The morning of the fifth of July. A beautiful, overcast English morning, with something unpleasant lurking in its light mist. Were there Dementors nearby? To check, even my phoenix-self, under charms of comprehensive invisibility, inaudibility, and all manner of concealment, set off on a flight over Crawley — but during my physical training in the back garden, the phoenix-self found nothing suspicious whatsoever. Which, honestly, only made things worse.
It's just that this whole mess with the Dark Lord and his utterly unacceptable plans to terrorise civilians is becoming too… tense. Yes, precisely that. The potential threat hanging over my family gives me no peace. Every creature whose memory shards exist within my soul shares, in one form or another, some degree of care for those close to them. And so, while something like a stray brick falling on someone's head is simply an inevitable accident with no malicious intent behind it, a threat like this one — one that my parents are fundamentally incapable of countering on their own — a threat from people with abilities beyond the ordinary — stirs a dull, grinding irritation in me.
And the main problem is that I can't think of any protective measures that wouldn't significantly restrict my parents' freedom — and this, given that they aren't wizards, turns out to be a very important factor. As our evening experiment demonstrated quite clearly.
The phoenix-self returned to the room, and I went for a shower — standard procedure, after which I headed downstairs to the dining room, where Mum had already prepared and laid out breakfast, and Dad and Hermione were already seated at the table in anticipation of a decent meal.
"Morning," I said, raising a hand and settling briskly into my seat. "I see no traces of gloom or other negative emotions on anyone's faces, which means you came to some sort of decision last night."
"Morning," Dad nodded. "You could say that."
Mum had just finished the last touches of setting the table and sat down with us.
"Let's have breakfast first, and then we can talk it all through," she said with a smile, glancing around at each of us. "If there's even anything left to discuss."
Breakfast passed quickly — a touch rushed, even. My parents were in a hurry to deal with the remnants of matters they'd apparently been sorting out for God knows how long, or perhaps new ones had emerged in light of yesterday's revelations. They don't fill us in on the details. The one thing I understood clearly was that they were leaning towards leaving the country for the duration of the conflict. They had grasped that no matter how determined, brave, or well-connected they might be — no matter whether they could get hold of weapons — none of it was any use against even a moderately cautious wizard. An ordinary person can't even shoot where they're told to if there's a wizard standing there under a couple of not particularly complex charms.
An explosive charge is a fine solution. But you can't mine everything around you, and there's a decent chance of sending yourself off early on the express to the afterlife. A memory surfaced from a past life… In one suburban dacha settlement, thieves had been operating for some time, stealing valuables, useful things, anything sellable from the houses while their owners were in the city or during the off-season. One fellow was particularly put out when his crockery, spoons, and forks were nicked, and simply rigged a booby trap… or laid a mine, I can't quite recall. The point is that before long, the thieves were blown sky high. Along with a good chunk of the house.
The booby-trap or mining approach isn't half bad, actually, when it comes to defending a specific area. Only there are an enormous number of complications — so many that I don't see the point in listing them.
With these thoughts turning in my mind, I sat in the armchair in the sitting room, thinking things through, spinning between my fingers a sphere I'd conjured out of boredom the previous night — a copy of the one I'd given Daphne, for three-dimensional modelling. Sat there, thought, while the television ran in the background, filling the silence. It looked like rain was gathering outside — and the mist had only just cleared.
A thoughtful Hermione came into the sitting room at her usual brisk pace and settled onto the sofa beside me, laying one of the Black family books across her knees. Glancing at her for a moment, I noticed she had, after all, put on the ring-permit for casting magic in the house.
"Tell me," she said, looking up at me. "How long has the house had that protection? Against magic, I mean."
"Quite a while."
"And all this time I couldn't cast here?"
"You never even tried."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, rules," I said, giving a light shrug and an easy smile. "You, Miona, breaking important rules like that? Ending up on some sort of undesirables list, or even expelled from Hogwarts? Something rather out of the ordinary would have to happen first."
"You think my mind has completely gone from all the rules and everything?" Hermione flared up with righteous indignation. About five percent of her presumed maximum, but noticeable nonetheless.
"Just a little. Rather a McGonagall about it, you are."
"Professor McGonagall. And acting Headmistress these days, at that. And she's perfectly capable of compromise in an emergency."
"As are you. But that's not what you wanted to talk about, is it?"
"The protection. What if I'd wanted to cast something and it hadn't worked? Can you imagine what I might have started thinking?"
"And you'd have promptly received some sort of underage magic warning. The whole system is bent, honestly — crooked as a drunk's face in the morning. I'm fairly certain I even saw records in the Hogwarts library about cases where a student received a warning simply because someone nearby had cast a spell."
"And how do you cast without getting warnings?" Hermione looked at me with a certain suspicion, eyes narrowed. "And you do cast, I'm sure of it."
"Would you like to hear a few of my thoughts on magic?"
"If there's something to them — why not. Though I'd also like to know where you read whatever it is that leads you to these ideas."
"Observation, experiment, experience. That's as regards magical theory in general. As for specific spells and the mechanics of casting — at Hogwarts, where else? But since you're interested, listen…"
. . . . .
I made myself comfortable in the armchair, and Hermione even set the book aside on the table next to the sofa. The television murmured at a low volume, producing a pleasant and comfortable background hum. The rain outside was steadily picking up, beginning to drum its complex rhythm against the window glass.
"As far as I'm aware, around districts where Muggle-born witches and wizards are registered, a fairly simple surveillance network for magic is deployed — one calibrated to that specific witch or wizard. Exactly how it's done, I haven't the faintest — you'd need to ask someone at the Ministry — though I do have a few ideas. That part's less important. How does the network operate? Your thoughts."
"Well… Not through the wand, certainly," Hermione said, nodding to herself. "If the wand played a part, there'd be quite a number of different complications. At least in theory."
I was more or less inclined to agree. I hadn't noticed anything of that nature in wands myself. Just a fairly complex, yet simultaneously simple, magical instrument. Mine in particular doesn't work especially well with distorted, dark magic — it makes me focus just a little harder on control. As Ollivander had suggested, the unicorn hair simply has no desire to cooperate normally with that sort of energy. Well, the hair may lack the properties needed to ease or even assist working with that kind of energy, but I don't need the assistance.
"It's possible the wand isn't involved," I agreed. "At least I can't say anything confidently either for or against. The point lies elsewhere. This whole network spread over a district reacts to magic the way a spiderweb reacts to a fly. Not to spellcasting, I should note — to magic."
"Be more specific. No vagueness."
"When a wizard casts a spell, they use magic. But does a wizard use exactly as much magic as the spell requires?"
"You're suggesting there are magical excess outputs during casting? And that the surveillance system reacts to those?"
"Everything points that way, at least. And the experimental results suggest something similar."
"But since your casting isn't being detected, that means you use precisely as much magic as needed — is that right?"
"So it would seem."
"So everyone else overdoes it, and you're the special one — just right every time? I don't believe it."
"Fair enough," I said with an indifferent shrug.
Hermione looked at me with surprise.
"You're not even going to try to prove it?"
"If you don't believe me, don't."
An awkward silence settled over the conversation, and the murmur of the television and the steady tap of rain only deepened the impression. Then, within the sound of the rain, a different sound emerged — something hard knocking against the glass. Glancing at the window, I saw an entirely unremarkable owl. A perfectly ordinary owl, the sort you see everywhere.
Getting up from the armchair felt like too much effort, so I simply raised a hand slightly, opening the window with magic and letting the owl in. The bird immediately took advantage of the dry shelter, swooped through the opening, and with a single beat of its wings glided onto my leg, promptly extending its foot with the letter.
Taking the letter and summoning to myself, with a flick of magic, the owl treat dish from the small plate in the sitting room — the universal magical snack for omnivorous magical owls, who leave behind decidedly non-magical pellets — I set about reading.
"And you always use wandless magic that casually?"
"Of course," I replied, not looking up from the letter. "Surely I've shown you before?"
"No."
"Ah well," I shrugged again, having by then finished reading the rather short letter.
The owl finished the treat from my fingers and made for the now-closed window. I had to open a corridor for the feathered postman, and the bird flew off, once again at the mercy of the foul weather.
"Anything important? If it's not a secret," Hermione asked, picking the book back up from the table.
"You could say that. I need to go out on some business. Don't be bored, keep your eyes open, and pick up if I call."
"You'll be ringing?" she smirked. "From where, I wonder?"
"If I need to, I'll find a way. What sort of a question is that, honestly."
It was Amber who'd written — or rather, her assistant. Terse, precise, businesslike, naming a time of noon. No questions, no alternatives, no discussion. Then again, it wasn't they who had requested the meeting and a conversation about magic, so I couldn't care less about that sort of approach.
Having dressed in a manner befitting a young, respectable wizard, I concealed myself from ordinary people with magic and left the house, having first said goodbye to Hermione and reminded her that in case of anything, I could be reached very quickly through the phoenix.
Standing on the front step and looking at the wet — at everything being wet, really — at the dark sky under what were genuinely thick clouds, and at the drops of rain, I conjured a rain-repelling charm as well. A diverting bit of magic, producing a perfectly predictable but rather impressive effect: the raindrops shatter against the invisible barrier. The barrier sits close to the body, but it's clearly visible even in moderate rain. It also works on fog, creating around a person a kind of aura of clear air.
Now, shielded from the wet, I set off along the road in no particular direction, and having covered a hundred metres or two, Apparated to the back yard of the Leaky Cauldron. Then, following the scheme I'd rehearsed more than once, I quickly opened the passage to Diagon Alley and stepped onto the magical street. There was no rain here, as there was none throughout London as it happened, but the overcast sky persisted, and against the general gloominess of Diagon Alley it took on even heavier, more oppressive undertones.
Anyone else might have been surprised that many meetings which don't strictly need to remain secret are arranged by wizards here, on Diagon Alley or the adjacent streets. In practice, there's nothing surprising about it at all. These are the main thoroughfares, and every wizard knows how to get here. Absolutely every one. There are also plenty of escape routes from here if the need arises, and in the event of danger one can disappear into a crowd of other wizards. It might seem sensible to try to lose oneself among ordinary people in the Muggle world during a meeting, but wizards have a habit of dressing in rather distinctive fashion, and blending in among ordinary people is actually the harder thing. That's my impression, at any rate.
. . . . .
I wandered the alley, and the side streets adjoining it, glancing at shop windows in search of something interesting, and finding nothing. Mass-produced goods — that's what's traded here. It couldn't really be otherwise; these are public streets, and if you sell merchandise no one wants, you'll be out on the street before long. As for me — I was simply killing time.
Pulling the deep hood of my robe up over my head, I added a few charms to avert attention and provide light concealment, so that passing wizards would pay me no mind while I remained visible, present to their perception.
In this state, I turned into Knockturn Alley. Narrow passages between buildings, staircases, archways. There were almost no wizards about, and even the suspicious-looking characters could be counted on the fingers of one hand.
My destination was Mr Borgin's shop. Why had the meeting been arranged there? I understood, of course, that this shop was the most prominent and well-known in Knockturn Alley — even those who never set foot in the area by choice, whether from personal reasons or fear of dark wizards, knew of it all the same. Speaking of dark wizards, dark creatures, and erratic behaviour…
Turning into yet another narrow passage between buildings, I noticed a peculiar wizard in a rather vivid outfit. He stood facing the wall, occasionally giving it a weak headbutt, and muttering something to himself. An addict of some sort? Though given the possibilities of potions, I wouldn't be surprised by the existence of some kind of consciousness-altering substance.
Ignoring the poor wretch adrift somewhere in his own thoughts, I continued along the passage and after a couple of turns found myself alongside Mr Borgin's shop.
The front door gave a faint creak as I opened it. The jangle of bells. Magical objects of every description all around — large and small, things that appeared innocuous, others that were visually and thoroughly sinister. In short, much the same as the last time I'd been here; some items had gone, others had appeared in their place — the ordinary life of a shop.
Having made my way along the rows of various objects, I reached the counter, behind which stood Mr Borgin himself. He was examining something through a pair of enchanted lenses — a small trinket in a little box sitting on the counter. Examining it with what was clearly an appraising eye. He looked up at me, and the shop's far-from-young proprietor gave a thin smile.
"Good day to you, sir," Mr Borgin greeted me. "It's been quite a while since you've visited us. Quite a while."
"Good day," I nodded, but I made no move to lower my hood — they'd recognised me regardless, and potential customers wouldn't, since the rucksack — a distinctive and fairly unique feature — was concealed from view by magic. "I'll be straightforward — there was no need. And if it weren't for an arranged meeting, I'd likely not have come today either. Dark times have descended upon us, Mr Borgin."
"Agreed, agreed," Mr Borgin nodded, returning to his examination but continuing to speak. "Some Aurors and fools from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement are seriously convinced that Death Eaters are marching up and down Knockturn Alley in formation. Oh yes, absolutely. With the Dark Lord being carried about in a palanquin, no doubt."
"Well, those wizards do frequent Knockturn Alley, one has to say," I shrugged, and began to walk slowly along one of the rows of merchandise, looking, listening, trying to sense anything of interest. "And there are werewolves lurking about here, too. Saw a couple just today."
"What would this place be without them," Borgin replied with evident distaste, not looking up from the object he was examining through his lenses. "There are too many of them lately. And far too few of them are reasonable."
"Not everyone is capable of resisting the monthly transformation and its effect on the mind for years on end. And not everyone wants to."
Continuing to walk through the shop in search of something that might catch my interest through its magical properties, I settled in to wait for noon — the appointed time of the meeting.
"You, sir," Borgin said, having finished examining the piece, closing the box and placing it under the counter, "if my memory serves, have ambitions to become a Healer. Is that right?"
"Something like that. I've even found a mentor."
"Have you indeed?" Mr Borgin showed a faint surprise. "Our handful of masters show little enthusiasm for taking on apprentices. Admirable, that's all I can say. But that's not what I mean. Perhaps you'll become a researcher in the field of healing? Discover a cure for werewolves. Work in that area has been in considerable demand for some sixty years now. I recall one talented student from Hogwarts even received a Potions Mastery for modifying the Wolfsbane Potion. To simplify the recipe and simultaneously improve the effect — not everyone can do that. Admittedly, masteries are usually awarded grudgingly for such work, but werewolves are a different matter."
"You think, Mr Borgin, that I ought to pursue that subject for the sake of the profit in it?"
"Naturally," the old man smiled slightly, and his voice took on a somewhat raspier note. "And besides, finding test subjects would present no difficulties. No one would even come looking for them. Although there are certain parties…"
"Parties?"
"What's that fashionable word…" Mr Borgin scratched his chin thoughtfully, and his grey hair seemed to ruffle even further than usual. "Liberals or some other peculiar sort of creatures. Something along the lines of: 'Freedom for all, rights for all, werewolves are people too.' Pfft. Out of every hundred werewolves, you might find a couple who still are."
"I only know one. And even he, I suspect, may have remained human in form but not in the best possible way."
"Better than being a beast. I rather think I know who you mean. A remarkable irony, incidentally. The son of a radical opponent of werewolf rights, bearing the name Lupin, becoming a werewolf himself. The name, the situation, the whole business — one great sustained irony."
"Indeed…"
The shop door opened with a jangle of bells, and I turned at once toward the sound. A girl I recognised, in a severe black sundress, a black robe, and a face without the faintest trace of emotion. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her gaze stern, giving nothing away of any personal feeling towards anything whatsoever. She found me immediately with her eyes and came over.
"Good afternoon," she said coolly, and at the sight of her Mr Borgin straightened up somewhat. "You are expected."
"Good afternoon," I nodded. "Lead the way."
The girl turned and headed for the exit. I glanced at the shop's proprietor.
"All the best, Mr Borgin."
"And to you, sir."
Leaving the shop behind the girl — Rebecca Burns, whose name, for the record, had meant precisely nothing to me when I first received the visiting card bearing it, and meant just as little now — I followed her literally two metres to the nearest passageway.
"Your hand," she said, holding out her own, waiting for me to take it. "We're Apparating."
"Brevity is the soul of wit."
No response was forthcoming. I took her hand and we were immediately pulled into the Apparition vortex. A moment, and we were standing in a small hall with a high ceiling. Beneath the stones of the smooth, well-polished and rather handsome stone floor, I could distinctly feel currents of magic flowing along precisely calculated paths, constructions, in accordance with runes and some additional forms of magical calculation. And the Apparition itself had been not quite ordinary — it seemed one needed to know a specific key-formula to arrive here. This woman also had a thoroughly inconsiderate attitude towards those she Apparated with. Abrupt, brusque, without the slightest smoothing of the transition, with the locomotive pull of a massive excess magical discharge — yet leaving almost no traces, as the discharge erased them at both the entry and exit points.
"Follow me," the girl said, again drily, not even waiting for my reaction. What if I needed a moment to catch my breath after such a reckless transit?
It seemed I had arrived at the house of that peculiar Amber. Well — that was at least interesting.