Where does one even go for a walk in London? It's difficult to decide when nothing around you particularly interests you. Along with the shards came images — a dim understanding of various questions, things, phenomena. Dim, but sufficient to extinguish any surface-level curiosity. Curiosity about what, exactly? Fashion, or technology, or the gaudy lights of some club — none of it draws me toward new experiences of ordinary life. Though I'm being slightly dishonest there — I'd quite happily go to the cinema. In twenty years, perhaps, if it's purely for the visuals — and for the story… Though, there are already interesting films now.
As we wandered through London, from street to street, from one small shop to another, I kept half an eye on what drew Daphne's attention most. Or at least drew any attention at all. Such things weren't all that numerous in the ordinary world — the girl, witch from a pureblood family notwithstanding, lived practically on the outskirts of an ordinary town and had, in the broad sense, seen a great deal. She might not grasp the finer domestic nuances, but on a conceptual level she understood quite a lot — I'd noticed as much on our previous walk through an ordinary town.
But shops… For girls, those are always interesting to some degree or another. For boys too, if I'm being honest — only the categories of interest differ. Males of the species — myself included — tend not to go in for aimless wandering, heading with purpose toward wherever needs to be visited when shopping is concerned. The only thing that can knock us off course is a shop selling something we happen to be particularly passionate about. A girl's interest, on the other hand, tends to be considerably broader: Oh, what's in here? And over there? Look at these odd things. And here, trinkets. And that's a new shop, we need to look. And there's that, and over here there's this. I want everything, I need it all.
So we wandered through the city and eventually made our way to a rather large shopping centre. It was here that Daphne looked genuinely surprised, glancing around not so much at boutique windows and counters as at the sheer scale of… well, everything.
— One thing is to have a concept of it, to understand it in your mind, — she said, when we sat down to rest with drinks by the fountain in the centre's atrium. — Another thing entirely is to see it with your own eyes.
— For example?
— For example, simply the number of people. You understand intellectually that there are an enormous number of ordinary people, you understand how large the population figures are for a major city — thank you to various geographical encyclopaedias at Hogwarts…
— Yes, I'm rather glad of the depth of our repository of knowledge as well.
— Exactly. But it's another thing to see these endless enormous crowds of people, — Daphne swept her gaze across the very crowds in question, moving through the centre in every direction. — Or take that food shop, for instance.
— Supermarket.
— Super or otherwise, the floor space is enormous, — Daphne smiled. — Simply tonnes of food in one place!
Thanks to a simple attention-deflecting charm, none of the people passing by would notice our conversation or pay us any mind — yet they wouldn't walk into us either, or assume there was no one in our spot. A useful charm. You could quite easily cross a road under one and no one would hit you. A curious effect — you see a person, you register their presence, their existence, their actions, yet somehow you don't quite see them.
— Well, it's simply a large shop. There are many of them in the city. And as for the number of smaller ones — comparable to what we're used to on Diagon Alley — there's no counting those at all.
— That's precisely what I mean. All the shops and stalls of Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, and the surrounding streets — along with all the small firms — would fit without difficulty on the floor space of that one supermarket alone, — Daphne took a thoughtful sip of her fruit drink through the straw. — It's just…
— The shops, stalls, and firms on Diagon Alley and the surrounding streets fully cover the needs of the entire magical population of the country?
— Yes! Exactly. And all of that fits inside a single large food shop in the ordinary world.
— Well, not an ordinary one, — I smiled, swirling my cardboard cup. — London is the capital, after all. The largest population in the country. And these shops are the largest of their kind. You see, ordinary people don't have the capacity for self-sufficiency that wizards can have.
— Can? — Daphne caught the word, glancing at me with a slight smirk.
The noise of the shopping centre didn't interfere with conversation in the least, despite the considerable cacophony of sound.
— Yes, can. Ordinary people have to focus on one or two areas of activity and earn money through that activity. And then use that money to provide for themselves and their families. The approach that reasonably well-off wizards use — while everyone else provides for themselves to some degree through magic — that approach is virtually the only option available to a great many ordinary people.
— What about villages and small towns? I've seen people growing things for themselves. Kitchen gardens, orchards, keeping animals.
— I'll tell you more — that's not accessible to everyone, not by a long way. Of course there are places where that sort of domestic self-sufficiency is simply unavoidable, but if we're looking at cities, where the majority of the population lives, that approach is barely practical. And the number of people living in cities is growing rapidly. At the start of the century, for instance, roughly ten percent of the Earth's population lived in cities. Now it must be around forty. And food…
I paused for a moment, letting my gaze drift across the crowds around us.
— Enormous capacity is devoted to food production. More people, less natural produce. But that's all beside the point. Wizards don't have those problems. Though, equally, we don't have large-scale production either, as far as I know. Just handcraft.
— I think, — Daphne turned briefly serious, nodding thoughtfully to herself. — It comes down to demand. We don't need those kinds of volumes. Do you know how many families are involved in food production?
Daphne looked at me with genuine inquiry, without any teasing.
— I've read about a few — the most significant ones.
— I mean for sale. Twelve, Hector. Twelve families and a staff of hired wizards. And their produce is sold in three shops. Three small shops, under whose roofs all those families trade together — so as not to create unnecessary competition, each handles a different product category. There are a couple of shops selling imports — spices, condiments, and so forth. Many grow small amounts for themselves. Even the Malfoys have a chicken coop.
— And a peacock enclosure, — I nodded with a smile.
— And a peacock enclosure, — Daphne agreed with the same smile. — Utterly dreadful birds.
— Wasn't it you who joked that they suit the Malfoys perfectly — beautiful to look at, but the moment they open their beaks you want to hang yourself?
— I didn't say it quite like that, but the gist is roughly the same.
Finished with our drinks, we set off to continue wandering through London — though time has an inconvenient habit of disappearing unnoticed on walks like these, and I really ought to get the girl home. An excess of impressions is tiring in its own right.
On the approach to the Leaky Cauldron — passing through which was to mark the official end of the outing — I couldn't help but note one thing.
— I'll be honest, I expected you to pay more attention to the differences in specific details. The technology, for instance, which is radically unlike anything magical — things of that sort. Macmillan and Abbott, for example, were struck by that immediately and went on about it at considerable length.
— It doesn't matter, — Daphne shook her head, pulling her robe slightly tighter against the cool breeze — the weather had been turning distinctly worse. — Understanding what something is for is quite sufficient. Trying to grasp the specifics of a concept entirely foreign to you, without foundational knowledge, without the experience of living under those conditions — you'd never have enough time, and you'd only end up with a headache.
— There's sense in that.
— Take this, for instance, — Daphne nodded toward one of the cars passing along the street. — I see a motor car. I know it's driven. Steered with a wheel, takes you where you're going. Runs on wheels. Given there's no magic, everything has to be done by hand and foot. The speed is controlled with the feet, if I recall correctly.
— And the braking.
— And the braking, — Daphne nodded. — That's quite sufficient, I'd say, to grasp one simple thing — you get in, and you go. If you're a passenger, no problem. If you're driving yourself — there'll be instruction, presumably. Like with a broomstick or anything else. Obviously there are rules…
Daphne gestured toward the road signs, the markings on the tarmac, the traffic light.
— Yes, I don't know them, — she continued. — Apart from the obvious — that glowing contraption.
— Traffic light.
— Let it be "traffic light." Clearly one should follow the one facing you as you travel. Red — stop. Green — go. Yellow… That's where I run out of guesses.
— Yes, that one you do need to know. I'll say that not every person who doesn't drive is entirely sure of the meaning themselves. It has different meanings depending on the situation.
— That's exactly what I mean. Knowing the principles and the fine points would give me nothing but the satisfaction of curiosity. And I'm not particularly curious. Someone else might start puzzling over how a traffic light works, but… Logic, Hector. Logic.
— And what does logic tell you?
We'd reached the Leaky Cauldron and stepped inside. Not many patrons yet — presumably not everyone had finished work, or whatever it is the regulars here get up to. Judging by the smell of food being prepared, the food itself wasn't quite ready, but it smelled wonderful. Without paying anyone any particular attention, we made our way to the fireplace, in which an orange flame burned rather low.
— Logic tells me that, like most things, it works on electricity. Some sort of special bulbs inside, and the whole thing is regulated by someone from somewhere. I haven't the faintest idea where electricity comes from, but do I need to?
— Believe me, many people operate on exactly those principles, — I smiled. — And those very same people have equally little idea of how anything around them works.
— There you are, then, — she smiled. — What is interesting — genuinely interesting — is the difference in scale, in approach. Though, actually, there is one thing I wouldn't mind knowing: how an enormous lump of metal flies through the sky without magic.
— You mean aeroplanes? It's rather involved.
— It would be strange if it weren't. But let's not go on about ordinary people. Do you think my parents will be terribly put out if I invite you over?
— You enjoy getting on their nerves.
— They enjoy living inside their preconceptions. Those preconceptions are all well and good, but only when they actually hold. And you're clearly not a case where they do. So I take a certain pleasure in the sound they make when they shatter. A couple of years ago I'd never have imagined it could be quite this entertaining.
Daphne didn't give me a chance to respond — she kissed me quickly in parting, then tossed a handful of Floo powder neatly into the fireplace, smiled her particular sly smile, and mouthed an address — silently, no doubt thanks to some charm — and was gone. Only I happen to read lips, and now I know the address of their home's fireplace.
Did anyone in the pub pay us any attention? Not particularly. A couple were out for a walk, a girl took the Floo home — hardly a remarkable spectacle.
Smiling to myself, I set off for Diagon Alley. I needed to send warnings to the friends who lived among ordinary people. The post office was best for that. Ideally it would be as simple as exchanging phone numbers, but when you spend ten months a year in a magical castle where the pinnacle of technology and physical achievement is a hinge on a door, the thought of phones tends to be the last thing to occur to you.
Making my way along the gloomy street to the post office, I stepped inside and gave a welcoming nod to the middle-aged witch who had worked here without fail for as long as I could remember the place. Owls everywhere, watching me with patient expectation.
I wrote the letters quickly and sent them off, paying a small sum for the service. Now I could attend to something rather more interesting — which is to say, the surveillance being conducted by one particular magical creature. Said surveillance had been going on since the very first time I'd stepped onto Diagon Alley today. The shadow was keeping a respectable distance, and had it not been for the walk through ordinary London — where there is practically no ambient magical signature to speak of — I would never have felt it; would never have been able to pick out from the general background that same recurring signature, appearing here and there.
Leaving the post office, I walked along Diagon Alley and eventually decided on a fairly straightforward approach. I stepped out into ordinary London through the Leaky Cauldron, walked along the street for about a hundred metres — long enough to confirm that the tail had also exited through the Leaky Cauldron and was continuing to follow me under an Invisibility charm — then looked around, renewed my attention-deflecting charm, cast a Muggle-repelling charm without my wand, and ducked into the first alleyway I came across. The tail quickened its pace.
Drawing my wand — to act precisely, but leave behind the sort of traces local wizards would expect to see — and wincing at the unjustifiably large expenditure of magic involved, I Apparated to a patch of wasteland I knew, out in open countryside, not far from a small copse. I'd flown over the spot in phoenix form once; I had it fixed clearly in memory.
The magical trace from the Apparition was so pronounced it would be impossible to miss, and following it along the spatial rupture was simpler still — provided you were any kind of competent wizard at all.
Stepping aside about ten metres and suppressing my magical signature as thoroughly as possible, I began focusing in my mind on the image and sensation of the anti-Apparition enchantments over Hogwarts. I didn't know a conventional equivalent, and the only method currently available to me of preventing a potential pursuer from fleeing lay in my capacity for willed magic.
Now we wait.
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