Once again finding myself in a quiet atmosphere, I memorized book pages one after another with a clear conscience, until a curious fact caught my attention.
First, it's worth noting that the library is constructed with extreme symmetry for the most part, meaning there are sort of "through" corridors along the bookshelves almost everywhere—from the "left" wall with windows to the "right" one, behind which lie the castle corridors. Along these corridors, small tables are sometimes placed, allowing one to sit and read right by the shelves—I was using one of these.
What caught my attention was a group of girls at the other end of the corridor, quite far away. They were simulating extremely useful activity and busyness, sitting at such a table and flipping through a book, but in reality, they were glancing at me. Glancing, quickly discussing something, giggling, and as soon as I looked their way, immediately pretending to be visitors utterly engrossed in reading.
"Trouble..."
Generally speaking, all this commotion regarding female attention directed at my person forced me to ponder my personal attitude toward the matter.
I mean, de facto, I am by no means just a fourteen-year-old boy, and that's a fact. But, again, because of this fact, and because the memory of my past life—the personality I consider the "core" of my soul—is far from complete. Huge chunks of memory are missing, and I can't even say how many years I lived. Plus, all the memories from the shards have a certain duality. Because of their fragmented and incomplete nature, they don't seem like mine at all—there's a reason I compare them to movies or TV series. Just like in movies, a great deal is missing, sometimes entire "episodes" and "seasons," so to speak.
In the end, I can even ask myself—am I really myself? The phrasing is a bit wild, and the topic too abstract, but it's worth thinking about. What if "I" am just Hector Granger, and I'm not a fool after my illness partly due to completely alien memories? Like a metaphysical conflict of personalities when copying a human consciousness into a machine, as the military did in the pilot-shard's life—waking up one day to realize you're just a copy is terrifying.
On the other hand, does any of this matter? Actually, none at all. Why? I am who I am right now, and who I become later depends on that. Surviving until that "later" relies on my current experience, understanding, and the decisions I make right now. Can I consider myself an adult in a teenager's body? Yes, but that would be self-deception. Which adult? What kind of "adult"? At the very least, what was my name? There is only Hector Granger, if you get right down to it.
The book I was reading—or more accurately, "memorizing"—suddenly ended. Putting it aside, I grabbed a new one, opened it to the first page, and continued my train of thought.
Let's look at the question of my self-awareness from another angle. Does the experience I have in my "storeroom" allow me to consider myself an adult? If we discard the psychological desire for superiority over others—no. Depending on the conditions in which a person grew up, they can be truly adult at fourteen, or even earlier—life simply forces it. Conversely, one can reach old age without learning anything from life, retaining the responsibility and consciousness of a teenager, yet society will consider them an elder. I am sure that even among Hogwarts students, there are kids who, in various life situations, would surpass me in the adequacy of their decisions. So, considering my "adulthood" from the perspective of experience is pointless, and to be honest with myself, that experience limps on both legs.
Then what about my "adulthood" in matters of, let's say, a romantic nature? All things being equal, romantic interest is usually sparked by people in roughly the same age category. Specifically romantic, not sexual. The latter is simple—a beautiful girl sways her hips and that's it, interest and a surge of attraction are guaranteed. How successfully a person deals with that urge, and whether they deal with it at all, is a personal matter and problem.
So, let's analyze.
First, I'll indulge in self-deception and answer the question: what age do I "claim"? Well, to flatter my ego, around thirty-five... The "prime" age—experienced enough, seen a fair bit, some successes, but not yet old and still healthy. That's roughly how a person of that age is perceived. Whom do I know and interact with in roughly this age bracket? Mrs. Malfoy? Well, I didn't feel "equal," largely due to my clear understanding of who I am and how others see me—a fourteen-year-old boy. On the other hand, it would be great if my wife—and there will be one, as I don't see myself as a womanizer—looked just as gorgeous at that age...
Stop! There's a thought—I feel younger than Mrs. Malfoy; I perceive her clearly as older, albeit beautiful. That's clear.
Let's take the other extreme. Who is at least outwardly interesting from the "younger" category? Well, strictly among the younger ones in terms of appearance, Ginny Weasley has great potential with her regular features and fiery hair color. True, she clearly needs some health correction, and then, I'm sure, in three or four years, she'll be a heartbreaker. But, Merlin Almighty, right now I don't see her as an object of romantic interest, yet this is exactly the age when such thoughts begin to besiege a teenager's mind. A serious siege. Consequently, that's definitely not the right age category.
Daphne? Hm...
Strangely enough, this thought made me pause and think hard. I don't feel any particular romantic surges, although last year I initiated something similar myself. Being in her company doesn't cause me any problems, no discomfort from communicating with a supposedly little girl or anything like that. Outwardly, she is clearly perceived as a young woman...
"Pff..." I couldn't help but snort, attracting the attention of the girls still feigning extreme busyness at the table down the hall.
The reason for my chuckle was remembering seeing Ginny Weasley recently in casual clothes—pants, pigtails, and a knitted hat with bobbles. Aside from the hat looking like a pot on her head, those pigtails and the age... The question naturally popped up in my head: "Little boy, why are you wearing pigtails?" Essentially, that's how the entire "younger" category of the female collective is perceived. Although my own year-mates are quite obviously young women, and the most "womanly" is Hannah Abbott. She seems to have fully formed, basically, just like me among the guys. Of course, there will be various nuances—the skeleton actively forms until twenty-five. But, all things being equal, almost everything is formed, and Hannah isn't going to grow taller or broader.
The psyche is a funny thing. A difference of seemingly one year, but in peers I see young women, albeit young ones, while a year younger—definitely just kids. How thin is that line?
But be that as it may, I feel older than fourteen. Let's use the same method and consider someone older. Romanova comes to mind immediately. Ye-eah... That's more interesting, but it seems to me it's all about that same couple of years difference. This is, after all, an age of active growth both physically and mentally, and these funny couple of years can turn everything upside down.
Analyzing my own conclusions, and finishing another book at the same time, I picked up the next one. What are the conclusions? I wouldn't be wrong to estimate the psychological age of my shard-personality at around eighteen years or so. The experience and memories, the total volume of which is quite large, play no role in this. Simply put, that's roughly the age level at which I see myself in the world.
"Damn it..." once again I couldn't hold back, and the reason was simple.
"I'm flattered, and glad to see you too..."
"Oh, no, I wasn't talking about you, Greengrass, but about the thoughts that visited my head a moment before your appearance."
"And what thoughts might those be, if it's not a secret?"
Daphne sat at the table next to me, importantly placing two identical books on runes on the table and sliding one toward me.
"As promised, a copy of mine."
"Thanks," I smiled, putting the book into the backpack hanging on the hook under the tabletop. "As for the thoughts... About relationships."
"Oh... Unexpected. I'm even curious what specific thoughts."
"I'm not sure it's wise to voice them."
"A pity, but it's your business. Still, you could ask the questions that interest you."
"Alright. Sooner or later I'll finish school, maybe find a master and so on, and with that, become a specialist in some field, most likely a Healer as I plan. In short, I'll grow up."
"Astounding foresight," Daphne smiled slightly mockingly and straightened up, ready to listen.
"I'm surprised myself. However, growing up implies such a thing as relationships in the 'man-woman' category."
. . .
"That is usually how it happens, you are right, Granger," Daphne continued her gentle mockery.
"Roughly speaking, I don't see myself as some sort of Casanova..."
"Rough, indeed," Daphne smirked.
"Forgive me, no time for courtly addresses. Not the setting."
"Forgiven," Daphne waved her hand regally in the air, maintaining the same mocking expression.
"An obvious question arises, I'd even say—a problem. I am tormented by vague doubts that even if I were Merlin in the flesh, if I were to fall in love with a pureblood, then... well, that's it, basically."
"Very succinct ending," Daphne's face became an icy mask for a brief moment, but I knew I hadn't offended her—she does that when something throws her off balance.
"There simply aren't other phrases. It's just a dead end, and considering that purebloods are the overwhelming majority, the chance of falling in love with one is damn high."
"That is... a sad story, actually," Daphne became genuinely thoughtful and serious. "If we consider the mandatory approval of relatives and the absence of ill intent on their part as important, then... Then if you were Merlin, you could count on the favor of a much larger portion of purebloods than just being 'good wizard Hector Granger'."
"I sense a 'But' in your words."
"It is there," Daphne nodded. "There is a whole range of families whose attitude toward Muggle-borns is far from good. Very far. Many Ancient and Noble Houses categorically do not accept such misalliances as marriage to a Muggle-born. Mainly, these are families from the Sacred Twenty-Eight list. You, Granger, are quite sensible, and you build conclusions on evidence, so I will try not to operate with things for which I have no hard proof... So..."
Daphne thought, clearly choosing her words.
"Due to their antiquity, these families are bound by blood ties sometimes with each other, and sometimes with less noble families who support the concept of Blood Purity in its radical, ideal form. A noticeably smaller number of families from the Sacred list adhere to a softer form of the Blood Purity concept. In short, the essence of such an attitude is that Muggle-borns have every right to assimilate into our society, can be colleagues and quite good wizards, if they want to, of course. But again, there can be no marriages in principle."
"And what kind of assimilation is it then?"
"Oh, that's simple," Daphne waved it off. "A Muggle-born marries a Muggle-born, and their child is a half-blood. A half-blood with a half-blood or pureblood—the child is pureblood. A couple of generations for what is called 'blood consolidation' in our circles, and such a family is more than decent, and with due diligence—respected. That, in principle, is how new houses are formed."
"I see."
"My family belongs to these conditionally neutral ones. At least, judging by conversations. Families not on the list are divided into three camps. Some strive to get there someday, or into a similar list that will sooner or later be compiled. There are quite a few of them, and their moods, as you understand, are radical."
"Trying to meet society's expectations."
"Hm, possibly so," Daphne nodded. "The second group, not many of them, are even more radical toward Muggle-borns than the radicals from the 'Twenty-Eight.' If one believes society gossip and Father's thoughts, they behave this way out of excessive pride and dislike for Muggle-borns, especially those who try to push their 'moral line' and promote their vision of how things should be arranged. At the same time, such Muggle-borns often don't understand the essence of things at all. As Father says: 'If something works a certain way, it works that way for a reason.' And such young radical pureblood families hate Muggle-borns and Muggles because they themselves recently abandoned everything Muggle, went through a lot to achieve at least some respect, and here come all sorts of rootless people organizing ridiculous reforms, and the Ministry's pseudo-pro-Muggle policy doesn't add to the good mood."
"Pseudo-pro-Muggle?" I smiled upon hearing that phrase. "How is that, exactly?"
Daphne smiled slightly too.
"Well, that's when de jure the policy is pro-Muggle, supporting Muggle-borns, equality, fraternity and so on, but de facto—things don't move from the dead center at all, neither here nor there, and laws are passed that are ambiguous and incomprehensible, just to shut the activists up for at least a year."
"Hm. Just the same as with Muggles, honestly. Nothing new."
"Really?" Daphne was genuinely surprised.
"Could it be otherwise? Non-wizards, wizards, what difference does it make, both are humans. Magic or technology, they only make the appearance of society different, but the instruments of social control are the same everywhere. Money, education, knowledge, medicine, power, influence, media, politics, and so on. Only the particulars differ, but globally—same eggs, side view."
Daphne thought, surprised, clearly visualizing a chicken egg and turning it to a "side view" in her mind. Why did I think so? Because a question followed:
"Does an egg have a profile and a full face? It's the same from all sides... Ha, cunning phrase."
"Exactly. So, chances aren't great?"
"Well, case by case," Daphne clearly recalled some stories, or pretended to. "If the guy is pureblood and wants to marry a Muggle-born, getting family approval is practically impossible. The thing is, the Muggle-born needs to be accepted into the family, and there are all sorts of inheritance mechanisms and so on, the surname, relationships with other families... I don't even know how to formulate it correctly and briefly, since I never had to summarize such obvious things for us."
"I got the gist. A pureblood guy can't take a Muggle-born as a wife because of the necessity to accept her into the family. And relationships with the outside world are based on family, surname, and blood purity."
. . .
"Yes, exactly," Daphne smiled. "Without going into details, you couldn't say it better."
"And what if it's my case? I am, as you understand, obviously not a girl."
"Yes, I noticed," Daphne smiled quite brightly, but only for a moment, quickly returning to her more familiar, somewhat sparing mimicry. "Here, everything is both simpler and more complicated. If we don't consider the social component, but only internal family matters, a girl can simply leave the family. True, I can't imagine... You know the Weasleys?"
"Yes. Even visited them. They are very resourceful in getting by, providing the family with everything necessary."
"And do you know that Mrs. Weasley was a Prewett before marriage?"
"Of course. I devoted a lot of time to studying the families of Wizarding Britain."
"That is a very, very influential family, of which almost no one is left. Perhaps even no one. But that's not the point. I don't know the exact reasons, but for a couple of generations now, the Weasleys, a not much less influential family in the past, have crashed to the very bottom. Like, the absolute bottom. Among purebloods, radical and not so much, the attitude toward the Weasleys is, of course, as toward purebloods, but at the very, very lowest level."
"I see where you're going. How did Molly, then Prewett, agree to lose absolutely everything?"
"Yes. I... I can't imagine. That is indeed a very, very great deal. She must love her husband very much."
"Yeah," a smile crept onto my face again. "I saw that. It's a little pity that Mr. Weasley himself is somewhat... peculiar."
"I can't judge, I'm not acquainted. But I am acquainted, albeit not closely, through my parents, with Andromeda Tonks, née Black. She ran away from the family and married a Muggle-born. Considering which family she ran from, I'm afraid to even imagine the scandal. Of course, she lost a lot too, but it seems the family turned out purposeful, diligent, and is perceived by society as a normal new family. Except by radicals, of course."
"Radicals..." I mused. "But essentially, many families from the Sacred Twenty-Eight list are, one way or another, living out their final years."
"What do you mean?"
Despite Daphne's stern look, there was no reproach or negativity in it—only a desire to know the answer urgently. I had learned to recognize these small nuances of her expressions.
"Well, for example, Black. In fact, only Sirius remains. After twelve years of Azkaban, and if I understood correctly, he couldn't care less about blood purity. Lestrange—all in Azkaban. And to restore their glorious name in society, even if they get out, they'd need to turn the whole society upside down. For example, stage another revolution attempt. Plus, it's unknown how things are with health and offspring. Crouch—I don't think after everything he's been through, Mr. Crouch will bother to marry again. Sad story for the man."
"That is true," Daphne nodded. "To overlook so much... To expose himself like that."
"You know?"
"Everyone knows," Daphne shrugged. "A very loud case."
"Carrow—in Azkaban. Situation similar to the Lestranges. One could find a couple more. There are also those who are simply few left, or the last in the family, or simply those who just need to make a serious mistake, and they will crash to the bottom with a roar, and it's not a fact they'll get out alive."
"I never cease to be amazed," Daphne smiled. "You sometimes show surprising awareness of the magical world, yet you don't know obvious things."
"Nothing surprising. For awareness, there is the library—everything is there. And various 'obvious things' are obvious for a reason—they aren't written about in books."
"And still," Daphne returned a bit of mockery to her expression. "Why such sudden interest? And don't say it's for information and assessing a possible future."
"It's simple, I'm telling you. I sat, thought, evaluated my interest in girls, and came to the thought that I have a desire to start building a relationship with someone somehow. So I wondered—with whom does it make sense to build a relationship? I mean, say I fall in love with a pureblood, feelings turn out to be mutual. Maybe we even date, all that stuff. One, two, three years, we graduate from Hogwarts, and what then? What should I strive for so that I can come to this pureblood girl's house, declare to her parents, 'so and so, we are in love, I ask for her hand and heart,' and so that the parents, preferably with joy, agree? That is, what to strive for, besides the desire to become a Healer—I'll become one anyway? Moreover, so they agree truly with joy, and not out of hopelessness because I broke the whole world over my knee and now came to their house and it's unknown how things will end in case of refusal... Although, breaking the world over my knee for the beloved sounds..."
"Like a Gryffindor," Daphne smiled, having grown somber during my speech. "I don't know. Only one thing comes to mind—benefit. A benefit outweighing the certain loss of face for the family in such a misalliance."
"Hm... Benefit. I assume it's not about money? That would be too simple."
"Here you need to look at what interests a specific family and what they live by. What is profitable for one may be absolutely uninteresting to another."
The conversation somehow died down by itself after that, and we just attended to our study matters. The girls, by the way, who sat at the table at the end of the aisle, made offended faces at Daphne's appearance and left. Funny. But let's hope these funny things don't become the cause of entirely unfunny consequences.
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