Potatoes and Horcruxes: A Civilizational Overture

Chapter 3. The Potato's Measure

The priest's nod was barely a flicker. "He'll see you now."

Bran, still barring the door with arms stubbornly outstretched, eyed Professor McGonagall with the profound suspicion only an orphanage's self-appointed guardian could muster. After a moment's hesitation that spoke volumes, he shuffled aside. His dark, unblinking gaze followed her, sharp as the crows she'd noticed scavenging near the roadside ditch.

"Thank you," McGonagall said crisply. She paused, taking in the small boy's rigid posture by the doorpost – a tiny, fierce sentinel. A flicker of something almost like amusement touched her lips, quickly smoothed away as she gave a brief, acknowledging nod. "Thank you," she repeated softly, more to him this time, before stepping past the threshold.

Inside, the air held the faint tang of antiseptic and porridge. Just as her keen feline eyes had observed earlier, the room was cramped. A girl with hair like spun moonlight stood protectively near the head of the bed, while the man McGonagall knew to be Benitez, the orphanage's keeper, was propped against pillows. Beside him, a tray held the remains of breakfast – a congealing bowl of what looked like a particularly hearty broth. Professor McGonagall firmly pushed aside the unbidden, rather uncharitable comparison to a certain Scottish poultry dish that had sprung to mind during her reconnaissance.

"Good morning," she began, her voice clear and carrying the brisk efficiency of a woman accustomed to commanding attention. Her gaze swept politely over Benitez and the silver-haired girl before returning to the man in the bed. "Professor Minerva McGonagall. A pleasure." She'd learned enough in the village to understand this wasn't the usual orphan-overseer dynamic; this was a father and daughter, clinging fiercely to their small, hard-won domain. Benitez, therefore, deserved the truth directly.

Benitez levered himself up onto one elbow, wincing slightly. His eyes, sharp and assessing, travelled over the unexpected visitor. She was older than he'd first thought, perhaps, but every inch the picture of academia he might have conjured: severe black curls pinned tightly back, square spectacles perched on a nose that suggested she missed very little, all wrapped in a sensible tartan coat that whispered of Scottish hills rather than London alleys. She didn't carry the greasy sheen of a con artist, nor the furtive energy of a trickster – a lifetime spent navigating society's fringes had honed Benitez's instincts for such things.

"Professor McGonagall?" Benitez's voice was roughened by illness, but his tone was measured, thoughtful. He gestured towards the room's only other chair. "Do sit. Might I ask… which school d'you represent? Far as I know, Seraphina here," he nodded towards the girl, "hasn't applied anywhere in Scotland." His gaze remained steady, watchful as the crows outside.

Professor McGonagall's gaze lingered on the bowl of soup steaming gently on the worn wooden table. After a fractional hesitation, she pulled the chair towards the bedside, turning her back on the table entirely. Clearing her throat with a soft ahem, she offered Seraphina a thin smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Our school," she began, her voice crisp as autumn leaves, "is called Hogwarts. A rather special institution, you understand, for young people possessing… certain unique talents. I've come here to—"

"But—I refuse."

The words cut through the air before Professor McGonagall could finish. Seraphina shook her head, a curtain of silver hair swinging, her interruption as sharp as a snapping twig. Professor McGonagall's lips tightened almost imperceptibly, like a purse snapping shut.

"I have my own plans," Seraphina stated flatly, her chin jutting out. "Besides, I don't see what some obscure little school could possibly teach me. So, please, just go back."

Had this been one of her Transfiguration classes, such blatant rudeness might have earned a week's worth of detention and a glare that could curdle milk. Professor McGonagall merely raised one eyebrow, looking for all the world like a ruffled Kneazle considering its next move.

"Seraphina!"

Benitez frowned, a deep crease appearing between his brows. In all his years knowing the girl, he'd rarely heard such steel in her voice, let alone witnessed her interrupt anyone. It was as startling as finding a Blast-Ended Skrewt in the bread bin.

"Sorry," Benitez said hastily, ruffling Seraphina's hair in a gesture that seemed more flustered than affectionate. He turned an apologetic look towards the Professor. "She's not usually like this." He paused, scratching his stubbled chin. "Though, if you'll pardon me saying so, this is the first I've heard of Hogwarts myself."

Professor McGonagall's smile returned, unconcerned. "Living amongst Muggles – that's what we call non-magical folk, you see – it's perfectly understandable you wouldn't have heard of us," she explained, her tone light but precise. "Hogwarts is a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A place where young witches and wizards learn to harness their magic."

Silence descended, thick and sudden as London fog. Benitez stared, his eyes darting rapidly between Professor McGonagall's steady gaze, searching for any flicker of deceit or madness.

"Ma... magic?" Benitez repeated the word softly, his voice tight with suspicion. He shifted on the edge of his bed, suddenly leaning towards Seraphina's initial assessment; this stern woman seemed decidedly peculiar. He drew himself up, ready to put an end to what felt like an increasingly bizarre performance.

"You mean… magic tricks?" he asked slowly, his politeness straining at the edges. "Stage illusions? I'm afraid I'd much rather Seraphina attended a proper secondary school. She deserves a solid education."

"No," Professor McGonagall corrected gently, her smile widening into something almost mischievous. "I mean magic." In one fluid motion, she drew a slender, polished wand from the pocket of her emerald robes. With a neat flick, she pointed it at the rickety wooden chair beside her. There was a soft c***k, like a dry twig snapping underfoot, and the shabby chair shimmered, warped, and reshaped itself instantly into a plush, high-backed armchair upholstered in deep crimson velvet. "...Like this," she finished, her voice holding a quiet note of triumph. "Real magic."

Professor McGonagall drew a thick parchment envelope from her robes and laid it carefully upon Benitez's bedside table, giving it a gentle pat. Her gaze swept over both of them, lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Your Hogwarts Acceptance Letter," she stated, her voice measured. "We know you're no ordinary child, Miss Benitez. You're a witch by birth. Hogwarts will teach you to harness that gift."

Benitez's carefully maintained composure shattered. His eyes narrowed, darting between his daughter and the transfigured chair – now unmistakably solid oak – as if expecting it to revert to plastic at any moment. His mouth worked silently, opening and closing like a goldfish stranded on dry land.

A brittle silence descended, thick as frozen glass. Even the dust motes seemed to hold their breath.

Seconds stretched. Finally, Seraphina, who hadn't uttered a word since the Professor's arrival, spoke. Her voice was flat, devoid of the wonder McGonagall had anticipated.

"Oh," was all she said, her eyes flicking down to the familiar envelope with its distinctive green ink. She made no move to touch it.

"A witch by birth?" She echoed the phrase with a hint of dryness. "My math teacher at the primary school in Inverness once said I was a born mathematician. Doesn't mean I fancied spending my life proving theorems." She paused, then lifted her chin, meeting McGonagall's stern gaze directly for the first time. "Forgive me, Professor. But I rather doubt a Hogwarts education – or its credentials, assuming you issue such things – holds much weight with universities or employers… out there."

Seraphina had weighed this since the first owl-delivered letter had thudded against her windowpane. Seven years mastering charms and cauldrons? It seemed a frightful waste when the real future lay in understanding markets, mergers, and Muggle machinery. Security wasn't found in waving a wand, but in shrewd calculation.

"Every qualified Hogwarts graduate," McGonagall replied crisply, adjusting her spectacles, "finds respectable employment within our world. You seem to misunderstand, Miss Benitez. The wizarding community is quite separate. We have our own Ministry, St Mungo's, our own institutions…"

She gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh. Muggle-born concerns were predictable, tiresome even, but usually easily soothed with basic explanations.

"Actually, Professor," Seraphina countered, her voice suddenly losing its childish lilt, her delicate features hardening into an expression far too old for her years, "it's you who misunderstands. I know rather more about your world than you might expect." She leaned forward slightly, the lamplight catching the determined glint in her eyes. "Tell me, Professor McGonagall… what precisely is the monthly salary for a Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress?"

Facing Seraphina's abrupt question, Professor McGonagall paused, her lips thinning into a line as she considered. After a moment, she replied with careful modesty, "Eighty Galleons a month. Though that includes my duties as Deputy Headmistress, naturally. Compared to other professors... it is a respectable sum." She adjusted her spectacles, a gesture that seemed almost defensive. "And as our currency differs entirely from Muggle coinage, the comparison you seek is rather... meaningless."

Despite the humble tone, Benitez and Seraphina both sensed the quiet pride beneath. Professor McGonagall clearly valued her position and its compensation.

"Meaningless?" Seraphina countered, a single silver eyebrow arching upwards. Confidence gleamed in her bright eyes, radiating an authority that felt almost regal. Finance, after all, had been her kingdom. She steepled her slender fingers, tapping the tips together rhythmically. "One Galleon equals seventeen Sickles," she stated softly, precisely. "Which is four hundred and ninety-three Knuts. A pound of potatoes costs twenty-five Knuts. One pound sterling buys four pounds of potatoes." She tilted her head slightly, exchanging a fleeting, amused glance with Benitez. "So, Professor, your respectable wizarding salary translates to roughly four hundred Muggle pounds monthly. If potatoes seem an unsuitable measure... we could use beef, toothpaste, window glass... or even," her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "toilet seats."

Professor McGonagall stiffened. "What," she asked sharply, her teacup clattering faintly in its saucer, "are you attempting to say?"

Seraphina lifted her chin, her pale neck like that of a proud swan. A flicker of something akin to pity crossed her features. "In this country," she continued, her voice clear and deliberate, "the Muggle government you mentioned... the average worker earns one hundred pounds weekly. A full professor at a Muggle university..." She paused, ensuring the older witch's full attention was fixed upon her. "...earns nineteen hundred and fifty-nine pounds." The number hung in the air, heavy and stark.

Professor McGonagall sat bolt upright, her face pale. "What exactly are you implying?" she demanded, her voice rising despite herself.

A small, knowing smile touched Seraphina's lips. Perfect. Step one: hook the opponent's curiosity, drag them onto your own ground. Step two: strike.