[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 12

"Miss Granger."

"What? Oh, you’re here already," Hermione looked up from her eighth-grade physics textbook and saw James standing before her. He was dressed exactly as he had been during their first meeting on Diagon Alley. The cool, quiet lobby of the public library was otherwise empty.

"Yes. Looks like I didn’t get the address wrong after all," he replied, his tone carrying a faint note of doubt.

"I work here during the summer. Well, part-time. My aunt is the manager so she lets me." she explained, closing her textbook and standing up. She motioned for him to follow her. Her attire was as plain and unremarkable as ever—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, with no robes or wizarding garbs in sight. "Decent books on... our field don’t come cheap, and I’ve already gone through everything for the first few years. I can’t keep asking my parents for money. At least this way I get to buy them on my own and help out from time to time."

She led the way further inside, adding, "Besides, it’s important to keep up with regular subjects during the holidays. And since it’s the off-season here, hardly anyone comes in. I manage one of the sections by myself, and it’s only part-time. Plus, it’s close to home."

"And you plan to discuss your school here?" James asked skeptically.

"Sunday mornings? There’s no one here except the staff. No one will bother us," she said matter-of-factly as she guided him into the academic section and locked the door behind them. "We have at least two hours, probably more, before anyone shows up. Take a seat—I’ll get the materials."

"Materials?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"I wasn’t going to show up empty-handed, was I?"

As Hermione walked off toward the librarian’s desk, Kayneth took a moment to observe his surroundings. Shelves lined with textbooks, manuals, encyclopedias, and dictionaries; the faint smell of dust and paper; wooden furniture with study lamps—it was a perfectly ordinary library, yet he felt a pang of nostalgia. The selection in Diagon Alley’s shops always felt so limited and shallow. He couldn’t imagine finding an entire section, let alone multiple shelves, devoted exclusively to something like runic magic.

Settling into one of the low chairs designed for children, he noted that while it was comfortable, the size somehow irritated him. He couldn’t help but feel faintly impressed by Hermione’s methodical approach. Their agreement hadn’t included strict obligations—she could’ve spent thirty minutes summarizing her thoughts on Hogwarts, and the deal would’ve been complete. Yet here she was, prepared with notes and materials. Perhaps she was determined to repay her debt thoroughly—or maybe she simply enjoyed teaching others.

"Right, let’s begin," Hermione announced, returning with a large, square bag that looked like it weighed half as much as she did. She began unloading books, scrolls, and notebooks onto the table. In front of her, she laid out a stack of stapled pages, likely notes or a draft. James noticed there wasn’t a trace of magic on the bag—she had carried the full weight herself, without enchantments.

"I decided to focus on the first year. That should be enough for now. Eight textbooks for eight subjects. Well, technically seven—there’s no manual for flying lessons, which I think is a mistake. The theory book is supposed to cover all subjects—or at least, it’s supposed to."

"Alright, the books and notebooks make sense. What about the scrolls? Magical contracts for enrollment?" he asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"No, there aren’t any contracts involved. These are just a few of my essays returned with teacher feedback and grades. I thought they’d serve as examples. Unfortunately, the school requires us to use parchment and quills for graded assignments and exams. And before you ask, the notebooks are my personal notes from non-class time."

"That’s odd," Kayneth remarked. Writing with a quill didn’t particularly bother him—he’d done it before, albeit rarely—but it felt unnecessary. "I’ve heard electronics don’t work at Hogwarts, but ballpoint pens have been around since the 1950s. Why not use those?"

"The most terrifying thing in magical Britain," Hermione said darkly as she flipped through a notebook, "tradition. 'It’s customary' to write with quills. 'It’s customary' to wear robes and use lanterns. 'We’re not Muggles,'—" she mimicked someone with exaggerated disdain.

"That can’t be the only reason. There has to be more behind it," Kayneth countered. He had spent time pondering the peculiarities of wizarding traditions, but the answer always boiled down to "backwardness." "But let’s get to the main point—the school. Skip the tourist brochure bits. I’ve read Hogwarts: A History; I know who founded it, when, and how many towers the castle has. What I’m interested in is how things work now."

"Fine," Hermione agreed reluctantly, flipping past a couple of pages in her notes. It was clear she had planned to spend the first fifteen minutes playing tour guide: ‘To your right, in the courtyard by the elm, there was a famous magical duel in 1734 that captivated all of Europe…’

"Let’s start from the beginning," she continued. "Invitations to first-year students—or transfers—are sent out on July 31st, along with a list of textbooks and supplies. For students like us, the first letter is usually delivered in person by the head of one of the houses, who explains to the student and their parents that magic is real. Shopping happens on Diagon Alley throughout August, though you already know about that. Travel to the school happens from King’s Cross Station on September 1st..."

Kayneth listened attentively, taking notes in his notebook. On a separate sheet, he jotted down questions to ask later. Hermione lacked professional teaching experience, but for an amateur, she was doing reasonably well. She had a clear outline and managed to stick to it without veering off course. It wasn’t perfect, but for a middle schooler, it was good enough—even if relying on such a source left him uneasy.

As Hermione moved on to describe year-end tests, exams, the process of advancing to the next grade, and the tallying of House points—including summer homework—she paused, took a breath, and, mimicking the tone of one of her professors, asked:

“So, are there any questions?”

“Yes, a few,” Kayneth replied, pulling a sheet of questions closer to him. “First—the station and the train. Why go to such lengths, exposing the secrecy of magic to constant risk and wasting nearly an entire day traveling, when there are at least three… options for instantaneous transportation? That would be much faster and safer.”

“Apparition, Floo Network, and Portkeys, right?” Hermione said thoughtfully. “I’ve wondered the same thing, but I found a couple of books on the subject in the Hogwarts library. The explanation is as follows: before the 18th century, every student traveled to Hogwarts on their own—flying, riding magical creatures or horses, or even walking. It was dangerous. Some didn’t survive the journey, including those who ran into Muggles. After the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, such ‘mass migrations’ every year became impossible.

“But Apparition is forbidden in and around Hogwarts. Apparently, the school has incredibly powerful magical protections against everything under the sun, and, as one book put it, anyone trying to bypass them would ‘be smeared across the landscape.’ Besides, Apparating hundreds of students two or three at a time would be exhausting and time-consuming. Floo travel is also restricted. As far as I understand, the fireplaces can be activated or deactivated for transportation, but since the Floo Network is shared, anyone who knows the address could potentially enter. In the past, the school was attacked many times through them during conflicts with Muggles and rival wizard factions, so they sealed that route.

“As for Portkeys, they require effort to create, usually operate on a strict schedule, and the teleportation can cause unpleasant side effects like nausea and disorientation. For about half the students, it would knock them out of their lessons for a week. Initially, the solution was to use magical caravans—essentially trains of carriages accompanied by adult wizards for protection against Muggles. Then, about 150 years ago, someone decided to borrow the Muggle invention of the steam engine and enchant it.”

“And also the station and the railway,” Kayneth added. “It all makes a certain amount of sense, at least within the framework of this magical community. But it’s still incredibly risky. And the sheer amount of magical energy expended on trivialities here… well, I’ve come to terms with it, but it’s no less absurd. Consider the layers of obfuscation: concealment spells on a busy train station, folded space hiding an entire railway platform, and hundreds of miles of track running parallel to Muggle lines, cloaked so it’s invisible to airplanes and nearby trains. There’s secret maintenance for all of it, requiring significant magical resources and years of work to establish, not to mention the annual upkeep.”

“Yes, it was a massive project,” Hermione agreed with a touch of pride. “But it ensures the safety of both the school and the students. Traveling together might be slow, but it minimizes the risk of exposure. Plus, the train makes a few stops along the way to pick up students from Wales and Scotland—not everyone lives near London. The Irish even have their own train and branch line, though it’s not as fancy as ours. Complicated, yes, but reliable.”

“But there’s a much simpler solution. Far simpler,” Kayneth countered. Seeing her puzzled look, he explained, “Ordinary transport. Take a train, plane, or even a bus to Glasgow, for instance. From there, it’s not far—maybe a hundred miles. The magical train could operate in the remote areas beyond, over hills and marshlands where there’s little risk of being discovered.”

“I’d like to see that,” Hermione said with a sudden laugh, clearly picturing something amusing.

“Did I say something funny?” Kayneth asked cautiously. He wasn’t inclined to let a first-generation novice laugh at him without cause.

“Oh no, James, it’s not you,” she said, waving dismissively. “I just imagined Malfoy boarding an airplane… or Goyle staring out of a bus window at London traffic. There’s no way the purebloods would ever agree to that—not even under the threat of the Cruciatus Curse. Neither the kids nor their parents. Not a chance.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s much worse,” Hermione sighed heavily. “Old pureblood families live in their own little magical kingdoms, rarely interacting with Muggles for years. They have their own society, education, transportation, shops, courts, laws, and problems. It’s not that they couldn’t learn to drive a car or take the subway—they simply don’t need to. And since many of them hold key positions in the Ministry and the school’s Board of Governors, we have the system we do.” She picked up a scroll of parchment and waved it for emphasis.

“No exceptions?” Kayneth asked, intrigued. He himself didn’t know how to drive, though he had chauffeurs for that. Among the magi of the Clock Tower, few, if any, held driver’s licenses. However, many enjoyed taking the wheel, usually disregarding traffic laws and signals.

“There are exceptions, thankfully. For example, Ron’s father, from what I’ve heard, is quite the eccentric among purebloods. He works at the Ministry but spends his free time enchanting Muggle objects. He even has a flying car. And he’s generally very fond of Muggles—you could call him a fan,” she said, abruptly cutting herself off before adding hastily, “But I didn’t tell you that. Not about the car or anything else.”

“Of course not. I didn’t hear a thing. I don’t even know his name. Speaking of names—Malfoy. I assume he’s the current heir of the Malfoy family? Are you acquainted?”

“I’d rather never see that prat again!” she exclaimed indignantly before softening her tone. “He’s just unbearable. We started Hogwarts the same year, but, naturally, he’s in Slytherin, the house for purebloods, supposedly. We don’t get along with them in general, but Draco is a nightmare even by their standards. ‘Mudbloods this,’ ‘Muggles that,’ ‘primitive filth’—” She mimicked him sarcastically. “Ugh, just thinking about him makes me mad. And they say his father was a follower of You-Know-Who.”

"Who?" the magus asked, confused. Then it clicked. "Oh, the self-styled Lord. Makes sense if they’re from an old family. And this Ron—if he’s pureblood, does that mean his parents were supporters of… him?"

"God forbid!" Hermione exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously. "Ron may be a bit of a dimwit, but the Weasleys have always stood with Dumbledore and against all that prejudice. Not all purebloods sided with You-Know-Who. Neville—he’s in my year too—his parents fought against him as well, just like many other purebloods."

"Then why did the war drag on for so long if even the old families weren’t fully on his side? Eleven years is a long time," Kayneth observed.

"I don’t know. History classes don’t cover it. Just rumors, whispers—nobody really talks about him openly, not even his name. But if you want my opinion… It sounds like the most influential families among his supporters were stalling any resistance in the Ministry and Aurors, and they blocked efforts to seek outside help. The fight against him wasn’t an organized force—it was more like a militia. And it wasn’t just aristocrats on his side. Plenty of half-bloods and weaker purebloods joined him, hoping to rise in power as his lieutenants when he took over. There didn’t seem to be many Muggle-born among his followers, but I wouldn’t swear to it. The war wasn’t just about blood purity—it was about power. At least, that’s what some books and people suggest."

"Interesting," Kayneth replied neutrally. It sounded more plausible—a typical struggle for influence and resources dressed up as a battle for bloodline superiority. At some point, the infighting had escalated into open conflict. Still, for a more complete picture, he thought it might be useful to hear the aristocrats' perspective, though gaining access to them would be no small task. "But that’s all in the past. Let’s get back to the school and its interaction with the wider world. You mentioned that upper-year students have a subject called ‘Muggle Studies,’ essentially a study of the ordinary world. And it’s not exactly popular, is it? So it’s an elective?"

"There are a few mandatory introductory lessons, I think, but after that, it’s optional."

"And what about 'regular' subjects—physics, biology, chemistry, history?"

"They’re only taught insofar as they overlap with magical subjects. Chemistry shows up in Potions, botany in Herbology, Astronomy and astrology go hand in hand, and so on. But they’re not taught as standalone subjects. There’s no literature or geography either. I study those on my own," Hermione said, gesturing toward the shelves of textbooks and reference books. "The school curriculum is almost entirely magic-focused."

"And from what I’ve gathered, the quality of teaching varies greatly. Some subjects are almost all practical with little theory, while others are the opposite," Kayneth noted, glancing at his list of questions and notes. "For instance, Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by Professor Quirrell. From what you’ve said, it sounds like you didn’t do much beyond copying poorly delivered lectures or transcribing textbook chapters about dangerous creatures like giants, werewolves, and… vampires," he said, still finding it hard to reconcile this world’s concept of vampires with the Dead Apostles he knew. Their weaknesses seemed almost laughable in comparison, though humanity here should count itself lucky for that divergence.

"That’s correct," Hermione agreed, carefully choosing her words. "I suppose he was an advocate of extreme caution, preferring students to master the theory thoroughly before attempting any practical work. But you don’t need to worry about him. Unfortunately—well, maybe fortunately—Professor Quirrell won’t be teaching next year due to an… accident shortly after exams. That position is notoriously cursed; no one seems to last long in it. I won’t even know which textbook we’ll be using until July, which is frustrating. Each teacher has their own approach, and the school has considerable autonomy in this regard. There’s no standard curriculum from the Ministry."

"Well, perhaps it’s for the best if someone replaces him. From what you’ve told me, he didn’t leave the best impression, and the subject seems critically important. As for safety…" Kayneth trailed off, giving her a sharp look. "Correct me if I’m wrong, but according to you, there’s a hostile tree in the school grounds that attacks anyone who gets too close. Quidditch matches regularly result in broken bones, concussions, and players falling from great heights. In Potions, cauldrons can explode or transform into something dangerous, while potions themselves—due to errors or 'pranks'—can become poisons or acids. In Charms, objects can explode, even ones that should be inert. In Care of Magical Creatures, a magical beast might attack a student. In Herbology, predatory plants could do the same. Nearby, there’s a forest teeming with extremely dangerous magical creatures and plants capable of killing—and possibly eating—a grown wizard. Then there are the shifting castle geometry, warped spaces, restrictive barriers, ghosts, poltergeists, three-headed dogs, trolls in the corridors, and the endless pranks between houses involving curses, mental magic, untested potions, and poorly cast Transfiguration spells. Given all that, a professor’s reluctance to include practical lessons seems rather insignificant, doesn’t it?"

"Well, yes, but—" Hermione started, uncertain. She’d mentioned or alluded to all those dangers herself, but she’d never thought of her school from that perspective before.

"Honestly, I expected less," Kayneth remarked with a nod of approval.

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, staring at him in disbelief.

"Fewer threats. But I’m glad the school administration takes its responsibilities seriously and maintains an appropriate standard," he said matter-of-factly.

"An appropriate… standard… of threats?" she repeated slowly, almost breaking the phrase into syllables, as though struggling to comprehend.

"Precisely. Surely, you won’t deny that magic is inherently dangerous, especially with wands that make it accessible even to eleven-year-olds. It doesn’t take much imagination to devise a hundred and fifty ways to maim or kill someone with a wand using just the material from first- through third-year textbooks, without relying on additional magical tools or weapons," Kayneth observed. Hermione didn’t argue—she just shivered slightly. She clearly had enough knowledge and imagination to follow his point. "That’s why it’s essential for students to constantly feel the presence of danger and learn to adapt. They need to develop discipline: following instructions, adhering to recipes, and obeying directions, because mistakes or improvisation could be fatal. Without that discipline, any wizard could easily kill themselves—and likely take a dozen others with them. That said, the school seems to have approached the matter far more thoroughly than I anticipated," he added with a nod of respect.

"I don’t think it’s quite like that…" Hermione replied, though her confidence seemed to waver. "In my opinion, Defense Against the Dark Arts should teach exactly those kinds of principles. Anyway, let’s move on. Any more questions?"

"Yes. From what I’ve gathered, in Charms and Transfiguration, most of the time is spent on practice, as opposed to Defense, where theory dominates. But the theory in these subjects seems to be left for independent reading."

"Not exactly. Specific tasks and spells are explained in detail. For instance, if we’re turning a feather into a pencil or a bird into a goblet, we’re given clear instructions: the gestures to use, the visualization required, what words to say, and in what order."

"But that’s just a set of instructions," the magus countered. "It tells you 'what to do' and 'how to do it,' but not 'why it works.'"

"I got tired of asking 'why' by Christmas," Hermione admitted with a defeated sigh, bitterness creeping into her voice. "Because it’s magic. Because that’s how it works. Because that’s what’s written in the book. Because a stupid Mudblood like me could never understand... and so on. I eventually gave up trying to explain 'why.' If magic is inherently unscientific, what’s the point?"

"Utter nonsense!" Kayneth snapped, his tone one of a geneticist hearing someone claim mice spontaneously generate from straw. Realizing the disparity in their ages and knowledge, he added reluctantly, "Apologies. That was harsh. But how else can you describe the notion that magic is 'unscientific'? Miracles might be anti-scientific; they outright defy natural laws. Magic, however, is an incredibly precise discipline, allowing for no ambiguity or error."

"James, forgive me," Hermione began in an almost condescending tone, as if addressing a preschooler, "but are you seriously saying that you can scientifically explain how a parrot turns into a goblet?"

"Of course," Kayneth replied simply, choosing to overlook her skepticism. It wasn’t surprising for someone with barely a year of exposure to magic to misunderstand its intricacies. Even fourth- or fifth-generation magi often failed to grasp the finer details of mystical processes. "It’s actually quite straightforward."

"I’m listening," Hermione said, sitting across from him with her arms crossed, radiating skepticism.

"Let’s start with this: on the first year, are you taught the concept of 'conceptual magic' and how it functions?" Kayneth asked, ignoring her attitude, though with increasing difficulty.

"Sorry, what?"

"I’ll take that as a 'no,'" he said, a hint of condescension in his voice. "But I assume you don’t need me to explain what a 'concept' is?"

"No need. A concept is an idea or a representation independent of its realization. For example, the concept of an airplane as a heavier-than-air machine capable of flight existed in antiquity and during the Renaissance, but it wasn’t fully realized until about a century ago. Or take the concept of a force field—the sci-fi idea of an invisible barrier or dome that stops bullets and projectiles, keeping out people or machines while being intangible. Science is only now approaching something like that, whereas wizards have already realized it in the form of protective spells."

"Not bad," Kayneth conceded. That was a workable foundation. "Now, let’s take a simple second-year spell, Alohomora, and its advanced variants. What does it do?"

"It unlocks locks," Hermione answered almost indignantly. The simplicity of the question clearly annoyed her.

"Correct. But how does it do that? Here’s a lock—a complex object with an internal mechanism and a keyhole," Kayneth said, pointing at a nearby door for emphasis. "From the perspective of physics or chemistry, it’s just a chunk of metal. How do you define it as 'locked' or 'unlocked' when those concepts are meaningless to physical laws? This is where the conceptual level of reality comes into play. The object has inherent concepts that describe its properties and state. A spell can modify one or more of those concepts—usually temporarily. With magic, you impose a new concept—in this case, 'openness'—to replace one of the object’s inherent concepts. Does that make sense?"

"Scientifically, it sounds utterly absurd," Hermione admitted, though with less skepticism now. "But I’ll concede that it has internal logic. Why only one of its concepts, though, and not all at once?"

"Because you only need to modify one property—in this case, its current state—not its internal structure or location. If you applied the concept of 'openness' to the wrong property, you might not unlock the lock but instead turn it into an 'open space'—essentially, a void."

"Alright, I’ll temporarily accept this explanation. But how does this relate to turning a parrot into a goblet?"

"Simple. The mechanism is identical. Using a spell, you generate a concept—in this case, 'goblet.' That’s relatively easy because it’s a clear and familiar image. Then, with magical energy and your wand, you impose this concept onto the parrot, overwriting its inherent concept of 'parrot.' If you alter only its external appearance, the transformation and subsequent return to its original form will be painless. But if you overwrite not just the appearance but its essence and other properties, reverting it would likely kill the bird, as it would have ceased being a living creature for some time. Of course, such transformations are more complex and require significantly more effort. Additionally, the more energy invested, the longer the imposed change lasts before the world corrects it and restores the original state."

"What do you mean by 'the world corrects it'?" Hermione asked, genuinely intrigued.

"It’s inaccurate to say magic is anti-scientific—it follows strict rules," Kayneth lectured. "However, it’s undeniably unnatural to the physical world. Every magical effect consumes energy, with the cost increasing based on its scale, duration, and level of influence. For transformations, the cost also depends on the disparity between the two objects—both physically and conceptually. Turning a rapier into a saber is much easier than turning a brick into a birch tree. Transforming ice into coal of the same size is particularly difficult because they embody opposing concepts and elemental properties. Magical energy forces the world to accept a change, but only as long as there’s sufficient energy to sustain it. Large-scale transformations are often impossible due to energy constraints. Even Dumbledore would likely struggle to turn the Eiffel Tower into a living Christmas tree—or it would drain him completely.

"Of course, this applies only to direct effects, not their consequences. A magically created blade can cut cloth, and the fabric won’t repair itself afterward. A magically softened boulder can be sculpted into a statue, which will harden again but remain a statue. You can transform a feather into a pencil, but when the magic fades, it will revert to a feather."

"And what about Reparo?" Hermione asked. "A repaired cup doesn’t shatter back into pieces after five minutes."

"Reparo works differently. It doesn’t act directly on the object—it performs a localized, object-oriented reversal of cause and effect…" Seeing her expression shift from understanding to abstracted confusion, the magus sighed and simplified: "You’re not embedding magic into the object. You’re offering your magic to the world, and the world itself 'undoes' the damage, restoring the object. It’s a complex mechanism, internally, but wands make it manageable as long as you supply enough energy and hold a clear image of the result in your mind. Magic has numerous ways to alter reality; it’s wrong to assume it’s all about working with an object’s concepts."

"Strangely enough, that doesn’t contradict what I’ve seen this year or read in books, though with some adjustments," Hermione admitted. "It even explains how things work under the surface. But what do you mean by a 'level of influence'? I can understand 'longer-lasting' or 'broader in scale,' but what’s this?"

"It refers to how much it contradicts physical laws—how 'impossible' it is. Leviosa negates gravity, suspending an object in place. Impedimenta stops it mid-air, even if it was moving or flying rather than falling. The second case disregards kinetic energy, acceleration, and inertia, not just gravity. Therefore, it’s more complex, requires more energy, and is a higher-level spell."

"Why didn’t the professors explain this?" Hermione asked indignantly, her voice rising as if personally affronted. "Surely they know!"

"Of course, they know. Your Transfiguration professor certainly does if she can transform into a cat without losing her human consciousness. But that’s advanced magical theory, the kind taught at academies or to professors themselves. What I’m describing is a highly simplified version, stripped of numerous details and formulas," Kayneth clarified, gesturing dismissively. Naturally, he had to omit most of the complexities and reduce the explanations to a beginner’s level. "Most wizards, I imagine, don’t need to know these details. To use a spell, you only need a compatible wand, practiced skill, and a vivid imagination. I, for instance, don’t know the internal workings of a telephone or the difference between rotary and push-button models, but that doesn’t stop me from making a call. You don’t need to understand the mechanics of conceptual influence to cast Alohomora and change a 'locked' state into an 'unlocked' one. But, as with anything, if you want to know more than the basics, you have to study independently."

"Strange to hear that coming from someone planning to attend school," Hermione remarked. "You know, James, you could learn on your own or with tutors instead of joining the rest of us."

"I know. But I’m a first-generation wizard living in ordinary London. For the next seven years, I’m not allowed to perform magic at home. The accidental magic will subside in a year or two, and then there’ll be no practice—no spells, not even potion-making. Renting a place in a magic-sealed area or traveling daily to a training hall is prohibitively expensive. School offers resources and teachers all in one place. Besides, I could ask you the same question."

"What?"

"From what you’ve told me—about tests, grades, and exams—you’re one of the top students in your year, across all four houses, even outperforming heirs of pureblood families. That either means the aristocracy has declined, or you’re clever enough to surpass them. You could study independently too."

"I wasn’t trying to boast…" Hermione stammered, realizing how James had interpreted her earlier explanation. Her face flushed. "I didn’t mean to come across that way."

"Why be embarrassed? If you’re smarter than others, you should use it to your advantage."

"It’s not like I…" She cut herself off, then regrouped. "Never mind. To be honest, I never considered studying alone. There’s too much in school that’s fascinating to pass up. Besides, there are good people there too—not everyone cares who my parents are."

"And your plans for the future? You’re moving into your second year now, but the first significant exams are in fifth year. By then, you should have a sense of what branch of magic to focus on, what specialization to pursue. With no family legacy or predefined path, you can choose freely, based on your talents and interests."

"You know, I haven’t thought about it much. They teach us what we need to know as wizards. There’s time to figure out a career later."

"It seems to me they only teach the basics," Kayneth said, tapping a finger on her magical theory textbook. "Fundamentals—preparing generalists in a few disciplines. The wand allows for that flexibility. But there are many schools of magic underdeveloped, banned, or unused in Britain. Even among the existing disciplines, the emphasis is on training 'average wizards'—jacks of all trades, masters of none. After that, I imagine options are limited: Ministry work, Auror training, Healer preparation, independent study, or just living in the magical world with the skills you’ve learned. Before Hogwarts, you spent four or five years in a regular school. Surely you had plans for college or university?"

"Of course I did. Finish school, get a degree, maybe even a Ph.D., and work in a lab. You know…" Hermione hesitated, her tone becoming sheepish. Kayneth barely restrained a smirk at hearing such a preface from a twelve-year-old. "When I was younger, it was a bit embarrassing, but I always dreamed reality might secretly be science fiction. That there were aliens hidden among us, like in the comics, or that we could visit other planets. Instead, it turns out reality is fantasy—thankfully without orcs. But we had our own Dark Lord, even if he lacked a tower. It’s amazing how much truth turned out to resemble myths, rumors, and cartoons."

"Sorry, what?" Kayneth’s initial indulgence gave way to alarm as the last statement struck him. "What do you mean, myths?"

"When I was a child, I read countless fairy tales until I got tired of them by the time I was five," Hermione began. "They almost always featured a witch with a broom, a pointed hat, and a black cloak, brewing potions in a cauldron, accompanied by a bat, a black cat, or an owl. Then there were the fairies with magic wands, muttering nonsense to turn pumpkins into carriages or people into living clocks or chairs. I don’t recall anything about magic trains, but those were probably invented much later, after the Statute of Secrecy was established, when stories about witches and wizards became less widespread."

"An interesting thought," Kayneth remarked. "A fascinating idea, Miss Granger. One worth pondering."

"Oh, it’s nothing special," Hermione waved it off. "Just a modern interpretation of classic tales, most likely originating in folklore long before the separation of wizards and Muggles, later recorded by people like Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, Andersen, and others. Perfectly logical."

"Too logical, perhaps," the magus mused. "So much so that it’s suspicious. Still, it’s more of a mental exercise—finding coincidences and their causes. But let’s return to the topic at hand. You had plans for higher education and a scientific career, but you gave them up upon discovering magic. Yet if you have no clear plans for life in the magical world after school, what stops you from taking ordinary exams as an external student and enrolling in university? Perhaps in chemistry or biology—fields that would complement the study of magic."

"But…" Hermione faltered, clearly never having considered this possibility. "But that’s impossible!"

"Why? You could brew toads in a cauldron by blindly following recipes, or you could invent new potions with an understanding of valence and molar mass."

"But they wouldn’t let me," Hermione replied hesitantly.

"Who wouldn’t? As far as I know, at seventeen, you’ll be considered an adult witch with full rights. That same year, you’ll take your school exams, and after that, you won’t owe anyone anything. You could experiment with poltergeists at home or write a dissertation at Oxford. As long as you don’t violate the Statute of Secrecy or turn your professors to stone, what’s stopping you? I’ve already looked into this myself, studying magical and non-magical laws. I believe your abilities would make that path just as viable for you. Though, admittedly, magic might prove too fascinating to distract yourself with mundane degrees."

From the astonished look on Hermione’s face, it was clear that the idea had genuinely never occurred to her. She’d become deeply entrenched in the magical world, accepting its insularity, self-sufficiency, and dismissal of Muggle progress as uninteresting—even if she outwardly criticized such attitudes. Add to that the weight of tradition—the pervasive "that’s not how it’s done." Perhaps in three years, she would’ve come to this realization on her own, but for now, he could plant the idea and broaden her perspective a little. And gauge her reaction.

"Completing ordinary school remotely while studying magic sounds difficult," Hermione admitted.

"Challenging, but doable with effort. At least, that’s how it seems to me. But it’s your decision—I’m merely speculating about possibilities," Kayneth said, seemingly offhand, satisfied that the idea of applying scientific methods to magic would at least be considered and not dismissed outright. Steering the conversation toward its conclusion, he added, "Well, as for the school itself, I believe I’ve covered all my questions for now. Your lecture was quite detailed for such a minor obligation."

"It feels like you told me more than I told you," Hermione said, flustered. She was accustomed to praise from teachers, but hearing it from a peer was unusual. Her classmates were more likely to call her a know-it-all. "The idea of concepts within spells explains so much at once."

"It’s just theory from textbooks. And theory is lifeless without practice. Unfortunately, I lag behind any first-year student in that regard. I’d love to learn more about using wands and preparation techniques, but I’ve already taken enough of your time today. Maybe next time?"

Kayneth had multiple plans for this meeting depending on the outcomes and information gathered. He’d long realized the importance of integrating himself into the local magical community as soon as possible. But he couldn’t simply stroll through the magical quarter introducing himself to random people. Such behavior was, firstly, undignified, and secondly, inefficient. Connections were essential—someone had to introduce him to other wizards as was customary. Unfortunately, he had few such connections.

Fletcher could only grant access to the underworld, where associating with him in respectable society would be unthinkable. Tonks, while a promising contact, had too large a gap in age and status. While maintaining that relationship was prudent, she wasn’t likely to introduce him to others, believing that school would handle all his needs. And though her family connections—Black, Malfoy, Lestrange—were impressive, her mother’s marriage to a first-generation wizard had severed those ties.

Now, however, he had an opportunity to integrate into the community through the Muggle-born group if Hermione introduced him to her social circle, however small it might be. True, this approach largely excluded access to old pureblood families, but he had already decided not to bow to them, begging for a place at their table. If he established even minimal connections among peers, he could always switch allegiances should a more advantageous option arise. Even among the pureblood elite, there might be eccentric individuals willing to deal with a "Mudblood" if they offered something valuable—however slim those chances seemed.

While Luna Lovegood remained a potential contact, Kayneth found her personality too erratic to rely on for something important. Hermione, by contrast, was easier to predict and engage. She lacked knowledge of the magical world’s structure and logic, something he could partially provide. Maintaining this connection was crucial, and he already had plans forming around her.

"Gladly. I rarely get a chance to discuss magic with anyone," Hermione replied, as expected. "My parents don't have the time to delve deeply into it—they have their own work—and I can't exactly show them everything in practice. Outside Hogwarts, I don't have friends I can trust with such an important secret. And among my classmates, few take the time to really understand it all. Most are more interested in when the next Quidditch match is and who's playing against whom."

"I simply can’t comprehend how magic can be wasted on something so completely impractical."

"Exactly! But it's tradition. Personally, I think if the school held inter-house quizzes on individual subjects instead, with house points as rewards, it would be so much more beneficial."

"I'm glad we see eye to eye on this. I was starting to think this madness had infected everyone."

"No, no, I'm an exception," Hermione assured him. She gathered her books, notebooks, and scrolls back into the same unwieldy bag, tucked it away behind the librarian's desk, and then unlocked the door to the corridor, still silent and deserted. "Come on, I’ll walk you to the exit. And then, I suppose, we’ll keep in touch."

"It’d be simpler to call," the magus replied, following her. "Or do you also have some aversion to phones and an odd fondness for birds?"

"Not at all. I'm just used to it. Most of my school acquaintances live in magi—" she stopped mid-sentence and glanced around cautiously, even though the corridor was still empty. She corrected herself anyway: "In closed communities or just prefer their own postal system over the regular one. Except for Harry—he insisted on owl post, but he still hasn’t replied even once. Anyway, that’s not important. We’ll figure it out. Well, goodbye for now, Murphy."

"Goodbye, Miss Granger. I’ll be waiting for your call."