Home, sweet home. Countless people before me have remarked on the particular pleasure of returning to one's own home after a long absence — more will remark on it after, even more so, I'm certain of it. But whatever the case, every time you come back to these walls you feel better, as though you've met an old friend. A real one, not someone wearing a badge that says Friend.
Dinner in the warm family atmosphere, the light turned down slightly to bring out the golden tones and the Christmas decorations, the smiles of two parents, genuine interest in how Hermione and I were getting on — none of it was phenomenal, but it warmed something. And that, of course, was pleasant.
"So how are you getting on?" Dad asked, when dinner had been largely demolished.
Yes, dinner had been a long affair — eaten without rush, most of the time given over to Hermione: her achievements, her views on various matters, things that had happened at school and in the world, though nothing that might alarm the parents unduly.
"Getting on?" I picked up my glass of juice from the table — not tea at this hour. "I have nothing to complain about."
"Something more specific? We'd genuinely like to know how things are going."
Hermione's ears were pricked too, as it were — we didn't cross paths especially often, different houses and different schedules meaning our reliable points of overlap were the D.A.D.A. club meetings, and occasionally the library. Public spaces like the Great Hall or classrooms hardly seemed worth mentioning.
"Academically, strictly speaking, everything is at the highest level. No weak subjects," I said, and took a sip of juice. "Performance is exceptional."
"Hm? And that's all?" Mum smiled, clearly wanting the extended version.
"No, of course not. I just don't know where to start..." I thought for a moment, took another small sip, and settled back in my chair — comfortably, but not carelessly. "Still on the subject of studies — I've been attending additional lessons with Professor Snape."
"Of all the teachers at Hogwarts," Hermione said, looking genuinely baffled, "you chose Snape?"
"Of all the teachers at Hogwarts," I repeated her opening back to her, "only Professor Snape can give me material I couldn't understand or work through on my own. As everyone should have gathered from D.A.D.A. lessons, he knows considerably more than most people give him credit for — and more importantly, at greater depth."
"Even so, he's too cruel and unfair."
"I couldn't care less about that, as long as he's teaching me effectively. Which he is."
"I imagine," Dad said, "his extra lessons are rather gruelling? Hermione's given him a less than glowing review."
"Neither I nor Daphne — the girl who studies alongside me with Snape — have done anything the professor could take issue with. So no," I said, with a small smile, "his lessons are perfectly fine."
"Daphne, you said?" Mum smiled, the particular kind.
"Yes," I confirmed, without any embarrassment, since the thought behind that smile was obvious enough. "A lovely girl I'm more or less seeing."
"'More or less' — what does that mean?"
"We haven't said it aloud."
"A haughty ice queen," Hermione said, with a small sniff. "Completely insufferable, like all Slytherins."
"A difference in upbringing, worldview and temperament," I said, "which is easily traced between your house and hers."
"And how far have things gone between you?" Mum continued in her provocative vein.
"Firstly," I said, finishing my juice, "a gentleman doesn't discuss such things."
Dad made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hum, but nodded approvingly.
"But the answer is simple enough — exactly as far as we both wanted, and not as far as we might have gone."
Hermione's cheeks went rather pink at this turn in the conversation, though her expression stayed carefully neutral.
"Oh, that's rather sweet," Mum said, with a grin. "Isn't it? Children grow up so fast."
"They do," Dad agreed, running a hand through his hair — just barely showing the early grey. "But say, Hector — if you ever need any advice."
"As a matter of fact..." I said, drawing it out thoughtfully. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Do go on," Dad said, leaning forward, the others equally attentive.
"Magic is a complex and poorly understood form of energy," I began, approaching from a distance. "Wizards have a particular problem. The higher a wizard's mental capacity, the less susceptible they are to various... psychological and mental influences generated by their own mind."
"That sounds..." Dad made a wavering gesture with his hand. "Somewhat questionable."
"It's not easy to put simply. The short version is — it exists. The ratio isn't entirely obvious: between a foolish wizard and a sharp, intelligent one, the difference isn't especially noticeable. But in my case, with my particular circumstances, it is."
"And how does that manifest?" Both Mum and Dad shifted into medical professional mode.
"Greater control over oneself — over the mental sphere, the body, magic, thoughts. For instance, the influence of hormones on the mind is considerably reduced... And I don't mean only what you're thinking, Mione."
"I wasn't thinking anything. I hadn't had the chance," she said, with a sniff. "Self-taught genius."
"Do you realise how accurately that actually describes reality?"
"Oh... I suppose it does..."
Our parents let that exchange pass unremarked, staying focused on me.
"The point is, all this control — which I'm not even actively maintaining — is something of an obstacle. You don't need me to tell you about all those phases of adolescent infatuation. Holding hands being a grand adventure! All those impulses, just to stimulate the pleasure centre with something new and unknown, and so on. A simple example..."
I leaned forward, placing my forearms on the table.
"There's me, there's a girl, we're walking somewhere together. A perfectly ordinary situation — and beyond the obvious attractions..."
While I was speaking, Hermione was going gradually redder, but showed no sign of leaving. Everything interested her.
"...the instinct to reach out, take her hand, get some contact with the object of one's affections — the affection being rather muted in itself. And your thoughts are skipping all over the place, you don't see or hear anything around you, to the point where if she asks 'are you even listening?', you can only say 'yes, of course', and you don't actually remember a word she just said, because you were thinking about something else entirely. Well — that doesn't happen to me. Or rather it does, but the curve of emotional fluctuation, agitation and all the rest — driven not only by this kind of thing but also by fear, aggression, other things — is very considerably flattened."
"Hm." Dad gave this genuine thought, his brows drawing together.
"Wouldn't it be worth seeing Smethwyck?" Mum said. "We do have a reasonable medical background, but we work in a rather different area. As parents we'd naturally want to help directly — but as professionals... I'm genuinely concerned our judgement might be wrong here. The workings of your magic are still rather opaque to us."
"You're right."
"Do you think something is wrong with you?" Dad's question visibly caught both Mum and Hermione off guard.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "But thinking through it logically, I've come to the conclusion that this prevalence of the conscious over the unconscious could make things awkward in a relationship."
"Oh, that Slytherin ice queen is absolutely made for you," Hermione said, and actually patted me on the shoulder.
"Don't confuse the mask with the reality underneath it."
"So she's a hypocrite as well."
"Hypocrisy, for your information, is something we all share, and is arguably the single most important component of human social interaction."
"Could you put that more simply, for those of us who aren't geniuses?"
"I said what I said. Not my fault," I replied, with a shrug and a smile.
"But do go and see Smethwyck," Mum said, cutting across our light-hearted sparring. "What we consider normal, as potential patients, may look quite different to a doctor — potentially a pathology with all manner of consequences."
"I'll write to him tomorrow and find out when he's available."
In truth, I didn't particularly consider this a problem. I'd simply wanted to share some thoughts with my parents, and nothing else of any real significance had come to mind. Well — there was one topic. But I'd raise that after the holidays. It concerned their safety.
"Your bird, by the way," Dad said, bringing up what he clearly considered an important matter. "It just sleeps and eats occasionally."
"That's normal," I said, knowing full well.
"And it's grown to quite an impressive size. It's claimed a corner of your room. Are you sure it doesn't need any special conditions?"
"Oh, it's doing better than all of us put together."
We talked for a while longer about various small things, and before long it was time to head to our rooms — or at least it was for Hermione and me; our parents held the view that disrupting a sleep schedule without good reason wasn't worth it, a view I shared entirely. We didn't go straight to sleep, though — Hermione wanted to see the phoenix. Not that anyone knew it was a phoenix; they wouldn't have believed it in any case. Black as night, large as a small boar. Not burning, not smouldering, singing nothing. Defective — that's what any wizard would think upon being told.
Hermione looked at the curled-up phoenix — already comparable in volume to a gymnastic ball, though not in shape — stroked it, marvelled at it, and went off to bed, promising she would absolutely look for references to such creatures in the Hogwarts library. Good luck to her — what else can I say. She only needed to get back to Hogwarts first, which wouldn't happen for another week and a half.
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