Ron-Weasly book 1. V2 part 7-1

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."