I walked down the street in high spirits, squinting against the bright sun. It was going to be a hot day, and I was happy to leave the city today, even if it was my favorite one. Because, knowing the London weather, I could safely make a forecast — the whole day will be terrible stuffiness, from which, coupled with high humidity, it will be impossible to breathe, and you can even forget about normal sleep. Sirius said he lived somewhere south of Bristol, and I was already looking forward to the countryside. I've only been out in the country like a human being twice in my life. The first time was when Aunt Meg persuaded the Dursleys and took me (and Pat, of course) to visit some relatives in the suburbs of Dover. I was thirteen, and the weather was fine for the English coast, and my friend and I spent most of our time on the beach. My second out-of-town trip was last summer, also with Pat, but this time we were in the Colchester area, at a place called Camp Hampton, a summer disciplinary camp for troubled teenagers with criminal tendencies. But I will tell you about this truly unforgettable month some other time — this story requires a separate conversation. But back to the streets of London. I walked on and on until a random gust of wind threw a crumpled piece of newspaper in my face. A girl with light pigtails who was passing by laughed rather viciously. I gave her a couple of reproachful looks and reflexively unfolded the crumpled newspaper. My eyes immediately focused on the headline:

MYSTERIOUS DEATH

Yesterday, the police of the town of N in the south of Scotland presented an incredibly mysterious case. She found the body of a man who called himself Igor Karkarov. According to the police, the house where he was found was in complete chaos, which indicates signs of an inept search. But, nevertheless, the locks are not broken. Did the victim let her killers in on her own? But that's not the only mystery in this case. According to experts, there are no signs of violent death on the body. No scars, no marks. The police hope that after the autopsy, many things will fall into place. Yes, this case is worthy of the unforgettable Sherlock Holmes… The newspaper was torn off at this point. I searched for the number, but couldn't find it. Dead body. No footprints, no marks. No scars.

A coincidence? Or… I tried to ring the bell at Random's door, but it was unlocked. I entered the house cautiously. Images from police break-ins and robberies flashed through my mind. "Hey! Who's home? I shouted. "Potter, I'm in the kitchen!" I heard Pat's indistinct response. My friend was standing barefoot near the stove and eating something right out of the pan. With a fork... on Teflon… Aunt Petunia would have had a stroke at the sight of such sacrilege. A cat named Manhattan hovered at his feet and gave him greedy glances.

"hello! Why do you have the door wide open?"

"Hi!" Pat waved his fork at me and tossed a piece of meat to the cat. "why are you dragging all the garbage home?"

I looked at the piece of newspaper in my hand in surprise. Turns out I never threw it away. I read the ragged article aloud to Pat.

"That's crazy," Pat said, " and what's so interesting about it?"

"You know," I said, crumpling up the newspaper and tossing it in the trash, "Dumbledore said… It's a death spell… It doesn't, like, leave any marks or scars."

Pat shrugged.

"So what? If in every "mysterious" crime that our dear police are unable to solve, to see traces of witchcraft... " "Yes, you're probably right," I said, " but still… It doesn't matter, though."

I tried to pet the cat, and it tried to bite my finger. Neither she nor I succeeded in carrying out our plans. Count by zeros.

"You've made friends with the cat," I said.

"Yes" Pat agreed, sitting down at the table and buttering the toast. Patrick Random is a great pretender. If he wants to, you can't read an ounce of emotion on his face. But this, of course, does not apply to the person who has been his best friend for five long years. To guess that Pat is eating something, look at how he spreads butter on toast. And in case you're wondering, it's one of my friend's mannerisms that drives me crazy. He takes a piece of toast, puts butter on it, then slowly, slowly smears it on the surface of the toast, smoothing the butter around the edges. Moreover, he does it so carefully and carefully, as if at least the salvation of humanity from a deadly disease depends on the manipulations he has done.

I can only watch it for a short time.

Maybe two minutes.

"Pat, are you in trouble?" I can't stand it.

"What?"my friend comes out of oblivion, making innocent eyes "What makes you think that?"

"Come on! I know you. What has happened in less than twenty-four hours since we last met?" Pat twisted his face and stared out the window.

"Ah," he finally said, "I don't know. How about this school? "And you?"

"I asked first!"

Pat's eyes narrowed.

"I don't know about you, but I play. I think it will be quite fun." My friend thought about it.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he said suddenly. I'm freaking out. Pat talking about premonitions is like Lou solving problems in quantum physics.

"You're scaring me" I said… So I told him the story of a house-elf's visit to my room yesterday. When I finished, Pat took a drag on his cigarette and after a moment's thought said, " I'm not sure.: A month ago, I'd have said you were stoned. This is the craziest story I've ever heard. But in light of recent events…"

"You haven't seen this Dobby yet. Just like Gollum. Do you think the conspiracy stories and all that stuff are true?"

"I don't know what's true anymore. Even though we don't know anything about these wizards yet. But if you're hinting at my premonitions, they're a few… Of a different nature."

I chuckled skeptically.

"What's that?"

"I don't want to talk with pathos, but…"

Pat screwed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray, "I feel like I'm starting a new life... Or something like that.",

I snorted.

"Well? So it is."

Pat looked straight at me

"You don't understand, Potter. The old one was fine with me."

I'm not. But today I left home and I am very happy about it."

"Really?"

"Really happy."

"No, really, he's gone?"

"Of course. I'm not going back there in my right mind. And not sane either. And even if I'm threatened by all the dark wizards in the world. "

Pat chuckled.

"I wonder what your relatives are doing now?"

"They dance the rumba with happiness and disinfect my room."

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. That's how I usually get Pat out of his depression. About five minutes later, my godfather and Lupin entered the house as cautiously as I did. They looked as if they were expecting an attack any minute. When they saw us alive and well, they relaxed.

"Why is your door open?" Lupin asked.

And really, why?

Pat still didn't answer.

"My aunt went to a neighbor's," my friend shrugged, visibly cheered up. "She I probably forgot to close it."

Sirius looked around:

"Where are your bag, Harry?" he asked.

I patted my skinny backpack.

"I'll go light."

My godfather paused for a moment, then said thoughtfully,

" Yes, I wish I could have stopped by to see your aunt and uncle. For tea. Have a chat."

I laughed. Really sorry. I'd like to take a look at it.

"You don't want to spoil people's holiday, "I said," but it's not every day that a good family gets rid of a young bandit."

Sirius let out a short bark of laughter. After all, my dad knew who to call as a friend. I like him, my godfather.

"How do we get there?" Pat asked. On the magic carpet, I almost blurted out.

"By car," Remus said calmly.

Where's my bike now?... " he asked nostalgically.

"By the way," I said, " Sirius, what did Dumbledore say about you, your secrets, and your visits to me?" Sirius hesitated a little, then smiled.

"Well, you know, I should have seen how you were doing, even though Dumbledore told me not to… It wasn't hard for me to visit you, because I'm an animagus."

"Ani-what?" Pat asked.

"An animagus," Lupin repeated.

"I can turn myself into an animal at will," Sirius explained.

"any animal?" I asked, surprised.

"No,just one. An animal reflects a person's character. I, for example, turn into a dog."

"Show me," Pat said flatly.

Sirius shrugged, stood up, and a moment later a night-black wolfhound the size of a medium-sized bear stood in his place. I was honestly shocked.

My godfather also ran around the kitchen for effect. The cat leaped up on the table with a mad hiss.

"What kind of show do you have? And why is the door wide open?" Lou came into the kitchen, carrying a paper bag and looking at Sirius in his new form with interest.

"Funny little dog."

"It's not a dog. This is Sirius. He's an animagus" Lupin said, and then the dog was back to being my godfather.

"I brought you some doughnuts," Lou said, not surprised.

I suddenly remembered —

" So you were the one we fed McDonald's hamburgers to a couple of months ago?"

"Sirius chuckled.

"Is it difficult?" Pat asked, looking interested.

"Difficult," said Sirius.

"And quite dangerous," Lupin added, " turning into animals can go completely wrong, which is why the Ministry keeps such a close eye on animagi."

"James and I didn't mind," said my godfather, laughing.

"Was my father an animagus, too?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes," said Sirius, " he was turning into a deer."

Awesome. More and more wonderful. I am the son of a deer.

"Do you transform too, Remus?" Pat asked the professor. Sirius frowned slightly, and Lupin gave him a crooked grin.

"I'm turning. Only once a month. I'm a werewolf."

There was a moment's silence.

Then all three of us said in unison,

" Cool!"

Sirius and Remus were clearly surprised.

"I understood Albus now when he said there were no stereotypes," Lupin muttered.

"You're turning into a wolf, aren't you?" Pat asked.

"Well, yes" Remus was surprised, and even a little confused

My friend breathed a sigh of relief.

"You're the one who hasn't seen a Hollywood movie. There, werewolves turn into some strange creatures that have nothing in common with wolves." My godfather and the professor looked at each other in disbelief.

Well, yes, where can they understand the sick fantasy of modern directors!