Note: This story will be borrowing heavily from Slavic mythology and fairytales. Severe artistic license is being taken with the subject matter. I don't claim to be an expert, but if you're familiar with any of the source material, look closely and you may see a glimmer of the original story or character in my interpretations.

Without further ado…

"Look, Harry! Quaffle Waffles! The thrill of quidditch at your very own breakfast table!"

"Uh, Ron?"

"And Golden Snitch cookie cutters!"

"How long have you been reading Witch Weekly, Ron?"

"Oh, it's… not mine. Hermione's, y'know."

"Right."

…

"By the way, Harry, the interviews start today."

"Don't remind me. If there are as many as last year, it'll be a long day."

"Williamson's doing the initial."

"Mm."

"Think he'll go easy on them?

"I know he's become a little crass as he's gotten older, but he's still effective, if not more so."

"If you say so."

…

"Look, Harry! Midget Snidgets! Guilt-free eating of an endangered species—because it's chocolate!"

"…Ron."

Black God White Night

A Story of Aurors

Dorogobuzh, Russia

Night was beginning to fall on historic Dorogobuzh, an old fortress town straddling the Dnieper River in Smolensk Oblast of Russia. The last streaks of sunlight were fading behind the trees on the horizon, casting the quaint churches and bell-towers into dusky shadow. The few citizens still out and about on business were quickly wrapping up, while others were coming out for leisurely strolls under the lamplight.

In one particular structure, one of the bell towers, a meeting was about to take place. Now, when one of the leisurely strollers happened to glance up at the tower, they did not perceive anything to be amiss. It was dark, for one, and the bell appeared as a mere shadowy smudge at the top of the tower. But even had it been daytime, the bell would not have appeared any different, and the strollers certainly would not have been able to tell that a meeting was taking place within the bell itself. The very notion was ridiculous. One person may have fit inside, but they would find themselves stooped over, cramped, and unpleasantly squashed.

Inside the bell was a man. He was not, however, stooped, cramped, or squashed. Indeed, he appeared to be quite comfortably defying the laws of physics, standing in the spacious interior of a bell that from the outside was no more than four feet to a side. A small glowing orb was hovering in midair near the clapper, which was enlarged as well. The man was neither young nor old, had short and thin ash blond hair, and wore a pinstriped suit of black and carmine. He could have been a wealthy businessman, but in truth was far more.

From his pocket he produced a silver pocket watch. He checked the time with an almost bored expression, as if waiting for colleagues inside of a bell was standard procedure. He did not have to wait much longer.

With a soft swish of air, five figures appeared, spaced out around the circular chamber. Four of them were dressed in knee-length jackets of a black, scaly material, which had a greenish undertone in the faint light. The fifth was wearing standard robes of black.

Pocketing his watch, he began the meeting, speaking Russian with a deep, steady voice that resonated eerily in the confines of the bell.

"You are all ready for the operation?"

Five heads nodded in unison.

"Who is going to assume the identity?"

The figure dressed in the standard robes, a short, stocky man, stepped forward. "I am."

The pinstripe-suited man nodded. "That is good. You are good at deception, Sadko. You have spent time with the prisoner, then, studying him?"

"Yes, Boris Feodorov."

"Good." The man named Boris Feodorov handed Sadko a small vial. "There is enough for one hour. Time it well when you drink it; you must gather as much information as possible before calling in the others." He turned to the other four. "You will back him up. At exactly one hour, you will move in. If Sadko is compromised, move at the signal. Capture if possible, kill if necessary."

None of the five batted an eye at their orders.

"The scheduled time is three hours past midnight. The location is Syvash."

One of the black-coats sighed resignedly. "The Rotten Sea, huh? So we heard. It fits those dogs well, I suppose, but still…"

"I'd think you'd be used to the smell, Semyon."

Semyon inclined his head towards another black-coat. "Ekaterina, my dear, your insults grow less subtle by the day, and ever the more contrived." He glanced to the suited man. "Boris Feodorov, you might want to keep your pet on a shorter leash from now on."

The young and only woman named Ekaterina curled her lip in response. "A leash? You'd like one of those, wouldn't you? A leash for your own neck in the hands of that simpering, pathetic—"

"Katya."

Her growingly livid expression instantly melted into one of embarrassment. She slowly turned to face Boris, who had interrupted her. When he opened his arms, she stepped forward into his embrace, a look of adoration in her eyes visible even in the dim light.

Semyon shot a knowing grin at the third black-coat, who shook his head with a sigh.

"The Zmajeviti can't possibly hold a candle to dealing with such children as you two…"

The fourth black-coat remained impassive.

Sadko frowned. "Always at each others throats…"

Boris Feodorov allowed a small smile to grace his lips briefly. "Indeed. Personally, I think it makes things interesting. Although you both manage admirably to set it aside when you are on assignment, so I don't particularly care." He released Ekaterina from his arms and surveyed all five of them, a serious look falling into place. "And when you are on assignment, I expect nothing less."

They all very quickly lost their smirks, frowns, and adoring looks. All signs of conflict and hatred disappeared. Their faces became blank, expressionless, their bearing implacable.

"You are among the best I have, and each of you carries the Mission as an intrinsic part of yourself. If you did not, you would not be here right now. You would not have passed the training. You would be broken.

"Twenty three years ago the darkest wizard to ever live was defeated. His death left a void that is waiting to be filled, and it appears that some are moving to take the opportunity. It must not be filled. Do. Not. Let it." He met each of them eye for eye. "You cannot let it.

"The target is the so-called Tugarin Zmeyevich. If this imposter wants to resurrect the dark ghosts of the past, let us bring the light to his pathetic soul."

With a startling suddenness, three wizards and one witch were gone, barely a whisper of sound accompanying their disapparition. Two wizards remained.

"You will take care of my kozha drakona?" Sadko asked.

"Yes. It will be with me, waiting for you," Boris responded.

Satisfied, Sadko vanished into thin air.

Boris Feodorov was left alone in the bell. Despite his confidence in his protégés, he couldn't shake the cold, uneasy feeling that was creeping along his spine. I must be mad, he thought. They are all black-coats. And they are only facing a pretender…

He shook himself out of his reverie. It is time to go…

Gently cradling the floating ball of light, he squeezed his hand closed around it, causing it to disappear. His own disapparition was invisible in the darkness. The spell that had enlarged the interior of the bell dissipated upon his departure.

In one section of Dorogobuzh citizens awoke, disgruntled, wondering what lunatic was tolling the bell at this hour.

London, England

Somewhere underground in the heart of London, in a room on level two of the Ministry of Magic (The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to be precise), another meeting of sorts was taking place. The room was empty of furnishings, devoid of windows (magical or otherwise), and only a single door led into and out of it. In it was gathered a fairly large number of young witches and wizards, who appeared to be waiting for something, or someone.

They were a rather diverse group. Males and females were in equal attendance, and ran the gamut of physicality—short and tall, large and small. Some of them were the very picture of excitement, with wide eyes and palpable anticipation. Some were equally as nervous, with twitchy faces and apprehensive expressions. Others had blank slates for faces, their facades immaculate. They may not have had the same reasons or motivations, the same hopes or goals, but all of them were there for the same thing. And despite all of their preparation, no matter how they had read up or studied, no matter how ready they thought they were, none of them knew just quite what to expect.

The door opened. Several dozen heads swiveled in that direction, twice that many eyes fixating on the man who was entering the room. He was neither tall nor short, and carried himself with a very methodical air. His face was lined and wrinkled, although he didn't appear very elderly. A pair of browline glasses was resting on a slightly hooked nose. His light brown hair, graying slightly at the temples, was swept back in a long ponytail. He wore crimson robes and carried a long scroll which he was currently reading.

The man set himself about a meter in front of the door. Several minutes passed, but he continued to keep his head down, seemingly absorbed in whatever was written on the parchment. The low murmur of conversation that had been cut off by his entrance slowly resumed, the large group refocusing their attention on their peers or their own thoughts. They didn't notice his eyes wander up above the top rim of the scroll, observing them.

It was with a critical eye that the bespectacled wizard viewed the motley assortment of young men and women arrayed before him, taking in the mix of eagerness, apprehension, and youth on their faces. Mostly youth, the man thought to himself. Young and foolish. He figured at least half of them were here because of one man—indeed, the only man who seemed to matter to kids, even now, twenty years past. It was the Harry Potter effect in all its glory. The number of applicants each year had skyrocketed, and showed no signs of slowing down. As for the other half… Well, at least some of them had to have genuine resolve. Ah well. He would begin to weed out the unworthy. It was his job to start the lengthy process of selection that would leave these kids battered and bruised, triumphant or heartbroken.

He coughed. Several dozen pairs of eyes riveted on him. One by one he met each curious gaze, internally noting the ones who looked away, sufficiently cowed by the severe look. Hmph. If they can't deal with me, then they certainly can't deal with the rest of it. Sweeping the assemblage once more for good measure, he spoke. And they listened, with rapt attention.

"So. You want to be an Auror, eh?"

Nobody answered.

"You young, inexperienced know-it-alls think you have what it takes to be Aurors?"

There were a few, angry mutters at this perceived slight, but still nobody spoke up.

"Come now. Who among you can tell me why you have what it takes."

The silence lasted another minute before someone answered.

"I have all the requirements and more. I have five NEWTS with at least exceeds expectations, and I—"

The man snorted, cutting the list of accomplishments short. "Of course you do. All of you do, supposedly. Otherwise you wouldn't be here in the first place. But all of you clearly aren't going to succeed. You're like a rose bush. We need to trim the excess to appreciate the full beauty. Most of you are excess. Some of you are beauty. Most of you will be trimmed by the end."

"But it's often the excess of a rose that protects the entire bush, and is more useful," contended someone else.

A slightly annoyed look crossed his face. "Yes, yes, technically true. But you get the gist of my analogy."

One brash young wizard took exception. "This is ridiculous! We were told that we were going to have personal interviews, not this farce of an interrogation! I know I have what it takes. Where do you get off insulting us like that, old man?"

Inwardly, the man smirked. So this won't be completely boring after all. Outwardly, he rounded on the young man, who flinched imperceptibly. "You think so? An impetuous boy like you?"

Said boy flushed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The wizard continued. "If you can't even control yourself here, what makes you think you'll be able to control yourself as an Auror? If you can't stay calm facing an 'old man' like me, how long would it take for you to lose it facing down a dark wizard? He turned to the rest of the crowd as the brash wizard sank back in embarrassment. "Some of you have probably guessed that your testing has already begun. No, none of you will fail here," he stated, seeing the emerging looks of horror at his admission, "but this is the start of a long and arduous process. If you want me to go easy on you, then you might as well leave now. If you can't take criticism, then leave now. We don't have time to baby sit a bunch of idealistic fools with delusions of becoming the next hero of the Wizarding world."

Someone else, a young witch this time, spoke up. "But that's what they are—heroes."

"Is that so? Why?"

"That—well…" The witch, taken aback, stuttered for a bit before answering, "It's their job, isn't it? Fighting the Dark Arts…"

"And why does that make them heroes?"

"Harry Potter was a hero, wasn't he?" piped up yet another young hopeful. "He fought the Dark Arts."

"And you're going to be the next Harry Potter I suppose?"

The boy subsided meekly.

"Yes… Harry Potter did fight the Dark Arts, and he is indeed a hero, but there is a key difference between Harry Potter and many of you. Does anyone know what it is?"

"It's that Harry Potter didn't go seeking fame and glory for fame and glory's sake, right?"

"You're a sharp one," he said, honing in on the girl who had spoken. "That's exactly right. Unlike the majority of you, Harry Potter didn't want to become an Auror for the purposes of fame or glory. He was already famous, to be sure, but it was unwanted and unappreciated. But that's not the point. The point is that those of you who are here for recognition, fame, and the romantic idea of an Auror will ultimately fail. And to a degree all of you have some of these aspirations. But only those who have genuine resolve and belief in what we do will succeed."

Some of them still wore affronted expressions, the scarlet-robed wizard noted, but he was pleased see a hardening of resolve in others. Looks like this class isn't completely worthless after all.

None of the prospectives were sure whether to relax or be wary at the sudden grin that crossed the man's face.

"Aurors. They are the elite of the Magical Law Enforcement, trained to seek out and expunge the Dark Arts from magical society. Rigorous training crafts a wizard into the perfect intelligence agent of the Ministry of Magic. You think you have what it takes?"

Syvash, Ukrainian Shore

Located on the western coast of the Sea of Azov and the northeastern coast of the Crimean peninsula was Syvash, a large system of bays that separated the Autonomous Republic of Crimea from the Ukrainian mainland. The waters of Syvash never exceeded a depth of three meters, and it was this shallowness that allowed the sun to heat up the water in the summer months, producing a putrid stench that earned it the nickname of the 'Rotten Sea'. The swampy, salty terrain made it nigh impassible to all but the most determined of trekkers.

He looked at the faces before him. "You think you have what it takes to master the disciplines of an Auror?

With a quiet, almost inaudible popping sound, five figures appeared on the sloping, marshy shore of one of the many inlets that composed Syvash. It was well into the night, and they were dressed in black, so their arrival was all but invisible to anyone who could have been watching. Strangely, as the figures spread out from their point of arrival, the mud and silt didn't adhere to their boots or clothing. Even when they sunk up to their knees, it just seemed to slough off without leaving any residue.

An Auror must be well versed in stealth, and able to track their target while avoiding detection…

Swiftly they traveled through the wetland, homing in on the faint magical signature of their target. They ate up the miles quickly, hardly any sound accompanying their movement. The four eventually came within sight of their destination, a small hut that was surely defying some sort of Muggle environmental regulation. Not that it mattered, as the Muggles wouldn't have been able to find it anyways. The five wizards stopped a fair distance away from it.

"They certainly weren't exaggerating about the smell…"

"Ignore it, Semyon."

"So that's it, huh?"

"Not much to look at."

"The more obscure the better."

You must know tactics; assessing the situation correctly is essential…

"It's also small. There will not be enough room inside for all of us to maneuver. Either Sadko must lure him out, or only two of us will go in when the time comes."

…as well as knowing how to execute your job efficiently…

Sadko spoke. "I cannot lure him out; you must come in to prevent him from disapparating immediately."

"It's settled then. Gennady, Ekaterina, you two will make the arrest. Semyon and I will lay an anti-disapparition field around the area when you go in. If a fight is necessary, draw him outside so we can back you up."

Semyon smirked. "Don't let that gentle personality of yours interfere, Zhenya," he teased.

Gennady responded with a fierce grin.

"Enough," the last of the black-coats stated. "It is almost three hours past. Are you ready, Sadko?"

"Yes, Pavel."

An Auror must be proficient in concealment and disguise…

Slipping the vial he had received from Boris Feodorov out of his pocket, Sadko uncorked it and drank it down. He began moving even as the potion began to take effect. As he walked towards the hut, he began to change. The short, powerfully built man grew taller and slimmer, and his short, wiry hair grew longer and darker. His skin grew sallow, and his eyes sunken. By the time he was within ten meters of the structure, he was a completely different person. Even his mannerisms changed; hours of studying the man he had become had made him into a perfect copy. The other four black-coats took up positions hidden in the gloom further away.

It was a rather beat-up looking hut. Old weathered stones of uneven size provided the foundation, and were held together by ancient, crumbling mortar. A rickety wooden door was set into equally dilapidated walls that were rotting away in the salty air. The only distinctive feature was the gold doorknob in the shape of a dragons head, but even that was tarnished.

Sadko stepped up onto the landing before the door and studied the handle. Despite the discoloration, it was still beautiful, and extremely detailed, from each individual scale to the sharp teeth in the open mouth. He grasped it firmly and pulled the door open.

The small room was lit with a very faint glow, a candle probably, but he couldn't see it because of its position hidden behind the dark-robed figure seated with its back to him.

"Welcome, Zilant."

So this is the one, Sadko thought. He stepped forward across the threshold and shut the door behind him. He kept a confident expression on his face as he approached the figure, rounding the table and taking a seat on the other side. The candle was set directly on the graying wood, the wax already forming a pool of melted white that glued it down. In the flickering light he could make out the face of his unknowing adversary. He was taken aback, although his expression didn't change; the man had a surprisingly youthful face, with sleek dark hair and finely sculpted features. It was a face that would ordinarily be considered handsome, but for the twisted, dark look in his deep blue eyes. You could get lost in eyes like those…

…and must be able to think quickly on the spot…

"I see you have forgone your usual opulence."

Inwardly, Sadko frowned. I gathered as much from our interrogation of the actual Zilant, but this was what he was wearing… To the youthful man he said, "Discretion was necessary."

"Ah. Of course."

Those eyes… Sadko blinked. Something was wrong.

The dark wizard kept talking. "To business. Did you connect with Yaropolk in St. Petersburg?"

Yaropolk! That was one of Boris Feodorov's division chiefs. This wasn't good. But all of a sudden, Sadko didn't care. He felt woozy, his mind was going blank, and his vision was going out of focus. What…

With a great effort, he snapped back to himself. He was still sitting at the table, still across from the man, who was currently staring at him intently.

But even the best laid plans go awry…

"I wonder," the man said, his lips twitching at the edges, "just who you really are."

A cold, creeping sensation crawled over Sadko's skin, raising goose bumps. Through sheer concentration he kept his confusion from showing and attempted to play it off. "What are you talking about?" With a jolt he realized that time had passed. A lot of time.

The dark wizard clasped his hands together. "You wouldn't know, because you are an imposter, and not of the Zmajeviti. Even though the real Zilant is weak and susceptible, he would have known better than to meet me eye to eye."

His eyes?

"This must mean that Zilant has been captured. Did you use polyjuice potion? If so, I'll know who you are soon enough." The wizard appeared quite indifferent to having been deceived.

"You are the only imposter in this room." Sadko could feel the changes as the polyjuice potion began to wear off. That meant he had been hypnotized for an hour. He had been at the dark wizard's mercy for a full hour, and it had only felt like seconds. He cursed himself for being caught off guard. This man was deceivingly powerful.

"So, " his adversary said conversationally as Sadko reverted to his true body, "where do we go from here?"

...and you must be able to work around that eventuality…

With a loud bang the door burst open and the two black-coats Gennady and Ekaterina sprang through, wands out and pointed at their target.

"SVET! Tugarin Zmeyevich, surrender your wand and come quietly!"

Tugarin Zmeyevich chuckled. "Surrender my wand? You must be joking."

An Auror's reflexes must be top notch, and their spellwork exemplary, for the duels can become quite fierce…

Gennady and Ekaterina quickly cast their spells at the wizard. Leaping up swiftly, he produced a wand from his robes and levitated his chair into the air between them. The chair intercepted both incoming spells and exploded into many fragments of sharp wood. They didn't scatter too far, however, and coalesced into several wicked looking spikes in midair. With a flick of the wrist the sharp daggers sped toward the black-coats. Ekaterina stepped forward and released a succession of reductor curses at the spikes, which once again exploded into bits and pieces that were repelled by their jackets.

The dark wizard whistled appreciatively. "Nice coats." His wand was suddenly extended and the black-coats were enveloped in a thick cloud of smoke that clung to their faces and darkened their vision.

Whipping around to face Sadko, Tugarin Zmeyevich threw up his own shield to deflect the undercover agent's disabling spell and blasted him back into the wall, which creaked and buckled in protest, but surprisingly withstood the impact. Sadko was hardy, however, and as he slid down the wall he fired off another spell, landing on his feet in a crouch. The cloak that Tugarin Zmeyevich was wearing took on a life of its own, flapping around and wrapping up the dark wizard tightly, attempting to trip, strangle, and suffocate him all at once. Ignoring his handiwork, Sadko began to draw complex patterns in the air, but was interrupted as the living cloak—now tattered and ripped—was flung at him, billowing in the air ominously. Forced to abandon his spell, he tried to sever the robe with a charm, but the resulting two halves coiled up and speared forward, both managing to catch him around the neck. As he struggled to remove the offending object he was once more hit by a blasting curse. Blood streaming from his mouth, he hit the wall and this time the wood gave, splintering apart as he rocketed through it.

Tugarin Zmeyevich turned around in time to avoid a stunning spell, but was knocked off his feet by a tripping jinx. Gennady and Ekaterina had managed to disperse the smoke and were not holding back. The dark wizard got back to his feet and began to duel them, but was quickly forced to go on the defensive. Gennady knocked him back down, and with a few crisp wand strokes Ekaterina summoned two bright silver chains that shot towards the downed figure. He scrambled to avoid them, but was caught around one leg and in seconds was wrapped up, arms pinned to his sides.

Ekaterina stepped forward. "You are done. Accept it." She frowned at his low chuckle.

"It's good that the most powerful curses rarely require the most precise wand work," he stated.

Ekaterina glanced down, a perplexed look in her eyes. His arms were pinned, but he still held his wand, which was now gave a little flick.

Gennady wasn't quite sure what happened, but all of a sudden the chains evaporated in a burst of flame and Ekaterina was reduced to a charred, blackened husk. The dark wizard stood up.

In the course of your work, it is very possible that you will lose friends…

Gennady blinked. What just… The reality hit him. Even Ekaterina's kozha drakona—her enchanted jacket of dragon hide—had not saved her. Fury etched itself across his face. "You…" He tried to raise his wand, but found the movement sluggish. He felt as if he were deep underwater. The sensation of pressure caused his knees to buckle and his back to bend.

Having gained a slight reprieve, Tugarin Zmeyevich caught his breath. "SVET, huh? It was a worthy try, but I'm afraid you'll have to join your friends." He closed his right hand into a loose fist around the tip of his wand, and a flickering glow began emanating between his fingers. With a jerking motion he yanked his hand away and opened it, palm facing upwards, a ball of flame resting just above his skin. Cackling insanely, he blew gently into the flame, and it expanded in billowing waves to fill the interior of the hut. With a clench of the fist and a stab of the wand, it exploded into a massive fireball, disintegrating the entire structure and pluming upwards into the sky.

Gennady could do nothing but watch in resignment as he was consumed by the blaze and incinerated.

Semyon and Pavel had started forward at the sounds of the duel coming from inside, but were knocked off their feet at the huge explosion.

…but you must learn to reign in your emotions…

Semyon was back up in a flash. "KATYA! ZHENYA!"

"Sadko…" A static sensation in the air and a slight pressure in his ears warned Pavel of more powerful magic. "Be careful, Semyon!" he shouted.

A dark figure was walking out of the ruins of the hut. With a great rush, the turbulent flames were sucked down to a single point, manifesting as fiery snakes and dragons that swirled about him in a perfect ring. As he walked, the ring moved with him, bending to his will, leaving him at the eye of the firestorm.

Aurors encounter many depravities in their careers…

Semyon halted, turning towards the fire with a look of incredulity. "Fiendfyre…?"

Pavel frowned. "Such control over an advanced curse like that…"

Tugarin Zmeyevich, sans cloak and encircled by a writhing mass of sentient fire, moved relentlessly closer, grinning madly. "Three dead, three dead, two more SVETniks out to play?" His mocking singsong nearly drove Semyon over the edge.

"Monster. You will pay."

Pavel had other ideas. "Some other time, Semyon. We have to report this to Feodorov."

"Go on, run if you can," Tugarin said knowingly.

The two wizards tried to disapparate.

"I can't," Semyon stated.

"It's your own fault for setting up a disapparition field; I merely took the liberty of extending it outwards."

…and at one time or another you may find yourself staring death in the face…

No more than 10 meters separated the two remaining black-coats from Tugarin Zmeyevich, their hardened looks a stark contrast to the triumph on the face of their opponent.

"Ready to die?"

How will you choose to face it?

A deep sigh escaped from Semyon. "Ah, Irina, how dearly I will miss you."

Pavel kept his customary stern expression. "Melodramatic to the end, but unnecessary. Run, Semyon. Run to where you can disapparate. I will hold him back."

"If that's the way it's going to be, then you run, I'll—"

"Don't argue! Go!"

"DIE!"

With a great roar the fire expanded outwards, rushing towards the black-coats. As Semyon ran away with a conflicted look on his face, Pavel sprang forward and whipped his wand around in a circular motion, conjuring up a bright, silver net that held back the flames for several seconds before wisping away under the sheer magical force. It bought time though, and as the net disappeared Pavel sprinted around the right side of the conflagration, heading for the silhouette hidden in the wavering shadows. The spitting flames curved around to follow him. Streaks of light flew through the air as the combatants exchanged fire. A cloud of dense smoke streamed forth, further dampening visibility, but the black-coat flung a bright silver light forward, extending it into a long chain which lashed around the arm of Tugarin Zmeyevich. The chain retracted rapidly, flinging the dark wizard back towards the rampaging curse. The fantastical fiery shapes parted, forming another ring in which he landed safely, if a bit bruised. Pavel didn't hesitate and cast another spell. The soft ground around the dark wizard rose up in great columns, surging forward and burying him and the fire under tons of foul smelling earth.

Several tense seconds passed.

Pavel stood still, panting softly, once more in complete darkness as he waited. His glimmer of hope was quashed when he felt a growing heat through his thick boots. He backpedaled quickly as steam began to rise, but was too late. Hundreds of fiery snakes spewed forth from the ground, hissing and sparking as they surrounded the black-coat and zoomed toward him. In an instant the wizard was covered in a roiling mass of fiendfyre, the protective enchantments of his kozha drakona failing at the inexorable nature of the powerful curse. The fire only abated when there was nothing but ash and dust left of his body.

London, England

Silence reigned in the room at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The witches and wizards that were gathered were contemplating the words of the bespectacled wizard and matching it with their own perceptions of themselves. Said wizard was trying to do the exact same thing, but gave up after a few minutes.

For all I look at them and judge them for their appearances and reactions, I can't see their true character, he thought. With a loud 'ahem' he centered the attention back on himself. "I hope I've managed to impart the intricacies of the job to you. Have I changed any minds?"

Nobody moved.

"So that's the way it's going to be, hmm? Alright then, you all asked for it. The interviews will take a while; there are lots of you and few of us, so be patient. When I call your name, go to the room number I call with it." He saw a raised hand. "One question, no more."

"Err, is it really that hard to become an Auror?"

The wizard let an indulgent smile grace his lips. "Yes. Perhaps not so much as a SVETnik, but hard nonetheless."

"Err… a SVETnik?"

"The Russians, my boy! The Russians! SVET, the dark wizard catchers of Russia. Crazy blokes, the lot of 'em."