Author's Note: I started writing this story on a whim today, but it's been in the works for some time. I have a very concrete direction I want this to go it, so I'm happy! I hope you all like it. There will be many Russian references but I'm going to try and make sure they all have footnotes to explain everything. I'm writing this with a whole lot of inspiration from Russian authors. In fact the title of this fanfiction is the same as the title from the famous Nikolai Gogol. Dead Souls is the story of a man who goes around buying up the deeds to dead serfs from the Russian aristocracy in order to make money off of their deaths. This obviously has nothing to do with that, but it is still a fitting title for my purposes. If you stick with the story, you may find out why ;)

Dead Souls

Chapter 1

It was snowing, ever so gently. A rime was building up on the buildings, and all of the windows were decorated with spider-web like frost which budded out over the glass and made the outside world look broken.

Moscow was sleepy, it was half past one in the morning, and lights in the windows were few and far between, making the city look empty and slightly soulless. What little light there was reflected off of the golden cupolas of nearby cathedrals, the tops of which were also covered in snow. But the landmarks and architecture of the city were still distinguishable, if only by their slight resemblance to reddish gingerbread houses dusted with powdered sugar.

A ways away from the famous Kremlin, which was deserted at this time of night, a lone scholar gazed out the window from his faculty suite in Moscow State University's biological and chemical sciences department. If one was to look in on him, they would see papers and pieces of debris spilling out of mismanaged files which had probably been there since Iosef Stalin had come to power in the early part of the 20th century. The occupant of the office, however, seemed totally unconcerned with the accumulated academic detritus and instead devoted his attention to the powdery snow blowing up against the window pane.

One of the man's hands rested against an old roll-top desk which was covered in dried up ink-wells and broken pen nibs. The wood grain was stained with ink, and the edges of the table-top were worn away, however the desk still proudly served its master, as it had for hundreds of years of different scholars, all discovering new and interesting things while sitting flush up against the wooden surface.

Little pieces of history, presumably bought off of the black market, all had a home on the table. An enamel snuff box with a picture of the late Tsar Alexander II sat slightly askew, its lid opened by the presence of a Soviet "чайка(1)" watch which hung out over the edge haphazardly. The watch had stopped about twenty years ago, and rather than change the battery the previous owner had thrown it somewhere in the office where he forgot about it in pursuit of his next academic victory.

There was a stack of unfortunate students' papers, all flush with red, corrective ink markings, and on top of them was a mug of cold, black instant coffee which was stuck to the top paper by a large coffee ring formed by the careless sloshing of the beverage in a moment of inspiration. Books and tomes in Russian, German, French, and English were strewn across the desk, the floor, and the shelves which covered three of the four walls in the office. The last wall, which also hosted the door, had a large, framed copy of the periodic table developed by Dimitrii Mendeleev which was surrounded by smaller, framed botanical samples of dried out herbs and pressed flowers. The only distinguishing feature of each was a small, yellowing label with each plant's binomial nomenclature and other taxonomic information.

The office was so crowded that, upon first impression, one might think that someone had placed all of the junk there in order to barricade a professor or scholar into their work-space, or rather that the scholar had barricaded himself into confinement against the outside world. However, the wonders that the office held were a historical feature, and not one which was introduced by its current occupant.

No, the man in question, who was still staring out the window, was simply one man in a long line of men who had used the office since the opening of the university. He was young, probably in his mid-thirties, and had closely cropped coal black hair which was so thick that it reminded people who knew him of animal's fur. In fact, if asked, most acquaintances of the professor, for that was his title, thought he looked rather like a big black bear.

His face was prematurely wrinkled, and his eyes were small and far apart with no discernible irises. He had the look of someone severely perturbed, the furrow in his brow seemed to be permanent, and the strong, plebian bridge of his nose looked much like stone looks after it is subject to wind and water damage.

His mouth was a hard flat line, crooked and angular, and completely perpendicular to his cheekbones. This specific orientation gave him the look of a man who was perpetually distressed and concerned. However, it was, by some coincidence, only by virtue of that expressive mouth that he even gave off the impression of having a soul in the first place. His eyes gave no such indication. They were flat. Dead flat.

It was with an absentminded tweak that the mouth then seemed to curl in itself and throw the gaunt muzzle into disproportion. Simultaneously, the hand sitting on the old roll-top grasped out, seemingly without direction from the eyes, to bring the cup of instant coffee to the Professor's lips. He took a swill of it before abruptly spitting and coughing ungracefully and dropped the cup of coffee to the floor, where it shattered and coated some of the scholarly journals sitting in a pile at his feet. Cursing, the Professor rose to his feet and wiped at his dripping chin fruitlessly with his bare hands.

There came a knock at the door.

The Professor paused and coughed a few more times before responding: "What is it? Who's there?" While asking this he moved forward to open the door, which revealed a very startled grad student. "Well?"

"I heard a noise, Konstantin Evgenievich(2). I came to see if you were alri-" the student managed to stutter out before he was cut off sharply.

"Just what the hell are you doing here at almost two in the morning, tovarish(3)?" Konstantin Evgenievich demanded. If his brow was previously furrowed it now looked positively thunderous.

"I'm sorry? I don't-"

"Of course you don't. Once again, What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" Konstantin's eyes glinted as he snidely sounded out the sentence. However, the student seemed to have gotten over his initial shock and fear and suddenly seemed indignant.

"I'm not your tovarish. It's not the Soviet Union anymore. My name is Arkady Borisovish. I'm a grad student here, I…" He seemed to lose momentum once again, but under the increasingly black glare of Konstantin Evgenievich he bucked up, "I heard a crash. I was working late, I didn't know anyone else was here… I was just checking out the sound."

Konstantine seemed to consider this for a second, but eventually his glare withered into his usual look of distress and worry and he let out a heavy sigh. "Right. Well, look, I don't know how you know my name Arkady…"

Arkady Borisovich looked at him pointedly and pointed to the plaque on his door which read:

Konstantin Evgenievich Knyazev

Professor of Biology and Chemistry

"Ok," Konstantin continued, slightly embarrassed, "well, I'm sorry for calling you that. It slips off the tongue sometimes, old habits die hard." He finished awkwardly, as if he didn't quite believe he was apologizing to the student, or at least didn't understand why. His cheeks had gone an unattractive ruddy color. "I spilled my coffee, the cup broke. I'm working on something very important." The Professor paused to consider Arkady Borisovich again before turning back into the office and retrieving something. He returned moments later with another, similar mug which he pushed into the surprised hands of the grad student. "It was just instant coffee… just bring me back another cup, and plug in the samovar too."

With this he slammed the door shut in Arkady Borisovich's furious face, which was flushed with indignation. From the other side of the door he could hear Arkady shouting obscenities.

"Who do you think I am? I'm not your serf either!"

"If you were you'd be a horrible one." Konstantin shot back from behind the door. He could hear Arkady walking away, spitting venom and making noise as he moved through the halls. Konstantin made his way back to his chair and sat facing the roll-top this time. With a look of renewed determination he began searching through the drawers of the desk for something before pulling out a pen nib which wasn't horribly bent. Carefully he inserted it into a pen and filled it with ink.

He laid the prepared pen aside and reached out his hands, running them along the seams of the roll-top's drawers before pushing on two depressions in the wood work. With a few clicking sounds a long, thin drawer revealed itself. From it, Konstantin drew a long, slender piece of wood, bent like a cutlass, and with a carved handle which seemed to fit perfectly in his hand. He wielded it expertly and waved it over the broken mug on the floor. It repaired itself immediately. Pointing to the instant coffee, he whispered, "scourgify," and siphoned the liquid into the tip of the wand.

After having cleaned his office the requisite amount to avoid getting bugs, Konstantin placed the wand on the desk and picked up the pen once more. He pulled a large tome towards himself and busyed himself with making notations a page with a large eight pointed star. Next to him was a sheet of scratch paper covered in calculations and graphs with chemical measurements.

Close to five o' clock in the morning, with the city beginning to wake, he let out a triumphant crow of victory. His hands were stained with black ink, as was his face where he had touched it with his hands. His eyes were sunken and he probably hadn't slept in a week, yet he seemed now more awake and excited than ever. He rushed over to the window and threw it open, disturbing the snow and ice which had built up there over the night. He stuck his head out and cupped his mouth in preparation to shout. "POTЁMKIN!(4) Come here, I have something for you!"

From four stories down on the street outside an early-bird of an old woman who was strolling called back at him "CITIZEN, you ought to calm it down up there! I'll report you to the authorities- I have a friend, back when I used to be the manager of an apartment complex…"

"Grandma!" Konstantin snarled in greeting, "No one cares who you were under Brezhnev(5) now you're just an old pensioner. Go visit your grandchildren or something- Leave me alone! I'll scream out my office if I please."

He ignored more idle threats from the old woman, who was, incidentally, an old pensioner. With a sense of finality he stepped away from her and waited diligently in front of the window for five minutes. While he waited he inhaled the crisp winter air coming in through the window and looked out at the sky, just starting to lighten. Suddenly he was distracted by a large object sailing towards his open window. He just barely stumbled back in time to not get hit by a large owl, a non-descript brown in color, which started pecking at him with affection as soon as it laid eyes on him.

"Potёmkin! Stop," the owl ceased its displays immediately and cocked its head to listen. "I have a letter I need you to mail to my steward at Arkhangelskoye(6). Just give me a moment to write it."

He turned again to the desk and scrounged for a spare piece of paper, choosing in the end to turn over a piece of student's homework to scribble out a quick note to his steward. The note read:

Oleg Nikolaich,

I have an urgent request for you. It must be completed as soon as possible, at least by the end of the week. I have completed the research which I have been devoted to these last five months, and now I feel prepared to undertake the final step in testing my research and reestablishing an entire branch of the our most noble family. Should my experiment succeed a member of one of the royal families will be recovered. You must make haste to contact the muggle airport and buy me tickets to travel to London, England. My muggle passport is at home in the drawer. For my stay there secure me a magical visa for possible temporary residence. You know my contact in the Ministry of Magic, floo him at the Embassy in Moscow. He should be able to push it through in a day. I want you to secure me an apartment in London for my stay. Finally, I want all the information they can pull up on Hermione Granger and her whereabouts.

Prince Konstantin Knyazev

P.S.) Oleg, there will be a nice commission in it for you if I can be in London by midweek.

1 "Chaika" was the name of a Soviet watch company which mass-produced watches for the Russian people. If you want your own Chaika watch you can even buy them now on etsy. Another popular brand was "Vostok" meaning "east".

2 Russians have three names, a first name, a patronymic, and a family name. The patronymic is formed by the father's name plus –ovich or –ovna, with very little exception. When addressing a teacher formally, rather than addressing them as Mr. or Mrs, Russians will address them by their first name and patronymic.

3 Tovarish is the Russian word for "comrade" and was often times used as a form of address in the Soviet Union.

4 Pronounced: po-tyom-keen, or in Russian: Потёмкин

5 Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, presiding over the country from 1964 until his death in 1982.

6 A Palace belonging to the Yusupov family before the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917.