A/N: I know the way I've made Quidditch work in Durmstrang seems weird right now but I'll be expanding and clarifying on it further. I'll retro-actively make some edits as we go, the plan's changed a fair bit since when I first started.

Silas is Silas and not Harry because if word got around a kid named Harry Potter was at a school called Durmstrang, the potters would EVENTUALLY find out and remove him from there, thereby defeating the entire point of the story. I promise it isn't going the route of an OC, I'm going to tie it in... eventually.

Apologies if you were notified multiple times I'd forgotten to include a passage.

Silas stirred slowly, the soft warmth of his bedclothes a stark contrast to the biting cold beyond the walls of Durmstrang's fortress-like dormitory. The sun's first rays filtered weakly through the frosted windows, casting a faint golden glow over the dark stone floor. For the first time in what felt like years, Silas woke not to exhaustion or the dull ache of bruises, but to a strange, unfamiliar feeling of lightness. It was as though the relentless weight he'd carried since arriving at Durmstrang had lifted—at least a little.

He stretched his limbs beneath the heavy blankets, feeling the tightness in his muscles—a different kind of tightness, the sort that came from training, not hunger. His arms and legs, once too thin and wiry, had started to fill out. He could see the difference in the mirror that hung crookedly on the opposite wall. The sharp edges of his face, softened by years of malnutrition, were now sharper, more defined. His green eyes, once dulled by the constant struggle to survive, gleamed faintly in the dim light, clearer than they had been in months.

Silas sat up, his feet finding the cold stone floor. He let his toes curl against the coolness before rising. His body moved more easily than it had in a long time, the stiffness gone, replaced by a growing strength that came from Krum's brutal Quidditch training sessions and the steady meals he now ate in the Great Hall. The bags under his eyes were fading, and he no longer flinched at every shadow in the halls. He was still cautious—Durmstrang was no haven for a Muggle-born—but he had adapted.

Three weeks had passed since the Grindelwald incident, though it seemed much longer. That night had weighed heavily on him for days afterward, but now, he was too engrossed in his daily routine to think much about it. There was always something else demanding his attention—classes, study, Quidditch. The grind of Durmstrang life left little room for introspection.

Silas dressed swiftly, pulling his red-and-brown Durmstrang robes over his growing frame. He fastened his belt tightly around his waist, smoothing out the fabric before slipping on his boots. His breath misted slightly in the cold morning air as he adjusted the thick collar of his robe, relishing the warmth it provided. The stone halls would be freezing today—winter had truly arrived.

Shouldering his schoolbag, he stepped out of his dormitory and into the corridors, where the dimly lit torches flickered weakly against the cold, ancient walls. The sound of his boots echoed through the near-empty halls as he made his way toward his first class of the day: Runes.

Runes had always been a fascinating subject for Silas, but it was Professor Katya Ivankov who had turned that fascination into a passion. The tall, regal woman was a force of nature, her presence commanding attention the moment she stepped into the classroom. Her jet-black hair was always swept back into a severe bun, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and thin, pale lips. Despite her cold exterior, there was a fire in her dark eyes whenever she spoke about runes—a fire that drew Silas in, making every lesson feel like a deep dive into some ancient, forgotten world.

Today's lesson had been no different. The classroom had been filled with the soft hum of quills scratching across parchment as Ivankov lectured on the practical applications of rune enchantments. Silas sat near the front, his eyes focused on the shifting rune patterns that danced across the blackboard as Ivankov explained how runes could be used to bind magic to objects. It was intricate work, requiring precision and a deep understanding of the symbols involved.

"The placement of each rune matters," Ivankov had said, her voice slicing through the quiet. "A single miscalculation, and the enchantment could fail—or worse, backfire. Runes are not to be taken lightly. They are the building blocks of our magic, the language of power."

Silas had scribbled furiously in his notebook, his mind racing with possibilities. Runes were more than just symbols—they were keys to unlocking the deeper mysteries of magic, and under Ivankov's tutelage, he was beginning to see how powerful they could truly be. He admired the precision and control required to wield such magic, and though it was challenging, it gave him a sense of purpose. Runes were his way of proving that, despite being Muggle-born, he could master the complexities of the magical world just like any pureblood.

As the lesson ended, Silas packed away his things with a quiet efficiency, hoping to slip out unnoticed. Durmstrang's halls were far less safe outside the watchful eyes of professors, and he had learned to move carefully, avoiding the darker-looking students who seemed to always be lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

He exited the classroom swiftly, his eyes scanning the corridor for any sign of trouble. Over the past weeks, Silas had become adept at spotting the warning signs—the sneers, the whispered jeers, the way certain students would gather in small groups, casting furtive glances his way. He avoided them like the plague. The halls of Durmstrang could be just as dangerous as any battlefield, especially for someone like him.

"Oi! Mudblood, hold up a minute!"

Silas grimaced but didn't stop. The voice was unmistakable—Alexander Rosier, pureblood supremacist and resident bully. Silas had learned long ago that nothing good ever came from engaging with Rosier. The boy, tall and angular, with dark hair and a perpetual sneer, had made it his mission to remind Silas of his place. Silas didn't need reminding. He kept his head down and walked faster, his mind already plotting out the quickest route to safety.

"Mudblood, I said hold up!" Rosier's voice carried through the hall, dripping with disdain.

Silas kept walking, his pulse steady. It wasn't fear that made him avoid Rosier—it was practicality. In a place like Durmstrang, confrontation with someone like Rosier could only end one way, and Silas had no intention of giving him the satisfaction. The professors ensured there was no bullying in the classrooms, but once you stepped outside their domain, it was a different story. The power dynamics of Durmstrang were left to the students, and for Muggle-borns like Silas, that meant navigating a landscape fraught with danger.

The cold, biting wind outside offered some relief as Silas made his way to Care of Magical Creatures. The class was held beyond the stone walls of Durmstrang's fortress, in a sprawling, open area enclosed by an enormous, invisible dome. The magical barrier, barely perceptible to the naked eye, shimmered faintly in the sunlight, keeping the space within warm despite the freezing temperatures outside. The bubble housed not only the greenhouses but also the various pens where the magical creatures were kept for study.

Today's lesson was focused on Fire-Dwelling Salamanders, and Silas couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement. He had always been drawn to magical creatures, their otherworldliness fascinating him in ways that simple spellwork could not. Fire-Dwelling Salamanders were particularly intriguing—they lived in flames, thriving in heat where others would burn.

As Silas and his classmates gathered around the enclosure, Professor Finkel Eindhoven stood at the front, his stout figure framed by the glowing light of the salamanders' fires. Eindhoven was a man of the earth—ruddy-faced and perpetually dusted with dirt from the greenhouses. He spoke with a deep, booming voice, his passion for magical creatures evident in every word.

"Fire-Dwelling Salamanders," Eindhoven began, gesturing to the small creatures that skittered across the heated stones inside the enclosure. "These fascinating beings thrive in fire. They draw their energy from it, feeding off the flames to sustain themselves. Without fire, they would wither and die."

Silas crouched down, watching in awe as one of the salamanders flicked its tail, sending a tiny spray of sparks into the air. Its scales glowed with a deep orange hue, like embers of a dying fire, and the heat radiating from its body was palpable. The creature's small, beady eyes blinked lazily as it basked in the warmth, its movements slow and deliberate.

"These creatures can live for centuries if properly cared for," Eindhoven continued, his voice carrying over the crackling of the flames. "But they require constant exposure to fire. It fuels them, strengthens them. Without it, they are vulnerable."

Silas leaned closer, feeling the warmth on his skin as he observed the salamander's delicate, yet powerful form. There was something almost hypnotic about the way the creature moved, its small body shimmering with latent energy. He imagined what it must feel like to live within fire, to draw strength from something so destructive and yet so vital.

By the time Silas left Care of Magical Creatures, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the grounds. The air had grown colder, the deep chill of winter creeping into the cracks of Durmstrang's walls. Silas pulled his cloak tighter around him, bracing against the biting wind as he made his way to the Quidditch pitch.

Viktor Krum was already waiting for him when he arrived, his dark eyes scanning the empty field. Krum's presence was as commanding as ever, his broad shoulders hunched against the wind as he hovered on his broom, ready for another training session. Over the past few weeks, Silas had become accustomed to Krum's gruff demeanor and relentless training schedule, but today felt different.

"Ready?" Krum's voice cut through the cold air, low and focused.

Silas nodded, mounting his broom and kicking off the ground. The rush of wind greeted him as he soared upward, the icy chill biting at his face. Krum was already circling above, his movements fluid and precise, his eyes trained on the field below as if he could will the Golden Snitch into existence.

They had moved past speed drills, progressing to real Quidditch tactics. Silas had struggled at first to keep pace with Krum, who moved with a grace and speed that seemed impossible to match. But today, Silas was determined. He had been improving, and he knew it.

After several minutes of circling the field, Silas spotted the Snitch—a faint glimmer of gold hovering near the ground, just below where Krum floated. His heart quickened with anticipation. He knew this might be his only chance to catch it before Krum did.

With a sharp intake of breath, Silas shot upward, rocketing straight into the sky, his broomstick vibrating beneath him as he pushed it to its limits. Krum, ever the competitor, followed instantly, his dark eyes narrowing as he misinterpreted Silas's move. Silas climbed higher, feeling the cold air sting his cheeks as the wind whipped past him.

Then, just as Krum closed the distance, Silas pulled back, slowing his ascent before flipping into a sharp dive. The maneuver was fast, fluid, and perfectly timed. He shot downward, his body leaning forward as he cut through the air like a streak of lightning. Krum was left hovering above, momentarily thrown off by the sudden change in direction.

And then, there it was—the Snitch, fluttering just below Krum's position. Silas reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold, fluttering wings before closing around the small, metallic ball. A rush of exhilaration surged through him as he pulled up from the dive, the Snitch held tightly in his grasp.

He couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. He had done it.

Krum hovered nearby, watching him with a faint smile that barely reached his eyes. "Enjoy that catch," he said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "It'll be your last against me."

Silas beamed, the cold air stinging his cheeks, but the warmth of victory spreading through his chest. For a brief moment, he had outwitted Viktor Krum, and it felt like a triumph against the odds.

Silas kept his stride steady as Rosier's voice called after him, the familiar tone of malice barely causing him to flinch anymore. He had learned not to let it show. The best way to survive Durmstrang's labyrinth of hostility was to act like none of it mattered.

But today, as he made his way back to the dormitory after a long Friday of classes, he felt the unmistakable presence of Rosier closing in behind him, along with Roger Stevens and Sigurd Jensen, his ever-present lapdogs. Their footsteps grew louder, quicker, and before Silas could react, strong hands shoved him roughly from behind. He stumbled forward, barely catching himself before slamming into the corridor wall.

Rosier stepped forward, his sneer firmly in place, while Stevens and Jensen flanked him like a pair of overeager hounds. "You think you're a wizard?" Rosier asked, his voice low and venomous. "Just because you've managed to survive this long doesn't mean you're one of us."

Silas glared at him, the anger bubbling up despite his better judgment. "I don't need your approval," he spat, his voice steady but filled with defiance. "I'll end up a better wizard than you could ever hope to be."

Rosier's expression darkened instantly, the smirk slipping from his face. "You? A better wizard?" he said with a short, derisive laugh. "You're a mudblood. The only thing you'll ever be is dirt under our boots."

Silas tried to keep his breathing steady, but his body reacted instinctively as Rosier blocked his path. The sneer on Rosier's face was a familiar one, and as Stevens and Jensen flanked him, Silas felt the air grow colder, the walls seeming to close in.

Before Silas could decide on his next move, Rosier shoved him hard in the chest again and . Silas stumbled, his back slamming into the wall as rough hands grabbed the collar of his robe and yanked him into an empty classroom. His feet barely kept up with the force, and the door slammed shut behind them with an ominous thud. The classroom was dimly lit, the windows fogged from the cold outside, and the chill in the air felt sharper now that he was alone with them.

The room echoed with the sound of their footsteps as they circled him, but Silas barely registered it. He had been here before—cornered, outnumbered. His mind withdrew, pulling inward, as though retreating into a place where the pain wouldn't touch him. This too shall pass, he told himself, the words like a chant, something to hold onto as the darkness pressed in. It had worked before—it would work again.

"You think you can just walk around here like you belong?" Rosier's voice dripped with mockery, his wand already in hand. "Durmstrang's little Muggle-born trying to play with magic. What a joke."

Silas didn't respond. The words barely reached him.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Rosier hissed, circling him like a predator eyeing its prey. "Better than us? You'll never be more than a stain on this school."

The first spell hit Silas square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. His back slammed into the wall, and for a moment, all the air was gone from his lungs. His vision blurred, but before he could recover, another spell struck him in the shoulder. It felt like a physical punch, forcing him to stumble forward, his arms instinctively wrapping around his body to shield himself.

Pain flared through his body, but Silas's mind detached, pulling further away from the present. This too shall pass, he repeated silently, feeling the familiar numbness take over. The bludgeoning hits came faster—one to his ribs, another to his jaw—and time seemed to slip away, lost in the haze of pain and the steady rhythm of his mantra.

The laughter from Rosier and his gang felt distant, muffled, as though coming from far away. Silas barely noticed the words being flung at him—each insult blending into the next. His focus was on surviving, on letting the blows wash over him like waves. His body ached, but his mind stayed locked in that small, protected place.

He didn't know how long it had been before the classroom door creaked open, the sound cutting through the fog like a lifeline. Silas blinked, his senses slowly returning as he realized someone else had entered the room. His vision cleared just enough to see the tall, imposing figure of an upper-year captain stepping inside.

For a moment, relief flooded through Silas's chest. The seventh-year's presence meant the beating would stop, that this nightmare might finally be over.

But that hope was quickly shattered.

"Having fun?" the captain asked, his tone casual, almost bored. He didn't seem particularly concerned about the scene in front of him—if anything, he looked vaguely irritated at the interruption.

Rosier and his lackeys straightened up, their wands lowering slightly as they glanced at the older student. Stevens chuckled nervously, but there was no real fear in their eyes.

The captain's gaze flicked to Silas, taking in the bruises already forming along his jaw and the way he held his side. "Careful with those spells," the captain said lazily. "I can cover up bruises and maybe a broken rib, but if you start breaking him too badly, I won't be able to hide it."

Rosier sneered, clearly annoyed by the interruption. "We were just having a little fun," he muttered, his tone full of irritation.

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, don't go overboard. The professors won't care, but if you kill him, that's a different story."

For a fleeting moment, Silas thought he might have a chance to walk out of this without more pain. But that hope vanished when the captain turned his cold eyes toward him.

Without a word, the seventh-year raised his wand and pointed it directly at Silas.

"Stupefy."

The night at Potter Manor was silent, save for the occasional whisper of wind brushing against the windows. Moonlight cast a pale glow across the room, painting the walls in soft shades of silver. All was still, peaceful, but in her sleep, Lily Potter stirred restlessly, caught in the grip of a nightmare.

She was falling—falling into darkness. The cold stone beneath her hands was rough and unforgiving, the air heavy with tension. She could hear the faint echoes of cruel laughter, distant but unmistakable. Shadows loomed around her, flickering and distorted, but she couldn't make out their faces. There was a weight pressing down on her chest, an overwhelming sense of fear that twisted her insides.

A boy—he was there, somewhere in the darkness. She couldn't see him clearly, his figure blurred at the edges as if he were made of smoke. But she could feel his pain. Every blow, every sharp breath felt like it reverberated through her. He was being hurt, attacked. The spells landed with sickening force, the sound of flesh meeting stone ringing in her ears. She wanted to move, to help, but her body wouldn't respond. She was frozen, watching helplessly as the boy crumpled to the ground, his form shrinking into the shadows.

The pain in her chest deepened, a hollow ache spreading through her as if the boy's suffering was her own. The world around her grew darker, colder, and the feeling of helplessness closed in. Her throat tightened, and she tried to scream—but no sound came.

Then, suddenly, everything dissolved. The darkness lifted, replaced by the familiar warmth of her bedroom. Lily gasped, her body jolting awake as her heart pounded in her chest. The room around her was quiet, but her mind was racing, the fragments of the nightmare still clinging to her like cobwebs.

Beside her, James stirred. "Lils?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep as he turned toward her. "What's wrong?"

Lily pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her breathing. "I—" Her voice caught in her throat, the memory of the nightmare still fresh, but slipping away too quickly for her to grasp. "It was just a dream."

James sat up, concern creasing his brow as he reached for her. "Another nightmare?"

She nodded, though the details were already fading, like mist evaporating in the morning light. But the feeling lingered—the raw, visceral fear and the pain that had pulsed through her so strongly. She could still feel it, as if the dream had left an imprint on her skin.

"There was someone," she whispered, almost to herself. "Someone in trouble. He was… being hurt, and I—" She shook her head, unable to find the words. "I couldn't do anything. It was so real."

James wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. His warmth was comforting, grounding her in the present, but Lily's mind was still caught in the haze of the nightmare. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice soft and reassuring. "It was just a bad dream."

There had been something about it, something raw and real, as though she had experienced it, not merely witnessed it. She had felt his pain, shared it, even though she didn't understand why.

Lily rested her head against James's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as she tried to shake off the last remnants of the dream. But the strange sense of connection wouldn't fade. It lingered, like a thread tied to something—or someone—far away.

James rubbed her back soothingly, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room. "You've been under a lot of stress. These nightmares… they'll pass."

Lily nodded, though she wasn't sure if she believed it. She had had nightmares before—everyone did—but this one had felt different. It wasn't just the fear or the helplessness. There had been something about the boy in the dream, something she couldn't quite explain. She didn't know who he was or why she had dreamed of him, but the sensation that she should remember more gnawed at her.

"I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It didn't feel like just a nightmare."

James tightened his grip around her, his breath warm against her hair. "Whatever it was, it's over now," he said gently. "You're safe. I'm here."

Lily closed her eyes, trying to let his words soothe her, but the memory of the dream clung to her mind, stubborn and unrelenting. She had felt that boy's pain as if it were her own, and even now, the echo of it pulsed faintly in her chest. It made no sense.

Lily placated herself as best as she could, she supposed she was doomed to another night of restless tossing and turning.

Silas woke to a faint, steady light filtering through narrow, frosted windows. The infirmary was quiet, save for the soft crackling of a nearby hearth and the gentle rustle of curtains moving in the breeze. He blinked, the weight of sleep still heavy on him, but as the dull ache in his body began to make itself known, the memory of Rosier's attack resurfaced like a bad dream.

Every part of him hurt—his ribs throbbed, his jaw felt swollen, and his limbs were stiff as though he had been lying in bed for days. He shifted slightly, wincing as a sharp pain shot through his side, the bruises deep and fresh.

"Careful," came a soft, weary voice.

Silas turned his head toward the sound and saw the infirmary matron approaching. She was a middle-aged witch, her face lined with years of hard work and sleepless nights. Her long grey hair was tied back into a loose bun, and though she moved with a no-nonsense air, there was a glint of warmth in her eyes. She carried a tray of vials filled with potions, their faintly glowing contents swirling inside.

"Drink this," she said quietly, setting the tray on the bedside table and passing Silas a vial of thick, green liquid.

Silas reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took the vial. His throat felt tight as he swallowed the bitter concoction, the potion burning all the way down. Almost instantly, a wave of relief washed over him as the worst of the pain dulled, though it did little to erase the deep bruises that lined his body.

The matron watched him carefully, her eyes lingering on the purple and black marks along his neck and jaw. She sighed softly, shaking her head. "It's not right, what they're doing to you."

Silas didn't answer, instead pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He knew she meant well, but Durmstrang was a place where caring could only go so far. He had long accepted that some things couldn't be changed—not by potions, not by well-meaning words.

The matron sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, her gaze softening as she studied him. "You've been out for two days," she explained, her tone gentle but tinged with frustration. "I've done what I can to heal the worst of your injuries, but the bruises... they'll take time to fade."

Silas nodded slightly, not trusting himself to speak. His whole body ached, but the sharpness of the pain had been dulled by the potion. He could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, but there was no room for rest now.

"I wish I could do more," she said, her voice softer now, barely above a whisper. "But you know how it is here. These kinds of injuries… no one listens."

Silas met her gaze, seeing the conflict in her eyes. She cared, that much was clear, but Durmstrang's power structure was built to crush anyone who stood in the way. Even the staff had limits, and there was nothing the matron could do to stop Rosier or those like him.

"You'll have to be careful," she continued, her brow furrowed with concern. "They'll keep coming after you, and I can only patch you up so many times."

"I know," Silas murmured, his voice hoarse.

With a sigh, the matron stood and placed another vial beside him. "Take this if the pain returns. But get up, have breakfast. You'll need your strength."

Silas watched her move on to the next patient, her face a mixture of resignation and care. She was trying, but Durmstrang was a place where even well-meaning staff were powerless to stop the cruelty that happened just beyond their reach.

He gingerly stood, pulling on his robes with slow, deliberate movements. His body still felt battered, and when he glanced at the bruises beneath his uniform, he winced at the dark purple and blue blotches that spread across his skin. But there was no time to dwell on the pain. Durmstrang never paused for anyone—least of all someone like him.

The Great Hall was already bustling with the sounds of students chattering and laughing when Silas arrived. He shuffled toward the long tables, his movements sluggish and stiff. His body still ached from the beating, but he forced himself to focus, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact with the other students.

Simon spotted him immediately and waved him over, concern flashing across his face as Silas dropped into the seat across from him.

"Merlin, you look like you got hit by a Hippogriff," Simon muttered, his eyes scanning Silas's face for any signs of what had happened.

Silas forced a weak smile, though it barely reached his eyes. "Close enough," he muttered. "Rosier and his gang cornered me Friday. I've been out since then."

Simon's expression darkened, anger flickering in his usually calm eyes. "Are you going to tell someone?"

Silas shook his head. "What's the point? It won't stop them. If anything, it'll just make things worse."

Simon frowned, his gaze flickering across the room to where Rosier sat, surrounded by his cronies. They were laughing, Rosier looking completely unbothered, like the events of Friday hadn't even crossed his mind since. He glanced in Silas's direction for the briefest moment, flashing a smirk, before turning back to his conversation. The indifference in his eyes was chilling.

Simon lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. "You're right. They don't care about rules here. You'll have to handle this on your own."

Silas nodded. He already knew that. He had known it from the moment he arrived. Durmstrang wasn't a place where Muggle-borns like him could rely on the system to protect them. Here, you either survived on your own, or you didn't survive at all.

At the head table, Professor Markov Vulchanova watched the students with his usual calm demeanor, though his sharp blue eyes had been trained on Silas since the boy entered the hall. He saw the stiffness in Silas's movements, the bruises faintly visible on his jaw, and the way his shoulders sagged under the weight of what had clearly been a brutal attack.

His jaw tightened, but his expression remained neutral. Vulchanova had seen this kind of thing before—too many times. The power struggles between students were an open secret at Durmstrang, and though it angered him, he knew there was little he could do. The school operated on its own set of rules, and Karkaroff's favored staff ensured that certain students—those with the right bloodlines—could get away with just about anything.

Rosier's family had deep connections. They had fled Britain after the fall of Voldemort, slipping into the shadows of the magical world, and now they were untouchable, even here. Vulchanova knew that stepping in would be risky—perhaps even dangerous. Karkaroff would not take kindly to someone interfering with the hierarchy he so carefully maintained.

But it didn't sit right with Vulchanova. Silas was talented, driven, and had more potential than most of the purebloods who lorded over him. He didn't deserve to be crushed by the weight of ancient prejudices and petty rivalries.

Vulchanova's gaze lingered on Silas for a moment longer, then he turned away, his face unreadable.

After breakfast, Silas and Simon made their way toward the dormitory, the usual morning bustle around them. The soreness in Silas's body had lessened, but the weight of what had happened still clung to him like a shadow.

"Silas," a voice called out behind him, and Silas turned to see Professor Vulchanova approaching. Simon gave him a nod, understanding the unspoken command, and continued on his way, leaving Silas alone with the professor.

"I've been watching your progress," Vulchanova said, his voice calm but measured. "Especially your training with Krum."

Silas shifted slightly, unsure of where the conversation was headed. "Yes, sir?"

"Quidditch works a bit differently here than in other schools," Vulchanova explained, his sharp blue eyes assessing Silas closely. "Each professor fields their own team, and students try out for positions. We compete against each other in weekly matches."

Silas blinked, surprised. He had known about the Quidditch matches, but he hadn't realized how deeply the professors were involved. Also the comment on the other stools was effectively irrelevant for him, not that he would know how Quidditch works anywhere, let alone Durmstrang.

"I've seen your skills, particularly as a Seeker," Vulchanova continued. "My team is looking for a new Seeker."

Silas stared at him, the weight of the offer settling in. "You want me to try out for your team?"

Vulchanova nodded. "Your friend Krum is trying out for the Seeker position on Professor Korolev's team. He's a strong player, I believe in your training with him, your own skills have grown to be quite.. formidable."

Excitement surged in Silas's chest. The idea of being on a Quidditch team, of competing, gave him a sense of purpose. For a moment, the weight of the past few days lifted.

As Silas walked away from the conversation, however, Vulchanova's thoughts remained fixed on the larger picture. He knew why he had offered Silas the spot on his team, and it wasn't just because of his skill. Joining a team under a professor's guidance offered more than competition—it offered protection. A student on a professor's Quidditch team gained status, allies, and a measure of safety that someone like Silas desperately needed.

Vulchanova wasn't sure if Silas had realized that yet, but in time, he would. It wasn't just about the game—it was about survival.

The usual hum of conversation filled the Great Hall as students gathered for Sunday dinner, the torches floating high above casting a warm, flickering light across the long tables. Silas sat next to Simon, still feeling the bruises from earlier that week, but the dull ache had faded, replaced by a sense of quiet exhaustion. The comforting aroma of roast meats and warm bread filled the air, momentarily taking Silas's mind off the harsher realities of Durmstrang.

The Hall seemed unusually lively tonight, with students speaking in low murmurs and sharing whispered rumors. There was a sense of anticipation hanging in the air, and as Silas glanced around, he noticed several professors exchanging glances with one another. Something was brewing.

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and the chatter began to subside. A lanky man, draped in red Durmstrang robes, strode purposefully into the hall, his steps echoing against the stone floor. His sharp features and piercing eyes commanded attention, and he moved with an air of authority. The murmur of conversation slowly quieted as the man approached the head table.

The man cleared his throat, then addressed the room, his voice booming despite his thin frame. "I am Antonin Draganov, a Director on the Board of Durmstrang," he announced, his voice resonating through the hall.

Immediately, the room was filled with a buzz of excitement and speculation. Students leaned toward one another, whispering, and the professors shifted in their seats, their expressions tightening with anticipation. Silas exchanged a glance with Simon, who raised an eyebrow. It was clear now—something big was about to happen.

Draganov raised a hand, calling for silence, but the hall continued to hum with excitement. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the floating orb torches above flickered and released a rain of golden sparks over the students, gently falling like glittering embers. The hall quieted almost instantly, the sparks extinguishing in midair before they could cause harm.

Draganov nodded in satisfaction and continued. "The Board has made its decision regarding the next Headmaster of Durmstrang."

The room was suddenly tense with curiosity. All eyes were locked on the lanky man at the head of the room, some students barely able to contain their whispers. Who would take over as Headmaster? Would it be someone powerful? Intimidating? Someone who could maintain the rigid control of the school?

"The directors have selected Professor Filibar Thompson as the interim Headmaster for the year."

The hall erupted with chatter again. Laughter, disbelief, and whispers of surprise rippled through the student body. Filibar Thompson—the pudgy, slightly disheveled Potions Master with a penchant for rambling about his Potioneer of the Year award—had been chosen as interim Headmaster?

"Professor Thompson?" Simon muttered, stifling a laugh. "You've got to be joking."

Silas couldn't help but smirk as well. The idea of the kindly, though vain, professor running Durmstrang was a ridiculous thought to everyone. But before the chatter could grow too loud, the floating torches rained sparks again, quieting the students in an instant.

Thompson stood awkwardly at the head of the table, his round, ruddy face flushed with surprise—and perhaps a bit of pride. His usually singed and stained robes had been replaced by fresh, formal ones, though they still looked slightly wrinkled, as if he hadn't quite gotten the hang of wearing them.

"Ahem!" Thompson cleared his throat nervously, his booming voice momentarily faltering. "Well, uh, thank you, Director Draganov, and, er, the Board of Directors for, um, placing their confidence in me… as interim Headmaster."

A few stifled giggles from the students could be heard, but Thompson didn't seem to notice. He was already lost in his speech.

"I know some of you may be wondering why me, of all people, was chosen. Well, let me remind you," Thompson puffed up slightly, "that I am the receiver—" he emphasized the word, holding up a finger dramatically, "of Daily Potioneer Magazine's Potioneer of the Year award!"

A ripple of poorly contained laughter spread through the hall, but Thompson pressed on, seemingly oblivious. "And, let us not forget, that I have been teaching here for decades! Why, I've seen students come and go—some of them are in important positions today! And, of course, I have been published in several—yes, several—prestigious journals on the art of potion-making."

He puffed out his chest proudly, his eyes gleaming with what he clearly thought was an impressive record of accomplishment. The professors at the head table exchanged amused looks, but no one interrupted him. Thompson was on a roll.

"And, er," Thompson continued, "while I'm Headmaster, we'll be ensuring that Durmstrang continues to excel in its standards of education and magical prowess—particularly in Potions!" He gave a small, self-satisfied smile before nodding toward Draganov.

There was a moment of silence, and then Director Draganov stood again, his cold demeanor unchanged as he concluded, "In the interim, Professor Slughorn from Great Britain will replace Professor Thompson as Potions Master."

That announcement brought a fresh wave of murmurs. Some students whispered curiously about this new professor, others joked about Thompson's legacy in Potions now taking a backseat to Slughorn's arrival.

As the hall settled back into its usual routine of serving dinner, Silas and Simon couldn't help but snicker at the whole situation.

"Well," Simon began, leaning toward Silas, "it seems Professor Thompson's vanity has finally won him something bigger than a magazine award."

Silas grinned, shaking his head. "Maybe he'll hang his Potioneer of the Year award above the Headmaster's desk, just so he can see it every day."

"Or better yet," Simon added, "maybe he'll make us all memorize his speech about it—just in case anyone forgets."

The two of them chuckled quietly, feeling the weight of the week begin to lift, if only for a moment. The absurdity of the situation had managed to lighten the mood, even with the lingering bruises and the ever-present tension of Durmstrang.

"Can you imagine," Simon said, "Thompson leading Durmstrang? His award will sit in higher places than he ever dreamed."

"Maybe he'll commission a statue of himself," Silas replied with a smirk. "Award in hand, of course."

As they laughed quietly, Silas felt a small spark of hope amidst the chaos.