In the windows of one of the drawing rooms of the Greengrass house, the sky could be seen blazing with the colours of sunset. Dusk was falling. In the drawing room itself, by the light of a pair of lamps, three wizards sat in armchairs, sipping alcoholic drinks and musing aloud on all manner of topics.
"Ah," Smethwyck stretched himself more comfortably in his chair, right at the edge of what society would deem proper, "it's been a long while since you've dropped by, Lucius. Round anyone's, for that matter."
"Buried in affairs," the platinum blond in old-fashioned black robes spread his hands a little. "Far too many problems this past half-year, year."
"The Dark Lord?" Greengrass smirked knowingly, at which Lucius spread his hands again, but in silence. "I see. That would explain why you no longer pay any attention to Mr Granger."
"No sense in drawing His attention to the boy," Lucius shook his head. "Even Severus accelerated his schooling."
"Yes, about that," William leaned forward slightly. "I was very much surprised to learn of my daughter's examination work for the rank of journeyman."
"Severus simply removed the children from a possible blow, by the most efficient method, complicated though it was — sitting the examination somewhat ahead of schedule. Difficult and dangerous as it was. You understand yourselves, the Dark Lord would certainly have taken an interest in young wizards who had come to study under Severus. The man is far too categorical and unfriendly with his pupils."
"Mm-yes… And no one wants that, I understand," Smethwyck nodded now. "And since we've turned to the subject of Granger… He came out with an interesting notion only today."
Smethwyck and Greengrass briskly enough recounted Granger's thoughts to Lucius, at which Malfoy smirked, swirling the glass of drink in his hands.
"What can I say," he drawled thoughtfully. "In the details, of course, it's all rather naive, but that's forgivable — one has to plunge headlong into this bog more than once or twice to know the nuances and subtleties of politics and other such interactions."
"That much is clear," Greengrass nodded.
"But on the level of the idea itself, the concept," Lucius continued to draw out his words thoughtfully. "There's a certain sense in it. I sometimes catch myself thinking that all of us, the especially zealous ones, are being led slowly but surely to the block. Now then… I can't say much about my own affairs. And what of yours, of what can be told? I can see that a great deal has happened in this time."
"How shall I put it," William faltered.
"Ha, just say it," Smethwyck was anticipating amusement at another's expense. In a friendly way, of course, not out of malice. "In short, my pupil, Hector Granger…"
At this phrase Lucius raised an eyebrow in surprise, in the manner of his old potioneer friend.
"…finally and irrevocably extracted unconditional approval of his relationship with Daphne. Out of, well, him," Smethwyck nodded towards William. "Such is the way of things."
"I'd be rather interested to hear how that came about," Lucius smiled. "As I recall, I too waged no small war with the Blacks in seeking Narcissa's hand. A long epic, that was. Long and difficult, and we were far from able to come together at once. How old were we then? Twenty-three, I think, for me, and Narcissa a touch younger."
"There's nothing to tell," William scowled, like a little boy.
"Looks as though you took quite a beating," Lucius grinned.
"You wouldn't understand, you have a son."
"Oh, don't start…"
"Well, I've nothing to be shy about," Smethwyck shrugged, taking a sip of the strong drink from his glass. "Granger is now my pupil in Healing. I'll be passing on my experience. So in the near future there won't be a single free minute for these little gatherings. I'll be giving him his practical training at Mungo's."
"He already knows all the theory?" Lucius was surprised.
"Tch, give over, it's impossible to know all the theory. But he knows enough. The theoretical portion will be appreciably shorter. And Severus drilled him very well in potions, their application, and the theory of diagnosing the presence of potions in the body."
"And what of you," Lucius turned his gaze to William. "Aside from the contrived complications in your elder daughter's life."
"Tsk…" Greengrass exhaled. "Getting to grips with certain materials and methods for cultivating plants. For the business. I only hope the Dark Lord doesn't start some sort of nationalisation or other incomprehensible activity."
"The Lord's plans are under seven locks to me," Lucius smiled sadly. "As they are to everyone else. No one knows anything beyond the bare minimum required to carry out his instructions."
"And you truly can't tell us anything?"
"I can say only this — that our organisation's financial state is gradually mending. And as for personal matters…" a shadow of unease flickered across Lucius's face. "A certain relative of mine, unpredictable and excessively aggressive, has caught wind of Draco's successes."
"Successes?"
"That was irony, Hippocrates," Lucius shook his head. "It galls her to the core that a Muggle-born can surpass a pureblood in anything at all. And given that Granger surpasses in, well, everything in principle… In short, she's personally taken it upon herself to drill Draco in magic. In magic generally, you understand?"
"Then shouldn't you be glad? If I understand who we're speaking of," Smethwyck was surprised. "Various injuries and Black brutality are a small price. All the more so as the lad's grown now, he'll weather it if he's motivated."
"That's all well and good… Draco stoically endures with all his might. But… That rabid bitch is not the sort of 'mentor' one can entrust one's child to without a second thought. The only hope is Narcissa — if it comes to it, she'll rein in the woman's fervour."
"Well, splendid, then," Smethwyck nodded. "Look at yourself. Grew up like a flower in a hothouse, knew neither grief nor trouble. Was it easy for you after Hogwarts?"
"No, it wasn't easy."
"Well, there you are. Let him get a whiff of life."
Bit by bit the wizards settled into a perfectly ordinary, familiar conversation. One might say this discussion carried exactly as much meaning as those of the regulars in cheap pubs — the Leaky Cauldron, say — save that the topics were more complex and varied, and the speech more refined.
At that same time, in another drawing room of the house, small and cosy, the female half of the Greengrass family sat snugly settled on a sofa, in the persons of the two sisters and their mother. Daphne shared her impressions of the journey, Astoria listened attentively, and their mother kept trying, with leading questions, to catch Daphne out in some slip of the tongue — with middling success, but that made it no less interesting and warmly familial for everyone.
. . . . .
Returning home, many people give themselves over to resting from their affairs and various obligations. Provided, of course, that a heap of unfinished tasks isn't waiting for them at home — dirty dishes and the like. I had absolutely no time to rest.
The morning following my conversation with the wizards at the Greengrass house began with an uncommonly bright morning sun and a clear sky. That was pleasant.
After the obligatory morning routines, which had become such a habit that I scarcely notice all of it anymore, I set off to the ordinary people's office to collect the house plans.
A precise Apparition under the cover of Muggle-repelling and other concealment complexes, and there I was in a narrow dead-end alley between buildings, in London. The noise of urban bustle struck my ears, the sharp blare of car horns. Stepping out of the alley, I merged into the crowd of hurrying people walking along London's three- and four-storey buildings, through narrow lanes amid the dense development. First I shed the Muggle-repelling charms, leaving the eye-aversion in place, and then I dropped that too, appearing in ordinary people's field of vision — not suddenly, but as though I'd only just now been noticed. Though no one did notice — how many people are there about? One more, one less.
I'd shifted barely a block from the office of the little firm I needed, so I got there quickly. And matters were settled quickly at the office itself — no queues form for drafting work, though there were clients all the same, both on my first visit and now. But where on my first visit the client before me had been a stately, polished moneybags — that much was obvious — now it was an ordinary everyman, and judging by snatches of phrases, he needed help with a redesign, but in compliance with all the regulations.
"Good morning," I addressed one of the staff in the office. "I'm here to collect a finished project."
"Yes, good morning," the employee nodded, touching the knot of his tie against his white pressed shirt, checking it, and suppressing a yawn along the way. "Name, surname, order number."
Having given the necessary information, I waited while the employee checked the database on a computer that was old by my reckoning but modern by the standards of these realities. Ten seconds, and the employee raised his gaze to me, smiling.
"It's all ready… sir," he managed to control himself, after all, and refrained from dwelling on my age, showing professionalism. "I see payment has been made in advance."
"Quite so," I smiled too. "Glad to hear it's all ready. Where can I collect it?"
"Have a seat, and I'll bring the drawings within five minutes," he rose quickly from his workstation and went off into an adjoining room.
Taking a seat on an office chair opposite this employee's workstation, I settled in to wait. Office bustle. The rustle of papers, the clatter of cumbersome keyboards, a radio playing in the background — the morning news. At the far end of the office came the tap of a spoon against a mug filled with something — someone stirring.
"…ow, bugger, hot…" the clinking stopped.
Before long the employee who'd been dealing with me returned, carrying a great big tube and a thick stack of bound sheets.
"Will you be checking it over?"
"No," I took the materials and noticed a small seal on the cap of the tube, the marking on its label matching the one on the bundle of papers. "If something's missing, I won't find out straight away regardless. I'll trust your professionalism."
"Glad to hear it," the worker nodded. "Should you need any help with drafting or contacts for conscientious contractors, you're welcome to come to us — we work only with the best."
"Should the need arise — without fail."
And so, tube in hand, I left that little firm, immediately shifting to a spot beside the house and walking the rest of the way to the door on foot.
At home, Hermione was bustling about practically in the doorway, getting ready to go somewhere.
"Oh, Hector, you're back already?" she smiled.
"Yep. And you, I see, are off somewhere? Post handed over, post received?"
"Sorry?"
"Ah, never mind, pay it no heed."
I walked through to the sitting room, and Hermione, clearly all but ready to leave, followed after me.
"And what's this?" she was looking at the tube in my hands.
"The house plans. Collected them today."
Opening the tube, I drew out the rolled-up drawings. A great number of them. No wonder, for besides the architectural part and the rest of the layout, there were the engineering solutions and specifications described down to the smallest detail. And a rather thick stack of bound sheets too, with various information about the project and small drawings.
"I never imagined," Hermione watched with interest as I looked through one sheet after another, "that a house's plans could contain so much… So much of everything."
"Absolutely every little detail has to be accounted for. That's exactly why I didn't take this on myself. By the time I'd studied the material, it wouldn't be a house I'd be needing, but a coffin."
"Hector!"
"What? I'm exaggerating, of course, but I haven't had the time to study all of it. I've quite enough on my plate as it is, right up to the top."
I kept leafing and leafing through, looking it over, and the materials didn't run out. And in essence, this isn't even the most complex — not a small one, mind — a two-storey little mansion with cellars. Judging by the project, by the summary tables of materials and the drawings themselves, the workers at the little firm had really gone all out upon hearing: "A project made from the very best, built to last for ages."
"But you could have asked Mr and Mrs Weasley for help and advice. You get on rather well with them, after all, as you do with their children. Except Ronald. They built their house themselves too. And you'd have saved money."
"No, thank you," I set the papers down on the little table. "In matters like these I prefer thoroughness. With all due respect to the Weasleys, they may have raised their house with magic, but without a preliminary plan, forethought, a proper project, knowledge in this field — and I'm not talking about magic. And they clearly did the house in stages, as the need arose. And so they ended up with a fairy-tale cottage in the country. In every sense, what's more. Although, on the question of certain charms, I'll consult Mr Weasley all the same. Or perhaps not. I prefer to do everything myself."
"That I've noticed."
"And where are you off to, if it's no secret?"
"To visit the girls," my little sister smiled. "Maybe staying over, maybe not."
"A pyjama party?"
"Something of the sort. There's a lot to discuss, each of us got around to plenty of places over the summer. So we shan't be bored. There's food in the fridge…"
"I think I can manage to conquer the kitchen utensils and raw ingredients. At a pinch — I'll conjure something."
Hermione shook her head with mild disapproval, but acceptance.
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