it with his wand. The sheet curled up into an airplane and flew into the depths of the store. Silence fell over the shop.

- Would you like to buy anything?

The guy put on a friendly smile. The guest remained silent, but the feeling of a cold gaze did not disappear.

"What a purebred asshole. He could have at least refused politely."

Joe no longer doubted that one of the aristocrats stood before him. Because only these snobs learn from childhood to radiate contempt and disgust with their entire posture, as the visitor was doing now. As if his presence were a whole favor for the surrounding tramps who had just crawled out of the slops.

While the assistant shop owner was lost in thought, shuffling footsteps began to be heard from the depths of the shop. Soon the current owner of the shop, Joshua Coffin, appeared near the counter. Dressed in a red Arab robe with a scarf of the same color thrown over his head, he had a rather large belly and small legs, which made him look like a child's inflatable balloon. Looking at the person who entered, he asked:

- Who?

- Doesn't matter.

Frowning at the unknown man's response, Coffin was about to politely send him away, but the visitor interrupted him.

- I think this will interest you.

With a slow movement, the visitor took a woman's hairpin out of his pocket. And put it on the counter. After a moment's hesitation, the owner took out his wand and cast a couple of spells. Then a couple more. Five minutes later, he was holding a monocular with a chain of runes glittering along the edge, quietly muttering under his breath. Finally convinced of what he had seen, he put the monocular away and said with a bored look.

- I am willing to buy it for twenty galleons and four sickles.

- Fifty galleons and nine more of the same artifacts at a similar price.

- Okay. Shall we sign a contract, Mister…?

- Gegenhain. No. Your word is enough for me. Tomorrow I'll bring the remaining nine.

- I'll prepare everything tomorrow. Anything else?

- I will have to stay on the islands for a while. And I have time to do work of similar complexity.

- Excellent. You will have the list of required work tomorrow.

With a casual nod of his head, the visitor took the money he had laid out and left the shop. The good-natured expression vanished from Coffin's face. Looking hard at Joe, who stood impassively next to him, he ordered:

- On your knees.

Having obeyed the order of the man who had power over his life without complaint, the former debtor and now slave allowed the man to clasp his head in his hands. The small brown eyes of the shop owner now seemed incredibly deep and piercing to Hughes. After a minute, Coffin IV, descendant of the founder of the Coffin shop, removed his hands.

- Forget the last half hour.

The wizard gave the order, walking deeper into the store and ignoring the screams of the man behind him, whose last memories were being burned out of his memory.

A minute later, Joe Hughes was standing behind the counter, looking boredly at the low-quality artifacts lying around. He had long since forgotten about the contract he had signed in the past, which he had failed to pay on time and had fallen into bondage to the shop owner. As well as the fact that he had been four sickles short of paying off the debt.

As I left the shop, I analyzed the information I could glean from the superficial thoughts of the dark artifact merchant, who clearly had not neglected Occlumency. In fact, it is not easy to find truly serious merchants of the forbidden things I need. But fortunately, I was able to get a recommendation for one merchant on my first visit to the islands. And the password clearly has not changed over the years. True, there was a slippery moment when Coffin wanted to know who recommended me to visit him, but the "last chance" artifact I showed him interested him. More precisely, a modified version of the current artifact, which is mainly used by curse breakers and some Aurors. And while the fat man was studying my product, I was studying the contents of his head. I did not learn the entire system of relationships of the shadow side of magical Britain, but several names with some rumors can help me.

- Hey, mister, would you kindly allow the respected wizards to chip in for a couple of bottles of Blishen's fancy fire whiskey?

I look at the stooped individual in the patched robe that I don't think even pumpkin juice could scrape off a Knut who is blocking my way. Out of the corner of my eye I notice another man in a shabby coat coming in from the side.

- Get lost.

- What a miser you are. Are you sorry to give a few shekels for your neighbor?

The nonentity smiled, showing an uneven row of yellow teeth. The air was filled with the stench of vomit, unwashed bodies and curses. With a calm movement, as if I wanted to adjust my hood, I pulled my hand back. I caught the gray beam of the curse flying towards my back on the tip of the magic wand that appeared in my hand. A smooth movement of the wrist. As if it should, the beam of the curse changed direction. And the man in the coat, who had started to pronounce the spell, fell silent because his mouth was stuck together like a piece of dough. I pointed the wand at the most talkative one who rushed towards me, whose eyes, giving off a yellow gleam, clearly indicate the "fluffy" problem of the wearer during full moons.

- Expulso

With a flash of blue light from the explosion, a broken, tattered body flies into the wall. I turn and casually deflect the next curse flying at me. Trying to disenchant his mouth, the attacker falls to the cobblestones due to the limbs starting to rot. The third and final attacker, who first attacked me from behind, clearly realizing the difference in the forces of the parties, throws a ball to the ground. Only with the appearance of black smoke, which should have hidden his escape route, the robber's head fell to the ground. My non-verbal seko was faster. How I love these amateurs. They are so firmly convinced that if a magician says the words for a spell, then he cannot cast a spell non-verbally. So many people have been burned by this simple trick.

I glance at the few witnesses who suddenly started pretending they weren't there. I approach the headless corpse, which judging by its clothes should have more money. Three verification spells, a wave of the magic tool and the purse with coins appears in my hands. I shake it.

- Not much. But…

I turn my gaze to the remaining two corpses.

…Knut to knot,

Shekel for shekel,

And there is a galleon.

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