Demitria was surrounded by foreigners.

Despite the fact that many of the other Hogwarts students looked a bit overwhelmed with the events of the day, the tiny Russian didn’t look ruffled at all. After all, she was surrounded by foreigners every day of her life. The people at Hogwarts didn’t speak her language, share her customs, or even understand her longing for home. Home… a massive, empty stone palace locked in an ever winter.

The blonde had to shake her head to bring herself back into the present. Mostly to avoid running into a group of younger Beauxbaton girls who were giggling animatedly. With a small smile, she walked through them quickly.

She was looking for two people in particular. One, her cousin, who she knew had come with Durmstrang, and the other, her pen pal. Pen pal... such a funny combination of words. It didn’t roll off her tongue, even after speaking English more or less fluently for 3 years.

Being only 5’0” made it hard to see in the crowd. The lush reds of the Durmstrang Oberteils were very visible, but she still had no idea where Fyetka was. So, she decided to look for Tracy Jones. Mimi scrunched her eyebrows and sighed. There were far too many people.   

In his defense, he had thought about making a sign.

Compared to everyone else and their professors (and what other heads stood out among that sea of people), Tracy knew he was one of the few who stood out the most by sheer height alone; heck, at six-foot-five, he was even one of the tallest kids in his school. Most people had no problem picking the tall youth out of a crowd, and at least once it would be for some favor or another that required a reach they usually lacked. . .

Or, a piggy back ride.

But, as it was with elephants and really tall trees, it was just as difficult for a sufficiently short—no, petite—person to recognize what (or who) they were looking at up close as it was easy for them to spot their target from up and afar. And with that crowd that surrounded him and his pen pal, well. . . it was acting as good as—or worse than—an actual fence, one that swelled and moved on human whim. Finding one Miss Demitria Strelnikov wasn’t going to be easy wouldn’t be as easy as he’d like.

Scratching at his chin idly, Tracy scanned the crowd, gaze flicking from head to head, occasionally going so far as to stand on his toes. Closest to him were his fellow Swimmers, among whom he would have spotted her if she had been there. Further on were the vibrant reds of a group of Durmstrang’s Obertiel. Past them were some of the pale blues of Beauxbatons annnd. . . nope, she wasn’t there either—

—no, wait—

—there. And man, she was tiny. Brightening visibly, he tried to get her attention, “Hey-” but when it he realized he hadn’t, the boy sighed. Politely—well, as politely as he could, at any rate—Tracy began making his way through the thick of it all, bumping shoulders with a man who barely came up to his chin, and dancing out of the way of a pair of old ladies who tittered past him. Then, after a while of the occasional murmured the occasional sorry and ‘scuse me, ma’am, he finally, finally caught up to her.

“ ‘Ey,” he beamed down at Mimi, looking no less than pleased that he had found her, and without further ado the boy leaned in, sweeping the tiny, doll-like Russian up into a hug. “S’ Mimi, right?” he grinned, that beaming, blinding smile turning a hair cheeky as he released her. “Or is it Demitria?”