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Chapter 10.1 Comfort in the living room.
Professor Binns, as always, was mumbling something about medieval laws about magical creatures, and his voice blended with the soft rustle of pages and the clink of inkwells. Trying to look like I was paying attention, I was actually stealthily holding a Transfiguration textbook just below my desk and trying to read the chapter on button transfiguration.
Nearby, Lavender rested her cheek on her palm and looked at Padma with sincere curiosity:
"Is it true that in India cows are like... well, almost like domestic dragons? Does everyone love them, and can they do anything?"
Padma smiled a little, as if she was pleased that someone was even asking about her native land, and not about Quidditch or potions.
"Not exactly like dragons," she said softly, trying not to shout over the professor's monotonous voice, but so that Lavender would definitely hear. "But yes, they are very respected. Our cows are called "gau mata", that is, "mother cow". Not because they give a lot, but because they give everything without demanding anything."
Lavender leaned a little closer, as if afraid to miss a word:
"All? How's that?"
"Well, milk, of course," Padma began counting off her fingers, as if listing the ingredients for a potion. Ghee is made from milk, which is ghee. It is eaten and used in rituals. Manure also sounds strange, but it is needed: they fertilize the land, dry it and burn it as fuel, even smear the walls with it so that insects do not enter the house. And urine... in Ayurveda, it is used for medicinal formulations.
I was listening to this conversation out of the corner of my ear and flipping through the textbook, I couldn't stand it and snorted softly without looking up from the textbook:
"Urine? Seriously?"
Padma squinted at me, but without anger-more with the patient smile of an older sister:
"Seriously. And that's not the strangest thing. The strangest thing is that people treat the cow as a wet nurse and protector. They don't kill her, they take care of her. Even the bulls who plow the fields are respected as helpers."
Lavender nodded thoughtfully, as if trying to put it all in her head:
"I mean, it's like... a magical cow. The only magic is that it just exists."
Padma smiled.
"Exactly."
Professor Binns finally paused, as if he remembered that there were real people in the classroom, and looked around the audience with a translucent gaze:
"So, who can say what impact the laws of 1289 had on the status of pets in the magical community?"
Lavender immediately raised her hand, eager to tell him about the cows, but the professor didn't seem to notice her. But I looked up, realizing that the silence had become suspicious:
"Well, have they become more... secure?"
Binns blinked:
"That's generally true. Pets received a special status, as they often became bearers of family charms and keepers of ancestral secrets."
Padma added softly, not for the professor anymore, but for Lavender and me:
"Here. Even in the magical world, they are valued not only for their strength or teeth. Sometimes the most important thing is that they are just there and help every day."
I went back to my textbook, but it wasn't so intense anymore. And I thought for a second: but the cow really looks something like Mrs. Norris — it doesn't growl, it doesn't do magic, it just keeps order in its corner of the world.
* * *
Christmas was approaching. As promised, I wrote to my mother about the gift for Harry. Let him be happy. I used my pocket money to order chocolate for him and Hermione. Harry likes milk with nuts, and Hermione likes bitter with almost no sugar. In the middle of December, when everyone woke up in the morning, they found that the castle was covered with a thick layer of snow, and the huge lake was frozen.
On the same day, the twins received several penalty points for conjuring snowballs they had made, and they began flying after Professor Quirrell, crashing into the back of his head. The few owls who managed to fight their way through the blizzard that morning to deliver mail to school were on the verge of death. And Hagrid had to tinker with them thoroughly before they could fly again. Only Hedwig circled around the castle like a ghost, scaring the students.
As before, I'm sitting with my legs tucked under me, my sweater is warm, and a mug of hot tea is in my hands. Brownies bring tea to the living room if asked. I'm telling another story about the brothers, exaggerating a bit, and laughing at it myself.
Harry listens, nodding from time to time, sometimes smiling, but more often he just watches me brighten up when I speak. For Harry, this is also a comfort: to see that a friend feels good. He adjusts his robe on his shoulders and reaches for a cookie that someone brought with the cocoa.
Hermione is sitting with her feet on a low pouf, her textbook is open in front of her, but she keeps getting distracted by my story. Her pencil freezes in the margins, she smiles out of the corner of her lips, and then she makes a note in the margins: "don't forget to ask about the heating spell." She wants everything to be right, but she already understands that comfort is not only about order, but also about these evenings when you can just be around.
On the table between us is Hermione's mug of tea without sugar and with mint, a stack of parchments, a map that I tried to roll up, but it still tries to unfold. Somewhere in the corner, the older guys are quietly playing magic chess on a standard board. I actually noticed that very few people play on the extended board, but I convinced Hermione to play with me. The fire in the fireplace casts long shadows, and it seems that there is nothing outside this circle at all.
I took a sip of hot tea with lemon and, without looking, fumbled for oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips on the table.
Imagine, Fred said that if you whisper "lumos" into the keyhole, the door will open itself. I tried it. It didn't work out. But Mrs. Norris came around the corner and looked at me like I was trying to steal her dinner. She also covered her face with her paw and meowed indignantly. At least she didn't call Filch.
Harry snorted, pulling his robes closer around him. It was especially cold today, and at least the robes had a heating charm.
"I probably should have said it louder. Or add "please"."
Hermione looked up from her textbook, her pencil pausing in the margins.
"Or learn a normal unlocking spell. But I'm glad you weren't hurt."
She reached for the mug, and for a second the room was completely silent-just the crackle of wood and the patter of rain on glass.
I smiled, slipped my fingers into the sleeves of my sweater, and said, lower my voice:
"The main thing is that we are here. And it's warm here."
* * *
* * *
Harry's POV
The December evening in the Gryffindor common room seemed to be deliberately trying to be cozy — to at least protect a little from what was outside. The rain was lashing at the stained glass windows, the wind was humming in the chimney, but inside it smelled of wax, old wood and hot chocolate. The fire cast red highlights on the worn upholstery of the chairs, on the stack of textbooks at Hermione's feet, on the edge of the school map that the seniors had given him on his first night at school.
Ron was sitting with his leg tucked up in his mother's sweater, which was a little too big, and there was a special reliability in it, as if the sweater hugged him by itself. He took a bite of a cranberry cookie and was about to say something, but suddenly froze. Tilly, the housekeeper from the kitchen, who is responsible for the living room of the faculty, went wild today.
Neville was sitting in the corner, almost hidden by the back of a large armchair and a red and gold plaid. He tried to be inconspicuous: his shoulders were pulled in, his fingers were gripping his knees tightly, and tears were quietly rolling down his cheeks. He didn't sob loudly, he didn't give himself that right-he just sat there and gulped the air as if it were prickly.
Hermione noticed it first. Her pencil hovered over the page of her textbook, her gaze slid from the lines to the dark corner where her shoulders were shaking. She carefully closed the notebook, put the pencil down smoothly, as always, and quietly, so as not to frighten, approached. She sat on the low ottoman next to him, not too close, but so that Neville would know he wasn't alone.
"You don't have to be brave every minute." She said it very calmly, almost in a whisper, so that only he could hear it through the crackling of the firewood and the voices of the older children. "If bravery today is just sitting here and not hiding your tears, then you're already the bravest."
Neville sniffed, tried to wipe his face with his sleeve, but the sleeve immediately became wet, and for some reason it completely broke his attempts to hold on. He sobbed softly and suddenly buried his forehead in his knees.
Harry, who had been listening to Ron in silence and absently twirling the mug in his hands, immediately understood everything. He didn't get up loudly, didn't attract the attention of the whole living room. He simply took off his robe-heavy, smelling of castle corridors and winter damp-and draped it over Neville's shoulders. The robe was just right, it had only slipped a little to one side, but something like a cocoon appeared in it, a wall behind which one could exhale.
"Malfoy blurted something out again," Neville muttered without looking up. "About... about my grandma. He said that she was "not all right." I wanted to answer. I wanted to say something cool, like Fred and George. But I was just slurring my words, and I just stood there.
Ron, without hesitation, shifted to make room and slapped the seat next to him.
"Sit down here," he said, a little louder than necessary, as if on purpose, so that there would be firmness in his voice, which Neville lacked right now. We sit here when we don't want anything cool at all. Here you can just be the one who stands and says nothing. And if you want, I'll go right now and tell Fred to come up with a spell for Malfoy to tie his tongue in a knot. Well, or at least for him to hiccup the whole lesson.
Neville smiled weakly through his tears, a shaky but real smile.
Hermione took a small clean handkerchief out of her pocket — neat, with a hemmed edge, obviously from home. She held it out without insisting, just put it on the armrest so Neville could take it when he was ready.
"If you want to tell me, we're here," she said softly. "If you don't want to, you can stay here too. We can talk about something else altogether. About jumping toadstools. Or about how to properly fold the parchment so that it does not unfold every two seconds.
The fire in the fireplace clicked, spitting out a tiny spark, and it scattered into golden dots before going out. It became a little quieter in this corner of the living room, as if the castle itself had held its breath for a second, giving Neville time to just sit, warm up and believe that he would not be judged either for crying or for the fact that his bravery today was not loud, but quiet.
The fire in the fireplace was turning lazily, pushing up long flames, and the living room was getting warmer and quieter, as if the castle itself had turned down the volume to allow Neville to exhale. Harry was still sitting next to him, his robes resting comfortably on Neville's shoulders like a heavy, reliable wing. Hermione was sitting nearby, holding a closed notebook on her lap — not to study, but to give Neville the feeling that everything was going as usual. Ron, unable to sit still, kept glancing at the entrance, as if waiting for reinforcements.
And it burst in.
With a loud bang, the door to the living room flew open, and Fred and George appeared in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder. They both wore the same scarves, but they were tied differently: Fred's was careless, almost loose, and George's was tight, as if he was trying to hold not only the scarf together, but the whole evening. George was holding a tin can with something suspiciously crunchy in it, and Fred was holding a bundle with a corner of parchment with bright red ink sticking out of it.
"We heard we need a plan here," Fred said, stepping forward and scanning the living room like a battlefield commander.
"Or at least some moral support," George added, setting the jar down on the table with a sound like it was a battle trophy.
Ron immediately brightened up, as if there was more light in the room. Neville...
"Malfoy said something about Grandma to him again. And Neville wanted to answer, but... well, you know."
Fred immediately sat down on the arm of the chair next to Neville, leaning forward slightly to be on a level with his gaze.
"Do you know what the funniest thing about Draco Malfoy is?" He asked very seriously, but there were sparkles dancing in his eyes, just like in a fireplace. "He thinks that if you say nasty things loudly enough, they become true. But in fact they just sound like a squeak."
George squatted down in front of Neville, resting his elbows on his knees.
"And do you know what we can do? We can come up with a joke so that he can outwit himself. For example, so that every time he says something offensive, a small firework will fly out of his nose. It doesn't hurt, it's just very embarrassing."
Neville smiled faintly, and that smile was as fragile as the first ice in a puddle-it was about to crack, but it was still holding on.
"I don't want him to get hurt," he said softly.
"And it won't be," George replied firmly. "We don't hurt. We make it funny for everyone... except him."
Harry, who had been silent until then, suddenly spoke up:
"Maybe it's better not to give him a reason at all. Let him think that his words just... don't get through. Like the wind through an open window."
Hermione nodded in agreement, but added with a slight smile:
"But if you really want him to feel how unpleasant it is, you can make his own words echo back to him. So that he can hear for himself how stupid it sounds."
Fred rubbed his hands together theatrically.
"Oh, echo is a good idea. We can figure something out. Not a spell, of course, we're not that cool yet. But, say, a sly note that will whisper his words back. Or..."
"Or we'll just be there," George finished calmly, looking directly at Neville. "If he says something again, you won't be alone. We will stand side by side. And Ron. And Harry. And Hermione. And even a Brat, if he gathers his courage."
Neville took a deep breath, and it wasn't as scratchy as it used to be. He adjusted Harry's robes a little on his shoulders, as if checking if they were holding up, and nodded.
"Thank you," he whispered. "It's just... Thank you for being here."
Ron immediately moved over to make room on the couch.
"Sit here," he said, slapping the pillow with his palm. We have a headquarters here. Here we decide who is joking with whom, and who is just drinking cocoa and not thinking about Malfoy."
Fred took a handful of fruit candies out of his pocket and poured them on the table.
"And these are strategic reserves. For courage. Or just to be sweet when it's cold outside."
At that moment, the fireplace clicked, throwing out another spark, and it fell whirling onto the carpet and went out. But the light in the living room was not from the fire, but from the fact that there were those who would not let go. The rain was still pounding on the windows, the wind was humming in the pipes, but here, in this corner, it was warm, noisy, a little ridiculous— and very Gryffindor.
End pov
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