Chapter 283 - 283
By morning, Smethwyck and I were sitting in the office where patients were seen on a walk-in basis, though there was no queue to speak of — we'd already gotten through everyone.
"You know," Smethwyck said, sitting in a plain sort of armchair, hands folded over his stomach, "I'm not going to ask you about the full extent of your abilities, though as your mentor, there's a great deal I'd like to know. Everyone has a right to their secrets, so long as those secrets don't pose a threat — to me, for instance. And I can guess as much on my own — some sort of artefacts, I'd wager, given how good you are with them."
"Thank you, I suppose," I smiled, sitting in a similarly plain armchair. "I just don't much fancy running around like some Gryffindor, doling out good deeds and justice to anyone and everyone I meet, solving other people's problems for them."
"Believe me, that's perfectly normal," Smethwyck nodded. "Wizards, in their essence, tend to be far more selfish and self-centred than people give them credit for. It comes with age, with understanding your own capabilities and those of others. Those very capabilities are what shape us into what we are. Capability is power. And someone strong has no need to huddle into a pack with other strong people, following that pack's interests, placing them above his own."
"You know, mentor, an acquaintance of mine once—" ah yes, someone who'd lived in another world entirely and served as rector of a magical academy there — "held that society, as we know it, is a product of the personal weakness of the majority. As a result, because of that weakness, the members of society divide up roles among themselves — positions, functions, production, and so on. It becomes one great organism, in which each individual cell, on its own, means nothing whatsoever, but performs the role strictly assigned to it. Some cells better than others."
Through the open office door, the hospital's entrance hall was visible, entirely empty, without a single visitor, only the odd member of staff flitting past now and then.
"Now imagine that a remarkably powerful cell appears somewhere in that organism — one capable not only of performing its own function with tremendous efficiency, but of performing any function at all. What options does that cell have, in terms of how it lives? To receive the organism's benefits — provisions, nourishment, and so on — the cell still has to do something. But it can't do everything at once, and certainly not detached from the wider community of similar cells that make up the organs — the system simply isn't built for that. Which means the cell joins the community and performs whatever function the organism has assigned to that community."
"Let's say that's so."
"But what if the cell is so versatile that it's self-sufficient? What if it's so different from every other cell in the organism?"
"The obvious outcome would be destruction, at the organism's hands."
"Yes. But the cell could disguise its uniqueness instead. Pressure from the other cells — and it will inevitably find itself embedded in one organ or another — limits what the cell can do. Everything in nature follows the path of least resistance, and our cell's situation is no exception — it's simpler for it either to isolate itself from the cells around it while continuing, by some clever means, to draw its share of the benefits, or to leave the organism entirely, given it's self-sufficient."
"Or to raise a rebellion and change everything around it."
"Exactly," I nodded. "The Dark Lord is a rebel cell. Dumbledore is an adaptive cell. Flamel is a self-isolating cell. I don't want to be a rebel — you can easily strain yourself past breaking, tearing everything down and building something new, and meanwhile the whole organism turns its attention on you and crushes you. Purely on principle. At any cost. And the further you push down that road, the harder that pressure grows."
"That's an interesting line of thought," Smethwyck smiled. "I do enjoy exercises like this. And Dumbledore, then? With Flamel and his self-isolation it's fairly straightforward — everyone knows he exists somewhere, but not exactly where, nor even what he looks like, and there's no contact, which means no influence either — he can do as he pleases."
"Well, of the dead, one should speak only well, or not at all," I shrugged, catching sight out of the corner of my eye of yet another Healer in lime-green robes flitting past in the far part of the hospital hall. "But he was a textbook adaptive cell. A bit here, a bit there. Seeing that closer and closer contact with the Muggle world was inevitable, he took up the side that had always existed — those who, in one form or another, favoured contact, whether that simply meant respecting Muggles, or accepting Muggle-borns, or any other variation on the theme. In doing so he both 'existed,' since there was an opposition, meaning there was always something to be doing, while at the same time never having to take genuinely radical, active steps, or get personally involved."
"Why's that, I wonder?"
"Because the idea of blood purity can never truly be defeated. You can't defeat an idea. You can't scrub it out of people's minds. You can make them forget about it, stop thinking of it, for generations even, yes — but sooner or later, someone will still think to themselves: 'I've got a whole line of ancestors behind me, so why should some jumped-up first-generation nobody be better than me?' Everyone wants to be better than someone, and the simplest measure of quality is comparison against others. Simplest in terms of ease, not accuracy."
"Ah, I see the shape of the logic now," Smethwyck smiled, trying to settle himself more comfortably in his chair, without much success. "Not everyone has the capability, the talent, or even the basic willingness to put in the work needed to make their superiority over others something real, something factual, something you could point to, touch, demonstrate."
"Exactly. And that's when people start thinking they need to invent superiority instead. But invent it in such a way that it seems to exist, obviously so, while at the same time being impossible to properly compare against the facts. And that's where ideas like the purity of blood, or the superiority of some race, or anything else along those lines, come from. However hard you try to root out thoughts like that, people will keep arriving at them regardless, for one reason or another. I suspect Dumbledore understood that perfectly well, and that's why he never rooted the idea out, though I'm certain he could have."
"His immortal enemy."
"And not even a personal one, at that. I'm sure he himself couldn't have cared less about all those ideas. You can only carry a banner when there's somewhere to carry it to. And if that dragon had ever actually been slain, the whole point of the crusade would have vanished along with it. That's why I say he was an adaptive cell. Having the means to tell the whole world to go to Mordred, he chose instead to find the wave that suited him, that satisfied his own morals and his own vision, and rode it, always right at the crest. And as a result, he could do more or less whatever he liked, nudging people towards this decision or that from time to time. He genuinely enjoyed his life, I'm sure of it, and he remained relevant to society the whole time."
"And why exactly do you think he never wanted to change the world, Hector?"
"A powerful man, clearly one of the cleverest around, who wanted and wanted and wanted, and never actually got round to wanting anything into being? Seriously? If he'd wanted it, he'd have done it. A dozen laws pushed through the Wizengamot, shifting the balance a little away from pure-blood superiority over Muggle-borns — that's not what radically changes a world. So I stand by my thinking, though I might be wrong."
"Then who are you?" That, clearly, was what Smethwyck had actually been curious about throughout our whole conversation.
"As I said, the path of the rebel, the desire to remake the world in my own image, isn't for me. As that same acquaintance of mine used to say: 'If you like something, rest assured, at least half the people on the planet don't.' Down that road, I'd spend my whole life trying to bend the world over my knee, and never quite manage it. In the end, either they'd finish me off, or I'd simply die on my own, and the world would still never actually change — they'd take one look at my corpse, scratch their heads, and go right on doing things their own way regardless, tearing down whatever I'd built. Especially given ambitions like that are best pursued without… anyone at all. And I can't do that anymore, as you well know."
"I understand," Smethwyck nodded. "But you don't strike me as an isolationist either."
"There was a thought, once, that I ought to just give it all up, build myself some fortress on the Moon, and watch the goings-on down below from a distance. But that's excessive too, a wild extreme. Not for me. I'd rather stay part of society. Which makes me an adaptive cell as well, in my own way. But unlike Dumbledore, who picked a side, I'd rather stay neutral. On any question at all. And if anyone decides I'm too good for neutrality — well, may the earth rest lightly on them."
"I'm starting to think I understand your choice of specialty."
"As I said, healing isn't just something I find interesting, or something I'll be reasonably good at — it's also a guaranteed baseline of security. Plus the fact that Healers generally aren't touched. Barring emergencies, of course, matters of life and death and the like. But I'll have an answer ready, should it ever come to that."
"And Healers don't strike first, Hector," Smethwyck noted, with a touch of the instructional in his voice, nodding. "That's one of the reasons we're generally left alone. There are a few other reasons besides… Right, then, the shift's just about over. Tell me, apprentice — how did tonight's duty treat you?"
"Does it happen often, being pulled off to a 'hot spot' mid-shift like that?"
"Not often at all, actually. As an example," Smethwyck considered for a moment, "any natural disaster, or man-made one. Yes, yes, don't look so surprised. Sometimes wizards end up involved, whether by necessity, when the disaster touches our own lands or our own people… or those living in such places request help through the Ministry — cheaper that way. Or even at the request of the Muggle government. Whoever needs to know the extent of the cooperation between the magical and Muggle governments, knows already."
"But something like tonight, in the middle of an actual fight?"
"Rare. Drawn-out battles are a rarity in the wizarding world altogether. In any confrontation, there's usually only a small number of wizards involved, and a winner emerges fairly quickly. The loser retreats or surrenders, everything wraps up fast, and only afterwards are non-combat specialists brought in to sort out whatever difficulties are left over. But sometimes, yes, a fight can drag on. And someone still has to save lives when that happens."
"Doesn't the DMLE or the Auror Office have Healers of its own on staff?"
"There are a few who know something about the trade, but that's roughly one in twenty at best, and true specialists — there are only two for the whole of the English Auror Office. And even they're getting on in years, and work at the Auror Academy now, teaching. Though we do get financial bonuses for operations like this. We're not entirely working on principle alone."
"The Muggles have specialists too, military doctors and the like."
"Ah, don't compare the two," Smethwyck waved a hand. "Different worlds entirely, different capabilities, different approach altogether."
"True enough. So, working at St Mungo's, rather than for yourself, means you might end up in a situation like this."
"Well now…" Smethwyck drew the word out. "In theory, working for yourself, you could still end up in a situation of that sort. The particularly lucrative sort of work in the 'for yourself' category is a contract with a family. And contracts can vary a good deal. They won't drag you straight into the actual fighting itself — that would be sheer stupidity, even using a Healer merely as cover. But into some notionally safe operational headquarters — entirely possible. Which is more or less what happened tonight. But in ordinary times, fighting, especially drawn-out fighting, is more the exception than the rule. And large-scale battles simply haven't happened… I can't recall a single one, in my own lifetime, on our own soil. Though if you go looking abroad, you might find your share of adventures there."
With that, our conversation came to an end, and Smethwyck sent me back through the Floo to Hogwarts, where Madam Pomfrey met me. Our mediwitch had clearly had a full night's sleep and, unlike me, hadn't seen any nighttime adventures of her own. Nor had the students at Hogwarts, for that matter — the beds were all empty. Time to shake myself awake, do some exercises, head to breakfast, and start knocking out artefacts for the twins. And go for that walk with Daphne, too. Might even slip away from Hogwarts for twenty minutes or so, in search of some nice little gift — the urge had come over me, somehow, after tonight.
. . . . . .
The gloomy corridors of the English Ministry of Magic stood nearly empty on this early Sunday morning. Nearly, though — not entirely. An emergency session of the Wizengamot had only just concluded, at which a number of decisions and administrative reshuffles had been passed. All those dignified wizards, so terribly important in their own estimation, had already scattered off about their business, but in one of the corridors, a sharp-eyed, curious wizard — had one happened to find himself there, of course — might have noticed two rather distinguished figures, sheltered beneath a dome of protection against every sort of eavesdropping.
A middle-aged wizard of pleasant appearance, dressed in a grey three-piece business suit beneath a somewhat darker robe, stood listening to the second man, considerably his senior, who favoured darker colours in his own attire.
"My Lord," the older wizard said, without any trace of servility — though it plainly cost him some effort to manage that. "The provocation succeeded, but there are a few complications."
"Don't dance around it, just tell me," the wizard in grey said calmly, absently rubbing the black stone of the ring on his right hand with his left. "Was the primary objective accomplished?"
"Of course," the older wizard nodded. "But all the secondary objectives failed. There are minor losses."
"What matters is accomplishing the primary objective. The secondary ones, my loyal friend, are secondary precisely for that reason, just as losses are an inevitability. So — the Wizengamot made the right decision, then?"
"Without question."
"In that case, I ought to pay a courtesy visit to someone."
The wizard in grey, without another word, set off down the corridors in a direction known only to himself, and his companion followed along in silence.
Passing through several corridors and up one of the staircases, avoiding the lifts and other potentially crowded spots, the two wizards arrived at the office of the Head of the DMLE. The wizard in grey knocked, and, opening the door, stepped inside.
"Madam Bones," he said, nodding with a faint, courteous smile, as soon as he caught sight of the witch gathering up her belongings.
"Mr Doe," the sternly composed witch, of indeterminate age, nodded back. "I didn't expect my replacement to arrive quite this promptly."
"I happened to be at the Ministry on other business and ran into an acquaintance who mentioned the Wizengamot's decision. I must say, your resignation surprises me."
"I've been overdue for retirement for some time now," the witch said, picking up some small trinket from her desk and tucking it into a bag fitted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. "Long overdue, in truth, but there was no one to leave the department to, either."
"I understand. Don't worry," a courteous smile, touched with a note of understanding, appeared on the wizard's aristocratic features, "I won't go undoing the fruits of your years of hard work."
"I should hope not. Just as I hope the Wizengamot's judgement holds true — that your varied talents, combined with experience rather different from most wizards', will let you look at a great many matters differently. And allow for greater results."
They chatted a little longer on general matters, and before long Madam Bones left the office, which now looked as thoroughly impersonal as could be.
"At least she didn't take the furniture," the smile slid off the wizard's face as though it had never been there at all. "Time, it would seem, to move on to the next phase…"
There came a knock at the door.
"Come in."
In the doorway of the now-open door appeared that very same older wizard who had escorted John Doe to this office earlier.
"Permission to enter, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sir?"
"Your devotion knows no bounds," the wizard said with a thin smile. "But your irony is somewhat out of place, my loyal friend — though I'll admit, I rather share in it myself. Come in. We've a great deal to discuss."
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