Chapter Eight. Back to School, Second Year
Returning to Hogwarts was not very pleasant — I would have to hide again and sit in classes where I could have been teaching. But it had to be done — I had performed the Rituals and there were very clear signs that I would have to change Reality from there.
I still hadn't figured out animagi, I only understood that it would be something small and fluffy, most likely a rodent, but not necessarily. Annoying... You have to admit, when you've had a snake as your Second Form for several decades, becoming some kind of rabbit or guinea pig isn't very appealing. And a rat — even if, in theory, this form offers interesting opportunities for espionage, it's much less than it might seem. They have their own hierarchy, they're pack animals, and a stranger rat in the pack... In short, somewhere in a cramped burrow, an animagus rat might not have time to turn around and end up paying with its life.
Here's the Hogwarts Express... I throw my things into one of the carriages and exit through the wall into the Muggle part of the station, having first activated my illusion charm. London and Londoners... I've always loved this city, even though it has many flaws. Dirty, noisy, confusing...
But pre-war London is annoying — it's not my city. Or is it that I subconsciously perceive Muggles and the Muggle world as a threat? It's happened before, but now I feel it more sharply. Is my Sidovian nature awakening?
Unable to make up my mind, I leave the Muggle part of the station in a state of considerable distress. Later, I'll have to... test myself. It's quite possible that I'm starting to reject the Muggle world. It sounds silly, but it's a common phenomenon among pure-bloods — something like an allergy. Allergies to the absence of magic, to the distorted nature, to children engaged in prostitution, to... the list is long. It could have manifested itself, it could have... after all, I am now the rightful head of the family, even if it consists of only one... Sid. And that leaves a noticeable mark. In addition, according to some ancient treatises, I am also the head of a new branch of the sid race, which automatically gives me the title of prince — even if only over myself for now. The title of prince of the sids, in addition to some rather interesting "pluses," also has some "minuses."
If I am to believe the same not-so-reliable chronicles and legends, I can gain... well, for example, the ability to control the weather in the area around my manor. Or see through the eyes of falcons. Or turn into a mythical animal. And the disadvantages can be quite interesting — from never having to wear shoes to having to have sex only on a full moon. But this is all just theory, which will become relevant closer to the age of eighteen, if not later.
During my first two weeks at Hogwarts, I didn't really do anything except listen to my friends and acquaintances talk about their summer and reconnect with them. There wasn't really anything else to do.
Firstly, the teachers were checking our knowledge — it seemed like a small thing to me, but no, all these scrolls took up a lot of time, and I had to help my friends, of course. Secondly, nothing serious would have come of it simply because the first week or two, the teachers traditionally monitored changes in their students. How they had grown, whether their Force flows had changed, their character... Thirdly, the students themselves were homesick for their school friends.
So after two weeks, I... went a little crazy. The idea for a theatre club had been brewing for a long time — it's good entertainment not only for the audience, but also for the actors, set designers, scriptwriters...
The script was simple, so Dean Aver Malfoy approved it after glancing through it.
"Do you think they'll get it?" he grunted, "or will they just let it go in one ear and out the other?"
"I hope they do," I replied with a grin, "and if not, my comrades will explain it to them.
The play was very short, so after a week of rehearsals, we decided to perform it in the Great Hall during Friday lunch.
"Sonorus," Brian Boru, a powerful seventh-year student with broad shoulders, grabs me and puts me on his shoulder. Yes, yes, on ONE shoulder — the guy is exceptionally physically developed. But then again, he's not much worse intellectually.
"Ladies and gentlemen, students, teachers," I continue my speech from above, "we have decided to entertain you with a short homemade play right during lunch. The author of the idea and the play is me, the brilliant and unique Robert John Tally of the House of Tally.
I bow slightly in a joking manner and Brian pushes me off his shoulder — that's it. Now I am just like the audience...
On a small stage, transformed by Ravenclaw seniors from all sorts of junk, the play begins. The plot is simple: the adventures of a fictional savage from the jungle who finds himself in the Big City.
"Ah-ha-ha!" the audience roars when Jürgen, smeared with gutta-percha, jumps onto the stage wearing a grass skirt and carrying a spear. Then there are several illusions of a car, a tram, Big Ben striking... Magical studies at Hogwarts are taught quite well these days, so all the students understand what is going on.
Meanwhile, the savage rushes across the stage, escaping from the tram and running away from the "Iron Monster" along the tracks. Then there is an incident involving a dog (an illusion) being stabbed with a spear by a respectable elderly lady...
"Prey!" Jürgen the savage announces triumphantly, "Food!"
The hall is flooded with laughter – not only the students, but also the teachers. Even Dippet curls his lips into a smile.
The adventures of the savage, who constantly finds himself in ridiculous situations, continue for three minutes. Then some kind-hearted townspeople take him away, promising to help him live in the "Stone Jungle." Curtain...
"Time's up," I announce, "and the Savage from the Jungle is back before you!
Jürgen comes out. He is wearing a top hat and a luxurious tailcoat... True, the tailcoat is several sizes too big, and instead of a bow tie, a piece of rope is wrapped around his neck. And he still has no trousers, although he is wearing luxurious galoshes on his feet.
"Ah-ha-ha!" laughs the audience. Meanwhile, the savage waves someone away behind the scenes...
"I don't need her anymore! She's a city dweller now, she knows everything, she can do everything! The Big Iron Beast took me for a ride, my brave, clever and strong one!
Then the savage walks through the city (still under the same illusion), proudly pointing at trams and buses with his finger...
"The Big Iron Beast is no match for brave Mamba!
The townspeople he meets are, to put it mildly, surprised by Mamba's appearance, but since he doesn't run after trams or kill dogs with his spear, they pass by. Meanwhile, the savage approaches a rubbish bin near the canteen and busily rummages through it.
"Food!" he says proudly, pulling out an apple core, a rat carcass and a piece of mouldy bread.
After a few similar episodes, other kind-hearted townspeople approach Mamba, trying to explain the rules of behaviour in the big city.
"Um... sir... Mamba... it is customary to wear trousers, not just a jacket.
"You fools!" he says, striking a savage pose, "I'm comfortable like this, and I'll walk like this.
"Besides comfort, there is also propriety.
Mamba blinks, not understanding the word "decency."
"Um... every... village... has its own customs. And since you've come to us, you should at least observe the basic ones.
"Stupid customs! In my village, we are the smartest, I will do as I do in my village. You are wrong, you are not Lesotho.
"We are Europeans and you are in Europe now," the kind-hearted townsman explains patiently.
"I don't care. Your customs are stupid, Mamba doesn't like them. I'll become your leader and change everything to be like in my home village.
The "townsperson" walks away, shrugging his shoulders. The curtain falls again and an announcement is made.
"Several months passed and winter came.
Blue with cold, Mamba spends the night under a rubbish bin, feeding on the same rats and scraps.
"Stupid, bad Europeans," mutters the savage. Then he notices another Mamba, but this one is clearly well-off: he is well-dressed, with a fat face and a big belly.
"Brother, brother," Mamba rushes to his prosperous fellow countryman, "Help me, please!"
The other stops and begins to explain that one must simply observe local customs and laws, learn... If you don't like something, you should at least try to understand why the locals do it that way.
"Mine doesn't like trousers either," says the fat-faced man, "but at least the bells are warm now. Okay. I started washing, and they let me into the house. I poop in a white stone with a whirlpool and eat at the table. It's uncomfortable, yes... But I have a home, work, food...
"You're wrong!" Mamba recoils from him. "Everything is right in our village, but you're wrong. Let the stupid locals live by the right law — our law."
"But it's their land.
"So what! I don't like it here, let them live the way I'm used to!
Everyone laughed at Mamba and discussed the memorable scenes for several days. On Tuesday, a first-year Gryffindor who was born a Muggle stopped me in the corridor...
"Tell me it's not about Muggles!
I'm stopping...
"But why, it's definitely about them.
"But we're not like that! We have civilisation!
"Really? You'd be surprised, but we do too — and ours is older than yours.
The Gryffindor, it seems, wasn't a complete lost cause and understood that shouting wouldn't solve anything.
"Explain," he asked grimly. I looked at him sceptically, although inside I was rejoicing.
"Will you understand? Or will you be like... Mamba?
The Gryffindor gritted his teeth, but answered honestly:
"I'll try.
"Hmm... Let's do this: come back in the evening with your classmates who are also interested in the problem. Otherwise, telling everyone separately... my tongue will get tied.
In the evening, I was met by nearly a dozen Muggle-born underclassmen and several half-bloods, one of whose parents was a Muggle and the other a wizard from a Muggle-born family. They looked sullen and grim... well, who would like to be compared to... someone like that? We entered an empty classroom not far from Ravenclaw Tower.
"Take a seat, this may take a while.
Psychology, you know — when you're sitting down, you can't help but relax a little. Especially since the younger students have gathered in a crowd, standing almost like a wall.
"Let me say right away that I didn't mean to offend anyone.
"Of course not!
"No way. I laughed, yes, but I didn't mean to offend anyone. Did you think about it and come with questions? Excellent, that's what I wanted.
"Explain yourself," says the same Gryffindor ringleader. I nod.
"You... Mark, I think?
"Mark.
"A city boy, a farmer?
"Farmer, we have our own farm, we don't rent. Yeomen!*
"Wonderful!" I say, genuinely pleased. "You should understand the essence of the play better than anyone else!"
I see the other children watching warily, but there is no more hostility, that's good.
"Have you had the farm for a long time?
"Well... since the middle of the eighteenth century, before that our ancestors rented the land. Then we saved up some silver, became yeomen, and bought it," the red-haired Mark replies eagerly.
"What do you specialise in?
"Jersey cows and geese. The rest is just small stuff. It's been like that for a long time!"
The Gryffindor, talking about himself, has noticeably "softened," and the rest of the guys have relaxed.
"Well..." I raise my finger, "the situation is similar for magicians. Not entirely, but the analogy should be clear to you.
"Analogy... analogy..." murmured the class, but a couple of smart alecks enlightened the rest.
"There are different kinds of magicians. If you compare them to social classes... You are like... labourers, and not very smart ones at that.
"Hey, there are people from decent families here!" Black-haired Eric, a second-year Gryffindor, jumped up on the bench.
"What don't you understand about the word 'analogy'?" I asked him sarcastically. And the rest... Well, he tried to defend everyone present, but instead he divided them into "decent" and "indecent." So they looked at him unkindly.
"You're the one... you're the one!
With that, Eric jumped down, raised his head, looked proudly at the others, and, finding no support, snorted.
"Well, stay there. Serfs!
With that, he left the classroom, slamming the door loudly behind him.
I roll my eyes demonstratively and wait for the laughter to die down.
"Yes, labourers, and taken in out of pity. Stop! Listen to me. By the end of your fifth year, you'll be literate labourers. Mark will confirm that it's not so easy on a farm.
"Of course!" the boy eagerly confirms, "you have to work for years to be valued as a worker!
I spread my arms...
"That's what I'm saying... Tell me, Mark, who knows more about the farm — you, the farmer's son, or a farmhand who came from somewhere... a coal mine, for example.
"Me, of course! Where would a miner come from... Oh... so we're all miners on a farm, are we?
Mark slowly sits down and begins to speak, his words coming out with difficulty...
"John came to us a couple of years ago. He was a miner for a long time, then something happened to his lungs, and he had to move to the village. He's forty years old, with a wife and children, but he can work no better than a teenager. He seems strong and not stupid... But he has no habits and doesn't understand animals at all.
Having said that, Mark falls silent, and the other children are also subdued — the analogy is clear.
"So, magicians," I continue, "it's like... there are farmers, there are veterinarians, there are jewellers... It seems like anyone can learn, but those who follow in their ancestors' footsteps will have an easier time of it — much easier.
"So it's just knowledge?" asked one of the first-year students I didn't know, a fair-haired, almost transparent boy.
"Knowledge, skills, and techniques are easy for hereditary magicians in the third or fourth generation. It's even more interesting with purebreds — if five or seven generations have been practising... let's say, combat magic. Their bodies begin to adapt, and combat magic comes very easily to them. And then there are the professional secrets passed down from father to son.
"And what prospects do people like us have?" Mark asks slowly.
"First and foremost, it depends on you," I spread my arms, if you're like... Mamba, you won't get anywhere – relatively speaking. You'll become petty crooks and beggars, or you'll work for food and shelter. But if you study and don't ignore the advice of those who have been there before you, then you'll have a house, a profession, prosperity... Everything.
"So..." Mark draws out (oh, what powerful leadership qualities this boy has!), "it turns out that if we sit around like idiots, we'll end up as labourers — and not even the kind who get fed. If we think, look and listen, we'll still be labourers, but respectable ones, with decent pay and polite treatment. But what about becoming farmers ourselves?
"That's unlikely. Just think how many generations of your ancestors were simple tenants? And how big is the difference between labourers, tenants and yeomen? You can become tenants — not all of you, but the smartest, most hard-working... and loyal, of course.
The class system in England is easier to understand than anywhere else, so people are more forgiving — there are prospects! No one wants to be a "mumbo," but it turns out that all you need to do is study hard — not just magic, but also traditions... It's hard to overcome yourself, because "everyone knows that the English are the master race, the salt of the earth!" But when it was explained to them in simple terms that this is a world of magicians, that they are Civilisation** compared to Muggles, they were comforted by the fact that they are now also part of Civilisation and that even a magician of the "advanced farmhand" level can live a very comfortable life (and live much longer!) than a member of the House of Lords.
Surprisingly, I used to think that at this point in time, Muggle-born and Muggle-raised wizards were trying to adapt to the magical world. But no — hereditary wizards were very surprised by my move and even tried to express their disapproval, which I suppressed very harshly.
Yomeni!*" like Russian one-yarders, are a kind of "intermediate layer" something between the "aristocratic" peasantry with privileges and the lower nobility.
Civilisation I remind you that the plot echoes "Llewelin," which mentions such things as visits by magicians to the Moon, the ability of one magician to emerge victorious in a duel with a battleship, complex scientific projects (such as the creation of worlds), and the ability of an ordinary magician to build a comfortable house with "all the amenities" in a matter of days.
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