"I see. The corporeal form of the Patronus takes the form of an animal that matches the wizard's character. I wonder how it works?" I looked at the guys bent over the notebook, but they, like me, had no answer. "Okay. The shape and size of the Patronus do not affect its power. Some are unable to produce the Patronus until they experience some kind of shock, a mental shock. Where are the instructions?"
"On the other page," Ernie turned the page of the notebook, pointing with his finger at the diagram of the wand movement and the verbal formula.
There were also the Arithmantic formulas that Professor McGonagall loves so much, but Ernie signed it "of dubious use." It was this inscription, I think, that caused the puzzled looks directed at the boy.
"What? That's what it said in the book. I quote: 'The effectiveness of using the formula has not been proven in practice.' Let's try it instead."
An hour and a half—that's how long it took us all to come to a logical conclusion. Which one? We are too weak, or our minds are weak, or we don't have the right happy memories. Yes, yes, it is on "happy memories of great power that the power of the Patronus Charm is based"—Ernie copied this quote verbatim. Of course, I have a theory that it is not the memories themselves, not their truth and power, that are important, but rather the psychological effect of them, and along with them the reactions in the body that they cause. Simply put, a memory can be invented, adjusting their power to suit yourself, making them as effective as possible. Invent, based on imagination and will. In fact, one of the strengths of witchcraft through internal energy is based on this—will and imagination.
But I didn't use this conclusion, nor my other advantages over others—I worked and tried like everyone else, "honestly," looking for the necessary memories. Then I will try my conclusions, being in proud solitude, and share the results with others. Why is that? People, especially children, tend to have a negative attitude towards those who are doing too well—especially if nothing works out for everyone at all.
"Not surprising," Zacharias said dejectedly, leaning against the table. "These are advanced-level spells. Not every adult can do them."
"Well, well," I smiled. "If something doesn't work out right away, then you just need to try hard, work hard. After all, talent is only five percent of success, and the rest? That's what our faculty is famous for. Work, work, and more work."
"Work is good, of course," Justin smiled. "But not missing lunch would be even better."
"That's true," Hannah agreed, and the others perked up. "Let's go have lunch. And we definitely need to work hard on the spell. It's not clear how long the Dementors will be around Hogwarts. And soon there will be trips to Hogsmeade. By the way, does anyone know if they'll happen at all?"
"How could it be otherwise?" Justin and Ernie protested in chorus, causing the others to smile.
"If they allow it, it will be somewhat… crazy," Zacharias shook his head, but we did not discuss the topic further, leaving the classroom.
Lunch, English and Literature, Herbology, and then the evening came, and we all sat together in the living room, doing the homework assigned today.
"Hector, hi," Cedric sat down next to us. "And you guys too."
"Hello, Cedric."
"Can I steal your friend for a while?"
"Only for a little while," Hannah nodded. "There's still a lot of homework to do."
"Agreed, Hector?"
"Let's go."
We moved to one of the windows, behind which the evening gloom had already thickened. A light pass of the wand by the prefect, and the air began to float around us in a familiar way—a spell against eavesdropping.
"The twins sold almost thirty pendants in one day," the elder smiled sincerely. "That's a success, Hector."
"Glad to hear it. But I don't need money for entertainment."
"I figured it out. To come up with and implement a way to earn money in a couple of days—that doesn't happen because life is good. Is there somewhere to put the money?"
"Yes," I took out my wand and pointed it towards my backpack, which was lying next to the chair in our corner with the guys. "Accio."
The backpack flew through the air quite briskly across the living room straight into my hand.
"Without designating a target?" Cedric grinned, taking out a small purse-bag.
"I just realized that the name of an object is not part of the Summoning Charm, but rather allows one to better focus one's thoughts and will."
"That's right. But they don't write about that in the books. There's a lot they don't write about," Cedric put his hand in his wallet and took out a stack of Galleons so that no one would see. "Ten each. It's easier."
It took ten seconds to transfer five stacks of ten Galleons into my backpack, and another one of six coins.
"Your share is twenty-eight Galleons."
"Got it," I fastened my backpack and threw the strap over my shoulder.
"Not all yet. Herbert got something from his father. Tomorrow in the living room, at six. Agreed?"
"No problem."
"That's great."
We went our separate ways: Cedric to do his own thing, and I back to the guys.
"Something happened?" Justin didn't even wait for me to sit back down in the chair. A curious fellow. Probably the most curious of all, but outwardly he tries to keep himself in hand in any situation. I should still find out where I heard the name Finch-Fletchley—the guy can clearly boast of an extraordinary upbringing.
"He asked to be here tomorrow morning. Obviously something to do with Quidditch."
"Ah… Lucky…"
It seemed like the guys were a little jealous.
"I just liked flying, and the others decided that I was too good at it to ignore. We'll see when it comes to Quidditch training, and then matches," I pulled the Potions book off my massive chair with some effort, moving it closer to the table. "Maybe I'll refuse. I don't want to end up with some kind of incurable injury. I've been sick for too long as it is."
"Ah," Zacharias waved it off, "nonsense."
Nonsense? A rather strange and dismissive statement. Zacharias, seeing my reaction, hastened to correct himself.
"I meant that it's impossible to kill yourself at our matches—the stadium is magical. And we heal fractures quickly. In principle, even a completely broken neck is not a problem—if help is provided before brain death. But if your head is torn off…"
"Ugh, Zach, ugh," Hannah grimaced. "Why talk about that?"
"I'm telling it like it is," he showed with just his face, as if to say, "What can you do?" "The stadium has charms to soften the fall and all that; Madam Pomfrey and the teachers always watch the game. Of course, you can fly into the stands, break the wooden beams, impale yourself on one, but… If the injury doesn't mean instant brain death, everything can be put back in place."
What I heard brought to mind Hermione's face at age ten, so puzzled, but at the same time surprised and dismissive. She didn't like something about the pajamas my relatives had bought me.
"Sweet," I repeated her words, making the boys smile. "But life without risk is dull and boring. A small dose of it can brighten up the grayest day."
"The main thing is not to end up in the ground ahead of time."
"Thank you, Hannah, for your kind words."