Аннотация: Food for Hediga. Thanks to Harry. A visit to Madam Pomfrey.
Part 7.2 Getting to know Miles.
The kitchen was noisy, warm, and smelled so good that any student would feel dizzy: fresh bread, spicy sauces, caramel, and something else cozy, as if the room itself had been designed to make everyone feel full and calm. Brownies scurried between cauldrons and shelves, deftly picked up plates and disappeared with them in the blink of an eye.
Harry hesitated a bit at the entrance, not knowing who to approach, but then a small housekeeper in a starched rag cap, with big attentive eyes and a very serious look, poked her head out from behind a huge pot.
"Why are you standing here like you've been sent to work?" She asked with her fists on her hips. If it's for pies, then tell me, I'll give it to you. There are those red-haired gobblers who come running for pastries all the time. But if you've come to feed the owl a bun again, then I won't even listen to you."
Harry blushed, but tried to look confident:
"No, that's not what I'm after. I... I want to know about Hedwig. About her diet. Mrs. Moore gave me food, but I want her to... well, to always have something to eat. Ron said you're keeping an eye on the owls. And that Mr. Weasley made arrangements with you about Errol."
The housekeeper softened a little, but her gaze remained stern, like that of a real housewife of the kitchen.
"My name is Miles," she said, tilting her head slightly. "And yes, I remember about Errol. An old owl, stubborn but diligent. They cooked a separate broth for him so that he wouldn't lose his strength. And your Hedwig is a polar owl, a proud northern bird. She needs meat, but not simple, but with a special approach."
She flicked her ear, and immediately a clean plate appeared on the table next to Harry with neat slices of dark, almost amber meat, sprinkled with green crumbs.
"It's a quail," Mili explained, coming closer and adjusting her cap. "With herbs that help the wings not to get tired. And also this" She took out a small paper bag from her apron pocket, "dried insects. For vitamins. Just a little bit, but definitely. And..." She lowered her voice, as if she were revealing a great secret, once a week we give them a piece of ice with a drop of frosty infusion. So that the feathers don't fall off from the cold when they fly over the mountains. Magic, of course, warms, but nature is nature.
Harry looked at all this with such attention, as if there was not a plate in front of him, but a treasure map.
"And... can it always be like this for Hedwig?" He asked softly. "I don't want her to get tired."
Mili squinted, as if checking to see how serious he was, then nodded:
"May. But with a condition. You won't give her human food. No buns, no brownies, no chocolate frogs. For an owl, this is not a joy, but a misfortune. If you want to please her, come here and I'll show you how to treat her properly. Or just say, "For Hedwig," and any elf will give you what you need."
Harry nodded, almost too hard, and promised:
"No bun. Just what you need."
Mili chuckled, but there was approval in the sound.
"Good. Then I'll write down: "A special diet for Hedwig." And if she suddenly arrives tired, tell me. We'll make her a warm broth, just like Errol. Owls get tired too, even though they don't complain. They're practically like living beings, even if they're former spirits.
Harry smiled, feeling as if a small but heavy stone had been lifted from his shoulders.
"Thank you, Miles," he said sincerely. "Really."
The housekeeper put her fists on her hips again, but now not strictly, but almost at home:
"Go ahead. And don't forget, "For Hedwig" is not just a word. It's a concern."
***
When Harry returned to the living room, Hedwig was sitting on the back of a chair and seemed to be waiting. He took a Mrs. Moore bag out of his pocket and placed a small box on the table next to it, which Mili shoved at him at parting:
"There's enough food for your owl here for a week. And don't waste it," She said sternly. "It's not a toy. The box is enchanted so that the food does not spoil. Don't lose her."
Harry handed Hedwig a piece of quail. The owl tilted its head and looked at him carefully, as if checking: "Did you get this yourself? Did you figure out what I need?", and then carefully took the treat.
I watched this scene from a comfortable armchair, watching the Brat as he had another rare period of activity in the last couple of years. Then he chuckled:
"Well, now you're officially a responsible cow breeder."
Harry looked at Hedwig, at her calm amber eyes, and exhaled softly:
"I will try not to make mistakes anymore."
The owl hooted softly, as if promising that she would be there for him even if he made a mistake.
And then she settled back, as if to say, "The main thing is that you try."
The next morning, Harry and I went to the kitchen, not as if to work, but as if on an important matter, as if something really serious depended on this visit. I grumbled for the sake of order:
"Well, down the stairs again. I thought we'd go straight to the Great Hall while the eggs were warm...."
"You told me about the Miles yourself," Harry reminded him, picking up his pace a little. "And anyway, she does so much for Hedwig. I must say thank you."
I rolled my eyes, but without real annoyance:
"Okay, okay. But if she starts giving a lecture about fortune-telling, I pretend I'm not here."
Harry really loves his owl. Last night, he texted Mrs. Moore how to please a brownie and she sent him some mints. And now we're going to make Miles happy. It's a good thing that there are food heating charms on the plates in the great hall.
***
Everything in the kitchen was just like yesterday - noise, steam, the smell of fresh pastries, only now the brownies were scurrying even faster, as if the morning added energy to them. Mili was standing at a large wooden table, putting something dark and smelling of herbs into bowls, and muttering softly to herself:
"For an eagle owl, it's thicker, for a barn owl, it's softer, for a polar owl... oh, so as not to freeze..." She looked up, saw Harry, and immediately put her fists on her hips. The green ears swung back and forth in a funny way.
"Oh, it's you. To his owl. Did you come looking for her buns again?"
Harry blushed, but immediately straightened his back:
"No! I came to... thank you. For telling her what she needed. And for the box. Hedwig ate everything. And... she sat so calmly last night, as if she knew that everything was taken care of."
Mili softened a little, but she didn't take off her strict look-as if severity was her work uniform, like a cap. All the chefs were wearing towels with a sheet and funny hats on their heads.
"It's good. It's important for an owl to know what people think of her. They didn't just throw anything, they thought about it. Errol was grumpy, but when they gave him warm broth, he looked at them... as if he knew they hadn't forgotten."
Standing a little behind, I coughed awkwardly:
"Yes, everyone in our family treats him well. He's trying. Although it falls sometimes. Can I give him broth and a mouse again when he arrives?"
Mili nodded, as if taking the words for granted:
"Diligence is visible. And the concern is visible. And that's the most important thing. And we always give him broth until now."
Harry hesitated, then took out a small bundle tied with a simple string from his pocket:
"I'm here... well, not by myself, of course. I bought it in Hogsmeade. For you. There are mints in there. Mrs. Moore said the brownies like them."
Mili looked at the package as if it were not a bag of sweets, but something very rare and valuable. Then she carefully took it, untied the string, took out one lollipop, smelled it, and smiled - in a completely different way, not strictly, but homely.
"Thank you, Mr. Potter. It's... nice. Very."
Yes, as Mom told me, brownies are very fond of lollipops. Especially with mint. Although they are respected with barberry or lemon. Good hosts are aware of this and sometimes pamper their devoted housekeepers, especially the old ones.
"Please," Harry said softly. "And can I... can I come over sometimes? Just to see if everything is okay. Or if Hedwig suddenly gets tired..."
Mili nodded again, and there was so much seriousness in that nod, as if she wasn't making a promise, but an oath:
"Come. I'll always tell you what you need. We have a special approach for the polar owl. She likes the cold, but she also needs warmth. Like everyone else."
I squinted at the huge bowl with what looked like tiny meat crackers:
"And this... is this for owls?"
"For owls," Mili confirmed sternly. "Not for students."
"I wasn't going to!" I said quickly, raising my hands. Although the smell was stupefying, I would have eaten a piece. "It's just... interesting. Errol ate so much at home."
"It's bad that you fed him your food, the owls can't eat it", She cut off the Miles, but then she smiled a little. "If you come with Harry and don't try to steal owl food, I'll tell you. About Errol, too. He was stubborn, but he was good."
I nodded, it was important to me:
"Good. I'll be coming. And I won't take anything off. Honestly."
Mili chuckled, as if checking whether she could believe him, then she waved her ear - and two warm buns with meat filling appeared on the table next to the guys, each in a separate linen shawl.
"Here, take it with you. The filling is chicken with onions and a pinch of thyme. So that you don't lose your strength while you're running through the corridors," She said, becoming stern again. "But this is for you. Not an owl."
Harry smiled, picked up his bun, and suddenly felt like the morning had somehow become right. Even the upcoming flight lesson stopped scaring me.
"Thanks, Miles," he said again. "Really."
I bit into the warm side of the bun and my mouth was full.
The housekeeper nodded, adjusted her cap and picked up her bowls again, but when the boys were already turning to leave, she added quietly:
"If Hedwig arrives tired, come straight to me. We won't let anyone hurt her. No cold, no hunger."
Harry paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, but he couldn't find the words. He just nodded, clutching the bun tightly in his hand, and followed me to the exit.
And as we walked up the steps, I glanced at him and chuckled:
"You know, taking care of someone is kind of like magic too. Only the quiet one."
Harry didn't argue. He just thought that yes, that's probably what magic is most needed: not flashes and spells, but someone in the kitchen who remembers what kind of food the polar owl needs and who won't let it get tired. We came to the great hall.
"Are you eating your oatmeal again? This is the third week in a row you've been eating it."
"She's... familiar," he said softly. "Don't think about what to choose."
"Are you going to have soup broth for lunch?"
"Yeah, Ron, I'm not hungry."
I frowned. I waited for my friend to eat and dragged him to Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing. I should have done it right away. He's so skinny.
"Let's go."
"Where to?" Harry looked up.
"To Madam Pomfrey."
"I'm not sick, Ron," Harry began wearily. "I'm just not hungry."
"Who says you're sick?" I replied firmly. "But if you're losing weight, if you don't even have the energy to chat at Quidditch, then you need someone to look at you. She won't give you potions if you don't have to. Just... take a look. And Harry didn't resist. Because arguing now was harder than just getting up and walking with Ron through the quiet corridors, where the noise of the Great Hall was far behind them.
***
The Hospital Wing smelled of herbs and tranquility. Madam Pomfrey greeted us not with severity, but with the special attention that comes from those who are used to noticing little things: how a person holds his back, how he looks, how he breathes.
"Madam Pomfrey, please look at Harry, he's so skinny and apart from his favorite porridge he eats almost nothing."
She sat Harry down on the edge of the bed, quickly and deftly checked his pulse, looked into his eyes, tilted his head slightly, and sighed - not irritably, but as if she knew this was not the first such case at Hogwarts and would not be the last.
"You're not sick," she finally said, more assertively than asking. "But you're eating too little. And at your age and with your life, your body can't live on oatmeal alone."
Harry blushed, as if he had been caught doing something shameful.
"I... just don't want to. I'm used to the Dursleys not eating enough." Harry really didn't want to admit that he could have been starved for weeks if Uncle Vernon was mad.
Madam Pomfrey nodded, as if this was the most common and understandable explanation in the world.
"It happens," she said calmly. "When there's too much around, you can't get a bite in your throat. But the body must still receive strength. That's why I'm going to prescribe a course for you: not potions, not powders, but just order. Warm broth in the morning, then porridge, then something soft: a baked apple, a curd casserole, a piece of steamed fish. And the brownies will bring you smaller portions, but more often. To avoid being "too much."
She looked at me and smiled a little:
"And let a friend drop by sometimes. Not to stand over your soul and force you to eat, but to sit next to you. Porridge tastes better when you're not eating alone."
I immediately straightened my back, because I was entrusted with an important task:
"I will. I... well, I can just talk about the twins. Or about Quidditch. Or about magic chess, how to play it correctly. Or be silent at all. Which is better?"
Madam Pomfrey smiled again:
"Which is more pleasant to him. The main thing is that he should not be left alone with an empty plate. Harry, I'll ask Lety to bring you some broth, and you can eat porridge and fish in the great hall with the others."
***
Later, when they returned to the living room, I walked beside them, not too close, but so that Harry would know that I was there.
"So there's no "eat every last crumb," I muttered, as if I were reminding myself of the rules. "Small portions. It's warm. And I'm here."
Harry glanced at me and smiled a little:
"We can talk about the twins. If it's not too loud."
"Not too loud," I promised seriously. "And without explosions. Almost."
And Harry thought that maybe there really is something in this new order: not that there is a lot to eat, but that someone nearby does not require you to be cheerful, cheerful and hungry, but just sits and talks about something of his own while you finish more. one spoonful of warm porridge.