We stopped on the second floor. There were three doors here, two of which were opposite each other and a window opposite the stairs, from which one could climb onto the roof of the ground floor. The dwarf shard resented such an architectural solution, and the general layout was drawn in the head as we climbed. Well, it's hard to please a dwarf at all: if above ground, then a monumental fortress; if underground—then grandiose halls, the height of the vaults of which seemed to compensate for the short stature of the inhabitants. And here everything... Handmade and not according to technology, and although at first glance the structure did not look reliable, some instinct suggested that the house is capable of withstanding very, very much, and even not a single plank will creak and certainly not crack. Magic!
"Here, dearie," Mrs. Weasley smiled at me, pointing to the right door. "Room of Charlie, our second son."
Mrs. Weasley opened the door in front of me. Quite a pleasant room. There is all the furniture that might be needed, everything is decent. Like downstairs, in the hall, space is used maximally, and on the walls there are shelves for books as well as for various trifles. Here, for example, are figures of animals. But there is one wall where there are only many high-quality sketches in pencil or in color—magical animals. Many are drawn in different poses, movements, demonstrating habits in one situation or another. There were even captions, what exactly the situation is.
"Opposite—Bill's room, our eldest. You can't enter there, and it won't work anyway. He is now in Egypt, working as a curse breaker, and went to this position for a long time. So in his room—it's like a minefield. We locked it out of harm's way."
"Good, thank you," I smiled.
Mrs. Weasley and Hermione left me to settle in, and went upstairs themselves. putting the backpack on the chair by the table, inspected the made bed—everything is excellent. Around, by the way, not a trace of dust—it seems, even in such a trifle it didn't go without magic. Approaching the window, opened the sashes for fresh air access. The view from here, of course, is beautiful. Green fields, groves, forests, hills.
From somewhere outside, Khrustik flew up unnoticed and sat on the windowsill. In his paw he held a small note, which he immediately handed to me, jumped in place, turning one hundred and eighty degrees, like some sparrow, and flew away. To walk, hunt some trifle—doesn't matter.
The note was from Cedric. The prefect was glad that I appeared in the access zone. He wrote to me a couple of times, wanted to discuss something, but I was in France, and in the end he decided to write a couple of days before the "event". What event? No idea. Somehow I don't follow "events". In general, he suggested meeting today at about four at the Weasley house—he knows where it is.
Ten minutes later, when I unpacked my things and put something in a completely free closet, Mrs. Weasley looked into the open door.
"You wanted to know why there are no problems with food, right?"
"Yes, ma'am, that would be great. It's useful knowledge."
"Then, follow me. I'll tell you just as I prepare lunch. And need to attend to dinner..."
We went down to the ground floor, and went into the kitchen. Well, like "kitchen"—the structure of the hall on the ground floor itself implies combining rooms into one around a large brick fireplace, but I noticed that anyway. But zoning here is quite understandable. There is a hallway, and the door there is quite decent. True, at the same time there is an exit to the backyard, and there the door is simple and with a window.
The kitchen zone, also the dining room, is a dark green corner set close to the fireplace, and even partially built inside—cutting table, cabinets, stove, sink. There are two of them here, by the way, and judging by everything, one for products, and the other, by the wall, for dishes. Above the set was a shelf with frying pans, pots, and other dishes for the stove, and even higher—various jars with spices. Bunches of all sorts of dried plants hung nearby, but everything was neat and didn't stand out too much.
Amusing to me seemed the large long dining table, and amusing in it was that all chairs are different. And there were quite a few of them here, as well as space at the table—guests are clearly loved here. Well or at least not against receiving these very guests.
"Sit down..."
Mrs. Weasley instantly organized milk and cookies for me, probably so that I sat, ate, kept silent, and listened. She herself undertook the preparation of products, mostly using magic, and not just hands and tools.
"Can't remember in which year the Multiplication Charm is studied," she spoke, and then thought. "And do they cover it at all? Well, doesn't matter. It, and all its modifications, has usual restrictions, like the impossibility of creating a copy of even a slightly magical object. Another restriction..."
Mrs. Weasley waved her wand, and a beef tenderloin lying on the board flew up a little into the air, and a film was deftly and cleanly removed from it, after which the tenderloin returned to the board.
"I have nothing to show on from products—everything has already been processed. By the way," Mrs. Weasley turned to me. "We have a rule in the house."
"Which one?" I didn't even bring the cookie to my mouth, freezing like that.
"Minors do not cast magic with us," Mrs. Weasley turned back to the cutting table, continuing product preparation. "Of course, I won't take away the wand, like from some particularly disobedient twins. I fully hope for understanding."
"This is not a problem, Mrs. Weasley."
"That's nice," judging by the voice, she clearly smiled. "So... Where was I? Ah, yes, the Multiplication Charm. The original spell makes copies worse in quality than the item. But you can't do that with food, right? So they came up with a modification for raw products..."
Eating offered cookies and washing them down with milk, I watched Mrs. Weasley's work, and most importantly, multitasking—simultaneously she did very much, although some spells seemed to do everything for her, but it's not so. Watched and listened about magic that is capable of feeding at least a slightly hardworking wizard without any problems. The essence is that the spell for multiplying raw products makes excellent copies of products, but on a minimum of seventh, and a maximum of ninth copying, the original product sharply deteriorates in quality, and the copies themselves do not withstand even two copyings, and sometimes even one. Superimpose on this also that the original product must be completely non-magical, and we get obvious restrictions: number of copies and the need to grow the product without magic.
"...That's why we have chickens, sitting, laying," Mrs. Weasley told, and my cookies were almost running out. "Several myceliums in the cellar under the stairs, over there. Our own vegetable garden."
"Whe-e-e-e," a receding squeak was heard from the window open to the backyard.
"Three points to his team brings George!" shouted fervently, it seems, one of the twins.
"Haven't forgotten, rascals," smiled Mrs. Weasley, "about de-gnoming the garden."
"De-gnoming?" I almost choked on milk.
"Yes. Garden gnomes—small magical root crops, similar to ugly little men. Sometimes have to lure them out and throw them outside the garden so they know their place."
"Um... Isn't it easier to, you know..."
Mrs. Weasley turned to me, and I noticed just a bunch of dishes and products prepared for frying, boiling, and baking.
"But they are useful for the garden, dearie," the woman smiled. "Now if magical herbs and plants grew there, then yes—exterminate the colony at the root. But as it is, they seek out magical weeds and generally, everything magical, absorb magic, and this makes the garden completely non-magical..."
"And products can be multiplied," I nodded understandingly.
"Precisely!" Mrs. Weasley shook her index finger in the air instructively and with a smile. "True, they also eat radishes, but I grow it just for them."
"Clear... And what about meat?"
Mrs. Weasley put a baking sheet with two large specially prepared and pre-fried tenderloins with mushrooms, bacon, cheese, and spices into the oven.
"And neighbors deal with this. Somehow it happened with us that everyone deals with their products, and then we just exchange them. Of course, some special things have to be bought, like magical spices that simply refuse to grow with us."
"Big difficulties with meat?"
"Of course!" Mrs. Weasley checked if everything is cooking as it should, and stood half-turned to me, glancing at frying pans and pots, periodically stirring either with a spatula or magic with the help of a wand. "To slaughter an animal so that without magic, and so that it doesn't understand that it is dying, is not given to everyone. Also need to grow correctly, so they are more active. I, here, don't succeed at all..."
Mrs. Weasley shook her head.
"With magic—no problem."
Outside again a receding "Whe-e-e-e" was heard, again noise and din, and Mrs. Weasley continued the thought.
"And if the animal is slaughtered with stress, then you won't make good sausages, and in some other dishes both taste and juiciness are lost. Broth-fat edema, heard of such?"
"Yes, heard somewhere out of the corner of my ear, Mrs. Weasley. But there, sort of, phosphates can be used..."
"Ah," she waved it off, returning to stirring. "Some Muggle chemistry conflicts with magical spices and herbs. Phosphates included. At least that's what the Fawcetts say, and I tried myself. There are a couple of herbs, of course, which allow both taste to be preserved and juiciness, but they have a completely unacceptable aroma and aftertaste."
Mrs. Weasley looked at me with some doubt, as if looking for something in the face.
"Probably shouldn't have talked about slaughter to a child. Got carried away."
"No, what do you mean, this is useful and necessary information."
"Well, thank Merlin," she exhaled. "Otherwise city folks usually worry a lot when they learn about such things. As if sausage comes from nowhere by itself, or generally grows on a tree!"
Indignation at the last phrase caused a smile in me. Generally, even an elf is informed about the subtleties of animal husbandry, and without any doubt I can say that it is by no means simple. Yes-yes, a big misconception to think that elves don't eat meat—they eat and how! And value not so much life as a fact, but energy and reason. But these questions may seem contradictory even to me myself, and better not recall details—I'll get confused in my own opinions and conclusions.
Sitting at the table, I decided to pay more attention to things around, but my gaze quickly "stuck" to the amusing clock. Many hands on the dial were made in the form of spoons with photos of family members, and the dial itself showed not time, but the state of the person. "At work," "At home," "At school," "In prison"—there were quite a few such states. Here, for example, Mrs. Weasley and the twins were engaged in "Household chores," Ron—idleness. Two guys unknown to me "At work," like Percy Weasley, who already found a job. In general, to find out who is where—is not difficult.
Soon the food was ready, through the doors to the backyard the twins and gloomy Ron returned to the house.
"Mom!" the twins spoke in unison. "We're all..."
"...played enough Quidditch..."
"...threw enough gnomes..."
"...taught Ron sense."
"Fools," grumbled Ron.
Mrs. Weasley immediately turned to them.
"Go wash your hands and call Ginny and Hermione from upstairs."
"Hermione?" Ron was surprised, and here they noticed me.
"Oh! Fred," one of the twins nudged the other in the side. "Look..."
"...what stars came to visit us..."
"Hi, guys," I waved my hand, smiling affably. "How's the weather outside?"
"Wonderful!" the twins answered simultaneously.
"So-so," Ron waved his hand.
"Boys, I asked," Mrs. Weasley looked at them strictly.
"Already-already..."
They quickly rushed upstairs, and returned no less quickly. The twins immediately gave me a tour of the house, showing where the toilet, bathroom, and all that similar stuff is—the table is just being set anyway. And a couple of minutes later we were all sitting at the table. From Ginny I received an ordinary "Hi," but nothing surprising here—we crossed paths only once. But Hermione, it seems, really communicates well with her. Now, when I had both Ginny and her mother before my eyes, I understood from whom the small redhead got such a correct oval face, as well as no less correct features. It turns out, brothers are angular in English like father. Although... Twins also took after mother.
Just as Mrs. Weasley set the table, and even Hermione's cat got raw minced meat in a bowl, the door to the backyard opened, revealing a slightly stout red-haired elderly wizard in a suit and a green robe-cloak.
"Hello, family," he smiled, passing inside.
"Hello, Dad," the redheads answered in unison.
The man briskly put the bag by the cabinets, took off the robe, sat at the head of the table and without any wand applied magic to clean hands.
"Can you imagine, with this Championship so much work, exhausted. Percy runs non-stop too, like Mr. Crouch."
"Here, dear," Mrs. Weasley put a plate with food in front of her husband, and this is exactly him.
"Oh, thanks. Well, enjoy..."
Mr. Weasley looked around everyone present, and his gaze stopped on me. A couple of seconds, and he asked with a light kind smile:
"And who are you?"
"Hector Granger, sir."
"Ah-h, Hermione's brother," he nodded, and began cutting meat on a common plate so that everyone could take a piece. "The boys talked a lot about you, and in the Quidditch shop your moving photos with Sleipnir. It's very cool to fly at the level of the second class at your age. And significant victories."
"Thank you, sir."
"It's all because of the broom," grumbled Ron, enthusiastically putting food on his plate. "If I had such a broom, I would generally..."
"Kill yourself against the first wall," the twins finished for him in unison.
"Boys!" Mrs. Weasley was indignant.
"Sorry, Mom," one of the twins apologized, and the second looked at Ron.
"You, brother, don't want to say anything to anyone?"
"Right! Hermione, I was wrong accusing Crookshanks."
"A-and?" Hermione drawled, and others watched with expectation.
"And that's it," Ron nodded.
"Brother Fred..."
"Yes, Brother George?"
"Don't you think that Ronnikins is somewhat..."
"...Hopeless? Don't think so. I know it."
"Oh, go away," Ron pouted.
Parents of this red brotherhood shook their heads sadly and with reproach.
"This is not right, guys," Mr. Weasley spoke up, looking at everyone. "When friends quarrel. But, let's not talk about bad things, and enjoy wonderful cooking."
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