Stacking the Deck

Chapter 6

"That would work," Jones muttered, scribbling a note. "What do you do now?" No one answered her question. Alone in her office, she had all of her library stacked around her desk. "Hmmm. Would that be impressive enough?" She clamped her pencil between her teeth and riffled through the next ten pages of a worn paperback, searching for something. "Not there," she said around the pencil and then flipped back to the index. "That could work." Grabbing up a pen, she wrote down page numbers and then stuck the pen behind her ear. Books were stacked at all four corners of her desk, next to her chair, behind her chair, in piles along the wall and two were in her lap. The odor of grimoires and cigarettes hung in a sickly yellow cloud.

"One, two, three." She pulled the pencil from between her teeth and tapped the eraser along the list she had been compiling. "Four, five. Hmmm. Well, five and six are kinda the same thing." Leaning onto her elbows, she hunched over her list, staring blankly at the door. "But, how are five and six different? They do almost the same thing. I never learned six." Paging back to where the sixth spell was described, she reread the paragraph describing it and then looked back at her notes. "It is the same thing. Damn. Ok, five from." She flipped the paperback over to look at the cover. "Traditional Spells for the New Witch. Man, it's amazing what they published in the eighties and seventies. And it works, too." Laughing to herself, she tossed the faded paperback onto a small stack of similar tomes in the corner closest to her.

Her list was growing at a steady rate. She'd spent the day perusing her library in search of things to use and had found them in plenty. Out of her list, only a few could be considered useful for detecting someone else's magic, but the beauty of her findings was that everything she had put on the list did something. She could rationalize that learning what mimicked a true finding was at least as useful as learning how a real Auror would do it. The "real Auror" phrase prompted a chuckle. If she played her cards just right, she could probably learn how to cast that grid spell that she'd watched Mueller work. She'd tried to worm the information out of Mueller and Baldung both. Neither would tell her anything. Massys had hinted that there might be more than one spell involved in it. Poor Massys had gotten into trouble over that slip. Werner had appeared out of nowhere and hauled the inebriated Massys away by the arm, hissing a lecture the entire time. Seemed reasonable that she could request a little training herself if she had to help shape tomorrow's Aurors today.

Sniggering to herself, she pulled out a cigarette. One of the last few in the pack, it was slightly bent and frayed. "Looks like my career," she laughed. Carefully, she straightened it and stuck it in her mouth, preparing to light it. Just as she struck the flame from her lighter, someone knocked on her door.

"Yeah?" Only half listening, she lit the cigarette and picked up the next book to look through.

"Hey, it's me. Let me in."

"What's the password?"

Wronski sounded cranky. "Open up! Quit being a pain in the butt."

Leaning over her already overflowing ashtray, she took a long drag and watched as the white paper crumbled into ash. Might as well finish it off and empty the thing outside when she got up. A second long inhalation and she almost reached the filter. There was hardly enough space to stub the thing out.

"Are you going to let me in?" He smacked the door twice.

"Wait just a sec, dammit." Grumbling about what the heck all the rush was about, she swept up the little piles of ash off her desk and onto the shifting mountain of used butts and cinders of her thoughts. Might as well get rid of the mess, she thought and picked the overly full ashtray up. With one eye on the ashtray, she walked slowly to the door and parted her wards. "Stand back, ok? I want to dump this." When she took her eye off the trembling pile, the trickle began. Bits of gray ash fluffed into the air as the first butt cascaded off the steep pile. More followed with each motion. By the time she had opened the door and had stepped into the hallway, her hand had a white-gray frosting.

"You know, if you either emptied that thing once a day or quit, you wouldn't have that sort of stuff happen," Wronski said, stepping back to get out of her way. "I bet you want me to open the door so you can dump it." He ignored her sneer and took a few long strides to reach the side door. "At least it's easy to open this time of year."

The disintegrating mountain of ash held Jones' attention. Once outside, she had to wait while Wronski opened the lid to the trash receptacle and stepped aside, covering his face. It was a mess. Ash floating up, a rattle of butts going down. Well, she mused, a girl has to have some vices. Smoking was hers.

"That's really disgusting." Waving one hand futilely at the floating ash, he clanged the lid down.

"Yeah. So?" It was old territory. Wronski only complained occasionally about her chief vice and they had it down to a ritual that lasted only a few sentences.

"You really should quit, you know. I could help. There are a couple of potions…." He glared at her as she pulled out one of the remaining two cigarettes in the pack.

"That would help stem the nicotine craving and help fortify my system. Probably make me beautiful, lose forty pounds and take years off my looks. Yeah. Right. Heard it already." Taking a long drag, she tried a smile that blended into a wince. A bit harsh. He was only trying to be helpful. "Thanks, Paul. I know you mean well and all, but this is something I really enjoy."

Prepared for the usual next phase of the conversation, Wronski's hand was up to enumerate the number of things she could use to help her quit smoking. He had just taken a deep breath, preparing to rattle them off when he registered the change in the script. "You sure? I never got the smoking thing."

"Don't start. It'll stunt your growth." She tried a dazzling smile and, when he didn't smile back, fluttered her eyes at him, a trick guaranteed to work. He didn't exactly smile, but he gave up the pinched, disapproving glare. "So, what's up? You come to visit? If so, I'll have to flush my office. It's almost too thick in there for me."

"No. Not really." Glancing away from her, he looked over the campus. The grounds of Durmstrang had begun their yearly transformation from summer quiet to school year clamor. Students had begun to arrive and had whatever beginning-of-the-year processing done to them that was deemed necessary by the administrative areas. The first years would arrive separately to be marched in before the assembled students and faculty, a ritual that every teacher in the Dark Arts department found endlessly boring, even Haken.

"Uh." Wronski looked terribly uncomfortable as he grunted out the first syllable. "Look, Rabe told me to tell you that the Headmaster wants you in a meeting about now. You better go."

"Rabe sent you?" Jones let the last bit of her cigarette burn into the filter and then cursed as she threw it to the ground. "He sent you. He didn't want to come talk to me himself?" Grinding the stinking butt into the ground, she set her mouth into a tight line. "So," she sneered, "why didn't coward boy come and tell me himself? You have any idea?"

"None. I didn't ask. He sort of hunted me down in my room and blurted it out all in a rush. I have a feeling he's been sitting on this until just now. You know how he is." Wronski ran a hand through his hair as he stared at the ground. "I'm sorry to be the possible bearer of bad news."

"How do you know it's bad?" She knew. The Headmaster never called any of them in for casual conversation. He would occasionally share a drink with Kessler, but even that had become less frequent since Rabe's foolish decision to have a competition between his department and the Defense Against the Dark Arts department. The disastrous end had left a taint that no amount of brown-nosing on Rabe's part would diminish.

"Well, you know." He gave a half-hearted shrug and grimaced. "Besides, if Rabe didn't want to tell you himself, you know it's not good. Otherwise, he'd be right there with you to share in the limelight." Wronski stuffed his hands into his pockets and somehow managed to look as though he was leaning against a wall. Looking very glum, he slowly turned as if eyeing the path to the castle's main staircase and then began looking upwards towards the tower where the Headmaster's office was. "I hope it's nothing serious. Maybe he just wants to talk to you about your new class. Probably some kind of speech about not embarrassing the school by being too Dark Artsy."

"Yeah. Right." Jones wasn't fooled at all. The person to lecture her about that would be Heiniger or possibly Werner. The Headmaster would never bother to allow himself to be dragged into something as lowly as interdepartmental politics. At least not if it involved their department. The Dark Arts group was the only one not invited to the monthly all-staff meetings. Rabe alone went to those. For the first two years she'd worked at the Institute, she'd thought that only the department heads attended those meeting. Then, she'd overheard Rabe and his girlfriend Ewa complaining about something that had come out of the meeting. Ewa Krakow wasn't a department head. She was the junior-most Herbology teacher. Whatever the reason was, it wouldn't be particularly pleasant.

The tension built until she exhaled in a sour-tasting puff. "They wouldn't fire me this early in the semester. Hope I can walk back down the stairs." Her binding spell began to itch and, as she moved to scratch it, started to tingle, letting her know she was being called. They all dreaded it when they were summoned. She could almost forget about the binding spell, pretend she didn't see it glowing blackly on her forearm. The only people who knew how to trigger it were the local Aurors and, of course, the Headmaster. Probably a few senior administrative staff, too. She dreaded the Headmaster. He was the only one who had ever used it on her for discipline. "Gotta go," she muttered and began scratching where it tingled.

"Rose." Wronski screwed his face up. "Sorry, but you might want to get your coat. I think it's probably official and…" He looked her over pointedly. "It'll take less time for you to put that on than to change."

Feeling defeated, she took stock of herself. Dirty toes stuck out of a battered pair of sandals. Her only pair of jeans was smeared with streaks of cigarette ash and, for the first time in ages, she had allowed herself the indulgence of a sleeveless T-shirt, also speckled with ash and old stains from summer barbecues long past. The ensemble was not flattering. "Coat. Yeah." For a moment, she closed her eyes and counted to ten to keep from screaming obscenities. When she opened them, she saw Wronski's sympathetic face. "Hey, it's not your fault I decided to be a total slob. I didn't know I had to go see him." Feeling worse for Wronski than herself, she walked the few steps over to where he stood and gave his arm a quick squeeze. She really wanted to give him a hug, but that didn't seem particularly professional.

The short stroll back to her office took just long enough for the binding spell's insistence to increase to the near pain threshold. Speed, apparently, was required. Once inside, she grabbed the long, red leather coat off the back of the door where she usually left it. In its shadow was a pair of shoes that would be more acceptable than her sandals. The old black flats were scuffed and badly needed a touch-up of dye, but they didn't show her toes. She stuffed her feet into them and slung the coat over her arm, prepared to do battle or take her punishment. The latter seemed more likely.

By the time she reached the main staircase leading upwards from the main hall, the summons had been increased into pain. "I'm hurrying," she said through gritted teeth. And hurry she did. It had been years since the last time she had been in the North Tower. With each new flight, the memory of that particular meeting replayed itself.

She'd heard about the position from a friend and found the idea of teaching the Dark Arts as a job almost impossible to believe. Not really expecting anything to come of it, she'd sent her resume as a lark. The amount of time it took to hear back from the school was long enough that she had forgotten ever sending the letter. The whole arrangement had the feel of joke to her. Receiving a letter by owl post wasn't something any of the few other magical sorts she knew had ever experienced. She certainly hadn't been prepared to hear something knock at the window of her third-story apartment and then discover a Great Horned owl sitting on her balcony with something tied to its leg. Even weirder had been when the owl had stuck out its leg at her as if expecting her to get close enough to those wicked talons and hooked beak to touch the thing. Eventually, the owl had become irritated and had removed the ribbon attaching the thing to it. The "something" turned out to be a message from the Durmstrang Institute. She knew it had to be a hoax. No one wrote on real parchment and produced a letter that looked as though it came from a museum. Hand calligraphed, wax seal, illuminated initials. Too weird for her, she'd carried it around for days until she ran into Agatha Whyte, a recent immigrant from England and also a witch.

Agatha had been a font of information. "Owl Post! Oh, my! How very funny. I had wondered how you Yanks dealt with the post. However do you cope without all the necessaries?"

"Necessaries?" Jones had asked, feeling as though this was all part of the same endless joke - on her.

"Quite. I've yet to see anyone with a proper Floo Network. And, not one of you uses the fire properly. You all want to use telephones or those dratted computers to talk with each other. Most of you don't even know how to Apparate. My word! I've yet to find a place to do my proper shopping. Why, back home, I could go to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade but here!" Agatha had sniffed and flung back her shot of whiskey.

"Floo? Whatever," Jones had sighed. "What about this?" She'd pulled out the parchment and marveled at the expressions that played over Agatha's face. "What! What? What!"

"Oh my. This is for the Durmstrang Institute. Rose, are you serious? Do you know anything about this place?" Agatha had snapped her fingers against the parchment, producing a satisfying thunk.

"Not really. A friend told me they taught the Dark Arts there. Thought it might be a fun job."

"Teach the Dark Arts," Agatha had replied touchily. "Teach the Dark Arts. My word, why would you want to do that? Wouldn't you rather just cast those lovely wards you do so well and perhaps make a few amulets of protection? Oh, and those enhancement charms. I heard you did a proper job of it for old John. He told me that he could have sold ice to Siberia after you cast that on him. Right-o then. Enough of this silliness. Teach the Dark Arts."

The silence had been awkward while she had contemplated several responses. Then, after tossing back her own shot of whiskey, she had felt bold enough to just blurt it out. "I make most of my money doing a few, well, you know, little dark spells here and there." That had been an understatement. For the last ten years, almost all of her income had come from a few spells here and there that were very illegal and very dark. All it had taken was caving in to a friend's need once and then that work had brought other jobs trickling in. The money had been too good to turn down.

Agatha had sniffed and looked down her long, thin nose at Jones. "Well, if you ask me, that's rather risky business. I've met a few of those chaps, the Department of Magical Affairs Investigations. Nasty sorts. Don't fancy them at all. I didn't know they expected you to register with them."

"Only if you get caught!" she'd said, feeling as though nothing of the sort could ever happen. Only it had.

Timing had been crucial. She'd answered the strange letter and then had managed to get Agatha to show her how to find an owl to take it. Agatha had had to tie the message on for her. She'd seen what Great Horned owls could do with their beaks. And then, she'd forgotten all about it again until the acceptance letter had turned up, this time by mail. The envelope had been peppered with colorful stamps and a return address that she couldn't decipher. Still thinking it was a joke, she'd tossed it onto her cluttered coffee table and ignored it.

The Department of Magical Affairs Investigations had been building a case on her for years. Avoiding them had taught her more than any teacher could. Early in her career, she'd seen what happened to someone that they had caught practicing the Dark Arts. They'd done the whole thing to the unfortunate: placed locator spells so they could track him and reducer spells to control his power, taken his wand, made it known what would happen to anyone who sold or made him another… What was left of the man had faded over the months until a once-vital human being did little except stare out the window of his apartment. Nothing like a bad example to tighten up her defenses. That just made the chase more exciting for Agents Smith and Peterson. Peterson especially.

In retrospect, she should have seen it coming. The work was the worst kind. Her contact, referred to her by someone she only sort of knew, had provided detailed medical records as well as a precise timetable of movements for the target. It would be a hard contract to fill. The target was damn near bullet-proof in the health area. She later figured out they thought nothing would happen. They were wrong. She'd fulfilled the contract, accepted the pay (all in cash, which later turned out to be marked), and thought nothing of it. The whole thing had been a set-up and she'd walked right into it.

They broke her wards over a period of days and had tried to take her on a rainy evening after a day of doing her mostly-legal wards work. Four of them, one of her. They'd taken a good look at her, saw at how short she was, how non-threatening, and decided that the dumpy little witch was going to be easy. Looks had been deceiving. Although it nearly crippled her, she took them out with a non-directed blast of magic. Ugly, but functional. The letter had seemed to sort itself out of the mess of papers. If ever there was a portent, that was it.

If she'd known about the network of International Portkeys, she would have either had an easier time of it or never been allowed out of the country. However, she didn't and the plane flight had been half a day of stomach-wrenching anxiety.

Then, they'd been there. Just been there. As if they knew she was arriving and on what flight. Three men, one with a little sign with her name on it, standing there at Stockholm's airport. She almost hadn't wanted to admit who she was, but it had also been too intriguing. When the second one held up another sign with "Durmstrang Institute" and held it up only for as long as it took to read it, the phrase "almost like magic" became a soft refrain in the back of her mind. The rest of the trip was "almost like magic" because it was. A single-use Portkey to the Ministry Offices in Stockholm and then a trip through the International Portkey hub to the little village. Her eyes had bugged at the sheer size and organization of a world she'd only heard of. "It's not like this back home," she'd whisper each time some new magical construct was encountered. Not like home indeed.

The Institute looked like some sort of movie set: huge castle, tall stone walls stretching out into what seemed like infinity; people wearing funny clothing, speaking foreign languages she didn't understand; magic and more magic everywhere, magic of all varieties and styles. Maybe it was heaven. Maybe not. Any heaven she could have dreamed up wouldn't have incomprehensible rules that she either chose to ignore or didn't fully understand - like the binding spell and contract duration.

Everything had moved very fast when she'd entered the Headmaster's office. He had never even spoken to her directly. An aide had handled the entire affair, something she ascribed to the language barrier, and later discovered that she wasn't important enough for him to bother with. There had been the contract scroll. With each tap of a wand, a different contract had appeared until the correct one finally materialized and she was told to sign. The next phase wormed its way into her nightmares. Someone, she still couldn't remember who, had grabbed her left arm and shoved her sleeve back. When she tried to fight, they'd made her be still while the spell had been set and the mark given. When the dreams were at their worst, it replayed like a rape scene in a bad movie; usually it was just the awful feeling of being had and being powerless to do anything at all. And now she was back.

The reception area was empty. Like most of Durmstrang, the primary color was blood red. Red carpet, red upholstery on the chairs, red tapestries ringing the walls. A short stairway, also carpeted in the dark red, led up to a massive set of dark oak doors, each carved with the letter "D" surrounded by the Ouroboros serpent. One door was partially open and from the office beyond Jones could hear a man's voice speaking in yet another language she didn't understand. Her arm throbbed with the summons. Standing at the base of the stairs, she made sure to tuck in her T-shirt before she shrugged on her coat. With each button fastened, she felt a growing resentment. The coat felt like armor by the time she was through and helped her gain a little control. Hoping she looked like a professor and not someone who was still dreaming about summer, she climbed the stairs and walked into the Headmaster's office.

It was a study in red and black. The red carpet sucked at her heels as she walked towards the enormous dark oak desk. The room was paneled in the same centuries-darkened oak and lit only by a single tall, thin window decorated with stained glass panels in the requisite red with the Durmstrang symbol in black. The light, thrusting its way through the narrow opening, shafted red across the desk and its master. Attired appropriately in a blood red vaguely military coat, the Headmaster sat ramrod straight at the center of his domain, flanked on either side by two of his aides. Across from him, seated in a set of matching massive carved dark oak chairs, were two men.

While she waited to be recognized, Jones stared at the two. The older one seemed vaguely familiar. Something about the set of the jaw and the wide-spaced eyes. The man sitting or rather sprawling in the chair next to him looked more familiar. He was a younger version, but with darker hair and less of a chin. Relative of some sort, she thought and then turned back to wait for the Headmaster to address her. The Headmaster and the older man talked for some time, laughing occasionally. She tried to understand what the topic was, but she couldn't place the language although the accent reminded her of Gregorov. Russian? Ukrainian? Some kind of central European language? She was still struggling with German.

"Professor Jones."

Jones blinked and stared at the Headmaster, expecting him to turn towards her. He didn't. His attention was fully captured by his guest.

"Professor Jones."

This time, she realized that it was one of the aides speaking to her. "Yes?" She stood up straight and looked expectantly at him.

"It is required that you review and change this record." The aide pushed a scroll towards the corner of the desk.

"Change?" she repeated as she walked forward. The scroll was a transcript. None of the grades were impressive. The curl of the parchment was such that the name was obscured. At the bottom, the last student year, she realized that her Ritual Magic class was one of the ones listed. It was the only class that the student had received a failing mark. Her sigil sat next to it, signifying that she understood that the student in question would not be allowed to say that he had finished his studies. She pulled the scroll closer and smoothed out the top. The name at the top was far too familiar: Yevgenii Galchenko. It was all she could to not groan out loud. Galchenko had been a problem from day one in her course. He was uninterested in doing any of the assignments, skipped the class regularly and had failed almost every one of the tests. It was only through what she felt was an act of generosity that she had given him a score at all. "I don't understand. What do you want me to change and why?"

"You will change the final score to a passing mark." The aide slid a quill and a pot of ink forward. "Do so and place your initials or your sigil next to the change."

"Wait a minute," she growled, finally realizing what was happening. "He didn't do any of the work. He failed all the tests and he skipped class. He failed. I'm not going to change anything."

The friendly conversation between the Headmaster and the man who Jones now assumed was Galchenko's father missed a beat in its rhythm. The aide's chin raised imperiously so he could look down at her from a slightly greater height. "You will change the final mark and either write your initials or place your sigil next to the change. Do so."

"No." She folded her arms across her chest, ready to hold her ground.

"Professor Jones, you will do as you are instructed."

"I will not! I don't give passing grades to people who don't do the work!" The last was yelled loudly enough that it echoed in the room. The conversation stopped and the Headmaster turned towards her. In her current state, she was too angry to take the cue. "Sir," she began, but got no further.

As punishments went, it wasn't too bad. All of her nerve endings felt as though they had been set on fire, the world screamed, went black and then bounced back in a red-tinged reality - very Durmstrang in its colors. She caught herself on the edge of the desk and waited until she could breathe properly. In the quiet, her ragged gasps were the only sound she could hear except the pounding of her heart. The pain itself lasted only for a few moments. The psychological reaction remained far longer.

"Professor Jones?" The aide sounded hypnotically calm as he extended the quill to her. "You will change the final grade and…"

"No. I won't." Steeling herself for another awful wave, she shut her eyes and clenched her teeth. And waited. Nothing happened. All she heard was a scratching sound. When she opened her eyes, cautiously at first, afraid that seeing the room would trigger the spell somehow, the source of the scratching sound turned out to be the Headmaster signing the offending scroll. The conversation between the two men resumed, this time in German.

"You should hire better professors," Galchenko sighed.

"Perhaps," the Headmaster responded and then blew softly on the ink to help dry it. "The last of your children will enter this year or the next?"

"This year my last son will attend, but I still have two little girls, children of my third wife. Their mother wishes them to go to Beauxbatons." It was said lightly, but with a slight twist of tone that implied that perhaps the French school might be better.

"Your family has been a part of the Durmstrang Institute for…" the Headmaster said before being cut off.

"Centuries. Yes, it has been a proud tradition in my family to be a part of this school. However, if we cannot count on being treated as our station demands…" Galchenko left off. The threat was implicit.

"The Durmstrang Institute has always been proud to have the support of such a fine established family such as yours. I personally assure you that your family will always be treated as your station demands." The Headmaster stood and bowed formally before passing the precious scroll over to Galchenko.

Toady

, Jones thought, but wisely kept it to herself.

Neither of the two men returned the bow. The elder slowly rolled the parchment up before handing it to his son, who made certain to catch Jones' eye, and then laughed. "See to it that Andrei is treated properly. I do not wish to be forced to deal with such matters again."

"Yes. Of course." A thin smile was forced out of the Headmaster and Jones could have sworn he clicked his heels. He stood stiffly at attention as the two slowly wandered out of the office and remained in that position until a light pulsed over the doorway, undoubtedly informing him that the unpleasant Galchenkos were descending the stairs.

Jones waited. Surely, he must have something else to say to her, an explanation perhaps? The Headmaster resumed his seat and the other aide produced a stack of paperwork for him to read. She debated asking a few questions until the aide she had dealt with stepped around the desk to stand almost toe to toe with her.

"You are dismissed," the aide said.

She glanced once at the Headmaster and then back at the aide. Leaving seemed the best possible choice.

* * *

"I still can't believe he didn't back me up!" Sitting sideways at one of the little tables on the tavern's terrace, she glared at the first star of the evening. "He didn't even talk to me."

"Yeah. You already said that." Wronski took a sip from his beer, carefully nursing it. He'd had the misfortune of being alone in the staff room when she'd returned. At first, he had difficulty even understanding what she was talking about. Her voice had been choked with rage and unshed tears; the rage clipped her words short as the tears shredded what she tried to say. All he'd been able to understand was "Headmaster" and "that bastard". The combination of the two was sufficient. It was clear to him that she would either break down and start crying or hunt down Rabe and do something awful to him. He hadn't said anything, just pushed her out the door and steered her down the pathway towards the gatehouse. "Come on, sunshine, let's get you out of here. I'll buy the first round."

"This is the worst. The absolute worst. First, they stick me with a new class that I'm not prepared to teach and now he undermines what little authority I have and changes a grade. It's not like this in the real world."

"It's worse."

"It is not! How could it be worse than this? I bet your mother never has to put up with this sort of crap!" She swiveled around in her chair to face him. "I'll bet that real schools don't do this sort of thing."

"Sure they do. There are even more hoops to jump through. This is easy." Wronski tried to smile, managing only on the left side of his face.

"No way! What do you mean 'this is easy'? This is awful!" Her elbows thudded down onto the tabletop, sloshing beer from her still-full glass to puddle frothily.

"If you ever tried to understand the rules, you wouldn't have these problems. The kid was a legacy. What did you expect?" Shrugging, he looked off at the lights flicking on in the stone two-story building across the way.

"What do you mean 'a legacy'? What does that mean? What rules? I'm supposed to be a teacher, not a politician."

An unattractive snort/laugh combination convulsed him, forcing him to put down his beer and cover his mouth. "A politician you definitely are not. Not in the least!" He swung around to face her and leaned onto his elbows. "Look, all these kids are from pureblood families, right?"

"I dunno. I guess so. Why?" The deep lines around her eyes softened at the change in direction.

"So, from what Massys says, to be a pureblood, you have to have at least nine generations of an unbroken line of solid magic on both sides, right?"

"Yeah. So what does that mean?"

"If that's the case, and this guy said his family has been associated with the Institute for centuries, then he goes way back. Must have the purest blood around, right?"

"I still don't get where you're going, but yeah. I guess so." Sounding less strident, she pulled out a cigarette. Wronski smiled at the sight. For the last hour, she hadn't smoked a single one, only ranted and raved.

"You said it sounded like money was involved, right?"

"I guess so. That's sort of what it sounded like to me. Like they were donors or something like that. Where are you going with this?" The lighter's flame illuminated her as a minor demon of hell.

"My guess is that most of these kids' families have been going to Durmstrang or a similar school for a lot of generations. Most of them are from pure-blooded families. I'm pretty sure we take halfbloods, but I'm not sure. I don't think the education is free. How could it be? I have a budget, you have a budget, they have to eat, the staff has to get paid - that all costs money. So, either the kids have some sort of tuition, which they probably do, or the parents donate money, which I bet they do, too. Have you noticed there are plaques here and there?"

"Sure. Plaques all over the place. Donors, right?"

Wronski nodded. "So, these pure-blood families, all of whom have probably been associated with the school for centuries, all of them paying, they probably expect their kids to graduate, or whatever they call it. It's not the same as high school back home. There is no college unless they go to regular college and I don't think many of them do. These kids are all part of a universe I don't get at all. Seems like they all live in a world inside of what we think of as the real world."

"So what do they do after they leave here? Just go out and live? I know some of these kids are wealthy, but not all of them are. What about those kids?"

"Guilds." He watched to see if the word meant anything. "You know, guilds. Like the Potions' Guild, the Alchemists' Guild, the Herbalists' Guild, the Diviners' Order that sort of thing. There are some jobs that require secondary training, but it's more like a trade school."

Sneering, she stuck a finger into the puddle of beer and began shoving it towards the edge of the table. "Ok, so these better-than-us kids all have to go somewhere. Fine. I still don't understand the legacy thing."

"Think about it, Rose," Wronski sighed as he handed her a coaster to help slosh the beer off the table. "They've paid for it. They expect to pass. I figured that one out. You don't have to give them good grades. Just pass them. Get rid of them. At least pass the rich ones. I know you can tell those kids. They practically have 'My family is soooo rich and powerful and yours isn't' written across their foreheads. You've even commented on it. Just pass them. It's easier that way."

"Doesn't seem right," she grumbled. "What about that kid that Gregorov was screwing a few years ago? She had to repeat a year."

"I don't think she came from a rich family. I don't know." Reaching over, he poked her in the shoulder. "I wouldn't bring that up again, either. No need to get the wolves riled up. They're loads easier to deal with when they're happy doing whatever they're doing. Don't screw that up."

Jones smirked. "Point taken. He takes it out on you. I only get sniped at, but he'd like to beat the crud out of you." She retrieved her cigarette from where she'd left it to burn over the edge of the table. "So, they paid for it. They're 'legacies' or some such crap. Why do they let us give grades then?"

"Tradition. A sham. I don't know." He turned away to face the darkening horizon. "Really, it's loads easier to work here than it is in a university. We could have to write grants or recruit students. We could be battling each other for funding. Now, that would be fun. Can you imagine trying to outwit an old schemer like Kessler for money or thinking you had a budget secured and then discover that Lowenstein had batted those weird yellow eyes at the Bursar and suddenly your money is his?" Rolling his eyes, Wronski took a small sip of his beer. "Heck, we don't even have to worry about publishing or perishing. My mother is constantly writing grants and serving on review committees. You should hear her war stories. Not only does she have to deal with the legacy issues, and there are some, but she also has to deal with the nouveau riche sorts. You know, the guy who pledged a bunch of money for something stupid like a new basketball court. His precious kid had better graduate or the funds dry up."

"Sounds awful." Faced with the newly revealed difficulties of the outside world, her problems didn't feel quite as pressing. "How does she manage?"

"My mom?" Wronski barked a laugh. "My mother was born for that sort of thing. Can you imagine anyone telling her no? Her department chair quakes when she asks for a meeting. She's the queen of figuring out what proposals are significant and timely. Plus, she must get between six and eight papers a year published. Mom has it down. Whenever they try to get her to do something she doesn't want to do, she trots out those two words: Grant-funded Research. She wins. Someone else loses. Kinda too bad we can't use that sort of thing to help us out."

"Like someone would fund us to work out new ways to practice the Dark Arts!" Jones hacked out a chuckle. "I don't think I want to play in your mom's arena. That sounds like way too much administrative hassle." She reclined onto an elbow and snorted. "I give. Thanks. I feel better now. I still think I got screwed, but I'll cope. You'll have to explain how the rules work. Just in case."

"Huh? Just in case what?" The question jerked Wronski out of his meditation on universities, grants, research and the vision of having his mother plan out the rest of his career as a professor at a "real" university, preferably the one where she taught.

"Just in case. You know, if you don't renew this summer and you leave me alone here." Groaning, she rolled over to put her other elbow onto the table and cradle her head in her hands. "It would really suck to be stuck here all by myself."

"Oh, quit! I haven't made up my mind yet. Who knows how I'll feel at the end of the year? Maybe Dr. Jorgen will hate me or maybe he'll offer me a position? Who knows? Maybe I'll have to beg them to keep me here. Let's just get through the year first, ok?" Glaring at the future unknowns, he gulped down the last of his beer.

"Heck, let's just finish this pitcher," she said and refilled both their glasses.