Chapter 3: An Unglamorous Introduction

Lord Voldemort did not make mistakes. He had long believed that statement to be true, and he still wasn't ever going to admit otherwise, but the incident at Godric's Hollow had taught him nothing if not a grain of modesty. Yes, he did make mistakes, although they were few and far between. Right now, he was asking himself if he hadn't just made another one. After all, where Harry Potter was concerned, he had previously shown himself prone to bad decisions. The Dark Lord did not move while he contemplated his thoughts; he was sitting on his dark green armchair without any indication that he was even awake except his opened red eyes.

The boy had been in no way ready to be exposed to the machinations Albus Dumbledore – and others - would most likely use to get to him, he was aware of that. He had only created his own body a few weeks ago, after all, just one or two months after his chance-induced encounter with Wormtail. Not even he was able to rewrite the basic personality of a human being during that time. And the boy's personality at the moment was unfortunate to say the least. He was far too naive, far too susceptible to the very sentimentalities people like Albus Dumbledore liked to pollute the world with. Of course, the boy remembered that Mudbloods were inferior, he remembered that Muggles were nothing but human-shaped animals, but these views were still superficial, and when exposed to counter-evidence, there was a good chance they would crumble.

There were two reasons that had motivated him to send Harry away despite that. The first one was the school he had sent him to. Durmstrang had a very effective system to ward against muggleborn students: They did not send out any letters, which meant that every student had to apply for their school instead – and no Mudblood had any way to know that they even existed. Therefore, the chance that Harry would even encounter someone able to shake these beliefs were low. Additionally, the location of Durmstrang remained a closely-guarded secret, and he could personally testify to the fact that there was no way anyone would be able to find it.

On his travels, he had made it one of his goals to discover the honorary institute's location – if only to hide one of his Horcruxes there - but he hadn't been able to just find a clue of the castle. Even if Dumbledore managed to contact the traitor that currently was in charge, there was no chance that he'd be personally able to arrive at Durmstrang when Karkaroff didn't allow him to. And if he knew anything about Karkaroff – except his despicable cowardice – he would make it as hard as possible for the old man to reach his goals. After all, his father had been one of Grindelwald's most loyal followers.

The second reason was also the reason he was even contemplating this already made decision. He had a certain measure of security when it came to Harry's mind, a limited influence on what he thought and did. He had thought this link to be inseparable as even back then, when he was hidden behind the Ministry's wards, he had been able to tell what the boy's feelings were. Obviously, this was where he had miscalculated, because there was nothing. No feelings, no general impressions of his mood, nothing. Whatever connection they had previously shared, it seemed to be severed now. Or, at least, suppressed.

Of course, it maybe was gone for good, but it was more likely that, by pure chance, the wards of Durmstrang prevented any form of mental communication from happening. Therefore, Voldemort had to rely on the first supporting pillar to work out, and he didn't like that one bit. The boy played quite an important role in his future plans, and it just wouldn't do to see those thwarted by a stroke of mishap.

As of now, however, he would have to focus on other plans, as there was nothing he'd be able to do about Harry Potter at the moment. It was, maybe, due time to finally announce his recent return from the dead to a certain man he had believed to be one of his most dedicated followers. It was time to scare Lucius Malfoy.

Combat Magic. Harry had been seriously looking forward to this class, because it sounded exciting and adventurous in a way that, for example, something called "Charms" could never hope to replicate. And at least the class room promised more than the one before: There was the skeleton of an animal that might have once been a three-headed dog standing in a corner of it, and there was this huge wooden platform, at least twenty meters in length, located even behind the teacher's desk. So there would be something like magical duelling, Harry estimated, and that added another measure of excitement to his anticipation of this lesson. Rodriguez, who was sitting next to him, didn't seem to agree with this sentiment, when he judged the face he made correctly, but that didn't distract him at the moment. The only thing that bothered him a bit was the small and hunchbacked person standing in front of the teacher's desk.

He was, in a lot of ways, reminiscent of Gregorovitch, and yet he wasn't. His age had played around with his body in a similar manner as with the wand maker's; there were deep wrinkles in his face, his hair had become white and what remained formed an annulus around his head. And still, there was a very notable difference that Harry immediately noticed and that made him feel a certain dislike of the man even on first sight. He lacked everything Gregorovitch had radiated. There was no kind gleam in his eyes, no interest in the children in front of him and there certainly was nothing even remotely resembling joy. The corners of his mouth pointed downwards, his lips were pressed together and his eyes were narrowed – and the wrinkles in his face indicated that this was pretty much his usual facial expression.

Next to him, there were a few glowing blue letters flying in the air, forming what seemed to be the professor's name. Rankor Skanar, Harry read, and then glanced back to the professor who hadn't moved one bit – apart from the fact he was looking directly at him. And that gaze wasn't a pleasant one, fitting Harry's first impression perfectly. Professor Skanar's eyebrows were furrowed, his mouth twisting into a sneer, and despite the fact that the man's height was far from impressive, Harry nearly felt physically intimidated by that spiteful expression.

When the last students had taken their seat Skanar began to speak. "It will be of interest to you," he snarled without the usual introduction, his speech ragged and harsh, every word resembling a whiplash of its own, "that this school has been polluted."

Harry was very relieved when he noticed that Skanar didn't stare at him anymore, but at the same time, bewilderment crept into his mind. Who started a lesson about magic like that?

"I have made it a habit to skim the enrolment list of this highly traditional and respected school since I began teaching seventy-five years ago. Every year since then, these halls have not been penetrated by those every decent person will necessarily deem unworthy of any magical education." He began to slowly transit the classroom, eyeing every student as thoroughly as he had Harry.

"This year, this has changed." The words came out with the sort of damning finality that indicated a catastrophe had happened, but Harry still failed to see Skanar's problem. Others felt similarly, judging by their expressions, but no one dared to say anything.

Skanar's face twisted into something even uglier, something that spoke of utmost loathing and promised pain. "Hannes Kuggel, stand up and reveal yourself to all your unknowing fellow students, reveal who it is that dares to besmirch the last Pure school of Europe!"

Harry's stomach dropped for a moment when the fat boy that had been late in the last lesson stood up, sweating again. The boy had clearly been unprepared for that sort of hatred, he looked insecure and even quite a bit desperate. For a moment, he'd believed that the teacher would call him out, and he couldn't imagine how it felt to be as exposed as Kuggel was right now.

Skanar's eyes gleamed. "So that is what the average Mudblood looks like," he drawled. „Take a good look, class, at the lows humanity can degrade to. I should have known, of course. Eyes, dull as that of the average sheep, a posture worthy of a seasoned settee and a shape most pigs would be ashamed of. Please, everyone, take a good look at one of the biggest disgraces Durmstrang ever had to endure." A moment passed where the humiliated boy was just standing there, his expression so closed off that Harry knew he had to be close to bursting out in tears. He didn't really know how he should feel about this. Yes, he was obviously of lower blood, Harry knew that he wasn't as worthy a wizard as they were, but he still was a human. Behind him, Hermann Armin chuckled, openly grinning at Kuggel.

"I will give you one honest advice, Mr. Kuggel, before I will turn to the education of the worthy students in this room," Skanar continued with trembling nasal wings. "Leave this school and do not ever come back, for there is nothing you can hope to amount to here." And with that, he faced away from Hannes Kuggel, who slumped down in his seat. But Kuggel didn't leave. From his seating position, Harry could see his face, and even though there were tears shimmering in his eyes, there was also a defiant glint hidden beneath. And Harry felt a rush of something he hadn't ever expected to feel where mudbloods were concerned: Admiration.

"That said, there is one other student whose presence makes me worry if he will prove to be an adequate addition to our student's body," Skanar continued whilst returning towards his teacher's desk. "But it is difficult to tell in advance with Halfbloods, because they are essentially torn, the incompatible types of blood fighting for dominance. Whether a worthy wizard emerges solely depends on which side wins out. We will be seeing that, won't we, Mr. Potter?"

Harry looked up, startled, and saw that the spiteful gaze was again directed at him. For a moment, he was seriously considering to retort, because Skanar definitely deserved for implying his mother's blood was in any way unworthy. Even Voldemort had said that she'd been an exception! But he kept himself as composed as possible apart from his clenched jaw, because he still remembered the promise he'd given just two days ago. But he'd definitely show the old man, he vowed, sooner or later. Gladly, Skanar didn't expand on him further. For now.

"He's an absolute bastard," whispered Harry in Rodriguez' direction, and the Spaniard nodded slowly, his expression slightly panicked even though he wasn't going to be under special supervision.

Skanar meanwhile finally chose to speak about his lessons. "Even those of proud heritage, though, will have to work in this course. And with work, I mean that you will have to apply yourself with all strength you can somehow muster." Whatever his character faults, he had a way to use his voice that made listening to him a pure necessity. Every word was accentuated as if it was a sentence of its own, and that filled them with meaning they would have lacked otherwise. His unwavering gaze also contributed – Harry already began to ask himself if the man even needed to blink.

"For this is the one subject that neither includes purposeless object changes nor funny wand-weaving to relieve you of seemingly mundane tasks nor useless talking. Combat Magic will be everything you will ever need to survive, so listen closely, work hard and study this vast field of magic with the utmost dedication. Most things you will learn at this school are simple magical tricks. Combat Magic, on the other hand, is about proving ability, the ability to think and adapt quickly, the ability to react correctly and the ability to perform flawless magic even under pressure, and I will be teaching every single one of these abilities to you – with one obvious exception." Skanar crossed his arms in front of his chest and closed his eyes for a moment. "The very first lesson you need to learn is to be on guard all the time." In the blink of an eye, he was moving. It almost felt like time had been accelerated for a moment.

"Tarantallegra!" Skanar spat and a dark blue bolt of light hit Hannes Kuggel squarely in the chest before anyone had the chance to react. Hannes Kuggel's arms immediately began to jerk despite his attempts to still their movements. Shortly afterwards, his legs did so as well and he was forced to stand up to avoid hitting his own table. "If you do not", the Professor added, "you will end like the useless piece of meat over there." Skanar smiled, the gleam in his eyes stronger than ever.

Harry had to admit that the uncontrolled, uncoordinated dance Kuggel was forced to perform afterwards did look funny, and he couldn't help but smile at the other's embarassment. But there also was the unwanted feeling that this whole situation was wrong, especially when he saw the tears now streaming down the boy's cheeks. Others didn't seem to share his empathy, and more than a few people were outright laughing at the fat boy that couldn't find a way to stop his dance. He even crashed into a table once, which led to another eruption of laughter.

Skanar performed the spell again, this time telling everyone to pay attention to his wand movements. Kuggel's motions even intensified, and the stream of tears that moistened his cheeks did as well. Harry's feeling of this situation's wrongness became stronger because it was of course understandable not to like someone, especially a Mudblood, but this ... it was too much. He couldn't even smile at what happened anymore as something inside him seemed to be violently protesting against it. If he was to be completely honest, he couldn't even understand why the Mudblood's fate bothered him that much. Maybe it was because of his past experiences with Dudley?

He just hoped that Skanar would stop this, the sooner the better, even though his anticipation for this subject had already been notably subdued by now.

"Now, it's up to you," Skanar shouted suddenly. Then, with another flick of his wand, he ended the spell. Kuggel immediately broke down on the floor, devoid of any strength, but the Professor didn't even spare him one look. "Imitate what I did and you should succeed. If you do not, feel free to ask for my help. Now, stand up and begin!" Not all of the students did as told, at least not fast enough. When Professor Skanar flicked his wand, several first years were very surprised to find their desks – and the chairs below them – sinking into the ground with an astonishing speed. At least, no one fell to the ground when it happened.

Harry turned to Rodriguez and the Spaniard showed a very pained smile.

"Look," he said, "I'd really like to partner up with you, but there's one thing I guess I have to admit before." That smile, for the second time, now mixed with a hint of nervousness.

"I'm ... I'm bad at magic."

Albus Dumbledore was presented with a riddle he, admittedly, hadn't considered before. The location of Durmstrang was a well-kept secret, but he hadn't thought it to be a secret quite as well protected. He had of course repeatedly occupied himself with the German school, especially because of its insistence on teaching the Dark Arts. The International Confederation of Wizards did not approve, and he as the Supreme Mugwump had tried to convince Germany that this conduct was in no way desirable, which had resulted in a lot of nodding, a lot of friendly smiles, and an equal lot of inaction on the German's part. However, never had he actually been to Durmstrang. He had also – a little – avoided thinking about the school too much because it still was interconnected with Gellert Grindelwald, and even after all these years, Grindelwald remained a sore topic.

Now, however, he had to find it. He didn't know what to expect from a boy that had been possessed by Voldemort three years ago, in front of his eyes no less. He couldn't imagine that Voldemort had managed to regain a body immediately, no, the possession had to have gone on for a far longer time. But who knew what influence such a treatment could have on a young boy's unsettled mind? He had just accidentally killed his relatives, and then spent several months at least in the direct company of a mind as powerful and deranged as the Dark Lord's. And that was excluding the potential damage the time with him afterwards most likely had wrought. He didn't have much hope for what he would find, but there was no way to circumvent the fact that he needed to contact-

Dumbledore stopped wandering through his office for a moment when a distant memory crossed his mind. In his position, he didn't need to know every school's exact location and there was no way the Germans would reveal that of Durmstrang, as much was true, but he needed some means of communication in case of emergencies. While Beauxbatons was easily reachable through an owl, he recalled that Durmstrang, in fact, was not.

Instead, Attila Krasor, chairman of the Durmstrang school board, had supplied him with a white powder whose abilities were supposed to resemble Floo Powder, only it was specifically able to carry inanimate, non-magical objects. Its most obvious use was the immediate delivery of letters. And it was pretty much the only way to even communicate with anyone at Durmstrang.

He was unable to personally talk to Harry at the moment, but he certainly could send a letter to Karkaroff, and it wasn't entirely impossible that he'd succeed in meeting with Harry. Of course, Karkaroff would be nothing short of a brick wall when it came to doing him in particular any favours, but sooner or later, he'd find a way to circumvent that. If nothing else, it couldn't do any harm to take a closer look at the powder that would carry the letter and maybe, maybe find out what route it took to arrive at the other school.

And if he at least implied Voldemort's continued existence, maybe Karkaroff's paranoia would win out.

The office the headmaster of Durmstrang was allowed to work in was surely one of the most beautiful rooms of the entire school. It was the only room where the windows weren't milky and you could see the clear blue outside. Furthermore, there was no other place at Durmstrang where walls and ceiling were as elaborately decorated.

Whereas most corridors and rooms consisted of smooth and grey stone, this room showed several pictures, all of them carved in the burnished wood Karkaroff's office was revetted with. Karkaroff had been told they presented the story of Durmstrang's foundation, but he'd never bothered to take a closer look at them and confirm that statement. And whereas most corridors were so narrow that you could touch both walls when stretching out your arms, and truckled and winded themselves through the building, seemingly without any system, this room was wide and easily overseeable.

Various inventions and other magical objects previous headmasters had gifted the school with had been standing on the desk when Karkaroff had inherited this position, but he had collected all of them and moved them to a few shelves placed in each corner of his office. He wasn't interested in obscure magical instruments. As a result, his desk – and by extension the whole office - was devoid of any personality; everything was clean and tidy, but there was nothing that pointed towards an actual human being living in this room. Igor Karkaroff very much liked it. The only thing he didn't like about his office at the moment was the orange fire that had just a moment ago lit up in the marble chimney behind his desk.

Someone had written to him. That in itself wasn't unheard of. But he seemed to know what he purposefully never told any parent of this school: How to readdress their letter in such a way that his office was directly reached. Karkaroff didn't feel one bit inclined to listen to whatever Howlers would surely get to this room if this someone told anyone of that possibility, so he figured it'd be best to open the letter immediately, if only to see who had written it.

Sighing, he stood up from the very comfortable armchair he had been seated in previously, and retrieved the still-smoking letter from the chimney. It had to have been an extraordinarily smart parent, because the paper was fire-proof, and Karkaroff had long since lost count on how many piles of ash Durmstrang had already been sent.

Igor,

it might behove both of us to agree on a meeting within the next few weeks as I am convinced that certain unsavoury forces have gained much more influence within your school than you can conceivably want.

Albus Dumbledore

That letter was worrying for various reasons, he immediately knew that. It was so worrying that Karkaroff even let himself be detracted from his former plans to immediately sit down in his armchair again. He remained standing in his bureau, the letter still in his hands. It took no genius to deduce who it was about; even in between these short lines, the name "Harry Potter" was written in bold, capital letters. Which meant, at least, that Dumbledore really didn't have to do anything with his appearance at Durmstrang. That was reassuring and at the same time unsettling, because if Dumbledore felt the need to ask him for a talk – presumably in order to get to the boy – then it meant that something else about this was very fishy indeed. Karkaroff read the last part of the sentence again.

This implication that he could have a personal interest in a thorough elucidation wasn't to be easily disregarded either. In fact, it was troubling him more than he let on, because there weren't many things he'd consider dangerous – and therefore meaningful – to him personally, and Dumbledore had to know that. However, every theory about this snippet's background Karkaroff could muster at the moment didn't make any sense. Which was, of course, the exact reason why the letter was phrased the way it was. Damned old man.

But even though he had to admit that he did want – even had - to know more about Harry Potter's background, there was no way that Albus Dumbledore was ever going to get what he wanted when he was concerned. He had stopped being a Death Eater when he had rattled some of them out and he didn't care as much for some of their ideals as he did a few years ago – hell, he had even allowed that muggleborn boy into his school this year! – but that definitely didn't mean that he had to like or even trust that old man. And it didn't mean that one couldn't have some things he didn't do on principle. Therefore, his response would be short, concise and easy to understand.

Albus,

No.

Igor Karkaroff

And that was that.

He wished.

Juan Rodriguez had been right, Harry thought privately (although he wasn't about to tell him). He was bad at magic. With Skanar's class, it had been fairly normal for most of the kids not to achieve any result. Granted, Harry had, but he had been quite an exception. He was still glad that he was because he had no doubts that the teacher would start treating him similarly to Kuggel if he ever gave that git a reason to think that the "lesser blood" had won.

However, in the otherwise uneventful Charms class afterwards Rodriguez had also been unable to produce any results - when most at least managed to do something. Harry had tried giving him tips, but neither his wand movements nor his pronounciation needed any work, and he had repeatedly assured Harry (and Professor Leiße, the Charms instructress) that he did envision the result. Still, it wouldn't work, and Harry didn't understand why. To him, the two spells they'd been taught until now had just come naturally; he hadn't even needed to concentrate too hard. But he had already offered that they could try to improve Rodriguez' results sometime after class had ended.

When the teacher for Etiquette entered the dark, narrow classroom (that more resembled an oversized wardrobe in lighting and available space) the first thing Harry noticed was that he did not look like someone who was supposed to be teaching at all. Professor Gilwar Rottweil was a thickset person with very prominent, bushy eyebrows that nearly hid his small, dull eyes from sight. His bull-necked back and the scar that glared in an angry red at his left cheek made him appear like more of a professional boxer than a teacher.

The first thing he did when entering the classroom was sitting down and putting his feet on the teacher's desk. Harry looked around in bewilderment, but it seemed that he was the only one really surprised by the man's behaviour. After all, he knew Rodriguez had told him that he'd be pretty strange, but Rottweil was supposed to be teaching Etiquette, and Harry was fairly sure that this was no acceptable sitting position.

"That's Professor Rottweil for you," Rodriguez commented, having noticed the look on his face.

"Shut up, everyone!" the Professor ordered from behind his desk. Normally, it most likely wouldn't have worked, but his threatening outer appearance still seemed to impress most of the first years. At least Harry thought that he wouldn't want to meet that man in a dark alley at night.

"Now, we teachers at Durmstrang like to introduce our respective subjects with impressive speeches. That's an easy task, when you're teaching Transfiguration or Combat Magic. However, you tell me how to make an impressive speech about Etiquette. To be honest, I've tried that once, and I found myself yawning even before I had finished the first word."

Not that Harry had looked forward to this subject in any way, but this sounded a tiny bit ridiculous.

"So, what to tell you about my subject? The best summary about it I've ever come up with is as it follows: If I really planned to do my job, I'd be teaching you how to pretend you're a nice chap when you're really nothing short of a complete asshat. I'd be teaching you how to properly kiss anyone's full moon and I'd be teaching you which ways of action piss people off in which countries." He snorted disdainfully. Nearly everyone now stared at him in disbelief, but he didn't seem to be bothered by that one bit.

"In short, I'd be filling your heads with bullshit. If you're a capable wizard, you can get away with almost everything, and I think I don't have to tell you that shitting on the top of a wedding cake is, in general, not an advisable action to take."

That sentence broke whatever spell had prevented the children in the class from talking. Harry and Rodriguez just looked at each other and shrugged, not knowing what even to say to that. However, the growing noise did seem to bother Rottweil, he had even taken his feet from his desk.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, EVERYONE!"

The whole class stared at him in complete shock, although he didn't seem to be furious, just pleased that his shouting had silenced them.

"There maybe is one law that I'll have to teach you about, but don't worry, it's easy to understand." The teacher grinned mischievously. "That particular Etiquette law is quite old, even if I'll have to slightly rephrase it for educational purposes. So, listen up! The law reads: 'I'm the teacher, I'm in charge, and you're the students, you're at the absolute bottom of the educational food chain.'" The grin even widened. "It maybe doesn't sound like much, but believe me, it's going to be the only law we need in my lessons." Harry wasn't sure, but he had the impression that this guy had a lot of fun ridiculing his own subject.

"Can you tell me what he's even doing here?" he whispered to Juan.

"Getting money for nothing?"

The man's head shot up. "Mr. Rodriguez! Care to elaborate?"

Juan Rodriguez gave Harry a panicked glance. How could he possibly have heard that? "I-I didn't say anything, Sir?"

"If you're going to lie to me, at least keep away the "Sir" part; that just makes it worse." To Harry's surprise – and relief, on behalf of Rodriguez – the man didn't press the subject. Instead, he smirked and put his legs back on the table in front of him.

"Instead of teaching you about the pile of uselessness that is anything even remotely connected to etiquette, I have a generous offer for you: I'm allowing you to do your homework in this class. I'm even going to help you with that, as far as I can. In exchange, you won't tell anyone about what really happens in these lessons. I hope that doesn't disappoint anyone?" Rottweil sneered. "Because if this actually is the subject you're most interested in, I'd recommend instant suicide as there's only a slim chance you'll achieve anything else worth noticing in your life."

"If – and I don't care about the "hows" and "whys" – the content of my lessons gets to someone's ears, especially to those of our esteemed headmaster, I'm gonna throw this offer outta the window and you're gonna sit through the most tiring, uninspiring and useless lessons of the universe. Do we have an agreement?"

Harry didn't know about the others, but for him, they had. Thinking about it, it was the best outcome they could've expected. After all, the Professor – could he be called that? – was right when he pointed out that it wasn't the most compelling topic in the world.

The teacher wasn't quite done, however. "That said, I feel like I owe you an explanation. One might ask why I'm here and teaching despite the fact that I think my own subject to be violently disgusting? No, I'm not just here to grab money, as Mr. Rodriguez over there seems to think. I initially came here to teach the elective "Magical Oaths", but was then actively prevented to do so because no one likes the idea of such oaths being explored – and maybe becoming breakable in the process. Long talk, short story, I was ready to accept scandalously low payment and ended up with the single position no one wanted, myself included."

That didn't exactly explain why Durmstrang, a school that didn't look at all like they had any financial problems, choose to let a subject be taught like this, but a better answer didn't appear to be forthcoming. And it bothered him, most likely because he was pretty sure that there was some deeper reasoning behind this. And because he didn't like unresolved mysteries. Which painfully reminded him of the strange feeling of somehow not quite belonging – whether to his own body or to this place – that still relentlessly prodded at his mind.

AN: This story has been plagiarized, and I think it's quite comical that the plagiarization has more reviews than this. Life is funny sometimes :D

AN2: The first chapter now has an added final scene, the second chapter has a heavily reworked second scene. You might want to check them out.

AN2: Minor spoiler! Rodriguez really is bad at magic, but he'll be capable in other areas. I just never saw a fic where someone close to Harry wasn't proficient in any way at magic, so I wanted to write one. Gilwar Rottweil is going to be one of the most important characters in the whole fic, but the reason for that'll remain secret for a while.

The next chapter will be out at 02/03/2017