The Hogwats Gaijin

The wind in Scotland did not merely blow — it bit, sank its teeth like a huge vicious dog with a million fangs. Stinging snow flew almost horizontally, sneaking under collars and turning the world into a solid grey haze through which the outlines of Hogsmeade roofs barely loomed. A little over two weeks had passed since Harry had miraculously survived the arena with the Horntail, and the castle seemed only just beginning to recover.

‘Over there, see?’ Hermione turned, shouting over the howl of the blizzard. Her red-and-gold scarf whipped wildly in the wind, lashing the air. ‘That’s the Three Broomsticks! They serve the best butterbeer in Britain. And a bit further on is the post office — hundreds of owls, it’s an amazing sight if you ignore the smell!’

Kieran narrowed his eyes, trying to make out anything through the white curtain. He was used to the harsh climate of Minami Iwo Jima, but there the cold had been damp and heavy; here it was dry and sharp as a razor.

‘You know what worries me right now…’ Hermione paused for a second, wading through a drift. ‘Harry! I simply can’t believe it! He’s behaving as though the dragon task was the final one. I’m sure he hasn’t even opened the egg since the first evening! It’s irresponsible, Kieran. We don’t know how long preparation for the second task will take…’

At these words she stepped on a hidden icy crust beneath the snow. Hermione’s feet treacherously slid out from under her; she flailed her arms, then clutched frantically at Kieran. He steadied her, holding her firmly in place.

‘Careful, Granger.’

‘Yes, thank you, I’m all right,’ Hermione straightened quickly, not even losing her breath, and carried on as though nothing had happened: ‘So, if he’s counting on another last-minute flash of inspiration, he’s badly mistaken. Magic of that level doesn’t tolerate haste… Oh, we’re here! This way!’

She seized his hand and pulled him towards a bright shop window surmounted by a sign reading Honeydukes.

Inside they were met with deafening noise, a wave of sticky warmth, and such a concentrated smell of sugar and caramel that Kieran’s sense of smell shut down for a moment. Pupils darted everywhere; display cases glittered with every colour of the rainbow; pops, whistles, explosions sounded on all sides, and above everything rose the piercing music of a fairground.

Kieran surveyed the place doubtfully. He had nothing against sweets, but years in Japan had accustomed him to different fare. To be fair, he had occasionally received confectionery at Mahoutokoro, but Eastern desserts had been far more… restrained. This riot of magical confectionery art inspired in him more wariness than appetite.

Hermione, noticing his expression, gave a quiet laugh.

‘Come on, Kieran, don’t pretend you’re above it all. This is legendary!’

‘What interests me,’ Kieran said, turning to Hermione as she thoughtfully studied the shelves and then selected an unremarkable brown paper bag, ‘is how the daughter of two dentists managed to become such a sweet-tooth? Weren’t you given lectures on the dangers of sugar instead of bedtime stories?’

Hermione gave a mysterious smile and said nothing, then handed the shopkeeper a silver coin and a few coppers. She beckoned Kieran to a less crowded corner of the shop and drew from the bag a bright, iridescent sweet.

‘Actually, this isn’t for me,’ she said, offering the sweet on her open palm. ‘You’ve got far too serious a face, Morgan.’

Kieran hesitated, eyeing the suspicious confection.

‘Go on,’ she teased. ‘I’m not going to poison you. It’s only a sweet.’

Kieran realised further stubbornness would look foolish. He took the sweet and popped it into his mouth. At first his tongue was seared by sharp lemon acid that made him want to screw up his eyes, but a second later it gave way to soft, enveloping sweetness.

And then the floor dropped away beneath him.

Kieran started, instinctively trying to regain balance, reached for a wooden support, but it was too far. His boots dangled helplessly a metre above the floor. After a second of panic came understanding — he had not been cursed; it was the sweet. His body had become light as thistledown, and he began slowly tipping sideways, feeling like the world’s biggest fool.

Hermione burst into ringing laughter. She quickly caught his hand, preventing him from overturning or drifting towards the liquorice wands display.

‘Don’t panic, I’ve got you!’ she managed through her laughter. ‘Sorry, Kieran, but your face… it was too funny!’

Morgan, still floating, righted himself, clinging tightly to her hand. The sensation was strange: he felt no weight of his own, and the only anchor keeping him from spinning aimlessly in the air was Hermione’s hand — warm and reliable. He ought to have steadied his own flight, not depended on her even in such a trifle, but somewhere deep inside a quiet, muffled voice cried: Please don’t let go — and fell silent at once. A second later Kieran regained control and forced a crooked grin.

‘Very amusing,’ he grumbled. ‘I feel like a helium balloon!’

‘Don’t grumble, the effect will wear off soon,’ Hermione said, still chuckling, and tugged him towards the exit, threading through the crowd. ‘Come on, I desperately need butterbeer… with my helium balloon!’

‘Go on, finish me off, cruel witch,’ Kieran snorted.

He floated behind her through the air, feeling utterly ridiculous yet still holding fast to her warm palm.

The sweet’s effect ended as abruptly as it had begun — right on the shop threshold. Kieran felt weight flood back into his muscles, and he descended gently, as though on an invisible lift, until his soles met soft Scottish snow.

Hermione, standing beside him, was still snorting with laughter, covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

‘Very instructive, Granger,’ Kieran grumbled. ‘Next time I shall choose a sweet for you. Something that grows donkey ears.’

They set off down the main street. Kieran looked around, and a strange feeling did not leave him. Hogsmeade seemed beautiful, almost fairytale-like, yet somehow… toy-like. Steep roofs dusted with icing-sugar snow, cosy lights in windows — all of it looked like a model one could walk through in ten long strides.

Within a minute they were pushing open the heavy oak door of the Three Broomsticks. Inside it was warm, smelling of spices, honey, and old wood. Kieran helped Hermione off with her snow-covered cloak, hung it on a free peg beside his own, then, when they reached a table in the far corner, drew out a chair for her with habitual courtesy.

Hermione froze before sitting. She looked at the chair, then at Kieran — oddly, searchingly.

‘What?’ he asked, pausing. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

Hermione slowly sank into the seat, never taking her eyes off him.

‘No, it’s just…’ She hesitated, tucking back a stray lock of hair. ‘Neither Ron nor Harry ever thought to do that in all four years of our friendship. It was… unexpected.’

Kieran felt awkward. He realised he seemed to have put his foot in it.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, sitting opposite. ‘Habit. My mother would have my head if I simply plonked myself down first.’

Madam Rosmerta approached and took their order, and soon two tall mugs of steaming butterbeer stood before them. Kieran took a sip, enjoying the pleasant warmth, and voiced the thought that had nagged him since leaving the castle.

‘Don’t you think the wizarding world in Britain feels… very small?’ He raised an eyebrow as she listened, secretly pleased the awkwardness had vanished again.

‘Explain.’

‘At Mahoutokoro we lived on an island: it was empty but large. You could walk for hours, gaze at the sea, and every new beach offered a different view, even if everywhere smelt of sulphur. Now look at this village,’ Kieran nodded towards the window, where the blizzard continued to gather force. ‘Literally one street. A dozen establishments. And around it — ordinary Muggle countryside, farms, towns. If I were in Malfoy’s place, or even Ron’s, I probably wouldn’t notice. For them Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and Diagon Alley are the entire universe. But we grew up in a London suburb, and right now I have very strange sensations. I think you can understand.’

He turned the mug in his hands.

‘If you’re pure-blood from a traditional family, your whole world, your entire life from birth to death, fits into a few dozen places. The Ministry, Diagon Alley, a handful of wizarding villages. And beyond them — emptiness. The unknown where Muggles live. It’s like living in a beautiful dolls’ house — everything perfect, but the windows are painted on.’

Hermione nodded eagerly, almost with relief, leaning forward.

‘Oh yes! I’ve thought about it hundreds of times! Britain’s wizarding community is stuck somewhere in the nineteenth century, and it’s catastrophically limited. People live in a bubble. They don’t know how the wider world works, how technology functions, how progress moves. Slavery is considered normal here! They stew in their own juice, debating blood purity and Ministry decrees from fifty years ago. It leads to stagnation!’

‘Exactly,’ Kieran confirmed. ‘The choice of path here is… specific too. If you want to achieve anything while remaining solely in the magical bubble, you have three roads: become a Ministry official, join the Aurors — in other words, the police — or become an entrepreneur. Oh yes, and you can stay at school as a teacher. That’s all. Rather a limited scale for those who claim to rule the wizarding world, wouldn’t you say?’

He fell silent, then added in a quite different, everyday tone, lowering his eyes:

‘And also… there’s no pizza here, no proper games consoles, and… no Jackie Chan films.’

Hermione regarded him attentively through the steam rising from her hot butterbeer and could not help smiling at the last remark.

‘So that’s why your family does business with my parents?’ she asked. ‘Because of this desire to step outside the bubble?’

‘Among other reasons,’ Kieran nodded. ‘And not only with your parents. Father always said magic is power, but information and connections in the wider world are authority. Sometimes I’m almost glad I didn’t grow up in a “proper” pure-blood family — my outlook would be like theirs. Shut oneself in a little box, only inside one’s own head.’

‘You don’t want to live in wizarding society?’ Hermione asked. In her attentive eyes danced reflections of the lights illuminating the room.

Kieran considered, turning the mug in his hands, then answered cautiously:

‘I wouldn’t want to. I prefer the way my mother lives, not Father or Grandfather. My mother’s house has a video recorder, a music centre, books, even the Internet! While the manor is just as it was two hundred years ago. Deadly dull… Father can still operate a video recorder, but to Grandfather it’s already “complicated and useless devilry”.’

He gave a wry smile, remembering something.

‘You know, when Mother and Father go to a Muggle restaurant — she always scolds him and makes him leave his sword behind. He tries to fit in, of course… But the real expert on the Muggle world in our family is Mother.’

‘I’d never have suspected Mrs Morgan was a witch if I hadn’t been told outright,’ Hermione said approvingly. ‘It’s very… progressive! And the rest of your family? What are they like? Strict?’

‘Different,’ Kieran recalled his tall, stern father, his uncle, Grandfather like a living ancient oak, Samantha… Tristan. ‘I think they’d be interested to meet you.’

Hermione lowered her eyes thoughtfully, plainly disconcerted by the prospect.

At that moment the door creaked and a cheerful voice rang out:

‘Harry, I told you! Where else would they be but here?’

Kieran felt the magic of the moment slip away. Hermione turned and waved cheerfully to Ron and Harry.