Draco of Durmstrang

A chill wind blew down the draughty corridor, causing dried pine needles to skitter over the stone-paved floor. Draco Malfoy pulled his wolverine fur-lined hood tighter around his face, aware of the prickling of frozen spikes of fur against his temples, but choosing to ignore it. At this time of year, the weather was drawing in for winter and the students of Durmstrang started to wear their fur-lined cloaks inside the great keep.

It was early, six in the morning, but Viktor always liked a fire to be burning hot and established in his suite before he returned from early Quidditch practice. Draco leaned against the heavy wooden door and pushed against the stone floor with his feet to open it. The doors inside the Durmstrang Institute were very thick to keep out the intense cold and keep in any vestiges of heat. Ordinarius Karkaroff, the head teacher, preferred fires to only be used for magical purposes, but Viktor was a favourite and Karkaroff tended to overlook some of the star Quidditch player's trespasses regarding school rules.

Draco was familiar with the cold stone walls of Viktor's living quarters. The main room was the older boy's personal living room, and two rooms either side were his private bedroom and privy. Magical lanterns shone from burnished metal brackets and ancient tapestries of wolf hunts decorated the walls, but Draco had seen them before. He took off his fur mittens and fought an impulse to tuck his hands inside the long sleeves of his cloak. The cold bit hard and his pale, thin hands turned pink.

Building Viktor's fire was one of Draco's favourite tasks. He forgot the cold as he swept the fireplace of ash and laid fresh logs into the clean fireplace, thinking earnestly of the blaze that would warm his flesh and push away the biting cold. When the fire was laid and ready, Draco cracked his knuckles to wake his hands up and reached for his wand.

'Feuer und flamme sein!' He flicked his wand at the fireplace and a bright flame burst from each of the logs, quickly catching and filling the fireplace with a cheerful, warm, bright light.

Draco leant back on his heels and held his hands out in front of the fire, feeling the sensation return to his fingers. He pushed back his hood and began to tidy up the living space. Viktor was not as messy as others in his year, but he was not particularly tidy, either. Draco had quickly learnt the few cleaning spells that would make his job easier.

'Aufräumen,' Draco's incantation sent a few stray pillows back to their rightful place on Viktor's high-backed, wooden chair.

It was a Durmstrang custom that students of fifteen and over choose a 'Diener', a younger student to serve them. It was thought that the Dieners would learn from their close proximity to the older pupils and learn respect, humility and adopt a more mature attitude as a result. Viktor had chosen Draco in the first week of term, when Draco was an impressionable, homesick eleven-year-old.

Draco had quickly learned that Viktor didn't treat him as badly as other fifth formers treated their younger students, but he resented the hard, menial tasks he was expected to perform for Viktor. But fire, fire was a luxury Draco enjoyed daily and it was usually enough to raise his spirits for the day ahead.

He stared into the flames and thought about his parents. Four years ago they decided to send him to Durmstrang, and each summer he decided to tell them that he hated it. He hated being a Diener, he hated the food, he hated the cold, and he hated Ordinarius Karkaroff. But every time he tried to get the words out, he couldn't. He was heir to the House of Malfoy. Deserting wasn't an option.

*****

Draco Malfoy peered around the doorframe of the grand dining hall, at his parents. It was the night before his eleventh birthday and he was waiting to say goodnight. Narcissa Malfoy, resplendent in a gown of cloth-of-silver and ropes of silver-mounted emeralds, and Lucius Malfoy, dressed in forest green robes and a black velvet smoking jacket, glowered at each other down the length of the long mahogany dining table.

Draco ate with his governess in his apartments, but knew that his parents dined together at eight in the evening. Stealing a glance at the tall grandfather clock in the hall behind him, Draco could see that it was nearly ten and was curious. What could have kept his parents in the dining hall this late? Draco had expected to find them in their apartments, dancing to an elegant waltz or a quick, sharp tango. He loved to watch his parents dance, they seemed to read each other's thoughts, to know their steps and each other so well that they were almost one dancer, moving fluidly from one step to the next.

'I don't want him to go to that school,' Narcissa flared her nostrils and wrung her beautiful hands. 'It's so far away, they don't even speak English there, how will he cope?'

'We will get him a tutor, Cissa, and don't forget, Draco and I are descended from Armand Malfoi, a great linguist who could speak almost every language in Europe, including parseltongue. I doubt Draco would have a problem with the language.' Lucius took a sip of wine from a crystal goblet, fortifying himself against his wife. The fight had been long and hard and had soured an excellent dinner and evening that had potentially could have been pleasant. Lucius breathed deeply, preparing for the next onslaught.

'I'm not doubting that our son is intelligent enough to learn another language, but he would have to speak it constantly to be confident enough to use it as his main tongue. Don't you think it's unfair, Lucius?' Narcissa pleaded, hoping that her husband would understand her concerns and stop brushing them under the carpet. She wasn't warming to his idea to send their only child to a school that was not only out of the country, but was somewhere in eastern Europe. She didn't like the idea of Draco being somewhere. She wanted to know where it was, how far away he would be, what he would be facing when he got there. Lucius didn't seem to understand her fears.

'You dismissed Beauxbatons Academy straightaway and we Malfoys have been pupils there for centuries. What was I to do, I was forced to look for a different school and Durmstrang is the only other magical school in Europe, Cissa.'

Narcissa fiddled with her cutlery, making a screeching sound on her silver charger plate. Lucius set his teeth and closed his eyes against the painful sound.

'Sorry.' Narcissa smiled sweetly and laid her cutlery down once more.

'Cissa,' Lucius chastised, and smiled as his strong-willed wife dropped her gaze guiltily. 'I know you're upset, but I am thinking of Draco's future. Durmstrang will make a good wizard of him. I know the headmaster, he's an old friend. Draco will be safe with Igor.'

'Beauxbatons and Durmstrang aren't close by, Lucius. Hogwarts is a British school, at least it is in the same country. It has been good enough for generations of Blacks, Draco is half-Black too, you know.' Narcissa looked away from Lucius resentfully and folded her arms.

Draco, listening from the doorway, felt alarm rising in his stomach. He hadn't given much thought to going to school. For as long as he could remember, he had been taught by Amorette de Malfoi, a second-cousin on the French branch of the House of Malfoy. His history lessons had consisted of the illustrious history of the House of Malfoy from their beginnings as Frankish barons, to their presence in the courts of French kings and now, their great influence in European politics.

Draco danced beautifully, was an eloquent francophone, had elegant handwriting and was taught that when he became head of the British Malfoy family, the eyes of the House would be upon him. He was proud of his family's history and deeds and eager to prove that he was as good as any of his ancestors. Draco hadn't considered going to a school. He thought that Amorette would continue to teach him.

'Don't I just know it,' Lucius retorted. 'Cissa, I want what is best for Draco, and I think Durmstrang is the perfect place for him to grow up. The Blacks coddle their children. You were spoilt as a child, Narcissa, I can see it now, and you're trying to spoil my son.'

'Your son, your heir!' Narcissa shouted. 'Why is this all about the Malfoys? What about what Draco wants?'

'Don't raise your voice at me, Narcissa.' Lucius said, his voice low and threatening.

Draco leant back against the corridor wall, breathing fast. He listened hard to what his parents would say next.

'I love you, Lucius, and I know you want the best for our child, but I can't willingly send Draco to a school in the middle of nowhere.' Narcissa said, her voice quiet, tempered with sadness.

'Cissa, it is time for him to grow into a young man.' Lucius rose from his high-backed seat and strode down the length of the table to his wife's side. He extended his hand and she took it, elegantly rising, her full skirt swirling with the action.

Lucius smiled and Narcissa's sadness melted. He raised their clasped hands and twirled her into his arms and, without music, they melted together into a smooth Viennese waltz. With the absence of raised voices, Draco peered through the doorway once more, and watched with admiration as his parents took to the floor, as graceful as ever, as if their disagreement had never been.

'Goodnight,' Draco whispered and tiptoed away, happy that the argument was over, but concerned that his future was so clouded.

*****

Viktor burst into the room, letting a draught of cold air swirl inside and cause the fire and lanterns to splutter. Draco jumped to his feet and bowed his head. Viktor slammed the door behind him and smiled in satisfaction.

'Danke, Malfoy,' he grinned, a rare sight. The Bulgarian sportsman rarely showed approval at anything. 'Today iss a great day,' Viktor smiled and sank into his large wooden chair. 'You should be pleased Malfoy,' Viktor turned to Draco. 'Thanks to me you're goink home,'

Draco looked up, his longing for home undisguised in his eyes. 'What? What do you mean?'

'The Dreihexenmeister Turnier.' Viktor shrugged, as if Draco should have known. 'It's beink helt in your homelant and I haff been se-lekted to represent the school, and, maybe, become it's champion.'

'I'm going too?' Hope rose in Draco's voice.

'Off course, Malfoy. You are my Diener. It iss your duty.' Viktor examined the handle of his Firebolt and Draco came back down to earth with a bump. Of course he would be going. Viktor still needed someone to make his breakfast, still needed his furs brushed, still needed his bed made.

'Yes, Viktor,' Draco said, softly.

*****

Draco hugged his fur cloak tightly to his body as the dual line of first form students, one for males and one for females, advanced into Durmstrang's grand meeting chamber. As soon as he had arrived at the Durmstrang Institute, Draco had been aware of the cold, the constant, painful, biting cold. He looked around at the other first formers and felt ashamed that he wasn't bearing up as well as they were.

A blonde girl with pretty green eyes, her hair arranged in plaits across her head, was chatting animatedly in rapid German with a dark-haired boy in front of him. Draco was astonished to see she enjoyed the cold, her fur hood was thrown back and her cheeks were pink from the cold, but her eyes showed her excitement.

Draco was far from excited. He was even far from curious. He had seen enough. He wanted to go home.

There was a rapping sound of metal hitting wood and the white noise of students' chatter ceased. Draco looked upwards to a raised platform and a rough wooden lectern. A bearded man, wearing a tall fur hat and warm fur cloak was tapping a coin against the lectern.

'Ich heiß e Ordinarius Karkaroff, der Oberstudiendirektor. Wllkommen in Durmstrang Institut.' The man introduced himself and Draco had a feeling that his father had told him about the wrong man. Igor Karkaroff was not the genial, well-spoken man that Lucius Malfoy had spoken of. This Igor Karkaroff stared down at the first formers and demanded their subservience. Draco swallowed cold air. 'There are certain expectations placed upon our first formers,' Ordinarius Karkaroff paced the lectern, aware that the eyes of the two hundred and fifty first formers were following him, and enjoying his power. 'It is in the grand tradition of Durmstrang that our older students choose a Diener, an apprentice, from the first form.'

Draco felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He was going to be chosen to 'serve' an older pupil? Surely his father wouldn't allow it? A little of his pompous, spoiled nature returned in the face of so much adversity.

'I won't be a servant!' he announced, in English, before he could stop himself. The other students around him gasped and began muttering amongst themselves. The others did not understand him, they all spoke German as it was the lingua franca of the school, but other than that they spoke the native tongues of their respective countries. Draco was the only English-speaker amongst them.

'You won't, will you?' Ordinarius Karkaroff looked Draco straight in the eye. His clear voice carried well over the muttering first formers. 'Maybe my old friend Lucius should see how badly his son is behaving, a little over thirty minutes after he has arrived?'

Draco shook his head. Whatever happened, his father couldn't know that he had embarrassed himself like this, embarrassed the family name.

'Nein? Fair enough, young Malfoy. We shall keep it to ourselves, ja?' Karkaroff laughed mirthlessly. 'You will stand beside me. You shall be Diener for someone of my own choosing.'

Draco's cheeks burned with shame as he felt two hundred and forty nine pairs of eyes burn into his back. He reluctantly stepped up on to the podium beside Ordinarius Karkaroff, who grinned at him, his wiry beard blending in with the fur of his coat.

The Dieners were chosen alphabetically by nationality. Karkaroff clapped Draco on the shoulder as one by one, Albanian first formers were being picked off by the older students. Following them, Belarussian first formers were quickly snapped up by their older fellows. As the Bulgarian first formers stepped up, Karkaroff gazed into the group of older students and pointed at one.

'Krum!' he called, and Draco saw a dark-haired boy wearing the blood-red house coat the students were to wear inside the castle. Krum made his way to Karkaroff's podium.

In a much friendlier manner than he had addressed Draco, Ordinarius Karkaroff placed a fatherly arm around Krum's shoulders and gestured towards Draco.

'Viktor, I have chosen your Diener for this year, Mr Malfoy from England.'

Draco shrank under Krum's scrutiny, feeling like he was being tested and wondering whether he would pass.

'He iss ack-septibel.' Krum said, his English heavily accented, unlike Ordinarius Karkaroff's speech. Draco exhaled with relief. He was acceptable. That was more than what he had expected.