CHAPTER SEVEN
Apparating was so much easier when you had been practicing it for longer than you were even alive. After doing what every self-respecting time-traveller did, namely cheating the stock market like nobody's business, I felt it was time to pay a little trip to New York's magical district.
I had been somewhat cautious before, on account of not wanting to alert MACUSA to my presence on their turf, and a tourist snooping around their seat of power would've certainly draw their attention. But then, I was not a tourist anymore, was I? I had been living in these parts for decades now. Twice, even.
Despite (or maybe because) of its size, New York didn't have a tightly packed magical shopping district as such. There was no Diagon Alley here, a main street like a vein which all other shopping streets sprung from. Magical shops could be found all over the city centre, little fantastical hubs hidden between other buildings, underneath manhole covers and even behind posters. Entire markets, exchanges and even circuses could be found in back alleys and neighbourhoods that by all right should have pushed the outer edges of Manhattan straight into the Hudson. While many shops did tend to gravitate closer to the older parts of New York, most American wizards had expanded just as rapidly as their non-magical counterparts, spreading across the surrounding countryside.
I somewhat oddly didn't have the urge to go and explore every nook and cranny of New York's magical society, but then as said, I was hardly a tourist. I merely made some quick stops past those stores that I knew would be useful for my future journeys, such as travelling suitcases and some extra sets of clothes with enhancements already woven into the fabric. Gilderoy had been fairly adept at magic-ing up his wardrobe, but as the confrontation with the gang upon my arrival in New York had shown, his spells could still fail at the most inopportune moments. These were guaranteed to last about as long as the garments themselves.
Which, according to the oddly specific warranty card, should be around 2117 years, 193 days and two hours.
Give or take a few hours.
Briefly I considered whether or not to consume the mind of the shopkeeper from where I bought a stylish looking dragonhide trenchcoat with sown-in wand holsters and extra pockets, with complimentary hat! It was a big, near-black fedora with a silken sash and reminded me immediately of Indiana Jones. The Gilderoy Lockhart in me needed to absolutely, desperately possess it and as I put it on with some flair, I had to admit: I make this shit look good.
I was mostly just thankful that it was the early '80s though and hats were both common and still stylish, their image not yet ruined by the neckbeards of the future.
In the end, I eventually decided against taking the man's brain. I had known Frank for well over fifteen years now (though he of course had never met me before today), though we weren't exactly close. Additionally, while the knowledge was indeed useful, right now any benefit his mind could give me was something that I could also simply buy with money, of which I would very soon have a lot.
Magical crafting was definitely something to look into in the future (I could practically feel my Walnut wand humming in anticipation of more experimentation, similar to when I had made my own version of Hellboy's Good Samaritan), but for now it was not something I had an immediate need for. That would come later, when I had secured my personal safety and began working on building up my base.
I still wanted to restore Lockhart castle to its former glory, but first I had to get my hands on a Legilimens and eat their mind without letting theirs infiltrate mine. Thankfully, having interviewed quite a few of them during his career, Fieldwake knew an unusually high number of mind readers. Given his advanced age, several of them had already passed away, but I really only needed the one in order to finally perfect my Mind-Eating Spell.
And as luck would have it, she was right here in New York. All in all, my brief shopping stint hadn't even lasted the hour, the knowledge that MACUSA's headquarters was ever only a few blocks away like a hot breath in my neck, spurring me onwards. The moment I had put on my new coat and hidden my trunks into one of my many pockets, I was off towards my newest victim.
Thanks to Fieldwake's knowledge, I didn't have to rely on Fughly teleporting me around. Since sending him back to the UK just to store away my stuff would tire the little guy too much, I instead had him monitor the local authorities instead, ordering him to remain out of sight and to run the moment he sensed trouble.
I wanted to know what (if any) follow-ups there were on Fieldwake and Doris' deaths, both on the mundane and magical side of things.
It was a low-risk assignment, a little down time as thanks for all the effort he's been displaying so far. Muggles literally would be unable to even see him if he so wished and Magicals wouldn't even bother to look at him in the first place. The perfect little spy.
Having sent the little fella off, I easily blended in with the crowd, new hat pulled low on my brow as the throng of people kept passing storefront window after window. Eventually though, my feet slowed down as a particular scent hit my nose: the smell of freshly baked bread. Glancing up at the nearest storefront, I read the cursive golden lettering, now somewhat faded with age, displayed proudly at the top of the glass window: "Kowalski-Goldstein: Quality Baked Goods!"
The bell at the door jingled merrily when I entered, completely at odds with what was about to happen inside this unfortunate little bakery. It had been highly successful in the past, but like so many small shops it had fallen victim to the massive rise of superstores and large distributors. Now it mostly relied on the locals and several regulars, one of which had been Doris, having been introduced to the shop's co-owner through her uncle's interviews.
The shop is completely empty as I allow the door to fall shut behind me, and a quick locking spell ensures that it will remain so. I return my wand to its sleeve when I hear the 'click-clack' of footsteps approaching from a room further back.
"Just a moment please!" an aged voice calls out and then she rounds the corner and there she is.
Queenie Goldstein, well over eighty but still walking tall with a faded gold in her hair, the lines in her face making her look stately, rather than decrepit. Magical folk age rather well, though not so much once they pass their first century, and time certainly had been kind to the natural-born Legilimens beauty.
"Hello sir, can I help you?"
I put on my most charming smile (and considering I have Gilderoy Lockhart's face, said smile is very charming indeed), glancing at the old woman from underneath the brim of my hat.
"Hello Queenie. Just you today then?" I call out easily, the woman blinking a few times as her strides slow down.
"Ah, yes, Millie called in sick so it's just me. Not that I mind; there's not much of a rush these days. I'm sorry, but… have we met?" She asks, but I merely smile.
"In a way." I reply, turning around and flipping the Open sign to Closed.
Turning back towards the aged witch, I can see her eyes flit towards the room she had just left, her hand twitching as if wanting to grasp something.
"I wouldn't try that, Queenie. I can assure you: I can aim much faster than you can run." I caution her, smile still on my face as I approach the counter.
The witch backs away from me, her back impacting the shelves behind her as her eyes widen. Something that a normal person probably would've been better off not noticing, because now those eyes tightened in focus as she locked gazes with me.
Queenie hardly needs a wand in order to be a threat after all. Unfortunately for her, as of two nights ago, the same goes for me.
I can feel her mental probe… and I defend against it with an ease that comes from many, many nights of practice guarding myself against the intrusions of the Legilimency spell. Queenie herself had sat down with Fieldwake quite often over the years, the writer highly interested in trying to find out if and how her natural version of Legilimency differed from Legilimency cast with a wand.
As such, I could recognize her signature with ease, rooting out the foreign influence in my mind, containing it, and shoving it to the outer edges of my mind, where the 'fodder' memories of half a dozen lifetimes make up an impenetrable wall of clutter. A thousand different breakfasts, a million different morning rituals, a hundred drives to work and back.
The effect is visible on Queenie who stumbled backwards as if someone just poked her hard in the forehead.
As she's gasping, I speak up, my stance still unhurried, though my own eyes display a laser focus.
"I was sorry to hear about Jacob. Always liked him. Honestly, I liked him the most out of all of you. Still, as a No-Maj, it was inevitable you would outlive him in the end. Shame about your sister though: nasty way to go."
"Who… what are you?" the aged witch asked with a tremble in her voice.
For a moment, I remain silent, observing the confused and scared woman in front of me. The Lockhart in me tells me she has exactly what I need: a natural-born Legilimens' mind, skills and memories is something that I cannot afford to pass up. She's the perfect target too. Aged, alone and without access to her wand. Her defection to Grindelwald means she's not entirely innocent herself either, making her a preferable target to the other innocents Fieldwake remembered. The criminals in my head tell me to go for it and go for it now, while I have the upper hand and consequences be damned.
But Fieldwake remembers how, when he was still a young writer and researcher, the Kowalski's happily invited him into their home once he approached Queenie for an interview. How Jacob made the most wonderful fluffy croissants as he sat in their living room, how Queenie kept smiling and laughing as she connected mind to mind with him.
I remember Doris sitting on Jacob's lap, being bounced up and down on his knee as the two of them sat to the side while her uncle and his wife had deep discussions on the workings of the mind, neither of them really following along but just happy to be there, to feel at secure at home.
Queenie's past meant that she was the least innocent of Legilimenses that Fieldwake knew and her innate skill with it meant that she was the most valuable target. But seeing her cowering in front of me, I realized that, more than just a target, a steppingstone for me, she was also a person, a real person. A scared, frail old woman who didn't even know who the monster was that had suddenly crossed the threshold of her little bakery, a memorial to her beloved husband.
"You had a good run, Queenie. A lifetime with the love of your life. Better people have had worse deals. But I'm afraid that has come to an end. You have what I need, and I cannot leave without it. Taking your mind will perfect my spell to the point that I can take another's memories and skill non-intrusively and with such precision, they will be able to survive the procedure. Who knows, maybe once I get my hands on a Pensieve, I might even be able to copy the memories I take, leaving their minds undisturbed. May that be at least of some comfort to you, that your sacrifice will prevent the suffering of others." I reply gravely, my Silver Lime wand easily falling into the palm of my hand.
"Now, please hold still: this won't hurt, I promise."
Queenie, however, decided on one last attempt at piercing my mind, suddenly straightening from her hunkered position, eyes wild and open as she once again locked gazes with me. Just like before though, I recognize her intrusion the moment it happens, familiar with her particular energy signature. The probe is more of a spear this time, aimed to harm and confuse, rather than to gather information. In response, my defences change as well. Again I envelop the mental energy with memories of my many lifetimes, but I shove it deeper this time, towards the heavily fortified and compartmentalized parts of my mind.
Feeling her mind being led to somewhere and correctly assuming that it doesn't bode well for her, Queenie tries to slip from my 'grasp', but the shell of memories merely thickens and tightens around her probe. Instead of a slop of mundaness, it becomes a spiky, thorny whirl of traumas, a thousand painful angry hooks digging into her and dragging her down below. I got over half a dozen hardened criminals in my head and every single one of them had their fair share of troubles that had led to a life on the streets. And all of it got thrown at the aged Legilemens at once, an amount of information, data and imagery that was literally inhuman. No Occlumens in history (that I knew of at least) had this much memory to call upon and it completely overwhelmed the out of practice witch.
There is a swirling, falling sensation, a kaleidoscope of different colours, scents, and impressions… and then the two of us are standing in a very familiar, stark white room.
"What… what did you do? What is this?" she asks in fear and confusion, her mental 'avatar' looking around itself as it studies the room, her voice sounding out with a slightly hollow echo.
"Trapped your mental intrusion. These compartments will house various aspects of your knowledge and memories once I have absorbed your mind. For now, it contains your mental probe. I usually Stun my victims before digging through their brains: much easier and less messy. But with you, I had to test just how well I had managed to adapt Fieldwake's Occlumency skills. And well…" I pause, glancing around the barren cell.
"… the answer seems to be pretty fucking flawlessly. With your mental focus here, I can just wake up, Stun you and then absorb your memories."
For a long moment, Queenie remains staring at me in mute horror, a look I'm quite familiar with by now. To my surprise however, she quickly slumps, her wrinkled hands coming up to clutch at the thin golden chain around her neck.
"You'll keep my mind here?"
I blink at the sudden shift in her attitude, but answer honestly nonetheless.
"All of it, safe and secured. I'll carry you with me for the rest of my life."
"Can you… can you bring back Jacob too?"
I fall silent for a long moment.
"Jacob is dead, Queenie. Has been for a while."
"I know. I know… But, you said you'll take my mind, right? My memories? My memories of him, you'll have them too, right? Maybe…"
It should be possible. After all, it was pretty much the same thing I had done to reconstruct Doris, wasn't it? However…
"It won't be him. Not really. Just a copy, an image you created of him."
Queenie simply smiles sadly at my warning, lifting up the necklace, showing the large pendant that is suspended from it. Thin fingers open the latch with the familiarity of many years, her eyes going misty as she smiles at the picture within.
A chubby man with a thick moustache and eyes surrounded by lines made from a lifetime of smiles and laughs grins back at me.
"Anything is better than a faded photograph… Memories are all I have of him now."
"… very well." I simply say, and open my eyes.
Across the counter from me, the aged witch awakens as well, silent tears still flowing down her sunken cheeks as she takes a shuddering breath, steadying herself against the aged wood. Slowly, she lifts her head as she looks at me in a new light, trying to straighten herself. She's a bit woozy, but I remain silent and motionless on the other side of the counter, a steady eye on the witch, wary for any tricks.
Yet there aren't any. Queenie simply smooths down her dress, squares her shoulders and clasps her hands together in front of her belly. Despite her reddened, wet cheeks, there is a brittle smile on her face.
"I am ready."
"… goodbye, Queenie Goldstein."
"Queenie Kowalski." She says back with some fire in her voice returning, tilting her chin with a proud smirk.
I merely smile in response, before faster than the striking of a snake, my Silver Lime wand is suddenly at her forehead, my cry of "Momento Ipso!" loud in the empty bakery. As before, I essentially 'push' the memories straight out of the brain using a highly modified Oblivitate, only to then catch them with my magic before they can dissipate.
As a wispy, ever-shifting ball of luminous wires hangs from the tip of my wand, Queenie's body slumps over with a deep, almost unsettling sigh. I pay her no mind though, my whole focus on the tangle under my control, gently condensing and coalescing it before lifting it up and guiding it against my forehead. Like dry ice being dumped over a floor, the mist swirls up and over my skin, a phantom sensation of coldness in its wake, before I can feel it seep through, falling further into myself past mere flesh and bone.
I close my eyes, but more out of habit than necessity. There is no headache this time, no blackout. Just a steady influx of memories and with it, information, all immediately caught and appropriately sorted by my carefully prepared mental defences. For several long heartbeats I remain locked in position as the trickle of memories steadily begins to fade, before petering out completely. As it does, I furiously blink my eyes as I can feel the new knowledge settle.
It is supremely uncomfortable: like a raccoon is trying to build a nest inside your head, clawing against the inside of your skull. A permeating not-quite itch that sets my hair on edge.
Finally, the sensation fades and the life of Queenie Goldstein, all her memories, knowledge and experiences, everything that had made her her, rests now inside my mind. Everything from spells, to potions, to fashion sense and even some rudimentary baking skills (she had tried her best and Jacob had been the sweetest and most patient teacher anyone could've hoped for but after she had managed to set a cheese cake on fire without magic she had to concede that cooking was not meant for her). Every happy memory, every painful trauma, every hard-earned scrap of knowledge and well-practiced skill, it was all there inside my head.
She was more alive within my mindscape than the figure in front of me was. I look at the slumped over body for a long moment, Queenie's vanity meaning I had spent hours and hours with that body in front of the mirror. I knew every imperfection, knew that she hadn't been satisfied with her hair that morning and had remained dissatisfied with it throughout the day.
The Lockhart in me could see where she was coming from, though the rest of my minds couldn't for the life of them figure out why.
I walk around the counter, leaning down towards the still breathing corpse. Some primal instinct makes the head flop towards me as it hears my approaching footsteps, but the eyes are wide and completely vacant. There's nothing going up upstairs. This is no longer a real person: just a bag of bones and meat. The person it was is now gone, only to be remembered by me.
I take out a small vial from one of my many pockets, swirling the vibrant green tonic around a few times before taking off the stopper with practiced ease. Squibs couldn't do Potionmaking, not really. Even the simplest potion required the occasional stir with a wand, and since a Squib couldn't utilize magic, all they'd do was wave a stick of wood above a pot of ingredients. The potion would just be a disgusting soup and not a true magical concoction.
That did not mean that Squibs were completely useless at Potionmaking. In fact, it was the one field of Magic in which they could hope for some form of employment or barest recognition. Theoretically speaking the other was Runes, but no self-respecting wizard would trust a Squib with such a carefully guarded and highly valued discipline.
While Squibs could not use magic (and thus the wands required for Potionmaking), Squibs were still innately magical. They could for instance still see Hogwarts castle, wizarding districts and homes and even Thestrals. This innate magic, however slight and almost non-existent as it was, also meant that they could handle magical ingredients, a crucial first step for any elixir.
A lot of the stuff used in Potions consists of gross, potent stuff that first needs to be rendered before it can be properly used, or you'd give your cauldron legs, send it running down the street, only for it to suddenly sprout wings, fly over the nearest village, turn itself inside out and thus spread your potion over a whole crowd of unsuspecting villagers, turning them into either moths or hares in a rough 30%-60% spread.
No, that was not a hypothetical. The actual weirdest part about that whole story was that the wizard who had been trying to brew his potion was actually just trying to invent a more potent sleeping draught.
Nobody knows what any of his ingredients had to do with either moths or hares, including himself.
The point being was that as a Squib, Potioneering had been the one aspect of Magic that Doris had actually felt somewhat included in, even if her uncle had to help with the final steps of the actual Potion making process. As Fieldwake's health began to decline, he relied more and more on her skills in the art, which had allowed her to progress further in it as well. Normally a Squib trying to buy Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage would've gotten laughed right out of the bookstore, but a Squib picking up said book in order to aid her respected, if reclusive, ailing uncle?
Hell, Fieldwake never knew, but Doris had even taken out a subscription on the Practical Potioneer, even though the academic journal sometimes was a little too wordy for her tastes. Dumbledore's papers especially had been enlightening (and somewhat strange, in retrospect) to read.
All of that meant that Doris was quite knowledgeable about Potion making, if not actually adept. Now that I had her memories however, I could supply the magic myself, thus creating the vibrant green tonic I was carefully pouring down Queenie's body's throat.
The criminals in my head had come up with various (predictably) violent means of disposing of Queenie's remnants, ranging from the good ol' bullet to the head, to just breaking her neck and blaming it on a nasty fall.
Brute-force methods that did not take into account the subtleties of magic.
Though I have to admit that my knee-jerk reaction had been to send a tightly controlled, small-area Flippendo straight to Queenie's chest right above her heart, which would cause it to violently palpitate before giving out completely, thus making it seem as if her heart had simply given out due to old age.
The problem was of course that, in order to get to the heart itself, I'd have to send the Flippendo through the overlaying muscle, bone and skin as well, creating an oddly shaped and very obvious bruise.
Which led me to Doris' memories instead.
"Stopper Death itself" indeed. I hadn't gone quite that far though. This was actually a tonic that Doris had helped prepare quite often, as it helped regulate Fieldwake's irregular heart rhythm. For the old man, it was a harmless potion. Strengthen the dose just a bit and then apply it to a healthy heart however…
It was the same danger as with applying a defibrillator to a normal person, as the overload could actually induce heart failure instead.
The same thing was now happening to Queenie's aged body, as I stoppered the bottle again and rose to my full height. Her heart would be overly stimulated to the point it would literally exhaust itself to a complete shutdown, the aged and frail body dying not long after. Any Muggle doctor performing an autopsy would simply conclude common heart failure as the cause of death, brought on by old age. A natural death.
And a Magical doctor… well, they wouldn't do an autopsy to begin with. Besides, even if the body was checked for magic, this potion would have fizzled out long before they can put Queenie's remains on a slab.
Slipping the now empty bottle into one of my inner pockets, I pull my hat lower over my eyes, unlock the front door, slip the sign back to 'Open!' (can't have anything looking out of the ordinary once the body is found) and prepare to slink out of the store, intent on seamlessly going back up into the throngs that have moved unendingly over the busy streets of New York without pause.
But as my hand falls on the door handle, I halt in my tracks. I glance back over my shoulder towards where I know the body of Queenie Gold-… of Queenie Kowalski lies dying on the floor behind the counter, hidden from sight.
With a sigh, I turn away from the door, moving towards where I now know is the office in the back of the building. Without pausing to take in my surroundings or needing the time to search around, I make a beeline towards the nearest desk, grabbing a spare piece of parchment from the top left drawer and an ink pen from the second drawer off the bottom on the right. Of course I knew where everything here was: I had put it there myself after all.
Penning the letters is the work of moments, the handwriting unmistakeably that of Queenie herself. Not even her sister, were she still alive, would've been able to tell otherwise. One is a message to the Goblin manager of Queenie's account, like a cheque of sorts, ordering him to take a large sum of her money and to make it out to various charitable organizations in the Muggle world.
Several orphanages right here in New York, as well as the Polish Legion of American Veterans.
Jacob had always been very supportive of them, being a Great War veteran himself, especially after the Second one had broken out…
The other was a note to Queenie's Muggle bank, stating that in the event of her death the shop was to go to her head chef, Millie, the same girl that had called in sick and who hadn't shown up today. She was a good girl with a steady head on her shoulders and who loved the little bakery almost as much as Jacob had done. She was pretty much an honorary niece of theirs, and I knew that Queenie would be content with the shop being left in good hands.
Before I consumed Fieldwake's mind, my hands would likely be shaking with tears flowing down my cheeks. Now however, there was nothing beyond a sense of distanced melancholy. I was using just the skills, without the messy memories and their associated emotions. Good thing too: the shaking hands would've messed up the writing and who knows if I could've been tracked somehow if I had let a tear spill onto the paper.
Instead of all that, I merely return the inkwell and the pen to their respective drawers, turn on my heel, stalk past the cooling corpse of Queenie Kowalski and slip out the front door of the Kowalski-Goldstein bakery, the ever-slogging crowd outside seamlessly moving to accommodate me as I go up in their endless numbers.
Nobody was aware of the fifteen minutes I spent inside one authentic little bakery.
My gait remains steady, hands in my pockets as the charms in my trenchcoat make it so that people flow around me like I'm a rock in a stream, their gazes sliding off me as if I'm not truly here. Yet, even as the masses ignore me, I don't ignore them. My eyes are shadowed by my Indiana Jones hat, but even so they flit from face to face, peering into the eyes of others for only a second or two, before moving onto the next one.
Evidently, whatever made someone a natural Legilimens wasn't just a question of their mind, but rather a genetic mutation, since I didn't passively read the thoughts of the people moving around me. That said, I did have a lifetime of experience with Legilimency, two if you count being on the other receiving end of it, totalling almost two centuries worth of knowledge.
I may not be an actual natural-born Legilimens, but in practice and especially against unaware Muggles, the difference might as well be non-existent.
'God, what if he gets home before then-'
'Man, I can't believe they lost, they fucking had it in the pocket-'
'So, kids first, then onto the supermarket, maybe I can swing by Lois' on the way home-'
'Damn it, he's such an ass!'
'God damn, she's got an ass…'
Surface level thoughts, the constant stream of consciousness we all have running for almost the entire time we're awake to the point we're usually unaware of it, it all flowed past me as I looked on. I quickly become very grateful for the expert enchantments in my clothing that makes me unnoticeable to the Muggles, since I can't help the massive grin that's practically splitting my face in half right now.
Finally… finally, my Mind-Eating Spell is complete. Now I can truly call myself a Memory Vampire, effortlessly and stealthily taking whatever information and knowledge from humanity's collective mind that I happen to desire, completely unknown and unnoticed as long as it suits me.
The world is now truly my oyster… and I'm feeling hungry…
Now then, where to next? If I want to grow my power, not just my personal magical power, but my base of operations, I'll need money. Immense, mind-boggling, stupid amounts of money. And as the criminals in my head had clued me in on, this being the '80s, there was one powder-white trail I could follow to the richest man on the planet.
On to the murder capital of the world then. Onwards, to Medellin.
"He's in here, patron."
"Thank you, Gustavo. You and El Negro, with me."
I remain leaning back in my seat as the nearby door to the veranda opens, a trio of men stalking out of the light inside the enormous mansion as they approach. Two of them quickly split off to take up position on either side behind me, flanking me while trying to remain out of sight. The third one, who had been walking in the middle, keeps walking right past me up to the balustrade.
His form is relaxed as he leisurely takes out a joint from his jeans, lighting it and taking several deep puffs as he stares out over his massive lands in an unhurried manner. A man without fear, for what could he possibly have to fear in the heart of his own kingdom, surrounded by his army of sicarios?
Finally, he turns to face me, leaning against the balustrade as he keeps puffing away, dark eyes trailing up and down my form with an intensity I would've found frightening in a previous life. They remind me of a snake somehow, cold and predatory, as if he's ready to lash out at any moment.
Now however, I only feel a slight sense of amusement when I notice his eyes having trouble focusing on my face, the pupils dilating and contracting before they simply slide back down to my collarbone again instead.
Still, there's some awe there as well. As far as the other people of this world are concerned, I'm from the future, but to me these people are all historical figures, living and breathing right here in front of me. People I only knew from pictures and Wikipedia articles, right here in the flesh. And this man was indeed a legend, even in his own time.
"So then… tell me, what foolishness causes a man like you to infiltrate my property? What death wish that drives you to seek me out like this?" Pablo Escobar says darkly, leaning slightly forwards, his accent heavy.
To say his men were surprised to suddenly see me sitting on the bench in the hallway of Pablo's largest mansion (he had about 40 at this point, all fully staffed and armed to the teeth), was a massive understatement. It had been a group of almost half a dozen men, laughing and hollering as they strutted through the front door back from yet another bloody assignment, that had discovered me.
After the initial shock, shouting and the waving of weapons had immediately occurred, questions like "who the fuck are you!?" and "how the fuck did you get in here?!" thrown around so much, their screaming voices almost drowned each other out.
The answer to those questions were of course "I'm a wizard" and "I'm a wizard". Back in New York, I had bought a private plane, one that I fully intended to magic up so much to the point even Arthur Weasley would ask me to tone it down a bit, once I got my hands on the necessary skills at least. Sure, the plane created a paper trail, but since it was all registered to wealthy businessman Daniel Bertrandt Cooper and not Gilderoy Lockhart, it wasn't a problem and I could remain relatively anonymous.
Even more so because I hadn't needed to hire a pilot either. I may not have Jacob's memories, but I did have Queenie's and she knew enough about the PLAV and its members that I could track down a veteran pilot with ease. The man was an old cripple with nothing much to live for beyond what he could find at the bottom of a bottle who would never fly a plane again, thus it was knowledge he wouldn't even know was missing. Ironically, he was the first person to actually survive my Mind Eating Spell.
Using Queenie's knowledge of Legilimency, I had skimmed his mind, collected all the relevant memories to flying, coalesced them into a single packet, and then targeted my Spell to only hit that specific part of the man's brain. A delicate operation, but since I tracked him to his home right after his nurse had left and Stunned him, I had all the time in the world to be as careful as needed.
The man also had some skill with weaponry, but it would hardly add to the many decades of experience I already had thanks to the gang in my brain, so I ignored it.
The ball of memories I extracted from the veteran's wrinkled forehead was the smallest so far, and oddly dense, even before I shaped it with my magic. Probably due to how close the memories were tied together around that particular skill. A literal knowledge pill, basically.
So, with the power of flight now mine, I hopped on my new plane and made a beeline towards Colombia. The climate here was hot and heavy, a tropical wall of warmth greeting me the moment I stepped onto the aged runway, though the enchantments in my coat meant that I remained comfortably cool at all times.
From Olaya Herrera airport (which would be closed in about four more years due to overcrowding and dilapidation) it was a quick taxi drive to the centre of Medellin itself. There, I sat down in the nearest café, ordered myself an absolutely stunningly good coffee and sat back and waited, observing the passer-by's, even as I went unnoticed by them in turn.
This being the murder-capital of the world, it took a depressingly short time (in fact I had barely even finished aforementioned wonderful coffee) before I happened upon my prey. A sicario, out on leisure time, and more importantly, out alone on leisure time. Following him to a back alley was a piece of cake, even with just the stolen knowledge in my head. My awesome dragon-hide cloak however was just outright cheating.
Good. If you're not cheating, you're not trying.
A simple Stunner to the back avoided a confrontation, before I grabbed the man (though he looked closer to a teenager, he can't have been a year or two older than me) by the scruff of his neck and Apparated us to a nearby rooftop. There, I completely emptied his mind. This was a foreign land, and I was about to infiltrate the second largest and most heavily armed organization in the country after the military (and even that was debatable) to parlay with one of the most dangerous men on the planet.
I could not afford a fuck up. Besides, this guy had taken to the sicario life with gusto: more than one police officer and innocent bystander was buried six feet under thanks to this guy, an SMG and a rusted out old scooter.
Sadly, young Carlos here was not very high placed in Pablo's organization, but since the King of Cocaine liked to use his many mansions as staging grounds for his larger operations and strikes, the kid still knew which estate Escobar was currently staying at: his favourite (and most famous) one, Hacienda Napoles.
Since I didn't know much about the magical authorities here in Colombia (other than that they had one and that they were a reclusive bunch even further removed from the Muggle world than usual) I decided to fly under the radar and stole a car, instead of making a beeline to the Cartel's headquarters on a broom.
A simple Alohomora did the trick without setting off any alarms, though given its age I somewhat doubted it even had one in the first place.
The drive towards Hacienda Napoles was thankfully short as I parked the vehicle quite a distance away from the mansion's outer grounds, hiding it from sight with a simple camouflage spell. It was similar to what hid the Leaky Cauldron from notice despite being situated in the heart of London, if less powerful and on a far smaller scale.
From there, a few Apparition jumps (the spell now completely second nature after adding Queenie's skill to Fieldwake's experiences) had me near the outer wall completely unseen and unnoticed and a second Alohomora took care of the heavy front door.
And then all I had to do was wait until I was found and then get them to not turn me into Swiss cheese with their weapons long enough for me to get a meet and greet with Pablo. The men had been wary, but my non-threatening posture and clear lack of weapons (as far as they could see at least) bought me the benefit of the doubt as they agreed to get Gustavo.
Surprisingly enough, convincing Gustavo to let me meet with his nephew was rather easy. Once he had his men frisk me, only to come up with nothing (of course), he seemingly dismissed me as a threat entirely. From what I could read from his mind, he was intrigued in what I had to offer: clearly, I had to be very convinced it was something impressive, something good enough to stay Pablo's hand and he wanted to see what it was.
If it wasn't good enough, Pablo would feed me to the hippos and that would be the end of it.
Either way, it was no skin off his back, and so I got led out to the nearby veranda and told to wait as the Big Boss was on his way. I only had to wait half an hour before the man himself decided to show up, during which I amused myself by observing the nearby private menagerie. Elephants, flamingos, ostriches, the list was as long as it was bizarre. The things (stupid amounts of) money can buy…
"A job proposal, Don Pablo." I reply to the man's earlier question, the smile in my voice audible and setting the men at my back on edge.
Nobody, not even his own men outside of his nephew Gustavo, absolutely nobody looks at Pablo when he's in a mood like this and fucking smiles at him.
For a moment, the wealthiest man on the planet just keeps staring at me, before he lets out a bellowing laugh.
"A job offer?! What, you're applying for hippo feeder, is that it? They're always hungry: we should have a position open." he says with a cruel chuckle, but I press on undaunted.
"I'm afraid I'd just give them indigestion. I've been told I've been a difficult man to stomach. What I'm offering is something far more valuable."
My relaxed tone peaks the drug lord's interest as he leans back against the balustrade, smoke billowing from his lips. At my back, I can feel Gustavo raise an eyebrow as he considers me anew, impressed with my calm.
"Your accent… it's local." Pablo muses aloud, his dark eyes never leaving my form (though he still can't quite look me in the eye).
"It is."
And it was. I had been speaking in flawless Colombian Spanish, using the memories drawn from unfortunate Carlos. Not just that, due to leaning on his lifetime spent here (short as it was), I even spoke with a distinct Medellin accent, one that any local would immediately pick up on as being from the poor side of town.
"You don't look local." Pablo continued in a dark tone.
"I don't." I merely agree with a smile, still speaking his language (literally).
For the first time, Pablo's gaze moves away from me as his eyes flit towards his nephew. While I can't see Gustavo, I can still read Pablo's mind and am amused to find that their initial thought is that I'm some foreign spook, either CIA or DEA or something more sinister.
The King of Cocaine becomes ever so slightly uncomfortable, his mind sharpening even through the dull haze of the weed as he pushes off the balustrade, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Behind me, I can hear Poison and Blacky gripping their guns tighter in response, though I still don't move from the couch.
"Your offer. Out with it."
"I can be your diplomat."
That takes everyone off guard and Pablo blinks a few times in surprise. He's incredulous, scoffing out loud, though he doesn't dismiss me out of hand.
"A diplomat? What need have I for a diplomat? This is my country. These are my people. They obey me."
"It's not your country yet. And not all obey you." I cut him off, finally rising from the couch.
"What are you-"
"How have the elections been going? Pretty good, I take it?"
"… what?"
"Big rallies, lots of people showing up, your name large on both the signs and on their lips as they chant it out. 'Pablo! Pablo! Paisa Robin Hood!' they call as you throw literal wads of money at them. It must be so clear for you, the road to presidency. You won't even have to walk it: you'll be carried into Parliament on the hands of the Columbian people." I continue, my voice steady and almost hypnotizing as I approach the ambitious drug lord.
I come to a halt just a few paces from him, before my grin turns sharp.
"You'll never get a seat there."
The statement feels like a crash of ice water after my earlier honied words and I can see Escobar's eyes shine with rage.
"Is that a threat?"
"A prediction. There are those in the government, those in positions of power, who see you for what you are and who will do everything they can to bar you from their institutions. And they'll succeed."
"They can be bought. Everyone can be bought."
"Not these. These men have principles."
"Then they will be threatened."
"They do not fear you."
"Then they will die!" Pablo finally shouts out, stepping closer to me.
Taller and wider than Gilderoy's young body, he looms over me, but I remain standing in place, my expression unchanging.
"Yes, they will die." I concede, to the man's surprise, before continuing with a smirk.
"And you'll still not be in Parliament."
Pablo's nostrils flare but he lets me speak, waving away his men.
"This time, force won't get you what you want. You'll escalate, of course. Storming government facilities, burning down record rooms, murdering judges, even taking down planes. There's no amount of bodies you won't step over to take your place as ruler of this country. But with very bullet fired, with every bomb triggered, with every innocent murdered… you merely dig yourself a deeper hole. You'll lose the people. El Matar Pablo, they'll call you: Killing Pablo. You may surround yourself with your loyalists here in your home, but do not delude yourself into thinking you have no enemies. The army, the DEA, the guerrillas in the jungle, even Cali and Norte de Valle: all are just desperate to draw blood from the great Pablo Escobar. They'll tear you to pieces, Pablo. Bit by bit, man by man. You'll lose this… unless…" I lead on.
"Unless I hire you?" he scoffs, his jaw clenching.
Surprisingly it's Gustavo that comes up, placing a calming hand on his nephew's shoulder before he glances towards me.
"You said the men that oppose my primo can't be bought or threatened. Now you warn us that removing them will lead to a war we can't win. What use can you be then?"
"I said that you can't convince these people. I can."
"And how do you plan on doing that?" Pablo challenges me, but I merely smile back in response.
"Trade secret. I just need an evening alone with them and I'll have them saying whatever words you want to put in their heads, Don Pablo."
"An evening alone with them? These people are watched, their homes secure. We know from experience. We can hit them, but not quietly. Not without 'escalating', as you say." Gustavo cuts in.
I can tell from his mind he's intrigued. He's a smart man, who knows Pablo better than even his own mother. He can see the signs. Pablo is as ambitious as he is ruthless and in his rise to power has steamrolled over every rival that has stood in his way, unused to opposition. But now he intends to take on the entire country of Colombia itself. A man cannot fight a government and win. Not with just threats and acts of violence.
If I can remove the obstacles before the bullets start flying, then Gustavo is willing to hear me out. Even if he's half-convinced I'm some rogue CIA-spook. Wouldn't be the first ghost to switch sides after all.
"You'll never meet these men in private, much less in their homes, unnoticed at that." Pablo scoffs in dismissal, but I merely grin back.
"I managed to break into yours, didn't I?"
That halts the King of Cocaine in his tracks. For what feels like a very long time, he keeps staring out over his massive lands, deep in thought. I can see him weighing pros and cons, pitting risk against reward. Eventually he turns to share a long look with Gustavo, who quickly nods.
For him it's clear: either I prove useful and the Medellin Cartel can grow without stepping into an outright war. Or I'm full of shit and will be found the next morning in the gutter with a bullet in my head. Pablo only stands to win, with nothing to lose beyond compromising whatever intel he gives me access to.
Not that he has a choice in that particular matter (already my mind has catalogued the majority of his safe houses and secret stashes, even the ones that his men don't know about), but it's sound reasoning from their standpoint.
"Very well." Pablo decides, before glancing back at me.
"When can you begin?"
"Depends. Who do you want 'convinced' first?"
"Rodrigo Lara." Pablo shoots back immediately and without hesitation.
"The Minister of Justice. Bold choice. It will be done."
"See what you can do about Luis Carlos Galan as well. He's making waves, getting popular. We can deal with him on our own though, if need be. Lara is the priority." Gustavo adds, having a clearer image of the big picture.
Pablo isn't even interested anymore, his mind on other matters, other rivals. He finishes his blunt before flicking it over the railing. Turning on his heel, he stalks back towards the mansion again, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder.
"Discuss the details with Gustavo. If you need anything for your little stunt, he'll see about getting it for you. Don't come back here until the job is done. Don't ever come back her if you can't get the job done at all: my hippos are still hungry."
"Draw blood from me, eh? We'll see about that. Cali and Norte de Valle should be reminded of who the true power in Colombia is." He mutters under his breath as he steps inside, though I halt him right on the threshold.
"We haven't discussed my pay." I call out in a strong voice.
"Details. As said, you discuss those with Gustavo." He retorts, his voice annoyed.
"Considering the amount of money I intend to get from you, Pablito, I'd hardly say it's a detail. I will discuss it with you."
My voice is strong, unyielding and full of confidence as I command the richest man in the world. When he turns back to face me, armed men at his side, there's not a hint of fear on my face, not a shred of doubt in my posture. He may be the most dangerous man here, but I am so much more than merely a man. To these thugs, he is their leader. To me, all of them are prey.
Something about me, maybe magic, maybe sheer charisma, must've leaked that conviction through somehow, cause Pablo stalks back towards me until we're standing nearly chest to chest. His intimidation attempt falls flat however: with my Walnut in hand I can take out everyone on this floor in a little under fifteen minutes. Less if I decide to wield the Good Samaritan in my other hand.
Briefly Pablo clenches his jaw, before shrugging.
"Name your price."
"50 million."
Behind me, Gustavo almost chokes on his cigarette, though to my surprise Pablo's earlier anger is now replaced with amusement.
"Name an actual price. Not a joke."
"I know you earn 400 million every week, Pablo. Give or take a couple thousand. What I'm asking is a one-time fee."
"And I'm not paying a mansion's worth of money on taking out one rival when I can give any child on the streets a gun and a hundred-dollar bill and have him do the same."
"Except you're not paying for a kid with a gun. You're paying for a professional with a unique set of skills that can remove said rival quietly and permanently, without ever needing to fire a gun. You can't put a price on peace, Pablo."
"You just did and apparently, it's worth a small army. I make hundreds of millions every week, sure, but it costs money to make that much money. Bribes, salaries, equipment… I pay you once, then I can't pay my men for that month. 1 million."
"You spent more than that on your hippos Pablo. We both know I'm worth more than that. Between how much money you spend on toys and how much money you actually make, we both know you can easily pay both me and your army. 25 million."
"Better, but not enough for someone who's 'unique' skills I have never seen or even heard of before. You're intriguing, but untested. Five million now, another million and a half once the job is done."
"15 million for the whole thing and you keep me on retainer for a standard 10 million after that, separate from any high-profile assignments, of which I have a feeling there will be many."
"Retainer? You think I will be so impressed by your skills, I'll want to hire you indefinitely?" Pablo asks with an incredulous laugh, but I merely smile instead.
"It's not exactly money to keep me in your service, Pablo. Think of it more as… insurance money. To keep me out of someone else's services instead. Like I said, you have enemies and I've heard that the weather in Cali is especially nice this time of year."
Pablo's eyes narrow at the threat.
"And what makes you think that you can even so much as touch me if you run to my enemies?"
"Like I said before, Pablito… I got inside your house, didn't I?" I say with a massive grin as I lean in closer.
We remain locked in a staring contest for a long moment, but I know I've won before he even begins to speak.
"Very well. 15 million in cash right now. Do this for me, remove Lira however you wish, and I'll give you your retainer fee. 10 million, every month. More if you continue to complete other assignments. But know this… you take that money, you become part of the Medellin Cartel. You become one of mine. As long as you stay that way, your life will be one of luxury. You'll want for nothing, fear nothing, because I will provide for you and protect you. Because I trust you. Betray that trust…"
Pablo trails off, and I can see the visceral images of blood-curdling torture he has inside his mind. It's a good thing I intend to remove his rivals for him: this man will drag down an entire country into war and terror to suit his own ambitions.
"… you will pay for it in blood." He finishes.
"Deal." I immediately respond, undeterred and after a moment, Pablo shrugs before clasping hands with me.
"Very well. What is your name, stranger?" he finally asks and my grin turns mischievous.
"You may call me Mr. Dover. Benjamin to my friends."
"Then Benjamin I shall call you. All my employees are my friends!" he says with a laugh before turning away from me.
"Anyone who betrays me… well, you can't be friends with corpses." He says with a shrug, before he moves away, our conversation finished.
"Word of advice? Don't make threats like that again if you like your balls to remain attached where they are. Pablo hates the Rodriguez brothers already: best not to mention them too much. The moment he thinks you're in league with the Cali cartel, even if you're not, and the police will never find what little will remain of your body." Gustavo says with chilling certainty, before lighting up a cigarette and moving inside the mansion as well.
"El Negro. See our newest employee to the exit. He has a lot of work ahead of him."
El Negro, real name Jorge Eli Pabon (who's nickname in the Narcos series would've been translated as 'Blackie') and a member of the Medellin Cartel from day one ever since he protected Gustavo and Pablo during their first stint in prison, steps up to me, hand clearly placed on the hilt of the gun tucked in his belt.
Behind him, five other sicarios move in closer, all of the men tense, but oddly respectful. Seems like going toe to toe with their Patron (and not getting fed to the hippos for it) has earned me some points.
"This way." El Negro commands strongly, and I easily follow lieutenant back towards the gate. As the heavy door opens, the man's trained eyes flit up and down the street. Failing to spot a vehicle, he shoots me a strange look as I merely smile back placidly in response.
Eventually he shrugs his shoulders, his wide grin showing off a badly maintained set of teeth.
"Better get to walkin' then Mr. Dover. Medellin is a hundred kilometres that way." He says, indicating the road winding through the jungle with a nod of his head.
As I begin to move past him, he halts me my placing a hand on my chest, his eyes sharp and his grin gone.
"You heard the boss. You go over to Norte de Valle, or Cali, or whoever… and I'll come for you and cut out your heart."
It's not an idle threat: I can see in his mind that he has done exactly that on more than one occasion already. Whatever response he expected, it wasn't for me to lean in closer to him, my eyes blazing.
"Remove the hand. Or lose it entirely." My voice is harder than steel.
Like recognizes like as he's unknowingly faced with a cumulative criminal experience of more years than he has even been alive. As I said: it's not an idle threat and he knows it. Giving me a nod, grin back on his face, he moves away from me, a shrill whistle from his lips prompting the other men to follow him back into the estate again, the heavy door falling shut behind them.
I let out a deep sigh, the tension finally leaving my posture. Now then, what's next? The answer is obvious of course.
Next stop, the Cali cartel.
I'm sitting in a restaurant in Bogota, my meeting with Cali having gone very well, if substantially less dramatic than the one I had with Pablo. The Medellin cartel was a raging beast, awe-inspiring in its scope and ferocity. By contrast, the Cali cartel was a panther, sleek and silent, at home in the shadows. They were businessmen first, drug lords second, and my promise of results silently and completely sin violencia was very appealing to their sensibilities, though like Pablo they found me mostly 'intriguing, but untested'.
Considering Gilderoy's famous good looks, and it was no surprise that Pacho Herrera found me quite intriguing indeed, which went a long way in the negotiations.
There was no way I was going to sell myself to Pablo. Or at least just Pablo. I was using him, not the other way around. His retainer fee was nice, and if things worked out well enough it could see a steep rise, but it was not enough for me to shackle my life to his. I wanted more income, but more importantly I wanted more connections. If I really only did it for the money, I would've kidnapped Pablo (ironic, considering how he worked his way to power) and replaced him with Polyjuice for about a month or so, sluicing the incoming revenue away from the cartel and into my own pockets instead.
Ramping up production for that month while holding off on bribes and staffing his army would mean that at the end of that month, I could walk away with close to one and a half billion dollars. A number so big it made my mind boggle. I read once that people underestimate the difference between a million and a billion, but that there was a good example to make it more comprehensible.
A million seconds is twelve days.
A billion seconds is thirty-one years.
Apply that to money, and liquidizing the entirety of the Medellin cartel would leave me with so much cash I felt I could buy Gringotts! Probably not though, come to think of it, considering how greedy Goblins are. Unless I do the same to Cali and Norte de Valle as well… Norte de Valle still needs some room to grow and fatten up, they only got really big in the early 2000s, but over in Mexico Felix Gallardo should be about done with setting up his weed monopoly. Take that over while he shifts into cocaine after I dismantle his Colombian rivals, then liquidize his empire before it can splinter apart into separate cartels… ohhhh yesssss, definitely something to keep in mind.
If I was a big-brained white mouse, I would be rubbing my little paws together right now while chuckling evilly.
Today however, I was in Bogota not in order to deal with criminals for a change. I was here to stalk someone on the law-and-order side of things. Well, a CIA agent to be precise, so really I was still dealing with a criminal, just one that had the approval of his government. Technically, does that make the agents buccaneers then?
Either way, I had chosen this specific little restaurant because it was very near the airport and on route towards the US Embassy. Snatching a trained operative on route to their base might be risky for most, but I should be fine and their intel was too good to pass up. Especially since I could sell that info back to Pablo and the Rodriguez brothers for a hefty bonus. Spotting the CIA agent was laughably easy as well for me. Sure, there were plenty of gringo's coming off the planes here in Bogota itself, but all I had to do was skim the minds of every passer-by of the right age and ethnicity and wait till until I caught something, like a fisherman by the river.
I had to wait for most of that morning, but I was in no rush, steadily working my way through a massive Bandeja Paisa dish, Colombian's signature food, with several empanadas on the side. A heavy calorie meal, but we wizards burn through food pretty quickly, especially the more heavily we relied on our magic.
It was why they could feed the kids at Hogwarts a full English breakfast every single morning with a feast for dinner and not have to deal with obesity or clogged arteries. Well, that was partly due to magic and partly due to simple teenager biology.
Finally, a little after noon however, my 'line' got something. I was surprised to find that the agent's mind wasn't shielded or difficult to pierce. Whether or not this was due to his lack of magic or because he wasn't trying to protect his thoughts, I wasn't sure. He was an older man, late forties or mid-fifties, and the weather certainly wasn't agreeing with him, his fat cheeks bulging as his shirt strained against a big belly.
I watched his unsteady gait with keen eyes from underneath the wide rim of my hat, seeing him glance around the busy plaza and hearing him wondering where his escort was. The answer to that (and the reason why I knew I should be here today) was sleeping off a massive migraine at home, the driver unfortunate enough to have been thinking about his precious cargo when I happened to listen in on his thoughts.
One Stunner and precise Mind-Eating Spell later, and I knew exactly what Agent Donald Cameron looked like, when he was supposed to land (seems he got delayed) and how I was supposed to drive him to the Embassy. The driver I had jumped didn't know much more than that, so I left his other skills and knowledge alone. Instead of killing him, I took a lead pipe, smacked him hard over the head and then left him on his porch before emptying his pockets and taking his shoes and belt, making it look like a robbery gone wrong.
The concussion would explain away the gaps in his recent memory and his superiors would scold him for allowing a thug to get the drop on him, before dismissing the case entirely.
As it was, Agent Cameron didn't have to wait long for his driver to arrive.
"Mr. Cameron? Right this way sir. Eduard N. Stits, at your service. I am to take your directly to the Embassy."
"Yes, yes of course." The sweating American said, gratefully handing me his bags as he fell into step with me.
For all that he was a spy, he really seemed as harmless as he looked. He was not suspicious of me at all, was hardly aware of his surroundings, honestly his mind was focused on hardly anything at all other than "God damn I need to get out of this heat!".
The Jeep I was supposed to transport him in was parked nearby and I quickly threw the bags in the trunk while Cameron clambered up to the passenger seat, huffing and puffing all the way. By contrast, I practically leap behind the steering wheel, more athletic than Gilderoy ever dreamed of being.
To be fair, Gilderoy dreamt of being a famous, good-looking wizard who's most strenuous activity throughout the day was signing autographs, so the bar wasn't particularly high.
Cameron looked at me in obvious envy as I started the Jeep and began driving away from the airport. The cabin is hot as the car has no airco and the fat agent quickly begins panting again. I of course remain comfortably at ease.
The agent glances at me from the corner of my eye, clearly envious.
"You don't look like one of the locals." He states.
"No sir. Got brought in from the States." Is my easy response as I keep my focus on the roads, my accent a perfect imitation of a New Yorker.
"Really now? And they have you just driving?"
"Someone's gotta do it. I don't mind."
"Fair enough, fair enough."
For a while, silence returns to the cabin, though finally the man's mind begins to show that he is indeed a spy as he keeps sending me hidden looks, his mind focusing on trying to figure me out, though mostly out of an attempt to distract himself from the oppressive heat rather than any real suspicion towards me.
"Stits, huh? Can't say I've heard that name before."
"I get that a lot of sir. I'm guessing it's Dutch maybe. Never looked into it much."
"Dutch huh? Yeah, makes as much sense as anything. Weird little language. I bet it's all the weed. And the N.?"
"Stands for Norma."
"Norma?"
"Named after an aunt sir. Only, her parents didn't realize she was gonna be a she and not Uncle Norman 'till she got born. Had to change the name."
"Clearly didn't want to put too much effort in coming up with a new one then."
"Yes sir."
The drive remains silent, but by now we've left the busy streets of Bogota behind us, the outskirts of the city in view. Which is of course-
"Wait, this is not the route to the embassy." Cameron says, for the first time truly alert now.
"No it's not sir." I respond, my tone still calm, though I can't quite help a slight sense of amusement from leaking through.
"What's going on here?"
"Just a different route sir. Safety precautions and all that. It's dangerous times: never know who you might pick up on the road." I say, and now my grin is truly showing.
Cameron's sweating has seemingly doubled and it's not just because of the heat this time. I can see his mind flit towards where his service weapon is, before he almost audibly groans as he remembers its safely stored in the luggage I just threw in the back of the vehicle.
A man as fat as he doesn't carry his gun in his waistband. Too much risk of a misfire and it's a hassle to get to in an emergency.
Leaning back in the passenger seat, the spy's eyes remain locked onto me as he tries to analyse me.
"Eduard N. Stits. Eduard Norma Stits. E. Norma Stits." He eventually says out loud, realization in his voice and I can't help it.
I let out a burst of laughter. Cameron looks at me like I'm a lunatic and, fair enough, I don't think I strictly qualify as entirely sane anymore at this point.
"Who the fuck are you and what did you do to my driver?" he calls out in an angry voice.
"Relax. Your driver is fine. You on the other hand… well, I'm afraid to say, but your day isn't looking so good right now. But hey, chin up, both of 'em! At least tomorrow is gonna be way, way worse."
"And… why is that?" he asks cautiously.
"Well, I'm assuming cause you're gonna be in Hell. Let's face it, CIA agent during the '80s, having served for decades? Yeah, no pearly gates for you. Which is good for me. Less heavy on the conscious you see."
That's about all Cameron can take as he makes a move for the steering wheel. He doesn't get very far. Between his body and my mind-reading skill, I Stunned him before he could do much more than raise his arms. Returning the wand to its holster, I refocus on the road, driving into an area of Bogota that seems abandoned. Taking out my Silver Lime, I peer deeply into Cameron's mind, constantly filtering through memories, organizing skills and grouping together related experiences. Much of his youth I ignore, with the exception of his education. His personal life I mostly ignore as well beyond the notable people that he knew which I mentally label 'connections'.
I'll very happily ignore the man's personal personal life. Looks like David here liked 'em young. Not just 'oh, it was a different time back then' type of young either. He liked 'em very young. And a CIA agent in the field and without supervision has very little trouble indulging in their vices.
Those were not memories I wanted to keep. Best they are forever forgotten.
His career however I take in its entirety, every assignment he was on, every file he ever read, every skill he ever had to train. Poison detection, interrogation techniques, torture resistance, marksmanship and so on. I took it all. Every last drop.
The knowledge pill is larger than the one I took from the veteran and the driver, less cohesive overall with a thin, stringy wispy mist connection several more solid kernels all swirling around each other. Absorbing them is a quick matter, Fieldwake's experience and practice making what was once ten minutes of agony now mere moments of discomfort.
I look over towards the slumped over, obese body of Donald Cameron in the seat next to me… and then take out a gun and paint his brains all over the side window. Not the Good Samaritan thankfully, I had learned my lesson. This gun belonged to young Carlos, the unfortunate sicario I had consumed upon my entry into Medellin.
I step out of the vehicle, throw the gun carelessly to the road before casting a quick Scourgify on it, completely wiping my prints from the darkened metal. I Apparate to a rooftop about half a block away, before checking to see if the coast is clear, after which I Apparate to street level and leisurely begin making my way back towards the airport.
My mind is occupied and strangely it's not by the sudden gruesome death of David Cameron.
It was something that had caught my eye when I was looking into his mind, something that he had just considered a little footnote, something strange but not really noteworthy. Now that it was in my own mind, I re-examined it with new eyes.
About a week ago, an old woman had stormed into a police station near the the Brazillian border with Argentina, ranting and raving about how her daughter had been kidnapped and that she needed to be rescued immediately. At first the police had responded normally to the crying woman's desperate pleas, but they quickly lost interest, dismissing her as a crazy demented old crow for two reasons.
The first was that the woman kept insisting that the entire world was in grave danger should her daughter not be rescued.
The second was that she described her daughter's kidnappers, and get this, as honest to god literal Nazi's.
Not as an insult, no. Actual Nazi's. Accents, swastika's and Hugo Boss uniforms and all.
She got thrown out of the police station eventually, with a stern warning not to cause any more ruckus. Cameron had heard about it because the woman had mentioned a nuclear threat, and this being the Cold War, that shit got taken seriously, even if it came from a seemingly demented old woman.
However, the guy who the case got kicked up to dismissed it and it was nothing more than a funny story he ended up telling Cameron and his colleagues, before David flew out here to Bogota on his next assignment.
Now, I would probably have dismissed it as crazy ramblings as well. However, there were a couple of reasons why I paused and didn't.
Frist off, I was a wizard who ate other people's memories. When you consider that, Nazi's suddenly aren't too far outside the realm of possibility anymore.
And secondly, I recognized the name of the woman who had tried to contact the police: Lise Meitner.
What the hell was the inventor of nuclear energy doing in Brazil, and what the hell did it have to do with Nazi's?
My curiosity was peaked, and I teleported closer towards the airport, my pace picking up as I was intent on getting the first flight to Medellin. Pablo would have to wait for just a moment longer.
Seems like I was going to Brazil.
Fun Fact: Tom Riddle has a different name in each translation of the movies. During the scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets when he reveals his name Tom Marvolo Riddle is an anagram for 'I am Lord Voldemort', Rowling and the movie team gave him different names that would work in other languages. For example, in French Tom Riddle's name is Tom Elvis Jedusor, which rearranges to "Je suis Voldemort." which means "I am Voldemort" in French. So yes, whenever French!Voldemort leaves his hideout, a Death Eater can say "Elvis has left the building". Though they probably won't get to say it a second time.
… now I'm imagining Voldemort but with a big gelled wig and starry sunglasses.