How much is there to tell about an entire day spent touring every significant landmark of the city on seven hills alongside my parents, Hermione, and the not-so-young Paradi couple? Technically — a great deal. Was it interesting? I'll be honest — not particularly.
In essence, only two places genuinely impressed me, and as it happened, neither of them was a ruin or monument in the sort of condition one finds the Colosseum or the various forums. Which two? The Trevi Fountain and the Vatican.
Yes, we went to the Vatican. It was fortunate, actually, that the weather that day was overcast and even a little cool — one could observe the dress code without any particular inconvenience and walk through the areas open to tourists: the piazza, St Peter's Basilica, the museum, the gardens. For the first half-hour of the visit — for which we'd also had to queue a while — Hermione was in a state of peculiar, adrenaline-fuelled anxiety. Hardly surprising. Wizards in the Vatican. Every Torquemada in every grave was spinning faster than pulsars rotate on their axes.
But somewhere after the half-hour mark, Hermione — like our parents — was simply gazing around in admiration at everything within reach of her eyes. Myself? Monotheistic religions have always tended toward a certain monumentality and grandeur, so I wasn't surprised, but from an aesthetic standpoint one couldn't fail to appreciate the beauty. So I appreciated it. St Peter's Basilica in particular — everything so monumental, worked out to the finest detail, intricate, massive, and beautiful. One may hold any number of views about religion, but in its name tremendous things have been done and will continue to be done, architecture not least among them.
For some reason I found myself thinking of a certain tabletop game set in the far future, in whose lore the aspect of monotheistic religion played no small part. Also very... grand.
In any case, the Paradis spent the entire day ferrying and leading us between various locations, enthusiastically recounting either the history of each place or something from their personal experience of it. If I'm being candid, I spent most of the time feeling vaguely obligated to walk through places I didn't find especially interesting — but our parents and Hermione loved it. They were positively radiating happiness. And if they were happy, one could endure.
By evening, when everyone had finally and thoroughly exhausted themselves, we returned to the hotel — or rather, to the restaurant. Good food, a pleasant atmosphere, and endless conversation about what a marvellous day everyone had had. Even I contributed a few observations here and there, participating in the conversation rather than simply working my way methodically through everything within reach.
I had been intending to go out again that night in search of anything magical — but then my amulet, the one I'd given to Daphne, sent me an image of a location. Which meant I needed to fly there and find out what had happened. Without delay I slung my rucksack over my shoulder, dressed as I was in my light walking clothes, and summoned my phoenix-self into the room. Together we created a tear in space to the point indicated in the image, prepared for anything. I was curious where this particular tear would take me.
. . . . . .
The spatial tear — distinctive in appearance due to the phoenix, marked by a dark flare — deposited me in a night garden adjoining some manor house in the European style. A wide path of large stones underfoot, tall lanterns flooding most of the garden with soft yellow light, but not here — I was standing in shadow. Over there, close to the house, an open terrace, yellow light in the windows, people — wizards, clearly — standing near the buffet tables, talking, though not in great numbers.
To my right stood Daphne, in even deeper shadow, practically hidden in the shrubbery.
"I'm here," she said quietly, pulling me by the hand into that same shadow. "Hello. I'm glad you answered."
"Hello."
I caught a brief impression of a dress and robes in dark colours, a neat hairstyle, minimal jewellery — all harmonious. We both instinctively leaned toward each other for the usual nonsense, but Daphne checked us both.
"Almost forgot... do you have a bezoar?"
"Party with potions?" I smirked, swinging my rucksack from my back to my side, opening one of the pockets reserved for things of "first necessity," and Summoned two bezoar pellets from it by magic.
Daphne took one immediately, then with a slightly nervous movement produced from her miniature clutch a small vial of fine granules, tipped two into my palm and two into her own, and set about grinding the bezoar together with the granules between her fingers, working it into a dense, elastic, pliable mass.
"Hm..." I repeated her actions, put the resulting mass in my mouth, and barely suppressed a curse — possibly more than one. "Absolutely vile. And what sort of aerosolised potions are we countering?"
"All of them," Daphne replied, chewing her own portion and pulling a slight face. "They've made a complete mess of things. It's infuriating."
Daphne looked remarkably angry, exhausted, and disappointed all at once. Behind her, some distance away, a party was in progress — wizards doing wizard things, outwardly perfectly ordinary and respectable.
"I don't recall you ever speaking negatively about gatherings of this sort."
"I used to find them somewhat enjoyable," Daphne replied, and the tension drained from her face, replaced by a quiet calm and something like relief — whereupon she put her arms around my neck and drew me in for a kiss.
I was entirely in favour of the arrangement, hands at her waist, but it didn't last long; the taste of the antidote — which would need to be chewed like gum for however long one remained in range of the vapours and other airborne agents — rather undermined the experience.
"There. Now — hello," Daphne smiled, making no move to step back.
. . . . .
"Hello. You said 'used to.'"
"Yes." We kept our voices low to avoid drawing any attention. "It was occasionally amusing, watching the various incidents that would unfold — the liberties taken, the spectacles. But back then I was just a little girl. Or not quite so little, I suppose. And now..."
"And now you fall within the sphere of interest of those who enjoy arranging all manner of unpleasantness, in whatever form that might take?"
"Very... aptly put," she nodded. "It ruins absolutely everything. Having to be on guard constantly. Food ruined by various antidotes taken as a precaution. Catching certain looks from time to time. All those conversations with people one's own age and older. Girls arguing about who will reel in the most 'suitable' catch. Boys boasting about how many frivolous witches they've cornered. It's infuriating."
I nodded in understanding.
"High society — or those who consider themselves such — in full bloom of their licentiousness and impunity."
"You talk as though you've spent your whole life in that sort of atmosphere," Daphne said, prodding me in the chest with one finger in mild reproach. "More secrets?"
"Such circles tend to be described through one of two extremes — hypertrophied nobility, or equally hypertrophied depravity. The truth, I suspect, lies somewhere in the middle. Listen — if you're this uncomfortable here, perhaps we simply leave?"
"That was precisely what I intended to do," Daphne moved to rest her head on my shoulder or press her face into my chest — we'll never know which. She was quite tall, and with heels she nearly broke my nose with her forehead. She was also smiling about it. "Sorry. Takes some getting used to."
"Shall we go, then?"
"I only need to find my parents and tell them exactly what I think of this ridiculous matchmaking scheme." Daphne turned serious. "I'm sorry for pulling you away from your holiday just for a bezoar. Mine disappeared somewhere, and I didn't particularly want to test my willpower if I ran into some cretin who'd added a Thousand Dreams to his cologne."
"Oh my — wealthy wizards and their expensive amusements," I said, with some genuine surprise, given that this particular dubious potion cost roughly as much as a downed Boeing and was no small feat to brew. "Nasty business, though. Let's go — I'll walk you."
"Just stay invisible. I wasn't entirely certain you'd pass through the wards without triggering them. But the hysteria that would follow if an uninvited guest were discovered breaking in... nobody needs that."
"Not a problem. Though if I decide it's necessary, I'll intervene regardless of the consequences. Do you trust me on that?"
"More than anyone," Daphne smiled and kissed me briefly. "Come on — let's find my father."
My phoenix-self had gone to reconnoitre the grounds immediately after the transfer and was already, in principle, somewhere inside the house, concealed from everyone. I suspected that with my sensitivity, I would locate Mr Greengrass fairly quickly — not merely the assorted rabble who considered themselves high society. An amusing observation, incidentally — in every shard of memory involving sentient humanoids, there had always been some version of "high society," and the essential truth of it was that the filth was always the same across all of them, with only the proportions of sins and their execution varying slightly. And I had always found such company insufferable, though in certain cases I had ignored that or played a role when it served my interests. Perhaps these weren't shards of other people's lives at all, but of my own past incarnations? I had been more or less the same person everywhere, as far as the tattered memories within those shards allowed me to judge.
Step for step I followed Daphne as she emerged from the shadows onto the garden's stone path. Now I could see her properly — a dark blue, almost black full-length dress with a matching robe. Well. It wasn't hard to understand why she was receiving unwanted attention. We came out of the garden toward the terrace, passing one group of wizards, then another — all fairly young, with only three older men nearby, discussing something amongst themselves, nodding to one another, watching the young people and drinking something that resembled whisky.
We had nearly reached the doors into the house when a group of young wizards — perhaps slightly older than us — came out to meet us. Two young men and a young woman. Remarkably, whenever one encountered types like these, regardless of how they were dressed or what they wore, only one phrase surfaced in one's mind: gilded youth. And not in any flattering sense. The manners, the gestures, the smirks, the looks — all of it betrayed a sense of superiority of truly staggering proportions, founded not on any personal greatness but on the diminishment of others.
"Ah, Fräulein Greengrass," said the fair-haired leader of the group, a faint German accent in his voice. "How fortunate — I was just looking for you, to offer you a glass of excellent sparkling wine."
And he extended a glass toward her. Around him hung a faint scent of bergamot with notes of cardamom and mandarin, alongside a bouquet of other completely background and unremarkable fragrances. An excellent choice for concealing Dreams — any added potion would be entirely undetectable within that particular combination of aromas.
"I'll decline, Herr Hafner," Daphne said drily. "I need to speak with my father."
"I'm afraid our parents are occupied with their important affairs," the blond accepted Daphne's refusal to take the glass from his hand, but kept smiling. "I'm certain they'll be free by the time I've shown you around the house. The potions laboratory in particular."
"You're unaware, but I've already visited with my father. I know this house perfectly well and have no need of your guidance."
"But I insist," the blond attempted to take Daphne by the elbow — at which point I produced a small magical discharge of electricity that struck him with a distinct crack.
His companion and the girl laughed stupidly as his hand jerked back on its own.
"Come on, mate," the other young man put a hand on the blond's shoulder. "I can already see a bored little witch by the drinks table. Clearly not your night here."
Making little effort to conceal his disappointment, the blond headed off toward the buffet tables on the terrace, his companions following.
"Insufferable," Daphne breathed quietly and went inside, with me close behind.
Here, in the spacious entrance hall, there were also tables along the walls and the usual trappings of an evening gathering, but the wizards present could be counted on the fingers of one hand — most had apparently chosen to go outside, to walk in the garden or otherwise occupy themselves anywhere but indoors. My phoenix-self, utterly invisible in every sense, had already surveyed the layout, and the familiar magical signature I was tracking came from one of the rooms on the second floor — that was where Daphne's father was, in the company of two other wizards. They were clearly seated at a table, by the feel of things.
. . . . .
Daphne paused for a moment in thought, then headed for the staircase. I, meanwhile, found myself reflecting on potions in general, and the Thousand Dreams in particular.
The potion had a rather interesting effect on the psyche, though a very short-lived one. And given Daphne's mention of it being "mixed into cologne," I could reasonably deduce simple but no less irritating effects. For instance: one could approach a married couple, or simply a young woman with a companion, and flirt quite shamelessly with complete impunity. And if one did so with even a modicum more grace than an elephant, one could brazenly suggest the young man go off to sample the food or the drinks, then lead the young woman away — and both of them would consider this entirely normal. The young man might think something along the lines of: Surely there's nothing wrong with leaving my girlfriend in the company of this excellent wizard? The young woman, meanwhile: Isn't it perfectly delightful that this gentleman has so politely suggested I come and inspect the silk sheets on his bed?
Of course, the effect wasn't absolute. Someone like myself or Daphne — people of considerable willpower — or Hermione, or Ginny Weasley, or Herbert, or many other acquaintances of mine, could resist the potion's influence without much difficulty. It wasn't even a matter of intellect so much as sheer will. Potter, I thought, would manage too, but he might simply lack the self-knowledge and introspective habit to recognise that his mind was being affected at all — the Thousand Dreams was not named so without reason. As in an actual dream, every wrongness feels perfectly right and appropriate, even the most obvious absurdity.
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