Meanwhile, in Muggleland.
If the magic of Britain could be mapped out in physical contours, a rising and falling landscape limned in energy and colour, then Hogwarts would occupy a steep peak, a vantage point overlooking the gentler slopes where wizards have made their hidden homes amongst Muggles; the pale spires of the scattered Magical Quarters of Edinburgh, York and Cardiff and, far to the south, London rising as a forbidding tower, hemmed in by a tight net of electricity and the perpetual motion of creeping machines.
Amongst the landmarks of school and Ministry, and all that lies between, the map undulates with power, magic travelling in unseen tides and currents, inscribing itself into the earth in leylines and strange whorls and spirals. Here and there, though, there are dark places, sinkholes in the fabric of the wizarding world where magic is sparse or absent, where fairies do not infest the bottom of the garden and strange lights in the sky are always an errant firework or a low-flying plane.
Of all of these, Port Talbot in South Wales might arguably be the most unmagical place anywhere on the island*, and, if it were possible to single out one place in the town, Number Eighteen, Pant Y Linr Crescent, was without a doubt the least magical place in Port Talbot.
David and Rhiannon had been married for eleven years, a union that had resulted in three perfectly ordinary, healthy children, and a dog.
The children were theirs. The dog, they'd bought in the normal way.
"Mum! Muuuuum.... Rhodri won't let me go on the Playstation. It's my tuuurn."
Rhiannon sighed, shoving her hands through her hair, and wished for the thousandth time that week that she had a cigarette. The supermarket had run out on Tuesday, and even the local petrol station had only had menthols left. If she'd known there was going to be all this trouble, she thought, she'd have picked up a suitcase full on the way back from Alicante at the start of the summer. Even then, it would have been okay except for that bloody story on the news about the government looking at rationing. Then, there'd been panic - quiet, but pervasive, and suddenly you found yourself fretting as you went in the shops, wondering if there'd be any bread on the shelves. It was mad, all this panic over a stupid load of bad weather. As soon as it blew over, things would be back to normal. She tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, which needed painting, and shouted over the mild bickering coming from the lounge.
"Rhodri! Share with your sister. We bought that thing for both of you." Without actual words, her two children managed to convey told you so and I was already going to, and Rhiannon shook her head and offered the empty room a slightly harrassed grin, which faded as, from upstairs, a thin cry announced the awakening of Nicola, the youngest of the Jones clan.
"Want me to go, love?" David called, comfortably, knowing full well he wouldn't have to give up his place on the sofa. He was right, and settled back, hands pillowing his head, his drowse punctuated by the children squabbling good-naturedly over the best way to kill the Bad Guy lurking at the end of the level. Always gives me the creeps, hearing 'em talk about killing stuff. They're only kids. And then sleep took him for a while, until the phone raised a shrill voice on the table beside the sofa.
He elbowed himself upright and pawed muzzily for the handset.
A couple of seconds later, he put down the phone and shouted in the direction of the stairs.
"Rhi, love? Come and listen, there's something on the - kids, turn that thing off, will you? I want the news on - there's something on the news. Alun says it's on every channel." His shout was answered first by a sleepy cry, and then by his wife, descending.
"Nice one, idiot. I'd just got her off again." She was about to say more, but he shushed her, and his expression was enough to save him from a more heartfelt scolding. They stood, side by side, the baby still grizzling quietly in Rhiannon's arms, the older children waiting impatiently to be able to continue their game.
"...have been making concerted attempts at international communication, and will continue to do so until this situation is resolved. This country has always pulled together in times of crisis, and I believe that the British people will support each other through these difficulties. Testing times lie ahead, but endurance and solidarity will see us through, as they always have, and together, we will greet the dawn of a better..."
The reassuring, slightly unctuous tones faltered abruptly as the conference room went dark.
"...seems to be a small difficulty with the lights, but I'm sure the technical staff will soon have..."
With a quiet 'pop', the shadowy scene was replaced by fizzing static. David stepped forward and banged the set with the flat of his hand.
"Dunno why we pay a bloody licence." He grabbed the remote and thumbed through black and silver wavering snow. "Must be the sender. I'll give Alun a ring and see if..."
The electricity failed. They watched through the window in shocked silence, as row after row of streetlights were snuffed out, and darkness descended across the town.
Outside, a dog barked.
*A thing of note when placed on the hypothetical map of magic, particularly given its proximity to Cardiff. A line might be drawn through other such settlements, Merthyr Tydfil, Ebbw Vale, and on to the distinctly mundane Solihull and wizardless Leicester. Research wizards, when asked, take great delight in pointing out the almost parallel St Michael's leyline to the south, and another (still theoretical) line of null magic passing through Glasgow and Manchester that strikes the St Michael's and Belinus leyline intersection almost perfectly. Some believe that every leyline has a dark shadow, where magic is naturally repelled, and that these drive magic elsewhere in the land through a form of arcane peristalsis. Others propose that they act as gutters, absorbing and dispersing magical overflow from the highly charged lines. This is why research wizards are seldom invited to parties.
Amongst the landmarks of school and Ministry, and all that lies between, the map undulates with power, magic travelling in unseen tides and currents, inscribing itself into the earth in leylines and strange whorls and spirals. Here and there, though, there are dark places, sinkholes in the fabric of the wizarding world where magic is sparse or absent, where fairies do not infest the bottom of the garden and strange lights in the sky are always an errant firework or a low-flying plane.
Of all of these, Port Talbot in South Wales might arguably be the most unmagical place anywhere on the island*, and, if it were possible to single out one place in the town, Number Eighteen, Pant Y Linr Crescent, was without a doubt the least magical place in Port Talbot.
David and Rhiannon had been married for eleven years, a union that had resulted in three perfectly ordinary, healthy children, and a dog.
The children were theirs. The dog, they'd bought in the normal way.
"Mum! Muuuuum.... Rhodri won't let me go on the Playstation. It's my tuuurn."
Rhiannon sighed, shoving her hands through her hair, and wished for the thousandth time that week that she had a cigarette. The supermarket had run out on Tuesday, and even the local petrol station had only had menthols left. If she'd known there was going to be all this trouble, she thought, she'd have picked up a suitcase full on the way back from Alicante at the start of the summer. Even then, it would have been okay except for that bloody story on the news about the government looking at rationing. Then, there'd been panic - quiet, but pervasive, and suddenly you found yourself fretting as you went in the shops, wondering if there'd be any bread on the shelves. It was mad, all this panic over a stupid load of bad weather. As soon as it blew over, things would be back to normal. She tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, which needed painting, and shouted over the mild bickering coming from the lounge.
"Rhodri! Share with your sister. We bought that thing for both of you." Without actual words, her two children managed to convey told you so and I was already going to, and Rhiannon shook her head and offered the empty room a slightly harrassed grin, which faded as, from upstairs, a thin cry announced the awakening of Nicola, the youngest of the Jones clan.
"Want me to go, love?" David called, comfortably, knowing full well he wouldn't have to give up his place on the sofa. He was right, and settled back, hands pillowing his head, his drowse punctuated by the children squabbling good-naturedly over the best way to kill the Bad Guy lurking at the end of the level. Always gives me the creeps, hearing 'em talk about killing stuff. They're only kids. And then sleep took him for a while, until the phone raised a shrill voice on the table beside the sofa.
He elbowed himself upright and pawed muzzily for the handset.
A couple of seconds later, he put down the phone and shouted in the direction of the stairs.
"Rhi, love? Come and listen, there's something on the - kids, turn that thing off, will you? I want the news on - there's something on the news. Alun says it's on every channel." His shout was answered first by a sleepy cry, and then by his wife, descending.
"Nice one, idiot. I'd just got her off again." She was about to say more, but he shushed her, and his expression was enough to save him from a more heartfelt scolding. They stood, side by side, the baby still grizzling quietly in Rhiannon's arms, the older children waiting impatiently to be able to continue their game.
"...have been making concerted attempts at international communication, and will continue to do so until this situation is resolved. This country has always pulled together in times of crisis, and I believe that the British people will support each other through these difficulties. Testing times lie ahead, but endurance and solidarity will see us through, as they always have, and together, we will greet the dawn of a better..."
The reassuring, slightly unctuous tones faltered abruptly as the conference room went dark.
"...seems to be a small difficulty with the lights, but I'm sure the technical staff will soon have..."
With a quiet 'pop', the shadowy scene was replaced by fizzing static. David stepped forward and banged the set with the flat of his hand.
"Dunno why we pay a bloody licence." He grabbed the remote and thumbed through black and silver wavering snow. "Must be the sender. I'll give Alun a ring and see if..."
The electricity failed. They watched through the window in shocked silence, as row after row of streetlights were snuffed out, and darkness descended across the town.
Outside, a dog barked.
*A thing of note when placed on the hypothetical map of magic, particularly given its proximity to Cardiff. A line might be drawn through other such settlements, Merthyr Tydfil, Ebbw Vale, and on to the distinctly mundane Solihull and wizardless Leicester. Research wizards, when asked, take great delight in pointing out the almost parallel St Michael's leyline to the south, and another (still theoretical) line of null magic passing through Glasgow and Manchester that strikes the St Michael's and Belinus leyline intersection almost perfectly. Some believe that every leyline has a dark shadow, where magic is naturally repelled, and that these drive magic elsewhere in the land through a form of arcane peristalsis. Others propose that they act as gutters, absorbing and dispersing magical overflow from the highly charged lines. This is why research wizards are seldom invited to parties.