Routine is a terrible thing that kills interest and the thirst for life. This is indeed true, but there is a simple and reliable way to cope with it: discipline and unwavering adherence to a schedule, along with avoiding things that cause irritation. With the latter, I have no particular problems, and even the fact that the House common room resembles a hobbit hole gradually ceased to touch me in any way. Adaptation is a great force! Well, and the schedule helps translate routine into a reflexive daily "ritual"; did it and didn't notice any psychological pressure.
From Monday of the third week of study, from September thirteenth, my entire schedule finally formed and stabilized.
Our Head of House, Madam Sprout, turns out to have a habit of visiting the House common room quite often, inquiring about the needs of students, their successes, anxieties, and failures, giving practical advice and providing support. I sort of don't need such things, but I know for a fact that Madam Sprout inquired about my successes from classmates.
Cedric found out the training schedule from McGonagall not without a fight, and now we could train twice a week on the Quidditch pitch, playing Quidditch directly. Although, it would be more correct to say that it was a game with one goal; Chasers, among whom was I, attacked hoops, Beaters tried to cause us trouble, trying to knock us out somehow with the help of self-guided black balls, Bludgers, flying back and forth. The Keeper, naturally, defended the hoops, and the Seeker, Cedric, trained in searching for the Snitch, but he too sometimes got a share of attention from Bludgers.
I considered such training ineffective at least for the Keeper and Seeker, and therefore began to think over a project of training artifacts, fortunately even Cedric himself had a sea of ideas on this matter.
Studies proceeded calmly and measuredly, and I spent part of my free time practicing spells in an unused classroom together with the guys. True, no special enthusiasm is felt in them, except perhaps Justin makes efforts, but exactly until he performs a spell or charm new to him a couple of times. Performs, admires, and forgets. All this is not surprising, for forcing children to study is not so simple, even if it is magic, something new and unknown. Look, purebloods and half-bloods study generally because they have to, and not from a great desire. At least those whom I know personally and with whom I spend time. Although there are exceptions. The same Cedric, for example, spends very much time studying and practicing magical techniques, and yet he also performs prefect duties. I think there are others not inferior in diligence.
On Wednesday the fifteenth, I approached the Weasley twins and publicly, albeit not in the Great Hall, bought my own warming pendant from them. It was funny to see them advertising my own goods to me, while finishing each other's lines. It seems they had no idea who is the creator of these pendants, and that is good.
By the end of the third week, some dismal fermentations began in the year. Although, Slytherins from my year, it seems, on the contrary, were amused by something. I raised this question at discussion during breakfast on Thursday, and received an answer, naturally, from the girls.
"Just Professor Trelawney prophesied a speedy and terrible demise for Potter," Hannah sighed sadly. "It is sad. Pity, very pity."
"What exactly?"
"What do you mean 'what', Hector? If something happens to Potter, then who will draw the attention of particularly active Slytherins like Malfoy to himself?"
"Hmm... You don't believe in prophecies?"
"I believe, Hector, for there are true prophecies. But reading coffee grounds, or tea leaves, or palmistry... No thanks, spare me. Nothing to do there without talent."
"Why go there then?"
Hannah smiled at me in return.
"Well this is such fertile soil for breeding rumors and gossip. A sin not to use. And it is amusing."
Well, and on Friday Professor McGonagall dispelled all fears for Potter's life, briefly, in a couple of phrases expressing her attitude toward Divination as a science, and toward Trelawney as a teacher.
Days went one after another, studies went well, and relations with guys in the hobbit hole, and from other Houses too, were quite even, stable. Malfoy with company didn't act up, fully dedicating himself to playing the role of mortally wounded, concurrently annoying Potter and Weasley by all available methods. Hermione, it is worth saying, he didn't touch until she herself started interfering in boyish squabbles. Although Hermione herself stopped particularly standing up for the guys, and closer to mid-September I found out what the problem was. Found out quite accidentally; overheard, standing around the corner of one of the corridors.
Turns out, even at the beginning of this year they had a spat; Ron Weasley suspected Hermione's ginger cat of eating his rat. Crookshanks, what a wonderful name for a cat, attempted on this rat even on the train, and after Dementors visited the train, the rat disappeared, and no one saw it anymore. So Ron suspects Crookshanks, saying, ate under the noise. And now, by the end of September, the spat reached its apogee; no rat, Crookshanks hunts any living creature, Ron in sadness, Hermione denies everything. Well, those are their problems. Big deal, a rat. And lived twelve years at that. Magical, probably.
The most problematic for me personally turned out to be the fact of approaching Hermione's birthday. I didn't like celebrating such things in past life, and I remembered this clearly. Elves didn't suffer from such things either, marking only the beginning and end of stages of becoming an elf, like infancy, childhood, adolescence, and so on. That is why elves not following the calendar sometimes cannot even say exactly how old they are; usually such starts after two-three hundred years. In contrast to this, dwarves attach great attention to age, but too little remained of the dwarf shard. So here I ended up in a light but solvable difficulty.
Sitting in the House common room on Friday evening, looking at peacefully flowing everyday life, I reflected that I don't know Hermione well enough to consciously choose a suitable gift. At the same time we are not particularly rushing to communicate with each other either. But one can make something with one's own hands?
Nodding at my thoughts, I went to the room and hid in my nook. Sitting on the bed, took out the wand and concentrated air around, choosing it as a target for transfiguration. Well, why not? The problem of exceptions to Gamp's laws, and specifically that one cannot transfigure an uncountable object like air, lies precisely in consciousness and perception of the world; it is difficult for a human to imagine, visualize, feel a certain volume of air separately from the rest of the atmosphere. I am not an exception, but bypass this moment, increasing air density in a certain volume and precisely controlling the outgoing stream of magic from the wand, which wraps precisely this volume with itself, not trying to dissipate through all the air.
Wave of the wand, holding necessary formulas of transfiguration and fixing thereof in head, and here a wide and flat metal bracelet of mirror purity of processing fell on the bed. Descending from the bed to the floor, rolled out my improvised anvil on wheels from under it, put the bracelet on it, took the sledgehammer in hands and... Put it aside. Need to make a new one, and then generally think about a universal one, on which one can replace the striking plane with impressions of necessary runes or contours. But for now have to create a new hammer.