The rest of Sunday was spent chatting with Kiriko, who had arrived at the greenhouse, sorting through a small pile of papers, and ending with dinner with Lizzie, Kiriko, Gwyneth, and, unexpectedly, Lupin. I was very sleepy, so I didn't really participate in the conversations and passed out as soon as I was in bed.
Monday passed, mostly quietly, most of the students looked a bit wrinkled, and I wasn't much better myself — such a serious energy drain doesn't go away that easily. It was not until dinner that I more or less came to my senses. I remembered several things at once. So, in front of many people, I spped my forehead, wrote my first and st name on a piece of parchment, calmly walked through the smoke line of the restrictive structure, and threw my application into the Goblet of Fire. Not everyone realized what I'd done, and by the time they did, I was almost back at my desk. I still have so much to do, and I haven't even taken on many of them yet. The explosion of noise was abrupt, but expected. I mean, come on, I'm not even seventeen, and I've been walking the line quietly. What's the secret? Spiritual development. If Muggles aren't interested, the magical part of the world has its own nuances.
For example, in the case of my guardian, why didn't I make a submissive face and "submit"? It's simple: if I do that, if I recognize this little man as my guardian, even "just for the sake of appearances", I automatically trigger the ws of magic, which do not recognize double interpretation.
The ws of magic are not an intelligent super-being, but a kind of switchboard on magnetic reys that are only triggered under certain conditions. In the magical world it is unacceptable to have double standards, i.e. two sets of ws, as is happening in Great Britain — because of pro-magic policies, a branch to the degeneration of the gifted.
If you do not believe in the ws of magic, if you do not recognize them, then you are not a magician, that is, you will not have magic. But this only applies to the "beginner" race, as I said, at a certain stage you can transcend the limitations and transform into something more perfect.
I was inundated with questions about how I did it, what I used, and so on. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed envy and anger, but you can't please everyone, even if you want to — I know this from a concrete example. In that life my great-uncle gave half his life to rise up, that is, he worked hard, studied and worked hard, but still he organized his own poultry farm.
In the vilge where he settled down, people lived by growing vegetables and fruits in their gardens and orchards, and in the fall they gave everything away to buyers for pennies. He gave people work and even took care of the normal electricity supply, because before him, any wind would short out the wires and the vilge would be without light for at least half a day.
In general, the usual vilge from the Russian countryside, where women pull the whole family, and men drink, occasionally work, although, and in neighboring Ukraine I saw the same shit. Well, local men came to work for him, but were quickly fired for drinking and stealing, and one couple, son and father, drunkenly stole a truck and crashed it. Trial, jail for them, and half a year ter, when they got amnesty, they came back, got drunk, and burned down the poultry farm with their buddies. That was it.
The uncle sold the saved equipment and went to Italy, and the vilge returned to its original life — poor and drunk. So if you want to do a good deed, first get good security, which was harder in Britain than I thought. No, among muggles it's not so hard, because the kingdom participates in various peacekeeping missions, so there are enough ex-soldiers. But among mages it's more difficult, because a good fighter needs not only a strong body, but also a good magical reserve. And that's a problem.
Besides, even in my own apartment I had no peace, because each of the guests, who turned out to be a "full set", just had to ask a question. There were no exceptions. By Tuesday evening I was already thinking of pces to hide from attention and questions.
It was then that I discovered I had a friend: Paul, with the smile that makes the local students blush, invited me to sit in the Beauxbatons coach. I won't say that the French didn't ask questions, but the generally rexed atmosphere was much better than the feeling of being interrogated.
The rge living room was filled with all the French who had arrived, including the headmistress herself, her assistant, and a couple of witch doctors, but it was light and cheerful. They were talking about all sorts of things, ughing, joking, even dancing.
I have to admit that it feels a little awkward when your dance partner is a head and a half taller than you. You feel... very strange. They also talked about the noisy party in the woods over the weekend, which it turned out a lot of people went to see, but only saw strange shadows, ghostly lights, and heard strange noises. Paul didn't want to go for some reason, so it was just me and the girls telling stories.
Although I suspect Gabby had already told everyone, it was no secret. In general, Tuesday night went very well, I liked it, and no one even tried to drug me or charm me — just nice flirting, nothing more. And flirting is a sport that both women and men like to participate in, although not everyone is successful for various reasons.
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