Monday, the eighth of January. The first day of lessons in the new semester. Needless to say, the students — while glad enough to be back at Hogwarts, to see their friends and all the rest of it — were decidedly unhappy about having to study again, and to do so at a punishing pace. Plenty of people weren't pleased about it, and the professors launched straight in, demanding homework to the hilt, loading everyone with theory and practical work, and handing out mountains of assignments. The paradox, however, was that the lot of us — my housemates, my classmates — handled all these so-called hardships perfectly well, simply by getting everything done at once and carving out a bit more time for independent study in our schedules.
But the most important event of that day, as far as I was concerned, was a brief conversation with Daphne. In it, I made my request: that she arrange a meeting with her parents. I already had more than enough information — from the little spiders, from open sources, from the yellow press: the Economic Herald, the Prophet, even the Quibbler. Though getting anything useful out of the last one — published by Xenophilius Lovegood — required a particularly masochistic relationship with one's own brain. Grains of truth were buried under tonnes of inside-out reasoning, hidden behind unthinkable verbal arabesques and entirely invented facts and stories.
— Tell me what you're planning, — Daphne said, when we were standing near the doors of the Great Hall after lessons.
— As I see it, I have an opportunity to put a stop to their attempts to marry you off to the first passable candidate for the sake of some dubious advantage.
— My word, — Daphne said, with genuine surprise, not bothering at all to control her expression. — That is quite a statement.
— Yes. And really, before I go ahead and do anything, I wanted to ask you — do you actually want that?
— You're not quite seeing it correctly, Hector, — she smiled. — I, and most girls from families like mine, don't approach this particular question that way. We're raised to accept our parents' opinions and decisions in such matters — the family's. Intellectually, I understand it can make life easier just as easily as it can make it harder. But the intellect... Well. What I know for certain right now is that I don't want to end up with just anyone.
— There are those — experienced adults — who will tell you that arranged marriages are often far more durable.
— Do you realise you're playing your own hand right now? — Daphne tilted her head slightly, studying my face with a smile.
— I'm trying to work out whether to act in a way that simply stops your parents from trying to betroth you to someone, or in a way that makes me look like an attractive prospect for an arrangement myself.
— The second option sounds considerably better. If our relationship were ever to reach that point... I'd rather not act against their wishes.
— Understood. Will you be there?
— That's not necessary. My presence might make them behave differently from what you need. They'll want to demonstrate to their wayward daughter how proper wizards conduct themselves.
It was precisely this conversation that led to the meeting with Daphne's parents being arranged for Tuesday evening — immediately after lessons, naturally. And of course, proud pure-blood wizards could not be expected to condescend to come anywhere near Hogwarts. I suppose they imagined it would cause me considerable inconvenience. And they weren't entirely wrong. Leaving Hogwarts itself was simple enough with a bit of practice — the professors didn't seem to monitor it particularly closely — but the Scottish Highlands surrounding the castle, with nothing for miles in any direction but forests, fields, hills and stone, were a rather more serious obstacle for a fifth-year. They had also chosen somewhere suitably distinguished: a small restaurant on that pleasant, straight little street behind Gringotts. The time was ten minutes after the end of the last lesson on Tuesday. All in all, they were clearly trying to put me in an unflattering light.
So, on Tuesday, the moment lessons ended, I stepped into the nearest empty classroom, changed in under a minute — school robes out, the suit from the miracle-fabric in — made another mental note to check the tree — threw on a cloak, and left the Hogwarts grounds at something close to a run. I Apparated into the dead-end passage between the entrance to Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron, and a moment later I was already walking down the main magical thoroughfare of London.
The snow here was almost entirely gone — only a little remained on the rooftops, and that, I was sure, was kept purely for decoration. The wizards around me had a grey, exhausted look about them, though that was understandable enough — it was the end of the working day.
I reached the restaurant two minutes before the appointed time and walked straight in.
The décor was somewhat unfamiliar to my personal tastes — baroque, in soft pastel tones, rich with small details throughout. But in broad terms, it was all perfectly legible: a reception desk staffed by a pair of witches who greeted guests warmly and showed them to their tables — and I was no exception. There were no private rooms for dining and conversation; all the tables were open to the room. The few patrons present, however, had enclosed themselves in one-way privacy charms. One-way, presumably, so they could still hear the classical music drifting from the quartet of enchanted string instruments.
The woman from reception led me to a table where I recognised two familiar faces — Mr and Mrs Greengrass. They were not alone. With them sat a third wizard, not young, and with something about him I couldn't quite place — a vague resemblance to someone I knew, though I couldn't yet say whom.
Under the mildly surprised and displeased gazes of all three, I took the seat across from them and smiled.
— Mr Greengrass. Mrs Greengrass. Unknown wizard. Pleased to meet you.
— Mr Granger, — the blond man, William Greengrass, said, drawing out the words. — It seems you managed to find the opportunity and join us after all.
Sofia Greengrass — a brunette, her style of dress carrying distinctly French inflections — smiled with the very corners of her lips, a smile of exquisite, deliberate politeness. The third wizard, however — older, spare of frame, with an unmistakeable streak of grey in what had once been chestnut hair, now faded to a pale, washed-out blond — watched me with an intensity that suggested he was attempting to dissect a frog on an examination table.
— Allow me to introduce you, young man. Henry Nott.
Nott gave a brief nod — and even that only for the sake of appearances.
— A pleasure, — I said, with an open smile.
The meal came first, naturally — conversation later. So it went this time as well. All three of them did their level best to weigh me down with their stares, to unsettle me, to shake my composure. It rolled off me like water off a duck. I ate calmly and with moderate decorum, giving the wizarding cuisine its due credit, observing etiquette throughout — credit for that goes to the setting and to the elf-shards, which together drew out the right, appropriate behaviour without any conscious effort on my part.
When we had finished eating and moved on to drinks, we agreed that the time for conversation had arrived.
— You know, — I began, — I'm not particularly fond of empty talk and all manner of verbal dancing around the point. So I suggest we save your time.
— We are no less interested in saving our time, — Nott said sternly, — when speaking with you.
— To business, then. I have received information suggesting that you, Mr Greengrass, were at one time interested in the Nott lands and their production.
The elder Nott's eye twitched. It did. I have no idea how or why he'd come to be here, but I had no intention of sparing his peace of mind. And he had the Mark on his arm — I could feel it. As it happened, I understood how to use the Mark. Perhaps I ought to test one of its functions? Focusing, I executed what I had in mind with ease — courtesy of the excellent mind and an understanding of the deep essence of magic. Nott's eye twitched again, and he even reached his right hand towards the Mark before stopping himself.
— That is correct, — Greengrass nodded. — And it is hardly a closely guarded secret.
Nott continued to endure it, and I increased the strength of the "summons."
— I apologise, — he said, rising from his chair at a measured pace, preserving his dignity, — but I find myself obliged to leave your company.
— Leaving already, Henry? — Greengrass asked, looking surprised.
— Yes. Circumstances.
Nott shot me a venomous look and left the restaurant at a steady, unhurried stride. Amusing. Yet another confirmation that the Dark Lord had returned — Nott had hurried off to answer the "summons."
— Let us continue, — I picked up the wine glass from the table, turned it in my hand, and inhaled the aroma. Quite decent, though I'm no expert. — As things currently stand, those lands and all production on them happen to be entirely and completely mine.
— Kh— — Greengrass, who had followed my example and gone to take a sip of wine, choked on it. Mrs Greengrass, by contrast, kept her composure considerably, considerably better — so that was where Daphne had learnt to wear masks.
— Indeed, — I had only to nod at the bewilderment on the face of Daphne's father. — The ways of Merlin are inscrutable.
— I have far too many questions, — Mr Greengrass blotted his lips with a napkin, composing himself quickly. — But I'll set aside simple curiosity — such as how a Muggle-born schoolboy comes by money — and ask the real question: why are you telling me this, and what is it you want?
— Oh, it's quite simple. You were sufficiently interested in those lands and their production that you were prepared to arrange a marriage between Daphne and Theodore. The lands and production would have remained with the Notts, but you would have been able to make use of them as your own. My offer is straightforward — I can give them to you outright.
— Outright?
— Precisely, — I took another sip of wine. — There are no curses on them. While they were in the possession of a certain French businessman, he carried out a degree of improvement work. Nothing grand, but every trace of that century of stagnation is gone.
That information about the work carried out had been provided by Delacour along with all the documentation, and I, not being a fool, had familiarised myself with it.
— Offers this enticing are generally too good to be true.
Ha. I don't share that view, but I'll keep that to myself. Local wizards simply place too much stock in such things. Too much attachment to the past.
— You want to know the catch?
— Naturally.
— There isn't one. There are a number of conditions.
— And what conditions might those be? I hope you don't imagine, Mr Granger...
Greengrass attempted to press down on me with his gaze, even adding a touch of magic. It was almost embarrassing — his complete inability to affect me even slightly. Though Daphne had said that her parents were considerable experts in charms, and charms were not simply a matter of raw power.
— ...that the conditions for you will be the same as those for the Notts?
— Please don't apply pressure with magic, — I continued smiling. — Raw power is not your strong suit, as I understand it.
— Hm, — both Mr Greengrass and his wife lifted their chins in unison. What a performance. Honestly.
— The condition is simple. You receive the lands and their production in your full ownership. In return, you cease all attempts to arrange Daphne's marriage to anyone. If anyone is to make that decision — it will be her, of her own free mind, free from magical influence or pressure on your part, or that of your acquaintances, godparents, or anyone else admitted to the family circle.
— And how exactly do you intend to ensure that?
— Not I, Mr Greengrass. Not I. A contract. And ideally — an Unbreakable Vow.
— Have you lost your mind?! — Greengrass exclaimed, half-rising from his chair, before his wife's hand settled quietly on his forearm and stilled him.
— Think carefully, Mr Greengrass...
He leaned forward slightly across the table.
— You think we would entrust the fate of our daughter to a Muggle-born? While the Dark Lord has returned?
— That won't last long. I mean the Dark Lord.
The wizards frowned, trying to work out what I meant.
— He lost the moment he turned to violence. Whatever the circumstances, he will lose again. The only question is when. But let us not dwell on the bleak. As you may have noticed, I am not demanding Daphne's hand in exchange for the lands. I am merely asking you not to interfere, and I am not asking for free. As for "entrusting a daughter to a Muggle-born"... I know how to protect what is mine, you may ask... Oh. What an unfortunate oversight.
I conjured a tiny pellet of Dark Magic at the highest concentration above my palm. It hummed there briefly, and I closed my fist sharply.
— There's no one left to ask. You won't receive a more advantageous offer in exchange for non-interference from anyone. And on the whole, it is far better to cooperate than to sharpen knives against one another. There is no profit in enmity. As for the Dark Lord... his own followers don't want him alive. You, as a man of business, must be aware of the capital flight into foreign firms. Significant capital. And the sudden near-bankruptcy of many English families previously accused of aiding the Dark Lord. They are running, salvaging their money, whilst continuing to assure him of their loyalty.
— How could you possibly know any of this?
— Simply gathering information. Publicly available information, I should note. Consider the Triwizard Tournament alone — the nascent international cooperation that followed it, after which certain companies in certain European countries suddenly began to thrive. And for something to appear somewhere, it must disappear from somewhere else. It disappeared from here. So the Dark Lord is of no benefit to anyone at present. Except perhaps Dumbledore. The moment he stops being useful — he'll be "finished." Or perhaps I'm wrong, and we'll all die in agony — life is a thoroughly unpredictable thing.
— You are extraordinarily arrogant, overconfident... — Greengrass was indignant.
— You won't believe it, but I can afford to be. Well then, I've made my point clear. I've taken note of your position as well. I await your decision. Oh, one more thing. Those lands are of no use to me. If they don't go to you — I'll burn them to the bedrock.
— That's an enormous amount of money! Around twenty thousand Galleons! — Daphne's father was not the most restrained of men. It seemed Astoria had inherited more from him than just the hair colour.
— Is that all? Good day to you.
I took my leave and walked towards the restaurant's exit. I had made my opening move — and infuriated everyone immensely. Now we would see what came next.
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