The Transfiguration lesson went without a hitch. Dry lecture, formulas, and practical part. Remembering once again the material from the read textbooks and recommended additional literature, I asked myself the question—why does absolutely all practice in all subjects carry extremely little of this very practical benefit? But before I could think properly, I immediately made associations and got conclusions. It's simple—we are taught not some specific magic, for the most part, but magic in general.
Take Potions, for example. The potions offered for study there are mostly useless and extremely narrow-profile. No, it is clear that potions are narrow-profile in principle, but in ordinary life, they are not needed at all. What's the catch? Ingredients, work with them, features when preparing precisely these ingredients… And they almost never repeat, and if they repeat, then the next or previous in the recipe will be a completely different ingredient with completely different conditions for "combining" them in the cauldron. This is unnoticeable if you read the textbook for the first year, for the second, but when even in the textbook for the third year an already covered ingredient still does not appear in a familiar sequence with some other, then certain conclusions can be drawn.
Approximately the same story with Charms. Gestures and words—that's what they study there, and not specific spells and charms. Transfiguration follows the path of complicating formulas and types of transformation—the further, the more "unknown" thing needs to be obtained in the process. I think that later there will be other difficulties related to adding a behavioral matrix and creating "living" things.
Herbology—not a single truly useful plant from those known so far, only to put into potions, but each studied one requires a completely unique approach. You might think that in principle every plant requires such an approach, but no, this is far from the case. The conclusion suggests itself the same as in relation to other subjects.
I think it becomes more logical and understandable that after the fifth year they switch to a much more applied study of disciplines—by that time students should already have a proper base, and if not, then there is no point in teaching them in depth.
After the lesson, we headed for lunch.
The Great Hall, as always, buzzed with conversations and the clatter of cutlery on dishes. Such a typical, familiar sound, to which I only now paid attention. This led me to a funny memory when that shard of a void fighter pilot was transferred to the newest battleship and was in search of the flight wing wardroom. It was this sound, the unending trill of metal and the clatter of dishes, that gave away the wardroom in the open doors of one of the rooms. True, there was a shift in the sound spectrum towards synthetic materials, but the essence remained the same.
After lunch, another Herbology lesson took place, but, frankly speaking, the last thing I wanted to mess with after a hearty lunch was plants and earth. Well, such gardening does not impress me, as the owner of meager elven memories.
Having dealt with barbaric but effective methods of dealing with magical vegetation, our… free time began, because I don't go to Muggle Studies. Eh, that's Hermione's joy from the linear schedule. I hope I find activities to my liking when the activity of circles and clubs is allowed. The only lesson that will still be today is Astronomy, almost at night. And there are only seven days in a week, seven years, the program should be different, and here is the question—is one lesson held in one day, or several?
When the guys went back to the castle from the courtyard with greenhouses, I imperceptibly, as only elves can, stepped aside, merged with the terrain, and waiting for everyone to leave, quickly reached the gates and left the territory. Hogwarts itself stands on a hill ending in a cliff right by the lake on one side. On the almost flat part of the hill next to the castle is the Quidditch pitch, and on the other, steeper one, a bridge over the cliff, and after—a descent to Hagrid's hut. It was on this descent that there was a sparse forest and a trampled path, not quite a road yet. It was into this forest with rare tall trees and good visibility that I entered.
Having deepened a couple of dozen meters, I almost immediately found the trunk of a fallen tree, fairly overgrown with all sorts of vegetation and surrounded by ferns, sat down, looking inspiredly at the rare rays of the sun declining to the west, breaking through the clouds. There, at the foot of the slope, a view opened up on that very hut, from the chimney of which a thin trickle of gray smoke literally oozed, and behind it—the thick coniferous crowns of the Forbidden Forest.
Silence, peace, birdsongs are heard from afar.
"Herbology, damn it…"
Sliding off the log, I squatted and touched the ground with my palm, sending a wave of Life energy. A second, two, three, and here I felt the echo of this energy. The mind immediately interpreted the signal like a radar, and I stood up and began to descend, following a kind of magical compass. Very close, literally two dozen meters away, in the tangled roots of a huge tree, the branches of which began to grow very high above the ground, I found what I was looking for—a small sprout. It reacted very lively to the wave of Life energy, which attracted my attention.
Leaning over the roots, I extended my hand to the sprout, and separating Life energy from neutral with a volitional effort, concentrated as much as possible, starting to feed it into the sprout. For a couple of seconds, nothing happened, but soon it began to grow, swell, change.
"Herbology… Runda…"
Not fully understanding what exactly should turn out, because the memory of the elf shard was silent, I, nevertheless, understood how to do this "something". When the sprout increased five times, and outwardly began to look more like a skein of vines, I made a cut on my finger with one volitional effort and magic. A drop of blood swelled for quite a long time, and all this time I saturated it with neutral magic, but did not let spontaneous magical reactions begin.
The drop fell.
Before it could touch the plant, this vine-like miracle immediately grabbed it right in the air, absorbing it. I immediately removed the thin thread of magic connecting me with this droplet and allowing me to maintain control over magic. The plant swelled even more, and began to fall, as if drying out, but not withering. However, I did not doubt that everything would go as it should. A large reserve of neutral magic will allow those changes to occur that only come to the plant's mind, even if this phrase is inapplicable to them.
The plant curled into a ball between the roots, calmed down, and only swelled slightly and deflated here and there, as if pulsating.
"So there's your Herbology…"
Despite the fact that I do not fully understand what kind of miracle should turn out, with my gut, sixth sense, I understand the necessity and correctness of creating such a thing. At the same time, the elf shard will stop quietly resenting—one cannot accumulate tension in the soul.
Standing up, I walked away from the tree a couple of steps—at such a distance it is not even visible that some strange activity is happening in the roots. Nodding satisfied, I decided that it was time to know honor, had enough of a walk.
Suddenly a cold rolled in. Exhaling, I noticed steam, and the sensations of magic abruptly became familiar and unpleasant. Familiar both from the life of the elven shard, and recently, from this life too. Turning sharply towards the supposed threat and pulling out my wand, I almost came face to face with a Dementor floating half a meter above the ground.
Mind protection did not allow me to "swim" or succumb to emotions, but any self-respecting wizard knows that incorporeal undead spawns affect not only and not so much the mind as the soul—this is their food source in one form or another.
Pointing my wand at this floating torn black robe, I mentally cursed the appearance of this creature—it will ruin the whole experiment with its magic!
"Sirius Black is not here," I said to the slowly approaching creature, simultaneously starting to form the contour of a magical construct against such creatures, not for nothing did I remember it back then, on the way from Hogsmeade, in McGonagall's presence.
The Dementor, it seems, was not convinced by my words, and decided to taste my soul, and then decide whether Black was here or not. Or maybe it just got stupid from hunger? I slowly retreated behind the tree in whose roots I conducted the experiment. The Dementor was approaching. What else does the bestiary say? It's painfully unwilling to destroy the property of our Ministry. Although, it is hard to believe that Dementors are property—it is unlikely that wizards forbidding dark magic, and using neutral in everyday life, could create something like this.
Light always scares away such creatures. Even ordinary sunlight can be enough, and powerful focused, magical, even if created by neutral energy—all the more so. Because here's the thing—created by a spell on neutral energy, light is already a physical manifestation, and a physical manifestation carries crumbs of energy corresponding to this manifestation…
Having thought all this over in a brief moment, I decided not to destroy, but to scare. How is it in the local textbook? Lumos Maxim?
"Lumos Maxima," I issued the perfect gesture and verbal formula.
A blinding cone of bright light broke from the tip of the wand. The Dementor howled somehow lingeringly, covering itself with its hands and flying back. Suddenly, instead of a howl, I heard an inappropriate gurgling sound. Continuing to actively shine in the place where the Dementor was, I retreated. The light is too bright and I couldn't understand what was happening there. Having retreated ten meters, I canceled the spell, prepared for a run to the bridge, and then to the castle, but turned around for the last time.
My eyebrows shot up almost to the middle of my forehead in surprise—the Dementor was actively trying to detach a small ball of vines entangling its ghostly essence from itself.
However much I wanted to watch this matter to the end simply to know the result, I preferred not to stay at the crime scene and hurried to the castle.
And yet Dumbledore said that Dementors would be on duty near the approaches to the castle. It is logical to assume that they won't be on those paths used by students to descend to the place of Care classes, but nearby—why not? It seems the Headmaster did not state the thought quite fully, and I did not assume the worst. But Susan casually talked about patrol routes, and here, it seems, they shouldn't be.
Returning to the castle, I caught my breath, leaning against the wall at the entrance. Not every day you meet such a creature as a Dementor. And you can't even destroy it—someone else's property. I haven't grown up yet for conflicts with authorities. Even for self-defense purposes.
"Skipping classes?" a grumbling caretaker in an old suit approached from the side.
This old man looked, frankly speaking, unpleasant. A sensation was created similar to some wizards I saw in the Leaky Cauldron—sort of homeless people of the magical world. But regarding Filch, everything is somewhat different. Clothes are terribly old, but neat enough. The problem, it seems to me, is in the old and slightly skewed face with three-day sparse stubble, evil look, and unkempt sparse hair to the shoulders.
"No, sir. I have no classes right now," nevertheless, I kept a polite tone.
"No classes," Filch grumbled, mimicking me and passing by. "Walking around here, dragging dirt from place to place…"
Disapproving glances of the caretaker, who started cleaning without any magic, do not give pleasure at all, and therefore I went to the Great Hall.
Few of the students sat here at the tables of their Houses, doing all sorts of things. Before, I hadn't visited this place outside of meal times, and therefore was slightly surprised by such liveliness. It reminded me of a sort of university hall, or something similar. At least those forty people who were here represented typical students on a big break or during a window between classes—communicating noisily, playing with various magical gizmos, reading something, or making notes. A couple were even playing chess.
I didn't notice any of my own here, but Daphne was here from those I knew, sitting at the Slytherin table with Parkinson, a pretty girl with a bob of black hair. There were several more people at their table, both younger and older, but they all kept to their "age groups," discussing something animatedly. Well, as one acquaintance of mine said: "I see the goal, I see no obstacles."
My purposeful movement towards Daphne sitting at the table was interrupted literally at the table itself by a significantly older guy. He had a decent look, actually, like the overwhelming majority of Slytherins. But, it seems, along with a well-groomed and neat appearance of the uniform in green and silver colours, an arrogant mask comes in the set.
"Where are you rushing?"
Arching an eyebrow, I looked at the guy with bewilderment.
"We haven't been introduced."
For a second, confusion arose in the guy's eyes, but just as quickly disappeared.
"There is no place for the likes of you at this table," he declared arrogantly, but without obvious aggression.
"Is it forbidden by school rules?"
"No, what do you mean," the stranger smirked. "Rules have nothing to do with this."
"In that case, I won't detain you any longer," nodding respectfully, I tried to bypass the guy, but he moved sideways, blocking my path again.
"Did I not express myself clearly enough? You can't be here."
More than once or twice I noticed representatives of all other Houses communicating normally with Slytherins, but something tells me that these very representatives were not Muggle-born.
"What isn't forbidden is allowed."
"I don't…"
"So stop me."
For a couple of seconds, he looked at me with gray eyes, after which he began to look for support from the side with a shifting gaze.
"So why all this then?"
I tried to bypass the guy again, and this time he didn't interfere, and I safely reached the girls who noticed me.
"Ladies, hope this seat isn't taken?"
Daphne sighed sadly, and Parkinson almost jumped up from her seat, as if she wanted to throw a tantrum. In principle, that feigned displeasure spoke precisely of this.
"Well there!" she was indignant, pathetically raising her hands to the ceiling. "Now even all sorts of Mudbloods are at our table. Where is Draco when he is needed so much?"
Even though her voice was quiet, the intonations were like during a scream. I just smiled, sitting down opposite the girls.
"Did we say it wasn't taken?" Daphne tilted her head slightly to the side.
"Well, Parkinson said 'at the table', so I sat down so that your friend wouldn't be unfounded."
The girls snorted disdainfully, and Parkinson sat down again.
"And what brought you to our table?"
"Boredom and a business proposal."
"How curious," Daphne smiled slyly, and even Parkinson began to show interest, playfully not looking in my direction. "The second, not the first. We are perfectly familiar with boredom ourselves and are in a close relationship."
"Oh, everything is extremely simple," I leaned forward at the table, but observing manners, did not put my elbows on it. And generally, how can you sit at a dining table putting your elbows on it? "I will need to pass all the studied material on Potions to Snape at the end of this semester."
"Pfft," Parkinson couldn't hold back her opinion, turning her head to me and smiling maliciously. "So that's where your doom lay, Mudblood?"
"I don't think I'll fail," I smiled back, causing the girl's displeasure. "But I won't get the highest score either, and I won't gain the necessary experience. The longer my illiteracy in this matter drags on, the worse it will be."
"Suppose," Daphne nodded. "I understand what you're getting at. But isn't everything too smooth in your logic?"
"See for yourself. Snape clearly dislikes Harry Potter and his friends, among whom is my sister. Being unfamiliar with me, he immediately sat me next to you for as many as three years, creating a whole bunch of possible reasons for conflict. If I approach him and say, like: 'Let's study additionally?', how far and how quickly will I be sent by the Professor?"
"Instantly," Parkinson smirked again. "And as far as possible."
"Here," I nodded in her direction, looking at Daphne. "You have an undeniable advantage at least in belonging to his House. One can, of course, practice without the Professor's supervision, but bringing his displeasure upon oneself, it seems to me, is a very unwise move."
"You're right there."
"Classes can be held during evening detentions with the Professor. As a result, I will successfully practice and pass the material to him, and you, Greengrass, will receive a competent colleague for the coming years, which will significantly increase the quality of potions."
"Only you don't take one important factor into account. Ingredients are needed for practice," Daphne leaned forward slightly. "The Professor will never give us his. Moreover, without ingredients, he will send us away even on the approach to the office."
"Your suggestions?"
"You are the initiator of this idea, you pay. I will arrange the classes."
"Excellent. Two sets of ingredients for the first and second years?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's a pleasure doing business with you, ladies," nodding, I got up from the table.
"Pfft…" Parkinson snorted again, "…Mudblood…"
"That doesn't work with me, Parkinson," I smiled to the girl. "Better continue working on Malfoy while he falls for it."
Pansy, for that is her name if memory serves, looked at me somewhat surprised, and I went to my House table, even though there were almost no people there—it will be dinner time soon anyway.
Seeing Cedric at our table, thoughtfully and completely alone chasing a lonely little mushroom around the plate with a fork, which did not wish to fall victim to this very fork, I sat down next to him.
"Hi."
"Huh? Oh, hi, Hector," the Prefect instantly threw off the dull thoughtfulness and smiled in his slightly feigned manner. "Did something happen?"
"Yes and no. Tell me, what does a wizard need at Hogwarts?"
"Hmm? Interesting question," Cedric put the fork aside, sitting half-turned to me. "More specifically?"
"Well, what product would be in demand here? Here a student lives, lives, and a thought appears in his head now and then: 'If only there was… here'."
The Prefect understood the meaning of the understatement, thinking again, but this time not removing the smile from his face.
"Off the top of my head, only something warming comes to mind."
"A glass of whisky?"
"Pfft…" if Cedric was drinking something at the moment, it would have been one of the cheapest comedy scenes. "No, no, I'm not talking about that. Specifically warming, like a sweater, warm clothes, but not clothes."
"An amulet?"
"Yes, something like that. They exist, of course, but are too expensive, and for the most important thing, Potions class in winter, inapplicable."
"What about Potions?"
"Well, even now it's quite cold in the dungeons. It has to be, optimal conditions and all that. In winter it doesn't seem particularly colder, but chills to the bone. Standing in place for an hour and a half and almost not moving—horror."
"And just warm clothes?"
"Get in the way and very much so. And still chills to the bone," Cedric stopped smiling, clearly remembering unpleasant sensations. "There are also quite thin and comfortable things made of unicorn wool. Or in a proportion of three to two from this wool and other fabrics, but they are also extremely expensive. Even among the rich, far from everyone allows themselves such a thing. Now, perhaps, only Malfoy and Bulstrode can afford such a thing."
"And what price for, say, an amulet, will be affordable for everyone or almost everyone?"
"One or two Galleons maximum," Cedric thought again. "For three, the coverage will be smaller, although the profit will remain at the level. You can try making decorated ones or from expensive material to sell to those whose crown does not allow wearing a simple amulet."
"More thoughts?"
"Everything else is somehow connected with safety, protection. As the Captain of the Quidditch team, I would like to see fall protection on my guys, but enchanted items, except for the broom, are prohibited by rules. We aren't searched particularly, of course, but if caught—it won't be pretty."
"And for training?"
Cedric just shook his head.
"No need to get used to the fact that you can fall off a broom completely without harm. At matches, the field is enchanted so that only a couple of fractures threaten you. Well, if falling from a reasonable height. If the falling speed is too high, charms won't help. But there are referees and teachers for that. And the rest of the protection—is for life in the castle. Blocking hexes and other attacks. At least the first volley. But that's not very good either."
"Yeah? Although, to some extent, you are right."
The elf's memory shard threw up an episode of strong surprise from the period of teaching at the Academy of Magic. Even if I don't remember the disciplines themselves, as well as the material on them, completely, but the surprise… Surprise at the complete lack of a security system in the corridors, as well as protective amulets. There wizards, it seems, believed that one must learn to rely primarily on oneself, and only then—on "attachments". The elf was surprised by such a dismissive attitude towards the life and health of the younger generation, because for elves children are almost holy creatures.
For another couple of minutes, Cedric threw up various ideas for cost-effective crafts, and then other students began to come to the Great Hall for dinner. Classmates shared their first impressions of the Muggle Studies lesson, and I listened attentively to the surprise of both purebloods and half-bloods unfamiliar with ordinary people, and Justin. It turns out they tell tall tales there notably, and the description of certain things that can be found on the street of an ordinary city introduced Justin into a state of permanent stupor and humanitarian shock—too ridiculous, although to a certain extent true.
"Pipe…"
"What, Justin?" I asked the guy staring stupidly at a plate of fried fish again.
"Pipe, Hector. Firearms—flame-belching pipe."
"Is that not so?" Ernie, knowing nothing about Muggles, immediately perked up.
Justin shifted his gaze to him, but I asked another question.
"And what did you forget at Muggle Studies, Justin? You didn't take it."
"So a window, nothing to do, and there at least listened… Better not have listened. Pipe…"
"Strange," I looked thoughtfully at the Slytherin table, and turned back to ours. "I have information that wizards are perfectly aware of firearms, and some even collect handmade copies as works of art."
"Ah, so that's what the conversation was about?!" Susan practically jumped up from her seat, surprised by her own insight, but quickly calmed down, slightly embarrassed. "And I was wondering what 'pipes'?"
After dinner, we gathered in the common room again to do the homework accumulated during the day in a calm and friendly atmosphere, and closer to curfew, in a friendly crowd headed to the top of the Astronomy Tower, not forgetting to grab star atlases, writing utensils, and telescopes.
There, on top of the tower, on the flat roof, in the light of enchanted lanterns, Professor Sinistra, a fairly young and pretty lady, inspiredly told us about the constellation of Orion and calculations of the influence of its visible stars on magical manipulations. From what I know, I can say with confidence that such influence is extremely insignificant, but in the most precise manipulations, it must be taken into account. It seems there are disciplines in this world too where such knowledge can be useful. And when building magical houses for centuries, one must take into account the cyclical influence of celestial bodies.
When the lesson came to an end, the House Prefects came to the Astronomy Tower to escort us to the common rooms, because it was already midnight, and after curfew, you can't wander around the castle without a Prefect. Going to bed, I pondered whether to grow material for amulets using elven methods, or try the dwarf's mechano-magical system for processing raw material? The elf shard seems to have quieted down slightly after the experiment, but those scraps belonging to the gnome rubbed their hands with enthusiasm, anticipating interesting and familiar activity inherent in every good, albeit young, gnome soon.
. . . . .
Lamps burned in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office, flooding the room with soft, warm, bright yellow light. Flames crackled gently in the fireplace. On his perch, suspended from a golden hoop, sat a large phoenix, shimmering with fiery hues, looking with little interest at a pensive Dumbledore seated behind his desk.
The flames in the fireplace turned green, and a portly man in a black three-piece suit and overcoat stepped out immediately. He was followed by a tall, powerful black wizard in multi-coloured robes of purple hues, the style of which had a distinct ethnic flair.
"Dumbledore," the portly man nodded sternly and self-importantly, removing his bowler hat.
It was immediately apparent that the man was not young; he was graying, though he tried to restore his hair to its natural light brown shade. His face, however, was not burdened with intellect—a fact that, for the umpteenth time, nearly caused the Headmaster to smirk.
"Cornelius," the Headmaster stood to greet his guests. "Mr. Shacklebolt. What business brings you to Hogwarts?"
"Spare me your beloved flowery language, Albus," Cornelius waved him off irritably. "This is a matter of extreme urgency."
"Take a seat," Dumbledore's face assumed a grave and serious expression, though it was barely visible behind his long beard. "Tea? Lemon drops?"
"Albus..." Cornelius replied reproachfully, sinking into the offered chair.
"Alright, alright," the Headmaster smiled placatingly and sat behind his desk. "Tell me."
"One of the Dementors we stationed to guard the perimeter of Hogwarts has died."
Dumbledore frowned.
"Died?"
"Precisely, Albus!" Cornelius's voice almost broke into a shout, but he quickly pulled himself together. "You know it is impossible to kill them. Yet their leader reported a death."
"Come now, Cornelius, you know that anything can be destroyed if there is a will. But to destroy a Dementor..." the Headmaster's voice was quiet and soft, yet commanding slight awe and respect, and his gaze over his half-moon spectacles only heightened this effect. "That would require truly Dark Magic."
"Exactly! Dark Magic! Oh..." Cornelius dropped his mask of self-importance, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket with a slightly trembling hand, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Did you know that Black was recently sighted in Dufftown? That is quite close to Hogwarts."
"You think Sirius Black destroyed the Dementor?"
"Who else, Albus! I am certain he is already here somewhere, come for the boy. We must do something, Albus. This situation is taking a serious turn."
"Cornelius..." Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "You know that Hogwarts is one of the safest places in England. And with your help and your Dementors, it has become the premier location for preserving the health and safety of the children."
"I know perfectly well that Dementors have no place here," Cornelius waved him off irritably, though fear swam in his eyes. "But what would you have me do?"
"Minister Fudge, sir," the black wizard standing next to the Minister leaned slightly over his right shoulder. "We can still deploy the forces of the DMLE, or better yet, the Aurors."
"No," Fudge said sharply. "There is no need to distract already busy wizards with aimless wanderings through the forest. That is what the Dementors are for. I propose we discuss some additional measures."
"Well then, Cornelius," Dumbledore swept his hand before him. "Make your suggestions; I am open to dialogue..."
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