Shadow over the Urals

Author's notes: I would like to thank baghee, from Perfect Imagination, beta extraordinaire and my authority on anything Slavic. This first chapter would not have been the same without you (and you know it!), so, a thousand thanks.

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Prologue

Headmaster Ilja Gregorovitch of Durmstrang Institute awoke with a start and had a drowsy look around his quarters. He distinctly remembered a scraping sound that had carried him out of a rather agitated dream. The fire in the hearth was dying, and the moon shone in though the old turret windows, covering the worn armchair and the rickety nightstand next to his bed in a pale light. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and Headmaster Gregorovitch began to rather think the sound had been a figment of his imagination. He blinked sleepily and made a mental note to look for rat droppings in the morning.

It was certainly possibly that the previous day's meeting had left him overstrained, he decided languidly, and immediately continued to contemplate school troubles, which were very much on his mind these days. Much to his annoyance, he had had to cancel Muggle Studies for the fifth year running due to the subject being too unpopular. Furthermore, Muggleborn dropouts were still at seventy percent, which left him rather upset. His attempts to improve the school reputation among any but the old families had failed miserably; the hierarchy among the students seemed simply too ingrained, and, on top of it all, several pure-blood families had withdrawn their funding.

And then there was the Dark Arts teacher, of course. Professor Gadko Khuditski had returned from his third journey to the old, abandoned Dark Arts strongholds in the Carpathian Mountains, and this time, if the Headmaster interpreted his contented expression correctly, Khuditski had struck gold concerning his research into the Dark Arts. The Dark Arts could be both dangerous and deceptive. Perhaps he ought to talk to the man, Gregorovitch decided vaguely. Khuditski was a trifle difficult to deal with, but he needed to be cautioned, at least.

A floorboard creaked, and the Headmaster looked up. He had a fraction of a second to consider his own foolishness, the usefulness of even a poor Disillusionment Charm on tired old eyes, and the fact that his wand had rolled down onto the floor next to the nightstand out of his immediate reach. Then, a cold, echoing voice said in his head: Lie still and listen, and Gregorovitch floated dreamily in space, all his worries forgotten, in a familiar place he vaguely remembered existed deeply inside his mind. Relaxation flowed through his old, aching body, and he tried to fight it for a few seconds, but he was too old, too weak.

A glass containing a greenish, cloudy potion appeared in his hand. Drink it, said the voice, and somewhere deep inside he knew it was his death, but he was not upset. It felt right. His worries were all over, and, besides, his old bones ached anyway. Relief was a bliss as he put the glass to his mouth and emptied it.

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Chapter One - Excitement at the Shoe Factory

Moscow suburbia towards the end of the communist era was a dull and dreary place. Economic stagnation and pessimism pervaded Russia, as all financial resources were concentrated on an ambitious foreign agenda. Russia was, in short, not one of the best places to live.

The southern part of Moscow outskirts was particularly run-down then. Just where the rows of streets began to give way to forested mainland, cheaply constructed square blocks of flats with broken windows stood gathered in small units on streets without greenery. Connected by small webs of sloping phone-lines, the once-white concrete complexes turned the landscape into islands of grey suburbia with jagged, dirty edges thirstily touching the neighbouring forests. Old cars stained with rust and mud stood parked here and there, and, by the horizon, on a hill partly retaken by the forest, loomed a huge and hideous shoe factory, haphazardly framed by some peculiarly shaped pines. "It's a home," said some of the local residents while they sat on their porches drinking spirits after work (strangely enough, none of them had managed to procure a job at the local factory, but it was far too hard to access by foot for anyone to bother about it), while other shook their heads and said nothing at all.

Just as the Cold War began to loosen its hold on the Russian people, rumours began to spread about this strangely inaccessible shoe factory. The people living near it muttered over steaming cups of very black tea that the factory obviously had a policy not to employ people from their suburb, and that if anyone tried to find out about it, they would be drugged insane. Their evidence was actually quite meagre. One day, an old woman living in one of the blocks of flats nearest to the factory went out into the forest to pick some mushrooms, and was seen by her neighbours to choose the impossibly slippery, unused road that went close by the hill. She was gone for a whole day. Then, she suddenly turned up, her clothes and hair a mess, screaming that she had seen a winged horse with fiery eyes, ridden by a green-robed demon. Needless to say, the poor old woman was quickly taken to the nearby asylum.

Unfortunately, this led to a stirring discontent. After a week or two, the rumours concerning the factory began to ring true, and some of the local men decided that some sort of protest was in order. Hence, they strengthened themselves with a few drinks and headed down to their local club. They did not get far, however, as some local policemen caught them on their way, they were fined and taken home to their angry wives, and, in the end, the uproar ended up costing the locals the small price of one black eye, two broken noses, and a few smashed up bottles of vodka. The authorities immediately put up explanatory signs that the factory was closed for repair, all quarrels were soon forgotten, and the citizens were again united in the general malcontent towards their government.

If a local habitant of suburbia ever would defy logic and find the entrance into the ugly shoe-factory, he would be in for a slight surprise. Not only did the dimensions of the inside not at all correspond to the dimensions of the outside, but the building was populated by a large number of severe-looking, cloaked and robed men and women, walking hastily and determinedly along winding corridors. Some of these odd people carried with them strange-looking small animals. Others carried sticks.

But let us return a while to the fate of the poor old woman. She was not mad, of course. The sight she was exposed to was an unfortunate accident, where a student at the Russian Ministry Academy for Beast Control, in response to a drunken bet, decided at the end of a school day to fly an illegally tamed Granian from its training fields to the Ministry Beast Control building and back. Soon after the old woman returned from her mushroom escapade, ministry officials modified her memory (she was happy in the asylum anyway, as she got free food and did not have to pack matchboxes), and the student was duly punished. But that is another story.

Situated at the centre of the Ministry building, a large courtyard stretched out in the shadow of the high concrete walls. It was lined with shops selling books, cushioned brooms for long-distance travel, green and grey school robes, out-door gear for all seasons (including water-repellent fur-lined hats and heated socks), enchanted collars for magical control of various vicious creatures, magical sweets, Forever Fresh Foodstuffs, and charmed toy beasts. At one far end, several packed restaurants served food. There were also some odd-looking black booths (said suburbanite might say they looked like phone booths) in the centre of the plaza into which people entered but never exited, and others, from which people exited, but never entered. And squashed in between a Chinese restaurant and a low-budget diner stood a three floored bar, green, and not quite stable looking. Inside the bar, on the ground floor, resided a large party of students in green robes consuming a wide variety of vodka around a large table, onto which bottles regularly appeared out of nowhere.

On one of these chairs sat a pale, blonde, sharp-faced girl in her early twenties, whose young features were closed in a frown. Her name was Secessa Laburova. She was a taciturn young woman, and could therefore not quite make herself share with her drinking companions her anguish of just having blown up the school Vampire Pit and having received an ominous appointment with the Head of Studies.

It was only weeks from the final day when she would start her final-year apprenticeship and, at long last, begin to pay off those debts that her father so thoughtlessly had left her when he died. Her first two years of total independence had been spent keeping Pawn Warlocks at bay, which was hardly an existence. Thankfully, the Ministry grounds were very well guarded and she needed only really worry about the summer holidays, which were mercifully short. She usually spent them in an abandoned groundskeeper's cottage on her family grounds, living off food cooked by her house elf, Mizil.

"Do cheer up, Secessa," said her brown-haired, round-faced, neighbour, who, despite having downed several glasses of Dragonbeer, still sat with his back straight, eyeing his friends with laid-back amusement and enjoying the occasional purple flames emitting from his nostrils. His name was Mikhail Zolotov, he was certainly the most decent of them all, and he felt slightly bad about having been called up to the Head of Studies for the secret interview (Secessa might be a girl, he thought, but she still didn't deserve people going behind her back) "If you're thinking about today, it was an accident. We can all testify to that. You were taken by surprise, that's all. We all know you hardly make mistakes."

"Right," said Secessa coolly. She was rather surprised by his sudden display of friendliness, and her eyes narrowed.

"We're all behind you, and you know it." It was a slight exaggeration, of course, made to make her feel better. He felt rather good about doing the right thing and cheering her up.

"Right," said Secessa, and gave him a near smile.

"That's better," Mikhail said and gave her a wink, followed by a small, fiery belch that smelled strongly of beer. "By the way, did you catch Timur's latest trick? Look, he's doing it again!"

He pointed at a long-nosed fellow opposite who was using his wand to direct a thin stream of Honeymead into his ears and out through his nose in a spectacular display that finished with the glittering droplets forming the word 'hammered'. Secessa snorted derisively while several of the people around the table fell off their chairs in fits of laughter.

"Give him more!" someone shouted, but Timur was looking glazed, and then his face suddenly contorted and he got up and staggered hurriedly towards the toilets.

"That'sh shpectacular wand-control, that ish," said Timur's neighbour and hiccoughed. He was a blonde half-Finn called Ruusti; nobody could ever remember his first name. "Here'sh to us."

"To us - the Vampire Pit survivors!" said Mikhail, raising his glass. Secessa mutely raised hers and downed her Pomegranate Vodka sourly. The young man to her left (who had appeared about an hour ago, but whom nobody seemed to know) spilled his drink over the table and swore. Mikhail kindly gave him a new one.

"So, did you hear about Alexei Vorobin?" he asked Secessa.

"What about him?"

"Suspended for six weeks."

She grimaced. "He didn't try to fly the Granian again, did he?"

"He most certainly did."

"Idiot! Well, he deserved what he got."

"He's only doing what we're all dying to do. Let's face it, two years of training and we're still not allowed to set proper bonds."

"Speak for yourself," she said dryly, and he winced. Secessa was well favoured by her tutor and had been given more privileges than most, but Mikhail did not particularly enjoy having it thrown in his face, especially as he suspected she had gotten her privileges bed-wise. Nevertheless, he was determined to prevail in giving her what he considered to be a fair warning about her upcoming meeting. She was a girl, after all, and therefore prone to fragility.

"Look, Secessa -" Mikhail began in a quieter tone, but, at the same time, a hand grasped Secessa's shoulder, making her start. Mikhail looked up, only then noticing her tutor, Ivan Khomutov, standing behind her, partly obscured by a wooden beam. His brown hair was rumpled and his light blue eyes a bit glazed.

"Secessa," he said in a quiet voice, and she reluctantly turned around to face him. "We need to talk."

Ivan Khomutov was the wizard equivalent of a Cleansweep Four - useful, reliable and ordinary as hell. The aura of glamour that had surrounded him when they first met had sadly dissipated as soon as they had become intimate, only to be replaced with body odour and dark brown hairs in Secessa's pristine bathtub. She often contemplated breaking the whole thing off, only to then remind herself of the trouble she would get would she ever turn him out of her bed.

She quickly glanced around the table, but her course-mates were too drunk and rowdy to notice the new arrival where he stood in the shadows. Mikhail Zolotov, however, studied them thoughtfully, and Secessa's nostrils flared.

"If you're worried about tomorrow, don't bother," she said dismissively to Ivan. "You can't help me." She turned towards the table again and shrugged off his hand. "I will manage."

Ivan frowned and took a step backwards, quickly withdrawing his hand. He glanced at Mikhail and straightened.

"I know you will."

Her eyes flickered with annoyance.

"Your work has always surpassed my expectations, and I made a point to tell them so when I met them today. But nevertheless..." His expression was insistent. "Listen, Secessa, I've heard things, and..." His voice faltered as his eyes met Mikhail's again, and then he sighed. "Look, you know where to find me, okay." She nodded frostily, and he gave her another insistent look before turning around and making his way towards the door, his dark grey robes standing out in a sea of green student uniforms.

"It's not what it seems," said Secessa calmly, her mouth a thin line. Her eyes were dark in the flickering lantern light.

"Of course not," Mikhail replied reflexively. He sighed, hesitated, and then glanced at his fallen comrades. Whatever noble courage he had summoned before seemed to have dissipated into smoke. Women were so difficult, he thought, when they tried to be independent. "I'd better take care of Timur," he said. "He's covered my behind enough times."

Secessa nodded, relieved to be excused from his attentions. She watched his movements as he helped a very unsteady Timur to the bar, alerted a bartender and was allowed to walk out through a panel in the wall behind the bar that quickly slid aside. Then she put on her dark-green fur-cape, pulled up her hood and made herself a part of the stream of students making for the door.

When Secessa arrived at her room ten minutes later, calmed by her brisk walk, she stopped briefly in the middle of it, the possible threat of imminent expulsion making her for a moment see the tidy space with new eyes. It was stark and small, but it was home. The bookshelf was the prominent feature of the room; it stood opposite the door as one entered and underneath the wide window overlooking the gnarled forest trees that surrounded the small student's dormitory building. Her rickety desk, supported by a Stabilising Charm (cast by Ivan in a chivalrous moment), stood to her right and the bed to her left. That was all.

Gently, she traced a finger along the backs of her well-used schoolbooks, her most prized possessions. They were all meticulously ordered after subject and year of study, her notes assigned likewise on the bottom shelf. Her most recently read book, "Grade I Beasts, by Jevgenij Gorov, had been put back in haste the same morning and she carefully aligned it with its neighbours. She could still clearly see the first page of the chapter on vampires in her mind.

For a brief moment, a memory flashed before her eyes, tendrils of a hateful mind invading hers, layers of her mind being ripped apart like clouds, her panic, and then the fire and the blast. She blinked, and the memory was gone.

Strange, she thought. She had always considered herself to be a fairly well contained person, which made her reactions to the vampire completely illogical. She shuddered at the idea of something being wrong in her head, but, she suddenly thought bitterly, if there was, she certainly knew who to blame. But she would not think about her father, not now.

They would not expel her, she decided. Today's accident was not the first magical accident to happen at the school. She would take her reprimand and move on. They could never get rid of her, she told herself firmly; who in their right mind would? She had handled animals since the age of eleven, which made her close to a natural with most creatures, and she had out-performed her fellow trainees consistently throughout her two-year education, disproving all who insisted that good Beast Trainers needed to be male.

And she would graduate soon, and with her new rank she could get a proper bank loan to pay off her low-life creditors. Sudden excitement over her future fluttered in her chest. She had already put down her name for her final year specialisation: training security trolls in Moscow. The apprenticeship was well paid, which meant she could begin putting the family estate to rights fairly soon, if she lived frugally.

A small, fierce smile traced her lips at the thought. Her ragged days as a second-rate citizen hunted by collect wizards were soon to be over and done with. This meeting was all that stood in her way. Annoying as it was, she would walk in there with her back straight.

And in that determined frame of mind, she went to bed.

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The door leading to the Head of Studies' office was large and black, and its handle was made out of twisted, black-polished mahogany. In the middle of the door, at eye-height, resided a large, translucent stone, which most of the time glowed a dull red - the Head of Studies was a busy man. It was the only door of its kind in the otherwise sparsely decorated building, and students waiting outside were often pitied by passers-by; most people who entered were either verbally degraded and suspended, lost their rank, or were sent away from the school permanently.

Secessa tried to remain cool and composed as she waited outside said door at the appointed hour. Her journey through the apprentice's quarters this morning had not boded well. Most notable was her course-mates' refusal to meet her eyes and Mikhail Zolotov's pat on her shoulder as she passed him on the stairs. It made her nervous.

Then, suddenly, the stone changed into clear, dark blue, and the handle shivered slightly. Secessa pushed it down and entered a spacious corridor, its high ceiling almost completely obstructed from view by charmed quills scratching relentlessly on long scrolls that were swaying back and forth in the draft from the open door. Every now and then one of them would roll up and fall, and a drawer in the wall would shoot out and catch it before it reached the floor.

The door behind her slammed shut, making her jump and cease her staring. She walked hastily through the corridor towards the wooden door at the end. Suddenly, a crack in the wood appeared and she ducked as a scroll and a quill shot out through it, barely missing her head.

At her approach, the door swung open. Secessa frowned. The black-haired, round-faced man with thin eyebrows sitting at the scroll-laden desk was not her Head of Studies.

"Good Morning, Trainee Laburova, said the man and pointed at a wooden chair facing his desk, "please have a seat."

Secessa sat down, still frowning, but not too displeased, and she did not shiver when she touched the dreaded seat. Quite the opposite from Trainee 'Daredevil' Vorobin, she thought wryly, who, she knew, had wet himself. Disgraceful.

"I am Controller Stanislav Orlov, of the Department for Magical Supervision. I'm afraid I have the regretful duty to inform you that you have been honorarily discharged from the academy."

Secessa started with the unpleasant surprise. She was suddenly aware of a strange ache in her stomach, as if she had eaten something bad.

"On what grounds?" she then said, managing a calm and collected voice. Throwing tantrums at any official never led to anything. She had learned this from bitter experience.

"A thorough investigation has been made concerning you abilities and general conduct. You have been deemed too mentally unstable to continue your education."

Secessa reddened and straightened. She had investigated into the other accidents that had happened recently and found that most of the perpetrators had been reprimanded, nothing more. Which meant that, on this occasion, someone had decided to do her in -probably a jealous fellow student. A flush suffused her cheeks.

"Just because I lose control occasionally does not mean I'm mentally unstable," she replied tersely, "as I'm sure any sensible member of this school would tell you. If this is about the Vampire Pit, my qualifications -"

"Your conduct in the Vampire Pit leaves something to be desired," the Controller interrupted calmly. Furthermore, your involvement with your tutor, Ivan Khomutov -" Secessa started again "- has stirred a lot of ill will. Based on the evidence given from your fellows, the academy has no choice but to expel you."

For a brief moment, Secessa stared at him numbly. Then she managed to compose herself again.

"You have been misinformed," she lied coldly. "I am the best in my class, and this is undoubtedly what has stirred the ill will."

Stanislav Orlov paused briefly and sighed inwardly. He was just about to pass from delivering very bad news to rubbing them in, and he pitied the poor, haughty girl who had almost been the third female Beasts Apprentice ever to pass through the school. That honour would now go to her classmate Babulova, who (he had been told) was hardworking but not as talented.

"Beast Tamer Khomutov has taught you clouding techniques, I believe, due to your unfortunate inability to maintain a one-sided link to a beast? This is an exceptionally rare complication for a Beast Tamer."

Secessa Laburova was silent.

"Although I congratulate you on having been allowed to set proper bonds, as it shows remarkable potential, I'm afraid that your strange incapacity to control high-grade beasts makes you a liability," Controller Orlov continued evenly. "One could argue, of course, that the school might be able to give you a licence to be a Teacher's Assistant Grade B, but then there is the damage to the school property to deal with, not to mention your unfortunate conduct. Furthermore, you classmates have commented on your inability to cooperate which is a characteristic ill suited for an Assistant."

At this point, Secessa felt sick. She thought of the warlock she had 'bumped into' in Moscow on her latest Christmas visit - the one she had promised money to on the day after her graduation - and swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry, her hands were limp, and her head was swirling. Her throat felt like a lump of lead bearing down on her lungs and she tried to inhale, but she could only make a few desperate, strained sounds...

Stanislav Orlov watched with horrified fascination as the young woman in front of him gasped for air; he had certainly not expected her to suddenly faint. Then he started out of his reverie, and at the same time as her eyes began to swell abnormally and her head lolled to the side he quickly drew out his wand and supplied some well-needed first-aid.

"Very understandable," he said calmly, when Secessa Laburova's breathing was regular again, and her cheeks had regained some of their colour. "It must have been quite a shock for you."

Secessa blushed furiously, and took a deep breath. "You must understand," she said, her voice shaking slightly, "this school is all I have."

Controller Orlov pocketed his wand and cleared his throat. "Yes, it is very regrettable that you passed the aptitude test. But then, your family history and rigid childhood training worked immensely in your favour. These kinds of spell-damages to the mind are quite rare. If I might enquire...?"

"No."

He blinked, and paused briefly before continuing. "Yes, well then, since you were just about to sit your exams, I believe you have signed the Ten-Year Loyalty Agreement required to collect your Training Certificate?"

"I have."

"I thought so. And I believe you understand the meaning of this agreement, and of the Secrecy Clause?"

Now it was Secessa's turn to blink. "Yes." She had signed it, but never much thought about the consequences. After all, she had planned to work for the Ministry her entire life. She had heard the common student legend about a graduate who had tried to change his mind about his profession and mysteriously disappeared, but not paid much attention to it. Suddenly the part about her "magical rights being forfeit should she fail to be loyal" stood out sinisterly in her mind. She was theirs; her only other choice was losing everything, including her family home.

Orlov was just about to continue when Secessa Laburova's eyes lightened up, and she said quickly, "I am to work at the Ministry? At the Controllers' office?"

"No." Stanislav Orlov noted the dead expression in her eyes and quickly continued. "You are to receive a ten-year employment contract at the Ministry for posing as a teacher at your former school, Durmstrang Institute. Not the first-class position you would have had as a Tamer, but it is still a respectable job for a female. The papers have been arranged, including a very smart résumé and a strong letter of recommendation. You have been accepted for the job. You will work as the Dark Arts teacher's apprentice for a year and then take over his position. As a high status teacher within Durmstrang you will be in an excellent position to report any strange occurrences to the Ministry. You will of course receive a top-up wage from the Ministry, so the work will be well worth your while."

Secessa stared at him in silence for a long time. She had never expected going back to her old school. As a teacher, she thought, she would certainly be able to get rid of the Pawn Warlocks, as she would be allowed a bank loan. She supposed spending her time as an apprentice to the smelly old man whom she had once managed to impress might become just about tolerable after a while. But there were other, even less tantalising obligations that came with the job ...

"You realise than I loathe children?"

"That is of no significance." Stanislav Orlov was quite pleased she was still sitting up straight.

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Practically speaking, no. But let's pretend for a moment that you do, to make this situation less disagreeable to you. I will then need to tell you, of course, that any discovery of your being a Ministry employee is minimal, and that your background makes you our first and ideal candidate for the position. Professor Khuditski wrote you a rare letter of recommendation when you applied here, which was why we put you on the list of the few likely candidates he would accept as an Apprentice. The Dark Arts position at Durmstrang comes, as you probably know, with some unusual privileges, including guaranteed employment until you retire, and the choice to turn down Apprentices."

Secessa's mouth twitched. "And the reason for placing a Ministry employee at Durmstrang is...?"

"The recent death of Headmaster Gregorovitch, and his odd choice of successor - an English-bred part-Bulgarian of vague Russian heritage by the name of Karkaroff, who, as far as we know, has never set foot in this country before. He is a known trader of Dark artefacts, and as a daughter of another Dark trader, he should be predisposed to like you; this is of course the other reason we have chosen you. Due to Durmstrang's peculiar situation as a nation-free zone inside our borders, we cannot send one of our Controllers to officially investigate the situation, but we are of course intensely interested in all Western influences within our territory. With your background, you should be able to integrate yourself sufficiently, you do not need any particular training to report what you see, and (just between you and me) we save a lot of money using you as well."

"You believe that the succession has been tampered with?"

"Why would Gregorovitch appoint someone completely unknown?"

"You have a point, I guess. Very well, I'll accept the job you have so kindly offered me."

"I'm delighted." Stanislav Orlov gave her a rare smile (although she did not know it was) and stretched out his hand. Secessa Laburova rose and took it.

"Welcome to the Ministry, although, of course, the Ministry has not officially recognised your employment and never will. Your wage will be disguised as a delayed pension from your deceased parents. After all, most things are delayed these days." There was a brief pause as their eyes met. "I think you will do very well," he then finished briskly. "You may go pack your belongings now, and take a well-earned vacation until the start of term. Your pension is small, but should carry you through the summer."

Secessa Laburova's mouth twitched again, as if she was about to speak, but then she simply nodded, turned, and walked towards the door. He pointed his wand at it and opened it.

"Oh, and one more thing," he said as she was about to cross the threshold. "I'm aware that you have taken the Know Your Inner Beast Course but will now fail to perform the final test. I have been told that the Animagus transformation was very straining for you and that you occasionally had trouble completing it. You are therefore not recommended to transform unless supervised."

She turned around to face him again, her eyes inscrutable. "I see."

"I assure you, it is for your own good. The Ministry will hold to the Secrecy Clause, and not put your name in the Animagus Registry."

"That is very kind."

"You are, however, in our own registry. An arctic fox, I believe?"

"Yes."

"You will be given the opportunity to finish that particular course when this assignment is over, as a token of our appreciation. Hopefully, you may one day be able to complete your Beast Tamer training as well."

"I suppose I am grateful for your kind offer. But there is no need to tell me lies about my supposed Tamer future, Controller Orlov. I am not a child." Secessa Laburova's glare was fierce, and as his eyes met hers he saw in them a brief flicker of dark fury that made him start. Then it was gone, and her expression was cold and closed.

"I do apologise, Miss Laburova," he said carefully. "It was not my intention to be rude."

"Apology accepted," she said crisply, turned on her heel, and left the room in a swirl of pristine dark green.

Secessa Laburova was not the kind of girl who cried. Rage occasionally boiled inside her, but she prided herself on her ability to control her emotions, and never, ever, succumbing to what some people referred to as female weakness. Hence, even though she had faced a terrible blow at the meeting with Controller Orlov, she did not walk out through the famous black door in tears, like so many before her had done. No, she quietly, and efficiently, went to pack her bags and left the Russian Ministry of Magic School for Beast Control without saying goodbye to a single soul.

Later the same day, she arrived home at her deserted family home on the Kola Peninsula, and proceeded into the shabby, deserted lounge where she (to the other portraits' shock and disgust) unceremoniously obliterated her father's portrait from the wall with a harshly proclaimed "Incendio!". She stared at the portrait's remnants on the wall, watching them burn to cinders, unable to cry as her tears had dried up long ago. And this is where we will leave her for now.

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Author's Notes: A note on the spacing: * indicates a brief moment in time (seconds to minutes), and *** a longer time period (hours to days).

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