Author's Note: Hi everyone! Welcome to the second volume of my Albus Potter series, "Albus Potter and the Hell of the Houses". I strongly recommend to read the first part of the series, "Albus Potter and the Gift of the Goblin" before reading this story, otherwise you won't be understanding what's going on.
As always, please review!
Quentin was staring in the darkness, wondering what might happen tomorrow. After his mother had left him in the headmaster's office, Prasnikar had called a Durmstrang student, Maxim, and ordered him to show Quentin the castle. Before they left, however, the headmaster had said: "One last thing, Mr Simiol. For the next five weeks, you will be treated like any other student. We will not go easy on you. The kind of slackness and negligence you may have learned at Hogwarts will not be tolerated here. We strive towards excellence in all things, especially discipline. Consider yourself warned."
Maxim had introduced himself as a fourth-year. His English was quite good, definitely better than headmaster Prasnikar's, and he was friendly enough. What he was saying though, sounded similar to the headmaster's words.
"I don't know how things are at Hogwarts," he had told Quentin. "But here, the teachers are paying a lot of attention to discipline. Let me give you a well-meaning advice: Don't. Break. Any. Rules. Don't talk back to teachers. Don't be late for classes. Do everything the teachers tell you, without question. Do everything you can to do well at classes. Otherwise, your life at Durmstrang will be hard. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."
"But how am I supposed to do well at classes here?" Quentin had asked desperately. "I'm not even speaking Russian. And the curriculum is certainly different than at Hogwarts, I don't even know if the subjects are the same. Is it true, that the Dark Arts are taught at Durmstrang?"
"Yes," Maxim had simply said. "Dark Arts and the defence against them are the same subject."
"And there are no Muggle-borns at Durmstrang?" Quentin had asked.
"No. Muggle studies is compulsory for everybody, though. I don't know how you think about muggles, but if I were you, I wouldn't talk much about that subject. There is currently a big discussion going on, whether Muggle-borns should be admitted at Durmstrang or not. Headmaster Prasnikar wants to open Durmstrang to everybody, but many teachers and parents think differently. Of course, they think, muggles are like animals, unworthy to be taught magic. 'Mudbloods', the call them."
Quentin had expected as much. "And what do you think about it?"
Maxim's eyes had narrowed. "It doesn't matter what I think about it. The official statement is, that space is the problem. Students come to Durmstrang from many countries: Russia, Ukraine, Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Belarus only being some of them. And our castle is not big enough for all Muggle-borns from those countries."
That was certainly a good point; the castle seemed not as big as Hogwarts, when Maxim had led him through several classrooms. That wasn't making it easier to find the right way, though, as all the corridors were identical: dark, bare, and cold, very cold. There were no portraits, or armours, or anything friendly or distinctive. Quentin still couldn't help feeling that this castle hated him, didn't want him inside. The walls seemed to radiate deep distaste and suspiciousness.
"And here is your dormitory," Maxim had concluded. "You are a first-year; every year is divided in five classes, each having its own dormitories. You are in class 1B. I will now introduce you to your new classmates."
Maxim had indeed introduced him, but hardly one of the others had spared Quentin more than a look. Maxim had instructed one boy, Hendrik, to show Quentin to classes tomorrow. Hendrik had seemed most unenthusiastic, but seemingly hadn't dared to refuse.
Finally, Maxim had explained to him, how the translation ball worked. They tried it out, with Maxim speaking in Russian and Norwegian. Indeed, the small ball had glowed a bit and the words had appeared, written in the air in English.
Then Maxim had left, after putting a hand on Quentin's shoulder and telling him: "We will meet tomorrow evening, in the Common Room 3. Hendrik will lead you there. When you need help with something, you can always ask me. Now get some rest, and tomorrow remember what I told you."
So Quentin had taken one of the highly uncomfortable beds, still completely ignored by his new classmates. The cold was biting. He didn't have any of his stuff with him, so he simply lay down in his new, blood red Durmstrang robes. What would the next days bring him?
O
"How is he?" asked Harry.
Hermoine, who had just returned from St Mungo's, shook her head and smoothed her hair back. "Well, at least they managed to stop him from saying those - words anymore. Apart from that, however, Donald still seems to be totally insane."
Harry sighed. "I don't understand that. How could the goblins have done that? It would need a wizard to perform such a strong memory charm, to let him forget everything. Let alone planting this sentence into his mind, and making him repeat it over and over. But still, he had the Gringotts logo on his forehad."
"Which might be a false trail," pointed out Hermoine.
"Sure. Or, what I consider more likely, our friend Pyrites is behind it. But is he really hand in glove with the goblins? Or is he acting on his own, to cause confusion? Difficult to say." Harry shook his head disbelievingly. What had they done to deserve this mess?
Hermoine looked at him in a slightly odd way. Harry remembered her efforts to improve the relations between goblins and wizards in the last 20 years. How would it feel for her, to see an open war between the two races?
"You know, we also cannot exclude the possibility that the goblins somehow managed to torture Cresswell into insanity by themselves," said Hermoine.
Harry nodded tiredly. "They are certainly capable of doing it, if you ask me. Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now. How far are Ernie and Arnold Peasegood with the new currency?"
As if on cue, Ernie stormed into the room. "It's done," he shouted, his head red as usual. "We established the new currency."
"Good," said Hermoine. "What is it? New galleons?"
"No," answered the minister. "Muggle money. Arthur had the idea."
A shocked silence followed. "Muggle money?" Harry asked disbelievingly. "Are you serious?"
"Absolutely," said Ernie, looking highly disappointed that Harry and Hermoine weren't celebrating him because of his genius. "It's very practical; even if our economy falters, everyone can provide themselves with food and so on at muggle shops."
"But wouldn't it be too easy to counterfeit it? Or steal it?" asked Hermoine.
"Yes, we're - er - working on that."
"Right," murmured Hermoine. "Just let's hope that this doesn't cause for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."
"I know," said Ernie proudly. "I have already ordered to boost the staffing of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee and the Obliviator Headquarters."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Great. What about the goblins? Have we heard anything from them yet? What about the hostages?"
Ernie's expression was more worried now. "We haven't gotten any message. I think they have to sort themselves as well… I'm not sure if they even know what exactly they want from us."
Harry rather doubted that; in his experience, goblins acted very rationally and carefully planned everything.
"We should prepare for a war, in any case," continued Ernie. "If we are still in charge, when it comes to that, of course. There are already voices being raised that we should resign. Many want Kingsley back. Even the 'Prophet' wrote that under Minister Shacklebolt, this mess never would have occurred."
Hermoine took a deep breath. "Maybe they're right. Maybe we've done everything wrong. Maybe we should resign."
"Nonsense," said Harry sharply. "You have done everything humanly possible to improve our relations with the goblins. It was only a matter of time until they started to rebel again. We cannot undo centuries of hate and distrust in a few years. It's our responsibility to solve these problem. We've dealt with worse, in fact."
O
Albus' holidays had been most frustrating so far. His father was hardly ever at home, but he had still found time to forbid James and Albus to leave the house and garden without him and Ginny both accompanying them. This was of course never possible, because his father was at work from dust to dawn and longer.
Professor Pyrites, the goblins, the famous family and squib bombs were only some of the reasons his father had given Albus after his various complaints.
In return, his father had allowed them to occasionally practice magic at home with his mother watching, under the condition that he wouldn't tell Aunt Hermione. This was quite okay, if nothing else, because his mother knew surprisingly much about jinxes.
Quentin had sent him an obviously hastily written letter, telling Albus that he would be going to Durmstrang for the next term and visit the Headmaster the next day. Scorpius' letters had been no less frustrating, as he was waxing lyrical about Italy, where he and his parents were on vacation.
Sometimes, Rose visited him. Her situation seemed to be even worse, because both of her parents were under a lot of pressure in the ministry, so she spent a lot of time at the Burrow with her grandparents. This wasn't to her taste at all, as she couldn't stand Grandma Weasley's fussing and Grandpa's passion for muggle artefacts. Rose's typical short-tempered behaviour wasn't what Albus needed, either, and they were arguing so often and heatedly that Albus' mother put an end to Rose's visits, which was a relief.
His only comfort was the company of his sister, Lily. Her cheerfulness and fine sense of humour were a true delight. But even this changed, after Lily was forbidden to visit Aunt Luna, who was currently observing magical beasts in Sweden. Aunt Luna's real name was Luna Lovegood, and she wasn't really their aunt, but Lily's godmother. Albus didn't really get off with her, but he knew that she and Lily were very close.
He heard the front door closing. That meant his father had finally come home. They hadn't waited for him with supper; in about half an hour, his mother would no doubt send him to bed. But not today.
Albus stormed down the stairs. His father had already sat down in the kitchen, where Ginny put a bowl of onion soup in front of him.
"Sorry about the food, Harry, but you know how bad I am at cooking."
Since their house-elf, Kreacher, had died a few years ago, Albus' father had done most of the cooking and was certainly a lot better at it than Ginny.
Harry rubbed his eyes. "S'okay, Ginny," he murmured. "What a day - oh, hey Al," he added when he saw that Albus had entered the kitchen. "You're up late. Shouldn't you slowly go to bed?"
"No," said Albus indignantly. "I wanted to talk to you. Now. No excuses."
His father looked at him curiously. "Talk to me? About what?"
"Actually, darling, Albus hasn't seen a lot of you lately. You should really save more time for your family," interjected Ginny.
"About the goblins," said Albus, ignoring his mother, although he silently agreed. "About Professor Pyrites and the squib terrorists. About all those reasons preventing us to be out in the public."
"Well, Albus," began his father, gulping down the last bit of soup. "These are very volatile issues, you know. I cannot discuss ministry insights with you."
"Stop that," said Albus, annoyed. "I was right in the midst of it, I want to know what attacked me and why. I have the right to know it. Why do the goblins hate us so much, dad? What have we done to them?"
His father cleaned his glasses unnecessarily long. "We?" he finally said. "Nothing, I hope. But there has been bad blood between goblins and wizards for centuries. You know that from History of Magic."
"Yes, but there was peace for the last - I mean, since the Second Wizarding War, wasn't it? Why do they attack us now?"
"Well, we believe that several radical groups of goblins - united, and somehow convinced the others to follow them," answered Harry carefully. "You heard about those murders. The conflict heated up more and more, and now it has escalated. But I assure you, we are doing everything in our power to improve -"
"And what about Professor Pyrites?" interrupted Albus impatiently. "Is he - helping the goblins, or what?"
His father seemed slightly taken aback. "We don't know," he said. "The Auror office is currently working to understand his movements and motives. But I'm sure we will catch him soon, so you shouldn't worry about any of that." He paused. "Have you been practicing today?" he asked in a very unconvincing cheery voice. "What about -"
"I'm going to bed," said Albus resignedly. When he left the kitchen, he saw his father sighing gravely and exchanging a look with Ginny, which was difficult to read.
O
Leon Strelka's summer had been boring. Certainly, it was nice to be back amongst normal people. And 'normal people' meant muggles for Leon. Heaven, this was complicated. Sure enough, he appreciated the power of magic and what you could do with it, but he wondered why no one in the magical world saw things how they clearly were.
The magical population was ridiculously small, compared to the non-magical. It was bizarre and reactionary in many ways, and above all it was unfair.
Leon stared at the wand in his hand. If he used it, ministry wizards would recognize it at once and punish him. He had read all about it. The Trace would detect magic in his proximity, and as he was the only wizard far and wide, it would be clear that he was the one who cast the spell. He wondered what all the fancy little pure-blood princes were doing right now. Potter, Simiol, Malfoy, Weasley, Nott - probably they were all having fun practicing magic and enjoying the comforts of the magical world, whereas he was stuck here, forbidden to show his magic to his parents.
But Leon had contrived a plan. Of course, he would have to wait a few years. No one would take a twelve-year-old seriously. But when he was old enough, he would be the one to reveal the magical world to the muggles. The millions of non-magical people had every right to know about those freaks with their wands. And all the anti-muggle-born laws would be obsolete then, too. The pure-bloods should better wrap themselves up warmly.
O
Francois Simiol, the French President Magique, looked up from the piece of paper he had just read. The piece of paper was a draft bill from Jean-Marie Mensong, his Minister of Peace, and Brix Brice, the Minister of Social Coexistence. Both were members of old pure-blood families and both were extremely popular in their party, the Front Magique, and in the magical community.
Right now, the Mensong and Brice were standing in front of Francois' desk, looking at him expectantly. Francois returned the look and stared at them incredulously.
"You can't be serious."
None of them looked surprised, or unsettled. He wasn't used to this kind of self-confidence. Normally, people were intimidated and very respectful in Francois Simiol's presence.
"Let me get this straight," said Francois and looked down at the paper again. "You want to pass a bill that forces every muggle-born witch and wizard in this country to give up their wands. Furthermore, you dispossess all muggle-borns. But that is just the beginning. You want to legalize the use of Unforgivable Curses for pure-bloods, if the curses are directed against muggle-borns. All muggle-borns will have to leave their homes, but they are forbidden to return into a life amongst muggles. Instead, they are put in something you call 'compounds'. Finally, all muggle-born students at Beauxbatons are removed from the school and remanded in custody." He paused. "And you expect me to sign this?"
"Certainly," said Brix Brice, shrugging. "It was the main subject of our election campaign, to establish a more pure-blood-friendly policy. Now, obviously, we want to take first measures to stop the cancer of the mudbloods that has infested our society."
Francois sighed. "A more pure-blood-friendly policy is one thing. But your 'first measures' go much further. They match what Voldemort did 20 years ago in Britain, in fact." He looked at Brice as if he had never seen him clearly, which was faked, of course, as Francois exactly knew how Brice thought about this. "Really, Brix? You want to drag children from the school into your 'compounds'?"
Brice shrugged again. "No. Haven't you read? Kids into custody, parents into compounds. Have the children, control the parents, see? And I don't care what happened in England. Only thing I know is that these measures are long overdue. Or don't you have the guts, Francois?"
Simiol flinched. "How dare you talk to me like that," he hissed. "You'd do well to remember that the two of you can't do anything without my consent."
"Which you will give," said Mensong. "Otherwise, Francois, and you know that very well, you won't be President for long. The party is behind us."
Strictly speaking, that might indeed be true, but right now the whole public celebrated Simiol. He wanted to see the delegate from his own party who voted against him in this situation.
"The muggle-borns would resist. Other countries might intervene. We will resort to a more circumspect approach," said Francois calmly, ignoring the Peace-Ministers interjection. "Step by step. I will introduce an additional tax for muggle-borns. No compounds for the start. They can stay in their houses, and the students at Beauxbatons stay where they are either. I will arrange certain changes in the teaching staff and the curriculum, though. We take it from there. And I won't have an uncontrolled use of Unforgivable Curses in my country. Agreed?"
His tone made it pretty clear that he wouldn't tolerate any dissent. Brice looked at Mensong.
"For now," ejaculated Mensong and left, with Brice in tow.
Simiol leaned back. Taming the more radical forces in his own party proved harder than expected. Of course, he also wanted a much more aggressive policy against muggle-borns maybe even muggles. He was all in for additional advantages for pure-bloods. But the barbaric cruelty displayed by Mensong and Brice was abhorrent to him. But as President he was sacrosanct. For now.