Arriving at my floor, which housed the magical equivalent of a land registry, I stepped out of the lift and found myself in corridors that were not particularly busy, their walls finished in dark wood panelling and near-black stone. Well then. Let's begin.
Extracting the information I needed turned into a sprint across offices, departments, and the like. After an hour of that, I lost patience, and began supplementing my requests with hard coin. I established by trial and error the ideal bribe — the precise sum that would cause the employee of any given office or department to stop batting me away with demands for some form or other and simply do their job. How much? One Galleon. Not too much, not too little. Not a bribe, so much as a polite encouragement, one might say. Insufferable bureaucrats.
After spending seven Galleons in total, I came away with a list of various plots of land available for private purchase as residential property. Purchase outright, not lease from the Crown. There were not very many such plots, and they were clustered around several wizarding villages or mixed settlements. And they were inexpensive.
The reason, as I gathered from the remarks of various employees and from my own conclusions drawn in conversations with Hogwarts students, was that such plots were not particularly popular. More precisely: they attracted virtually no demand at all. To build a house, you either needed a substantial body of knowledge and magical power, or money to commission a build — and no small amount of money at that. Those with such money already had homes and needed no new ones; and there was no actual property market as such in magical Britain. Those with the knowledge and power generally had money and housing as well — same situation. Those who could stretch to buying a plot "on their last Galleon" generally had neither the knowledge nor the power nor a roof over their heads — otherwise they wouldn't be in such a dire state to begin with.
The result was that residential land was simply a dead asset. The large plots had been acquired by the Ministry from the Crown at no cost whatsoever, in the distant era of the Statute of Secrecy's establishment, and not even two-thirds of them had been taken up since. A different matter entirely were plots for production use — but those came with entirely different criteria and requirements that the Ministry set before approving any such development. And converting residential plots to production use was prohibited.
Another reason for the illiquidity of such land was wizards' fondness for existence isolated from all others. So I had plenty to choose from — though the choosing itself could wait for later.
I ended up returning home only towards evening, barely an hour before my parents came back.
By that time, Hermione had worked through her half of the books from Grimmauld Place — but could not cheer me with any information about Fiendfyre. I decided to offer a brief educational session while we waited for our parents, and spoke about the dangers of using Dark Magic. I told her how magic becomes distorted under the influence of emotions, how it in turn affects an unguarded wizard's mind, how one can "develop a dependency," and so on. I also touched on the damaging effects of the energies generated through torture and other such dark business. She received my words with a degree of scepticism — I was hardly the most authoritative source on the subject — but took note of them, which was commendable. She did assure me, however, that there was no need to frighten her, since she had no intention of using any of it.
"That's not the point. Under emotional strain you might just let something loose without thinking, and the effect on your mind will still be there. A crack here, a crack there, no mental shielding here, none there — and you end up with mild madness."
"Do you think that's the reason wizards are, in general, somewhat… unhinged?"
"The reason could be absolutely anything. But one's mind needs protecting. And books won't help you there — you need to work with a practising wizard. Professor Snape, incidentally, has skills in both attack and defence where mental interactions are concerned. But asking him is out of the question — he'll refuse, no two ways about it. And you'll learn quite a lot about yourself in the process."
"That's certainly true," said my little sister with a grin. "He's capable of that, all right. But what to do?"
"In principle, I could study Legilimency, and then I could teach you to protect your mind from external influence — simply by attacking it. But… it could be very difficult. It requires a strong capacity for self-control to begin with, and that isn't your strongest point."
"And why ever not?"
"You spark at the slightest friction. Gryffindor. Just look at Snape's attempts to teach Potter. It was torture for both of them, and the results… Well, there are rather more no results than results."
She didn't argue, just shrugged. As if to say: what other outcome could anyone have expected from a Snape-Potter collaboration? Clearly none.
In the evening, after our parents had returned, dinner had been cooked, eaten, and conversation exhausted, I treated myself to reading more books from the Black library and went to sleep with a clear conscience.
Morning. The morning of the new day, the morning before the meeting with Healer Smethwyck and departure to visit his friends — whoever they turned out to be — for an assessment of my abilities and knowledge. Naturally, it would not be my healing skills or anything of that sort being tested, since in theory I wasn't supposed to have any — it would be, I imagined, an assessment of me as a wizard in general. Smethwyck would almost certainly ask me to show my best, and here I needed to think carefully about where to draw my own limits. Limits would be necessary — because there is a difference between talent that inspires admiration and talent that inspires fear.
Deciding to play it by ear, I dressed as I had the day before, though this time I put my robes on properly rather than stuffing them in my rucksack. Thus attired, I left the house twenty minutes before noon and set off for Diagon Alley, and from there to St Mungo's.
Healer Smethwyck was waiting for me in the hospital lobby. There were not many patients, but the looks on a few of them made it clear they were sitting there in bafflement, wondering why a Healer was standing in the lobby waiting for something when they were all here in their ill and suffering state, waiting for help. Though, logic suggested, they were suffering largely through their own carelessness.
"Healer Smethwyck," I said with a respectful nod, but nothing approaching servility. "Good morning."
"Ah, Mr Granger, right on time," he smiled warmly. "I trust you're ready for a rigorous ordeal."
"Life is one long rigorous ordeal in general."
"Oh, what fatalism, really," the Healer chuckled. "It is not without its pleasures — and with the right outlook, quite wonderful."
"You would know better, from the height of your life's experience."
"I won't deny it," he said, glancing quickly at the potioneer's apprentice badge on my collar. "I see you haven't hesitated to adorn yourself with your credentials — modest in number though they may be at present?"
"Naturally, given that we're going to your friends' home. I thought it not the worst idea to show some confirmation of talent — something beyond mere words."
"A very sound decision. Well then, are you ready to depart?"
"Yes, sir."
"In that case, come with me."
We walked through the lobby and down a corridor, our destination proving to be one of the furthest rooms — a spacious hall whose floor bore several rows of large circles, each approximately three metres in diameter.
"The Apparition Hall," Smethwyck explained, catching my look of interest.
"I hadn't heard of such things."
"A very particular place, with no less particular enchantments. They focus the incoming spatial distortions from Apparition onto whichever circles are free, while absorbing the excess magic. You've surely noticed, Mr Granger, that wizards frequently use considerably more magic than is actually required for a given spell?"
"I've made that observation."
"Apparition is among the more costly magical operations. The excess is proportionally significant. It is precisely because of this excess that Apparition can sometimes go somewhat wrong. In certain cases, for instance, a patient cannot be transported by Apparition due to the force of the landing. This hall neutralises that effect. And in general, Apparating from here is simply easier."
"At Hogwarts — prohibiting enchantments. Here — facilitating ones. The more one learns about the world, the more questions one has. For instance — where does the excess magic go?"
We stepped into a free circle, which changed colour beneath us. The logical conclusion being that the hall's enchantments used such changes to determine which circles were occupied and therefore not to be targeted by incoming Apparition.
"It's used by the hospital for its various needs."
"It accumulates?"
"Oh, ho-ho," my question drew a strange laugh from the Healer. "If only. No, unfortunately, we have difficulties with magical accumulation. As does everyone. It disperses immediately, raising the ambient magical level in whichever wards or departments require it. But enough of wasting space — all the platforms might be needed at any moment. Take my arm."
"I know how to Apparate."
"Do you? That is quite wonderful in its illegality," Smethwyck smiled. "Nevertheless, in our Side-Along, I am the one leading, and I know the destination."
I took the Healer by the forearm, and he immediately began to Apparate. I had to assist — Side-Along Apparition is not as simple as it looks. Not for ordinary wizards, that is — not for those unburdened by the acute sensitivity that allows one to sense precisely where something needs adjusting in the transfer, where to add a touch more magic, and in general to support the person leading the Side-Along.
The spatial anomaly deposited us quite literally on the doorstep of a house. Double doors, stone walls… I felt I had seen this place before. But Smethwyck gave me no time for reflection, simply opening the door as though walking into his own home.
"I'm here! Where are the fanfares?!" Smethwyck announced this with considerable volume.
His words bounced in quick echoes around a large entrance hall in pale tones. Spare but handsome and clearly expensive finishings, corridors leading to the right and left wings of the house, a staircase to the upper floor — a fairly typical arrangement for large houses of this floor plan. One might call it a manor.
"Hippocrates," came a familiar female voice from the left, while I was carefully taking in the right side of the hall. "Honestly, you might have specified a time in your letter. We could have had the table laid earlier, for your arrival with your student. And we do have guests…"
"Sophi, really, what on earth…"
Smethwyck began responding to the rebuke, and I turned to look at the lady who had come to greet us — in a deceptively simple long dress and robes cut in the French manner.
"Mrs Greengrass," I said with a slight smile. "A pleasure to see you in good health."
"Mr Granger…" A moment's confusion crossed the brunette's face — but she composed herself instantly, returning the smile. "Quite unexpected, I must say. Hippocrates…"
"Yes, dearest Sophi?" Smethwyck was clearly delighted — though at what, exactly?
"I imagine you'll be joining us and our other guests for lunch? I shall have the house-elves make the arrangements somewhat earlier, in that case."
"Don't even doubt it," said Smethwyck.
"I didn't. Follow me."
It seemed a rather entertaining day lay ahead. Or at least an entertaining lunch.
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