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VI. The Law of Attraction
"I never thought these people would ever lift a finger themselves," Neville Longbottom mused, scratching his head as a look of disbelief settled across his rounded face.
"Oh, heavens no. They've a whole army of house-elves and servants for the menial tasks," Ginny corrected disdainfully.
"I know, but the way you describe them makes them sound almost..."
Neville paused, as if fishing for the right word to describe them.
"Human?" Ginny interjected, her mouth curving into an amused smirk as she completed his thought.
He nodded, looking sheepish, and Ginny let out a brief laugh.
"They are, in fact, human," Luna Lovegood softly added, breaking her lengthy silence. "At least from a biological standpoint. They possess osseous structures, muscular tissue, plasma, and an assortment of cellular components..."
"We know they're human, Luna," Ginny interrupted kindly. "It's just a manner of speaking. They're so detached from reality, they might as well live in a different world."
Luna and Neville, Ginny's two best friends, had come to spend the evening in the modest flat she shared with Hermione. Over dinner, Ginny had eagerly recounted her recent escapades among the Malfoys.
Like Neville, Luna had been a classmate of Ginny's at Nereid, the school for the Unbloodeds. Since then, their trio had built a strong friendship. Luna was also considered a Blood Traitor. Her father, Xenophilius Lovegood, had spent nearly a decade as a political prisoner in Azkaban, thanks to the controversial opinions he published in his independent journal. The Ministry's Department for the Uniformity of Purity Exemplified had deemed his publications illegal and sentenced him to twelve years of imprisonment for breaching several official decrees. Luna grew up under the care of her emotionally fraught mother, whose mental well-being took a further hit after her husband's incarceration.
"Hold on a sec, Luna... Ever treated any of these high-and-mighty types?" Neville asked, turning towards the young woman, a curious glint in his brown eyes. "I mean, members of the Thirteen."
Luna shook her head, her radish-shaped earrings swinging along with her movements.
"No, never. And to be perfectly honest, most Purebloods would balk at the idea of receiving care from a healer they regard as inferior," she stated.
She paused to think, then continued:
"I did treat a patient three months ago. A first-rank Pureblood. But he was unconscious when he arrived, so his opinion wasn't really consulted. And all the other Mediwizards were busy, so they needed reinforcements."
For the past two years, Luna had been working at St. Mungo's Hospital, in the Department for Magical Pathogens. Mediwizardry was a challenging field and generally reserved for Purebloods. Yet, over the last decade, the number of Mediwizards had declined alarmingly, causing a shortage of professionals in the healthcare sector. To counter the phenomenon, the Ministry had decided to allow a few lower-ranked wizards to join the Mediwizardry programme under certain conditions.
Ginny was well aware that Luna's years of training had been nothing short of an ordeal. Her upper-class classmates regularly looked down on her due to her status. Ginny had always admired her friend's tenacity. Luna had had to juggle difficult studies in a hostile environment while taking care of her mother, whose condition had deteriorated.
"In that case, why not keep your blood status under wraps? Most patients are likely out of it anyway," Neville pointed out. "They'd likely never know."
"Another intern told me a story about that. It happened a few years ago, I believe. A patient found out he had been treated by a Blood Traitor when he had specifically requested otherwise. He sued the hospital and took it to the Wizengamot. He won 100,000 Galleons at the end of the trial, and the supervising healer on duty that day was suspended. There's talk he even did a stint in Azkaban. Ever since, the hospital has been rather cautious," Luna concluded, with a nonchalant shrug.
"Not surprising," Neville commented.
"How ungrateful of the bloke," Ginny added.
"The wealthiest don't really frequent St. Mungo's. I imagine private clinics are more their style, especially for the Sacred Thirteen," Luna mused.
She set her pumpkin juice back on the table and affectionately patted Crookshanks, Hermione's notably hefty, mottled cat.
"Every time I visit, this cat seems to have gained weight," Luna observed, scrutinising Crookshanks.
"That's because Hermione practically treats him like royalty. The cat's spoiled rotten and is turning quite portly, if you ask me, " Ginny added, drawing chuckles from her friends.
"Hey, I heard that, Ginny," a voice suddenly announced near the entrance door.
Ginny cast a contrite look towards Hermione, who had just stormed into the living room. Her witch's robe was drenched, and her hair was even more frizzed than usual. She pointed her wand at her outfit and murmured a spell to dry it completely.
"You're back rather late today," Ginny observed.
With a nod, she gestured towards the clock above the sealed-off fireplace.
"I got lost in the Archives today—completely lost track of time," Hermione hastily explained, her cheeks blushing subtly. "Valour and vigour to you, Luna and Neville."
They greeted her in unison.
"I've kept a plate warm for you," Ginny said, sounding cheerful.
She barely caught Hermione's reply as she had already retreated to her room. Ginny downed her Butterbeer in one go.
"Anyway, I hope I never have to be in the same room as those stuck-up, arrogant prigs again," she concluded. "Another drink, mates?"
Neville shook his head firmly.
"I should head off; Gran isn't keen on me being out this late," he said.
Ginny held back an eye roll. At twenty-three, Neville still let his grandmother rule his life as if he were still a child. For reasons Ginny couldn't fathom, he followed his grandmother's whims to the letter, never daring to talk back.
Luna also took her leave, mentioning an early shift awaited her the next morning. She was visibly thrilled about the prospect of removing an arcane cyst, the size of a Bludger, from a patient. Neville and Ginny exchanged looks of revulsion as she delved into the topic of pus, unanimously agreeing it was high time to call it a night.
Though Ginny adored Luna, her friend's unconventional fascinations sometimes baffled her. She had always been captivated by the uncommon—sometimes even bizarre—topics, a fascination that had only grown over the years due to her profession and the unique challenges she faced daily.
After her friends left, Ginny headed towards the ajar door of Hermione's room. She knocked twice on the old wood and entered without waiting for an invitation. Hermione's room was the narrowest of the two in the flat. A single bed was pushed against the wall, under the window. At the other end stood a desk, one of its legs broken but held up by a levitation spell. She probably could have fitted more furniture if she hadn't insisted on storing a wide bookshelf filled with various books—mostly stolen and resold on the black market to better fit her modest salary.
Ginny's room stood in stark contrast to Hermione's. She had repainted the drab walls in Byzantine purple. On her walls, Ginny had hung posters of the Holyhead Harpies, her favourite Quidditch team, along with dozens of pictures of her friends and Bill, Fleur, and Victoire.
Hermione's walls were unadorned and immaculate, save for a calendar marking important dates. She thrived on order and structure—a quality Ginny found deeply admirable.
Hermione was sitting at her desk, engrossed in a thick tome under the dim glow of a small lamp. Upon Ginny's entrance, she gave her a fleeting glance.
"What if I had been completely naked?" Hermione asked, feigning disapproval.
"Nothing I haven't already seen," Ginny retorted, sticking out her tongue in a playful manner.
She sauntered over to Hermione's bed and flopped down, grabbing a pillow and placing it in her lap.
"How was your day?" Ginny asked, her fingers idly toying with the pillow's trim.
"Exceptionally interesting," Hermione responded enthusiastically, her face suddenly lighting up.
"Has your supervisor choked on a rat's tail yet?" Ginny asked, wearing a hopeful grin, which drew a laugh from Hermione.
"Not exactly, but close enough," said Hermione, amused. "Mr. Macmillan allowed me access to his private collection."
"Oh, even more books, you say?" Ginny remarked sarcastically. "Well, Christmas has come early for you, hasn't it?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring the jab, and focused back on her grimoire.
"You do realise you're off the clock, Hermione? No need to put in overtime all evening," Ginny pointed out, nodding towards the book.
"It's not work; it's a hobby," Hermione shrugged.
"You should get out more, Hermione. Mingle a bit. Have some proper fun — and I don't mean the bookish sort," Ginny added, punctuating her advice with an excited giggle. "Maybe even meet some chaps."
She added that last word with a little excited giggle.
"I haven't got time for that," Hermione asserted, shaking her head.
"Everyone can make time for a quick shag, Hermione," Ginny assured her. "And being with someone comes with its perks."
"So it ends like it did for you and Oliver?" Hermione asked sceptically.
Ginny opened her mouth, taken aback by the comment.
"Ouch, Hermione. That's a low blow," Ginny retorted, pouting.
Hermione looked up, her expression remorseful, as if realising she'd overstepped. Ginny wasn't offended, even if her friend had been particularly blunt about the subject. After all, Hermione was just highlighting the unpleasant truth—things had ended very poorly with Oliver Wood. Their tumultuous relationship was far from a model of a healthy, lasting one.
"Sorry," Hermione said, her features softening.
"I don't blame you. You've hit the nail on the head—Oliver and I are hardly a love story for the ages."
She let out a long, disenchanted sigh.
"Anyway, that's water under the bridge. I'm making room for someone new," Ginny said, her tone resolute.
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, confused.
"The Law of Attraction," Ginny announced. "It's a concept to attract love."
"A spell?" Hermione inquired, curious.
"No, it's all about mind over matter. You simply manifest what you're after," Ginny said with palpable excitement. "You must visualise it vividly, then declare, I am ready to receive.''
"Sounds like you've had one too many with Luna and Neville tonight," Hermione observed, eyeing her as if she'd lost her marbles.
Ginny gave her friend a jaded look. She wasn't surprised by her sceptical reaction; Hermione was a pragmatic person.
"Hermione, maintain a positive mindset," Ginny admonished. "Who knows what you might inadvertently conjure if you let negativity creep in."
"It's mostly utter nonsense—on par with Divination and similar rubbish," Hermione said, her features twisting in clear disdain.
Ginny put a finger to her lips, as if to silence her friend. Hermione watched Ginny perplexedly as she closed her eyes and seemed to concentrate.
"For Hermione and me, I manifest an epic and passionate love, worthy of the greatest romantic tragedies," Ginny began.
"The way you say it, it sounds like you're manifesting love between you and me," Hermione noted, in a mocking tone.
Ginny furrowed her brows, deep in thought.
"Fair point," she finally said. "I do love you a lot, Hermione, but not like that."
Hermione chuckled.
"For both Hermione Granger and myself, I manifest an epic and passionate love, worthy of the greatest romantic tragedies, with men who are attractive, wealthy, and intelligent. Oh, and Universe, ensure they're not the same bloke," Ginny began to enumerate.
"Ending up with the same suitor would indeed be most unfortunate," Hermione commented, with irony in her voice.
"And clearly, he must be exceptional in bed," Ginny recited, causing Hermione to burst into laughter. "I am ready to receive."
She reopened her eyes, a smile on her lips, clearly very pleased with her request.
"You could've asked for other qualities. You know, qualities like being kind, cultured, attentive, romantic, and loyal. I am ready to receive," Hermione added, mockingly imitating Ginny.
"Let's not ask too much from the universe, Hermione. We must be realistic," Ginny replied. "They're still men, you know."
"Truly, your request is the height of realism. Honestly, Ginny, where on earth do you get these ludicrous ideas?" Hermione asked, sounding weary.
"From a most reputable publication, if you must know. And yes, contrary to popular opinion, I am literate, Miss Granger."
Hermione gave her a sceptical look.
"Oh, all right then. A customer left her copy of Witch Weekly at the shop this morning, if you really must know," Ginny sheepishly admitted.
Hermione burst into laughter, while Ginny's lips curved into a rueful smile.
"By the way, another Ministry letter came through. Can't forget our annual census, can we? I'd rather not get slapped with a fine, especially not now," Ginny mentioned.
Hermione grimaced.
"I'd completely forgotten," Hermione admitted, a note of panic in her voice. "I did promise Mrs. Moretti I'd accompany her, but I'm absolutely swamped until the weekend."
Hermione always became dramatically anxious when she forgot to do something.
"I was planning to do mine tomorrow. I can take her if you'd like," Ginny offered. "I don't mind."
"Oh, thank you, Ginny. You're a lifesaver," Hermione said, relieved.
The following day, Ginny rang the doorbell of Mrs Moretti, their downstairs neighbour. A few moments later, the door opened and an elderly woman appeared in the doorway. She was so short her head barely came up to Ginny's shoulder. Despite her delicate frame, Mrs Moretti was remarkably agile for her age.
Mrs Moretti, an Italian immigrant, had a son who was a fugitive—accused of association with a dissident group. Since her English was limited, she often relied on Hermione or Ginny to assist her with administrative tasks.
"I've come to escort you to the Ministry," Ginny explained, enunciating each word clearly for comprehension.
The elderly woman didn't seem to understand. Ginny produced the letter from the Ministry, and comprehension dawned on Mrs Moretti's face.
"Prego, si accomodi," she said before stepping aside to let Ginny enter.
Gesturing to a floral-patterned sofa in the room's centre, Mrs Moretti invited Ginny to sit. Ginny complied, her eyes roaming curiously over her surroundings. Old photographs, presumably taken in Italy, were displayed on the living room cabinet. Ginny then turned her gaze to Mrs Moretti, who was carrying a teapot.
"Tè nero?" the old woman queried.
Ginny looked at her, puzzled.
"I don't understand."
Mrs Moretti furrowed her brows, deeply engrossed in thought as she tried to remember something.
"Tea," she finally said after a moment.
With a hand gesture, she pointed at Ginny's cloak.
"Colour. Tea. Nero," she insisted, pointing at the garment.
"Oh—Black tea?" Ginny guessed.
The elderly woman nodded.
"Yes, please,"
Shortly thereafter, Mrs Moretti summoned a plate laden with anise-flavoured biscuits before Ginny.
"Absolutely delicious," Ginny remarked, after taking a hearty bite.
She pointed to her stomach and gave the woman a thumbs-up to make herself understood. The old lady smiled before heading to an adjacent room. She returned minutes later, enveloped in a slightly worn witch's cloak. Ginny stood up as well and followed her to the front door.
En route to Diagon Alley, Mrs Moretti engaged in a patchy conversation with Ginny. She could only understand a third of the woman's words, which were mostly in Italian with a smattering of random English terms.
Upon reaching the Ministry's visitor's entrance, Ginny took note of the floating directional arrows above their heads. Even though she visited the Ministry every year for the same reason, she always found it disorienting due to its enormous size. They passed through security, where Aurors checked their identification before allowing them into the main corridor leading to the lifts.
Amid the bustling crowd, Mrs Moretti seemed uneasy. Her grip on Ginny's hand tightened. She was aware that Mrs Moretti rarely ventured out of her home, save for grocery shopping. Ginny often wondered how Mrs Moretti managed to stay financially afloat in the absence of her son.
When they arrived at the Department for the Uniformity of Purity Exemplified, more commonly known by its acronym D.U.P.E., Ginny winced at the sight of the already lengthy queue. They approached the reception desk, where an employee handed them two red tickets.
Ginny's eyes darted around the room, but not a single free seat was in sight. She walked up to a group of people who were already seated.
"Could you possibly make some room for the lady here?" she inquired politely, gesturing towards Mrs Moretti.
The two young women eyed the red tickets in her hand but pointedly ignored her request. Ginny felt her irritation surge but bit back a retort as Mrs Moretti's grip on her arm tightened, a silent reassurance that all was well. With marked reluctance, Ginny held her tongue; causing a scene in the Ministry was out of the question.
At the opposite end of the room, they found a handrail, which Mrs Moretti gratefully leaned against. Ginny looked at her with a blend of frustration and pity. Regardless of age or physical condition, individuals were assessed solely based on their blood status. Purebloods enjoyed all the privileges and were invariably given priority.
The wait was agonising. Only a single employee was manning the counter for the lower ranks, while six dedicated staff members swiftly processed the Pureblood queue. Once the Pureblood line had cleared, a single reluctant employee finally shifted their focus to the Unbloodeds. The others promptly shut their counters.
Ginny looked up. Her gaze immediately fell upon a towering poster depicting a corpulent woman in her fifties, garbed in a pale pink suit. She looked down on the queue with disdain, occasionally pursing her thin lips in a sign of deep disgust. Below the image, Ginny saw the following words:
Dolores Umbridge
Minister of the Department for the Uniformity of Purity Exemplified
The image shifted, now portraying a blonde woman, far leaner than her predecessor. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her lips tightened in disapproval.
Mafalda Hopkirk
Chairwoman of the Registration Commission for Unbloodeds and Undesirables
The poster transformed again, showing a third face. This time it was a short man with piercing eyes.
Barrett Fay
Author of the Best-Seller ''Mudbloods and How to Spot Them''
Once again, the image changed to display an advertisement:
Meet our speakers at the exclusive conference:
Why Only the Total Eradication of Non-Purebloods Can Save Us
The Six-Step Plan for a Fully Purified United Kingdom
Date: October 27th, 11 a.m.
Entry fee: 49 Galleons
After a three-hour wait, an apathetic witch finally beckoned Ginny to the counter.
"Pure be the blood," Ginny greeted.
"Power and purity. Identification," demanded the employee in a hurried tone.
Ginny handed her wand over.
"Do you still live at 7 Goblin Gabble Avenue in Knockturn Quarter, London?" the woman asked in a cold tone, consulting a register.
"Yes," confirmed Ginny.
Over the next few minutes, the woman probed into Ginny's personal life.
"Verify the information. If all is accurate, sign at the bottom," she instructed.
"I've changed employers," Ginny noted, her eyes darting over the parchment.
She jotted down the name and address of Burke's Bountiful Brews, then affixed her signature to the parchment.
"Next," ordered the employee.
Ginny held her ground and gestured for Mrs Moretti to come forward.
"She doesn't speak English well. I'll assist her," Ginny told the employee.
The employee rolled her eyes but consented to take the elderly lady's summons. It was Ginny who answered the questions during the interrogation. Thankfully, Mrs Moretti's situation hadn't changed since the previous year.
"Since your last census, have you had any contact with the individual our authorities recognise as the dissident Luca Moretti?" the woman inquired, her tone robotic, as though reading off a script.
Ginny grimaced, unsure if she could make the woman understand the question. However, Mrs Moretti shook her head frantically, as if she had already grasped the meaning.
"No. Not news," she assured in broken English.
The woman scribbled a sentence in her register, her lips pinched in disapproval.
"Verification and signature," she demanded.
Mrs Moretti signed the paper, and they were permitted to leave. Ginny exhaled a sigh of relief. She loathed this place and made it a point to stay no longer than was absolutely required. The annual visit was invariably agonising.
In the grand hall of the Ministry, they sidestepped an imposing statue of Voldemort. He was seated on hundreds of naked bodies of men, women, and children, contorted into uncomfortable positions, forming the Dark Lord's throne. Their faces were twisted into grotesque expressions—Muggles. On the trunk of the pedestal, engraved in gold letters, one could read the name of the monument:
Magic is Power
Ginny averted her eyes, revolted by the grim spectacle of twisted forms. Her eyes next landed on a woman whose face seemed vaguely familiar. The woman was elderly and wore an elegant witch's robe in imperial green, accessorised with an imposing hat of the same shade. She was accompanied by two wizards wearing silver armbands—Aurors.
After a brief moment, recognition dawned on Ginny. It was Governor Warrington, whom she had briefly met during the inauguration of the Imperial Augurey.
As she passed by Ginny, Mrs Warrington briefly observed her before turning away. Yet her magical eye lingered on the young woman. Suddenly, the Governor turned around and walked over to them, closely followed by her entourage. At the sight of the Aurors, Mrs Moretti had placed herself behind Ginny, an intimidated expression on her wrinkled features.
"You're that young woman I met at the Malfoys, aren't you?" inquired the Governor curiously. "The one who works at the apothecary?"
Ginny nodded.
"My memory isn't what it used to be, you know. But my eye never forgets a face," Mrs Warrington stated, a note of pride in her voice, gesturing toward the artificial eye that rotated in all directions in its socket.
Ginny managed a smile, unsure of how to conduct herself in her presence.
"Would you accompany me for a moment?"
Her tone allowed no room for refusal; to Ginny, it was an unequivocal command. Ginny shot a panicked look at Mrs Moretti. Governor Warrington's frenzied eye followed her gaze.
"My escort will stay here with your mother," Mrs Warrington assured, signalling to one of the Aurors.
Ginny turned to Mrs Moretti, wearing a regretful expression.
"I'll be back," she promised the elderly woman who looked frightened. "Wait for me here."
Uncertain if her words had registered, she laid a comforting hand on Mrs Moretti's arm, trying to convey through touch that all was well. Mrs Moretti gave a timid nod, clutching her weathered handbag to her frail form. Reluctantly, Ginny turned towards Mrs Warrington, who had already moved away. She quickened her pace, surprised by the older woman's brisk stride. The second Auror followed her but kept his distance.
"What's your name again?" Mrs Warrington inquired, glancing over her shoulder.
"Ginevra Weasley," Ginny responded.
"Weasley…Weasley…" Cressida repeated thoughtfully. "Are you a Half-blood?"
"No. Blood traitor, ma'am," Ginny replied softly.
"Excellent. You see, Miss Weasley, I am currently drafting a decree to relax labour laws for lower-ranking wizards. I need people like you to help us understand the experiences of these individuals. Concrete examples," Mrs Warrington explained.
"Me?" Ginny repeated, flabbergasted. "But—"
Mrs Warrington cut her off, clearly uninterested in her objections.
" Leave your details with my secretary. He will contact you," she said firmly.
She turned to the Auror who had followed them and whispered instructions.
"Farewell for now, Miss Wilbery," said Governor Warrington, making her impatient departure towards a door guarded by two Aurors.
The Auror pivoted towards Ginny. "Follow me," he commanded.
Ginny trailed the man, casting a worried glance back at Mrs Moretti who stood uncomfortably near the statue.
"Level 5—Department of International Magical Cooperation," announced the lift's voice moments later.
They emerged into a long corridor, its identical doors spaced evenly apart. Their journey down the hallway made her dizzy. Eventually, they reached a broader and more elegant door, framed in solid wood. A golden plaque was fixed in the middle, and the following words were visible:
GOVERNOR
CRESSIDA WARRINGTON
The door opened onto a reception area, where a blonde man sat engrossed in a magazine at his desk. As Ginny and the Auror entered, the man hurriedly closed his magazine and placed a parchment over it as though to hide it before straightening up. Ginny could have sworn she saw a Quidditch image on his magazine before he hid it.
With his square face, ashy blond curls, and smug demeanour, he looked like one of those pretty boys often seen in 'Witch Weekly' adverts. The Auror approached him and whispered a few words. The pretty boy's attention shifted back to Ginny.
"Victorious be his coming. I'm Cormac McLaggen, Deputy Secretary-General to Mrs Warrington," he announced, oozing self-assurance.
He grabbed what appeared to be a form and invited Ginny to take a seat across from him. She complied, casting an eye at the Auror who was watching her intently, standing by the door.
"State your full name, date of birth, and blood status," Cormac demanded.
"Ginevra Margaret Weasley. August 11th, 1981. Blood traitor," Ginny replied hesitantly.
A quick-quotes quill appeared from the desk and began frantically jotting down the young woman's information on the form. For nearly an hour, Ginny felt as though she were being interrogated. McLaggen even asked her intrusive questions about her private life.
"Why do you need all this information?" Ginny asked, her discomfort palpable as they reached the final question on the form—number 114.
"It's merely standard protocol for anyone liaising directly or indirectly with Governor Warrington," McLaggen responded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
With a flick of his wand, he sealed the parchment and made it levitate to a shelf where similar folders were stacked.
"Should your application succeed, we'll contact you directly. No response within a week means you've been rejected," Cormac said flatly. "May Voldemort guide you."
Ginny's eyes widened. 'An application?' she thought, in disbelief. That explained this interrogation—it was actually an interview. But to what end?
Nonetheless, she was too relieved about leaving to question it further. Upon entering the Ministry's main hall, she spotted Mrs Moretti sitting alone on a bench. The elderly woman appeared uneasy amidst the bustling crowd. She looked relieved when Ginny arrived.
"Mrs Moretti! I'm so terribly sorry," Ginny immediately apologised, her face etched with contrition.
She was mortified to have left her alone for so long. The language barrier made it frustratingly hard to explain herself.
"No matter. Are we done here? I'd like to go home," Mrs Moretti said, her eyes flitting nervously around.
The elderly woman spoke in flawless English.
"But you...you..." stammered Ginny, stunned.
"The Aurors were trying to communicate with me and couldn't, so they brought in an officer from the Department of International Magical Cooperation. She cast a Translation spell on me," Mrs Moretti explained as she headed towards one of the fireplaces.
"A Translation spell?" Ginny repeated, incredulous. "I've never heard of such a thing."
"I hadn't either. It seems the spell wears off after a few hours. Although I speak in my native tongue, the words get directly translated," she explained, taking a handful of Floo Powder. "So I can understand everything you say."
Under Ginny's astonished gaze, she vanished into the fireplace, engulfed by towering green flames. Upon reappearing in bustling Diagon Alley, Ginny swiftly offered another apology.
"Don't worry about it. I know you couldn't refuse them anything," declared Mrs Moretti patiently.
As they walked toward Knockturn Alley, Mrs Moretti began to open up. She had relocated to the UK with her husband and son during an immigration wave sanctioned by the regime. Her husband had struggled to find work in Italy, grappling with making ends meet. Back in their home country, the UK was viewed as a land of prosperity and abundant opportunities.
"I knew they were strict about blood purity, but I didn't think it would be to this extent. And we were desperate, truth be told," she explained. "If I had known, we would've stayed put."
The UK provided new immigrants with work and accommodation for their first few months to help them settle in. A few years after their arrival, Mr Moretti had succumbed to a severe case of Dragon Pox. Mrs Moretti told Ginny that her son, Luca, had failed to adapt to the new environment. He started keeping questionable company according to the regime. Two years ago, he narrowly escaped just before the Death Eaters arrived to arrest him for treason. Mrs Moretti revealed that she had not heard from him since. However, she remained vague about her son's actions. Ginny was taken aback by the calmness in her voice as she spoke of her missing son.
Mrs Moretti seemed thrilled to converse so effortlessly, courtesy of the Translation ppell. She had few interactions with the outside world, and Ginny realised the old woman was probably very lonely.
She made a mental note to ask Hermione about the spell, questioning whether her restricted wand would even permit such complex magic. Generally, complex spells were unattainable with the wands allocated to the Unbloodeds.
"Would it be possible for you to return to your home country, if you wished?" Ginny inquired.
"Perhaps, but it would be very complicated, especially given my current status. And I won't leave without my Luca," Mrs Moretti asserted firmly, a determined glint in her eyes as she said these words.
Upon reaching the edge of the Knockturn District, Mrs Moretti announced she'd be staying in town longer than initially planned. She wanted to make the most of the Translation spell to attend to some errands before the effects fully dissipated. Nodding, Ginny ventured into the shadowy, crumbling lanes of the Knockturn District, reflecting on the morning's unexpected events.
/
Hermione set the manuscript on the enchanted trolley that roamed the room, methodically returning books to their rightful shelves. She returned to the large table set up in Aelius Macmillan's private archives and settled into her seat. Lost in thought, she chewed the end of her quill. This bad habit had cost her dozens of quills.
"You're at it again, Miss Granger," came a soft voice beside her, jolting her from her reverie.
Hermione looked up into Theodore Nott's keen eyes, which regarded her with curiosity. With a knowing nod, he gestured toward the quill she was nervously chewing. She quickly took it out and placed it on the table, as if it were a hot object.
"Oh yes... sorry," she replied, feeling her cheeks redden.
"What's got you so pensive?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, puzzled.
"I've noticed you do that when you're focused or searching for something," he admitted, a little embarrassed.
Hermione was stunned that he had picked up on such a trivial detail about her.
"I'm looking for information on a spell. I'm not finding anything concrete," she admitted.
"I'm surprised to hear there's something you don't know," he said, shrugging, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Hermione couldn't tell if it was a compliment, yet something in his tone made her pride bristle.
"I mean, you're typically the one with all the answers," he amended, reading her expression.
Hermione relaxed, satisfied with his answer. For nearly three weeks now, Theodore had been a regular visitor to Macmillan's Great Librarium. When he asked to enter Aelius's private collection, Hermione was assigned to escort and assist him. The chance to delve into this sanctuary, filled with books she knew were rarities, never failed to thrill her.
At times they sat in silence, each engrossed in their own research. At other times, they discussed various topics. Theodore had a keen appreciation for all things artistic, a sensitivity Hermione found herself envying. She had never been especially drawn to the arts. She loved exact sciences like Potions and Transfiguration, and clear and unambiguous knowledge like Arithmancy or Runes.
Through their interactions, Hermione had been surprised at Theodore's attitude towards her. Within these four walls, he treated Hermione almost as his equal. She had never imagined such treatment, particularly from someone of sacred lineage.
Theodore appeared to be detached from the entrenched beliefs of his peers and the regime—a nuance Hermione had picked up on despite his reserved nature.
Whenever Theodore visited the Librarium, he would linger for hours on end. He appeared to spend the rest of his time at Damasus the Decadent's theatre , immersed in his compositions.
"So, what's this spell that's got you so preoccupied?" Theodore asked, curious.
"A Translation Spell," Hermione revealed, her sigh heavy with weariness, her face tinged with frustration.
A faint smile flickered across Theodore's lips.
"It seems you're in luck," he said. "I had to use it multiple times during my first few months after moving to France. I didn't speak French at that time, and it was the only way for me to understand the classes. All foreign students learned this spell."
Theodore had studied at the Grand Conservatory des Tuiles, a renowned magical conservatory. Hermione's eyes lit up at this revelation. Theodore gracefully raised his wand.
"Linguae revelare," he enunciated clearly, waving his wand in a precise pattern. "It's a two-way spell."
"So what's supposed to happen?" Hermione asked, her eyes alight with eagerness.
"You should be able to understand the foreign language I'm using," Theodore explained.
"Alright, then, go ahead and say something."
"I've been speaking French since I cast the spell," Theodore explained, amused. "The spell directly translates my words."
"Oh," Hermione simply said, feeling a bit foolish.
"Why not give it a whirl?" he suggested.
He pointed his wand and cast, "Finite Incantatem. Your turn now," he urged.
He swished his wand slowly to demonstrate the motion to Hermione, who carefully mimicked him. After several tries, Theodore gave a nod of approval, indicating she had mastered it.
"Linguae revelare," Hermione articulated, copying the wand movement.
She eyed Theodore with anticipation as he uttered a few phrases in what was likely French.
"It didn't work," she said, disappointed.
Frustrated, she slammed her wand down on the table. She had adored Charms, her favourite subject at school before the regime's takeover. After the attack, they confiscated her wand for a restricted one, capable only of basic spells. Hermione had settled for theoretical study, relying on black-market books for her education.
"It's likely futile with this wand; it's restricted," she admitted, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
She failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Theodore seemed to notice, a look of understanding crossing his eyes as he observed the wand. Then, much to Hermione's astonishment, he extended his own wand towards her.
"You may try using my wand, if you wish," he suggested.
Hermione's eyes flickered between Theodore and the wand, utterly gobsmacked.
"Go on," he insisted.
Cautiously, she reached out to grasp Theodore's wand, as if it might scald her if held for too long. Theodore watched with an encouraging gaze, and Hermione gripped the wand more firmly. She raised her hand, copied the motion Theodore had shown her, and repeated the incantation.
"Very nice wand movement. Perfect," Theodore commented.
"Thank you," Hermione replied.
"It seems to have worked," Theodore said, pleased. "You understand me."
Hermione's face lit up.
"You've nailed it on your first attempt," he said, clearly impressed. "It's far from an easy spell."
"I love Charms. I try to learn about them as much as I can. Well, theoretically," she added bitterly, placing Theodore's wand back on the table.
A wave of frustration washed over her. She hated being magically restricted. Her second-class status shackled her with endless restrictions. All her dreams, hopes, and aspirations now seemed like a utopian illusion, violently snuffed out by the regime. For the rest of her life, she would be a second-class citizen, viewed with distrust and contempt.
Unbeknownst to her, Hermione had sunk into a sullen silence. Snapping back to reality, she found Theodore watching her curiously. Without a word, Hermione picked up her own wand, placing it inside her cloak, and closed her book.
"If you like, you can use mine to cast other spells," he finally offered after a moment's hesitation.
Normally, she would have welcomed this unexpected opportunity. Today, though, she was swallowed up by her own frustration and bitterness.
"Thank you, but I can do without your pity," she said, her tone icier than she had intended.
Theodore looked caught off guard by her sudden hostility.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I just thought..." he began, confused.
"That you could play charity to a lowly Unblooded like me?" she cut him off sharply. "You don't have to."
Theodore didn't reply, and an uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Hermione resolutely kept her eyes on her book, not actually reading the words. Moments later, she heard Theodore packing up. The sound of his chair scraping against the floor reverberated through the room as he stood.
"I won't bother you any longer," he said, his voice subdued.
As he headed for the exit, Hermione stole a brief glance in his direction. Just before he disappeared through the portrait hole, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the pained expression that crossed Theodore's face.
The next chapter is one I really like because serious events start to unfold. I can't wait for you to read it! In the meantime, let me know your thoughts!