Another unpleasant Portkey move and we were in a large room — that's what I thought at first, but when I looked around, I realized my mistake. We were in the middle of a real atrium, on a snow-white stone platform, surrounded by four stone manticores, behind them a ring of knights' armor with weapons and shields, and behind them, about thirty meters away from us, four platforms with real living trees, magical trees with white bark and golden-red leaves.
Lifting my head, I didn't expect to be almost blinded by the sunlight, and when I could see the reason, it turned out to be a specially made glass ceiling — a kind of dome, a hemisphere, not a simple one, but with many facets. Apparently, some clever architect had thought of a way to collect a lot of natural light, and mathematical calculations helped him, because the result is that on a gloomy, rainy day, the whole atrium is flooded with natural light.
It was as if we were in a newfangled expensive shopping mall with a transparent roof and a large empty space in the middle, where they usually put fountains and expensive advertising machines, as well as benches for visitors and kiosks with everything from food to cheap trinkets. At Nott Manor, or their palace, everything looked more somber, proud and solid. Unfortunately, no one in my upbringing bothered to teach me the difference between architectural styles.
Not in the sense that I think a sphere and a cube are the same thing, but I can only identify the Gothic style, and that's because back in school, when we were studying "The Cathedral of Our Lady of Paris," the subject of architecture was also covered. That's when I clearly remembered the theme of Gothic — straight lines as if bursting into the sky, sullenness, an abundance of stone sculptures of various chimeras and demons, and so on. Here at Nott Manor, there was something similar, but not exactly "Gothic", but something close.
Lots of stone, heavy wrought-iron chandeliers on thick chains, massive torches with magical lights slowly dancing in them, vaulted ceilings with somber frescoes, but at the same time not a lot of overtly dark colors, there just wasn't enough light now, and the magical lighting was obviously set to minimum power.
There were no stained glass windows at all, but the window frames themselves had interesting shapes, some original, like concentric circles or figure eights. There was a complete lack of "demonic" or "divine" themes, which is understandable, but there were no other "fear-mongers" other than the stone and steel golems we encountered. There were, however, quite a few stone bowls containing various magical plants, which gave off an elusive, pleasant aroma in the air and somehow dispelled the general gloom of the vast spaces of wide corridors and high ceilings.
When we entered one of the wings of the palace, there were paintings on the walls, not only portraits, which turned out to be very few, but many large canvases of landscapes, many different parts of the world, starting with snowy peaks and ending with boundless expanses of oceans. If only nature, if with animals, including magical, and if with participants from humans or non-humans, but for each of the paintings paid a lot — I saw it at first glance — each of the paintings was painted by a master of his craft. And there are many, many of them.
We were accompanied all the way by a group of invisible house elves. I am sure that everyone here either knew or suspected this fact, but I have just seen them, and spiritually these creatures are not a bit more beautiful than their usual selves, except that they are surrounded by a bright cocoon of active magic — a consequence of the constant absorption and loss of energy that the creatures cannot produce themselves or maintain their considerable reserves for long.
One look at Lionel Nott, a gaunt man in his fifties who always wore a cold, impartial mask, convinced me of the pedantry of this type, of the megalomaniacal nature of his kind. The house elves were obviously trained to such an extent that they could not even save their master without a direct order, but only watched and waited for that very order.
Though even if they get the order, the local house elves are not that difficult for me to tame: a few seals of denial and a full-fledged shikigami for control and the final "touch" that will simply "turn" the house elves in the fold of space on the border between the world of the living and the world of the spirits. Unfortunately, a mage with a personal magical core and reserve is just as impossible to swaddle, even with overwhelming seals, but some not-so-powerful magical creatures are.
We passed through an enfilade of rooms and halls and found ourselves in a semicircular hall opposite the massive double doors, which even looked very heavy. No inscriptions or anything, just the crest of the Nott family. There weren't even any door handles. But that was only the outside, inside the palace and those doors were covered with webs and networks of not only charms, but full-fledged magical channels.
According to the creators, only the head of the family or his elders could open these doors, which, judging by the extinguished activators, the family did not have. The only people left of the Nott family are Lionel himself, his son Theodore, and Lionel's second aunt, a half-crazed old hermit witch who lives her life somewhere in the forests of Wales.
— Mr. Nott, please don't stall me, I don't have much time. — I turned to the head of the family after we had all stood silently for more than a minute at the entrance to the castle's dungeons.
— I can't let you into the heart of our family, — the man said neutrally and coolly, his face not changing at all. — You must understand that.
— I understand, — he said with a slight nod, not turning around or looking at the wizard's face. — But that doesn't mean I agree with you. Open it.
— I can't, — the head of the family shook his head. — According to the family code... — Lionel started to explain, but Bellatrix interrupted him, speaking in an ostentatious, bored voice.
— ...according to the code of ANY pure-blood British family less than a thousand years old, written in the image of Salazar Slytherin, Lord Slytherin himself, a man who finds himself defeated and wishes to swear a vassal oath must perform the appropriate ritual on the altar of the family. The threat of total annihilation is worse than a vassal oath, for the magical blood and heritage must be preserved in any case. — The woman paused for a moment, then turned sharply to the man, — I've been watching this performance out of the corner of my eye, — she said, grinning into his "happy and joyful" face.
— Lenny, do you want to live? And your bastard son? — I could see the magician struggling, I could see the skin on his cheekbones turning white, but he held back, with great effort, but he held back. He only briefly covered his eyes. His son, on the other hand, made such a hateful grimace that it almost made me sick...just kidding, I've seen more unpleasant things...but not by much. — Stop stalling, Lenny, and don't play for time — it's no use, nobody's going to save you.
— How dare you, you damned traitor! Don't you dare address the head of the Great Clan Nott like that in our own house! — He was a skinny but tall teenager with gray eyes and unimpressive hair, and he looked like a mouse. — We are loyal to our master, and you have betrayed him! If he were here...
While young Theodore spoke, Bellatrix looked at him with the curiosity of a young anthill desecrator, and if she had a magnifying glass, she would have been trying out the angle from which to begin her favorite task. But wait, she did have a "magnifying glass," an oblong one, now streaked with the characteristic violet energy discharges.
The woman was silent, her sisters were silent, and Sirius leaned his head against Nanao's left shoulder with a look of curiosity, his hair flicking a few times like a cat's ears. The boy's father, on the other hand, allowed himself a small smile, even squared his shoulders a little, but where else? Theodore suddenly read something in the eyes of the brunette, who smiled affectionately and suddenly fell silent, looking at her like a mouse at a snake. Baring her sharp white teeth, Bellatrix shook a thin, manicured finger in front of the tense boy's face.
— Tsk-tsk-tsk… — the woman smiled, dangerous lights shimmering in her mercurial eyes. — Did the stupid boy think he was a strong man? How unkind, Lenny, you have raised your heir... tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk, — the man's gaze returned to Theodore for a moment, and he shuddered visibly.
— What if good Aunt Bella suddenly remembered who had given her nephew the poop and allowed caring Mama Cissy to punish bad boy Theo? — The brunette turned to her sister, who was eyeing both the older and younger Nott with the predatory interest of a playful lioness who didn't mind toying with her prey before strangling and devouring it. The teenager shuddered even more, no longer comforted by the thought that he would not be harmed in his own home.
— You wouldn't dare, — the boy said in a trembling voice. — Not in our house... — he finished his thought a little more quietly.
— Oh, the boy is deluded, isn't he, Sis? — Bellatrix didn't turn around, but Narcissa nodded, grinning in a way that made me feverish — so much of her was a predator now, no, a predator, strong, beautiful, dangerous. My instincts were howling with the desire to possess this predator, to prove her strength, to subdue her and then let her stay strong, but at my side... strange thoughts. I caught the strange look in Nanao's eyes and realized that I was staring at Narcissa, who continued to radiate bestial menace and attractiveness. Where did she get that from?
Yes, all blacks have something like that, just more of it, less of it, but all of it. Meanwhile, Bella continued her little game with the silly mouse. — But if the silly boy asks good Aunt Bella, — the woman grinned. — She would not even punish the boy too severely if he asked very nicely, on his knees.