Creation of artifacts is hard work. Although, if we talk specifically about my case—creating a competent artifact concept is hard work. If someone knew about the methods I use, about dwarven forging, for example, they would twirl a finger at their temple, like: "What's so difficult here at all?". And they will be right if the conversation is about simple artifacts. But if a multifunctional and complex artifact is needed, in which charms and runes are intertwined into an incredible interdependent complex, and at the same time firmly "hammered" into the material itself... Here everything is much more complicated.
What I do with a hammer is closer to ordinary enchantment, but with fixing charms with writings, the pattern of which is set by magic itself. But one could take a blank for normal, familiar forging, engage in the most trivial, seemingly, blacksmithing, and with each blow of the hammer on the red-hot material not only give shape, mix layers and knock off scale, but also drive the necessary charms or runes into the very essence of the material. One rune after another, strictly following calculations, bind them with charms, contours and patterns, simultaneously giving shape... But this is not my level yet, unfortunately, and creating an artifact that even if broken into parts will continue to perform its function—is not mine yet. And unlikely to ever become "mine", because for this one needs to know dwarven methods of calculating the interaction of certain patterns, runes and so on. A kind of magical strength of materials, he-he-he...
One can, of course, sit down for science, start conducting experiments and so on, and even gather one's own scientific group... But I strongly doubt that it will be possible to create and master a huge layer of knowledge in a short time, which dwarves formed for tens and hundreds of generations. It remains to be content with little. And this is annoying, and the reasons for irritation are simple—it is impossible to compose complex personal protection with low energy consumption to hand it to parents.
I have already broken my whole head, drawn a bunch of schemes, albeit two-dimensional, on sheets, of which there are simply unmeasured in my room. Hermione came in somehow and was very worried, fearing that I had a relapse—started drawing and writing all sorts of nonsense for hours again, having absolutely no meaning. Even worried parents with this.
"Son, are you okay?" mom asked somehow, entering the room and looking warily at the pile of written sheets. The boards, by the way, on which I wrote being a vegetable, are now clean, in the corner, folded one to another—I redrew all scribbles from there and freed up space.
"Huh? Yes, everything is great," I nodded, putting aside another sketchbook, in which a couple of pages remained clean at most. "Just have one problem... Idea even, and I can't solve it."
"It happens."
Father and sister were looking out from the doorway. So, one might say, only the tops of heads and two pairs of eyes—watched, waited for something, it seems. Getting up from the floor, rejoiced that for two years I have been doing all sorts of elven gymnastics—neither joints hurt from an uncomfortable position, nor ligaments, nor muscles. "Uncomfortable position" for me now, perhaps, does not exist in principle.
"I haven't had this yet," I told the pure truth, if considering me as Hector Granger. Although, how can one consider me someone else if I don't even remember past names? That's just it... "I always have a solution. Immediately, or almost immediately. Or at least I understand in which direction to dig. And here I don't understand anything. Annoying."
"There-there," mom patted me on the shoulder, smiling and, it seems, understanding that there is no relapse—I just got too carried away. "Everything happens for the first time. Hmm... Does anything work out at all?"
Father's and Hermione's heads disappeared from the doorway, and keen hearing caught how they quietly went down to the first floor.
"It works out, but not what I want. All the time, one way or another, at the output of calculations, approximately the same, but useless result is obtained."
"Firstly, watch your language, young man," mom strictly threatened me, but there was a smile in her eyes. "And secondly... Try to implement what your calculations and ideas lead to. Let's say, free your brains from this question, maybe then a sensible thought will come."
"Hmm... Need to try."
"That's good. And now—time for lunch."
We went down to the dining room, where the table was already set, and wonderful aromas of good, solid homemade food hovered in the air. After lunch, under the sounds of the TV in the living room, where the news was on, a casual conversation ensued.
"Hector," mom looked at me a little more seriously. "Mione said that the Malfoys invited you to visit."
"Hmm, yes, there is such a thing."
"She also said that this is not the most... Good family with not the best view of everyone around. It seems when we bought everything for the second year, we saw them. With a claim to aristocracy, and won't go into a pocket for a word."
"Suppose. What is this conversation for?"
"Do you have anything to wear?"
Hermione looked at mother with a question, shifted her gaze to father, but nothing else happened, and no one said anything except this. It seems she expected the conversation to go somewhat differently.
"Yes. Of course."
"That's good," father nodded. "And what is the occasion for the evening?"
"As far as I understood from Mr. Malfoy's letter, and from the letters of the invited guys, more precisely, their parents who will take them with them... Something related to the beginning of quite large-scale, by the standards of the magical world, cooperation in the field of private entrepreneurship, and at the state level too. Many interested or already participating in all this are invited, including promising young wizards. Cedric Diggory, for example, the winner of the Triwizard Tournament held this year."
"Yes, you described this... event quite colorfully," father clearly did not approve of the level of danger to which participants and spectators were exposed at this Tournament. But this is understandable—it is not so easy to understand and accept the fact that many injuries considered extremely severe are treated by magic easily and naturally. "Surviving and completing tasks—is quite worthy, as I understood, especially since the best were chosen."
These words reminded me of a funny and slightly disappointing nuance of the award ceremony. Disappointing, but at the same time bringing some relief. Cedric was awarded the cup that was exhibited in the maze—this is a symbol of victory, and it will go to the guy himself, and a commemorative plaque about the victory in the Tournament will go to the Hogwarts Trophy Room, of which there are many there, according to students. But much more important was that according to old tradition, he had to put the Goblet of Fire into a sealing container. The action itself flew by unnoticed, quickly, but I followed what was happening. The fire of the Tribunal did not leave the goblet, did not pass to the winner, did not interact with him in any way. Perhaps it will fulfill some abstract wish of his without these manipulations and, most likely, the flame from the goblet is simply impossible to uproot without breaking the relic. And if you break it, then far from a fact that it will not immediately leave for its dimension. Maybe the fact of invitation to the evening at the Malfoys is part of the "miracle" for Cedric? Perhaps there he will receive some profitable offer from, for example, foreign colleagues? Who knows—the Flame is willful, and even if capable of giving a result depending on conditions, granting or taking away, but without a clear formulation of the question, it is like a Genie, does what it wants.
"In general, this should be a terribly boring, but in theory, useful event."
"Doesn't... a lot bother you?" asked Hermione.
"Yes-yes, Malfoy—Death Eater, henchman of the Dark Lord, Nazi, bastard, villain and all that. He definitely tortures Muggle-borns and eats babies for breakfast, lunch and dinner, like other purebloods and not very, who will be present there, and I was invited generally as canned food. Fresher so to speak."
"Hector," mom resented feignedly, and father only rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Hermione looked extremely displeased and definitely had a couple of arguments up her sleeve so that I wouldn't go there. And didn't go anywhere at all. "No need to be so ironic."
"Well, I'm sort of about the same. Malfoy and other radicals can be as unfriendly to us, Muggle-borns, as they like, and can even build insidious plans, but need to clearly distinguish such things as social events, and a personal meeting. If he invited me somewhere for a tête-à-tête meeting, I would find a reason to refuse. But at this evening he is not a Death Eater, but a rich and influential wizard with extensive connections."
"Pff," Hermione snorted, taking a glass of juice from the table. "Now there are connections, then—no. All his authority and influence rests on his money, with which he bribes everyone who is not lazy."
"And does it right," I shrugged, causing approval from father, and shaking of head from mom. "Money—is a tool. If they allow him to achieve his goals and tasks, falling into the pockets of those greedy for gold, then why shouldn't he suddenly use this?"
"Maybe because it's not very correct? After all, he doesn't have real influence and authority in the end," Hermione parried in the end.
"And what, in your opinion, is 'real' authority? Some achievements?"
"Why not."
"Stumble—and you will be thrown with rotten tomatoes, lowering below the plinth. Rise again, but sooner or later stumble—will throw again, and even recall the old. In this regard, money is more reliable."
"Actions, knowledge, yes a lot of things are better than bribes and payoffs."
"Hmm... Think Dumbledore would..."
"Headmaster Dumbledore," Hermione corrected.
"The essence hasn't changed," I waved it off. "Think he would be such an authoritative person if he didn't have influence through occupied positions, which he received, as it seems to me, both due to skills practiced for years, knowledge obtained wherever possible and self-improvement?"
"That's what I'm talking about..."
"Wait," I smiled. "All these skills, knowledge and strength allowed him to become an authority among wizards. But which wizards, didn't you think?"
"All, judging by public opinion."
"Hmm, no. Those who do not support the radical ideology of blood purity, and those who see their benefit in supporting the Headmaster. In fact, his power and influence arose including thanks to his social position and the fact that he gathered a kind of political opposite pole to blood purity around himself. Well and those to whom it is beneficial."
"It seems to me that this is nonsense."
"Hmm... Good," I drank a glass of juice in one gulp and, putting it on the table, continued thoughts. "In Hog, in the library, there are transcripts of Wizengamot votes on certain issues. In Hog generally there is all conceivable literature, except, as it seems to me, frank magical trash. Although... In the Restricted Section maybe there is, under seven locks and so on—so the founders bequeathed."
"Never met such records," Hermione looked at me with doubt, and parents listened attentively to our dialogue, clearly collecting grains of information. Well, why not, today, it seems, they are in no hurry anywhere.
"You say that you read the entire library. Both for me and for you with your memory, there is work for many years, if not decades. I searched purposefully, collecting all information on at least somewhat significant families. So here, transcripts. It is indicated there who voted for what... You know that the Wizengamot..."
"Not only a court, but also a body dealing with discussion of bills," Hermione continued for me, "including making decisions on whether to accept them or not."
"Exactly. So here, by these transcripts one can without much difficulty trace who gives tacit or quite obvious support to whom. Essentially, three parties can be traced. Followers of the idea of blood purity and those who promote maximum legal benefit to hereditary wizards, who can already be called purebloods."
"Already? And how is that?"
"And if think, Mione?" I smiled. "How can a family become pureblood? Over time, of course."
"Um... Marriages only with wizards and change of generations?"
"Exactly. I collected information on this matter. Muggle-born plus Muggle-born—half-blood. Half-blood plus half-blood—pureblood. In fact, the third generation in the family is already pureblood, but by old traditional standards, they want to see a couple more generations of marriages with equal in blood status or more ancient purebloods."
"Sounds delusional, honestly," Hermione shook her head.
"So I'm not saying that from the point of view of heredity and medicine, in particular, this is the truth. I'm talking about opinion, as it is commonly believed. But what exactly from the point of view of medicine, physiology and, possibly, genetics, makes an ordinary person a wizard—there is no answer yet. If this is a question of genetics, then how many and which DNA sections are responsible for such a thing? How do they interact with each other and with the rest of DNA, how are they distributed during division, how do their alleles diverge, is the birth of ordinary people possible in wizards, and if so, what is the probability depending on the generation, and so on... We don't know where the truth is, since studies were not conducted and we don't have statistics on hand..."
"What are you talking about anyway?" Hermione was very embarrassed by her ignorance. "I don't quite understand."
"There is a grain of truth in your reasoning," father nodded. "But, nevertheless, this is not a reason for hatred and radical sentiments, and they, as I understood, are present in the magical world."
"Think the matter is that not once or twice there were cases when Muggle-borns seized power, seeking to change what, in their opinion, is wrong in the magical world. For example, a rather recent example, when Nobby Leach, a Muggle-born wizard, became Minister for Magic. One month—and a catastrophic, for the government apparatus, percentage of purebloods from old families who held positions, resigned, not wanting to have anything to do with his bills and amendments, actively lobbied by supporters of equality and fraternity. If look at the transcripts of Wizengamot meetings, then even Dumbledore's wing, who was not yet the Chief Warlock then, treated such amendments and laws with great misunderstanding. Later, in a couple of years, amendments and laws became adequate, taking into account the realities of the world, as I understood, and not leading to the legal and financial collapse of old or recently rooted families. But in sixty-eight Leach issued some trick with ears, I haven't dug up information yet, wasn't up to it. Either he personally didn't like something, or something else, but a year later he was stupidly infected. With Dragon Pox. Which, by the way, Dumbledore investigated. Well, this is just for reference."
"Want to say that Dumbledore infected him?" Hermione was surprised and clearly prepared to issue an exculpatory speech in favor of the Headmaster, and parents listened. Only listened.
"I want to say that almost all seventies even those who are loyal to Muggle-borns, were engaged in cleaning up guano for Nobby Leach. By the way, it was at this time that the radical movement of blood purity, led by the Dark Lord, was finally formed. Need to dig up more information on political root causes to draw conclusions. But, as I understood, the Dark Lord hit another extreme, which was also bad. But this is only what, so to speak, is outside. And how it really was there, what they talked about, what they thought, who tortured whom, killed, who put spokes in whose wheels—we will never know."
"Somehow everything is strange. Means," Hermione looked at me attentively, "you say that in the Hogwarts library there are all records?"
"Must understand that really they won't clarify anything. These are just records of accomplished facts. They won't show the internal kitchen. But in light of recent events I believe that it is necessary to sniff everything out properly. Magical world is small, I would even say, tiny, if compared with ordinary. Here, in the ordinary world, can ignore social movement, and there it will touch you one way or another. Need at least out of the corner of ear, but collect information and be aware. This is one of the reasons why I want to go to the Malfoys. Many extremely diverse wizards and their children, conversations, rumors, opinions, behavior, gestures, facial expressions, views. And generally, we have deviated too much from the topic."
"Yes, son," mom nodded. "You talked about the fact that three parties can be traced in this your Wizengamot."
"Yes. One already named. The second in number—loyal to Muggle-borns, all sorts of lovers of changes and revolutionary innovations. It seems to me that far from everyone there has such directly loyal views, just this pole of political power appeals to them more and promises great benefit. Well and the third—neutrals. They have their own atmosphere there, as I understood, and judging by votes, they try to promote what does not particularly affect either those or others. For example, they, for the most part, work with laws, amendments and other things that affect aspects of foreign policy, international relations, export and import. In short, they earn money while the rest gnaw at each other's throats, waving slogans in which they themselves do not particularly believe."
"Confusing, but," father leaned forward at the table, "no more confusing than in ordinary politics and power."
"Okay, I'll go," pouring myself another glass of juice, I took it and got up from the table. "Day after tomorrow is this evening already, and I really have nothing ready. I'm in my room, if anything."
Going up to the room, I sat down for calculations again. Bring to mind what itself asks as a final product, and then take up protection? Well, let's try...
Making what turns out itself—is not a problem. No matter how much I tried to calculate a multitasking defensive artifact, only a multitasking attacking one turns out, while also voracious, which, of course, is unacceptable. So among other things, it doesn't work out to make it, how to say, unified—only something composite. But since my calculations themselves are drawn to such a thing, then why not make it? After all, I'm going to Malfoy. He, albeit in the past, is a Death Eater, although now his moral character for the public is quite good—patron of arts, a little politician, not particularly radical views. But this is just a cover—I understand this too. So should attend to the issue.
Sitting at the table, I was surprised how calculations added up by themselves. Three hours, and here a new sketchbook is dotted with formulas and schemes, and the last two sheets, if put together, depicted a circular scheme of small symbols and contours, part of which borrowed from the elven weave of Healing—it is modular, and I know the purpose of part of the modules, thanks to which I modified this contour at the very beginning of my path here.
Looking at this business properly, evaluating everything and coming to the conclusion that the product will turn out high-quality, I was about to leave the house and go somewhere far away, for example, to the grove not far from the Weasley house, to engage in creating the product, but...
"Not busy?" Hermione entered the room, looking at me with concern.
"No, come in."
I didn't have free chairs, so she sat on the bed.
"Do you understand how dangerous your presence at this evening can be for you? What if You-Know-Who really revived? Dumbledore said..."
"The Headmaster said that Karkaroff was killed on the instructions of the Dark Lord," I turned around on the chair, looking at Hermione. "But he didn't say that the Dark Lord returned, resurrected or something like that. If I remember correctly."
"Well yes, but this means that he gave the order."
"When?"
"Hmm... Headmaster lied?"
"Not a single word. Everyone heard what they wanted. Or didn't want. The essence is not in this. Even if the Dark Lord returned, then I see absolutely no reason for him immediately, from the ship, as they say, to the ball, to go to create outrages. Gather supporters, beat traitors, show those who renounced him the full depth of their delusions. He can be an abnormal psycho who gets high from torture and murder, but, with a huge probability, he will lie low. Because now it is beneficial."
"Why so? Better immediately, while no one has come to their senses..."
"Nope," I smiled. "Did you see Fudge's face when Dumbledore talked about the Dark Lord?"
"Of course," Hermione smirked. "You don't see such a disgruntled face every day, especially from a politician."
"There. I am sure that Fudge will organize a full-fledged campaign against Dumbledore so that he does not muddy the waters. If suddenly people believe that the Dark Lord returned, and if there is evidence of this, then there will be panic on all fronts. Everyone became too convinced of his death. Even those who don't care will panic slightly. This is not beneficial to Fudge, especially since a lot, as I understood, of political nuances and assurances relied on the death of the Dark Lord. I study at the house, one might say, of Ministry children. I hear conversations, opinions, discussions. Fudge will pressure Dumbledore, trying to discredit him as much as possible. The Dark Lord is afraid of only one wizard in the country—Albus Dumbledore. So they say, at least. Well or hates him. In any case, the maximum benefit of the Dark Lord—quiet, smooth, and God's grace. This will allow him to restore his strength, his subordinates, gather the necessary people under his wing, maybe all sorts of marginals so that there are at least some militants, and without them no way—since the mid-seventies this is his style. As they say, a rhino has bad eyesight, but with its size, this is not its problem."
"Sort of logical."
"I mean that even if suddenly, for some absurd reason, the Dark Lord visits Malfoy, he will definitely not do it at a reception where representatives of all political directions will be present, including foreign business tycoons. Malfoy—is a public person. His house—is the worst place to hang around there. I see not a single, even the craziest reason for the Dark Lord's visit there. All available information about him says that he prefers to appear only in cases of his total dominance on the 'arena', be it battle, or politics. And all other threats—are secondary. Sure, it is beneficial for the Dark Lord that the evening goes as smoothly as possible, so that money flows to his supporters, so that there are various profitable agreements and so on. Torture and murder of even such insignificant, but guests in my person—definitely not what he needs."
"But can force to something..." Hermione continued to worry. "So many different means, potions and spells."
"Here need to ask the question—and what to get from me?"
"And... Just like that?"
"Not now. If his radical movement was in power, if he himself was at the peak of capabilities, if he and his followers acted openly—then yes. Not now. Sure that this evening Malfoy's house will be one of the safest places in England. If not twitching yourself."
"Eh... Do as you know. If anything, remember—I told you so."
Hermione left the room, and I began to pack. Five minutes, and I left the house, having previously warned parents that I was leaving for a couple of hours, to take a walk.
Walk to the minimarket, dark alley, Apparition, and here I stand at the edge of the grove, and in the distance the Weasley house is visible. Hiding myself with magic to the fullest program, I stepped into the grove and began to deepen, stepping between trees, stepping over roots and bypassing various bushes. When only trees were visible around, and not a single gap between them, I threw off the backpack and began to take out my gadgets for forging.
Having laid everything out on the ground, took out the wand and, concentrating as much as possible so that even a tiny drop of magic did not go into space, as local wizards like to scatter it, I began to transfigure various spare parts for the future craft, well and, of course, an empty nozzle for the hammer—will implement the resulting contour into it.
Preparation took almost half an hour—even sweated from concentration. No one appeared, letters from the Ministry did not come, like: "Ay-yay-yay, casting spells, sir". Means, continue.
On the anvil lay a bracelet, but not a simple one. It consisted of a thin hoop, to which many small slightly convex metal triangles with phenomenally sharp, one atom edges were attached—thanks to transfiguration for its capabilities to create anything. Sharpening on each side was only from one plane, one-sided, which allowed triangles to lie overlapping each other, and in assembled form it seemed that they were of two sizes—larger and smaller. Funny, but in assembled form joint places were almost invisible—if didn't know, wouldn't even notice.
Taking an empty nozzle, began to visualize a complex scheme from sketchbook sheets, focusing mental images and messages in the right places of the scheme—the rest will work simply because these are runes, schemes and modules of elven contours.
Immersing this structure in the nozzle, holding it from dissipating or activation by will power, screwed the nozzle to the hammer, aimed, and very lightly knocked on the bracelet.
A sheaf of sparks was accompanied by a wild ringing. I didn't have time to raise the hammer, and glowing pieces of something scattered from under it to the sides. Shaking head, coming to senses from acoustic shock and light concussion, quickly threw the hammer into the backpack. Took a thin strip of the bracelet base from the anvil—it was dotted with meaningless drawings, as if someone walked with laser engraving. There were no triangles. Strange. But sensations, as if everything works.
Quickly putting on the bracelet, simultaneously putting the anvil in the backpack and throwing it over the shoulder, listened to sensations—works. Just triangles flew apart. Short image-command, as if working with spiders, and space around flashed with tiniest long strokes. There were a hell of a lot of them. A moment, and trees around began to literally crumble into perfectly cut dust. Another command-image, and triangles instantly flew to the bracelet, connecting with it and each other under frequent sonorous fraction from blows of metal on metal.
"Ha!" I exclaimed, not holding back joy. "Will shred anything. And won't destroy, and will break through protection. Theoretically, almost any."
Remembering that magic can be monitored, and the grove is not soundproofed, I ran between trees away from here, to another corner of the grove, using elf skills to move really fast.
After a couple of minutes of such a run—the grove is huge, a whole forest—I stopped, threw off the backpack and took out my homemade formal suit, in which I went to the Yule Ball. Quickly changing, checked how it feels magically—everything is perfect. Its style is quite strict, but it is too elegant. However, is this a problem when it is a little, but alive? After all, even color was given to it by magic.
For half an hour I stood among trees, one might say, meditated, and sure that if there were an outside observer here, he could see how patterns on the suit gradually smooth out and disappear, how its color changes. I left only a small part of patterns—thin lines along the sleeves of this peculiar tunic, on the collar and on the robe. Color—dark-dark blue. That's it. Ready for the trip to Malfoy—remains only to wait for Sunday, July second. And for now can return home and try to come up with, after all, protection for parents—now that thoughts are free from the attacking artifact, I should cope. Or not?
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