A middling restaurant in London couldn't boast a large number of visitors this evening. The interior, harmoniously combining European and Asian notes, soft lighting, polite service and very good food for an average price by the capital's standards—is what can please a tired me, and Mr. Delacour was not averse to good food.
Mrs. Delacour and Fleur settled at a table nearby. Of course, no one told me about the purposes of their presence too, but banal sensitivity in magic told me a simple thing—a small pyramid that Mr. Delacour put on the table and which deployed an invisible field around us, an analogue of privacy charms, the work of which is obvious, also served as a transmitter. Yes-yes, the pyramid transmitted information via a thin magical channel beyond the field, straight to the Veelas' table. And it seems to me that I definitely shouldn't have noticed such a thing.
While this mister, short and a little stout, with notable mustache like a hussar and hair beginning to thin in anticipation of baldness, and I sat, enjoyed food and talked "about the weather"—business conversations only after eating—I, with a volitional effort, created a flagellum of my magic, hooked up to the channel between the artifact and the Veelas, or whatever is on that end. I literally built myself into this connection with one simple goal—to understand how our conversation is transmitted, in what form, and I need this for the purpose of falsification. Brains will allow talking about one thing, and transmitting another. Why? Well, I just don't like the fact that Mr. Delacour and I will sign a non-disclosure agreement, but no matter how you formulate it, it won't help if the conversation itself is eavesdropped.
"Well, Monsieur Granger," Delacour was the first to start a conversation as soon as the meal was over and drinks were served to us. "Shall we sign the agreement first, I assume?"
"Of course," I nodded with a smile, holding out a pre-prepared agreement.
Mr. Delacour, Jean-Paul, took the paper and began to read carefully, sipping wine along the way. I also decided to pay tribute to drinks, only in my case it was juice. After a couple of minutes of careful study, Mr. Delacour nodded, put the agreement on the table and, dashingly correcting his mustache, almost imperceptibly waved his wand, transfiguring a fork into a quill. A moment, and here he already pricked his finger with this quill, and a moment later—signed the agreement with blood. I repeated his maneuver, and now we can already proceed to discuss the matter, because along the way I figured out the "signal coding", if one can express it so—for Mrs. and Miss Delacour we will talk about completely different things.
Looking at the signed document, at the bloody signatures, and putting the document in the backpack—it doesn't matter who keeps it—I thought with the edge of consciousness about how entertaining blood is, after all. If we consider the world and the universe as a certain state of energy, then it turns out that the body is simply a material manifestation of the soul. True, the reverse is also true. But here it turns out that blood, while still living blood, fresh, has a direct connection with the soul, magic, mind. A magical document signed by it really has power. Of course, all agreements can be bypassed, broken, destroyed, but at what cost?
"Well, Monsieur Granger," Mr. Delacour folded his hands in a lock, leaning forward at the table. "I am listening to you carefully."
"I won't beat around the bush," I, on the contrary, leaned back on the back of the chair, which did not allow sitting quite freely, but a little relaxed—without problems. "I know that you are one of the many wizards of France who are interested in restoring international relations with England, in joint business projects and so on."
"That is so, and it is not a secret," Jean-Paul nodded.
"However, the main problem in such events is the complete absence of a kind of bridgehead, land, if you will. The amount of it in magically hidden, prepared areas is very limited. We don't have that many exits to the magical world, and other features."
Yes, the magical world—is not just words. In one amusing book in the library, authored by a rather old, but clearly experienced wizard of ancient times, there was his theory about the emergence of the very idea of the Statute of Secrecy and about all accompanying things. The idea, as the author wrote, had been maturing for a long time, many hundreds of years before the establishment of the Statute itself. But only after the discovery of peculiar passages to places geographically identical to the ordinary world, but without a trace of human life, the idea matured finally. Matured so much that the world magical community hurried to agree on all nuances and do what we have now. Only there turned out to be unexpectedly few such passages, and wizards' hopes to find more of them, or learn to create—melted with every decade. As a result—a shortage of land in the magical world, and many wizards are forced to still live in the ordinary one, hiding from people. Yes, various charms, expansion of space and other gadgets are effective tools for such a life, but the very fact that in the last hundred years all these social turds in the cauldron under the lid of the Statute boil more often, and splash stronger, speaks for itself—something is going wrong. But, all this is lyrics, not fully interesting to me so far.
"This is not a secret for anyone, Monsieur Granger," Mr. Delacour smiled. "Any production requires land and resources. Only a few industries can exist in some suitcase with an Undetectable Extension Charm. Only your Ministry is not eager to sell its lands, and those who already possess land—charge exorbitant prices."
"It is understandable," I smiled. "The Ministry has long kept records of land, its assessment, and at the same time, everyone must put land up for sale. De jure, of course. But is not at all obliged to sell it, and even less so, observe pricing policy."
"A tribute to legal tradition," Mr. Delacour nodded understandingly. "We, like everywhere, have the same thing. But do you really have such land in the magical world that you will sell?"
Disbelief and doubts in Mr. Delacour's voice could be scooped with a huge bucket.
"But is land really needed precisely in the magical world?"
Mr. Delacour understood that this question—is just a topic for conversation, for its development. He sipped wine, leaned back on the back of the chair, and began to answer the question.
"Of course, Monsieur Granger. By global agreement, in accordance with the Statute of Secrecy, any magical production must be located either in the area of undetectable extension or other spatially isolated from the ordinary world lacunae—long to list—or in the magical world."
"Indeed, the Statute, so many inconveniences," I nodded understandingly, which caused an unconscious reciprocal nod, and then a slightly surprised look from Mr. Delacour. "And such complex, and most importantly—stable charms, Undetectable Extension, lacunae... Mmm, this costs money or its equivalent many times more than the business payback in the nearest... Generations?"
"Hmm, exactly so. Hence the difficulties of international cooperation in the field of production. No one wants to give their lands even for rent, because everyone who has it, does something on it. Even if there are few such families—finders keepers, losers weepers, Monsieur Granger."
Mr. Delacour smiled, pleased with the phraseology inserted into the conversation.
"And how do you look at the Nott lands?"
"Hm? Completely useless," Jean-Paul exhaled dejectedly, twirling his mustache with his finger. "Because of the strange dark curse that fell on the lands of this unfortunate family, the price, of course, became ridiculous, but what to do with them?"
"Clarify?" I slightly tilted my head with a smile.
"With pleasure. You understand, Monsieur Granger, by international agreement, darkening of lands, so to speak, is strictly prohibited. Such incidents endanger the Statute. For example, did you know that absolutely every cemetery is, to one degree or another, under the control of the Ministry, as well as large hospitals and other institutions associated with pain and death?"
"Honestly, I was not aware of such measures," gratefully nodding for the information, I took a sip of juice.
"In general, the owner of the land is obliged to eliminate such things on their own, or pay huge fines, and in case of uncontrolled expansion of cursed lands, they are flooded with Fiendfyre by order. It burns everything there, leaving only wastelands useless for, at best, many decades."
"Hmm... Amusing, amusing. And yet, as far as I know, the curse on the Nott land could neither be cleansed, nor stopped, nor localized."
"Exactly," Mr. Delacour nodded sadly. "As a person interested in such issues, in cooperation, up-to-date information is available to me. So far, the curse on the Nott land is only intensifying, but not expanding. But everything has a limit, as does the saturation of the area with Dark Magic. At one fine moment it will begin to pour out of these lands. Yes, they are not in the magical world, but classified as hidden from ordinary people and their means of observation. Not ideal, but an excellent option, unfortunately, soon they will be cleansed. Waste of money. Fiendfyre will burn out concealment complexes, and it will be just a patch of dead ordinary earth."
"But agree, now the price for this land is ridiculous—not even two thousand Galleons."
"Eh," Mr. Delacour smiled. "If our ancestors heard you."
"Is it not so?"
"So. But some two hundred years ago, a thousand Galleons was a fantastic amount, and now—just large."
"Funny. And what is the reason, if not a secret?" with a look I pointed to a bottle of wine and a decanter of juice, in which there was still a lot left—conversation can be continued.
"Limited territories of the magical world and extremely expensive, in all senses, work of masters to hide new areas. This limits us all in the development of magical industry, in expansion. Despite the assurances of ministries and other state structures, which they generously scatter for ordinary people, the industry and life of wizards are closely connected with the ordinary world. And if in past centuries the economies of magical countries almost did not lag behind ordinary ones, now the gap is growing every year, the purchasing power of Galleons is falling with the speed of a snowball. Does this tell you anything, Monsieur Granger? Or suddenly I am vainly shaking the air..."
Mr. Delacour clearly emphasizes my young age.
"Of course, speak, don't worry. You are not shaking the air in vain."
"Heh..." He chuckled at my answer. "In general, a layman, or a wizard who has entered the magical world quite recently, will not notice the catch. But old families are sounding the alarm. Fabulous savings of some, for example, in one hundred thousand Galleons, considered a crazy amount, royal, a century ago, are rapidly depreciating. Oh! Excellent example!"
Mr. Delacour leaned forward, clearly enthusiastic.
"The prize for the winner of the Tournament—is a thousand Galleons. Did it not seem to you, Monsieur Granger, that the amount, to put it mildly, is insignificant, considering all risks and dangers?"
"A little," I nodded, remembering how much money I have in general, and how much can be earned more on Cedric's orders, because he voiced the amount, albeit tentative—a month of "forging", and about eight thousand, but there are a lot of orders.
"However, this amount was established in those distant times when the Tournament itself was founded," Mr. Delacour nodded importantly and drank wine. "In those times it was a really worthy amount, and the winner could turn around coolly after school. Very coolly, and considering fame as the winner of the Tournament—then generally! And now? Spent here, spent there, dressed, shod, bought a couple of books, and... as they say... Treated friends? That's it, no money."
Mr. Delacour poured wine into his empty glass, swirled it there, inhaled the aroma and took a couple of sips.
"But, Mr. Granger, no matter how glad I was to tell about various nuances of life in the magical community—this is one of my specializations, history—but I would like, after all, to return directly to the topic of the meeting. You touched upon such a topic for a reason, and especially—Nott lands?"
"That is so. What if I tell you that, albeit not personally, but I can contribute..." I waited for Mr. Delacour to start taking another sip. "To removing the curse from their lands?"
"Pff-ff," Mr. Delacour barely restrained himself from becoming a kind of wine sprayer. "Be careful with such jokes, Monsieur Granger. Removing such chaotic dark curses—is a sore subject of many states."
"I know someone who could heal this land."
"And you say this to me, and not to the Notts? Or, for example, the Malfoys? Only for mediation in resolving such a delicate issue, you could receive big money, thousands of Galleons, Monsieur Granger. What's the catch?"
"Everything is extremely simple. Let's start with the question of the safety of your finances in case it is impossible to cleanse the land."
"Good," Mr. Delacour nodded seriously, setting aside the glass of wine.
"Everything is simple here. If it is impossible to heal the lands, I will reimburse your financial costs. As far as I know, now Nott lands are valued at a purely symbolic thousand Galleons."
"That is so. Do you really, Monsieur Granger, a Muggle-born, have this amount?"
"If scrape the bottom of the barrel properly," I smiled, causing a slight smile from Jean-Paul. "Then will be found. In any case, the missing amount can always be exchanged in Gringotts."
"That is, at a minimum, I lose nothing. But what about compensation for bureaucratic red tape?"
"How much?"
"Two hundred Galleons on top," Mr. Delacour hastened to say, clearly not hoping for a large amount, and generally, purely for the sake of bargaining.
"Quite."
"Hmm... Suppose."
"In case it is possible to heal the lands and the production standing there, I propose the following. Personally, I am not particularly interested in all this, as well as this entire business—there is a lot of trouble, and the exhaust is about nothing."
"Hmm... Considering that you are only the second year in the magical world, but already have savings of at least a thousand and two hundred Galleons, this seems true. But the production itself, methods of growing and processing various plants—all this also has a price. As well as resources located there."
"Which you will receive at your disposal, or, if it is impossible to heal the lands—they will burn in Fiendfyre. Like everything else."
"That is so."
"So. Production, technologies and so on, located on Nott lands, will fall into your disposal for... Three years."
"Hm? So little?" Mr. Delacour resented feignedly. "What's the point then?"
"Everything is simple," I smiled. "Does the English Ministry have lands mothballed due to dark curses at its disposal?"
"There are, of course, like everywhere..." Mr. Delacour nodded, because this goes without saying, and then it dawned on him, and he looked at me with wide open eyes, and it seemed that even his mustache stood in a hound's stance, although... Can one say so about a mustache?
"It seems you caught the essence," I smiled broadly, leaning forward at the table. "Reputation—is our everything, Mr. Delacour."
"That is... You, Monsieur Granger, suggest that I establish myself as a wizard who knows those who can cope with such serious, complex and unidentified curses on the land? Due to this adventure?"
"Do you think this will contribute to the fact that the English and French Ministries, or other persons owning similar 'canned goods', will turn to you for help? Or, maybe this will help buy out such 'canned goods', albeit much more expensive than their symbolic value, but also just as cheaper than real?"
"And are you sure, Monsieur Granger—without jokes now—that your 'connections' will cope?"
"How should I know?" I shrugged. "I know for sure only about Nott lands, but what prevents trying?"
"Indeed. Except all the same reputation... Okay, suppose. And what should happen to Nott lands after three years? Sell them to you? For the same price that I buy now?"
"Of course, I can pay, but your task is different—to give them as a gift."
"Um... To you?" Mr. Delacour didn't understand, and no one would understand.
"I told you that all this is decidedly not interesting to me. No, not to me."
"And to whom?"
"To whom I say."
"You don't want to reveal your plans ahead of time? Are you really afraid that I will tell someone?" Mr. Delacour resented feignedly again. "Don't you trust me?"
"Trust?" I smiled broadly. "You? Would a person who wants trust from an interlocutor put a jamming artifact with a function of listening and transmitting conversation to third parties?"
Mr. Delacour looked displeased.
"I don't trust you, Mr. Delacour. And I don't trust anyone. The question is only whether you want to cooperate mutually beneficially, or not."
"Does it not bother you at all that others heard our conversation?"
"But did they hear? I can always find an intermediary, as you said, the same Malfoy, fortunately, they sympathize with me, despite origin. And Nott lands will soon 'burn out' if nothing is done." I stood up and put enough pounds on the table for payment, and even enough for a tip with excess. "You know where to find me, Monsieur Delacour. Until soon, I hope, meeting."
Nodding goodbye to the Veelas sitting at a table nearby, I left the establishment and, going around the corner, hid myself with magic and, using the twilight of the evening, immediately Apparated near Hogwarts—studies have already begun, and lessons are not done. Disorder.
. . . . . .
Mrs. and Miss Delacour rose from their table and joined Mr. Delacour.
"A completely pointless conversation, in my view," Apolline said. On the face of the family matriarch, so to speak, there was not a shadow of satisfaction from the overheard conversation.
"And what exactly were we discussing, in your opinion?" Jean-Paul glanced at his wife and then his daughter with similar displeasure.
"What do you mean? About some nonsense. What a mess that Muggle-born has in his head. Fleur, I am categorically opposed to your interest in him, even if he does react to our allure in a peculiar way."
"He's not all that interesting to me, Mother."
"Don't give me that," Apolline frowned, adjusting a lock of hair as snow-white as her daughter's.
"Whatever you heard," Jean-Paul began seriously, downing his wine in one gulp, "is not what we talked about."
"What do you mean, dear?" Apolline immediately shifted to a serious mood and picked up the small pyramid standing on the table. "It's intact, it's working."
"Granger did something... What did we talk about?"
"About opening a small shop..." Fleur said with bewilderment.
"Pfft, no," Jean-Paul smirked. "Not about that at all."
"Is that so?" Apolline frowned. "And now you can't tell us?"
"Exactly. In light of all this, it seems to me that Granger's offer is very... Interesting."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, dear. Believe me—it is interesting. Very interesting. And the cooperation shows promise."
Apolline fell into thought. She found herself in an extremely unusual situation—being in the dark. But even so, she was inclined to trust her husband's opinion, as it often coincided with hers, and he was not in the habit of making mistakes or blunders.
"Fleur," Mr. Delacour addressed his daughter, who was watching her parents with interest. "You will receive a letter any day now. Organize a meeting for us, like this time."
"Alright, Father," Fleur nodded and smiled. "So, Hector saw through your scheme and outplayed you?"
"Call that a scheme, daughter?" Apolline waved it off as if it were a minor inconvenience, though Fleur clearly saw the extent of her mother's displeasure. "Just a trifle."
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