Morning at the new place caused me absolutely no trouble. The elf had spent hundreds of years wandering, meeting every day in a new location. A part of the dwarf's memories, however, was a little depressed by the excessive similarity of the Hufflepuff common room's design to hobbit dwellings.
Damn it… A dwarf is a dwarf, but I really want to call him a gnome!
I woke up earlier than everyone else, for a schedule and the habit of following it are ineradicable things. Having quickly warmed up, I went to the shower room, where a couple of guys were trying to bring themselves to their senses after an obvious drinking bout, sticking their heads under streams of cold water. Paying no attention to them, I performed all hygiene procedures and returned to the room.
The guys were still sleeping. But time waits for no one! If the schedule I found among Hermione's books and notebooks is to be believed, it's almost breakfast time. Spotting a metal round tray on the table, I picked it up along with a spoon lying nearby. A simple magical construct for sound amplification, a swing, a strike.
The ringing of metal filled the whole room.
"Rise and shine!" Another strike. "You'll sleep through Potions!"
The last phrase reached the guys' consciousness much better than the ringing of iron, beginning its subversive activity there and undermining their sweet sleep. The guys jumped up and, like sluggish somnambulists, headed to the shower. Of course, they returned quickly, looking at me with obvious displeasure.
"We'd be late otherwise, or we'd have to eat breakfast in a hurry," I shrugged, not embarrassed in the least.
Justin walked over to his niche, took out his wand, and cast Tempus, revealing an illusory clock face.
"True enough."
Quickly putting on the school uniform—trousers, shirt, tie with House colours, dark jumper with sleeves and the Hogwarts crest, and a robe with yellow lining—we went out into the common room. The atmosphere here was lively, but students did not linger long, leaving as soon as they waited for their comrades or finished preparations, packing everything necessary into school bags.
"And here I thought I'd have to wake you up," the Prefect approached us from the side with that clearly trademark smile of his.
"No need," Zacharias looked at me gloomily, never having considered it necessary to somehow organize his unruly blond hair. "Hector already woke us up in the cruelest way."
"And how was that, if it's not a secret?"
"Banged on an iron tray like a madman and shouted 'Rise and shine!'."
"Pffft," the Prefect waved it off. "That's nothing! I know a tricky spell, I'll show you later, Hector…"
"No need!" the guys shouted in unison, almost jumping back half a step.
"Alright, jokes aside," Cedric took several thin sheets of parchment from the inner pocket of his robe and handed them to us. "Your timetables. And this…"
He handed me another sheet.
"Indicate your chosen electives. Such forms were filled out in the second year, but, you understand."
"Of course. Do you have a quill?"
We stood almost at the exit of the male wing, the round doors of which continued to irritate me. I hope I get used to it. But that's not the point—next to us stood a table with a multitude of various stationery supplies and other trifles. There were inkwells and a couple of quills. We approached this table, and placing the application on it, I deftly took a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and just as deftly filled it out.
"Whoa!" Zacharias couldn't resist an admiring exclamation. "My father would build a monument to me while I'm still alive if I had handwriting that gorgeous!"
"Indeed," Cedric nodded with a smile. "The acceptance letter from Hogwarts looks like cheap waste paper compared to this."
"It just happened on its own."
It is not surprising—there are many small things that the elf did every day throughout his life, and writing with a quill is one of them.
"Well then," Cedric took my application, allowed himself a second to admire the handwriting, and continued: "I trust our newcomer to you."
As soon as the Prefect turned around and went to the first-years gathered in a crowd, my dormmates immediately dragged me back to our room.
"Got the timetable?" Justin asked a rhetorical question.
"Got it," nodded Ernie, who had barely shown himself lately.
"Let's pack our bags now so we don't have to run around like everyone else later."
"Logical," I wanted to pull off such a maneuver myself.
When we prepared for the coming day and returned to the common room, I couldn't help but note that almost no one carries a standard school bag—it seems the dress code here isn't as strict as with the uniform. That means my personally enchanted triangle backpack won't be something extraordinary.
We arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast not last, but far from first, so the hum of students came from all sides. As soon as we took our seats at the House table, plates with oatmeal, sausages, buns, and other breakfast food appeared before us.
Ernie Macmillan, seeing me looking around at the House tables and the students behind them, started a monologue about the current "political" situation in the school, about who is who, about a certain Harry Potter, a half-blood against whom the local Dark Lord killed himself in infancy, and all sorts of other things that I had already largely gleaned from Hermione's books. True, in those books, information had to be sought literally between the lines, but now I at least figured out who could boast of what blood status, and which Houses de jure pay no attention to it, but de facto—quite the opposite. In my House, to my joy, no special attention is paid to such things, but in reality, purebloods still possess greater social significance. Nothing new.
From my observations, certain conclusions about another topic suggested themselves.
Hufflepuff was distinguished by a certain herd mentality, in a good sense, of course. It seemed as if the House was more cohesive. These conclusions came from various trifles, be it glances, how they sit, how they smile, but only if you looked closely. Otherwise—just familiar people with common topics for conversation, common interests.
Ravenclaw—a House of extraordinary people. They stood out, but in small things. Even the school uniform they tried to individualize somehow, to give it a certain uniqueness not going beyond the dress code—something hemmed somewhere, unusual shoes, rolled-up sleeves, some additional ruffle or at least a handmade bracelet. And they are obvious loners—keeping distance and observing personal space is obvious, as is the fact that even at breakfast many are looking at some notes or discussing magic with a serious look, if hand movements are to be believed.
Gryffindor—an explosive mixture of everyone and anyone. Generally everyone. From decorously sitting and eating students, arrogantly watching what is happening, to some dishevelled slobs with a crazy smile and ants in their pants. In this House, one could find absolutely any type, but one only has to watch a little longer, and a common feature becomes obvious, traceable between all of them despite the differences—an instantaneous and slightly aggressive reaction to a stimulus. Well, at least that's what I would call it.
Slytherin—a breeding ground for kids with a claim to aristocracy. No, this doesn't mean that they all pretend to be princes and princesses there. But in all memory shards, I had to cross paths with the "higher caste" or those who count themselves among it. And let's be honest—the elf could also boast of by no means ordinary origin, as could a couple of wizards. In general, either upbringing is visible, or a scolding from parents, saying: "Do as the seniors from the House do."
Together, it all looks terribly funny, and now I understand why Dumbledore smiles, looking at everyone from behind the High Table. I'm sure he smiles like that constantly, except, of course, in cases where a smile is inappropriate.
I also saw Hermione, who rushed like an unstoppable hurricane to her House table, quickly ate something without listening to anyone, and just as quickly left—all anyone saw was a mop of unruly chestnut hair.
"And you are Hector, right?" a blonde of my age, clearly a classmate, sat down at the table opposite us, accompanied by a slightly plump redhead girl.
"Precisely. You are?"
"Oh, right," the redhead became embarrassed. "Susan Bones."
"Hannah Abbott."
"A pleasure," though, honestly speaking, not really.
I simply don't like redheads, and Hannah's smile is too… Toxic, perhaps? You seem to understand that it's sincere, but it feels as if she drew something terribly offensive on your forehead and is now waiting for the crowd's reaction. But everyone has their quirks, like this smile.
"Our classmates, and yours included," Justin nodded to them.
Involuntarily, I decided to pay attention to his features too. The guy, with his thick dark hair with a perfect parting, as well as an oval but slightly elongated face, looked like some movie villain-rich kid. And the expression on his face, as if he suspects everyone of everything, only strengthened this feeling. An amusing company gathered here, frankly speaking.
"And why didn't you study with us from the first year?" Hannah continued to ask questions.
"I was ill. Since birth. But don't worry. Everything is excellent now."
"Got it, got it," the girl nodded.
"Have you eaten yet, or not?" Ernie was clearly dissatisfied, but it wasn't yet clear with what exactly. "Let's go, or we'll be late for Potions."
"Oh, by the way!" Susan joined the conversation as we got up from the table. "Did you notice that Potions will now be with everyone simultaneously?"
We left the Great Hall and walked in a direction known to the guys. Justin pulled a parchment with the timetable out of his bag and checked it carefully.
"True enough. Does this mean we have to be present at the eternal bickering of Gryffindors and Slytherins? What a joy," the irony in his words was literally overflowing.
"Bickering?"
"Ah, Hector, you're not in the loop," Hannah, walking nearby, immediately decided to enlighten me; we had already reached the main tower with the moving staircases. "Here the enmity of these two Houses is something like a tradition."
Maneuvering through the crowd of students, we quite deftly began to descend, apparently into the dungeons, but the torches and bowls of fire gave magnificent diffuse lighting. Unlike the evening on the day of arrival.
"As the upperclassmen say, usually it is a rather quiet conflict," the blonde continued speaking. "But it is in our year that several students were found who, with all diligence, translate it into an open, and most importantly—active confrontation."
"Is it possible," I couldn't resist the ripe question, "that there were no magical skirmishes in the school before them?"
"There were, how could there not be," Zacharias wedged himself between us. "And something is constantly happening. The Hospital Wing is never empty. But personal conflicts are one thing—crowd on crowd somewhere until the professors give a scolding—but it's another thing because of the colour of the tie."
"I see."
"That's why we should move as one group," Hannah spoke again. "Our House is not at war with anyone, but you never know who will get some brilliant idea in their head."
"Or a trap," added Justin.
"Or just to mock," Ernie Macmillan, who had been silent until this moment, shrugged his shoulder.
"Has that happened too? What about fighting back?"
"We do fight back," Zacharias shrugged. "Well, not us personally; thank Merlin, we haven't had such problems. Hopefully, we won't. But generally, it somehow turns out that one gets offended, the whole House gets stirred up, and in the end, the seniors sort it out. But I'll say this…"
Judging by the students of my age from all Houses crowding near one of the classrooms, we had reached our destination.
"…The most difficult to solve and offensive problems come from Slytherins. The hardest, but easily solved in a similar style, come from Gryffindors," Zacharias nodded at two groups of kids with scarlet and green robe linings. "And there are no problems from the Ravens—they couldn't care less about anyone."
We quietly approached the other students, exchanging polite nods with some.
"Oh, mummy, a Dementor!" a blond in green Slytherin colours yelled, recoiling from a bespectacled brunette who was dishevelled by all parameters.
The bespectacled boy immediately turned around and saw no Dementors there, of course. But this maneuver of his caused unnatural laughter from the Slytherins and indignation from the Gryffindors.
"How did you scream there, Potter?" the blond smirked, and two large guys stood behind him, snickering obsequiously. "Mummy, mummy, no-o-o!"
"Shut up, Malfoy!" snarled some redhead at the blond, clearly a friend of this Potter, whom I immediately disliked. I don't like redheads.
Justin lightly nudged me with his elbow, attracting attention, and I tilted my head slightly in his direction.
"Draco Malfoy," the guy spoke quietly. "Heir and only son of the Malfoy family, a very rich, influential pureblood family of wizards. Overconfident, cowardly, arrogant. They say, the unspoken leader of the House. Weasley, the redhead from Gryffindor—the sixth son of a poor pureblood family. Hot-tempered, dumb, arrogant, lazy, envious. In the opinion of the majority—parasitizes on Potter under the guise of friendship, but maybe they really are friends. Ernie already told you about Potter."
"Such detailed information? You seem to be Muggle-born," I said just as quietly, continuing to watch the altercation.
"Father taught me to analyze and collect a brief summary on people."
"Yeah," Zacharias wedged in again, literally squeezing between us. "Only you never learned the first part."
"There is that, what can I say. You are a layman in this too."
"Hmm… Finch-Fletchley… Finch-Fletchley," I tried to remember where I heard this surname quite recently, and just as the thought seemed to come to mind, it was ruthlessly interrupted by the appearance of Hermione.
"Enough already," my sister dragged the lanky redhead guy by the sleeve, who was looking at Malfoy like a bull at a red rag.
"What, Potter," Malfoy continued to mock, "hiding behind a Mudblood?"
Nothing is new under the moon. Whatever the world, whatever the magic, people remain people. Even elves possess extremely similar psychology, only with slightly shifted values. If there is a division into purebloods and others—there will be emphasis on such things. If there is differentiation by another sign—there will be discrimination based on it. But whether for an elf, a dwarf, or for so many other shards, blood ties are always important. However, force is not our method.
Putting on the best mask of elven superiority, drawing myself up and clasping my hands behind my back, I headed towards the disputants, to whom the distance was a couple of meters. Suddenly Zacharias's hand landed on my shoulder.
"You want to get into this?"
"Should I ignore an attack regarding my sister?"
It seems he simply forgot that Hermione is my sister. But he quickly realized this and removed his hand.
From already known facts, knowledge about the stereotypical thinking of various sentients, and due to other information, a thread of dialogue and its possible variants had already begun to form in my mind. It seems, at this rate, that part of the elf will get out, the part that for a hundred and fifty years helped him push his decisions in the council and conduct other social activity in an extremely aggressive environment, better known as "high society."
"I am considerably surprised," I spoke in that cold and slightly majestic voice with which the Elders "broadcasted," wishing to shame a young three-hundred-year-old upstart in my person at that time.
My appearance immediately attracted attention. It seems the guys aren't used to someone not from their Houses joining their bickering.
"Even, to some extent, discouraged. The heir and only son of the Malfoy family seeks attention from a half-blood and a Muggle-born from another House with such genuine diligence," I shook my head almost imperceptibly in censure.
Such a gesture is almost invisible visually but is perceived subconsciously.
"What?" the blond looked at me with misunderstanding.
"Hector!" of course, Hermione recognized me, but stared with no less misunderstanding.
"A-a-ah," Malfoy drawled with ostentatious understanding, shaking his head. "The Mudblood brother of a Mudblood, although… It's logical."
I almost laughed, watching as he turned for a moment to his own for support. The two big guys snickered obsequiously, and the other Slytherins supported the blond with light chuckles, but watched carefully and with interest. The most actively supporting the blond was some girl with a bob of almost black hair. The first one calculated.
"I heard from my father," Malfoy switched his sarcasm to me. "That you were a vegetable from birth and only a couple of months ago spoke for the first time at all. It is not surprising that you ended up in the House of dullards. Shouldn't you return to your dirty pigsty?"
To my surprise, my non-conflict colleagues from the House wanted to step forward and say something, but I hoped I could stop this impulse with a gesture of one hand, and strangely enough, I succeeded.
"I was indeed ill, but look at yourself, Heir," approaching closer, I looked at Malfoy with arrogant sadness and universal disappointment. "I stand here, healthy and sane, neat and polite, and you? What is this port loader jargon? What is this carelessly thrown-on robe, loosened tie, unbuttoned collar of a crumpled shirt?"
"My robe costs more than everything you own," snapped Malfoy, going red in blotches.
Catching myself thinking that this amuses me about as much as provoking Gryffindors amuses this blond, I continued:
"Indeed. I heard that a certain Heir Malfoy is the unspoken leader of the House of the great Salazar Slytherin, where, one might say, the flower of the nation studies. The best of the best."
Such a change of topic knocked the guy off balance, but the words fell on the fertile soil of causeless pride, forcing him to almost stick his nose up.
"However, if a foul-mouthed and ill-mannered slob is recognized as the face of the House, then who are the rest, and are purebloods that good in principle?"
And again his mood changed, and I couldn't help but take advantage of the pause that formed.
"Dragon dung can be packed in the best gift wrapping, but the contents won't change, Heir Malfoy."
"You…" the blond snatched out his wand and pointed it at me.
I didn't undertake anything and didn't even bat an eye, as they say. True, in my thoughts I held a construct for a protective barrier ready. Just in case. The other reason for my inaction was that one of the professors whom I saw at the feast had crept up to our large company like a silent shadow—all in black, black robes, with black greasy hair, clearly treated with something. He loomed over Malfoy like a vulture.
"What is going on here?" he asked in a quiet, insinuating voice, and Malfoy immediately hurried to put away his wand.
"Nothing, Professor," I smiled sparingly. "We are just communicating."
The Professor looked at me with a sharp gaze of dark eyes.
"Mr. Granger. You haven't even started studying, yet you are already noticed in the process of creating problems."
He turned sharply, flapping the hems of his robes, and at the gesture of his hand, the large wooden door to the classroom flew open.
"Get in," he threw dryly and stood by the passage, drilling each person entering with his gaze.
As soon as we entered, Justin nudged me lightly in the side.
"You certainly delivered."
"It just happened," I shrugged and began to look for a place for my beloved self.
The classroom was gloomy and cold. Compatibility tables of various ingredients and other similar materials hung on the walls. Along the walls stood several cabinets with extremely unpleasant-looking glass flasks of different sizes, inside which floated various parts of various animals in a special solution. Most likely, there was a magical analogue of formalin there.
Sharp vision and excellent memory allowed me to notice my cauldron on one of the student tables. Yes, by appearance they were all the same, but somehow it happened that every nick and line from polishing on my cauldron was remembered, and they were all different—their production, though mass, is analogous to manual, as I see. Without thinking long, I sat at this table and began to take out everything necessary for the Potions lesson from my backpack.
"Hector," Hermione sat down next to me very promptly, looking intently into my eyes. "Do you know who I am?"
"That is the most magnificent question a brother can expect from a sister. Of course I know. And I even remember, though far from everything."
The girl was embarrassed but quickly decided to go on the attack while the rest were taking their seats.
"I would like to…"
"Miss Granger," the Professor's voice sounded next to us. "Who allowed you to change seats in my lesson? Take your seat."
Hermione wanted to be indignant, but, apparently, the experience of communicating with this Professor suggested to her that it was better not even to try. She moved seats dejectedly. I shifted my gaze to the Professor and couldn't help but notice a brunette in Slytherin colours standing next to him. She perplexedly shifted her gaze from the seat next to me to the Professor.
"Do you need a special invitation, Miss Greengrass?" the Professor inquired.
"But…"
"Did you not claim, no further back than the last school year, that if you had a partner in Potions, you would never receive anything lower than 'Outstanding'?"
"I did."
"Then do not waste my time and take your seat next to your long-awaited partner for the next three years."
The Professor immediately turned around and headed to the lectern. Students figured out who sat where with great difficulty. Those who were in prostration from such changes and could not find a place for themselves looked at the Professor with a silent question, and he, like an experienced conductor, seated them with short gestures and glances. In principle, there was no special mixing of Houses. And generally, as I see, there are quite few of us—not even thirty people. Even free seats remained.
The brunette who sat next to me experienced clear and obvious displeasure. This manifested at least in the jerky movements with which she took out a textbook, notebook, and parchment scroll. Good thing the inkwell for the quill was already on the table, otherwise the ink would simply have flown apart from such movements. Actually, besides this, there were cauldrons, cutting boards, silver and wooden tools on a special cloth, and wooden and translucent stirring rods on the table.
"Hector Granger," I introduced myself, causing only a prickly answering glance from the brunette's blue eyes.
Silence. She sighed imperceptibly.
"Daphne Greengrass. Don't get under my arm and do as I say. Everything will be excellent."
"Hmm. I'll probably make you very happy, but I've never brewed potions in my life."
Oh, magnificent look! But from this same look, it is clear that she had already figured this out, putting "two and two" together, and the reminder only caused even greater dissatisfaction with the situation.
"So," the Professor spoke, and everyone instantly fell silent. "I hope that over the summer you learned not only to eat into your heads but also to think with them, which means you noticed small changes. By an unknown, but in principle explicable whim of the Headmaster, you were united into one class. In his opinion, over the past two years, you have fully realized the severity of the consequences of non-compliance with instructions, and worse—fooling around. This especially concerns you, Longbottom, Weasley, Goldstein."
Snape looked with a heavy gaze at the students he named, and they seemed to even take it to heart. True, Weasley, as it seemed to me, only nodded his red mop like a Chinese bobblehead.
"If, Merlin forbid," the Professor continued, shifting his gaze between them, "you even try to do something stupid, or due to your feeblemindedness cannot follow a banal step-by-step instruction, then believe me, the matter will not end with simple cauldron scrubbing. Potter!"
From the Professor's sharp shout, the poor four-eyes almost dropped something from his hands.
"Minus a point to Gryffindor."
"But for what, Professor Snape? I didn't do anything!"
"For idleness in my class."
Professor Snape, though now I know his surname, circled the those present with his gaze.
"I hasten to gladden you. From studying methods of cutting various ingredients and various sequences of their use through unsystematic preparation of potions according to the Ministry program, from this year you move on to studying potions by types of final effect. The first type—sedatives, sleeping potions, and antidotes. Your task for today is to prepare the simplest classic Sleeping Draught and Awakening Potion."
"Two in a lesson?" Weasley was indignant. "What nonsense."
"Minus a point to Gryffindor, Weasley, for shouting from your seat. Recipes on the board, ingredients in the storeroom, proceed."
The Professor waved his hand, and chalk notes containing potion recipes appeared on the board. I immediately noted small differences with the recipes that were written in the textbook.
"Sit, I'll get them myself. Or you'll mess it up."
Daphne, not waiting for an answer, got up from the table and went to the storeroom, to which one of the doors in the classroom led. Actually, the majority of students headed there. The girl returned quite quickly and laid out two batches of various ingredients on the table, immediately starting to boss around, arranging bowls with ingredients in an order known only to her and carefully reading the recipe from the textbook. I couldn't help but draw her attention to the fact I noticed.
"The recipe on the board is a little different," I whispered quietly, attracting attention.
"I know. The Professor always gives out recipes refined by him personally. I'm checking, looking for specific changes," she answered dryly.
"These are recipes for the first year."
Daphne looked at me piercingly. It seems she had already recovered from the obvious setup by the Professor.
"That was two years ago. It seems the Professor decided to conduct this instead of a test."
Further work passed in silence. We decided to prepare the potions sequentially, fortunately, time was just enough provided nothing was spoiled. Cutting and preparing ingredients was divided for two—I crushed all sorts of junk, ground it, and Daphne accurately measured on scales and prepared a mixture of herbs for the standard base of sleeping potions and antidotes to them.
What did I understand in the process of preparation? Nothing. Well, that is, magic from ingredients somehow mixes and interacts with the material base, changing and forming in the process of preparation a substance possessing a strictly defined magical property, and the material component changes in a way completely contradicting any chemistry. But, nevertheless, from the material I read, I can say that Potions is almost the only discipline at least slightly fitting the concept of science. Here there are clear and unchanging tables of interactions and compatibility of ingredients, dependence of reaction on proportions, order of mixing, preparation temperature, and so on, and stirring with a special rod or waves of a magic wand over the cauldron only saturate the potion with neutral magic to fuel the reaction.
We finished exactly on time, and it is worth noting that not many students completed the set task properly. The Professor admitted only half of the potions to grading, and the rest of the dubious products of young geniuses he rightly rejected at the root. Pouring samples into issued vials and signing them, we left the lesson with a clear conscience, and the guys from the House immediately dragged me away.
"So, the next lesson is History of Magic," Zacharias read in the timetable as our small company of six Hufflepuffs walked along the corridors of the castle. "We can safely skip it."
"Why is that?" I asked a reasonable question.
"Ah, foolishness, not a lesson," Hannah waved it off, but continued explaining. "History is taught by a ghost. Doesn't mark attendance, quotes the textbook down to the comma. You can just read it."
"And what shall we do?"
"Justin whispered to us that you need practice in spells?" Zacharias intervened again, ruffling his blond hair. "So let's go to some unoccupied classroom."
That's what we did, barging into one of the classrooms on the second floor near the main tower. The unused auditorium represented absolutely nothing special. Empty and dusty tables with benches, an old chalkboard, empty stone walls without a single trace of any decor, slightly dirty windows—that's all that can be found in such a room.
The hassle almost forgotten by me lasted an hour and a half, when you practice magical manipulations over and over again, and it captivated me. Only when we went to the Great Hall for lunch did I realize that, having forgotten myself, I ceased to psychologically separate my "I" and the elf's memories. But that was only for a moment, because these memories themselves almost do not cause an emotional response. They can be imagined as an immutable fantasy, invented by oneself, or a movie, but with immersion and from the first person. Something is there, but carries almost no personal shade.
At lunch, I noticed Hermione, who rushed to eat quickly and run somewhere again. What does she do anyway, that all she does is run around the castle like she's been stung in one place?
The third and fourth lessons were English Language and Literature—a mixed subject taught by a short and slightly hunched, but cheerful lady over seventy. Fiction had to be taken from the library and studied over six months—three large works and a collection of poetry. The latter is simply analyzed for understanding poetry in principle.
The last lesson was Herbology. It was taught by our Head of House, Pomona Sprout, a plump lady with gray curls of short hair sticking out from under a wide-brimmed hat. The classes themselves took place in greenhouses on the castle grounds and consisted of a short introductory on the specific task for today, and a practical part. To my surprise, the subject found no response in the elf's soul, for it differed radically from the concept of working with plants among the long-eared. There, everything is built purely on magical interaction with plants, on communication with them, and so on. And here? Typical gardening, except instead of some carrot—a Mandrake that can easily send you to the next world.
Dinner—an abundant meal, the basis of which is meat of various forms of preparation and vegetables. Also various. Here I broke loose, of course, on chops, baked potatoes, and some salad. And after dinner, fatigue rolled in. Besides the fact that the body isn't used to such a load, the training bracelets also burdened the body physically. In general, I burst into the common room with the others with relief, and when I collapsed on the soft sofa and turned off the bracelet, I relaxed completely. Actually, like everyone else.
"And here is tea with cookies," Hannah obtained a tea set with a very large teapot somewhere, and Susan brought two large deep plates with cookies for every taste and colour.
"Thank you, girls," I thanked under the full approval of the other guys. "You are just a miracle."
"You bet!" they smiled.
Well, what is supposed to be done over a cup of tea? Discuss the past day, what else? Fatigue receded a little into the background, and our whole honest company decided to prepare the homework that was assigned to us today. This, by the way, is the most optimal way—proven by more than one life.
Right before sleep, when we settled into beds in niches in our room, Justin asked a question:
"So how is it, Hector, our school?"
"It's too early to say anything yet. But, it seems to me, I won't be bored here."
"Bored? Just surviving here would be good. Remind me…" he yawned loudly. "Tomorrow I'll tell you what happens here."
A pillow whistled through the air.
"Ouch…"
"Can you not blab at night for at least one day, huh?" Zacharias grumbled into the remaining pillow, and almost immediately snored, falling asleep.
Time to follow his example.