CHAPTER 8: THE SLUMS
19 May 2019, Dnieper river, former Ukraine
"What's an odmieńce?" asked Bill a few minutes into the drive, once everyone settled down to eat some crackers. It was good to be alone in their caravan again—it felt comfortingly familiar after the crowded evening they'd just had.
The atmosphere was far from relaxed, though. Bill's voice was calm right now but Neville recognized its undertone well enough. Bill was unhappy about something and he was about to let them now. Neville had seen it before, been on the receiving end many a time himself as Bill's subordinate. Bill was getting his facts straight before he started with the show.
"It means a changeling in Polish," Sadecki answered before Harry could. "Why do you ask?"
"Why would that muggle called her daughter a changeling?"
"It's what muggles call muggleborn wizards," Harry explained.
"Oh," Bill simply uttered. "They don't really believe someone swapped their child for a fey wizard, right?" he inquired a moment later.
"No."
The muggle woman described her child as an odmience to Harry. If their child was indeed a muggleborn, they had a good reason to run.
"What is a 'muggleborn'?" asked Sadecki the next moment.
Four pairs of confused eyes looked at him. Only Harry seemed unfazed by the question.
"A wizard born from muggle parents," Harry patiently explained.
"That's not possible," claimed Sadecki. "Only magical blood can brood magical blood."
"Why on Earth would you say such nonsense?" Neville blurted out. "There are thousands of muggleborn wizards out there!"
The next moment, Neville's eyes got wide open as he grasped what Sadecki's ignorance meant. He looked over at Bill with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Harry's next sentence confirmed what Neville just realised. "Don't be too hard on Andrei, Neville—he's never met a muggleborn wizard in his life. As far as he knows, they don't exist."
"He killed them all?" whispered Bill in horror, his anger completely deflated now. "Riddle killed all muggleborn wizards?"
"In his eyes, they are an abomination," Harry explained carefully. "And they contradict everything he teaches about the importance of magical blood. He can't let them exist."
They all fell silent. Neville felt sick.
"There was a book in Hogwarts," Bill was remembering, "charmed to find any eleven-year-old wizard or witch in England. It wouldn't be impossible to stretch the enchantments to the whole of Europe. Is this how he finds them?"
Harry shook his head. "They are usually found long before they reached that age. Their accidental magic shows and the neighbours tell on the family." He took a deep breath before adding, "And that book is not in Hogwarts anymore. I took it."
Neville and Bill exchanged glances. "When?" Bill asked.
"The night Charlie died."
"I thought you went back for Riddle's wand or something brazen like that," Bill said slowly.
Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "Those were the rumours. Everyone thought me crazy enough to venture back to England just to piss off Riddle. I did steal his wand, but taking the book was equally important."
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"You were too busy kicking me out from the army to listen. And truthfully, I might have been a bit out of it at that time."
Harry was not exaggerating. Neville was there when Harry got discharged for serious disregard of orders. He had been delirious from Felix Felicis overdose, laughing into their faces.
Bill was remembering, too. "Don't you dare blame this on us! You were a soldier—it was your responsibility to report anything you'd done or were planning to do. But you were always above that, weren't you? You always had your own agenda, always thought you were the only one good enough to fight our battles!"
"Who's Charlie?" Sadecki asked softly, interrupting the shouting.
Bill took a deep breath. And then another. "Charlie was my brother," he said in much more levelled voice.
Sadecki nodded. "And who is Riddle?"
"Okay, that's enough," Neville reached a decision. "Harry, how many hours before we reach the Slums?"
"Fifteen, at least."
"Right. That should be enough time." Neville turned to Sadecki. "Andrei, would you try to keep your mind open if we were to give you a different account of the last forty years?"
"Oh boy," mumbled Gregory after hearing that. He got up for some more snacks.
Harry sighed and went to help him. He even fished out a bottle of whiskey from somewhere.
Neville settled down into his seat and contemplated where to start. He decided to go with a question of his own. "What do you call your Emperor?"
Sadecki frowned in confusion. "The Emperor, of course."
"I mean, what's his name?"
"He doesn't have a name. He's the Emperor," Sadecki insisted.
Harry chuckled from across the caravan where he was busy pouring everyone a glass. "He's planning to live forever. In his eyes, there will only be one Emperor, so why to have a name to distinguish oneself?"
"Okay," said Neville slowly. "Well, he used to have many names. His first one was Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was born in England in 1926."
"Oh god, how far back are you planning to go, Nev!" groaned Harry.
"As far as we need to. Stop interrupting now."
So he told Sadecki about Voldemort's first rise to power, about his circle of Death Eaters and the Order of Phoenix led by Albus Dumbledore who opposed them. He told him about Voldemort's beliefs and about the violence he had used to promote them. He told him how Harry defeated Voldemort in 1981.
"How old are you?" blurted Sadecki, staring at Harry's youthful face in shock.
"I was one year old when that happened," Harry grumbled in annoyance. "It required hardly any action on my part. I just sat in my crib."
"His mother offered her life for his," Neville explained. "Her sacrifice protected Harry, the baby—when Riddle tried to curse him, the spell reflected and hit Riddle instead. Harry here was the first wizard to ever survive the killing curse; we all grew up calling him The Boy Who Lived."
Harry started making muffled gurgling noises.
"Riddle was thought dead and Harry here was famous when we started Hogwarts together. The castle was different than what you are telling us now. Dumbledore was the headmaster and we had a half-giant and even a werewolf for a teacher once. The school was full of half-bloods and muggleborns; and most of them were much brighter than me, a full-blood! Hermione Granger, Harry's friend, was the most brilliant witch of our generation and she was a muggleborn!
"When we were fifteen, Riddle returned back from the dead. He quickly took over the Ministry of Magic and had Dumbledore killed. The school changed much after that—it fell into the hands of Death Eaters. We tried to protect the muggleborn children but there was not much we could do. They got abused a lot. Many of them disappeared completely."
Harry was distributing the whiskey around the caravan now. He even offered a glass to Annie who was driving. She refused.
"Meanwhile, Harry was on the run. Riddle's newspapers called him The Undesirable Number One by then. We called him the Chosen One. When he snuck into Hogwarts one night and took it from the Death Eaters, Riddle and his army attacked the castle. Many students decided to defend her with the teachers. The Order of Phoenix came for help, too. It was not enough, though. More than half of the castle's defendants died that night. More than one hundred of them were younger than eighteen.
"The rest of us fled to France and Riddle took over England completely."
Neville paused here for a second. Harry had placed a glass of whiskey in front of him and Neville gratefully took a sip.
"The rest of Europe was slowly realising that Riddle wouldn't be satisfied with the islands and would bring the war to their shores soon. The French government took us in, and other countries started talking to us. A couple of months later, we formed an alliance against Riddle: five magical nations put their best fighters together and created the International Magical Resistance Army—or the IMRA, or just the Resistance. Harry, Bill and I were all part of it, and Gregory's father, too, training to be soldiers. I was on Bill's team for years. And we were doing well, very well. In two years, we not only defended the shore but we took the offensive too—we took Ireland back."
"And we managed to smuggle hundreds of good wizards from England, from underneath Riddle's nose," added Bill.
"And just when it all started looking hopeful, it all went to shit," Harry concluded.
Neville frowned at that summarization but he couldn't exactly argue with it. He sourly nodded instead. "My grandmother used to say that more dangerous than a victorious Dark Lord was a desperate one."
"She was a very wise lady and one hell of a witch, your grandmother," Harry said with a fond smile. "She joined the army in her eighties!"
Neville wasn't really in the mood to dwell on the memories of his late grandmother. It hadn't been even a full year since she reached one hundred years and died the day after. He got back to his story. "Riddle only had a small number of able followers against the united forces of European wizards. He was formidable with a wand himself but even he couldn't fight on that many fronts. He realised he couldn't win in open combat, so he chose a different tactic—his Death Eaters started targeting our families instead of the fighters.
"Many good people were still trapped on the Isles, behind the original Curtain surrounding Britain and beyond the help of their relatives in exile. Riddle's people started hunting them and putting them into Azkaban. They would torture them there for days—innocent people, many of them children. Afterward, they would send the memories of their torture to their families in France. It was soon forbidden to watch the mailed memories; nothing could break morale more easily. But even without watching them, it was enough to get the letter and know your family was being tortured. Many returned to England in those months, deserting us to save the lives of their loved ones.
Seeing how effective that tactic was, Death Eaters started kidnapping families from the continent, too. Before the Resistance could respond and get their families to safety, Death Eaters managed to snatch quite a number of them. Do you remember Hermione Granger, the muggleborn witch from our class?
"She was regarded as a special case by the Death Eaters, being closed to Harry Potter and a brilliant witch herself. To protect her parents, she Obliviated them and sent them to start a new life in Australia. Death Eaters found them and brought them back, together with their one-year-old daughter who they had named Hermione too in their confusion. Older Hermione managed to watch the memory of their torture despite the orders. When she came out of the Pensieve, she was a different person. She hasn't spoken a word since. She reacts violently to any display of magic around her, and she will never pick up her own wand again."
Neville stopped there and glanced apologetically over at Harry. He didn't like bringing back those times but Sadecki needed to understand.
Harry just sipped from his glass and gestured Neville to continue.
"Harry then proceeded to watch the memory himself, and then a bunch of others, looking for clues how to get these people out. He did manage to breach Voldemort's barrier, get to Azkaban and rescue some of the prisoners, Hermione's mother among them. To do so though, he drunk what—four doses of Felix Felicis a day?"
"I might have gone a bit overboard there. Not the best of life choices, kids, not at all."
Neville decided to gloss over the months that came after, when the addiction brought Harry to madness. "He was discharged from the army soon afterwards and everyone got a bit depressed—he wasn't the IMRA's leader, but he was the face of the Resistance.
"None of it mattered in the long run, though, because several months later, the Betrayal Bombing happened. Do you know what I'm talking about, Andrei?"
Sadecki nodded.
"We came to muggles for help. We wanted to cooperate, to form an alliance against Riddle's England. But the muggles got scared of the powerful magics we told them Riddle wielded and decided to get rid of all wizards instead—starting with the ones they knew. We gave them the means to contact us and through that, they somehow managed to find the IMRA's location. That night, they attacked our camps from the sky and practically eradicated the whole Resistance. And just like that, we all lost the war and the muggles doomed themselves. Not a single wizard has ever lifted a finger for a muggle since, letting Voldemort devour the rest of Europe without any more struggle, while the remaining muggleborns and half-bloods fled behind the borders of Europe, living in exile since then."
Neville finished his tale into solemn silence.
"What if it wasn't muggles who orchestrated the Bombing?" asked Harry carefully after everyone had a quiet moment for themselves.
Bill shook his head. "I took part in the investigation. I'd wished for the muggles to be Imperioed; I had clung to that hope till the very end. But we followed the chain of command back to the original idea—and our Legilimens found it in their leader's brain. It was all there, the first thought and the motivation behind it. The decision was not planted and the muggles were not under any charms."
"Were they ever officially convicted?" Harry asked.
Bill frowned. "No. They were lynched before the trial started. But all the evidence had been gathered by then—and it would have been more than sufficient to prove them guilty."
"And the wizards who lynched them—were they ever found?"
Neville could see Bill was getting annoyed by the questioning but he answered anyway. "No. By then, we were running out of France and didn't have time to investigate further."
"The whole thing is still not closed, then."
"For me and any other wizard on the investigation team, it was closed the moment we entered the chancellor's mind! It was all there: his fear, his confidence in their own weapons, his conviction that he was doing the right thing for his people—and the forgiveness for his own actions—for killing thousands of innocent wizards!"
Harry raised his hands in surrender. Bill's powerful words washed over all of them, his sadness palpable.
"Is that what your organisation believes in?" Bill asked calmly after he composed himself.
Harry looked genuinely surprised. "What organisation?"
"Back with the muggles tonight, you told them where to find help. You showed them a place on a map and you said the 'People' might be there."
Harry nodded. "They call themselves People for People. It's a group of rebels—wizards and muggles alike. They will take the runaways in if they get to them in time."
"Are you one of those 'People'?"
Harry shook his head. "No. But I've worked with them before."
Neville put two and two together. "The muggles you've smuggled out of Europe—that was organised by them?"
"Yes. They'll most likely ask me to do it again. I won't be able to, though, not unless I manage to bribe a new officer at the Crossing."
They all looked at Sadecki who just shrugged. "I don't think you'll get lucky again anytime soon, Harry."
"No, I don't suppose so."
"Would these People help if we approached them?" Bill continued asking.
Harry thought about it for a second. "Probably. Depends on what you wanted."
"How much pull do they actually have?"
"Once again, depends on what you wanted. They have some people in higher places and a few able wands but they mostly have a bunch of muggles in hiding to protect and even more to support. Because of that, they won't be willing to do anything conspicuous."
Bill nodded. "And once again, do they all believe that muggles weren't the ones who dropped bombs on the Resistance?"
Harry finished his glass of whiskey in one big gulp before answering that one. "I don't think they all believe so. I know they all agree muggles have suffered enough, though—no matter if some eighteen years ago one of their leaders decided to attack us or not. Maybe after you've been in the Empire for long enough, you'll reach that conclusion, too."
Sleeping in the caravan was not comfortable. There was only one double bed. They still managed to catch a couple of hours each, taking turns on the mattress. They made only the most necessary stops to stretch their legs and go to the loo.
By the evening, they were approaching the borders of Serbia.
"We are going to a place called Ruma. It's some half an hour away from the capital," Harry explained. "I wouldn't recommend venturing to Belgrade just yet—not before you adapt a bit. And I wouldn't recommend Annie to go there at all—it's full of wizards of the more unsavory character and they would take the wrong kind of notice. If you want to enter the wizarding world, I'd recommend going through Hungary instead. It's a poor region but you wouldn't attract much attention if you were to join the community there. The borders are a few kilometres away from Ruma.
"The man we are going to see is Popović. He's as ruthless as the place he rules over. He will exploit you if you let him, hell, he will probably do it even if you don't. But he won't sell you to the Empire—which is more than what you can say about the bastards ruling the other districts."
"What do we pay him for registering our wands?" Bill asked.
"I will have to reach into my own pocket - I still have some guns and medicine stashed from my last trip abroad."
Once again, Bill omitted telling Harry about the bag of diamonds they brought with them in Annie's rucksack. Probably a wise choice if Harry was already willing to pay for them.
It was completely dark by the time they finally reached the first signs of human settlements. They were driving through the familiar wastelands when suddenly their lights landed on a wall of tents, built right at the edges of the motorway. The tents turned into huts, built haphazardly from plastic and pieces of metal, supporting each other. And since then, that view hadn't changed for the rest of the night.
Everything was dark, with no lights outside nor inside the structures. That was Neville's first impression of the Serbian slums: no lights. And no trees. They drove across Serbia that night, entering it from the east and stopping almost at the western borders, and they hadn't seen a single tree. It was quiet, too.
Whilst they were driving through the eerie silence, Harry told them a bit more about the place. "The slums actually spread through six Balkan countries but no one cares about borders anymore. There are more than fifteen different nationalities living here, with millions of muggles forced to march here from Eastern Europe. There are no governments, no police forces and no armies. The only authority left are the bosses. These men rose to power for different reasons: some of them control the very little oil production that is left here. Or coal mining. Some have the only access to potable water. Popović's power is in smuggling and trafficking.
"Be on your guard: there are many wizards hiding here, from creditors or jealous husbands mostly. Some are outlaws, with wands long broken. They use magic around here so you can, too. Keep it simple, though. And above all: no spells that are obviously intended to help muggles. A good samaritan wannabe wanders in once in a while and starts cleaning wells and fertilizing gardens. Two days later, he's lying dead in a ditch. Helping muggles is not strictly illegal but that won't stop soldiers from making an example of you. If the need hits you, remember that there are less noticeable ways to help them."
Harry led them to a place he called "Rusty's lot", his winter camp. "We can't be driving the caravan around here and we can't park it just anywhere: it would get gutted in a matter of minutes. That's why I bought this yard and hired old Rusty to guard it. Rusty is a squib. I put some perimeter wards around the place and tied them to him. The ward responds to the innate magic in his blood and doesn't die even if I'm gone for months on. But Rusty has no control over the wards—he can't decide who to let through."
They finally stopped in front of a rusty gate.
"The ward is a very simple one, it wouldn't stand against a semi-decent wizard. Anything fancier would get noticed, though. When you open the gate, you also open a hole in the ward. If you walk through the middle, Annie, you shouldn't disturb the magic."
Harry turned to them. "You don't have to play muggles anymore. But keep your head down anyway. Come on now, let's meet old Rusty."
Old Rusty turned out to be a Serbian in his seventies, with grey thin hair and a grey long beard. He must have heard the caravan approaching because he was waiting right behind the gate when Harry opened the first wing. Rusty helped him with the second. Harry beckoned Gregory to drive the caravan in. And just when they were passing through the gate and through the wards, Neville felt a wave of magic for the first time in three weeks days. He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the feeling. It had been much too long.
They stopped in the middle of a courtyard. When Neville stepped out of the car, Harry was talking to Old Rusty. "...my friends. They can come and go as they please. They are new here: if they ask you anything, help them."
"You owe rent," the Squib said in response, his English heavily accented.
"Do I?" Harry asked. "Wait a minute, I'll be right back."
Harry left them standing in the middle of the dusty lot and disappeared through one of the doors on the opposite end of the courtyard. Neville looked around. There were three cars parked in line to one wall of the yard, and next to them were four motorbikes. Three different doors led to single-storey structures that could be called cottages. There were no lights on, apart from the beams from their caravan.
Harry was back before Neville finished his sweep of the yard. He looked different—his face had wrinkles now and his hair was graying around his ears. He transfigured his appearance to look like his older self again. Neville supposed a mature look made sense if they were to negotiate with the local mafia boss.
He also seemed somehow refreshed. His clothes were clean and his hair was shiny. Neville recognised the effects of a Scourgify and frowned in envy.
Harry noticed his glare. "I can let you settle in and clean up first," he suggested, "or we can get your wands registered straight away."
"Wands first," Bill said without hesitation.
"Alright then," Harry shrugged. "Pick a car."
Bill turned to the assembly of vehicles. "Annie," he said simply.
She pointed at a jeep. "That one."
Harry nodded, reached into his pocket and made to toss her the keys. He stopped mid-motion. "Actually, I don't think you should come, Annie. We will meet some wizards tonight and I don't think you want to show your abilities to them," he explained regretfully.
He didn't wait for her reaction, letting Bill make the decision. He turned back to Rusty instead and reached into his pocket again. His hand came back clutching an enormous paper box. Neville's suspicion was confirmed - Harry now had a bottomless pouch in his pocket. He squinted at the paper box—it had Marlboro written in red letters on the side.
Harry let the box fall to the ground with a heavy thud. "Is that enough?"
Rusty hesitated. "For past, yes. For future, no."
"I'll give you another box in a month."
Rusty accepted that with a silent nod.
Harry turned back to them. "I'll take a bike from here and show you the way."
Bill decided to follow Harry's recommendation and ordered Annie to stay behind. Gregory would stay with her. The rest of them climbed into the jeep Annie picked for them.
They watched Harry jumped on one of the motorbikes. He started the engine with a loud roar and immediately headed for the exit. When his light beam turned towards the gate, it landed on a man standing in the middle. Neville blinked, startled.
The man was leaning on a bicycle, watching them. Harry slowly approached him on his bike and stopped next to him. They started talking.
Bill turned their car's lights on, illuminating the gate and the men in a bright glow. Harry and the stranger turned towards them in annoyance. The guy was young, no older than seventeen. Harry said something else to him and the boy hopped on his bicycle and left through the gate. He took a right turn afterward.
Harry put his motorbike into motion too. He drove through the gate and immediately turned left. Bill followed him.
"We are loud," Bill swore under his breath.
He was right: not only their engines were roaring into the dead of the night, but their lights were also quite noticeable. Neville was watching the huts they were passing, waiting for people to start spilling out to check the commotion. All the doors and shutters remained closed though. Apart from the boy on the bike, there didn't seem to be anyone out on the streets.
"Where is everyone?" Neville wondered.
"Inside," said Sadecki softly. "There's a curfew."
Bill turned back to look at him. "You've been here before?"
"Not here. A similar place, though."
"We're being followed," Bill noted, looking into his rearview mirror.
Neville turned back to see another bicycle behind them. The man on it looked different than the boy before but there was no way to know for sure in the dark.
The man had no problems keeping up with them. The streets here were ridiculously narrow and the turns sharp. Bill had to drive slowly, his eyes glued to Harry's back light in front of them.
"Sadecki, turn around and keep your gun on the rider," Bill ordered, not caring if Sadecki was part of their team or not.
Sadecki shifted on his seat whilst Neville took out his gun and started checking their side for any more potential enemies.
He didn't like this place already.
Ten minutes later and nothing changed. The rider never got closer than twenty meters away from them, and no more of them turned up. Another ten minutes passed in silence and then Harry slowed down and pulled up in front of a hut that looked like any other. Bill stopped the jeep right behind him.
Bill started opening his door but Harry gestured him to stop. The next moment, the hut in front of them moved. Someone picked up the front wall and revealed the space behind it—a driveway that apparently led to a courtyard. Harry drove through and they followed.
There was a lamp standing in the middle of the yard, casting a dim light over the lot. It was the first light they saw in Serbia that wasn't coming from their vehicles. It allowed them to see the twenty-odd men that were standing along the walls of the courtyard with machine guns aimed at them.
Neville swallowed, hard.
"They aren't here for us," Harry calmly said when they got out of the car. "And also, I have a wand and they know it."
No one approached to greet them. Harry didn't wait for anyone anyway and started marching towards an open door on their left. He obviously knew his way around.
The inside of the house looked much sturdier than its shabby exterior. They entered a bare room with wooden walls and four more armed men guarding a door on the other side. It was dark in the room, with the only light coming through the door frame they arrived through.
Harry stopped in front of the men. "Dobro veće," he greeted them.
The men nodded and stepped aside to allow him through. Harry opened the door and gestured Neville and others to follow him.
There was a fireplace in the room with a roaring fire—the only light in the room. There were also two men—a middle-aged man sitting behind a desk and a very old one sitting by the fireplace. The flames in it were magical.
Other than that, the room was bare. Planks of unshaved wood were marring the walls. There were no pictures nor windows to interrupt them. The surface of the desk wasn't cluttered. There was no other furniture. Neville deduced this was not their usual place of business.
The men were both looking at them when they entered—the old one with polite curiosity, the younger with palpable annoyance. Neville stared at him back, studying him. He appeared to be in his forties, muscular and probably tall. The light from the fireplace was only partly touching his face, most of it stayed in shadows. His profile looked harsh though and his eyes looked even harsher.
The man started talking, his voice rough. "Dugo si bio-"
"English only, please," Harry interrupted him. "My companions don't speak Serbian."
The man's frown deepened. He obviously didn't care for being interrupted. Harry didn't mind him, though. He looked away from the men and drew his wand.
Neville noticed both men stiffened at the sight. They didn't make a move though, waiting for Harry's next one.
Harry simply conjured four cushioned armchairs.
Neville pondered over their lack of response. Did they know they were outmatched, or did they trust him? Or were they protected in a way Neville couldn't see?
"You were gone for a long time," the younger man said in accented English.
"Did you miss me?" Harry retorted cheerfully and sat down into one of the armchairs. He gestured to Neville and the others to join him.
"We have business to run," the man all but growled.
"Me too," Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, I forgot my manners. Everyone, this is Popović, the mafia boss," he gestured at the younger man, "and that is his uncle, Popović, the wizard," he waved at the man by the fireplace. "Popović and Popović, these are my friends."
He didn't stress the last words but by the reaction of the two men, he might as well have: their eyes zoomed on them in sudden interest. Neville realised that until then, they had been taken for Harry's slaves—they still wore their bracelets. With his introduction, Harry just revealed them to be something else.
After a short moment of hesitation, the younger Popović acknowledged them with a curt nod. "Harry's friends." He turned back to Harry. "Why are they here?"
"They need their wands registered."
Popović frowned, his eyes narrowing. "That's simple enough; Uncle can do that for you for a few galleons. Why have you come to me with this?"
Harry smiled softly. "They need to be registered under a false identity."
There was a sudden squeaking of a chair by the fireplace when the old wizard leaned forward. His face was fully lit by the flames, his eyes shining with new interest. He didn't say a word, though.
The younger Popović glanced sideways at his uncle. He turned back to Harry, raising his eyebrows. "That'll be very difficult to do."
"I'll lend you my hand again," Harry said to the muggle but watched the old wizard, smirking at the excitement now clearly evident in the wizard's eyes.
"Why don't you just buy registered wands for them? It would be easier," the muggle inquired.
"They have perfectly fine wands already. We are not interested in buying a subpar match."
Popović fell silent, watching Harry. "Three in total?" he asked after a moment.
Harry turned at Bill. "How many wands do you use these days?"
"Two," Bill said quickly. "And the same goes for the rest."
Harry rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Bloody scouts. Always prepared, heh?" He addressed Sadecki afterwards. "What about you?"
Sadecki hesitated. "I have a wand?"
Harry turned to face the muggle again. "There you have it, then. We'll need to register four wizards and seven wands."
Popović frowned again. "That's a lot." He turned to his uncle. "Can you make that many entries into the Register at once?"
The wizard didn't hesitate with his answer. "Not at once, not when they are all adults - that's conspicuous enough on its own. But I can make the entries and simply file them gradually over the next couple of days." His voice was smooth, his English perfect.
"It's still a big risk," the muggle insisted.
Harry sighed. "I'll make it worth your time. You know that well."
Popović regarded him with calculating eyes. In the end, he nodded. "Okay." He turned to his uncle: "Take them to your workshop and get everything ready. Harry and I will talk in the meantime."
The wizard stood up, surprisingly smoothly for his age. "Can I join you in your car, gentlemen? I will show you the way."
Harry chuckled at that, pointing an accusing finger at the wizard. "I see right through you, old man! We are perfectly fine apparating straight from here."
"We try to limit apparation for emergencies only," the man shrugged his shoulders.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Well, what do you think, Phil?" Harry turned at Bill. "Are you up for a car ride with the resident mafia wizard with some light interrogation on the side? He'll graciously answer all your questions but remember that from every question you ask, he'll learn two things about you."
Harry talked long enough for Bill to recover from Harry's sudden use of a fake name. "We can take him with us," he said evenly.
"Alright, brave man," Harry shrugged. "Drive ahead, then. I'll catch up with you in a minute."
"Left here. And then sharp right."
Apart from giving them frequent instructions through the maze of houses, the wizard stayed suspiciously quiet. Minding Harry's words, they stayed silent as well. Bill made Neville drive this time, obviously choosing to stay focused on Popović fully.
Ten minutes into the silent ride, Bill spoke up.
"So, is this the classic sham when your nephew looks like the one in charge whilst you orchestrate everything from the shadows?" he asked bluntly.
The man laughed. "Good gracious, don't let my nephew ever hear you say that! Whatever gave you the impression?"
"You are a wizard, he's a muggle."
"I might be able to cast spells, but my nephew possesses the ability to lead a group of desperate muggles," Popović patiently explained. He didn't seem offended. That probably spurred Bill to keep probing.
"Why are you here, then? Why don't you live among wizards?"
"I was here before the muggles came," Popović shrugged. "Why are you here, Mr. Phil?"
Bill chose not the answer. The car fell silent again.
And it stayed like that for the remaining fifteen minutes until Popović finally signalled Neville to stop in front of a two-story building.
Unlike the rest of the architecture they'd seen so far, this house was made of bricks and was obviously taken care of. Its windows were dark like all the huts around it, though. Popović approached the front door with a wand in his hand, flicking it in intricate movements that Neville recognised as dismantling the wards around the property. When the doorknob clicked and Popović beckoned them closer, Neville felt the magic of the wards pass through him: they were keyed in now. They got out of the car, hands in their pockets, clasping their guns. Neville was looking at the dark cottages around them but there was no movement.
They followed Popović through the door.
Once inside, Popović switched his wand and turned on the many gas lamps and candles around, flooding the room with so much light it hurt their unaccustomed eyes. Neville blinked several times before he could take the rest of the room in.
When he did, Neville breathed out in surprise, "You're a wandmaker!"
The room was otter chaos: there were several work desks spread across it, cluttered with piles on top of piles of wood shavings, scripts, and wax. High shelves and closets were lining the walls, filled with measuring tools and books. Any other surface was covered with crates of wooden sticks and other not that easily identifiable substances.
"I dabble in the art here and there," the wizard said modestly. He flicked his wand one more time, levitating the numerous crates and sending them in an orderly fashion out of the room. Neville got a sudden crash of wand envy again. Not long now.
With the crates gone, the room got more spacious. Popović gestured to armchairs in the corner which were previously hiding underneath the wand-making material.
"I need to go to my shop to get the paperwork ready. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime."
He turned his back to them. Instead of walking to the door on the other side of the room, as Neville expected, he approached one of the wardrobes along the walls and disappeared inside.
"A Vanishing Cabinet," deduced Bill. "Clever."
Neville agreed. It was an inconspicuous way to travel if one had to commute often. And not to mention comfortable.
Bill sighed and took a seat in one of the armchairs. Neville took it as a sign to allow himself to relax a bit too, sitting down next to him. Sadecki looked around nervously and chose to stand by the door.
"What is it?" asked Bill.
Sadecki shifted from one foot to the other, glancing around one more time before answering. "I still don't know how they are planning to register us under a false identity. As far as I know, it's impossible."
"You've done this before, right?" Bill asked. "You've got your wand registered before."
Sadecki nodded. "I was ten. My whole family travelled with me to Warsaw to see it. There was a stage built for that purpose. A wizard ceremoniously touched my new wand and my forehead with his own wand, and made a sheet of parchment burst into flames. Then, there was a big banquet, and dancing and even fireworks," he finished his story. "I doubt this will be anything like that."
"That's it? The wizard just touched your wand and your forehead?"
"I was just a scared kid, the intricacies of the spells he used escaped me. And I haven't seen a Registering since," Sadecki shrugged. "Even so, I know the process is impossible to tamper with—there must be no intervention in the link between the entry, the wand, and the wizard. I have no idea how Harry plans on creating false identities for us without setting off all sorts of alarms. "
Neville and Bill exchanged a worried glance.
"They've done this before," Bill argued. "They must have found a way."
"Did you work with the Registry during your time in the Army?" Bill asked after a moment of silence. "How does it work?"
"It's a simple system. You can't register a wizard's magical signature as it is not tangible enough. You can identify and document the wands he uses though. All magic is being constantly recorded throughout the Empire. If a spell from an unregistered or blacklisted wand appears, it gets noticed right away. There are teams of soldiers on standby to investigate anything out of ordinary."
"How about wandless magic? Or magical objects? Do they appear on the scans too?" Neville asked.
"They do appear on the radars but as long as their magic is not directly connected to a blacklisted wand, they are not investigated."
"What do you mean by directly connected?" Bill asked in confusion.
"If it is a freshly enchanted object, like a Portkey, or a transfigured needle, the trace can lead to a wand that conjured the spell," Sadecki explained. He went silent for a bit before turning fully towards them. "Can I ask you something, too?"
Bill beckoned him ahead.
"Why do you have two wands each?" Sadecki spilt out.
Bill looked over at Neville, his eyebrow raised and a small smile playing about his lips. "Isn't it always better to have a spare one available?"
Sadecki huffed impatiently. "They taught us a new wand won't work for you very well if you are still using your first one."
"That's not entirely true," Neville chimed in. "If you try to buy a new wand whilst you plan to still predominantly use your first one, you'll never find a perfect match. A wandmaker once told me that the wands get jealous of each other. You see, he was a bit of an odd one but he understood wands like no other. He also explained that if you defeat a wizard in a duel, you gain a certain level of respect from the wizard's wand. In some cases, you can even gain mastership over the wand. It will never be in tune with you as a wand that has chosen you but it won't resist you when you use it."
Neville took out his second wand for Sadecki to see. "This used to belong to a Death Eater. It was one hell of a fight if I can say so myself, and I won that wand fair and square. Almost everyone in the Resistance got a wand or two with a story like that. A prize of war, if you want. We would wear them proudly, retelling the fights behind-"
They all startled when the door of the Vanishing Cabinet suddenly opened. Popović stepped out, hands full with a weighing scale, ink pot and a stack of officially looking parchments. He nodded at them politely, settling all of it on one of his desks.
"Harry still hasn't arrived?" Popović asked redundantly, his eagerness from before showing again.
"Why so excited?" Bill openly asked.
Popović looked up from his parchments, momentarily surprised. Then he chuckled. "Am I that obvious?"
"Yes," Bill simply said.
Popović shrugged his shoulders. "It's not that often that you get to watch someone perform the impossible." He frowned. "Harry doesn't share his secrets willingly. I take every chance I get to study his methods - who knows, one day I might crack the theory behind his magic."
A minute later, they finally heard a roar of a motorbike approaching. It stopped outside the house and then Harry was opening the door. He didn't knock, nor did he have to wait for Popović to key him into the wards—he had been here before.
"Let's do it," he said instead of a greeting. His face looked tired. "Who's first?"
Bill got up after only a short moment of hesitation. He reached inside his pocket and took his first wand out. Popović beckoned him to place it on his weighing scale.
He touched Bill's wand with the tip of his own and then shortly dipped it into the ink pot. He proceeded to rest his wand on one of his parchments. "Beech, twelve inches, dragon heartstring," Popović dictated in an even voice. Spidery writing started to spread from the tip of the wand onto the list of parchment.
He turned to Harry with unconcealed anticipation. "And now, the wizard."
Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation at Popović intense stare. He raised his arm. "Hold my hand," he asked Bill softly.
Bill did so but Harry shook his head. "With both of yours."
When Bill's hands were clasping Harry's palm in between them, Harry nodded in satisfaction. He looked into Bill's face. "This won't be pleasant."
Bill set his face in determination and gestured for Harry to proceed.
Harry closed his eyes. His body became still apart from his eyelids—they were softly fluttering as if he was reading something at the back of them.
He stood like that for a whole minute, not giving any indication that he was actually performing magic. Neville was watching Bill's face but his team leader didn't seem to be in any sort of discomfort.
Another minute passed. Just when Neville started getting fidgety, Bill suddenly crunched forward, almost crumbling to the floor if it wasn't for Harry holding his hands firmly. He made a chortling sound.
Neville almost rose from the armchair but stopped himself in time before he could intervene. His skin rose into goosebumps, even though he couldn't feel a single wisp of magic coming out from Harry or Bill.
"He's ready," Harry grunted. His eyes were still closed but there was sweat on his forehead now. Neville noticed how taut his arms were: he was clearly supporting most of Bill's weight to keep him standing.
Popović quickly approached them. He raised his wand to Bill's forehead and tapped it once. Then, he touched Bill's wrist, this time drawing a drop of blood. Neville recognised the steps of an identification spell.
"Draw enough blood for two wands," Harry reminded him through clenched teeth.
Popović closed his eyes in concentration and then return his wand onto the parchment.
He took a deep breath and solemnly pronounced: "Gideon Prewett."
Neville's eyes went wide after that statement, his heart beating with excitement. Harry did it: he changed Bill's identity—and with it his magical signature. Popović was right - Harry had just performed the impossible, right in front of their eyes.
Whatever Harry was doing, he broke the spell now. Bill took a sharp breath, gasping for air. His eyes flew open, meeting Harry's gaze. They weren't full of awe as Neville's, though; in Bill's eyes, there was fear instead.
Harry quickly clasped Bills elbow with his free hand. "We'll talk about this later. Alone," he implored.
Bill was still breathing hectically. Harry led him back to an armchair and sat him down. He freed his right hand, a wand suddenly appearing in his palm. He swished it imperceptibly, conjuring a steaming cup of hot chocolate. It floated in front of Bill. "Drink," Harry ordered firmly. Bill was too shaken to break any arguments and immediately took a sip.
Harry reached into Bill's pocket, taking out his second wand. He tossed it at Popović whilst still keeping Bill upright with his other arm. "Make an entry for this one, too."
Popović prepared another parchment, touching his wand to it. "Gideon Prewett," he declared again. His wand clearly still had enough of Bill's blood left, because the next second writings appeared on the parchment. Popović placed Bill's second wand on the scale but Neville's attention shifted back to Bill when he felt him shudder next to him.
"Will he be okay?" Neville asked, worried about his friend.
Harry resolutely nodded. "Yes. The aftershocks will disappear soon. He just didn't expect to hear that name, that's all," he whispered so softly only Neville and Bill could hear. "You won't probably expect yours either."
With that, Neville realised it was his turn now. That thought didn't exactly excite him.
Resigned to the plan, he took out his wands from the inside pocket of his shirt. He looked at Harry, noticing the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Should we do it sitting down?"
Harry blinked. "I've never thought of that." His face turned sheepish. "I suppose it will make things easier. Josef," he turned to Popović, "take his wands."
Neville passed them to the wizard, leaned back in his chair and tried to relax his tense muscles whilst Popović weighted his wands.
Harry sat down on his heels in front of Neville's armchair and offered him his left hand. Neville clasped it in both of his. Harry's hand was cold and clammy. There was something solid in between his fingers, too—a ring, by the feel of it.
Neville watched Harry's quivering eyelids. He tried to loosen his muscles but there were all clenched in anticipation of pain he now knew was coming. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing instead.
A moment later, he got hit by a glacier.
At least that's how it felt when his body went suddenly icy cold and frigid. He lost control of all his muscles, even his lungs. For a few seconds, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, he couldn't feel. Not even pain.
Oddly enough, he could still hear. "He's ready," Harry's voice sounded from a great distance.
An eternity later, he heard Popović's voice from even further away. "Hendrick Anthony Macmillan."
And then the cold was gone and air rushed back into his lungs. He choked on it first, and then started heaving. His limbs felt incredibly heavy and sore as if he'd just been through a vigorous exercise routine. He sunk deeper into his armchair, a shudder of cold going through his body.
Someone placed a warm cup into his palm. He obediently took a sip, relishing the feeling of warmth the hot chocolate was leaving in its wake.
With the warmth came thoughts, and then memories.
"Hendrick Macmillan?" he repeated softly, his voice hoarse. Could it be a coincidence?
Macmillan was his mother's maiden name. Hendrick was the name of her father. And Anthony was his middle name. No, that was no coincidence.
Harry somehow managed to change his magical signature to that of his late grandfather.
He opened his eyes and looked up at Harry, his mind full of questions.
Harry was downing his own cup of chocolate. When he emptied it, he didn't even look at Neville. Instead, he turned to Sadecki.
"One more."