The Darkness of the Soul

The flight to Durmstrang took a number of hours. Harry had never flown across country for so long, although at least it was summer. He would have hated to face the weather around the snow-covered peaks that they passed, had it been any later in the year.

They had to stay close to the ground, and Harry had trouble keeping up with Krum. He felt challenged by the Bulgarian's flying skills, but knew he couldn't do any better in his condition, especially at night.

By the time they arrived it was well into daytime, and Harry saw Durmstrang ahead as they crested a mountain. He breathed in at the sight, and would have shared his thoughts with Viktor, but they were descending along the mountain's slope too fast for even a shout to pass between them.

The school was a castle, much like Hogwarts. It was made of stone, white with red veins running through it. It sat atop a flat mountain of rocks, hundreds of feet above a river, which flowed around it like a moat. The mountains were thick around the castle, and Harry could understand how such a place could remain hidden from all who would try to find it.

The school was obviously from a much more martial tradition than Hogwarts. There was a tall wall on the outside of the mountain that formed the base of Durmstrang, a wall almost fifty feet tall, pierced by slits at various periods. Turrets were placed at regular intervals along the wall. Harry could see that the only way off the mountain was a drawbridge across the river gorge.

Inside the walls were a number of smaller buildings - only a few stories tall each - and a large stables. There was also a huge building, topped with a dozen spires, one of which was at least seven hundred feet tall. The place seemed just as majestic as Hogwarts, but somehow darker.

Looking down at the river below, he saw that there were switchbacks carved into the mountain on both sides, barely broad enough for a student to walk alone. The switchbacks ended in docks on either side, and he could see a familiar looking longship docked at the bottom, swaying in the strong river current.

When they landed, Harry almost fell off his broom, he was so exhausted. Viktor didn't seem to notice, beyond a self-satisfied smirk. Harry would have wiped it off his face, but decided to spend his energies in standing up - at least until he could find a bed.

That didn't seem to take too long. Viktor assured him he'd meet the Headmaster at dinner, and he assisted Harry in finding his rooms. They were cold, but his bed was piled with blankets and furs, and there was already a fire burning. A set of robes was laid out on the table. Harry guessed that meant they were pretty confident that they'd get him.

He didn't even make small talk; he just collapsed on his bed, and descended into the darkness.

Harry awoke to find a hand shaking him awake. The room was darker, now, with the onset of evening. The hand belonged to Viktor, who was grinning above him. "You don't want to miss dinner, no? Get dressed, it is starting soon. I will wait outside."

Harry was grateful for the privacy, at least, as he shucked the rags that he'd been wearing and pulled on his new uniform. Red robes and furs made his complexion look pale, but he supposed that it could have been worse.

He left the room. Viktor commanded, "Walk this way!" and Harry followed Viktor on a circuitous route to the dining hall. While they didn't have the moving staircases of Hogwarts, they did have the trick stairs. Getting to the dining hall involved hopping at least ten of them, which wasn't easy, as all of the staircases seemed to be hopelessly narrow spiral staircases. Viktor seemed pleased that Harry didn't fall into any of the tricks, as he just jumped wherever Viktor did. He had an idle thought that Viktor might have just been twitting him, but he didn't think the man had that developed a sense of humor.

The Hall was huge. It was shaped like a large octagon, and appeared to be built into the side of the mountain, underneath the castle. Huge stained glass windows covered one side of the hall, although little light made it through. Harry supposed it there was never that much natural light in here, since it would be pretty hard for anything to make it through the windows. The glass showed four wizards standing in the center, beset by giants, dragons, and what looked like very short Vikings. Harry supposed that they were Muggles, but he didn't ask.

Opposite the window was a huge pipe organ. It appeared to be playing itself, and Harry noticed that in addition to the many pipes, it was adorned with several sets of drums, some horns, a dozen piccolos, and at least twenty bassoons. At least he thought they were bassoons - he had never been musically inclined enough to tell the difference between them and the other big bass instruments.

There were many tables, but only one of them was occupied, and it was here that Viktor was headed. The table was at the far wall, close to the stained glass windows. It was covered with a deep red tablecloth, which was barely visible under the mountains of food. Harry saw plates covered with meat, most of which looked barely done, platters covered with breads and rolls, and plates of cheeses. There were also pitchers filled with ales, and a bowl filled with sausage. Near the plate that they guided him to was a small, lonely dish that Harry thought might be a particularly loathsome bread pudding, probably there for his benefit, but he wasn't sure.

The two weren't alone around the table. The others all stood as they arrived, and Viktor introduced each in turn. Harry noticed that there were still more empty seats, so he resigned himself to having to remember more names. For now, though, there were only four new faces.

"Jurgen Johansen, Potions and Poisons," Viktor announced, pointing at the first. Harry reached over and shook his hand, which seemed unusually soft. The man was about five foot two, with slight build, short black hair, and a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses that seemed in danger of sliding down his nose. The man wore entirely black clothing, except for the magenta liner to his cloak. His expression was nondescript, but Harry thought he might have a chance of getting to know Jurgen. At least, he looked nicer than Snape.

"Haakon Hendersohn, Strategy and Tactics," Viktor continued, pointing to the next. Harry looked up, and up farther. Haakon wasn't as tall as Hagrid had been, but somehow felt even more solid. Harry suspected that the man had Giant blood, but was not about to ask. Haakon grabbed his hand, and squeezed it, in the traditional male testosterone standoff. Harry knew he wasn't giving as good as he got, but was satisfied at not betraying his pain.

Haakon was an odd counter-point to Jurgen. His height was an obvious difference, but not the only one. Where Jurgen was entirely dressed in dark colors, Haakon was a sea of brilliance. He wore a deep orange tunic over red trousers, orange-dyed boots, and had an earring in his left ear that had a large red stone in it. His hair was shaven, but his eyebrows were a bright orange, as was his beard. Only his fur cloak was black.

Haakon said a few phrases that sounded almost like "Welcome," but Harry wasn't sure.

Harry just said, "Thanks, Good to meet you," and moved on. The next hand was definitely different from both of the others. It was smaller and more delicate than even Jurgen's, which was not such a surprise, as it belonged to a witch, not a wizard. Kirsten Karkaroff was dressed in traditional robes, but somehow they looked better on her, definitely tailored, rather than the one-size-fits-all that most wizards ended up with.

She shook his hand more quickly than the others, and looked at him with distaste. Harry figured he didn't need to know why - there were more than enough reasons for someone to dislike him, and it didn't really matter one way or another. She said nothing to him, and he just repeated his "Good to meet you," before he found himself facing the Headmaster, his new boss.

The Headmaster was tall, his hair black, streaked with the white of old age. Girard Spielzauber was not quite what Harry had expected from a Durmstrang Headmaster, but he did look the part of the head of one of the most respected schools in Europe. He just didn't look sinister enough.

The smile that Girard wore wasn't the taunting smirk of Ivan Karkaroff or even Viktor. It was the jesting smile of a jovial man. Girard's beard was cut much shorter than Dumbledore's, and with more control, but it still had a certain resemblance.

His clothes were red, with fur-lined collars and sleeves. Had he been wearing an outfit like Jurgen's, he might have managed to look menacing, but the softer, looser, red gear looked more like Father Christmas after a diet and shave.

The Headmaster also appeared to speak English well, although he still had a thick accent. "Welcome, Harry. It is goot for you to be here. Please, have a seat, we do not sit on ceremony here."

Harry thanked him and sat, and happily partook in dinner. It was a great deal richer than he was used to eating, since his last meal had been a bag of Smarties, but he forced himself to eat steadily.

He could tell from Kirsten's reaction to the conversation that she understood some English, but she didn't contribute.

Most of the meal was occupied with small talk, and Harry didn't want to be the first to brooch anything serious. As they wound down, though, and the platters of meat were replaced with chocolate cakes and breads shaped like animals, Girard seemed to look serious.

"So, Professoren Potter. Have you thought about what you will be needing from us to begin your duties?"

"Well, do you already have a text for the course?"

"Yes, we do. We could change it, but it would be a large pain in the head for the bookstores and parents, so if you don't mind..."

"I'm not sure what I'd suggest anyway. The texts I'm familiar with in England all seem lacking in practical knowledge."

Kirsten put down her fork with a clatter, and stared at him, but Girard didn't seem to notice.

"Ach, yes. Your English press doesn't like to print such things that might be useful - they are almost as bad as the French, who can't see that you can't stop Evil by burying your head in the sand. I do not mean to offend," the Headmaster broke off.

"No, I'm not defending them," Harry said. "I've lived there, and while England was my home, I can't say their approach has done much good."

Girard waved his hand, dismissing the discussion. "Yes, well, what else can I do for you?"

"Well, I feel ashamed to admit this, Headmaster, but I don't speak anything well but English, and even that's debatable." He saw mirth in the Headmaster's eyes, and felt hopeful that things would work out here. "I need to learn, well, whatever's useful around here. Can you help?"

"I think that can be arranged," he said, smiling.

Another thought had occurred to him earlier, and he'd almost forgotten it, but it was associated with enough pain that he couldn't entirely. "One other thing. Back at Hogwarts, there was a book, which a friend of mine really loved, called 'Hogwarts: A History'. Is there something like that for Durmstrang? I don't mean to pry," he said, noticing that they were staring at him, and wondering if he'd made a dreadful mistake. "I just know that I'll probably make enough of a fool of myself no matter what I do, and I thought, I could try and learn something about your - no, our history, before I had to deal with students."

Girard nodded, thoughtfully. "Yes, that is most wise. There is a history of Durmstrang, which we can show you."

Haakon didn't look like he had followed the entire discussion, but he had a look of clear distaste on his face. "Herr Spielzauber, wir konnen nicht..." Girard silenced him.

"Harry, you just need some background, no? Just what our students have. There is a book in my study that you can use. If you have any questions about items beyond that, please let me know before you try to find the answers elsewhere. We are perhaps too secretive, but you can understand our concerns?"

"Of course," Harry said, although he really couldn't. They were trusting him with their students - what else could they trust him with that would be worse? "I'm just glad to have the chance to learn anything. I'm so used to having my friend, Hermione around to ask questions like that."

At Hermione's name, Kirsten put her fork down so hard that her plate shattered, and she stalked off, with the entire table staring at her.

Viktor looked distressed, and Girard stood up. "Well, this was a most wonderful dinner. I hope that you will allow me to lead you back to your chambers?" As soon as Girard had asked the question, Viktor walked away from the table.

Harry nodded, and walked with Girard. He didn't jump over near as many steps, which made Harry wonder if there were less tricks on this route, or if Viktor had been playing with him after all.

"I will arrange to have your language lessons begin tomorrow. You are fortunate that our languages teacher is here for the summer, or you would be on your own," there was an ironic look on Girard's face, and Harry had a feeling that he knew what was coming.

In their sixth year, Ron and Harry had started playing a game called, "How could it be worse?" The idea was that, whenever they had a question of what would happen next, they only had to imagine what the universe, with its sick sense of humor could come up with that would be worse than whatever they feared. For example, "What could be worse than having Sirius Black out to kill me?", "Having Sirius Black out to save me from Ron's pet rat!" Or, "What could be worse than having a new DADA teacher appointed by Fudge?", "Having her appoint herself Headmaster, Grand Inquisitor, and Grand Pumbah."

He knew, with some certainty, who the language teacher would be, but he also knew that Girard expected him to ask. "Headmaster, who's teaching languages? Viktor didn't say."

"Ach, of course, languages are taught by our History of Magic teacher," he said, pacing his answer for greatest effect. "You met her tonight - Kirsten."

They were back at his door, and Harry had to admire the timing. "Headmaster, have you ever met Fred or George Weasley?"

"No, I have not had the honor, although I do keep a plate of their delightful toffees in my office." Yes, there was definitely a glint there, and Harry reminded himself never to eat anything in Girard's office. "Good night, Headmaster."

"Good night, Mister Potter."

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