[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 19

"Boss, isn’t this technically poaching?"

"We’re in a forest shielded by a barrier from regular people, but this area isn’t listed as a Ministry reserve and doesn’t belong to any private individual," Kayneth explained as he walked leisurely along the wide trail, broken branches scattered here and there. "Besides, Lyn, since when have you been so concerned about the legality of your actions? Or are you telling me you legally bought that rifle at an auction? You did say you couldn’t afford it."

"Of course not. Last time it was up for sale, it went for over a hundred grand," Smith admitted, slinging the massive double-barrel rifle over his shoulder. He had to pace himself to avoid outstripping his mentor. "So, I went to Mr. MacDuggal. He hired a couple of muscleheads for ten thousand, and they swiped this and another gun from the last owner. In the end, those idiots were convinced they’d tricked us into overpaying for some rusty junk. Thieves these days don’t know the first thing about antiques. I heard there’s a whole mess brewing around that theft, but I don’t know the details."

"Doesn’t matter. But back to your sudden lawfulness..."

"Oh, I’m just worried we might run into a local ranger," the squib replied, sweeping a hand over the overgrown forest slope they were climbing. "Albert told me about your little adventure—how much trouble it took to take down one proper wizard."

"I have no doubt he exaggerated every detail," Archibald replied dismissively, not slowing his stride. He knew full well that to an outside observer, a fight at superhuman speed looked like nothing more than a blur of motion and streaks of colored light. "Especially considering he spent most of that ‘battle’ cowering under a table. But your caution is noted. Keep your eyes open—if you see someone dressed like they’ve stepped out of the nineteenth century, let me know. And don’t even think about shooting them, even in the legs. Killing people in situations like this is not the done thing. Let’s not break etiquette."

"What do you take me for?" Lyn huffed, shaking his head. Then, glancing at the magus, who was strolling with his hands clasped behind his back, he added, "Also, boss… No offense, but shouldn’t I go first? Or at least, you know, draw a weapon?"

"Believe me, my hapless apprentice, you’ll smell a troll long before you hear one stomping your way. I told you to read the bestiary properly instead of skimming," Archibald sighed. "Besides, I have a specter watching from above—it won’t let anything living get past unnoticed. Right now, I’m more concerned that you might’ve mixed up the ammunition, and our little experiment will be a complete waste."

"As if, boss!" Smith easily lifted the heavy rifle, which weighed a solid fifteen pounds. Breaking it open, he checked the large shells, each carefully marked, then snapped it shut again. "Just like planned—top barrel’s a regular shot, bottom one’s enchanted."

"Good. Now all we need is a target."

The idea of hunting trolls in the Scottish Highlands had come to Kayneth, oddly enough, after reading one of the books by the late Professor (if he could be called that) Lockhart. Several reasons had lined up at once. First, after all the enchantments and rituals, he needed to test the weapon he had prepared for Llewellyn in real combat—not just against stationary targets. Second, with only a month and a half left until September first, a difficult conversation with his current ‘employers’ loomed ever closer.

Yes, they had agreed in advance that he would be absent for nine months of the year, but that had been last September. Since then, the bosses had come to appreciate having a supplier of such rare goods and services, and their plans for him might have changed. So, he needed to soften the break as much as possible, which meant leaving them with a generous stockpile of artifacts and potions they could use—even if they had no understanding of magic whatsoever.

For several particularly potent healing potions using local recipes, troll blood was a key ingredient. Despite their remarkable stupidity, trolls were famously resilient, a trait that could be harnessed for magical purposes.

Getting a map of Ministry-warded areas (as well as a few remote places difficult to reach without magic) where trolls roamed had been easy enough. Such maps were published in regular wizarding travel magazines—for safety reasons, of course. And since Kayneth was after the largest mountain variety, they had to travel to Scotland.

To avoid raising too many questions while booking tickets and checking into hotels, he had even been forced to bring along his ‘stepmother.’ Lyn could have passed as an older companion, but his rather eventful criminal record—including a long history of police run-ins since childhood—made that option less than ideal.

Then, they had to reach a hunting ground far from the city. Eventually, though, they slipped past the Ministry’s diversion wards, which steered regular people away, and emerged onto a densely forested mountain untouched by human presence for at least two centuries. There were no trails made by humans—but there were wide paths through the undergrowth, as if something had plowed through with a bulldozer.

That meant they were on the right track.

"I think I smell something rotten," Llewellyn muttered, bringing the rifle to the ready.

"Told you you’d smell them first," the magus remarked, coming to a halt. Closing his eyes, he viewed the forest through his specter’s perception. "Two of them, approaching. They’ll be here in about three minutes. You’ve got time to hide and cover yourself with branches if you want."

"And you?"

"I don’t need to," Archibald replied, stepping off the trail and casting a simple perception-warding bounded field around himself. Lyn—or any other human—would still see his silhouette, but their gaze would instinctively slide away from it. For the primitive brains of trolls, this was more than enough to keep him unnoticed. "Happy hunting."

For unexpected complications, Kayneth had both his enchanted pendant—linked to Diarmuid—and a watch concealing a hidden spear. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Llewellyn, meanwhile, crouched behind a thick pine tree, bracing the rifle barrel against a broken branch. In his old army surplus camouflage—picked up at some clearance sale—he blended well into the forest, the nearby bushes further breaking up his outline. Even the large green backpack on his back wasn’t too conspicuous. The only things that stood out were the long, gleaming barrels of the antique rifle and the silver inlays along the stock.

But trolls weren’t wolves. They didn’t know what firearms were. Not that it would help them if they did.

A few minutes later, when the distant thudding of two large creatures reached their ears, the stench had become unbearable. Kayneth was forced to expend a bit more energy, conjuring a controlled whirlwind around himself to push away the rancid smell—like a stagnant swamp filled with the rotting carcasses of a plague-ridden flock, decomposing for a week. Lyn, lacking such abilities, simply buried his face in the collar of his jacket, trying to breathe as little as possible.

When the trolls finally emerged from around the bend in the path, the squib actually exhaled in relief—only to nearly vomit when another wave of their stench hit him.

The creatures were exactly as described in the bestiaries—only about ten times uglier.

The first troll stood around thirteen feet tall, the second slightly shorter. Both had disproportionately long arms, stubby legs, and tiny heads. Their stone-gray hides were covered in pale scars, resembling chipped granite boulders. One carried a crudely carved club embedded with sharp stones, while the other simply wielded a tree trunk, snapped in half and roughly stripped of its branches. They neither noticed the nearly transparent specter hovering above the treetops nor the hidden men watching them. The trolls simply stomped forward along the path, paying no mind to their surroundings.

The gunshot was deafening.

Every bird in the vicinity took flight, leaves and pine needles rained down from the trees, and even Archibald—standing several steps away from the shooter—flinched slightly at the sudden roar.

But the result was worth it.

The first troll, the one carrying the crude club, was knocked off its feet by the sheer force of the bullet. The massive projectile sent it sprawling onto the second troll, blood spraying in all directions, tufts of hide and shattered ribs scattering across the ground. It was dead before it even hit the dirt.

An impressive feat, considering an adult troll weighed nearly a ton.

Not surprising, though, given that Llewellyn’s rifle had once been used to hunt African elephants—creatures that not only outweighed trolls several times over but also moved on four legs instead of two.

The second troll wailed, grunting and snorting as it flailed beneath the corpse of its companion, struggling to free itself and retrieve its fallen club. When it finally managed to rise, it turned to its dead companion, attempting to speak in its primitive, guttural tongue—perhaps unable to grasp that the other troll was truly gone.

But Llewellyn, stepping out from behind the tree and onto the path, had no intention of giving the creature time to mourn—or to comprehend its situation (if its minuscule brain was even capable of such things).

Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he fired again.

This time, however, the moment the bullet struck the troll’s thick hide, it disintegrated into dust—activating the latent spell sealed within.

The troll howled, tossing its club into the forest—snapping branches in its path—before clutching its chest and head, staggering in pain.

Smith watched, waiting.

The creature continued to wail and convulse, but it remained standing.

"Looks like it didn’t work," he muttered, glancing toward where the magus was hidden.

"I may have underestimated their resistance," Kayneth admitted, dropping the barrier and stepping onto the path. "Still, we’ve gained valuable data for future adjustments."

When Llewellyn had first shown him the weapon he wanted to enchant—an antique elephant rifle chambered for .577 Nitro Express—Archibald realized he had an entire field of magical experimentation ahead of him.

He had successfully applied enchantments to small pistol rounds before, but this rifle fired 750-grain bullets—a solid 49 grams of metal. That was nearly ten times the material to work with, allowing for much more powerful and varied mystic codes triggered upon impact or blood contact.

Theoretically, the enchanted round was meant to boil the blood in a troll’s body upon impact. But due to the creature’s high magical resistance, it had only managed to heat the blood significantly—dangerous, but not immediately fatal.

"Eh, no big deal. We’ll finish it off the old-fashioned way," the squib said cheerfully, breaking open the rifle. With his gloved left hand, he removed the smoldering spent cartridges, tucked them into his jacket pocket, then retrieved a fresh round from the other pocket. Loading it into the chamber, he snapped the weapon shut, slowly cocked the hammer, aimed, and fired.

Another direct hit.

The troll collapsed to the ground, a massive wound torn through its chest. Twigs, dirt, and dark blood splattered everywhere.

Not that a shot to the chest was even necessary, in Archibald’s opinion. A bullet to the arm or leg likely would have sufficed just as well. Because the sheer caliber of the weapon wasn’t the only thing making it deadly—his enchantments played just as much of a role.

Llewellyn hadn’t been lying when he promised to find a legendary firearm. It wasn’t Francis Drake’s pistol, true, but this rifle had certainly built a history of its own.

Originally crafted for African big-game hunting in the 1870s, it had been designed for black powder cartridges. Later, in the early 1900s, it was modified for more powerful cordite-based rounds. Around that time, it had passed into the hands of one of Britain’s most famous big-game hunters—a man who, by the end of his life, had personally brought down over fifteen hundred elephants, perhaps even more.

It was later sold at auction, changing hands several times, but that was of little consequence. What mattered was that it had continued to be fired, to take lives, to carve its legend.

Using a combination of rituals, enchantments, runes, and seals, Archibald had crystallized that long, storied history into a mystic code. And he had succeeded.

It was still far from a True Phantasm, but he had transformed it into a conceptual weapon—one with a property he named "Giant Slayer."

The larger the target relative to the shooter, the greater the damage dealt.

In a sense, every shot was now a magical ritual in itself.

Additional modifications included: enhanced metal and wood reinforcement charms, cooling runes for the barrels, a stock-enchantment to reduce recoil, a curse on the trigger mechanism that would incinerate the fingers of anyone but its rightful owner, and a few other useful touches.

"So, we collecting the blood and heading out?" Smith asked, still holding his rifle in one hand as he set his glass-clinking backpack on the ground.

"Yes. No—wait," Archibald cut in abruptly, shifting his vision back to the perspective of his specter. "We’ve got company. Three more incoming from the mountain—two mid-sized trolls and a smaller one. Either juveniles or a female, I’m not sure. Can you drop all three before they reach us? You’ve only got two barrels, and you might not have time to reload."

Smith smirked, breaking open the rifle again, smoothly ejecting the spent casing before retrieving fresh rounds. With practiced efficiency, he loaded the cartridges, snapped the weapon shut, cocked the hammer, and shouldered the stock.

"Boss, you insult me," he said confidently. "Piece of cake. Just tell me when they get here."

"One and a half minutes, maybe less."

"Perfect," Lyn replied, dropping to one knee in the middle of the trail. Carefully, he placed another of the massive cartridges on the ground within easy reach, then aimed his weapon at the bend in the path, where the creatures would soon appear.

Kayneth couldn’t resist checking his pocket watch, preparing to activate a summoning ritual if necessary. In his current state, magic wouldn’t do much against a troll. Direct attack spells—whether his own or the ones cast via a wand—wouldn’t break through their magical resistance. Calculating the necessary variables for transfiguration, to turn the nearby trees or rocks into weapons, would take too long. And as for a ritual to reanimate a dead troll… that was something that, as far as he knew, no magus in his previous world had ever even attempted. If he succeeded, he’d be the first to claim such a dubious scientific achievement.

The trolls barreled around the bend, huddled together as they examined the corpses of their fallen kin, unsure what to do about the two humans standing nearby. That moment of hesitation was all Llewellyn needed. He took aim and pulled the trigger.

The shot sent one of the creatures crashing into the trees, nearly tearing off its right arm. But Lyn didn’t waste time watching it fall—he simply shifted his aim to the next one and fired again. This time, the explosion was twofold: first, the blast of the second barrel, and then, immediately after, a detonation that ripped the smaller troll in half.

Archibald instantly recognized his own spell at work. One of the test bullets had been inscribed with a mystic code that caused the lead to explode upon contact with blood, sending a cloud of razor-sharp shrapnel outward in a deadly blast wave. If the same shot had hit a human, there would have been nothing left to bury.

The final troll recoiled in terror, dropping the sapling it had picked up along the way. Lyn, wasting no time, snapped open the breach of his rifle, yanked out and discarded the spent shell, picked up the pre-prepared cartridge, loaded it, cocked the hammer, and fired before the troll had even managed to turn toward him.

The heavy-caliber round punched clean through the troll’s makeshift club and buried itself in its skull, sending the creature flying into the underbrush.

"Any more coming?" the squib asked, still kneeling casually, as if he hadn’t just gunned down three towering beasts in rapid succession.

"No. Nothing else in the area," Archibald answered after a pause. "Even the squirrels and boars have scattered, by the looks of it. We can finally get to why we came here."

"What about the tests?" Lyn asked, retrieving the discarded shell casing and reloading the rifle at a leisurely pace. Just in case.

"They can be considered successful. But if you’d chosen a firearm with a higher capacity, things would’ve been much easier."

"Boss, you were the one who said the older and more legendary, the better," Lyn objected, slinging his pack over one shoulder and following the magus toward the fallen trolls. "And back in the nineteenth century, they weren’t exactly cranking out semi-automatic rifles. I could’ve gotten an old Winchester, but that’s American-made, and you told me this one was better."

"Regardless, you’re the one carrying it, not me. It’s one thing to use it for hunting, but another thing entirely if you’re trading shots with some street scum," Archibald pointed out, watching as Lyn tucked the massive rifle under his cloak, where a specially sewn cloth pouch lined with an expansion charm held it securely. "I’ll grant that weight and recoil are less of an issue now, but two shots isn’t a lot."

"Yeah, but imagine the look on some Triad thug’s face when his buddy just… turns into mist from one of these rounds. I’d bet his eyes would be wider than mine," Lyn grinned. "Also, this whole enchantment deal—does it work on vehicles too, or just big creatures?"

"It does. Buildings, no. Vehicles, the same as animals—the bigger they are, the harder they get hit. Why? Thinking of taking out an armored police van?"

"Well, you never know what life’s gonna throw at you," Lyn said vaguely, retrieving a few empty two-liter glass flasks from his pack.

"What would Mr. Sutherland say if he heard you right now?" Kayneth asked dryly, manipulating his elemental affinity to guide the troll’s blood into one of the bottles—each charmed to hold nearly twenty times its usual capacity.

Kayneth had never been much of a hunter in his previous life. At best, he could carry on a superficial conversation about it without much depth. But even he knew of James ‘Jim’ Sutherland—one of the greatest British hunters of African big game. A legendary figure in his field, the most successful elephant hunter in recorded history…

Hell, if the Holy Grail War had ever summoned him as an Archer, he probably could’ve dropped the massive bulls pulling Alexander’s chariot with just a couple of well-placed shots.

"He’d probably be glad his rifle is still being put to good use all these years later," Lyn muttered, pulling his jacket up over his nose, clearly regretting not bringing a gas mask. He also seemed to be silently envying his mentor, who was using wind magic to filter the stench out of the air around him.

"But really, why Sutherland’s rifle?" Archibald asked.

"Saw a TV special about a recent auction where they sold it. After that, it wasn’t too hard to track down the new owner and send some people his way. And really, how much more ‘legendary’ can you get? What, should I have gone after Major Anderson’s rifle instead? Hemingway’s double-barrel? Or maybe… Granger’s?"

"Granger?" Archibald repeated, giving him a look.

"Stewart Granger. Some actor. Supposedly really famous about fifty years ago. Doubt you’ve heard of him, boss—you’re not exactly a movie buff."

"Just a familiar name," the magus said dismissively, still focused on siphoning blood.

Though, as he worked, he was already considering a separate matter—whether his recent package had arrived safely.

After all, school break wasn’t an excuse to stop learning.

A week ago, he had acquired a French-language textbook on wand and wizard compatibility through Deserte and Fletcher, then sent it by owl post to his teacher. The reasoning was simple—since Granger had close relatives in France and spent a couple of months there every year, she must have at least basic proficiency in the language.

And while Lord El-Melloi had been able to read passable French, James Murphy’s knowledge of the language of Dumas and Bonaparte amounted to little more than recognizing the word merde.

So, naturally, it made perfect sense for him to send the book to someone who could read it—and who could help him translate the key passages.

After all, it was long past time to move the discussion of elemental compatibility out of the niche studies of a handful of craftmasters and into practical application in wizarding mysticism.

And that, he could definitely explain to her.

"Why exactly am I the one lugging all of these around when you have a suitcase back at the hotel that could fit all of this and then some?" Lyn grumbled as he shrugged on the now significantly heavier backpack, weighed down with filled flasks. "Is this another one of your secret tests, oh wise teacher?"

"This is proof that someone isn’t paying attention to my lectures, my lazy apprentice," Archibald retorted with equal sarcasm. In another situation, such insolence would warrant a proper punishment, but at the moment, he didn’t have the luxury of being too picky with his students.

As Lyn busied himself securing the bottles inside his pack, the magus took another sweep of the trail and the fallen trolls using a detection spell, searching for any lingering traces of metal. But after multiple previous rituals, all the lead had already been extracted. Satisfied, he turned down the path and spoke as he walked:

"I've already explained magical interference—and why trying to place an object with an expansion charm inside another object with the same enchantment is a very bad idea. Unless the artifact was specifically designed with multiple ‘layers’ in mind, which in this case, it wasn’t. And if that kind of storage is damaged externally, the effects are… difficult to describe. But I can guarantee that you don’t want to be anywhere near it when it happens."

"Alright, alright, I get the general idea."

"Good. But it seems there are far more gaps in your knowledge than I had previously assumed. So, while we make our way back down and your mind is otherwise unoccupied, why don’t you recite for me the theory behind the creation of objects with spatial and weight distortions? I have a feeling you haven’t committed that particular lesson to memory, Lyn."

A sharp knock on the door pulled Kayneth from his thoughts as he paced between three quietly bubbling cauldrons, mentally going over his remaining summer plans. August was approaching fast, and there was still too much left unfinished.

After quickly assessing the state of the cauldrons and ensuring nothing required immediate attention, he made his way to the workshop’s entrance, casting a spell to identify the visitor beyond the protective barrier.

Confirming that it was indeed Llewellyn and Albert, he lowered the ward and let them in before raising it again.

"Good evening," the trader greeted, immediately making himself comfortable in one of the chairs near the entrance and resting his briefcase on his lap. He gestured toward the simmering cauldrons and the numerous vials—both filled and empty—laid out across the workbenches and smirked. "James, your lab is looking more and more like a brewery scrambling to empty its stock before Prohibition hits."

"What can I say? Supplying our friends with fresh potions from inside the school would be… inconvenient," Kayneth replied with a shrug. He had no particular desire to spend hours brewing these lesser concoctions when he could be focusing on his own research. But for now, circumstances dictated otherwise. "I have to stockpile while I can."

"Yes, but it’s two o’clock in the morning."

"And during the day, I have to play the part of a well-behaved child patiently awaiting the wonders of the new school year," the magus said with obvious irritation, glancing at a small calendar on one of the workbenches. July 22nd had been crossed out last, though technically, it was now the 23rd. "So, I’m left with no choice but to work at night. Otherwise, I won’t finish everything in time, and I’d rather not leave any loose ends that might raise questions later."

"Remarkably responsible for your age."

"Very funny, Mr. MacDuggal," Archibald muttered darkly, briefly considering a few simple but highly unpleasant curses.

"Alright, alright, no offense meant," Albert backtracked, picking up on the warning in the younger man’s tone. "Just trying to lighten the mood a little. You look downright grim sitting in the middle of all this alchemy."

"If I wanted to lighten my mood, Albert, I’d go to the theater. Or the opera. This is a workspace, and I’m busy working. Now, do you have what I ordered, or do you need more time?"

"All here," the trader patted the briefcase, then nodded toward the cauldrons. "But this won’t be a problem, will it? Last thing I want is something else exploding in my face. I have no intention of spending the rest of my days as a toad. Or worse."

"Rest assured, Mr. MacDuggal, I am perfectly capable of multitasking," Archibald replied, almost devoid of sarcasm this time. Then, without looking up, he instructed, "Lyn, get our guest some tea. Or coffee. Then come back—you’ll be preparing the next batch of ingredients."

"Tea for me. You know how I like it, Lyn."

"Got it, be right back."

"Now then, I’m listening," Kayneth said, issuing final orders to his assistant before casting a spell with his wand to finalize the transformation of one of the cauldron’s contents into a completed stamina-replenishing potion. The next batch would be a blood-replenishing formula.

For a while now, Kayneth had been meaning to experiment with alternative administration methods—particularly whether such potions would be more effective if delivered via injection rather than the traditional liquid form. But such trials required both time and volunteers. Keeping an eye on the temperature of the second cauldron, so he wouldn’t miss the moment for the next transmutation, he finally asked,

"So. Sirius Black. What did you manage to find?"

"Well… quite a lot and, at the same time, almost nothing," Albert admitted, opening his briefcase and pulling out a slim folder. Inside were old newspaper clippings, several typed and handwritten reports, and even a few parchment sheets covered in elegant quill script.

It had all started in the first week of July.

Magical Britain, which had just begun to settle down after the chaos with the possessed professor, was thrown into turmoil once again. News broke that Azkaban—the supposedly impregnable wizarding prison—had been breached. And not just by anyone, but by one of the most dangerous prisoners in its history.

Sirius Black.

A pureblood wizard from a lineage infamous for their study of dark magic. A man sentenced to life without parole for multiple murders.

The reaction was immediate. Aurors, patrols, and even trainees were mobilized, and once again, magical checkpoints were reinstated across key locations—not to search for cursed objects this time, but to track disguises. Aurors worked tirelessly, casting Revelio and other detection spells to expose illusions and transformations.

Because if anyone could escape unnoticed, it was him.

Black, after all, wouldn’t hesitate to use stolen identities. He could poison or curse someone into a coma, stash their body somewhere no one would look, and take their place with Polyjuice Potion. A mass murderer wouldn’t balk at such a tactic.

And once you started really thinking about it, capturing a wizard determined to disappear was nearly impossible—even for the Auror Office. Apparition, Portkeys, enchanted disguises, local space distortions—there were too many ways for him to slip away.

Things escalated even further when the Ministry made the unprecedented decision to inform the Muggle government.

For the first time in years, they acknowledged the fugitive’s existence to non-magical authorities, involving the British police in the search.

If last year the chaos in the magical world had concerned Archibald only insofar as it threatened to expose his cover, this time he was certain he had nothing to do with it. However, the magical community of a single country was small, and the chances of crossing paths with an escaped criminal were far from negligible.

Rumors were already spreading that Black hadn’t fled just to vanish into the Australian outback—no, his target was reportedly a certain Potter boy. The same one around whom trouble constantly seemed to accumulate.

If the fugitive didn’t manage to get rid of the boy before September, then logically, he might follow him to the school. And once inside, what difference would it make if it was one student or ten? A man with nothing to lose wouldn’t hesitate.

In other words, it seemed Hogwarts had a tradition: if no teachers died and no students were nearly murdered, then the academic year had clearly been wasted.

But Kayneth preferred to approach potential danger with preparation.

Given his current limited power and resources, he was no longer willing to dive into conflicts without gathering information first. Experience had taught him that lesson well. And since all his free time was now occupied with preparing for departure, he had delegated the investigation to Albert, instructing him to gather intelligence through his magical contacts and police informants to get a clearer picture.

"Sirius Black," MacDuggal began, glancing over the documents spread out on the table. "Let’s start with what your lot knows. Sirius Black the Third. Former heir to the Black family. Pureblooded for… however many generations. Born in 1959. Incidentally, on November 3rd—same birthday as you, James."

Archibald raised a brow but said nothing, motioning for the man to continue.

"Enrolled in your school, as expected. Ran with a group of other purebloods. A real notorious bunch, so infamous people still remember them. This was back in the ‘70s, when your civil war was in full swing. From what I understand, he and his friends ended up on opposite sides of the barricade. In the end, he betrayed one of them—gave up his friend’s hiding place to his boss. Then, he personally killed another—right in the middle of a London street. In broad daylight.

"Made a real mess of the place—magic everywhere. Left a pile of bodies and even more people permanently maimed. Had to cover it up as a terrorist attack and wipe the memories of hundreds just to keep it quiet. So, for the murder of one wizard, twelve ‘Muggles,’ gross violations of the Statute of Secrecy, and a whole list of other crimes they couldn’t even prove, he was sentenced to life in Azkaban."

Archibald listened in silence before noting, "Surprisingly lenient. Back home, he’d have been executed on the spot. No trial." Then he added, "Why former heir?"

"Stripped of all rights and disowned before he even finished school. Something about ‘defying his elders.’"

"Llewellyn, bring me the registry on magical families in Britain," Kayneth ordered while finishing the transmutation in the second cauldron. When the thick tome was handed to him, he flipped to the correct section and read aloud:

"The House of Black. Renowned for its strict blood purity traditions and expertise in the Dark Arts. Five heirs in this generation—two brothers, three sisters. One dead. Two disowned. One sentenced to life in Azkaban. The last married off into another pureblood family. And no elders left." He exhaled, closing the book. "Fascinating. All that power and prestige, wasted. Something to think about."

Setting the registry aside, he began calculating the ingredients for the next potion. Almost absentmindedly, he asked, "I understand why the Ministry is panicking—if he’s willing to kill openly with magic in front of witnesses, then secrecy means nothing to him. If his family did teach him anything worthwhile, and he gained experience fighting Aurors in your little civil war, then he could be quite the threat. But why, in this situation, would he care about one child? Is this some misguided attempt at avenging the fall of the so-called ‘Dark Lord’?"

"Officially, they claim it’s personal," Albert replied, flipping through his notes. "The friend he betrayed? Name was James Potter. That friend—and his wife—died. Their son lived. Now Black wants to finish the job and wipe out the family entirely."

"Hm. I wonder what exactly James Potter did to him," Archibald mused aloud. "Seems… flimsy. But I assume this version was crafted by people who’ve studied Black’s life far more than I have in the past five minutes. Fine. Out of curiosity—what’s the version Muggles got?"

"Oh, now that is a masterpiece of nonsense," MacDuggal declared with relish, picking up another sheet. "First off, the general public was told that Black is a runaway convict. A highly dangerous murderer. The usual ‘If you see this man, do not approach. Call this number immediately…’ and so on. No details on why he was imprisoned. No explanation of how he escaped. Just a blanket warning that he’s an armed fugitive.

"As for what they told the police? Even better. Since they can’t outright say they’re hunting a wizard who could kill with a stick from twenty paces—or worse, make officers shoot each other—they had to get creative.

"The story fed to the authorities is that Black is an IRA operative who escaped from a high-security prison. Could be armed with a Browning, an AK, or even a few pounds of high explosives with a detonator.

"And so? The order is: No negotiations. No attempts to capture alive. If spotted—shoot to kill."

"Surprisingly competent for the Ministry," Archibald remarked, stirring his cauldron. "For an ordinary officer, letting a wizard with a wand get close and start talking is practically suicide—some exotic death is all but guaranteed. But bullets? Few of them could block those indefinitely."

"Oh, they really made sure the police are motivated," Albert continued. "Fed them a little extra detail—told them Black was responsible for that terrorist attack in ‘81. Twelve dead. Over fifty injured—including women and children. You can imagine—no one is particularly interested in taking him alive."

"And no one questioned that the IRA doesn’t operate like that?" Llewellyn muttered as he continued chopping ingredients. "Bomb in the middle of a crowded street? No warning call? No demands? Just a random explosion? Hell, if it was a police pub or a military parade, that’d be one thing. But this?”

"The Irish, of course, were outraged when word got to them," Albert agreed. "They made a big show of saying they’d never even heard of any Black and that they had nothing to do with anything in ‘81. But who’s going to listen to terrorists, right?"

"You’ve got contacts there too?" the magus asked neutrally.

"When you consider who we all work for, of course I do. A few acquaintances here and there. And not everyone in the police is an idiot—some of them realize something’s off about all this. But the fewer questions you ask, the better your odds of making it to retirement intact. And from what I hear, this isn’t the first time you lot—wizards—have covered up your own messes by blaming ordinary people."

"Should I be feeling guilty?"

"Somehow, I highly doubt you’re capable of that."

"Boss, about this wizard-criminal—what if we just, you know..." Llewellyn trailed off, carefully setting down the last of the prepared ingredients. "Got rid of him? Would save you the trouble."

"In theory, that wouldn’t be difficult," Kayneth admitted, calculating the possibilities. "The kid lives in the Muggle world—his exact address wouldn't be hard to find. If Black is coming for him, setting a trap there and taking him out wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

"But time is an issue. There’s also no guarantee that in the process, he won’t bring down half the street, which means a quiet resolution goes out the window. And if the Aurors still have any functioning brain cells left—besides thoughts of their pensions—they’ll have already stationed people nearby, assuming this isn’t just a fabricated distraction.

"If they haven’t put anyone on watch? Well, that’s their problem, not ours.

"Honestly, if Black does manage to finish whatever he’s planning before September and then flees, things might actually get simpler for everyone involved."

"And what happened to all that talk about how every wizard is valuable, and you can’t afford to lose people?" MacDuggal asked.

"I don’t recall ever saying anything like that," Archibald cut him off. "And we’re not exactly talking about someone whose loss would be an irreparable tragedy to the magical world. No—let them deal with their own mess. Maybe they’ll finally understand how dangerous excessive leniency can be when dealing with rogue wizards. And if another one escapes tomorrow? What then? Should we just set up shop on the shore and let Llewellyn pick them off one by one as they swim across?"

"Boss, in that case, maybe you should bring a gun to school," Smith offered. "Nothing fancy—just a regular one."

"You doubt my ability to deal with an opponent without one, Llewellyn?" Kayneth asked, gesturing toward the workbench. Under a glass dome, suspended as if in weightlessness, hovered a small drop of mercury—the earliest working prototype of Volumen Hydrargyrum. Even at its current level of completion, the sight of it had left Smith highly impressed.

The problem wasn’t the cost of the metal—mercury was cheap. Nor was it the challenge of reconstructing the formulas and rituals necessary to craft the mystic code.

The real issue was capacity.

His current body had only a fraction of the magical reserves he was used to, and reducing the size of the construct had seemed like the obvious solution—create a sword or whip instead of a massive liquid construct, and he’d already have a formidable weapon, one he had plenty of experience wielding.

Unfortunately, a new limiting factor had emerged—weight.

Any amount of liquid metal incapable of moving under its own power would have to be carried. And mercury was incredibly dense. A ring of it weighing two or three pounds? A dagger heavier than a two-handed greatsword? Without additional reinforcement magic, it was useless in combat.

To put it into perspective—a sphere of mercury less than seven inches in diameter would weigh as much as his entire body in its current twelve-year-old frame.

For now, he had to make do with a much smaller amount—just enough to distribute across his arm to the elbow, forming a thin whip and a palm-sized shield on command.

It wasn’t much, but in the right hands, even that could be a significant advantage in a duel.

And more importantly—it was a start.

"I don’t doubt you at all," Llewellyn said confidently. "But it’s still a good precaution."

"I appreciate your concern, but I’ll manage," Kayneth dismissed the idea. Then he turned back to MacDuggal. "Anything else on this matter?"

"Not much. I’ve given you the main points, and the rest is in the folder," the man said, tapping the stack of reports and newspaper clippings on the table. "If you want to go through the details yourself. But it’s nearly three in the morning. Want a ride home, or are you staying?"

"I’ve got at least forty minutes of work left. Llewellyn will take me back when we’re done."

"Suit yourself. I’ll leave you to your ungodly labors."

"Why ungodly?" Smith frowned.

"By definition," MacDuggal smirked. "'There shall not be found among you any that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord…' And so on. I don’t think I need to cite the exact chapter and verse, do I?"

"Tch. In a different situation, I’d introduce you to a couple of priests I know," Archibald chuckled, lifting the barrier to let him out. "You’d be very surprised at how flexible their interpretations can get."

"Llewellyn, see our guest out, then get back to work," he ordered. "We need to be done by four AM."