Today is the first flying lesson, so all first-years are extremely excited. All four houses gather together, which once again confirms the grand illogicality of wizards, and that children are expendable to them. It's surprising that in the book only Neville got hurt. But since he's not in Gryffindor now, the defective broom will probably go to someone else. However, whoever flies off, I'll try to catch them with telekinesis, hoping that the victim will get away with just a broken wrist is too optimistic. In that case, I hope the defective broom won't be mine. No one is going to catch me.
We're picking up brooms, I hear Harry and Ron whispering about the Gringotts robbery. But why? Who thought of discussing a robbery that happened more than a month ago with them?
Ah, Neville Longbottom and his thirty-three misfortunes. The defective broom ended up with him here too. Damn, catching a falling person and gently slowing them down turned out to be much harder than slowly levitating a bed around a room, despite Neville weighing less. I carefully lowered him to the ground and almost fell down after him, if Susan hadn't caught me. She helps me sit on the grass.
"That was wandless magic!" Susan whispers excitedly, "where did you learn that?"
"You've surely done it too. Didn't you have spontaneous magical outbursts as a child? I just figured out how to control it."
My head is buzzing from the strain. I look around. Besides Susan, no one seems to have noticed anything.
Madam Hooch, after examining Neville and finding no injuries, still decides to take him to the hospital wing.
"If anyone touches a broom while I'm gone, you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch,'" almost fifty eleven-year-olds alone with flying brooms? Good joke, madam. Oh no, you're serious...
While I rest on the grass, the canon proceeds as usual. Potter flies racing with Malfoy, then McGonagall rushes in and, lamenting, drags the hero away.
Malfoy, with an infinitely happy face, begins to fantasize about Potter being sent back to Muggleland.
"Don't gloat too soon, Mr. Malfoy," I say sarcastically, "heroes aren't expelled so easily. Besides, if it were about punishment, you'd be with Harry right now. You landed just a couple of seconds before him. Do you seriously think McGonagall didn't see you?"
Malfoy looks at me as if I'd crashed his birthday party and took all his presents.
"You're Granger, right?" he drawls, "I haven't come across such a surname in the magical world."
"Nevertheless, such a surname exists there. Are you good at potions?"
"I have no idea what potions have to do with this!" Malfoy loses his temper completely.
"You also had no idea that Potter is your relative. It's impossible to know everything."
I think I got nervous about Neville and went overboard. Susan suggests we visit the hospital wing. Good idea.
In the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey diagnoses me with magical exhaustion. Susan tells her about my heroism. The witch is clearly torn between wanting to scold me for recklessness and wanting to praise me for saving Neville. So she chooses a third option and starts complaining that all the troubles in this world are because of flying and this stupid Quidditch.
Since I'm here, I try to persuade Madam Pomfrey to show me a couple of medical spells. But she is adamant:
"Not before third year, Miss Granger."
Restorative balm is amazing. It seems I'm ready to run a marathon right now, even though a minute ago I was nearly falling asleep. And all the other potions are a patient's dream. Curing a cold in five minutes or regrowing bones in one night—it's incredible. I need to learn how to brew them, preferably sooner rather than waiting until seventh year, when they study Skele-Gro. Before Hogwarts, I hadn't tried brewing potions, as many of them are very explosive if prepared incorrectly, and a house fire is not something I dream about. Shall we play kamikaze and try to get extra lessons with Snape?
If nothing is touched, events inevitably slide into canon. The third law of transfiguration states: essence always strives toward its original form. Accordingly, the less I interfere, the more canon remains, and the more I interfere, the greater the chance of running into trouble.
At dinner, I hear noise from the Gryffindor side—Potter and Malfoy are arranging a duel. Malfoy proudly leaves the Great Hall, and Harry comes to me.
"Hermione, Malfoy challenged me to a duel. Will you be my second second?"
"In the trophy room at midnight? I'm sure Malfoy himself isn't even planning to go there. He just wants Filch to catch you. No, Harry, I'm out. And I advise you not to go either."
"Come on, Harry," Ron pulls him, "she's just a girl, what does she know?"
Good riddance.
At the exit from the Great Hall, Malfoy is waiting for me. The minions loom nearby.
"Granger, can I have a word with you?"
"Hermione, we'll wait for you," Susan says decisively.
Malfoy and I move to the nearest alcove.
"So you're related to the Dagworth-Grangers?"
"What, you asked Professor Snape?" I inquire. Malfoy blushes slightly.
"You know, Malfoy, it's all quite complicated with so-called Mudbloods. You're aware that many families send their Squibs to the Muggle world?" He nodded, "in my opinion, they're doing the right thing, it's hard for Squibs in the wizarding world, primarily psychologically. So, these Squibs have children, also Squibs, and they may not have the slightest idea about the magical world. Girls grow up, get married, change their surnames. After several generations, a wizard might be born, and no one, including himself, will know that he belongs to some ancient and noble family. Judge for yourself, what's more likely, the return of magic to a bloodline or the appearance of a mage from two one hundred percent Muggles?" Malfoy is shocked, processing this new information. Yes, the world is cruel, and sometimes it opens your eyes against your will.
"Or here's another option. Ten years ago, the last wizarding war ended. Imagine that one of You-Know-Who's supporters managed to secure their child's future before they were caught and imprisoned. Think about what it would be like for a person with the surname, say, Black, to be at school now? Or Lestrange?"
"Aunt Bella and Uncle Sirius didn't have children!" exclaims Malfoy.
"They might not have," I shrug, "that's just an example. Admit it, it would be hard for that student. Or with the surname Dolohov..."
It seems Malfoy is about to completely freeze up, trying to find his hypothetical relatives among the Muggle-borns he knows. Teasing children—how am I not ashamed? Well, I'm not ashamed at all.
"Tell me, you're not planning to go to the duel, are you?" I change the subject.
"What, you'll tell Potter?" Malfoy squints.
"I bet, regardless of what I tell him, he'll go anyway."
Draco smiles contentedly. Just like a miniature Dr. Evil.
"As for your first question—no, we're just people with the same surname... Good night, Malfoy."
"Good night, Granger," he replies mechanically. Apparently, it hasn't yet dawned on him that if we just share the same surname, then I'm most likely... yes, that very Mudblood. Although, in light of what I just told him, there's a small chance that he'll be more careful in his judgments in the future.
In the morning, I learned from Harry that Malfoy didn't show up for the duel, and Filch caught him and Ron, so now they have a week of detention. Just as expected.
Owls flew into the Great Hall, and very soon Harry became the proud owner of a broom, which was obvious to everyone who looked at the outline of the package. Conspiracy level 80.
Today's potions lesson went smoothly. No one blew anything up, melted anything, or infuriated Snape with stupid answers. I decide to try my luck.
I stayed after class:
"Professor Snape, is there any possibility of getting into extra potions classes?"
"In sixth year, Miss Granger. Provided that you pass your O.W.L.s with an Outstanding."
"And before sixth year? Just so I can pass the O.W.L.s with Outstanding?"
"Miss Granger, I already spend from morning till night dealing with a herd of empty-headed sheep who can't tell aconite from a Venus flytrap. Do you think I want to spend even more time with any member of this herd?" Yes, there seems to be nothing to catch here. At least not this time.
"I understand, sir. Goodbye," I head for the exit.
I hear behind me:
"And no self-initiative. If I catch you, I'll make sure you're expelled."
Well, to get expelled from Hogwarts—you really have to try hard.
I stop, but don't turn around:
"Clear, sir," and add a bit more quietly, "so I'll try to make sure you don't catch me."
"Minus twenty points from Hufflepuff, for insolence."
I walk out the door:
"Good thing I'm not in Gryffindor."
"See, Potter, even the m... Muggle-borns already understand that Gryffindor is a complete failure!" It turns out that while we were talking with Snape, the next group had arrived. Well, well, Malfoy is showing such unprecedented delicacy for him towards Mudbloods.
"Hermione, why did you say that?" Harry's voice vibrates with hurt. I think it's mainly because of Draco's presence.
"Because, Harry, if someone in Gryffindor loses a lot of points, they get ostracized. And in Hufflepuff, no one cares about points, so I can bother Snape as much as I want."
"Bother Snape?! I can't imagine why you would need to do that!" Not just Harry, the entire first-year Gryffindor class is in shock.
"I wanted to get into extra potions classes."
"For that, you're not in the right house, Granger," Malfoy butted in again, "Professor Snape only takes Slytherins for extra classes and very rarely Ravenclaws. And even then, only after fifth year."
"Enter the classroom," it seems Snape uses a silent step spell, "Miss Granger, if losing points doesn't impress you, we can move on to detentions."
"And in detentions, will we be brewing potions?" I try to make a face like Puss in Boots from Shrek.
Wow, it seems Snape almost smiled.
"No, in detentions you'll be cleaning cauldrons," he measured me with a final glance and closed the door behind him.
Well, that was an excellent conversation.
Next on my schedule is a conversation with our Head of House. My roommates and I discussed whether we should tell Professor Sprout about Neville's wand, and decided we should. So after another Herbology class, the girls grabbed Neville by the arms from both sides and dragged him to lunch, while I stayed to fulfill the mission.
"Professor, I have a secret matter for you!"
"Yes, Hermione, tell me," she smiled encouragingly at me. She's just so sweet, our Head of House.
"Professor, you see, Neville's grandmother gave him his father's wand, but it doesn't suit him at all. He even does better with mine. Because of this, Neville still can't perform spells, and he's very upset that he's falling behind. Could you somehow help him?"
"Hermione, you're a clever girl for telling me. You're right, this isn't acceptable. Neville is one of the best in my classes, I didn't think he might be falling behind in other subjects. Adult wizards can cast with any wand, though some work worse than others. But an unsuitable wand can really harm a child."
"Just please don't tell him that I told you," I pleaded.
"Agreed. Don't worry, you did the right thing."
On my way to lunch, I saw that two identical-looking young men were chasing Mrs. Norris down the corridor with spells. I jumped up and grabbed the cat in my arms. This cat is quite the pest, but you can't do that. Surprisingly, she sat calmly in my arms, as if she understood that I was on her side now.
"Don't you dare touch the cat! She's smaller than you, find someone who can fight back!"
"Well, well..." "a little Hufflepuff..." "apparently doesn't understand..." "that she is also..." "smaller than us..." "and also..." "can't fight back..."
Damn, these ginger menaces make my head spin. The twins made evil faces and slowly walked toward me, playing with their wands. I back away, thinking what to do with them. They probably aren't planning anything serious, likely just trying to scare me. Though some unpleasant trifle, like tickling charms, can be expected from them.
"Minus twenty points from each for threatening a first-year and detention with Mr. Filch," well exactly, if you suddenly can't find Snape, make it so that Gryffindor breaks the rules, and he immediately materializes at the crime scene in the most wonderful way.
From behind Snape's back, I stick my tongue out at the twins and release the cat.
These two animated oranges had already taken Harry and Ron to see the Cerberus, as a reward for the little brother following in their footsteps and getting his first detentions.
Canon takes its course, one way or another.
After lunch, Professor Sprout takes Longbottom away, and in the evening Neville returns, smiling blissfully and clutching his new wand to his chest.
"Look," he says, pointing his wand at a feather forgotten on the table, "Wingardium Leviosa!" The feather successfully takes flight. Apparently, Pomona not only took him to get a wand but also trained him a bit, otherwise where would such confidence in his abilities come from? That's what it means to have the right Head of House.