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inverarity68 and anyone else who is interested: while the first story was only a sort of ouverture, here the world-building begins in earnest. Concrit welcome.)
Alberico Attanasio, father of Ricky and Italian Minister for Magic, felt sometimes almost a sense of wonder and gratitude that, no matter what else might have happened in the day, the evening always came; that there was a moment he could look forward to, when all the chaos and mismanagement would leave him alone, that any domestic drama would come to an end, that he could finally sit down, have a tot of grappa, and fall asleep in his armchair with a book in his hand.
Of course, however, even this hour of peace was conditional; conditional upon making sure that a certain small person had put on his pyjamas, had been safely tucked in for the night, and –
“Daddy, tell me a story!”
“What story, Ricky?”
“The story… the story of the weather wizards!” No surprise there; it was one of his favourites, and he knew it backward. But he never did seem to tire of hearing it told.
“Once upon a time, there was… and there still is… a village in Sicily called Capo Pancrazio. It is a village of wizards, and very, very old. Their ways are different from that of any other groups of wizards; they are the only wizards in Europe that I know of who regularly break the International Statute of Secrecy.
“You see, the wizards of this little village, over centuries and centuries, had developed their own brand of weather wizardry. It was very, very powerful, and all the farmers in the neighbourhood knew about it. And so, come the sowing time, all the farmers went to the wizards and made an agreement; and all the year the wizards steered the weather as the farmers wished; and every harvest time, the farmers paid the wizards in gold. (They knew, you see, that wizards do not care for Muggle money.) And everyone was happy, Muggles and Wizards; everyone grew rich; and just in case someone else became suspicious about their wealth, the weather wizards of Capo Pancrazio were also pretty good at protection.
“You must not think that everything was always nice and happy. No, there were arguments, disagreements, bad times and trouble; but, on the whole, the arrangement never went badly wrong. It worked too well for Wizards and Muggles both to mess with it. The Muggles had the example of the poverty of their kin outside Capo Pancrazio to remind them of the difference it made; and the Wizards looked with horror and disgust at the fear and isolation of Europe’s other wizarding communities.
“But if the little community was happy with things as they were, not everyone else was. The Wizarding Code of Secrecy was becoming more and more a rule for all wizards, and people were less and less willing to put up with wizards who, for whatever reason, did not follow it.
“The clincher was the war of 1939-1945, the one that Muggles call Second World War and Wizards the Grindelwald War. The alliance between the wizard Grindelwald and the Muggle tyrant Hitler caused so much mischief that many wizards decided that such a thing must never, never happen again. No matter what the price, Muggles and Wizards must remain separate at all costs.
“And so it was that, one fine day in April, 1946, a small troop of about twenty wizards from the Ministries of Magic of France, Norway and Iceland, Apparated right into the Great Square of the wizard quarter of Capo Pancrazio.”
“That was rude, Dad!”
“It was rude indeed. They should not even have Apparated inside the walls of the village; proper manners required that they should Apparate outside and ask for admission. But, you see, they had not come there to be nice.
“When it felt their appearance, the great bell of the village rang the alarm of its own volition. Pancratian wizards and witches swarmed into the Great Square. And the leader of the visitors, a two-metre-tall blonde giant from Picardy, wearing the gold braid and silken gowns of a French under-Minister, stepped forward. He unloosed a great scroll of parchment inscribed in purple and gold, branded with the seals of 39 European ministries. And the scroll rose in the air, and began to speak.
“In the name of Wizarding Law, agreed and upheld by all legitimate European authorities…
“Meanwhile, the crowd of Pancratian wizards was opening. They made way for a small, elderly, wizened wizard with a leathery brown face, a shabby old gown, and the three-coloured sash of an Italian Muggle mayor. And the little old man pointed a knobbly stick of hazel at the scroll – and the scroll’s voice went raspy, started choking, and fell silent.
“The little old wizard bowed, then stood up straight, and looked in the eyes of the tall foreigners. ‘Welcome to Capo Pancrazio, gentlewitches and gentlewizards. I am the Mayor. If you have anything to ask of us, we shall be glad to listen. Meanwhile, you are our guests for as long as you wish to stay.’
“The French giant’s eyes narrowed. ‘We have not come to ask for anything –‘ he started saying. Two or three angry voices interrupted him: ‘You certainly have not!’ ‘Didn’t your mother teach you manners?’ But the little old Mayor raised his stick again, and everyone fell silent. ‘Turi, Vito, Maria – be quiet. What will our guests think of our manners?’
“He turned again to the strangers. ‘I would apologize for my young friends’ words, were it not that you have been rude. You should have knocked at our gates; we would not have left you outside.’
“ ‘You seem, sir,’ growled the tall Frenchman, ‘to have a high opinion of yourself and your community. You seem to think that the representatives of international wizarding law can be let in or kept out at your pleasure. We do not come in our own name, but in the name of the International Statute of Secrecy.’
“ ‘Indeed,’ said the old Mayor quietly, “I thought you might have something like that in mind. The trouble is that we never signed that statute, and never will.’
“ ‘You do not have the authority to do it,’ said a thin, prim-looking Norwegian witch with thick glasses. ‘The Italian Ministry of Magic has signed it. It is law as far as any wizard or witch in Italy is concerned.’
“ ‘Ma davvero?’ answered a middle-aged Pancratian wizard with thick black moustaches. ‘Really? If that is the case, why did our Mayor manage to silence your parchment?’ Several of the foreigners went pale or red; because to call a sealed magical decree written on prime vellum a “parchment” is not a compliment. And he went on: ‘If that thing had had any value here in Capo Pancrazio, nobody could have shut it up, and you know that as well as I do.’
“ ‘Yes,’ answered another Norwegian, with a slightly disgusted look on his face, ‘we have heard of the curious way the Italian Ministry applies the law. That is why we have not bothered to ask for local assistance. We did not want to be party to whatever corrupt agreement has been reached between your worthless Ministry and you.’
“ ‘In that case, sir,’ answered the Mayor, ‘you have no more jurisdiction over us than any bandit.’ He could have said ‘any other bandit,’ but the point had been made.
“ ‘We have the jurisdiction of the International Statute of Secrecy, which is worldwide,’ growled the tall Frenchman. ‘Now, will you show some sense, or will you force us to apply the law?’
“No sooner had he spoken, that the whole square was filled with an enormous roar and an intolerable light. For a second, all the strangers were stunned, and many fell over.
“ ‘You are foolish,’ said the old Mayor. ‘You cannot have your way by brute force when you have shown that you have no right. Magical law does not work like that. And do you have any idea how much power is concentrated among really skilled weather wizards? That bolt of lightning was only an example.’
“ ‘We do have any idea,’ said the Frenchman, getting up. ‘Which is why your little firework did nothing more than knock us backward. We were picked for this mission because each one of us is powerful enough to stand lightning.’
“ ‘Lightning, yes,’ said the Mayor in a changed voice. “What about iron and lead?’ And for the first time, the strangers realized that the crowd of Pancratians had grown. Beside dozens of wizards, all with their wands and staffs at the ready, there stood a large number of Muggles; some with army carbines, some with handguns, and a large number with the terrible, sawn-off shotguns called lupare or wolf-guns.”
“ ‘Gentlewitches and gentlewizards,’ he went on, ‘you are outpowered. If you tried to fight, you could no doubt kill many of us, but none of you would escape alive. And after that, the Ministries would have to start an all-out war against us – a few months after the end of all the Grindelwald bloodletting.
“ ‘This was an unwise idea, and the fact that only 39 ministries have subscribed to it shows that a few of them realized it. Nobody wants another war. I suggest you agree to leave and not come back.’
“The French under-Minister, and most of the other strangers, were literally trembling with rage and humiliation. For a second or two, nobody knew whether they would accept their defeat, or start a bloodbath. Finally, the tall Frenchman holstered his wand and said venomously: ‘You win – you damned Muggle abuser!’
“ ‘What do you know of Muggles, or of what we do?’ answered the Mayor. ‘We have lived together for centuries. We marry their daughters and they marry ours. We helped each other since before there was a Ministry anywhere. Now, in the name of your own damned notions, you come among us and order us to stop helping our neighbours. Do you know what a difference it makes, to both of us, to be able to help each other? Do you know that there has just been a war, and that Muggles elsewhere in Sicily and in the rest of Italy are starving? And at this point, at this point of all points, you come and tell us that we should stop helping our neighbours, that we should stop insuring good crops and healthy livestock, so that our children and theirs can grow up healthy and free?
“ ‘You, sir, are the Muggle abuser. You know that our Muggle neighbours and kinsmen have kept the secret about us for centuries – for millennia; you know that they are bound to us by a million ties of kinship, of friendship, of obligation, of citizenship; and still you come here, with an arrogant notion that you can impose your notion of law and right and wrong on us, when nobody ever asked anything except to be left alone to run our village our own way. It is because it works, because it has always worked, and because they know it works, that our Ministry has let us out of the Statute of Secrecy. And we will not give up our ancient law and custom just so that you may score another success in your career track.’
“Humiliated and defeated, the strangers disapparated in ragged order, without anyone giving any orders. But if they thought that they would be allowed to forget the Capo Pancrazio debacle, they were wrong.
“By the time each of them reached their Ministries, it was raining. It was spring; but whatever was the weather elsewhere, over the French, Norwegian and Icelandic Ministries of Magic it rained. It rained continuously for eighty days and eighty nights; and when the rain finally ended, the land outside the three buildings had been washed away. To this day, the Ministries for Magic in France, Norway, and Iceland, all stand in the middle of their own pretty artificial lakes. And a few days after the rains ceased, each Ministry received an owl post that said: ‘The new lake in your grounds is a free gift from the magical and Muggle community of Capo Pancrazio, in memory of your time with us.’ ”
………………………………………………………………………………………..
It never failed to amuse the child. Alberico had grown familiar with his son’s reactions; the way his eyes went bright and proud when he heard of the little old brown Mayor defying the tall young French under-Minister to his face; the delighted laugh at the thought of eighty days of rain, and of the artificial lakes around the three Ministries.
For himself, he wished that Ricky had chosen a different anecdote to love. He did not like to be reminded of that event; even after a quarter of a century, the humiliation still burned as if it had just happened. Thirty-nine foreign Ministries of Magic had entirely disregarded the authority of the Italian Ministry, taking it on themselves to intervene on its territory as though it mattered no more than a post on the street. And although, as Minister, Alberico Attanasio ought to have supported the guests, he could not help, as an Italian, but be glad that they had been sent home with their tails between their legs, and with a lasting physical reminder (the lakes) of their defeat. At least, he thought, this might make foreigners understand that Italy was not like other countries.
But no, on the whole, he did not think it would. If people were willing to understand that Italy was crowded with literally hundreds of ancient wizarding groups, each with their own laws and customs, all in precarious balance, they would understand it anyway. And if not… they would just go on despising the Italian Ministry, regarding it as weak and corrupt; and despising the country with it. And they would have a point. For while Minister Alberico would rather cut his own throat than admit that what the Ministry did was corrupt, nonetheless its policy was dictated by weakness. In 1946, it had reached bottom; with barely twenty full-time employees, no defence or Auror departments to speak of, it existed more or less only on parchment. However benevolent and time-hallowed the Pancratians might consider their customs, it had been the Ministry’s weakness, more than anything else, that had allowed them to receive a legal exemption from the International Statute of Secrecy. And that was only the most visible of the compromises it had had to make down the years. And although things had changed since then, still the Ministry was little more than a ghost when compared with such mighty institutions as Britain’s Ministry, with its huge seven-floor office, Auror force, dedicated hospital at St.Mungo’s, and influence in every corner of national life.
Things were changing… slowly, slowly changing. Indeed, his own election had been a sign of change; in days past, a wizard of his level of power would never have been elected Minister – or, for that matter, have considered coming forward for office. The Grand Council had clearly gone for an active policy. But with all his energy and dedication, still… as he went to bed and slowly drifted to sleep, in the year of the Lord 1976, Minister Alberico Odoardo Filippo Maria Attanasio could not see any real prospect of unity or even harmony. And every evening, as night fell and all the lights in the house went off, and his children dropped off one by one, and even the house-elf lay down to rest, the Italian Minister of Magic, in his beautiful mahogany bed and silken sheets, thanked whatever gods there were for the gift of night and sleep.
End of the episode.
inverarity68 and anyone else who is interested: while the first story was only a sort of ouverture, here the world-building begins in earnest. Concrit welcome.)Alberico Attanasio, father of Ricky and Italian Minister for Magic, felt sometimes almost a sense of wonder and gratitude that, no matter what else might have happened in the day, the evening always came; that there was a moment he could look forward to, when all the chaos and mismanagement would leave him alone, that any domestic drama would come to an end, that he could finally sit down, have a tot of grappa, and fall asleep in his armchair with a book in his hand.
Of course, however, even this hour of peace was conditional; conditional upon making sure that a certain small person had put on his pyjamas, had been safely tucked in for the night, and –
“Daddy, tell me a story!”
“What story, Ricky?”
“The story… the story of the weather wizards!” No surprise there; it was one of his favourites, and he knew it backward. But he never did seem to tire of hearing it told.
“Once upon a time, there was… and there still is… a village in Sicily called Capo Pancrazio. It is a village of wizards, and very, very old. Their ways are different from that of any other groups of wizards; they are the only wizards in Europe that I know of who regularly break the International Statute of Secrecy.
“You see, the wizards of this little village, over centuries and centuries, had developed their own brand of weather wizardry. It was very, very powerful, and all the farmers in the neighbourhood knew about it. And so, come the sowing time, all the farmers went to the wizards and made an agreement; and all the year the wizards steered the weather as the farmers wished; and every harvest time, the farmers paid the wizards in gold. (They knew, you see, that wizards do not care for Muggle money.) And everyone was happy, Muggles and Wizards; everyone grew rich; and just in case someone else became suspicious about their wealth, the weather wizards of Capo Pancrazio were also pretty good at protection.
“You must not think that everything was always nice and happy. No, there were arguments, disagreements, bad times and trouble; but, on the whole, the arrangement never went badly wrong. It worked too well for Wizards and Muggles both to mess with it. The Muggles had the example of the poverty of their kin outside Capo Pancrazio to remind them of the difference it made; and the Wizards looked with horror and disgust at the fear and isolation of Europe’s other wizarding communities.
“But if the little community was happy with things as they were, not everyone else was. The Wizarding Code of Secrecy was becoming more and more a rule for all wizards, and people were less and less willing to put up with wizards who, for whatever reason, did not follow it.
“The clincher was the war of 1939-1945, the one that Muggles call Second World War and Wizards the Grindelwald War. The alliance between the wizard Grindelwald and the Muggle tyrant Hitler caused so much mischief that many wizards decided that such a thing must never, never happen again. No matter what the price, Muggles and Wizards must remain separate at all costs.
“And so it was that, one fine day in April, 1946, a small troop of about twenty wizards from the Ministries of Magic of France, Norway and Iceland, Apparated right into the Great Square of the wizard quarter of Capo Pancrazio.”
“That was rude, Dad!”
“It was rude indeed. They should not even have Apparated inside the walls of the village; proper manners required that they should Apparate outside and ask for admission. But, you see, they had not come there to be nice.
“When it felt their appearance, the great bell of the village rang the alarm of its own volition. Pancratian wizards and witches swarmed into the Great Square. And the leader of the visitors, a two-metre-tall blonde giant from Picardy, wearing the gold braid and silken gowns of a French under-Minister, stepped forward. He unloosed a great scroll of parchment inscribed in purple and gold, branded with the seals of 39 European ministries. And the scroll rose in the air, and began to speak.
“In the name of Wizarding Law, agreed and upheld by all legitimate European authorities…
“Meanwhile, the crowd of Pancratian wizards was opening. They made way for a small, elderly, wizened wizard with a leathery brown face, a shabby old gown, and the three-coloured sash of an Italian Muggle mayor. And the little old man pointed a knobbly stick of hazel at the scroll – and the scroll’s voice went raspy, started choking, and fell silent.
“The little old wizard bowed, then stood up straight, and looked in the eyes of the tall foreigners. ‘Welcome to Capo Pancrazio, gentlewitches and gentlewizards. I am the Mayor. If you have anything to ask of us, we shall be glad to listen. Meanwhile, you are our guests for as long as you wish to stay.’
“The French giant’s eyes narrowed. ‘We have not come to ask for anything –‘ he started saying. Two or three angry voices interrupted him: ‘You certainly have not!’ ‘Didn’t your mother teach you manners?’ But the little old Mayor raised his stick again, and everyone fell silent. ‘Turi, Vito, Maria – be quiet. What will our guests think of our manners?’
“He turned again to the strangers. ‘I would apologize for my young friends’ words, were it not that you have been rude. You should have knocked at our gates; we would not have left you outside.’
“ ‘You seem, sir,’ growled the tall Frenchman, ‘to have a high opinion of yourself and your community. You seem to think that the representatives of international wizarding law can be let in or kept out at your pleasure. We do not come in our own name, but in the name of the International Statute of Secrecy.’
“ ‘Indeed,’ said the old Mayor quietly, “I thought you might have something like that in mind. The trouble is that we never signed that statute, and never will.’
“ ‘You do not have the authority to do it,’ said a thin, prim-looking Norwegian witch with thick glasses. ‘The Italian Ministry of Magic has signed it. It is law as far as any wizard or witch in Italy is concerned.’
“ ‘Ma davvero?’ answered a middle-aged Pancratian wizard with thick black moustaches. ‘Really? If that is the case, why did our Mayor manage to silence your parchment?’ Several of the foreigners went pale or red; because to call a sealed magical decree written on prime vellum a “parchment” is not a compliment. And he went on: ‘If that thing had had any value here in Capo Pancrazio, nobody could have shut it up, and you know that as well as I do.’
“ ‘Yes,’ answered another Norwegian, with a slightly disgusted look on his face, ‘we have heard of the curious way the Italian Ministry applies the law. That is why we have not bothered to ask for local assistance. We did not want to be party to whatever corrupt agreement has been reached between your worthless Ministry and you.’
“ ‘In that case, sir,’ answered the Mayor, ‘you have no more jurisdiction over us than any bandit.’ He could have said ‘any other bandit,’ but the point had been made.
“ ‘We have the jurisdiction of the International Statute of Secrecy, which is worldwide,’ growled the tall Frenchman. ‘Now, will you show some sense, or will you force us to apply the law?’
“No sooner had he spoken, that the whole square was filled with an enormous roar and an intolerable light. For a second, all the strangers were stunned, and many fell over.
“ ‘You are foolish,’ said the old Mayor. ‘You cannot have your way by brute force when you have shown that you have no right. Magical law does not work like that. And do you have any idea how much power is concentrated among really skilled weather wizards? That bolt of lightning was only an example.’
“ ‘We do have any idea,’ said the Frenchman, getting up. ‘Which is why your little firework did nothing more than knock us backward. We were picked for this mission because each one of us is powerful enough to stand lightning.’
“ ‘Lightning, yes,’ said the Mayor in a changed voice. “What about iron and lead?’ And for the first time, the strangers realized that the crowd of Pancratians had grown. Beside dozens of wizards, all with their wands and staffs at the ready, there stood a large number of Muggles; some with army carbines, some with handguns, and a large number with the terrible, sawn-off shotguns called lupare or wolf-guns.”
“ ‘Gentlewitches and gentlewizards,’ he went on, ‘you are outpowered. If you tried to fight, you could no doubt kill many of us, but none of you would escape alive. And after that, the Ministries would have to start an all-out war against us – a few months after the end of all the Grindelwald bloodletting.
“ ‘This was an unwise idea, and the fact that only 39 ministries have subscribed to it shows that a few of them realized it. Nobody wants another war. I suggest you agree to leave and not come back.’
“The French under-Minister, and most of the other strangers, were literally trembling with rage and humiliation. For a second or two, nobody knew whether they would accept their defeat, or start a bloodbath. Finally, the tall Frenchman holstered his wand and said venomously: ‘You win – you damned Muggle abuser!’
“ ‘What do you know of Muggles, or of what we do?’ answered the Mayor. ‘We have lived together for centuries. We marry their daughters and they marry ours. We helped each other since before there was a Ministry anywhere. Now, in the name of your own damned notions, you come among us and order us to stop helping our neighbours. Do you know what a difference it makes, to both of us, to be able to help each other? Do you know that there has just been a war, and that Muggles elsewhere in Sicily and in the rest of Italy are starving? And at this point, at this point of all points, you come and tell us that we should stop helping our neighbours, that we should stop insuring good crops and healthy livestock, so that our children and theirs can grow up healthy and free?
“ ‘You, sir, are the Muggle abuser. You know that our Muggle neighbours and kinsmen have kept the secret about us for centuries – for millennia; you know that they are bound to us by a million ties of kinship, of friendship, of obligation, of citizenship; and still you come here, with an arrogant notion that you can impose your notion of law and right and wrong on us, when nobody ever asked anything except to be left alone to run our village our own way. It is because it works, because it has always worked, and because they know it works, that our Ministry has let us out of the Statute of Secrecy. And we will not give up our ancient law and custom just so that you may score another success in your career track.’
“Humiliated and defeated, the strangers disapparated in ragged order, without anyone giving any orders. But if they thought that they would be allowed to forget the Capo Pancrazio debacle, they were wrong.
“By the time each of them reached their Ministries, it was raining. It was spring; but whatever was the weather elsewhere, over the French, Norwegian and Icelandic Ministries of Magic it rained. It rained continuously for eighty days and eighty nights; and when the rain finally ended, the land outside the three buildings had been washed away. To this day, the Ministries for Magic in France, Norway, and Iceland, all stand in the middle of their own pretty artificial lakes. And a few days after the rains ceased, each Ministry received an owl post that said: ‘The new lake in your grounds is a free gift from the magical and Muggle community of Capo Pancrazio, in memory of your time with us.’ ”
………………………………………………………………………………………..
It never failed to amuse the child. Alberico had grown familiar with his son’s reactions; the way his eyes went bright and proud when he heard of the little old brown Mayor defying the tall young French under-Minister to his face; the delighted laugh at the thought of eighty days of rain, and of the artificial lakes around the three Ministries.
For himself, he wished that Ricky had chosen a different anecdote to love. He did not like to be reminded of that event; even after a quarter of a century, the humiliation still burned as if it had just happened. Thirty-nine foreign Ministries of Magic had entirely disregarded the authority of the Italian Ministry, taking it on themselves to intervene on its territory as though it mattered no more than a post on the street. And although, as Minister, Alberico Attanasio ought to have supported the guests, he could not help, as an Italian, but be glad that they had been sent home with their tails between their legs, and with a lasting physical reminder (the lakes) of their defeat. At least, he thought, this might make foreigners understand that Italy was not like other countries.
But no, on the whole, he did not think it would. If people were willing to understand that Italy was crowded with literally hundreds of ancient wizarding groups, each with their own laws and customs, all in precarious balance, they would understand it anyway. And if not… they would just go on despising the Italian Ministry, regarding it as weak and corrupt; and despising the country with it. And they would have a point. For while Minister Alberico would rather cut his own throat than admit that what the Ministry did was corrupt, nonetheless its policy was dictated by weakness. In 1946, it had reached bottom; with barely twenty full-time employees, no defence or Auror departments to speak of, it existed more or less only on parchment. However benevolent and time-hallowed the Pancratians might consider their customs, it had been the Ministry’s weakness, more than anything else, that had allowed them to receive a legal exemption from the International Statute of Secrecy. And that was only the most visible of the compromises it had had to make down the years. And although things had changed since then, still the Ministry was little more than a ghost when compared with such mighty institutions as Britain’s Ministry, with its huge seven-floor office, Auror force, dedicated hospital at St.Mungo’s, and influence in every corner of national life.
Things were changing… slowly, slowly changing. Indeed, his own election had been a sign of change; in days past, a wizard of his level of power would never have been elected Minister – or, for that matter, have considered coming forward for office. The Grand Council had clearly gone for an active policy. But with all his energy and dedication, still… as he went to bed and slowly drifted to sleep, in the year of the Lord 1976, Minister Alberico Odoardo Filippo Maria Attanasio could not see any real prospect of unity or even harmony. And every evening, as night fell and all the lights in the house went off, and his children dropped off one by one, and even the house-elf lay down to rest, the Italian Minister of Magic, in his beautiful mahogany bed and silken sheets, thanked whatever gods there were for the gift of night and sleep.
End of the episode.
