A week — that's quite a lot of days, when you say it like that. Seven of them, no less.
Though the irony of that observation is entirely lost when, from early morning to late evening, one finds oneself tied up in all sorts of activities, both social and personal — studying something new, working through calculations together with Daphne, or spending an hour or so on trinkets for the Weasleys' shop.
One thing's a relief — the timetable tends to have gaps here and there, and it's precisely during those gaps that homework can get done, freeing up the evening for more interesting pursuits. Speaking of homework, incidentally, I've started noticing my year-mates rather often, trying their hand at some bit of non-verbal spellwork. But that's beside the point.
Alongside my usual business, I gathered a bit of intelligence on Slughorn through my year-mates and their parents. In the end, I settled on the idea that it might be nice to bring him sweets in the form of fruit — pineapple, above all else. That came from Macmillan's grandfather, who knew Slughorn not only as a professor but also as a notorious sweet-tooth, a great lover of such things. I had to order a fairly sizeable box of sweets, borrowing Hannah's owl for the job — Crumpet, my little owlet who's taken up residence in the owlery, went positively wide-eyed at the mere suggestion he might have to lug that box himself. Wide-eyed, and then he simply played dead. Well, I suppose one can hardly blame him.
On the fourth day... that is, Thursday, our first compulsory Muggle Studies lesson took place. Such a marvel sits on the timetable once a week, though thankfully only the once. The classroom wasn't especially large, but it managed to fit the entire sixth-year cohort in — there aren't all that many of us, in truth.
Everyone might have expected anything at all from this subject, and the sight of the elderly, sharp-tongued, and rather disagreeable little man in the form of Professor Flint only served to convince everyone that these lessons might turn out to be a form of torture. Or propaganda. Or both.
"The school board, the Board of Governors, and various other... 'concerned parties'," he began, rising from behind his desk with those very words, hunched slightly and smirking, "have suddenly taken issue with the rather absurd path your previous teacher of this, admittedly dubious, subject chose to follow. Questions later."
A single glance dismissed a couple of students' urge to ask anything.
"Curious what I'm on about? Studying their technology, for instance. Utter nonsense. It'll get you absolutely nowhere, especially coming from the mouth of a teacher genuinely enraptured by every truly irrelevant little detail. And here's an example for you."
The professor gave his wand a flick, dispelling the attention-diverting charm placed over an object on his desk. A large kitchen blender, old by my own standards but perfectly modern by the standards of the present day, with a wide white base and a large jug set atop it. A row of buttons hinted at various functions and settings.
"Well, we've apparently covered this device, if the records are to be believed. Who'll explain and demonstrate how to switch it on, and what happens as a result?"
Hermione, naturally, raised her hand.
"I'd rather not call on Muggle-borns for this one — it might strike you as too obvious and wouldn't get across the point I'm trying to make."
My little sister masked her displeasure and a flicker of hurt.
"You there," the professor pointed at Parvati Patil. "Chin up."
The Indian girl stepped up to the desk, examined the device, and declared, with due seriousness:
"A Muggle device for grinding up foodstuffs."
"Correct. How does one switch it on?"
"You need, um... electricity."
Parvati found the cord, but stared at it in confusion.
"Something the matter?"
"This is the wrong plug."
"Wrong? How do you mean? The device is right there, and it works."
"But..." Parvati looked in bewilderment at the plug in her hands. "There's only two... two... little things here?"
"And what are we supposed to do about that, then?" the professor smirked, while the whole scene struck me, frankly, as hilariously funny. Though it's worth bearing in mind that I'm familiar with both the magical and the ordinary world, in a considerably more advanced iteration of the latter, at that. I couldn't exactly build a purely technological void-craft with a compact hyperdrive, mind you...
Oh, there we go, new terminology surfacing from memory. Have I really not finished untangling all the associative chains yet, not dug up all the information there is? Though, what use is it, really? Fine, so I recalled that some assault void-craft had a hyperdrive, and so what? Anyone who's read a bit of science fiction could dream that up. A thoroughly useless discovery.
While I was busy navel-gazing, the professor managed to get across a simple point to Parvati, and everyone else besides — small changes in design are enough to render all our knowledge utterly worthless. Well, not "our," not mine specifically. For me, it's all quite straightforward — a different plug shape is designed for different sockets, not English ones. There are a few varieties of those about, but the underlying principle is the same everywhere — live, neutral, earth.
"The trouble is, you may well have studied a specific device, but you still don't grasp its essence, don't understand the fundamentals, lack the basic knowledge and habits a Muggle picks up from childhood onward."
"But... where's the actual problem?" Parvati ventured to ask.
"The problem is that you don't know what types of sockets exist in different countries. What current is being used?"
"Current?"
"Electric current," the elderly professor shook his head. "These days, virtually everything a Muggle owns runs on electricity, one way or another. So then, what current?"
"I don't know," Parvati admitted.
"And no guesses as to how to get the device running?"
"Find the right socket?"
"Logical enough, I suppose. But here's the device, and here's England around you — go on, look. I imagine you've realised there aren't any such sockets here. The problem is that you might well know what the device is meant to do, memorised straight from a textbook, might even have guessed from its shape, since you never actually studied this particular model, only a similar one. But! You don't know the basic concepts and principles involved. Any Muggle would..."
"Not any Muggle..." Potter muttered under his breath.
"Well, quite," the professor caught it and smirked predatorily, a touch of contempt on his face. "There are individuals for whom even a light bulb would be a miracle beyond miracles. We're talking about an averagely educated Muggle, by their own standards. So then — any Muggle would simply guess that an adapter was needed. The only real uncertainty would be the electrical specifications of the socket, and what this... blender... actually requires. But even there, problems are rare, as devices are often fairly universal on that front. The real issue lies purely in the connection. And any Muggle would grasp that a device with a plug like this requires alternating current, running through two contacts, usually identical to each other."
"And the third one? The different one," Parvati held up the plug she was holding.
"The third is the earth. It diverts any excess electricity away in the event of a fault, so the Muggle doesn't come to harm. Plus a few other minor functions. So then, any Muggle would have understood what was going on and proposed a simple, obvious solution — get an adapter. Purely to change the shape of the connection. Right then, Miss...?"
"Patil. Parvati Patil."
"Miss Patil, here's another chance for you. Let's say we've solved the connection problem. Now, if you would, show me how you'd switch the device on."
The girl demonstrated, with reasonable confidence, what she'd press and why, evidently expecting some praise for it.
"Not bad," the professor nodded. "But entirely wrong."
"That can't be right," Parvati said, surprised. "Because everything's just as..."
"As you were taught to memorise it? A model nearly identical to the one you... heh... 'studied' last year has the very same buttons and dials, doesn't it? But I've changed the symbols on them. You're a witch, Miss Patil, pure-blood too, if I've understood correctly. So why, then, did you overlook the change in the symbols on the buttons? A witch or wizard ought to be paying attention to precisely such small details — our very lives can depend on it."
"But it's only a Muggle device."
"And there's another mistake of yours. You assume that, because symbols mean nothing to magic among Muggles, their order and arrangement can simply be ignored? It's every bit as important as anything else. Various symbols, abbreviations, and other notations play an enormous role in Muggle technology. But here's the truly frightening part — they can differ drastically while denoting the exact same thing. The very same device, made by different manufacturers at different times, might display completely different symbols at the input, yet mean the exact same thing. Trying to memorise them all is useless. Entirely useless."
The professor swept us all with a stern glance.
"What's more, identical symbols on different pieces of technology can mean entirely different things. But an ordinary Muggle would orient himself very quickly, drawing on experience, associations, and so forth. On understanding that a symbol on one type of device might mean one thing, while the very same symbol on another device means something else altogether. But what's even more alarming — ten years ago, this device didn't exist at all, and whatever did exist took an entirely different form. What's more, in another ten years, a device serving the same purpose might look utterly unrecognisable. A perfectly useless exercise, memorising any of it."
Glancing at the Gryffindor girl, the professor gave her a nod.
"Do sit down, Miss Patil. One point to Gryffindor."
The girl seemed rather surprised, given she hadn't actually completed the task as set, but nodded all the same and quickly took her seat.
"I want a few points to sink in with absolute clarity," the professor went on, seating himself behind his desk once more. "What, in your view, is the essence of the subject 'Muggle Studies'? I'll answer that for you myself, though by a roundabout route. Behind me lies seventy years of direct work within structures that deal with Muggles. Not as some Minister popping in to notify their Prime Minister and popping straight back out again. Not as some department chasing illegal enchantments of Muggle objects, cracking jokes while trying to guess how telephones work."
Sitting still, it seemed, wasn't in this old man's nature, and so he rose from his desk once more, and, stooping slightly, hands clasped behind his back, began pacing slowly before us.
"The essence of the subject 'Muggle Studies,' its original purpose, comes down to one simple thing — preparing young witches and wizards to coexist alongside Muggles."
A few of the pure-bloods, Slytherins especially, gave a scornful snort, though quietly.
"No need for that. For your information — more than four-fifths of the magical population of England lives directly within Muggle towns and cities, or within their bounds. Whether we like it or not. In Japan, practically everyone lives that way already. Contrary to popular belief, wizards will soon find it impossible to hide themselves from Muggles at all. The Statute of Secrecy was a fine solution in its day, but back then there was far more unclaimed territory to go around. Since then, the Muggle population has grown more than tenfold. But even that isn't really the main problem."
The professor's eyes landed on the blender still sitting on his desk, and with a flick of his wand, he vanished it.
"I've spent seventy years watching and studying how rapidly Muggles are advancing, unravelling the secrets of how the world works. Even now, their leading researchers are asking themselves: 'Why do phenomena and processes exist that, by all rights, shouldn't be able to exist?' Even now, they understand there are forces at work in the world, in the universe, in creation itself, that they cannot see, cannot detect, cannot measure — and therefore cannot calculate. Do you imagine that state of affairs will last much longer? A hundred years ago, they'd only just managed, and purely by accident at that, to detect the harmful radiation given off by certain heavy metals. We were able to detect the very same thing with certain charms some eight hundred years before that, avoiding it without paying it much mind. Now, Muggles detect and study practically the entire spectrum of possible radiation."
The professor had evidently grown tired of pacing before us, and started walking between the rows instead.
"I'm quite certain that within another forty or fifty years, Muggles will be able to detect magic itself. Not see it, not understand it, no. Simply detect it. With their own devices and instruments. At the rate they're progressing now — ten years of study, and they'll be all but seeing us directly. And why am I telling you all this? Because we need to understand, in no uncertain terms, that we won't be able to hide much longer. So what, then, are we to do?"
Nott, it seemed, gave a snort and decided to pipe up quietly, taking advantage of the general silence.
"Wipe them out, obviously, and be done with it..."
"The logic of foolish idiots and idealists," the professor shot back, without even turning to face Nott, continuing his walk between the rows of desks. "And yes, before some of you get any ideas — I am not some Muggle enthusiast, or anything of the sort. But rhetoric built around waging war on Muggles is simply foolish. They have the means to destroy us, themselves, and every living thing on this planet several dozen times over. No magical nation on earth possesses anything close to that kind of destructive power, not even all of us put together. What we need is the ability to hide among them, in broad daylight, without magic, without charms, without any of it."
The professor paused, thought for a moment, then smirked.
"Though, mind you, some rather well-informed wizards might propose an alternative approach. Do you know what certain vampire covens have taken to doing?"
Most of the class flinched at the mere mention of such creatures, without really grasping the extent of the danger they actually posed.
"Well, I'll tell you. Vampires may well be perpetually hungry, dangerous, blood-drinking creatures with an insatiable urge to tear a person's head off and gorge themselves on their blood, but their thinking is remarkably human, all the same. There are few of them, and they're vulnerable. So they've taken an interesting path. They romanticise the image of the vampire among Muggles. Books, their films, their imagery. They're increasingly weaving the vampire into Muggle culture. Not the image of a predatory beast, forever thirsting for a bloodbath, but rather... the image of some brooding prince with a faint touch of darkness about him. A rather peculiar sort of romantic, in eternal life. All devastatingly handsome men, without exception, and beautiful women, driven by dire necessity to feed on blood. Utter drivel, all of it."
Chuckling, the professor returned to his desk.
"But once Muggles are able to detect magic, they'll discover vampires too. And the vampires, exploiting exactly this groundwork they've laid, will only expand their territory further, since the Statute will have fallen by then. A little education, somewhat firmer this time. A public show of disapproval for those unable to control themselves, and lo and behold, on a global scale, everyone adores vampires."
Exhaling, the professor shook his head.
"In light of this forward-looking vision now beginning to take hold within wizarding circles — or, at the very least, for the sake of better preserving the Statute of Secrecy — lessons in Muggle Studies will, from now on, carry their original, their intended purpose. You will no longer be treated to a teacher's fanatical delight over yet another Muggle invention, one of many millions. You will not be memorising the arrangement of buttons," the professor smirked, "nor any other such nonsense. You will not be studying how Muggles differ from us, from wizards and witches."
Sweeping us all with a stern glance, the professor continued:
"You will be studying, however unpleasant it is for me to say it, the ways in which we are the same as Muggles. The differences you'll see plainly enough without my help. If it's ever truly necessary, you'll pick up the technology as you go. To hide among them properly, you don't need to know how to switch on one out of a hundred current blender models — you need to focus on blending in, on not drawing attention to yourself. And it's precisely the study of blending in that we'll be devoting our compulsory Muggle Studies lessons to."
Such a stance was genuinely unusual, in truth. Students who'd taken Muggle Studies before had, more than once, noticed or simply discussed how Charity Burbage, who'd held the teaching post for this subject previously, had generally spoken of this or that device with sheer admiration and enthusiasm. Hermione herself had, on more than one occasion, told her friends from her House that much of what the professor had said, in terms of theories and speculation, had been utter nonsense — including certain social matters, or fashion, which she'd also touched upon.
And that, more or less, was how our first compulsory Muggle Studies lesson went.
Come Friday, closer to evening, we had another Combat Magic lesson. Professor Hunt began proceedings straight away by checking our homework, or rather, the practical portion of it. It was simple enough, as far as I was concerned — just learning to reliably perform one non-verbal offensive spell of our choosing, and one defensive spell, even a basic Protego would do. There'd been a bit of written work too, yes, though I suspect the professor will simply burn those parchments the moment we're out the door.
Everyone paired off, standing opposite each other in what amounted to two rows, and at the professor's command, one side attacked while the other defended. Everyone managed the task without a hitch, practising away, and within a couple of minutes, the check was done.
"I can see you're all rather pleased with yourselves," the professor smirked. "Potter and Weasley look positively delighted, don't they? What's all the fuss about?"
"Sorry," Potter wiped the smile off his face.
"Right, we'll stop," Ron nodded, though his self-control leaves rather more to be desired.
"Feeling ready to fight for real by now, are we?" the professor walked between our two rows, which had turned to face her. "Well, these lot, at least..."
The professor waved a hand towards the Ravenclaws.
"...your outlook on life doesn't exactly let you charge headlong into battle."
Surprisingly enough, a fair few of them really did have optimism and enthusiasm written across their faces.
"Well, I've got good news for you, then. Our next lesson will take a rather different form. Pure practice."
The class erupted into chatter, immediately launching into discussion of what that might mean.
"Quiet!" the professor barked, and complete silence fell at once. "Much better. For this next lesson, I need to split you into two groups. And for that, I need to know your actual skill level. Yes, I can already judge a fair amount from what I've seen, but I need a personal assessment..."
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