Beta: lil'hawkeye3
The morning after the start-of-the-term feast had been, at least, busy since the beginning of the breakfast, with the headlines of the Daily Prophet announcing the name of the mysterious wizard who was behind the occupation of the German and Slovak Ministries of Magic, Durmstrang Institute in Norway (although not its palace or ministry), and Magical and Muggle Poland.
The wizard called himself a Dark Lord. His name was Gellert Grindelwald; his army were the Heilig Paladine. Anya remembered that 'heilig' meant 'holy' or 'hallowed'. 'The Palladins' were most trusted warriors of Charlemagne. It was kind of presumptuous. It was almost as if he was doing something in favour of world's well-being.
Two days had passed since they had arrived, and that Sunday the school was turmoil. Not because the British and French Muggle Ministries had declared war on Germany – which they had, around a quarter past eleven by the morning – but because the Durmstrang's guests – refugees, perhaps? – would arrive in the evening.
At the moment, Anya still wore high-necked button up robes, this time made of pale red silk with embroidered lilies, as she waited in the front gardens for the arrival of their guests. When she saw the small boat floating in the Great Lake, Anya couldn't help to wonder if, in all the excitement, the whole school was to see the arrival of three or four students in a tiny boat. Which, she supposed, was a pretty ridiculous thought.
When the two enormous vessels emerged from water, looking like a pair of Spanish galleons with elaborated quarterdecks and imposing forecastles, she was glad that she hadn't shared her thoughts with her peers. Behind her, the students clapped loudly for the visitors. A man with droopy cognac eyes and gangly features, dark hair and a long beard, stepped down the first and larger ship to embrace the headmaster in a manly, ferocious, hug that spoke of a close bond between them.
Or at least, they wanted the students to see it as such. Anya was a bit surprised by the strength of their ancient headmaster – yes, ancient. But now that she thought about it, what were the possibilities that someone weak and unhealthy could survive for three centuries?
The age of their headmaster was certainly disturbing. She was pretty sure he was one of the ten oldest people in the world – and two of them took the Elixir of Life. Tom had been pleased by the knowledge that wizard's lifespan was much longer than muggles, although she knew he didn't like much the idea of aging and getting wrinkles. He would always be a vain man.
The headmaster of Durmstrang was a Danish wizard named Harald Troldmand; Abraxas had informed them that they were cousins thrice removed by his paternal side. They didn't look remotely alike.
At his side, there was a tall dark-haired man with hooked nose, a young heavy-pregnant woman at his side. Aside from the grey haired lady who was talking to her, and the blonde girl who was guiding the children out of the ships, all the remaining adults were male. Intensely patriarchy, then.
The student body of Durmstrang was smaller than Hogwarts, which was surprising, considering they covered a larger area, but she had heard many preferred to be home-schooled... and that Muggle-borns weren't welcomed at the school. There was somewhere around two-hundred students, she calculated. Nevertheless, when they entered in the Great Hall, she noticed that the tables had been extended to welcome their guests.
A quarter of those sat at the Slytherin table, looking more comfortable than those in the others tables; although a bit wary – that she supposed, was due the attack on their journey to the school. Which was now, probably, being used as Grindelwald's headquarters, or the learning centre of his army's children.
A girl with light-brown hair smiled to them, bravely, before offering her hand to shake. "My name is Stefánia Mordon, from Hungary." She said, in a light-accented manner that spoke of volumes of her education.
Anya grasped the girl's hand firmly, although not in a hurtful manner. "Anastasia Donbyre, from England." She winked at her. "Do all of you speak English so fluently, Ms. Mordon?"
"We usually have classes in German, so all of us are brought up knowing it. But we are also encouraged to learn English or French. There are also those who learn Russian, but they end up attending Koldovstoretz. And please, all my friends call me Fanni, Ms Donbyre."
"Very well, all my friends call me Nastya, Fanni." The girl nodded, turning to ask the others' names. Meanwhile, Anya noticed as a boy of darker hair sat at Mordon's side, beaming at the English girl. "Kyrylo Grinevskii, from Ukraine. Koldovstoretz, miy brat go there." He said in a heavier accent over his book.
"Do you speak Russian as well?" Tom asked with false-interest.
"Da, my mama is Rosiyi." He explained.
"Dolohov's grandfather is Russian, as well." Orion told them, pointing to the dark-haired pureblood at his left. "Hence, the surname."
"Is that so? Do you speak Russian, Mr Dolohov? I fear I never had the opportunity to learn." The Hungarian girl asked with interest, helping herself with a plate of stew. "You must taste this pörkölt, it's spicy but quite balanced."
"I happen to have a taste for well-seasoned plates, Fanni." Tom told the girl, accepting her offer with a smile, in a sideways talk.
Dolohov ignored Tom's response, which was a sign to Anya that the Mordons should be influential in Hungary, as most of time the quarter-Russian Slytherin sneered at strangers, not dignifying himself to answer questions. "I have learnt it in my childhood, Miss Mordon."
Stefánia nodded, satisfied with his answer. "And the rest of you?"
The conversation flowed well between, all of them avoiding topics about the attack on SS Durmstrang days before, or the war, or their stances in it. Dorea answered that all her family members were raised speaking French and Greek. Ragnar revealed that he was brought up in French and German. Malfoy confided them the Malfoys were Francophiles, but as his mother was a former Black, he also spoke Greek. Brianna shared her knowledge in Spanish with them and her lack of skill in French – to her mother's frustration. Flavius Rosier was a fine speaker of Italian, and Andros Avery of Swedish. Tom acknowledge his proficiency in Latin, and Anya had to thank God for that – he had learnt it from church, after all, in his eager attempts to mock it when he was younger.
"I have been learning Mermish." She admitted, making the others laugh. "And my parents are Austrians." She explained. During the summer holidays, she had regretted making her parents foreigners, as she had been obliged by Tom to study German, which wasn't exactly easy.
"Is that so?" A voice asked, approaching them from the Hufflepuff table. "I am from Salzburg. My name is Dominik, it's good to see a compatriot." A boy, thirteen or fourteen with brunet hair and jade eyes, smiled. "I was going to ask if you still had Dobostorte, but now you will have to answer my questions. It's weird to find you in Hogwarts, Miss…"
"Anastasia Donbyre, my parents are from Krems. I have been living with Arawn since I was I child, however. Enough to be sent to Hogwarts." She smiled sheepishly. "Sometimes I fear I have forgotten how to speak my native language."
"Donbyre? Ich erinnere mich nicht deinen Nachnamen." He questioned her family surname in German. "Sie sind Musiker. Komponisten, wirklich." She explained her parents' professions as musicians in an attempt to associate a part of the brain with a lie. Her German was almost perfect, she was sure, although any slip could be blamed on her distance from her country.
"Es tut mir leid! Herrlich Komponisten, die Donbyres. " Dominik praised her parents, finally believing in her lie. Anya gave him a benign smile, waving it off. "I look forward meeting with you, then, Fräulein Donbyre. Now, I should take the Dobostorte to Herr Smith, I'm trying to make him taste it. If you allow me?"
"It's all yours, Meier." Stefánia said, giving the dessert to her upperclassman. "Táltos's six fingers won't be enough to count how much I hate caramel." Anya watched as his left, sitting beside a blonde boy who she knew to be a fourth-year, in the badger's table.
"Who is he?" Tom asked, with tint of jealously that Anya and Ragnar were the only ones to detect, chuckling. "Dominik Meier, pureblood. I don't know much more about him, except for his dreadful taste for caramels." The Durmstrang witch answered, nonchalant.
"What are you eating, Nastya?" Orion inquired, probably immersed on his own world. Or just to continue a conversation. Or perhaps because Brianna was an avid sweet-eater.
"Sachertorte." She answered.
[][][][][][]
In the first period of the following morning, Anya could be found in an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, hiding from anyone who noticed the lack of a Slytherin the History of Magic's second year class – which was probably nobody. She had yet to be discovered missing her classes since she had stopped attending them the year before.
Her cello sat comfortably between her thighs, the silencing charms she had learnt for that around the closed door. Below her widow, a bunch of Durmstrang students in their summer uniforms lazed off in the gardens, their class would begin at the next morning. At the Great Lake, the two Durmstrang ships had been anchored, and neither of them resembled a ship anymore, but two towers inside the lake, linked to the shore by suspension bridges. One tower was the student dormitories, the other, the teacher's. In the second, there was also a small library, the kitchens, and a ballroom. Those wouldn't be used, as the Hogwarts installations would serve them well.
Unused classrooms weren't lacking in Hogwarts. Neither greenhouses, nor a Quidditch pitch.
The pregnant teacher, Fanni had explained to her, was Professor Veronika Krum, their Flying instructor. Her husband was Lazar Krum, their defence teacher. For some reason, both school's flying instructors were females, yet Quidditch was still considered unfitting to woman. The elderly woman she had seen the day before, was their only core subject female teacher, Madame Hilja Laukkanen – who competed with Dippet for the title of the oldest person alive, having just completed her second century eighteen years before – and still teaching the art of Charms. The blonde girl was a graduate who had just been admitted as the healing apprentice, Adelina Abbing. Together, the three females had worked as respectively mother, grandmother and older sister to a bunch of terrified students after the attack on the train. And having been dealing with their nightmares through the whole travel to Hogwarts.
As she watched the three women sitting around a circle of students of every age, distributing cup of hot chocolate, coffee or tea, Anya had to wonder why the Wizarding World was so prejudiced.
But then, the Muggle World wasn't better.
The oncoming war would prove that.
[][][][][][]
Tom Riddle watched the spot between the two Slytherin purebloods in his year with frustration. Of course, Anya was missing their History class on her first opportunity. At his side, Ragnar gave a snort of amuse, obviously noticing the lack of one of their classmates as he didn't enjoy History a lot. Probably everyone in the class already knew that Anastasia Donbyre completely ignored that subject by now. She didn't make any effort to keep it a secret, and even if she did, she was quite popular with the Gryffindors.
Maybe because of that popularity, nobody denounced her to Binns. Or maybe because everyone knew that catching the attention of the man was a hassle. Tom decided that he could read about the Goblin Wars elsewhere and drawn out a book of his schoolbag.
There was no need to disguise the fact he was reading another subject in the class, many students were catching up their sleep, or reading, or drawing, or exchanging notes – or just dazing off. Sometimes he wondered how the Ravenclaw class of History was. Did the bookworms pay attention?
Of course, the title of his book was also disguised. No need to draw suspicious glances to an introduction on Dark Arts. The pages were as well, although a close inspection would reveal its secrets. Well, the only ones who could read over his shoulders were Ragnar and Abraxas, and none of the two were prejudiced on Dark Arts – but they wouldn't pay attention. Lestrange was too busy checking his image on a looking glass and watching the students; Malfoy was lost in the middle of his thoughts, probably about his father or how he would change the world.
The book had incantations of mild-nature, he decided. But the lack of power in the spells was compensated by the colourful and moving pictures of the worst of them. It was writing to impressionable minds. Regardless of its uselessness, Tom chose to remember its name. He could introduce it to Anya, maybe. She wasn't too keen in learning the arts – not for a moral stance, of course, but calling them dull and uncreative. The images would change her idea of it, he was sure.
Taking a French periodical out of his schoolbag, Tom pondered over the war. Adolf Hitler and Gellert Grindelwald. Neville Chamberlain and Hector Fawley. Winston Churchill and Leonard Spencer-Moon. Albert Lebrun and Benoit de Lapin. Vyacheslav Molotov and Demyan Zolnerowich. Joseph Stalin and Illarion Utkin. Franklin Roosevelt and Anouska Platter. Chiang Kai-shek and Chen Chang. They were all bonded to change the world.
Tom was particular curious over Hitler and Grindelwald – as most of the world was. The other's popularity – or lack of it – he could understand. Salazar, he could even see why people were attracted to socialism…equality to all when you were the less-beneficed class? Perfectly understandable. Even the Nazism attraction was obvious. The idea that you were better than others? That was the best propaganda you could use to win a group of people. What he couldn't understand was the obsession.
He had heard that Hitler was extremely charismatic from some. And that he was incredible loud and foolish from others. Apparently, you could adore the ground he walked in, or you could despise it entirely – but you were unable to remain indifferent. Interesting how some were attracted and some weren't. And Grindelwald, nobody had heard about him overseas before the attack on Dumstrang. However, the German students of the school were pretty familiar with the name when he had inquired about it.
His eyes met his handwriting on the header of a page in the plain black book he had acquired in the summer.
The Imperius Curse.
An Unforgiveable, the curse placed the victim completely over the caster's control. It was the most amusing of the three curses, because it wasn't really harmful in nature. Because of it, it was also the most disturbing. As its unforgiveable status could only be explained by the perversion of the caster. It could be defended, so it explained why some weren't attracted by Hitler. Yes, he had created a theory that Grindelwald was cursing the muggle's troops with it.
But then, he had dismissed it. Grindelwald would have to match the power of Merlin, Morgana, Modred and the Founders together to hold so many curses. And that was impossible. There was an amount of power a soul could bear without getting into spontaneous combustion and that surpassed it.
The Servus Potion.
The idea that a potion was used in the process was deeply appealing to Tom. Potions could be mixed in the water supply of a whole city, and anyone who drank it would be affected. The potion, despite the name, didn't make the drinker a servant, but it could make the victim take one specific action. Like accepting one's leadership, or simply fighting. Similar to Dream Manipulation, but more effective and less dangerous.
It was, also, more distant from reality. The thing required Basilisk's poison and Selma's scales. When Tom had read it first, he had stared at the book in disbelief. The last basilisk in the world was supposedly dead for at least a millennium. And anyone who went in a quest to meet a Selma, never had returned. The possibility that Grindelwald had brewed one potion was infinitesimal. That he had obtained enough ingredients to poison a whole town, a whole country, several countries was unbelievable.
The Foedus Velle Ritual
Complicated, but effective. The ritual bonded anyone's free-will to the performer's orders. Better than a slave, who could riot – it was believed that the first house-elves were wood-elves who had suffered this destiny. Tom doubted the veracity of this statement, simply because any other species of elves aside house-elves belonged to wizarding mythology, together with nargles and heliopaths. And in J. R. R. Tolkien's mind.
Ironically, the first step to the ritual was free-will. The victim had to agree previously to have its will bond or it would be meaningless. Tom knew that it wasn't the case. Not only because nobody would freely agree to become a slave, but also because enslaving a country required the performance of said ritual countless times. Germany would be glowing with magic if that was the case, and reports of an increase of the number of magical creatures in the area – which was the direction consequence of an increase of magic – would have roamed through the world.
So, back to square one.
Binns had just ceased his rambling, which probably meant that the class was over. Gathering his belongings, Tom faked a long yawn to Orion, who grinned back. "The most boring class of all schools of magic in the world." The Black scion agreed.
"Is that so? And here I was, thinking you liked history so much that you could pay attention while reading Quidditch through the Ages." The older Slytherin deadpanned.
"It's the actualized version! They just launched it. It includes the just released Comet 180, the Cleansweep Three – they even compared them with the Twigger 40 and the Tinderblast, which will be launched next year." Orion said, excited.
"Really? How exciting." Tom answered, not sharing the emotion at all. Noticing his lack of enthusiasm, Orion made a face. "Quidditch is fun!"
"I never said it wasn't."
"You only thought so." Ragnar pointed out, clapping him on the back. "Are you going to try for the team, Orion?"
"Maybe."
"Blishwick informed me they had a spot as a beater awaiting for me. What do you think, Black? Would you like to be my teammate?" Antonin jeered viciously, making said Black seethe in anger.
"Shut it, Dolohov. Orion is an excellent chaser, for your information." Dorea defended her cousin.
"I will love to see him handling a Quaffle at the try-outs then." He answered, leaving them behind. Orion grinned as he watched him leave. "Now, who is excited for a class with the old woman? I'm envious of Durmstrang. Their teacher looks cool."
"Madam Merrythought is a nice lady." Dorea admonished him.
"Her cookies are good, I suppose." Orion agreed.
"She is very fast, and I heard Madam Merrythought was an acclaimed dueller when she was young." Abraxas informed them.
"Oh, and when was that? Before or after the noblemen lost their heads in France?" Tom deadpanned, making all of them snicker while climbing the staircase to the Serpentine Corridor. At the end of it, Anya was awaiting for them, sat at the stone handrail.
"How was Binns?" She asked.
"Terrifyingly boring. If my sister didn't report to father, I'd be your companion forever." Orion whined.
"Arsènine Peltier was spotted together with Zenais de la Felino in Paris, with a slight bum at her stomach – and they aren't married!" Brianna informed her, shoving a copy of the Witch Weekly International into her hands, and gesturing to the picture of the couple. "Can you see it?"
"It could be a trick of light." She commented half-hearted, giving it back and taking Tom's arms on hers. At the same moment something crashed on both of them.
"Shit!" Tom swore as his schoolbag flew from his hands, sprawling its contents onto the ground. Anya watched as a white haired and skinned first year she remembered seeing at the Slytherin's dungeons bent down to gather his things, which had been dropped as well. She leaped forward and offered one of his books.
"Accio." Tom charmed his belongings back to his bag with ease behind her. "It's Pyrites, isn't it? You have Herbology now, don't you? If you are looking for the Greenhouses, there is an entrance through the Charms corridor."
"Thank you." The Slytherin said, accepting the small knife for cutting plants and walking away.
"Poor boy. He is really lost. Alphie said his first period was Transfiguration. Very out of the route." Dorea commented.
"Weird kid. It must be because of his family." Brianna spoke, receiving nods of agreement.
"How so?" Anya inquired as they entered into classroom.
"The Pyrites breed with veelas. Beautiful half-breeds, they are." Abraxas explained. "That's the reason behind their surname, as well."
"It means 'of fire' in Greek." Dorea explained, seeing their dumbfound looks.
[][][][][][]
At Saturday's morning, Callidora Black watched in distaste as her younger twin giggled softly over the letter she had just received through a school's owl. She understood Cedrella, of course; Lord Caesar Malfoy wasn't exactly a gentle man, although rather beautiful. Still, the marriage contract had been signed between the houses and wandering around flirting with boys wasn't proper. By her love-struck sighs, Callidora actually suspected that there was one specific boy – although she didn't know his identity.
Over the opposite side of the table, her petite soeur was taking small sips of chai and nodding shyly to the talkative baby sister of Demetrius, Clemency. Sometimes, she didn't know about which of her sisters she should worry more. Charis was very meek, and she feared that her sister wouldn't survive her seventh year – after her sisters left her. Her only other option was to Caspar marry her soon after he graduated at Hogwarts. She would be able to leave, if that happened. But that wouldn't be that good, because Callidora didn't feel as if she could trust Crouch with her baby sister.
Throwing her twin to the sharks? Anytime, Cedrella had fire in her after all. But even if Charis was abandoned in the silky, fragile cobweb of a spider; she would be devoured.
She watched a raven-haired Slytherin witch entering in the hall, her arms linked with the sandy blonde Gryffindor. They were walking in her direction. Something in her gut twisted as he watched her fiancée chaperoning one of the recognized beauties of Hogwarts – who still had to reach puberty, so she supposed that one day the girl would be even more breath-taking. She couldn't say anything, however, as she had been the one to shun the younger boy.
Her eyes finally caught the expression on the girl's. The girl was frozen, her expression stoned as if she had just meet a gorgon – an event that considering her Parseltongue abilities, would probably end without her like that. Her eyes had profound dark circles under them. Callidora brushed away those feelings of envy – as she had taken care to never be hostile to the girl, who according to both Harfang and she had no feelings for him – and allowed an expression of worry take over.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. I found her near the Durmstrang tower like this. " Harfang say, concern stamped on his face. Callidora could see how worried he was – he was completely ignored the looks the other Slytherins were sending to his crimson robes.
"Should we call Riddle?" She inquired, knowing that the girl's fiancée would probably be able to sort things out.
"Call me why?" A voice snapped behind them and the Black girl looked over her shoulder to see the 5'5 ft form of a Tom Riddle towering over them. "Anya?"
"Arawn?" The girl snapped and hissed something to the boy. Callidora watched with interest as his face turned from concern to giddiness.
Somehow, the smirk the boy showed them as he kissed his partner's knuckles and rest of arm didn't help to ease Callidora's uneasiness.
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