Friday, September 3rd. Only the second day of school, but already the last of the week, because Saturday, as I found out, involves activities in various clubs, of which there are quite a few at Hogwarts. True, I haven't been informed about them yet or told where to look for information. I assume such a decision is caused by the need to get used to the castle first, excluding idle wandering and looking for trouble—a similar tactic is chosen for first-years. Well, nothing to be done, and I myself am in no hurry to sign up anywhere yet.
Morning, like yesterday, began with getting up, a light elven warm-up resembling somewhat unusual Wushu. And, just like yesterday, I had to wake the guys in the room with improvised means. Need to come up with something new, because at this rate they will develop immunity to the ringing of a metal tray.
Packing things according to the timetable for today, we safely left the room, but in the House common room, some kind of bacchanalia was already happening. Everyone was sneezing and coughing, and there was clearly a magical blue fog around, in which many sparkles quietly twinkled. The fog was localized only in the far corner, occupying a quarter of the common room, and after observing what was happening for a second, one could conclude that those sneezing and coughing were the ones trying to remove this fog.
"Just lacking concentration and will," remarked someone from the seniors, possibly a seventh-year.
Waving his wand and pointing at the fog, the guy pronounced:
"Evanesco."
Feeling someone else's magic is many orders of magnitude harder than one's own. At least without preparation. But the tiniest crumbs of its movement in space can be caught. Trails of this very magic from the senior's wand enveloped all the fog and literally began to erase it from reality, and visually it looked as if the fog was compressing very quickly, but not changing density, and disappearing.
"Nothing critical," noted a girl, also a senior, who had already begun examining the victims. "Just irritation from pollen. We'll go to the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey will give everyone a couple of drops of potion to clear the lungs."
"Maybe we don't have to?" one of the younger victims looked at the girl plaintively.
"We have to, Henry, we have to. At the same time, you experimenters will remember properly that volatile powdery ingredients need to be handled as carefully as possible, applying a special approach for each."
The hapless students were quickly sent to the Hospital Wing, and Cedric, who appeared in the common room, began to gather the first-years into a semblance of a formation. Noticing me, the Prefect seemed to remember something, wagged his finger instructively at the first-years, and moved towards our company.
"Hi, folks," he smiled.
We greeted him in discord, and Cedric, focusing his attention on me, continued:
"Hector, I just remembered that you will need to pass the covered material for the first and second years at the end of this semester."
"Yes, you're right."
"So, how do you plan to pass Flying? There are only a couple of lessons there, but the subject is in the credit program."
"I thought I'd approach you with questions about passing it one of these days, when I visit the subjects at least once."
"Clear. Come tomorrow, Saturday, at ten in the morning to the Quidditch pitch. Our team is gathering there. Worth making sure we haven't forgotten how to fly brooms and play over the summer. At the same time, we'll find out how quickly you can get comfortable on a broom."
"Agreed," I nodded, mirroring the Prefect's smile.
"Then I won't keep you any longer."
Cedric returned to the first-years, and we headed to the exit, where Hannah and Susan were already chatting about something. Having greeted the girls, our male company wanted to go further to the Great Hall, but it seems the girls were waiting specifically for us, and now the entire third year of Hufflepuff in full force of as many as six people was briskly moving along the castle corridors.
"So what does this mean," Justin pondered, which made him look even more like a rich movie villain. "You even have to pass Flying?"
"Yup."
"That could be a problem."
"And what's the problem?" Ernie was surprised. "Got on a broom, and flew."
"That's for you, who have been in the magical world from the cradle," Justin shook his head. "But I was fond of airplanes in childhood. Knew everything about them."
"Airplanes?" Hannah was surprised. "Are those the big iron things with wings that fly in the sky?"
"Yes, big iron things with wings," Justin nodded, clearly not accepting such a description for aviation. "So I had problems with flying. In principle, I understand what is necessary for flight without magic, what forces, aerodynamics there, and so on. And the concept of flight with complete disregard for these forces, requirements, and conditions absolutely did not fit in my head."
We arrived for breakfast again not first, but not last either. Taking seats at the table, we received our portions of a slightly different breakfast, although there was standard oatmeal here, but now there were not sausages, but sausage links, fried eggs, and beans in tomato sauce.
The first lesson was Transfiguration, and we had to study this subject all together again. A couple of minutes before the start of the lesson, when everyone was seated, Anthony Goldstein, a disheveled blond from Ravenclaw, decided to ask a burning question:
"Professor McGonagall…" he raised his hand and stood up.
The Professor, sitting at her desk and filling out some papers, looked up at him over her glasses.
"Yes, Mr. Goldstein?"
"Why did all Houses start having classes together for Potions and Transfiguration? Before, we were divided into two groups."
"Headmaster Dumbledore's order, Mr. Goldstein," McGonagall replied as if it were obvious.
"But the reasons?"
The quiet hum of conversations, with which students passed the time before the start of the lesson, finally subsided, and attention focused on the Professor. After all, this was indeed a relevant question, as I understand.
"Such a decision is connected with the presence of Dementors in the vicinity of the school," McGonagall began speaking clearly, as if by notes. "The schedule has been introduced for all years and will allow students to be as often as possible in as large groups as possible, neutralizing the negative influence of Dementors."
"But they are far away, Professor!" a Ravenclaw girl unknown to me was indignant.
"Undoubtedly, Miss Turpin," McGonagall nodded in agreement. "But even at such a distance, their presence takes a toll. I am sure you have already felt minor changes. As if colours have become less bright, familiar entertainments do not bring proper pleasure, and oatmeal in the morning has become even more bland."
McGonagall's last phrase caused timid smiles from some of those present.
"And won't this burden you too much? Working with so many students at once…" Goldstein continued asking questions.
"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Goldstein," McGonagall smiled with the corners of her lips, "but I have repeatedly had occasion to work with a large number of students studying in just two Houses."
The Professor glanced at the desk clock.
"Time to start the lesson."
Everyone immediately quieted down and focused, while I began to think over the situation. Dementors really affect the mind, but too insignificantly. On the other hand, if they stay here for six months or a year, the cumulative effect may turn out to be significant. Maybe I should think about protection from such influence? But specifics are important in such things, good basic knowledge along with more specialized, clearly formed ones. And no matter how hard I tried to pull threads of associations through the memory of shards, not only the elf's, I bumped into emptiness—there is nothing to remember. Although there were moments when it seemed memories should lead somewhere, but everything broke off.
"Don't space out," Ernie Macmillan, who sat next to me, nudged me lightly with his elbow. "We haven't practiced transfiguration spells yet."
There is a grain of common sense in Ernie's remark, because in the improvised courses to eliminate my illiteracy regarding practice in magic, we haven't touched Transfiguration yet.
"Mr. Granger, Mr. Macmillan," Professor McGonagall interrupted her story on the lesson topic, shifting her gaze from the board with complex formulas and diagrams to us. "Would you share with us a topic so important that you considered it possible to ignore my lecture?"
"I apologize, Professor," Ernie modestly lowered his eyes, causing quiet chuckles from those around.
Nothing changes. Gnome, elf, human—students always find it funny if their colleague gets into such minor trouble.
"Mr. Granger?"
McGonagall looked at me with her stern gaze, in which almost imperceptibly could be read: "Maybe you will answer?"
"We, Madam Professor, are concerned about my lack of any practice in Transfiguration."
"It is good that you raised this topic yourself, Mr. Granger."
McGonagall waved her wand, and various objects flew out of the doors to the room adjacent to the classroom one by one. Matches, glasses, pieces of wood, a mouse, a beetle, and other trifles. Before they landed on the desk in front of me, I already understood where this was going.
"As I know," McGonagall spoke when the objects landed on my desk. "You know the theory perfectly. Since Transfiguration is a very dangerous branch of magic, you will practice the material we have covered here, in my presence, and not otherwise."
Nodding at the logic of such a move, I mentally agreed with the Professor—the consequences of failed transfiguration, if textbooks and banal logic are to be believed, can, if not kill, then severely maim, deprive of mobility, and you simply won't be able to get to the Hospital Wing on your own. Only to lie and slowly die from your failed experiments.
"If you manage without outside help," an imperceptible smile appeared on the Professor's face, "to demonstrate all the spells we have already covered during this lesson, as well as master the topic of the current lesson, then you and your House will receive twenty points."
The other students immediately began whispering, and the main leitmotif of these unrests was unprecedented generosity along with the incredible complexity of the task. I couldn't help but notice mocking glances from some students from absolutely all Houses.
"In case of failure?" I couldn't help but ask about the flip side of this coin.
"You and your House will lose five points," maintaining a stern expression, but smiling only with her eyes, the Professor replied.
Nodding, I settled more comfortably at the desk, took out my wand, and aimed at the very first training spell—turning a wooden match into a silver needle. The Professor, making sure that I started the task, continued the lesson, the topic of which I listened to with the edge of my consciousness—mandatory repetition of Gamp's Laws, knowledge and understanding of the reasons for which are simply mandatory for a wizard. Making the correct wave of the wand and holding the necessary transfiguration formula in my head, I pointed my magical instrument at the match. Magic stretched towards it in a thin trail, enveloped, "walked" along the match, inside it and around, but nothing happened.
Waving again, I added the image of a silver needle to the image of the formula in my head. Nothing again. Quiet chuckles from the Slytherins attracted my attention—Malfoy with his big comrades is snickering, looking stealthily at my attempts.
"What, Granger, can't cast?" he asked quietly, trying not to attract McGonagall's attention. "A match is an unbearable burden for the likes of you."
Chuckling to myself, I did what I know how—without any tools and wands, I sent a clot of neutral magic at Malfoy, carrying a simple instruction to change the guy's hair colour to red. I think this will hit a nerve—he constantly picks on the redhead Weasley for a reason, right?
My trick succeeded, and Malfoy's almost white hair immediately began to acquire a rich red colour, which could not fail to cause bewilderment among those who saw him.
If someone knew that it was my manipulations that caused this, but at the same time I can't transfigure a match, they would be very surprised. But the fact is that the local school of magic differs greatly from the one I'm used to. In a completely incomprehensible way to me, a combination of words, gestures, thought-forms, and formulas forces the wizard's neutral magic to perform a certain function embedded in this combination, but at the same time, the magical energy itself undergoes no structural changes, so to speak. On the one hand, there is nothing surprising in this, because one of the facets of sorcery through internal energy lies precisely in this—causing a certain effect, changing reality or its individual aspects, through magical energy alone, without powering various structures and so on with it. But there is one huge and completely incomprehensible paradox here—why is the result the same for all wizards?
Simply put, embodying an image, a fantasy, through neutral magic is quite easy. In essence, it is enough to pass magic through the prism of consciousness containing the necessary image with a volitional effort and direct it to the target. But the whole point is that just as there are no two identical people with identical consciousness, there cannot be absolutely identical sorcery on such a principle of action. Here one can see an obvious contradiction—a bunch of wizards with internal neutral energy create absolutely identical charms and spells from completely unstructured magic. Well, not counting "design" aspects, so to speak. In general, a lot is unclear.
While I pondered magic, simultaneously looking for the key to successful transfiguration, Malfoy began to panic and try to cancel my sorcery with Finite—unsuccessfully.
"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall did not bypass such a blatant violation of discipline. "Minus a point to Slytherin for attempting to resemble Mr. Weasley."
The almost invisible smirk on the Professor's face said: "Mischief managed." The manner of deducting points reminded me of Snape and led to the thought that rivalry exists not only between the Houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin but also between their Heads.
Paying no attention to the quiet chuckles of the students, I waved my wand again, but this time I added not just an image in which the match suddenly becomes a needle, but gradually transforms into it. I even added a mental illusion of the sensations from the needle in my hands, but further, to the image of molecular changes, I did not go. The match turned into a needle in a fraction of a second.
"I understood the essence," I nodded to myself with a smile.
"What?" Ernie was distracted from looking at the futile and almost imperceptible attempts of Malfoy and his comrades to fix the situation with the hair.
"I say, understood the essence of transfiguration. It seems."
"Yeah, right," Ernie expressed the greatest doubt, returning to copying another diagram from the board.
Glancing at the remaining teaching aids, I quickly pulled the necessary formulas from memory, matched them with the necessary images, making them as complete as possible and conveying the essence of the objects, and began to cast, turning objects one by one and getting the desired result. Ernie watched this with wide eyes—a button from a beetle worked, and a snuffbox, a goblet, and other trifles, as required by the curriculum for past years.
"For real…" he exhaled. "That is, truly."
"For real?" I smirked, looking at the boy.
"Yeah, that's all Justin with his words. You hear it a couple of times, and then it sticks…"