Review Responses:

Junky: Heh, I do enjoy writing cliff-hangers of all subtleties and twists. Who knows what Dareios is thinking? Well, except myself anyway. grin Thanks for your review.

Lordheaven: Wow! You're amazing at describing seasons; I could picture it all in my head as if I were there! Heh, now I want to go to Bulgaria! Maybe when I graduate after college, XD. As for you opinion of the Darkness/Shadow title, I agree with you that Dark and Light are neutral save for the way people use them. However, with the transformation from Shadow Arts to Dark Arts in mind, I had to come up with a term that would seem less... 'evil' for lack of a better term. What I mean by that is that there is a widely biased opinion of the Dark Arts, as is clear in Harry's opinion of it only bringing fear, pain, and death. In order to make the Arts seem not so 'evil', I had to find a way to explain that it was the darker side of the balance, yet still not seem too much like the bad-evil-magic that Harry and other wizards of the Light are used to. Yes, Shadows are created only in light, but that is exactly the hidden meaning that Harry will eventually learn while attending Zotzion. I can't tell you too much, otherwise the story will be spoiled slightly, but I can tell you this. 'Forever there is light, forever there is dark. The way you use them is the form of art, and the action forever the heart's. Void of light, void of dark, void of any life at all; resulting in the end of all, even death shall have its fall.' A simple rhyme or riddle, depending on the way you look at it, but that is the only way I am going to explain my choice of words until the time comes in the story. I'd appreciate any photos of Bulgaria that you could offer, and if you go to my profile and click the 'email' word near the top, it will give you my e-mail. Thanks again for reviewing!

Thanks also to: ForeverUsed, Her-My-Oh-Knee, mrmistoffelees, andDragonicfor your reviews.

Chapter 17: Control

Harry was finishing up his notes and trying not to think about the disturbing idea he'd had about bringing his parents and godfather back. Those thoughts would only make him a monster, and he still had a long way to go before graduating Zotzion. I'll just have to make it, he thought fervently, I'll just have to watch myself—no Dark Arts and its evil will keep me from my goal. After all, I only have to understand it and then use it to pass my tests, after that, I never have touse them again! But even with these firm thoughts, a smaller, deeper part of Harry's subconscious was still harboring the thought of what it would be like, to have that kind of power, to save the ones you loved from anything, even death itself.

Soon after he finished, he noticed that Dareios had been silent, failing even to voice a single remark about how slow Harry was writing. But when he looked up, the wizard's face was focused on the fireplace, and in his eyes was something Harry couldn't quite recognize. That look vanished when the door opened and in came the two twin fellows: Matthias and Nikodemus. They walked over and bowed before their sponsor, who inclined his head and stood. Harry immediately got to his feet, juggling his quill, ink, notes, and book bag as he followed the other three down the left hall. After passing four doorways, three arch-entrances, and taking a turn to the right at a fork in the hall, they arrived in a squarish room that was smaller than the one they'd just left, but was still spacious. The floor was covered in the detailed rugs that Harry had seen in pretty much every room he'd passed in Dareios' quarters, and here the them was crimson and light brown, with a few chairs that were low on the ground without backs, but more like cushion-bowls than anything else he had ever seen. Other than the minor patterns on the floor boards, the room was relatively bare, with only the seats, and a case of shelves containing very plain, clay vases of various shapes and sizes. What they were for, Harry didn't know, and wondered about them as he packed his things into his bag. Once Dareios had sank onto one of the low chairs with surprising ease and dexterity for someone as old as he, the twins chose two more across from him and also sat in a tailor's seat; Harry did the same, choosing the other chair that was on the right of... was it Matthias? Or was it Nikodemus? Which one had the brown eyes? Ack—why did twins have to be so confusingly similar?

Dareios placed his hands, palms-up, on his knees, and the three pupils did the same. Harry again wondered what the point of all this was. Then his sponsor began to speak, once again in the gruff tone that he used with Harry. "This room is where we will practice the ability of controlling your magic," he said, "Without control, there is no hope that you can succeed. You will learn to gather your magic, your core, your essence, and bind it to yourself. With this, you will learn the power and point of a focus, as well as the faults of such common things. I will attempt," he went on disdainfully, causing Harry to stiffen, "to teach you how to open your mind, how to look beyond—past the boundaries of the world, and to your own inner aura."

It was all Harry could do to keep himself from snickering; Dareios sounded like Trelawney...

Dareios seemed to sense his amusement and glared at the young wizard, who immediately looked down, fighting a grin. "This is no joking matter, boy!" Dareios snapped, "If you do not control your magic, it will—and I promise you—it will destroy you! It will tear your mind apart, it will disintegrate your soul, and you will fail." His eyes were hard. "If you wish for that to happen—and I daresay I will be freed of the burden of educating a fool such as yourself—then by all means and magic, continue to express amusement."

Harry tensed. Surely that couldn't really happen? It was just a method of scolding, wasn't it? "Then why are any wizards or witches still alive?" he insisted. "If we weren't taught in school, how come-"

"Protocol, boy!" Dareios snapped, causing Harry to clamp his mouth shut while inwardly he fumed. "And you cannot judge every matter in the universe by what 'your school' did or did not do! For all I can tell, all that your 'school' has managed to teach you is to be arrogantly narrow-minded!"

That struck a nerve in Harry. The old man was sounding incredibly like Snape... Arrogant was he? Just like his father, hm? Narrow-minded, was it? The Magister had not continued his tirade, but Harry had not noticed. His fury at Snape had come up in full strength, anger at the traitor's murder of Dumbledore, his betrayal of the Order. All the potions master's taunts and sneering comments rose in Harry's mind. All the unfair detentions and punishments, the cold, smirking treatment flashed through his mind... And now his Sponsor was showing signs of being just like that... he would not stand for it...

Unknowingly, Harry's anger had risen to such a height that his magic was affected by it. It flickered and sparked in his eyes, turning them hard and callous. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists. Sparks played across his shoulders, arms, and chest; they glimmered in the air around him—sharp splinters of magic. Things in the room vibrated: the others' robes, the chairs, the vases. Harry's scar was blood-red, and across the continent, Voldemort was startled by the sudden feeling of immense anger.

Matthias and Nikodemus' eyes were wide, and their bodies rigid—they had not felt such anger as they did now. But their training held, and they did not move or panic. Dareios was also unpleasantly surprised. His heart leapt into his throat, beating hard as he recalled a previous encounter with a wizard whose anger had come up in such away. "Potter!" he snapped, trying to draw the boy out of his emotional, and dangerous, state. "Potter!" The boy wasn't responding. Looking at his scar, Dareios saw its unnatural color. If the rumors were true, then that scar was a link to the Dark Lord Voldemort—not good. Only one thing left to do then...

As Harry's anger built up, he realized that he couldn't halt its progress. He had worked himself to too high, and he couldn't control it any longer. Realizing what Dareios had said just moments ago, Harry began to panic. He would fail before he had even begun! Voldemort and Snape would win! But no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't grasp his magic, he couldn't pull it back in. In despair, Harry knew he was losing, that his magic would tear him apart. He slowly began to stop fighting...

Suddenly, he felt something: a touch, cold but not sharp, in his mind. It pulled, it brought memories. He saw the faces of his friends, the Weasley, the professors at Hogwarts, the Order members, Remus, Sirius, his parents... he would fail them all... Voldemort would kill them all. All because of Harry... NO! Harry shouted, clutching his head—his scar burned his hand—steam rose from it. He yanked and yanked, snatching his magic back—an entire shelf of vases shattered as a tendril of it slipped from his grasp. He pulled another group back—it burned, but he did it. Through pained eyes he saw the twins rigid and pale, not backing away from the danger. MOVE! He tried to shout at them, but they merely stayed seated, ready to face whatever came. Such courage struck him. Who was he, to be afraid of his own magic? Hadn't he been placed in Gryffindor? He had escaped Voldemort multiple times, he had escaped death—could he not escape his anger as well? Could pain and anger overwhelm him? Cause him to harm others? No... he would not let it.

With a furious roar, still clutching his scar, Harry dragged at his magic, winding it up into a tight, painful ball inside of him. He would not harm others if he had anything to say about it. At last, the magic was all inside him, burning within his core, but there, not endangering anyone. His hands dropped to his lap as he slouched over, exhausted. His breathing was ragged as small tremors coursed through his body; his hands trembled, his scar steamed faintly. Eyes closed, Harry whispered hoarsely. "I—I'm sorry."

Something incredibly cool placed itself on his burning forehead, and the pain receded. He realized it was a hand as it made him look up. He found Dareios looking at him, his gaze intense, but revealing nothing. Tonelessly he said, "Anger is a powerful weapon, as is magic. Without control, all things fall. To regain your strength and empower your hold is what you will learn—you have learned your mistake of letting your anger cloud your mind. Now clear it, and we shall begin."

The Magister returned to his own seat, and the twins relaxed as if nothing had gone wrong. Harry wearily straightened himself, and listened as closely as he could as Dareios began his instruction. Harry was told to let all emotions fade away, to ignore everything, but be aware of it all at the same time. It was confusing, to say the least. How was he not supposed to think, especially after that anger-episode of his? Was this Occlumency of a sort? He wasn't sure, but he tried to do as Dareios said anyway. The twins weren't as fidgety as Harry, but they also seemed to be having a hard time with this. Dareios told them to breath slowly in and out, softly enough so that they could not be heard. It wasn't until the twins were silent that Harry realized what a loud breather he was; Dareios noticed as well and rolled his eyes, but did not comment as he continued his instruction. Harry had been trying to clear his mind for a good two hours and was fighting off death by boredom when Dareios finally called a halt. That was enough for the day, but they would do it again tomorrow—Harry mentally groaned. For the last hour, Dareios trained the three in stretches to loosen their stiff legs, backs, and arms. The twins were rather flexable, able to touch their foreheads to the ground when they bent while sitting; Harry got half way down and winced. "Further, boy." Dareios ordered. Harry complied, gritting his teeth.

"I-" he began, "I don't think I can, Sir."

For a moment he didn't hear a response from his Sponsor, but he got one soon enough. Harry yelped as something pushed his back down and his forehead smacked lightly into the floor. The pressure released after a moment, and Harry snapped upright again like a rubber band. Dareios was smirking from behind him. "You have proven yourself wrong, boy."

Harry moaned softly under his breath—his body wasn't meant for such torture! During that hour of stretching, Harry learned a valuable lesson: never say "I can't" in front of Dareios. The wizard seemed very amused when he 'helped' Harry along in the stretches, just about every one of them was quite painful, and Harry was not pleased with the soreness of his limbs. He was worse off than when he'd started! Instead of complaining, he bit his tongue—it was all he could do to keep from glaring at his smirking Sponsor. At long last, they exited the 'Control Room', as Harry joked to himself, and it was time for lunch. Harry was perhaps more thankful for the break than the twins, since they didn't seem that tired from the exercise, but Harry was sweating slightly. "Fix your hair, boy," Darios ordered absently before calling to someone; Sergei appeared within moments, and they all left for the dining hall.

The twins left to sit with Ivaylo and Anastasia, and Sergei went to a table with some other students his age while Harry scanned the hall for Yakov. Not seeing him, Harry went over to the table they'd sat at this morning. Looking at the food on the table, he grinned as he noticed that there was more bread. While the others chatted to each other, occasionally glancing at him but not with more interest than they would give a fly on the wall, Harry looked at the other foods, curious as to what they were called and made of. Deciding to stay on the safe side, he ladled himself a small bowl of soup and another of salad that looked like what he was used to, while taking some bread for his plate as well. He was about to take a bite when Yakov appeared, somewhat breathless and his cheeks slightly pink. He hastily sat down, giving Harry a friendly smile in greeting. But Harry noticed that his robes were a little...untidy, and his hair was mussed. Deeper in his eyes was a look... one that reminded Harry of Neville for some reason. But why? Yakov lowered his eyes as a group of other students entered the hall, laughing among themselves.

"How vas your first morning of teachings?" he asked with interest, setting his books down on the seat beside him.

Harry lowered his spoon. "Well, I had my class with Magister Sylvia first—but she taught in Bulgarian, so I couldn't understand a thing she said." Yakov smiled sympathetically and Harry went on. "Then I had a lesson on the history of the Dark Arts with my sponsor, then, and another three-hour session with...Nikodemus and Matthias, and Magister Dareios was teaching us control and then," his expression darkened, "stretches."

Yakov chuckled, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "Ah—so you 'ave discovered the 'art' tat is physical practice."

Harry snorted. "Art indeed—more like torture training."

He smiled. "Vell, I cannot help you vith tat, but perhaps during our free study time, it vould be useful to teach you some basics of the Bulgarian language?" he cocked his head in question as he poured them both a drink, waiting for Harry's answer.

The British-wizard's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

Yakov smiled again. "Yes."

"That'd be great!" Harry replied with a grin. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all—here," he handed Harry a goblet, raising his own. "Nazdrave."

Harry looked at the liquid. "Naz-eh-what?"

He chuckled. "Naaaz-drave." He repeated. "It is Bulgarian for..." he frowned. "I believe you say 'cheers'?"

"Oh!" Harry raised his drink. "Nazudrayve." Yakov shook his head with a smile at Harry's atrocious pronunciation. Thirsty from the exercise he'd been doing earlier, Harry closed his eyes and took a large gulp; he didn't see Yakov's eyes shining mischievously. When the taste registered, Harry's eyes snapped open and he choked, desperately trying not to spit the drink out rudely. Yakov had a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter as his entire thin frame shook with it. Harry forced the liquid down, bit by bit—it was hard to do so.

He coughed and coughed once the drink was gone from his mouth. "Ugh!" he shook his head, holding it in his hands. That stuff had tasted like alcohol! He glared at Yakov when his sight wasn't spinning any longer. "You're cruel, you know that?" he growled. "Picking on helpless foreigners!"

Yakov slipped up and laughed heartily, though the noise was lost in the chatter of the hall. He continued to laugh until tears appeared at the corner of his eyes. "You—your face!" he laughed. "It vas—so many—colors! I had heard it vas so, but I had not seen it!"

Harry crossed his arms and continued to glare. "What was that gross stuff?" he demanded, fighting the urge to gag from the after-taste that had suddenly come up.

"Rakia!" Yakov gasped, clutching his stomach.

Hearing other chuckles, Harry noticed that the others at the table had been watching and were now laughing too. Harry rolled his eyes, desperately fighting the laughter that was becoming contagious.

Bulgarians... he thought to himself while holding back a grin.