The small sitting room bore modest, insignificant, but pervasive traces of an extremely high concentration of magic — even if that magic had not been directed toward any particular action. The cause of such a concentration had been a recent and vivid demonstration of power by one promising young wizard — or at least, that was how Herr Hafner and Monsieur Rochon had come to see Hector Granger. Mr Greengrass, for his part, sincerely considered his daughter's suitor a genuine thorn in his side, entirely unworthy of breathing the same air as his cherished but utterly unmanageable daughter.
Striking his fist against the floor with some force, Mr Greengrass picked himself up, brushed the inexplicably present dust from his trousers, and returned to his armchair. He didn't hold his posture — he slumped somehow sadly, let out a sigh, and reached for his glass. Whisky on the rocks, technically, though by now it was more water with a memory of whisky, if one were being honest.
"What a mess your son-in-law has made," Hafner smirked — though on that purely Aryan face of his, not young but still sharp, the smirk looked genuinely supercilious.
The glass in Mr Greengrass's hand cracked and fell apart in small fragments. Everyone in the room understood, however, that this was not the product of the man's physical strength but the lingering effect of the boy's magic — everything around them had been damaged to some degree.
Herr Hafner picked up his wand from the armrest and began tracing patterns in the air. The room filled once more with creaking and cracking, but even someone who knew nothing of magic would have noticed the improvement — damaged objects visibly restoring themselves.
"Nothing is decided yet," Mr Greengrass disagreed, staring wearily into the fire.
"Don't take this the wrong way — though knowing you, you absolutely will," Hafner picked up the whisky bottle, filled his glass a third of the way, and conjured a couple of ice cubes with his wand.
"Well? What are you trying to say? I doubt there's anything I haven't heard before..."
"Hm... What is your actual problem?" The German's question produced a mixture of surprise, bafflement, and mild irritation in Greengrass, who was now holding a once-again-intact glass.
Hafner poured Greengrass a measure of whisky and waited for an answer. The Frenchman likewise waited, in silence. One couldn't have said whether his silence at that particular moment was connected to the impression left by the recently departed boy's display of power and his unsettling phoenix, or whether he was simply a quiet sort in general.
"What a ridiculous question," Greengrass took a quick sip of whisky and continued without so much as a wince. "He's Muggle-born. That's all there is to it. It is entirely unacceptable for a girl from one of the oldest and most noble families — one that has never once been tainted by such blood — to consort with someone like that. There it is."
"And?"
"What do you mean, 'and'?"
"I think your problem is purely that of a father. You know — like every man who has a daughter. And the Muggle-born business is the only reason that looks even remotely rational, so you've latched onto it. Let us drink, my friend," Hafner extended his glass toward the Frenchman, "to the foolish reasons of stubborn men — which allow the rest of us to make a great deal of money."
"To foolishness."
They clinked glasses and drank, and Greengrass slumped a little further — but drank as well. Hafner exhaled, settled back into his armchair with an exaggerated creak, stretched his legs out and crossed them, incidentally displaying a pair of exceptionally expensive shoes made from the hide of some rare creature.
"I must say," he spoke quietly against the crackling of the fire, "I never cease to be amazed by your traditional English pastime."
"Hm?"
"Pulling the manticore by the tail. You constantly breed either broken wretches or genuine monsters through your contempt and your attempts to 'put people in their place,'" Hafner raised his glass and studied the fire through it. "And then those monsters start making their own rules, putting anyone they dislike in the ground without breaking stride. And you keep pulling that manticore by the tail. That's precisely why you have almost no ancient and noble families left. Barely any old families at all."
"I don't care. He's Muggle-born, and therefore—"
"And therefore nobody cares," Hafner waved a hand, smirking. "In front of whom are you parading this pure blood of yours? There are precious few of you 'ancients' left as it is. Do you want to be the last of the last? Very well — you'll manage it. And then what? Some will ignore you entirely, others will profit from you, and the rest will hate you and make your lives difficult simply because you think too highly of yourselves."
"You yourself are pure-blood back to Mordred knows how many generations!" Mr Greengrass objected indignantly, drawing smirks from both wizards.
"Oh, we've got plenty of Muggle-borns in my family tree. My great-grandmother, for instance, just on my direct line. So what? Do you consider yourself insulted by such company? Go on then — be insulted, cut off your business ties. Our contracts mean neither more nor less to me than they did before. But to you? There it is, precisely."
Greengrass drooped again, took a couple of sips of whisky, and stared into the fire.
"It's just... she's my daughter. Intelligent, beautiful, talented. Determined and principled — and the way she sings... But she hasn't listened to a word I've said in years. No amount of persuasion, argument, reasoning, or punishment touches her. Neither reward nor severity makes any difference. How on earth did it come to this?"
. . . . .
"Ah, yes — quite clear," Hafner nodded. "That's precisely why I say — daughters are nothing but trouble. And if there's no trouble to be found, you'll invent some. To daughters."
Hafner clinked with Rochon.
"I'll join you in that one," Greengrass joined the toast.
A couple of minutes — that was how long they managed to avoid discussing what they had witnessed.
"By the way, William," Hafner looked at Greengrass with that same smirk. "Why exactly did you... stand down the moment that Granger appeared? You already knew what he was capable of, didn't you. Knew he could arrange... well, all of that."
"I've seen him fight. I've noted the details. Where were they, incidentally — your vaunted security detail?"
"What security detail?"
"Given what just happened in here," Greengrass gestured around the room with his glass, nearly sloshing the whisky, "where was everyone?"
"You lot are all hopelessly dull when it comes to sensitivity," Hafner shook his head. "That boy didn't release a single drop of magic beyond the walls of this room. Didn't trigger a single security system. Not a trace. I'll tell you plainly — he could come in the night, strangle you in your sleep with your own socks, and nobody would ever know. Anywhere."
They sat in silence for a moment, drank, and Hafner continued his thought.
"I've heard quite a lot about this boy, as a matter of fact."
"Oh? Then why did you ask him to introduce himself?"
"Manners, naturally," Hafner shrugged. "What I know about him... I bought that Norwegian company, you see. The one that makes brooms."
"That firm barely breaks even..." Greengrass said, puzzled, and the Frenchman gave the German a doubtful look as well.
"Doesn't matter. They're entertaining. Completely mad. And they make mad things. It would be a shame if they went under."
"Doesn't it strike you, though... tch... that some Muggle-born upstart is... well... that powerful? Those tricks of his. That wretched bird. Reeks like a Dementor. Might drain a soul dry, for all we know."
Greengrass knocked back another glass of whisky in one go.
"Tch... Just like that. I'm going home. My wife is waiting. And Astoria. My last hope."
Greengrass stirred in his armchair.
"Oh, she's waiting, certainly."
"Ha," the Frenchman let out a short laugh.
"What? You don't think she's waiting?"
"No, it's not that," Hafner gave the contents of his glass an appraising look, visibly debating whether to drink or not. "How exactly do you plan to return home without your daughter? Blind drunk. And besides... you won't be able to give an address. Apparition, I won't even mention."
"I am not drunk," Greengrass smartly heaved himself out of the armchair and straightened his robes, swaying slightly and arranging what he imagined to be a dignified expression. "I am upset. I have the situation under control. And I shall say exactly how it is. 'My dear, that crafty little worm has stolen our daughter. Right from under my nose.'"
"Ha," the other two wizards laughed simultaneously.
"Don't forget to add," Hafner pointed his glass at Greengrass with a grin, "that the scoundrel hurt you."
"Oh — yes, of course," it came to Greengrass suddenly. "He hurt me and stole our daughter. Causing even greater hurt. Ohhh..."
Greengrass shook his fist at an invisible adversary.
"I'll just sit for a moment before I go," he settled back into the armchair. "And have another drink. And something to eat. Is there anything to eat? There was something somewhere..."
Naturally, Mr Greengrass went nowhere in the end, and Hafner, being the responsible host that he was, simply sent a letter to William's wife with a full account of the evening's events.
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