Cassandra and her guardian sat in the back of a bistro located at the heart of the largest shopping area of wizarding Vienna, Austria. The elderly but still robust wizard read a newspaper, while his teenage charge made her way through Arnulf Spielman's A History of the Use of Poisons in Magical Warfare.

"You should try the strudel here," said Ivanovich in German, looking across the table at the young witch.

"Is it any good?" asked Cassandra, also in German, without interrupting her reading.

"Some of the best there is. So should we finally address this?" he asked, pointing at the headline of The Wizarding World News: BLACK STILL AT LARGE. Below it, a handsome but sunken-faced man with long, matted hair glowered at Cassandra, a sneer forming on his lips as the photograph moved.

She was about to answer when a waiter approached.

"You order," said Ivanovich. "This is your last opportunity to practice your German before we're at the school. We're portkeying there in just a few hours."

Cassandra gave an annoyed sigh, marking the page in her book with a strip of leather and setting it aside. She had been speaking in nothing but German for the past two weeks, since they had arrived in Austria. Ivanovich was much more fluent and proficient in German than he was in English, and he had been eager to make the switch once they crossed borders into Europe.

"Two strudels, one for myself and one for him. I'll have mine with a container of crème chantilly, on the side. A double espresso for him and a single for me."

The waiter nodded and exited.

"Schlagsahne."

"What?"

"That's the German word for whipped cream. Or crème chantilly, as you called it." said Ivanovich.

"I'll make sure to remember that, sir," replied Cassandra, not meaning it one bit. "You wanted to talk about Sirius Black?"

"Not particularly. But I think we must. You'll certainly be asked about him at school."

"I've never met him," she shrugged. "His mother, Aunt Walburga, used to call him a filthy Mudblood-lover and a disgrace to the House of Black in one breath, then exalt his decision to switch sides and cry for her only living son in Azkaban in the next. She was as mad as a box of frogs by the end, though, so Grandfather and I rarely visited."

"When did she die?"

"Eight years ago. I was… seven? Grandfather wanted her to move into Black End Hall, in the countryside, so she could have some company and fresh air around her, but she preferred to waste away at the London townhouse. Not an unreasonable decision, honestly, since Great-grandfather Pollux and her hated each other, and he was still living there at the time. So was Great-uncle Arcturus, and I'm pretty sure they also hated one another. The only people she tolerated in her last years were Grandfather and me, and I was only on the list because she thought I was my mother. She used to give me all sorts of advice on the Dark Arts."

"Sounds like a charming woman."

"I don't think anyone who ever met Aunt Walburga would accuse her of that."

Their order arrived. Ivanovich took one look at it and said to the waiter, "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask for steamed milk. Could you bring me some?"

"One moment," said the man, already turning his back.

"Do you think he might seek out any of your relatives for help?" asked Ivanovich.

"There's no one left," said Cassandra. "His father and brother died during the war, Great-grandfather Pollux and Great-grandmother Irma died of scrofungulus in 1990, and Great-uncle Arcturus followed them a couple months later, in the beginning of 1991. It was so contagious, the Healers advised us not to throw them a funeral. They were cremated and their ashes were locked away in the family mausoleum right away. That's pretty much all the Blacks. No one has heard from Great-aunt Cassiopeia since she disappeared in the early 40s."

"Was Cassiopeia the Metamorphmagus?"

"Yes. A great ability to have if you want to run away from your family and disappear forever. She was never disinherited though, they always hoped she would come back and produce a male child to continue the line. Especially after the war. Maybe Sirius will, now."

The waiter returned, pouring the steamed milk into Ivanovich's cup of coffee.

The older wizard looked at Cassandra. "After you," he said, picking up his fork.

She took a bite of strudel, Ivanovich following her lead.

"Do you like it?"

She nodded, her mouth still full of pastry.

"Like I said, some of the best. But even if Sirius Black manages to put a son in a witch, which after twelve years in Azkaban is highly unlikely, they won't be inheriting anything."

"Why on earth not?" she asked.

"He lost all rights of inheritance after being sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban. For any children of his to inherit, they would have had to have been conceived before he was tried for his crimes."

"That's the thing," said Cassandra, taking a sip of her espresso. "He never got a trial."

For the first time in their conversation, Ivanovich seemed taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. You're aware the Black family has always been eponymous with pureblood supremacy. At the time the Dark Lord was terrorizing Britain, it was no secret we were among his most loyal Death Eaters and his biggest financial backers. The Ministry didn't have the courage to come after us at the height of the conflict because… Well, because they're the Ministry. Not one spine to share between them all."

Cassandra took another bite of strudel. It was really quite good.

"But once the Dark Lord was defeated and it was revealed that Sirius had been the one to betray the Potters, it was open season on the Blacks. Everyone I mentioned before, even Grandfather, spent at least a few nights in a holding cell. They tried to seize our assets, it was a huge mess. Some very large payments were made and everyone other than Sirius managed to slither their way out of trouble, of course, and if I remember it correctly, Grandfather and Great-grandfather had even been quietly petitioning for his right to a trial, but then…"

She took a fortifying gulp of coffee.

"Then my parents happened. About a year after the Dark Lord fell, my parents, Uncle Rabastan, and Barty Crouch Junior, of all people, tortured the Longbottoms into insanity. After that… Not only did our family lose any smidge of goodwill we had left with the public, but Barty Crouch Senior was out for our blood. He was the Head of the DMLE at the time. There was no hope of Sirius getting a trial after that."

"Did your grandfather tell you all of that?" Ivanovich asked after a respectful pause.

"Most of it. I got the rest from the trial transcripts."

"Trial transcripts? Whose?"

"Everyone's. If they were arrested between 1970 and 1982 on suspicion of Death Eater activity, I've read a copy of their trial transcript."

"And how did you get your hands on those?"

"How does anyone get favors from the government? Money. But going back to my previous point, Sirius might be guilty of his crimes, but he hasn't yet been declared so by the Wizengamot. You know nothing short of that is enough to cull a pureblood's inheritance rights, at least not in Britain."

"Is there a chance he might be coming after you?" asked Ivanovich. His tone carried a gravity that immediately made her spine clench.

"I don't see why he would do that," she said, her index finger tapping incessantly against the smooth surface of the wooden table. The repeated motion drew Ivanovich's eyes to her hand. Cassandra followed his gaze and immediately stopped the unconscious movement.

She straightened her fingers and rested her open palm on the table, using her next breath to relax her posture. "He doesn't need my money, he can just walk into Gringotts and withdraw from the Black vault. If I were at Hogwarts, I might worry about him trying to rope me into some plan to hurt Potter—familial loyalty and all—but I'm not. That's Draco's problem now." She smiled, bringing the last bite of strudel to her mouth.

"Hmm."

Ivanovich took out a handsome looking pipe and a metal tin from his cloak pocket. Calmly and methodically, he packed the pipe with tobacco. Cassandra dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and turned to look at the passersby. She really wasn't worried about Sirius Black trying to harm her. Why should she be? As far as he knew, they were on the same side. Besides, they were family.

It was something else that had been disquieting her. Ever since the papers had reported Sirius' escape, a hundred questions had been swirling through her mind. How much contact had he had with her parents during his imprisonment? Could he possibly have a message for her, from the two of them? Would they even care enough to send one? They might not even be sane enough to remember who she was. Sirius obviously remembered wanting to kill Harry Potter, and she had no doubts her parents would remember the Dark Lord, but what about her?

Well, if her cousin had it in him to break out of Azkaban, she was sure the owl post wasn't beyond his capabilities. If he had a message for her, all he had to do was send her a letter. She would get those even at Durmstrang.

Did she want him to contact her, though? What if he did have a message from her parents? What if they wanted her to aid him in his mission to do whatever it is he's planning to do to Harry? She and Harry had gone through the Chamber of Secrets ordeal together, and he had kept her secret. He was a good kid. Circe, that's all he was, a kid. He didn't deserve any of this.

This only proved she had been right to leave Britain. The last thing she wanted was to be involved in this imbroglio. Adrian was smart enough to keep his head down and Cedric—

"Are you done, sir?" Cassandra asked suddenly, trying to distract herself from the sharp tug she felt in her chest at the thought of her ex-boyfriend.

"You only ever call me 'sir' when you're unhappy or when you're being sarcastic, voronyonok. Have you noticed that?" Ivanovich said, exhaling smoke as he talked.

"Not at all, sir."

Ivanovich smiled. "We'll be going soon. I hope you're ready."

"I am," said Cassandra. She wasn't sure about a lot, but she was sure of this.

Three hours later, Cassandra and her guardian were walking up to the gates of Durmstrang Castle. There had been a storm earlier, and the long cobblestone pathway that led up to the castle was still shiny with rainwater. Surrounding the pathway was a vast field that seemed to stretch on endlessly, interspersed with pine trees that seemed to touch the clouds.

"It's very green," said Cassandra.

"Only until October," said Ivanovich. "By then everything will be black. During mørketiden the region gets a couple hours of sunlight a day, at most. Any snowfall tends to be washed away by the frequent rainstorms, so the only respite from the darkness is provided by the twinkling fairies that live in the trees."

"How long does that last?" she asked. The frigid wind blew a long strand of black, wavy hair in her face; she tucked it behind her ear. At the moment, she was grateful for the fur hat that was a part of her new school uniform.

"From October through early January."

And people called Britain dreary.

"It's a very good thing that we are here," Ivanovich said. "You needed change, and so does this school. Durmstrang has always been second to none when it comes to martial magic, dueling and, yes, the study of the Dark Arts. But it was a respectable institution. It protected its pupils. Even that svolotsch Grindelwald was expelled when he put the safety of other students at risk, and he had the highest marks in the history of this place—Still does! But not even five years in as Headmaster, and parents are removing their children from the school because Karkaroff treats this place as his personal fiefdom, careless about anything other than exercising his power. And then there's the girl."

"The one who disappeared last year?"

"Yes, I told you about that. They still haven't found hide nor hair of her. Karkaroff insists she ran away, as if that made her disappearance from the school any less shameful."

"And I'm supposed to do something about that, sir?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Tsk. You aren't supposed to do anything but be yourself and enjoy your time here. Your presence should be more than enough to rile Karkaroff up. I will do the rest," said Ivanovich.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow at him. "What if I don't want to rile Karkaroff up? What if all I want is some sweet and easy peace?"

"I've known you since you were eleven, girl. If you wanted rest and relaxation, you would've chosen to go to Beauxbaton, or perhaps Ilvermony. Instead, you wrote to me, asking that I take up your guardianship and arrange your transfer to the only magical school in the world helmed by a former Death Eater. If you tell me you weren't looking to stir up some trouble, I will eat my wand."

She stayed silent for a few seconds, until a reluctant smile bloomed across her face. "You do know me."

The white-haired wizard playfully shrugged his shoulders. "Well, this is it." They had come to the end of the cobblestone pathway and stood in front of the school. Cassandra looked up at her new home. It was a large stronghold defended by smooth grey stone walls that extended taller than the castle itself, a madman's forgotten fortress with great, fat guard turrets and crenellated bulwarks.

To enter the school, Cassandra and Ivanovich had to walk beneath an immense stone arch that framed the castle's gatehouse. On the arch were the words "DURMSTRANG INSTITUTE" in enormous Cyrillic script, and then, in smaller letters, the motto of the school, "Mors Vincit Omnia". Death conquers all.

"Very welcoming architecture," Cassandra commented. She whistled sharply, and Klaus flew down from the clouds to gently perch on her shoulder. "There you are, my good boy."

The raven croaked happily.

As they stepped inside the Great Hall, they were intercepted by a short, thick-waisted woman with a lined, craggy face. She pursed her lips at Cassandra, wiping her hands on her pristine white apron.

"You must be Fraulein Lestrange," the woman said in the harshest-sounding German Cassandra had ever heard. "Headmaster Karkaroff is waiting for you. I will take you to him." She turned to Ivanovich, her expression instantly losing its previous sourness. "Herr Ivanovich, it is very good to see you. Your old office and quarters have been prepared for you. I trust you will be able to find them?"

"It is a pleasure to find myself under your diligent care once again, Frau Hubermann," said Ivanovich, slightly bowing at the waist. "Cassandra, I'll have your things delivered to your room. I'll see you at dinner."

She nodded, and then her guardian was gone.

"This way, if you will," said the caretaker, glaring at Klaus as if daring the bird to make a mess on her floors. Cassandra followed her to a grand, open foyer where a massive staircase sat, branching off both left and right. Incredible tapestries hung from the walls, depicting duels and battle scenes that moved unceasingly.

A painting of a blonde-haired witch in robes that would have been the height of fashion some eight hundred years ago greeted them at the top of the stairs.

"That is Professor Neruda Vulchanova, she was the founder and first Headmistress of the institute," infomed the caretaker.

Cassandra curtseyed respectfully, and the painting smiled at her in approval.

They walked down a long corridor to a set of thick double doors. When the caretaker knocked, a deep, unctuous voice answered. "Come in, I don't have all afternoon."

She was ushered into a room with heavy, sage green velvet curtains. There stood a tall, thin wizard with short, salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee that didn't entirely hide his rather weak chin. He had his hands clasped behind him, his shoulders erect and back slightly arched. His robes had the same utilitarian look as the school uniforms, but were made out of a much more expensive-looking material.

Prideful, Cassandra thought to herself.

"That'll be all, Frau Hubermann, thank you."

Cassandra and the headmaster stared at one another for a beat of one, two, three seconds.

"Miss Lestrange," he said, smiling. His teeth were rather yellow, and his smile didn't extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd. "What a pleasure it is to meet you."

"Headmaster Karkaroff," she answered, showing her own, perfectly white teeth. "The pleasure is all mine."

He walked around a large mahogany desk, pointing at a chair across from his own. "Please, sit. I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

"Oh, yes, thank you for allowing me to portkey in with Professor Ivanovich. I'm glad to have the day to acclimate myself to the castle before the other students arrive."

He nodded magnanimously.

"Mrs. Hubermann saw you in comfortably?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I don't usually admit new students at such an advanced age. I find it's harder for them to grow accustomed to the Durmstrang way of life. Boris, however, was very insistent in your enrollment. May I ask why you decided to leave dear old Hogwarts?"

Here we go. "My parents cast a very long shadow. I spent the first four years of my education hiding behind a mask. I'm sure you know that's an uncomfortable feeling," said Cassandra, her eyes gleaming.

Karkaroff said nothing.

"From the first moment I stepped foot in Hogwarts, my peers were afraid of me. The professors were wary. Dumbledore was… vigilant. So I complied. I kept my head down. I pretended I was one of them."

"And things have changed?"

Cassandra lowered her chin once. "I went through a few experiences last year that made me realize it's time for me to steer the broom in a different direction. To finally embrace what I am."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"A Lestrange," she answered. "The Dark Arts are my birthright, and I'm here to claim it."

"And then, of course, there's the matter of the Dark Lord," said Cassandra, throwing her final piece of bait. Karkaroff jolted in his seat as if she'd hit him with a Stinging Hex. Got you.

"The Dark Lord?" he said, his tone carefully neutral.

"His return, I mean."

His nostrils flared. "The Dark Lord is dead," he snapped.

"You haven't heard about the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor the Dark Lord possessed and killed during Harry Potter's first year, then? Or the student he possessed last year in order to open the Chamber of Secrets and rid the school of the Muggleborn filth? I suppose Dumbledore does like his secrets," Cassandra grinned, purposefully goading him.

"He spoke to me," she said, toying with a lock of hair.

Karkaroff froze.

"Well, I gave the Dark Lord permission to enter my mind, and we communicated that way. My parents never believed him dead, and they were right. The Dark Lord is impatient to rise once again. He's eager to repay the loyalty he's received from my family and every other wizard united under his Mark in kind."

Cassandra watched as color drained from Karkaroff's face. He was staring at her as if he couldn't believe his ears. "I am sure you eagerly await for his glorious return as well, Headmaster," she said graciously, her gaze as cold and sharp as a blade.

*The Norwegian word mørketiden ("the dark time") refers to the period of time, north of the Arctic circle, when the sun doesn't rise. Many people, myself included, use it more liberally though, to refer to the long winter days when the sun only rises for a couple hours at most.

**svolotsch: Russian for bastard, scum

Hello, everyone! Here's a new chapter to celebrate the new year! What did you think about Durmstrang's very own Filch, a.k.a. Mrs. Hubermann? I knew Cassandra and Karkaroff were destined to clash as soon as I decided to send her to Durmstrang, and had a lot of fun writing their first face-off. On the next chapter, Cass will be meeting a canon character we all know and love, and many OCs I hope you'll enjoy.

Reviews are really appreciated, and motivate me to keep writing this story! See you soon, b xx