Friday, September third. Only the second school day, but already the last in this week, because Saturday, as I found out, involves classes 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 find information. I suppose such a decision is caused by the necessity to get used to the castle first of all, excluding idle wanderings and searching for trouble; a similar tactic was chosen regarding first-years. Well, nothing can be done about it, and I am not in a hurry to sign up anywhere for now.
The morning, like yesterday, began with waking up, a light elven warm-up resembling somewhat unusual Wushu. And, 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.
Having collected things in accordance with the schedule for today, we successfully left the room, and in the House common room, some kind of bacchanalia was already happening. Everyone sneezed and coughed, and around there was clearly magical blue fog, in which a multitude of sparks twinkled quietly. The fog was localized only in the far corner, occupying a quarter of the common room, and having observed what was happening for a second, one could draw conclusions that those who sneezed and coughed were those who tried to remove this fog.
"Just lack concentration and will," noted someone from the seniors, possibly from the 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 your own. At least, without preparation. But the very crumbs of its movement in space can be caught. Plumes of this very magic from the senior's wand enveloped the entire fog and literally began to erase it from reality, and visually it looked as if the fog shrank very quickly, but did not change density, and disappeared.
"Nothing critical," noted a girl, also from the seniors, who had already begun to examine 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 one needs to handle volatile powdered ingredients as carefully as possible, applying a special approach for each."
The unlucky 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, waved a finger instructively at the first-years, and moved toward our company.
"Hi, folks," he smiled.
We greeted him out of sync, 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 to approach you with questions about passing one of these days, when I visit the subjects at least once."
"Clear. Come tomorrow, on Saturday, at ten in the morning to the Quidditch pitch. Our team gathers there. Worth making sure that over the summer we didn't forget how to fly brooms and play. At the same time, we'll find out how quickly you can get comfortable on a broom."
"Agreed," mirroring the prefect's smile, I nodded.
"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. Greeting the girls, we wanted to go further with our male company 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 moved briskly along the castle corridors.
"So it turns out," Justin pondered, which made him look even more like a rich movie villain. "You even have to pass Flying?"
"Yup."
"That might be a problem."
"And what is the problem here?" Ernie was surprised. "Sat on a broom, and flew."
"That is for you, who have been in the magical world since diapers," Justin shook his head. "But in childhood, I was into airplanes. Knew everything about them."
"Airplanes?" Hannah was surprised. "Are those big iron things with wings that fly in the sky?"
"Yes, big iron things with wings," nodded Justin, clearly not accepting such a description for aviation. "So I had problems with flying. I basically 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 did not fit in my head at all."
We arrived at breakfast again not first, but not last. Taking seats at the table, we received our portions of an already 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 again we had to study this subject all together. A couple of minutes before the start of the lesson, when everyone was seated in their places, Anthony Goldstein, a curly-haired blond from Ravenclaw, dared to ask a burning question:
"Professor McGonagall..." he raised his hand and stood up from his seat.
The professor, sitting at her desk and filling out some papers, raised her gaze at him over her glasses.
"Yes, Mr. Goldstein?"
"Why did all Houses start studying together in Potions and Transfiguration classes? Before, we were divided into two groups."
"Order of Headmaster Dumbledore, Mr. Goldstein," answered McGonagall, as if it were obvious.
"But the reasons?"
The quiet hum of conversations, behind which students spent time before the start of the class, 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 to speak clearly, as if by notes. "The schedule is introduced in 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 girl from Ravenclaw 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 that you have already felt insignificant changes. As if colors became less bright, habitual entertainments do not bring due pleasure, and oatmeal in the morning has become even more bland."
McGonagall's last phrase caused timid smiles from some present.
"And won't this burden you heavily? 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 only two Houses."
The professor glanced at the desk clock.
"Time to start the lesson."
Everyone immediately quieted down and focused, while I began to ponder the situation. Dementors really do influence the mind, but too insignificantly. On the other hand, if they stay here for half a year or a year, the cumulative effect might turn out to be significant already. Maybe it is worth thinking about protection from such influence? But in such things, specifics are important, good basic knowledge along with more specialized, clearly formed knowledge. And however I tried to stretch threads of associations through the memory of shards, and not only the elf, I stumbled upon emptiness; nothing to recall. Although there were moments when, it would seem, memories should lead somewhere, but everything cut off.
"Don't space out," Ernie Macmillan, who sat next to me, lightly nudged me with an elbow. "We haven't practiced transfiguration spells yet."
There is a share of common sense in Ernie's remark, for in the improvised courses on eliminating my illiteracy regarding practice in magic, we haven't touched upon 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 schemes to us. "Won't you share with us a topic so important that you considered it possible to ignore my lecture?"
"I beg your pardon, Professor," Ernie modestly looked down, causing quiet chuckles from those around.
Nothing changes. Dwarf, elf, human; students always find it funny if their colleague gets into such slight trouble.
"Mr. Granger?"
McGonagall looked at me with her strict gaze, in which almost imperceptibly was read: "Maybe you will answer?"
"We, Madam Professor, are concerned about the absence of any practice in transfiguration on my part."
"Good that you raised this topic yourself, Mr. Granger."
McGonagall waved her wand, and various objects flew out one by one from the doors to the room adjacent to the auditorium. Matches, glasses, pieces of wood, a mouse, a beetle, and other small things. Before they ended up on the desk in front of me, I already understood where things were going.
"As I know," McGonagall spoke when the objects landed on my desk. "You know the theory perfectly. Since transfiguration is a very dangerous direction of magic, you will practice the material covered by us here, in my presence, and not otherwise."
Nodding at the logic of such a move, I mentally agreed with the professor; the consequences of unsuccessful transfiguration, if one believes textbooks and banal logic, can, even 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. It will only remain to lie and slowly die from your unsuccessful experiments.
"If you manage without outside help," an imperceptible smile appeared on the professor's face, "to demonstrate all spells already covered by us during this lesson, as well as assimilate the topic of the current class, then you and your House will receive twenty points."
Other students immediately began to whisper, and the main leitmotif of these unrests was unprecedented generosity along with the incredible difficulty of the task. I could not help but notice mocking glances from some students from absolutely all Houses.
"In case of failure?" I could not help but learn about the reverse side of this coin.
"You and your House will lose five points," maintaining a strict expression on her face, but smiling only with her eyes, the professor answered.
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 proceeded to execution, 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 a wizard is simply obliged to have. Making the correct wave with the wand and holding the necessary transfiguration formula in my head, I pointed my magical instrument at the match. Magic stretched to it in a thin plume, enveloped, "walked" along the match, inside it and around, but nothing happened.
Waving once more, I added the image of a silver needle to the image of the formula in my head. Again nothing. Quiet chuckles from the Slytherins attracted my attention; Malfoy with his big comrades is chuckling, looking furtively at my attempts.