Of Rats and Bowler Caps

Harry and Ron were released on Friday evening, but Milo and Hermione were obliged to stay in the hospital wing for the weekend. Gryffindor (and even a few Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw) well-wishers had brought in flowers, candy, and cards to speed their recovery. Milo wondered idly where the students had got them from, because it wasn't like there were any shops in the castle, and students couldn't just leave the grounds.

"Owl-order," answered Hermione when he asked on Sunday evening. "Also, third-years and above can go to Hogsmeade a few times a year."

Milo was disappointed at how... mundane the answer was, but liked the sound of the Hogsmeade trips once he hit third year...

Milo cut off that line of thought quickly. There's no way I'm still going to be here in two years, he thought firmly. Why, Zook and the others are probably already paying to have a whole battery of Divinations cast to find out where I am.

Totally.

...and the reason that's been two months, why, they're probably just trying to find a really good Diviner to do it. Yeah. Totally. Or a Conjurer to Plane Shift me home.

Milo sighed.

They could have at least sent a Sending once in a while, is that too much to ask?

Of course, this all assumes they weren't TPK'd by Thamior because they didn't have me to do, well, everything.

"Why the long face?" Hermione asked, full of concern.

"I think," said Milo, "that all of my friends back home might be dead."

"What?" she asked, her face gone white. "That's terrible! What... why... who... Oh, Milo, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry; that's about the worst thing I've ever heard."

Milo blinked. He'd forgotten that the people here seemed to view death as more than a mild inconvenience.

"It's not so bad," he said. "I mean, this isn't the first time it's happened."

"You don't have to put on such a brave face," she said. "It's only me."

"Where I come from, you can pay to have people brought back from the dead," Milo said simply. "It's really not such a big deal."

Hermione just stared, thunderstruck.

"That's... so..." Hermione paused to collect her thoughts. "You really are from another world, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Milo said quietly. "Everything was really—"

"Hey!" Milo heard a small, sharp voice say.

"Uh, Hermione, did you say something?" Milo asked

"Listen!" the voice said.

"What?" Milo asked, irritated. Milo got a flash of Irritation, Frustration, Annoyance from his empathic bond. "Mordy? Was that you? Since when can you talk?"

"It's amazing, really, it is," the voice (presumably Mordy) said. "You remembered to put a skill rank in Decipher Script, as if you'll ever find any use for that, but you forgot that I got the Speak With Master ability?" Mordy crawled out of his home in Milo's bag, and up his robes to talk to him face-to-face. Hermione had an odd look on her face, watching the exchange.

"Well, I feel like that's more your business to keep track of—" Milo protested weakly.

"I'm your class feature," said Mordy firmly. "Bet you forgot my Natural Armour increased, too, didn't you? No, don't tell me; I don't think my poor, adorable little rodent heart could take it."

"Yes, well, but—"

"And it's been ages since I got any share of the loot," Mordenkainen continued as if Milo hadn't spoken.

"Share of the—"

"That's right, my fair share of the loot. I do all the most dangerous jobs—distracting the Troll, spying on Snape's secret meeting with Lucius—"

"Wait, what—"

"—and what do I get in return?"

"Supernatural power above and beyond that of an ordinary rat, humanlike Intelligence, magical knowledge rivalling my own, the Skill Ranks of a level five Wizard—but that's beside the point. What's this about Snape's secret meeting?"

"Right after you were doing your 'Crime Scene Investigating' in the Forbidden Forest—I'm sorry, are you not taking me seriously? You're laughing."

"It's hard to maintain a straight face," Milo said between laughs, "when you see a rat make little air-quotes like that."

"Stay on topic, would you? Snape snuck out to meet the Smarmy Git's father, before you ask, yes, I could tell by his scent who he was but also because the Oily One called him 'Lucius Malfoy.'"

"And? What did they talk about?" Milo asked, intrigued.

"You know, I got mauled by a cat once, helping you," Mordy said.

"What happened to 'Stay on topic?'" Milo asked.

"I just wanted you to appreciate how difficult my job is, sometimes."

"Yes, yes, you're very appreciated, now get on with it."

"Well, the Sire of Smarm told the Oily One that you weren't a wizard—"

"Not a Wizard?" Milo asked, enraged. "I will end him! I'll show him which one of us isn't a Wizard when I shove some high-powered arcana down his—"

"—and that he wants the Oily One to have you expelled."

"...Huh," said Milo flatly. "Expelled? That's it?" From where he was from, enemies generally wanted you, dead, undead, re-dead, disgraced, disintegrated, detained, and/or devoured. Being expelled seemed so... unimportant. "It must only be Phase One of his plan. First, get me expelled, then, eaten by Bugbears."

"That's what I assumed as well. So, boss, what's the plan? Oh, before I forget, there's this one other th—"

"Okay," said Hermione, as if it had taken her this long to work up the courage to mention it. "What are you doing?"

"Talking to Mordenkainen," he said. "Can't you tell?"

"No," said Hermione. "It sounded like you were spouting gibberish. You can—wait, you can talk to rats? You're a... a... huh. I don't actually know if there's a word for that. A rodenttongue? Rattongue?"

"No, just to this one. I'm the one-and-only Mordytongue," Milo said. He'd forgotten that the Speak With Master ability magically prevented anyone from understanding what he said to Mordy, and vice-versa. Handy, he thought.

"So, what are you saying?" Hermione asked curiously. "Er, that was rude. I didn't meant to pry, or interrupt a conversation, or anything, it's just that it's not every day that—"

"Mordy was telling me that Snape and Lucius Malfoy met secretly in the forest," Milo explained, "and that Lucius asked Snape to get me expelled."

Hermione frowned.

"This was when you went to the forest to investigate the Acromantula?" Hermione asked. "I'd been meaning to ask—what did you end up finding?"

"The Acromantula had a missing fang," Milo said. "And that I couldn't have killed it with the log."

"But, that means..."

"Someone else must have done it, though I didn't see it happen. I would have thought it was Quirrell, but he was very clear about the fact that he was nowhere near the scene at the time. Also, the math on the Experience Points checks out if I split it fifty-fifty with a more experienced character than myself."

Hermione blinked.

"You know, when I was in school, people said I was weird."

"Must be nice," Milo said, "to have a backstory. Seems like a lot of work, mind."

"You... you don't remember your childhood at all?"Hermione was shocked.

"Before I became an adventurer? Not really. I know that at some point, I became a vagabond street thief, but I'm not really sure how that happened."

"But that's so sad," Hermione said, her eyes misting up.

"It let me become a Wizard younger," Milo said. "It's sort of complicated, and it doesn't stand up to close inspection. It's... weird. For me. This only became a problem when I came to this world, it's like... I'm cut off from something. I don't suppose we can change the subject?"

"What were we talking about?" Hermione asked. "Oh, right. Snape trying to get you expelled. Only Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore have the authority for that," she said, "short of the Minister for Magic stepping in personally. It's out of Snape's hands."

"I guess Snape could try to set it up so that they had no choice but to—aw, crap. The potion."

"Milo!" Hermione said. "Language!" she paused for a moment. "Also, what potion?"

"For Snape's detention on Hallowe'en," Milo said. "I thought he was trying to kill me, having me make an exploding potion, but it was a test. I failed."

"Failing Potions isn't enough to have you expelled," Hermione said. "I mean, take Neville."

"Hey!" said Neville from his bunk. He was back in the hospital wing after being mauled by (and they wouldn't have believed it if there hadn't been twelve witnesses) a Flobberworm. Flobberworms have no teeth, fangs, spikes, poison, spit, anything. Their one claim to fame is their (harmless) slimy mucous. They'd quite forgotten about him.

"Sorry, Nev," Hermione said, her face pink.

"No, it's not just about being even more hopelessly incompetent than Neville," Milo said as if Neville hadn't spoken. PCs could be like that around NPCs, sometimes. "Snape told me himself: a newborn with a hint of magical blood could make that potion. All you have to do is stir it, you don't need to think about it or concentrate or anything."

"So?" asked Hermione. "What's your point?"

"I couldn't make the potion," Milo said quietly.

There was a meaningful silence.

"Maybe you had the ingredients wrong?" asked Hermione.

"No, they were perfect. Snape even checked them beforehand. It's not like I kept it a secret, I'm not a wizard like you are."

"Witch, actually," said Hermione pointedly.

"But the only thing keeping me here is that Dumbledore thinks I'm like you," said Milo, "only crazy and deluded—and even worse at magic than Neville."

"Hey!"

"No, that can't be," said Hermione. "If you weren't a wizard, the wards wouldn't let you enter Hogsmeade or Hogwarts. You'd suddenly remember an important meeting and run off, I believe."

"I suppose it depends on the exact wording of the spell. Maybe the wards target everyone who isn't 'a wizard, witch, squib, or magical creature,' or something. I don't suppose you have the spell description in the library?"

"Uh," said Hermione. "I... don't think so."

"More importantly, I've..." Milo's tongue tripped over itself. "I've..." he sighed. "I've already lost. Snape won. I'm going to be expelled."

"No, I think it would take more than Snape's word for something like this. It's completely unprecedented; the Ministry will want to be involved, Dumbledore too—and McGonagall, of course—the department that handles underage magic... the point is, I don't think we need to worry until ministry officials start showing up—"

"Hello!" said a cheerful voice, interrupting Hermione mid-sentence. Milo turned to see a portly (one) little (two) man in a pinstriped cloak and green bowler cap (three! Major NPC) standing at the entrance to the hospital wing.

Hermione gasped, her face completely white.

"Erm," said Milo. "Hello, ah, sir?" he was guessing wildly, but judging by Hermione's reaction, this was either a local king, evil vizier, or Lord Voldemort himself. Milo carefully re-arranged his blankets so they wouldn't impede him if he made a run for the window, and stuffed Mordenkainen back into his belt.

"Oh, that won't be necessary," said the man. "I'm Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic."

Milo blinked.

Aw, crap.

"M-M-Milo Amastacia—"

"—Liadon," Fudge interrupted as he moved to sit next to Milo. "Yes, yes, I know who you are."

Milo licked his lips, which had gone suddenly dry. He wouldn't be up to full hit points until midnight, when his second day of full bed rest finished. He slowly pulled both hands out from under his blankets so they wouldn't interfere with Somatic spell components. This man, as Milo understood it, was king of an entire country of wizards. He probably had access to enough Arcane power to rewrite reality according to his whims.

"I'm afraid there's been a spot of trouble," the Minister said. "I'm sure it's nothing, but it has a lot of us at the Ministry scratching our heads. I'm here with some colleagues—who are waiting in the hall; your mediwitch was quite... severe with them, demanded no more than one of us be let in at a time—who are here to sort it out and solve the little mystery. Shouldn't take more than a moment, really."

Hermione shot Milo a look of absolute panic.

"H-how can I help, m-m-my lord?" Milo asked.

"Really now," said Fudge, "I'm not a lord, you know."

"F-forgive me, your Divine Imperial Majesty!"

The fat little man sighed and removed his bowler cap.

"Just Mister Fudge will do, Milo. And to answer your question earlier, all you have to do is follow me, answer a few questions, and brew a potion. We can have you back to your bed and friends in a few minutes."

Milo panicked. It was the end of the day, and he was almost out of spells. He couldn't prepare new ones until Monday.

"I, ah, I'd love to but I'm afraid I'm... I'm grievously injured," Milo stammered. "I was thrown out a window just the other day, you know?"

"The lovely Ms. Pomfrey assures me that you're in good enough shape to move about, if only for a short time," said Fudge. "And I'm afraid I have to insist. It's quite out of my hands, you see..."

"But you're the—" Milo said, before remembering who he was talking to. Fudge could probably lay waste to armies with a wave of his hand. "...okay. I'll go with you," he said meekly.

"Good lad!" said the Minister as Milo climbed to his feet.

"I want to go with him," Hermione said firmly.

"Er," said the Minister. "Well, shouldn't you stay here and rest?"

"No," she insisted. "I'll be fine, Pomfrey is just being over-protective. I'm not letting him go anywhere alone—you wouldn't believe what happens." Milo grinned; it looked like she was finally grasping Adventurer Rule One: you never split the party.

"Well, um, very well, but let it be known this wasn't my idea."

Hermione weakly struggled to her feet. Her head was still tightly bandaged, as was her chest. From what Milo could understand, witches and wizards—and Muggles, too, likely—had a completely different healing process from what he was familiar with.

Milo moved next to Hermione (just in case) and together they followed the Minister for Magic. Outside the hospital wing's large double doors were four of his flunkies.

"These are my colleagues," Fudge gestured at his underlings, "Mafilda Hopkirk from the Improper Use of Magic Office," he said, pointing at a stern, gray-haired witch, "Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic," Fudge pointed at what Milo could only assume to be a Half-Toad clad all in pink, "and Broderick Bode of the Department of Mysteries," Fudge pointed at a sallow-skinned wizard. "In the back there is Walden Macnair of the, er, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I'm sure he won't be necessary." Fudge pointed at a huge wizard standing head-and-shoulders taller than the others.

"This the little beastie?" Macnair asked in a low rumble.

"Well," said Fudge awkwardly. "That, er, has, ah, yet to be determined. If you'll all follow me?" Fudge asked, with a small gesture. Milo frowned. Is his timid incompetence an act, as obfuscation? Or is he really this anxious all the time? If so, how did he become ruler of en empire of what are, essentially, demigods?

He can't have, Milo realized. Either he's a brilliant chessmaster behind this facade, or...

Fudge led the group into the dungeons, but Milo barely noticed.

...or someone else is the real power behind the throne. But is it Dumbledore, Lucius, Voldemort, or some third party?

Either way, I really need to figure out how to pass Snape's test.

It wasn't that impossible, really. All he had to do was get a cauldron to bubble instead of exploding.

The only catch was that he hardly had any spells left; he'd been using Scholar's Touch to catch up on his reading.

Milo ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn't quite realized how vulnerable that made him at night.

"How long is it to midnight?" he asked Hermione, who checked her watch.

"Less than two hours," she said with a yawn. "It's way past my bedtime."

Milo chewed his lip. He had a plan, of sorts. He just had to delay until midnight, and then delay for an hour while he prepared spells. And then he had to figure out how to make a handful of spells designed for killing orcs in ten-by-ten stone rooms do something they were never intended to.

All the while with the most powerful men in the country breathing down his neck.

Wonderful.

"I'm sure if you just double-check your measuring," Hermione said in an attempt to be reassuring, "you'll do fine."

Milo grinned nervously, then steeled himself. He had the beginnings of a plan in mind, but for that he would need spells.

"So, erm, Milo my boy, where did you say you came from?" Fudge asked.

"Myra," Milo said proudly. "City of light! City of Magic!" The Myrari government, though completely inept at dealing with dragons, goblins, and bandits, nonetheless had a sophisticated system of Divinations set up to detect citizens who didn't add the legally-mandated city motto after saying the city's name. Milo wasn't sure exactly how far-reaching the effects were, so even here he made sure to say it—and, for that matter, think it. Nobody knew exactly what the punishment was for breaking that particular law, because nobody knew anyone who had ever done it.

Personally, Milo suspected that lawbreakers were retroactively erased from the timeline altogether.

"Where is that, exactly?" asked Fudge. "America? Europe?"

"Uh," said Milo. He wasn't sure, exactly, how secret he was supposed to keep his otherworldy nature. On the other hand, Fudge was probably watching him with a battery of Divinations (or whatever the local equivalent was called) to catch him lying. So, I can't tell the truth, and I probably can't tell a lie. "No," Milo said. "Not America or Europe." And now I need a diversion... "Did you see that ludicrous display last week?"

"I daresay! I had more Galleons riding on a Wanderer's victory than were in the Spanish Armada," Fudge said. "Mind, the Cannons were all riding Nimbus Two Thousands," he said. "That must have been the reason. Donated at the last minute by an anonymous benefactor. The Wanderers, though; rumour has it they were on an experimental new broom. Must have been rubbish, though."

Milo's curiosity was perked. If there's one thing every adventurer listens to, it's unfounded rumours told by fat little men. He knew his present situation was dire, but he just had to dig for more information.

"An experimental broom?" Milo asked.

"So I'd heard. Made by a total unknown in Wales somewhere, doesn't even have a proper name yet. It's all very hush-hush, even to me—and I'm the Minister!"

"So, your, ah, Ministership, sir, do you have any guesses about who donated all the broomsticks?"

"Off the record? There's only one family with the wealth and influence to afford a team's set of Nimbuses with a vested interest in seeing the broomstick succeed," Fudge said conspiratorially, "and that's the Malfoys. Mr. Malfoy is on the Nimbus board of directors, you know."

Milo had no idea what a board of directors was, but he didn't care. Everything he heard seemed to be pointing to that family: the manor he first woke up in, Draco's very existence (and at the exact same age as him, too), Lucius in the forest —and wasn't Draco taunting him about Quidditch just the other day?

Milo knew an adventure hook when he saw one.

Later, Milo thought. First, I need to avoid being expelled. Expulsion would be inconvenient and annoying, but it wasn't as if Milo had any vested interest in obtaining a magic education in the wrong sort of magic. Mostly, he just wanted to stay in Hogwarts because Lucius, for some reason, wanted him out.

"Ah, here we are," said Fudge as they approached Snape's classroom in the dungeons. "You know, when I attended this school, this was where they used to lock us when we misbehaved. Ah, the joys of youth."

Without even being prompted, Macnair and Bode each opened one of the double doors, allowing Fudge to enter. Milo was still unsure if the man's bumbling nature was an act or not.

Milo and Hermione followed, with Fudge's underlings behind them.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, and a small group of men Milo didn't recognize were waiting in the classroom for them. Something about the way the group of men stood, and the fact that they were all dressed the same, made Milo think they were some form of wizard police or military. What was the word for that? They had a word for that¸ Milo thought, trying to remember. It was in one of the books he'd read with Scholar's Touch.

Sitting in the middle of the classroom was a small, pewter cauldron. Next to it were the ingredients, such as they were, for Snape's test potion. Snape looked excited, McGonagall worried, and Dumbledore as enigmatic as always.

"In accordance with Section Thirty-Two-Point-One-Four-One-Alpha of the 1634 Statute on Inexplicable Phenomena of a Magical Nature," Umbridge declared in an authoritative voice, reading from a scroll she'd been carrying somewhere on her person, "which states, in the words of the Great Wizard Peabody, 'When something really, really, really wyrd happens, and hear ye me I do mean REALLY wyrd, and lo, it hath never happened before, and neither sir nor gentle lady knoweth what to do, let the goddamned Department of Mysteries handle it, y'hear? And forsooth, maketh sure there are at least a half-dozen Aurors around, if ye know what be good for ye,' the first preliminary inquiry to determine the nature of one entity known as 'Milo Amastacia-Liadon,' of a species yet to be determined, is to be convened, under the supervision of one Broderick Bode of the Department of Mysteries and in the presence of six fully-qualified Aurors of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Also in attendance are Hogwarts Professors Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Severus Snape, Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, Walden McNair of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Mafilda Hopkirk from the Improper Use of Magic Office, and... Ms. Hermione Granger. The objective of the inquiry is 1) to determine the species of the individual in question, 2) if he turns out to be human, whether he is a wizard, squib, or... otherwise, 3) if not a wizard, determine how he got past the magical wards protecting this castle and the village known as Hogsmeade, 4)if not human, to turn the inquiries over to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for study and, if deemed appropriate, execution. Let the inquisition commence."

Umbridge put away her parchment and stepped back.

Milo blinked. Well, he thought, this is unexpected. Bode, the strange, somber man from the Department of Mysteries moved forwards slightly.

"Now, Milo, I want you to understand that these are just preliminary inquiries. There are a lot of unanswered questions, and we're just going to try and see if they're worth looking into is all. That business about the execution is just a formality," he said in a dry voice. Milo had just started sighing with relief when he continued. "Unless, of course, you aren't human, and are some form of hitherto-undiscovered magical creature, in which case you'll be staked, beheaded, buried upside-down in sanctified concrete for a year and a day, then dug up, salted, shot with thirteen silver bullets, cremated, and Disapparated into the sun. In my experience, that'll kill anything short of a Dementor."

Milo laughed weakly.

"So," Milo said nervously. "How, exactly, are we going to go about this?"

"The first test is easy enough. Your Potions Master was good enough to brew us up some Veritaserum. You just have to drink a drop."

"And what will that do, exactly?" Milo asked.

"It'll make it impossible for you to tell a lie," Bode said.

"Okay, hit me," Milo said, and reached out. Snape, with a grin, produced a tiny vial of clear potion from his robes. For one brief, extremely embarrassing moment, Milo wished he were a Bard in order to cast Glibness. Snape poured out a single, tiny drop of Veritaserum into a glass of water, stirred it slowly, and passed it to Milo.

"Er," Milo asked. "How long will this last for? It's not permanent, is it?"

"Unfortunately," Snape said, "It will wear off in a few hours."

"Okay then," Milo said, and gulped the potion down in one go. To his surprise, it didn't really taste like anything, and he didn't even feel different. Dangerous, he thought. A colourless, tasteless potion that makes one tell the truth.

"Now," said Bode. "Are you a human?"

"Seriously?" Milo asked. "That's your test? Yes, I'm a human."

"What town or city are you from?"

"Myra (cityoflight!cityofMagic!)"

"And in which country is Myra situated?"

"The Azel Empire."

"And on which continent is this... Azel Empire located?"

"The Azel continent."

"Milo, are you, in fact, from another world?"

"Yes," Milo said simply. Feeling he had to elaborate, he continued rapidly, the words almost spilling over themselves in an effort to be said. "A few months ago, I was summoned, without warning, to a manor near the village I later learned was Hogsmeade by a group of Death Eaters—"

"Oh, surely we're not believing this nonsense?" interrupted Fudge rudely.

"I must remind you," Dumbledore said calmly, "that he is under the effects of Veritaserum."

"Then he must be deluded. His wild tales are proof of that—surely you can see that, Albus."

"We should wait for Bode to finish," Dumbledore said. "And then make a judgement."

"Very well. Carry on, then."

"Milo, I'll be as direct as I can here," Bode said. "Are you a Muggle?"

"No."

"Are you a Squib?"

"No."

"Are your parents wizards?"

"I don't know."

"Are you an orphan?"

"I don't know."

"Are you a wizard?"

"Hells yes I am," Milo said fiercely. "And anyone who says otherwise has another thing coming."

There was a low murmur from the Aurors present.

"Well, there you have it," Dumbledore said. "From his own mouth and under Veritaserum. I don't think this breach of my student's privacy has to go any further, do you?"

"He could be Confunded," Fudge said stubbornly. "In fact, I'd bet my hat that he is."

"If you were going to come to that conclusion in any case," Dumbledore said with a slight edge to his voice, "then, pray tell me, why bother questioning him at all?"

"The Board of Governors insisted, Dumbledore. It was out of my hands."

"I wonder how many of the Governors are under the impression—mistaken, I'm sure—that their families would be put in danger if they didn't insist?" Dumbledore asked.

"Albus!" Fudge gasped, sounding scandalized. "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing," he said. "I was just thinking out loud. Don't mind me."

"As I am led to believe," Bode said. "Your Potions Master has developed a test which he believes can prove conclusively whether or not you do, in fact, possess any magic. Professor?"

Snape stood up from his desk. He looked... almost happy. Snape happy terrified Milo far more than Snape wrathful.

"Most conventional tests of magic," Snape said in a lecturing tone, "could be fooled if the subject is merely extremely incompetent or weak. Even the simplest of charms can be fumbled by the mentally deficient. That Milo is the worst student of magic to enter this school in a century at least is not in question. What remains to be seen is whether he possesses any magic at all."

Magic isn't a thing you just have, Milo thought angrily. It's something you have to work at. Something you earn. You have to take magic for yourself; it isn't simply handed to you.

"To that end, I have developed a test," Snape continued. "A potion that requires no thought, concentration, knowledge, or effort in the slightest. I will measure out the exact proportions of the ingredients, which will be checked by Albus Dumbledore and any others who wish to. All the boy has to do is pour them into the cauldron and stir once, counterclockwise. If the potion is created, he is a wizard. If not... it will explode, and I will leave him in the more than capable hands of the Ministry to deal with as you see fit." Snape's expression harboured no doubt about what he thought should be done with 'the boy.'

"Er, excuse me," Milo said. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. "Does anyone have the time?"

There was a brief silence. Eventually, Fudge fished a gold pocketwatch out from under his cloak.

"Half past eleven," Fudge said. "So could we hurry this up? Some of us have to be up early tomorrow."

This has to have been deliberate, Milo thought. Someone knows I have limited spells per day—they might even know that I routinely burn my remaining spell slots on Scholar's Touch before bed—and scheduled this accordingly. Why else would the Minister for Magic himself consent to an inquisition at this hour? Surely he has other things to be doing.

"I think it's been established that I'm rubbish at Potions," Milo said nervously. He had to kill time until he could prepare spells. "Would anyone mind if I did a quick read-through of my Potions textbook to make sure I did this right?"

"But you just have to stir it!" Fudge said exasperatedly.

"Better safe than sorry," Milo said. "If I mess up the stir, the whole experiment is void and I get buried in concrete. I might need the extra help. After all, 'help will always be given at Hogwarts—'"

"—To those who ask for it," Dumbledore finished his motto softly. "Very well," he said to the assembled government types, "I think the request is reasonable enough." Dumbledore said it without any particular weight to it, but somehow it was very clear that, even if he wasn't technically in charge here, his word on the matter was final.

"So I'll just run off and grab my text—"

"I don't think so," Bode said firmly. "If you are some sort of magical creature with powers unknown, I don't think we should let you out of our sight. Professor Snape, do you have a copy of whatever your first year textbook is on hand?"

"Accio Magical Drafts and Potions," Snape said, and, with a flick of his wand, a textbook flew out of a nearby bookshelf and into his hand. Convenient, Milo thought. And a lot less expensive than Drawmij's Instant Summons, that's for sure.

Without a word, the Potions Master passed Milo the heavy, and more importantly, large textbook. If there's one thing about wizards (and Wizards), it's that they never use standardized sheets of A4.

Milo made a big show of opening up the book and reading it studiously. Very studiously.

Twenty-eight eyes bored into Milo's head as he, eventually, turned a page and continued reading at a snail's pace.

"Oh, surely this isn't necessary," Fudge said impatiently. "Just go and stir the ruddy pot, boy!"

"How far from the rim?" Milo asked. "How fast? With what length of spoon? No, I'm sorry Minister, but my life is on the line here. If I'm going to stir it, I'm going to stir it right. I'll just be a minute."

Milo turned another page.

Minutes rolled by. Fudge glanced at his watch every few seconds, and began tapping his foot in irritation. Eventually...

"It's after midnight!" Fudge muttered. "Must we play along with this charade?"

"Oh, it's not so bad," McGonagall said. "I can't remember the last time I've seen someone his age—except for you, Miss Granger, of course—studying so diligently."

"What if he's delaying until the Veritaserum wears off?" Fudge asked.

"A simple enough question to answer," said Dumbledore. "Milo, if you would be so kind as to answer, are you studying with the intention of delaying until the Veritaserum wears off?"

"No, sir," Milo said truthfully, and had to stifle a laugh. That is not why I'm delaying.

"Well, there you have it," said Dumbledore. Fudge grumbled quietly to himself.

Milo slowly reached into his Belt of Hidden Pouches and recovered his most precious possession: his spellbook. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted the thick (but small in terms of height and width) tome and placed it such that it was hidden by Magical Drafts and Potions.

Milo grinned as he began preparing spells. Good thing I was bedridden all day, he thought. Gave me my required eight hours of 'rest.'

Spell preparation is a bit of an odd quirk of the Wizard class. It involved carefully poring over every intricate detail of the magic and memorizing it, but also, at the same time, casting the vast majority of the spell. Ninety-five percent of the casting was done during preparation so that only the very final stage had to be done on the fly. The result was that every Wizard went about their day holding, depending on their level, potentially dozens of unimaginably complicated spells all at the point of being almost finished. Each spell was like a sentence that just didn't quite. Was it any wonder that so many powerful Wizards went mad?

"Not like I have anything better to do," Fudge muttered. "Just a country to run, that's all. Don't mind me."

It takes a Wizard exactly one hour to prepare all of their spells, regardless of how many there are. However, a very infrequently used rule allows them to prepare a fraction of their daily allotment of spells in the same fraction of time, to a minimum of fifteen minutes.

Milo could prepare at most seventeen spells per day, so in fifteen minutes he could prepare one-quarter of that (four spells). He chose Prestidigitation, Tenser's Floating Disk, Mage Hand, and Invisibility.

He quickly stashed his spellbook back into his belt and stood up.

"Okay," he said. "Let's do this thing. But if we're doing it, we're doing it right. I'm a Wizard. I shouldn't have to prove that to you—but seeing as how you're forcing me, I want to make sure there are absolutely no doubts after the fact. And for that, I demand your largest cauldron."