DISCLAIMER: I am the owner of the Harry Potter books. Sadly, I don't own the rights.

AN: This story will largely be from Harry's point of view, even though there will be other's POVs in most chapters. It's set three years after - but you're about to find that out, aren't you? We'll get to the Secret of Durmstrang in no time, but there are a few other plot points on the way before...

HARRY POTTER AND THE SECRET OF DURMSTRANG

Chapter One: An Unexpected Student

"Mr. Potter," Igor Karkaroff drawled, his voice devoid of any emotion and his silver eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. A slight German influence could be heard in his pronunciation, but it was barely noticeable. "I must admit … a thoroughly surprising sight."

Harry didn't yet know what to think of the man - after all, he had just arrived on this wooden platform which appeared to be located somewhere on the ocean. Apart from them, there was nothing but crushing waves of deep, blue water to be heard here. Harry wasn't quite sure if he really wanted to be here. From what little he had gathered until now, Karkaroff didn't seem like a particularly joyous person.

"Don't you have anything to say to that? ", Karkaroff asked deliberately slowly and smiled at him – a sight so repealing that it at least partially explained why studying magic below the age of eleven was forbidden.

Harry was pretty certain what exactly the man wanted to know. At least he didn't beat around the bush. "At Britain, it's too dangerous for me. Durmstrang is the only school where most people don't know the location, so it's a bit safer."

"Curious. A school infamous for colloquial traditions that are repeatedly put into question by just about every other government is safer."

Oh, that was basically the best point of attack he could have hoped for. "Well, did you expect me to come to Durmstrang? Also, there are no public lists of the students here, so ... at least for a bit of time, no one will notice."

Karkaroff nodded and righted himself; some of his vertical wrinkles disappearing. Harry allowed himself a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth, even though he had been told to remain expressionless during inevitable conversations like this. It worked!

"I think I should tell you that I heavily disapprove of lies, Mr. Potter, especially of impertinently obvious ones like this."

Oh, shit. "That was no lie! ", Harry almost shouted. "Do you ... do you really think your own school isn't safe enough for me?"

"You should maybe think about a bit of practice in the art of lying. Having panic attacks because someone calls you a liar is no convincing way to sell a story." The headmaster of Durmstrang smiled again and, unconsciously, Harry took a step back. No, it hadn't worked. Not at all. "Be that as it may, at this point I'd advise you to simply stop this pathetic attempt at deception."

Harry licked his lips and took another step backwards. He just hoped there was enough platform left for him not to take a little bath when, inevitably, Karkaroff put that horrible abomination of a smile on his face again.

"I want to learn Dark Magic", he finally acknowledged, "and Durmstrang's the only place."

"Why?"

"Because I ... I grew up with Muggles." Yeah, great way to sound like an imbecile; even Harry inwardly cringed when he heard what he'd blurted out.

Karkaroff narrowed his eyes and showed his teeth (but, luckily, without smiling, which seemed, to Harry at least, by far not as intimidating). "Sir!" It seemed like an order.

"Err ... what?"

"In the future, you are to address me as "Sir" whenever you speak to me. Seeing as you repeatedly failed to do so, I thought it prudent to remind you of that. Case in point, the question isn't 'what', it is "Sorry, I am not able to understand you, could you please phrase it so that even I get what you are trying to convey, Sir"."

Harry had stopped to listen immediately after Karkaroff had said the word "future" and a big, broad smile appeared on his face. It had been successful; he would be going to Durmstrang! No boring sitting-around at his old home anymore, and finally, finally the chance to learn some actual magic! Yes, the headmaster seemed unpleasant and yes, he still didn't know what to expect, but none of these actually mattered, because he had managed – on his own! – to remove the biggest obstacle on his way to Durmstrang! If that was nothing to be proud of, he didn't know what was. Now, the restlessness he had felt for the last weeks was surely going to vanish.

"Let me give you a fair warning, Mr. Potter. I am not satisfied in the least by your explanation and I will find out what's really behind your quaint appearance here. That said, you managed to ... sufficiently reassure certain concerns of mine, which means that you can follow me into the Exiter, as it is usually called." Noticing Harry's questioning look, Karkaroff of course refrained from elaborating this "Exiter" thingy any further.

Karkaroff was definitely one of these "natural git" personas, Harry decided.

The "Exiter" turned out to be the building that had been standing behind them. When Harry arrived at the platform, he had wondered about its purpose because it looked like a regular old shack, covered with some sad leftovers of the green colour it appeared to have painted with once.

The inner looks even complimented the outer appearance, because it was nothing more than an empty, barren room.

The translators he had been promised in the letter turned out to be nothing short of ridiculous. Yes, they worked quite well and everything Karkaroff said in German was translated perfectly and without delay. However, that was not the point. They looked like something taken out of a joke shop.

Harry knew the hearing devices of old people; they also tended to lack subtlety. Still, had he been given a choice, he would have preferred wearing ten of those at the same time to this. The translators turned out to be two pyramid-formed green-yellow conglomerations of ugliness he had to fit over both his ears. And not small pyramids at that! They were at least as big as his hands, if not a big longer!

"Is that really the only way you can make a translator look?"

Karkaroff threw a stern look at him and shook his head in a way that perfectly conveyed "hopeless idiot" without needing any words.

"Sir," Harry gritted out between his teeth.

The headmaster smiled condescendingly, even his goatee wiggling with scorn. "No, certainly not. But it seems to be the best way to motivate everyone to take language lessons. Or to make one for themselves."

Harry snorted, albeit so silently that Karkaroff didn't hear it. "If you have any questions left", the headmaster continued dismissively, "I'd advise waiting until the feast ends, because I will most likely answer them there."

Then, he took a step forward, so overtly attentive to his feet that Harry immediately knew something was going to happen.

"Durmstrang!" Karkaroff exclaimed.

Of course he had no way of knowing what Durmstrang looked like on the outside, but on the inside ... well, it wasn't what Harry'd imagined. The corridors were uncomfortably small, partially claustrophobic even, especially because there was no visible source that provided any light. It was no black night, but the general mood resembled a rainy November morning, just that it seemed dusty instead of foggy - although actual dust was nowhere to be found. The castle appeared in unyielding, never-ending grey tones, not even notably interrupted by the few paintings and the statues that could be found here and there. Mostly, that could be contributed to the stones it had been built of, but Harry thought he found the (somewhat rare) windows worse. They were thick and milky and any light that might be shining on the outside was hold up by the impenetrable obstacle they provided.

Durmstrang was definitely purpose-built, and hadn't been planned out by someone who had particularly enjoyed that task. What a fitting school for a person like Karkaroff, thought Harry darkly. This cozy atmosphere had to be right about the most motivating thing ever when it came to learning.

However, Karkaroff's conduct probably wasn't innocent when it came to the negativity of his thoughts; his meeting with the man certainly hadn't raised any anticipation.

But Harry resolved to try and be a bit more well-spirited about his arrival. Hadn't he always wanted to leave the boring, solemn house in Little Hangleton? Granted, Durmstrang didn't look friendlier, but he'd only seen a few corridors as of now.

His decision to be less judgemental turned out to be right when they reached a big room, having avoided speaking to each other the whole way. Loud, joyous chatter reached his ears even before the door opened, and immediately, the school felt a little less depressing, a little less dusty. And inside the room ... well, Harry felt as though he had entered a completely different building.

Impressive amounts of bright torches and candles were flying through the air, slowly moving up and down, shining upon everything that happened below them with a warm, comfortable light and providing a very notable contrast to the rest of the castle.

And there were people. More people than Harry had ever seen coming together in one room, and his curiosity and eagerness to see something different, something new, far outshined his nervousness at the moment. Harry smiled as he eyed the seven tables that were standing in front of him, from left to right containing gradually older students.

Another, much nicer table that was slightly curved was placed at the other end of the hall. Even from this place – approximately 30 meters away from it – Harry could make out some nicely carved ornaments, even if he didn't know their purpose. Most likely, they were only there to be nice to look at, because apart from symmetry, no concrete image – not even a clear pattern – was recognizable.

The students' tables were made of the same beige wood, but they had no ornaments, and they seemed to be a little less impressive in height.

What stood out, however, was the giant banner that floated close to the roof, well above even the torches. It almost seemed as if it was glued to the ceiling, but the soft fluttering indicated that this wasn't the case. To Harry's surprise, the banner seemed to be glowing a little, mixing the warm colours of the torches with a touch of green. Painted on it was the emblem of Durmstrang, a double-headed eagle over the red skull of a deer with impressively long horns between which a golden banner had been spanned. Harry, sadly, was unable to read what was written on it.

When Harry eventually stopped looking at it, he noticed that the atmosphere in the hall had become subdued, and it took no genius to find out what reason there might be for this development.

"I humbly apologize," Karkaroff began without raising his voice, "for my tardiness, however, Mr. Harry Potter over here..." Of course he had to point towards Harry, so that everyone was bound to look at him. The reactions were completely different; where some students appeared completely blasé, others immediately began to converse in hushed, hectic tones. Still, there wasn't one not staring. Harry instinctively crossed his arms and looked longingly towards the table of the first years, and it at least seemed like Karkaroff wanted to avoid unnecessarily dragging out this fest, because he grabbed Harry's arm and shoved him towards the left side of the hall.

Harry gladly left the center of attention and approached what would be his future classmates. Most of them seemed to suffer from a temporary stupor, but Harry was sure that this would change soon enough. At least, he spotted at least ten people who also wore pyramids, albeit less ridiculously coloured.

"... insisted on a bit of special treatment," finished Karkaroff. Then, he marched towards the other end of the hall, through the rising background noise, turned around and ... looked.

The excitement died down in an astonishing speed.

"Welcome, everyone, old and new, at Durmstrang!" the headmaster said without changing his seven-rainy-days-expression in the slightest. "I have a few announcements to make that might seem repetitive to those who aren't new to the school. If you think that to be a sufficient excuse to talk to each other as you please, you will find that every food you take will miraculously vanish."

Everything was dead silent, and Harry couldn't help but feeling a bit more intimidated by Karkaroff than he normally would. If he could exercise that kind of control over a whole school, how awful did they think him to be?

"Not much is known about Durmstrang – which I consider a success - so let me give you a superficial overview. First things first, Durmstrang has a long tradition as a school that stands united, which means that the house system that you might have heard other schools have does not exist here. You are separated by your respective school years. Each year has its own sleeping facilities, although you will have to be patient when it comes to separate rooms. We are working on a renovation of the original dormitories, but the castle's protections and especially its inconvenient location are continuing to make things difficult."

Harry didn't know what Karkaroff meant when he talked about an "inconvenient location", but as no one else looked confused, he preferred not to ask and possibly look like an idiot. When Harry glanced at the other tables, he noticed that most of the students seemed quite upset by that news, although there still still no sound.

Karkaroff had apparently noticed as well. "If anyone feels that to be unacceptable, he can of course come to my bureau and have a nice little discussion about that matter. But I wouldn't recommend this particular someone to empty his trunk, as that may turn out to be a waste of time," he continued.

For the first time since he had entered the hall, Harry consciously noticed the other teachers – to be more precise, one of them, a very rough looking man, head completely bald, who had taken to roll his eyes every two or three of Karkaroff's sentences. Involuntarily, Harry smiled; it seemed that at least some teachers didn't strictly adore the headmaster as well.

Karkaroff abruptly raised his voice so that the following came out like a striking lightning, "What no one of you will do under any circumstances is using our Exiter without asking a teacher first! This particular asset of our school can be a bit ... moody – and I get moody if any self-proclaimed geniuses here have to be saved out of an arctic desert because of their irredeemable stupidity. Did I express myself sufficiently clear for the message to get through everyone's thick skull?"

He looked around, but no one dared to say anything.

The ending of the headmaster's speech turned out to be a bit anticlimactic. "Eat!" Karkaroff bellowed.

Personally, Harry thought that this introduction was a bit lacking, especially because he still had no idea where he even was in the castle.

Harry also had, ridiculously, gotten his hopes up to have a nice, quiet meal and be able to adjust a bit to his new surroundings. As it turned out, the kids around him had already applied unbelievable amounts of willpower to keep quiet while Karkaroff was giving out his uninteresting pieces of information and, at the same time, Harry Potter had joined their table – and this willpower didn't slowly crumble after Karkaroff had stopped talking, no, it completely broke down and gave way to tremendous amounts of opinions, questions, prejudices and advices Harry had to listen to that mashed up more and more and led to Harry learning his very first important lesson of social life:

If someone talks to you and you are neither interested in what he says, nor do you have the slightest idea what he tries to convey, just nod. Nod and smile and, from time to time, actually listen to a question and begin to answer that, before the next guy needs to get rid of some words. Then, nod again.

Harry tried to at least memorize the names of those that were a little less vocal and less prone to impose their person upon himself, because he was fairly sure that these were the fellow students he would be getting along with best.

Suffice to say, he was glad when, after an exasperating hour or so (even though the others had gotten less inquisitive at the end), a tall, thin teacher approached the table of the first years. He was pale and his face showed only a few wrinkles, but his hair seemed to have already greyed out and was considerably lightened. There was nothing really noticeable about him, maybe apart from his somewhat strained expression.

"I am Professor Dmitrijew," the man said, "and I will be responsible for you this year." The children in front of him didn't really notice his presence until after the first part of the sentence, and they only slowly came to the conclusion that it might be better to stop talking.

The man rolled his eyes as though he was already drained of any energy he might have possessed before. "Professor Dmitrijew," he repeated to answer the unasked question and lowered his head. "I will be teaching potions, but we will come to that tomorrow. For now, please stand up and follow me, because I have to show you your dormitories."

Harry just hoped that the man would be a bit more enthusiastic in class, because he seemed to be a bit... well, corpse-y.

The first years did as they were told and for the second time this day Harry found himself wandering through the claustrophobic corridors of his new school, just that they seemed even a bit more uncomfortable when you were with thirty or forty other students.

Professor Dmitrijew didn't say much to the school itself, but he made sure that everyone got a piece of parchment that seemed to be - luckily! – a map of Durmstrang, and Harry vowed to occupy himself a bit with it, as it didn't seem like it was easily understood. From what he gathered, Durmstrang had four corridors totally, but that was all he was able to grasp until they suddenly came to a halt in front of a wall whose shade of grey was a bit darker than usual. It was a surprisingly disversified hallway, what with two paintings hanging on its walls, depicting a strange magical creature and what apparently was a former headmaster of Durmstrang.

"Here we are," Dmitrijew announced. "I hope that every single one of you has memorized the way, but of course, no one can expect that from today's students, so I gave you that map. In my days ... ah, well. If you want to open the wall, just step in front of it, hold your wand up and write the number of weeks you're already here into the air. So, today you would have to write a "zero"."

The teacher looked around with raised eyebrows. "I hope that's understandable. Of course, in my days, everyone would have known what to do, but today-" He sighed deeply.

When Harry looked around, he came to the conclusions that most students didn't really know what to make of this teacher, exactly like himself. He didn't seem to be unfriendly, but ... a very firm believer in the diffuse world of sentimentality, to say the least. And a bit burned out. After not even a few hours of the new term, which was slightly worrying.

"What our honourable headmaster forgot to mention – avoid in den Korridoren zu zaubern, weil es vermutlich-"

Harry's head shot upwards. What? What was that?! Why didn't he understand what the teacher said? Somehow, the translational effect of his two portable fashion crimes had to have failed. With a hectic shake of his head, he tried to get his pyramids to work again, but it was useless. Then - employing dear old Uncle Vernon's favourite strategy when it came to technical toys that just wouldn't do their job – he desperately hit the device.

Whatever had been wrong, his strategy worked, Dmitrijew resumed talking in flawless English. Except that he had missed what might have been a vital part of his elaborations.

"You are probably impatient to finally get your wand. If you honestly think that possessing a wand makes you a proper wizard, I expect that you will fail miserably at my own subject, but that's a discussion for another day. Well, inside your dorm you will find Mr. Gregorovitch waiting for you. Please refrain from harassing the man too much, as we want him to keep supplying each of our students with a wand of highest standards, and he theoretically already retired one or two years ago." The man sighed again. "I just hope that I'm not expecting too much. You never know with today's students."

And with a last sad headshake, he left the first years to themselves. No one really paid his departure any attention for obvious reasons, and Harry joined them in their excitement. After all, they'd be getting wands! And what wizard wouldn't immediately be attracted when it came to wands?

Having one's last name begin with the 16th letter of the alphabet royally sucked. Gregorovitch was inside what seemed to be the common room and had immediately sent out all of the students – except a very lucky guy named Harald Armin, who was the first one to become an actual wizard. Therefore, Harry was doomed to wait for his wand for at least two or three hours. Worse, there wasn't much you were able to do in the dormitory, because it really wasn't more than only one big room for every male student of the first year - which meant that about eighteen people had to sleep together and that the only thing resembling a private space was the wardrobe directly next to each guy's bed. No wonder everyone had glared at Karkaroff when he had mentioned that particular fact.

If Harry took into account what little he knew about purebloods, he was very surprised that they would find such an environment acceptable.

"Gotta admit, I really didn't expect this," the guy next to him said over the excited chit-chat of everyone else – and Harry definitely felt like he was talking to him. After the dinner, no one had spoken to Harry again, so this was a bit surprising, especially as it came from one of the boys that had remained rather quiet when Karkaroff's speech had ended. He was a bit pale, even though he seemed to be of Mediterranean origin, judging by his dark hair and his dominant eyebrows. The most notable feature about him, however, was his nose, which was almost as pointy as some of the hats the professors had been wearing.

"I mean, I don't know about you," the boy continued, "but I just thought it would be a bit more ... comfortable. Especially after how it looked on the outside."

"Yeah," Harry agreed despite having no idea about the castle's outer looks. "I mean ... yeah," he finished slowly and felt quite dumb for not being able to get a proper sentence together, but the other one didn't seem to mind; he just readjusted his own pyramids a bit. Maybe he thought he'd missed something.

"You weren't on the ship with the rest of us," the Mediterranean guy added. "Did you experience Professor Rottweil already?"

So the others had been brought here with a ship? That was interesting, and it explained why the platform Harry had found himself on was even there. The castle had to be close to some coast for that method of transportation to make sense.

Then, Harry remembered that the other boy had asked him a question. "No, I don't think – no." Harry felt his voice waver a bit - but this was just so new. Of course, in primary school, there had been a few people who were – when they first met and before they had a "talk" with Dudley – civil to him, but that had been three years ago! And he didn't remember speaking to anyone except Voldemort and Wormtail during the time since, so there was absolutely no way for him to be accustomed to regular small talk.

"He's supposed to be the teacher for "Etiquette" or something like that, and I've never met a ruder guy in my entire life!"

"Well, I was brought here by Karkaroff," Harry replied and was glad to hear that he finally had managed a complete sentence. It wasn't nice to feel like an idiot. "He wanted to hear me out or something like that, but, seriously, I don't think you can get a worse start to this school. The whole time, I felt like he wanted me to get angry for some reason."

The other guy pondered that for a moment, then he rose from his bed and stretched out his hand. "I'm Juan Rodriguez, by the way." A look to Harry's lightning-shaped scar, then he smiled. "And you would be...?"

For a moment, Harry was lost for words, because there was no way the other boy didn't know ... -something clicked. He really wasn't serious, it was just ... a joke? Therefore, Harry didn't answer and simply grinned instead.

"Potter, Harry?!" a rough, old (but loud) voice called from below. For a few seconds, Harry just sat on his bed, motionless, but then he processed what the call meant: He'd be getting his wand!

"Sorry," he managed, then he went as quickly towards the door of the room as was possible without looking like an ecstatic seven-year-old who'd just been promised his lolly.

It was surprising how much brighter the common room seemed when you had just left a sleeping hall whose lighting barely allowed you to recognize the face of your bed neighbour.

Harry narrowed his eyes because the light hurt at first, but his pupils adjusted fast. For the first time, he had a proper look at the place where each student was sold his new wand. It was similar to many things at Durmstrang: Simple and functional and with little regard for appearance; a desk made of black coloured wood, a measuring tape resting on it and a few shelves which were inhabited by literally hundreds of small grey cardboard boxes. Most important, of course, was the man who sat behind the desk and who was apparently named "Gregorovitch".

The first thing Harry noticed when he looked at him was his obvious age. Granted, Karkaroff's hair was silver, but still, the man didn't seem like he was older than maybe 50 years. Gregorovitch, contrary to that, looked like death had already gotten a hold of him and only let him live on out of sheer benevolence. Everything about the man was thin, not only his body, no, his bony fingers, his arms and even his skin as well; Harry almost thought that if he just looked at him long enough, he might be able to see the backrest of the chair behind. Additionally, the skin was heavily wrinkled and riddled with age spots, and there were only a few sad white leftovers where his hair was supposed to be.

When Gregorovitch rose up from the chair, Harry was startled for a moment, so devoid of energy, so wrung appeared the man in front of him that it seemed impossible for him to have any life left. But when he spoke, his dull brown eyes began to gleam slightly and while most parts of his body had certainly seen better days, Gregorovitch's mind was certainly as sharp as ever.

"I have to admit, I am honoured to have the opportunity to determine a wand of a celebrity like you, Mr. Potter," the man's voice maybe was a bit hoarse, but it effortlessly filled the room nonetheless. "Especially because, in this case, it is so very unexpected."

"Pleased to meet you, too, Sir," Harry replied with a somewhat strained smile.

"Well ... now, to business, as time sadly doesn't allow me to talk with each of you too much. Which one is your wand arm?"

"The right one," Harry replied and stretched out his right arm for the wand maker to measure when Gregorovitch told him to. Contrary to his previous statement, the man however seemed to believe he had quite a bit of time in store, because he simply grabbed the measuring tape and then stopped in his movements to resume talking.

"Oftentimes, my customers have pondered the reason for these seemingly superfluous measurements, because every wand maker who knows his craft will tell you what I tell you now: The wand chooses the wizard, and, to nearly all of us, it remains a mystery how this choice is made. But while we cannot pretend to know the details, there are a few tendencies here and there. For example, wands are carved out of trees, and the bigger the wand's tree was, the longer usually is the arm of the wizard it chooses. Which means," and he pulled a bit of tape out of the device and hold it next to Harry's arm, "that your wand most likely will not have belonged to a particularly large tree."

"Does that make any difference?"

Gregorovitch smiled fondly, and the perfect teeth he revealed provided an unexpected contrast to his otherwise geriatric appearance. Then again, every wizard Harry knew had perfect teeth.

"Everything makes a difference, Mr. Potter. The crafting of wands is such a very delicate art, and the knowing eye for detail is what really separates an excellent wand maker from a ... less capable one. Which, pretence of modesty aside, is why the governors of Durmstrang have practically begged me to visit their school - despite my retirement."

Harry tapped the ground with his foot because, well, this might have been an interesting conversation in other circumstances, but for now he simply wanted to get his wand.

"An impatient one, aren't you?" said Gregorovitch, frowning a bit. "You should work on that, because important decisions in your live are to be thought through carefully – and this is such a decision. There is not one thing – be it a human, be it an animal – closer to a wizard than his wand." The wandmaker's eyes had widened and his gestures became gradually livelier as he continued, so that Harry almost forgot how old the man really had to be.

"A wand, I assure you, is very much like a close friend." He abruptly turned around and regarded the shelves with a fond expression. "It has its own personality, its own character, tasks it likes and tends to excel at and tasks it dislikes and tends to fail at. I would recommend you to get to know your wand a bit, because most wizards sadly don't – and believe me when I tell you that a lacking relationship to your wand is presumably the most vital step on the road to average abilities. That said, I certainly do not believe you endangered by mediocrity." He looked over his shoulder, considered Harry for a moment and narrowed his eyes. Then, he turned back to the shelves and pulled out a grey box that looked like every single other box in the room – at least to Harry.

"My British colleague Ollivander likes to pride himself on never forgetting a wand he sold. I, on the other hand, am very proud to say that, during the long time I have sold wands, I have never had to second-guess myself."

Carefully, with slightly trembling fingers, he opened the box and extracted the black wand that had been resting inside.

"Hawthorn and Dragon Heartstring, twelve inches, nice and supple," he said quietly, almost whispering, and Harry took the wand as if in trance. "A very conflicting combination, and-" he caught himself and shook his head. "I think that will be for you to find out. This is your wand, Mr. Potter."

Whether it was because of the man's almost ceremonial demeanour or because of the rush that bolted through his body when he touched it; Harry felt a blissful shiver dancing over his spine. It was only enhanced when the red sparks began to fly out of his, his new possession. The one item that would make him an actual wizard. His wand.

The only minor disturbance of that sacred moment was Gregorovitch's hoarse (but very loud) voice crying "Poljakow, Artjom!" directly next to his ear.

Barnabas Cuffe, Editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet, stared disbelievingly at the list in front of him. Of course, he'd hoped for something like that, but he hadn't dared to believe it would really happen.

But there it was, black on white, the list of the newest additions to the Durmstrangian student body.

He'd never been interested in these lists – except this year. No one knew where Harry Potter had spent his last ten years. It was highly improbable - but not entirely impossible - that he wouldn't enrol at Hogwarts – and that was why Barnabas Cuffe had chosen to have a look at the enrolment lists of other important magic schools.

That of Beauxbatons was public, but there was nothing sensational to be found on it. That of Hogwarts would make his office within the next hours despite not exactly being a public document, but that of Durmstrang had never been available anywhere. He didn't know who had sent it to him, but he had a strong suspicion – and, after all, it wasn't really relevant. The important information was firmly clutched between his short, thick fingers.

Cuffe smiled mischievously and rubbed his fists together. That was going to be one hell of an article and he'd be damned if tomorrow's version of the Daily Prophet wasn't this year's best selling edition.

Still smiling, he glanced at the note that had been sent with the list. Use it well.

That he would. Oh yes, that he would.

Harry was lying in his bed, still wide awake, and listened to the snoring of his classmates. The new day had to have begun long ago, but he couldn't seem to find any rest this night. Carefully, he excluded the wand he had gotten from his bag and stroked it, sensed the little irregularities of the wood. Whatever results emerged from his stay here, he was already sure that nothing would be able to surpass the feeling of having a wand. For the first time there was a direct connection to the magical part of him, the part which, according to what he'd been told, made him special.

And still, he felt wrong. Not necessarily at the wrong place, though. It was true, Durmstrang was not a welcoming school as it was so grey and narrow and uncomfortable, at least in most areas. Thinking back on it, the dining hall with the majestic weaving flag had been impressive, but that was one room, and if everything else mainly consisted of grey, one room didn't account for much. That said, Harry wasn't quite sure when it came to Durmstrang, after all, he had only seen a fraction of the castle. And apart from that, he'd been forced to make something even remotely resembling a home out of the most impossible places throughout his life. Durmstrang was familiar in that way, especially in comparison to the cupboard, because it also was narrow and hadn't much light to offer. Now, the cupboard surely hadn't been a desirable location to sleep in, but it had been his. Harry was pretty sure that he could have made the castle his as well, if what bothered him really were its looks.

But there also were the stares and the whispers and the people that just wanted to see his scar. He'd been living in near solitude for three years, and suddenly, he was forced towards the centre of attention, and he didn't like it one bit. Even now, when everything was quiet, he felt restless. There were so many children around. But maybe he'd adjust, it was quite possible even. Until now, his life had been a constant challenge where adjustment was key to every obstacle. He thought that, given enough time, he might manage this as well.

It was something different, always on the periphery, never really there. A nagging and prodding feeling that he didn't quite belong. Or, at least, that something about him was off. Thoughts churning, he twisted on his mattress although he had already been lying comfortably. Maybe he'd be able to get some sleep if he turned his pillow around so he could sleep on the cold side? But even when he did so, he knew that it most likely wouldn't help, as the uneasiness hadn't faded.

He hadn't acquired this feeling upon his arrival at Durmstrang. It had been with him before, even back at the inconspicuous mansion close to Liverpool he'd lived in for the most part of the last years. A few weeks ago, it had suddenly appeared, and he still had no idea of its true cause. When he had been standing on the platform, debating with Karkaroff about whether he would be accepted or not, he had hoped that this distinct feeling of not belonging would vanish here. As it seemed, he'd hoped in vain. The worst thing was that he couldn't put his foot on what exactly wasn't right. A few times, he had tried to get a grip on it, to explore the reasons for it, but it had effortlessly slipped from his mental grasp.

There wasn't only negativity, though. There still was the magic. Again, he patted his wand and he was almost tempted to rise from his restless bed, sneak out of the room and look for somewhere to practice or at least try out what his wand could do. He was pretty sure others had done so because the last time he looked around in the room there had been a few empty beds. But breaking the rules the first day didn't seem smart when Igor Karkaroff pretty obviously had it out for him. At least, tomorrow he'd finally get to try his hand at it. Until now, he only had the names of the subjects to think about, because he had no books and – if he thought back – no tales about the different subjects.

Curious, in retrospect, that back at the mansion it had never occurred to him to ask and find out more, because now, the simple image of weaving his wand and creating something new or influencing his surroundings had his stomach bubble with excitement. But on the other hand, he hadn't been able to experience the feeling of holding your own wand before, a feeling that couldn't be described to someone who didn't know it. Maybe it could best be circumscribed with "belonging", the very belonging that he otherwise missed. In his opinion, Gregorovitch needn't have mentioned that he had to "get to know his wand". Because there simply was no way he wouldn't.

And apart from that, he had even had a friendly conversation with a stranger, and there was no Dudley anywhere near that could ruin it for him. Perhaps, just perhaps, Harry thought, he would be able to finally make a friend here after having had no chance to get one before.

Dudley ... That was a darker part of his memories, one he had always wanted to avoid thinking about, but within the last weeks, he had done so with increasing frequency. The problem weren't the insults that'd been thrown at him, though. Nor the exploitation. Nor the malnourishment they had put him through from time to time. To Harry, these were pleasant memories now, because they proved that the things he'd been told afterwards were right. And they proved that he had been right.

In blowing the Dursleys up, that is. Because even if he didn't ever mean for anything like this to happen and even if they hadn't been nice people, he still felt – well, sorry, wasn't the right word, because there was no way he'd ever be sorry about the death of muggles as despicable as them. Except - somehow he was. And the dark mood that surrounded so many of Durmstrang's facilities seemed to increase the dread he felt whenever he thought back to what had happened. Maybe, there was no proper home to be found here, he thought with a pang of sadness, before sleep more and more managed to lull him into darkness. His wand still rested in his hand.

AN: The next chapter will be posted on January 20 - if not before - and, remember - reviews make every author happy.

AN2: Everything you might think to be strange WILL be explained in future chapters.

AN3: English is not my first language, so a few errors are to be expected. I would be pleased if you were able to point them out.

AN4: This story will not contain romance (except maybe as a very minor subplot). If you are looking for that, you will find yourselves disappointed.

AN5: Future chapters will have around 3-4k words, because otherwise, updates would be substantially slower. The planned update schedule is once-a-week.

AN6: First chapter contains lots and lots of exposition. None of the future chapters are going to have nearly as much.

AN7: The statement "no bashing" does not fully exclude Cornelius Fudge.

AN8: None of the German sentences are in any way important to the plot.

Updated as of 01/27/17 to remove the AN's from the beginning of the chapter and to add a section for Harry.