Hogwarts is a second home.
That's what many students tell themselves, what others told themselves before them, and what still others will tell themselves long after. Whether it has to do with the fact that wizards spend the greater part of their youth here, within these walls, away from their families, weaving their own "unparalleled" and utterly unique intrigues — or whether it's something else entirely — I couldn't say. But even I feel a distinctly pleasant sensation upon returning to this castle, and there are quite a few drawbacks to the place, domestic and social alike. Even so, without having yet finished Hogwarts, one already begins to sense a faint shimmer of entirely unwarranted nostalgia. That was more or less the state I was in for the whole journey aboard the Hogwarts Express.
An owl carrying all the necessary documents from Monsieur Delacour intercepted me while I was still in the carriage, on the road from Hogsmeade station to the castle. Documents are documents — nothing out of the ordinary. Even the fact that the owl had delivered my post directly into the carriage — the sleighs were no longer in use, the snow had turned rotten and the ice on the lake was breaking up — drew no reaction from the other students. Just a letter, they supposed; happens to everyone. Personally, the moment rather pleased me, and I tucked the documents safely into my rucksack. They might well prove useful within the coming days.
Having taken my seat at the House table, I surveyed the Great Hall, nodded to those acquaintances I hadn't managed to see on the train, and watched the food appear on the tables in all its festive variety. Conversations all around, the remnants of Christmas decorations still on the walls — a reminder to the students of which holiday they'd just returned from, and what season it was — or perhaps for other reasons entirely. Who was I to know the workings of the administration's minds?
Over supper and the ensuing conversation, I couldn't help but notice a faint unease in Susan. The familiar modest smile was absent from her face, and she wasn't talking to anyone.
"Susan," I said, addressing the girl sitting opposite me, beside Hannah and Ernie.
"Yes?"
"Has something happened?"
"What? No, no — whatever gave you that idea?"
"You just seem a bit unlike yourself," Hannah answered for me.
"Quite," I confirmed, seconding my fellow prefect.
"I'm just… worried."
"Would you like to share?" Hannah shifted closer to Susan in a gesture of support.
"Well…" After a brief show of hesitation, Susan decided to tell us what was troubling her. "My aunt mentioned that wizards have been going missing."
"Recently?"
"Not exactly. You see, when Crouch became Minister, he immediately shook up the whole Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Office. Now everyone is literally digging the ground with their noses looking for any trace of You-Know-Who's activity. Disappearances of wizards are starting to surface, along with other, less significant events."
"And before?" I couldn't resist asking.
"Well, the DMLE works either on filed complaints, or when something turns up on its own… The latter, according to my aunt, happens extremely rarely."
"That's true, actually," Hannah turned to me. "A lot of wizards last set foot on Diagon Alley on the very last day they attended Hogwarts. Some live in their own little communities, tied up in their own affairs. Or else — like my great-uncle on my father's side — they build themselves a house out in the middle of nowhere, charm it so thoroughly that neither Muggle nor wizard could ever find it, and just live out their days in peace."
"And that's normal?"
"What exactly, Hector?"
"Hiding away from everyone, building a house… From what I gather, without any paperwork, without notifying anyone?"
"Why not?" Ernie chimed in, having just finished chewing a piece of steak. "If you need land and a house simply to live in? You charm everything properly without any fuss — or hire someone if you can't manage it yourself — and that's that. Nobody knows a thing, the land can't be found, and no one's going to go looking for it. I read in a book once that in the Caribbean they'd actually made whole islands disappear right from under ordinary people's noses. So thoroughly that nobody knew they'd ever been there — as though they'd simply never existed. So some little patch of land, a rood or an acre, you charm it, hide it, and nobody bats an eye."
"Ernie's right," Hannah confirmed, raising her glass of juice to him in a small salute, while Susan, sensing she wasn't required for the moment, turned her attention to a slice of pie. "Grandfather used to say — more than once, when he was giving me and my cousin his lectures — that in matters of land and property, one must be practical."
"In what sense?" I was, one might say, torn between the steak and the desire to extract something useful from the conversation.
"He used to say that everything must make sense. For instance, a family running a large-scale business and working with many other families — or involved in import or export — must look the part. They must be visibly wealthy: official lands, enterprises, properties, a Gringotts account and a vault on the lower levels. In the eyes of their partners they need to look like wizards capable of growing capital. If you walk into a business meeting without a Knut to your name, nobody's going to want to deal with you."
"Hm. Much the same in the ordinary world, really," Justin said, raising his fork to gesture vaguely in the air, then thought better of it — it would have been rude.
"If, on the other hand, you're involved in… I don't know, politics," Hannah said, clearly sifting through her grandfather's examples in search of a more fitting illustration, "then you don't especially need an official residence, land, any of that. Though there are nuances… It doesn't look right…"
"Ah yes, nuances," Ernie snorted, having dispatched another piece of steak. "Receptions, soirées, inviting guests round."
"None of them obligatory," Hannah waved a hand. "But in general, if the only way you can win people to your side is by displaying wealth — then yes, you need all of that. There are figures, though, about whom absolutely nothing is known in terms of land or property. Dumbledore, for one."
Hannah suddenly smiled, all her seriousness dissolving at once.
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing — just remembered a couple of stories from Grandfather," she said, brushing it off, but seeing the interest in the others' faces, she went on. "Everyone knows how the blood-purity radicals go on about pure-bloodedness, yes? Well, there have been more than a few cases where wizards who were pure-blooded for generations found themselves utterly cast out simply because they'd gone completely bankrupt. The Gaunts, for instance. Though… Grandfather did say they were also far too mad."
"Too mad?" Justin asked with a smirk. "How do you mean?"
"They say," I set down my glass and leaned back slightly, "that there are no sane people — only the undiagnosed. But here's something I don't understand…"
I made sure the others nearby were listening — I didn't want to have to repeat myself — and continued:
"Say you and your family have gone bankrupt. Nothing left in the way of property or money." I was thinking aloud, gesturing idly. "What's to stop you from picking up your wand, charming some land, hiding it, and building a house on it purely with magic?"
"Hector," Hannah said, smiling with just a touch of condescension — a few of the others followed suit. "Not every wizard puts as much effort into studying magic as you do. Tell me — how much do you think we were studying, practising, and genuinely engaging with the material before you arrived?"
"Honestly?" I took a sip of juice and set the glass down. "I haven't the faintest idea."
"Exactly enough to get the homework done. And not even always that."
"Plus a bit out of personal interest," Ernie added. "And now? We study practically every day — systematically, on a schedule. We read books that are actually useful, chosen deliberately, knowing exactly what we need from them. But why am I even going on about this!"
Ernie slapped the table lightly with a grin, though the sound was swallowed entirely by the noise of the Great Hall — the general chatter, the clinking of cutlery, the whole cheerful cacophony.
"We study more than the Ravenclaws! I was telling my father about my progress over the holidays, showing him what I could do. And he, mind you, was one of the best students in his year — in Ravenclaw, no less. To say he was staggered would be an understatement."
"Mine were equally surprised and absolutely delighted," Hannah nodded with a smile, then looked at Susan. "And your aunt?"
"Oh, more than. She won't stop talking about the prospects that await me once I've sat all my exams with Outstanding."
Watching as the others began discussing, with enthusiasm and mild anxiety, the exams that were still half a year away, I marvelled at how swiftly we'd arrived at that particular topic — given that the conversation had begun with missing wizards. There wasn't much point in developing that thread further; one could draw the conclusions oneself. A good number of the missing, I was fairly certain, were wizards who'd been sent after me. Take the notary with the Dark Mark — there had been no word of anyone looking for him. Someone had almost certainly assumed he'd died alongside Macfarson, since they'd worked together and that wouldn't have been a secret — the notary had been altogether too proud of himself, too pleased with his own importance, the sort who simply couldn't resist dropping hints to colleagues, drinking companions, anyone who'd listen.
And so it followed: a notary with a Dark Mark vanished at the same moment the Mark appeared in the sky above Macfarson's house. Those with an interest in his fate, or simply the curious, would have concluded he was buried somewhere on the premises. The Death Eaters — and he was one of them, by virtue of the Mark on his arm — might have surmised that either someone had disposed of both of them and pinned the blame on the organisation, or that the notary himself had done away with Macfarson for reasons unknown and then vanished, shifting suspicion onto the Death Eaters. Either way, everyone assumed the notary was dead, everyone had their theory about who was responsible, and digging further seemed pointless.
The same logic applied, as I now understood, to the rest of the "missing" — those who had tried to attack me or apply other forms of pressure. Some bodies my phoenix-self had dealt with, without drawing even a sliver of my conscious attention. Others had simply been left where they lay. But no one had raised the alarm, because no one had known the wizards were missing in the first place. And here was where things began to elude me somewhat…
"Everyone," I said, drawing the attention of those sitting closest — my classmates. "I've just had a rather sudden question. Do wizards actually have any documents confirming their identity? Is there any record kept of the population? A census?"
"A census?"
"Documents?"
Each of them latched onto a different word, and Justin and I exchanged a glance. The expression on both our faces, I suspected, was one of quiet horror at a rather significant realisation.
"Right, everyone…" I drained my glass of juice. The feast was still going — the desserts had arrived, replacing the main course on the tables — which meant at least another twenty minutes of conversation. "So. No documents, then?"
"What do you mean?" Hannah looked at me blankly. "You have your wand, registered officially. When you finish Hogwarts, you receive a named diploma that can't be forged."
"You — all of you — are missing the point." I said. "How would you prove to me that you're Hannah Abbott and not some Jane Doe?"
"Um… I suppose," Hannah considered, "the obvious option — 'ask the person next to you at the table' — doesn't count here?"
"Obviously not."
"The issue goes deeper than that," Justin leaned forward. "It's not about confirming that you are yourself. It's about proving that you are specifically Hannah Abbott. Do you see the difference?"
"Yes, I see it, I'm not stupid," the blonde said, waving him off. "The obvious answer is — ask her parents."
"And how do you prove that they're Abbotts?"
"They live in our family home, which is registered with the Ministry as the Abbott residence — there's the address. They have their wands, their diplomas…"
"All right…" I said, watching Justin's expression urge me to step in. "What if a wizard built himself a house but never registered it — just lives there. His wand broke and he picked up a new one, never formally associated with it. Never went to Hogwarts — was educated at home. Is that even possible?"
"Not for Muggle-borns," Ernie said, finding his moment to re-enter the conversation. "Those who have living, capable wizard relatives may be educated at home — but they're required to sit their exams."
"Genuinely required?" I pressed. "Or just highly advisable, since no legitimate employer will hire them otherwise?"
"Er…" Ernie searched the faces around him for support and found none. "I've never actually heard of it being strictly mandated. But you won't get any legitimate work without it."
"So, in theory, a wizard could exist who never attended Hogwarts, has a new unregistered wand, lives in a house that's nowhere on record. How would he prove who he is?"
Total blankness. A rather magnificent sight.
"How would you prove who you are?" Hannah offered the logical counter-argument.
"I at least have a birth certificate. Issued by the maternity ward of the hospital where I was born. It has my full name, my parents' full names, the hospital's stamps and seals. And after I turn eighteen I can obtain a passport — a document confirming my identity and British citizenship. If you're not travelling abroad, you don't strictly need it. Is there anything comparable in the wizarding world?"
"No," Hannah shook her head. "There's your wand, your diplomas, your address, the word of your parents and relatives. Your situation is entirely unique and practically impossible in wizarding terms. Though there is a rumour — they say there's a magical quill somewhere in Hogwarts that registers every gifted child born in England and writes their name down. Not immediately at birth, of course. The Headmaster receives a list of names current for the next academic year at the end of July. No one has ever seen this quill, and nobody knows where it is. But strictly speaking, one could, in theory, find a record of the names of all born wizards."
"Interesting."
"Hang on, hang on," Ernie decided to steer things back toward the subject that personally interested him. "What exactly is this census you were talking about? Hector?"
"Hm? Yes — I was thinking…"
And that was entirely true. I had been thinking. Hogwarts — or rather, just the quill and the lists — could represent something of considerable value. Wizarding families, as I'd gathered from various reading, don't tend to introduce their children to the wider world in any hurry. But with access to that kind of information, one could plan actions against enemies, in favour of allies, and generally. More to the point, one could learn of the births of half-bloods or Muggle-borns well before they ever reached Hogwarts — and, for instance, remove them from their families. Or kill them. Not a cheerful line of thought.
"A census," I said, setting aside those darker considerations and turning back to Ernie. "In essence, it's when the relevant government body collects information about people living within its territory in order to conduct statistical analysis."
"Neatly put," Justin nodded. "Yes, that's a thing. It records your details — name, surname. Citizenship, nationality, marital status, and so on."
"I've never heard of anything like that," Hannah shook her head, and neither, it seemed, had the others from wizarding families. "Sounds like an odd idea."
"I wouldn't say that," Justin disagreed. "How many wizards are in the country — exactly? How many of them fall into one blood-status category or another? How many are married? How many are below the poverty line? From that kind of data, the Ministry could pull together statistics, analyse them, and understand what needs improving in the country — what to add, what to change. Or, for instance — how many werewolves are there? What were they before they were turned? What category of the population did they belong to? Or centaurs, for that matter. Or other creatures. How many, what kind, where, how they live, what needs to be done about it."
That question, too, went unanswered, and the only thought in my head was: The country is in complete disorder, Your Highness. It struck me now that wizards who know of each other's existence at all — who know anyone at all — can essentially be divided into a handful of categories: Ministry employees; those who bribe Ministry employees; workers at establishments and organisations on Diagon Alley and the surrounding streets; residents of Hogsmeade. That's it. If a wizard doesn't fall into one of those categories, the probability of his being acquainted with anyone beyond his nearest neighbours approaches zero.
After supper, walking back to the common room, I turned over what I'd learned. The matter of land and property, for instance. Wizards were indeed capable of a great deal, and there weren't so many of them that the land "taken" by any one of them would carry meaningful weight in any broader scheme. There were also various charms capable of literally erasing the fact of a thing's existence — objects, structures, plots of land — from every possible record. I wasn't sure how that would work with electronics, excising information from digital databases — something to look into at some point. On the whole, it wasn't so unfortunate that I hadn't asked Delacour about this; though he might have offered a more seasoned perspective and shared facts relating specifically to bureaucratic practice. For now, what I had was sufficient.
One thing still eluded me: if there was a genuine risk that even a wizard of impeccably pure blood and an impressively long lineage could lose all social standing and become a nobody in the eyes of wizarding society simply by losing property and means — then why had the Notts so readily parted with their lands? Well, it was understandable that these weren't their last holdings, and perhaps extracting some small sum of money from them had been preferable to keeping them on the books, especially given the costs of maintaining their "cursed" status and everything else… But even so.
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