Аннотация: There's a flight schedule in the living room, and Harry's nervous.
Chapter 7.1 flights
During the first week at school, Malfoy and I hardly bumped into each other in class - the only classes we had together were Professor Snape's. He was always around with his goons, telling us what kind of broom he had at home, how good he was at Quidditch, and what his mom had sent him today. But on Saturday, after returning from Hagrid's, Harry and I noticed a notice posted in the Gryffindor Common Room, which caused us to groan. Broomstick flights began on Tuesday, and the first-year students of the Gryffindor and Slytherin faculties had to learn to fly together.
"That's great," said Harry gloomily. "Just what I've always dreamed of. Making a fool of himself in front of Malfoy - and not just a fool, but a fool sitting on a broom and not knowing how to take off.
"How do you know who's going to look like a fool?" I answered reasonably. "Of course, I know that Malfoy brags to everyone that he is a great Quidditch player. But I'm willing to bet on my old broom that it's all nonsense. In the end, kids get baby brooms with built-in speed and height limiters. Jeanie and I had one. It's old, of course, but you can fly. I gave it to my sister when Charlie gave me his old comet.
Malfoy really talked too much about flying. He loudly regretted that freshmen were not accepted into the faculty teams, and told long boastful stories about where and how he flew on a variety of brooms. The stories usually ended with Malfoy managing to evade Muggle helicopters with incredible dexterity and at the very last moment.
He's driving, Muggle cars don't fly into our magical world, and it's also problematic to come in. There are muggle-repelling charms on all the entrances to the magical world. Although Harry Vaughn says that he describes helicopters correctly. Apparently there is a military base next to the passage and Malfoy saw them.
However, Malfoy was not the only one who talked about this topic - to hear Seamus Finnigan, he spent his entire childhood on a broom. And I was ready to tell anyone who would listen to me about how I once took Charlie's old broom and narrowly avoided a collision with a hang glider. I embellished it, of course, but what you won't do for the attention of the girls. Lavender also loved listening to my stories.
In general, everyone who was born into wizarding families talked incessantly about Quidditch. I've already gotten into a serious argument with Dean Thomas over Quidditch. Dean loved football, and I thought there was nothing interesting about a game that was played with just one ball and the players were forbidden to fly. The next day, I was pointing at the images of the players on the WestHam football team poster that hung over Dean's bed. I tried to make them move. I couldn't believe that in Muggle photographs, everyone was motionless, unlike in photographs of the wizarding world, where people appeared and disappeared, winked and smiled. I even showed Harry and Dean my album of Ped Guns and Weasley's home photos.
However, there were exceptions among those born into wizarding families. So, Neville admitted that he had never had a broom in his life, because his grandmother strictly forbade him to even think about flying. Harry and I completely agreed with her - Neville managed to get into the most incredible stories, even standing on two legs. He was very clumsy, so it was just scary to give him a broom.
Hermione Granger, like Harry, who grew up in a Muggle family, was as nervous as Neville about the upcoming flights. If flying could be learned from a textbook, Hermione would already be soaring in the skies better than any bird, but that was impossible. Although Hermione, to her credit, couldn't help but make at least one attempt. At breakfast on Tuesday, she bored everyone at the table by quoting tips and tricks for beginners to fly, which she had learned from a library book called "The History of Quidditch." However, Neville listened to her very attentively, not missing a single word and constantly asking questions. Apparently, he was counting on theory to help him stay on the broom a few hours later. But I was very glad when Hermione's lecture ended with the arrival of the mail.
There were eggs and bacon on the table this morning. And, of course, oatmeal porridge with milk, which Harry immediately pulled towards him. I took the egg and pulled the jug of pumpkin juice towards me.
"More oatmeal," Neville grumbled. "Harry, how do you eat it every day?"
"I just add different jams or raisins, depending on what's on the table."
Harry hadn't received a single letter since Friday, which, of course, Malfoy hadn't failed to point out. Malfoy's owl - or rather, unlike the others, he had an owl, because Malfoy liked to emphasize his originality - constantly brought him packages of sweets from home, which he solemnly opened at the table, treating his friends.
Damn, he even offered Harry a pie once, but with such aplomb that Harry didn't take it. Harry told me that he came to the potions room earlier that day, and was waiting for me.
*** Pov Harry (Friday)
The hallway outside the potions room was buzzing like a disturbed beehive: students were rushing to their next lesson, someone was arguing loudly about homework, and Draco Malfoy suddenly popped around the bend - and it immediately seemed to quiet down by half a tone. In his hands was a neat box from home, tied with a green and silver ribbon; he carried it as if it were not cakes, but something much more valuable - like a rare ingredient for a potion.
Harry was just tying the strap of his robes tighter, about to pass by, when Draco stopped abruptly right in front of him, lifting his chin slightly.
"Potter," he said, as if he were doing the greatest favor. I have cakes from Malfoy Manor here. Homemade. Mom told me not to eat dry, but I'm already full. Take one. You're my second cousin.
Harry froze. He was expecting a taunt, a sarcastic joke, maybe another "famous Potter will ruin everything again," but definitely not this. The cake in its neat paper wrapper looked... ordinary. And that makes it even more strange.
"What" Harry asked, as if he hadn't heard. "Are you offering me a cake?"
After all his sarcastic jokes, it looked strange. Draco shrugged, trying to maintain his aplomb, but there was something like annoyance at his own awkwardness in his eyes.
"Well yeah. Don't look at me like I've cast a curse." It's just that they're superfluous here, and it's a pity to throw them away. And don't think it's some kind of goodwill gesture," he added quickly, as if realizing that he sounded too human. "Just... take it if you want."
Harry felt the usual distrust rise up inside, mixed with pride. Accept something from Malfoy? After all the ridicule, after all the "mudbloods" and "part-time celebrity"? It almost felt like a betrayal of himself.
"No thanks," he said firmly, stepping back a little. "I'll manage somehow."
There was something like relief and annoyance on Draco's face at the same time, as if he wanted Harry to refuse, but was still slightly hurt. He pursed his lips for a second, then grimaced as if from a sour lemon, and slammed the lid of the box shut with a slightly louder click than necessary.
"Whatever you want," he said, already turning to leave. "I won't offer you any more homemade food. If they don't appreciate it, then don't."
He took a couple of steps away, but then he couldn't seem to resist and looked over his shoulder, his voice no longer sounding so arrogant, but rather tired:
"And don't look at me like I put poison in it. At least they know how to cook at Malfoy Manor. And unlike the Weasley twins, I don't put funny potions in my food."
And with that, he turned the corner, leaving Harry alone in the middle of the hallway, where the usual noise of voices rose again, as if nothing had happened. But Harry stood there for a long time, looking in the direction Draco had gone, and thought that sometimes the strangest thing about Hogwarts wasn't the spells or the monsters, but the way people suddenly took a step towards him and then recoiled from him.
*** Draco's POV (Saturday night)
Draco was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbow on his knee, and running a quill over the parchment as if he were writing not letters, but some particularly stubborn runes - slowly, with pressure, as if the clarity of the strokes depended on whether they believed him or not. It was already getting dark outside, and the light of the oil lamp lay on the paper like a warm spot, hiding the corners of the room and making it a little less alien.
He sighed, dipped his pen into the ink, and began:
"Dear Mother,
Yesterday I tried again to do what you asked, to establish contact with Potter. You said that we should be dignified and not stoop to shouting in the hallways, and I tried. Honestly.
They sent cakes from home, and I thought it would be... well, not a reason to quarrel, anyway. I approached him outside the potions room and offered him one. Not as a handout, but simply because there were too many of them, and it's a pity to throw them away. And also... because you said that good manners are not about bowing, but about not making things worse than they already are.
He refused. He looked proud, as if I hadn't handed him a cake, but some kind of filth. He stood there, looked straight at me, and in his eyes was his eternal: "I'm on my own, I won't take anything from you."
I didn't insist. And why? If a person does not want to accept even the usual food, he is unlikely to want to hear about "decent behavior" or how it is accepted in decent families.
But I tried. Just like you wanted.
Your son,
Draco"
He reread the letter twice, and the second time it seemed to him that the lines sounded a little more plaintive than he would have liked. Draco grimaced, as if ashamed of himself, and quickly wrote at the bottom, in a different, firmer handwriting:
"P.S. I then gave the cake to Krebb. He ate it and said it was delicious. So nothing is missing."
This added some kind of proper, everyday completeness to the situation - as if everything had fallen into place. Draco rolled up the parchment, sealed it with wax with the family imprint, and called his Eagle owl. He sat down on the edge of the table, looked at him attentively with round eyes, as if asking: "Are you sure you're sending it?", and when Draco nodded, he picked up the letter and silently flew out the slightly open window.
Draco sat for a while longer, watching the last glimmer of day fade over the towers, and then pulled down his robes, as if throwing off this evening like an extra cape.
"Well, that's it," he muttered to himself, almost defiantly. "I did what I could. Let them figure it out for themselves."
After sending the letter, Draco went to the Slytherin Common Room to his friend Theo.
The Slytherin living room was in semi-darkness, with only emerald lamps casting narrow green strips of light on the walls, and a dry heat wafted from the fireplace. Draco was sitting with his legs crossed over his legs, tapping his fingers nervously on the armrest of his chair. On the contrary, sprawled on the couch, Theo was idly turning the pages of an old volume on the dark arts, but he was watching his friend out of the corner of his eye.
"You know, sometimes I feel like my mom is just testing me", Draco muttered, not looking at Theo, as if the words were coming out of his mouth. "Everything keeps saying, "Be worthy of the name, don't stoop to squabble, try to find a common language...""
Theo looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow:
"And who were you trying to be "decent" with this time?"
Draco grimaced, as if he were being sour.
"With this... with Potter. Well, you know. Mom keeps saying that you need to stay above fighting in the hallways, not be like... And I'm not like that! I just wanted to... I don't know, show that we're not some kind of... that everything at the Manor is according to the rules."
He stopped, as if he didn't want to admit to himself what he was doing.
"Anyway, they sent cakes from home. I went up to him and offered him one. Calmly, without ridicule. And he looked at me like I was trying to give him a toad. And he proudly refused. No thanks, no "not hungry" - just "don't.""
Theo chuckled, but not maliciously, but rather knowingly.
"Well, he's from Gryffindor. They have pride instead of breakfast."
Draco snorted, but there was more resentment than contempt in that snort.
"That's not the point! The thing is, I try to do as my mom tells me, but it only gets worse. It's like I'm becoming ridiculous to myself. And more..." He lowered his voice, even though there was hardly anyone in the living room, "Mom talks about "family" all the time, about the "connection of generations", as if Potter is some kind of wayward cousin of ours who behaves like a Muggleblood. That Sirius invited her to be Harry's godmother, and then they just hid him. And he's not ours at all! He's nobody's man!"
Theo put down his book and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Listen, Draco," he said calmly, without mockery, "Your mom wants you to stay Malfoy, but not become Lucius. These are different things. It's one thing to keep your back straight, it's another to climb where you're not expected. If Potter doesn't want to take the cake, don't let him take it. You've done your part. You don't get along with the younger Weasley, even though he's also a third Black. Draco gritted his teeth, then exhaled, as if relieving tension.
"It just pisses me off that I have to... justify all this. Why should I even try if he doesn't even try to understand that it's not a mockery? What kind of freaks did he even live with before that? That's right, Dad says all Muggleborns should be controlled and magical children should be removed from their families, as they did in the old days before the statute of secrecy."
"Because your mom believes that dignity is when you can reach out, even if they don't accept it," Theo said softly. "And Potter... well, he's like that. He has pride as a shield: it's cold and lonely behind her, but no one will get close. I don't understand how he got along with the younger Weasley, because Aunt Muriel raised him. Even though he's from Crazy Arthur's family, he's still pure-blooded."
Draco rolled his eyes, but without any real anger.
"Weasley, pf. Is as poor as Harry. I was shocked when I recognized him in that studio. Are you a philosopher now, Nott?"
"I've become the one who sits next to you when you're angry at the whole world", Theo grinned and nodded at the table, where there was a silver box with the remaining cakes. If you want, I'll take these cakes. The good will not be lost."
Draco chuckled a little, almost in earnest:
"Take it sweet, you've always been partial to your mother's baskets. I'm not going to offer Potter anything else. Although he also likes baskets, I noticed at the feast. I was almost sitting against it then, and because of our ghost, who decided to entertain me with a conversation, I was hungry. Let him deal with his pride."
Theo opened the box, took a cake, took a bite, and nodded approvingly:
"Delicious. They know a lot about the Manor. I love your mom's pastries."
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the logs crackling in the fireplace. And there was something right in that silence, as if the world had fallen back into place: not perfect, not simple, but its own, understandable, where there was someone nearby who would not laugh at your offense, but would simply take the cake and say that it was delicious.
*** end Pov
By the way, Harry also stands out with his owl. His owl was the only polar owl in school, but at least they gave it to him and he values it very much. He always goes to the owlery to check on her.
The great hall smelled of warm bread, cinnamon, and something else, homely, as if the school itself was wrapping students in a soft blanket of familiar smells. There was a lot of noise, arguing, and laughter at the tables, and in the midst of this familiar chaos, a familiar sharp scream suddenly rang out, which immediately made Harry cheerfully raise his head from his porridge with raisins.
"Ugh!"
He raised his head - and immediately found her: Hedwig was circling under the arches, white, like a piece of winter sky that had accidentally flown into a warm hall. She circled around, as if checking to make sure everything was in place, and then confidently descended and gently landed right in front of Harry, flapping her wings a little to keep her balance on the edge of the table.
"Hedwig!" Harry couldn't hide his smile. She came out wide, real, and he suddenly felt so calm, as if everything had fallen into place again. He held out his hand, and the owl immediately tilted its head, exposing the feathers at its beak to be stroked. You've arrived again! I thought you thought it was warmer in the tower"...
The owl clicked its beak as if it snorted:
"And who will make sure that you don't miss an important letter?" - and pushed him into the palm of her hand with a warm side. Harry laughed, and it sounded a little louder than it should have, but he didn't care. There were already the usual whispers around, but now there was almost no surprise in those voices - rather a familiar, almost good-natured grumble, as if someone forgot an umbrella every day and everyone already knew: well, here we go again.
"That owl again," someone from Ravenclaw drawled, but without irritation, more as part of a familiar ritual. "Well, how much can I do? She almost hit Professor Flitwick when she flew in. When I saw her flying into Gryffindor Tower the day before yesterday, I initially mistook her for a messenger of winter. Do you know how it is in fairy tales?.."
"I saw her over the woods yesterday," the Halfpuff guy picked up, leaning over to his neighbor. "Circled just above the edge of the forest. Now I'm not scared anymore: I think, well, it's Hedwig. So it's okay."
The girl in the green tie smiled at the owl:
"She's already like her own. As if there's something missing without her."
I, who had been diligently spreading jam on toast, looked up, squinted at Hedwig, and chuckled:
"Well, now we have everything at home here. Porridge, arguments about potions, and Hedwig, who always flies in like she's announcing a royal decree.
Hermione, who had already unfolded her transfiguration textbook right next to her plate, looked at the owl with a soft smile:
"You know, Harry, I think she just gets bored if she doesn't see you for a long time. Polar owls get attached. And she knows where she belongs."
Harry ran his fingers over Hedwig's silky feathers again, and Hedwig hooted softly, as if agreeing with Hermione.
"The main thing is that she doesn't drop the letter in my porridge again." I muttered, although I didn't feel annoyed at the spoiled porridge, I was just trying it out and then thinking of giving it to Harry.
Hedwig squinted at me with an amber eye, as if she understood every word perfectly, and proudly turned away, making it clear that such trifles did not concern her. Then she gently poked Harry's shoulder with her beak, quite at home, without any importance, just to remind him: "I'm here."
Harry smiled as he looked at her and thought that this was probably the real feeling of home: when there was someone who would always find their way to you, even if the corridors of Hogwarts were confusing, the lessons were endless, and the whole world seemed to expect something big from you. For now, it's enough that Hedwig has returned, sat on the edge of the table, and now everything feels a little more right again.
"Harry, are you feeding her at all?" I asked when Hedwig stared at my bacon with interest. "Hedwig, I'm sorry, but you can't do this."
Harry handed Hedwig a piece of the bun he was eating. I almost choked on the scrambled eggs I was chewing.
"Here, eat. You've been flying all day... Ron, Hagrid said she'd feed herself on rats and lemengs."
The owl squinted an amber eye at the bun, as if assessing the degree of absurdity, and turned away.
I chuckled,
"Well, yeah. She doesn't need buns. She should have caught someone. And by the way, Harry, do you know how many owls live in the owlet house? You can't feed on all the rats in the forest."
Hermione shook her head, but not sternly, but with a slight smile:
"Potter, owls need meat. And it's better not just a piece, but... well, you know. Bones, feathers- all together. They keep special food for the postal owls in the kitchen. The brownies know."
Embarrassed, Harry put the bun away.
"I'm sorry," he said softly to Hedwig. "I just wanted it to be delicious for you, like it is for me." The owl tilted its head slightly, as if forgiving this awkwardness, and hooted softly. And then, as if to comfort him, she bumped her warm side into his shoulder, saying that the main thing was that you thought of me.
"Harry, go to the kitchen, if you want to go together. And we'll arrange with the elves to supply your owl with mice or quails. Dad arranged with Mili to supply quails for Eroll, and Percy went to find out about his owl, too. Or write to Mrs. Moore at her pet store."
"Yes, let me write to Mrs. Moore at her pet store after school before lunch."
The evening in the Gryffindor common room was cozy and noisy: someone was arguing about Quidditch tactics, someone was rustling parchments, and Harry was sitting by the window, where Hedwig was sitting calmly on the back of a chair. She clicked her beak softly from time to time, as if listening to the conversations, but on the whole she looked pleased - she only glanced at Harry from time to time as if she wanted to remind him: "What about food?"
Harry sighed guiltily, took out a crumpled envelope and an even more crumpled bag from his pocket and muttered:
"I'm sorry, I fixed it. Honestly."
Мне очень жаль, но я все исправил. Честно.
"Dear Mrs. Moore,
I have a polar owl, Hedwig. I accidentally tried to feed her human food, but she doesn't seem very happy. Tell me, please, what is the right way to feed postal owls? If possible, send me something suitable.
Sincerely, Harry Potter."
And in the evening, the brownie brought him a neat bag with the seal of the store and a short note:
"Dear Mr. Potter,
a special food with pieces of quail, dried insects and a drop of strengthening infusion is best suited for the polar owl so that the wings do not get tired. And if you want, go to the Hogwarts kitchen and ask the elves: they have special treats for owls that have been tested for centuries. As a Hogwarts student, you can ask the brownie to feed your pet while you are at school. This is included in the cost of your tuition, which was paid for by your parents.
Yours truly, Mrs. Moore."
Harry carefully untied the ribbon on the bag, and a spicy, slightly wild smell hit his nose - not sweet, not flour, but some kind of forest, real.
"Look," Harry said softly, handing Hedwig one piece in his open palm. "It's from Mrs. Moore. There's... well, as she wrote, quail and something strengthening. So that you don't get tired."
Hedwig tilted her head, studied the treat carefully, then gave a short hoot, as if checking to see if he was joking, and carefully picked up a piece with her beak. She swallowed, blinked her amber eyes, and immediately reached for the next one.
Harry exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath for a long time.
Next to me, I looked up from a bar of magic chocolate from the Sweet Kingdom, squinted at the bag and chuckled:
"Well, at least it's not a bun. This is already progress."
Percy, who was sitting next to him in an armchair, looked up from his textbook on ancient runes and grumbled:
"Mrs. Moore knows her stuff. She also gave my owl such treats when she was with me on vacation. They say there's even a little frost extract in them to keep owls warm on long flights."
"Frost extract?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Is it... safe?"
"Absolutely," Percy nodded confidently. "It's magic. Everything is calculated. By the way, the extract is extracted from the berries of the snowberry, mixed with blue mountain flower."
I snorted,
"The main thing is that she doesn't start breathing ice like a Hyperborean dragon. They say they can exhale not only flames, but also ice or poison there. And also to transform into humans or elves there. They moved to us from another world in ancient times, where people began to hunt them. They say our founder is like the Malfoys of these dragons. Only the Malfoys, unlike our Bridget Wesley, had an ice dragon as their founder, and ours was a fire dragon. That's why we're always fighting.
Hedwig squinted at me, as if seriously considering the prospect of breathing ice, and hooted softly again.
Harry smiled and carefully tied the bag, leaving a few more pieces inside.
"You know," he said softly to the owl, "I'm going to be smarter now. I'll ask first, then I'll suggest it."
The owl tilted her head to the side, as if she understood every word, and gently nudged his shoulder with her warm side.
And Harry thought that the best thing about this day wasn't that he'd finally found the right treat, but that Hedwig hadn't been offended. She was just waiting for him to figure it out.
***
I finished chewing on a piece of pumpkin biscuits taken from the breakfast table in the great hall and waved towards the corridor leading down to the kitchens:
"If you want Hedwig to fly at all and not look at you like you're feeding her as punishment, go to Mili. She's responsible for the owls. Dad had made an agreement with her about Errol when he started to give up completely: to make him a separate diet, with strengthening broth and all that. Mili is kind, but strict: if you say "I want something delicious," she will lecture you about squirrels and toadstools."
Harry chuckled, but Ron's words were true: after the bun story, he wanted to do everything right. He tucked the bag from Mrs. Moore deeper into his pocket, just in case, as a safety net, and nodded:
"Okay. I will go. But Ron, it's probably expensive."
Harry, first of all, you now have money, as a last resort you can go to Professor Dumbledore, he is responsible for orphans of students at Hogwarts, and can give you more money for Hedwig or clothes. And secondly, the cost of feeding pets and students is included in the tuition fee, as well as teachers' salaries. That's why it's so expensive. As much as one hundred galleons a year for an apprentice." Harry's eyes were wide in shock.
"Ron, how did you get into school?"
"The older brothers passed on a free quota from the board of trustees. And our grandfather Ignotius Pruitt paid for me and Ginny. Even though he grumbles that Mom married Arthur in the last year of school, he still loves us in his own way. And Grandma Lucretia insisted that it was not a good idea for Black to study at a Welsh school."
"Awesome. Well, you have relatives. Will you show me where the kitchen is?"
"Finish your porridge and let's go. And by the way, Harry, you have a grandmother named Dorothy from the Blacks, why did Draco offer you a cake? He's your close relative. His mom Narcissa is also Black by blood."
"I can do without such relatives." - my friend muttered angrily, pushing his favorite porridge away. But Blackie, that's a kind of dark sorcerer, isn't it? Seamus told me about them."
"Yes, buddy, but my grandma sent them to the forest, as did Nymphadora Tonks' mother, by the way. She's your cousin."
"Is she the one who studies at Halfpuff with pink or purple hair? Is she clumsy? I thought she was Muggleborn."
"Yes, she. She has a Muggle-born father, like your mother. There was such a scandal when Andromeda Black married him. They say Nymphadora is a metamorph, she has coordination problems because of this. The gift has become too strong due to Tonks' fresh blood, and she cannot cope with the changes.
"Damn, I have so many relatives in the magical world, and all my life I thought I was an orphan. Where were they all when I was starving in the Dursleys' closet?" Harry thought resentfully. "Okay, Weasley, they're beggars like me, but where were the others?"
"Harry, at least have an omelet, it's delicious today."
"No, I'm not hungry."
"Well, at least you can eat toast with orange jam, you love it. Just recently, the harvest in the greenhouses of the school has ripened, so the jam is fresh. In the meantime, I'll finish the omelette, unlike you, I'm always hungry and I need a lot of energy. And you eat more if you want to grow up and gain meat. Look at yourself in the mirror, how skinny you are.
"Ron, I just can't eat much, I throw up right after eating. She can't really eat anything either, she's afraid of getting fat. Aunt Petunia can't really eat either, she's afraid of getting fat."
"Harry, can we go to the hospital wing after the kitchen?"
"Come on, I'm tired of being a suffocator. Aunt Marge grumbles all the time that I have worms. She even gave me and my cousin medicine once."
Harry spread a generous layer of orange jam on his toast, inhaled that warm, sunny scent, and for a second seemed to forget that a cool mist lay in a cloud on the grass outside the window.
"You know," he told me, "sometimes it feels like this jam is straight out of summer. It's like someone took a piece of July and rolled it into a jar."
I grunted, took a huge bite of his toast, and mumbled contentedly:
"Yeah. These are all greenhouses. The professor's Spraut got a lot of stuff growing there. Not just oranges, but in general... well, it's like a piece of the south right under the glass."
Neville, who was sitting next to him and diligently crumbling a piece of bun for some invisible mouse, suddenly looked up and quietly, but with noticeable pride, added:
"Oranges are the sweetest in the second greenhouse right now. I helped collect them myself. And there are lemons, figs... and mint is so thick that if you put it in a little tea, it immediately warms your soul."
Harry smiled:
"It's like you're talking about the house."
Neville blushed a little, but he didn't look away:
"Well, for me, greenhouses are almost a home. It's quiet there. And everything alive. Even if it's prickly or poisonous, it's still... well, like it's trying to grow. And I'm used to tinkering with my grandmother in our greenhouses, they've been with the Longbottoms since ancient times. We are the main suppliers of medicinal herbs in Mungo."
I glanced at him, then back at Jem:
"And most importantly, it's delicious. I wish they could bake buns there right on the spot."
Neville didn't pay any attention to the joke - he was already talking about greenhouses again, and there was that quiet excitement in his voice that appeared when it came to plants: And sage, and St. John's wort... Professor Spraut says that you need to prepare for winter in advance. Colds will start as soon as the wind starts blowing from the mountains. Supplies are already being prepared in the fifth greenhouse: herbs are being dried, syrups are being infused, and ointments are being made. Everything so that Madam Pomfrey doesn't have to run around and find where to get what she needs."
He paused for a moment, as if remembering something, and added softly:
"She once said to me, "Neville, if it weren't for your herbs, I'd go crazy here. Students are always catching colds, falling off brooms, and we should always have a supply." So... I'm trying. To make it happen.
Harry looked at Neville in a new way - not as someone who was always dropping textbooks and blushing when addressed, but as someone who was quietly, without unnecessary words, doing important things.
"So it's this jam," Harry tapped the jar with his spoon, "It's not just jam. It's... part of this very preparation."
Neville nodded, as if that was the right explanation:
"Yes. Mint in tea, rosehip syrup, and even those bouncing brownie bulbs are used to make a paste that helps if your throat hurts. Everything is connected. Greenhouses feed, treat, and... well, keep you warm, even if it's a blizzard outside."
I chuckled after chewing:
"Okay, we're convinced. Now I'm going to think that I'm not just eating jam, but... a strategic reserve against winter."
Neville smiled, just a little, almost imperceptibly:
"That's good. It tastes better then."
Harry took another bite of toast, and now the taste seemed deeper to him: he could feel the warm greenhouses, the caring hands of the housekeepers, and the quiet work of Neville, who harvested herbs in advance so that no one would freeze or get sick.
It was still pouring rain outside, but inside the Great Hall it was bright, noisy, and cozy in its own way. And it seemed that as long as Hogwarts had greenhouses where oranges ripened in the middle of winter, and someone like Neville remembered the supplies for the Healing Wing, no amount of cold could really get inside.