Heat—that was the first thing I realized descending the ramp from the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Somehow it turned out that specifically on this day, the midday sun over Paris baked with particular passion, and although there are more than hot days in native England, specifically here and now it seemed murderous. But there were those among us who decidedly didn't care—Hermione.
Mom, by the way, wanted to get a short haircut before the trip, but we managed to dissuade her—I have her hair, black-black, and I like it. And hers is long, and at the same time so voluminous... Beautiful, undoubtedly, but right now, it seems to me, as we move under this baking sun, Mom remembers us with not very kind words.
To our joy, we quite quickly found ourselves inside the airport building. Inspection, all sorts of other procedures for an international flight, we ride in a taxi to the hotel, and now we are checking into two rooms. Distributed simply—Mom with Hermione in one room, and father and I in another.
Only father and I unpacked things, inspected everything, got tired, sat down, so to speak, to gather our thoughts, when the door to the room opens, revealing Mom and Hermione ready for travel in light dresses and other summer accessories.
"Let's go, hurry up!" Hermione managed to combine a request and an urgent recommendation for action in one phrase. We had no choice but to follow her.
We didn't book excursions—Mom and Dad, albeit a long time ago, had repeatedly visited both Paris and other cities in France, and knew quite well where and why one could go. Of course, various cafes and restaurants could have closed several times, rebuilt, rebranded, or disappeared altogether, but the sights didn't go anywhere.
We got out of the hotel onto the street, and under Hermione's imaginary leadership, went on a walking tour of Paris. Why imaginary? Well, Hermione is, of course, a smart girl, but Mom is wise. With surgical precision, a couple of words and hints, she directed my sister's enthusiasm in the right direction and we ended up going where the parents needed to go. It amused me. It amused father. It touched Mom. Hermione didn't care in the slightest—she's in Paris!
"And this is..." the standard beginning of Hermione's phrase when she talked about what she saw in front of her, remembering something from books. It happened many times. Many-many times.
"And here is the Arc de Triomphe," she pointed her hand at this truly beautiful monument when we went out onto Charles de Gaulle Square. "They started building it in honor of Napoleon's victories in eighteen hundred and six. What irony. When the construction ended, Napoleon managed to suffer complete defeat and rout..."
We went along the Champs-Élysées, occasionally looking into interesting shops or centers. Such architecture, design, styles of facades and roofs were close and understandable to me—as if I were at home in a past, normal life, but everything was somewhat larger in scale, and the streets wider. Despite the crowds of people speaking a language poorly depositing in consciousness, I felt... Easy in this city.
We bought ice cream and walked through the Marigny park, but it didn't represent anything special, and a phrase from a past normal life kept spinning in my mind, fully describing this park: "A square in the center of my city." Adjusted for the occupied area.
After that we went to the Grand Palais. We only wanted to walk around, and nearby, but whether we were so lucky, or it was such a day, an opportunity arose to visit the Palais de la Découverte in the West Wing of the Grand Palais. It's a sin to miss such an opportunity—we took advantage of it.
They say goblins are capable of building the most beautiful buildings. Nonsense. I'm not talking about dwarves, but the round hall of the palace was impressive—Gringotts has nothing on it! Huge, monumental, massive. Many different decorations, rectangular columns go up to the ceiling, ending in arches under the dome of the ceiling. And the pattern of the stone floor causes some childish delight.
Speaking of children. The majority of visitors to this museum were precisely the teenage audience and these were clearly planned school excursions, and yet it's summer now. But these are trifles.
We went through all the halls, examined everything, albeit not very detailed. Chemistry, physics from the simplest, elementary things to elementary particles—everything was presented here a little bit, and there were even sections where staff together with schoolchildren conducted interactive demonstrations of certain things. Impressive, honestly. If in a past life we were taken to such places with such involvement in the scientific environment, probably we wouldn't have had to force ourselves to study so hard. No, there were of course trips to the museum, but... Various and completely uninteresting junk, or stuffed animals, or all sorts of rubbish in formalin—seriously? This would be interesting to an adult who is curious about such things, but not to children at all.
And also—everyone here spoke exclusively French. This was a small problem for me personally.
Both father and Mom spoke French quite fluently, and even Hermione understood this language quite well by ear, although her accent and slight delay in formulating thoughts betrayed a lack of practice in the language, but good theoretical knowledge. Only I had a headache when I heard French speech. The trouble is that I don't know the language at all. However, my brains work, and I quickly associated what I heard with meaning, and... That's where the problems began.
The phonetics of the French language strongly echoed as many as four languages from the shard memories. Even if these memories are not enough to build at least a couple of intelligible phrases in those languages, completely different approximate meanings of words surfaced in the subcortex, coming into conflict both with each other and with the assumed meaning of already real phrases... It was unrealistically annoying. But I could boast a magnificent "r-r-r," such that imitators of Edith Piaf would bite their elbows with envy. True, this is the only thing I could boast of.
In general, we left the Grand Palais by evening, and headed closer to the hotel. A restaurant, delicious and unusual food, and only then did we return to the hotel itself, gathering in father's and my room. Hermione was just happy and wanted to share this happiness with everyone, but sitting on the soft bed, she quickly softened, hit her head on the corner of the pillow and lost consciousness. Simply put—fell asleep.
The second day also passed in excursions and walks. Museums, interesting places, just sights. As it seemed to me, there were few tourists, but this is normal—the peak season for visiting beach cities. And Paris is better visited in cooler months to feel a certain poetic romance of the city. In autumn, for example, when the leaves turn yellow.
On the third day, Hermione's enthusiasm subsided slightly, and now the magical features of Paris returned to her sphere of interests, or rather—the magical quarter. Of course, one could also visit the local Ministry of Magic, but why? We flew here by plane, there were no wizards around, nothing unusual happened, and my triangular backpack caused absolutely no questions due to three embroidered runes on the inner side of the strap—ordinary people and even my parents refused to notice it point-blank. Until I shove the backpack into their hands myself—they don't see it.
On the morning of this very third day, the weather calmed down a little, stopped baking, and the sky was gray, but without a hint of rain. The female part of our family changed light dresses for warmer skirt combinations, true, Mom had to, if stories are to be believed, forcibly shake Hermione out of jeans and a T-shirt, saying, like: "In the fashion capital it's not fitting to wear worker-peasant clothes." Funny, if you perceive our surname not only as a surname, but also as a word with its meaning.
"We need to go to the Passage Jouffroy," Hermione declared when our whole family left the hotel.
This statement made the parents think, but Mom quickly found a solution.
"Here either the metro or the bus. Or we can walk. The latter will take about an hour and a half of leisurely walking—still not very close."
"Metro, of course! It will be faster."
In the end, we walked a little to the subway, rode the metro, and got out in another part of the city, and again walked a little before entering this covered shopping center. Many interesting and not so pavilions attracted attention, but Hermione went to a specific goal.
"I know exactly," she said, "that the entrance is located in one sweet shop..."
In the end, we reached almost the other end of the passage before Hermione smiled joyfully, reading the sign.
"Here, this way."
The sweet shop with all its appearance spoke of a certain touch of magical flair. Soft yellow colors, tricky ornate design, and even the sweets seemed magical, but no—ordinary.
Entering inside, I immediately noticed the sign on the far wall of the shop: "Magical Quarter" in several languages, and under the sign a passage that was visible only with a purposeful and conscious search for it with a gaze.
"Over there," Hermione pointed to this passage.
"We don't see it," father shrugged. "As always."
"Indeed," Hermione remembered that our parents are ordinary and took both of them by the hands. Initiative girl.
"There, now we see."
We went through this very passage, finding ourselves in a large sweet shop, but already magical. There was a lot of free space here and most likely, this is from the calculation that here is a passage to the ordinary world.
Sweets here were... Bright. For every taste, color, and shape. But there were also small tables here, at which sat several wizards in quite familiar robes to me, eating cakes and washing them down with something.
Hermione turned on the icebreaker mode, dragging parents on a trailer, and I could only smile, staying in the role of catching up. Of course, I wasn't worried that I could get lost, but if I fall behind, relatives will worry, which is not "good".
The first, and strongest difference from Diagon Alley is a straight horizontal road, albeit also paved with stone. But even. And straight. Two-three-story houses differed strikingly from English ones. Everything was kept in one style, high lancet roofs with an acute angle, white walls, wooden beams, stone foundation. On both sides of the road were black street lamps and they stood at the same distance from each other.
Wizards looked less bright and ridiculous, but still remained wizards—suits, robes, dresses. In them, more taste, more fashion was clearly felt. Seemingly the same robes, but not sacks, but well-fitting, fitted for girls and ladies, or almost indistinguishable from coats for men. In general, everything felt different here. Of course, there were wizards in more ordinary clothes, familiar to the gaze of non-wizards, but there were few of them, and they were clearly here on business, and not for idle walking.
Of course, the street was not the only one—with the naked eye one could notice other streets between buildings, both parallel and perpendicular to this one. True, there were fewer of the latter. I think reality corresponds to what is written at the entrance, and wizards have a quarter here, maybe two or three, but large.
What interested Hermione? As well as parents—decidedly everything. And so we just wandered from shop to shop, where my sister explored everything indiscriminately. And of course, we got stuck in the bookstore for a long time, and I personally, having notified my parents, went to two large stores of various ingredients and other things of vegetable or animal origin.
What do our shops with potion ingredients look like in Diagon Alley? A terrible gloomy place where all sorts of incomprehensible crap is put on display, where rather unpleasant parts of no less unpleasant animals float in special neutral solutions, and in barrels at the entrance there are frog eyes, worms, beetles, and all this moves, but does not try to run away. And bunches of what can be sold dried hang from the ceiling. Pharmacies look about the same with us, only there are also shelves with potions.
Here, as soon as I entered the gloomy-looking shop, I was met by an absolutely neutral atmosphere without a single smell. It seemed that after the first breath I could smell my own scent, which is problematic due to habituation. There was absolutely nothing for the eye to catch on—everything is even, beautiful. Showcases where samples were displayed, but everything neatly, clearly, with captions in Latin. Containers with "loose goods" hid behind showcases, and if necessary, the client could either choose himself or trust the choice to the seller—a gray-haired dryish man, but with a straight posture not according to age and a sharp look. Behind him, behind the seller, stretched a long row of cabinets where larger and rare samples in individual containers were presented, and in the lower part of the cabinet there were many drawers, like a card file, but I'm ready to bet that ingredients are also stored there, but of medium size and not requiring individual storage.
"Oh, bonjour jeune magicien..." the seller smiled at me, adjusting a dark brown apron made of leather, seemingly dragon.
Listening to French speech here and there for almost three days, sometimes not even consciously analyzing with the meaning that should have sounded in the phrase, I reluctantly mastered some phrases, and by the words themselves sometimes you can guess the meaning if there is something to make associations with... Honestly, I myself haven't understood yet how a brain enhanced by life and neutral energies works, and even with increased activity—why make assumptions? The main thing is that if desired, I can convey the meaning in simple language.
"Je ne parle pas français, monsieur," I spread my hands with a sad smile.
The seller looked at me with undisguised doubt, although he did not stop smiling.
"Et quelle langue parle ce jeune magicien?"
"Malheureusement, je ne parle que l'anglais," deciding not to betray possession of other languages, I mentioned only English.
"You have excellent pronunciation," this gray-haired seller answered in the language familiar to me, albeit not without a strong accent. "Unfortunately, my English is already too weak. But..."
The seller pointed to the signs in front of each ingredient on display, and then to a paper catalog.
"Everything is in Latin. But I think if my help is required, we can find... Understand each other."
To a greater extent, I didn't look at ingredients, although it didn't go without that, but paid attention to the order and organization around. But, sooner or later I had to stumble upon something interesting.
On one of the counters, under glass, among many other animal "parts" like fangs, claws, needles, scales, and other external outgrowths, I stumbled upon a wooden elongated stand on which small, about one and a half times larger than a chicken egg, smooth stones in the form of this very egg were placed. They differed from each other by patterns and drawings of varying degrees of complexity, and shades of these drawings—different tones of flame. There were six of them, the name for all was common: "Phoenix ovum. Mortus." Phoenix egg... And here they are, it means, the same. Prices for each differed, but were extremely small.
"Interesting..." the seller spoke, but it seems suddenly forgot English. "Phoenix ova? Only the most beautiful ones stand here, but... There is another box. Ugly ones there."
In the elf memory shards there is too little information about these creatures—they kept away from our people. Whether we annoyed them, or some other reason—is unknown. But in a couple of other shards, there was such a saying: "Dropped, like a phoenix—an egg." The only thing I remember about this phenomenon—phoenixes are terrible parents.
"Sad, isn't it?" it seems something slipped in my look that the seller decided to talk about them, coming closer. "Such beautiful and proud birds. And such an attitude towards offspring... impensable... They abandon, don't hatch. Can't force them. Now—only a beautiful dead stone. Even a chicken egg has more meaning—it can at least be turned into... œufs pochés..."
Mmm, poached. An amusing boiled egg, but I prefer simply to boil, peel, and eat with some sauce.
"Indeed. Can I see more?"
"Others?"
"Yes."
"But beauty is the only thing valuable in them? Why others? There is no beauty there."
"Everyone has their own beauty."
The seller shook his head, but leaned toward the drawers in the cabinet, and deftly pulled one out, placing it in front of me on the counter.
"Voilà, choose."
Prices for them differed, but were small—from one to five Galleons, depending on general aesthetic qualities. There is no practical value in them, but... This is from the category "I want it, and that's it." Rummaging for a minute, found a mediocre egg. Nothing special—an incomprehensible and not particularly aesthetic drawing of a faded reddish color on a gray base. A stone, or rather—a semblance of a fossil. The composition of the egg is very complex, I know for sure, but there is no use for it. At least offhand I can't think of anything.
"This, please," I laid out the egg I liked on the counter, and went further to look closely at ingredients or sets.
Yes-yes, sets—this also happens, and I'm not talking about school ones, pre-assembled. For example, here I see a set of scales of adult dragons—scales of the same size, but different colors. Meaning? Oh, by no means in beauty. A couple of potions come to mind where sequential use of such ingredients is required. True, these potions are not even in the school curriculum, just read in a book. Also here there are ingredients by no means for potion-making. Here there is a bunch of samples of various wood, stones, precious and not so much, feathers of the most wondrous birds. Well and of course, some are sold as a set. Here, for example, is a set for brewing Felix Felicis. A very ironic set—a beautiful box with separated ingredients, surely correct instructions, a scroll of parchment prepared for a will, and a disposable pen-quill... Or quill-pen—it depends on how you look at it.
The seller caught my gaze and with undisguised irony in his face approached and put the Felix Felicis set on the counter.
"If you want to play an offensive joke on a Potions Master. Excellent choice."
And indeed! Heard seniors talking that they could use a luck potion, but here's the trouble—no recipe in school. Verified recipe. And no experience. With incorrect preparation at the fourth of six stages, the potion can go boom. And at the fifth, and at the sixth. An insignificant error can creep in at any of the stages, but it will affect starting from the fourth. Only a truly experienced Potions Master can handle the liquid luck potion, and it has only one degree of quality—the first. It is the first, it is also the last.
"How correct is the recipe?"
"You want to brew Felix Felicis?" the seller was surprised. "Bad idea. Experience, experience, and experience again."
"When there will be experience," I nodded.
"I'll take your word for it, jeune magicien."
Buying more interesting and unusual trifles, spending a total of no more than fifteen Galleons, I left the shop. A strange feeling, stirred the elf's memory of how he had to communicate with spirits. But turning around after the feeling, I saw only a man in a robe who had just passed me.
It happens that you have no idea why you consider someone suspicious—you just consider, and that's it. Is it worth trusting such a thing? If you are an ordinary person—you can listen, but not trust. But if you are the owner of a magical gift—you must listen necessarily.
Shard memories superimposed on banal interest. Looking around, I saw not such a large number of wizards around. Carefully wrapping myself in magic, I focused on stealth and other camouflages, but not on invisibility. After all, there are adults around, not inexperienced children. If they know how to listen to their feelings, then a person under invisibility can quite be detected—the place where the invisible person stands will simply attract too much attention. This contradictory feeling that someone should be in this place, but there is no one there.
In general, under a kind of eye diversion, succumbing to elven instincts of covert movement with magic support, I followed this man. Yes, irresponsible. Yes, short-sighted. But too interesting. Nowhere and never in this world have I felt this light touch of spirit presence. Not a ghost, not some soul or something similar, intangible, but specifically a spirit.
I followed the man and followed, keeping a distance and not betraying my interest. The man was clearly hurrying somewhere, but at the same time tried to pretend as if he was on a walk—examined goods through shop windows, stopped, entered shops.
But everything comes to an end. Here the man deftly and almost imperceptibly turned into an alley between houses, and I went after him, having previously taken my wand at the ready. Thinking for a moment, decided that preparation is good, and good preparation is even better.
"Flagellavertum," I whispered the necessary spell, and the wand turned into a short lash, ready at any moment to change length or create a spell at the tip.
Now I can go in.
The alley turned out to be narrow and dark enough to strain my vision. Literally ten meters further down the alley, behind some crates, a quiet voice was heard. I crept a little closer to hear details, and was quite surprised to recognize extremely clumsy and accented, but Russian language. I know it—it was the main one in my past life.
"...you walk too long," spoke a voice.
"Getting rid of tail," answered the second.
"Follow you?"
"No."
"You is stupid colleague," the first wrapped up with dislike, which amused me.
"Where are your proofs?" indignation was clearly heard in the intonations of the second, although they spoke quietly. "Where is protection?"
I saw a hand with a wand stick out from behind the crate, but this hand was immediately intercepted by a second one.
"Tracking. Without magic. We speak on other language."
Wonder if my phrases in French sounded just as ridiculous?
"I already sorcery."
"Idiot!" hissed the first. "Apparition."
It was impossible not to feel the flash of neutral energy, and a moment later—a pop. And emptiness. I didn't feel anyone anymore. Did they really leave?
Quickly, but not losing vigilance, I walked up to the crates and looked behind them—empty. As if there was no one. Kneeling on one knee, I touched the stone of the alley under my feet with my palm, releasing a little neutral energy and life energy, forming an image of tracking living things that were here a moment ago—any self-respecting elf who served in the Watch or other "departments" for protecting the Forest borders knows such a trick. But even not knowing such a thing, I could use the skills of energy control and principles of understanding the work of my own magic obtained from shards for such a thing.
Empty. Nothing. As if a thread breaks in space. Teleportation? More than likely. I know for sure that both an elf and archmages could accomplish such a thing through complex formulas and energy constructs, but... It seems locals, due to the specifics of their magic and the presence of its unlimited source through connection with the dimension of neutral energy, once again went some clumsy and absurdly energy-consuming way, breaking through space like a commuter train cuts through the air. But can't track... Not with my knowledge of local magic.
Sighing sadly, once again examined everything around for any clues, but found nothing. And how interesting it was. But, in any case, it's time to return to relatives—they could have already finished visiting the bookstore, which is unlikely, and slightly lost me.
All the way from the alley to the bookstore, a strange background feeling of someone else's presence did not let me go. I almost didn't notice it, just, when there was nothing else to pay attention to at all. But it was...
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