Igor tore off another chunk of bread with his teeth and munched thoughtfully as he sat on Durmstrang's front steps, ignoring the brisk wind, head bent over Intermediate Potionmaking Theory. Crumbs from his lunch fell onto the open pages.
"Cramming for O.W.L.s, Karkaroff?" It was Lera.
"Like you should be." He swallowed a bite. "When's the Potions one?"
"Wednesday. Why?"
"Because the only way I'm going to pass it is with a good essay."
"Oh, come on. You're not that bad."
Igor made a small noise of dissent and flipped the page.
"Oh, really? How many cauldrons have you melted?"