” The Citroën left the hustle and bustle of Marseille behind, driving onto the country roads of Provence.
On either side lay endless fields of lavender—though it wasn’t the season, leaving only patches of grayish-green shrubs—and ancient vineyards.
Harry looked out the window at the typical French farmhouses, his mind still reflecting on the stories about “Free France” and wizarding logistics.
“Fleur,” Harry suddenly asked, a question that had been puzzling him for a long time, “do wizards really have such a strong…
concept of nationality?
I mean, magic is just magic, isn’t it?
Whether you say it in French or English, the effect of ‘Lumos’ is exactly the same.
Why do we have to divide ourselves into British wizards and French wizards, and fight each other like Muggles do?” At Hogwarts, although everyone was divided into houses, that was an internal school matter.
When facing foreign wizards—such as during the Triwizard Tournament—everyone’s attitude seemed to be more about curiosity and competition rather than some deep-seated division.
“That is a good question, Harry.” Fleur rested one arm on the car door, her fingers gently tapping a rhythm.
“Do you want to know why?
Because we are ‘sick’.” “Sick?” “Yes, a chronic disease caught from Muggles.” Fleur adjusted the rearview mirror and looked at Harry, her expression turning into that of a professor lecturing on sociology.
“Before the Middle Ages, or even earlier, there was no real concept of ‘nations’ in the wizarding world.
Back then, Merlin belonged to everyone, and Morgan le Fay belonged to everyone.
A wizard could be drinking in a London tavern today, and fly a broomstick to Paris tomorrow to discuss alchemy.” “Back then, we had a common language—Latin.
All spells were in Latin, all books were in Latin.
Everyone was a ‘magic-user’ or a ‘seeker of hidden knowledge,’ not an Englishman or a Frenchman.” “So how did it change?” Harry asked.
“Because Muggles changed.” Fleur shrugged.
“From the end of the Middle Ages, Muggles began to obsess over something called ‘nation-states.’ They started drawing lines on maps, building walls, and setting up customs.
They began to emphasize: ‘I am French, you are Prussian, he is English.'” “And we, living among them, were inevitably ‘infected’ by this sentiment.” Fleur sighed, a trace of helpless irony in her voice.
“It is like the flu.
If you spend all day with a bunch of sneezing people, you will start sneezing too.” “The biggest turning point was the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy of 1692.
To escape Muggle persecution, we were forced underground.
In order to manage and hide ourselves effectively, wizards everywhere had to establish administrative organizations just like Muggle governments.” “The British wizards established the Ministry of Magic, mimicking the bureaucracy of Westminster; the French wizards established the French Ministry of Magic, inheriting the courtly affectations of Versailles.” “We began to divide our jurisdictions according to the borders drawn by Muggles.
We began to label our magic, just as Muggles did.” Fleur pointed at herself, then at Harry.
“Originally, we were just two humans who could use magic.
But because of this ‘epidemic,’ I am now the ‘noble Beauxbatons school beauty,’ and you are the ‘clumsy Hogwarts brute.'” “Hey!” Harry protested.
“How am I clumsy?” “Is eating baked beans not crude?” Fleur rolled her eyes at him, then couldn’t help but laugh.
“Just kidding.
But that is exactly what I mean—cultural barriers.” “You see, Muggle nationalism gave us not only borders, but also prejudices.
The Quidditch World Cup is a concentrated outbreak of these symptoms.
Tens of thousands of wizards gather, and simply because the colors of their robes are different, they want nothing more than to knock each other off their brooms.
Isn’t that absurd?” “It really is absurd,” Harry said, remembering the conflicts in the campsites at the Quidditch World Cup and the disdain shown toward foreign wizards.
“But to some extent, it has also become our protective color.” Fleur’s voice grew quieter.
“Because of these nations and their respective Ministries of Magic, we can hide ourselves more secretly within the Muggle social structure.
If all the wizards in the world united into a single global government…
believe me, such a monolith would have been discovered by Muggles long ago.
It would be impossible to hide, and then there would be a real world war.” “So, we accepted this premise.
We became ‘French wizards’ and ‘British wizards’.” Fleur stepped on the accelerator, and the Citroën sped past a slow-moving Muggle truck.
“But that doesn’t mean we have to hate each other like Muggles do.
At least, smart people like us—” she winked at Harry, “—know when to be patriotic, and when to cross borders to steal cakes in Austria.” Harry smiled, leaning back against his seat and watching the passing scenery.
“So, in essence, we were assimilated by Muggles?” “You could say that.” Fleur nodded.
“But some things are still our own.
For example…” She pointed to a shabby, weathered road sign painted with a cracked cauldron symbol.
“Muggles would never write ‘Beware of Dragon Dung’ on a road sign.
That is wizarding character.” “Is that our destination?” Harry asked.
“No, that’s a sign reminding us to refuel.” Fleur glanced at the fuel gauge.
“And since we are on the subject of this ‘epidemic,’ I think we need to buy some real ‘French medicine.'” “What medicine?” “Red wine, Harry,” Fleur said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“It is the universal French remedy for secular troubles.
Come on, there is a nice vineyard ahead.
The owner is a retired Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and his grapes are ripened using magic.” “More wine?” Harry shook his head helplessly.
“I think you’ve been heavily infected too.” “It’s called cultural confidence, understand?” *** The car drove through the vineyards of Provence as the setting sun dyed the landscape deep purple.
Harry was still brooding over the topic of the “nationalist epidemic.” “Fleur,” Harry asked with a frown, “if this is the real history of magic—about wars, survival, and the political maneuvering between countries—why didn’t Hogwarts teach any of it?
I spent four whole years listening to Professor Binns drone on about the ‘eighteenth-century goblin rebellions.’ That old man did nothing but recite the names of ‘Uric the Oddball’ and ‘Emeric the Evil’ without explaining anything else.” “Harry, you just answered your own question.” Fleur glanced at him from the rearview mirror, her lips curved in her characteristic, slightly cynical French smile.
“Because he’s Professor Binns?
Or because he’s a ghost?” “Because he is a dead man.” Fleur rested her arm on the car window, letting the evening breeze ruffle her hair.
“Harry, history is written by the living, but Hogwarts hired a dead man to teach it.
That in itself is a massive irony.” “Think about it.
When did Binns die?
Probably hundreds of years ago.
In his era, or rather, the era when his mind was still functioning, what was the greatest threat to the wizarding world?” Harry recalled his tedious classroom notes.
“Uh…
goblins?” “Bingo.” Fleur snapped her fingers.
“In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and even earlier, when the Statute of Secrecy had just been established and Muggles were busy burning witches or starting revolutions, there were no real ‘civil wars’ within the wizarding world.
Back then, the only and greatest survival crisis we faced was an inter-species war.” Fleur’s voice grew more serious.
“Back then, goblins were not like the bank tellers in Gringotts today, who only know how to weigh gold coins and must swallow their anger even when insulted.
Back then, goblins had their own armies and metal magic that rivaled ours.
What they wanted was to stand on equal footing with wizards, or even rule over them.” “In Professor Binns’s ‘living’ mind, the ‘goblin rebellions’ were the most important events in the world.
Because they determined whether human wizards would be enslaved by another intelligent species.” “But what about now?” Fleur gestured with her hands.
“We completely broke the goblins’ backs in the nineteenth century.
We stripped them of their right to carry wands, drove them into underground vaults, and turned them into a bunch of misers.
Today’s goblins, though still greedy and cunning, are no longer a military threat.” “The era has changed, Harry.
Since the Napoleonic Wars of 1812, or even earlier, the conflict in the wizarding world has shifted from ‘humans versus goblins’ to ‘humans versus humans’—to ‘Britain versus France,’ and ‘Germany versus Russia.’ That was the breeding ground for Gellert Grindelwald’s rise.” “But Professor Binns…” Harry added thoughtfully, “is dead.
His time is frozen.” “Exactly.
To a ghost, time has no meaning.” Fleur sneered.
“He cannot see the current international situation, nor how Grindelwald incited half of Europe with ‘For the Greater Good,’ nor how Voldemort used blood supremacy to divide Britain.” “In his perception, history is forever stuck in that era of ‘we must remain vigilant against goblins.’ Hogwarts letting a ghost teach you for hundreds of years is equivalent to letting your brains stagnate for hundreds of years.” “This also explains why British wizards are always so…
politically dense,” Fleur commented bluntly.
“Because your education teaches you that your greatest enemy is a goblin trying to steal your gold, rather than a fellow wizard standing on a podium trying to brainwash you.” Harry felt a chill run down his spine.
He thought of the Ministry of Magic turning a blind eye to Voldemort’s return, and Fudge’s obsession with power.
It turned out this blindness was not just due to stupidity, but also due to a complete disconnection within their education system.
“So, Harry.” Fleur turned the car onto a gravel path, where an ancient estate covered in grapevines appeared ahead.
“Don’t expect to learn real history in school.
Real history isn’t in textbooks, it is in these—” She pointed toward the estate, where a retired veteran lived.
“—in the scars of these survivors.” “We’re here.
Get your palate ready.
We are going to taste the craft of a veteran who can turn grapes into ‘liquid gold’ with a wand.”