#greyfield

Scotland was familiar to him from his years at Hogwarts, though the country had always been there in the background. Like a forgotten land or a utopia, Lowell could remember going back to Scotland each year with an unbridled happiness that was matched by nothing else, in his teenage years. True, anything would have sufficed if it had meant getting away from his family, but he was thankful it had been Hogwarts. It wasn’t just a place to learn, but a testing ground, too - where Lowell had found himself and, at heart, who he was. Hogwarts had given him purpose and direction, and here he stood, holding the highest position in the wizarding world.

The Minister of Magic drew a second deep breath and pushed forward on, down the slight slope of green grass and across the plain. It was wide and open to the naked eye, but with a wave of Lowell’s hand, it filled as though he were a polished and well-honed key in a lock.

Greyfield.

The name was a misnomer; there was nothing particularly grey about either the institution or the field upon which it sat. What Lowell saw in it was instead his legacy; his life’s work. Greyfield was a possibility - an opportunity. It was a fresh beginning, a new page, the very first step on a much-anticipated journey. This school would be for creatures, beasts, and halfbreeds what Hogwarts was for him, and Lowell knew that that meant it had to be perfect. Greyfield would be a hallowed place of learning for those that couldn’t - and shouldn’t - be taught at Hogwarts, but it shouldn’t be Hogwarts. No; there was no replicating the school that had raised him and so many others - it would need to be something else.

The school was empty, and Lowell’s shoes echoed off the tall ceilings and vacant hallways. Everything was brand new, no expense spared - tall, open windows that let the light through; the stone was scrubbed clean beneath his shoes, and when he walked past the open-doored classrooms, they were stocked, desks at the ready, as though a class of students had vanished in their seats. Everywhere he looked, Lowell saw signs of life waiting in the wings: the plants that grew in the gardens, the fresh, off-the-print textbooks stacked, the dorm beds made and ready. Everything in Greyfield was poised, holding its breath for the exact moment when it would be delivered into the hands of those who came to learn.

Lowell made his way to the lower levels, the dungeons cool and familiar, almost inviting. Here, there was life where there should be none - already staff had begun work at Greyfield, and Lowell watched them in their labs and offices through the glass. Yes, there would be good work being done here - very good work.

By the time he shook hands with the staff already on duty, examined the laboratories and examination rooms, equipment, and supplies, and climbed back out of the dungeons, the grey had intensified overhead. His blue eyes followed the direction of the clouds’ movement, their slow, mournful march to the east - the same direction that Lowell knew Hogwarts laid. How he longed to go back, even for the small, brief visits he’d had in the years since leaving. Not a day had gone by that he had taken Hogwarts for granted, or the safe months spent within it’s walls as a boy. It felt as though his heart were being tugged by invisible strings, the ends tied to the front gates of Hogwarts castle. To go back would be bliss; to see the face of--

Lowell tore his eyes from the clouds. It did not do well to dwell on what he’d lost since Hogwarts, but instead to focus on all he’d gained. He looked to Greyfield castle and its wide, open arches - this would be someone else’s fresh start, their safe place. He may never get to return to Hogwarts for any long period of time, but he would always be welcome here - this would be his place, his seat, his court.

Hogwarts might’ve been where his dream began, but Greyfield is where it would begin to come true.

“Sir,” came a voice from behind him, and Lowell, hands clasped behind his back, turned. It was Taejin Callow, looking harried. “Sir, the reporters are here.”

“Noon already?” Lowell asked, eyebrows raised, and Taejin bobbed his head. “The weather is dismal enough you wouldn’t tell dawn from dusk. Never mind,” and he waved a hand, reorganising his thoughts. “Escort them down to the courtyard. No wanderers, Callow.”

Callow nodded again and disappeared, leaving Lowell to make his own way to the courtyard at the front of the school, where lush green grass cushioned his feet. The reporters were eager and rounded up into a small herd ushered forward by Callow. There were familiar faces in the gathering - some Daily Prophet journalists from various sections of the paper, each desperate for a first hand tour of the school. The Quibbler had also provided a journalist, their shrewd eyes taking everything in, while a few other publications - and even a white-haired witch from the WWN - had arrived. Pleased by their willingness, Lowell welcomed them.

“Greyfield, though not yet open for students or to the public, today stands ready to give you all one peek behind its stone exterior before the doors officially open. I’m proud to stand before all of you today and announce that as the Minister of Magic, I, Lowell Tegus, hereby announce Greyfield open.”

There was a smattering of applause, to which Lowell ducked his head in thanks. There was such pride in his chest it felt like a balloon inflating behind his rib cage - it threatened to start levitating him. It was a dangerous feeling, of course; one should never become complacent in their happiness and let their guard down, but Lowell wanted this - just for a moment. He shook the hands extended his way and, with the reporters on his heels, led them into the school. With Callow following at a distance, Lowell took them on the above-board, best foot forward tour of Greyfield - one that left them in no doubt about the good work being done there in weeks and months to come.

He answered their questions, gave pull quotes as easy as breathing, laughed at the jokes the journalists made. He felt radiant, alive; nothing had been this electrifying in years.

“Minister, if I may,” said a Daily Prophet reporter, catching Lowell in a brief moment between others.

“Of course, speak freely,” he said.

“You have created a very beautiful institute here,” she said, and the levitating quill and parchment began to scribble notes without agency. “May I ask what role you intend to play in the school’s day to day functioning?”

Lowell gave her a charming smile. “Other than having a hand in creating the classes, subject material, and the very castle they live in?”

She returned the smile. “Other than that, yes. Will your position be an official one here?”

“Not as such,” he hedged. “I will be here more frequently than at Hogwarts, as I am on the board of trustees, but I’m not the Headmaster, if that was what you were hinting at.”

The witch flushed, caught in her scheme. “And why not, if I may ask? I’m sure parents would feel relieved to have you at the helm.”

“Of that, I’m not sure,” he said with a smile. “But it is my duties at the Ministry which must be my first priority. I was elected to run the wizarding world, and that is where my focus lies. Greyfield is but one part of it, and I can assure you, it will be in the safest of hands.”

“Any word on who’s hands, Minister?”

They shared a smile. “All in good time,” Lowell said. “But you won’t be disappointed.”

Lunch was served in the courtyard as the weather worsened, but no one’s spirits were dampened, even when rain began to spot the material of Lowell’s suit jacket. The journalists were escorted out of the grounds by Callow, all accounted for, leaving only Lowell with the wind whistling across the empty grounds and the silent work going on beneath his feet, many levels down.

When Callow returned, he was silent, falling into step with Lowell as they took a turn around the grounds. In truth, Lowell didn’t mind Callow; he was a stickler for rules and the way of things, but loyal - Lowell knew that if he asked Callow to take his own wand and hex himself, he would. Lowell needed loyalty, now more than ever.

“This is going to be a fine place, Callow,” he said, hands behind his back again, eyes cast around the rolling hills and deep woods. The plans inside his head were like fireworks, each exploding into possibility as he looked around. There was so much left to come that Lowell could hardly bear to wait.

“Yes, Sir. You’ve worked hard.”