What would a decent young wizard do in the twenty-four hours before an examination of his skills that mattered to him personally? An examination by a future mentor — one where failure would put any notion of mentorship firmly off the table. The answer is obvious: a decent young wizard would spend that time productively, systematising his various areas of knowledge in his mind, and perhaps on paper — and, more importantly, his areas of ignorance as well.
What did I do? Oh, something else entirely.
The moment I received replies from various wizards, I revised my plans for working through the remaining books from the Black house, leaving that task to Hermione — who was enthusiastic about the books' existence but dissatisfied with their contents. I'd need to drop a few more facts on her later, specifically concerning the use of Dark Arts and, more precisely, the protection of one's own mind. As for myself, I set off to storm the Ministry.
Not literally, of course. It was simply becoming time to think more seriously about acquiring my own living quarters — not merely to theorise and speculate, but to act.
Getting into the Ministry is no small feat when you have neither your own fireplace connected to the network nor anything of the sort. There are, it's true, Ministry entrances used by employees and visitors — but here's the amusing part: nobody mentions them. Anywhere. As though it were one of those things wizards are simply expected to be born knowing. Still, I had a rough idea of where to look for at least one of the passages — somewhere along Whitehall Street there was a red telephone box, solitary and out of place, concealed from ordinary people by magic. Which, incidentally, raised an interesting question: why construct an object from the Muggle world — one even connected to the telephone network, which virtually no wizard actually uses — if an ordinary person cannot even see it?
Dressing appropriately, using my miracle-fabric to fashion a classic blue three-piece suit, I tucked my robes into my rucksack, concealed myself from Muggles, walked about two hundred metres from the house through the residential streets of identical private homes, and Apparated to London — directly to the beginning of Whitehall Street, right by Trafalgar Square.
The weather was a touch overcast, though that would surprise no one in London. I looked around and set off down the relevant street, neatly sidestepping collisions with the varied stream of pedestrians. I walked and studied the rather old buildings — large things, monuments to architecture of a sort, if not exactly ancient.
My senses suggested there was magic on this street, particularly around the Department for International Trade. And besides that, wizards kept surfacing here and there among the ordinary people — though identifying them was absolutely impossible. Which ought to silence anyone who claims wizards cannot dress like Muggles. They can manage perfectly well.
I wondered whether I looked suspicious, circling round and round. My rucksack was kept in a strictly businesslike style and did nothing to undermine the image of a man in a formal suit, but still… And most importantly — there was not a single telephone box in sight.
"Young man…"
A male voice sounded beside me. I turned.
A perfectly presentable wizard, around forty. His black three-piece suit was slightly old-fashioned, but in a way that read as stylish rather than dated. His gestures, bearing, face, and the expression on that face — all of it spoke of noble origins, in the conventional sense of that impression. Quite ordinary chestnut hair.
I immediately catalogued every nuance of his appearance, so that I would not confuse him with anyone else if the need arose — I dislike it when unknown wizards make contact of their own accord, for whatever reason. I also ruled out the Auror Office or the Department of Magical Law Enforcement: he was far too formidable for that sort of work. Perhaps as a hobby, at most.
"Can I help you, sir?" I asked politely, reflexively mirroring the subtleties of his mannerisms.
"I might point out that it's not I who has been wandering these streets searching for something or other."
We stood directly opposite the entrance to the old Admiralty building, conversing calmly while Muggles passed within half a metre of us — and that was not my magic doing it.
"Owing to certain practical necessities, I need to visit the Ministry of Magic to get answers to a couple of questions. Only a rather different question of immediate priority has presented itself first, and it would be useful to resolve it."
"Allow me to guess, my curious friend — you need the Ministry entrance located somewhere along these streets?"
"You're quite perceptive, sir."
"It isn't very difficult," the stranger said, smiling faintly — and I found myself wondering which of us was actually copying whose gestures and expressions. "Not every Muggle-born wizard knows where that entrance is. Yet almost every one of them runs into this problem sooner or later."
"You demonstrate a remarkable familiarity with my background."
"The reverse side of notoriety, Mr Granger. Your name and photographs have appeared in the local press, and what's more, you've managed to acquire both supporters among wizards and enviers who are barely half a step away from becoming enemies."
"There I'm powerless," I said, spreading my hands slightly with the same faint smile.
"Since I'm also heading to the Ministry — to visit an old friend — I can walk you to the right place."
"You'd save me a certain amount of time by rendering such a service. I believe I'm already close to working it out," I said, glancing once more at the Department for International Trade building across the road. "It's somewhere over there."
"You're right."
We stepped onto the pedestrian crossing and, like law-abiding citizens — invisible ones, admittedly — waited for the green light before crossing.
"You, sir," I said as we walked along the not particularly wide street beside the Department building, "know me and my name, yet I don't know yours."
"A fair observation."
And not another word. A flicker of mild irritation crossed the edge of my mind — this wizard's manner of conversation rather reminded me of my own.
"What surprises me," the stranger continued, "is your candour in speaking openly about magic, the Ministry, and so on. I might have turned out to be no wizard at all. A Squib, unfamiliar with the wizarding world but able to see you through the charms. Or even some gifted but ordinary person."
"You're a wizard, and no minor one."
"You couldn't have known that with certainty, Mr Granger."
"A fair observation."
Walking almost to the end of the building, we stopped beside a large red telephone box standing directly beneath a security camera at one of the building's entrances.
"Well…" That was all I could say.
The magic coming off the box was more than perceptible — I was certain that numerous different spells had been applied to it.
"Does something trouble you?" The stranger opened the door to the box, which turned out to have considerably more room inside than expected — it could fit five people without much inconvenience.
We stepped in. The stranger lifted the receiver, dropped in a coin, and began dialling. A woman's voice answered immediately from the receiver — somewhat mechanical in tone. Simple questions: who, where, and what for.
"Would you prefer to give your own name?" the stranger glanced at me.
"It makes no difference."
"Hector Granger and John Doe, Ministry of Magic, on very important business."
A moment later, two badges clattered into the coin return slot. The stranger handed one to me. I was quite certain his name was false; the probability of it being genuine approached zero. And his ring was slightly odd. I couldn't quite put my finger on why. Perhaps simply because the stone in the setting seemed out of place? It clearly hadn't been made for that ring. Though who was I to judge another's taste in such things?
The interior of the box proved to be a lift. A very slow lift, moving downward.
"John Doe, then?"
"Is something wrong with my name?" the wizard asked, with an almost genuine air of surprise.
"If it's real, your life must be rather difficult. Those particular first and last names are the standard designation for an unidentified male corpse."
"Everyone becomes an unidentified corpse sooner or later. And in time, not even the bones remain."
A long lift ride.
"And yet — what made you help me find the entrance?"
"Is it really so strange for one wizard to want to help another?"
"A great deal concerning wizards and magic is strange in its own right. But more to the point — no one does anything without a reason."
"Do you consider wizards and the wizarding world to be strange, Mr Granger?" Some barely perceptible shift in tone entered the stranger's voice — but even the elf-shard couldn't help me interpret it correctly, and even detecting it at all had taken effort. My compliments.
"Not strange. Illogical."
"Logic, Mr Granger, is the science of correct reasoning. You think like a Muggle-born, no doubt. Eleven years of growing up in the ordinary world inevitably shapes one's perception of that world, of things, events, and phenomena. Take Quidditch, for instance — in which you are, incidentally, rather successful."
One sensed that one of this wizard's preferred pursuits was conversation aimed at persuasion, at proving his own correctness.
"It has been observed by others besides myself that Muggle-borns have a deeply ambivalent relationship with Quidditch. On the one hand, it is unquestionably a spectacular sport, at the professional level at least. On the other, Muggle-borns tend to consider it extremely dangerous, and the risk of injury unacceptable. But where do such views come from?"
"Obviously, sir, from the experience of those eleven years," I said with a nod. "Magical medicine can heal any physical injury, provided the person hasn't had time to die. Within twenty-four hours."
"Precisely," said the stranger, as the lift reached the Atrium of the Ministry and descended slowly to the floor. "The smallest injuries are serious matters for ordinary people. At best — weeks of treatment. Months or years of rehabilitation, or in some cases no recovery at all, permanent disability. Muggles see these difficulties from childhood; parents guard their children from the slightest injury from an early age and insist strenuously on following all manner of rules, on understanding cause and consequence. Children of wizards, by contrast, see how easily everything is healed, how minor curses are lifted without trouble — they see things that flatly contradict Muggle logic, yet are absolute normality for a wizard."
The lift reached the Atrium floor and the doors opened. We stepped out into the varied current of wizards — some appearing from fireplaces and hurrying about their business, others departing by Floo, still others drifting slowly along in discussion. Here, as on Diagon Alley, there was none of the life I remembered from my previous visit, none of the variety of emotions on people's faces. Everyone looked worried to some degree. Even those who stood a little apart in a circle of colleagues and companions, laughing at some joke, were hiding behind masks of cheerfulness, trying to dispel the tension in the air.
We moved toward the centre of the Atrium, toward the fountains, and from there would continue a short way further to the lift hall — there was really nowhere else to go.
"Quidditch is simply the clearest and most obvious example," the stranger finished his thought. "But not the only one. And such small things accumulate in great number, amounting to a fundamental incomprehension of the world around you."
"You speak as though you have personal experience of dismantling your own scale of values and rebuilding it to a new pattern."
"Perhaps I myself lived in the ordinary world? Perhaps I'm even Muggle-born — do you not allow for that possibility?"
"The probability exists, but it's small. If you are Muggle-born, you have clearly adopted a wizard's worldview and values at this stage, and judging by your manners, movement, gestures, words, and intonations, you are a person of no small standing among wizards. Given that such subtleties are common only among pureblood families who consider themselves the analogue of the aristocracy among ordinary people — you have clearly travelled a long and difficult road. I am well acquainted with the attitude certain old families hold toward Muggle-borns and half-bloods. Incidentally, sir…"
We had reached the great hall with the fountains and were making our way toward the lift hall, as I had anticipated.
"…Why did you decide to speak with me about such things at all?"
The stranger answered without hesitation or pause, as though he had known the answer in advance:
"Years of long travel have left their mark. Having returned to my homeland, I would like to undertake something of consequence. But for that, one needs to know what is happening in society — and, far more importantly, to understand that society itself."
"Wouldn't more informed wizards serve that purpose better? Various public figures, politicians, people of influence. Or at least merchants — who are professionally obligated to know everything about everything in order to forecast and so on."
"Their opinions are, for the most part, already known to me almost word for word. But for clarity, one ought to hear the views of the younger generation — since it is you, with your worldview, who will soon be taking the place of your elders."
We reached the lift hall and stepped into one of the carriages — an empty one. We pressed different floor buttons and waited for the doors to close. Through the entire depth of the Atrium, the movement of vast numbers of wizards was clearly visible, the rumble of thousands of footsteps, the noise of hundreds of voices.
"Here is a question for you to consider, Mr Granger. How did an institution whose sole purpose at its founding was to oversee compliance with the Statute of Secrecy become a refuge for hundreds of talentless scions of pureblood families from across the country?"
"Truly so talentless?"
"For the most part. Believe my experience — no one with any talent whatsoever works in this bureaucratic nightmare for a pittance. Yes, the pay is better than that of some errand boy for a middling shopkeeper. But is it fitting for wizards whose pedigrees wouldn't even fit on a standard length of parchment to push papers until they're in their graves? Where is the magic in that?"
"On the other hand, one can take pride in one's lineage, in one's ancestors' achievements, and rest comfortably on the laurels of their success — without investing a drop of effort into one's own development. For why develop oneself, why prove anything to anyone, when one's ancestors have already proved everything to everyone?"
The stranger caught the note of irony in my voice without difficulty and gave the faintest smile. The lift doors closed and the carriage set off on its journey through the floors of the Ministry's underground. The stranger's floor came first.
"This was an interesting conversation, Mr Granger."
"I'd say so. Good day."
"And to you."
I found myself wondering: who was he? I had seen truly powerful wizards — well, one. Dumbledore. And that was speaking purely of raw power, not skill.
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