5

In the hall of Granger's house, Robert and Emma were sitting on the sofa. The television was on, but the volume was on minimum. It was nearly midnight - that was what the hands of the wall clock showed.

"I doubt," Robert said, putting his arm round Emma, "that the school idea is a good one."

"Don't worry so much."

"Aren't you worried?"

"Yes, I am," Emma put her head on her husband's shoulder. "But I also see the absurd speed with which he is learning everything new. It's not even a month later, and Hector has gone from speaking badly, holding a fork badly, and not understanding anything around, to a calmly well-versed boy. "

"Yes, he has."

"He mastered your computer in 24 hours. From awkwardly studying the keyboard and those, uh...

"I got it. I got it."

They were quiet for a minute, watching some late-night show on TV.

"The Hogwarts doctor, Madam Pomfrey," Emma spoke up. "Passed a note with Hector. She, too, notes our son's very high learning ability. And a very high brain activity."

"How many percent?"

Emma turned her head slightly, looking reproachfully into her husband's eyes.

"What percent? You're a doctor."

"Yes, yes," Robert brushed her off. "I know the brain is active at a hundred percent, and you have to consider the areas of one-time activity. It's just that stereotypes are... It's like the tongue."

"You mean, the different areas on the tongue, the different tastes?"

"Exactly. Stupidity from a misspelled but correct thought in an old study. But we digress. What did their doctor write there?"

"That right now, while brain activity is high, the best solution would be to load Hector up with various activities. The best thing for him now would be to immerse himself in a social environment."

"But..."

"No 'buts'," Emma glared sternly at her husband, solidifying her point by tapping his chest lightly with her palm. "After all these years... I myself would love to watch my son's finally beginning progress every day. But, for his sake, we should restrain our selfish impulses. Especially since the Professor said that according to the laws of the magical world, a Muggle-born wizard must undergo education. And he will."

"Yes, yes, or else, judging by the innuendo, a perfectly legal spell will be cast, and we ourselves will happily run to give our son to Hogwarts. I don't like this kind of enforcement and stalemate. What's the government looking at?"

"As if anything is going to be done differently for our ordinary society. And, darling, do you really think the government doesn't know about wizards?"

"I just wouldn't want to force Hector to do anything."

"So why don't we ask him tomorrow?"

***

The morning sun was shining through the cracks between the curtains, directly into my eye, and that was how my day began. As I got out of bed, for the umpteenth time I glanced at the boards with my notes, which I had done in a vegetable state - nothing was clear. After getting dressed and reaching the bathroom on the 2nd floor, I washed my face and went downstairs for breakfast - it was just about ready.

Of course, it was not without the usual talk about the weather, but the feast and tea party ended with a different question than I had expected to hear.

"Hector, son," said my father, who was already dressed for his trip to work. "Do you want to go to Hogwarts? To study magic?"

After pondering the answer for a fraction of a second, I decided to resort to a visual demonstration, and picked up one of the buns left on the table.

"I realized that magic isn't just beautiful miracles," I said, turning my gaze from my mother to my father, who was still sitting at the table listening to me with interest. "It is subject to emotion, to mood, to the excitement of the nervous system."

"Even so?" Once again my father was surprised to hear a phrase that not every adult would hear.

"I read it in biology books."

The answer seemed to both surprise and delight my parents.

"Well, there we go. Imagine not being trained to control that. Emotions, resentment, nervous system stimulation, some person..." I defiantly shook my bun in the air. "...hurt me badly. For just a brief moment, in a fit of resentment, bitterness and adolescent hatred, I wished him to disappear."

The neutral magic of my new body responded easily, and the bun crumbled to ashes on the table.

"And he was gone. And I didn't mean to, no. I gave in to emotion."

Willful magic was not what the elf from the memory shards practiced. Not at all. And so, my maneuver was not easy, though the concept was known to him, and now to me as well.

My parents, judging by their slightly pale faces, saw another side of magic.

"It was something that had to be learned. To learn control. I have to."

Of course, that's not entirely true, because I have basic control of magic, or rather, I understand how to achieve it. Right now, my control is just an echo of the past. Like these shards of memory...

The ringing of the doorbell distracted us from such an important topic for parents. As if their consciousness had returned to this world, they froze, and my father went to open the door. I could understand them. The memory of the elf, and the memory of other wizards from whom I got almost nothing but their strongest experiences, is full of moments where parents said goodbye to children who were to be educated. The reluctance to let go, the grief, misunderstanding and fear bordered on joy, because children had to be removed, sometimes from families that could not always support themselves. Those people feared and rejoiced at the same time. Afraid of what they did not understand, but rejoicing that the child would have a chance to come out of the bottom.

Shaking my head and pushing away the ill-timed thoughts, I met Professor McGonagall's gaze as she entered the house. Like in a couple of vague memories from when I was in a vegetative state, this lady looked to be in her early fifties, wearing a black floor-length gown and an emerald robe over it. Strict gaze, neat glasses.

"Mr. Granger. Good to see you in good health," she said dryly, barely smiling. "I'm afraid we haven't been introduced. Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," I stood up and put my hands behind my back and nodded respectfully.

Seeing the slight incomprehension, but also acceptance of the gesture, I shrugged myself off. The primness of this madam pulled out elven reflexes regarding interracial etiquette, and the gesture itself showed a lack of trust, but also politeness and the inevitability of introduction and further cooperation.

"I assume you are ready to head out to buy everything you need for school?"

"Absolutely, Professor."

My parents have already provided me with clothes, so at least in this respect I am not in any way embarrassed. Now, in simple jeans, trainers, a T-shirt, and a thick gray windbreaker, I was riding with the professor on a very strange magical bus that had me all over the place. I had been given an abundance of money, and would have to change it at the goblin bank, I realized.

It took us literally half a minute to reach the Leaky Cauldron. Inside, just like last time, were not the nicest of people. The Professor led me to the back of the establishment, straight to a dead end in the form of a brick wall painted white. Taking out her magic wand, the professor tapped certain bricks, opening the passage. Intriguing. It's not a convoluted space - it's a passage to another plane. I wonder if there are many similar places like this in other dimensions, or is it a stable passageway to the nearest material world? It can well be. Elves used to dabble in such things, though they preferred to create spatial anomalies and grow their Forests there. Looks like a grove of a few trees, but inside is half a continent.

"Welcome to the Diagon Alley, Mr. Granger."

"Thank you, Professor."

The alley really does live up to the play on words implied by its name. A winding stone-paved road, crooked wooden and stone houses with colorful cladding. The ground floors of the houses housed a variety of shops or stalls nearby. Here and there wizards buzzed about in baggy robes, cloaks, coats and gowns. It was hard to find a general style of dress, but there was one obvious thing about all of them: often only their faces and arms were open, and their skirts were as long as their dresses. The men were also dressed in a variety of styles and it was not uncommon to see people in business suits of various styles and colours.

The first thing the professor did was to lead me to a large white building at the end of the street. It divided the street in two like a breakwater. Outside stood the typical goblins in cuirasses and halberds - small, unkempt, with long pointed ears and hooked noses.

The bank hall was spacious, tall and monumental. Rich and seemingly thorough, but the dwarves do many times better, and the richness of the design of the bearded underground smiths is not pretentious, and looks very harmonious. Here, on the other hand, there was simply a stench of superficial importance. Petty goblins scurried back and forth with carts or file folders. The lobby was flanked by tall wooden desks, behind which goblins imitated extremely useful activities.

"Tell me, Professor," I said as we stood in the shortest line to the counters. "Why is the financial system of the magical world run by goblins?"

Several wizards in long but light robes turned their attention to the incipient dialogue, despite the slight noise in the hall.

"Because, Mr. Granger, after numerous rebellions, finances are the few things the peace treaties allow goblins to do."

"I've studied Hermione's first- and second-year books. Now the question boggles my mind. What prompted the wizards to not only keep a race of intelligent and bloodthirsty raptors alive, but to put the management of financial flows in their hands?"

McGonagall looked at me with a decidedly studied look. She didn't seem to be expecting such thoughts and phrases from someone who came out of a vegetative state for the first time in his life as recently as a month ago.

"You ask very serious questions that not every wizard can answer. Since you have approached this question from a brutal but pragmatic point of view, let me answer in a similar vein. Since the last rebellion, as far as I know, the terms of their surrender have been very strictly revised. Not towards the goblins, as you understand, Mr Granger."

I nodded understandingly, and a goblin in a tuxedo, who was walking away from us, grinned predatorily. Involuntarily I reached for the dagger on my belt, which, of course, I didn't have - shard memory, reflexes not biological, but mental. My gesture didn't go unnoticed by the goblin, and he grinned even harder. If the elf's memory is to be believed, then there is a solution to this evil race, and it is the only right one: genocide. For the Greater Good, of course.

Our queue had moved on, and we were one step closer to the customer service counter. A very high counter - even this small detail reveals the unwarranted arrogance of the bloodthirsty runts.

"Apart from that," McGonagall continued to speak. "Goblins make magnificent magical edged weapons, as do other items of various types of metal and steel. The powers that be decided at the time that no one would want to lose such craftsmen."

"How long ago was the last of the goblins' wares created?"

"Oddly enough, hardly anything new has appeared since the last rebellion. But it's worth noting, Mr. Granger, that their work and cost a great deal, and the intended use is combat. This branch of magic is fading into obsolescence these days."

Yeah, right. That's what I believed. It's just that those little guys, if I remember correctly, use their really serious magic through mass sacrifice of sentient beings with magical gifts. No ability to rebel - no ability to capture wizards and other gifted in large enough numbers. Well, that's if you believe the elf's memory shards, and there's no reason not to believe them - the resemblance of those and those goblins is striking. Well, except for the clothes.

"I see. The threat of another but bloodier rebellion was deemed insignificant, given the possible but equally ephemeral benefit of the artifacts."

"There are a number of other reasons, Mr Granger, but they are not as significant. And consider," McGonagall looked at me sternly as we moved up the queue. "That I am by no means an expert in history or politics. I can't even begin to guess what really motivated the wizards of those times, but it certainly wasn't pity. Those weren't the days."

We got to the counter after all, and quickly negotiated a currency exchange. The exchange rate was one gallon to five pounds. The financial system here was as the English like - a pile of coins in multiples of each other's denominations. Gold, silver and bronze. Galleon, sickle and knut. Needless to say, the dwarf's fiddly memories helped him easily see the magical alloy, not the gold, and the goblins in the gems next door as fakes. Everything here is entourage and props, the theatre of one nation.

The next shopping item was the apprentice chest. A good functional thing in the local realities. It can be a table, a cupboard, a trunk, a suitcase. Split compartments with space expansion, easy to use, cheap. The professor immediately shrunk the chest with some kind of spell and took it with her. Will have to remember to enchant the backpack to expand the space.

Next, we bought sets of textbooks for the first three courses and stowed everything in the same chest, enlarging it back for a moment. Potions ingredients were bought and sent to Hogwarts. Also, in three courses - I was to practise in them.

All the little things, stuffs and goods in the form of parchments, quills, inks, various tools and a telescope we bought from the trivia shop, and school uniforms with a few robes from the appropriately named shop: "Robes for all occasions".

Picking up a magic wand is nonsense. More accurately, the procedure is nonsense, but the concept is mostly correct - a wizard cannot choose any ready-made magic tool unless it is made specifically for him beforehand. This is all the truer for a magic tool made of organic components. A wood that looks alike can be so different structurally that it will impart almost opposite properties to energy when passing through it. And the interaction with the wizard can be very different for such wands.

I was standing in the middle of the dimly lit hall, in the dusty back of Master Ollivander's shop. Master Ollivander, an oddly gray-haired old man, handed me various wands, and I waved them around, involuntarily creating various effects. The old man was simply bored, though I could see in his gaze, sometimes looking deeper, or something... I could see that he could pick up a wand without going overboard - he could sense and understand the smallest shades of energy. So, I was not surprised when I got a thirteen-inch acacia wand with a unicorn wool core. When I took it in my hands, the wand's tip burst into a blaze of colorful sparks, and Ollivander lit up with joy.

"A wonderful wand, Mr. Granger! Strong and versatile, though it rejects dark magic, yes. What a pity you lost two years of the wonderful time of your first childhood discoveries in the world of magic."

After thanking Master Ollivander, the professor and I left his shop and headed back to the Leaky Cauldron, or rather, to the transition to the ordinary world. At its very border, I turned around, gazing intently at the Diagon Alley, the wooden houses, the signs and the strangely dressed people.

"Mr. Granger?" Professor McGonagall was standing next to me, waiting for me to cross the boundary first. "Has something happened?"

I stared and compared what I saw to what was left in my memory from the shards. The magical cities, the tall white towers of the human academy of magic with its shining spires, the perfect cleanliness, the magnificent roads, the impressive but elf-unfriendly architecture, the healthy and joyful people. Even towns and villages far from the capital or shopping centres seemed no worse than modern metropolises in terms of quality, that is. And here? Infantile ruin...

"Fugitives."

"Excuse me?"

"Wizards are fugitives. I see a hastily made gypsy camp, flaunting its uniqueness, proud of its plight."

"I do not recommend that you voice that idea among wizards," the professor glared at me as I turned to her. - Even though it may be true to some extent.

She sighed, and with a quick glance to make sure no one was around, continued.

"We wizards cling desperately to the false idea that we aren't cornered, that we've disconnected ourselves from the world. The truth is, we did, but did we do it of our own free will?"

We took the same route back - pub, bus, house. My parents were still at work, but that was normal as of late. As I realized, almost as soon as I'd been transferred to Hogwarts Hospital Wing for treatment two years ago, my parents had been working furiously at their dental practice, and now it was expanding quite rapidly and even had branches. Well, I have a lot to think about and work with.