Shadow over the Urals

Author's notes: Thanks so much to my excellent beta Baghee, from Perfect Imagination, for providing first-class editing and enlightening discussions. You're the best!!!

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Chapter Two - The New Arrivals

Elena Ruslanovna Krotova was a young, raven-haired, pretty witch, soft-spoken, and a terrible coward. She liked life's comforts, such as a cosy home and a loving family, and she rarely moved outside her happy little sphere. This sphere consisted for the first twenty years of her life of her mother and father, her brother, their black-and-white cat, and their greenhouse farm. They were idealists who had settled not so far from the Muggle city of Lyon, France, in order to grow herbs of all kinds, which they sold to both Muggles and wizards. Especially their Muggle profits were good, as their produce was of exceptional quality. However, when fortunes stopped smiling at Elena's family, she accepted the fact that she needed to venture out into the world and get a job outside the family business.

It had all started when her father, who was a Russian emigrant (who had left poverty as a Ministry-paid icicle picker in Siberia behind him and sworn never to return), had begun to suffer from odd muscle twitches. Worriedly, his wife told him to take a break from work while they hired a supervisor to look after the business.

Elena's father's health deteriorated, and, of course, the family was devastated. When he died, just a few years later, neither of them had cared much how the business was doing, but nevertheless, they were shocked to see that somehow they were ruined. The caretaker had squandered their money under their noses, and was, conveniently, on holiday. He never returned, and Elena's mother, who was French and of a sadly mercurial temperament, immediately locked herself and the cat into her room and refused to come out 'until there was a world out there worthy to look at.

Naturally, the family desperately needed money. And Elena, who happened to be clever at both Herbology and Charms (but not very much else), sent away owls to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and Durmstrang Institute, hoping for an apprentice or teacher position in either of the two subjects. Beauxbatons, her own school, sent an apologetic refusal, but Durmstrang hired her, and, happy with her luck, she set off into the unknown, leaving her brother and his new-found fiancée to work at the farm and look after their mother.

It was a long journey to Durmstrang Institute, involving one Apparition, four Portkeys, and a very confusing experience at the Pereiaslavich Connection Point, Moscow, but she arrived at Durmstrang in one piece, holding her fourth Portkey, a knight from a chess set, tightly in her right hand. As she opened her eyes, (she always shut them firmly while Portkey travelling, as it made her nauseous), her so-far cheerful attitude was abruptly crushed. Face-to-face to her stood a black-robed, blond wizard with a long, twisted face. She looked into a pair of cold, mean eyes, feeling for a moment as if she was falling into a pit.

"The Portkey," he said, his disdainful eyes eyeing her up and down. She handed the item over, and, a cold shiver running down her spine, she instinctively took a step backwards. He bared his teeth in a leer, and moved to the left, revealing a partially open, ornate wooden door with a polished brass handle that Elena had not yet noticed.

"Miss Krotova is here, Headmaster," the man said to the door.

"Show her in, Mr. Dolohov," answered a bored voice from behind it. Elena exhaled, and without casting another look at him, she opened the door herself, and hurried inside.

*

The Pereiaslavich Connexion Point, Moscow, was situated underground and had been the largest travelling-stop in Russia since its opening. Thousands of wizards used its Floo and Portkey facilities daily, and the crowd that traversed the large, circular room that connected the different travelling services was a multicoloured spectacle of important-looking Ministry employees in navy robes, travelling out-of-towners with screaming children and city-folk, all zigzagging across the floor in haste to reach destination-marked archways leading to departure halls. Vendors in gaily-coloured hats stood happily by overcrowded stands, selling a selection of sausages, Honeymead and Siberian Icicle Vodka ("Made from hand-picked Northern Light Icicles - bringing the colours of the north into your hand!"), and newspaper boys harassed travellers to buy papers while thieves rummaged through their pockets for coins.

This particular Monday, sausage business was booming. The new Minister for Magic had, in an attempt to control the whereabouts of his unruly citizens, recently installed a new law that forbade non-official Portkeys, and, therefore, this Moscow Floo and Portkey meeting point had recently increased its public usage by fifty percent. Floo-times and the severely restricted Portkey travel had to be booked in advance to avoid total chaos, which was why the 8.30 arrival in fireplace number seven was of no interest to anyone but the clerk standing next to it, his schedule in his hand and one of his eyes twitching nervously.

The long-distance arrivals were always the worst. Over half of the citizens travelling by Floo had no idea of the time it took to traverse across the vast expanse of the Soviet Union and few of them bothered to find out when unsure. In fact, long-distance Floo-travel could take up to thirty minutes (not including accidental fall-outs due to dizziness), although such cases were rare. However, the fifteen-minute interval between the long-distance arrivals at fireplace seven was of great concern to the poor clerk, who had been threatened with grievous bodily harm on several occasions when travellers accidentally collided under his nose. Already, this particular traveller was ten minutes late, and the clerk was beginning to perspire with anxiety.

At 8.41, however, his agony was abruptly brought to a close when the fire flared up to form a spinning shape. Seconds later, a smartly clad grey-robed witch with her blonde hair in a neatly tied up bun half stepped, half stumbled out of the fireplace, her suitcases landing heavily on the stone floor and sliding a few paces before settling. Wearing a murderous scowl, she hurriedly flung a coin at the nervous clerk, and, without looking up, she promptly stepped out of the way, dragging her old leather suitcases with her. The clerk took a step backwards to avoid the cloud of soot in her wake. The tirade on his tongue, needless to say, died a quiet death.

Secessa brushed away the heavy patches of soot from her robes with disgust, contemplating sourly on the early appointment she had been given by the no doubt sadistic new Headmaster. She took a deep breath and brought out her wand to levitate her bags. After three tries, they lifted forlornly about one centimetre from the floor and there they hovered uncertainly. Sighing, Secessa made her way towards the Floo-room exit, and then she hurried on across the circular, checked floor towards the small archway across the hall over which a large sign hung flashing 'Durmstrang Institute - by travel pass only'. At the same time, a man in purple robes put down his newspaper and followed suit.

"Newspaper, M'am," said a small voice, and she looked down just in time to avoid bumping into a scruffy-looking newspaper boy laden with an assortment of freshly printed newspapers. Annoyed, she was about to tell him to take a hike when a headline caught her eye.

"Fine, the Moscow Owl, then," she muttered, and a semi-wet paper was thrust into her left hand. She paid for it and hurried on, automatically feeling her pockets to be sure all her money was still there. Her attention elsewhere, she immediately bumped into a large party of Ministry officials marching across the hall, and, for a moment caught up in complete confusion, she only managed to detach herself and her suitcase on the other side of crowd due to sheer luck and extensive use of pointed elbows.

The noise of the Transport Hall died down immediately as she proceeded through the small corridor leading to the Durmstrang waiting hall, which consisted of a large row of benches to her right, and, to her left, the Portkey storage. As term had not started yet, the hall was blissfully empty, and she walked straight up to the official behind the desk. He looked up at her with sleepy eyes.

"Papers?"

Secessa pulled out her travel pass from her robes and handed it over. He glanced over it briefly, tapped it with his wand to check its authenticity, and then turned and pointed his wand at the wall of tiny deposit boxes behind him. One of them sprung open, and a quill shot out and landed in his hand. He handed it over.

"Eight-fifty," he said, and immediately looked down again at the paper he had been reading. The long iron hand of the large old clock high up on the wall opposite the row of benches moved to 8.47 with a loud click. Secessa walked to the waiting area and held the quill firmly while she waited for the minutes to pass.

Suddenly, she thought she heard brisk footsteps from the corridor behind her, and with a lurch of her stomach she realised, too late, that she was using her dad's suitcases, and that she had forgotten to check them for old Traces cast by Pawn Warlocks. The busy crowd had saved her. Cursing, she held the Portkey and her luggage tighter. It could only be seconds to go.

The clerk suddenly shouted, "WAND DOWN!" and she turned around to see him standing up, his wand out, looking surprisingly alert as he challenged the purple-robed wizard walking determinedly towards her, his wand pointing at her chest and releasing a red jet of light. She was surprised to see his spell deflected by the clerk's. Then she was suddenly carried off with an abrupt jerk.

*

She landed sharply, the heels of her boots cutting hard into grey, stone floor in the middle of a small, rectangular room where plain wooden chairs stood facing each other along unadorned walls. Dizzy, she nearly lost her balance but quickly regained her pose. Her blood pulsed loudly in her ears.

A blond wizard with a long, pale face stood a few metres away from her, his arms crossed. He carried the caretaker's solid iron keys on his belt, and his grey eyes were cold. Behind him Secessa could make out the outlines of an ornate door with a brass handle, which presumably led to the Headmaster's office. Secessa had never been there during her time at the school. Still out of breath, she shook her head briefly to clear it. Durmstrang's familiar staff and strong walls had been a bastion of solidity to her during her youth, and the fact that Karkaroff had already replaced the caretaker felt unsettling. She glanced apprehensively at the chairs. They seemed less ornate than the ones she had been used to seeing in the student study areas. Had the old ones been sold?

"The Portkey," the man said.

She handed the quill to him, her heart slowing its beat while she tried to organise her thoughts. Then began a silent pause as they both joined a stare-down contest; Secessa winced inwardly at the sour welcoming - the old caretaker, Lushkoff, with his red cheeks and gruff, friendly voice, would definitely have shook her hand.

After a short while, the door behind him opened, and a thin, raven-haired woman stepped out, looking frightened. She flicked her wand with delicate grace, pointing it to her right. A suitcase that had been hidden in the shadows lifted from the floor with ease, and Secessa watched its progress with some envy, momentarily forgetting about Lushkoff.

"Miss Laburova is here, Headmaster," the man said to the partially open door. Secessa pursed her lips and looked down briefly at her own feet; it could have been 'Tamer Laburova,' she thought with some bitterness. Then she met his eyes staunchly. The man scrutinised her briefly, and then casually bared his teeth in something reminiscent of a small, cold smile.

"Show her in, Mr. Dolohov" replied an unctuous voice from inside. The man gave her a short nod and then turned to the other young woman. She jumped with fright and took a small step backwards, nearly stumbling over her green, woolly robes. She reminded Secessa of a tiny, underfed rabbit.

"Your quarters," he said. "Follow." His black robes swayed fluidly over the floor as he walked away, and the raven-haired woman scurried after him.

Secessa raised her eyebrow at the young woman's fragile departure, and, her heartbeat now steady, she turned and entered the Headmaster's office.

The room she entered was sparsely but tastefully decorated. To her immediate left, a pleasant fire crackled in a fireplace surrounded by a marble mantelpiece; on either side of it stood rows of bookshelves containing books meticulously ordered by size, and, opposite her, with his back to a window framed by heavy, velvet curtains, sat the new Headmaster at his recently acquired workplace.

The thin, black-haired man behind the desk had cold and shrewd blue eyes, and he reorganised some parchments in front of him while giving her a cool smile. She calmly took a seat on the single, uncomfortable chair available, briefly reflecting over the marked difference between Headmaster Gregorovitch and this man. The old Headmaster had been a learned, aloof man, whereas this man, it appeared, had a more forceful agenda. His robes were immaculate, his eyes were shrewd if a little bit vain, and he had an impatient air about him. Secessa quickly decided, very correctly, that a little flattery would go a long way with Durmstrang's new Headmaster.

Igor Vasilev Karkaroff had been born and bred in England, but carried with him the industrious nature of his emigrated parents, who run a small imports business. Early in life, he had joined a gang of street boys of the wizard quarters in the coastal city where he lived, fighting his way towards gang domination and at the same time doing his best to eliminate all trace of his foreign background.

When he was called to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Igor Karkaroff decided to leave his lowlife subordinates and proceed to the path of greatness amongst the crème of British wizarding families, using his street-know-how to successfully smuggle Dark Arts items into the hands of greedy students who could come up with the cash. Soon, he gained a fair amount of recognition amongst his peers, adopted an accordingly high air, and his contacts got more powerful, and darker.

Through his English highbrow connections, Karkaroff got to know young man of fine Russian heritage: Antonin Dolohov. Dolohov did not strive to socialise as much as Karkaroff did; he was simply a loner who enjoyed violence, and who jumped at any chance to practice any dark spells he came across, or invented. Personally, Karkaroff did not think much of such psychotic behaviour, but, as they both strived for greatness, they were forced to operate together in the cause for the greater good. So, for now, he put up with Dolohov and Dolohov put up with him, while they both worked for a common goal at the Durmstrang Institute.

"I presume you have had time to look through your contract," Igor Karkaroff said after she had sat down and they had exchanged a few pleasantries (while he carefully eyed her up and down). Contrary to the previous flimsy witch, he thought, she was a fine, pure-blooded Russian, and her family, it was rumoured, had bred illegal beasts. Karkaroff had been rather put out by the few applications to the Charms position, which had forced him to hire the ridiculous Miss Krotova, but at least one of the two women he had brought into the school would improve the next generation. And, being a woman, Apprentice Professor Laburova would be easy to control as well. "I hope it is to your liking," he continued.

Seeing his scrutiny, Secessa quickly assumed a slightly awed expression, and Headmaster Karkaroff smiled toothily. She nodded. "It seems fair to me. I really only have one question."

"Yes?" he said, leaning back in his chair.

"It appears the part about not revealing the location of our school has a binding spell connected to it, which will be activated by the final signature. I would like to know the nature of the spell, if I may. I found it very interesting."

"It is a simple Tongue-Tying Curse." He was rather pleased that she had asked. She was the first apprentice who had.

"I see."

"It has been a part of the Durmstrang employment contract for centuries."

Secessa noted that the Headmaster's eyes were very cold, like chips of ice. She wondered briefly if he had lied to her, and decided that he definitely seemed the type.

"Very well, then," she said. "Do you have a quill?"

"Certainly."

Parchments signed (and said curse activated by an uncomfortable roll of the tongue and the tell-tale chill of a strong curse), she was about to rise when Professor Karkaroff offhandedly handed her a scroll from the pile on his desk. "These are some rules to be instated at Durmstrang at the beginning of term," he said. "All teachers need to be updated, of course. Sadly, some of the rules concern shortages, as the school economy has been in a slight ..." He coughed. "... decline for the last couple of years."

"I see." She took the proffered scroll. It seemed to be quite a long list, considering its thickness, and she restrained herself hard from raising an eyebrow.

"Your quarters are situated next to the Arithmancy classroom, just by the entrance to the Direwolf Dormitory," Professor Karkaroff continued in his well-modulated voice." Shall I ask our new caretaker to show you the way? Mr. Dolohov, you met him outside."

"Yes, I did. No, thank you, that will not be necessary." Secessa shuddered slightly at the thought of staying on the second floor, although she assumed it was common practice for all the apprentices. The underground kitchens generated all the heating for the school, and although the girls' dungeon dormitories had been dark and dismal, at least they had not been cold. The second floor was furthest from the kitchens, and if you did not have your own fireplace, living there would be nearly as bad as living in the boys' turret dormitories. She hoped she had one.

"Oh, and by the by, in addition to teaching the younger classes you will also assist Professor Gadko Khuditski in his research. He will give you the details at the new staff meeting."

Secessa smiled stiffly. "Very well."

"And I will personally oversee Advanced Dark Arts when Professor Khuditski has retired. It has been a ... hobby of mine for some time."

Secessa was not surprised. And she was very relieved that she did not have to teach the Three - she had never been fond of the Unforgivables, as her father had on several occasions used them on animals she had failed to bind as a child. The nightmares had been difficult.

"Of course, if my duties will be too demanding, I am sure you will provide an adequate backup," the Headmaster continued with a wide grin.

Secessa tensed, and decided to lie. "I'm afraid I feel obliged to inform you that the reason I failed to complete the final stages of my degree was a lack of restraint in close combat. For the students' sake, perhaps I should refrain from teaching the seventh year. If there were to be an accident ..."

Karkaroff's eyes glinted with interest. "I'm sure something can be arranged," he said. "I've heard Charms teacher Sergei Linev has a surprisingly good school record and could possibly cover in that case. He has certainly expressed an interest; it seems that although he's forced to retire due to his wife's reclining health, he's eager to take an odd class, although I seriously hope I won't have to clutch at straws."

"Professor Linev teaches Charms? I thought he taught Potions?"

"Ah, yes, regrettably, his knowledge was somewhat limited and, as he wishes to retire soon anyway, I found a new teacher for the subject," said Karkaroff. "Professor Kohler has been an apothecary for some time, and has wider knowledge in the area. Charms are not Linev's forte, but as I've been unable to find a suitable replacement for the suddenly retiring Professor Petrov, I needed someone to supervise the new apprentice. Miss Krotova, although first impressions might suggest otherwise, is apparently talented. Time will tell, of course."

After briefly wondering how much change had really been wrought to the school upon the new Headmaster's entry, Secessa nodded smartly.

He shook her hand with both of his, indicating that the meeting had come to an end. She rose and made for the door but stopped with her hand at the doorknob and turned back to face him.

"Just out of curiosity, what happened to caretaker Lushkoff?"

Headmaster Karkaroff eyed her shrewdly. "Unfortunately, I found Mr. Lushkoff unsuitable for the position."

Secessa nodded. Mr. Lushkoff had been a kind, red-faced man with an inappropriate thirst for Icicle Vodka. He was everything the Headmaster was not.

"He had only himself to blame," she said in her best businesslike voice, and Professor Karkaroff rewarded her with another glimpse of his teeth.

"My predecessor's shortcomings will all be amended in due time."

Secessa bowed her head briefly and left, wondering slowly what the new Headmaster had meant, exactly, by that statement. Outside, Mr. Dolohov stood waiting beside a young, brown-haired man with nasty eyes. As she passed the expressionless caretaker, she decided that the meeting had gone rather well. And as she ascended the familiar main staircase, her suitcases hovering behind her uncertainly, she was determined to start over in a better way. This time, she thought, she would not put herself on high horses but carefully build her connections. There would be no second fall for her, no knives in her back. Once was enough.

*

Elena sighed with relief as she sunk down on the hard bed in her small new quarters situated just at the top of the large main staircase. Her suitcase stood by the door, firm evidence of her new lodger identity. Looking down at her hands, she realised they were still shaking, both from the degrading encounter with the Headmaster and from the gruelling experience of being shown to her quarters by the sneering Mr. Dolohov. She took a deep breath to calm herself and toyed briefly with the idea of having a glass of the wine that her brother had given her for her journey but immediately decided against it. If that was how she would deal with her problems, she thought, she would soon become a raging alcoholic.

Her rooms would not do at all, she determined as she scanned the cold, tiny bedroom with its rickety nightstand, the depressingly dark bathroom and the small, combined lounge and study with its horrid old flowery wallpaper. Brown and yellow were not her colours at all. She flicked her wand once, then again, and again.

An hour later, Elena emerged from her quarters, her cheeks glowing. She had, despite not being able to do anything about the strange draft in her room, made herself at home to the fullest extent, and, feeling exuberant, she had decided to face her tutor. Headmaster Karkaroff had dismissed him as a nobody, which had significantly increased her hopes of meeting someone sensible. His name was Professor Linev, and he lived on the ground floor. A non-talented loner, she thought, was probably the best she could hope for as company in this awful place.

The Charms teacher's quarters were situated, like hers, in a shabby part of the castle, but being on the ground floor they were closer to the underground kitchens, which seemed to be the major heat-source of the school. The stone wall of the corridor was covered in mould stains and bore traces of repetitive cleansing, and the door leading to Professor Linev's rooms was (just like hers) made out of old, unadorned wood and showed signs of repair. It was nevertheless kept in a very good condition, which Elena decided was a good omen. She knocked, and waited.

A few moments later, her new instructor opened the door and peered out. She was immediately struck by the length of his grey-streaked brown beard, which obstructed most of his chest from view. He wore dark blue robes with a fur cape thrown on top, and his eyes were hazel and bulbous.

"Good morning, Professor," Elena said. "I'm Elena Krotova, your new apprentice."

Professor Linev stared at her briefly, his protruding eyes enormous, and then opened the door a bit more. "Yes?" he said huskily.

She hesitated. "I am here to introduce myself. But if it's inconvenient ..."

He extended his hand. "Professor Sergei Linev."

Elena took it with both of hers and smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Professor."

Professor Linev cleared his throat. Then there was silence.

"I suppose you want something to drink then," he muttered.

"Oh, no, I don't wish to inconvenience you ..."

"Well, you've already done that, haven't you?" he said gruffly, but not too unkindly, and opened the door to let her in. "I hope you drink nettle tea, 'cause that's all I have. As you've probably already realised, Charms teachers are the lowest in the pecking order here at Durmstrang Institute."

*

When Secessa arrived back at her poorly furnished quarters after a relaxing re-acquainting of the extensive school grounds, having enjoyed the golden leaves on the small birch forest and the slow trickle of the many streams in the secluded mountain valley (and found an appropriate Apparition spot for possible emergency use), she was somewhat surprised to see a Ministry owl fluttering irritably outside her bedroom window. Frowning, she opened the window and relieved the owl of its delivery, but, as soon as she had the letter in her hand, she recognised the stationary as Ivan's. She hesitated for a moment, wondering how he had reacted to her owl, telling him it was all over. In the summer, she had put their relationship on hold, and he had not seemed very bothered. Surely, he could not have been that upset by her last move?

It was not a pleasant letter, and Secessa was rather shocked. She had underestimated her former partner's potential virulence, and his sudden dismissal of her new profession as 'degrading work' struck her as particularly insulting. Not that she had wanted the job in the first place, but still. There were also some nasty allusions to her character, and Secessa read them, fuming. Then she burnt the letter carefully in her fireplace, and started preparing her lessons, wearing a grim face. She could not hope, it seemed, for friendly support of any kind.

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