However good Hogwarts might be, there is something priceless about waking up in your own room, in your parents' house — especially when a great heap of black feathers is snoring softly on the floor nearby, radiating a faint background of friendly magic. Perhaps it was worth thinking, someday, about finding the phoenix a place at Hogwarts. Though until the matter of Voldemort and the rest of the revolutionaries was resolved, moving him from this house would be unwise. In practical terms, the I-phoenix was the equivalent of one powerful wizard with a particular set of abilities. Combined with the rest of the protections — both on the property and on my parents personally — this house was becoming an extremely difficult target.
Having woken before everyone else, I went through my usual physical routines as always. My instrument of choice was the glaive on the back patio. Technically it was closer to a Chinese guandao, but that was lyricism and nuance without any real bearing on anything. Besides, it only looked like a weapon. In actuality it was a training implement heavy as a downed Boeing, and the complex elven exercises performed with it worked the entire body — including muscles that, in most people, never properly engage at any point in their lives.
By the time the others woke and went about their mornings, I was still at it in the back garden, shielded from any potential onlookers or neighbours by tree canopies, shrubbery, and the fence. I was not, however, shielded from my own family, which was how Dad spotted me when he came out onto the veranda for some fresh air. He didn't interrupt, though I was nearly finished anyway — so I completed the final kata, looked over at him, and wiped the sweat from my face with my own shirt.
"Do they teach you that at Hogwarts as well?" he said, with a smirk, taking in both my fitness and the state of my arms. "And how much does that thing weigh? It looks substantial."
"Heavier than it looks."
"May I?"
"Have a go," I said, walking over and holding out the glaive — keeping the butt planted on the floor.
Dad took hold of it, but with one hand could only just manage to keep it upright.
"How—" He looked genuinely baffled. The grey spreading mercilessly from his temples only lent the expression more character.
Recalling a certain English actor whose series had, I believed, only just stopped airing that year, I arranged my face into a suitably appropriate expression and said:
"Magic."
Dad snorted, smiled, and attempted to lift the glaive with both hands. To avoid breaking anything — the veranda floor, for instance — he handed it back, and I simply pushed it down into my rucksack. An absurd thing to witness for the uninitiated, of course, but Dad and Mum had both been present for magical oddities before and had seen my rucksack in action, so no particular astonishment followed. Though there was a distinction — when you pull too many small items out of a bag, more than could physically fit inside it, that's not especially remarkable; any girl manages the same without magic. But a two-metre spear going into a rucksack was another matter entirely.
"Come on." I clapped Dad on the shoulder. "I can smell breakfast from here."
"Right."
Breakfast was over quickly. Mum and Dad still had things to finish at the clinic before the holiday, so they were getting ready for work. Hermione planned to spend the day enjoying her books and the comforts of home, undisturbed by noise or interruption. She would almost certainly install herself in her room, quietly indulging some nostalgic attachment to her own private corner — entry forbidden to all but herself. And, now, to a certain imperious ginger cat who was far too independent for anyone to give him much thought.
I got dressed — blue trousers, shoes, a matching thin blue shirt, pressed to within an inch of its life, and a waistcoat with a pattern so subtle it was nearly invisible — threw on my robes, cast a Notice-Me-Not on myself, and set off to attend to business. I was already out the front door when I remembered it would be worth pinning on the Apprentice Potions badge. It wasn't designed to be worn on robes, and the only available spot was the collar of the formal shirt. That was where it went. Now I was entirely ready for whatever the day required.
A hundred metres from the house, I Apparated directly into the back alley of the Leaky Cauldron and stepped through into Diagon Alley without delay. On a fine sunny day wizards tend to pour out of their burrows like mushrooms after rain. The atmosphere today, however, was not particularly cheerful. The familiar bright colours seemed somehow faded, the wizards who usually darted back and forth with such energy appeared subdued, and vivid robes were conspicuously absent from the majority.
People were still walking, still smiling, still buying things — but where once it had all felt natural, as natural as the magical enticements displayed outside every shop, now it was rather like watching exhausted performers from some bankrupt provincial theatre going through the motions, waiting out the end of their contracts.
Walking along the row of shops, I concluded that if things continued in this direction, Diagon Alley would become a more spacious variant of Knockturn Alley. In a couple of years.
At one of the crossings, I spotted the brightest thing in this gradually darkening place — the twins' shop, in the process of being fitted out. For now it was simply vivid, conspicuous as a sore thumb. There was a sign, and above the entrance they had cleared a platform for something large. A huge multicoloured placard hung from the door: Coming Soon! Beside it stood a rack holding a stack of promotional leaflets for anyone curious about what sort of marvel was going to occupy the premises. Nothing was visible inside, but from where I stood I could feel it — work boiling away in there, spellwork upon spellwork. The lads weren't wasting any time, which was gratifying: we'd only returned from Hogwarts yesterday, and here they were already.
It seemed Mr and Mrs Weasley were relieved that the twins' longstanding joking threats to abandon Hogwarts entirely had turned out to be nothing but joking threats, and that the pair had duly seen things through and sat their exams. Whether they'd done well remained to be seen — though given the twins' temperament, Mr and Mrs Weasley would probably be grateful for any result at all.
Smiling slightly, I made my way toward the entrance to St. Mungo's.
The hospital foyer was full of patients waiting to be seen. Nothing new or unusual — various absurd injuries, partial or complete botched Transfigurations, the effects of rogue Charms or Potions. One formidable woman was holding a man in place with an Incarcerous, while the man simply sat there smiling like a lunatic, perfectly calm, murmuring someone's name on repeat. Looked like an Amortentia overdose. That happened too, of course.
As I walked toward the reception desk — staffed by two Healers in lavender robes who appeared less than enthusiastic about life — a rather entertaining thought surfaced. If someone were to slip Amortentia to Daphne or Hermione, managed to be deft enough to pull it off, and the girls happened not to detect it — though it was impossible to conceal by any means, and even a fairly ordinary wizard would sense the magic in a drink or food — well. If the stars aligned in just that particular way, the cards fell just so, and the girls consumed the potion, and the person responsible then proceeded to take advantage of that... What, precisely, would my rather inventive imagination come up with as a slow and unpleasant end for the culprit and anyone else involved?
"Good morning," I said to the witch who reluctantly lifted her gaze from someone's case file. "Could you tell me whether Healer Smethwyck is taking patients today?"
"Yes, until five o'clock."
"Thank you. Good day to you." I gave her a slight nod and headed for the stairs.
The second floor was nearly empty — only five or so wizards sat waiting on benches outside various offices. Reaching the one I wanted, I saw that the magical equivalent of an Occupied sign wasn't lit, which meant I could go in. I knocked, opened the door, and entered the office.
Nothing had changed here. Bright, practical, nothing superfluous. Some potted ficus plants in the corner had grown a little — they'd need trimming soon, or they'd press against the ceiling. Smethwyck was seated behind his desk, and the composed, professional expression on his face had quite clearly been assumed only a moment ago — precisely at the sound of my knock.
"Ah, Mr Granger," the Healer smiled. "Do come in, have a seat."
"Good morning, Healer Smethwyck." I nodded and settled into the chair across from his desk. "I haven't come without reason."
"You know," he said with a smirk, flicking his wand to summon a folder containing my medical record, "people rarely visit Healers without reason. It's a little dispiriting, if I'm honest. Even friends sometimes only remember you exist when something goes wrong. One thing I'm grateful for, Mr Granger — my friends are not young, and they remember me quite often."
"Everything in moderation," I said. "If your not-so-young friends start remembering you too often, that's not particularly good news either."
"A fair observation. Now then—" Smethwyck ran his eyes quickly over several pages in the file. "Yes. I hope you don't take it amiss, Mr Granger, that I don't have the details of your case committed to memory?"
"Not at all. I quite understand — there are a great many patients. Relying on memory where precision is essential is simply bad practice."
"Just so." A matter of perhaps ten seconds, and Smethwyck had refreshed himself on my case. "Well then, Mr Granger. Is something troubling you?"
"Apart from not yet being a Master Healer's apprentice? Nothing, I think. But a full diagnostic check is probably sensible."
"Goes without saying," Smethwyck agreed, rising from behind his desk and drawing his wand. "May I?"
"Of course."
A fairly lengthy process of spellwork followed — in the interests of accurate results, I was asked to set down my rucksack, as it was the one enchanted object that had been made partly with local magic, and that magic was about as ambient as the core of a nuclear reactor.
After nearly ten minutes and a great many diagnostic charms — the vast majority of which I didn't recognise — Smethwyck returned to his desk and began making entries in my file, narrating as he went.
"I can say that your health remains unchanged and is still excellent. There is also an obvious degree of physical development — remarkable progress, I would even say. I take it you train extensively and rigorously, augmenting yourself with magic, and eat generously?"
"That's correct."
"Hm... hm..." Smethwyck continued writing. "As for the one conditionally problematic area — your brain appears to have largely adapted to your magical potential, much as your body has. I'd be willing to wager you've tried your methodology of casting at maximum output — the full childhood-surge approach — once or twice by now."
"There was an occasion, yes."
"And?"
"Mild epistaxis. Negligible fatigue."
"Predictable," Smethwyck said. "Your brain was required to operate at your maximum capacity in that moment, and the human body is not yet quite equal to it. A sharp increase in blood flow, resulting in damage to the smaller capillaries. Nothing serious — ordinary overstrain. At your rate of adaptation, by my estimate, even that common problem will resolve itself within a couple of years."
"Good to hear."
Smethwyck finished his notes, closed my file, and sent it back to the cabinet in the corner with a flick of his wand.
"So. How are your studies?"
"Satisfactory."
"I see you've attained the rank of Apprentice Brewer. Commendable." Smethwyck gave an approving nod and leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his slightly protruding stomach. "Particularly given that your Master was Professor Snape. Which potion?"
"Felix Felicis, express method."
"Hm. I wouldn't have thought Professor Snape would permit anyone to use that method of brewing. And your other subjects?"
"The O.W.L. results aren't in yet, but I expect Outstanding in most, if not all."
"You have considerable confidence in yourself, Mr Granger. Well — I believe in your abilities. And how is the study of those rather unorthodox disciplines coming along?"
"Various branches of Dark Magic, Chimaera Studies, and the rest. Progressing well. Of the books recommended by the professors and Dumbledore, there are only one or two left. I'd be prepared to sit an assessment, if required."
"Very well. Let us proceed as follows. When were you told to expect the O.W.L. results?"
"Within a week, Healer."
"Good." Smethwyck leaned forward, hands folded on the desk. "As soon as you have them, write to me and we'll arrange a meeting. We'll hold it at the home of some good acquaintances of mine — respectable wizards, so dress accordingly."
"Formally, or simply well?"
"Formal dress won't be necessary," Smethwyck said with a smile. "There will be a secure room where we can assess your skills and knowledge across different areas."
"I hope we won't be imposing on the hosts unduly."
"We will be imposing, certainly — how could we not?" Smethwyck said with a slight laugh. "But they won't refuse me, for a number of reasons."
"That suits me perfectly. I should mention in advance that I'll be with my family from the fifteenth of July through the tenth of August."
"I understand entirely. Family is very important. Especially whilst you're at Hogwarts, Mr Granger — you don't have a great deal of time to spend with the people who matter. If all goes well, I expect I'll be able to take you on as an apprentice. We'll work something out with the schedule."
"In that case," I said, rising and swinging the rucksack onto my shoulder, "I'll write to you shortly."
"Excellent, Mr Granger. I look forward to it. All the best."
"And to you, Healer." A nod, and I left the office.
Stepping out of St. Mungo's, I drew a breath of fresh air and looked around. Curious — what exactly was Smethwyck planning? Well. I could head home now and get started on the books from the Black house. I'd write to the twins by owl — no point interrupting them when they were clearly in the thick of work on their new shop.
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