[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 13

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his "laboratory," Kayneth methodically worked through a sequence of spells with his newly acquired wand.

“Aguamenti… Glacius… Leviosa… Diffindo… Evanesco…”

With a measured focus, he conjured a small amount of water in a bowl from a recently purchased alchemical set, froze it into solid ice, levitated the frozen block, sliced it into smaller pieces, and finally made the fragments vanish without a trace. The process was slow and deliberate, but it required only a minimal expenditure of his magical energy.

Letting out a sigh, Archibald set the mystic code aside and opened his own magic circuits, bracing against the familiar pain. Stretching his palm over the bowl, he murmured:

“Gradation Air.”

Once again, he created water, froze it, levitated it, and then made it vanish. Materialization posed little difficulty—manipulating his elemental affinity for ice was coming to him naturally. Telekinesis, however, proved trickier; compensating for all the external forces acting on an object "manually" was far more challenging. When it came to slicing, the task became downright arduous.

Among magi of the Association, the preferred method for cutting was to form a tangible blade with magic—air, sand, ice, water, metal, or even light. Rarely did they resort to curses or conceptual attacks designed to sever the target directly. By contrast, dematerializing an object to reclaim some of the energy expended in creating it was a relatively simple task.

The core of his issue was glaringly clear. Kayneth was an adult magus with an established style and a set of honed mysteries deeply ingrained in his consciousness and reflexes. While he was open to exploring new forms and methods of magic as a researcher, learning to execute them instinctively was another matter entirely.

Everything about this process was alien to him—the gestures, the mindset, the energy manipulation. Archibald wasn’t a "one-trick pony" magus, as some were. He was a master of three distinct disciplines, with a broad enough knowledge base to competently teach others, but the way magic was channeled and utilized in this world clashed with his existing repertoire. Simply integrating local techniques wasn’t feasible.

“Aguamenti,” he repeated.

A clear image of the desired outcome formed in his mind. He followed with a precise gesture, the mystic code drawing ambient mana to the spell. A short incantation stabilized the process, allowing the magic circuits to interact seamlessly and complete the mystery. Once more, water filled the bowl.

Fundamentally, the spell was akin to "Gradation Air," materializing magical energy into a tangible, familiar form. The difference lay in its limitations—it could produce only water. Drinking it was pointless; the liquid would either dissipate or pass through the body without effect. However, it could be frozen into ice, fashioned into a weapon, or used to douse flames and break obstacles.

For over a week, Kayneth had been experimenting with the local mystic code, which was ubiquitous in this world. The results were... mixed. As a mana concentrator and amplifier, the wand was exceptional, rivaling relics from the Age of Gods. With it, Kayneth could execute mysteries effectively, but the process was painfully slow. Each spell demanded prolonged concentration, leaving him vulnerable in any potential duel or combat scenario.

If he wanted to pass as a local wizard and establish himself in the magical community, he would need to rebuild his reflexes from scratch. This meant selecting a core set of spells to master first, a daunting task given the vast repertoire even within the British school of magic. Creating his own spells was another possibility, but first, he needed to adapt.

However, part of him resisted. The idea of conforming to the local methods felt like surrender, as if he were erasing what little remained of his former self. Kayneth had already lost nearly everything—his fiancee had died in his arms, his noble family was likely in ruins, and their crest, crafted over centuries, was obliterated. His magical power was reduced to a fraction of its former strength. His wealth, status, influence, and even his face and name were gone.

All that remained were his knowledge, skills, and the remnants of pride as Lord El-Melloi, the ninth head of the Archibald family, a scholar and instructor of the Clock Tower. That sliver of pride, which he had once cast aside, now anchored him. It was the only thing stopping him from ending it all—from throwing himself off a bridge or freezing his blood with a short aria.

The refusal to yield to circumstances a second time, however faint, kept him moving forward. Even as a "Muggle-born," a "mudblood," despised and powerless in this society, he persisted.

Had he been born into even a modestly respected family, his path would have been less arduous. Presenting himself as the heir to a minor lineage would have made navigating the social hierarchy far easier. But no such opportunity existed. The global magical community was too small for an unknown seventh-generation pureblood to emerge from nowhere. Any fabricated lineage would quickly be exposed by the Confederation of Wizards.

And so, he had to maintain his facade as an eager novice, quietly amassing knowledge and strength for his eventual ascent. Anything less was unacceptable.

He picked up the wand again and stared at it with grim determination. If he was to play the part of a wizard, he would become one of the most talked-about wizards on this island—at the very least. Anything less was beneath him.

“Aguamenti… Glacius… Mobiliarbus Aqua… Engorgio… Waddiwasi… Evanesco…”

Late into the night, Kayneth’s work was interrupted by the arrival of MacDuggal. The squib stepped into the library, a large, empty sports bag slung over one shoulder. Kayneth hadn’t activated the barrier on the door, allowing MacDuggal to enter unimpeded. Without looking up, the magus gestured toward a "demonstration" table, where a collection of trinkets and small metallic objects were already prepared for him.

MacDuggal obediently began filling his bag, but instead of leaving immediately, he dropped onto a low stool near the desk and spoke with deliberate weight:

“Don’t mean to interrupt, James, but we’ve got a problem. There’s trouble brewing, and it could land right on our doorstep.”

Kayneth, seated amidst five open books, reluctantly paused his calculations and looked up. “What sort of trouble?”

“Nothing solid yet, just whispers. But from reliable sources. Word is, someone knifed a big shot’s son at an exclusive club—one of those fancy places with top-tier security, cameras everywhere, bouncers who’ll pat you down like prison guards. The kind of place where you can’t sneak in so much as a hairpin. What’s got people talking is the weapon. The wound was likely made with one of your blades—the ones I sold. Only problem is, it ended up in the hands of some bumbling idiot who couldn’t even finish the job properly. Unless that was the plan all along, and it’s the work of some lunatic,” MacDuggal shrugged.

“None of that matters. The real issue is the aftermath. People are looking for answers, and the trail’s leading back here. Right now, it’s just the club’s ‘management’ sniffing around—they’re embarrassed it happened on their turf, so they’re scrambling to save face. But if that kid’s father decides this was a personal attack on him, things could escalate fast. That’s when we’ll have real problems.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. MacDuggal,” Kayneth began with feigned politeness, his irritation clear, “but isn’t handling clients, orders, and misunderstandings entirely your domain? And since when is a weapons dealer responsible for how a buyer uses the merchandise? This isn’t law enforcement we’re dealing with.”

“In theory, you’re right,” MacDuggal admitted, leaning back. “And just so you know, we’re not out here naked with a bag of goods. I pay my dues to the people who matter—a tidy ‘tax’ for the privilege of doing business, even with the esoteric stuff. And we’ve got protection—one of the stronger ‘umbrellas’ in London. They take care of competitors and the police if they dig too deep.”

“Then why am I listening to this?” Kayneth asked sharply, his patience thinning. “Why waste my time with something outside my interests, especially when it’s already being handled by the people you’re paying for that very purpose?”

“I said ‘in theory,’” MacDuggal repeated patiently, as though explaining to a child. He’d learned over the past few months that James’ understanding of certain things could be… detached. “Everyone would want to say that agreements between bosses are ironclad, unbreakable. But in reality? The powerful break rules whenever they want if they think they can get away with it.

“No one knows exactly what went down or how serious it was, which means no one knows what the fallout could be. Worst case? They’ll come at us, ignore all the rules, maybe try to pressure us. In other words, they’ll lean on us hard, maybe even threaten us, ignoring any agreements. If they see it as the lesser evil to protect their reputation, they’ll do it. I’m small-time—my operation isn’t big enough to warrant a sit-down between the bosses. They’d rather squash me, pay my ‘umbrella’ an apology, and move on. They’re not starting a gang war or shaking up alliances over someone at my level. They’ll resolve it between themselves, but by then, I’ll already be out of the picture.”

“What exactly do you want from me?” Kayneth asked, his head beginning to ache from the constant barrage of underworld slang. “More weapons? Defensive items? You already have a bracelet with an air shield, and I doubt you even take it off when you sleep.”

“No. We wouldn’t stand a chance in a real fight—not even with all your fancy tricks,” MacDuggal replied bluntly, ignoring the glare Kayneth shot him. “I’ve already informed the right people, and hopefully, they’ll settle things at their level. But we still need to be prepared for something underhanded. They might send a couple of thugs with nothing to lose—to silence us quietly.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Kayneth asked again, more tired than angry now.

“Just be cautious. James, whether you’re really who you claim to be or not, you’re an ideal target for kidnapping. If they’re tailing me, they might not even know your role in all this. Hell, they could think you’re just my mistress and her kid stashed in a flat,” MacDuggal said dryly. “Kidnapping you would be a great way to pressure me.”

“Even better than you realize,” Kayneth muttered darkly, memories of hostage situations flashing through his mind.

“Glad to see you’re catching on,” MacDuggal said, not entirely missing Kayneth’s tone. “If you can’t limit your trips to Whittington, at least take someone with you. Like the driver I had pick you up after that explosion—he can keep an eye on you until this blows over. We’ll see where things stand once the higher-ups finish their talks.”

“It’s unnecessary. I can take care of myself,” Kayneth said firmly, rejecting the offer of a guard. “Especially when it’s not a matter of life or death. Haven’t I already shown that I’m more than capable of protecting myself?”

“Situations can vary. Besides, you’re not allowed to use magic in front of witnesses,” MacDuggal countered.

“And your thug is allowed to pull out a gun in the middle of London? This isn’t Somalia,” Kayneth replied with a sharp edge.

“As I said, situations can vary,” MacDuggal repeated patiently. “At least think about it.”

“If I have the time, but I doubt I’ll come to a different conclusion,” Kayneth dismissed the warning with a wave of his hand.

“Fine… If you’re so confident in your abilities. But I’m assigning someone to guard this apartment regardless. Even if you can lock yourself in here, Miss Stone remains unprotected, and she knows things. Don’t argue.”

“If it makes you feel better, what can I do? Just keep them out of my affairs, and I don’t care otherwise.”

“Good. The guard will start tonight. If you need an escort, just call, and I’ll send someone immediately.”

“Fine, fine. If I need one, I’ll let you know,” Kayneth replied, exasperated.

“Good to hear. Well, with that settled, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait,” Kayneth said, stopping him. His tone turned serious. “Answer one question first. I need more data for my analysis.”

“Yeah? What’s it about?” MacDuggal asked, intrigued.

“What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word ‘wizard,’ Mr. MacDuggal?”

“You’re kidding, right?” MacDuggal stared, incredulous. After all the serious discussion about threats and danger, this was the follow-up question? Maybe he’d misjudged James’ maturity after all.

“This is an important question. Take it seriously. I’ve already asked Miss Stone and a few others through her, but I need a larger sample.”

“…Why?” MacDuggal asked, still bewildered. But then he recalled how James never engaged in idle chatter with his ‘stepmother,’ sticking strictly to business. If he’d discussed this with her, it must be relevant to some arcane aspect of his research. “Fine, whatever. A wizard, huh? Okay… An old guy in a robe and pointed hat, usually with a long beard. He’s got a staff or a wand. Alternatively, maybe a broody gothic type in his twenties, dressed in all black, but that’s more of a ‘sorcerer’ or ‘warlock.’ Both can do all kinds of magical stuff—summon fire, make things disappear or appear out of nowhere. Turn people into frogs or tree stumps, curse them, or heal diseases. They show up out of nowhere, babble some cryptic nonsense, and then vanish again. Usually, they carry a magic book or scroll. And they live alone in a tower.”

“Interesting. And what about ‘witch’?”

“A hag. Old, ugly, covered in warts, maybe with a hunchback. Or the opposite—a stunning young woman, usually a redhead or a brunette,” MacDuggal replied without much hesitation. “Wears a black cloak or dress, sometimes a pointed hat, flies around on a broomstick. Brews nasty stuff in a cauldron—mushrooms, fingernails, whatever. Keeps a talking black cat or an owl. Can curse people too, but their magic is weaker than a wizard’s. They live in forests or swamps, places no one in their right mind would go.”

“Fascinating. So far, this aligns pretty consistently. Thank you, Mr. MacDuggal. You’ve been helpful. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Sure, no problem,” MacDuggal replied with a shrug. As he left, he thought again about how peculiar the magus was. On his way out, he asked Miss Stone if James had actually talked to her about something like this. Meanwhile, Kayneth, oblivious to the exchange, had already plunged back into his thoughts.

Since his conversation with Granger, he had become genuinely interested in how wizards and witches were perceived in the mundane world. It seemed trivial at first glance, but it might hold the key to an answer that had eluded him.

In the Clock Tower, two mechanisms for amplifying magical power were often discussed: secrecy and openness. A spell or ritual could grow stronger the fewer people knew about it—hence why the most potent mysteries were family secrets, confined within a single bloodline. Conversely, certain disciplines like alchemy or exorcism became more powerful the more practitioners studied and refined them.

For non-magical people, the activities of the Association remained a mystery. Any incidents or breakthroughs were swiftly erased by enforcers or executors of the Church, relegated to rumors or urban legends. But here, it seemed wizards had chosen a different path. They either shaped their lives and image to match popular folklore or manipulated cultural depictions to align with their reality.

It wasn’t hard to imagine the Ministry of Magic being incapable of such subtlety, but wizards in the U.S., where much of the world’s films, TV shows, and books were produced, might have actively curated their portrayal in mass culture.

The goal, as always, would be the same: enhancing their power. The beliefs and perceptions of ordinary people might carry less metaphysical weight than those of magi, but there were far more of them. This principle was similar to how Heroic Spirits summoned for the Holy Grail War grew stronger based on their renown in history and myth. The more famous and embedded a figure was in the collective consciousness of the current generation, the greater their abilities.

If the local wizards—deliberately or not—harnessed this mechanism to strengthen certain mysteries, it could theoretically explain much. The proliferation of flight, the astonishingly low "cost" of teleportation, the hundreds, if not thousands, of familiar-like owls capable of near-instantaneous travel, and other phenomena suddenly seemed less fantastical.

Perhaps even the enchanted fireplaces were connected, though no one he’d questioned had mentioned them yet. Maybe their function tied back to some larger ritual structure…

To validate these conclusions, Kayneth knew he would need to conduct a series of experiments. First, he would attempt to recreate commonly used magical mysteries without their external trappings and then compare their effectiveness, calculating the theoretical influence of human belief as a coefficient. But that was a project for the future. For now, the basic hypothesis was sufficient for planning the application of "popular" mysteries like instant teleportation and flight, as well as exploring their integration with other spells and rituals. These experiments would also yield the necessary practical material to refine his theoretical framework. 

Perhaps in the future, he might involve other wizards in this research, assuming he could pique their interest in the idea. Magi born to non-magical families might be more receptive—it would be far easier to persuade them to brew potions in aluminum pots over a Bunsen burner, under electric lights, dressed in lab coats, and recording the process on camera, than to explain to an aristocrat what a video camera even was or how the aforementioned burner didn't run on elderwood twigs.

Speaking of magi born to non-magical families—today was July 16th. That meant in two days, on Saturday, he had his third scheduled meeting with Granger to discuss the magical world and magical theory. So far, this arrangement had proven productive. In exchange for explaining various mechanisms of magic, Hermione eagerly shared information about British wizarding society—its concerns, its trending topics, albeit from her personal perspective and limited by her interests. She also provided advice on practical uses for wands in spells, classroom settings, and even for entertainment, along with insights into the daily life of magical school students. Granted, her perspective was significantly biased against pureblood families, but her reasons for such views were not without merit.

The next step in his plan was approaching. Hermione had mentioned that at the start of August, after receiving her mandatory letter, she planned to invite friends and go shopping for school supplies along with many other students. This was a moment Kayneth couldn’t afford to miss. He fully intended to accompany her, even if it meant swallowing his pride and "inviting himself along." The chance to observe the current generation of wizards up close was far too tempting to pass up.

Closing the notebook he'd been using to study the theory of "cultural influence" on the amplification of magic, Kayneth considered what might capture Granger's curiosity next time. ‘Perhaps I could introduce the concept of partial materialization,’ he mused, his gaze falling on a dagger hilt lying among his work tools—its guard intact but its blade missing. Then again, during their last discussion, she had surprised him by asking if a conceptual spell could be used on an object with the same concept to enhance rather than overwrite it. He hadn’t expected her to draw such a conclusion but had confirmed that it was indeed possible. Perhaps their next session could focus on the mystery of Reinforcement, and they could explore how to adapt it for use with wands.

If someone had told him six months ago that the heir of the Archibald family would be experimenting with spells alongside a first-generation magus, he would have laughed in their face. Yet here he was. If he wanted to achieve anything from his current, precarious position, he would have to accept such realities.

“Mr. Granger. Mrs. Granger. A pleasure to meet you.”

“So, you’re the new friend Hermione’s been talking about? James, right? She’s not forcing you to listen to all her thoughts on her latest books, is she?” her father asked in a mock-serious tone, shaking the boy’s hand.

“Your daughter was kind enough to help me prepare for school, Mr. Granger. A remarkably generous gesture on her part,” Kayneth replied smoothly.

This polite exchange played out near the entrance to the magical quarter, where Kayneth waited for Hermione, who had chosen to shop for her school supplies with her family. It wasn’t as though she needed them to come along—she frequently visited Diagon Alley alone and paid for her books herself. Her parents couldn’t offer much practical advice here. Perhaps it was their way of showing interest in their daughter’s life? Kayneth couldn’t say. Growing up in an old magical family, he had little idea what it was like to live among people utterly ignorant of magic. Wizards and non-magical people led such different lives, facing vastly different challenges.

“Alright, enough with the teasing! Let’s go!” Hermione said, blushing as she grabbed her parents’ hands and practically dragged them toward the door, making sure they didn’t veer off under the influence of the barrier. Kayneth followed them at a leisurely pace, saying nothing.

“I can never get used to this,” Mrs. Granger remarked, not for the first time. “Your legs want to go one way, but you’re supposed to walk straight ahead. Such an odd sensation!” She handed a bundle to her daughter. “Here’s your robe, sweetheart. I don’t see why you need to wear these in this heat.”

“It’s tradition,” Hermione replied glumly, quickly pulling the black fabric over her sweater and adjusting it so her house crest was prominently displayed. Then she turned to James. “And you’re going dressed like that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Kayneth replied, looking over his outfit. Back in July, preparing for a "public appearance" and growing tired of the stares his “non-magical” jacket drew in the magical quarter, he had ordered a custom-made coat from a boutique in Diagon Alley. It was a copy of his favorite cloak—thin, with wide sleeves and long tails, in dark blue (adjusted for his current size, of course). In his opinion, it was stylish enough not to draw attention in either mundane London or its magical counterpart. If anyone failed to appreciate the understated elegance of a well-tailored garment, that was their problem, not his. “I doubt I’ll stand out in the crowd.”

“Hermione, maybe you should consider a dress styled like a robe? It would look lovely with your uniform,” her mother suggested.

“Mum, don’t start.” Hermione groaned. “Besides, something like that would cost a fortune.”

“Better to spend that money on books…”

“What was that, Dad?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Their first stop was the bank. Hermione wasn’t accustomed to carrying large sums of wizarding gold and exchanged her pounds for galleons each time she visited. Kayneth stayed slightly behind, letting Hermione explain everything to her parents. What held his attention was the sheer chaos in the normally bustling quarter. Children and teenagers of all ages—except the very young—filled the streets, accompanied by their parents, older siblings, or guardians. Narrow streets and small shops, never designed to handle such crowds, only added to the congestion. Kayneth shuddered at the thought of what this place must be like in late August, when procrastinators rushed to complete their shopping at the last minute.

Besides exchanging currency, the bank was also the designated meeting point for everyone else.

“It looks like we’re the first ones here. I don’t see anyone else yet,” Hermione remarked, glancing around. She quickly dashed up the small steps to the bank’s entrance, trying to get a better view over the crowd.

Kayneth sighed, watching her. At the moment, even a twelve-year-old girl was half a head taller than he was. Adjusting to a height below six feet had been almost as difficult as adapting to weaker magic circuits and the loss of a family crest. He had somewhat acclimated to the changes, but it was still a struggle to look up at everyone around him. Fortunately, he’d grow out of it with time, though enduring several years like this would still be a trial.

“Harry! Over here!” Hermione suddenly called out, waving excitedly and disappearing into the crowd.

Taking her place on the steps, Kayneth noted that the elevated position indeed offered a decent view. He watched as Hermione ran toward a messy-haired boy wearing glasses, who stood next to a towering figure over seven feet tall, with a thick beard that nearly obscured his eyes. The man’s appearance matched her description of a school employee descended from both humans and giants. In a different time and place, Kayneth would have eagerly studied such a hybrid in detail. The combination of immense strength, resilience, high magical resistance, and even rudimentary human intelligence offered fascinating possibilities. 

In his original world, giants, ogres, and other jotunn hadn’t survived the Age of Heroes, apart from a few rare relics. Hybrids like this simply didn’t exist there. With such a base, one could craft anything from chimeras to high-quality undead, especially if enhanced further with magic and rituals. The potential for creating a familiar with human-like size, excellent magical resistance, high combat abilities, and decent trainability was tempting to say the least.

Kayneth’s thoughts were interrupted when a group of wizards joined Hermione. Most of them had bright red hair, and their clothing, while clean, was old and patched—surprisingly so, given the existence of household spells for repair and upkeep. Meanwhile, the half-giant departed, cutting through the crowd with ease. Hermione led the group toward the bank, where a round of introductions began. Her parents, apparently meeting her school friends and their families for the first time, were being introduced to everyone.

“These are my parents, Thomas and Michelle Granger. And this is Arthur and Molly Weasley,” Hermione began, introducing the adults first before moving on. “This is Percival, Fred, and George—or is it George and Fred?—Ronald, Ginevra Weasley, and Harry Potter.” She pointed to the lone dark-haired boy among the group of redheads. Then, as if remembering belatedly, she added, “Oh, and that’s James Murphy, my acquaintance.”

“I prefer the term ‘apprentice,’ Miss Granger,” Kayneth corrected politely, descending the steps toward them. “There’s no need to shy away from calling it what it is. After all, the work of a teacher, though challenging, is noble.”

“Oh, young lady, you’re taking on students after just one year of school?” Arthur Weasley quipped, pretending to be astonished as he noticed Hermione turning red. “It seems Professor McGonagall needn’t worry about finding a worthy successor.”

“Seriously, Hermione, I knew from your letter that you were busy with your studies, but I didn’t think you’d gone so far as to start teaching others. That’s over the top, even for you,” Ron chimed in, sounding entirely sincere.

“I’m only helping him prepare for our school!” Hermione exclaimed, her cheeks glowing. She pointed at Kayneth with an almost accusatory finger. “He’s a Muggle-born like me and knows practically nothing about our world or how it works. And don’t tell me that Ministry pamphlet counts as a proper introduction to the magical world… Oh, sorry, Mr. Weasley.”

“It’s quite alright,” Arthur dismissed her concern with a wave. “I’ve always said we need to be more welcoming and open toward Muggle-born wizards. It’s not the Dark Ages anymore. But unfortunately, the Ministry is full of people who love flaunting their names and lineage—like the Malfoys…”

“Speaking of, I just saw Lucius Malfoy and Draco in a shop in Knockturn Alley,” Harry interjected.

“Did you?” Arthur immediately grew serious. “What were they buying?”

“Actually, it looked like they were selling something…”

Listening intently to the conversation about the fraught relationships between the Ministry and pureblood families, Kayneth quietly stepped away to avoid drawing attention. Half his objective was already complete. By August, he had concluded that he’d been fortunate to encounter Hermione Granger. By first-year standards—and especially as a first-generation magus—she was remarkably gifted. More importantly, she possessed a relentless curiosity about magic. There might be students even more talented among the hundreds of those entering Hogwarts, but expecting to find such a candidate would be tempting fate—something Kayneth had learned not to do. Hermione knew an impressive amount for her age and was eager to share it with anyone who showed interest. If he maintained contact with her, then in a year, when it came time for him to enter the school, no one would question how this so-called Muggle-born had acquired so much knowledge. Advanced magical theory might still raise eyebrows, but at least the basics would have a plausible foundation—he could always cite books, just as Hermione did.

Meanwhile, the group split up. The Weasleys, along with Harry, descended to the lower levels of the bank to access their vaults, while the Grangers stayed upstairs to exchange their pounds for wizarding gold at the goblin counters. Kayneth mused on how goblins—mythical creatures thriving in the heart of 20th-century London—had become so ordinary to him that they no longer provoked the same awe as when he first arrived. Although he wouldn’t pass up the chance to dissect a few goblins for academic purposes, the opportunity wasn’t likely to present itself. He could only hope that advanced years at Hogwarts included a detailed study of magical creatures, perhaps with anatomical specimens for hands-on work. But that, he admitted, might be asking too much.

As soon as the wizards returned from the bank’s lower levels, the group began splitting up. The red-haired twins darted off toward the shops, Mr. Weasley pulled the Grangers toward the nearest pub to chat about "Muggle matters," and the others found their own activities. Mrs. Weasley, determined to bring some order to the chaos, stepped in to organize the group.

“In an hour, everyone meets at the bookshop to buy school supplies,” she instructed firmly. “And no wandering into Knockturn Alley—this applies to all of you.”

“James?” Hermione, about to head off with Ron and Harry to browse the shops, paused and gestured for him to join them.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on a reunion of friends, so I’ll let you go on your own,” Kayneth replied. He turned to Mr. Weasley instead. “Mr. Weasley, if it’s not an inconvenience, may I accompany you?”

“Not at all! The more Muggles, the merrier. With my job, I rarely get a proper conversation with even one, let alone three. Come along, let’s not linger.”

In the dimly lit pub, illuminated only by candles and a few weak magical spells, Kayneth was seated at an old wooden table. Before him was placed a glass of soda, while Mr. Weasley fetched an oddly colored beer for himself and the Grangers, firmly refusing their attempts to pay. Manners came first, even in the face of modest means. Arthur immediately launched into a barrage of questions, starting with what Muggle bars were like, what drinks they served, and then jumping to Muggle sports and politics—topics that seemed common subjects for bar conversations, as well as causes of the occasional chair-throwing brawl.

Kayneth mostly stayed quiet. Playing the part of a young boy unfamiliar with bars, football, or parliamentary debates came easily. Mr. Granger ended up fielding the bulk of Arthur’s enthusiastic curiosity. Kayneth couldn’t help but feel irritated by the segregation enforced by the Statute of Secrecy and the magical community’s disdain for technological progress. But Arthur’s wide-eyed interest in the Muggle world—his almost childlike delight in hearing about the Conservative Party’s victory over Labour in April—softened that irritation. It was so genuine that Kayneth briefly considered what might happen if Arthur learned that Muggles had also invented mustard gas and carpet bombing. Would his fascination survive the revelation?

“…You know,” Arthur said wistfully, “I often dream of taking all the unused vacation days I’ve accumulated over the last decade, then arranging for someone to find me unconscious on a beach somewhere. They’d take me to a hospital as a John Doe with amnesia, and I’d have six glorious months of asking endless questions. I’d learn how everything works in the Muggle world—why they do some things one way and not another. But where would I find the time? I can’t even take a week off, let alone months.”

“If you’re serious about such a ‘vacation,’ I could help,” Mr. Granger offered earnestly. “I know plenty of doctors. The treatment a hospital gives a random vagrant versus a distant relative of a colleague with memory loss is worlds apart.”

“Mr. Weasley, if I may,” Kayneth interjected, seizing a lull in the conversation to steer it toward something more intriguing, “you work at the Ministry, don’t you? May I ask what your role is? Are you, perhaps, an Auror?”

“Ministry, yes. Auror, no,” Arthur replied with a dismissive wave. “We’re on the same floor, sure, but my job’s far less glamorous. I head the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

“Oh, fascinating,” said Kayneth, the magus who profited from such misuse, feigning genuine interest. “So you’re the head of the entire office?”

“Well, it sounds impressive,” Arthur admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “But it’s just me and one other person. I’ve been asking Amelia for additional staff for years, but it’s a low-priority department. We’re not chasing Dark artifacts or hunting rabid werewolves. No, it’s all about cleaning up after some joker enchants a staircase in the Underground to act like a slide with a ‘Glisseo’ charm. Two dozen Muggles break their arms and legs, but hey, they didn’t die. A few days in the hospital, a bit of Skelegro and they’re back on their feet. No harm done, right?”

“Muggles don’t have Skellegro, unfortunately,” Mrs. Granger pointed out dryly.

“True, true. But my superiors don’t care about those details. Or take that case of the student who enchanted his walking stick to act as an umbrella. Great idea, right? Except someone nicked it at the train station. We spent two days running around London trying to track it down before any Muggles saw it in action. Otherwise, Obliviators would’ve had to work overtime erasing memories.”

“How does it even work?” Kayneth inquired, growing more interested. The more he learned about the Ministry’s inefficiencies, the more reassured he felt about the safety of his and MacDuggal’s ventures. “If you’re part of the ‘Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office,’ does that mean there’s such a thing as approved use? Say I wanted to enchant a fountain pen so it never runs out of ink—would that be legal?”

“There’s a guidebook, Compendium of Permitted Enchantments and Charms, about this thick,” Arthur spread his fingers to illustrate its size. “It covers all sorts of things dating back to Arthurian times, if not Roman chariots. Anything listed there, wizards can enchant however they like. But of course, they can’t pass it on to or display it to Muggles—unless it’s to a trusted Muggle like you folks. For anything not in the compendium, you’d need to file for approval or lobby to have the item added. Otherwise, it’s a fine and confiscation.”

“Hermione mentioned that wizards have both a train and a bus service,” Kayneth noted.

“Correct. Both are Ministry-run, so they gave themselves permission to enchant them. It’s far harder for individual wizards to get approval. But you’re interested in enchanting, young man?” Arthur asked kindly.

“For now, only in theory,” Kayneth replied. “I can’t even buy a wand yet. But I’d like to give it a try when I start school.”

"Write if you need advice. I’ve seen enough charms in my line of work to fill a couple of guidebooks. I won’t pretend to be modest—I know my way around them," said Arthur.

"I’d be most grateful, sir," Kayneth replied sincerely.

“By the way, aren’t we running late?” Mr. Granger asked suddenly, checking his watch.

When they arrived at the bookshop, they were indeed late. A massive crowd had gathered in front of the building, something Kayneth had never seen before. Apparently, a popular author from the magical world was making an appearance today, and their fans were swarming the store in a near frenzy. The bright red hair of the Weasley children could already be spotted inside through the windows, meaning the rest of their group had arrived earlier.

The four latecomers made their way to the door, only to cross paths with a tall, blond wizard emerging from the crowd. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black robe adorned with silver accents and carrying a cane topped with an ornate silver handle, he exuded an air of superiority. Despite the dense throng, he moved gracefully, as if gliding through, his gaze sweeping over everyone with a palpable sense of disdain. Behind him followed a younger boy, who bore a striking resemblance to the man—likely his son or nephew. The boy’s similarly expensive robe didn’t help him navigate the crowd with the same poise as his elder.

“Lucius…” Arthur Weasley’s voice dripped with hostility as he faced the blond man head-on.

“Arthur,” Lucius Malfoy replied coolly, giving him a disdainful glance. “I see you’re keeping busy, no time to get out and about? I hear there’s quite the commotion at the Ministry again—these raids on homes and shops. Do they even pay you overtime for that? Judging by what I’ve seen,” he added with a pointed look toward the shabby appearances of the Weasley family visible inside the shop, “I’d guess not. Hardly worth tarnishing a wizard’s name for.”

“We have very different ideas about what tarnishes a wizard’s name,” Arthur responded coldly.

“Of course,” Lucius said with a faint sneer, his gaze shifting to the Grangers with the same condescension.

“Mr. Malfoy, what an honor to meet you,” Kayneth interjected smoothly. This was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up—a chance to speak with a member of one of the old magical families face-to-face.

“An honor?” Lucius repeated, raising an eyebrow with mild amusement.

“‘An honor?’” Arthur echoed in disbelief, clearly less impressed by Kayneth’s declaration.

“Of course,” Kayneth continued, his tone as earnest as he could muster. “To see the head of a family with nine centuries of history, whose members have made remarkable contributions to various fields of magic—how often does such an encounter happen?”

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, young man,” Lucius said, tilting his head slightly, his expression tinged with curiosity. The boy’s plain attire made it difficult to place him—was he part of the Muggle contingent, or not?

“James Murphy, sir. A wizard in the first generation, so it’s unlikely you’ve heard of me. But I’ve read much about your family. Your ancestors’ achievements in potioneering and alchemy are particularly impressive.”

“For a Muggle-born, you show a hint of knowledge and manners. But unfortunately, your choice of company ruins it,” Lucius said, his gaze sweeping dismissively over Arthur’s worn and faded robe. “What’s the purpose of this? Realized you’ve chosen the wrong side and decided to beg for protection from someone more… appropriate?”

“Would you even consider it? Offering patronage to a first-generation wizard, not even third or fifth?” Kayneth inquired with feigned naivety.

“Of course not,” Lucius scoffed. “I’d refuse a third-generation wizard just as easily, or even one from the fifth. I’m merely curious what’s running through your mind. Still, at least one of your kind understands their place and recognizes the importance of bloodline. That’s refreshing. Perhaps Britain isn’t entirely lost yet. Keep aligning yourself with the right priorities, and one day, perhaps someone important might not find it beneath them to speak with you. But that day is far from now. Come, Draco—we’ve wasted enough time here. See you at the Ministry, Arthur,” he added icily, walking away without so much as a nod. The Muggles nearby were treated as if they didn’t exist.

“Another Mudblood. Where do they all come from?” Draco muttered loudly enough to be heard as he passed. His disdainful tone made it clear he barely considered Kayneth worthy of acknowledgment. It seemed the only thing keeping him from physically bumping into Kayneth or stepping on his foot was the unwillingness to dirty himself.

“My apologies for that,” Arthur said to the Grangers after the Malfoys departed. “Unfortunately, the magical world isn’t perfect, and some relics of the past still linger. But we’re fighting against it, as you’ve probably noticed. And James…” Arthur turned to Kayneth with a mix of concern and frustration, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What were you thinking? Were you seriously trying to align yourself with the former followers of You-Know-Who?”

“Of course not,” Kayneth replied calmly. “He wouldn’t have taken me anyway—I’m far beneath his notice. I just wanted to understand what kind of man he is. It might be useful in the future. I’ve never spoken to a pureblood like that before. Not like you, but… a real pureblood.”

“And? Did you learn anything?”

“Yes. It was very enlightening,” Kayneth admitted honestly. He hadn’t been merely fooling around; he’d played the part of a first-generation magus as the old families would expect—deferential, humble, and eager to align with authority. Malfoy’s reaction had been roughly what Kayneth himself might have given not so long ago: not outright hostility, but condescension. ‘Come back when you’ve proven yourself worthy, child.’ It was a mindset Kayneth could work with. Either Malfoy was also playing a role, or the goals of his side in the past civil war were far more complex than mere indiscriminate slaughter.

“All in all, it’s best to avoid crossing paths with old families unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’m glad you figured that out so quickly,” Arthur said with visible relief. Straightening, he glanced at the crowded entrance to the bookshop. “Well, enough about that. More pressing question: how are we going to get inside?”

“I’d prefer to wait out here,” Kayneth said. “I doubt any of us are desperate for the author’s autograph, and they can manage to buy a few schoolbooks on their own, can’t they?”