"Albus."

He grasped the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake. "A pleasure to see you again, Barty."

It had been years since he last sat face to face with Bartemius Crouch, Sr. The two of them worked closely together after Voldemort's demise, with Crouch winning a landslide special election over Minister Bagnold once it became obvious the Death Eaters had no plans of putting down their wands.

Barty Crouch seemed, at the time, the perfect candidate to prosecute the conflict. Unrelenting, hard-nosed, and pugnacious, Crouch's fiery speeches over the Wireless reignited the fervour of a populace tired from nearly a decade of civil war. Auror enlistment skyrocketed, and even Albus had believed the new Minister's draconian measures might indeed bring peace.

Unfortunately, within six months of his assuming office, Barty Crouch, Jr. made an appearance of his own. Unmasked, he led a Death Eater ambush against the Knight Bus, destroying the transport and slaughtering seventeen witches and wizards onboard and leaving only the conductor alive to tell the tale.

That scandal, that the Minister's own son was a leading figure on the opposing side of the civil war, combined with Crouch's wife dying from illness soon after, marked the end of his tenure. Barty Crouch, Sr. resigned in disgrace, disappearing inside the Ministry's bureaucracy, a broken man who'd lost everything.

Albus half suspected the only reason Barty still worked was merely to provide himself a reason to wake up.

"I called you here because I wanted to run an idea past you."

"Indeed? Please, go on."

"I'm sure you're aware that Minister Ogden's been mounting a lobbying campaign to bring the Quidditch World Cup to Britain."

He nodded. It was hardly a secret. "Yes, Scotland making the Final last time was quite a boost to the people's spirits."

"Well, he failed. It won't be announced 'til next month, but the Cup will be held in the Tibetan Plateau. The international board felt our isles were too 'prone to political instability'."

"One can hardly blame them," Albus pointed out.

"We'd have made it work," Crouch grumbled. "No matter. With the Cup out of reach, Minister Ogden's instructed me to seek out new venues to increase Great Britain's standing in the world."

It didn't take much political acumen to spot the reasoning for that command. "Tiberius is already posturing for reelection? He just won last year."

Crouch shrugged. "The reason I asked you here is, how would you feel about resurrecting the Tri-Wizard Tournament?"

"Absolutely not. Surely you're aware of the reasons it was discontinued in the first place."

"I like to think that we've advanced in the last two centuries. There's no ironclad rule that states it need be a meat grinder."

"Lectures on progress seem out of place when you're proposing placing children at risk to boost a politician's standing."

Crouch grimaced at his riposte. "We could limit participation to of-age students. No one's suggesting we hold the tournament next week."

"I'm surprised you would agree to this, Barty. I never thought you the type to endorse this sort of meaningless frivolity."

"Before, you'd have been right." Crouch sagged in his seat, tossing the quill he held onto the desktop. "But since I took over International Magical Cooperation, my perspective has changed. You're involved in international affairs, you can't deny you see it, too."

"See what?"

"British wizards have been killing each other for a quarter of a century, Albus! More and more join the fight every day, on both sides! There's no end to it!"

Albus listened to his impassioned plea with a placid demeanour. "And the Tri-Wizard Tournament is the balm to soothe those injuries?"

"No. But hopefully, it will be enough to demonstrate that these isles are capable of producing something other than terrorists."

"I still can't in good conscience support-"

"It's not just the Ministry and the general perception of Great Britain that's at risk," Crouch interrupted. "I've heard rumours of late, suggesting a new European school is in the works."

Albus stilled. "You're referring to Kitezh?"

"I am. It would seem that after nearly a century in the dark, Russia is finally taking control of their own destiny. The lesson is illustrative - as wizards in the east rise, would you have our people descend into the same barbarism they only escaped?"

"The situations are hardly similar," Albus mused while his mind worked over his other problem. "I presume, if I were to agree to this enterprise, it would be the same competitors as in the past?"

He nodded. "Durmstrang never wanted to abandon the tournament in the first place. And Beauxbatons will surely agree, if only to avoid the loss of face that would result from a refusal." Crouch hesitated, then went on. "Hogwarts is the greatest magical school in the world. Let's demonstrate to everyone why."

Albus stroked his beard, not replying for several seconds. "When would the tournament take place?"

"The same year as the Quidditch World Cup. Naturally, Hogwarts would host the event."

"So that the Minister can smooth over losing one international event by substituting another?" Privately, Albus thought it a fool's errand to try and convince Durmstrang and Beauxbatons to send schoolchildren to Britain, but that was Crouch's problem, not his. "Four years. Naturally, I'll need to set up meetings with the other headmasters, to begin to plan and coordinate the tasks and logistics."

"Of course."

"Madam Maxime and I enjoy a friendly relationship, but things are not so cordial with Durmstrang's headmaster. Perhaps you could exert some pressure in that direction."

"What's the problem there?"

"You didn't know? Igor Karkaroff assumed the position three years ago."

Crouch's eyes narrowed in fury. "Karkaroff? A bloody Death Eater, in charge of a school?!"

"I'll contact Maxime, and set up an initial meeting to discuss the idea." Albus rose from his seat. "If you should succeed in obtaining a meeting with Durmstrang, let them know I'll travel there. Given Igor's… dealings in Great Britain, it's understandable he might hesitate in coming to meet me, here, alone. I'm more than willing to visit Durmstrang to begin planning."

"Of course. I appreciate your cooperation, Headmaster."

Albus might have said the same thing in reply, but remained silent. If Barty could get him inside Durmstrang, it would make the tournament's revival worthwhile. The Scandinavian castle could certainly, after all, be considered a place where Gellert made his mark.

Harry sat in the back row of the classroom, leaning his head against the wall with his eyes closed.

"Before we move on, are there any questions? Yes, Svenson, go ahead."

His robes rustled, fingers absentmindedly stroking his bent wand hidden in his sleeve.

"Yes sir. Is there not a common slavonic incantation for this curse? Why are we learning the Latin variation?"

"An insightful query," their Dark Arts professor said approvingly. "Five points to Novotny Assembly. Indeed, many of the curses you will learn in this class during your time at the Durmstrang Institute will be in languages unfamiliar to you. Unlike charms or transfiguration, Dark magic incantations remain untranslated. Would anyone care to guess why this is so? Semonov, go ahead."

Maksim's voice was confident and clear in his response. "Dark Arts have a higher emotional component than standardised spells. Power and feeling are the two primary orders of a curse's composition."

"Exactly," their professor said approvingly. "Dark Arts are about power. Ten points to Semonov Assembly. Does anyone else have questions on the Hair Loss Curse? No? Very well, let's- Haraldson? Is something the matter?"

"I'd like to try the spell."

"Er, what?"

"I want to try casting this curse," he said again, rising from his desk.

"Haraldson," he said, "Today was merely an introduction to the curse. We haven't finished covering the theory. I won't let you waste class time-"

"I can do it. I want to do it."

"Is that so?" the professor asked sarcastically. "After an abbreviated introductory lecture, you're so certain?"

"Yes," Harry said simply.

There was a scattering of scoffs and giggles from his classmates, but Harry kept his eyes on the Dark Arts instructor. His fingers squeezed the shaft of his wand, familiar arcs of electricity thrumming through his veins.

"Very well. Ambition is a worthy impulse, and should be encouraged and not punished. The incantation is calvorio, and the wand movement-"

"Cal-fworo," Harry incanted, lazily jabbing his wand at their professor.

A purple ray of light erupted from the bent, white tip, passing first over the man's shoulder. Harry quickly redirected the stream of energy, aiming more carefully to allow it to climb the side of his professor's neck and over his left ear before it sputtered out.

Tentatively reaching up to feel the bald spot where the spell struck him, the Dark Arts professor looked down at the floor around him, then brushed his hands over the shoulders of his robes. "But- where is-" he sputtered. "How did you do that?"

"I told you I could," Harry pointed out.

"No, you- that wasn't the Hair Loss Curse."

"Sir? You're missing quite a lot of hair," Maksim said.

"This curse makes hair fall out, not vanish! It's colouration is orange, not violet, and not a stream like that! And you didn't even pronounce the incantation correctly!"

Murmurs sounded amongst the other students. "He cast the spell, though," objected one of his classmates, who was also in the Rasmussen Assembly. "Shouldn't he get points for that?"

"That wasn't the Hair-Loss Curse-" he bit out, but seeing the raised eyebrows and expectant looks on the other children's faces, seemed to relent. The blonde-haired Swede glared at him for several seconds, still running a hand over the bald patch over the side of his head. "Five points to Rasmussen Assembly. Now get out, you're all dismissed!"

The first years filed out of the class, milling about in the corridor once the door closed behind them.

"How'd you do it?"

"Haraldson, can you teach me how to cast it?"

"Did you see the look on his face? You sure showed him!"

Harry, an ear to ear smile on his face, accepted the congratulations from his peers, catching sight of Maksim nodding with pride from outside the circle of the other students. He also didn't fail to notice Mikhail turn and storm away with a snarl on his face.

"Annndd… we're operational." The Italian wizard, on exchange from the Venetian Syndicate, tapped his wand a final time and stepped back. The board he'd been working on flickered to life, a map of Russia appearing and immediately glows of light flared across the landscape, the largest centered on a familiar lake in the western part of the country.

Sirius looked to the city magister, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed, then to Mundungus, who'd surreptitiously been sipping from a flask. Sheepishly, he offered it to Sirius. "Figured this were a momentous occasion, deserved t'be celebrated, right?"

Rolling his eyes, he declined the - judging by the smell - whiskey, turning back to the Italian. "You've shown our people how to adjust the sensors, to keep wizarding-only settlements from triggering the alarms?"

"I have."

"Very well. You're dismissed." Sirius spent a few moments examining the map, noting where the largest concentrations of magic in-use were. "How much do we know about these locations?"

"Not as much as they know about Kitezh, I'm sure." The magister gathered herself, trying not to seem so overwhelmed at bearing witness to the literal creation of the new Russian Ministry of Magic. "I waited for so long to see this day come…" she breathed, then turned to face him, standing at attention. "On behalf of the Russian people, thank you for what you've done for us."

He'd done it for himself, and for Harry, but Sirius couldn't deny feeling a certain sense of pride. Establishing the rule of law in the Invisible City was a tall order, indeed. Looking at the map of potentially dozens of communities, however, he realised his work was far from complete. "I want you to send out squads of mercenaries to make contact with each of these. Perhaps draw up a pamphlet explaining the laws they'll be expected to follow."

"Is that… wise?" she asked hesitantly. "The problems in Kitezh were exacerbated by the concentration of wizards and witches. It's unlikely these communities are suffering the way our city was."

"You were the one who told me about how the Bolsheviks learned of magic, how their collaborators assisted in the collapse of the Russian Ministry. Are we to bear the risk of history repeating itself?"

"But sending soldiers to their homes? Why not allow them to raise their own aurors to police any trouble-makers?"

His eyes fell on the map once more. She read the same reports and ledgers he did, how could she be so blind? Order did not come cheap. Force was necessary to keep the people in line, and the price of such power required gold that taxation alone could not fund. The shattered condition of the Russian magical community meant that wizards and witches either made do with what they could create on their own or travelled overseas to make purchases, as he'd had to do for Harry's wand.

No, for better or worse, the only thing holding back the lawless chaos prior to his arrival was the profit generated by his prison manufacturing. Putting criminals to work allowed Sirius to undercut foreign production and negotiate exclusive trade deals, but that also meant that - for the time being - the prisons needed to stay full.

Now that he had the ability to police the entirety of the country, he'd sweep through those communities outside of Kitezh's orbit, using their unlawful elements to power a strong, centralised Ministry. Freed from fears of extortion, thievery, and fraud, surely it wouldn't take long for regular wizards and witches to create new businesses and enterprises. Sirius envisioned a future where there was no need for prisons at all, where everyone did as they were supposed to in perfect harmony.

But for now, control was necessary. "Let me know when you've assembled the teams."

Cedric's hand rested on her shoulder, and Hannah wondered if he kept it there to offer support or to prevent her from running. "Mum, Dad, this is Hannah Abbott. Hannah, meet my parents."

She'd worn one of her nicest dresses, a checkered white and yellow affair whose hem extended two inches past her knees, and her hair was done up in pigtails to keep the curls under control. "Hello, it's nice to meet you," she said, offering a weak smile to the two strangers standing in the school's courtyard.

"I'm Florence, and this is my husband, Amos," Mrs. Diggory said, bending over with her hands on her knees to meet Hannah's eye. "I've been so looking forward to finally introducing myself to you!"

"Cedric tells us you're an attentive student and a quick learner. If you've earned his respect, you've already proven yourself to me," Mr. Diggory said, awkwardly patting her on the back. "Is there anything you need? Anything at all? Don't know if my son's mentioned it, but I Head the Department for Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures. Gold's no object!"

Hannah didn't know what to say. The whole thing was- it was completely overwhelming. "We're all really impressed, Dad," Cedric said, filling the silence following Mr. Diggory's statement. "You got promoted two years ago, you can stop mentioning it all the time!"

The older man - her new guardian, Hannah thought with some trepidation - chortled happily and immediately turned to discussing the upcoming quidditch match with his son.

Mrs. Diggory's hands twitched, like she wanted to reach out to Hannah but was restraining herself. "Once they start on quidditch there's no getting them back. Want to come find a seat with me? Amos will be along once Cedric heads for the locker room."

"Alright," she quietly agreed, walking alongside this unfamiliar grown-up on the path to the quidditch pitch. There was a visitor's box ("Seldom used, even by proud parents," Florence confided) where the two of them took their seats. Students had already started streaming in, banners and placards bearing the colours of the two teams that would face on the pitch that morning - Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

The two of them sat in silence for several seconds, then Florence said, "I can still remember the first quidditch match I saw here." Hannah looked over, trying to appear interested, instead of frightened and uncomfortable. She wished she were anywhere but here! "I was a Hufflepuff, too, you know. But that day, it was Slytherin versus Gryffindor."

"Who won, ma'am?"

Florence laughed. "I don't remember, honestly. I felt terribly excited, even though it wasn't even the first quidditch match I attended. My father used to take us to see Wimbourne on my sister's and my birthdays." Her smile shrank, bit by bit, the wrinkles around her eyes smoothing as she emerged from her memories. "My apologies, I don't mean to be insensitive."

"I'm… sorry?" Hannah asked, confused at her abrupt change.

"I don't imagine you've had the chance to make many good memories, and here I am going on about how much fun I had. It's not fair, what you've gone through." Mr. Diggory entered the visitor's box just then, making his way past them to lean against the railing at the edge just in time for the fliers to take to the pitch. "I doubt it's any comfort, coming from someone you just met, but I wish you could have started Hogwarts the way I did. Unburdened, free… happy."

She didn't know what to say, how to reply to that, so Hannah said nothing. She involuntarily stiffened, body turning to stone when Mrs. Diggory touched her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Diggory said quietly, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "Did you- would you rather just watch the game? We don't have to talk, if you don't want to."

It struck Hannah, in that moment, the reality that these people - these strangers - were now her 'family'. These were the people she'd go… home… to, who would sit and eat their meals with her, would tuck her into bed at night, go school shopping and pick out her clothes and-

Her chest heaved, breath coming rapidly in deep, muted gasps as Hannah tried to fight back the panic clawing at her. She didn't want this, didn't want these people. She wanted Auntie Amelia and Susan, she wanted her dad, wanted someone that she knew and loved…

"Hannah?" Mrs. Diggory sounded far away, as though she were speaking from across the pitch. "Are you alright?"

She dug her nails into her palm, using her knuckles to swipe at her burning eyes. "I- I'm just gonna watch the game," she mumbled, moving to stand next to Mr. Diggory who was shouting to Cedric, like he was a coach rather than a father.

Somehow, being ignored by him was easier than Mrs. Diggory's pity. Hannah didn't know what to make of that, ultimately deciding it was easier to focus on the broom-riding players than her internal turmoil.

"Quit that."

"Quit what?"

"That."

"I'm not doing anything!"

"You're lookin' too innocent. Pretending t'look like you're doin' nothing's gonna land you in a 'ole 'eap of trouble one day."

Dung's words faded from his memory, and Harry made a conscious effort to tamp down his excitement. He forced himself to focus on the match in front of him, willing boredom to show on his face as the two players fired off smooth, enchanted marbles onto the table between them.

There was no need to pretend to look bored. This was incredibly dull.

The gobstones tournament had been in full swing all day, and Harry had been present for all of it. Unlike quidditch, dueling, or spell-crafting, the gobstones competition was almost solely the purview of younger years. Harry doubted any of the competitors were older than their third year. Masha was always talking about how much she worried about her final exams, so he supposed that made sense.

Regardless, despite his dislike at playing, much less watching gobstones, Harry found himself in the front row of the crowd of young spectators for the semifinal match. Quiet tension abounded, before Mikhail launched his stone into the ring, striking one of his opponent's and knocking it out of play, the ejected marble immediately propelling a stream of foul-smelling gunk into the face of the other player.

Cheers rang out among Harry's housemates, and after a moment the bored arithmancy professor looked up from their newspaper. "Match goes to Galkin," she said, before going back to her reading.

Harry clapped politely, standing a few steps back from where the other Rasmussen Assembly students were congratulating Mikhail. Red-faced and excited, Harry's nemesis caught sight of him, acknowledging his presence with a smug curl of his lip.

From the moment they met, Mikhail never let up. He always had some insulting comment or a cutting remark ready to unleash. To make matters worse, the Russian student was smart and did well in almost all of their classes. Rasmussen himself had congratulated him a few weeks back for the points he'd earned their Assembly.

Mikhail showed no hesitation in trying to turn his own popularity against Harry, though his efforts largely failed. The older students didn't care about first year rivalries, and their own year-mates were more concerned with trying not to lose any points than with picking sides in a feud that had nothing to do with them. At a school where everything was a competition, conspiring against teammates was hardly encouraged.

In truth, Harry didn't care so much about Mikhail's efforts - the fact that he'd spread such vicious lies about his father was more than enough on its own to earn his fervent ire.

With that thought in mind, he stepped forward. "Nice work." Harry didn't need to feign the grudging tone of his congratulations. "Just the final to go, then."

"I've beaten Nilsson tons of times already," Mikhail boasted, glancing over at the Swedish girl he was to compete for the championship against. "Might as well thank me now, our Assembly will be at the top of the rankings by the end of the day."

"I'll be looking forward to the food, then," Harry said, moving slightly to the side as Mikhail reached out to gather his gobstones. "Here, let me help."

Harry swiftly gathered the round balls, using his free hand to pull back the sleeve of his robes as he let them trickle, one by one into the soft felt bag Mikhail held open.

"Glad you found at least one way to make yourself useful, Haraldson," Mikhail said in a snide tone, before turning away to enjoy the attention from the others.

Harry didn't reply, and when the two competitors took their seats for the championship match, he allowed the crowd to swallow him up, watching from several rows back. A small smile tugged insistently at his lips as Nilsson started out, tossing the first stone into the ring.

The action continued for several turns, the match clearly going in Mikhail's favour. Until, that is, Nilsson scored her third point, one of Mikhail's gobstones propelled out of the ring and rolling to a stop at the edge of the table.

There was a groan among some of the more active observers, immediately overshadowed by grumbles and jeers, quiet at first but growing louder by the second when the expelled gobstone remained still and motionless, rather than firing off a blast of sticky liquid.

"What the hell!" Nilsson demanded, rising out of her seat and standing over the table. "What's this about, Galkin?"

"I don't know!" Mikhail said, reaching for his mysteriously malfunctioning gobstone, but before he could touch it Nilsson slapped his hand away, grabbing it for herself.

The blonde second year examined it closely. "This- it's just a regular marble! He cheated!"

"I didn't!" he protested.

"Liar! Professor! Look at this! It's filed down on one side, too!" She held out the offending object. "No wonder he's gone so far in the tournament!"

The arithmancy professor sighed, setting aside her newspaper and approaching the competition. With her wand, she tapped the stone in Nilsson's hand, then turned to Mikhail. "She's right, Galkin. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I didn't cheat! I don't know where that came from!" He looked at the spectators, seeking sympathetic faces in the crowd. There were none to be found. "The school provided the gobstones, how would I have even gotten this?"

"You could've replaced it after any of your matches, cheater!" Nilsson said, clearly triumphant. "He should be disqualified!"

"But I didn't do anything!"

The professor took the fake gobstone, running her fingers over the slightly flattened edge before tossing it into the ring. It struck another gobstone, almost immediately coming to a halt as the ablated edge slowed its momentum. "She's right. Let me see the rest of your stones."

Mikhail handed over his bag of unused gobstones, and the professor immediately upended it. In a matter of seconds, she'd located three more of the false marbles. "Rasmussen Assembly is disqualified. I can't believe you thought you'd get away with such an obvious scheme. That'll be 75 points, Galkin. If you're going to cheat, at least put some effort into it."

All of the blood drained from Mikhail's face, his eyes darting to the representation of each Assembly's point total on the wall. The bar representing Rasmussen dipped, sliding down into last place.

Buried in the increasingly restive crowd of first, second, and third years, Harry fought to hold back his smile. His fingers twitched, and the movement dropped the four gobstones he'd slipped up his sleeve into his palm.

Maybe he'd give skipping stones a try at the lake later today.

The next day, his Assembly moved out of their dormitory.

Whether through luck or determination, this was the first time all term that Rasmussen ranked below third place. Harry had thought that was bad, but he never could have imagined what they were in for.

It started early, on Monday morning. They filed into their dining 'hall', which was little more than what seemed to be an empty storage room. It was barely lit, with a single torch on one wall providing dim, flickering illumination. For breakfast, they were provided stale bread and a cup of water. Harry suspected Mikhail would have been forced to sit alone, but the small space precluded such action. Furious glares and frequent insults were thrown at him, instead, while they ate their meagre rations in the shadows.

Classes proceeded like normal, except - being lowest-ranked - Rasmussen Assembly was denied access to the library. Without a dormitory, students sat in hallways doing their assignments.

Dinner was a thin paste, not quite watery enough to be called gruel, but far too lacking to be called soup. Even once they were finished, none of the students left their tiny cafeteria.

"We… do we really have to sleep outside?" asked a first year in a tremulous voice.

"Yes." Rasmussen himself bluntly replied.

"You little shit!" A fifth year student flung the remnants of his meal at Mikhail. "This is all your fault! I've got an exam on Friday! How am I supposed to do well now?"

"It wasn't me-" Mikhail started to say, but Krum hushed him.

"Stop denying it. If you're going to cheat, do a better job of it. Trying to defend yourself, when we all know you're lying, only makes it worse."

Eventually, they were able to put it off no longer, and the Assembly marched as one to the courtyard where the first years spent their first night at Durmstrang. It had been cold enough, then, but now, in early November, 'chilly' was nowhere near strong enough to describe the temperature.

The few blades of grass present in the courtyard were already rimmed with frost, and their breath was visible, a collection of puffs of air from the gathered students. Everyone dug out sweaters, robes, cloaks, huddling together in a large group in the open-air space. The older students wandered back and forth, casting warming charms on those too young to manage the spell themselves.

A 'watch' system was assigned, with groups of three sixth years staying up in shifts to recast the charms throughout the night.

Harry watched as Mikhail was pushed away, rebuffed at every attempt to join the rest of the Assembly. It was almost a direct mirror of his own first night at the castle; a fitting revenge. He settled in beneath his cloak, balling up his robes beneath his head, and closed his eyes.

Forever a light sleeper, Harry's ears perked up at the sensation of magic washing over him. He opened his eyes to see a sixth year step past him, casting a warming charm on the boy next to him.

From further away, he heard the incantation to the general dispelling charm.

"Wait- what are you doing?"

"Shut up," a voice hissed. "If your whining wakes the others, you'll find out what real punishment is."

"Please," a familiar voice said, voice halting and teeth chattering audibly. "Please recast the charm! I- I promise I'll get the points back-"

"Shut up! You'll be fine, quit complaining."

Harry raised his head, looking across the courtyard where Mikhail was pleading with a different sixth year. "But it's so cold…"

"Pipe down over there!" a sleepy voice quietly called out, and with that it seemed the confrontation came to an end.

Mikhail curled up in a pitiful ball, furs and cloaks wrapped around himself, his violent shivering apparent even in the darkness. A sick feeling twisted Harry's stomach, one that took him a moment to recognise as guilt. He hadn't intended this, but it was, no question, his fault.

The attending sixth years, their duties complete, lay back down. A few more minutes went by and silence reigned over the courtyard. They'd left him to freeze.

Because of Harry.

He sat up, pulling his wand from his robes. He'd fix this, take care of it himself. Harry didn't know the warming charm, but he was special, the greatest wizard since Grindelwald himself! How hard could it be?

Pretty damn hard, he was forced to admit to himself forty-five minutes later. Testing out his spells on his own hand, Harry's first attempt had discoloured his appendage, turning the skin a burnt orange hue. Another half-hour of feeling his magic and ironing out his intent, and his second try left him feeling as though he'd dipped his fingers into a pot of boiling water, the orange flesh blistered and painfully swollen.

That would hardly do.

'At this rate,' he thought to himself, 'It might be morning before I figure this out.' Not to mention, his hand really, really hurt.

Without any other ideas, Harry stood and gathered his cloak and robes. He walked quietly over to Mikhail, carefully draping his makeshift blankets over the shivering boy. That task accomplished, he turned to head back to the other students, halting only for a moment when at the whispered query.

"Why?"

Harry didn't have an answer. He still didn't like Mikhail - in fact, he couldn't imagine a world where he didn't actively dislike the Russian boy. And if their roles were reversed, he was sure Mikhail wouldn't lose any sleep over Harry's plight. Probably, anyway.

Nonetheless, that was precisely what Harry did - lose sleep. He lay there, willing away the unpleasant feelings inside him, running through all of the ways Mikhail deserved exactly what he got. It was… what was the word, he wondered. Justice. Yea, that's what it was.

Except, he realised as the night wore on, that excuse didn't make him feel any better, not at all. If this was justice, then justice was pretty stupid.

Eventually, Harry fell into a fitful, restless sleep. He awoke just before dawn, slumber interrupted by a strange sound. It was almost like… was that… laughter? Grunting, groaning giggles, as though they came from an amused animal of some kind. Harry sat up, seeking out the source of the unusual noise.

Over there, across the courtyard - something was astride Mikhail's chest. It was vaguely humanoid, no taller than Harry himself, completely hairless with unusual pointed ears. Its body was round, only the arms and legs providing any form to its shapeless figure. The creature flickered back and forth, shifting so unnaturally that Harry rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, uncertain if he was imagining the entire thing.

Mikhail gasped, arching his back and bucking beneath the creature, and a faint, misty light emerged from his open mouth. The creature chortled even more, consuming the light with exaggerated inhalations.

"Hey!" Harry kept his eyes locked on the creature, grabbing at the student next to him. "Wake up, he needs help!"

"Wha-? Wha'zz'it?" the third year next to him groaned, but eventually sat up when Harry kept insistently pulling at him. "What do you want? S'the middle of the night!"

"Look! What do we do?"

"Look at what?" the grouchy student asked, peering through the darkness in the direction Harry pointed. "I don't see anything except the little twit that got us into this mess."

"No- you don't- you mean you can't see?"

"Leave me alone, kid." The third year turned away, pulling his cloak tighter around him.

Was he imagining it? Mikhail murmured, letting out what sounded like a muted cry of distress. It had to be real!

Reaching into his sleeve for his wand, Harry winced as his fingers grazed his burnt and blistered hand. Gripping his wand tightly in his good hand, he stood and began creeping closer and closer towards the creature.

The creature's head swiveled unnaturally on its shoulders, swinging around and locking eyes with Harry when he was no more than six feet away. It fisted its hand in Mikhail's hair and, still staring at Harry, inhaled deeply. The white mist thickened, solidified as he did.

"L-let him go," Harry said, moving to raise his wand.

Before he could complete the motion, or even consider what he was going to do once he'd aimed his wand, the creature sprang off Mikhail and collided with Harry. It was heavy, far more so than its size would indicate, and Harry immediately collapsed under the weight of the strange being, his grip on his wand failing as the back of his head slammed into the courtyard's pavement.

There was more grunting, snorting laughter, and Harry felt a three fingered grip take hold of his hair, tilting his head back…

There was an ear-splitting CRACK, and the creature flew off of Harry, somersaulting in the air to land on Mikhail's limp body with a dull thud. A second later, with more giggles, it was gone.

"What the hell is going on over there? What's all that commotion?!" The voices sounded far away, groggy and confused cries and queries.

His vision was going dark, but just before Harry slipped into unconsciousness, he heard a whisper, so clear it was as though her lips were against his ear.

"Harald had no son."

Everything went black.

A/N: Just under 6k words before author's note.

Harry's found his adventure for his first year at Durmstrang! I've done a fairly heafty amount of research into slavic mythology (well, as much research as google can offer haha), so it should be a fun romp. These adventures will be more akin to how POA was an 'independent' story among canon's 'Voldemort' arc; Harry will learn and grow as a person, but - like the dementors - they won't necessarily be related to the primary conflict of this story.

It's like I said in another chapter - I wanted to actually explore Durmstrang, not just have it be a background. So here we go!

I wonder if I'm being too hamfisted with characters' alignments (lawful, neutral, chaotic, etc). It's pretty important, so I don't want to undersell it, but sometimes I feel like an overemphasis makes the characters too... one-note. Guess we'll see.

Stay safe, healthy, and happy! ~Frickles