Ron Weasley and the Philosopher's Stone

Harry has become my friend, but it's exhausting. Every time we left the classroom, there was a huge crowd of students staring at him in the hallway. They stared, pointed, and wouldn't let him pass. There were constant whispers and we had to make our way through the crowd. I moved like an icebreaker and dragged the embarrassed boy along with me. Well, at least he moves his legs fast, his escapes from his cousin have an effect. There were one hundred and forty-two stairs at Hogwarts. Some of them were wide and spacious, others were narrow and shaky. There were stairs that took us to a completely different place on Friday than they did on Thursday. There were stairs where several steps suddenly disappeared at the very moment when I was going down or up them. So, going up these stairs, it was necessary to jump. There were enough problems with the doors, too. Some of them did not open until they were politely requested. Others opened only if they were touched in a certain place. Still others turned out to be fake, but in fact there was a wall. It was very difficult to remember the location of stairs, doors, classrooms, corridors and bedrooms. It seemed that everything at Hogwarts was constantly changing, and today everything was different from yesterday. The people depicted in the portraits went to visit each other. And I was convinced that the knight's armor standing in the corridors was capable of running. Well, the upperclassmen gave us a map in the living room that shows the main routes to the classrooms where classes are held. Ghosts also added to the hassle. There have never been any problems with the Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower and, therefore, our ally. On the contrary, he was always happy to show the freshmen how to get where they needed to go. But Peeves was more dangerous than two closed doors and a staircase leading nowhere-especially if you meet him when you're late for class. Peeves dropped paper baskets on freshmen's heads, yanked carpets out from under them, threw pieces of chalk at them, or, thanks to his invisibility, sneaked up unnoticed and suddenly grabbed their noses with a hoarse cry: "Gotcha!". It seemed that nothing and no one could be worse than Peeves, but it turned out that this was not entirely true. Argus Filch, the school's caretaker, turned out to be a much more unpleasant person. On the very first morning, Harry and I caught his attention-unfortunately, in a bad way. Filch caught us trying to open one of the doors. Unfortunately, it turned out that it was behind this door that the corridor on the third floor, which Albus Dumbledore had mentioned at the banquet, began. Filch refused to believe that we were just lost. The caretaker was sure that we specifically wanted to enter the forbidden territory, and threatened to lock us in the dungeon. But at the most critical moment, Professor Quirrell, who was passing by, saved us. That old fart. No, to take us to class, he also detained us. Filch had a cat named Mrs. Norris, a skinny, dusty-gray creature with bulging, glowing eyes, almost the same as Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone. As soon as she noticed that someone had violated the rules - had taken at least one step beyond the forbidden line - and she immediately disappeared. And two seconds later Filch would appear, snuffling heavily. Clearly a familiar. And he's chasing her like a young man. Is he even human? Filch knew all the secret passages better than anyone else at school - with the possible exception of my brothers-and appeared as suddenly as if he were a ghost. We hated him, and for many it was the limit of their dreams to dare to kick Mrs. Norris. But finding the right office was still half the battle, because classes were sometimes much more difficult than finding a particular room. Magic wasn't just about waving a wand and saying a few strange words. Every Wednesday at midnight, we looked at the telescopes, studied the night sky, wrote down the names of different stars and memorized how the planets move. Three times a week we were taken to the greenhouses located behind the castle, where a short, plump lady, Professor Sprout, taught us herbology, the science of plants, and told us how to take care of all these strange plants and fungi and what they are used for. I paid attention, just like I did when caring for magical creatures. Although it was conducted on a case-by-case basis. The professor was already old and sick. I guess I'll have to teach the animals from the pictures in Scamender's book. The most tedious subject was the history of magic, which were the only lessons the ghost taught. Professor Binns was already very old when he fell asleep one day in the staff room right in front of the fireplace, and the next morning he came to class without a body. Beans was talking in a terrible monotone and without stopping. The students hurriedly wrote down names and dates for him and confused Emerick the Evil with Urik the Strange. Unfortunately, he delivered his lectures in such a monotonous voice that it took a terrible effort to stay awake. I'll teach you from the textbook. He's only talking about goblin rebellions anyway. The book is much more interesting, I've read it. Professor Flitwick, who taught spells, was so tiny that he stood on a stack of books to see the students from behind his desk. It is said that he is a half-goblin who has become a master of dueling in Europe. They say he was a member of the fighters' guild. Should I ask him to join the dueling club? Oh, fuck, it's been shut down. At the very first lesson, he got acquainted with the course, took a magazine and began to read out the names in order. When he reached Harry, he squeaked excitedly and disappeared from sight, falling off his stand. Is he making fun of Muggleborns? Children from magical families all take him seriously. But Professor McGonagall was completely different. I was right when I saw her and told myself that it was better not to mess with her. Smart but strict, she gave a very harsh speech as soon as we came to her class for the first time and sat down. And Harry and I were also late because of Filch. “Transfiguration is one of the most difficult and dangerous areas of magic that you will study at Hogwarts," she began. “Any violation of discipline in my lessons, and the offender will leave the classroom and will not return here. I've warned you.” After such a speech, everyone felt a little uneasy. Then Professor McGonagall went into practice and turned her desk into a pig, and then back into a table. Everyone was terribly amazed and began to ache with the desire to start practicing themselves as soon as possible, but soon realized that it would be a long time before we could learn how to turn furniture into animals. Then Professor McGonagall dictated to us some very incomprehensible and confusing sentences that we had to memorize. What a nightmare. Okay, I also understood what she was saying, as did Hermione. But Harry was sitting with glassy eyes and blinking uncomprehendingly. I need to give him a hint about languages. Let him learn them in the summer. Hmm, but the school librarian should have an artifact for the most common languages. Then McGonagall gave each of us a match and said that we should turn these matches into needles. I wish I knew what this needle looks like. I tried to remember what my mother used. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione Granger's match had changed shape slightly - Professor McGonagall showed the whole course Hermione's match, which was sharpened at one end and covered with silver, and smiled at her. This smile amazed everyone no less than the transformation of the table into a pig, because it seemed that Professor McGonagall did not know how to smile at all. We were all looking forward to Professor Quirrell's defense against the Dark Arts class, but Quirrell's classes were more like a humorous show than something serious. His office smelled like garlic, which Quirrell hoped would scare away the vampire he'd met in Romania. The professor was very afraid that he was about to come to Hogwarts to deal with him. The turban on Quirrell's head didn't add to his seriousness either. The professor claimed that this turban was given to him by an African prince, whom he helped to get rid of a very dangerous zombie. But no one really believed in this story. Firstly, because when Seamus Finnigan asked how Quirrell defeated the zombies, Quirrell blushed and started talking about the weather. And secondly, because the turban smelled strange, and the twins assured everyone that it was not a gift from an African prince, but just a precautionary measure. According to them, Quirrell was covered with garlic cloves under his clothes, and garlic was also hidden in his turban, because the professor, fearing vampires, wanted to be completely protected. He even slept in what he wore to school, so that the vampire wouldn't take him by surprise. Considering the smell that came from the professor, I agreed with them. During the first few days of my studies, I became convinced that I was learning no worse than others, even without looking at the wand. Many students were born and raised in Muggle families and had no idea who they were until they received a letter from Hogwarts. Besides, the freshmen had so much to learn that even I, who was born into a family of wizards and had five older brothers besides my parents, didn't have much advantage over the others. Friday was a great day for Harry and me. We were finally able to go down to the Great Hall for breakfast, never once losing our way. “What do we have there today?” Harry asked, sprinkling sugar on his oatmeal. “Two potions classes - we'll study with the Slytherins,” I replied. “Professor Snape is teaching the classes, and he is their dean. They say that he is always on their side in everything, protecting them from the rest of the teachers and giving them the best marks. That's just how we'll see if that's the case.” “I wish McGonagall would always stick up for us," said Harry thoughtfully. Professor McGonagall was the dean of the Gryffindor faculty, but that didn't stop her from giving us a huge homework assignment the day before yesterday. If she protected us like Snape protected his snakes, it would be good. And the tasks, well, fuck it, magic is interesting. I need transfiguration in the future. While we were having breakfast, the mail arrived. During breakfast, at least a hundred owls flew into the Great Hall with loud hoots. They began circling the tables, looking for their hosts and dropping letters and parcels into their laps. This morning, Hedwig landed between a sugar bowl and a saucer of jam and dropped a sealed envelope into Harry's plate. Harry immediately opened it. Before that, she had never brought him a single letter and lived in an owl house, sometimes flying in to visit her wayward master. Harry borrowed a pen from me and scribbled on the back of a letter: “Yes, I'd love to, see you later, thanks.” He handed the letter to Hedwig. After finishing, we went to the dungeons to Snape's office. It was cold here-much colder than in the castle itself-and quite scary. All along the walls there were glass jars in which alcohol-soaked animals swam. Snape, like Flitwick, began classes by opening a magazine and getting to know the students. And, like Flitwick, he stopped when he reached the last name Potter. “Oh, yes," he said softly. "Harry Potter. Our new celebrity.” Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle giggled mockingly, covering their faces with their hands. Having finished his introduction to the class, Snape looked around the audience with an attentive gaze. His eyes were black. They were cold and empty, and for some reason they looked like dark tunnels. “You are here to learn the science of making magic potions. A very precise and subtle science," he began. Snape spoke almost in a whisper, but the students clearly heard every word. Like Professor McGonagall, Snape had a gift for effortlessly controlling the classroom. As in Professor McGonagall's classes, no one dared to whisper or engage in outside activities. “Silly waving of a magic wand has nothing to do with this science, and therefore many of you will find it hard to believe that my subject is an important component of magical science," Snape continued. I don't think you can appreciate the beauty of a slow-boiling cauldron exuding the most subtle odors, or the gentle power of liquids that creep through a person's veins, bewitching his mind, enslaving his senses.… I can teach you how to bottle fame, how to brew triumph, how to plug death. But all this is only on condition that you are at least somewhat different from the herd of blockheads that usually comes to my lessons. Unfortunately, potions don't attract me from the word at all. It is much easier to buy a ready-made emergency kit, and not bother with their preparation in field conditions. After this short speech, the silence in the course became absolute. Harry looked at me blankly. I didn't object to the fact that, in Snape's opinion, I was probably a crooked sheep. Hermione Granger shifted impatiently in her chair, looking as if she couldn't wait to prove that she was definitely not one of the herd of blockheads. “Potter!” Snape said suddenly. “What happens if I mix crushed asphodel root with wormwood tincture?” He glanced at me, but I was equally taken aback by the question. Even though I've been reading a textbook on potions, a lot has already disappeared from my mind. But Hermione Granger clearly knew the answer, and her hand shot up into the air. “I do not know, sir," Harry replied. A contemptuous expression appeared on Snape's face. “Well, well... Obviously, fame is not everything. But let's try it again, Potter. Snape stubbornly refused to notice Hermione's raised hand. “If I ask you to bring me a bezoar stone, where will you look for it?” In the medical bag, of course. I couldn't quite remember where it was mined. Hermione continued to pull on her hand, barely able to keep from jumping up from her seat. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were shaking with silent laughter. And I myself could only laugh at her antics. I could barely contain myself.Damn, don't laugh, Harry will be offended. “I do not know, sir," Harry confessed. “It doesn't seem to have occurred to you to read your textbooks before coming to school, does it, Potter?!” Snape continued to ignore Hermione's trembling hand. “Okay, Potter, what's the difference between wolfsbane and monk's hood?” Hermione, unable to sit still any longer, stood up, stretching her arm towards the ceiling. Will this know-it-all ever calm down? She doesn't let anyone else answer in class at all. “I do not know," Harry said softly. “But I think Hermione knows that for sure, why don't you ask her?” Laughter was heard. Harry looked around nervously. So did he think they were laughing at him? I'll have to calm him down. In the meantime, it's better to sit quietly and keep quiet. “Sit down!” Snape snapped, turning to Hermione for a moment. “And you, Potter, remember: from the root of asphodel and wormwood, a soporific potion is prepared, so strong that it is called the drink of living death. A bezoar is a stone that is extracted from the stomach of a goat and is an antidote to most poisons. And wolfsbane and monk's hood are the same plant, also known as Aconite. Do you understand? So, everyone write down what I said! Everyone hurriedly grabbed their quills and rustled the parchment. But Snape's quiet voice cut through the uproar. “And for your insolent answer, Potter, I'm putting a penalty point on Gryffindor's account.” It seems that for the first-year students of the Gryffindor faculty, Snape's lessons promised to be not the most pleasant. After Snape sat Harry down, something else completely bleak happened. Snape divided the students into pairs and gave them the task of preparing a simple potion to cure boils. He circled the classroom, rustling his long black robe, and watched as we weighed dried nettle leaves and ground snake teeth in mortars. Snape criticized everyone except Malfoy, whom he obviously liked. At the moment when Snape called everyone to admire how Malfoy cooks horned slugs, the dungeon was suddenly filled with poisonous green smoke and loud hissing. Neville somehow managed to melt Seamus's cauldron, and it turned into a huge shapeless blob, and the potion they were preparing in the cauldron flowed onto the stone floor, burning holes in the shoes of nearby students. A moment later, everyone climbed onto their chairs with their feet, and Neville, who was doused by the potion splashed out of the cauldron, groaned in pain as red blisters appeared on his arms and legs. “Idiot!” Snape growled, sweeping the spilled potion into a corner with a flick of his palm. “As I understand it, before removing the cauldron from the fire, you added porcupine quills to the potion?” Neville, instead of answering, grimaced and began to cry - now his nose was covered with red blisters. “Take him to the hospital wing," Snape said to Seamus with a grimace. And then he turned to us, who were working at the next table. “Potter, why didn't you tell him not to add porcupine quills to the potion? Or did you think that if he made a mistake, you would look better than him? I'm putting another penalty point on Gryffindor's account because of you.” Harry blushed at the injustice. He was about to object when I kicked him under the table. “Don't push yourself," I whispered. “I've heard that Snape can do a lot of damage if he gets angry.” An hour later, we left the dungeon and went up the stairs. Harry was really upset. “Cheer up," I encouraged him. “Fred and George are also having bad luck in Snape's lessons. Do you know how many fines they got from him? Hey, can I come with you to Hagrid's?” Since he is a forester, he knows everything about the plants in the forbidden forest and the animals that inhabit it. At five minutes to three we left the castle and walked through the school grounds to Hagrid's hut. He lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. A hunting bow and a pair of galoshes hung over the front door. When Harry knocked on the door, we heard someone frantically scratching at it from the other side and barking deafeningly. A moment later, Hagrid's booming voice reached us: “Get back, Fang, get back!” The door opened a crack, and a huge face overgrown with hair appeared behind it. “Come on in," Hagrid invited. "Get back, Fang!" Hagrid opened the door wider, barely holding the huge black dog by the collar. Hagrid did not know the name of this breed, although he explained that wild boars were hunted with such dogs. There was only one room in the house. Hams and gutted pheasants hung from the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling over an open fire, and in the corner stood a massive bed covered with a patchwork quilt. “You... er-er make yourself at home... Get settled," said Hagrid, releasing Fang, who rushed over to me and started licking my ears. It was obvious that Fang, like his master, looked much more dangerous than he really was. He should have salivated less. “This is Ron," Harry introduced me. Meanwhile, Hagrid was making tea and putting cupcakes on a plate. The cupcakes made contact with the plate with such a sound that there was no doubt about their freshness - they had withered and turned to stone a long time ago. So, it would be necessary to somehow carefully abandon them. My teeth are precious to me. “Another Weasley, eh?" asked Hagrid, looking at my freckled face and red hair. “I've spent half my life hunting your brothers. They're always... well... They're trying to get into the Forbidden Forest, but I have to catch them, yes!” And why am I not surprised? It was easy to break our teeth on the stone cupcakes, but Harry and I pretended that we really liked them and told Hagrid how our first days at school had been. Fang was sitting next to Harry, resting his head on his lap and drooling profusely over his school uniform. I took the cupcake in my hand and tried to soak it in a cup. Hmm, but nothing like that. But anyway, I would have eaten something more substantial. Harry and I were terribly amused when we heard Hagrid call Filch an old bastard. “And this cat is his, Mrs. Norris... uh, I wish I could introduce her to Fang. You probably don't know, do you! As soon as I get to school, she follows me... uh... He's on my heels, watching everything and sniffing around. And you can't hide from her, and you can't deceive her... She can smell me and she'll find me everywhere. Filch must have trained her on me.” And why would Filch do that? There's something fishy here, but Harry likes Hagrid, so I won't interrupt. Harry told Hagrid about Snape's lesson. Hagrid, like me, advised Harry not to worry because Snape doesn't like the vast majority of the students. “But I think he hates me.” “It's nothing!” Hagrid objected. "Why would he?" However, Hagrid slightly looked away as he said these words. Another problem. Snape definitely reacts to his friend in some way too aggressively. Even my brothers don't piss him off. “What about your brother Charlie?” Hagrid asked hurriedly, turning to me. “I really liked him: he was too good with animals.” Had Hagrid deliberately changed the subject? While I was telling Hagrid about Charlie, who studies dragons in a nature reserve with access from Romania, Harry picked up a piece of paper that was lying on the table under the cover for the kettle. It was a clipping from The Prophet. Harry started discussing the safe robbery with Hagrid, but Hagrid just mumbled and looked away. After chatting a little more, we went home. On the way, Harry talked about the package that Hagrid took from the bank on the day of the robbery. Hmm, and what was there?