To my surprise, my non-confrontational colleagues from the House wanted to step forward and say something, but I hoped that I could stop this impulse with a gesture of one hand, and strangely enough, I succeeded.
"I was indeed sick, but look at yourself, heir," approaching closer, I looked at Malfoy with arrogant sadness and universal disappointment. "I stand here, healthy and sane, neat and polite, and you? What is this port loader jargon? What is this carelessly thrown-on robe, loosened tie, unbuttoned collar of a crumpled shirt?"
"My robe is worth more than everything you have," snapped Malfoy, who went red in spots.
Catching myself on the thought that this amuses me about as much as provoking Gryffindors amuses this blond, I continued:
"Indeed. I heard that a certain heir Malfoy is the unspoken leader of the House of the great Salazar Slytherin, where, one might say, the flower of the nation studies. The best of the best."
Such a change of topic knocked the guy off balance, but the words fell on the fertile soil of causeless pride, forcing him to almost turn up his nose.
"However, if a foul-mouthed and ill-bred loafer is recognized as the face of the House, then who are the rest, and are purebloods so good in principle?"
And again his mood changed, and I could not help but take advantage of the formed pause.
"Dragon dung can be packed in the best gift wrap, but the contents will not change from this, heir Malfoy."
"You..." the blond snatched out his wand and aimed it at me.
I did not undertake anything and did not even bat an eye, as they say. True, in my thoughts I held a construct for a protective barrier ready. Just in case. The other reason for my inaction was that one of the professors whom I saw at the feast sneaked up like a quiet shadow to our large company; all in black, black robe, with black greasy hair clearly treated with something. He loomed over Malfoy like a kite.
"What is happening here?" he asked in a quiet insinuating voice, and Malfoy immediately hurried to put away the wand.
"Nothing, Professor," I smiled sparingly. "We are simply communicating."
The professor looked at me with a sharp gaze of dark eyes.
"Mr. Granger. Haven't had time to enter, and already noticed in the process of creating problems."
He turned sharply, flaring the hem of his robe, and at the gesture of his hand, the large wooden door to the classroom flew open.
"Come in," he threw dryly and stood at the passage, drilling each entering person with a gaze.
As soon as we entered, Justin lightly nudged me in the side.
"Well, you certainly delivered."
"It just happened," I shrugged and began to look for a place for my beloved self.
The classroom was gloomy and cold. Tables of compatibility of various ingredients and other similar materials hung on the walls. Along the walls stood several cabinets with extremely unpleasant-looking glass flasks of different sizes, inside which floated various parts of diverse animals in a special solution. Most likely, there was a magical analog of formalin there.
Sharp vision and excellent memory allowed me to notice my cauldron on one of the tables for students. Yes, by appearance they were all identical, but somehow it happened that every chip and line from polishing on my cauldron was remembered, and they were all different; their production, although mass, is analogous to manual, as I see. Without thinking long, I sat at this table and began to lay out everything necessary for the Potions class from the backpack.
"Hector," Hermione sat down next to me very promptly, looking attentively into my eyes. "Do you know who I am?"
"That is the most magnificent question a brother can count on from a sister. Of course I know. And I even remember, albeit far from everything."
The girl got embarrassed but quickly decided to go on the attack while the rest were taking seats.
"I would like..."
"Miss Granger," the professor's voice rang out next to us. "Who allowed you to change seats in my lesson? Take your seat."
Hermione wanted to be indignant, but, apparently, the experience of communicating with this professor suggested to her that it is better not even to try. She moved dejectedly. I shifted my gaze to the professor and could not help but notice a brunette in a robe of Slytherin colors standing next to him. She perplexedly shifted her gaze from the place next to me to the professor.
"Do you need a special invitation, Miss Greengrass?" the professor inquired.
"But..."
"Did you not claim as recently as the last academic year that if you had a partner in Potions, you would never receive lower than 'Outstanding'?"
"I did."
"So do not waste my time and take your place next to your long-awaited partner for the next three years."
The professor immediately turned around and headed to the lectern. Students figured out who sits where with great difficulty. Those who were in prostration from such changes and could not find a place for themselves looked at the professor with a silent question, and he, like a highly experienced conductor, seated them with short gestures and glances. In principle, there was no special mixing of Houses. And in general, as I see, there are quite few of us; not even thirty people will gather. Even free places remained.
The brunette who sat next to me experienced clear and obvious dissatisfaction. It manifested at least in those jerky movements with which she took out the textbook, notebook, and parchment scroll. Good thing the inkwell for the quill already stood on the table, otherwise the ink would simply fly apart from such movements. Actually, besides this, there were cauldrons, cutting boards, silver and wooden tools on a special cloth, and wooden and translucent stirring rods for potions on the table.
"Hector Granger," I introduced myself, causing only a prickly return gaze of blue eyes from the brunette.
Silence. She sighed imperceptibly.
"Daphne Greengrass. Don't get under my arm and do as I say. Everything will be excellent."
"Hmm. Probably, I will gladden you greatly, but I have never brewed potions in my life."
Oh, magnificent look! But by this same look, it is clear that she figured this out anyway, putting "two and two" together, and the reminder only caused even greater dissatisfaction with the situation.
"So," the professor spoke, and everyone fell silent instantly. "I hope that over the summer you learned not only how to stuff your faces, but also to think with your heads, which means you noticed small changes. By an unknown, but in principle explainable whim of the Headmaster, you were united into one class. In his opinion, over the past two years, you fully realized the severity of consequences from non-compliance with instructions, and worse than that—fooling around. This especially concerns you, Longbottom, Weasley, Goldstein."
Snape looked with a heavy gaze at the students named by him, and they, it seems, were even imbued. True, Weasley, as it seemed to me, only nodded his red shock of hair like a bobblehead.
"If, Merlin forbid," the professor continued, shifting his gaze between them, "you even attempt to do something stupid, or by your feeblemindedness cannot follow a banal step-by-step instruction, then believe me, the matter will not end with simple scrubbing of cauldrons. Potter!"
From the sharp shout of the professor, the poor bespectacled boy almost dropped something from his hands.
"Minus a point to Gryffindor."
"But what for, Professor Snape? I didn't do anything!"
"For idleness in my class."
Professor Snape, at least now I know his surname, circled those present with a gaze.
"I hasten to gladden you. From studying methods of cutting various ingredients and various sequences of their use by means of unsystematic preparation of potions according to the Ministry program, from this year you move to studying potions by types of final effect. The first type is sedatives, sleeping draughts, and antidotes. Your task for today is to prepare the simplest classic Sleeping Draught and Awakening Potion."
"Two in a lesson?" Weasley was indignant. "What nonsense."
"Minus a point to Gryffindor, Weasley, for shouting from your seat. Recipes are on the board, ingredients in the pantry, proceed."
The professor waved his hand, and chalk notes containing potion recipes appeared on the board. I immediately noted small differences with those recipes that were written in the textbook.
"Sit, I'll get it myself. Or else you'll mix it up."
Daphne, not waiting for an answer, got up from the table and headed to the pantry, to which one of the doors in the office led. Actually, the majority of students headed there. The girl returned quite quickly and laid out two batches of different ingredients on the table, immediately starting to boss around with might and main, arranging bowls with ingredients in an order known only to her and carefully reading the recipe from the textbook; I could not help but draw her attention to the fact I noted.
"There is a slightly different recipe on the board," I whispered quietly, attracting attention.
"I know. The professor always issues recipes modified by him personally. I am checking, looking for specific changes," she answered dryly.
"Recipes are for the first year."
Daphne looked at me piercingly. It seems she already recovered from the obvious setup by the professor.
"That was two years ago. Looks like the professor decided to conduct this instead of a test."
Further work passed in silence. We decided to prepare potions sequentially, fortunately, time was tight provided that nothing would be spoiled. Cutting and preparation of ingredients were divided between two; I pounded all sorts of crap, crushed, and Daphne accurately measured on scales and prepared a mixture of herbs for the standard base of sleeping potions and antidotes to them.
What did I understand in the process of preparation? Nothing. Well, that is, magic from ingredients somehow mixes and interacts with the material base, changing and forming in the process of preparation a substance possessing a strictly defined magical property, while the material component changes in a way completely contradicting any chemistry. But, nevertheless, from the material read by me, I can say that Potions is almost the only discipline at least slightly fitting the concept of science. Here there are clear and unchanging tables of interactions and compatibility of ingredients, dependence of reaction on proportions, order of mixing, preparation temperature, and so on, while stirring with a special rod or waves of a magic wand over the cauldron only saturate the potion with neutral magic to fuel the reaction.
We managed exactly on time and it is worth noting that not so many students fulfilled the set task properly. The professor allowed only half of the potions to be graded, and justly rejected the rest of the dubious products of young geniuses at the root. Having poured samples into issued vials and signed them, we left the class with a clear conscience, and the guys from the House immediately dragged me away.
"So, the next class is History of Magic," Zacharias read in the schedule while our small company of six Hufflepuffs walked along the corridors of the castle. "We can safely skip."
"Why suddenly?" I asked a reasonable question.
"Ah, stupidity, not a lesson," Hannah waved it off, but continued, explaining. "History is led by a ghost. Doesn't mark attendance, quotes the textbook down to the comma. One can simply read."
"And what will we do?"
"Justin whispered to us that you need practice in spells?" Zacharias intruded again, ruffling his blond hair. "So we will go to some unoccupied classroom."
So we did, piling into one of the classrooms on the second floor near the main tower itself. The unused auditorium represented absolutely nothing special. Empty and dusty tables with benches, an old chalkboard, empty stone walls without a single trace of any decor, slightly dirty windows; that's all that can be found in such an office.
An hour and a half lasted the hassle almost forgotten by me, when you practice magical manipulations time after time, and this captivated me. Only when we went to the Great Hall for lunch did I realize that, having forgotten myself, I ceased to psychologically separate my "Self" and the elf's memories. But this was only a moment, for these memories themselves almost do not cause an emotional response. They can be imagined as an immutable fantasy invented by oneself, or a film, but with immersion and from the first person. Something is there, but carries almost no personal shade.
At lunch, I noticed Hermione, who hurried to eat quickly and run away somewhere again. What does she do anyway, that all she does is rush around the castle like she has a fire under her tail?
The third and fourth classes were English Language and Literature; a mixed subject led by a short and slightly hunched but cheerful lady of about seventy. Fiction had to be taken in the library and studied over half a year; three large works and a collection of poetry. The latter is simply analyzed for understanding poetry in principle.
The last lesson was Herbology. It was led by our Head of House, Pomona Sprout, a plump lady with gray curls of short hair sticking out from under a wide-brimmed hat. The classes themselves took place in greenhouses on the castle territory and consisted of a short briefing on the specific task for today, and a practical part. To my surprise, the subject found no response in the elf's soul, for it differed radically from the concept of working with plants among the long-eared. There everything is built purely on magical interaction with plants, on communication with them and the like. And here? Typical gardening, except instead of some carrot, there is a Mandrake that can easily send you to the next world.
Dinner is an abundant meal, the basis of which is meat of various forms of preparation and vegetables. Also various. Here I broke loose, of course, on chops, baked potatoes, and some salad. And after dinner fatigue rolled in. Besides the fact that the body is not used to such a load, the training bracelets also loaded the body physically. In general, I tumbled into the common room with the rest with relief, and when I collapsed on a soft sofa and turned off the bracelet, I relaxed completely. Actually, just like everyone else.
"And here is tea with cookies," Hannah obtained a tea set with a very large teapot somewhere, and Susan brought two large deep plates with cookies for every taste and color.
"Thank you, girls," I thanked under the full approval of the other guys. "You are simply a miracle."
"You bet!" they smiled.
Well, what is supposed to be done over a cup of tea? Discuss the past day, what else? Fatigue receded slightly into the background, and we decided with the whole honest company to prepare the homework assigned to us today. This, by the way, is the most optimal way; proven by more than one life.
Right before sleep, when we settled into beds in the niches in our room, Justin asked a question:
"Well, how is our school, Hector?"
"Too early to say something yet. But, as it seems to me, I won't be bored here."
"Bored? Just surviving here would be enough. You remind me..." he yawned heartily. "Tomorrow I'll tell you what happens here."
A pillow whistled in the air.
"Ouch..."
"Can you not blabber at night for at least one day, huh?" Zacharias grumbled into the remaining pillow, and almost immediately snored, falling asleep.
Time to follow his example.