The Hogwats Gaijin

London went about its usual feverish rhythm. Red double-decker buses streamed endlessly along Piccadilly, the pavements were packed with clerks in grey suits and tourists, and the air vibrated with the rumble of engines and the familiar scent of British damp.

In a narrow alley squeezed between an antique shop and a modern office building, there came a sharp, dry crack. Ordinary passers-by didn’t even turn their heads, dismissing the sound as the backfire of an old cab, but any wizard would have instantly recognised it as Apparition.

From the shadows of the alley emerged a young woman. She paused for a moment, adjusting the brim of an elegant hat and smoothing the folds of a heavy cashmere cocoon coat. Though she looked barely twenty, she appeared somewhat old-fashioned — as if she had stepped off the cover of a Vogue magazine from twenty years ago. Beneath the open coat one could glimpse a Thierry Mugler jacket with aggressively sharp shoulders and large gold buttons. Leather gloves and neatly styled curly hair that barely reached her shoulders completed the image of a strict young aristocrat. She moved with that particular grace that marked someone accustomed to attention, yet not seeking it.

The young woman pushed open the glass door of a small restaurant with confidence and headed for a table by the window. A woman was already waiting for her there.

Eleanor Morgan looked remarkably youthful. Unlike her daughter, she was dressed in a modern designer suit of loose cut that sat on her with effortless ease. The contrast between them was almost comical: the mother looked like a woman from the future, while the daughter resembled a beautiful vision from the past.

‘Samantha, darling,’ Eleanor smiled radiantly as her daughter sat down opposite her. ‘I never cease to be amazed by your wardrobe. You really ought to visit the boutiques on Bond Street more often. This “lady of high society from the era of stagnation” look has been out of fashion in the wider world for quite some time.’

Samantha waved a hand dismissively, removing her gloves.

‘I like it, Mother. Modern fashion has taken a wrong turn somewhere, turning women into shapeless blobs.’

Eleanor gave a soft laugh and nodded to the approaching waiter.

‘How was the journey? Did Albus take our request too badly?’

‘Oh, more than,’ Samantha waited until a cup of steaming black coffee was placed in front of her. ‘They assigned Severus Snape to me as a “nanny”. You should have seen his face — even sourer than when he was teaching me Potions. He didn’t take his eyes off me all day, just in case I might, Merlin forbid, wander into some restricted section or start snooping around the castle on my own.’

Eleanor covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing a chuckle.

‘I can imagine. Old Dumbledore clearly wasn’t thrilled, but that’s his problem. How is our girl?’

Samantha’s expression softened.

‘Oh, I liked Hermione! Clever, sharp. Excellent manners for someone raised among Muggles. There’s breeding in her, Mother. Not the kind that comes from blood, but the kind that comes from character.’

‘Did Kieran see you?’ Eleanor looked at her daughter attentively.

‘No, Mother,’ Samantha took a sip of coffee. ‘My little brother has become terribly independent. He would have been furious if I’d dropped in to say hello.’

‘Good,’ Eleanor nodded approvingly. ‘Kieran has always been an emotional boy. And after what happened two years ago… any supervision might provoke too strong a reaction.’

Samantha set her cup on the saucer. Her gaze grew serious, and a cold note crept into her voice.

‘You know, Mother,’ she said quietly, ‘what I saw at that lake… Using children as live bait in icy water, even for an event like the Tournament — that idea is beyond common sense. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. Even if little Granger hadn’t been floating in that lake, it still looked like barbarism.’

Eleanor leant back in her chair, thoughtfully watching the passers-by through the restaurant’s panoramic window. Muggles hurried about their business, collars turned up, completely unaware that a few metres away the fate of their world was being discussed.

‘That is precisely why I need this girl so much, Samantha,’ Eleanor said, and a cold, businesslike edge entered her voice. ‘And not only her. We need to bring several more like her into the family — clever, sharp-toothed, not burdened by centuries-old dogmas. All these games of the “Sacred Twenty-Eight” and pure-blood aristocracy lead to only one thing — degeneration. Both biological and intellectual. If we don’t infuse fresh blood and new ideas, we will turn into museum exhibits.’

Samantha raised an ironic eyebrow, adjusting the cuff of her impeccable jacket.

‘Careful, Mother. For views like that, we’ll be chased out of decent magical society with a filthy broom.’

Eleanor laughed melodiously, and the laugh sounded unexpectedly sincere.

‘I’m surprised we haven’t been struck off the list yet. Sometimes it seems to me, Samantha, that the only real difference between a so-called “blood traitor” like a Weasley and a respectable old family is the number of Galleons in their Gringotts account. The Weasleys befriend Muggles and are poor — that’s a crime. We do business with Muggles and are rich — that’s “necessary diplomacy”. No hypocrisy at all.’

Samantha finished the last of her coffee and rose from her seat, pulling on her leather gloves with a habitual motion.

‘Sounds logical,’ she agreed. ‘But my advice to you: don’t say that to Grandfather. He still finds such talk rather difficult to swallow.’

Eleanor smiled, looking up at her daughter.

‘Don’t worry about him. Your grandfather has almost grown used to it. What’s more, after the latest reports on the profits from our Muggle investments, he is almost coming round to my way of thinking. Money has always been stronger than ideology.’

Samantha gave a brief nod of farewell and left the restaurant. Her slender figure in the cashmere coat and hat flashed for a moment among the crowd of Londoners. She turned into the same narrow alley between the office building and the shop, disappeared into the shadows, and a second later came the soft, dry crack of Apparition.

Eleanor was in no hurry to leave. When the door closed behind Samantha, she beckoned the waiter. As if expecting the signal, he immediately brought a second cup of black coffee and — which looked somewhat strange for an ordinary London establishment — placed a fresh copy of the Daily Prophet on the table, opened to the front page.

Eleanor thoughtfully drew the newspaper towards her. She had already read this issue in the morning and at lunch, and seemed to know every comma in Rita Skeeter’s venomous column, yet she continued to study the text with cold, almost scientific interest.

A few minutes later a man approached her table. He seemed to materialise out of the grey London fog: of medium height, with a strict, disturbingly bland face and neat hair. He wore an impeccable but utterly unremarkable grey suit, and in his hand he carried a good-quality leather briefcase.

‘May I, Mrs Morgan?’ The man’s voice matched his appearance: even, devoid of inflection, dry as old parchment.

‘Delighted to see you, Mr Sterling. Please sit down,’ Eleanor lowered the newspaper and gave him a polite, purely formal smile. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘Thank you, but I must decline,’ the man carefully placed his briefcase on the neighbouring chair. ‘A tight schedule of meetings. Brevity will be the best expression of my respect today.’

‘In that case, straight to business,’ Eleanor slid the Prophet towards him.

Sterling took a pair of narrow spectacles from his breast pocket, perched them on his nose, and immersed himself in reading. Eleanor watched his face attentively. The solicitor’s eyes moved quickly across the lines, but not a single muscle twitched. For him this was not gossip or the lives of real people, but merely a collection of facts and potential legal leverage.

Finally he set the newspaper aside and removed his spectacles.

‘I can understand your feelings, Mrs Morgan,’ he said impassively.

Eleanor merely gave a thin smile. Feelings were a luxury she rarely allowed herself in business.

‘Let us leave feelings to the poets, Mr Sterling. The problem is that this article mentions my son. Furthermore, it speaks extremely unflatteringly of Miss Granger. She is the daughter of our very valuable business partners and close family friends. I have a deep respect for Rita Skeeter’s talent for finding dirt where others see only cleanliness, but this time she has touched the reputation of the Morgans. And that, as you understand, requires… correction.’

Sterling gave a barely perceptible nod.

‘Do you wish to create a major scandal? A libel suit? We could demand a record sum in compensation and a public apology on the front page.’

‘No,’ Eleanor cut in. ‘Too loud. I want you to handle this matter quietly. Pay Miss Skeeter a personal visit. Explain to her the possible legal and… financial consequences of continuing along this line.’

She paused, tapping her finger on the table.

‘Do not demand a retraction — people never believe apologies anyway. Instead, offer her a deal: in her next article she must “whitewash” Miss Granger’s reputation. Make her a heroine, an innocent victim of circumstances, a talented witch — it doesn’t matter. Let Skeeter use her eloquence to restore the girl’s good name. That will be enough for us to overlook her current lapse.’

Mr Sterling inclined his head in understanding. He did not ask “how”; he was already calculating his arguments.

‘I understand perfectly, Mrs Morgan. Consider the article already being written.’

He rose as silently as he had sat down, took his briefcase, and headed for the exit. A moment later, when he had disappeared around the corner of the restaurant, Eleanor heard the familiar dry crack of Apparition. The second one in the last fifteen minutes.

She remained alone, gazing at her cooling coffee. In the wizarding world, reputation was worth more than gold, and Eleanor Morgan had always been a very thrifty homemaker, who knew exactly how to count her pennies.