At one such session, during a break, resting in something like a doctors' lounge, Smethwyck and I got to talking over a cup of strong coffee on the subject of: "Why exactly do Master Healers at Mungo's work for a pittance?"
"Ah, well, Mr Granger, that's an obligation from the guild," Smethwyck explained, settled comfortably into an armchair, savouring the aroma of the drink in his cup.
"Even so?"
"Even so," he nodded. "You needn't worry about it just yet, since you're not even an apprentice. Mind you, even once you become an apprentice, you're not obliged to register with the guild. I expect you've already worked that out yourself, seeing as you're already a Potions apprentice, and no obligations have come raining down on you 'out of nowhere.'"
"True enough," I mused for a moment, taking a small sip of coffee. "No obligations, but some opportunities have opened up, modest as they are."
"Yes. A master-mentor grants the rank of apprentice at his own discretion. He may notify the guild, or he may not. Guilds have no interest whatsoever in apprentices as such. Guilds operate and settle 'matters' starting from the rank of master. Burdening apprentices with taxes, dues, assignments, and the like would be entirely pointless. Apprentices' incomes are low, their skills and knowledge severely limited, they can't carry out assignments — and it's precisely those assignments and postings that form the significant benefit of guild membership, the one the dues and fees are collected for."
"Hm… So what's the point of joining a guild at apprentice level, then?"
"Another benefit — access to knowledge and teachers, should one take an interest. That's relevant for those who can't find a mentor on their own. But once an apprentice is training toward mastery through the guild, obligations do arise. For instance, like masters, they become obliged to work a minimum of two months a year at a local institution in their field."
"Hm, I see. So you," I glanced at Smethwyck, who, sparing himself nothing, took a great swallow of hot, robust coffee, "don't work at Mungo's entirely of your own free will."
"Yes and no. One can't chase after every last coin, and I've enough as it is, and working here keeps you in practice, lets you help people, as a Healer should. And it maintains one's reputation besides. Such an obligation, whether for apprentices training toward mastery or for masters themselves, proves a good support, even if not a profitable one. First you work for your name, then your name works for you."
"And if an apprentice doesn't want to, or can't, continue their training?"
"He'll owe exactly what's written into the training contract with his master. The only thing one can count on from the guild is help finding employment and, if needed, relocating. For that assistance, the guild will withhold one to three percent of one's salary over the course of a year or two, no more and no longer."
"A rather… pointless benefit," I shook my head. "It's so easy — earning a bit of money for a move, finding whatever connections one needs, settling oneself somewhere, even in another country, finding work…"
"Heh-heh-heh," Smethwyck let out a somewhat sly laugh, which set even his small but noticeable paunch swaying beneath his robes. "Easy for you to judge from up on your perch. In my memory, you're the only Muggle-born who's achieved such enormous success at your age. What's more…"
Smethwyck took a sip of coffee — his second-to-last, by the look of it.
"…no one's even come close to you. Even among the pure-bloods, there's no wizard of comparable success, whether in terms of earnings or in the absorption of knowledge and its subsequent application. Connections? You've stood out there too. Perhaps it's simply natural for you, but… I daresay I know of only two wizards whose success at sixteen or seventeen came closest to matching yours."
"And who might that be, if it's not a secret?"
"What do you think yourself, Hector?" Smethwyck waited for my guesses, a smirk on his face.
"Dumbledore and the Dark Lord?"
"Yes, if we're speaking of England and the Isles, and that's precisely what we're speaking of. There are surely a couple of others in the wider world who've left their mark on modern history. There's certainly someone in China and Japan too, but their magical states are far too closed off and idiosyncratic, and the most we can ever bring back from there isn't even rumours or stories — at best, certain kinds of finished goods."
It was over this very conversation, on a Saturday evening during "night" training, that I learned several relatively important things. Once I became a Master Healer, I'd be obliged to work at Mungo's or another hospital in my place of residence. Yes, obliged — even if not to the extent it might have been. Second — I was a rarity in terms of the productivity of my work and my number of achievements. No, even without this revelation from Smethwyck I'd known of my own uniqueness, since it was precisely because of it that I'd achieved what I now had and planned to achieve in the future. But still, the master's opinion on the matter only confirmed that my sense of my own uniqueness wasn't some delusion or arrogance on my part.
Yet the Saturday, set against the rest, proved significant not only because of the conversation with Smethwyck, but chiefly because of certain events at Hogwarts that I learned of at once, thanks to the spiders. I wasn't worried, only because nothing serious had happened — yet from a social standpoint, it marked a shift. For the worse, of course — in times like ours, shifts never go any other way.
Returning to Hogwarts through the hospital wing's fireplace and greeting Madam Pomfrey, I made straight for a couple of recently admitted third-year patients.
"Well then, gentlemen," I addressed the two lads at once, who bore injuries mild even by Muggle standards. "Tell me what happened."
Given the boys were from Gryffindor, they merely scowled and refused to say anything, at least at first. Well, and they were Muggle-born too, clearly not from a wealthy family, raised by the street rather than by English society's traditions. What did that mean? Simply this:
"Nothing," one of them answered gruffly, and I turned my gaze to the second.
"Yeah, nothing serious," he nodded. "Fell down the stairs."
"Is that so?" I smirked, clasping my hands behind my back. "Practising synchronised falls from height, are we? Commendable. And did a couple of pure-blood upperclassmen from Ravenclaw happen to help you along, by any chance?"
"No!" the injured boys answered too sharply, and too much in unison, then winced slightly, realising their mistake.
"And what exact arguments did these upperclassmen employ? Wasn't it, perhaps, your parentage?"
The subject of their parentage clearly didn't sit well with them, but it seemed my reputation as a wizard and prefect travelled ahead of me, and even the younger years, not just from my own house, held at least a measure of respect for my work, my achievements, my abilities. Hm, I seemed to be fixating on achievements and abilities rather often these days.
"And what's it to you?" one of the boys bristled, then winced slightly at the flare of pain from his injuries. "Or do you hate Muggle-borns too?"
"What's wrong with you?!" his companion hissed at him, quietly but urgently. "That's the Hufflepuff prefect, he's Muggle-born too."
"So what?" the lad shot back defiantly. "One thing doesn't rule out the other, believe me."
"You can settle your moral dilemmas some other time. As prefect, I have a vested interest in maintaining order within Hogwarts, which means I need to know the instigators of conflicts by sight. Fights and duels aren't news in themselves, but motive is another matter entirely. Either way, I already know the names of those involved, and I'll take measures."
"Then they'll think we said too much," one of the injured boys shook his head.
"They won't think that, there'll be no grounds for it. Though there are idiots who need no grounds at all to think ill of someone. In any case, I'm interested in your take on what happened."
In the end, the lads grew tired of staying silent, even though they were under no obligation whatsoever to answer me. The situation was thoroughly simple and banal, given the current state of affairs in the English magical world.
A trio of pure-blood toughs from Ravenclaw had, it seemed to me, simply grown tired of playing third fiddle in the story called "Hogwarts: the Roaring Nineties," and had decided to boldly barge their way into events the moment an opportunity presented itself. And that opportunity was of a simple, easily understood nature — the mounting information campaign against Muggle-borns, meant to strike at the Ministry and the pure-blood fanatics. Clearly eager to stand out and earn the approval of Hogwarts' "wannabe Death Eaters," this trio had decided to teach a couple of small Muggle-borns a lesson.
The very fact that the Muggle-borns were from Gryffindor House had served as sufficient cause — it was the lions, after all, that the main forces of the school's "almost-Death-Eaters" held their chief hostility toward. And a good deal of my own conclusions, the trio had actually voiced in front of their victims. Were they really from Ravenclaw? Or is it even true that Ravenclaw is where the clever ones study?
Having got the answers I wanted, I left the hospital wing and made my way through Hogwarts' dark night corridors to set a trap for crows right in front of the entrance to the Great Hall. A simple enough task, given knowledge of runes, charms, and transfiguration. Along with the knowledge of how to combine these disciplines, naturally — otherwise, nothing but a damp squib, possibly even with unfortunate consequences for the caster.
Distributing my spiders through the corridors leading to the Great Hall, I set about devising the traps, creating them on the spot. Simple transfiguration allows one to produce a basic shape — a hollow metal sphere, say, divided into six segments like an orange, would suit my purposes nicely. That same transfiguration lets one carve runes onto the object, which then need only be charged with magic to function — and that charging I'd manage with charms.
Two minutes, and three spheres were ready; they floated up beneath the ceiling above the entrance and turned invisible. Their task was simple — monitor the space beneath them, and the moment the trio passed through, the traps would trigger. Each one, naturally, calibrated to its own particular victim. The effect? Strips them bare, binds them in a rather extravagant fashion, conjures up insulting inscriptions, and suspends them beneath the ceiling above the entrance to the Hall. And that would be that. More radical methods of pacifying the alternatively gifted I'd develop should the situation worsen.
Having finished with my bit of subversive work and erased every trace of the magic performed there, I made my way back to my house common room with a clear conscience, meaning to put in some quiet work on a couple of projects. Yet complicated thoughts refused to leave my head. What had happened was merely the first warning bell before a gathering storm.
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