#radicalstarter

“Can I offer you a nice sandwich in this trying time? We have turkey, we have bologna, a whopping three types of cheese-- you name it, we can probably make it.”

Skylar was sitting in the library muttering to himself as he made a list in a notebook. He was struggling to remember the names of everyone that he had interacted with in the past month which was frustrating to him. Under his breath, he vowed to make sure to learn more names of everyone that he so much as walked past. Then he pulled out a stack of printer paper and began to furiously write apology letters. A few moments later, his pen exploded in his hand and he groaned loudly before looking over and making awkward eye contact with another student. “Hi,” he said, dragging out the i sound for far too long.

Vera had been, quite frankly, thriving up until now. The Conclave was a good place for her, to look pretty and make acquaintances-- she’s even managed a brief conversation with the Russian Minister’s assistant. She looked over the crowd, wondering if it would be too much to seek out the Quidditch players as she started to take a sip of her drink. The sound of a familiar voice distracted her. “I’m sorry, what?” Vera inquired, pulling her cup away from her lips.

     Sergei was against one of the several tables that were decked with punch and hors d'oeuvres galore. His eyes were glued to Gecko Gertland, an idol for the young wizards. Though the quibbler’s publication rarely made it out to Russia---let alone his hometown, Sergei often found ways to get the paper while also practiced his English with the same text. For him, Gecko, was a skilled writer and had a blossoming career so young. He spent most of the night plucking up some courage, so much that he figured another swing of his drink would do him well and then he’d head over.

“Stop!” John called out from across the room. He sprung over, dropping everything, and wedged himself between them. “That’s mine. Highly dangerous. Cursed, even. I would... advise against--just--” John pushed a dandelion root into their hands. “Touch that instead,” he mumbled, scrambling his attention over to the ‘cursed’ object in question.

It was just Basile’s luck that he hadn’t thought out the fact that his social anxiety might be a bit of a hassle in a new place where he couldn’t find anything. When he’d first started at Beauxbatons, everyone had gotten a tour and been escorted around until they knew their way. Here, though, he wasn’t eleven years old anymore. He’d been given a map, but with the way his stomach was twisting and his head was spinning and French and English seemed to be making themselves one in his mind, it was nearly impossible for him to read. It wouldn’t have been as bad if he was looking for, say, the cafeteria--where the words in both languages are similar--but no such luck. Basile was headed for the bibliothèque.

    It was a quiet evening, the hustle and bustle of his peers seemed to be calm for the evening. A rarity for them that their summit gave them down time---more down time than he was use to. Back at Koldovstoretz their time was managed, perfected, and eliminated a lot of things other students seemed to relish in. LEISURE. It wasn’t something he was accustom to and when you add his apathetic attitude and quiet thoughts to his natural introverted nature you’d find him sticking out like a sore thumb here. Everyone seemed quick to branch off into friendships and other making alliances strictly by their country but for Sergei...for this moment....he was fixed on a certain other that was across the room. Something about their eyes; a glint to them. It was mesmerizing but quickly faded as they looked back at him---catching the young man in his act of stalking s t a r i n g. 

Skylar was pretty sure that the floor was dry despite the glossy looking texture that it presented. For once, there was no wet floor sign anywhere, and surely magic could be used to dry the floor to prevent misfortunes. After the next step, he regretted ever believing in anything as he slid across the floor heading down the hallway, dropping his stuff in scatted piles as he tried to stop. Instead, he smacked face first into a window causing the glass to crack and fall in pieces to his feet. “I try so hard,” he sighed, turning around and slipping again narrowly avoiding landing in the pile of shattered glass.