The rays of the morning sun persistently broke through the cracks between the curtains, shining right into my eyes. This was how my day began. Getting out of bed, I looked at the boards with my notes—scribbles I had made in a vegetative state. Nothing was clear. After dressing and making my way to the bathroom on the second floor, I washed up and went down to breakfast. Everything was ready there.
Of course, there were the standard conversations about the weather, but the feast and tea party ended with a question I hadn’t expected to hear.
"Hector, son," my father said, already getting ready for work. "Do you want to go to Hogwarts yourself? To study magic?"
After thinking for a split second, I decided to resort to a visual demonstration. I picked up one of the buns left on the table.
"As I understand it, magic is not only about beautiful miracles," I began, looking from my mother to my father, who were still sitting at the table and listening with interest. "It’s tied to emotions, mood, and the excitation of the nervous system."
"Even so?" my father asked, surprised to hear a phrase you wouldn’t expect from every adult.
"I read it in biology books," I replied.
This answer seemed to both surprise and touch my parents.
"So, imagine that I wasn’t taught to control it. Emotions, resentment, stimulation of the nervous system... Someone..." I demonstratively shook the bun in the air. "...offended me greatly. Just for a brief moment, in a fit of resentment, bitterness, and teenage hatred, I wished for them to disappear."
The neutral magic of my new body responded easily, and the bun crumbled into ashes on the table.
"And they’re gone. And I didn’t mean to. I gave in to my emotions."
Will magic—not the kind the elf from my memory fragments practiced—wasn’t easy for me, though the concept itself was familiar to him, and now to me.
My parents, judging by their slightly pale faces, saw the darker side of magic.
"This needs to be learned. Control. I have to."
Of course, this wasn’t entirely true. I already had basic control over magic—or rather, an understanding of how to achieve it. My current control was just echoes of the past, like these fragments of memory...
The doorbell rang, distracting us from the topic that was so important to my parents. As if snapping back to reality, they fell silent, and my father went to open the door. I understood them. The elf’s memory, and the memories of other wizards from whom I had inherited almost nothing but their strongest experiences, were full of moments where parents said goodbye to children about to begin their training. The reluctance to let go, the grief, the misunderstanding, and the fear were intertwined with joy, because sometimes children had to be removed from families that couldn’t always feed themselves. Those people were afraid and happy at the same time—afraid of what they didn’t understand, but happy that their child would have a chance to escape poverty.
Shaking my head and pushing away the intrusive thoughts, I met the gaze of Professor McGonagall, who had entered the house. As in a couple of vague memories from my vegetative state, this lady looked to be in her fifties, wearing a formal black floor-length dress and an emerald robe. Her stern expression was softened slightly by her neat glasses.
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"Mr. Granger. I am glad to see you in good health," she said dryly, offering an almost imperceptible smile. "I am afraid we have not been properly introduced. Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," I said, standing up and placing my hands behind my back as I nodded solemnly.
Seeing a slight flicker of confusion but acceptance in her expression, I pulled myself together. The professor’s stiffness had triggered the elven reflexes regarding etiquette, and the gesture itself demonstrated a lack of trust but also politeness and the inevitability of further cooperation.
"I assume you're ready to go shopping for school supplies?" she asked.
"Of course, Professor."
I already had clothes, so now, dressed in simple jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a thick gray windbreaker, I found myself riding with the professor on a very strange magical bus. The bus threw me around the cabin as it hurtled through the streets. I had been given more than enough money, and as I understood it, I would need to exchange it at the goblin bank.
We reached the Leaky Cauldron in literally half a minute. Inside, as before, the atmosphere was less than welcoming. The professor led me to the backyard of the establishment, straight to a dead end formed by a brick wall painted white. Taking out her wand, the professor tapped specific bricks, opening a passage. Interesting. This wasn’t folded space—it was a transition to another plane. I wondered if there were many such islands in other dimensions or if this was a stable passage to the nearest material world. It was quite possible. Elves had dabbled in such things, though they preferred to unfold spatial anomalies and grow their Forests within them. On the surface, a grove of a couple dozen trees, but inside—half a continent.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Mr. Granger," the professor said.
"Thank you, Professor."
The street was indeed slanted—a winding cobbled road lined with crooked wooden and stone houses with multi-colored facades. On the ground floors of the buildings were various shops and stalls. Wizards bustled about in baggy clothes, robes, cloaks, and dresses. It was hard to find a common style, but one obvious feature stood out: most of their skin was covered, with only their faces and hands exposed. The men wore a variety of outfits, often business suits of different styles and colors.
The professor first led me to a large white building at the end of the street. It divided the street like a ship cutting through a wave. Outside stood goblins in cuirasses and wielding halberds—small, awkward creatures with long, pointed ears and hooked noses.
The bank's hall was spacious, high, and monumental. It was richly decorated, but the dwarves had done much better. Their wealth was not pretentious and looked far more harmonious. Here, everything reeked of superficial importance. Goblins scurried back and forth with carts or folders of papers. Tall wooden stands lined the sides of the hall, behind which goblins pretended to be busy with important tasks.
"Tell me, Professor," I said as we stood in the shortest line at the counters, "why is the financial system of the wizarding world run by goblins?"
Several wizards in long, light robes turned their attention to the emerging conversation, despite the slight noise in the hall.
"Because, Mr. Granger, after numerous uprisings, finance is one of the few things goblins are allowed to control under the peace treaties."
"I’ve studied Hermione’s books for the first and second years. Now I’m consumed by a question. What prompted the wizards not only to spare a race of intelligent and bloodthirsty predators but also to hand over control of financial flows to them?"
McGonagall looked at me with obvious scrutiny. It seemed she hadn’t expected such thoughts and phrases from someone who had emerged from a vegetative state for the first time in his life less than a month ago.
"You ask very serious questions, Mr. Granger, ones that not every wizard is capable of answering. Since you’ve approached this from a pragmatic, albeit harsh, perspective, allow me to respond in kind. Since the last uprising, the terms of their surrender have been harshly revised—not in favor of the goblins, as you might imagine."
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