When lunch drew to a close, the time came for tea and conversation.
"So then, Hippocrates," the head of the family took the floor. "Tell me, old friend, how it came about that… what came about."
"I take it, William, you're asking how Mr Granger came to be a candidate for my apprenticeship?"
"Precisely. I imagine it interests everyone present."
It certainly did — the Notts in particular, who had composed themselves considerably over the course of lunch, their faces now free of visible irritation. Though the younger Nott's gaze still carried a faint but unmistakable desire to wrap his hands around my neck and squeeze, and squeeze. It seemed the fragment of elf — accustomed over centuries to existing amid the intrigues of his tribe — was deriving some exquisite pleasure from being in precisely this sort of atmosphere. The feeling was something like: I see through every one of you, you foolish humans.
"Oh, nothing terribly special," Smethwyck said, as though the whole business were perfectly ordinary. "I'd never taken on a student before — couldn't find anyone who'd be up to it. Then this one walks into my surgery. Examination, this and that. Extraordinarily gifted as a wizard. Says to me: 'I want to become a Healer.'"
"Mm-hm," William nodded. "And?"
"What, 'and'? And nothing. Sent him back to school to study, set him a rather demanding task — to master various subjects, most of whose books are in the Restricted Section. And to pass his exams with Outstanding marks across the board. Besides which, I thought — perhaps he'd find himself another pursuit entirely. Teenagers, as you know, want one thing today, another tomorrow, a third the day after."
"Mm-hm," William nodded again. "And?"
"And that's the whole story. Not long ago he comes back, tells me he got Outstanding in all his OWLs, mastered the assigned subjects, gained access to the Restricted Section, learned everything he needed, became a potioneer's apprentice, and is generally a fine young man. So I thought — well, let me put him to the test. And so we shall."
"And you needed our hall for that? When are you going to get your own set-up?"
"What are friends for?" Smethwyck said, with theatrical astonishment.
"Fair enough. I'll grant you that. But look at those two…"
Daphne and I were still performing the saccharine-sweet tableau of great love and mutual devotion — containing not a word of falsehood, but the hyperbole was breathtaking.
"Does it not trouble you that your beloved goddaughter is seeing a Muggle-born?"
"I'm a doctor," Smethwyck said, with a shrug — and at that we dropped the romantic idyll and became ourselves again. The irritation in the room seemed to ease; Pansy had run out of lemon.
"And what does being a doctor have to do with it?"
"I judge accordingly. And as a doctor I can say with confidence — there is simply no better match for my beloved princess. Even on something as prosaic as income, Mr Granger will, I am certain, outperform most if not all comers. Oh, and speaking of which…"
Smethwyck turned to me, all enthusiasm and curiosity.
"Mr Granger, are you familiar with your namesake, Hector Dagworth-Granger?"
"You're asking a potioneer's apprentice whether he is acquainted with the founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, the man who popularised potion-making as a discipline accessible to all rather than the preserve of a select few, the creator of Amortentia, and all-round distinguished fourteenth-century wizard?"
"Quite right, a foolish question," Smethwyck agreed pleasantly. "But do you think there might be a family connection?"
"Who's to say, Healer, who's to say," I said, with a shrug. "My sister, Hermione Granger, shows a talent for potion-making, as do I. In her case, however, that talent operates under the pressure of a conviction that one must follow instructions to the letter. As you know, the recipes in textbooks are far from ideal — and even when her instincts suggest doing something slightly differently, she suppresses them entirely. And yet she still manages, by Professor Snape's assessment, to produce potions rated just marginally below Outstanding."
"That really is quite good," Mrs Greengrass said with a smile. "Particularly given Snape's gift for inspiring enthusiasm in his students."
"Enough," said the elder Nott at last, giving voice to his displeasure. "This is utter nonsense."
He set down — with some force and a considerable clatter — the fork he'd been turning in his hands.
"What is the point of all this discussion of some… Mudblood" — the last word was practically spat — "and whatever imaginary ancestors he may have…"
This wasn't Malfoy, who used the word to provoke rather than to wound. This was a deliberate insult, and one that could not, of course, be let pass. A touch of atmosphere — drawn from the storm energy, the completion of whose attunement had opened certain possibilities — a little steel and force in the voice, a slight smile, the right look, and a pinch of enthusiasm.
The light from the windows dimmed, as if on a sunny day storm clouds had suddenly rolled in. The wind howled. A moment later, in the distance, lightning flashed — and a fraction of a second after, came a sharp, resonant crack, muffled by the closed windows, like the snap of a whip. Yes. That is precisely what lightning sounds like up close.
Who was responsible for this? Myself, naturally. A slight ionisation of the air in the room, producing an elusive freshness — ozone. Just a trace, given that it is, in essence, toxic.
Were the wizards surprised by the sudden change in weather? Naturally — and given that it occurred at the precise moment of the insult directed at my person, certain conclusions could be drawn. Conclusions that could neither be confirmed nor denied.
"You ought to keep yourself in hand, Mr Nott, when you are a guest in someone else's home," I said, settling more comfortably in my chair with a smile.
"And to be lectured on manners by a Mudb— Mudb—" Nott was visibly astonished to find himself unable to produce a sound.
"Father, are you all right?" the younger Nott immediately started up.
"Hm?" Smethwyck and Daphne glanced sideways at me — nearly simultaneously — as I sat watching events unfold with perfect composure.
Mr and Mrs Greengrass looked pained by Nott's words, and unsettled by the weather outside, their eyes searching for some open window through which the fresh air might have come.
The elder Nott evidently wanted to gesture something, leap up from the table, or do something to that effect — but I simply held him in place by an act of will. It isn't difficult, when one can direct one's magic not by volume but by precision, working in fine strokes. Something like that is nearly impossible to detect even with good sensitivity.
Nevertheless, I released all influence on the elder Nott. He worked out who was responsible for his rather unpleasant several seconds within moments, and was now staring with a combination of fury and complete incomprehension. And what was I doing? Simply sitting, watching him, tapping an index finger on the table.
"What did you do to my father, you damned M— bastard."
The Greengrasses had noticed something was wrong, but no direct attack had been made. And the exchange of minor magical influences without causing harm — not even inconvenience — well, that was simply what wizards did.
"Ah, Theodore, my dim and hypocritical friend," I addressed my peer. "Tell me instead — what do you imagine compels the estimable Mr and Mrs Greengrass to receive the two of you in their home? You insult their other guests. And moreover, if I recall correctly, you were about to call Daphne a Blood Traitor — and there is no worse insult for a girl from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, is there?"
"Is this true?" Mr Greengrass and Mr Nott looked at Theodore in unison, without any prior arrangement.
Smethwyck, who had been enjoying his portion of the spectacle with considerable satisfaction, grew somewhat more serious at my words.
"You needn't have," Daphne said, touching my arm. "He didn't manage to say it."
"What do you mean, 'didn't manage'?" Mr Greengrass's expression made it clear he wanted an answer immediately.
"I couldn't allow Daphne to be publicly insulted, so I prevented him from completing the phrase. The unrespected-by-me Theodore was obliged to make a rapid and unplanned departure from our company — and that of his friends — in the form of a swift, involuntary journey into the nearest wall in Hogsmeade."
"We will discuss this at home," the elder Nott said, his displeasure now directed squarely at his son — though the younger Nott was not yielding, and appeared to be every bit as stubborn as his father. It was there in both their eyes.
"You, Mr Granger," William Greengrass said, looking at me with a stern, appraising expression. "Could have challenged young Theodore to a duel over the insult."
"Hah," Nott junior raised his chin with hauteur. "As if I would agree to a noble duel with this… Granger."
"Ah yes, the question of birth," said Mr Greengrass, nodding with an air of profound understanding and sympathy — making clear yet another mark against my "non-magical" origins. "And what would you have done in such a case?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," I said, with a shrug. "Simply — had the insult been completed, had the fact come to pass, and had my hypocritical friend declined a duel, he simply would not have left the hospital wing. Neither he nor his associates. Every single time I found myself in his presence, he would have found himself in the hospital wing. As one option. Alternatively, the Nott family might have found itself suddenly and thoroughly destitute. You have, if I'm not mistaken, already encountered that particular difficulty? How was that? Did you enjoy it?"
I continued sitting comfortably and tapping my finger on the table, watching the Notts' attempts to preserve their dignity. No, I genuinely could not work out what they wanted here.
"Daphne, my dear," Mrs Greengrass finally decided to join the conversation. "Why did you not tell us about your conflict with Theodore?"
"I didn't want to damage what is, however marginally, a beneficial financial arrangement between our families — not over the words of one intemperate idiot."
Yet another stone aimed at the Notts.
"Very grown-up of you," Mrs Greengrass said with an approving smile.
"I am compelled to acknowledge the unworthiness of my son's conduct" — the Notts clearly wanted something here, something they needed more than the Greengrasses needed from them — "to offer my apologies and to promise that certain corrective measures will be taken."
Was that their particular idiom? Corrective measures. I found myself mildly curious as to what manner of spectacular adventure that phrase implied — both from the mouth of Mr Malfoy and from that of the elder Nott.
"Nevertheless," Nott continued. "Why not hold a duel between my son and… Mr Granger? Particularly as the esteemed Healer Smethwyck is here precisely to assess the skills and capabilities of his potential protégé. And Theo is an outstanding duellist — he is even a member of… a certain interesting club at Hogwarts, where he shows excellent results."
For some reason, these words brought on an irresistible urge to glance at Daphne and catch something interesting on her face — surprise, perhaps. Which is precisely what I did, and Daphne did likewise — and the look we exchanged made clear to both of us that we had no idea what he was talking about. Could Nott junior have been feeding his father tall tales about his own achievements?
"Has he indeed?" Smethwyck, for whom none of this held any particular weight, looked genuinely enthused by the proposal — unlike young Theo himself, who had gone visibly pale. "That would be rather good. I confess I've somewhat forgotten what average, good, and outstanding skill looks like in a student after their fifth year — it's been a while. I think a duel would help clarify certain nuances of a wizard's technique and thinking. And if your son is as capable as you say, he'll certainly force Mr Granger to show what he's made of."
"May I watch?" Pansy arranged her face into an expression of maximum innocence. "I want to see and remember every detail of this unique occasion."
Once again I noted how poorly accurate information travels among students — and what reaches parents, judging by all indications, is pure fiction. Though was that really surprising? From what fragments I retained of my own previous life's memories, I — like everyone else my age — had concealed from my parents nearly everything possible, and bad news most of all, while magnifying successes. Lying is the province of those who are afraid, or those who are weak — or those who combine both those charming qualities. Which is why I had long since abandoned outright lying, so as not to accidentally cultivate in myself the desire to hide behind it, to seek temporary psychological refuge from problems instead of seeking their solutions.
"Indeed, Hippocrates," the senior Greengrasses were clearly in favour of the idea — no doubt privately hoping that Theodore would give me a thorough lesson in the duel.
This was no longer interesting, or amusing, or easy. I'd far rather have gone up against Romanova, or someone stronger — at least that would have been of some use. Instead, these "pureblood" adults — Smethwyck excepted — were all looking at me with conspiratorial satisfaction, as if to say: Ah! Now the Mudblood will learn the full extent of the difference.
Daphne touched my arm, offering her support — not in the matter of the duel itself, but regarding the adults' attitudes. Pansy was obviously already anticipating a result quite different from the one the adults were hoping for. Nott junior was frantically trying to work out what to hit me with, how to win at all — and, in case of defeat, what excuse to offer.
"Well then," said Mr Greengrass, evidently pleased that the talking was over, rising from the table — and all of us rose with him. "Let us proceed to the hall."
Our entire company left the dining room and made its way fairly briskly through the corridors to a staircase leading down to the basement. There, a spacious stone hall awaited us — its ceilings neither particularly high nor particularly low. It contained almost nothing: a schematic outline of a duelling platform marked on the floor, and a large bas-relief of the Greengrass family crest on the wall. By way of furniture — a soft seating corner in, if you'll pardon the expression, a corner of the room. There stood a small occasional table with someone's notes on parchment, and a cabinet holding parchment rolls and perhaps a dozen books, clearly in active use for whatever the household practised down here. I was quite certain there was a library somewhere — it came as standard in houses of this kind. At the Black house, everything had been scattered across the rooms, with the most important volumes kept somewhere in the master's study — the very architecture of the house implied as much.
"Well then," said Mr Greengrass, in the manner of a host, as the adults made their way to the seating corner, joined by Pansy and Daphne. "Take your positions on the platform."
Neither I nor young Nott asked anything as obvious as "where is the platform?" There was no physical raised surface, but the markings on the floor left no doubt as to where each of us was meant to stand.
"You may use whatever you like — we have a Healer present."
Mr Greengrass flicked his wand. A shimmer ran across most of the hall, signalling the activation of protective enchantments. The same shimmer passed across the walls, floor, and ceiling.
"Let's dispense with the duelling formalities," Smethwyck added. "We have different aims here."
"You're right, Hippocrates," Mr Greengrass agreed, and looked at us. "Say when you're ready."
Nott and I looked at each other.
"Well then, my hypocritical friend — shall we?"
Theo made no effort to conceal what he was doing: he was feeding himself on negativity, and it showed clearly in his eyes. That meant a measure of Dark Magic was coming.
"Let's."
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