Breakfast moved quickly — I had arrived somewhere in the middle of it rather than the beginning, and everyone else was in a hurry to eat well and head off to get changed for the traditional assembly in the Hogwarts courtyard. So barely forty minutes later, I — along with most students in third year and above — was standing in the inner courtyard listening to McGonagall's admonitory speech to the effect that trips to Hogsmeade were not a right but a privilege, and since we were all attending the last outing before the exams and none of us had been barred, we were all doing splendidly and ought to keep it up.
Daphne, truth be told, took some finding — I spotted her only after we'd all passed through the castle gates. In a dark dress below the knee and a robe, with her black hair loose and a pair of nearly imperceptible silver accessories, she looked more a witch than most of those around her. Of course, beyond all "witchly" competition stood McGonagall with her expensive yet understated black gown to the floor, emerald robes and broad-brimmed pointed hat — but she was an entirely different category of witch, an entirely different order.
— Hello. You look wonderful, I can't take my eyes off you.
— Hello, — she smiled, and even gave a rather coquettish tuck to a strand of hair. — And you look very well indeed.
Daphne took my arm as we walked in the gradually spreading crowd of students who paid little attention to anything around them.
— Girls look at you constantly, you know, Hector.
— Do they? I don't pay much attention. I think I noticed it once, and left it at that.
— Really? I thought boys liked attention from girls. At least a little.
— Don't misunderstand, but why should the attention of many matter, when what matters is the attention of one?
— You've gone and made me blush.
She was, however, clearly pleased by the answer — and I had simply said what I thought on the matter. Nothing more, nothing less.
— Are you without Pansy today? I thought we had some plans — outings, a celebration of sorts for the titles. No?
— The girls and I already celebrated back in the room. A quiet little gathering, just us. Though word spread to other years soon enough. And then came the usual bridge-building, the performative warmth, the rest of it. Yet not so long ago people were giving me sideways looks for seeing a Muggle-born. And such a handsome one, at that.
— Doesn't the double standard bother them at all?
— For instance?
— Seeing a Muggle-born is in poor taste. But they envy you for seeing someone handsome, and never mind that I'm Muggle-born. Odd, isn't it?
— Yes and no. It's hardly surprising that girls like handsome boys. Boys like pretty girls.
— Fair point.
The crowd thinned as we drew closer to Hogsmeade.
— And so they short-circuit, — Daphne made a characteristic gesture at her temple. — It's no secret to you that Pansy likes you?
— Given that she keeps a collection of my wizarding photographs…
— It's a rather good collection, actually, — Daphne smiled again. — I think I may have to buy it off her. Or at least have copies made. She could earn a decent number of Galleons from it… Actually no, that won't work. The market's already cornered.
— Is it? By whom?
— Do you know the two brothers from Gryffindor? The younger years. The Creeveys.
— Of course I know them. They're in the same club as me, if you'll recall — the one we're still not supposed to mention, though after Umbridge's departure I'm not sure why the secrecy is still necessary.
— That's true… I hadn't even thought of that, — Daphne looked momentarily thoughtful, though only for a moment. — All the same, the Creevey brothers trade in wizarding photographs within Hogwarts. Anyone and everyone, and you can order anonymously. They have a genuine talent for the photography, which is why they're the only ones people buy from.
— Strange. I remember they used to run about with their flash cameras, photographing everything in sight.
— They invested in more professional equipment, — Daphne gave an almost imperceptible shrug, as we were by now nearly at Hogsmeade. — It's a profitable business. Not as profitable as artefacts, but certain photographs command quite a handsome sum.
— What makes them so special?
— Situations, emotions, poses, expressions — it's all animated, remember. Apparently there used to be a belief among ordinary people, after the invention of photography, that it stole a piece of the soul. But a wizarding photograph captures mood and emotion quite precisely, sometimes amplifying them visually. Those on the surface, at any rate.
— Hmm, that explains why wizarding photographs of junior politicians have such wonderfully hollow smiles.
— Ha — yes, rather.
Entering Hogsmeade, the crowd of students dissolved almost instantly into the handful of residents and visitors, scattering immediately to whichever shops and establishments caught their fancy.
— Is there somewhere specific you want to go, or are we improvising? — I enquired, as we had made no concrete plans.
— Let's stay in Hogsmeade, I think. As for plans… — Daphne put on a pensive air, though I was almost certain she'd already decided. — Madam Puddifoot's.
— Oh, — I said, mildly surprised by the manoeuvre. — Without disguises?
— We can combine the first visit with a proper celebration. You know, some of the girls in my House talk about the sorts of parties one can throw — with drinks, food, all of that. That is decidedly not for me. Fewer people, excellent food, pleasant conversation — that's what's needed.
— What about alcohol?
— It only ruins the food. That's what Mother says. And besides — losing control of oneself, an altered state of mind — that is not something that does credit to a witch or wizard.
— If only others thought as you did.
— Everyone finds their entertainment according to their own level of depravity and mental development.
We made our way without incident, enjoying the pleasant warm weather, the morning sun, and the walk for its own sake, arriving at the cloying-pink Madam Puddifoot's and stepping inside. The atmosphere was much the same as before. The proprietress appeared to play with the colour scheme occasionally, and presently there was less pink — more milky tones with décor in various pastel shades. There weren't many customers yet, the students not having made their way here — so virtually any table was at our disposal.
Without a word between us, we chose a small table for two or three, tucked into the far corner of the room — a good vantage point over the entire establishment, and one that few people would look toward, neither the lighting nor the position particularly inviting attention.
An order of sweets and tea, quiet and unhurried conversation, no need to hide behind the masks of respectable people — and we weren't the reckless sort in any case. In short, it all turned out to be genuinely pleasant and calm.
— I wanted to give you something. For — well, for everything, really, — when the first round of exclusive pastries had been dispatched and we were on the second cup of tea, I took the box from my bag and set it on the table for Daphne.
— I was worried my gift might seem out of place, — she smiled in return, drawing from an enchanted clutch — small, cleverly concealed beneath her robe — a small and clearly old book.
— Here, — we slid our gifts across to each other.
While Daphne opened the box and examined the artefacts with evident pleasure, drawing her finger lightly across the engraving, I picked up the book. It turned out to be a clearly old — though not ancient — volume containing, judging by the title, a substantial collection of advanced medical spells. Strangely, they were far more interesting than, and in some cases considerably more effective than, present-day equivalents.
According to what I had gathered from the library, medical spells of the past were far more complex and covered a broad spectrum of injuries at once. The reason was a lack of scholarly understanding of how the body actually functioned. Wizards simply did not know that some of their spells were, from any rational modern standpoint, completely absurd — and so the effects were extraordinary. Nowadays, again if the books were to be believed, spells were far more narrowly specialised, their effects logical, comprehensible, practically self-evident.
— This is an excellent gift, — I smiled at Daphne, who was in no hurry to remove the jewellery from the box but continued to examine it with undiminished satisfaction. — Thank you.
— And thank you. It's very beautiful, and… — Daphne had already read the brief enclosed note describing the functions and providing a short, clear explanation — instructions, essentially. — …Complex work.
She raised her eyes to mine.
— You never stop surprising me.
— Is it really so surprising?
— You don't quite understand, — she was smiling, and I liked it. I could feel, quite literally, the hormones staging their particular dance in my system, though my mind was still holding its ground. Unlike my body — natural responses are what they are. — It is very rare that someone combines something so genuinely useful with something so genuinely beautiful, with such fine craftsmanship.
— Either one or the other?
— Yes. Which is why I say — you surprise me.
Daphne appeared to consider something, and then, as though summoning the courage to reveal some terrible secret, she pushed back her sleeve, drew her wand and touched it to her wrist. There appeared what looked suspiciously like a familiar piece of artefact work. Mine, naturally.
— Well, — a smile was quite impossible to suppress, and I had no desire to. — A familiar item. Made in a single copy, no less.
— Yes. My godfather gave it to me. You made it, didn't you?
— You already know the answer, — I leant back in my chair and picked up my tea. — So Healer Smethwyck is your godfather. I had assumed that someone at Hogwarts might be wearing that bracelet, but still… Hmm.
At which point I inopportunely recalled the operating principles of the artefact and the fact that all those healing, cleansing and restorative circuits had been constructed to a rather rigorous specification — almost as I would build something for myself.
— Oh… — the smile faded somewhat. — I suppose I owe you an apology.
— What for? — Daphne concealed the bracelet again and put her wand away, preparing to try on her new gifts.
— For how the artefact operates. The effect is rather forceful.
— It was quite an unforgettable morning, — Daphne suppressed a laugh with some difficulty. — I was quite convinced my end had come.
— Did Smethwyck not warn you about the intensity?
— He did. But he always exaggerates. In everything, without exception.
— Ah, I see, — I nodded with understanding. — The boy who cried wolf.
— I haven't heard that one, — Daphne put on the bracelet and ring, gave them a small charm, and they disappeared from her hands — I use a similar method, though I add a measure of pure wandless will.
— In brief: there was once a shepherd boy in a village who enjoyed playing tricks on the villagers by crying "Wolf!" The villagers, believing wolves were attacking the flock, would run to help. There were no wolves, of course. Once, twice, three times. In the end, when wolves did come, no one believed the boy — he had always lied. The result: the wolves were satisfied, the flock was gone, and the villagers had no one left to be deceived by.
— What a simple story with an obvious moral. And yet, even things so obvious prove beyond the grasp of so many people.
After sitting a while longer in the café — by now filling up with couples and the occasional group that had come purely for the sweets and cared not at all about the establishment's reputation as "a place for lovers" — we settled the bill and left the welcoming little place, making our way through the shops in search of various small things, be it writing materials or something more useful. There was no particular need for any of it, but sometimes one simply wants to buy something — especially when one is not financially constrained. Within reasonable limits.
We had only just left Madam Puddifoot's when we encountered a group of Slytherins. Nott, the hulking Crabbe and Goyle, and another boy from around third year — evidently attached himself to one of the intra-House factions.
— Well, look at that, — Nott adopted Malfoy's manner from his period of absurd pomposity, though it didn't quite suit him — it wasn't his image. — They don't even bother hiding any more.
Crabbe and Goyle appeared to have decided not to spend the day with Malfoy. Interesting. Was it because Draco had stopped scattering radical remarks in every direction?
— And a poor morning to you, Nott, — I nodded to the group with a smile.
— Enjoy it while it lasts, Mudblood, — he sneered, nose in the air. — The Dark Lord will shorten you and your kind by a head soon enough.
— If I were you, I'd be more concerned about him shortening you. For uselessness.
Nott gave me a nasty look. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a demonstrative glance, shrugged, and fixed their own unpleasant stares in my direction. The third-year was simply there for the company and wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do, but raised his chin proudly just in case. Nott shifted his gaze to Daphne.
— The faculty's becoming overrun with blood trai—
A simple nonverbal — no hand movements, no wand — and Nott went into the wall of the neighbouring building like a cannonball. The impact. A crack of something — not his neck. His arm. And he lost consciousness. The third-year watched the improvised human projectile with wide-eyed shock, while the hulking pair appeared to conclude that maintaining their threatening expressions was no longer required, and visibly relaxed. Quite right — Nott was no Malfoy to them. No need to wade in for his sake. Particularly not in a pointless fight.
— The Dark Lord may indeed shorten someone, I won't argue, — I remarked, looking at the two of them. — The difference is he's over there, somewhere distant. And I am here.
— We're not... — Goyle shrugged. — We're not doing anything.
— He, — Crabbe nodded toward Nott, — talks about nothing but getting back at you. Says you're the cause of all his troubles.
— He's a fool, and all his troubles are of his own making. Why do you lot even bother with him?
The two of them exchanged a glance and said nothing.
— Right. A secret. A plan. A strategy.
They nodded. Well. Too shy to let their somewhat rowdy side out freely, yet perfectly happy to torment anyone weaker — that came easily enough.
— Come on, — I took Daphne's hand. — Take that one to the hospital wing. His arm seems to be broken.
Only when we had put ten or so metres between ourselves and the incident, and more students had begun to fill the street around us, did Daphne speak.
— Incorrigible idiot, — the phrase was clearly aimed at Nott. — Your manoeuvring really got to him. He spends more time at the faculty now talking about pureblood supremacy than Malfoy did in his first years.
— No matter. Let him say whatever he likes.
— He may actually do something. Be careful.
— As should you.
— We don't touch our own, whatever they may be. It's tradition. There aren't many of them left. And that particular one is almost the most fundamental tradition of the House. Without it, Slytherins would never leave the hospital wing.
The rest of the outing went smoothly, without incident. A few purchases, brief exchanges with friendly groups of students, a declined invitation to the Three Broomsticks, and then we were back in the castle. I walked Daphne to her common room — she would spend an hour putting herself in order, as any girl ought, another hour trading gossip with her friends, and by then supper would be approaching. I, meanwhile, set off to wander the castle and consider where on earth Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem might be hidden.
I walked. Encountered the occasional student, most of them first- or second-years who had stayed behind. Eventually I arrived at what seemed a rather inspired idea: the house-elves. They knew everything, went everywhere in the castle, had seen everything. The trouble was that they operated with somewhat different concepts. It was entirely possible that they knew of this object and even knew precisely where it lay, but had no notion that it was, in fact, the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw herself. They might call it anything — and if you didn't know what they called the thing you were looking for, you would get nothing out of them.
Still, I would look in on the house-elves later. In the evening. Or perhaps tomorrow. And in any case, Potter could deal with the searching — the artefact interested me, without question, but I rather doubted the diadem had retained its original properties after the Dark Lord had finished playing with it.
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