"Alyosha, we cannot simply rush in," Semyon said once his anger had cooled enough for caution to return. He grabbed his brother's wrist and held it firmly, his eyes dark with the habits of a man who had lived under Ministry surveillance for years. "You have been away too long. Things here are rotten, yes, but rotten walls can still crush people when they fall."
Having survived under the Soviet Ministry of Magic's watch for so many years, Semyon had grown far more careful than Alexander remembered. He thought of his newborn son, of the tiny life sleeping upstairs in a world already full of knives and curses, and hoped his brother would think twice before throwing himself into another fire.
"All right," Alexander said at last, forcing himself to sit back down. "I will contact the other wizards. Hopefully, they will not sell me to the Ministry the moment they hear my name."
Semyon laughed bitterly at that. "Sell you to the Ministry? The Ministry doesn't even know who it should sell itself to."
The tension in the tavern eased slightly, though the gold on the floor still glowed like a promise and a threat. Semyon rubbed his face, then turned toward Roger as if remembering he had a guest. "Roger, would you like some borscht?"
"Of course," Roger said with a smile.
He was increasingly interested in Moscow, not only in its magical world but in the Muggle city collapsing around it. While Semyon prepared the soup, Roger casually asked about the lives of ordinary people outside the hidden taverns and enchanted alleys.
"It is terrible," Semyon said, shaking his head as he ladled out the deep red soup. "The Muggles are carrying out some difficult economic reform. I do not know the exact measures, but people are so poor now that many can barely afford bread."
He set the bowl down in front of Roger and sighed. "Before, people had to queue for everything, but at least most of them did not go hungry. Now even that is no longer certain."
"Why are you so interested in Muggles?" Semyon asked, studying him curiously.
"Just gathering information," Roger replied. He took a spoonful of borscht, then smoothly shifted the conversation. "Uncle Semyon, do you know where the largest library nearby is?"
"The largest is in St. Petersburg," Semyon said after thinking for a moment. "But Moscow has one that is nearly as good, at 3 Vozdvizhenka Street."
He gave a faint shrug. "I have heard from drunken Muggles who came in here that their government can barely pay salaries now. I would not be surprised if the library had already stopped functioning properly."
"The Hearthfire Tavern serves Muggles too?" Roger asked.
"There is no choice," Semyon said helplessly. "If we only served wizards, the tavern could not survive."
He glanced toward the shuttered windows, where the cold pressed against the glass. "It is a pity. Muggles are suffering badly now. Many do not have enough potatoes, let alone money for alcohol."
"There will always be people who can afford red wine," Roger said with a faint smile. "And there will always be people who can afford caviar."
After all, the main guests at this feast were still people like them. Empires could collapse, currencies could rot, and ordinary families could freeze in queues, but wealth always found a way to sit at the table with clean hands.
Moscow at night was quiet and cold. Muggle police patrolled the streets, though most of them only stood guard at certain alley entrances, too tired or too wary to search every shadow. Alexander returned late that night and borrowed all the remaining Galleons, while Semyon left with him, saying he wanted to meet an underground wizarding group that might still remember Belobog.
With nothing else to do, Roger cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and went wandering through Moscow with Bubble nearby. The once-glorious red flag that had flown over the Kremlin had been lowered, replaced by the tricolour. Whatever the flag had once meant no longer mattered; history had already begun assigning it new meanings.
White now represented the return of old power, blue represented surrender dressed up as freedom, and red had been pushed down to the bottom. Moscow wanted the Soviet sphere of influence, but not the Soviet ideals or system. Roger merely shrugged at the thought. They had chosen this path themselves, and now they would grit their teeth and crawl along it even if they had to do so on their knees.
The Lenin Library stood in the centre of Moscow, not far from Red Square and the State Historical Museum. Built from heavy stone, it carried the solemn weight of a monument that had been told it was eternal. Its portico was supported by square stone pillars, and the tops of those pillars were decorated with hammer-and-sickle patterns that no one seemed to care about anymore.
Roger passed through the ornate arched entrance and studied the reliefs carved into the stone walls on both sides. Under the dim moonlight, the figures looked cold and lifeless, like witnesses who had seen too much and decided silence was safer.
"Alohomora," Roger whispered, flicking his wand.
The lock clicked open.
Inside, the library was utterly silent. An elderly librarian slept at the desk, completely unaware that someone had entered, and Roger passed him without making a sound. He moved between rows of bookshelves in the faint moonlight, his footsteps swallowed by the vastness around him.
The towering shelves rose like giant trees in a primeval forest, neatly arranged and filled with more books than he could count. The collection held nearly thirty million original books, manuscripts, and documents, including a number of precious foreign classics that had travelled very far from home. Knowledge slept all around him, abandoned for the moment by the very state that had once gathered it with such pride.
Roger suddenly laughed under his breath. Barbarians stole other people's books so they could paint themselves with a veneer of civilisation. But if they could come, then so could he.
After all, he was a barbarian too.
Unfortunately, even expanded cases had limits. The space he had brought was far too small compared with the library's vast collection, and anything he could carry away tonight would be only a drop taken from an ocean.
"Let's go, Bubble," Roger said softly. "We'll rent a large warehouse, one big enough to hold all these books."
The warehouse in the suburbs was completely empty, without even a mouse hiding inside it. The manager was overjoyed when he learned someone was willing to pay in American dollars. These days, the value of the rouble changed every morning, and money that could buy bread yesterday might only buy potatoes today.
Roger rented the place for a full year with only five hundred dollars. The manager accepted the money as though he had been handed a treasure map, then hurried off before the foreign child could change his mind.
"Is this a robbery?" Roger murmured.
He glanced back warily and saw four bald young men in Adidas sweatshirts following behind him. The city was in turmoil, the suburbs were dark and cold, and four thugs had clearly decided that a well-dressed child walking alone at night was prey worth stalking.
They tried to appear casual, but their act was clumsy. They drifted behind him like hungry wolves, spreading out just enough to block different directions. One of them kept both hands buried in the bulging pockets of his sweatshirt, and the shape suggested some kind of weapon.
"Ah, I've only just arrived in Moscow, and I have already run into thugs," Roger said to himself. "Am I unlucky, or are they?"
He gave a light wave of his wand and vanished from their sight.
"Damn it, where did he go?" one of the men hissed, panic breaking through his swagger.
"Find him quickly," another snapped. "The kid has money. I saw him give Vanya several dollars with my own eyes."
The four thugs searched frantically, but they could not find Roger anywhere. A chill crept over them in the darkness, and their earlier greed began turning into fear. For a moment, they looked almost ready to believe they had encountered a ghost.
"Are you looking for me?" Roger's voice came from behind them.
They spun around in terror and yanked out their weapons. Most held knives, but the man with tattoos on his face pulled out a shiny black pistol.
"Expelliarmus!"
Facing the gun barrel, Roger felt a rare flicker of genuine concern and immediately cast the Disarming Charm. Their weapons flew from their hands and clattered across the frozen ground.
"A ghost!" the four men shouted.
They scattered in every direction, but Roger had no intention of letting them escape so easily. Several spells flashed through the night, knocking them to the ground one after another. Somehow, however, the tattooed man managed to block the curse aimed at him and vanished into the darkness.
"Strange," Roger murmured, looking down at the unconscious men. "How can Muggles resist a spell?"
He regretted, not for the first time, that he did not yet know how to wipe memories. He was a kind-hearted boy and could not bear to harm them with magic, so he could only leave them to General Winter. Faced with scoundrels who preyed on children, perhaps the compassionate old general would show them mercy.
Igor hurried through Moscow's dark, winding alleys as if a beast were stalking him from the shadows. He knocked on a door deep inside a side street, and a small viewing hatch slid open from within. When the man behind it recognised him as the boss's nephew, he unlocked the door just enough to let him squeeze inside.
Several burly men sat in the warm room watching Woody Woodpecker on a flickering television. A pile of guns lay beside them within easy reach, which made the cheerful cartoon music feel even more absurd. Igor barely glanced at them before rushing upstairs.
His uncle Viktor was inspecting a batch of newly acquired gold bars. The metal gleamed on the table under the lamplight, and Igor swallowed hard as greed flashed briefly in his eyes.
"Uncle, I offended a wizard," Igor said.
"A wizard?" Viktor calmly placed the gold into a box and locked it inside a safe. "Where did you meet him?"
"In the suburbs. A little boy," Igor said, lying without hesitation. "Ikha and the others lured him away."
He kept his gaze low, trying to hide the fact that he had abandoned his companions and fled. Viktor watched him for a moment, then seemed to accept the explanation.
"Oh, just a little wizard," Viktor said. "That is nothing."
He patted Igor on the shoulder and handed him a glass of vodka. His voice carried the casual confidence of a man who had dealt with dangerous things before and survived.
"They are nothing to fear," Viktor said. "Shoot them in the head when they are not paying attention, and that is the end of it. Igor, do not wander around these next few days. Moscow has changed."
"All right, I understand," Igor said quickly.
Roger, hidden nearby, noticed that Igor kept touching his collar while he spoke. That meant the object capable of resisting spells was probably somewhere around his neck. It was a useful detail, and Roger stored it away without moving.
"Go and rest," Viktor said.
He watched Igor leave the room, and his eyes softened with affection. He had always doted on this son he could never publicly acknowledge, even if that affection had to be hidden behind the title of uncle.
"So these people have killed wizards before," Roger murmured.
His eyes narrowed. Then he silently knocked Viktor unconscious.
Wizards were not always invincible against Muggles. If the head or heart suffered fatal damage, a wizard would die like anyone else. Pride did not stop bullets, and arrogance did not mend shattered bone.
Roger used Alohomora to open the safe. Sure enough, he found some Galleons and Sickles inside, their presence confirming that Viktor's hands had touched the magical world before. Beneath a thick stack of bills lay a bloodstained alchemy notebook, a silent testament to the tragic fate of its original owner.
.....
Can't wait to read more exciting chapters then what are you waiting for Join my p*atreon right now.
Get 60+ Premium chapters.
Link: p*atreon.com/Earthly_Writer (Remove the *)
2 Chapters for all free members.