The evening Diagon Alley transforms, becoming an even more magical place. The crimson sunset sky floods everything with a soft light, painting the very tops of the roofs in shades of red and scarlet, but below, near the road, the shop windows, and entrances, it is already dark—only the dim yellow street lamps and the light from the windows turn the sometimes bright facades of the crooked wooden houses into something soft and pastel. Various animated or magically enlivened signs and objects stand out against this background with their "liveliness," and the rare wizards slowly strolling here and there at this hour finally complete this elusive flair of mysticism surrounding everything.
Inhaling the cool, frankly cold November air, I stepped along the cobblestone road toward Gringotts, but it wasn't the bank I needed—it was the alley behind it. There, among buildings with much "straighter" architecture, was a small office, a sort of legal and intermediary assistance firm all rolled into one.
Walking past the bank building, I turned onto a much straighter street. The houses here had "correct" geometry—they didn't create the impression that you had wandered into a hall of funhouse mirrors, like in Diagon Alley.
Reaching the necessary inconspicuous house with an equally inconspicuous sign, I opened the door and stepped inside. A typical small office foyer—that's how I perceived this small and relatively bright room with a couple of sofas, potted plants in the corners, and a desk with a bare minimum of documents and accessories on it. Behind the desk sat a thin, brown-haired man in a business suit and an open robe, looking like he was ready to burst with a sense of his own self-importance. Catching sight of me, the man glanced at the only accessory on the desk that stood out in this setting—a mechanical clock, its decorative gears clearly visible through a glass dome.
"Mr... Granger, I presume?" the man tried to remain as neutral and polite as possible, but superiority flashed in his gaze.
"That's right, sir," I nodded, almost unconsciously projecting the exact same attitude toward him on my face.
"The client wishes to conduct the conversation in a more private setting, where factors of potential eavesdropping and other espionage tricks will be absolutely excluded."
I could only nod at this.
"Therefore," the man pulled a large coin out of the desk, "we will travel by Portkey to a safe and secure location. Is this acceptable to you?"
"And what is your role in this?"
"You could say I am a witness, lawyer, intermediary, and so on all rolled into one," the man barely restrained himself from puffing out his chest with pride.
"Acceptable."
Of course, it wasn't acceptable in the slightest, and therefore, internally, I began to prepare for any surprises. Even my phoenix-self woke up, ready to leave the house if necessary. Yes, the protection on my parents' house does not affect the phoenix, since it shares a connection with me.
The man got up from the desk and approached me, holding out the coin.
"I hope I don't need to teach you how to use a Portkey?"
"No."
Taking hold of the coin, having previously tuned into my magical senses and noticing nothing but something similar to the Portkeys I was already familiar with, I prepared for the transfer.
"Portus," the man uttered the activation key, and we were spun into a vortex of spatial distortion.
After literally a brief moment of flight through the maelstrom and meat grinder, which is enough to send an unprepared wizard into a panic, we were suddenly standing in the spacious hall of some mansion. Everything was bright, decorated in various shades of beige, with a marble floor, stairs, and walls. Ornate trim was visible here and there, making it feel like stepping into a Renaissance palace. A couple of tall, rectangular marble stands held blue-inscribed porcelain vases. Glancing up, I saw a monstrous crystal chandelier adorned with a multitude of magical lamps styled as candles—their combined light was more than enough for effective illumination.
"Good evening," a voice came from the side, and the haughty brown-haired man and I immediately turned toward it.
MacPherson. Still the same gray-haired, elderly man, wearing an old-fashioned business suit and a dark blue robe. There's a reason black and blue are the most versatile colors in business attire.
"I want to apologize in advance for not inviting you any further than this hall," the old wizard said, feigning guilt.
"I understand," I nodded, while the guy from the office stepped back to a table behind us and began laying out various documents.
"Let us proceed, Mr. Granger," MacPherson gestured toward that very table.
Following the master of the house, I sat in the offered seat opposite MacPherson. The guy from the office sat between us, as if directing our negotiations, but in reality, he was merely a middleman.
"In our turbulent times, it is extremely difficult to find a free minute," MacPherson began, settling in more comfortably with a feigned grunt, maintaining his posture but sitting freely, demonstrating who was the master of the situation. "Therefore, I suggest we get straight to business, skipping the tea and small talk about the weather."
"I more than approve of such an approach, Mr. MacPherson," I offered a tight smile.
"In that case... I am willing to buy your artifact creation method for, say, two thousand Galleons."
My phoenix-self almost choked on the sheer audacity—I had to somehow process the emotion, though I kept my public mask intact. However, nothing stopped me from raising an eyebrow questioningly.
"I see you are inspired by this amount," Mr. MacPherson interpreted my reaction in his own way. "This is indeed a substantial sum of money, both for a simple schoolboy of your background and in general."
It became clear what was guiding him in offering such a "large" sum of money.
"Tell me," I drawled thoughtfully, "what exactly guided you in setting such a price?"
"Oh, this is a purely symbolic price," MacPherson smirked, as did the haughty man beside him. "Believe me, you will gladly hand this technology over to me even for free."
"And what, pray tell, would prompt me to take such a step?"
Once again, just as I had upon my arrival, I tuned into the magic around me. I could confidently say that the house was full of various active wards, defensive gadgets, and the like. But what I found much more interesting were the magical "signatures" in the corners of the hall—similar, but slightly differing in their parameters. The probability that these were wizards was extremely high. I carry one of my mechanical spiders with me—my magical eyes. Connecting to it as it peeked out from behind my collar, I looked toward the signatures: wizards, holding their wands at the ready. It seemed that despite my background, MacPherson had no intention of underestimating me. Or perhaps he simply made a habit of never underestimating anyone.
"I can offer a multitude of different factors capable of convincing you to agree to my proposal. And you can choose any one of them, or all of them together—whatever you please, Mr. Granger."
"For example?" I ostentatiously relaxed, leaning back against the comfortable chair and crossing my legs. Ah, yes—I can also smile a little, letting the elven manners and fluid grace come naturally. Judging by MacPherson's face, the "aura" of superiority had just shifted into my hands.
"For example?" To the old wizard's credit, he didn't try to "outplay" me in terms of grandeur; he merely followed my example and leaned back in his own chair. "I am sure that when you set off for here, you didn't inform anyone, did you? You don't have to answer—youth is prone to the same mistakes, the same overconfidence, and the belief that you know and can do everything better than anyone else."
He was right about that; the exceptions are merely outliers.
"Besides, you won't be able to leave this house," MacPherson continued, "without my permission. And from there..."
The old man waved a hand, hinting at a multitude of possible scenarios.
"...we could use potions, or various unpleasant charms and spells. Very unpleasant charms and spells."
"Are you hinting at the Cruciatus?"
"No, heaven forbid," MacPherson waved it off, while the insolent brown-haired man merely smirked dismissively. "That is far too vulgar. There are many ways to force a person to voluntarily follow your will, Mr. Granger."
"And you absolutely don't expect me to fight back?"
"You? Oh, youth," the old man chuckled. "Really now, do not overestimate yourself. What can a Muggle-born fifth-year do, even a reasonably talented one?"
"Indeed," I nodded, agreeing with the sentiment. "Not much."
"Exactly."
"So, you're going to torture me and pump me full of potions up to my eyeballs?"
"Not necessarily. You know, Mr. Granger," MacPherson leaned forward, "there are people who remain unbroken when they are tortured and coerced. Naturally, no one can withstand it forever—the body, the brain, the mind... none of it is made of goblin steel, you know. But time is an invaluable resource. For both parties involved. However, sometimes, the suffering of one's relatives causes much greater torment."
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