Son of Magic

Chapter 20

10th December, 1941

Ministry of Magic

London, England

Once the Wizengamot council had been dismissed from the chambers, it took less than a minute for Harry to be swarmed by its members and their never-ending inquiries.

'Lord Peverell, why is it that you are so invested in the muggle-borns' welfare?' they asked in various degrees of polite curiosity, trying and failing miserably to conceal their disgust at the mere notion.

'Do unions with muggle-borns truly produce fewer squibs?' they asked, ever so sceptically.

'How did you come upon this information? How long have you been working on this bill?'

'Will your mysterious invention locate all children born of magic or only the muggle-borns?'

'Do you wish to remove muggle-borns from their parents?'

'Are the rumours true, Lord Peverell? Did you establish the new Shelter? Is it the Peverell Manor?'

'Do you wish to completely segregate the magical world from muggles?

'Should your bill pass, where do you plan to relocate the muggle-borns?'

'What are your views on muggles, Lord Peverell?'

'Will you be publishing your research?'

'Are you the sole benefactor of this project?'

'Lord Peverell, in light of your recent victory in Hogsmeade, will you be assisting the Ministry's efforts with the ongoing war?'

On and on and on the questions went. It was maddening—utterly maddening.

Harry's throat was achingly dry from all the talking he's had to do, and his patience was wearing alarmingly thin. If they would all just read the manuscript he'd spent the past six months improving and perfecting before asking ridiculous questions, Harry would really appreciate that.

He'd hoped that Arcturus would have saved him by then, but alas, the wizard was fielding his own questions. Quite possibly questions along the lines of;

'Do you trust Lord Peverell?'

'How far does your support for him go?'

'But how well do you really know the boy?'

'Do you truly believe his claims?'

'Where did he come from?'

Among a multitude of other personal questions that they were simply too "polite" to directly ask Harry about.

Harry had just finished shaking Lord Prewett's hand with promises to answer any further concerns he might have via owl, thinking that he'd finally seen the last of the Wizengamot when Lord Malfoy appeared in front of him in all his white-haired and pointy-chinned glory.

But of course it wasn't over. How very silly of him to even entertain such a thought.

"Lord Peverell," the middle-aged wizard greeted him, sounding uncharacteristically chipper for a Malfoy. So much so, in fact, that it almost caused Harry to furrow his brow in troubled confusion. Then, before Harry's lips had the time to twist into a welcoming smile, Lord Malfoy had the audacity to go on and say, "Delighted to make your acquaintance," while actually sounding genuine in his words and then he respectfully tipped his head.