HP: Spirit Talker

POV In Headmaster Howarth's office.

— Impudent boy! — the ministerial official hisses — How dare he? — The man didn't want to admit that he didn't have the guts to say those words to the teenager's face. — Headmaster Dumbledore, something must be done!

— What's the problem? — The older man acted surprised. — Act according to the law. There are several mechanisms, use them. — Short pause. — Did you go to the goblins?

— Yes, — the guest grimaced. — We were told that this case does not involve clan inheritance, clan preservation, or other cases described in the Peace Treaty, so they have no right to interfere.

— And what about the workers in the workshops? — The director, who already knew everything, asked with great interest.

— The boy signed magic contracts, so it's no use... .... — The minister's clerk looked around the office, as if searching for answers, but apparently not finding them, and looked back at the owner of the office. — We have to do something! We can't leave it like this! — was the sudden thought. — He's a minor, a child, and you've been working with these people for years! I'm sure you'll find a way to influence him!

— You are right, — the elder shook his head and turned his wise, kind eyes to the bird. — Over the years, I have had to deal with many different types of children. And every child, I have found, is different in some way.... Yes. — There was a silence, but not a long one, for both had lived under the overcast skies of England for years.

— I think the two gentlemen can agree on that. — nodded thoughtfully.

— Indeed... — smiled the rugged politician, judge, victor of the Dark Lords, and most importantly, headmaster of Hogwarts School.

***

— Hey Megan, how are you?

— Hi...

— How are you? Business?

— No adventures. — The girl shrugged. — Why, there are offers, you didn't just get in touch, right? — A look of interest gleamed.

— You're right. — I turn to a serious tone. — I need a squad of mage fighters, at least a dozen. So that I can count on them in case of trouble. I'll pay the standard rate with a magic contract. How about it?

— Boy, I like you, but I don't want to get involved in shady business and I don't want to get my own people into trouble... — the girl frowned a little. — What's going on?

— In a nutshell, the local bureaucrats want to squeeze my business, and there is a real threat that words will soon turn into deeds. The locals, as you understand, have families and relatives that even a sworn man can be pressured by, so I need someone who is not a local.

— So no smuggling, armed assault, robbery, or anything like that? — He squinted at the dark-haired beauty.

— Security for my businesses in a single area, as well as my construction site. The construction site is staffed by the ungifted, and they can be influenced.

— Hmmm, how many magicians do you need exactly?

— How many do you have? — I blinked and smiled mischievously, because the girl had already agreed.

— There are twenty-eight gifted men and women of varying strength in my company .....

— And what would you think of the fact that I am offering you and your people an interest-free loan to move to the UK permanently and bring the business here as well?

— Tempting... — the girl stretched out her hand and looked at me suspiciously. — But what will you take payment for if not money?

— Loyalty. — No doubt, no delay. — I need reliable, loyal people who will not betray me. And the priority of my orders. That's it.

— Hmmm... that's kind of superficial...

— Loyalty and honesty are worth a lot.

— It sounds like you're asking me to join a clan.

— Would you join? — I blinked.

— No, — the girl shook one of her braids. — Not now. Later. I don't know.

— When can I expect you? — Let her think about it, she's a good girl, and she's unlikely to tolerate bastards around her, so I don't mind such servants.

— A few days. — the girl looked away, thinking, even biting her lip. — A week. A week.

— All right, then. On the ninth day, starting tomorrow, you will be picked up at London airport. I'll check your flights. — I pause for a moment, looking into the beautiful brown eyes of the brown-haired girl. — Think about moving. Really think about it. There are very few reputable companies like yours around here, mostly half-bandit mercenaries. I'll see you later.

— Bye! — replies the girl, breaking off the connection.

The artifact in her hands is covered with a web of black lines, and it smells of burning. It's disposable.

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