Chapter 21: Project Delivery

"I know it's strange and all - but don't you think it's better to know than not, Jeanie? I mean, Mr. Tonks did say that someone would be in touch about this one day, even if he didn't tell us who or when. Or how or why, for that matter."

Like many parents, Jeanette Marsh and Sarah Smythe had always believed that their daughter was a perfect little miracle from the moment of her birth. With that said, Victoria Smythe was, even setting the inevitable bias about one's progeny aside, a particularly miraculous child: to pick one of many (too many) examples from her five years on earth, plenty of young children despised broccoli, but Victoria's parents had to assume that very few were able to banish it from existence when the hated vegetable sullied their dinner-plates.

In their one consultation with him, Mr. Tonks had been a terribly pleasant man, and perfectly reassuring (insofar as a man who tells you, straight-faced, that your daughter has special abilities and will one day be a person of interest to the government can be reassuring). They had, of course, attempted to organise follow-up appointments with the man, only to find that he was almost entirely occupied with an overwhelming number of appointments. Undeterred, they had spent nine months on a waiting list for a follow-up session – and then they had been told that the man had moved to the United States for work, and that there was simply no alternative consultant who shared his skillset.

In the years that had followed, Jeanette and Sarah had repeatedly tried to convince themselves that, just perhaps, Mr. Tonks had just been a friendly conspiracy theorist – and yet, every time that they came close to thinking that, their little miracle seemed to manifest another little miracle of her own devising.

And then, midway through an extensive clean-up operation in the evening after Victoria's predictably exhausting fifth birthday party, Sarah had found the letter on their doormat – which was rather odd to begin with, because their rather rusty letterbox hadn't clattered to herald its arrival.

Dear Ms. Marsh and Ms. Smythe, it had read,

We are writing in respect of your daughter, who we are delighted to confirm is eligible for a full scholarship to Lockwood Academy, a selective summer school for particularly gifted children.

You may have noticed that particularly inexplicable events have occasionally occurred to, or around, your child – a plateful of hated food being flung away from them, perhaps, or an outfit unexpectedly changing colour.

We are writing, first and foremost, to reassure you that there is nothing wrong with your daughter. Her talents are both natural and beneficial, resulting from a rare, and, it is important to stress, entirely benign genetic heritage which, among many other benefits, grants her significantly improved health: you may have noticed, for example, that your daughter is unlikely to have ever suffered from a cold, ear infection, or any of the other illnesses which are common to young children.

While your daughter's condition is entirely benign (and indeed beneficial) b , we understand that the inexplicable events which sometimes accompany it can be both confusing and distressing. It is for this reason that we would like to invite you to a meeting at our London office, where we hope both to provide you with a full explanation and to more fully explain the opportunities and benefits that Lockwood Academy can offer both you and your daughter.

We are happy to compensate you for any travel expenses, or unpaid leave, which you may require in order to visit us at our office; we are also happy to arrange to visit you at your home if this would be preferable. If you would like to make an appointment, you can contact us by telephone, or alternatively in writing by post, at our details (as set out hereinabove);

We look forward to hearing from you.

With kindest regards,

Miss Delia Thistle
Headmistress
Lockwood Academy

With Victoria fast asleep upstairs, Sarah and Jeanette's already long evening had extended well into the early hours of the following morning as they'd read and reread the letter. For all its reassurances, it wasn't actually all that informative – presumably, Jeanette had suggested, because they wanted to entice parents to learn more about this supposed summer school, which, she had checked and double-checked, did not seem to feature in the Good Schools Guide.

At that point, Sarah had suggested that Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters probably hadn't been featured in any sort of schools guide, either - a reference which Jeanette had neither understood nor, once it had been explained to her, been tremendously reassured by.

Ultimately, though, the couple was neither stubborn nor suspicious enough to resist the very first opportunity for real answers to the mystery of their daughter that the world had offered them; they were, however, petty enough to insist that Lockwood Academy's representatives travelled to them.

And so, thanks to that small pettiness, the following Saturday found Sarah and Jeanette waiting in their kitchen for a two p.m. appointment. Victoria was well away, staying with her grandparents – they weren't stupid enough to assume that these people had to have purely good intentions, after all – but they were both so nervous that they still jumped at the knock on the door when their mantle clock chimed the hour, never mind that they'd been expecting somebody.

Somebody, it turned out, was actually two somebodies: a tall, rather attractive grey-eyed woman in an impressively well-tailored pant-suit, and a handsome, slightly shorter, and rather less well put-together man who, in spite of a suit which had evidently resulted from the best efforts of an equally expensive tailor, wore it with such obviously discomfort that he still managed to make it look shabby.

In contrast to his scruffiness, however, the man's manners were entirely unimpeachable.

"Would I be right in thinking that you are Ms. Marsh and Ms. Smythe?" He asked, the easy smile on his face widening at their cautious nods. "Wonderful! My name is Remus Lupin, and this is Delia Thistle. Might we come in? I'm sure you have a lot of questions for us – I know I would..."

By the time their visitors left, the sun had almost set. There had, indeed, been a lot of questioning, as well as several practical demonstrations, quite a few minutes of shouting, and a not-inconsiderable quantity of tears, mostly confused: it hadn't been a traumatising conversation, just a very, very complicated one.

With Victoria away for the weekend, Sarah and Jeanette had the house entirely to themselves. After introductions, the conversation had quickly moved to the living room, and they were still there curled up together on the sofa in silence, more than an hour after their visitors had left. At some point, they had opened several bottles of rather expensive wine, which, by a joint effort, had been very efficiently emptied.

Eventually, though, Sarah grinned and broke the silence.

"You owe me fifty quid."

"Excuse me?"

"Superpowers!" Sarah crowed. "I bet you fifty quid that Vicky had superpowers, and you told me that I was being childish, but it looks like the worm has turned -"

"Excuse me, but I seem to recall that Mrs. Thistle was entirely clear about this: Victoria is not a superhero, she's a witch, which isn't the same thing in the slightest!"

They were both smiling, now.

"Ah yes, Jeanie, because there's famously nothing magic about noted superheroes Doctor Strange, the Scarlett Witch, or Zatanna, I suppose?" said Sarah.

"I may not read those comics you love so much, darling," Jeanette sniffed, "but I believe Zatanna is the name of your hairdresser. And really, there's no need to be such a sore loser – I seem to recall saying that there was a perfectly normal, completely rational explanation for all of Victoria's little incidents, and, lo and behold, it appears that I was entirely right."

They stared at each other for a moment – then the ridiculousness of the assertion overcame them, and they both burst into helpless, mostly not-hysterical laughter.

It was some time before they calmed down enough to catch their breath – but, somehow, all the tension had dissipated. Yes, magic was a thing, and yes, their daughter had it, and, yes, the world was stranger than they had ever imagined. But the only important thing, in the end, was that they finally knew that their daughter was going to be alright – and that more than made up for the madness of everything else.

Although self-aggrandisement wasn't an attractive character trait, Graham couldn't help but be at least a little pleased by how well the London offices of Lockwood Academy had shaped up. It turned out that there was quite a lot to be said for having contacts in the construction business (not to mention the best part of a decade's experience in magically renovation) if you were looking to convince prospective parents that the school their child had apparently won a full scholarship to was a), prestigious and, more importantly, b), real.

The premises they'd ultimately settled on, a charming (if slightly run-down) Georgian townhouse just off Fleet Street, had, in a former life, hosted one of London's lesser-known (and now-defunct) barristers' sets. Tasteful window displays treated passers-to professionally-rendered photographs of a sunlit red-brick country mansion, above which elegant lettering invited curious parents to "apply now, while spaces remain!".

The total lack of an explanation of how intrigued parents might apply for one of those limited spaces for their darling children was, of course, a most unfortunate omission – particularly when the similarly elegant signage at the entrance explained that, regrettably, the only visitors welcome were those who had a prior appointment.

The inside of the building was a very different story – a testament to just how much an enthusiastic architect could do when paired with the functionally unlimited budget that magical renovation afforded. Alongside some truly world-class soundproofing, this being a sad necessity in light of the yelling which formed an integral part of the "your child is magic, which exists, by the way" talk, the most normal thing about the building was an understated reception room on the ground floor. The building was something of a reverse pyramid. Every floor was more than twice as large as the one below it; the ceilings were entirely unsupported and more than twice as high as they should have been; and none of the enchanted windows looked out onto the same city, let alone the same time-zone.

It was also warded to the gills, but that was more-or-less par for the course, these days. In truth, nearly all the building's unique features were entirely superfluous (although a window looking over the Imperial Palace in Tokyo was quite helpful when it came to proving that magic was real). The only exception was all the extra floorspace – because, well, it was all getting so big, now: certainly, too big for them to manage from a cramped room on the top floor of Lockwood Manor.

Graham had never dreamed so small as to have fantasized about being the chief executive of anything, but he'd have been lying if he said he hated getting to have meetings in the luxurious leather armchairs he'd conjured in his private office. Or, for that matter, having a private office.

"So that's a yes for the Smythes?" Graham asked. "Or, sorry, for the young miss Smythe and her parents?"

Delia heaved a sigh that was only mostly put on for dramatic effect.

"It was an eventual yes." she said. "It was also quite a lot of other things before it was yes, frankly."

Beside her, Remus smiled fondly.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, darling." he said. "They were really quite a charming couple, didn't you think? And I quite enjoyed convincing the posh one that magic was real – it's always more fun when you can tell that they really don't want to believe, don't you think?"

"Yes," said Delia, wryly, "it was fun, wasn't it? Hours and hours of fun. But I digress. Yes, they're on board: we've already got all the paperwork sorted. That puts us at three refusals, fourteen deferrals, and one hundred and forty-three students in the inaugural class, I think?"

"Well, that should still be entirely manageable - we've got, what, eleven teachers on the docket, now? Twelve, if you count me." Graham said. "As long as we can run two separate intakes every summer, I reckon that we're going to be absolutely fine on numbers."

He paused.

"And – what about her welfare? Did you see enough to get a decent read?"

"No concerns whatsoever, though we didn't actually see Victoria. She was staying with relatives – but caution's no bad thing, and entirely understandable given that one of them seemed pretty convinced they were being visited by the men in black. There were plenty of toys about the place, it seemed very well-maintained, and you wouldn't need to be a detective to see how much they adore her."

Asking about children's welfare was the question Graham hated most of all, because it went to the heart of his every insecurity about the morality of their project. Accidental magic was never not going to be alarming to non-magical people, but most of the parents they contacted were, at worst, simply afraid for the welfare of their children. What he was worried about was the possibility of that fear becoming something much uglier. The fact was that, if a child was abused because Graham's manipulations had given them the 'gift' of magic, then no amount of rationalising was going to make him think it was anything but his fault. Yes, these were all the children of non-magical families, which meant that there was theoretically a non-magical safety net for them, but Graham had as much faith in the Thatcherite social safety net as he had in the woman herself (none whatsoever) and he had no plans to derogate his sense of personal responsibility to the limited protections it offered.

None of them were social workers, but mercifully, after talking to nearly two hundred families (and, when possible, offering to magically assess their children for any illnesses, which also let them check for any concerning past injuries) they hadn't seen anything to indicate that any of their interviewees had abused their children.

Whenever those conversations gave them the slightest cause for concern, magic made entirely undetectable remote spot-checks entirely possible, if no less unethical, which had bolstered their confidence in those assessments (if not in the unimpeachable morality of their conduct). But at the end of the day, their mission was, in its entirety, an ethical black hole, and ensuring the welfare of children was a greater good Graham and his friends could happily get behind.

It helped, too, that (in the several years since she had joined their ranks) Amelia Bones had proven herself both a ferociously competent and a surprisingly compassionate critic. If a proposal made it past the gauntlet of her worst-case scenario mindset, that went a long way towards convincing Graham that it had merit. Keen to focus more on working to help his project come to fruition, he had happily turned more and more of the strategic work over to Amelia as the first year of schooling bore down on them. The delegation of authority – not that he was Amelia's boss, she had quickly made that abundantly clear – had suited him just fine, not least because her time as an auror had, it seemed, made her far better than him at seeing the bigger picture.

"Good." Graham murmured. "That's good. Just a hundred more families to go – and then, well, it's going to be time to get teaching, isn't it?"

"A hundred and seven." Delia said, wearily. "The first of which is our seven p.m., so we should really be on our way, Graham. Remus has -"

"- lost a bet -"

"- very kindly agreed to finalise our new student's paperwork, so this one will have to be you and me."

"Right," said Graham, "in which case, I'll get my coat. And some coffee. Want some?"

"Thank you, no."

Graham shrugged, rose to his feet, did his best to work a crick out of his neck, and, after a few languid waves of his wand, ambled over to his coat stand and pulled on a jacket while a moka pot obligingly conjured, filled, boiled, and dispensed its contents into a newly-created cup before dissipating once more into nothingness.

"You've become rather disconcertingly good at that, Graham." Delia said, eyeing him narrowly. "Didn't Jess tell you to cut down on the caffeine?"

Graham rolled his eyes.

"I mean, yes. But she's a doctor – of course she'd say that. And besides, this is only my thi- my fourth cup of the day. That I'm willing to own up to."

"Remus, darling, remind me – in rhetoric, what's the technical term for whatever the opposite of an argument from authority is?"

Delia's husband shot them a faux-exasparated look from above his reading glasses as he tried and failed to hide a smirk.

"I haven't a clue, dear," he said, "but I'm well acquainted with the concept of a fool's errand, and on that basis I think that you should probably leave Graham and his coffee to their inevitable rendezvous with an early heart attack."

Bartholomew Gamp was neither a man inclined to fits of histrionics, nor one who inherently believed himself great. A wizard with such a high regard for their own importance was, in his not-inconsiderable experience, almost always moments away from a sudden, precipitous, and entirely well-deserved fall from grace: truly great men had the confidence to leave the question of their reputation to posterity.

But then again, he was all alone in the privacy of his own office – and surely even the humblest great men were allowed to take pride in their accomplishments from time to time? Smiling a little, the 32nd Minister for Magic permitted himself just the barest moment of hubris - anything more would have been entirely intemperate.

The word on the street was that people had taken to calling the past few years 'Gamp's Golden Age', and, well, who was he to disagree with his public?

Gamp had been elected and, two months ago, re-elected, with an increased majority, on a promise to restore traditional values, clean up the streets, and make the Wizarding world a safer place – and, even if he said so himself, he had accomplished all that and then some. These days, the cobblestones of Diagon Alley practically shone: the fall in footfall and the closure of some of the more disreputable outlets (especially those which had once catered to the now heavily-reduced muggle-born clientele of Wizarding Britain) had been a boon twice over. What with now-rigorous enforcement of appropriate dress codes and, despite a great deal of kvetching, the installation of full-time border security at the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, every visit to the alley left Minister Gamp feeling like he had been transported back in time to the world of his childhood.

It wasn't just Diagon Alley, either: his aurors had been making great headway in cleaning up Knockturn Alley, and the slow egress of muggleborns from Wizarding Britain meant that Horizont Alley was, at last, starting to fill up with the right sort of people again. The future was clean, bright, and proper.

Of course, things weren't all sunshine and butterbeer. A falling population meant fewer workers; fewer workers meant less production; and less production meant higher prices on the shelf. Of course, most wizards of the proper sort could afford those higher prices – but, that didn't mean they liked paying them. Even if half-heartedly, many of the companies which had so enthusiastically taken up the opportunity to rid themselves of their muggleborn employees a few years before were now starting to advertise jobs without their prior restrictions – jobs which were open to anyone with a pulse who turned up for an interview, unless they were vampires, in which case the pulse was also optional.

Well, thought Gamp, all that fuss would even out in good time. It always did. And besides, he'd never actually wanted to expel muggleborns from the wizarding world – after all, they were wizards and witches, weren't they? And, at least from what he saw on the street, they all seemed to be behaving much better these days. Gamp didn't spend very much of his valuable time monitoring the fines which his aurors levied, but, at least when he'd last taken a look, the number of fines for dress code violation had fallen through the floor. It seemed obvious to him, anyway: fewer fines meant more compliance, which meant better-behaved muggleborns.

All things, in other words, were right with the world – or, well, with the wizarding world, which was what Bartholomew Gamp cared about.

Three things should, perhaps, be pointed out at this juncture.

First, it was fair to say that there were quite a few other things on Bartholomew Gamp's mind at the start of May of 1986 – not least of these the apparent impending threat of a global nuclear disaster in the wake of the incident at Chernobyl, an incident which had so terrified the man that he had insisted on meeting his Muggle counterpart for the first time since his election - a meeting which had satisfied him that there was no imminent threat to the wizarding world while providing no reassurance whatsoever about the competence of muggles and their apocalypse machines.

Second, Bartholomew Gamp was by no means a statistician, and the fraught relationship between correlation and causation was very much a mystery to him (and to the wizarding world at large).

And third, it would be unfair to look too harshly on the man for assuming that a persistent shortage of labour, fast-rising prices, and a falling population were benign and short-lived symptoms of necessary political decisions, economics being an equally unknown discipline in the wizarding world.

All of which was to say that Bartholomew Gamp should, perhaps, be forgiven for his total blindness to the social, economic, demographic crises that were now, slowly but inexorably, bearing down upon his eponymous Golden Age.

AN: It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry about that; reports of my death, etc. etc.

I won't bore you with excuses, but suffice it to say that I really fell out of love with JK's world over the past couple of years – enough that trying to write for it became a rather unpleasant chore. With that said, I wanted to give this story something close to a proper ending (even if in relatively limited detail) before I move on to new projects: it'll only be a few chapters or so, but I'm looking forward to closing things out in, I hope, a satisfying way.

As always, thank you very much for reading.