The Affairs of Wizards

Chapter Two

Off to See the Wizards

What do you wear for a job interview with two wizards?

That was the easy one. The black dress and jacket combo I'd worn for my graduation still fitted, and I couldn't imagine anything more likely to shout "businesslike, efficient, professional" at an interviewer, wizard or not. Thank God for Marks & Spencer.

Other conundrums were not so quickly solved. Firstly, why had Longbottom and Malfoy chosen to form Magus at all? Let's face it, the simplest way to make money out of their cold cure would have been to sell the formula to one of the pharmaceutical majors and live off the proceeds. Yes, wizards live longer than us ordinary mortals, but Merck or Pfizer would gladly pay enough to keep even a wizard in beer and fags for a lifetime. These two might not know much about the non-magical world, but surely whoever was advising them did.

Unless they couldn't. Then what was stopping them? Maybe the legal barriers that still divided the magical world from the mundane one? If that was it why were they being allowed to sell direct? Or was the production process simply too saturated with magic to be adapted? In which case, how were they going to handle producing the kind of quantities they'd need if demand skyrocketed? By this time my head hurt.

I decided none of this was really relevant. The major decisions had obviously been made, and I had to assume that all these issues had been taken into account, unless it became obvious they hadn't during the interview. I was being hired to handle marketing this stuff direct to the Great British Public. How would I go about it? This was a start-up, and the marketing budget would be the kind of amount the big companies would spend on one TV advert. So mass marketing was out. The thing to do was opt for a niche.

That was when it all fell into place. Witches, wizards, magic, ancient wisdom, herbal remedies, natural healing -

"Mum, can I ask you some questions?"

***

It's one thing to be told just how different the magical world is, but quite another to actually experience that difference.

At 3.10 pm on the afternoon of the 10^th May I parked Mum's car in Avebury's tourist car park, and headed for the stones. The instructions on the map were quite clear. I needed to be at the place specified on the map at 3.15 pm, holding the gold coin I'd been sent, and I would - somehow - be transported to my interview. How? I was trying hard not to think about it. When I was a kid watching Star Trek I'd always wondered how the transporter managed to put people together at the other end, and more importantly, if it ever got it wrong. You wouldn't catch me yelling gaily, "Beam me up, Scotty!" and yet here I was about to trust some unknown force to transport me God knows where. I was not happy about it, not happy at all.

The reality was every bit as unpleasant as I'd imagined. At precisely 3.15 pm by my watch I was hit by a tremendous pulling sensation below my navel, as if someone had stuck a giant fishhook in there and was reeling me in. After what seemed like an eternity of howling wind and swirling colour my feet hit the ground. I staggered, and just managed to prevent myself from falling into an ornamental pond with a fountain at its centre. As I fought to keep my balance a high squeaky voice came from behind me.

"Is Miss alright?" I turned, and came face to face with a Muppet.

To tell the truth, the creature before me bore more of a resemblance to Yoda from Star Wars than Kermit the Frog but all it lacked was the Creature Shop logo. Enormous dark eyes stared at me from a face framed with a pair of floppy ears. It was no more than three feet tall and dressed in a sort of toga made from a white tea towel with a green stripe round the edge.

"Erm, yes thanks. I think so." The whirling had stopped, and I felt steadier.

"Portkeys is not nice. Some people is being sick afterwards. Master Malfoy is sending Ditzy to bring Miss Vanessa Granger to the Conference Room. Miss Vanessa Granger will please follow Ditzy."

Follow Ditzy I did, while making most of the opportunity to take stock of my surroundings. I'd landed in a large gravel covered courtyard, surrounded on three sides by buildings. So this was Malfoy Manor. From the architecture I guessed the building was Jacobean - red brick with rows of leaded windows gazing out over the central courtyard.

We entered the house by a flight of steps that led up to an enormous oak door and straight into a baronial-style great hall with cavernous fireplace, tiled floor and a minstrels gallery at one end. Passing through a smaller oak door at the back of the hall beneath the gallery, and down a corridor, I found myself in a place where the 21^st Century rubbed shoulders with the 18^th.

The ceiling was a riot of elaborate plasterwork picked out in gold, and the walls were covered with pale striped wallpaper. The centrepiece of the room was a marble fireplace with a gold framed mirror over it, in front of which sat a clock with a face like a little old man, which winked at me when I caught its eye. The walls were covered with paintings - all of them still life I noticed, not one portrait - and there the 18^th Century ended and the 21^st took over. By the looks of things the 21^st was winning. Over by the window a solid mahogany desk was covered with all the paraphernalia of a busy office - computer, fax machine, telephone and answering machine. All of this equipment was hooked up to a squat black box in one corner with a logo of three stylised Ws printed on it in gold. This, in turn, was plugged into an electrical socket on the skirting board, and emitted a faint humming sound. The polished mahogany table in the centre of the room was littered with papers, and four modern filing cabinets had colonised one corner. It was a mess.

"Miss Vanessa Granger will please wait here," said Ditzy, indicating a gilt-framed armchair by the fireplace, and bustled off. I sat down. From behind a door at one side of the fireplace came the faint sound of voices.

I didn't have to wait long. The door opened, and a stocky, dark haired man of medium height came through it. He moved towards me and held out his hand. I rose, and shook it.

"Miss Granger? Neville Longbottom. Pleased to meet you. This way, please." I followed him into the adjoining room, where a second highly polished mahogany table surrounded by matching dining chairs was doing duty as a conference table. I took the seat he indicated, and was then able to turn my attention to the room's occupants.

Neville Longbottom, conservatively dressed in a plain dark robe that seemed to be the wizard equivalent of the business suit, was not someone who would stand out in a crowd. His roundish face bore one distinguishing mark - a slightly crooked nose, broken and badly reset I guessed - and his mild dark eyes held an almost permanent look of worry. His partner, by contrast, was someone who would definitely turn heads wherever he went.

Draco Malfoy had the blonde good looks of a Disney Prince Charming, all aristocratic bone structure, long legs and silver-gilt shoulder-length hair. He was dressed to match in a robe of dark green figured material trimmed with silver over green trousers and knee high leather boots dyed a contrasting shade of green. The whole impression would have been rather edible had it not been marred by a scowl which would drop a charging bull at ten paces, plus body language that just screamed he was only going through the motions and I'd get the job over his dead body. I immediately revised my chances from "fairly good" to "bloody awful", wondering what the hell I'd done to piss off someone I'd never met so badly.

"This is my partner, Draco Malfoy." Longbottom, smiled at me encouragingly, as if to try and make up for Malfoy's coldness. Malfoy favoured me with a curt nod.

"Miss Granger." He did not, I noted, say pleased to meet you. I opted for being equally short.

"Mr Malfoy."

"Now -" Neville Longbottom began, but he got no further. Malfoy was a blur of movement, pulling a thin wooden stick out of his sleeve, pointing it at the table and chanting something in Latin. There was a flash of light, and the heavy glass ornamental paperweight in the centre of the table instantly metamorphosed into a large and very hairy spider.

If it had been a centipede I would not be telling this story now. Things with too many legs to be feasible and no discernible front end freak me out big time. Fortunately for me, spiders are not a hang-up of mine - I've been Deputy Spider Disposal Operative in our household since I was six. Reflex took over, and I grabbed a heavy glass tumbler from a tray sitting on the table by my elbow, trapped the thing beneath it, upended it, and was half way to the window before Malfoy had time to draw breath.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting the poor beast where it belongs," I met his cold grey stare head on, and forced myself to sound calm, almost bored. "Unless, of course, you'd like your paperweight back?" I held out the tumbler. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Neville Longbottom's mouth twitch as if he was trying to hide a smile. Malfoy gestured impatiently with his wand towards the table, and I tipped the spider out on to the surface. Another quick gesture, a flash of light, and the paperweight was back. I sat down again, and looked at Malfoy expectantly. An explanation is called for don't you think?

"Sorry about that," Malfoy drawled, in a tone which implied he was anything but, "necessary, I'm afraid. Our world is a place where such things frequently happen without warning. We needed to see how you'd react."

I caught the emphasis on our, and my initial dislike for this man deepened. I was dammed if I was going to let him patronise me.

"I take it I passed the test."

Malfoy's answering smile was not pleasant. "Let's just say your predecessor is probably half way to Swindon by now."

"Moving swiftly on," Neville Longbottom interrupted, in a tone which brooked no argument, and Malfoy was instantly all attention. Mild mannered he might be, but there was a touch of steel in Longbottom. "Miss Granger, I'd like to ask -"

The interview went half an hour over the allotted time, which I reckoned was a good sign but Malfoy's attitude to me didn't change, which wasn't. They asked all the questions I'd expected them to and some I hadn't. I was glad I'd done my research thoroughly. I'd also learned enough about the job to know it would be quite a challenge. As I'd conjectured, a mixture of legalities and logistics prevented them from licensing the formula to anyone else, and their proposed marketing budget was miniscule as such things went. They quizzed me thoroughly about potential routes to market, and for the first time in my life I was grateful for my mother's devotion to the latest New Age fads. Even Malfoy seemed impressed when I enquired whether they'd taken the possible impact of the extension of the EU Pharmaceuticals Directive into account when doing their planning. Apparently, none of the other candidates had even mentioned it.

All in all, I reckoned I'd acquitted myself very well, considering. The depressing thing was that I was sure I stood a snowball's chance in hell of getting the job. After another short and unpleasant encounter with travel by Portkey, I drove back from Avebury convinced that that was the end of it.

I was about to be proved spectacularly wrong.

***

The phone rang at half past nine that evening. Mum answered it, as she usually does. Her clients are in the habit of ringing up at all hours of the day -and night.

"Vanessa! It's for you!" I dragged myself reluctantly from the latest episode of Footballer's Wives, and picked up the extension in the living room.

"Miss Granger, it's Draco Malfoy." I was so gobsmacked, it took me a moment to find my voice. On the phone he sounded a lot less sure of himself. He obviously wasn't much used to non-magical communications.

"Good evening. What can I do for you?"

"We've decided we'd like to offer you the job. Are you still interested?" At that point I probably would have said no. Working for someone like Malfoy was not exactly my idea of fun, even if the salary was bloody good. However, he made the mistake of adding, with a faint suggestion of a sneer in his cut glass tones, "Of course, I shall quite understand if you've changed your mind. It's not the sort of thing that would suit everyone."

That did it.

"On the contrary," I said, brightly, "I think it's fascinating, and I shall be delighted to accept."

Malfoy had enough sense to know when he was beaten. "Good," he replied, briskly. "I'll owl the contract to you in the morning. How soon can you start?"

I hung up five minutes later, having agreed to start work in two weeks. As I settled back in front of the TV, I was already beginning to regret my impulsiveness. I had just accepted a role of which it might be said the mildest description was "difficult". Furthermore, one of my bosses appeared to have formed an intense dislike for me for no apparent reason. Lastly, I would be dealing with a culture about which I knew bugger all.

What the hell had I done?

***

Early next morning I phoned Hermione.

"They offered me the job and I said yes."

"Vanessa, that's wonderful. Congratulations!"

"Thanks."

"You don't sound that happy about it."

"My feelings are ... mixed. The job's interesting. Difficult, but interesting. Neville Longbottom seems like a nice bloke. But Draco Malfoy - "

"Oh dear. I did think he'd mellowed somewhat in recent years."

"You could have warned me."

"I'm sorry. Was he that bad?"

"And then some. What I can't understand is why he seems to have taken such a dislike to me."

Hermione went quiet for a moment, then, "I'm afraid that's probably because of me. We didn't exactly get on at school."

"I thought you were friends."

"Not really. After school we ... worked together for a bit, and we got along alright then. It's - complicated."

Complicated. That word again. I came to a decision. It went against the grain to look for assistance from Hermione, of all people, but who else could I ask?

"Hermione, I need your help. I know very little about the Wizarding World. If I'm not to make a complete idiot of myself in this job I need to know exactly what I'm letting myself in for. Let's face it, nobody's better qualified than you are to tell me."

"I'll do more than that. I'll show you. Are you doing anything Friday?"

"No."

"Meet me outside Charing Cross Road Tube, and Ron and I will take you for a meal at the most popular wizarding pub in London. We'll do our best to answer all your questions then. Alright?"

"You're on."

***

The Leaky Cauldron was something of a disappointment. I'd expected a roaring log fire, oak beams, shadowy corners and interesting patrons. What I got was All Bar One with pointy hats. The place could have been any other pub in London; long bar, stripped pine tables, chalkboard, the lot. The only difference was the staff were wearing wizard robes with the animated logo of - guess what - a leaking cauldron printed on them. Hernione must have noticed my look of disappointment as we threaded our way through the crowd of post-work drinkers towards the table where her boyfriend was waiting for us.

"It used to be much more interesting. Then the owner retired and his grand-daughter took over. She wanted to attract a younger crowd, so she had the place done up. Ron, this is my cousin Vanessa."

"Nice to meet you, Vanessa. I've seen you at a couple of family do's, but I don't think we've ever spoken."

"No, we haven't." I felt a bit sheepish. Dad and I were always very careful to keep Mum well clear of Aunt Jane, Uncle Ted and Hermione on these occasions but I could hardly tell Ron that.

I took an almost instant liking to Ron Weasley. He wasn't conventionally handsome - his gangly frame, long nose and shock of orange-red hair saw to that - but his green eyes shone with an easy-going warmth which made him attractive. He also had, I soon discovered, a fund of funny stories about life as an Auror and a devotion to Buffy the Vampire Slayer that was almost as avid as mine. Hermione, returning from the bar, rolled her eyes when she discovered us hotly disputing the relative merits of Once More with Feeling and Normal Again.

"Don't encourage him, Vanessa. Honestly, since we got the television he's become a complete anorak. I can hardly drag him away."

Ron grinned. "And whose fault is that? You wanted the telly. You said I should take an interest in Muggle life, seeing as how I was going to be liaising with the Muggle police a lot more. You were the one who called it a window on the Muggle psyche."

"It was supposed to be an educational tool. Not a device for allowing you to ogle Sarah Michelle Gellar's ... assets."

"Who says its her assets I'm ogling?"

Hermione drew breath for a riposte, but fortunately our drinks chose that moment to arrive. A silver tray zoomed up to the table, and one pint of lager and two glasses of white wine sailed off it, depositing themselves in front of us. Their arrival bought it home forcefully to me that, normal as the surroundings might look, I had definitely crossed the line that divided my world from the one Hermione and Ron inhabited. The more I looked around, the more I saw signs of that difference. The bar staff here had it easy. Empty glasses gathered themselves up and sailed off to the glass washer in a manner reminiscent of the washing up scene in Sword in the Stone. As the occupants of the next table got up and left, the contents of a full ashtray suddenly vanished while a cloth appeared from nowhere and wiped the table down all by itself.

Hermione was preparing to return to the attack. Ron, obviously keen to divert her, said quickly.

"Shouldn't we order? You know how busy this place gets on a Friday night."

Ordering food was simple - you picked what you wanted and told the chalkboard your choice and table number. The chalkboard informed us that our order would be ready in approximately 20 minutes, and thanked us for "choosing the Leaky Cauldron for your meal this evening". I shuddered.

"Right," Hermione said, briskly, as we sat down again, "How do you want to do this Vanessa?"

I'd been thinking about this on the train on the way up. Simply asking Hermione to tell me everything I needed to know about the Wizarding World was about as much use as asking for the answer to the question of Life, the Universe and Everything. I had to narrow it down. When it came down to it, the essential question was -

"Firstly, what's it feel like to be born a - Muggle - is that the right word?" Hermione nodded, "and suddenly find yourself in the middle of all this?" I gestured round at the Leaky Cauldron and its patrons, "Secondly, what is the problem with Draco Malfoy?"

"Apart from the fact he's still breathing, you mean?" Ron put in.

"Oh Ron." Hermione sounded like a weary mother admonishing a naughty five year old. "Do try to be serious."

"I am serious."

To forestall anther round of bickering, I interjected, "Which of those do you want to tackle first?"

"Number one. The thing about Draco doesn't really make sense unless you put it in context."

"OK. Let's start with when you found out you were a witch. How did you feel?" Hermione smiled, suddenly mischievous. It made her look a lot younger.

"Relieved. Remember that holiday in France when we were 10?"

I nodded. Soon after our arrival at the gite Hermione and I had got into an argument over who got the top bunk which got rather physical. Next thing I knew I'd been pushed across the room by some tremendous force, my head hit an oak beam, and I passed out. I woke up in a French hospital with Aunt Jane trying to bully the nurses in bad French, Mum having hysterics, Dad and Uncle Ted arguing, and Hermione, white-faced, cowering in a corner. That holiday was the last we'd ever taken with Uncle Ted and family. The following year Hermione went off to school, and Mum kept speculating darkly that it was really an establishment for disturbed kids.

"It wasn't the first time something like that had happened," Hermione continued. "Mum and Dad were getting really worried. They even started talking about sending me to see a child psychologist. Then a strange Scottish lady called Minerva McGonagall arrived on the doorstep with a letter for me. My invitation to Hogwarts."

"Is that how it always happens?"

"Only if you're a Muggle and your family's got no previous magical history," Ron took over, "If you're from a wizarding family you're expecting one, and you worry that you might not get it."

"Mum and Dad wouldn't believe her at first," Hermione continued, "They thought it was all some kind of joke. She eventually managed to persuade them it was serious."

"What did they feel about you going off to Hogwarts?"

"Mum wasn't at all happy, but Dad managed to persuade her that I should go. Of the two of them he's always been the more supportive."

"Was it like you expected?"

"I suppose it was, really," Hermione paused and took a sip of her drink, gathering her thoughts. "You see, they make it sound exciting, in a cosy sort of way. Like every story about magic you've ever read, only now you can be part of it. So when the headmaster said in his speech at the beginning of my first term that anyone going into a certain corridor on the third floor would die a painful death I thought he was joking. It wasn't until Ron and Harry rescued me from a troll which had me trapped in the girl's toilets I began to realise there was a darker side."

"Troll? As in big ugly brutes who live under bridges and knock people over the head with clubs?"

"Quite. Well, that was just the beginning. Of course, I was rather in the middle of it all, because of being friends with Harry. It was a bit like living on top of an active volcano."

"I can imagine. Did you ever tell your parents what was going on?"

"Good heavens, no. Mum would have taken me out of school like a shot, and by the time it started to get really bad I wanted to stay at Hogwarts more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."

"Why was it so important to you?"

There was a slight hiatus at that point, as the food arrived. By "arrived", I mean it materialised without warning from thin air, which gave Hermione and Ron the opportunity for much amusement at my startled reaction. While we ate, I listened to Hermione talk about her life at Hogwarts, with occasional interventions and additions from Ron. I learned that she'd loved Arithmancy, hated Divination, and come top of the class for several years running in Charms. I heard all about its staff, from its mad genius of a Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, to Professor McGonagall (strict but fair) and Professor Snape (an acid-tongued bully with personal hygiene problems). I became familiar with its customs - the Sorting, where new students were placed in the House appropriate for them, the Halloween Feast, the giving and taking away of house points. And I delved into its darker corners - the shadow of dark magic in the person of Lord Voldemort (so that was his name) hung over it all, along with that of other evil creatures (Hernione's vivid description of the Dementors haunted my nightmares for a long time to come). To me, the place sounded like a mixture of Mallory Towers and Looking Glass Land. It was obvious that Hermione cared about it deeply.

I listened to it all in the frame of mind I always adopted when researching a part. I tried to put myself in Hermione's shoes, to imagine what it felt like to be her. For the first time in my life, I began to have a glimmer of understanding of my cousin. In my imagination she metamorphosed from the annoying know-it-all who had blighted my childhood into an ugly insecure little girl hiding her fear behind a bossy façade. Hermione finally wound down, and looked at me anxiously.

"Does that help?"

I smiled at her. "Yes, it does. A lot." After a moment, I tore myself away from Hogwarts, to ask, "So, where does Draco Malfoy fit into all this?"

Hermione sighed. "Draco was - well, not to put to fine a point on it - Draco was basically the school bully."

"Swanned around the school as if he owned it, flanked by those two goons of his, Crabbe and Goyle," Ron put in, "and spent most of his time trying to make our lives a misery."

"And failing." Hemione's mischievous smile was back again. "You see he wasn't a very good school bully. He hated Harry and was constantly trying to get him into trouble but somehow it nearly always backfired on him. I would say that, compared to Lord Voldemort, Draco was a fairly minor irritation." She said the dreaded name with a complete lack of self-consciousness, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Ron wince slightly.

"Minor is not how I'd put it, love." Ron was almost snarling now, "Don't try and minimise what he did to you." He turned to me. "You see, Vanessa, wizards like Malfoy and his family thought Muggle-borns like Hermione were unworthy to be part of the Wizarding World, and as for Muggles like you, well they were just subhuman. Nearly killed him when Hermione beat him in almost every subject year after year. I don't believe he's ever forgiven her."

Hernione put her hand over his on the table, and squeezed it. "It was just words, darling."

"You said you got on alright after he switched sides?" I prompted.

"I can't say we were ever friends, but he was polite enough to me. Draco, Neville and I spent a lot of time working together during the War, trying to develop counter-spells for some of the nastier dark arts stuff the other side were throwing at us. Neville was really good at Herbology, that's growing plants with magical properties, Draco was top in our year at Potions and I was the Charms expert."

"A sort of lifeboat situation. You get on because you have to."

"I suppose so, though I would say that Draco and Neville actually did become friends."

Ron shook his head. "I've never understood that. Neville, of all people, getting friendly with Malfoy, with his background."

"Perhaps," Hermione said, "They had something in common. They'd both lost parents because of Voldemort."

"Yeah, but Neville's Dad wasn't one of Voldemort's chief supporters!"

"So, what you're saying," I summed up gloomily, "is that Malfoy dislikes me simply because my surname happens to be Granger and he's hanging on to some schoolboy grudge he has against my cousin."

"I'm afraid so," Hermione looked contrite. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," I said, and meant it. "I'll cope."

"Best of British luck to you," Ron said. "Give him hell."

I smiled, trying to put a brave face on it, but the whole thing worried me. If Malfoy had taken me on simply because Neville Longbottom had talked him into it that would only make him resent me more. It sounded like I was on a hiding to nothing. When Ron went off to pay the bill, I said as much to Hernione. She shook her head.

"I doubt that. Nobody, not even Neville, could make Draco do something he really didn't want to do. He picked you because he thought you were the right person for the job - despite his prejudices. I know it won't be an easy ride, but at least that's something." Then, with an obvious air of changing the subject, "So, what do you think of Ron, now you've met him properly?"

"He's lovely, and just right for you. How long have you been together?"

"Ten years."

"Never thought of making it legal?"

"We both think there's very little point in getting married unless you want children, and we do, but not yet. And ... well, you know what Mum would get like. She'd want a white wedding, the whole works. I don't think I could stand the strain."

For a moment our eyes met, and a look of sympathy passed between us. I reflected that, if nothing else, at least this whole experience could lead to better relations with my cousin. There was something to be said for that.

***

On the way home, I ignored the drunken City types and the late returning theatregoers. Staring out of the train window, I reflected on everything I'd found out that evening.

Hermione was right - it wasn't going to be an easy ride.

***