The real scam begins when everyone thinks it's already over.© Beyond Reality
***Surprisingly, everything went as well as it possibly could have. The homunculus played the role of the resurrected Dark Lord perfectly, and René did a good job of portraying my old acquaintance Peter, whose hair, I don't know how, was provided by Crouch Sr. I made sure that Barty had no doubt that the vile creature ordering him to marry the first woman he met in order to successfully restore His Darkest Lord was Lord of Destiny himself.
My only doubt was that Barty would not dare to sacrifice his unborn child, even if it was from a stranger. This was clearly not something even the most loyal supporter would do, especially one raised in the pure-blooded aristocracy, for whom offspring were a very important aspect of life. However, for Barty, who seemed to have completely lost his mind during his time in unforgivable circumstances, it was something that went without saying.
A child — and Mordred with him, if it would help to finally revive his idol and master. After a short wedding ceremony in the presence of a single witness, followed by the consummation of the marriage, Barty set off for the land of pink ponies... or whatever else a mad wizard might dream of. The homunculus was destroyed, and the guests of the estate retired to their rooms to tidy themselves up.
Even if it didn't work out the first time... Well, Krauch was lucky that Miss Treffle-Pique voluntarily agreed to it. When I made inquiries, I was very surprised to learn that the mercenary nicknamed "Sparrow" was, in fact, the long-sought heiress of a rather wealthy French family, formerly of countly descent. After one unfortunate accident, the family lost most of its members, changed its head, but only increased its wealth and influence in the current magical France. However, the missing orphan, who was wanted by the guild of assassins, also had a reward on her head equal to her own weight in gold. It is noteworthy that this reward was only payable if she was dead.
It was not difficult to understand the intricacies of French politics, but it was more difficult to arrange another meeting with Krauch Sr., only this time with his potential "daughter-in-law." As I understood, she was able to extract something else from Krauch, in addition to the generous monetary reward and guarantees of immunity that had been offered initially.
However, that was no longer my concern. I was acting more as a mediator, not taking into account, of course, that I was also acting in my own interests, and that the guests were practically at my mercy for the duration of their stay in the Black family home. I did not abuse my position and, in general, I was as polite as possible to those who, from the very beginning, had tried to kill me. As it turned out, the two French fugitives were not in that gang by accident.
Money doesn't smell, even money earned from trading intelligent beings, so I didn't feel sorry for the young Veela. She got what she wanted when she could have easily refused. As I have already mentioned, voluntariness is not an empty word in such matters. Although... perhaps I was just trying to appease my conscience with such thoughts.
***However, when the performance was over and the actors returned to their places, I went back to my study and poured myself some amber liquid from a cold decanter standing on the table. One of the few quiet evenings awaited me, spent reading an interesting book from the family collection. The one from the part that was closed even to other members of the family.
"Well, things are slowly getting back to normal," I thought, savouring the taste of fifty-year-old bourbon. The tart drink burned my taste buds, washing away the slight taste of blackmail on my lips. I had a long evening ahead of me. I needed to fill in at least some of the gaps in my education from Sirius's long-gone youth, and I needed to do it as soon as possible, if only for my own safety, because in this world, it was all too easy to get into trouble without knowing some very important little detail.
Well, tomorrow, I hope I'll get rid of my uninvited guests and be able to fully devote myself to family matters. Political allies are one thing, but the Black family was not only famous for them and its material wealth. The letters had already been sent out, and it was necessary to remind the less loyal vassals of their duty to their suzerain, settle accumulated financial matters, and do many other things. But first and foremost, as a full-fledged magician, I needed a magic wand that was perfect for me.
***
Agusto Gregorovich had devoted almost his entire life to the family craft. Like the Ollivanders, the Gregorovich family had been creating magical concentrators since the days of the Roman Empire, and even earlier, during the Roman Republic. It was then, in the fifth century BC, that through conquest and expansion, Rome began to gradually capture more and more other cities, and the young state needed universal concentrators that could quickly turn a novice apprentice into a formidable fighting force.
It was then that the concept of magic wands, which exist to this day, was born. Created based on the magic wands used by the gods themselves, the first magical concentrators were not particularly elegant.
Thus, while the magic wands described in Homer's Iliad and Odyssey possessed divine powers that allowed Hermes to put thousands of people to sleep and Athena to turn Odysseus into an old man before making him young again, the magical concentrators created by human craftsmen merely improved the interaction of magicians with neutral mana, helping them to quickly master a somewhat limited set of spells.
However, nothing stands still. Magical progress has long changed the appearance and content of tools until they reached their modern form: neat, not too long, unlike staffs, and obedient to the will of their owners. At the same time, any self-respecting master sought to improve this pinnacle of magical thought even further, finding and refining possible flaws.
The Ollivanders, for example, who honed their skills in combining the cores of various magical animals over hundreds of years, settled on three, which, when combined with the right wood, allow the elemental aspects of the owner to be fully revealed. Their methods of finding the right wood for the body and selecting the appropriate magical core to create a wand that is perfectly suited to its owner are a closely guarded secret of the master and the envy of many less successful competitors.
The Gregorovichs, however, have always placed greater emphasis on the individuality of the wand and its capacity, not limiting themselves to a set of three pitiful cores from all the splendour of existing magical creatures. Agusto devoted his entire life to creating a wand with a perfect core and shell, surpassing other craftsmen by a head or even two. Unlike Garric Ollivander, with whom the old master had an unspoken rivalry, Gregorovich used not only phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings, and unicorn hair in his cores. Thunderbirds, nundu, vampus, even the wizard's own hair — the main thing was that the wand perfectly matched its owner and was not mass-produced like on an assembly line.
In his search, he tried almost everything. All kinds of trees, even iron and other metals, parts of the bodies of magical animals themselves, mainly bones, and yet he still had not achieved the perfect result. There was always a small percentage of error, of inconsistency, which drove his inner perfectionist crazy and made him doubt his own skill.
In his relentless search, during which he created true masterpieces recognised by everyone except the master himself, the discovery of her seemed like a mockery. The ideal. Like rubbish, it lay next to other sticks on the counter of a black market dealer, from whom he sometimes bought old concentrates for a pittance for further study.
That day, the junk dealer was unlucky. The price the master named, not yet knowing the real value of this specimen, did not please the inhabitant of the dark quarter of magical Germany, and he decided that he could easily deal with the old man, who had unwisely taken a large sum of money with him, but hardly expected to receive such a powerful rebuff.
A representative of an ancient pure-blooded family of wand makers, he had seen a lot in his lifetime, and even at such a respectable age, it was not difficult for Augusto to deal with the hapless robber. In his opinion, it was much more difficult to get the heartstring of a manticore for one of his particularly demanding customers.
Returning home and beginning to examine the magical instruments that had changed hands many times, the man almost fainted when he realised that after so many years of fruitless attempts, the work of his life was suddenly right in front of him. The older wand, or rather, the then still unknown elder wand, suited Augusto so well that he could not contain his indignation. How?! How could a wand that had long belonged to another wizard, that had not been made to his specifications, be absolutely and completely suited to a stranger?
It was unthinkable, outrageous, and simply scandalous, but it was a fact. As was another feature of this wand. For the first time in many, many years of work, the master could not recognise the core. It seemed to be simply not there, but it was there, imperceptible, as if immaterial, like a light feather on the edge of perception, which Gregorovich could not grasp. It was a mystery that could only be solved in one way, after which the legendary stick would be lost forever, so even though the temptation was great at first, he decided not to do it, considering such a method sacrilegious to the legendary artefact.
For a long time, Agusto struggled to solve this puzzle, but to no avail. The capabilities of the Elder Wand were mind-boggling. The perfect synergy and power of the spells seemed to increase several times over, while consuming virtually no energy from the wizard himself. Even Gregorovich, who was not the strongest, admitted this without hesitation, as a wizard taking the cursed magical concentrator in his hands, suddenly felt omnipotent, ready to drain the seas and bring mountains down to the level of the earth, like the sorcerers of legend who lived in ancient times, long before the appearance of Augustus himself and the establishment of the Roman Empire, damn it.
But Gregorovich refused to do this and did what he did best. He made wands. Studying the mysterious artefact and the runes carved on it, he made many discoveries. His name became so famous that it surpassed even the centuries-old glory of his own family. The owner of the elder staff. After some time, he even made it his personal brand, and only a few knew that, apart from studying, Agusto Gregorovich hardly ever used the elder staff for work. The temptation was too great, the power too strong, and the tugging feeling in his chest left a taste of decay on the tip of his tongue, causing a vague, vague anxiety.
Over time, he came to understand what was at the heart of the Elder Wand, which, according to a legend recorded only in the fifteenth century by Beedle, had been made by Death himself. But this understanding did not make him happier, nor did it bring satisfaction and the desired peace to his soul. At that moment, he understood why the elder wand was so readily given to anyone who used it. And for what reason the fate of any of its owners never ended well.
When a young man with golden hair, resembling a huge bird, stole the Elder Wand from the workshop, which was protected by every conceivable spell, after first stunning the old master with a spell, he seemed to rejoice, breathing a sigh of relief.
Deep down, though he was reluctant to admit it, Gregorovich had long wanted to part with the one who whispered strange and terrifying visions to him every night, who begged to be taken into his hands as soon as he approached or accidentally came too close.
That which is present beside a person from the moment of their birth, watching over their shoulder, smiling and waiting for its hour. That which will accept everyone, comes and waits for all. Death.
Gregorovich, in fact, had long known what had been left inside the stick. According to legend, the elder Peverell, a warlike man, had asked for a magical concentrate, the most powerful in the world, so that its owner would always win in combat. Such a magic wand was worthy of a man who had defeated Death itself! Then Death broke off a branch from a nearby elder tree, made a magic wand out of it, and gave it to his eldest brother... Gregorovich had, of course, read and reread this story many times, and it seemed he could recite one of Beedle's tales from memory.
The problem was that no craftsman could make a magic wand from wood alone. There were many cores for wands. The hearts of magical creatures, their feathers, veins and hair, wool, and sometimes something completely unimaginable, passed down from mouth to mouth by different peoples. Anything that collects and gives off energy. In the most extreme cases, if none of these things were available, any amateur could make the simplest of all magical concentrators, using just a tree branch and a lock of hair imbued with his own magic.
As has been said many times, the old master always knew what was inside the legendary artefact. However, he could not immediately believe that, despite all his efforts, he would never be able to create the perfect wand, as this was beyond the capabilities of an ordinary person, even one endowed with magic.
After some time, Gregorovich retired and began teaching his grandson. He no longer took orders, only occasionally selling some of the items he had created during his lifetime to wealthy clients. He had accumulated a large number of them; during its existence, the Gregorovich family had made enough wands to ensure a comfortable old age for themselves and their distant great-grandchildren, and after finding the Elder Wand, the number had doubled, if not tripled.
Augusto had no intention of showing anyone the two magical concentrators he had created using the power of the Elder Stick. They were not suitable for ordinary people. The components and the power they contained were too specific. They were different, like night and day, and at the same time similar, like two peas in a pod, as was the power contained within them by the artefact.
Uncompromisingly dark, rebellious, with a slight taste of ash on the lips, it was perhaps the only one of all his creations that truly resembled the Elder Wand. It was the same as the one belonging to the tall figure who had entered his workshop one day, forcing him to vividly remember all the events of his relatively young life.
"Sorry I'm late, master, I had... ahem... an unexpected delay.
***
The entire story has already been written at:
patreon.com/posts/reborn-as-sirius-142654970