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Large flakes of white snow fell slowly from the sky, swaying under the lanterns' yellow light. I spent two days visiting Grimmauld, and now, on this pleasant winter evening, I'm going to go home - Christmas, whatever one may say.
Grimmauld Place is not particularly crowded. And now people can be seen mainly only in the windows of houses. In these windows, sometimes decorated with colored lights of garlands, happy and not very joyful people were seen. Someone was still decorating the home, somewhere a young couple was dancing in dim, soft light. And someone met a crowd of guests that a minute ago, with noise and laughter, disappeared into the entrance of an apartment building.
I stopped and looked around, looking for John's car. It seems he hasn't arrived yet. Maybe that one ... no, it's not even a BMW. By the way, speaking of BMW - perhaps I should get myself one car? No, I'll buy it later. One time I liked the nineties' models, but by the time when in my past life I could afford to buy a car, a nineties car in good condition had become a myth, and bringing it into good condition was insane.
With these thoughts, I decided to take a walk, but at this moment, the Pirate flew up to me.
"Oh-ho-ho! He hooted in his strange manner and landed on his outstretched hand. Squinting one eye, this strange representative of owls stared at me with the second, and the feathers on his head, as always, were in a creative mess. With a sharp movement of his paw, he literally poked me in the face with a small message, which I immediately took.
John wrote that he would be a little late - their eldest son arrived and asked to pick him up from the airport. In his slovenliness, he seems to have forgotten his wallet. Taking a pen out of my bag, I scribbled on the back of a note that I would get there myself and handed the note to the Pirate.
He snorted in displeasure, shook off the snowflakes that had settled on him, and went flying. Funny birds.
Grimmauld Square is not in the best area of London. Typical multi-story houses, not the most well-groomed, but also not neglected, they look pretty decent by Christmas, and only house number 12, which I can see now, look somewhat abandoned.
I went to more decent places closer to the center, although, for Great Britain's capital, the concept of "center" is rather loose. Every now and then, I met people wrapped in winter coats and jackets. Someone was in a hurry, so much so that the creak of snow under their feet did not stop for a second, and someone was walking regularly with friends or comrades. But I've always liked being alone.
Pretty soon, I didn't notice how I ended up on the brightly lit streets, where the facades of houses and shopping centers shone brightly with New Year's decorations. There were even more people around, their clothes were brighter, and the mood was festive. Another hour or two, and many of these people will go home to celebrate Christmas with their families. I need to hurry too. Buses don't run anymore, there are only taxis. But ... I'll take a walk again.
I walked and thought about what I had heard in the last two days at the house on Grimmauld. The information was helpful, but there were some issues with little controversy. Why did I have to die after Malfoy's rituals? Do many generations of wizards give something in the lineage, or not? It is unlikely that Walburga will lie about this, but she can just keep back some information. In general, this whole conversation should, in theory, awaken in me a certain pride and a sense of responsibility. Considering my age and the fact that I haven't seen real dark magic and don't know it, then... Let's just say, if I were really twelve, I would be proud that I am Black, and to become Black, even more, I would already headlong rushed to look for the ring, preserve the legacy, and so on.
This does not mean that I will not search, no. I will, but without fanaticism. I strongly doubt that the Black library can provide me with anything more brutal than my knowledge from that damned French grimoire with a demon. On the other hand, it may contain knowledge that will fill the gap between the Hogwarts Library and my knowledge. And then, if we compare, it turns out that I know the structure of a nuclear reactor and can build it, but to move away from the scheme, make changes or improvements - no, I can't, because I don't even know mathematics. This is, of course, only a comparison, but quite accurate.
In general, if everything is extremely simplified, then the task of the Lord is to improve the well-being of the House, expand the library, develop as a wizard, kill the unwanted and continue the Family. In any case, I was going to do something like that, so there is nothing bad about it, and to be afraid of difficulties is somehow frivolous or something. On the other hand, my becoming a Lord may be subject to various restrictions, which I really do not know anything about. On my next visit, it is worth discussing this in more detail with Lady Walburga.
Waking up from my thoughts and looking around, I could not help but notice a rather drastic change in the atmosphere. Nothing magical. I just walked into some remote area myself and did not even notice. A straight street with narrow gateways between four-five-story houses, there is no light in the windows, street lights work in one, and thick flakes of snow still falling from the sky covered everything around here, from benches to parked cars.
Just in case, having checked the wand in the holster on the forearm, I threw the bag strap more comfortably and walked on.
Suddenly a man in tattered and old clothes ran out of the doorway. Steam poured from his mouth. He looked around in a hurry and, noticing me, suddenly disappeared. Apparation? There was a clap behind my back, and immediately a wand was put to my neck, and the man's hand grabbed me by the lapel of my clothes. Looks like I relaxed too much. And why do I need a wand? Wizardry will be spotted.
"You'll be a hostage," the man hissed, and three spells without a wand have already surfaced in my head. It is at such moments that you understand the full value of that strange grimoire - that magic is simply outrageous, although there is a sea of little things.
I grabbed his hand, touching the skin, and focused on the desired image, mentally imagining a simple geometric figure of lines on my hand.
"Lizslen," the first word.
"What? ..." the man wanted to continue, but ...
"Nus!"
On the second word, I clearly imagined how magic ran through an imaginary geometric figure. It doesn't matter how you imagine magic, in this spell, you just need to consciously launch some stream along the lines, which is associated with magic.
A sharp wave of heat and steam parted away from the man, enveloping us in a thick impenetrable fog. Even the snow melted under my feet. With my hand, I clearly felt the ice surface. Unscrewing from the grip and quickly turning around, I pushed the figure of this homeless-looking wizard with my hand. There was a frozen grimace of amazement on his face. So he fell, breaking into small fragments of the color of internal organs.