"If you're going to try, go all the way. It may mean losing your friends, your wife, your family, your job, and possibly your mind." (c) Charles Bukowski
***The morning turned out... unusual. To my misfortune, I asked Kriche to wake me up. I shouldn't have. When I woke up and saw the House-elf's face leaning over me, I thought I was going grey. His already not very attractive face, plus the dimly lit room, plus my not very pleasant nightmares... In short, I had to apologise to the house-elf, who had fled to the other corner. And I made a mental note to buy a normal Muggle alarm clock.
After quickly rinsing off in the shower and doing some light exercises, I went downstairs to my study. Eating lunch alone in the huge living room was a bit creepy, so the cosy study next to the library was a much more suitable place. Especially since I always loved to read while eating.
English cuisine and strengthening potions — after a couple of months of rest, my body should be back to normal. It was just a pity that I didn't have those couple of months.
Before talking to Walburga, I took another careful look at the Black family tree. Apart from the burnt spots, where it was unclear whether the people were alive or not, there were five names left without a final date of death: Cygnus (my uncle, son of Pollux), Arcturus (my grandfather, whom I had never seen), Cassiopeia (Pollux's sister, my great-aunt). These names were highlighted in the same grey colour.
The other two did not have this peculiarity: Pollux (my great-grandfather, Arcturus' brother) and Lucretia Prewett (Arcturus' daughter, who married Ignatius Prewett).
After a long and difficult conversation with my mother, it turned out that everything was simple... and complicated at the same time. If Pollux was simply tired of life, of war, of the death of loved ones, and voluntarily went to a secluded mansion to live out his days, then his sister, Cassiopeia Black, simply disappeared in an instant. Cygnus went to look for her and also disappeared. Arcturus disappeared even earlier, going to war with Green-de-Wald, and the search for him yielded no results.
There was some murky history there, and Valburga, to be honest, was clearly hiding something, citing poor memory. When I asked her why she didn't ask Pollux for help, who, although he had retired, was within reach, I was met with angry accusations and the curtains covering his portrait being drawn shut. Great... I ended up arguing with her too. And I never found out more about Lucretia and the others.
So, summarising the information I had gleaned from the conversation, the only link to my family's past was my grandfather Pollux, whom I planned to visit in the near future.
But I had a lot of work to do today. I moved back to the outskirts of the city with my motorcycle, after instructing Creacher to gather all the clothes he could find. He interpreted my order to clean up the rooms and throw out the junk quite freely. Today, I saw him dragging Orion's old trousers somewhere, giggling maliciously. Of course, I didn't scold old Gollum, but I didn't need a second nest, so I took the easy way out and decided to gather all my things in one place, sort them out, and then decide what to throw away and what to keep under a shrinking spell somewhere in the storerooms. Let them be... At least as examples of medieval clothing, considering how old and huge the house itself was, they would be quite suitable for a museum.
Also, before leaving, I sent a letter to Rita to test the waters. A simple anonymous letter from a private email account, with no return address, flew to her at about ten o'clock. I didn't have a clear plan for what to do with her yet, just some rough ideas, but I wanted to make her worry a little. Give her time to find a way out of the situation. Of course, logic dictated that I should first find evidence of her second form and then hit her hard... But. I knew very well that a rat cornered bites twice as hard. I needed Rita working for me without fear of exposure, not Rita who smelled a scoop and was cooperating on much more acceptable terms. So... we'll see.
I prepared thoroughly for the journey. In addition to the standard powder, robes and potions, I took with me some bottles for memories (I found a couple in Walburga's room), dug out a protective ring against curses from the vault, took a change of clothes... and a few other odds and ends. I figured rummaging through Lockhart's dirty laundry wouldn't be the safest thing to do.
As it turned out, I was a little wrong. Everything was much more boring.
***
"He was so strong, manly, brave..." I propped my head up with my hand, trying not to fall asleep while listening to some peasant woman enthusiastically describing... Ta-da! Lockhart! He was here two years ago, 'putting to rest' a ghoul who was terrorising the locals (actually a 'newborn' vampire, who, during this period, without the control of their 'parent', completely loses their mind).
This was already the fifth place on my list of rapidly disappearing addresses, and everywhere I heard similar nonsense. If I didn't know for sure that Lockhart was actually a fraud, I would have been tempted to believe in his exploits. It seems I underestimated the scale of this thief's criminal intent...
"And Mr. Lockhart left his autograph, right there..."
"Enough!" I interrupted the undoubtedly "very interesting" story. "Legilimens..."
My mind easily slipped into the depths of the naive young lady's memory. I was as ethical as possible and did not allow myself to look at anything other than the fragment that interested me. Here she is with her friends discussing another murder... I can feel her genuine fear. As it turned out, unlike the safer memory pool, Legilimency also transfers some of the emotions along with the memories. To be honest, it's quite a feeling, and it's not for nothing that this branch of magic is classified as forbidden, oh no, it's not for nothing. But I habitually stifled my own pangs of conscience about my actions. I needed evidence against Lockhart, I needed Lockhart himself. And I began to look through the memories that remained intact.
This time, the vampire's victim was her friend. The village council turned to the authorities, but the police only laughed at the superstitious residents. At midnight, she and her family locked the shutters on the windows, and her brother took up a gun. During the day, three unusual people arrived in the village, dressed in strange old-fashioned clothes. They questioned the residents about the vampire... That's it, the Aurors were definitely here! What happened next? Next, a large chunk of the girl's memory was missing, the gap being well disguised as ordinary fear. The next frame showed the handsome blond's face covered in blood, holding the monster's ugly head by the hair.
"Talented son of a bitch," I couldn't help but admit the obvious. The absence of memories is not proof in itself... Although this time, it seemed to me that he had worked much more carelessly. Had he let his guard down? Most likely. The absence of retribution for his actions caused him, like any criminal, to lose his caution.
Leaving the hospitable village and removing a couple of curious memories that indirectly pointed to Lockhart's guilt, I headed for Belfast. Surprisingly, there was a fairly large community of magicians in Northern Ireland, isolated from the rest of Great Britain. However, despite all their independence, the Gringotts branch was still there. The Irish are the Irish. This was the penultimate address on my list, and it was here that luck smiled on me.
After stopping for the evening at a bar and using a little charm to win over the locals, I began to cautiously ask about the banshee, an urban legend that, six months earlier, had been considered the absolute truth.
The spirit of a restless woman seeking revenge, whose cries foretell death — that's how any folklore expert would briefly describe the banshee, but of course, in reality, everything was much more complicated. It was indeed the spirit of a murdered person, but under the influence of several factors, it could be reborn into something very... vile, resilient, and desiring not revenge, but warm human flesh and blood.
There used to be many of them, especially in the early centuries of human existence, when people died in droves, and their deaths were not always easy. But gradually, it became difficult to encounter banshees in large cities. Advances in technology, medical care, laws, police chiefs, and the human mentality itself changed, and for a long time, no "lucky" person encountered a banshee, at least in England...
However, one did appear somehow. It would seem that there was no problem — magic had not stood still either, which meant that a relic of the past should not have had a chance against modern mages with their advanced progress. There was only one problem, and it was unique to magical England.
In the past, banshees were mainly dealt with by necromancers who were masters of their craft and could permanently put the undead to rest, because these creatures had a significant advantage over all other creatures of the dead world — they were practically immune to so-called "general magic," which, thanks to the efforts of some enthusiasts, is now called "light magic." The elements, the influence on matter, even average "light magic" had no effect on the semi-ghost. Only the highest, truly Light magic, or the basics of necromancy, could banish this creature forever. Neither our mutual acquaintance nor the Aurors would most likely have been able to banish this creature. Who, then, was skilled enough to deal with this creature that terrified Muggles? I had been trying to figure this out for the second day of my trip through the beauties of Great Britain.
At first, the conversation in the pub was sluggish, but as soon as my new acquaintance offered to pay for the storyteller's drinks and snacks, the details of a blood-curdling story poured out of him like a cornucopia. In some situations, the jingle of coins works wonders no worse than a magic wand, and it was nice to see that for myself.
I don't know what made Lockhart not reveal all the witnesses, limiting himself only to the Aurors and their unwitting assistant. Perhaps the fact that there were so many witnesses to the brawl in the local church played a role. Maybe it was the fact that no one except the participants saw the battle with the banshee itself, only its end, where the "celebrity" appeared.
For me, it was enough that in this episode, described in the book, the self-loving turkey pointed only to himself. The participation of the others remained behind the scenes, although, catching my informants and putting them to sleep using a tried and tested method, I copied the memories of at least two aurors who survived the massacre and one old local assistant.
"Bingo! Gotcha, you windbag," I couldn't help smiling as I looked through the next fragment. Even these memories would be enough to destroy his reputation as a hero once and for all, if presented in the right light. But to make sure everything worked out, I needed to talk to that old man from the local community; at least something must have remained in his mind. The situation was greatly simplified by the fact that this old man was a well-known figure.
Leaving a couple of dozen Galleons for a lavish feast for my unwitting victims, I slowly made my way to the city centre. My last client for the day lived in the old quarter, and I allowed myself to wander the streets a little, looking at the houses, until I reached the right address. The old mage's dwelling was... to put it mildly, in need of repair. So urgent and extensive that it felt easier to tear down the house and build a new one in its place. But at least the doorbell worked, although it also looked like it was on its last legs.
The door was opened by a man who looked unpleasant at first glance. He was thin as a stick, a tall old man with tangled grey hair and a heavy gaze from under thick, equally grey eyebrows. He wore an old but clearly expensive robe made of acromantula silk and a strict business suit, also very old-fashioned in style. He looked a little like me after Azkaban. Of course, assuming I was around seventy or eighty years old and had more respect for robes than I did for ordinary trousers and shirts, which I preferred to wear at every opportunity...
When I knocked on the time-worn copper doorbell, which replaced the usual doorbell, he opened the door and pointed his wand at me.
"What do you want?" Contrary to my expectations, the voice of the owner of the house was not senile and creaky. And despite his appearance, which was as pitiful as in the memories of one of the Irish magicians, he did not look so. Standing before me was an experienced and dangerous opponent who, moreover, had the advantage. It seemed that taking back memories would not be as easy as it was with those drunks. Well, let's try a different approach.
"Hello, Mr. O'Sullivan," I said, taking off the hat worn by the owner of my current appearance in greeting. For such occasions, I used Polyjuice potion, which, unfortunately, was running low. Too expensive a pleasure. "My name is John Barry, from the Dark Game newspaper, and I'd like to talk to you about recent events in your town.
His eloquently raised eyebrow was his answer.
"Banshee attacks, sir! As far as I know, you took part in the capture of this dangerous creature, and I would very much like to get a short interview from the man who survived the battle with this terrible creature," imitating the manner of famous reporters, I began to chat up the "client," having already casually slipped into the house.
"Hey! I didn't give my consent..." The old man only came to his senses from my pressure, grabbing the door handle and trying to move my well-placed foot, but I was already inside.
"Imperio," — the stick, discreetly pulled from its holster on my forearm, quickly calmed the suspicious old man, allowing me to enter the house and close the door behind me. "Is there anyone else in the house?"
"No," Lu O'Sullivan replied after a moment's hesitation, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Excellent," I sat down on the worn sofa and opened the jar of magical powder, handing it to the owner of the house. "Inhale."
After reading the old man's memories, I thought for a moment. Now it made sense why Lockhart was so careless about witnesses. He had simply made a deal with the old necromancer, paying him a hefty sum for his silence, and thus the swindler didn't have to worry about witnesses. Moreover, necromancy was a forbidden practice, so Lockhart had secured himself on that front as well. If the old man started to cause trouble, Lockhart promised to reveal the spells Lu had used in his battle with the banshee.
And everything would have been practically perfect for the blond, but... Greed ruined everything. Lockhart didn't want to part with a thousand Galleons, so he went with a different plan, leaving the poor old man with only his memories instead of gold. Now O'Sullivan was convinced that the blond had paid him for his silence with gold, while "remembering" that he was with the Aurors during the battle with the banshee. Which, I think, did not happen at all.
Gilderoy definitely needed time to prepare an ambush for the surviving Aurors and the necromancer, and he was too cowardly to attack the banshee. The only thing he really masters is Obliviate, as well as the basics of Legilimency and a couple of specific spells that can be used to alter memories. It is impossible to create false memories so skilfully with Obliviate alone. This means that Lockhart has also dabbled in forbidden mind magic. Which can also be used.
"Hmm," I looked thoughtfully at O'Sullivan, who was sitting in the chair opposite me. In principle, if I told him everything, some of his memories might return. That was the danger of mind magic. You never know when false memories will be replaced by real ones; it could happen from any hint or association. And a skilled user of Occlumency could detect a fake in an instant. However, just like Legiliment, if someone allows you to rummage around in their head without asking... So, the good old Obliviate is better.
But here Lockhart got himself into trouble by trying to steal the limelight from the Belfast hero. To paraphrase Uncle Ben and his famous quote, great fame brings great problems. Perhaps he was planning to fix things later, when everything had settled down and the impressions were no longer so vivid, but I wasn't going to give him the chance.
I treated the old man as gently as possible; he was still a victim, no matter how you looked at it, because the city owed him its peaceful nights. So a little Obliviate and a bag of Galleons with a short note should, if not restore his sanity, at least improve his financial situation. Besides, I needed him as a backup.
Leaving Belfast, I finally crossed out my last address for today with a clear conscience and set fire to the parchment, taking a short break to simply enjoy watching the paper burn. Of course, there is a certain romance to long journeys, but the three-day detective adventure had worn me out. So now that all the necessary facts had been gathered, I planned to end this saga with Lockhart by paying him a courtesy visit. All that remained was to sneak into the mansion without getting caught and leave the peacock with no choice but to work for me.
The plan was simple, like all genius plans... or completely stupid ones. There was no point in coming up with something too clever, but even this plan had a few pitfalls. First, the celebrity didn't live just anywhere, but in a kind of New Town — exclusively for magicians. It was an elite neighbourhood with large, wealthy houses and good security. Getting there was not an easy task for an ordinary magician, or even an unusual one. The task was made easier by the fact that Sirius had already been there, not specifically at Lockhart's house, of course, but in the neighbourhood, visiting friends... former friends, of course.
The second complication was that I couldn't be linked to the escaped criminal. To do this, I planned to use the disguise I had prepared earlier, using a lock of hair from a respectable London gentleman. The kind who would be perfect for a supporting role in a crime film, a scene from which I planned to act out in front of Gilderoy.
Having gathered my wits, I returned to London. The neighbourhood was located between Wellington Arch and the western side of Green Park, which I reached by bike, surveying the area. It was a beautiful place with beautiful houses, each of which screamed that its owners were wealthy. The most striking house on Damle Street was, of course, Lockhart's, so I wasn't afraid of missing it. It was a kind of royal mansion, with statues and a carpeted walkway. It seemed that the books were selling quite well, since Gilderoy was living so lavishly.
"Revelium!" — a flourish of my wand, and a protective dome in all the colours of the rainbow immediately flashed around the house. Fortunately, only I could see it, otherwise this light show would have risked attracting extremely unwanted attention. Sighing and standing for a moment, squinting at the shifting colours, as if in a huge soap bubble, I took out my family artefacts and other paraphernalia of a respectable burglar. The house's defences took some work, and I spent two whole hours breaking them, taking short five-minute breaks and cursing under my breath. I could have done it faster, but I was playing it safe as best I could. Especially since Sirius only knew these spells in the most general terms, and even then, more in practice than in theory. The Death Eaters' homes were rarely left unprotected, and as someone who had participated in raids, Sirius had some experience.
The writer's home itself was... cloying. That was the only word that could describe Lockhart's abode. Everything was gold, with heavy, frilly curtains and equally heavy furniture that didn't really go together, lots of portraits of himself, thankfully asleep, while I walked through the house, stumbling over thousands of letters from admirers scattered around the rooms along with clothes. The dwelling characterised Gilderoy much better than his biography; it's a pity you can't show that on the first pages of The Prophet.
"Ugh, disgusting..." With disgust, I threw some boxes off the leather armchair, revealing pink trousers. The celebrity wasn't there yet, but I was used to waiting.
***
"Hello, Mr. Lockhart," a strange voice in his house made the blond man startle in fright. Stepping out of the fireplace, he turned toward the sound. In the corner of his (his!) study, comfortably seated in his chair, sat a man previously unknown to Gilderoy. He had short grey hair, a goatee, and a scar on his left eyebrow. The man was dressed in a three-piece suit, a black felt hat with metal trim, and shiny, cream-coloured trousers."He can't be a fan of my books," Lockhart thought nervously, trying to discreetly pull his wand out of his robe pocket with his left hand. Although the British hero received letters and parcels from hundreds of fans every day, and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of lovesick girls on the street, not a single fan had ever made it to his home. Moreover, this man did not look like a fan of anyone.
"Expelliarmus," the stranger waved his wand, and Gilderoy's trusty nine-inch companion flew into his outstretched palm. "Don't be afraid, Mr. Lockhart, I'm not going to hurt you." My name is Clay, John Clay. It's a pleasure to meet such a talented writer as you, Gilderoy.
"So why did you break into my house, Mr Clay?" Lockhart turned to face the stranger, leaning against the fireplace. It was a shame about the robe, but at least he might be able to reach the powder flask. Fight without a wand? He's a hero, not a suicide bomber. The smartest thing to do now would be to run away and call the Aurors. "I don't think it was just to say hello... Aaaah!"
Lockhart's fingers, which had almost reached the coveted flask, were suddenly pierced by a sharp pain. The volatile powder suddenly ignited along with the flask, and the fire spread to the writer's hand. Without stopping his shouting, he rushed to a jug of beautiful lilies standing nearby. The flowers flew into the fireplace, and Lockhart finally felt relief when the magical fire went out upon contact with the water. His head, shaking with rage, slowly turned to the stranger in the armchair. He was still sitting there, looking mockingly at the enraged writer.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't let us end our conversation too soon." The man spread his arms as if apologising.
"You have no idea...
"Of course I do," the blond man interrupted coldly, taking a deep breath. "End this charade, Mr. Lockhart. You're not a stupid man.
Gilderoy closed his eyes wearily. The effect of the cold water had worn off, and his burned limb slowly but surely began to ache, distracting him. Lockhart tried to calm down. The stranger was right; he had never considered himself stupid.
A stupid man couldn't have earned all this... Right, his night visitor probably wanted money. But how was he going to get past the bank's security? He never kept large sums of money at home. And Gilder didn't have any special resources. Most of his earnings went towards maintaining the image he had created.
"What do you want? Money?" The wizard finally pulled his hand out of the jug. It didn't seem to be badly hurt. Only water from his wet robe, mixed with blood from the cut caused by the spell, dripped onto the expensive carpet.
Then the stranger levitated a rag from the mountain of parcels and threw it at Lockhart. He grimaced. In his hand were someone's trousers. Some of the wizard's fans were rather... peculiar.
"Bandage it for now," Clay said in a commanding tone and continued, carefully examining Gilderoy's wand. "No, what are you doing? It's just a small favour. There is a person in magical England. A scoundrel, of course. A criminal. And he has been hiding from justice for a long time.
"What are you getting at?
"I'm getting to the point that a renowned 'hero' such as yourself simply must defend the peace of Magical England by capturing him," Clay said, crossing his fingers sharply, as if closing the bars of an iron gate. A chill emanated from the man's figure. "The place, time, and circumstances will be communicated in advance. All you have to do is take him and deliver him to Aurorat.
"Um... you know, my fame in books is somewhat... exaggerated..." Gilderoy swallowed nervously when Clay suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out several vials glowing in the dim light.
"Don't worry, my master knows about your little 'secret'," the man with cold eyes smiled good-naturedly and rattled one of the vials. "And if you don't want the others to find out about it, you'll do what you've been asked. And we, in turn, will keep your secret safe.
"I don't understand what you're talking about. I'm as innocent as they come.
"Come on, Gilderoy," the man put the flask on the table next to the chair, looking Lockhart in the eyes. "As I said, I think you're a smart man. Don't make me doubt that!"
Clay slowly rose from his chair, and Gilderoy noticed that he was limping slightly. The blackmailer twirled a wand that wasn't his in his hands, then placed it on the table along with the vials. A beautiful parchment scroll went there as well.
"The time has come to perform a truly significant feat for all of Britain! I believe in you," he said, winking encouragingly.
"What if I fail?" The writer nervously licked his lips. "If you want this criminal so badly, why don't you catch him yourself?"
"Too many questions," Clay shook his head. "Everything you need to know is in there."
He nodded towards the chair.
"And I advise you not to try to find out more, it's in your best interest. Goodbye, Mr. Lockhart," the stranger suddenly disappeared in a flash of apparition.Lockhart froze, then instantly rushed to his wand. He had to call the Aurors... But then his gaze was drawn to a silver vial. Lockhart immediately recognised it as the memory potion. His uninjured hand, still holding the wand, suddenly froze in mid-spell.
The intruder was already gone, and there was no point in calling the Aurors. And the stranger's words about a "secret"... A bluff?
There had been many unpleasant moments in Lockhart's life. And many secrets. Gilderoy was almost one hundred percent sure that each one was safe, otherwise he would have lost everything he had long ago. Most likely, along with his life. But the only thing Clay could talk about... Could it be...
I watched as, after using the thought-erasing spell, genuine panic appeared on Lockhart's face. He suddenly began to rush around the room, almost bumping into me, invisible under his cloak. That was it, I was convinced — now I could really apparate.
At least something went as planned.
I think I'll treat myself to a bottle of good Irish whiskey tonight!
***
The entire story has already been written at:
patreon.com/posts/reborn-as-sirius-142654970