Analyzing madness. Hotel on Clapham Road. Three and a half hours later, and one experiment.
*
I don't understand myself anymore. It's a tough case. Arrange your thoughts, organize!
So, I had three "fights" and every time something incredible happened.
Number one. "Lusty Driver." So how did I jump out of the backseat to wrap my hand around his neck with a knife? Yeah, in my past life, I've been doing all sorts of oriental stuff. I was an adult then and now I'm a little dystrophic. Then I cut the driver's neck with a knife. With a kitchen knife. Let's say Uncle Vernon understands the tool, and his kitchen knives are the sharpest in this country. That's the kind of man he is, luxuriant on kitchen knives. Three ha-ha. Suppose England doesn't spare the best steel on kitchen knives. I took out the knife and looked closely. Two ha-ha, the steel isn't bad. And the sharpening is normal, the kitchen knife. It's not just muscle in the neck, it's got tendons and cartilage. Even the sides of the vessels are elastic and don't cut easily. It takes a long time to saw the neck! Next. At the same time, I didn't get dirty in the blood from the soles to the top. The dashboard was dirty, I remember, and I got trophies there. And there was nothing on my clothes, my hands, my face or anywhere else blood. I was washing the knife later, yes.
Number two. Wand shop. "Seller" and werewolf Bart. Remember, remember! That's where I shot first. That reminds me. I couldn't feel the kickback, there was a weak kick. Little Harry-Steel Hands! Stabbing over the counter! It was a jump again, with my small height and arm length. Although it was all right and normal. I just knocked the stick out of the Salesman's hand, and I stabbed him in the arm as I went along. Two more shots. Weak kickback kicks. First shot of those two across the counter again. Did I bounce again? And the clean one went away again. And there was blood!
Number three. The traitor from the bookstore and the house-elf. The first punch over the counter again, as if I were my oldest, grown-up. Cut off a piece of stick and three fingers. Of course, a laser-sharpened katana is not a kitchen knife, but I'm not a giant either. I jumped on the counter from the spot. Half an elf! Okay, he's beneath me today, let's say. Cut through his ribs and took it to his heart. Let's do it, too. Precise blade tip punch, with a good swing. Cut off his arm. Yes, that's what the katana is for. Eleven-year-old boys who are stuffed and underfed aren't meant for that! And again, all the blood was pouring and splashing and dripping and flowing past me.
Number four. It's an experiment. First, I bought a couple of chicken bodies from the supermarket. I went deep into the park, put a newspaper on the wood as an abstract sculpture, put a chicken in the newspaper, and rubbed a sword. Cut it in half. And the other one. So, adrenaline and other combat physiology have nothing to do with it, at least not in the episodes of cutting.
Yeah, we think. We're thinking! What resources and reserves do I have, and how do I use them? Jumping out, for instance. You concentrate the power to the point, squeeze it to the limit and release it sharply. Jump. Or a punch. Or a jump with a punch. A couple of hours to concentrate, no. Not even a couple of seconds. If an adversary shows up, and it all works on the automatic. That's what fighters and swordsmen train for. For hours, they've been pushing this skill deep into the subconscious. So that the concentration and the release of power occur instantly and without thinking. The only force for this is necessary to have. It's the same when cutting.
We think. What do you call it one word? Okay, two: Fucking miracles. Sorcery. Magic.
All right. Magic. Magic? Magic! Harry, I mean, me, sweetheart, is a magician. Okay. What do we have in common? In moments of great tension, miracles have happened to Harry without a little me in the body. I even remember that. One day, Harry became invisible and got away from Dudley. He got on the roof of the school. It's called "spontaneous emissions". Everybody knows about them.
All right. From me, an adult dead, to this body's subconscious, I guess I've shifted the skill to concentrate sharply and give up power. I have physical strength, let's say "a kitten cried". And what happens to magic in the process? Magic power?
It's a critical situation. Magic rushes out - a spontaneous outburst. And it stumbles upon my installation: to collect any available power in a fist - and to strike sharply! Including magic.
It turns out as in a stupid Hollywood action movie. The hero crawls through minefields without a break for three days, firing all kinds of weapons, and all the time remains with a flawless haircut and smoothly shaved. I aim for results. I reach out to the neck of the Lusty Driver from the back seat without worrying about the height or length of arms. I slit his neck with the smooth movement of the kitchen knife. In doing so, I stay clean. It's like a movie. Or in my dreams. Or in a fantasy. Or in a world of magic.
Before I slit my opponent's throat, it was in my subconscious. It's an abstract representation, there's no helpless backseat floundering, no blood flow, no gagged blood on my face. Magic allowed me to realize this inner, perfect vision.
Wingardium Leviosa and the toothpick are taking off. But first it took off in my fantasy, inside me.
It's not over yet. Working with Muggles means, I was hoping to get out of control of magic signals and protection. But the magic was still part of the action. I'm wrong!
But maybe I'm right! The magic was involved, but it was directed at me. I was thrown in the air, my knife was sharper, my hands held a revolver tighter. The shield against contamination is a household spell. Nothing else happened. And the shield reacts to active magic aimed at protected objects.
I think I buried a book on magic theory for nothing. Should I go dig it up? Okay, I'll buy it sometime... another one...
*
London. A quiet park. Five days later.
*
I was practicing an attack with a sword in the wilderness of the park. I waited for the consequences. If nothing happened for another ten days, my thoughts were wrong. It's bad in both the near and far future. It's disgusting in itself because it means I'm not thinking straight, and I'm not a manipulator at all. Behind my back, to calm me down, there was the sound of a "chop."
"Hello, Kreacher! Report!"
"The filthy dirty, blood traitors, insulting the majesty of the Ancient and Noble House of Black."
That phrase was just enough for me to pull out the sheath and hit the ear-eared bastard in the jaw flat from the bottom up. His legs bent under the blast furnace, and he fell to his knees, and put his hands on the ground for balance. How symbolic!
"Know your place before the heir to the Noblest and Ancient Black, you bald degenerate! You will be punished for your disobedience and disrespect to the heir of the Most Noble and Ancient Black, as your faults require. Is that clear?"
"Dirty-blooded son of a dirty..."
He's completely out of his mind, isn't he? I don't want any degenerates. I've started to methodically stab the elf from right to left in the body. There's hope, though small, that he'll be repaired. After the fourth blow, the elf fell to the ground. Twenty blows later, I asked him again:
"Is it clear to you how to address the heir to the Noblest and Ancient Black House?" - The silence was my answer.
"Then, if you are unable to serve the heir to the Oldest and Noblest House of Black, accept your shameful fate," now I've begun to hit the head on purpose. After the second blow, the elf gave it away:
"Sir, I see, Sir!"
"Listen to me very carefully. Stupid bitch Walburga killed the most ancient and noble family Black. She burned Andromeda out of the family tree instead of founding a younger branch of Tonks-Black. But Tonks's daughter woke up with a gift of metamorphosis. Bellatrix and Regulus were branded like cattle. Narcissa was given to marry a marked man. Sirius was not properly brought up. The boy ended up in a cult with an elderly spider and his pocket blood traitors. And now you're going to tell me who am to blame."
The elf was silent until I hit him on the head.
"Miss Walburga, sir."
The result did not satisfy me. Get a therapeutic blow to the head!
"Once again, I ask the stupid useless elf. Is this stupid bitch guilty of burying Ancient and Noble Black?"
"Stupid bitch Walburga, sir!"
"That's right, degenerate! How long have I taught you? How can you call a stupid bitch, a wine bitch in the burying of Ancient and Noble Black, Mistress?"
"No, sir!"
"To whom do you serve?"
"To you, Master, heir to the Most Ancient and Noble Black!"
"That's right! Report!"
"Today, there is no connection with Sirius, the former heir. Immediately after that, I felt a new heir, sir."
"That's it, then! Here's some money for you. Go and buy the Daily Prophet and the Minister's Gazette for the last five days. Wait for me at Grimmo 12 until I call you."
"Yes, sir."
"When I give you an order, say, 'Sir, yes, Sir."
"Sir, yes, sir."
"Do it!"
And life is getting better. In a conversation with Kreacher, a word came up, and before I forget it, I've got a job to do. I pulled out the Granger's contact sheet and wrote it:
"I want to talk to you about a few important issues. Not necessarily today, but in the next two or three days. Pick a time when you can give me half a day."
And now, a big ba-da-boom has arrived in this magical world. The heir of the Black family is not bastard Potter. I was counting on it, I got it. I've been thinking about it, and I'm willing to gently shed the first drops of blood.
The tree of Magic must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of magicians and muggles. It is its natural manure.