AN: Sorry it's been a while. I'm going to try and update more regularly from now on. This chapter was difficult to right because I thought it was important to convey the emotion here authentically. Let me know what you think.


Chapter 24

July 17th 1997

Professor Motruk liked to think of himself as a patient man. Unlike some of his colleagues, he took the time to develop the students under his tutelage; tease out their strengths and cut away their weaknesses with a ruthless efficiency. He was far from a pushover, and he was proud that his lessons were considered some of the most intellectually and physically rigorous on the curriculum.

The Dark Arts was a profoundly serious discipline, requiring precision and efficiency, and for fifteen years he had conveyed this to his wards without fail. He had brought out the best in his wards. Some required a firm hand; some a delicate explanation, and occasionally some a gentle sympathy that others might be surprised he was capable of.

He had tried each of these tactics with Harry Potter. And failed.

Motruk knew he wasn't the only one troubled by the young man. When the Dark Lord had ordered the transfer half a year ago in the strange circumstances concerning the British Championship, there had been some excitement amongst the staff. The child was a prodigy, after all. Even in the Ukraine, where Durmstrang hid shrouded amongst mountains, they'd heard of the exceptional skill of the sixteen year old Hogwarts student. Motruk vaguely remembered Karkaroff mentioning the boy in years past, irritated that he hadn't been born further north.

Even the unfortunate death of the mudblood girl had only served to feed the speculation around the young man. It had ostensibly been an accident brought on by an unknown medical condition, but Motruk wasn't the only one suspicious of that. Some suggested the boy was the protege of the Dark Lord himself and the way Voldemort had personally had the boy delivered here, ordering the staff to pay special attention to his education and behaviour, gave the idea some merit. He'd even heard a particularly fanciful fourth-year suggest he was the Dark Lord's bastard son, although Motruk didn't believe that. They didn't look anything alike, and though there was something of Voldemort's fire about Potter, he had none of his darkness.

Although it seemed Harry Potter had a kind of darkness all his own.

Durmstrang had always been a hard place, relative to other magical schools. The reforms brought in by Voldemort's regime had been more about bringing the others in line with Durmstrang than anything else, yet even now the others remained softer, safer. Durmstrang was more fortress than school. They did not coddle their students; they were expected to duel, to fight. Hierarchies were established young amongst the students and viciously contested. It was a cold place, literally and figuratively, and it had produced some of the best soldiers in the Dark Lord's army.

Although corporal punishment was not often used at Durmstrang, especially not in later years, it was used. At other schools they used lashius or ferula to chastise their students; minor hexes that stung and then cease to soon after. At Durmstrang, however, they used the harsher lashio corporis which was little different from an actual whip, with the exception that it would not scar. When punishment of this nature was required, it was done at the weekly assembly before the whole student body. The perpetrator was bound to the stone podium at centre stage and given between two and ten lashes on his bared back. They rarely had to repeat such a punishment, and before the last six months Motruk had only seen it done perhaps ten times in his fifteen years of teaching. Since the arrival of Harry Potter, he'd seen it done a further fourteen times, all to one boy.

Potter was quietly disruptive. He rarely interacted with his peers, and in the half-year he'd been there seemed to have only made a single friend, and even then reluctantly. The problem was his approach to his schoolwork. He fell asleep in his classes, ignored his homework and performed magic half-heartedly on his best days.

If Motruk didn't know otherwise, he'd think the boy was simply dimwitted. Yet he knew that wasn't true; they'd all seen him perform in the IDC. They had his school reports - which showed him to be an outright genius - previously described as outgoing, engaged and exceedingly bright. Whatever had happened at the IDC and with the Dark Lord had evidently changed Potter. He was never directly rude nor disrespectful, he was simply making the conscious effort to put in as little effort as possible. It infuriated his teachers. Especially given their explicit instructions from Voldemort.

They'd had him checked for magical maladies. They'd had him seen by mind healers; this had ended badly, given the boy had apparently erected occlumency wards so powerful that they had knocked the young healer unconscious. They'd tried both soft understanding and harsh discipline. Even the beatings were more out of precedent now than believing it would actually sink in. Even Motruk had to admit a level of awe towards the boy, having seen him take ten blows of the whip in full view of the entire school without making a sound. It shouldn't have been possible, and the only visible reaction on the young man's face was that he'd gone sheet white. He'd walked it off as though it were nothing.

The latest bout of blows had been just a week before. Like all of the chastisements, it had done nothing to alter the boy's behaviour. The wounds on his back were likely still scabbed over and yet, as Motruk gave the final instructions for their preparatory exam, he could see that Potter's eyes were glazed over in boredom and inattention. He knew calling on him would do little; the boy would rouse, admit unashamedly that his attention had been elsewhere, and then go back to whatever daydreaming he'd previously been engaged in. Gritting his teeth, he finished his explanation and ordered the class to stand in a line at the empty practice area of the room. For their exam, they'd be tested on three curses. A necrosis spell, to be cast on a pig carcass; the imperius curse, to be cast on each other (whilst carefully monitored), and an explosive curse, to be cast at a dummy.

After explaining the rules and most effective technique a final time, Motruk instructed the first boy to cast. Ivanov, a naturally mediocre wizard that had nonetheless proved to be a dedicated student, successfully cast the necrosis spell. Down the line and a similar, if more finessed result from the bright Novak. Motruk continued, offering praise and light admonishments in turn, but the exam was largely successful. It was only when he got to the end of the line, where a reluctant Potter had joined the line last, that Motruk suppressed a scowl. Quite as expected, when instructed to cast the necrosis spell, Potter had made a half-hearted and quite abysmal attempt that scarcely left a black mark on the hanging carcass. Motruk swallowed his irritation and smothered the glare that was no doubt showing on his face and merely nodded, before moving back to the front of the line. He was very nearly at the end of his tether with the Potter boy; the child would have been expelled months prior had it not been for the explicit instruction of their Lord.

A similar result came from the second incantation. The class was largely successful at casting the imperius, and Motruk eyed Harry's partner suspiciously as he apparently successfully placed the boy under the spell. Melnyk was perhaps the only person the Potter boy had spoken more than a handful of words to in the last months. Melnyk was no great wizard; he was a gentle-soul, dedicated to his aspirations towards healing that were unfortunately ill-respected at the battle-orientated school. His family were middling pureblood's and he had avoided too much confrontation in his early years by the maturity and poise the boy had held since his first day. He often saw the boy in the company of Potter, despite Potter appearing not to seek out company of any kind. When Potter "tried" and failed abysmally to cast the imperius curse on Melnyk, the boy looked concerned. When it was almost there turn to attempt the final and most difficult spell, and the boy began to whisper urgently to Potter, Motruk was struck by a rather devious idea.

"Melnyk!" Motruk barked, in his sternest stone. The boy's head shot up in alarm, and Motruk glared theatrically. "You were just whispering to Mr Potter. Perhaps you were trying to distract him from his examination?"

Melnyk grew flustered, his pale cheeks blushing a deep red and he began to stutter. "No, Sir. I-"

"Silence!" Motruk barked. "No excuses. If Mr Potter is unable to cast this next spell, I'll have to assume you were cheating. You know well the consequences for cheating, boy."

A tense silence followed the statement. Cheating was indeed a serious offence. The lightest punishment allowed for the crime was four strikes of the whip in the public assembly; the worst eight and expulsion. Melnyk abruptly paled considerably. Potter however, had by far a more interesting reaction. The young man's usually distracted and distant manner darkened considerably, and his jaw tightened as though he were resisting his temper. Potter met Motruk's eyes in such a way that he was almost tempted to waver; violence and hatred flickered in the expression along with furious defiance. Motruk pressed on, however. This was the most engagement he'd gotten out of Potter in all his time here.

"Well, Mr Potter. What's it to be? Can you cast the spell, or shall Mr Melnyk here be flogged?" he demanded.

A tense silence followed. All eyes were trained on Potter with varying degrees of emotion; curiosity, distaste, pity. After a heartbeat that seemed to stretch much further, Potter answered tensely.

"I can cast the spell," Potter answered, through gritted teeth, in nearly perfect Russian. Russian was the language of the school for long-forgotten political reasons, and Potter had learned the language in mere months despite hardly speaking a word to anyone; yet more proof of the boy's repressed brilliance.

"Well don't just stand around then, boy!" he barked. "Prove it!"

A moment later, and Professor Motruk realised his mistake. A moment later, Motruk realised that provoking the boy in such a way had not quite achieved the results he desired. A moment later, and not only was the practise dummy completely vaporised, but so was half his classroom. Blasted away through the outer walls and revealing the bright blue skies outside, with only the smoking, glowing edges of stone left behind to prove that half of the room had ever existed. As the dust settled, Motruk noted with the relief that remarkably none of his students had been harmed. Evidently, Potter had cast a shield charm at the same time as expelling the mammoth amount of dark magic needed to make such a spell unload so much firepower. He also noted that Potter had left; the banging classroom door clear evidence of the boy's foul mood.

Still. It was something.


Harry Potter sat at the edge of his bed, glaring at the floor and trying to regain some semblance of control. His heart was pounding and his breathing was ragged as he fisted his hands in the bed covers and tried to concentrate on calming himself.

He had lost his temper. Lost his temper for the first time since he had been delivered to this cold, grey prison of a school, and he was furious with himself. He had been so outraged at the prospect of Illya - kind, quiet Illya – being beaten on his behalf that he had unwittingly allowed himself to demonstrate his power. It was the first time he had seriously tried to channel his magic since the IDC and the results had been as expected. He felt electrified, alive; the wild euphoria of dark magic was buzzing around him and he resented himself so strongly for having given himself this. This feeling he didn't deserve; borne of recklessness he couldn't afford.

He waited, gradually feeling the buzz of adrenaline leaving his system. Surely someone would come soon to tell him he was to be whipped again, or perhaps he'd finally gone too far and would be expelled. Perhaps if that happened the Dark Lord would have him executed too.

His black mood spiralled and he found his eyes drifting, as they often did, to the locked and warded bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. In it were nearly six months worth of unopened letters, the mirror Draco had gifted to him, and of course, the diary. All of them he had locked away the day he had arrived here, and it had remained un-opened since apart from to add more letters, still unopened.

Harry had kept himself in isolation since he arrived here. He hadn't spoken a word to his friends no matter how many letters they'd written him or how many times the mirror gently rattled inside the drawer, trying to get his attention. He didn't even allow himself to practise magic, no matter how much he wanted to. Harry was a murderer – he didn't deserve praise. He didn't deserve to excel, to thrive, to love and be loved. The closest thing he had to a friend here was Illya, and that was down to the boy's persistence and kindness rather than his allowance. Still, now even Illya had been threatened because of him. Harry truly felt a danger to all those around him.

When the door to the dormitory finally burst open, it was not as Harry had expected. It wasn't Motruk, furious with him for blasting his classroom to pieces. It wasn't the Headmaster, irritated to once again have to deal with Harry's delinquency. It wasn't even Illya, come to tell Harry their friendship was through. No, to Harry's surprise and puzzlement, it was Viktor Krum.

"Viktor," Harry began, bemused. "What-"

Viktor didn't pause in his journey to Harry's bunk. The man had a profoundly serious expression on his face, and Harry didn't think for a moment that this was a social call. Had Viktor come to cart him off somewhere? It seemed a little odd to call in the school's International Quidditch star alumnus as muscle.

"Get up, we are going for a walk," Viktor said in his rich Bulgarian accent, tossing Harry the red, fur-lined cloak that was a necessary part of the Durmstrang wardrobe.

Viktor had grown since last Harry saw him; he'd always been broad and masculine, but now his face had lost any traces of boyishness. It seemed so long ago now, the last time they'd met, that night in Malfoy Manor where he had first provoked the interest of Voldemort. He supposed it was less than two years ago, but it felt a lifetime. Harry considered arguing with the older man's demand, but he couldn't deny his curiosity at the impromptu visit. Plus Viktor had a build and demeanour that brooked no argument and Harry felt he had pushed his luck quite enough for a single day.

Silently, occasionally throwing speculative lucks at the pensive Krum, Harry threw on his cloak and proceeded to follow the man as he lead him through the castle, out of the front doors, and into the mountainous tundra surrounding the school. Once they were far from the prying eyes of curious students, Krum found a large, dry rock and perched himself on it, indicating Harry should sit next to him. Still in silence, Krum withdrew two flasks from inside his own cloak and passed one to Harry who accepted it with growing confusion.

"Drink," Krum said simply. Harry only hesitated for a moment; he hadn't had a drink in months, and if the dark look on Krum's face was anything to go by, he'd need it. Once he'd had a good mouthful of whatever fine brand of whisky Krum had just offered him, Harry spoke.

"Viktor, what's this about?" Harry enquired, seriously.

Viktor took a drink of his own, seeming to contemplate the question for a long moment before he began to speak.

"I have just had a very alarming floo call from my wife," Viktor began. "Apparently her Father had just informed her that you blew up part of the Dark Arts tower, and not by accident."

Krum let the statement hang in the air and Harry was almost tempted to blush. Harry felt like an errant child who's guardian had been called in to deal with him. This was especially strange given Harry, though fond of Krum, hardly knew him.

"Yes..." Harry admitted, slowly. "That was foolish of me."

Krum shrugged, taking another drink. "To be honest, I've been waiting for someone to take that pompous prick Motruk down a peg. Although it isn't the first concerning thing I've heard about you."

"Oh?" Harry asked, inexplicably nervous.

"I have friends here, Harry. A lot of cousins too, who were very eager to write me about the mysterious new student. Even more eager when I admitted I knew you. They say you spend half your time here getting whipped, and the rest of the time staring at walls."

Harry shrugged, feeling awkward. It was true, and not at all flattering. Harry's attempts at punishing himself for his crime seemed to have given him the appearance of a wayward, angst-ridden teenager.

"It isn't like you. Your friends at Hogwarts began writing me soon after you arrived. They say you aren't responding to their letters, that they've heard nothing from you since you left Britain. I thought perhaps you needed time to settle in, but even I've grown worried. What's wrong, Harry? Are you being treated poorly here?" Viktor said earnestly, as though he were prepared to march into the school on his behalf were it the case. Harry did blush then. How could he explain?

"No, I think… I think I've been treated fairly, considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering I've not exactly tried to endear myself to those here," Harry relented.

Viktor nodded to himself, appearing lost in thought for a moment as he drank deeply of his own flask. "You don't want to be here?" he asked, finally.

Harry considered the question. "Yes and no. I don't really want to be anywhere right now. I feel..." he hesitated. What could he say? Guilt-ridden, broken, lost. "I don't know. I don't deserve to be happy, Viktor. I'm sorry you had to go to the trouble of coming here."

Viktor stared at him for a moment, before sighing deeply. "This is about the muggleborn girl?" he asked, softly.

Harry flinched. He wasn't supposed to talk about Simmons, and certainly not about the true circumstances behind her death. Viktor appeared to take his reaction as affirmation, and began to speak.

"I know what happened. Or at least, I know what Blaise knows. He and I have become good friends in the past months," Viktor began.

Harry raised an eyebrow, wondering at the circumstances behind that friendship. Blaise had met Viktor at Draco's but they hadn't truly been acquainted when Harry last saw them. At Harry's look, Viktor explained.

"The Greengrass' family is close with the Karkaroff family. My wife and Daphne Greengrass are childhood friends; Blaise has been to a lot of family parties recently. I believe he struck up conversation to enquire about you, but we became close soon after. It is quite refreshing to talk with someone who doesn't care about Quidditch," Viktor said with a wry smile. "He told me what happened with Simmons. He's deeply worried for you."

Harry put his head in his hands, his mind flooded with emotions he couldn't quite register. "I… see," he said, finally.

"Harry, you've got to stop punishing yourself for this," Viktor said gently. "What's done is done. Being miserable will not bring the girl back. Your mistake will just have cost two lives, instead of one."

A vicious bile rose in his throat as he tried to formulate a response. He couldn't; he didn't know what to say. Seconds past, time seemed to crawl. When he finally tried to speak, he'd expected his voice to be calm and clear, but it wasn't. It cracked, the words were hard to force out.

"I don't- I don't know how to be okay," he said, finally. "I don't know how to stop seeing her face."

Viktor nodded seriously, as though weighing his words. "You're pretending Durmstrang is a prison, in which you are allowed no visitors. No kindness. You're driving yourself mad, Harry. You look unwell," he gestured to Harry's general vicinity, and Harry looked down in confusion.

For the first time he noticed that he was thin. Not painfully so, but noticeably. His skin was paler; paler even than those who had spent their whole school years in this climate. He had no doubt that were he to look in a mirror, he'd find dark bags beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. His body hurt.

"Harry, have you cried since it happened? Have you let yourself grieve?" Viktor questioned, his tone serious but coaxing.

Harry shook his head vehemently. "What right do I have to grieve? I didn't know her."

"And yet a part of you died with her," Viktor continued, undeterred. "There was an innocence to you, Harry, and now you look at me like a hunted man. What happened hurt you, and it is okay to cry when you're hurt. It is better to cry than to let the poison sit and fester, eating away at you."

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. "I can't imagine you crying," he said softly, after a moment.

Viktor gave a deep chuckle. "Truthfully Harry, I cry often enough. Life can be a heavy burden sometimes. I do not, however, bear it alone. Nor should you."

Viktor rose to his feet, finishing off his flask with a satisfied sigh. "Speaking of which, I've got a game to prepare for," he said grimly. "I'll speak to my Father-in-Law, see if I can make him see the incident with the Dark Arts tower was an accident," Viktor smirked. Before Harry could protest, Viktor shook his head. "You aren't helping anyone by getting yourself flayed, except perhaps those who have bets on how long it will take you to get it again. Please Harry, think on what I've said. This isn't you, and your friends are terrified for you. You owe them more than this."

After holding Harry's gaze for a long moment, Viktor nodded to himself, and began walking back towards the castle. Harry however, remained outside for a rather long time, lost in thought.


Harry was not entirely surprised when he returned to his dorm to find he hadn't been sentenced to a whipping or worse. Instead there was merely a note from the Headmaster advising him to see the mediwitch should he require medical attention, and that he would need to redo his Dark Arts exam before the summer began. By the time he'd returned his dorm mates were already fast asleep; the early start times encouraging steadfast sleeping patterns. They rarely stirred before dawn, often bone tired by the time they hit their beds. Harry, however, made no attempt to find sleep that night. Silently, he unlocked the warded drawer of his dresser, remove the contents carefully and left the room.

After wandering the castle under a powerful disillusionment charm for some time, he found a quiet classroom out of the way of any of the dorms or teaching quarters. He locked and warded the door, cast a silencing charm around himself and lit the lanterns. Then he carefully laid out the contents of the drawer on a desk before him. Over the last six months he'd received nearly one hundred and fifty letters. Mainly, he recognised the script of Blaise, Hermione and Draco. However, there was also the odd letter from Neville, Dean, Ron and Daphne. He had intended to read them all, rip them open and finally find out what his friends had been doing, what they were thinking, if they would ever forgive him. Somehow however, the pile of letters seemed too daunting to begin. He didn't know where to start, and his gut twisted at some of the more wild of his imaginations. What if they hated him for ignoring them for so long? What if something major had happened, and he'd missed it? He pushed the large pile of letters to one side of the desk for a moment to gather his thoughts.

Besides the pile were two items. The first was the diary of Tom Riddle. He had been careful not to touch it, not since the day he'd packed it at Hogwarts. If he touched it, it would be possible for him to be pulled in; for Tom to emerge. He hadn't been ready to talk, and the longer that passed the more explanation would have been required. He missed the boy terribly, though the idea of missing him made him uncomfortable. He shouldn't miss the teenage memory of the Dark Lord; especially given he, at least in some small way, blamed him for what had happened. Tom could have warned him, and had chosen not to. Yet he missed him still. There were parts of him that only Tom understood. Parts of him he had roundly rejected.

Beside the diary was the mirror. He took it into his hands for a moment. Draco had given it to him as a parting gift and there were many times he'd heard it's faint vibrating from the drawer. He'd never answered, even as guilt and shame ate away at him. Pausing, he cast a tempus. It was 11pm here, which meant it was only 9pm in Britain if Draco was there. Mid-afternoon if he'd returned to his studies in the US. He hesitated, his hand hovering above the mirror. Before he could quite stop himself, he'd tapped the glass. Three successive taps, activating the enchantment. A part of him wanted to immediately reverse it, but that would only be worse if Draco were to notice. He found himself simultaneously begging him to answer and hoping he wouldn't as seconds dripped by. Right as he was about to give up, the mirror flickered and the image of Draco appeared.

"Harry!" the young man shouted, and Harry could only stare for a few seconds at the appearance of his friend. Separation had allowed him to see the effects of time far better than he ever had at Hogwarts. In six months Draco had clearly matured in appearance. The soft boyishness of his face had begun to give way to sharp cheekbones and definition that hinted at the man Draco would become. His hair was shorter, even more crisp than he recalled. Draco's eyes were wild, clearly caught off guard after so long without contact.

It took Harry several seconds to respond, voice thick. "H-Hello, Draco."

Draco's frenzied expression took him in, and Harry was suddenly self conscious. His earlier realization that he had not been treating his body well suddenly made him feel awkward. He could see Draco observing his expression, the slight hollowness of his face and the darkness around his eyes. His friends own eyes grew wide.

"Where have you been?" Draco demanded, concerned, almost frantic. "You look ill. What happened? Why haven't you been responding to any of our letters?"

A heavy silence rang between them as Harry considered his next words. "I-I couldn't-" Harry hesitated. "I'm sorry, I just… I just couldn't face it. I couldn't face any of you."

Draco's expression grew bemused, the concern only growing. "Why, Harry? I don't understand. Did someone stop you?"

Harry shook his head, and the hopelessness threatened to choke him. "I just-" he paused. "I just didn't think I- I deserved- I should-" he couldn't articulate himself properly. "I just felt like nothing would ever be right again. I didn't want to- want you all to- to see me like that."

Draco's eyes blazed and for a moment Harry thought it was with anger, but after a moment recognised it merely as intensity. His friend seemed at a loss for words. "You are my best friend, Harry. I want to see you no matter what," he said, finally. It was clear he didn't understand, but that he was even trying to made something bittersweet bloom inside of him.

"Everything feels so bleak, Drake. I don't know what to do- I don't know- I don't know what I am anymore," Harry began, and it felt as though a dam inside him was breaking. "I can't make any of it right."

Unbelievably to Harry, tears began to well in his eyes. Draco looked as though he desperately wished to find the right words but didn't know how. Despite the shame he felt, Harry began to sob, his whole body shaking. "I can't make it right- and I'm just, I'm just so fucking lonely, Draco. I don't know what to do. I don't see any way out. Everything just feels so bleak. I feel like I'm screaming and no one can hear me, but at the same time, I don't even want them to."

Draco shook his head, his own eyes seeming to mist. "Harry- Harry you aren't alone. You've got us. You can't think like this! I don't understand- help me understand."

Shaking his head, Harry angrily cuffed the tears from his eyes. "I- I can't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, really. I shouldn't have called like this. I have to go – I'm sorry, Draco."

Harry cut off the call with a flick of his wand, hearing just the start of Draco's protests. He couldn't do this now.

He began to violently throw the items back into his bag, unsure of what he planned to do. Knowing he had to something but seeing no good way to turn. Black thoughts filled his mind as he distractedly threw the papers into the bag.

He realised his mistake only a second after he'd made it. His hands grasped the cool leather of the diary, and like he'd been burned he rushed to release it only to find it too late. A familiar sensation of being drawn down had captured him, and soon he'd be pulled into the ethereal realm of Tom Riddle.