When the stars threw down their spears

And watered heaven with their tears

Did He smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

~ "The Tyger" by William Blake

Harry was hailed a hero. James and Lily never really recovered. They learned to live with the pain. They carried on their lives, but the bright flame that had resided in both their eyes had been extinguished.

Lily took a teaching job at Hogwarts, becoming the Defense of the Dark Arts professor. The children loved her, but she could not help but see an echo of her son in their young faces.

James remained an Auror but he also retained a position on Lucius' staff as his personal guard. After the shadow of the war seemed to pass and the Death Eaters were rounded up, he didn't have much to occupy his time, and the position was the only thing at times that kept him sane.

Sirius blamed himself. He reasoned that if he hadn't gotten hurt, Peter wouldn't have died and Voldemort wouldn't have taken Harry into the underworld with him. Remus was the only one able to pull him out of a bottle, but it was Severus' stern remarks about Harry being ashamed of him that pulled Sirius completely into sobriety. He worked in the Ministry as a Dark Artifact Regulator while Remus was given a desk job in the ubiquitous offices that served as puncture wounds in the Department of Public Safety.

It seemed normalcy had returned to the world. No one healed. Young Harry's laughter still echoed in their memories even well after he would have become a teenager. Draco grew into a stunning young adult. He inherited his father's regal bearing but his mother's compassion. He didn't have much of a hand at healing, but he served well as Severus' potion apprentice.

Lily couldn't help but think of her son whenever she saw him. They would be almost the same age. She wondered what he would have been like. Would he be like Draco, inheriting his father's face but her quick temper and sympathizing eyes? Perhaps, he would be nothing at all like them, something new and fresh and completely unique.

She would cry herself to sleep at night, holding his old baby blanket, and the next morning she would face her inquisitive students with a smile.

Years passed. Some things changed, but most stayed the same. Draco turned seven, then eleven, then thirteen. He attracted attention like a flame moths. He bloomed charmingly in certain areas and was devastating in other. Eyes lingered, but with true Malfoy grace, he did not acknowledge them.

Lily thought it was amusing. He was rather pompous, but she suspected it was just a phase. He had a good heart.

The year he turned sixteen was the same year that Dumbledore scheduled the return of the Triwizard's Tournament. Lily was against it, as was Severus, but Dumbledore was adamant that it would lift spirits and create cross-country unities.

The days were growing darker it seemed to Lily. Violence had escalated according to Remus, and Sirius reported that he had confiscated more illegal artifacts this year than the last three together. Something was coming, they said behind closed doors and silencing wards, but no one could say what.

They couldn't blame Dumbledore for wanting to cheer spirits. Merlin knew, they needed it. So, they settled for silent reproach and began the preparation to ready the school for their visitors. James and Lucius were called to Hogwarts, Lucius as a representative of the board and James as his guard. Sirius took a well-needed vacation, dragging Remus with him to convene with the rest of their friends.

It was still a surprise to see the Pegasus-led carriage flying through the air to land in a trumpet of stamping hooves before the school. The size of them was outstanding, but they were outmatched by their headmistress. Dumbledore greeted her affectionately, not having to bend at all to kiss her hand.

She rambled off in French in a rich baritone, portraying culture and pride in her tall stature. Her students huddled in the nippy autumn air, their cloaks too thin. It was an all-girl's school, and it seemed as though they had to meet some physical exam to warrant entrance. They were all amazingly pretty, fine French beauties. Draco would have competition.

It was not long after Beauxbatons Academy of Magic gained their bearings than the ground began to rumble. Few students called out earthquake, quickly quelled by the teachers. They turned to the lake as a large ship erupted from its dark depths.

Water shook from the deck, pouring through the gulley over the hull. The sails unfurled in a majestic whoosh, pulling the vessel towards the shore. It stopped short and several boats were lowered to the lake's surface. A tall, belligerent man stood at the bow of one. One foot rested at the head. He stood straight and arrogant.

As he neared, they could see bushy black hair covering most of his face. He was a thick man with a harsh accent and shifty eyes. His smile was disgustingly self-assured. Dumbledore greeted him politely to which the headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, responded to over-enthusiastically.

He snapped at his students in a harsh language to pull in the boats. His students jumped to obey, though one stood off to the side, reviewing his surroundings stoically.

Sirius gaped as he recognized the famous face of Victor Krum, seeker extraordinaire. He elbowed James, who gave him a roguish grin.

They began herding the students inside. Durmstrang's students were blocky characters obscured by thick, heavy fur coats. The air, which was frigid for the French, much be very warm to the Icelanders. Already, they were flapping their coats, trying to shed the layers while their headmaster was not looking.

As everyone herded inside towards the awaiting feast, no one noticed the lone figure moving about the deck, shuffling between the bilge and the headmaster's quarters with languid ease.

o.O.o

Dyre didn't know how these English people could stand the climate here. Already he was working under a sweat. This was autumn? They must be joking.

He had no problem shedding his shirt as the night air hit him. He was busy cleaning the deck and arranging the quarters and did not have time to think about the feast he was missing. Victor might save him something if he was so inclined, but as for now, Dyre was happy to be left alone.

He lifted his head, wiping his forehead. The scars on his back stretched not painfully but tight. The ship's submersion had been cleaned and nothing of the flopping fish and seaweed remained. Everything had been polished, and the trash of a dozen rowdy boys and seven more conservative girls had been swept away.

Night had fallen, and he knew that Igor was going to be back any minute with the rest of his entourage. The feast had most likely extended to greet the new guests. Wizards could never resist the urge to make spectacles of themselves, and he doubted this Dumbledore was much different.

He sat at the deck, letting the breeze caress his skin and raise flesh. The stars were bright tonight but not as bright as in the Nordic mountains, where Durmstrang was nestled between peaks. He missed the air. It was only the first day, but he already missed the long halls and simplistic designs of the old dwellings.

He looked over at the castle. The English were so flamboyant. Hogwarts had a pretty charm to it, but Durmstrang was strength. It was a hodge-podge of old Viking halls, modified after each generation to fit the growing generations. Great towers served as lookout before the one passageway between the crags, and they remained there as observation towers. The Peace-Weavers gathered there, the Norns' maidens. They never left the tower after induction.

Dyre saw them in their white sheaths, Celtic belts at their waists holding ceremonial daggers. They were always running, as if time was precious and to waste it by walking was blasphemous.

Igor did not rule over the tower. That was saved for the Maiden.

Dyre's gaze swept over the sky as yearning filled him, bitter with sorrow. He should not dwell on such thoughts. Yrsa would be upset with him to know he had been brooding.

He picked out constellations, seeing signs no man would know, secrets imparted only between mother and sister and daughter. The Wyrd was not for man's eyes, but Dyre was different. The Maiden had said so.

He wished she were here. He missed her arms and the hum of her voice.

The dogs would be missing him as well. Loki and Levi, his hellhounds, would howl tonight. They would upset the cattle and milk would sour, but it couldn't be helped. Igor had insisted his servant follow him to this godforsaken isle.

Scotland was not so different than England he supposed. He wished he could go to Avalon. At least in England, he might have glimpsed the Isle, but Scotland was too distant from the mystic shores. He needed to see it before he left. He had promised Yrsa since she could never leave the tower. It was right on the list next to Atlantis, El Dorado, and the Hanging Gardens.

The sound of boats reached him. He sat up. Donning his shirt once more, he went below deck. Igor would call for him if need be, but otherwise he was going to his bunk. The ship was an old Viking design, modified with expansion charms and spelled to maneuver on magic instead of men.

Each bunk consisted of four hammocks and enough room for four people to live comfortably. The proximity of a usual bilge was absent in the magical vessel. The girls were separated by a single wall and a divided stair. No spells were needed, as any man daring to venture into the females' territory would soon find himself missing a few precious pieces. The women took care of their own. Weakness was not abided in the mountains.

Dyre's bunk was more of a storage cabin. He slept with the mops and buckets. But, it was dry, and he got his privacy. He pulled out the hammock as footsteps were heard above. The revelries were going to begin soon. He didn't even want to think of how many were going to drink themselves into stupors that night.

The students of Durmstrang tended to drink whenever there was cause to celebrate and often when there weren't. Coming to a new school was reason enough to them, and Dyre was soon subject to the sounds of bawdy laughter and music. He lied in the hammock, hoping they would forget about him in their mead.

When no one pounded on his door, Dyre let himself fall into a light sleep. Dreams of green light, mad laughter, and corpse hands encompassed him. He fell through darkness, seeing stars and Yrsa screaming for him, but he considered it a good night.

In his hammock, Dyre Harald Durmstrang dreamed, eyes flickering back and forth over images he didn't understand. The long jagged scar that ran over his right eye throbbed. The milky white orb, blind and beautiful as Artic ice, swam with illusions, calling to him in the soft whisper of Other. His other green eye was troubled only by the usual nightmares, nightmares any boy of his circumstance should have.

But it was the right eye, the eye that Knew, that pulled the boy into darkness.

o.O.o

Lily thought this tournament might not turn out so horrible after all. Her husband was sitting beside her and to his other side was Lucius and then Severus. Remus was beside her and Sirius beside him. She had everyone she loved around her.

No one had blown anything up, and the first night had passed without trouble. It was breakfast and the Great Hall was open to wandering students. Most of Durmstrang was already sitting at the Slytherin table, early risers. Draco was up as well and was conversing lightly with Victor Krum. Her husband and Sirius were eying him jealously. Draco preened.

Lucius shook his head at his son, remembering how he had been at that age. Young with the world at his feet and invulnerability in his eyes. Draco was at least moderately wiser, much kinder to the world than Lucius had been.

Madame Maxine, the Beauxbatons headmistress, was already at the table, though very few of her students had followed her example. The few that were eating were at the Ravenclaw table. Their soft beryl uniforms fit well in the house. They sat primly on the bench, obviously masters of etiquette.

The Durmstrang females were heartier. They had a powerful strength about them, quite contrary to the French girls' sly, devious eyes. They were dark to their fair, with eyes like Snape's. They dressed conservatively in thick hose and long dresses. The chests braced different crests, all done in a burgundy red with dull gold trim. They had traditional braids that made their faces overly severe. They did not look like they laughed often.

Some of the teachers were alarmed to see that they wore armor. They had vambraces on their forearms, polished meticulously. Still, faint scarring was visible, appearing to be cast by a blade, not a wand. Indeed, on their belts were a single sheathed dagger and a line of vials. Dumbledore had warned the teachers that asking them to remove their dagger was very insulting. They were not allowed to unsheathe it outside class anyway.

The men were not as fastidious and much more jovial, just not in early morning. They were clean-shaven and just as dark as their women. They too wore vambraces and had a dagger at their belts, which were considerably thicker that the girl's Celtic ones. The leather was unadorned. The belts looped back over so that the end dangled. They too wore varying crests and had the same dirty red and dull gold.

Most wizards these days wore muggle attire under their robes. It was mostly casual-dress wear with dragon leathers. The Durmstrang students wore traditional robes with leather trousers, thick black-soled boots, and doublets. They were not a pretty group, but many of them were handsome. Even Victor with his broken nose and limp was roguishly striking, a beauty honed of raw strength.

After a while, Karkaroff entered the hall. The students stood for him, waiting until he sat before returning to conversation and food. He sat on the other side of Sirius, near the center of the table. Dumbledore was on his right, conversing with Madame Maxine in soft French.

Lily didn't think much of his entrance, busy gossiping lightly with her husband. It wouldn't have been of much consequence if Karkaroff's entrance had not preceded the entrance of another. No one really noticed as the lone figure entered the hall, occupied by the new students and half-asleep.

Even Dumbledore did not look up from his conversation. But that single entrance would change all of their lives and the course of history and the future to come.

o.O.o

Dyre was pissed. Karkaroff had told him to stay on the ship. The man probably expected him to stay on the blasted ship all damn year. Well, he was not going to have it.

Karkaroff had left his papers. The documents were important. He had left a deputy headmaster in charge, but the man still needed Karkaroff's signature on files. Otherwise, the merchant's shipment of potion ingredients and their yearly harvest were going to go to waste.

Really, it was a few seconds. Read through the damn thing and sign it. Dyre would see it along, as he always did.

This was a perfect excuse to commandeer a dinghy and go inside the school. Perhaps he might not be able to visit Avalon, but he was going to be able to see the inside of an authentic medieval castle.

The students were waking up sparingly and groggy bickering could be heard from the bunks. Dyre went past them quietly with reassured silence. He was so used to not being seen that it was easy to pretend he was invisible. People might notice a vagrant skulking on deck, but no one noticed an errand boy.

Papers in hand, he lowered the dinghy into the calm waters. His arms were strong from the harvest and chores, and it took no time at all for him to reach shore. He landed on the outskirts of a forest. This forest was not so different than the one in Durmstrang, though the trees were too condensed and lively. The tall evergreens he was used to were too sparse. This forest seemed stout to him. Without the deadly crags and cropping, it didn't look that dangerous either. Just dark.

Dyre liked the dark.

The forest called to him. Its whisper was not as seductive as the Jötnar's Forest. It was wet and lush, reminding Dyre of the bækhesten in the Crystal Lake. He supposed that amounted to a kelpie here.

He continued on, ignoring the cunning beckoning of the wood. Hogwarts was a lot bigger up close. Its style was old, but it didn't have the linger of tragedy, of work and battle, infused in the stone. It felt like knowledge, which was powerful in its own way, but it did not speak of survival and endurance like the halls of Durmstrang.

He was startled to realize that they had ghosts. All the spirits lingering at home had been long exorcised. He wondered idly if the necromancers could enter this place.

It took him several dead ends to finally find the Great Hall. The doors were open, and Dyre could see the five tables, four vertical and one horizontal, in the hall. This place had nothing on the great mead halls of the north. It was nice that they had spelled the ceiling to look like the sky, but he thought it a bit childish.

The high beams of the halls in Durmstrang were wrought in runes. The intricate design covered the entire ceiling. They swirled, mixing magicks, changing until nothing of the original remained. It was protection against Hel's minstrels and the demon children of the wood. There was blood in those of the old sacrifices from at time when a man's ox meant more than his life.

The older patrons of the school gathered there for drinking, and it was some of the grandest celebrations Dyre had ever seen. It lasted all night and no one was coherent by morning. There was music and dancing. The lyres were passed around, and women would pluck at the strings, singing in voices hardened by the mountain cold. The old songs were all about war and death and heroes, and Dyre had always been enamored by them.

Pushing aside fond memories, he entered the hall. A medley of students was eating breakfast, and great gaps existed on the benches. No one noticed him walk in, and he preferred it that way. He spotted Victor but did not linger to interrupt his conversation with a supple-looking blonde lord. Karkaroff was at the table, switching between eying his students and glaring at the dark man at the end of the table.

Still unseen, Dyre walked behind the chairs. At a few feet away, Karkaroff sensed him and looked up. He scowled reproachfully, but before he could say anything, Dyre had leaned in, pulling up the papers and a quill.

"Headmaster, these need your signature."

Karkaroff glared at him but snatched the quill. As he finished, Dyre was prepared to leave and explore the school, honing his memory for Yrsa to dissect later. However, a sharp gasp stole his attention. He looked up and met with the greenest eyes he had ever seen, save his own.

o.O.o

Lily had turned to say something to Sirius when the sight of a boy shocked her into silence. His head was down, but the wild black hair was so reminiscent of her husband that she took pause. Karkaroff was signing papers under his instruction, and the boy looked smug about it.

There was a tiny lifting of the corner of his mouth that she could barely see. When Karkaroff finished, his head lifted, and she gasped. A horrible jagged scar ran down over his right eye, which was milky blue and blind. It looked old and stretched, residing over half his face. As disfiguring as it was, there was a raw beauty to it that emitted masculinity.

Her eyes were drawn to his face, a face that was the exact replica of James Potter. All but his left eye, which was an astonishing green that she would recognize any day from the mirror. She stared at him in complete shock, hope blooming resiliently in her chest.

"Harry?" she breathed.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I have been called that, my lady," he said warily in perfect English, only a hint of brutish accent on his tongue.

Lily's reaction had drawn the attention of her husband. James looked at his wife, following the line of her eyes to the boy across from her to the other side of Karkaroff. His jaw dropped. A slow silence began to flow across the table as one by one the people speaking turned to stare at what their partner had become so engrossed in.

Igor gave the child a hard stare. The boy was un-quelled, but backed away obediently.

"Is there something wrong, Mrs. Potter," Karkaroff asked.

Lily was unable to respond, her eyes only for the boy that was so devastatingly similar to her son.

"Perhaps you can tell us the name of your student, Igor," Dumbledore suggested lightly, but his eyes were serious and hard.

Igor frowned. "He is no student."

It was true. Dyre's robes were an un-dyed grey. The crest of the school was emblazed on his chest and he had no dagger in his belt or vambraces. He was smaller than the other boys, less stocky and more agile but he still carried the strength of a north-man.

"What is your name, my boy?" Dumbledore asked.

The boy looked at him warily, feeling like he had gotten in trouble for something he hadn't done. "Dyre, my lord."

"Is that your full name?"

Dyre's eyes narrowed. He didn't like this. Attention was not a good thing for him. It was never a good thing.

"Dyre Harald Durmstrang," he said evenly.

Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly at his last name. He turned back to Karkaroff. "Perhaps we should speak in my office."

Igor glared at Dyre, warning him that any reproach about him would come out of his hide. Dyre glared back, resolute in his innocence, but a cold trickle of dread was winding up his spine. He didn't have to be guilty to be punished.

He had no idea what was going on. He followed the troupe of teachers and his headmaster to Dumbledore's office. He felt cornered with so many adults around him and was studiously ignoring any of their attempts to speak with him. He knew better than that. He wasn't going to fall for any of their traps. Keep quiet and it can't make the situation any worse than it already is.

They moved to the study before Dumbledore's office since it would be too crowded around his overtaxed desk. Karkaroff took a seat, and Dyre stood by the wall, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into. So many people were staring at him, and he didn't understand the emotions in their eyes.

"You say your name is Durmstrang," Dumbledore said, trying to start the conversation back up again.

Dyre remained silent, looking to Karkaroff.

"He's a ward of the school," the headmaster supplied with both irritancy and impatience.

"How long has he been there?" the only woman, a fidgeted redhead, in the room asked.

Karkaroff shrugged indifferently. "He boards in the tower. He could have been there all his life."

"When did you first see him?" one of the men asked, a dark man with blue eyes and a sharp face.

"Eight or nine I suppose," he muttered offhandedly.

He had been six, and he would remember it for the rest of his life. He hated that man.

"Do you know how long you were there?" the woman asked him, her voice soft and gentle like he might startle at any moment.

Dyre slid further down the wall, away from her. "For as long as I can remember," he said honestly.

"What is this about?" Karkaroff snapped.

She searched her neck for a charm. It was a locket. She unhooked the back and opened it. "This is my baby. I lost him when he was one."

His headmaster took it from her, examining it. He frowned and handed it back. "And you think this… boy is your lost son?" he asked incredulously.

He didn't have to be so rude, Dyre thought, and his thought was echoed in the scowls most the men wore.

"His body was never found," she said resiliently, clasping the charm back around her neck.

"Preposterous," Karkaroff waved off. "This boy cannot be Harry Potter."

Dyre's eyes widened. These were the Potters? The infamous Potters, whose son destroyed a Dark Lord? They thought that was he?

"Why not?" the woman, Mrs. Potter, asked angrily, tears swimming in her eyes.

Karkaroff sneered. "He's a servant. What makes you think he's your son?"

"He looks exactly as I did in school," a new voice said, and Dyre turned his head to stare at him.

The man did bear an uncanny resemblance to himself. He stood strongly, slim and tall. There were similarities in the face, along the jaw and his cheekbones, which were obviously not Norse.

"Mere coincidence," Karkaroff said.

"Will you let us do a blood potion?" the woman pleaded.

Karkaroff laughed. "Do all the potions you want. This boy is worthless."

His statement was met with growls, one of which Dyre knew was not human. He was shocked that these people would defend him when they didn't even know him. He was pretty sure he wasn't this Potter kid, but it wasn't completely impossible either, he mused thoughtfully.

Karkaroff rose from his seat. "If you are finished with your ridiculous stories, I have students to teach."

And Dyre had chores to do, but he didn't want to leave. Karkaroff swept out of the room, but Dyre lingered behind him. His gaze landed on the redheaded woman, the mother. Her eyes were filled with such desperate hope that it broke him a little to see it. He truly hoped he was this person, just so he wouldn't have to watch the light in her eyes die.

"BOY!" Karkaroff shouted from down the hall.

Dyre lifted off the wall, but he was slow to obey. It would cost him later, but he was well used to his disobedience meriting punishment. He was hesitant to part with the woman's gaze as his feet dragged him closer to the door.

When Karkaroff grabbed hold of his elbow and pulled him roughly to his side, Dyre realized that he didn't even know her name.

o.O.o

Dyre's head was throbbing, and he was sore. Karkaroff's idea of punishment was tossing him to the older boys after dinner for them to make fun with as they chose. The hits he could handle, and even the humiliation he had gotten used to on some level, but he knew someday one of them was going to push it too far, and someone was going to die. Even if it weren't Dyre, his life would be forfeit. Lords did not take the deaths of their sons lightly.

He leaned over his hammock, spitting congealed blood from his mouth where it had pooled during the night. His head was pounding from sleeping with a concussion, and he could feel bruises reawakening on his body. He wondered if Victor would lend him some healing salves.

He lied there for a second. This was the first time that he had time to think about what had happened yesterday. He still didn't know their names beyond the surname Potter. Of course, he knew the story of the Halloween night and the defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort, but he didn't know much more beyond that. Most of his studies centered around Gwindelward Banebringer.

The Deathly Hallows symbol was scribed in the First Hall, and the halls still carried echoes of the travesties created there. His history lessons were about Olaf Trygvasson and Harald Wartooth, after whom he was named, not Merlin and Morganna. Although, the Maiden did allow him access to the archives, and he knew considerably more than a servant should know. But, he practiced in the ancient rituals, not politics.

It was too far-fetched. He couldn't be their child. He was the same age, and he looked very similar to the Potters. His remaining eye looked outrageously like that woman's. Still, it was just coincidence.

There is no coincidence. Only Wyrd, Ver∂a, and Skuld.

He turned over as the Maiden's words echoed through him. That which became, that which is happening, and that which needs be. He hated the Norns. He hated that fate had such a tight hold on man. He liked to think that he governed his own Wyrd, but it was not to be. If he owned his Wyrd, he would never have met the Maiden. Who knew how things might have transpired.

Perhaps, if he really were this Harry Potter, he would have grown up here with parents who clearly loved him. No beatings. No brands. He couldn't help but think that he would have grown up weak. He prided his strength and his endurance, but perhaps he would have been happier.

Or perhaps he would have been dead.

There was no way to tell. Yrsa always said he dwelled on what-might-have-been too much. He imagined her admonishing him, her eyes closed and her finger swaggering like she had seen the all-mothers do. Dyre smiled.

Karkaroff had ordered him to remain on the ship. Probably because he didn't want his maybe-family to see the bruises on his cracked face. They seemed to be the type to care about that sort of thing. Dyre just thought it was weird that they might care about him.

This ship was a four-tiered fort. It was big. Big, as in students could easily get lost and spend several hours trying to find their way out. If he left now, it would take forever for Karkaroff to find him or even realize he was missing. And, he could get back here and just say he was scrubbing the latrine. No one would look for him in there.

Plan in motion, he swung his legs over the hammock. Because of his wounds, he was more careful crossing the deck and stealing a boat, and it hurt his ribs to row. He decided to again ignore the forest in favor of exploring the castle while everyone was at breakfast.

The greenhouses were the first to catch his attention. The glass houses gleamed in the morning sun, coated with dew. It was cool inside. The plant life cooed in the sun, stretching leaves and fauna. Everything seemed brighter here, Dyre thought. Colors that would usually be muted by frost were vibrant.

He patted the red leaves of a Canary Eater. It bloomed, showing its cherry yellow center, which spread like a sunburst towards its leaves. Hence, the name. It provided a lot of ingredients for blood replenishing potions, but it was too tropical to be grown in the mountains. It was too tropical for England too, but Dyre supposed magic could make up for the differences here. Magic and an attentive host. They had neither in Durmstrang, the magic too dark. Attention was kept on Defense and Battle, not growing herbs. The act was considered argr, unmanly, and Lords did not send their daughters to learn how to plant flowers.

It was a shame, Dyre thought, his fingers caressing the underside of the plant, where downy thistles pricked careless animals and drew blood. The thistles turned suddenly sharp, sinking into Dyre's fingers. He gave no sign of pain as the hollow spines absorbed his blood. The plant grew redder and fuller like it was puckering its lips for a kiss.

Dyre smiled.

"Careful, child!" a voice called from across the greenhouse.

Dyre drew his hand away, disentangling from the bristles easily. The plant shivered, but fully feed, it did not reach for more. Dyre backed away from it. The woman that trotted down the aisle of plants had a thick girth and a kind face. Twisted grayish-brown curls flung out from the scarf on her head. There was dirt on her face and her apron, which was stained with saps and oils.

She took off her gloves, taking hold of Dyre's hand. His fingertips sported tiny wells of crimson blood. They didn't hurt, but they itched. She clucked her tongue matronly and pulled a bandage soaked in oils across his skin. He felt the thick syrup be absorbed into his flesh, healing the abrasions instantly and leaving him with the smell of pine and irises.

"There you are," she said in a voice thick with Irish lilt. She looked up at him. "Whatever made you decide to do that?"

Dyre took his hand from her. The bandage stuck adhesively to his fingers.

"It looked hungry," he said simply as if it were obvious.

She looked surprised. "You know the Canary Eater?"

She could tell by his robes and accent that he descended from the north, and it was very unlikely he had come across the plant.

"I know of it," Dyre corrected. "Are you the caretaker here?"

She chortled into her gut, the sound coming out like a dove. "Oh no, child. I'm the Herbology professor."

Dyre's eyes widened. "Forgive me," he said, bowing his head. "I did not mean to assume."

"Oh, pish-posh," she waved off. "As covered in filth as I am, it's hardly your fault."

Dyre straightened, deciding she was quite odd. Dyre looked around again. "It this your greenhouse?"

"One of mine," she nodded.

Dyre moved behind her. "You have wittlemort," he said, a smidge of awe in his voice.

"Aye," she said, nodding.

The plant hung alone in its large pot. A single teardrop of crystal liquid balanced on the frond, but Dyre knew that the roots were spread deep and wide, encompassing all of the three square feet in the pot.

"You know your herbs, lad," she said approvingly.

Dyre shook his head. "The Maiden used to read botany texts to me so I could get to sleep."

She chuckled again and Dyre felt as if she was laughing with him instead of against him. "That's hardly a bedtime story."

Dyre smiled, agreeing with her, but he didn't say that that was all that the Maiden could give him. It was her one indulgence, and she could never step from the tower to see the plants she so loved.

"I still remember a lot of it," he said fondly. "She had a fondness for English flora. She was intrigued how the limestone gave home to such deadly poisons."

"She seems interesting, this Maiden."

Dyre looked at her but there was nothing but innocent curiosity on her face. "She is very kind," Dyre said.

He could not help the softening of his voice or the wistful expression on his face. Professor Spout, as was her name, talked with him for a bit longer, making no mention of the bruises on his face. However, she had other plants to attend to and he a castle to explore. They parted ways, promising to speak again because she had a student she thought he might like.

He went the to the Astronomy Tower. The odd gewgaws were foreign to him, but he did recognize the sextants and spyglasses. The telescopes were hunky things that looked uncomfortable sitting at the edge of the tower. The long funnels were top-heavy and sagged over the turret morosely.

Dyre ran his fingers over its metallic surface, wondering what such a creature could make of the heavens. Everything felt a little dead up here, like it was once alive but was now decaying. He didn't know where the thought came from, as everything was polished and neatly tucked into cubbies and corners. It looked used and used well, but without observers, it just seemed… empty, as redundant as that was. Like it was waiting for some type of resurrection.

The Tower at Durmstrang was taller than this one, host to more rooms and more people. It was home to many as opposed to this, which was only a classroom. The wind whipped through, tossing autumn leaves and the tangy tint of an English September. It tasted finely of fire.

The halls were more crowded on his way back down. He was sure no one would recognize him as it was still early and his fellow shipmates had yet to feel comfortable enough to wander. The students were clumped together in varying displays of excited whispers and sleepy drooping.

Dyre laughed silently at them. They would never survive the harsh training of Durmstrang. It was very sheltered here, he concluded. Perhaps England had a different type of strength than Scandinavia, but he couldn't as yet see it.

"Well, if it isn't the little bastard," someone said in an overly chipper voice.

A hand clapped his back, making him stumble. Dyre turned around scowling. He was wrong. Apparently someone besides him wanted to explore the castle. This was bad. It was common knowledge that Karkaroff had ordered him to stay on the ship. He felt someone grab his arms.

Farkoff, the Prince of the Northern Den, was smirking smugly at him, his two lackeys, Lockjaw and Crowley, grinning as they gripped his arms. Dyre knew it would be better not to resist. These people were little more than bullies. They were cowards and, worse, bored. They could hardly do him any real damage. He was hardly afraid of Farkoff, whose purse was bigger his mouth and certainly sharper than his bite.

Karkaroff spoiled kids like this, and Dyre most often felt sorry for them. Boys going to the Academy were going to get whipped and killed because they were pampered in Durmstrang.

Still, their hands on him made his blood boil. Their pride was unearned. Dyre could only think about all the times the first years scrubbed the floors, polished swords, shoes and buckles while this snot sat there watching. And he had the nerve to stand there with his smug grin. He didn't deserve his father's blood.

So while Dyre should have remained still, he struggled instead. The hands gripped tightly, bruising his bruises. His spirit, yet to break after so many beatings and punishments, entertained them. Farkoff was arrogant enough to think he could be the one to break him as well.

"Well, men, I say we take the bastard-child to the headmaster," he said, anticipating a beating.

Thor and Odin, the boy was an imbecile! Karkaroff was sure to be in the Great Hall. This was England, not Iceland. This would only embarrass Karkaroff. Farkoff was going to be lucky to be able to stand after Karkaroff was done with him, regardless of who his father was.

"Foul stillborn!" Dyre shouted, still struggling as Farkoff helped lead them away. "Do you have any idea what you are doing?"

Farkoff backhanded him across the face, like he would do a woman. Dyre simmered, glaring. He was manhandled into the Great Hall, squirming in their hold like a snake. Lockjaw and Crowley had strong grips on him from long years of practice roping boars and chasing unwilling women.

The Hall stilled when they dragged him in, his writhing increasing to a point where Crowley was about to break his wrist. He might still escape. Karkaroff could just say he was misbehaving. He wouldn't have to explain to his students in front of the new faces and colleagues that Dyre was outside of his control.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

He was suddenly pushed down before the headmaster. He quickly gained his feet, backing far enough that he was outside Karkaroff's immediate reach but close enough so that Farkoff's cronies wouldn't grab him. He made the mistake, however, of meeting Karkaroff's eyes.

Dear Odin, the man was pissed. He was beyond pissed. He was enraged. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were hidden in his ghastly beard. The darkness of his gaze was oil-slick and demonic, like a barren wasteland.

Karkaroff might be a coward, but he was an evil bastard with the cane, especially when he felt his huge ego was being threatened. Dyre often walked that line, occasionally tripping over, but it had never been this bad. There had never been this many witnesses to his lack of command with Dyre. Dyre had never made such a spectacle of himself in front of guests. It was one of the ultimate embarrassments.

Dyre didn't even take in the rest of the hall. The teachers' concerned and fearful eyes. Victor's muttered curse or the Slytherin blonde's curious eyes. Not even the smirking grins of Farkoff, Lockjaw, and Crowley behind him.

Karkaroff's gaze smoldered with coming fire, his beard bristling. "Take him to the ship," he said clearly to no one in particular, just the thick raging voice that had to be obeyed.

Farkoff and his lackeys weren't grinning anymore. Perhaps they had finally realized they had made a mistake. Dyre did not wait for Crowley to grab him, violently brushing his hand off and storming passed their surprised faces.

He was going to get punished so badly tonight, and it was their fault. He should have been more careful, more aware of his surroundings. He should have been able to push them off and run. He would have gotten punished but, Freya, it wouldn't have been that bad.

As he stalked passed the Slytherin table, rage rolling off of him in waves, he raised his head to try to meet Victor's stare but was met instead with grey. It was beautiful really, like the colorless pitch of the Crystal Lake, drab clouds bringing freezing, dangerous rain. Ash on snow.

But as soon as he saw it, he looked away. He knew well what the scar on his face did, and it was almost too easily to dismiss the quiet but powerful smolder in those cool eyes. He left the Hall, Farkoff, Lockjaw, and Crowley following him, their plans ruined and none of them happy about it.

The walk to the boats was silent, brisk, and filled with cruel anticipation of the cane breaking over their shoulders.