A small seaside town, a sandy beach, hardly any tall buildings, green hills almost completely encircling the place. Houses and buildings had been built partway up the slopes too, but nothing tall — all done in an old-fashioned style, if not in design then in the colours of the exteriors and the small details — creating a pleasant impression of a sort of multi-tiered townscape. Very tall buildings were practically nonexistent here, but among those that did exist, a large church stood out with its bell tower — tall, rectangular — how terribly clichéd for Italy. The church, an old fire station now serving as a museum, and a couple of building complexes still unknown to me on a hill that merged into a cliff cutting out into the smooth surface of the sea.
It all looked like a perfectly pleasant and rather quiet, though by no means lifeless, place. At least, that was how I saw it as we drove into the town, descending a gentle hill.
"So why are you always sulking?" I asked Hermione, turning round in the front seat.
Yes, the girls and Mum were in the back. The reason was simple enough — I am by no means a fragile little boy, and would have taken up far too much room, leaving the other two passengers no chance of sitting comfortably. Mum, Hermione and Daphne, on the other hand, could ride back there without any difficulty whatsoever.
"No reason."
"Your sister simply doesn't like me," Daphne stated from her seat by the other window. "A Slytherin — all that sort of thing — cunning and devious, shamelessly stealing away her precious little brother, who's so foolish and understands nothing about life."
"You're exaggerating," Mum smiled. "Hermione can hardly hold such a peculiar opinion of you."
"No, actually," Hermione shook her head. "That's a more or less accurate assessment."
"Hm…" I turned back to face the road, looking at the town down below and the flat expanse of the sea, enjoying the breeze from the open window. "Well, Mione, if we're going by stereotypes — all Slytherins are devious, cunning, calculating, and pursue their own advantage, goals and ambitions no matter what. So where exactly is Daphne's advantage here, taking all factors into account?"
"Good point, actually," Daphne said — I could tell from the feel of it she'd nodded. "I'd be interested to hear this."
"Advantage?" My sister's voice betrayed a hint of confusion. "Let me think. Social advantages, given your background, family, connections and so on… None."
"There are more complications here than advantages," Daphne said with a wry smile. "Many people don't care about blood status, of course, but quite a few wizarding families do try to forge ties with ours or with other Sacred Twenty-Eight families. In terms of lineage length."
"Why?"
"Honestly," Daphne's voice turned thoughtful, "I don't know. Some speak of respect, some of influence. But if you look at it impartially — there's precious little of either. Or rather, it doesn't really depend on lineage length as much as people suppose. Merlin, a dozen families might respect you for it. I used to be proud of my heritage. It took years to understand how entirely meaningless it is."
"How do you mean?" Mum was curious to hear about this from someone directly involved, so to speak.
"Oh, it's quite simple. The difference between an old family of hereditary wizards and a newly established one comes down to accumulated material assets and connections built on agreements, contracts and the like. Certain unique knowledge, various artefacts or enchanted objects. Money — though not everyone is so fortunate on that front."
"That sounds perfectly logical, I'll give it that," Dad said, deciding to join in without taking his eyes off the road — we were essentially on a motorway, though we were nearly into town now.
"Yes, but then you start thinking. Wizards all attend the same school. Within any single generation, everyone knows everyone, one way or another. All you need to do is maintain good relations with a good many people, socialise, show yourself at your best… and before long you have connections with most families of any significance. Some of those connections will fade, others will strengthen — but that's simply how it works."
"Well, that's school for you," Mum agreed. "It's exactly the same for ordinary people. Except that there are vastly more schools, and the wealthy and well-born have their own institutions that only exceptional talents can enter without money or influence. So in the ordinary world, the divisions are far more… entrenched."
"Is that so? I'd never thought about it that way. Thank you for that, Mrs Granger. As for money — very few old families actually own genuinely profitable businesses. Most work perfectly ordinary jobs, or at other families' enterprises. Or at the Ministry. And while the Ministry is difficult to get into without connections and patronage, and advancement is even harder — it's quite the closed shop — other places are different. Where there's will and persistence, there's a way. So on that count too, everything levels out."
"What about knowledge and all the rest of it? Life doesn't end at Hogwarts, after all," Hermione asked — probably the question that concerned her most of all.
"Well, who's stopping anyone from arranging things through their school connections? If a witch or wizard works hard and strives for something, others will notice, and they'll help. For future advantage, for a worthwhile ally, or a skilled employee. But if you're a fool and a layabout, no ancient lineage will save you. It'll be easy enough at the start, but the fool and the layabout will squander everything and lose it all. Plenty of families have vanished without trace that way — no point pretending otherwise."
The discussion of what possible advantages Daphne might be gaining through her supposedly Slytherin cunning and guile went on for quite some time. Mum nudged the conversation in yet another direction — if Slytherins were cunning and devious, then their visible actions must conceal entirely different motives. Hermione warmed to this theme with enthusiasm, but couldn't come up with anything at all except one thing: that by being with me, Daphne was using our relationship as cover to shield herself from tiresome admirers and suitors at Hogwarts, while secretly meeting someone else entirely. It didn't make a great deal of sense, and Hermione had absolutely no experience in that particular horizontal department — nor, for that matter, did she know that the one time, following a certain unconventional abduction, had been Daphne's first. She did have quite the imagination, though — and she'd evidently seen a thing or two. Pansy and her collection of memories…
. . . . .
By the time Dad announced we were nearly at his friends' house — right on the waterfront, amongst private estates and small villas — Hermione had landed on the idea that Daphne's advantage was simply that she'd snapped up a handsome, intelligent, well-rounded and powerful wizard. That got a laugh from most of the car.
"Yes, yes, Hermione," Daphne smiled. "That's exactly the sort of cunning cow I am — I wanted the very best. I suppose I should have fallen for someone ugly, stupid, narrow-minded and weak."
"This is never going to end, is it," I remarked to no one in particular.
"What did you expect," Dad said with a smirk.
"Girls," I said, without turning round, addressing both my sister and Daphne. "You both love studying, learning about magic, reading books. Find common ground in that, instead of looking for faults in each other."
"We'll see."
I wasn't confident there was even the faintest note of optimism to be found in Hermione's tone. But other people's neuroses are outside my jurisdiction — I have enough of my own.
Dad pulled up to the gates of one of the properties, enclosed by a low sand-coloured wall, glanced at his watch, and beeped the horn a couple of times.
"Right on time," he explained.
"That explains why you were driving below the speed limit even on the motorway."
Less than a minute later, the gates were opened by a man of similar age to my father, dressed in light summer clothes — a t-shirt and shorts. Dad leaned out of the window and waved cheerfully.
"Long time no see. Shall I pull in?"
"Of course," the man nodded, gesturing somewhere into the property. "Park over there, next to the Merc."
When the gates swung fully open, Dad drove in along a stone-laid road and turned almost immediately to the right — there was a large, solid-built carport there, under which a brand-new S-Class 600 sat in the shade. Dad parked alongside it, and we began unloading ourselves from the car.
"Well then, Robert…" Dad's acquaintance had already closed the gates and made his way over to us — or rather, to Dad. "I see the years haven't been kind to you either."
"Don't talk rubbish, James, I'm still young and full of vigour!"
The handshakes and various other rituals of two old friends reuniting commenced. Mum knew this James as well, though of course we didn't. Eventually we were all introduced. James Anderson — a long-standing friend of Mum and Dad's, settled in Italy with his wife for some years now. His wife, Catherine, didn't come out to greet us straight away. In appearance she reminded me somewhat of Mum — also dark-haired, though with straight hair, somewhere around fifty, though it wasn't obvious at all — more a matter of instinct than anything visible. And she was clearly a witch. Not that it was any of my business.
"I see you've brought," Mr Anderson looked us over, "one more person than planned. As your host, I'm dying of curiosity as to how that came about. If it's not a secret."
"Oh, Daphne is my son's girlfriend," Dad clapped me on the shoulder. "She joined our trip at rather short notice."
"In that case," Mrs Anderson smiled, "we'll need to prepare another room. Unless the young lady would prefer to share with Hermione?"
"I'd prefer to share with Hector," Daphne said, with a polite smile.
"Oh, is that so," Mrs Anderson covered her smile with her hand.
"Absolutely shameless," Hermione said, in a tone of protest that was distinctly performative.
"I'm afraid," Mrs Anderson said with theatrical regret, "the rules of our household don't permit that sort of thing before marriage. You may think us old-fashioned in these progressive times."
"Perhaps," I nodded, "but you don't go into someone else's church with your own prayers."
"Then Hermione's room it is," Daphne agreed. "We'll work on finding common ground."
"The probability is extremely low," Hermione sniffed.
"As for the rest," Mrs Anderson continued, "it seems you young people will need to apply a certain ingenuity. However, if you're caught doing anything foolish, I imagine Robert and Emma and I will arrange some… educational activities for you."
"Just like the Malfoys," I said with a snort, picking up a couple of suitcases by their handles — Dad and Mr Anderson took the rest. "They're very fond of arranging 'educational activities' for their son when he steps out of line too."
The manor was… sprawling. Unlike the large houses I was accustomed to, this one was predominantly single-storey, though the main wing — where the owners lived, where guests were housed and so forth — was two floors. Whether that was the owners' own design choice or some distinctly Italian architectural tendency, I couldn't say — I'm no expert in the architecture of different countries. One thing I could say with certainty: both the exterior and the interior were dominated by light tones throughout — beiges, sandy hues, pale wood. What struck me personally was how little magic there was in the manor — only a small section of the house had been enchanted and concealed in any way. If Mrs Anderson was a witch, I supposed that was where her private corner was — a workroom, laboratory, or something of that nature.
We were all installed in guest rooms on the upper floor of the residential wing. One room for Mum and Dad, one for Hermione and Daphne, and one for me. The room itself was spacious, with three large windows, furnished with pieces that were expensive and of good quality without being ostentatious — everything one could possibly want for both living and working: a bed, wardrobes, two armchairs, a coffee table. There was a working corner by the window — bookshelves, a large desk, a chair. In short, everything a single person would need to leave the room only for necessities and meals.
Having arranged a few things more for the look of it than out of any real need — I had my rucksack, after all — I left the room and followed the sound of voices downstairs. They led me to the dining room, where everyone had already gathered.
"Was I the last one done?"
"It seems, Hector," Hermione said with a smirk, "that you're a terrible slowcoach."
"Everything needs to be in its proper place, not just dumped wherever."
"Do join us for lunch," Mrs Anderson indicated an empty seat at the large table. Far too large for a household of two.
"With pleasure."
After a good and satisfying lunch, conversation turned to plans — both for that particular day and for the days we'd be staying.
"The children will surely want to get to the sea as soon as possible," Mum suggested.
"That would be wonderful," Hermione agreed.
"Hmm," Daphne considered. "I've never been to the sea. I don't even know what one does there."
"At the very least, swim and sunbathe on the beach!" Hermione explained, as though this were self-evident.
I noticed a small laugh from Mrs Anderson.
"Indeed," she said with a gentle smile. "Though one should be careful with the sun during the day. You can get quite badly burnt at this time of year."
"Sunbathe?"
"Do you really," Hermione seemed to have found her new favourite source of material for teasing Daphne, "have absolutely no idea what happens at the beach and why?"
"I imagine one requires… what's it called? A swimming costume?"
"Don't worry, I'll tell you and show you everything — I suppose I'll have to. I know all about it."
"Hm. The ability to run about half-naked on sand and splash in the sea — a dubious achievement."
"You simply can't help yourself, can you."
"How else."
"What a delightful dynamic you two have," Mrs Anderson said fondly, and the other adults looked equally entertained by this light-hearted sparring.
That it wasn't serious was obvious from the expressions and smiles on both sides, so there was no real conflict to speak of.
"Still, it would be good to start by getting to know the town a bit — scout out the routes, find the different spots," Dad said. "The sea isn't going anywhere."
"I agree entirely," I said, nodding.
"In that case, we'll go for a walk towards evening," Mr Anderson concluded. "It's rather too hot for that sort of thing just now."
After the meal, everyone split off according to inclination. Mrs Anderson went to show Daphne the garden and the rest of the grounds — which were quite large, as it turned out. I had a feeling she'd noticed something about Daphne, or perhaps the surname had rung a bell. Or possibly her appearance — she did have features that echoed those of her parents, and if Mrs Anderson was English, she might well know the Greengrasses; nearly all wizards in Britain attended Hogwarts.
Hermione and Mum headed off to one of the guest rooms, deep in animated conversation, while Dad and Mr Anderson went outside. I had no idea what they'd find to talk about. Old times, perhaps. Or catching up on their lives. Or something else entirely.
Having given it some thought, I went outside too. Dad and Mr Anderson were spotted under the carport where the cars were parked. Worth going over?
One of my guesses had been that Mr Anderson would be showing Dad the Mercedes — and so it proved. My arrival, naturally, did not go unnoticed.
"Interested in cars, are you?" Mr Anderson asked immediately.
Dad was clearly uncertain as to my competence on the subject, while I was casting about in my memory for what I actually knew about this particular model — and as it turned out, I knew enough not to embarrass myself. That said, I didn't especially want to talk about cars at length.
"To a degree," I nodded. "On this topic, I tend towards the practical."
"Oh? Then you've definitely got a question about the point of a car like this."
"You could say that. A six-litre, unwieldy saloon optimised for the rear passenger… It's hard to see the logic of it when you're the one doing the driving."
"You're absolutely right there," Mr Anderson agreed, while Dad settled himself into the rear right-hand seat — which was the side we'd approached from. "My acquaintances said you'd be better off with a new Beemer — a Seven Series — if you want a ship instead of a car."
"Logical. BMWs are driver-oriented, even the Seven."
"Exactly. But I wanted a Merc. This Merc, specifically. Why not, if that's what you want?"
"And if you can, why shouldn't you," Dad nodded approvingly, settling in. "It's very nice in here."
"You should feel how it drives — it's a dream!"
We talked cars for the better part of two hours, at which point the female contingent found us.
"Why am I not surprised?" Mum smiled. "Men located at the vehicles."
"We've decided to take a walk round town," Hermione announced.
"All together?" Dad looked surprised.
"Actually, no," Daphne smiled. "Just the young people — meaning us. Though we've been given one condition: we have to take Hector."
"Quite right," Mr Anderson nodded. "Young ladies shouldn't be wandering round an unfamiliar town on their own. Er… You won't get lost, will you? It's a small town, true, but you can lose your bearings even in a back garden."
"They won't get lost," Mum and Mrs Anderson said simultaneously.
"I have an excellent memory," I added, "and if it comes to it, we'll simply retrace our steps."
"Well, as you like."
We were already dressed for walking — lightly, for summer — so we set off without delay on this little expedition.
"Hector, you'll never guess," Daphne said, taking my hand. "Mrs Anderson turns out to be a witch."
"A witch?" Hermione hadn't suspected anything of the sort — not surprising, given that my methods of perception are rather unique.
"I'd already worked it out. How did you find out?"
"You'd worked it out?"
"Felt it."
"It wasn't me that worked it out," Daphne shook her head with a smile. "She recognised my surname — and the dragonhide trim on my handbag. I should have put it with the rest of my things."
"Interesting," Hermione picked up the thread. "So she's from England? That would explain why her manners seemed familiar to me — not quite Italian."
"Yes, a fellow countrywoman. A hereditary witch, as it happens, just not from a particularly ancient family."
"And how do you feel about the fact," Hermione said with a smirk, "that she's married to an ordinary person?"
"It makes absolutely no difference to me. If that's how it worked out, there were reasons for it. Perhaps they met somewhere, got to know each other, and it went from there. They left the country right in the middle of the war."
"Grand title for what wasn't the most large-scale civil uprising," I couldn't resist saying.
"Depends what you compare it to," Daphne pressed a little closer. "By the standards of the ordinary world — a ripple in a pond, nothing more. But for magical Britain — a war that touched every aspect of life, one way or another."
A walk through town, down to the sea, the beach, a modest scattering of holidaymakers… There was nothing remarkable about this little town, really — simply a quiet place by the water. None of the vast shopping centres I knew from London, no endless crowds, no luridly bright signage. It was more like Rome stripped down to its essentials, so to speak. Minus the sea, obviously.
The phoenix-self was flying high above, invisible to everyone — circling over the sea and the hills, conducting reconnaissance, sharp eyes scanning for anything of interest. Nothing of the sort presented itself.
When evening had finally, definitively begun to fall — though it was still light — we turned back, picking up ice creams and mineral water along the way. As we approached the manor, I noticed something odd in my senses.
"Hm… Danger," I said aloud, pulling my wand out of my rucksack pocket in the same motion.
I'd need to make myself a wrist holster with expanded space inside — styled as a bracelet, something I could wear openly when needed. Daphne had her wand out too, from wherever she kept it, and so did Hermione.
"What kind of danger?"
"Not sure yet. Silencing charms, all of us."
I cast silencing charms over everyone quickly — anything more would have taken time and got in our own way, if we were talking about full concealment. Moving fast through the side gate onto the property, I saw three people with wands, speaking in raised voices at Mrs Anderson.
That was precisely the moment Mr Anderson and Dad chose to emerge from behind the car shelter, carrying some sort of spare parts. They dropped them and hurried towards Mrs Anderson — understandably — but were immediately spotted by the trio of wizards.
"Bloody Muggles," I heard, and then the wizards raised their wands.
I didn't hesitate. I sent the fastest Stupefy I could manage at one of them.
The remaining two spun towards us at once, beginning to spread apart and preparing to cast — but the initiative was ours. Hermione and Daphne each sent a Stupefy in the same instant, dropping both of them. A surprise attack always has an excellent chance of success, even against an experienced opponent.
We ran towards Mrs Anderson, as did the other adults. On the way I conjured three Incarcerous bindings, tying up the already-unconscious wizards.
"What on earth is going on?" Dad demanded, suppressing his shock at the magic he'd just witnessed — knowing about it is one thing; seeing it with your own eyes is another matter entirely.
"I didn't have time to understand," Mrs Anderson shook her head. "These, incidentally, are local Aurors. Or so they identified themselves. But rather too aggressive for that."
"Darling, are you sure it's all right to speak of such things in front of… although…" Mr Anderson began, then quickly grasped the absurdity of the question, seeing wands in our hands.
"Quite. The children are wizards too. These gentlemen were saying something about a search for dangerous fugitives and demanding to inspect my registered address."
"We should probably bring them round and find out what's happening," I suggested. "Or Obliviate them and leave them somewhere."
"Hector, really!" Hermione objected. "They're Aurors. We've already assaulted them."
"I don't know anything about that — they pointed their wands at Dad."
"Even so, your solution is hardly appropriate."
"Agreed," Mrs Anderson nodded. "With the inappropriateness, that is. If these are genuinely Aurors, we should wait for another team. Or we can do this more simply."
Mrs Anderson produced her wand from wherever women keep such things — they really do have a talent for it — gave it a wave, and said:
"Expecto Patronum."
A ghostly cat appeared, bounding through the air. Mrs Anderson said something to it in Italian, and the cat darted away and vanished.
"I've sent word to an acquaintance of mine at the local Auror office. I imagine he'll be able to clarify the situation. In the meantime…"
"We leave things as they are?" I confirmed.
"Yes. By the way, Hector," the faint smile returned to Mrs Anderson's face. "You are very accomplished at magic, young man. As are you girls. Impressive. We stay and wait here."
"Oh, wonderful," Mr Anderson sighed. "Nothing but trouble, this magic of yours."
What on earth had happened? And were we going to be in trouble for attacking Aurors? Could it be argued as self-defence? Either way, we'd sort it out. We just had to wait.
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