"Huh," he says expressively. "You weren't living with them."
He sighs, and picks himself up off the sand again. "I'd forgotten you did that," he muses.
"You're not a mac," he says positively, going along, and tilts his head at him consideringly as he shrinks the narwhal skull down to pocket size. "You might be a Rus, though.* No, the Ministry's about the one force I've ruled out. They haven't the scope, for one thing, and they would have traced my wand before I could have gotten a replacement. There's no propaganda, no elections but the muggle ones, not even any Quidditch news unless one sends out for the Prophet. Whatever this is, it's nothing to do with what we left."