Routine is a terrible thing that kills interest and the will to live. This is indeed true, but there is a simple and sure way to deal with it—discipline and strict adherence to a schedule, along with avoiding things that cause irritation. I have no particular problems with the latter, and even the fact that the House common room resembles a hobbit hole gradually stopped bothering me in any way. Adaptation is a great force! And the schedule helps to translate routine into a reflex everyday "ritual"—did it and didn't notice any psychological pressure.
From Monday of the third week of study, from September 13th, my entire schedule finally formed and stabilized.
The Head of House, Madam Sprout, turns out to have a habit of visiting the House common room quite often, inquiring about the needs of students, their successes, anxieties, and failures, giving sound advice and providing support. I don't seem to need such things, but I know for sure that Madam Sprout asked my classmates about my successes.
Cedric, not without a fight, found out the training schedule from McGonagall, and now we could train twice a week on the Quidditch pitch, playing Quidditch directly. Although, it would be more correct to say that it was a one-sided game—Chasers, among whom was I, attacked the hoops, Beaters tried to cause us trouble, trying to knock us out somehow with the help of self-guided black balls flying back and forth, Bludgers. The Keeper, naturally, defended the hoops, and the Seeker, Cedric, trained in searching for the Snitch, but sometimes he also got a share of attention from the Bludgers.
I considered such training ineffective at least for the Keeper and the Seeker, and therefore began to think over a project of training artifacts, fortunately, even Cedric himself had plenty of ideas on this subject.
Studies went calmly and measuredly, and I spent part of my free time practicing spells in an unused classroom with the guys. True, there is no special enthusiasm in them, except that Justin makes an effort, but only until he performs a new spell or charm a couple of times. Performs, admires, and forgets. This is all not surprising, because forcing children to learn is not so simple, even if it is magic, something new and unknown. Look, purebloods and half-bloods generally study because they have to, and not from a great desire. At least those whom I know personally and with whom I spend time. Although there are exceptions. The same Cedric, for example, spends a lot of time studying and practicing magical techniques, and yet also performs the duties of a Prefect. I think there are others not inferior in diligence.
On Wednesday the fifteenth, I approached the Weasley twins and publicly, though not in the Great Hall, bought my own warming pendant from them. It was funny to see how they advertise my own product to me, while finishing each other's lines. It seems they had no idea who the creator of these pendants is, and that is good.
Towards the end of the third week, some dull ferment began in the stream. Although, Slytherins from my year, it seems, on the contrary, were amused by something. I raised this question at the discussion at breakfast on Thursday, and received the answer, of course, from the girls.
"Professor Trelawney just predicted a speedy and terrible death for Potter," Hannah sighed sadly. "It is sad. Pity, very pitiful."
"What exactly?"
"What do you mean 'what', Hector? If something happens to Potter, who will draw the attention of particularly active Slytherins like Malfoy?"
"Hmm… Don't you believe in prophecies?"
"I believe, Hector, because there are true prophecies. But reading coffee grounds, or tea leaves, or palmistry… No thanks, count me out. There is nothing to do there without talent."
"Why do you go there then?"
Hannah smiled back at me.
"Because it is such fertile soil for breeding rumors and gossip. It's a sin not to use it. And it's funny."
Well, on Friday Professor McGonagall dispelled all fears for Potter's life, briefly, in a couple of phrases expressing her attitude towards Divination as a science, and towards Trelawney as a teacher.
Days went by one after another, studies went well, and relationships with the guys in the hobbit hole, and from other Houses, were quite even, stable. Malfoy and company didn't misbehave, completely giving themselves to playing the role of the mortally wounded, simultaneously annoying Potter and Weasley by all available methods. Hermione, it should be said, he didn't touch until she herself started getting into boyish showdowns. Although Hermione herself stopped interceding for the guys much, and closer to mid-September I found out what the problem was. Found out quite by accident—overheard, standing around the corner of one of the corridors.
It turns out that back at the beginning of this year they had a falling out—Ron Weasley suspected Hermione's ginger cat of eating his rat. Crookshanks, what a wonderful name for a cat, encroached on this rat even on the train, and after Dementors visited the train, the rat disappeared, and no one saw it again. So Ron suspects Crookshanks, saying, ate it on the sly. And now, by the end of September, the quarrel reached its apogee—no rat, Crookshanks hunts any living creature, Ron is in sorrow, Hermione denies everything. Well, those are their problems. Think of it, a rat. And lived twelve years at that. Magical, probably.
The most problematic personally for me turned out to be the fact of Hermione's approaching birthday. I didn't like celebrating such things in my past life, and I remembered this clearly. Elves also didn't suffer from such things, noting only the beginning and end of stages of becoming an elf, like infancy, childhood, adolescence, and other similar things. That's why elves not following the calendar sometimes can't even say exactly how old they are—usually, this starts after two or three hundred years. In contrast to this, gnomes attach great importance to age, but too little remained of the gnome shard. So I found myself in a slight but solvable difficulty.
Sitting in the House common room on Friday evening, looking at the peacefully flowing life, I pondered that I don't know Hermione well enough to consciously choose a suitable gift. At the same time, we are not particularly rushing to communicate with each other. But I can make something with my own hands?
Nodding at my thoughts, I went to the room and hid in my nook. Sitting on the bed, I took out my wand and concentrated the air around, choosing it as a target for transfiguration. Well, why not? The problem with exceptions to Gamp's Laws, specifically that one cannot transfigure an uncountable object like air, lies precisely in consciousness and perception of the world—it is difficult for a person to imagine, visualize, feel a certain volume of air separately from the rest of the atmosphere. I am no exception, but I bypass this moment by increasing the density of air in a certain volume and precisely controlling the outgoing stream of magic from the wand, which wraps itself around this particular volume, not trying to dissipate through all the air.
A wave of the wand, holding the necessary formulas of transfiguration and fixing it in the head, and a wide and flat metal bracelet of mirror-clean processing fell onto the bed. Climbing off the bed onto the floor, I rolled my improvised anvil on wheels out from under it, put the bracelet on it, took the sledgehammer in my hands and… Put it aside. Need to make a new one, and then think about a universal one, on which it will be possible to replace the striking plane with imprints of the runes or contours I need. But for now, I'll have to create a new hammer.
I decided to pull the contour that I will "hammer" into the bracelet from the elf's memory, or rather, use a simplified version of Minor Purification, combining it with hex deflection and warming. It's not particularly difficult, just need to visualize them, connect the necessary figures and runes, as I did to create my modified Minor Purification, and embed them into the striking part of the hammer. On the other side of the hammer will be that same dwarven rune script, which during the hammer blow passes energy through it, "hammering" the effect embedded in the imprint into the workpiece. Amusing, by the way, is that in the course of such work with artifacts, the workpiece is covered as if by laser engraving, only deep—hence the sparks flying from under the hammer. And even more amusing is that the more beautiful, correct, and qualitative the engraving, the higher the quality of the artifact and charms.
Looking at the resulting hammer, I aimed at the bracelet blank. A swing, a blow—sparks and ringing, and a strong vibration went through my hand. It seemed even the walls rang. Still, gnomes knew a lot about construction, and vibrations from their activities and magic never moved along the walls.
Taking the bracelet in my hands, I couldn't hold back a satisfied nod, although the gnome shard was unhappy with minor flaws—not ideal, you see! But for the ideal, a very precise recalculation of contours specifically for such a manufacturing method is needed, and I don't know how to do this—it's not in memory. No, and that's it. And how to come to this is also unknown to me for now.
Checking the bracelet, I understood where the flaw lies—not particularly good energy efficiency. But here you need to understand what to compare with. For locals, it generally works, as they say, on the Holy Spirit, but for an elf or a gnome, it would seem somewhat gluttonous. What can you say here? Different realities, different needs, different standards.
Putting the bracelet into the inner pocket of my robe, I hid everything under the bed and went out of the room. The first stage is complete.
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