Jorkins could refuse, of course. It wouldn't stop Ian.
Ian had mastered the Psychic Blast spell to a degree even an older Dumbledore couldn't match. He was closer to the "White Dark Lord" of conspiracy theories than Dumbledore had ever been.
A Ravenclaw graduate's objections meant very little when Ian could cast without him noticing. Even Grindelwald would probably struggle to sense Ian's Psychic Blast now.
Still, Jorkins had shown enough sense to cooperate, and Ian was willing to spare him some dignity.
"Very good, Mr. Jorkins." Ian nodded, the distance in his voice easing slightly. "We needn't do this here, though. Standing in the middle of the street draws attention."
He glanced around. The Muggles had already "forgotten" what had happened and gone about their business, but two men lingering in the road would still attract curious looks. This was Britain, after all. Ian had no desire to overhear some remark that tested his patience and sent him straight from White Dark Lord to Dark Arts disciplinary action.
"Come on. Let's find somewhere more comfortable." His tone grew almost casual, with a hint of ordinary youthful complaint. "Dealing with that little problem made me hungry. We can talk over lunch."
He was still growing, and he did get hungry often.
"Ah? Oh! Yes, of course! Wherever you like, sir," Jorkins said quickly.
He was bewildered. A moment ago, Ian's presence had been almost suffocating. Now he was talking about lunch? Did that mean there would be no immediate interrogation? Jorkins couldn't tell, and the uncertainty frightened him almost as much as Ian's power.
"Follow me."
Ian turned and walked away from the Royal Catherine Hotel at an unhurried pace. He looked like any other young man searching for somewhere to eat. Jorkins scrambled up, dusted off his robes, retrieved his fallen wand, and hurried after him.
The street had been restored, but the fright of his fall lingered. His mind raced through one possibility after another. Ravenclaws were clever; it made them knowledgeable, and it also made them very good at imagining trouble.
"What should I have?" Ian murmured.
He passed the expensive restaurants and led Jorkins through several livelier streets. At last he stopped outside a small, old-fashioned family restaurant with clean windows.
A chalkboard in the window advertised the day's specials: shepherd's pie, fish and chips, and steak and kidney pie. A few tables were occupied inside, and the atmosphere looked relaxed.
"This will do." Ian pushed open the glass door, setting its bell jingling.
Warm air carrying the smell of baked pies, fried fish, and stew met them at the entrance. The restaurant was roomier than it looked from outside, with polished wooden tables covered in red-and-white checked cloths.
Old black-and-white photographs of London and a few landscape paintings hung on the walls.
It was lunchtime, and the place was busy with local workers, shop assistants, and elderly regulars. They chatted loudly over the clatter of cutlery. A cheerful, middle-aged woman in an apron came over.
"Table for two? There's one free at the back. This way."
She led them to a small table by the wall. Jorkins sat down stiffly. Among the work clothes and ordinary coats, his dark green robes stood out. A few customers glanced at him with curiosity, though none seemed unfriendly. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his robes closer.
Ian took up the laminated menu as if nothing were unusual. "What would you like, Mr. Jorkins? It's my treat."
"Ah, anything is fine. You choose, sir." Food was the last thing on Jorkins's mind.
"Then we'll have two of the specials: one shepherd's pie and one fish and chips. And two cups of tea, please," Ian told the woman, sounding as though he ate there every week.
"Coming right up!" She took down the order and headed for the kitchen.
'What is he thinking?'
While they waited, Jorkins stole glances at Ian. The boy had concealed every trace of his magical power. Now he looked like a handsome, unusually composed teenager, quietly taking in the restaurant around him. His gaze moved from the old photographs to a table of workers arguing over a football match, then to the people passing outside.
He looked calm. He even seemed to be enjoying himself.
Jorkins understood that even less than the invitation to lunch. Why would a wizard this powerful take an interest in a Muggle restaurant, Muggle conversation, and Muggle daily life?
Having grown up in the wizarding world, Jorkins had never met a wizard who behaved this way. Most kept their distance from Muggles.
Even Ministry employees like him, whose work involved upholding the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and maintaining a polite appearance, often regarded the Muggle world with impatience or quiet contempt.
Wizards were proud. Everyone knew that. Many treated Muggles as curious creatures who lacked magic, and dismissed their inventions and culture as crude, noisy, and inconvenient.
Jorkins had never seen an ordinary wizard sit in a Muggle restaurant and watch its customers with such interest, much less someone as powerful as Ian.
Perhaps Ian was one of those rare scholars who genuinely studied Muggle culture. But that hardly fit either. Nothing about him suggested a man who spent his days buried in books or attending Muggle Studies meetings.
Just as Jorkins's thoughts began running away with him, the woman returned with two steaming plates. "Here you are. Enjoy your meal. I'll bring the tea in a moment."
The food smelled wonderful. Ian's shepherd's pie came in an oval baking dish, its golden mashed potato crust covering a rich filling of lamb and vegetables. The fish and chips were wrapped in greaseproof paper printed to look like newspaper, with mushy peas and a wedge of lemon on the side. Both portions were generous.
"Eat while it's hot." Ian picked up his knife and fork and started on the pie. For someone Jorkins had just seen wield such frightening power, he ate with no more ceremony than any other customer.
Jorkins swallowed. After that desperate chase, he was hungry too. He hesitated, then picked up his cutlery. The potatoes were soft, the lamb tender, and the gravy rich. The fish was crisp outside and flaky inside, and the chips were thick and filling. It wasn't an extraordinary meal, but it was warm and comforting.
'So Muggle food can be this good?'
He had never eaten anything cooked by Muggles before.
They ate quietly. Ian took his time, pausing now and then to sip the tea that had arrived and look out the window. Jorkins kept eating, though his thoughts were elsewhere. Good food was one thing; staying alive mattered more.
Halfway through the meal, Ian spoke as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. "What do you think of this place, Mr. Jorkins?"
Jorkins blinked and quickly set down his fork. "It's very nice. The food's hearty, and the owner is friendly."
He answered honestly. A wizard as skilled as Ian might well be able to tell if he lied.
"I don't just mean the food." Ian gestured toward the street with his fork. "Look at the people outside. Their lives, their city. What do you think of them?"
Jorkins was even more confused. He chose his words carefully. "They're… busy? Ordinary? Muggles spend every day working to make a living. They invent machines that keep them busy and fill their cities with noise and pollution…"
It was the sort of thing many wizards said in private.
"That's a common view among wizards today," Ian said. Something in his glance made Jorkins suspect he had given the wrong answer. "And it's wrong. It holds us back. 'Ordinary?' What makes them ordinary, Mr. Jorkins? That they have no magic? That their lives are shorter? That they can't see a Demiguise or ride a broomstick?"
Ian had already stepped into the course of history and changed things. There was little point holding back what he thought about beliefs this deeply rooted.
Jorkins had no answer.
"Believe me, having magic doesn't make us nobler or better than anyone else."
Ian finished the last bite of his pie, took a sip of tea, and looked out the window again.
"See that young mother pushing a pram? Her child does something small, and she smiles. See the old man waiting for a bus on the corner? He's holding a newspaper because he wants to read the racing results. Look at the food, clothes, and books in the shop windows. People put their work, their ideas, and their hopes for a better life into all of it.
"And look at the city itself. Its buildings, roads, public transport, water supply, electricity, none of it appeared out of thin air. Generations of Muggles built it and improved it with their hands, their minds, and their ability to work together."
He turned back to Jorkins. "They may not have magic, but they have creativity, the ability to organize, the will to endure, and the same desire for a good life that anyone has. Wizards use wands and spells to change the world around us. Muggles use tools, machines, science, and the systems they build together. The methods differ, but both are ways of understanding the world and shaping it."
Jorkins stared at him. He had never thought about Muggles that way.
"You call them noisy and their machines crude," Ian went on, without accusation. "Perhaps you don't understand the problems they've had to solve. Imagine building a city for millions of people without magic. You would have to provide food, clean water, transport, public safety, and ways to control disease. Think of what that would take. They've done it.
"Your magic couldn't do that. Most wizards' magic couldn't. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy exists for historical reasons, and there's a need to protect both sides. But protection doesn't require us to shut ourselves off, much less look down on them."
His voice grew more serious. "Wizards aren't above Muggles, Mr. Jorkins. We're simply different. We have a gift most of them don't. That should give us a broader view and a greater sense of responsibility, not some baseless feeling of superiority."
Ian watched Jorkins's expression shift. "A truly powerful wizard needs more than power. He needs the judgment to control it, to understand those who are different, respect life, and see things as they are. Clinging to a sense of superiority because you have magic is a sign of weakness."
Had anyone else said it, Jorkins might have scoffed. But Ian had already shown him just how powerful he was. Coming from him, the words were hard to dismiss.
"I understand," Jorkins said.
His face grew warm with embarrassment. At the Ministry of Magic, he often spoke about protecting Muggles' rights and coordinating with the Muggle Prime Minister's office as the rules required. But to him, it had always been a duty assigned from above, mixed with a patronizing urge to protect people without magic. Deep down, hadn't he believed wizards were cleverer and more refined? Hadn't he dismissed the Muggle world as loud, crude, and needlessly complicated?
Yet the young wizard before him, whose power Jorkins could barely comprehend, looked at that world with patience and appreciation. The difference between their views left Jorkins deeply ashamed.
(End Of This Chapter)
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