After such a valuable lesson, I made my way to the inn, where I found a bored Nymphadora. Well, what else would you call the state of mind when you lazily leaf through a magazine while waving a wand and practicing nonverbal Leviossa. Ron was still suffering from the same with a green face.
By the way, the room had been cleaned and the food showed no signs of spoiling. We sat on opposite sides of the table in silence for a while, after a few stingy greetings and a few sentences about nothing.
My mood was ruined and I wanted to be somewhere far away from people and their "important" problems. But I don't want to ignore my own affairs either — it's irresponsible, I took the responsibility myself and I have to pull my own weight.
— Bad day? — came the soft, lazy voice of the girl.
— Something like that. — I didn't even turn my head, staring out the window at the darkening sky.
— I see. — The metamorph replied with the same intonation.
They were silent. For a few minutes I heard only quiet breathing and the rustling of the pages of the magazine.
— Do you miss me? — I asked.
— Somewhat.
— I see.
It's called melancholy. No mood, no desire to do anything. Nothing at all.
— Why are you doing this? — This time I looked at Nymphadora, who was still leafing through a French magazine.
— To explain my motives in a language you can understand, you, Nymphadora, must understand the peculiarities of my upbringing, my culture. — The expected exclamation of disgust at her own name did not come.
— Pure blood, eh? — a rather pretty face twisted a little in rejection.
— This is what I'm talking about. — A heavy sigh escaped me. — You Brits, and many if not all Europeans, have twisted and distorted everything. You have turned the old laws and traditions into something incomprehensible, and you call peculiarities titles. — Another heavy sigh from the realization of how beautiful it would be somewhere where a blizzard, strong, indomitable, howling, was playing out right now. Pure. I wonder if there are "winter" spirits in these lands.
— I don't quite understand you. — The girl with the dark hair frowned slightly, her wand lowered.
— Okay. — I turn my head slightly so I can see her better. — An example, the simplest and most vivid. The question of "purebloods" and "hereditary clans of magicians". Europeans divide society into castes only by how many generations of mages in the family and how "pure" their blood is. And this is a mistake...
— Caste division? That's right, we should... — the Auror got excited, but I interrupted her.
— No, the division into castes is justified, even slavery would not exist if it were not justified by logic.
— What kind of logic is that? — The Metamorph was outraged.
— Common logic. — He shrugged lazily. — There are strong and weak mages, there are lazy and industrious, fools and geniuses, adequate and psychopaths. If a lazy magician has stolen something, incurred a debt but can't pay it back, or a fool has done something, caused someone a loss, but can't pay it back, what to do? — I watched the girl carefully, her thin eyebrows moving amusingly, showing her thoughtfulness.
— Put him in jail, sell his property....
— And throw his family, if he has one, out on the street, creating poverty, right? — I chuckle. — Wouldn't it be easier and better to sell the guilty to pay the debt and leave the innocent alone? Besides, slaves have always been valuable, so some of the money would go to his family.
— But slavery is wrong, it's a relic of barbaric times!
— Muggles — yes, but wizards — no, we are different, starting with magic itself and ending with culture and values. — Seeing the disagreement in the girl's eyes, I continue. — You scornfully call ordinary people "Muggles", do not hesitate to enchant them, and if a "Muggle" is murdered, a wizard will not even be condemned — they will feel sorry for him, send a group of Obilivators, and that will be the end of it. Or will it? — My ironic look and chuckle made the girl pout like a hamster, but there was no point in denying the facts, for she was an Auror herself and had obviously seen such things before.
— Everything can be changed. We want to change things. — Tonks muttered. — New laws.
— I've seen those laws. — My grin grew wicked. — Your new laws officially allow you to rob, to take other people's property, other people's work, other people's inheritance. — A short pause for the girl to "hear" my next words. — Did you know, Nymphadora Tonks, that the pure-blood Black family owned more than one workshop and factory? That this family had several nurseries for magical creatures? Did you know that these products were used by a great many people in Britain, and that after the Black Family practically disappeared, your Ministry of Magic conducted a takeover of other people's property and promptly tore it apart, and the new owners are former or current Ministry officials?
"Wizards", but in fact simple wizards, third generation at most, who did not lift a finger to create anything new, only stole what generations of your ancestors had worked on. Do you like these laws? Are they right and honest? — After a short silence I continue. — You don't have to answer, you can already see that you are being pumped with a simple ideology that has no foundation and is not supported by anything. They tell you to change something, to do something, and you fulfill the "wishes", for the common good, of course.
Instead of developing as a magician, you stay on the same level, wasting your youth and health, risking your life for the ideals of people who sit in warm offices and drink expensive whiskey made of gold and silver. — I turn my back on the disgruntled girl. — You, who have turned your back on your ancestors and customs, you are almost a Muggle, you don't want to understand, so my answers won't help you. You have been trained, like dogs, to lunge at whomever your master points. It's your life. It's your life, Nymphadora Tonks.
There was silence for a few moments. I could feel the passions raging in the girl's soul, but I didn't listen to them. Why should I? I remembered that, according to the movie and the book, she had gotten involved with that obscure sect of Light, led by the most important "Light" of our time, had been carried by a werewolf, had given birth not even to a bastard, but to an obscure half-breed without a magical marriage, and then died.
And if you look at the whole story from the outside, the situation is no different from the usual world with the usual civil war: the idealists, taught by the eager, throw off the old power, hand over the control to other people and fall under the kicks of the eager from the stage, there is a new redistribution of power, and life goes on.
The same as before: the poor get poorer, the rich get richer. However, it is not always as easy as the "wise" want it to be. For example, until recently, Arabella Smirk worked in the Ministry of Magic's Financial Records Department.
She was a forty-seven year old wizard, fourth generation, neither she nor her ancestors were anything special, you could say, hereditary clerks of the magical world. During the first war with Voldemort, she hadn't distinguished herself in any way, she had been quiet... up to a certain point.
And then, suddenly, she "cut through" her voice, appeared in an active political position, and for a few years she found herself in a group of ministerial wizards who had a voice in a simple court and even in the Wizengamot (the highest court).
This sorceress, not even a witch, died a few weeks ago during a quiet, lonely dinner in her house, empty and cold, for she had neither husband nor children. Arabella was discovered in the evening of the next day, when she did not show up for work.
The reason was trivial — she had choked on a pickled mushroom, and to save her it was only necessary to slap her on the back, but who would do that when the woman was so politically active that men were not interested in her at all.
Oh yes, and that sorceress was so concerned about the fate of a boy who came to visit her a few months ago, she shouted so loudly everywhere, where you can and cannot, that this boy just needs an official guardian. Well, those things are in the past, and we live now, reading in the Prophet the will of the same Smirk, in which she bequeaths all her legally acquired property, including a sizable bank account, to one Elizabeth Stewart.
— You are mistaken. — said the metamorph in a subdued voice. — There is much you do not know, and it is not for you to judge me.
— I don't. — I shrug indifferently. — I just don't like it when all kinds of "messiahs", "lords" and "greats" talk nonsense and uneducated people listen to them like some gurus.
— Hey! I went to Hogwarts! I have seven full years of credits! And I took Auror courses! — The girl was righteously indignant, pouring out emotions of open indignation and resentment at my words.
— In Muggle parlance, you graduated from high school and some kind of run-down school. — I looked at the girl again, grinning. — And there are lyceums, universities, academies.... — and I play with my eyebrow so meaningfully. — Your maternal great-grandfather, by the way, was a master of potions, a master of alchemy and ritualism, and your grandfather, Orion, was a master of dark magic, sorcery and ritualism, and your grandmother, Walburga, was a real witch whose talent for curses, witchcraft and sorcery was widely known.
— I know that. — The girl tensed and looked at me with a professional squint. — But how do you know that?
— Have you seen such a book? — On the table in front of the girl lay a book, in an expensive leather cover of deep purple color, on which the red letters of the name "Dark Lace" shone, from the first page the reader looks at the joint portrait of a pair of dark magicians of the Black family, Orion and Walburga. — It's out of print in the UK, but not so hard to get in Germany. Do you recognize your ancestors? — the girl was stunned, if not "shocked". — In this work, your ancestors very intelligently and thoroughly understand the mechanism of action of curses, as well as how to fight, destroy and remove them. So much for the dark and evil Black Family, as your ancestors are now called by the people you serve. By the way, this work is a full textbook at Durmstrang and is recommended for other educational institutions.
— This one. Doesn't. Can. Will be. — After a few moments of silence, Nymphadora spoke.
— Yeah, whatever. — The only person who wouldn't notice the mockery in my voice was