The wolf hunt is on,
The hunt is on.
For the grey predators
The old and the young.
The beaters shout and the dogs bark until they vomit
Blood on the snow and red spots of flags
(c) V. Vysotsky
***In Britain, Christmas is celebrated on the twenty-fifth of December. This date was probably chosen in ancient times to coincide with the winter festival in Rome called "Saturnalia". But preparations for the holiday begin long before it arrives. First comes Advent, the pre-Christmas fast, which begins on the fourth Sunday before Christmas.
"Have a Happy Holiday Season" is what the English say to each other during this period, which means "happy holiday season." Advent is a special holiday that primarily involves observing church traditions, but some rituals are also observed at home.
The magical world, despite its secrecy, also celebrates this bright holiday. The only difference between the magical world and the ordinary world is that Muggles question the very existence of gods, dragons and other creatures.
Just as magic is an everyday attribute of any wizard, so too are magical creatures, which can be found in the pages of bestiaries, in reservations or in nature reserves. The gods also fit into a clear picture of the world, which was considerably curtailed for the simple-minded by the Statute adopted in the 17th century.
But knowing is not the same as believing. And "believing" in turn does not mean "knowing."
As the French writer and philosopher of the Renaissance, Michel de Montaigne, rightly noted, "people believe nothing so firmly as they believe what they know least about." It is difficult to disagree with this. By eradicating any reliable references to magic and magical creatures, magicians, without knowing it, cut off a significant piece of the planet's history, turning it into myths and legends pieced together from surviving sources, where gods and mad titans burning the earth in devastating wars are nothing more than legends. Aliens from other planets and worlds are conspiracy theories. Breaches in the fabric of reality that distort the essence and souls of people are the machinations of the devil and evil witches.
Real history has turned into legends and fairy tales. But not for magicians, some of whom still remember the events of a thousand years ago, when the son of one of the immortals sacrificed his life to prevent the destruction of Earth. And he did not allow it. He left such a mark on human history that it was considered blasphemy to erase it.
So, contrary to the widespread belief of the illiterate part of the magical community, Christmas was also celebrated in ancient magical families. It conveniently combined gift-giving and decorating a festive tree with the ancient tradition of Yule, associated with the Wild Hunt, the Scandinavian god Odin, and the Old English festival of Modranith.
However, reverence and sincere belief in these deities are not part of the tradition of celebration at all. Gods rarely interfere in the lives of ordinary people, and the Wild Hunt has not descended to earth for a very long time, turning from a real threat into one that can be ignored. The holiday had a practical application.
Any magician with a little knowledge of ritualism will tell you with absolute certainty that the winter solstice is one of the best days for performing almost any ritual. Simply because, unlike other days of the year, no complex calculations are required. Ready-made templates can be found in almost any good textbook or monograph. To solve my problems, I used the latter.***Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa of Nettesheim was a well-known German magician, who was even depicted on the insert for magic frogs. He lived in the 15th-16th centuries in Cologne, Germany. Since the Statute had not yet been adopted at that time, he quite legally wrote works on alchemy, ritualism, and astronomy. He was a well-respected man on both sides of the world. Agrippa was also a practising healer, despite the dark nature of his gift, by the way. This did not prevent him from mowing down the dogs of the Holy Inquisition who came for his soul.
Later, after the Statute was passed, he preferred to simply stage his own death and move completely into the magical world, severing all ties with Muggles. So, during his lifetime (unless, of course, he faked his own death a second time), Agrippa wrote several works that made him famous about wizard children, magical compatibility, vectors of power, and other interesting things. I was particularly interested in the question of compatibility.
A thick book from the family library, bound in ordinary calfskin for variety, which had been read and set aside at the right page, gave me an idea of what to do with the long-suffering Barty. On the one hand, everything turned out to be simpler than I thought, and at the same time much more complicated.
A complex set of rituals performed on Yola night according to all the rules, allowing one to understand the approximate compatibility of one magician with another, unexpectedly yielded several results and made it possible to determine the approximate location where to look for a female magician to pair him with. These rituals themselves were not complicated; a drop of blood from two intelligent beings allowed us to understand whether the spouses would be able to conceive sufficiently strong and viable offspring. Similar procedures are also carried out in the non-magical world. For example, if a child begins to develop the father's or third blood type, which is incompatible with the mother's, an immunological conflict may occur. In the magical world, it is even more complicated: in addition to the Rhesus factor, the child's development is influenced by the intensity and colour of magic, various curses and magical diseases.
If a series of coincidences occur, the child may die during childbirth simply because the baby's magic is incompatible with the mother's, or because a dormant curse has suddenly been activated, resonating with the child's magical core. Such excesses were almost completely neutralised by the compatibility rituals I performed with Barty Jr.'s blood.
The difficulty lay in the fact that, apart from general information about Krauch's supposed partner, no information could be obtained due to the absence of this very partner. I had to find a woman without any initial data at all, which was no easy task.
However, it could be made easier with a rather complex and laborious search ritual, and Yule was the perfect time to perform it, as the boundary between worlds becomes a little thinner and there is slightly more magic on the planet than usual. So, like a girl guessing her future husband, or a gypsy fortune teller, I sat over a map covered with runes, marking the places indicated by a special artefact pendant. It took a lot of time and effort, and there wasn't much time left before dawn, so I had to hurry.
***
Appearing at the specified coordinates was a real pain. Before leaving the displacement vortex, you had to use magic to check the area where you wanted to end up and only then materialise completely. Moreover, everything had to be done very quickly so that Merlin didn't end up stuck in a pillar or wall that was standing in that spot.
Killing the mage won't kill him, but you can only regrow a "split" limb painlessly within ten seconds. After that, drink some bone-healing potion and a couple of other nasty-tasting potions to restore what you lost, but there's no guarantee that everything will work out. And if you accidentally bump into something saturated with magic, you could lose something permanently, like Barty did. So it is safest to travel to places you have already been. You can change your point of arrival without any extra spells, and the risk of ending up somewhere you don't want to be is much lower.
However, in my case, I had to make do with only approximate coordinates on a scrap of parchment.
The most complete map of Britain (which included both non-magical territory and extensive hidden places) had only seven points. And I had never been to any of them. Appearing a little way from my original point of departure, I had to check where I had actually ended up before moving on. And even then, after moving to the first area of the map, to a deserted road, I was almost hit by a car, which did not put me in a good mood.
Not only was I exhausted after training with my grandfather and wanted to sleep, but jumping around in search of a bride for Barty in the freezing cold on the eve of the holiday did not inspire me at all. However, there was nothing else to do, and there might not be another suitable opportunity after the New Year. So, after falling out of the apparition funnel, I rolled into a ditch and got away from the old black cab, which, for a change, didn't even turn on its headlights. Then, after cleansing myself with magic, I headed in the direction indicated by the pendant.
The first point suggested by the ritual was in the English county of Kent, on the road leading to the village of Maltmans Hill. Since the map was not very detailed, the pendant covered both this village and the nearby village called Plackley. Until the very last moment, I hoped that I was still in Maltmans Hill, as the second location is much better known by another name: "The Village of Twelve Ghosts" or "The Ghost Reserve." But hope dies last, and the cursed pendant clearly pointed me to the ghost village. However, there might be some kind of sorcerer's community in this village that scares the common people. Or maybe it's just another variation of anti-Muggle spells. In any case, the pendant pointed exactly there, so I enlarged my old "Purity Meter" and flew under a cloaking spell to the mysterious place.
The village itself was unremarkable compared to other old English villages. A couple of streets, the Black Horse pub, where a couple of rooms were available for rent, a butcher's shop, a primary school and a church - that was all there was to see. On the other hand, unlike in Russia, where old villages were not a particularly pleasant sight, consisting of dilapidated wooden huts or new buildings covered with siding, the village of Plackey was more like a well-appointed town. It had old stone and brick buildings covered with a thick layer of snow, well-kept courtyards, picturesque views of the hill and a small forest. And a central square with a huge tree in the middle.
In fact, a love of ghost stories unites the whole of Britain, and no matter which town you visit, one of the best ways to explore it is to go on a so-called "ghost walk", a tour of places frequented by local ghosts. These walks are available almost everywhere, from large cities such as London, Edinburgh, Bristol and York to smaller villages and towns. The easiest way to find out where and when the next tour starts is to ask at the local tourist office.
As part of a ghost walk, you will be taken through the most beautiful historic streets, shown interesting buildings and entertained with stories about who last saw the "Woman in White", the "Bony Old Woman", the "Transparent Monk", the "Grieving Sailor", the "The Desolate Bridegroom" and other citizens who do not wish to rest in peace. You will never learn all this if you just decide to walk around the city on your own, especially if it is a small place that at first glance does not differ from others, with only residential buildings, even if they are old and beautiful.
So I didn't notice anything special in Plakli. The streets were deserted, and from the height of the plane, I could only see a clearly romantic couple walking near a house and a drunkard wandering near the forest. Otherwise, the village was deserted, with no lights on anywhere. Considering the time of year, this was understandable, although in a larger town, the streets would probably not have been so deserted, especially before Christmas.
Since the pendant had stopped showing the direction and was pointing downwards, I had to climb down, get off the broom and look around. I was in the very centre of the square, which had been slightly decorated for the upcoming holiday. They hadn't even spared the tree, apparently replacing the New Year's tree that was usually put up in the main square in Russia.
Lost in thought for a moment, thinking about the differences between folk traditions of celebrating New Year, I did not immediately notice that the artefact had come to life again, stretching towards the houses. Following it, I found myself at a small brick house, near which the pendant began to swing even more strongly and bounce slightly on the chain. It was clear that this was the place to look.
I didn't rush into the house; a couple of spells gave me an idea that there were three people inside. A man, a woman and a child. Sitting back on my broom, I rose to the second floor and cautiously peeked through the window. It was clearly a bedroom. Through the steamed-up glass, I saw a peaceful scene: a young couple was sleeping in each other's arms on a wide double bed, and a baby of about a year old was snoring peacefully in a small cot. I couldn't see anything else.
Looking at the girl with my magical vision, I realised that she was one of the so-called "unawakened" magicians, who for some reason had not developed their magical abilities and their core had fallen asleep. Such people were not Squibs; they could observe magical phenomena and, with enough diligence, were capable of performing spells, but their potential, undeveloped since childhood, was extremely low. So many of them, for whatever reason, did not end up at Hogwarts or other magical schools and simply lived ordinary lives among Muggles, often without even suspecting the existence of magic. Except that they were less prone to illness, a little luckier, and lived longer than everyone else. The child, by the way, was also a wizard. His core was already one and a half times larger than his mother's, so by the age of eleven, he would definitely receive an invitation to Hogwarts.
In short, there was nothing for me to do here. I wasn't going to break up a happy family for the sake of some lunatic, so I decided to play Santa Claus and cast a couple of protective spells on the house, mainly to ward off minor curses that were particularly effective against growing wizards. I moved away and was about to apparate out of the quiet village when something strange caught my attention.
The tree that stood in the centre of the town was suddenly enveloped in a faintly glowing haze. Intrigued, I walked past a few buildings and saw a strange sight: people in obviously shabby 17th-century clothing were fighting over a large chest of gold. Ghostly gold. A second later, I realised that the people themselves were ghosts.
The fight was heating up, knives, fists, and even teeth were being used, and the long-dead bandits were once again locked in combat for the cursed metal. After the last remaining one was pinned to a tree with a spear, the image collapsed and disappeared.
"What the...?" I blinked in bewilderment, trying to understand what had just happened.
"Want to tell my fortune?" A creaky voice suddenly rang out.
An ugly old woman hobbled towards me from the shadows, a bent stick in one hand and a smoking pipe in the other, from which some black liquid was dripping onto the ground. When I focused on her face, she grinned with rotten teeth.
"The weather is wonderfully beautiful today, the weather is wonderfully beautiful today, the weather is..." From the other side, the couple I had noticed earlier was approaching, but from above I couldn't see that the woman's white dress was a bloodstained burial shroud, and her companion looked like a long-dead monk.
Did someone complain about the lack of people? Here you go, sign for it. Apparently, the urban legends weren't lying in this case; there were ghosts galore in the village. Here's another couple hobbling along, and a car that almost hit me, which is doing something completely incomprehensible and looks suspiciously transparent. I wonder if it's the Yule that's affecting them or if this is a regular occurrence here?
"Want me to tell your fortune?" the old woman started up again.
"I've already had enough fortune-telling for today," I replied, remembering the exorcism spells I had once learned. If the image by the tree was most likely a harmless chrono-projection, then these half-ghosts could cause real harm if they gathered enough strength. "And the weather, yes, magnificent. And it will be even more magnificent when you all disappear... completely. Discedat exspiravit!
One of the simpler necromancy spells created a grey wave that turned the entire friendly undead company to dust, which immediately scattered in the wind.
Hmm... Maybe I should sell the idea to Lockhart? He won't have any material in the near future, and I don't want to show off. Or will he get over it?
Lost in thought, I opened the map and chose a new destination. It turned out to be Glastonbury, one of the oldest towns in England, located in the hilly countryside of Somerset. I hope there aren't any ghosts there.
***
Fortunately, there were no ghosts on St. Michael's Hill, only a spell to scare away Muggles, and near Glastonbury Abbey stood an unregistered and unmarked magical estate, shrouded in spells no worse than those of the Black mansion. Since the pendant clearly pointed there, and I had no desire to navigate magical traps and risk my life for a pig in a poke, I simply made a note to find out who lived there and moved on.
That was the end of my success. The remaining points were a couple of protected mansions and a forty-year-old Muggle-born witch who lived in the magical part of London. There were only two points left, and I had already mentally resigned myself to the fact that I would either have to perform another ritual later, but in other countries, or try surrogate motherhood with women who did not possess magical powers.
And then whatever happens, a child born to a Muggle and a wizard is like a lottery. Maybe he'll be born healthy and magically gifted. Maybe healthy and ungifted. Or maybe he'll turn out worse than the homunculus Riddle, or die in the process due to hereditary diseases that can't be washed out by his mother's magic. Or maybe nothing will happen at all. After all, despite their general similarities, wizards are biologically slightly different from ordinary people, and the more magic a wizard has, the more different they are. Moreover, this is influenced by the nature of the magic itself, as well as a whole bunch of other things. Even in the film, you wouldn't call Voldemort a normal person. Of course, not all changes have such a blatant effect on the body, and not all magic does... In short, it's Russian roulette. And compatibility rituals don't help at all in this case.
All this magical eugenics makes me want to spit, but unfortunately, I still need to figure it out, if only to continue my own lineage.
Anyway, just when I was ready to give up and go to bed, luck suddenly smiled on me. Although I wasn't ready to talk about it right away.
The machine transported me to the west of England, to one of the oldest forests in Gloucestershire. The forest was called Puzzlewood. It was a place abandoned centuries ago for the development and extraction of iron ore, which was mined by open-pit methods, and since then it had become densely overgrown with forest and moss, and unique folds in the terrain called scauls, which are found nowhere else in the world, had formed in the quarry area.
At least, that is the story of the non-magical world. Wizards knew that Puzzlewood was not limited to the official five hectares of protected land; the area of the forest hidden from Muggles was almost half the size of Great Britain. The natural spatial lacuna reliably hid populations of wild griffins and unicorns from prying eyes, and an unprotected traveller behind a tree could well be ambushed by a skulker or a five-legged creature, while in the local lakes, an attempt to catch a harmless gudgeon could well result in the angler becoming the catch of a kelpie. There were also several werewolf settlements here.
Werewolves were quite a problem in the magical world, not least because of the confused and ineffective policies of the Ministry of Magic.
For example, in 1637, a Code of Conduct for werewolves was developed, which they had to sign, promising not to attack anyone and to lock themselves up every full moon. Unsurprisingly, no one signed the Code, as no one wanted to go to the Ministry and admit that they were a werewolf. Later, the same problem arose with the creation of the Werewolf Registry. For many years, this Registry has remained incomplete and unreliable, as many of the newly bitten try to hide their condition to avoid disgrace and expulsion. Simply put, all magicians who were infected and entered into the Register immediately became legally equivalent to centaurs, tritons, and other magical creatures that are considered "conditionally intelligent." This status comes with all the restrictions that it entails.
For example, werewolves are not allowed to appear in crowded places for a week after the full moon. It is even illegal to live near any large settlement of magicians. And if there are houses of wizards within a few kilometres, the werewolf is required to inform all their neighbours about their furry neighbour.
It is also interesting that killing a werewolf in self-defence is not even a violation. After all, this is no longer an ordinary magician, but a creature of increased danger. And according to the law, inspectors can show up at a werewolf's house at any time to check for "a place for isolation." Considering that werewolf blood, saliva, and other internal organs are quite expensive substances due to their rarity and the danger involved in obtaining them, this set of restrictions, along with many others, made it practically legal to do anything to the unfortunate creatures. So, smart magicians were in no hurry to register in the official registry. It was shrinking too quickly.
Since there were officially almost no werewolves in England, but unofficially some families shared the market for magical components, werewolves were dealt with for many years by the creatures and beasts departments of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Populations. For some time, the Creatures Department was responsible for registration and capture, while the Beings Department dealt with assistance and support. Needless to say, no werewolves ever sought such help, so the assistance programme was soon discontinued.
On the other hand, werewolves themselves were far from harmless. In addition to converted magicians who had fled their "dark side" and suppressed their inner beast, there were several werewolf communities in England, most often located in endless magical forests. Since this area was practically uninhabited by wizards due to its danger, werewolves could live in peace, without fear of waking up with a severed limb in their mouth after transformation. However, not all wizards who became werewolves chose the path of solitude; some wizards who had tamed their inner beast joined a guild of mercenaries. They were welcomed there with open arms, as werewolves, even when not in their full form, were much faster and stronger than the average wizard, plus they had natural protection against certain poisons, mental attacks, and even some types of spells.
This is despite the fact that mages themselves are far from weak. Werewolves were involved in guarding cargo, hired for various local conflicts, and even worked as bodyguards. However, due to the fact that mages were unavailable for several days a month due to their transformation, werewolves were not very popular as bodyguards.
In general, with enough desire, werewolves could find work in the Magical World, but this only applied to those who had a wand and knew how to use spells. Registered werewolves could no longer obtain a magical concentrator legally, let alone receive a full education at a magic school.
Only Remus's father, Lyle Lupin, who during his time working in the Department for the Regulation of Magical Populations managed to earn both considerable authority and a large number of debtors, was able to not only protect his son from registration, but also get him into Hogwarts, ensuring that he could become a normal wizard.
The rest were not so lucky, so they lived in a kind of reservation, serving as the main legal supplier of various magical ingredients. These ranged from all kinds of herbs that grew in magical forests to the fur and blood of werewolves themselves.
The illegal market was happy to provide those who wanted it with the heart of a magical creature, brain fluid, or other ingredients used in many "forbidden" potions. I think there is no need to explain how these ingredients were obtained.
Judging by the sounds reaching my ears, I will most likely see everything with my own eyes.
Ha, I'm as lucky as a drowned man.
***
The entire story has already been written at:
patreon.com/posts/reborn-as-sirius-142654970