Sir Humphrey listened quietly to Snape's words, his thumb and forefinger gently rubbing together, a habitual motion when he was deep in thought.
He was processing the enormous amount of information, the underlying logic, and the hidden intent contained within the wizard's words.
After a long silence, he finally lifted his eyes, fixing them on Snape.
"Besides causing destruction, like those evil wizards in black hoods who commit horrifying massacres, Mr Snape," Sir Humphrey said slowly, "what else can you, or the group you represent, actually do?"
"Sir Humphrey," Snape met his gaze evenly. "As much as we might let our imagination run wild and think of magic as synonymous with miracles, believing it to be limitless, I suspect neither of us is that naïve."
"The disappointing truth," Snape continued, "is that compared to your fairy tales, the ones that circulate among Muggles, Muggles are what we call non-magical people, our own magical fables emphasize the limits of magic. What it cannot do. For instance," he paused, his tone deepening, "magic cannot bring the dead back to life, nor grant eternal life."
A flicker of disappointment passed through Sir Humphrey's eyes, but it quickly vanished, replaced by his usual unreadable calm.
The two very things magic could not achieve, reversing death and achieving immortality, were, subconsciously, what he most wished to know. Yet it was logical enough: if magic could truly grant immortality, a young wizard would not be the one sitting across from him.
For a man of such high office, accustomed to control and command, Snape's answer doused that subtle, greedy hope that had briefly stirred in his chest.
"In fact," Snape went on calmly, breaking the brief silence, "what you most need to be concerned about, what you must be most wary of, is precisely the destructive power we possess."
"This destructive power, Sir Humphrey," Snape said, "is not limited to visible effects, explosions, fire, or simple killing." His gaze locked on Sir Humphrey's eyes. "We have other means, more secret, more subtle, and far harder to defend against."
"For example?" Sir Humphrey asked, leaning slightly forward, his posture revealing both interest and tension.
"For example," said Snape, "we can control a person's mind, make them do things they would never otherwise choose to do."
"Control the mind?" Sir Humphrey frowned deeply, his face marked by disbelief. He studied Snape's youthful features, searching for even the faintest trace of exaggeration or jest.
At that very moment, a small grey sparrow had landed unnoticed on the narrow ledge outside the open window. It was hopping by a shallow puddle, drinking water and scattering droplets into the air.
Snape said nothing. Under the wary eyes of both men, he simply motioned toward the window with his wand, silently instructing them to look.
"See that sparrow," he said softly. Lifting his wand, he pointed it at the bird and murmured, "Imperio!"
The lively sparrow froze for a split second. Then, it ceased drinking, turned its tiny head toward the office, and, under the astonished gaze of Sir Humphrey and Bernard, fluttered obediently through the narrow gap in the window.
As if pulled by invisible threads, it arced gracefully through the air and landed, without hesitation, on Sir Humphrey's instinctively raised hand.
Its damp claws touched his skin.
Sir Humphrey held his breath and slowly raised his hand, bringing the magically controlled creature close to his face for a better look.
The sparrow showed no fear. Its tiny black eyes stared straight into his.
Then came the strangest sight of all.
Balancing on the back of his hand, the sparrow awkwardly turned over backward in a clumsy somersault, then began hopping about on its spindly legs, alternating, twisting, performing what could only be called a bizarre, chaotic little dance.
Sir Humphrey and Bernard both stared, utterly transfixed. Their faces showed no amusement, only shock and a chill that ran to the bone.
This was no trick. This was the living, breathing stripping away of free will.
Snape gave a slight tilt of his chin. The sparrow immediately ceased its dance, flapped its wings, and obediently flew back out the window, returning to the ledge where it had been drinking.
Snape flicked his wand again, murmuring the counter-curse.
Outside, the sparrow gave a violent shudder, as if waking from a nightmare. It let out several sharp, terrified chirps, trembled, and looked wildly around. Then, abandoning the puddle entirely, it beat its wings and fled in panic, disappearing into the grey rain.
Sir Humphrey slowly lowered his still-raised hand and stood.
He walked step by step to the window, pressing his face close to the cold, rain-spattered glass, his eyes following the tiny form until it vanished.
Several minutes passed before he turned back. His face was expressionless. He looked straight at Snape and said, calmly,
"Mr Snape, cast that spell on me."
"Sir Humphrey!" Bernard gasped in horror. "You can't-"
Sir Humphrey raised a hand, silencing him.
"Bernard, let's choose, for once, to trust Mr Snape." His gaze never left the wizard. "I am curious. I want to know what it feels like."
Snape met his eyes. He did not argue. He simply nodded.
The wand rose once more, aimed directly at the mind and will of Britain's highest civil servant.
"Imperio!"
It was the strangest, most unsettling sensation imaginable.
Sir Humphrey felt himself floating, light as air, as though his soul had slipped free of its heavy body.
The countless worries crowding his mind, the machinery of government, the national crisis, budget cuts, unemployment rates, the Prime Minister's safety, even the mysterious wizard before him, all scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving behind only a soft, intoxicating haze of bliss.
It was pure, hollow joy, without reason, without cause, and needing none.
He stood there, every pore suffused with a lazy warmth, a sense of ease and freedom he had never known before.
Dimly, he was aware of Bernard standing a short distance away, staring at him in terror, but that seemed utterly irrelevant, a faint image behind fog, stirring no concern at all.
Then he heard the young wizard's voice, echoing in some distant corner of his emptied mind: Turn around once... turn around once...
Without thinking, his body obeyed. He spun gracefully in place, a full circle, slow and fluid.
The dark wall panels, the heavy desk, the glittering chandelier, all wheeled around him.
When he faced forward again, he swayed slightly, off balance. Bernard's frightened face wavered and blurred at the edge of his vision.
The voice came again, whispering through the fog: Jump onto the table... jump onto the table...
Sir Humphrey's body reacted almost instantly. He bent his knees, preparing to leap.
Jump onto the table... the command echoed through his hollowed mind.
But why?
A second voice stirred, one that felt familiar, his own.
This is foolish, the inner voice said.
Jump onto the table...
No, I don't want to jump. Be quiet, said the other voice, firmer now. No, I truly don't want to jump...
Jump onto the table...
This is absurd! the second voice snapped. I am the Cabinet Secretary, the head of the Civil Service, the de facto helmsman of the British Empire! Jump onto a table? Outrageous,
Jump! Quickly!
There was a loud thud, followed by the scrape of wood on the floor.
A sharp pain exploded through his body.
He had jumped, and simultaneously tried not to.
The result was disastrous: instead of leaping smoothly onto the desk, he smashed both knees into its solid edge, knocking it askew.
Agonizing pain shot up from his legs, flooding his body until his vision darkened. He let out a muffled groan, convinced both kneecaps were cracked.
"All right, Episkey!"
Snape's voice rang out over Bernard's horrified cry. A soft light enveloped Sir Humphrey's knees.
Suddenly, a cool, soothing sensation spread where pain had ruled. The searing agony ebbed away, replaced by a lingering chill.
The hollow emptiness in his mind vanished. His thoughts, memories, and logic came rushing back all at once.
He remembered everything, the void of false joy, the urge to obey, the desperate struggle, the blinding pain, and the strange coolness now lingering in his knees.
Bernard hurried to support him. Stiff and unsteady, Sir Humphrey let himself be guided back to the sofa, where he sat heavily.
He looked down at his perfectly intact knees, rubbed them once, then inhaled deeply and exhaled.
At last, he lifted his head and met Snape's eyes.
"I am beginning to believe you truly are human, Mr Snape," he said quietly, his voice rough but steady. "Those strange words you uttered, let us call them 'spells'-" he gestured toward his head and knees, ", remind me of the ancient texts and philosophical debates I studied at Bailey College."
"Oh, those maddening yet enlightening explorations of philosophy," he murmured, almost fondly. "It seems, then," he added meaningfully, "that your wizards' history, or at least the words of your spells, may indeed be as ancient as our own."
Snape inclined his head slightly. For a man like Sir Humphrey, who had graduated at the top of his class in Classics at Oxford's Bailey College, it was no great feat to notice the linguistic roots linking magical incantations to Greek and Latin.
That, in fact, was why Snape had deliberately chosen not to use non-verbal magic. Similarities were easier for people to accept than differences.
"I must say," Snape told him, "Sir Humphrey, to break free from the Imperius Curse's control is no small achievement. It requires immense strength of will and character, something few possess. Even among wizards, very few can resist it."
Sir Humphrey's lips curved into a weary but faintly proud smile.
"As it happens, I do possess a touch of that 'strength of character' you mention, Mr Snape." Straightening his back, the bureaucratic authority returned to him, though his face was still pale. "Since you've come here seeking cooperation, as you clearly stated-"
"Then please, explain in detail what this cooperation entails. And what rights and responsibilities would fall to each side?"
"The specifics are crucial, Sir Humphrey," Snape said, shaking his head slightly, "but right now, there is something far more urgent."
"We must meet the Prime Minister at once. Your Prime Minister, Mr Hark, is in great danger."
"The Death Eaters, the dark wizards in black hoods responsible for these massacres, have discovered his current hiding place."
"Their objective is simple: to control him, using a spell much like the one I just demonstrated, turning him into their puppet. And if that fails, or proves too risky, they will not hesitate to eliminate him."
"Within an hour or two," Snape said, glancing at the clock on the wall, "perhaps even sooner, their operation will begin."
Bernard turned to Sir Humphrey, eyes wide with alarm and disbelief.
Sir Humphrey was silent for a long moment, his brows drawn together in a tight line as he studied Snape.
"The Prime Minister is under the highest level of protection, Mr Snape," he said gravely. "His location is among the Empire's most closely guarded secrets. Even other members of the Cabinet are not permitted-"
"I know what you're concerned about, Sir Humphrey," Snape interrupted, then calmly recited the name of a satellite town on the outskirts of London, and an address that sounded like that of a private sanatorium. "That is where your Prime Minister currently resides.
"For us, most of your so-called secrets are not nearly as secret as you believe."
At the precise address, Sir Humphrey's body tensed. His pupils narrowed; his hands clenched unconsciously on his knees.
"I have one question, Mr Snape," he said at last, his voice low and grave. "You, and the faction of wizards you represent, after all this is over... will you seek full integration with our Muggle society?"
Snape did not hesitate.
"No," he said. "That is neither the mainstream position among us nor the wise path to take."
"As I said before, though we are human at our core, we possess certain abilities that you, no matter your effort, can never acquire."
"Magic, unlike power, wealth, or status, is a gift, an inborn inheritance of the blood, distributed at random."
"This subtle difference determines a harsh truth: for the foreseeable future, our two societies can only coexist peacefully by remaining largely separate, each following its own path, avoiding deep entanglement."
"Premature fusion," he added, shaking his head, "would bring only covetousness, conflict, fear, chaos, and the eventual collapse of both our social structures."
"What we seek," he finished, "is coexistence grounded in reality, not naïve integration."