The morning after the night's scuffle began with a surprise. Surprise from the appearance of a truly enormous blue-white feather on the floor. The second point causing surprise was a headache. It was light, almost imperceptible, rolling from the back of the head to the forehead and back, or spreading somewhere throughout the entire head.
Naturally, I immediately decided to apply elven diagnostic circuits, but when trying to focus and direct magic, I experienced a much sharper headache, from which pulsations even echoed in my teeth. Immediately suppressing panic moods that hadn't had time to form, I moved on to reasoning, so to speak, on the topic. And the topic was simple—if someone cries loudly, they bit off more than they could chew. Hmm, took too much on myself, then.
I'm afraid the problem lies in the elf memory shards. Even if only in a small part, I adopted his worldview regarding magic, his manner of manipulating it. However, the difference in physiology and age of two extremely different, despite external similarity, organisms made itself known. Simply put, increased brain activity, as I understood, allowed me to easily perform energy manipulations complex for a human in limited volumes. But structurally, so to speak, a human brain remained a human brain, and even though I performed volumetric manipulation over an area, and life energy supported the brain in a working state, in fact, I overloaded the brains. This is only a theory, because I can't check it—energy control necessary for fine manipulations simply breaks down. And without control, I can't build diagnostic circuits, which means only theorizing remains.
Sitting on the bed and holding my head to relieve the pain a little, I reflected on how sad this is. In this state, I cannot force life energy to be produced in the required volume to heal my head. In a passive state, energetics will accelerate recovery, this is undeniable, but how long will it take? The adaptive potential of a human is very great, but at the same time, the human himself is very fragile. Had I taken a smaller volume of space in which I put the wizards to sleep, nothing would have happened and I would have only spurred development. Yeah... Well, nothing. In the future, I need to be more careful, develop gradually, and one day I will be able to perform volumetric manipulations without wands. Once again I am convinced that wizards invented all these crutches in the form of wands, staffs, accumulators, formulas, complex schemes, and other intermediate stages between idea and effect for a reason. We simply don't have other opportunities to cast cool, powerful, and large-scale magic without dying in the process.
Moved around, did some squats—everything is excellent, the headache didn't intensify, remaining at just an annoying, but not critical level. One can live, the main thing is—without willful manipulations of magic. And upon returning to London, I'll drop by Healer Smethwyck and consult.
Taking the feather from the floor, put it in the backpack, went out to the balcony, and pondered, looking at the sun just rising over Paris. True, due to smog, the sun itself was somewhat faded, and its light spread in a horizontal turbid spot across the sky, but nothing terrible.
I thought about the fact that at least three wizards died in yesterday's incident. Do I feel pity or sadness? No. I worried much more that the bird would blast us. Like, we'd get caught in the heat of the moment, and that's it. Does any moral side of the issue torment me? No. The spirit of the bird asked for help to avenge the chicks—I helped restore the bird's strength. Those wizards led themselves to death by doing such things, and not setting up proper protection to boot. They considered the bird not dangerous, almost dead. Moral sides of issues were invented by people looking for excuses, and absolutely any act can be justified, the main thing is to find the right point of view. In my vision, when it comes to complex topics, moral and other metaphysical torments, I try to stick to actions. And if you can't do right—do good.
Two days—that's how long Hermione was engrossed in searching for information about what happened, paying minimum necessary attention to everything else in life. Parents shook their heads but dutifully accompanied us to the magical quarter in Paris so my sister could search for information. And she found it, and not a little.
For starters, we were kicked out of the bookstore. Well, not kicked out, but politely asked to buy books and then read, because it's one thing when you just took to familiarize yourself with the content, or something similar, and another—when you stupidly brazenly read it in the store. Even if fluently, but read. As a result—we found a public library.
Parents, of course, were interested, but without us they would miss a lot, and therefore, Mom and Dad asked to escort them out of the quarter so they could walk around Paris together, and return for us later. But only on the condition that we do not leave the library. Agreed.
The library was quite ordinary, and for the full picture, only lamps with green shades were missing on the tables.
"Here," Hermione put a large stack of by no means light books on our table. "Everything I found on magical birds and the like."
"You aware that I don't speak French? Or rather, I can say a couple of phrases, but definitely not read."
"Don't worry," she sat down next to me, opening the first book. "I'll find what's needed quickly."
"Well yes, and I'll look at pictures for now, right?"
Hermione looked at me disapprovingly, starting to quickly flip through the pages of the book, looking for the information she needed. The reasons for that, of course, are clear—she was interested in what kind of bird we saw yesterday. And not just saw, but assisted in its liberation. True, she didn't strive to discuss yesterday, harboring questions and moralizing, and knowing her, both points take place.
Deciding to occupy myself with at least something, I simply memorized the text I saw. Memorized visually. There was extremely little sense in this, but at least not boring.
"Here, I found it," Hermione pushed the book toward me and began reading out interesting, in her opinion, facts. "Thunderbird, a magical creature related to birds. Lives in North America, and most often found in Arizona..."
"...Relates to the fourth class of danger, but sometimes grows to huge sizes, and such are called Binesi, already ranking as fifth rank. With age and strength, the color of feathers darkens, shifting from white and golden-yellow to blue colors."
"...can create electrical discharges, lightning, and with flaps of wings are capable of causing rains, thunderstorms, snowstorms, and real hurricanes. Binesi represent the apogee of these abilities, and are capable of creating hurricanes up to the fifth rank inclusive, according to the currently relevant Saffir-Simpson scale. That's a catastrophe in general!"
"...Binesi, as a form of Thunderbird, are considered either extinct or on the verge of it."
"...Any Thunderbird, like other birds closely related to Phoenixes, possess to one degree or another the ability to break space..."
"Hmm? Meaning?"
"Apparition," answered Hermione. "This is one of the ways wizards travel. Some magical creatures use a similar method of movement, and it was from them that this technique was spied in eighteen forty-two. Although it is more correct not 'spied,' but 'understood'."
"Clear," I rubbed my temple, and this did not go unnoticed.
"Headache?"
"No, temple itched."
"Ah... Okay."
"Doesn't yesterday bother you? Well... A lot happened."
"I don't know what to think," Hermione shook her head. "On the one hand, when I heard their conversations, I by no means wished them well. Already later, when we returned, I didn't wish the bird well... Was it really impossible somehow differently? Call Aurors, or somehow else."
"The spirit asked me for help, and I helped. The spirit decided to take revenge for the chicks—he took revenge," I shrugged. "Don't see a problem."
"But people died," she spoke quietly, leaning closer to be heard.
"So what?" I shrugged again. "People die every day in huge numbers. Diseases, catastrophes, fires, murders, suicides, non-compliance with safety regulations at work, legal or not—there are many options. One can juggle such questions of morality forever, and there will always be a position for both negative and positive. I believe there is a fact that wizards, clearly illegally, kept a rare magical animal on the verge of death. The fact that they used the animal's chicks as ingredients. And most likely, all this is illegal."
"Still," Hermione frowned. "It's wrong. And too dangerous. I didn't think the magical world was so dangerous."
We read for another couple of hours, or rather, Hermione read, translating the text aloud to me. I strained my brains, correlating what I hear with what I see. The French have a strange language—so many letters are not read...
The second day after the incident also passed in travels through crowded places of the magical quarter, and even without parental supervision—we honestly promised not to look for trouble. Everything around is so decorous, correct. I didn't immediately understand what the catch was—tourists. As far as I know from general and insignificant topics of conversation, tourist wizards do not strive to go to England. Here, I occasionally met someone breaking out of the image of a French wizard. Quite related to the image of an English one, but still different. Yes, not the season for traveling to Paris, but this is from the point of view of traveling to the ordinary world—wizards may well have their own interests. Ready to bet that it's all because of tourists and for the sake of creating a favorable image. But to confirm the theory, one needs to delve into these magical streets, one needs to see what Paris hides behind a beautiful facade, and I don't want to do this—unsafe. Not in my state, when I temporarily lost my trump card in the form of pure will magic. By the way, about that. Staying in the magical quarter of Paris, I quietly used a couple of wand spells of the school of this world—no intensification of the headache.
On this second day, Hermione found a newspaper. She barely endured until a small cafe, where over a cup of tea and a portion of croissants, she could finally delve into reading.
"Imagine," Hermione put the newspaper aside. "They write that the recent anomalous storm near Paris was caused by a Thunderbird."
"Really?" I played along with my sister, who decided to mask our awareness in this way.
"Exactly," she nodded. "They write that traces of illegal extraction of ingredients by dark magical means were found at the scene of the incident. Traces of the stay of seven wizards were found, three of whom died as a result... So..."
Hermione picked up the newspaper again, and a minute later continued the story for me, swapping the newspaper in her hands for a cup of tea and a croissant.
"The MACUSA representation in Europe expressed concern that," she spoke, looking thoughtfully at the croissant, "France allowed such criminal activity on its territory in relation to an endangered animal, and moreover, to the national treasure of North American countries."
"And what about the French?"
"The Minister personally assured the press and the MACUSA representation that all conceivable and inconceivable measures would be taken to catch the remaining criminals. Promised to bring the obscenity to light, and to be sure, the Minister takes this case under personal control."
"Hmm... That is, they have no idea where the others are, what exactly happened, and most importantly—how?"
"I don't think," Hermione shook her head, "that the manner of presenting information by the Minister of France should be compared with that of ours. Here everything can mean literally."
"Yeah, right," I smiled, and finished the rest of the croissant. "In the homeland of the subtle art of insult, wordplay, and palace intrigues, and suddenly the Minister spoke in plain text."
After such a tea party, Hermione thawed a little towards me and stopped keeping a mask of serious detachment. Is it really enough for her that, like: "Illegal?" Although... It would have been enough for me at her age. With a slight adjustment for a personal vision of justice, but if this vision coincides even a little with the letter of the law, then I would have had no more questions about what happened. Probably. It's hard to say—I remember myself poorly at this age. Any self—both the basis and including shard memory.
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