Chapter 286 - 286
We walked on a few metres in silence, after which I smiled, recalling the words of the former Headmaster.
"Ha, Dumbledore, the old codger, understood all this perfectly well. That twinkle of his in the eye, when he'd say, 'We at Hogwarts are all one big family.' Humour duly noted, yes, because we really are, quite literally all of us, related to one another to some degree or other."
"That's fun, actually," Pansy's mood began improving rapidly. "I hadn't really thought much about the practical significance of families being so scrupulous about their family trees. From an ideological point of view it's clear enough — number of generations, maiden names of witches marrying into the family, blood purity and all that. Hm… It makes sense that some families are fairly close in the third degree, and that's always accounted for. But I hadn't thought it went a good deal further than that. Although…"
"Quite right," a pensive Milly agreed quietly. "If it weren't for that, arranged marriages would be far easier to make — there's advantage to be found almost everywhere. And yet there were families that went the other way, taking the idea of blood purity so far they'd only sanction marriages within the family itself."
"Note the word 'were,'" I smiled. "A vivid example of the type, extinct some fifty years now — the Gaunts. I've read a good deal about them, the library simply has an ocean of material on everyone and everything. Around seven or eight generations before their extinction, they came to believe in the ideology of blood purity so fervently that they decided to make marriages, so to speak, only within their own family. Even before that, they'd take in husbands into the family so the gift of Parseltongue wouldn't pass to anyone else. Some three generations later, other wizards began to note that the Gaunts had grown shorter, none too sane, somewhat sickly. Two generations before their extinction, as other wizards, articles and DMLE case files note, the Gaunts had properly lost their marbles, and had started squandering money rather than earning it. Two generations — obvious physical deformities, outright stupidity and, as a consequence, weakened magical strength. The last generation — dreadful, stupid, almost like animals, magically weak. It was this generation, though this part is theory, that finally destroyed the family with its own hands. So much for blood purity in its purest form, if you'll forgive the pun."
"But the gift of Parseltongue persisted," Pansy noted.
"Yes, as did the gift of magic itself, generally speaking. It seems to me that a hereditary trait like the gift of magic would, in any case, be inherited by the children of two simply healthy wizards, cured of curses, old hexes and other magical injuries. In any case whatsoever. Take the Weasleys, for instance. Seven children, all wizards, and hardly the weakest, if we're being entirely without prejudice about it. Only Ron came up a bit short, but that's down to upbringing — there just wasn't enough left in the tank for him by that point, it seems. And yet the Prewetts, whom Mrs Weasley belongs to, had two Squibs in her generation, and Mr Weasley's generation had one."
"In that case at least one child in the family ought to have turned out a Squib," Daphne nodded. "But it seems, if I understand correctly, there are only two options — either a wizard, or a Muggle. There's no third option, if the parents are healthy, regardless of their lineage."
"I think so too," I nodded. "But we'd need precise statistics, and nobody keeps them, and families tend to hide Squibs away, or simply give them up to ordinary people, as if they'd never existed at all. And without that data, all that's left is speculation and guesswork, which is exactly what everyone with a stake in the matter does."
"But those same gifts, like Parseltongue…" Pansy wasn't giving up, being not a radical, but a stickler for blood purity where marriage was concerned.
"I'll let you in on a secret, young ladies — any such gift is a minor anomaly, and not a magical one at that, but a physiological one. In essence, Parseltongue itself is a mental magical technique, rather like Legilimency. For reference — snakes are deaf, as I've said before. Work the rest out for yourselves."
"Oh sure, sure," Pansy nodded, wearing a mocking sort of smirk on her face. "And you, of course, will learn any gift going. What do we have among the known ones? Parseltongue? Metamorphmagus? Perhaps you'll master Animagus too, but not human transfiguration — the totemic kind? You know, like the Patronus, it can only take one form, except unlike the Patronus, it never changes."
"Who knows, Pansy," I chose not to say anything further. "Who knows…"
"And how did we even get to this from where we started? We began with the immoral behaviour of certain wizards and witches, and now look where we've ended up."
"We could easily carry on, though. What was it? Why do they do it, was that it?" Milly pondered something, folding her hands behind her back again, her expression turning rather comical. "Some witches find their path to strength not through the mind, but through emotion. My great-grandmother loved telling tales about 'ladies' of that sort. Though I suspect she was really talking about herself. 'Learn from this, granddaughter,' she'd say, 'gather knowledge, train your mind, or else you'll spend half your life in a haze of immoral licence and debauchery, and the rest trying to get yourself and your life back under control, in burning shame and regret.'"
"Rather a bleak prospect," Pansy smirked, though her voice wavered faintly.
"Too right," Milly agreed, while Daphne and I simply walked and listened, finally emerging from the galleries into the corridor towards the entrance hall. "I took it rather to heart, personally, which is why I'm bearing down hard on Transfiguration."
"And I train my mind with riddles, puzzles and runes," Pansy nodded. "That helps too. Though the last one really isn't working out at all… I suppose I ought to ask my parents to work on Occlumency with me. Sometimes I get thrown from one emotional extreme to another. You know… now and then."
"Yes, we understood exactly what sort of 'now and then' you mean, no need to labour the point," Milly waved it off. "Ugh, but still, if I were a genius, so much extra work could be tossed aside."
"I disagree," I decided to add my own contribution to this conversation. "As I've said once before, no talent has any value without effort and self-development. A gifted child who doesn't apply their mind — whatever their gift may be — will inevitably turn into a dullard. A gifted athlete, say, without development and constant challenges to their talent, will inevitably wither and turn into a lump or a weakling."
"Easy for you to say," Pansy snorted.
"We're not just wizards, Pansy," I glanced at her for a moment. "We're human beings first, and only wizards second. Magic is our genius compared to ordinary people. It's always with us, always active, always taking part in our lives. It helps us develop faster and better in any direction, and degrade more slowly, less severely, in cases of laziness or idleness. We hardly ever suffer from ordinary illnesses, and bad habits aren't as ruinous for us. But we're human beings."
"And what does that mean?" Milly asked. "No, I can guess, but I'd like to hear it."
"It's simple enough," Daphne answered in my place. "A human being is an ordinary living organism, and so operates by the laws of nature, as Hector's already said. And in nature, everything follows the path of least resistance. Say, prolonged physical training develops the body's endurance, improves the efficiency of its workings, while explosive strain, right at the edge of injury, increases strength. If we're talking about muscles, that is. But it's more advantageous for the organism, in terms of energy and resources, not to sustain injuries — that's why muscle builds up. So that the same strain won't injure the body. At least that's what my godfather told me, explaining why I ought to do something besides just reading books."
"Smethwyck told you that?" I was mildly surprised. "And what did you do?"
"Well, he's a Healer," Daphne explained. "He raised Tori and me from early childhood on a healthy… everything. And explained why things were one way and not another. Our parents were often very busy, and my godfather was either at the hospital every other day, or off in private practice, sometimes going weeks without a single call, sitting with us. Dancing and swimming. We even had a room at home charmed with an Undetectable Extension Charm, just for the pool."
"Ah yes, those were the days," Pansy nodded, sinking into memory. "The only swimming pool, probably, in an Ancient and Noble House anywhere in magical England."
"How sweet."
"We've still got a great deal to learn about one another," Daphne glanced at me with a smile.
"Oh, here we go…" Pansy threw up her hands.
We'd just come out into the entrance hall. Pansy grabbed Millicent by the arm and made to drag her off somewhere, probably the Great Hall.
"…they're about to start fawning all over each other," she said, hauling her friend away. "If we stick around, we'll be sick with rainbows."
Daphne and I watched the girls go, smiling.
"She's funny," Daphne told me her thoughts in a warm, fond sort of tone. "It's good that certain nuances haven't broken our friendship."
"Certain nuances?"
Looking at me, Daphne only smiled wider, taking advantage of the moment of privacy in the vast, empty entrance hall, and for a moment rested her head on my shoulder, nuzzling into my neck — tall thing that she was.
"You're so clever, yet sometimes such a fool," her quiet whisper seemed to scorch my skin — I hadn't tied the scarf on yet, only draped it round. "Let's go."
We left the castle through the small door in the gates. The scent of damp freshness and the noise of the downpour struck at once, bringing a kind of relief and joy — no doubt the energy of the storm delighting in direct contact with the elements. Fortunate that the rain fell almost straight down, and above our heads, above the castle's tall gates, was a great balcony and chapel — we were sheltered, dry.
Not a soul around — the inner courtyard before the exit from the castle grounds stood empty, raindrops splashing against the stone paving, against the fountain, and churning up the surface of the large clear puddles.
Moving the hand not currently in my girlfriend's possession, I raised a hemisphere of protection from the rain around us, and Daphne and I stepped out into the downpour — the hemisphere immediately became visible, shielding us from the flow of heavenly water.
"Shall I dispel the rain after all?"
"Don't bother," Daphne shook her head. "I can see this weather suits you. And I don't mind it either, especially under shelter. Besides, there are plenty of wizards in the castle, if you think about it — if they wanted it gone, they'd have dispelled it."
"You notice everything…"
"So do you. I can't hide a single emotion from you any more, after all."
"Oh? And here I thought you simply don't hide them in my presence."
"Not without a little of that too."
"You've confused me."
"I know."
Walking lightly, skirting the puddles — if only the shield could part them for us — we left the castle grounds and, just as lightly, descended the path towards Hagrid's hut. Grey smoke billowed from the chimney of the monstrous little house, and a faint light glowed in the curtained windows. The abundance of pumpkins in the patch was impressive, as was their size — a familiar enough sight, and yet every time it surprises you, provided you haven't entirely lost the capacity for surprise during your years at this peculiar castle.
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