July 24th, 1971 – Horizon Alley
Horizon Alley was busy this time of year, its shops filled with customers from across the isles. There was a vibrancy that brought the place alive.
Perhaps it was the magic, he considered as he glanced at the exuberant sign of Portentia's Salon that sparkled and sparked with an array of colours, or perhaps it was the carefreeness with which people lived.
People simply…shopped and looked and ate, their paths resembling like stone pebbles falling down a mountain, freely, chaotically and without restriction or fear.
It was so very normal.
From the corner of his eyes, he saw the waitress make her way from across the coffee shop. "Would you like a refill, Mr Potter?" the new and energetic waitress said with a sweet lilt to her voice. He turned towards her.
She was a young little thing in her mid twenties. Wide hipped, wide-mouthed, small frame of body. Luscious blonde locks that seemed a little too golden to be natural.
He turned towards her with a faint smile. "Please." He said and he was rewarded with a shy but suggestive curl of a smile as she leaned in and refilled his cappuccino.
She was disappointed when he paid her no extra mind. "Well, if you need anything else, give me a shout." She said with extra pep in her tone.
Michael inclined his head as he picked his cup and gave her another faint smile before he leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving from her and back towards the ebbing flow of people across the street, the waitress' retreating steps a distant sound.
He drank of his cappuccino, the smooth rich drink brought him a sense of pleasure.
Before, the coffee in the shop had been barely drinkable. The corner of his mouth moved down in distaste in remembrance of the taste.
He'd had to introduce the shop owner to proper Italian coffee that he'd brought over from the normal side of London that bore a sizable Italian community.
When he went to Rome, he'd see to it to purchase some Pellini and Mauro Centopercento. For his home, Hogwarts and this little café.
He stayed in his seat outside of the café's window for a little longer, simply watching people go about their days. There was much one could learn simply by watching.
People told stories with their faces, their eyes, their hands and their bodies. More truthful too than the words that escaped their mouths.
A perky stiff lipped wife looking at her husband with her eyebrows downward like curtain drapes descending down at the play's end whilst her husband eyes wares of dresses that were a little too risqué and a little too young to be for her.
A stick thin man dressed in clothes that once might have been worth thousands bore eyes that were too flittering, too hollow and too shaky with restless hands walking a pace or two too fast to not seem to be in the midst of an illegal act damaging to mostly himself.
On and on this went, his day spent merely observing the people who frequented the Alley. Horizon Alley was one of the more upscale places in Wizarding Britain.
Not quite High Street, places like Fifth Avenue or Las Vegas Boulevard but more like Broadway west. Places where mostly old money and the middle class frequented
It was a little while later that a family of four dressed in fine Sunday clothing drew his attentions. Michael sipped on his cappuccino, his gaze fixed on the family.
From the clothes alone, he could tell they were used to places like this. Clothes that were fitted, materials that looked to be fair quality. And with that status also came a blindness about their social privilege, a privilege that was non-existent here.
As evidenced by the attentions the family were garnering from the casual shoppers and shop owners. It was a blindfold that was ripped from their gazes all too soon and all too late, and now the family were uncomfortable and uneasy with the hostility.
He watched as shop owners he knew to be friendly turn cold and curt as the family looked at their wares. Michael silently drank of his cappuccino, his unblinking gaze idly watching on.
It reminded him of the stories his father used to tell him back in his early years. Back when Italians arrived at the ports of American cities to a less than pleasant welcome. A hostility which he'd still felt as a young man and still felt the sting long afterwards.
Wops and dagoes and guineas. Shunned and denigrated in American society.
As he watched the father of the family turn red in anger and in embarrassment before corralling his family away towards the exits of the Alley towards warmer and friendlier parts of Wizarding Britain, he could only think that he doubted these British 'immigrants' would find the Avere le Palle like the Italians and the Irish had in their time.
He picked up the cup of coffee and drank the last drops of it before he stood up, his hands sinking into his pockets before coming out with galleons and stone pebbles.
He placed the few galleons on the table and turned towards the shop owner who was behind the counter and gave him a polite nod before he made his way out, his arms moving towards his back, one clenched, the other holding a wrist.
His walk was slow as he went by shop by shop, a stone pebble falling and rolling into a crevice each time as he smiled and asked this or that about their family, their business or themselves, buying one small item or another when it suited the situation.
He knew these people better than they knew themselves.
And he was no one but polite young Michael Potter. A no one who they didn't have to be wary around for he was no heir to a noble family. Just a son of a second son.
He made it to Beatrice's Bloom-House, a florist shop that sold every kind of flowers under the sky. Even the kinds that could catch and eat an inattentive owl.
"Ah Michael!" Mrs Limpley said enthusiastically as he entered the shop, the waft of floral scents of all kinds of invading his nose. She was a kindly woman. Plum shaped and with red tinted cheeks that seemed permanently painted on her face.
"It's a been a while since I've seen you! Oh, you're looking even more handsomer than last year!" the kindly woman said with a bright smile. "Taller too."
Michael offered a kind smile. She was a good woman. "Thank you, Mrs Limpley." Michael made a show of looking around "The selections look even better this year."
Mrs Limpley gaily laughed, her trickling laughter brought a warmth to her floral shop that seemed to brighten the hues and colours of the flower petals.
"Thank you!" the kindly woman enthused, her delighted eyes communicated the joy she felt at the acknowledgement "I was trying out this new Hebridean compost this spring and my oh my, I'm very well much pleased with it all!" she paused in her fast speech as she eyed him warmly "You know, you're the first to notice."
Michael smiled at the woman and ten minutes later he walked out with a selection of Hydrangeas that he had to fight to pay for.
It was some time later that he made it to his final stop for the day.
'Goshawk's Library' was a small and unassuming bookshop nestled in between a jewellery boutique shop and one of the finer restaurants in the alley. It was out of place, out of character for the kind of feel this area of the Alley had.
It wasn't surprising when Mr Goshawk mentioned offhandedly that he received offers at least once a year. A bell chimed as he entered through the door and he immediately noticed that the shop was more organised than he'd seen it before.
Columns of books littered the first and second floor, rows of books in cabinets hugged every wall in unbroken sequence. There was a smell, a faint smell of books and ink, a smell that was invocative as a florist's shop. It was a thing of beauty.
A peeking head from atop a ladder on the second floor greeted him when he stepped further into the shop. "Ah, Mr Potter, you're finally here!" the owner of the bookshop said enthusiastically, a youthful beaming smile on his elderly face.
He'd met the man years ago, before Hogwarts, and ever since then, he'd visited at least a few times a year. As a result, the man was more than amicable to Michael.
Goshawk's steps down the ladder clunk and creaked, sounds that continued as he made his way down to the ground floor on the wooden spiral stairs.
"You're going to like the collection I managed to get." Samson Goshawk enthused as he huddled over to the till that was lower than average. The door behind him clunk shut. Samson Goshawk, a dark haired man with round rimmed glasses on a pallid face, was a short and thin man, five feet four, and walked with a limp in his steps.
An unassuming man in a small and modest shop between places of riches yet Michael thought the man was richer than most.
"Come, come" the man enthused as he gestured Michael to follow him. After a few moments, Michael followed the path the man took with his arms behind his back, his eyes glancing over the books he could discern titles of along his way.
He made his way through the bowels of the shop for the first time ever, down the steps towards the basement with stacks of books in cluttered messes waiting to be indexed or archived. If upstairs was a utopia of books, this basement was Earth itself. A mess by all rights. Goshawk asked him from somewhere deeper within the basement.
"Remember that trip I mentioned to you last year?" Goshawk asked in a muffled voice. Michael looked to where he heard the man be. He found Goshawk in a dim corner amidst a tower of books.
"Yes. Babylon." Michael answered and his curiosity was peaked.
A city long dead in his old life, a city described in the Book of Genesis and the home of the fabled Tower of Babel was alive and well in this one. Well, not quite alive or well, Michael mused but nevertheless it was discombobulating to see how much of the old stories seemed to be true if only warped through the lens of magic.
Goshawk stood back up though it was a little uneasy and he rested his left hand on one stack of book before he managed to right himself. He leaned down and picked up a trunk and made his way towards Michael who stood patiently in an area…less cluttered.
"Well, the city isn't anything special, I'm afraid to say." Goshawk said with disappointment as he placed the trunk on the desk.
"It's not even a city, you know." Goshawk commented as he unclicked the lock on the trunk "Just a small settlement with a bunch of streets and buildings and homes that are surrounded by ruins and muggle villages. They get touchy when you mention that though." Goshawk said wryly though his smile fell off.
"Though they're also a bit nervous about the renewed interest from the muggles."
Michael eyed the short middle-aged man curiously. "Why should they be nervous?"
Goshawk's eyebrows raised in surprise "Well, the muggles apparently want to restore the city and that obviously won't do. Apparently, one of the merchants, quite connected with the Ministry there, mentioned that they had a heck of a time obliviating and charming the muggles from continuing with their ill plans."
Interesting, Michael mused. As far as he knew, there was little interest in his old world. By the time he died, he hadn't heard anything about the Iraqi trying to rebuild Babylon and they were in the news often in the eighties and the early nineties.
"Ah, finally" Goshawk said happily as he brought out stacks of old, old looking books. Goshawk's face lit up like he'd fallen in love all over again.
The man had an indomitable passion for books. The old and the obscure. The new and the common. Topics ranging from history to books about gardening. It mattered not. In his eyes, books were equal and precious and needed to be preserved.
Michael could respect that about the man.
"Well, I managed to find a good three dozen books from the nooks and crannies of Babylon!" Goshawk excitement was palpable "Even some volumes that are only referenced in priceless entreaties like Romain's Animation of the Inanimate!"
Michael leaned forward and grabbed the top book from the stack and his hand roved across the surface. The leather was old, near black in hue, and the writing on the front he only faintly recognised. "Aramaic?" he questioned and Goshawk made an affirming noise.
"Yes, Aramaic. Tricky language." Goshawk muttered before he squinted at the book that Michael turned around for him to read. "Ah!" Goshawk's eyes widened as he adjusted his glasses.
"I had to look up what those characters meant! Closest I could come to deciphering the meaning was 'Faithifery and Pathifery: Guides of formless Magic'." Goshawk grimaced, distaste and disgust leaked out into his face.
"Dark, dark stuff." Goshawk muttered as he carefully took the book out of Michael's hands. "I don't think this is the kind of stuff that interests you anyway." Goshawk said as he looked at Michael from behind his round rimmed glasses.
"Would be useful to know what Faithifery and Pathifery actually are before I decide that." Michael said in a wry tone, the corners of his mouth up ticking in mild amusement. Goshawk blinked before he uneasily smiled at Michael.
"Right. I forget that you're still just a Hogwarts student." Goshawk shook his head. "Well, Pathifery is said to be the ability to manipulate one's surroundings through emotions alone. A kind of wandless magic"
Goshawk's brows furrowed as he took a moment to place his words in a row "There's a historian by the name of Gouchard that claims that accidental magic was once upon a time considered to be a form of Pathifery, before the branch of magic fell out of popular use about fifteen hundred years ago. Whether or not that is true, who can say. Gouchard never referenced his sources in his book. This is actually the first book I've seen that writes about it instead of references it."
Michael considered that. "Accidental magic is quite real." He commented, his gaze falling on the book in Goshawk's hands. "Children do manipulate their magic, and in some instances their surroundings, when their emotions run high. I'm curious to read on how the Babylonians might have developed a system around it."
Goshawk grimaced. "In theory it sounds quite interesting, doesn't it?" Goshawk shook his head "But it is not as simple as that." Goshawk met Michael's eyes dead on. "Most of the supposed branch of magic is highly ritualistic…sacrifice and murder are amongst the most frequent stated ways to trigger an emotional response."
Goshawk's face began to darken, as if his face was draped in a cloak made of shadows. "It is said that the more intense the emotion, the more powerful and permanent manipulation of reality is, and in most instances the consequences of the triggers are unpredictable."
Goshawk looked somewhat tired as he continued "Emotions are complex, complex things, Michael. Distortion of intent is all but guaranteed. Even if emotions like joy were used to effect the change." Goshawk looked at the book "If the branch of magic is indeed real and not some made up hippogriff dung, well…" Goshawk shrugged his shoulders lightly "Personally, I think it should not see the light of day."
Michael listened avidly to his words. Effectively…magic that was a sword without a hilt, much like blood magic and alchemy. And potentially extremely powerful.
"And Faithifery?" Michael asked after there were a lull of silence.
"Much the same as Pathifery only this is based on absolute belief." Goshawk shook his head "I don't have to explain to you how dangerous that can be, do I?" Goshawk posed to Michael with a heavy voice and Michael inclined his head in affirmation though his mind worked at speed to consider the possibility.
If one believed to be absolutely invincible, would it become impossible to be harmed or die? Or…his stomach tightened as the familiar wave of pain ripped through him.
Could he…?
"Did you manage to find any books on alchemy?" Michael asked, unwilling to even finish that consideration in his mind though even as Goshawk spoke and showed him a volume on ancient alchemy, he could not find it within himself to get that book out of his mind.
It was an hour later that Michael and Goshawk made it back to the front of the store with four tomes – Alchemy, Potions, Magical Constructs and oddly a journal from some scholar during the time of Nebuchadnezzar – under his arm.
"Where's young Ray?" Michael asked mildly Goshawk as they reached the till. He internally winced at the price of the books. Two hundred galleons for only four tomes was expensive. It was a good thing that he had an alternative source of income otherwise Charlus and Dorea would have questioned his spending.
"Oh he's off running an errant in Diagon. One of the trunks I use when I go abroad is a bit worn. The hinge is all loose, and some of the Runes are a little faded" the man dismissed with a tired wave of the hand. "Just need a bit of work."
Michael hummed as he eyed the man once he handed over the coins. "And how's young Ray?" At this the middle aged man smiled happily.
"A gift from Merlin himself!" the man said in a chuckle. Idiosyncrasies like that were common in this world. They deified Merlin as if he were God.
"As you can see, he's helped a lot already with sorting out the mess my shop had turned into over the years!" Goshawk said happily.
"Even helped with the proper cataloguing system that I've fretted over for much too long and the boy's half way finished with it. I reckon by the end of summer those books in the basement will have a proper place in the shop." Goshawk said with a pleased expression.
Michael faintly smiled at the man before nodding slightly.
"Sounds like it's helped both of you"
"It has." The man looked at a little contemplative and it seemed like he was going to say something but only at the last minute decided not to.
"What is it?" Michael asked, his eyes intently fixed on the man.
"Oh nothing." The man waved off but after seeing Michael's look he seemed to cave in – although it wasn't much of a cave in. He wanted someone to talk to.
"Well, the boy, Ray, isn't all that talkative about his time in the orphanage." The man seemed to hesitate for a moment.
Not surprising, Michael thought.
The boy was magical at an orphanage run by the faith, Protestant they may be. From what he heard, they were the superstitious kind, right as they might be, and Ray's time there was a torrid one.
"I was thinking about maybe fostering him." Goshawk admitted as he fidgeted with his round rimmed glasses in a way that made clear the idea frightened him.
Michael noticed the man was lonely from the moment he left this shop the first time.
He often over-eagerly talked to customers and after a little while the man had opened up about his family. He never married, having lost interest in pursuing marriage after his childhood sweetheart fell in with the wrong crowd. His parents died relatively young – for magicals anyway – and his sister had long ago moved to the States.
Here was a man, a good man, with a big heart without anyone to care for and had little idea of how to live beyond his shop and sought refuge in books.
Ray had potential, the boy had a good head on his shoulders and was in need of a good father figure and the man was in need of a boy to be a father to.
He was pleased it worked out.
"You should talk to him about it." Michael said calmly. "Maybe let it settle for now, think it over once he's back at Hogwarts and see if you still want to foster him when he's away."
Michael grabbed the books. "The winter break is a good time for good news."
"I might just do that." The man said with a grateful smile and Michael nodded to the man before he left.
Michael took the Knightbusback to Godric's Hollow, a journey he hated but it offered less questions raised than if he were to apparate from Horizon Alley, and as he walked on the cobbled stones of the sleepy village of Godric's Hollow, his gaze was fixed on the elderly husband and wife that walked on the other side of the street.
Godric's Hollow was a 'mixed' village, one where normal people and magicals lived next to one another. He hadn't been sure how that worked, especially given that he could see magic more or less in everything within the village yet that was answered when he'd learnt that there was a charm emplaced over the village, a form of notice-me-not that was tailored towards the normal people of the village.
Hiding in plain sight, he mused as he stared up at the summer sun.
Despite the differences – and the magic – these people were still people, people who were as human as the normal people they infantilised or outright hated.
He doubted they'd ever see it. Not until they were made to and that often didn't happen until there was bloodshed or until it was too late, he mused to himself, his mind drawing back to the rumblings, the hints of coming storm that bore the same likeness as of the war he'd fought a lifetime ago, before he became who he was.
A tired sigh escaped his lips as he looked down from the summer sun and towards the old striped cottage that was home and he banished those weary, grim thoughts away as he walked towards the door.
He entered and he could hear his mother speaking in the kitchen and he made his way through the small home. Pictures of him and Charlus and Dorea were plastered all around the home along with a few of James and his aunt and uncle. Pictures of Charlus' comrades in war during the forties and pictures of Henry, his grandfather who died long before he'd been born.
The cottage was far smaller than the Potter ancestral manor but Michael preferred it. It was a warm home, a loving home. A home that resonated with him with distant memories of a home in the Bronx, before his father moved them to Long Beach.
His homes after he became Head of the family never had that same kind of warmth
"Ah Michael." His mother called out as he entered the dining room that was connected to the kitchen. His father sat by the table reading the paper and looked up from it once his mother called his name.
Her eyes fell to the package he had in his hand and her eyes widened in delight. "Oh, you bought my favourites!" his mother remarked happily as she walked around the kitchen.
Michael handed the Hydrangeas with outstretched hands over to his mother who otherwise would have swept them out of his hands. She buried her nose in the flowers and drew a satisfied sigh before she walked off.
With a flick of her wand, she conjured a flowerpot and with another jab a clump of earth flew in from the open back garden doors and into the pot.
"What is the occasion?" Charlus asked, notes of suspicion and concern tinging his voice and his expression a little tight. Michael eyed the man with amusement.
"No occasion. Merely thought mother would like a fresh crop of her favourite."
"Oh, you're such a sweet considerate boy" Dorea said with a warm look as she made it back to him and hugged him warmly before leaving a kiss on his cheek.
"You should be taking lessons from our son, Charlus." Dorea said with a mild glare and Charlus' expression pinched before a grin made its way on his face.
"Ah but why should I when I am the one who taught our son to be such a gentleman?"
Dorea snorted uncharacteristically and her look towards Charlus was comical. "And I am Morgana reborn." Dorea said dryly with a huff in her voice before she returned to the kitchen. Michael was a little surprised to see her cooking dinner. Normally Floppy would be preparing and making dinner.
Michael chuckled as he took a seat next to Charlus who narrowed his eyes at Michael. "Could have given me a warning" Charlus muttered quietly and sourly.
"It's Mother's work anniversary six days from now." Michael told Charlus whose eyes widened.
"Ah…" Charlus made out understandingly before he leaned a little away and a grateful look made it across his face. "I see now. Thank you, son." Charlus nodded to Michael and Michael smiled at Charlus before he dipped his head.
Dinner was a quiet and quick affair, conversation flowed mostly from Dorea who spoke of her day at St. Mungos whilst they also briefly touched upon if Michael had what he needed for his upcoming departure to Rome.
By the time it was around eight in the evening, he was alone in his room with a fresh notebook in his hands as he sat by the window, his gaze set towards the idyllic countryside as a finger traced and circled on the cover of the journal.
He couldn't help but think of the Romans as he gazed out at the countryside. It was stuck in his mind, what the Romans thought of Britain…how little they thought of it. They scorned the people of these Isles. This was even true in this world of magic.
Romans with their shields and their spears and swords along with their mages that wielded wands and spells hitherto unseen on these Isles conquered these people, normal and magical alike, with ease and altered the story of these Isles forever.
A people once fierce and savage all but tamed over the course of a century into pliant subjects serving Rome and eager to be Roman. The magical world was even more so pliant and willing to cast away most of their Celtic and Iceni traditions as druidic magic and ways of life were all but faded out within centuries of the Romans setting foot on the Isles.
A story of complacency and pliant people that repeated itself later with the Vikings and the Normans. Michael wasn't so unfair to think that it was wholly indicative of these people but he couldn't help but focus on it, obsess over it.
He shook his head and he looked down at the notebook for a good moment before he opened up the notebook, his hand gliding from blank page to blank page, each page marked at the corners with a number that corresponded to a sympathetically linked object, objects with the appearances of little stone pebbles.
He'd enchanted the notebook over the course of many months with the resources of his private collection of books and that of the Hogwarts library at hand. Simple charms like eaves dropping charms could be made to anchor on objects, even something as simple as a pebble stone – enlargened and runes emplaced – and he'd found dozens of the kind of charms that were perfect for spying purposes.
And finally, after flicking through the pages two dozen times, he came across his first entry.
' …
…
I don't have the money, not yet. I can have it in three months' time. Business is slow.
That is not what I hear from the Tax Office
W-what?
[unintelligible] Did you not think we would have eyes and ears everywhere, Rosewood?
I-I
[unintelligible] Enough! If you do not have the money come next week, we might have to make a home visit and it is not the kind of visit you would ever want…trust me.
I'm just a restaurant owner!
And the Dark Lord knows that but you wanted to offer support didn't you?
[unintelligible]
Listen. I will put in a good word in for you and see if we can get you that extension but you're going to have to do me a favour.
O-of course.
You have a list of customers right?
Yes.
And you're able to point out who the regulars are? … Good. If you give that information to us then that I am sure the Dark Lord will defer your payment.
But wh-
Don't worry about. Seriously.
Alright….'
The conversation after that was less interesting and Michael swiped through his notebook until he reached the end but found no further entries.
The pebbles would 'log' the conversation five minutes prior to the key words and phrases and write out the conversation from that point onwards. The unintelligible parts of the conversation were likely noises and inflections of sounds that the charm wasn't able to translate easily into words. Things like laughter, growls or the clicking of tongues.
Michael leaned his head back against the wall, his mind working through it all. They were profiling. Getting to know the habits of their targets. Where they ate, who they saw, where they frequented. Even likely what their favourite food and drink were.
The tactics were nothing new to him.
Nothing new about what's been happening over the past five years either, only this time it they were profiling wealthy purebloods. Given the disappearances and 'misfortunes' that has been happening to well-known muggleborns and muggleborn business owners…
And the implication that they had someone inside the Ministry, the Tax Office no less, was deeply concerning even if it was not unexpected. It meant that other departments were to have moles too…and most certainly the Auror Department would have at least one mole. It would be the first department to place a mole.
Michael closed the notebook and briefly closed his eyes.
This interaction only confirmed the worst for him. That the coming conflict permeated throughout society, even supposed civilised society.
For now, most of the occurrences, the odd 'gas explosions' or inexplicable 'fires', were restricted to the normal side of Britain.
Stories that the British newspapers reported on frequently and blamed on the Irish. There were of course, attacks towards muggleborns within the magical world which were steadily increasing over the past five or so years but they were targeted, individualistically focused. Hateful as they might be.
But this…?
Michael reopened his eyes, a storm raging within the pools of his misty brown eyes. This was the beginning of a civil war. The Neutral and Progressive factions had, for years, stymied the Dark faction's efforts of introducing bills that targeted against the rights afforded to the magicless and muggleborns along with refusing the attempts to repeal laws that banned certain kinds of magicks after the Grindelwald war.
Rhetoric became normalised, so much so that his family stopped attending his mother's side of the family by the time he was seven and it wasn't only confined to the halls of homes and the streets of Magical Britain.
At Hogwarts, the likes of Rabastan and Rodulphus Lestrange were bolder and more vicious in their attacks against muggleborns with little fear of consequence from the professors or the school board who were not blind to the storm that was brewing.
For all that some may claim that it was about the preservation of traditions and culture, it is never truly about anything other but power. This was a bid for power by a section of the Olde Families, those who sought to upend the status quo.
Through politics…or through violence.
And violence…
Violence would be aplenty given the likes that strutted around in Slytherin House. Blood told, and those summer boys that delighted in inflicting violence against the weak and the helpless were likely mirror images of their fathers and their uncles.
Michael stood up and made his way towards the cabinet in the corner of his room. He placed the notebook there and stopped when he saw his yellow tie.
He moved to place a hand on top of it. Getting sorted in Hufflepuff had been purposeful, advantageous. An underutilised House that prided itself on loyalty.
The Hufflepuffs, the queer name aside, were considered the weakest, the dullest and the unassuming out of all four Houses.
The ignored and bullied House.
The butt of everyone's jokes.
The corners of his mouth rose slightly in amusement, the misty browns of his eyes hardening into brownstone.
Who was it that made up the core of the Ministry? Who was it that made up the bulk of the department heads or in positions of political or economic importance?
Whilst the Slytherins were more likely to rise to powerful positions, it was the hardworking Hufflepuff alumni that were the cornerstone of the Ministry.
And within days of his sorting into the House, his suspicions were confirmed. The Hufflepuffs were practically Italian in the way they congregated and networked and it was this network that extended past Hogwarts almost unconsciously.
And it was a network, a behaviour that few realised of the potential it held, even the Hufflepuffs themselves who were worn down in their supposed mediocrity.
A mediocrity that aided and self-propagated in their feeling of lesser value when they were perhaps the most valuable when their propensity of showing genuine loyalty was only deepened when said loyalty was appreciated and acknowledged.
What was cleverness in the face of loyalty? What was braveness in comparison to strength of will? What was cunning but lesser to hardworking?
Of course, none of that was particularly true. Cleverness fuelled cunning and cunning lessened hard work whilst braveness facilitated risk taking with potentially high reward. Still…it served a purpose, this twisting manipulation.
It had taken time, surprisingly longer than expected but they listened and more followed and in their change of perception of themselves, of others, they'd grown.
There was a sliver of regret for manipulating children so easily but it was for their own good and at the time, he considered that if he were to benefit from it in some small way in the future, so be it.
Michael closed the cabinet and returned to the window as the light of dusk began to paint the clear skies, his arms behind his back, his fingers rubbing against themselves as he looked on with a hard and blank gaze.
It seems like his path was slotting into its place with the same kind of inevitability as the day-night cycle. Michael's fingers stopped rubbing against each other and he clenched them into fists. Once…once he had hope that his scheming, his manipulations wouldn't be necessary…that his path wouldn't be…
Michael removed that seed of doubt from his mind and began to orchestrate his next moves. Information was as important as gold and manpower and he'd focus on building upon this Hufflepuff network before taking it over for his own.
He did not have the wealth or resources he had last time Michael came into power but he did have anonymity, at least for now. Anonymity that he'd wield in both mundane and magical worlds, something he'd already started given that his fingers were touching mundane businesses all across the British Isles.
And, of course, he was fortunate enough that he was amongst scions with considerable and political wealth. They would become useful sooner or later.
Orpington, Fawley and Smith were still boys but each had potential he would fine tune. They were meant to be for greater things and he would see it happen.
Orpington had a keen intellect and would be trained to take over his family's law firm, Orpington, Max & Associates, the premier law firm in Magical Britain.
Fawley had decent morals but he had the strength and mental stability for the dirty work. As the son of the second son of Lord Fawley, he stood to have to make his own way in life for the most part and Michael intended to make Fawley tie his path to Michael's.
Smith was a bastard son of Lord Smith and only bore the Smith family name because his mother was pureblood and through a series of fortunate events had been legitimised but removed from any line of succession with cousins higher in the line.
Gifted magically but he had a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder and had been easy to take him under his wing. He had an idea on what to do with Smith.
Yes, Michael thought as he stared out of the window.
This storm…this storm would not take his family by surprise.
Four days later at the Ministry…
"You'll write, won't you?" Dorea fretted as she removed a piece of lint from his robes, concern and displeasure shining through her violet eyes.
"I promise." Michael reassured. "I will even write what I am eating." Michael said with a faint smile. Charlus chuckled as he stepped a little closer.
"And I'm sure it will be win poetry contests." Charlus jested before he placed a tender hand on Michael's shoulders.
"Charlus." Dorea swatted at Charlus with a disapproving tone accompanied by a displeased face. Charlus only smiled at his wife, fondly and it elicited a smoothing of harsh expression from Dorea.
She once more turned to Michael. "We will come visit Rome in a few weeks" she told him and she smiled at him though the nervousness and fretfulness she was trying to hide couldn't help but shine through.
Michael was always touched at how much the woman cared for him. Michael stepped forward and hugged Dorea before placing two kisses on her cheeks.
It surprised her but she quickly recomposed herself before hugging him tightly. It wasn't the first time he did this but it was still a practice that was foreign to her – and to this culture in general.
Of course it didn't help that the culture was practically Victorian in many ways. She released him, somewhat reluctantly. "I will even have an itinerary ready when you come to Rome if you so desire it." Michael said with a warm smile. Dorea sniffled.
Charlus chuckled before he shook his head. "Stay out of trouble, if you can." Charlus gave him an amused look "Especially with that charm of yours. It's worse than even Monty's during his heydays. I'd rather not have to hear that you were made to fight in an honour duel because you've stolen someone's betrothed."
Michael's lips twitched. "You won't have to worry about that." Michael's expression was intentionally far from innocent and it caused Charlus to laugh. In truth, he had no desire for romance or the carnal any time soon.
The portkey in his hand began to beep and Dorea hugged him one more time before he was taken away in a swirl, to Rome.