"Original," Madam Marchbanks remarked with fairly loud approval. "The last time I saw Muggle servants was some seventy years ago. Watching maids is certainly far more interesting than watching house-elves."
"House-elves?" Grosvenor Sr. asked politely.
"Magical servants," the Minister of Magic explained. "And to anticipate your second question—Muggles… hm… that's what many wizards call ordinary people."
"That's more or less what I assumed," Gerald said, as if thinking aloud. "A classic problem of small, closed communities. They desperately need to invent a justification for living in reservations, cut off from the wider world. To that end, insular tribes create an ideology that proclaims their own superiority. Everyone else gets contemptuous nicknames."
The Minister showed no outward sign of being offended by the duke's words. A skilled actress, she smiled sweetly and said with admiration:
"Gerald, you are absolutely right. Unfortunately, the majority of wizards do consider ordinary people to be filth. I've been in office as Minister for ten years now, trying to fight this mindset—trying to eradicate the denigration of magical minorities and the disdain shown toward non-magical people. Sadly, I've had very little success. The contempt of pure-blood wizards toward those without magical ability runs too deep. Imagine this: many pure-blood families abandon their own children if no magical talent manifests—they're called Squibs. And some go so far as to erase those children's memories."
"Horrifying!" Prince Charles exclaimed.
Gerald frowned, his jaw muscles working, before he spoke:
"Mrs. Bagnold, am I correct in understanding that wizarding society is divided into castes? Pure-bloods and…?"
"In addition to pure-bloods, they distinguish half-bloods—those with one magical parent. And then there is a third category: Muggle-borns…"
The Minister cast an eloquent glance at Richard. Gerald followed her gaze. The pieces fell into place, and he realized that a child with Muggle-born status would be regarded in wizarding society as something akin to a Black man during the age of colonial conquest.
"Mrs. Bagnold," the duke said, "if you're referring to Richie—he is not Muggle-born. His mother is a witch."
"Is that so?!" the Minister brightened. "That's wonderful! And where is she now?! Oh—please forgive me…" she added, flustered, realizing the question might have been indiscreet.
"It's quite all right, Mrs. Bagnold," Gerald replied. "Four years ago, it came to light that my wife had been dosing me with love potions. That's when we parted ways."
"I see," the Minister said, not at all surprised. "That happens rather often."
While the Minister of Magic and the duke spoke, the old lady—blithely ignoring everyone—calmly sipped her tea. She closed her eyes in pleasure, sampling the various sweets with evident delight.
"Excellent tea," Marchbanks said. "And the sweets are beyond praise. Boy," she addressed Richard, "what can you already do?"
"I assume, Madam Marchbanks, you're asking about my magical abilities?"
"Yes, yes," Madam Marchbanks nodded a couple of times.
"Well, for example…"
Richie demonstrated by plucking a coin out of thin air and tossing it upward, where it vanished. Then he summoned Prince Charles's watch into his hands, showed it to everyone present, and returned it to its place in the same manner.
Both witches watched Richard's manipulations with keen interest.
For the next trick, the young wizard needed more emotion and concentration. To that end, he spoke a key phrase—an activator:
"Abra-Cadabra… Cup, fly."
Both witches flinched as if slapped. Almost instantly, small wooden pointers appeared in each woman's hand, aimed straight at the boy.
At that moment, Richard—who had just lifted his teacup into the air using levitation—was startled by their sudden movements and lost his focus. The cup crashed back onto its saucer, and the clink of shattering porcelain rang out.
"What was that, young man?!" Mrs. Bagnold demanded sternly. "Why are you frightening us?"
"I'm sorry," Richard said in confusion. "I didn't expect a simple levitation spell to scare you."
"Levitation?!" the old woman snorted with laughter. "Merlin almighty! Using an Unforgivable Curse?"
"Hm…" the Minister pursed her lips severely. "Young man, what words did you just utter?"
"Madam, those are words I invented to make activating my abilities easier. Abra-Cadabra—"
The witches flinched again. Richard raised his eyebrows in surprise and continued:
"They're just ordinary words used by stage magicians and illusionists."
The witches lowered and concealed their pointers.
"Hm…" the Minister of Magic drew out thoughtfully. "Young man, please refrain from using those words in the future. Wizards have a spell with a very similar verbal component. It is a deadly, forbidden curse—one of the Unforgivables—and its use carries severe punishment."
The old woman chuckled and said cheerfully, her voice loud:
"The boy's good! Did you come up with all this yourself?"
"Yes, ma'am," Richard nodded.
"Milli, just think about it—at such a young age, he taught himself to harness magical surges in the form of wandless spells. Levitation and summoning objects. My friend's grandson, the same age, only recently had his first magical outburst. I'm definitely taking this talent as my student." Fixing the boy with a sharp look, she added, "You'll come to my home early in the morning on Saturdays and Sundays."
"Um… Madam Marchbanks," Richard began, "where do you live? Is it far?"
"Don't worry about that," the elderly witch waved it off as if nothing. "Richie, I'll make you a two-way portal between your home and mine."
(End of Chapter)
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