Smoke and dust filling the part of the shop where the entrance used to be categorically refused to dissipate or settle. Magical sensitivity failed before the background from several area spells that worked outside. Feeling blind on all fronts is terrible.
Mrs. Malfoy began to make small passes with her wand quite quickly, moving her lips soundlessly, and Mr. Burke made one wide swing, raising a wind in the shop. The air stream was not particularly strong, but sufficient to blow away all the smoke and dust.
A torn-up alley with several bloody but living bodies. Specifically in this place, the alley was cramped, and the passages were short, little space. And among this narrow space, a humanoid in torn, stretched clothes in places and with bright beastly features, especially the head—under-transformed wolfish—caught the eye. He had just leaned over one of the survivors, opening his mouth wide, but seeing us deep in the shop, changed priorities.
Jerking sharply in our direction, this creature picked up huge speed in the blink of an eye. Perception began to slow down—thanks to the brain for that. But at that moment I was not worried about the rays of spells flying from Mr. Burke, which the creature easily dodged. I seemed to... what was it called in the past life? Bogged down in flashbacks. Instead of the shop and the torn-up street of Knockturn, I saw completely different streets mired in blood. They changed one after another. Saw the same monsters or similar ones, slightly different, and sometimes completely turned. Saw deaths, crying and grief.
How could I forget about this side of werewolves? About their combat form, which they are unable to take by their own will, but only with the help of magic, not on a full moon? Where were all these memories hiding?
I returned to reality sharply, but not completely, still staying somewhere there and with a familiar movement putting my hand in front of me, pointing a finger at the target. Like on a slow-motion film, Mr. Burke's voice sounded. He and Mrs. Malfoy, whom I saw with peripheral vision, moved as if in extremely thick jelly, but these are the costs of my perception. But that creature moved more than briskly.
Still partially staying in fragments of memories, I instantly, on reflexes and habits that surfaced along with frames from life, created a simple magical contour in the space in front of me. Somewhere in the back of my mind it flashed that it is not simple at all, but this is just an echo...
The werewolf moved in my direction as to the nearest opponent. Although I know for sure that he saw only a victim. Somewhere there, on the torn-up alley, a pair of wizards in black moved slowly, raindrops fell slowly. Stupid creature...
The werewolf stepped over the line invisible to him and began to fall apart into bleeding cubes. He moved very fast, so the cubes had high speed and inertia.
As if an unknown switch worked, and everything around began to move at the proper speed, and we were doused with a horizontal stream of cubes and blood, safely flowing down from some protection, not mine.
"Bro!" came through the noise of the rain the cry of one of the wizards in black, who appeared in the alley and paid no attention to the victims, either lying on the stone path or hanging from breaks in the walls.
This wizard instantly pointed his wand at us, and the next moment an unknown to me and clearly dark spell flew almost close, which was stopped by an equally dark film of a shield from Burke standing nearby.
"Don't yawn," he wheezed, responding with a similar gray clot at the enemy who built protection.
The enemy's shield was quite wide, drops of a dense curtain of rain broke against it, clearly outlining the boundaries of protection. The second wizard in black stood next to the first and quickly began to rummage through his pockets.
"Eat the potion and tear them apart," the voice of these wizards reached my hearing.
Burke bombarded those with spells without any words, but the protection stubbornly held. Somewhere from the side inappropriate noise broke through, which was impossible to recognize due to the downpour—no matter how sharp my hearing is, it will never become elven due to banal anatomy, and I will not be able to truly separate sounds into components.
"DMLE won't come," Mrs. Malfoy's calm voice rang out, continuing to make quick passes with her wand.
I almost coped with my strange state, driving away from consciousness these flashbacks that disappeared without a trace in memory, and now looked at the turning, changing wizard without those associations that were in my head a moment ago. Everything went away, and I couldn't even really understand what exactly. But several quite precise truths remained—such werewolves are no longer people. If small beastly features began to appear in a werewolf even in human form, then this is no longer a person with the capabilities of a beast, but a beast with the mind of a person. This was an axiom in my head. Unfortunately, only one means is applicable to such creatures despite all the omnipotence of magic, and it was such beasts that those two wizards were, one of whom practically became a semi-transformed creature.
Not the time for lengthy reflections, even if I can afford it. I don't like to feel suffering in magic—a relic of the elf shard, in whose life such a thing was clearly associated with death magic. I don't like the suffering of the uninvolved, but everyone should get what they deserve, but by no means in a random skirmish—a relic of the dwarf shard. And such relics and conventions rake up a large wagon and a small cart...
The werewolf finished the transformation, turning into a rather scary and clumsy humanoid, slightly increased in size. At the same moment the beast rushed towards us at huge speed, leaving behind a trail of raindrops breaking against its body. It moved in jerks.
Mrs. Malfoy finished her cast, and the space around rippled. Somehow incorrectly the rain began to drip, water flowed incorrectly, even breathing was strange. But this wave of distortions went not to the sides, but strictly forward. The werewolf could not catch his paws on the wall to which he jumped. He slipped, falling on the stone road and rolling head over heels, raising jets of water. Quickly fluttering and twitching on the stone, he tried to get up, but could not—only growled. His accomplice, who still held the protection, swayed and grabbed his head, but did not lower the protection, but the most suspicious thing—put his hand in his pocket.
Shaking my head, finally and irrevocably I rejected unnecessary thoughts. Quick as an electric discharge, volitional message, and here in one hand a bow, and in the other an arrow. The bowstring is taut, fueled by storm energy with only one message—death. Elastic ringing of the bowstring, instant stroke of the arrow passing through the protection of the last wizard in black.
A second—exactly as much time it took his body to literally burn to the ground in invisible flames, disappear in smoke, evaporate under the influence of invisible electricity. The bow disappeared from my hands as quickly as it appeared, and I myself already took out the wand and headed towards the werewolf floundering in the water. How strong is the downpour? Triangles continued to fly around me, creating protection, pushing aside garbage at the entrance to the shop, and then water on the road.
Throwing on the hood, I began tirelessly and without a break, instantly casting one Incarcerous after another completely sparing no magic. The smell of freshness mixed with burnt flesh hit the nose—there was almost no air movement here, and the downpour could not dispel this smell in a couple of seconds.
Approaching the werewolf, representing a frantically twitching larva, even a cocoon, consisting entirely of ropes, from which only a head clicking jaws stuck out, I pulled the hood deeper—the feeling that unexpected witnesses would appear soon did not leave.
Water from the downpour flowed around me, stained with blood in places. Only now did I notice how much the atmosphere is saturated with pain and groans. Torn-up walls of houses in different places, fragments. There were few people on the streets—they were at home. At such moments you understand that no matter how deserted Knockturn seems, people live in houses, and here they got it the most. Screams were heard in the distance. Perhaps someone will come here soon.
Pointing the wand at the werewolf, concentrated life energy.
"Hear, animal?" I spoke quietly, and I didn't need to look at myself from the side to see the image of that very elf, posture, gestures, even if I was in a dull black robe with a hood. "Get acquainted with the principle of equivalent exchange. You inflicted all these injuries on dying people, at your expense they will be healed. Are you glad?"
In response, only growling and clicking of jaws were heard. Behind my back I heard the steps of approaching Mrs. Malfoy, whose charms, in fact, played an extremely important role, even if she needed time to create them.
Life energy rushed in a dense green snake from my wand to the werewolf—it was so dense that it had a visual manifestation. Only in it there was not a positive shade of blooming foliage, but putrid, decay and death—that very reverse side of the coin. Touching the werewolf, it began to drain him, diverging in colorless waves around. If there were sensitive, really sensitive to magic wizards here, they would have fallen into strong cognitive dissonance from the duality of sensations.
With a willful effort I directed magic to heal the victims at the expense of the werewolf's life. Blood flowed through the water, gathering from spots into streams, rushing to their owners. Their flesh healed, wounds. Fractures fused. It lasted literally a few seconds, and here the few victims who remained conscious examined themselves with bewilderment, someone exclaimed joyfully, and someone even cried.
In place of the werewolf remained only dust and a "deflated" cocoon of Incarcerous, and all this dissolved in rainwater, flowing away with it.
"Didn't think you reached dark healing in the Hogwarts library," Mrs. Malfoy's calm voice rang out from the side of me, and I turned to her.
She, like me, stood with a hood on, hiding her identity. With a volitional command I returned triangles almost invisible to the eye back to the bracelet under clothes, and along with their disappearance protection disappeared, allowing the downpour to fall on me. But this did not cause any discomfort. Actually, Mrs. Malfoy didn't complain either—her clothes didn't absorb a single drop, everything flowed down.
Squelching shoes through the water, Mr. Burke approached us, getting wetter every second.
"Not bad, worthy sorcery," he nodded. "Local poor fellows don't have to count on Ministry help, and won't go to Mungo's—not enough money. Many would have died here, which I wouldn't want—live side by side."
"We need to go," Mrs. Malfoy was clearly going to leave the scene in a hurry. "DMLE won't come to help, but will appear immediately for clarification."
"We are mute as fish," Mr. Burke smirked. "Actually, as always."
Mrs. Malfoy and I moved quickly, but without haste along the alleys, leaving the scene, leaving behind a torn-up quarter. A couple of turns, a couple of oncoming wizards rushing to the scene, but not "lawmen"—just caring ones.
"Who put up the Anti-Apparition barrier?" I asked, as if addressing the space.
"Don't know, and don't want to know."
We got out of the lowland in which this little quarter was, and the stone road underfoot ceased to represent one continuous puddle, although the downpour was not going to subside. A couple more alleys, and we will go out to Diagon Alley.
"Didn't think, honestly, that there are potions turning werewolves into such... semi-form."
"There are potions allowing to keep the beast under control, there are allowing not to turn, albeit absurdly expensive. Why, in your opinion, Mr. Granger, cannot there be such a thing?"
"Also true."
We left the zone of action of the Anti-Apparition barrier, and a couple more wizards came across us, glancing briefly at us, but not lingering their gaze—they stood under the arch of the passage between houses, hiding from the rain.
"As if nothing happened," I chuckled.
"Charms," Mrs. Malfoy answered briefly. "This is Knockturn. Every little quarter is silenced. Can stand in the neighboring alley and not hear the explosion of Bombarda."
"And often such things happen here?"
Turning the corner, we found ourselves in a rather long alley leading to Diagon Alley—colorful walls of houses on the shopping street cannot be confused with anything, and rare wizards running there were bright and well-groomed. Even here the downpour does not stop them from aimlessly wandering along counters and shops.
"No. Situation with werewolves is aggravating last years more and more strongly. But I didn't see a reason for such actions on their part. Most likely, didn't share something with someone."
We went out to Diagon Alley, immediately going under the awning of a small shop half a meter from the passage to Knockturn. Silence and relative peace reigned here—unless the downpour drove not such a large number of wizards to cross the road with a light run.
"Well... It was a productive hike," I expressed my thoughts while Mrs. Malfoy looked for someone with her eyes, I assume, husband and son. "And I am a little surprised by your calmness."
"You, Mr. Granger," she continued to slide her gaze over wizards and showcases, "came to our world in a quiet time and did not catch many really amazing deeds and wizards whose sorcery struck imagination. Some say that the level of education fell. No—the level of motivation fell."
Mrs. Malfoy, like me, noticed Draco with his father walking along Diagon Alley, completely ignoring the rain. Importantly, with dignity, and water simply flowed down an invisible film around them.
"Forced to say goodbye to you," she turned to me for a moment. "See, you chose the direction of healing not in vain. Don't drop it."
"Didn't intend to. All the best."
Mrs. Malfoy headed to her family, and I immediately hid myself with magic from prying eyes.
Leaving Diagon Alley, and then the Leaky Cauldron, in which despite the early morning visitors were already sitting and warming themselves with hot food and alcoholic drinks, I reflected on how much I relaxed. No, this is not quite the correct phrase. I didn't relax—I didn't concentrate enough on various tasks, living gradually, quietly, peacefully. The world is cruel—this is an immutable truth, seemingly characteristic of any of them. Wizards created a kind of little world inside the world. But it is very... small, concentrated, if one can say so, and the probability of encountering cruelty here is much higher than outside it. True, the same applies to everything else. I didn't take this into account. This issue needs to be considered, and plans—slightly adjusted. But for a start—wait for the fifth and fulfill the order transmitted through Delacour. If this is not a trap, of course. And if a trap—fulfill anyway, but then will have to give the Frenchman a beating too. Or somehow otherwise hint, possibly not very subtly, that his policy regarding me is fundamentally wrong.
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advanced chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell