The Sunday after the match began with very light, but tangible glimmers of fame, if one could call it that.
If before I was just another comrade to the House—someone you could help and who would help you if needed—now people would smile when meeting me, or give a thumbs-up. But, of course, without excess. Before the Sorting, based on the information available, one might have formed the impression that Hufflepuff is full of hyperactive brats who direct all their energy into friendship and every possible violation of personal space.
No, that is not the case. Here, they are "friends" with you exactly as much as you are ready to be friends yourself.
In general, no special attention fell to my lot, and I was glad of it. That same morning, I wrote a letter to my parents, briefly describing my latest successes, my participation in the House Quidditch team, Quidditch itself, and, of course, magical medicine, albeit in a nutshell. From experience, I know it is better to worry about a known thing or fact than about the unknown. This time I sent the letter with Herbert's personal owl—at least I wouldn't have to wait until Monday breakfast to get a reply immediately.
After sending it and having breakfast in the Great Hall, I returned to the common room just to sit and come up with a plan of action for the day, since I hadn't set any specific goal for Sunday.
"Hi," Cedric approached me and sat on the sofa next to my armchair. "We need to talk."
The Prefect cast an anti-eavesdropping charm, the essence of which I had already understood—creating a field that distorts vibrations coming from inside. Or perhaps simply forbidding the outside from hearing what is spoken inside—magic is not obliged to repeat physical manifestations. Something a priori incapable of existing can well be created. Or perhaps knowledge of the world is not deep enough to correlate the magical effect with a physical phenomenon.
"Hi, Cedric. Did something happen?"
"Not exactly. There is interest in your pendants outside the school."
"Are they that good?"
"Stability and extremely low magic consumption," Cedric nodded. "Basically, a polar expedition is being gathered here."
"Well, well," I leaned forward, showing genuine interest.
"It seems one of the children, or children of the organizers' relatives, studies at Hogwarts. Anyway, they are interested in either buying a batch of thirty pieces or the possibility of creating something for their needs."
"Wait, can I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"Is there nowhere to buy something like this in the country?"
"The creation of such things hasn't really taken root in European countries, nor in America. As I understand it," Cedric leaned back on the sofa, "it is easier for our wizards to learn a couple of charms and reapply them periodically than to learn to create more stable and permanent artifacts. Or to pay big money for them—it's a bespoke, expensive product. Such things, in case of emergency, are bought from Asian manufacturers—that theme is popular there. But it is expensive. Really expensive. And here there is an opportunity to save money. Asian goods, you know, aren't eternal either."
"Yeah… This isn't a cheap English knock-off, but a genuine Chinese original," I couldn't hold back the thought aloud, causing Cedric's bewilderment. "Sorry, Muggle humor about the poor quality of Chinese technology."
"Indeed, you need to be in the loop for that."
"True, but let's get back to artifacts. Strange. I thought such things should be popular."
"At school," Cedric nodded. "I used to travel a lot with my father. We are a settled people. We furnish the house ourselves, enchant what is needed, and the methods of recharging and collecting magic for their work are quite simple. You can stabilize the enchantment with runes so that it works for quite a long time. And we try to build houses close to places with natural magic. And if you are going somewhere—enchant what you need, it will be enough for a couple of weeks or even a month."
"But there are long-playing artifacts, so to speak."
"Of course. Custom work, or Charms Masters try their hand, like Flitwick. The problem is that such Masters won't trifle with trifles, making high-quality and reliable pendants just with the function of maintaining temperature. There are few such wizards, they make exclusive items, very long and in single copies. And there is also all sorts of low-class consumer goods. But if you think about it, it is in circulation only at large events, or where there are children. A bunch of different things are sold in Hogsmeade, as well as in Diagon Alley. But these are not particularly complex crafts, and some, for example, Omnioculars, are generally ordinary binoculars with a couple of enchanted lenses and other parts that will live for three or four years without maintenance. All this is at the level of school crafts."
"It's clear that nothing is clear. I will rejoice that they came with money specifically to us, and I won't go into details. So what are the requirements of those respectable wizards? But I can also just make pendants."
"I was given a list," Cedric took a rolled-up parchment from the inner pocket of his robe and handed it to me. "Here."
I detected no magic in it and took it in my hands.
"Read it later," the Prefect stopped me.
"Hmm. Amusing," I put the scroll in my pocket. "I wonder, since I am so unique in my kind, and you are my intermediary, doesn't the desire to profit arise?"
"Nah," Cedric waved it off with a smile. "I get my five percent for keeping your secret. Minimum work. No responsibility. There is money for pocket expenses. Not to mention that if you decide to develop in this area, then my percentages will become 'heavier', and in the future, a good comrade is solid pluses. And the thirst for momentary profit is a harmful thing."
"Clear," I smiled in response to such a speech. A logical speech. "I'll read it today and can say if I'll do it, or if we'll manage with pendants."
"I'll say right away. For the implementation of their requirements, they will give much more."
"And everyone will be better off for it."
"You bet," Cedric smirked. "The twins will be halfway to their dream. Believe me, they are ready to pray to Merlin or Mordred right now that the unknown DIY-er has enough brains to implement the idea."
"Well… I don't know what they dream of, but it requires considerable money, as I understand."
"Their own shop in Diagon Alley. And yes, considerable."
Cedric went about his business, and I decided to visit the library, but not for the standard digging up of information on certain wizarding families. This business, of course, is interesting and useful, and I managed to learn a lot of interesting things about a couple of dozen families—it is amazing how closely financial and social ties can intertwine, and in just two or three "business handshakes" connect two feuding families so that they don't even know about indirectly common interests.
So, thoughts about families aside—today only magic and sorcery!
Walking a couple of meters along the castle corridors, I thought about Dementors again. In essence, they are here for protection. However, considering the fact of Sirius Black's penetration into the castle, they are mediocre guards. But they interfere with life significantly. To destroy or not? A difficult question, actually—Ministry of Magic property, after all.
Only at the library doors did I manage to come up with a plan that provides for a lot—I will make a bow!
"Good morning, Madam Pince," I greeted the librarian, who looked at me sternly.
"Good morning, Mr. Granger. As always, periodicals? Social, or scientific?"
"By no means, Madam," I smiled. "This time I am puzzled by something else."
"Is that so? And what is the essence?"
"I need to draw up a plan to turn me-the-student into a high-class me-the-Healer. For this, I would like to compile a list of disciplines necessary for study, both school and general, the depth of their study, and, accordingly, compile a list of necessary literature."
In Madam Pince's gaze, distinct and very fast work of well-oiled gears-thoughts could be read. It seems my request did not surprise her, but is it strange? After all, what don't young wizards ask?
"Follow me," the librarian said dryly, coming out from behind the counter, and, as always, completely without looking whether the student in my person is following her or not.
As soon as we reached the first row of bookcases, Madam Pince pointed to the left.
"Charms…" and went on.
"Transfiguration…" pointed to another row of cabinets in another aisle, continuing to walk.
"Potions…"
"Herbology," Madam Pince stopped and turned to me. "These are the basic subjects necessary to get close to the beginning of Healer training. They will be required one way or another, in an in-depth form, throughout the path of becoming one. Next…"
The librarian went between the rows of cabinets again, and students flashing with books now and then paid absolutely no attention to us.
"Human Anatomy and Physiology…" Madam Pince pointed once again, but not at the cabinet in general, but at a specific shelf.
"Basic Alchemy…"
"Basic theory of Malificism…"
"Theory of creation or modification of charms and spells…"
We approached large open doors, behind which was another section of the library, but it was noticeably smaller.
"The Restricted Section. Here, Mr. Granger, are potential dangers for the caster, or for the object of magic, knowledge. Knowledge, both in the already designated disciplines, and in the following necessary for you: Ritual Magic, Dark Magic, Malificism, Blood Magic."
"Not bad…"
"Precisely, Mr. Granger. Access to the Restricted Section for independent study can be obtained by the personal order of the Headmaster, starting from the sixth year. Or in the seventh year and strictly to those books indicated by the teacher who wrote the pass."
"And if I am a personal apprentice of one of the teachers?"
"In that case, the rules provide for access to educational material at the discretion of your teacher."
"Thank you, Madam Pince."
"Don't mention it, it's my job."
The librarian quickly went about her business, leaving me in light thoughtfulness. Strictly technically, I can heal thanks only to Life energy and a couple of healing magical contours preserved in my memory. Using universal rules for composing contours, one can create new ones, like a constructor set, only I don't have cubes, and the method of reverse engineering in this matter is far from the most reliable. I would even say, the most unreliable.
Returning to the beginning of the library, I decided to study basic subjects for now. Yes, the school course, apparently, in addition to instilling psychological switches "can/cannot," develops skills in working with a wand, skills in working with ingredients, skills in working with arithmancy formulas, skills in combining imagination with formulas and everything else… In general, any Professor, before opening access to knowledge in the Restricted Section for me, will check the development of precisely these skills in the form of mastering the school curriculum, the maturity of the personality and "moral compass," as well as aspiration, desire to learn along with at least some talent.
Consequently, despite my ability to create what and how I want on neutral energy, I need to learn and work out the local style of using this energy. And… And check something—the influence of one or another energy on local sorcery. But I will do this in the common room, using the most accessible—Fire energy.
I took the first book on Charms from the shelf and sat at the table, opening the very first page. Brains started working, eyes ran over the text, absorbing the meaning of what was said at high speed, and my thoughts returned to another topic—the bow!
Why did I decide to make a bow, and moreover, a real elven one? It's long. Two months will pass, no less. This will give the Ministry time to catch Black already and lead the Dementors away. In that case, I can leave them alone with a clear conscience in the near future—in the long run, I will destroy them anyway. On the other hand, I will "self-deceive" myself that here, I am preparing punishment for Dementors, not sitting idle, all that stuff. But if the Dementors are not removed… Ooh, the elf shard is already chuckling maliciously, anticipating hunting flying undead. Hunting with a bow. In the forest.
Strictly theoretically, one can create an artifact network for the entire district and simply "burn out" the Dementors. But such a magical feat will stir up the English swamp with such force that I definitely won't see a quiet life. But the extermination of Dementors one by one—will only slightly alarm, because such a thing may well be within the power of a native of one of the oldest wizarding families in England, who were famous for their indomitable temper, Dark and Combat magic. But simultaneous extermination of Dementors over a huge area is a reason to find the culprit at any cost and, ideally, bury them.
And running through the forest with a bow is good physical exercise and moral rest.
So, what do I need for a bow…
"So," Daphne's voice sounded nearby. "You plan to become a Healer after all?"
"Eavesdropping?" I turned to the black-haired girl who sat down nearby.
"Became an involuntary witness to your conversation."
Daphne put a rather large tome on the table and opened it in the middle, starting to read. Reading, and silent. Okay…
"A-and?.."
Daphne turned her head in my direction, smiling.
"So you will need to learn Potions at a very, very decent level."
"Suppose."
"And you will need access to the Restricted Section. Of course, if you don't want to wait until the end of Hogwarts, look for a mentor…" Daphne thought. "And that will be very difficult with your origin."
"Yeah?"
"Don't get me wrong, but what can be taken from you for training?"
"Fair."
"If it works out, go as an apprentice to Professor Snape," Daphne finished her thought importantly.
"What is your benefit, Greengrass?"
"Besides a proven partner?" Daphne made an innocent face, which looked inappropriate.
"Am I a good partner?"
"Better than an absent one," she proudly turned up her nose.
"Clear. And you want me, like you, to become Snape's apprentice? Don't want to do potions alone? And why, by the way, potions specifically?"
Daphne looked at me like a clinical idiot, graciously starting to explain her position.
"Potions are fascinating, magnificent, incredible. Charms, spells, Transfiguration, Dark Magic—it's all dull and boring."
"Really?"
"As father used to say: 'Sooner or later you will come to the fact that words, gestures, all these dances with a wand—all this is empty. Real magic is in our heads'," Daphne tapped her temple with a finger.
"Amusing conclusions."
"You came to them yourself," Daphne clearly wanted to poke me with a finger, but changed her mind. "Any magical manipulation without words is already a sign of maybe unconscious, but understanding."
"You speak smoothly," I smiled, at which Daphne frowned almost imperceptibly.
"Father's words. He said that at the moment a human is too stupid to realize even a tenth of his potential in magic."
"And potions?"
"But potions are not like that," Daphne even brightened for a moment, quickly returning to her low-emotional mask. "Imagine that ingredients, methods of their preparation, laying order, temperature, and other factors are wand waves, words, images, and formulas."
"Imagined."
"With time, with practice, a wizard can cast aside the components of sorcery, leaving the necessary image and desire to realize it. With potions, this will not work. With experience, you can find more correct ways of preparation, learn small nuances and secrets. But you cannot cast aside a part of the ingredients or stages of preparation."
"Understood. You want to do what requires mastery, experience, and a lot of applied effort?"
"Yes, but don't get me wrong," Daphne stared to the side, smiling slightly.
It turned out to be unexpectedly funny to watch this girl diligently imitating elders stingy with emotions, perhaps parents. For the sake of etiquette? Or what is the point? Among elves, for example, it was polite to have at least three masks in one's arsenal: political, social, and for the inner circle. You never know what quirks the local social-financial elite has? And the fact that the Greengrass family belongs to such, there is no doubt—one of the oldest, by no means poor, and with a sufficient level of influence.
"I am still amazed by the magnificence of mother's grace when she casts spells with a wand, the economy and efficiency of father's movements," she spoke, and even waved her hand in the air a couple of times, demonstrating these "grace" and "economy". "But with my mind, I understand that no matter how beautiful the crutches are, they remain just crutches."
Daphne shifted her gaze to me.
"Crutches designed to compensate for the wretchedness of our mind. It is depressing."
"In much wisdom is much grief."
On this note, we began to read each our own book, paying no attention to students occasionally passing by, busy with self-education.
"Hey, Hector!" Herbert said quite loudly, coming out from behind the cabinets, holding a letter in his hand.
"Quiet there!" came Madam Pince's shout from the library entrance. "Otherwise, you won't see the path to the abode of knowledge!"
"You got a reply," Herbert, pale in the face, handed me the letter and hurried to leave.
My parents wrote that they are happy with my successes, but worry about my fitness for sports competitions, and both about the degree of their danger and the effectiveness of local medicine. True, at the end of the letter there is a postscript clearly from my father, saying: "Son, of course, well done, and your dad in his youth didn't spare himself either. But weigh the risks against the possibility of curing the injuries received without consequences. Like, from his own experience, dad knows how an insignificant injury can put an end to the road of adventure."
"Daphne-Daphne-Look-what-I-found-out!" a completely happy cute little angel girl, clearly from the first year, issued in a single merged phrase, appearing suddenly even for me. "Oh…"
A moment of confusion and embarrassment passed unnoticed, replaced by a fairly successful attempt to put a mask of aristocratic coldness on her face, and only the book pressed tighter to her chest betrayed slight nervousness. Yes, definitely, among the local social elite, this is one of the points included in the list of "claims to aristocracy".
"Who is this loveliest young lady?" I immediately inquired.
"Oh, in much wisdom is much grief," Daphne artistically mimicked me.
"You force me to strain my memory… Hmm… Astoria Greengrass, if I'm not mistaken?"
"Correct," the blond first-year nodded importantly.
"Hector Granger, at your service."
"Heard of you," the girl nodded.
"Only good things, I hope?"
"Don't even hope," Daphne shook her head. "You occupy the second place in Malfoy's personal list, and every evening in the common room he pays attention to your person almost on a par with Potter. Of course, only slander."
"I would still think about it if Lucius Malfoy spoke badly of me. But Draco's opinion does not interest me at all."
"Hmm," Astoria turned up her nose, clearly harboring sympathy for Draco Malfoy.
"Well, ladies, lunch is soon, and I don't want to miss it," I closed the book and got up from the table.
"See you," Daphne nodded, and Astoria sat down next to her sister, waiting for me to leave their company.
Quickly returning to the cabinet, from the shelf of which I took the book, returned it to its place and left the library, pondering whether to grow the bow in a pot, or somewhere outside? Both options have their pros and cons, but the most difficult thing is creating the bowstring. Maybe I should ask Professor Hagrid? He is, of course, a very "not very" Professor, but as a connoisseur of all living things, he is known to anyone at Hogwarts and to some extent, even an authority. Well, for those who do not consider it shameful to recognize the experience and opinion of a forester.
But my reflections were ruthlessly interrupted.
"Hector, wait!"
Turning to the voice, I saw Hermione hurriedly catching up with me, holding a ginger cat in her arms.
"Hi, Mione. Cute kitty."
"Yes, hi, thanks," she exhaled, drawing level with me. "I wanted to talk to you."
"Oh, talk. I'm going to lunch. You with me?"
"Yes."
It took Hermione a few steps to gather her spirit, or gather courage, or whatever she was doing there. But her cat was funny and caused tenderness with its aggressive Persian muzzle and thick red fur.
"Hector, I understand everything…" Hermione began, stroking the cat pressed to her chest with her hand. "But Quidditch is a damn dangerous sport. Did you think about how, after all these years, our parents will react to such an idea? How they will worry…"
"They'll react normally," I shrugged. "I wrote to them about my participation in the team. They are worried about whether they can cure my injuries if I get them."
"How terrible… You wrote to parents about Quidditch? And about the risks?" Hermione would have stopped dead in her tracks if she didn't want to walk side by side with me. "You can't do that…"
"But your friend Harry can?"
"That's different."
"Because he's an orphan and there's no one to worry about him?"
"Hector Granger!" Hermione froze in place, shaking her mop of unruly hair, looking at me with a terribly serious gaze. "This is all wrong. You just recovered, and you are already putting yourself in danger, flying on a broom and playing Quidditch. And what kind of broom is this anyway? It is clearly not licensed by the Ministry, which means it can be dangerous, and generally, illegal."
I took her by the elbow and led her further, to the Great Hall, and other students already began to appear on the way.
"Your manner of showing concern, sis, is simply terrifying," a smirk crawled onto my face by itself.
"Nothing terrifying."
"Even your cat looks at you reproachfully."
"No such thing, right, Crookshanks?" Hermione looked at the cat in her embrace, but he made the most arrogant face possible. Although, in fairness, Persians and the like always have such faces.
"If I didn't remember you from early childhood, I would have answered you very sharply to such criticism. I could have made counter-accusations of carelessness, because with my appearance, students in the common room quietly discussed a lot."
"For example?"
"For example: 'Is this the brother of that Granger who decided to defeat a mountain troll on her own in the first year?'."
"But that's not true!" Hermione was indignant.
"But something similar happened, right? But it doesn't matter. I am absolutely healthy and despite the slight thinness that is almost gone, well prepared for physical exertion. We can go to Madam Pomfrey, and she will confirm my words. The broom is licensed and legal, but has not yet entered the English markets, and will not enter in the coming year. I fly it as a promotional campaign, showing its qualities."
"Listen, Mione. I'll be honest. I don't like your friends in the person of Potter and Weasley, but these are your friends, your interests, and your hobbies. Right or wrong are subjective questions, and it is not for me to judge. So can I hope that you won't judge me either? This is our choice, and even if it is wrong, neither you nor I will extract experience from it if we cannot follow this choice. Follow and get our own bumps on this path."
"But Quidditch is still very dangerous."
"The possibilities of magical medicine are amazing, you know yourself. The field is enchanted against truly terrible injuries, and everything else is treated in a day or two. I'm more likely to break my neck on our moving staircases with vanishing steps than at a match."
"Come to think of it, I didn't even think about the stairs," Hermione plunged into her thoughts, and her cat threw back his head, looking somehow even anxiously into her eyes.
"Don't worry," I hugged this curly misunderstanding. "Your younger brother is not going to cause you trouble at all, and you won't have to rake up a bunch of problems after me. Your brother is quite reasonable."
"But… And this too. Does not fit in my head… How?"
"How should I know? I, actually, am also aware that this shouldn't be happening. Hi, Susan," I waved my hand to the red-haired girl descending the stairs on the flight we were passing.
"Hi, Hector… Hermione," she slowed down on my sister's name, but quickly "made up" for lost time, and went further, overtaking us.
"Don't worry about me," I said again. "And I'm not going to interfere in your fascinating magical life."
We reached the Great Hall, and only at its doors did Hermione politely release her arm.
"Honestly speaking," she looked at me, stopping halfway to the Hufflepuff table. "I don't know what to say. I have no idea what one is supposed to say in such cases at all."
"Is that why you're not in a hurry to communicate?"
"No, no, what do you mean," Hermione was somewhat feignedly indignant, squeezing the red cat tighter in her embrace. "I just have a lot of things to do, classes, subjects, homework…"
"Okay, don't worry. Look, your comrades are already at the table, join them…"
Hermione quickly ran to her table, and I sat at mine—lunch won't eat itself, whatever anyone thinks.
After lunch, I went to Madam Sprout, who could most likely be found in the greenhouses. Of course, I found her there, asking for a little soil, literally for one large pot, which I transfigured on a permanent basis. To the logical question: "Why?", I answered, saying, I would like to grow something non-dangerous and simple. As a personal experience. Of course, they poured me some soil, and I left the greenhouses, returning to the common room, and then to our room, locking myself in my nook.
The matter here is simple, you only need to find at least something vegetable or just living soil, and sprout it, using the simplest and crammed magic formula, flavored with banal desire and will. Of course, the latter takes place only if the elf has a good, and most importantly, initiated affinity with Life, but I didn't perform such manipulations with myself for nothing, right?
I laid my hands on the pot in the most natural way, you can't say otherwise, and began to project a simple plant growth stimulation contour—any elf knows it from the cradle and uses it actively. Directing a little Life energy into the soil in the pot, I activated the contour. With the naked eye, one could notice how something moved in the ground and froze—I gave only a push for development. Directing neutral energy, I generously flavored it with a precise volitional message containing information about exactly what I want to get. As a result, over time, a tree in the shape of a bow should grow—handle, limbs, all that stuff. Now this matter needs only to be fed with magic sometimes for two months, and a beautiful elven bow will grow from the ground in the pot!
How delusional…
So, what is the project Cedric gave me?
Taking the parchment out of my pocket, I unfolded it and began to read, and the further I read, the more I came into a state of mild shock.
A portable thing capable of deploying a microclimate field over an area with a radius of fifty meters, with protection from ordinary people, tracking devices, and other means of detection? It would be easier to scan the principle of operation of the transition to another slice of reality in Diagon Alley!!!
So… Need to think. Pity that Cedric didn't specify the exact price, but I think it will be considerable, and that makes me happy. Well, gnome shard, rejoice, for we shall forge all sorts of crap until victory!
Only remains to come up with what exactly to forge into objects.
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