"Some people are just born unlucky." Although I could also count myself among the ranks of losers. Well, of course. I've been living in the woods near Hogwarts for three days now. I decided to play it safe. I found out a little earlier in Hogsmeade when they were planning the attack on Hogwarts. Those little pure-blooded bastards didn't always even bother to silence themselves. I don't know how Draco planned to keep everything a secret, but Parkinson and Zabini were whispering sweetly to each other as they strolled through the village. And I'm pretty good at eavesdropping spells.
"This is it." A bright green flash lit up the top of the Astronomy Tower, and the great puppeteer flew down like a lifeless doll. I didn't rush out yet. What if Dumbledore wasn't planning on dying for good and I'd run into an unpleasant surprise? I don't know if Potter was looking at his headmaster, but I could see the screams and flashes of spells from down below.
The old man didn't move, didn't disappear, and behaved as usual. For a corpse. I decided not to go too close anyway.
"Accio, the Elder Wand." The gnarled traitor fell easily into my hand. I didn't want to try it, afraid. It was an ancient relic, after all. Very bloody and fatal to its owners. What if I suddenly felt an unprecedented power and didn't want to part with it? Until my death? He turned again and looked at the white spot under the tower. This is what the end of the Great Light Mage looks like. Darkness, fog, and nearby, the gloomy castle where he spent most of his life. The noise grew louder, followed by the first screams. Apparently, the Devourers had left the castle, and the professor and children were on their way to the Hogwarts headmaster. I quickly left the anti-apparition zone.
"Apparease." I teleported near Gringotts, wanting to leave the artefact in the safe right away. There was no point in tempting myself with great power that I didn't deserve. Besides, it didn't belong to me. With these thoughts in mind, I walked into the hall and headed for the next goblin. The counter-spell should last another twenty minutes, and then I'll cast an illusion over it.
After paying for the consultant, I went with the next goblin to a separate booth. I didn't ask their names, nor did I remember them; every time I had to work with a new representative of this people. I was not the heir to a Great or Ancient Family, so I was not allowed to have personal representatives. They only spoke to me because of my small usefulness to their community and my finances.
"I want to book a small ritual hall." "That's 300 Galleons for one day."
"What kind of rituals?" It was necessary to specify. Depending on this, the room was prepared and an additional fee was charged for ritual instruments.
"Thanksgiving and Bloodless Sacrifice," I said, and they looked at me thoughtfully again. As if they were cutting me into pieces somewhere in their cursed dungeons.
"Forty Galleons. When do you need the hall?" He began to fill out another parchment.
"Tomorrow, after lunch." I don't know why, but I didn't want to postpone the ritual, as if something inside me was urging me on. And I trusted my intuition, which I had inherited from the real Patrick, unquestioningly.
"Here and here." I cast a spell of consent on the indicated places in the magical rental agreement. "Our specialists have cast a Fidelius spell on the indicated building. And they cleaned up." He looks at me again as if he's drilling a hole in my skull.
"How much?" The feeling that he would have to pay for the disposal of the Devourers' bodies weighed heavily on his shoulders. The money he had earned literally slipped through his fingers into the greedy hands of the goblins.
"Gringotts Bank is willing to pay for the trophies that are rightfully yours as the victors." If I hadn't been sitting down, I would have fallen over. THEY are willing to pay? What could the Devourers have found so interesting? Lost in thought, I tried to analyse the situation. Not so long ago, I myself had asked them to "get lost"; nothing was stopping the green-skinned creatures from taking what they wanted. But now they were officially offering to buy back the trophies. And they didn't specify which ones. There was no point in trying to get those things back; they wouldn't give them back. And my life wasn't worth much to them. It turned out that buying what they needed from me was the shortest way for them to get what they wanted for their own use. All that remained was to name a price that would suit both sides.
"Three thousand Galleons," I blurted out at random.
"As a representative of Gringotts Bank, I accept your offer, Mr. O'Henley." There you go, Mordred, I clearly sold myself short if he agreed so quickly.
"Transfer it to my personal account," I said, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. How much did I lose? Prices like that were only for family heirlooms. And who could I fit in my little pharmacy?
"Certainly." Bowing to the satisfied goblin, I felt like I'd been spat on. If my assumptions were correct, these trinkets were worth at least ten thousand. The only consolation was that my intuition was satisfied. After all, it would have been cheaper for the little people to kill me and perform a few rituals than to pay the full price for such items.
The house on Grimm Street was closed. The owls couldn't find it, spells didn't work, and the fireplaces were out. The Order couldn't gather. Everyone was starting to panic, especially Molly. She had long planned to move her family to the protection of the old mansion.
Inside, Creacher was grinning as he moved through the old, cluttered corridors. The unworthy owner had finally got what he deserved. His poor mistress had suffered so much because of the unworthy Heir. And now he was writhing on the ritual stone. His cries could be heard throughout the corridor. Critcher, an old elf of the Black family, could watch everything through a small crack in the half-open door. Even so, he couldn't stay there too long. The magic was going crazy and lashing the Heir with long black whips. After one last look at the punishment of the unworthy boy, the elf hurried to the portrait of his dear mistress to tell her the latest news. It had been three days since the young Master had begun the ritual of accepting the Black family. But Magic did not forgive his transgressions. Punishments followed one after another. For the rituals of gratitude and support that had not been performed. For failing to fulfil his magical duty to his godson, the last of the Potters. And also for renouncing the Clan. Even if it was not magical, all his actions and his careless attitude had consequences. For the last day, the man's body had been contorted by magical blows. All this time, he could not die or lose consciousness. The contender for the leadership would have to pay for his sins in full.
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