Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and his world. Rowling does.
A/N Written for the QLFC, round 1. Words count: 1.134
Chaser 3 (reserve) of Pride of Portree: Write about your chosen Death Eater being at school. DE: Igor Karkaroff.
Optional prompts: locked out
Thanks to the Pride of Portree members for their precious feedback and editing job!
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The mist wrapped around the withered shrubs and limbs of the few people who had dared to stand outside; a cold, grey mist, which alone was enough to dampen and reduce the enthusiasm of the students, for such they were. To any witch or wizard who could see them, they were easily recognized from their austere and strict red uniforms: long, dark cloaks, withheld by leather frogs and trimmed with fur, even though slightly moved by the wind, didn't resemble anything playful or cheerful. Sobriety was definitely the keyword at Durmstrang.
A lone figure stood away from the other boys and girls, his body reigned by a stony rigidity, his posture elegant and dismissive, but that which seemed natural now, he had actually taken hard years of study to reach. Not even his eyes, dark and inscrutable, seemed alive. They were bent fixedly before him, peering at the forest in front of them. Somewhere, an old castle, only four stories tall, stood by the shore of a great, icy, treacherous river. The problem was they knew not where they were; let alone where their school was.
Not once, had their professors contradicted themselves, each student thought grimly.
First, they had escorted the five teens into the forest, made them cast a spell which would summon that thick fog (and would seriously and inelegantly injure the caster, had something gone horribly wrong), and then they had left them alone in that very same mist. How on earth was that fair? So much for the exam of the classes of 'Tactic of Survival' and 'Defy Wild Nature'. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," professor Balinska kept repeating. Well, the five of them had survived so far, and intended to do so for much longer.
"Igor," a boy called, "staring at the mist is not going to help."
The other teen slowly turned around, before expertly releasing a long whistle. "No, I know it doesn't help, but he can," he said pointing at a silver hawk, popping up from the fog. He didn't bother to explain himself in any other way; he didn't need to.
"This is cheating, you know," a girl accused, before shivering, as the wind nearly stole her hat.
"No, it's surviving." And in his mind he added, it's all I ask for. Why is it so hard to do that here? Facing the other four teens, he frowned and warned, "That's what they teach us: Dark Arts, survival, sneakiness and most of all, winning. At all costs. Well, I apologize if this is going to sound strange, but it seems the cost of our survival is our very life, so let's forfeit it, and follow Speriov."
While speaking those words, he knew they were right: survival is not the same as life, and Durmstrang had proven it... many times... more than he actually cared to count, to be honest. It all started when he got his letter that said that he was pure enough to be admitted. Foul letter, foul day, foul school. He just wanted to live and let live, but apparently not...Maybe he was a coward, but it didn't matter. Courage wasn't everything…
Igor let his mind wander off, remembering his previous years, here at Durmstrang. His body could follow Speriov without his mind; he knew that much. He had already done it, many times, following him without second thoughts, that is.
A small crowd of children set their eyes upon the Durmstrang Institute, curiosity, fear, eagerness and any other sort of feeling in their wide eyes. Igor himself, actually quite impressed, looked up at the wrought iron gates and slogan. So that's it, he thought, no frills at Durmstrang. He read again the motto, E fluctibus irruamus in hostes.
From waves we rush into enemies, his mind supplied, before adding that it wasn't so different from his house, after all; there was the same discipline and austerity. He really liked the slogan, though, and he certainly liked ambushes.
Zanov Koriaghin, headmaster and Dark Arts professor, was staring at them with his little, black eyes, as if searching for something. Something which he obviously could not find, as he shook his head, resigned. Beside him, the other teachers stood stern and unmoving, while their gazes swept the (possible) new students.
"I bet he's trying to understand who'll make it, and who... well, just won't. If his face is of any indication, we don't have many chances," his red-haired friend whispered in his ear, slightly tickling it.
Igor turned to him, his face set. "We'll make it, for sure. Failure is not an option. And if fate is against us, well... it will be even worse for him!"
His friend squeezed his shoulder to show his support, but they could not say anything else, as the headmaster began to speak, describing the school, summarizing the prerequisites for being truly admitted to Durmstrang, listing the subjects... At first, Karkaroff wanted nothing else than to strangle him, but then he found himself fascinated and lost in the man's speech.
"It's a popular misconception," Koriaghin arrogantly said, "that the best and the oldest wizarding school is Hogwarts. It is not. Some English megalomania affected this opinion, for Durmstrang is undoubtedly the best school, open only to a select few who possess unique gifts, which we are going to test to discover who is worthy and who is not. Discipline, hard life and emulation are what we expect from you."
Igor understood he had to give up something to be one of the privileged. He would do that. The choice was not simple, but easily done, nevertheless; he could learn how to be a good, disciplined soldier. He could learn how to fight. He could learn everything, but he could never learn how to die. That he knew for sure.
Speriov screamed. Igor looked around and was finally able to recognize his surroundings, and so did his four mates.
"Well, here we are," he sighed. Even he knew not whether what he felt was relief at being back, or resignation at seeing those cold walls. He turned to his companions, "You all know the price, and what will happen to you if you speak just a word," he said simply, his undertone dark and dangerous.
Indeed, even though they knew very well that the dark-eyed, detached boy was referring to something else – for it was Igor's hawk who had helped them to get here unscathed, and that came with a high price – they all understood the unspoken truth, as well: they had survived... just survived... nothing more... for that was all that mattered... that and nothing else... forever and ever...