Routine is a terrible thing that kills interest and passion for life. This is true, but there is a simple and sure way to cope with it—discipline and strict adherence to the schedule, along with avoiding those things that cause irritation. I have no particular problems with the latter, and even the fact that the faculty common room resembles a hobbit hole gradually ceased to affect me in any way. Adaptation is a great power! Well, the schedule helps to transform the routine into a reflexive daily "ritual"—I did it and did not notice any psychological pressure.
From Monday of the third week of school, September 13th, my entire schedule was finally formed and stabilized.
The Dean, Madam Sprout, seems to have a habit of visiting the common room quite often, inquiring about the needs of the students, their successes, worries, and failures, giving practical advice and support. I don't seem to need any of that, but I know for a fact that Madam Sprout was interested in my progress with my classmates.
Cedric had managed to get the training schedule from McGonagall, not without a fight, and now we were able to train twice a week on the Quidditch pitch, playing Quidditch itself. Although, it would be more accurate to say that it was a one-sided game—the Chasers, among whom was I, attacked the hoops, the Beaters tried to cause us trouble, trying to knock us out somehow with the help of homing black balls, Bludgers, flying back and forth. The Keeper, naturally, protected the hoops, and the Seeker, Cedric, practiced finding the Snitch, but sometimes he got his share of attention from the Bludgers.
I considered such training to be ineffective, at least for the goalkeeper and Seeker, and therefore began to think about the project of training artifacts; fortunately, even Cedric himself had a sea of ideas on this matter.
The studies were calm and measured, and I spent some of my free time practicing spells in an unused classroom with the guys. True, there is no sense of particular enthusiasm in them, except for Justin, who makes an effort, but only until he performs a new spell or charm a couple of times. He will perform it, admire it, and forget about it. This is not surprising, because it is not so easy to make children study, even if it is magic, something new and unknown. Look, purebloods and half-bloods generally study because they have to, and not out of great desire. At least from 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 he also performs the duties of a prefect. I think there are others who are not inferior in diligence.
On Wednesday the fifteenth, I approached the Weasley twins and bought my own warming pendant from them in public, though not in the Great Hall. It was funny to see them selling my product to me, finishing each other's lines. They seemed to have no idea who made the pendants, which was a good thing.
By the end of the third week, some dismal fermentation began on the stream. Although, the Slytherins from my year, on the contrary, seemed to be amused by something. I raised this question during the discussion at breakfast on Thursday, and received an answer, of course, from the girls.
"Professor Trelawney just prophesied Potter's quick and terrible death," Hannah sighed sadly. "It's sad. It's a pity, a great pity."
"What exactly?"
"What do you mean 'what,' Hector? If something happens to Potter, who will draw the attention of especially active Slytherins like Malfoy?"
"Hmm… You don't believe in prophecies?"
"I believe, Hector, because there are true prophecies. But fortune-telling on coffee grounds, or tea leaves, or palmistry… No, no thanks. There's nothing to do here without talent."
"Why do you go there then?"
Hannah smiled back at me.
"This is such a fertile ground for rumors and gossip. It would be a sin not to take advantage of 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 to Divination as a science, and to Trelawney as a teacher.
The days went by one after another, the studies went well, and the relations with the guys in the hobbit hole, and from other faculties, were quite even, stable. Malfoy and his company did not act up, completely devoting themselves to playing the role of a mortally wounded man, simultaneously annoying Potter and Weasley with all available methods. It should be said that he did not touch Hermione until she herself began to get into boyish squabbles. Although Hermione herself stopped particularly standing up for the guys, and closer to the middle of September, I found out what the problem was. I found out quite by accident—I overheard, standing around the corner of one of the corridors.
It turns out that they had a falling out earlier this year—Ron Weasley suspected Hermione's ginger cat of eating his rat. Crookshanks, what a wonderful name for a cat, had attempted to eat the rat on the train, and after the train was visited by Dementors, the rat disappeared and was never seen again. So Ron suspects Crookshanks, saying that he ate it in the confusion. And now, by the end of September, the falling out has reached its peak—the rat is gone, Crookshanks is hunting any living creature, Ron is sad, Hermione denies everything. Well, that's their problem. Big deal, a rat. And one that lived for twelve years. A magical one, probably.
The most problematic thing for me personally was the fact that Hermione's birthday was approaching. I didn't like to celebrate such things in my past life, and I remembered it clearly. Elves didn't suffer from such things either, marking only the beginning and end of the stages of an elf's development, such as infancy, childhood, adolescence, and so on. That's why elves who don't follow the calendar sometimes can't even tell how old they are—usually this starts after two or three hundred years. In contrast, gnomes pay a lot of attention to age, but there's too little left of the gnome shard. So I found myself in a slight but solvable predicament.
Sitting in the common room on Friday evening, looking at the peacefully flowing life, I thought about the fact that I don't know Hermione well enough to consciously choose a suitable gift. At the same time, we are not in a hurry to communicate with each other. But surely you can make something with your own hands?