Songs for the Mute

Songs for the Mute

Chapter 1: Semantics

Russians had always had a cult for mornings, Cordelia Rosier surmised. She suspected that this was mainly due to their nature, a nature still widely out of her grasp after seven years spent almost entirely in Russia. They all had mysticism running in their blood, Russians, mingling with the plasma, flowing, warm, red and enticing, to the effect of small, strong Siberian rivers. Faith streamed in rivulets through their veins, and at times Cordelia thought she could almost see it gushing down their hands when they prayed, like resin from the body of an injured tree. A feeling which, much as she was shameful to admit and loathsome because she did admit it, Cordelia generally envied. However she tried, she could not find it in her blood to build a cult for anything, be it God or mornings or anything else. When she felt particularly pensive, she turned the problem around and around in her head, but no matter how much thought she put into it, she usually reached the same conclusions. Either her blood was too tainted to be able to hold something so pure or she had not been cut deeply enough to find the vein from which faith would flow. Russians had been slashed, and most brutally so; thus, God and mornings and almost everything else always found them in the divine state of those faced with a pending death sentence - with empty minds and open hearts. Therein lay their survival, in God and in mornings.

And, while God was a constant in their lives, mornings provided Russians with perhaps the only variation in their grey-governed existences. July and August dawned almost warm; September and October dawned red, orange, yellow and brown; November, December, January and February dawned timidly white, spectacularly white, sparklingly white and dirtily white; March, April and May dawned cheerful and somewhat hopeful. June... June dawned undecided.

Undecided, Cordelia Rosier could definitely understand and relate to. That particular day of June, with its flaring rays of sunlight bombarding the windows and cutting through the thick curtains of Durmstrang, had started with the dilemma of waking up and was quickly continuing with the dilemma of packing.

'Oh, bugger!' Cordelia sighed, sitting on her unmade bed and looking desolately at the mess she had created in over ten months.

Truth be told, her room had never been a paragon of tidiness, but in the middle of febrile packing, this tended to come across much worse than usual. In the far corner of the bedroom, near the door, stood a large suitcase that had been Banished with too much force across the floor, catching on a small rug and wiping the parquet with it. The burgundy-coloured rug was still mostly hidden under the suitcase, much like its twin at the foot of the bed, which bravely supported the weight of a trunk. Opposite, a dresser revealed empty shelves and drawers. The rest of the room looked like a library after a particularly strong earthquake. It seemed as if all the books Cordelia had ever used for reference or study during that school year had found a place somewhere - on the desk, on the chair, on the windowsill, on the armchair near the windowsill. Of course, they had not always landed in the most comfortable or natural positions - some indecently showed a bit too much content, while others had their covers delicately coated in pieces of parchment.

Cordelia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, almost willing the books to rearrange. When she opened her eyes, they hadn't, and she stood up with determination, heading towards the windowsill, where two Potions and Dark Arts textbooks had intertwined their pages. Her hands had barely touched the books to discover that several essay drafts had been shoved at (she checked) September 29^th, March 14^th and April 22^nd between the covers of the books, that the door opened and closed with a bang. Cordelia turned around just in time to see Viktor Krum avoiding the suitcase but catching one of his large feet on the rug. He pulled it free, sparing a few words of choice for people who leave their things all over the floor, and then looked up at Cordelia. For all she had expected him to be a bit irritated with her mess, she hadn't anticipated the deep scowl which put his eyebrows together in one bushy line over his eyes.

'Zdrastvuytye!' she said, attempting a small smile.

'Zdrastvuytye!' he replied, darkly. 'Ty ne mozhesh vozvratit'sya v Angliyu!'

'Prostite, chto?' It was not that she did not understand Russian; she did.

'You mustn't return to England,' Viktor repeated, his accent lighter than usual because of the prolonged stay in England but his words heavier than before he had left.

She laughed and fanned herself playfully with her hand.

'Why, Viktor, if you knew you were harbouring these feelings for me, you should have told me before.'

'This is not a laughing matter!' he said, a little too forcefully, and she lapsed into silence.

Viktor gingerly crossed the room and leaned against one of the posts at the foot of her bed. Cordelia played idly with the essay drafts, shuffling them mindlessly, trying to remember what the final versions had looked like. Most likely, they had been covered in her looped, rounded script. She had always liked writing the titles in capitals - such a neat handwriting, unlike her room, or her thoughts at the moment. But then, thoughts - at least her thoughts, as her mother sternly reminded her on every occasion - were not allowed to flop all over the place like old jumpers or favourite books.

'What happened?' Cordelia asked and took a few steps to find herself face to face with Viktor.

He had always been a sallow-skinned boy, partly because of his natural inheritance, but mostly owned to spending most of the year at Durmstrang, where the sun was sparse. Now, however, he was downright pale, a pallor too pronounced to be blamed solely on his time in England or on the strains of the Triwizard Tournament.

'The vizard you call Lord Voldemort has returned.'

'Ah,' Cordelia breathed.

Obviously, Viktor has been hit with a Confundo that hasn't quite worn off, she thought.

Then, with more confidence, she continued, 'That's impossible, Viktor. He's dead; I'm sure you can remember. He was killed the year after I was born.' She laughed a little, then stopped as Viktor caught her eye. Never before had she seen him look so distraught, not even after the Quidditch World Cup Final, dark smudges of fatigue under his eyes and the shadow of an unshaven beard making him look much older than eighteen.

He regarded Cordelia with a strange mixture between pity and understanding. 'I'm afraid it isn't impossible.'

'It has to be,' she replied forcefully, her voice raising a notch.

'Look,' Viktor said gently, too gently for Cordelia's taste, 'he has returned. I... they told us.'

'They?'

'Dumbledore. He's the headmaster at Hogvarts.'

No, he hasn't been hit with a Confundo. Something has been ingrained into his brain for seven months. Heaven knows he couldn't have lost the Triwizard otherwise, she concluded.

'I know very well who he is. He's a barmy codger,' she said assertively.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Barmy?'

'Insane, off his rocker, a few Knuts short of a Galleon,' Cordelia explained, almost savagely happy to have found someone to blame for what was, undoubtedly, a lie. Her brain couldn't wrap around the very idea of Voldemort's return. He can't have, the logic-driven part of her brain argued, bringing to the defence of this idea quite a few historical arguments. She couldn't remember October 31^st, 1981; however, as usually happens with widely known events, that day had slowly entered her conscience with reading and hearing about it from her mother as if she had lived it herself.

There had been radio silence for days, maybe even a week. The WWN had ceased all broadcasts after a Wall-Breaker curse had hit the building where they functioned together with the other WW marks (Witch Weekly - recently turned into a feminist magazine encouraging the witches to brush up on their defensive spells, many of which were described in great detail, and to join the battle, Walking Wounded - a highly-sought periodical that was published in great secrecy and had mostly become black-market material since it detailed the course of the war and published lists of the wounded and the deceased, which the Ministry insisted on keeping secret and Who's Who - a leaflet keeping track of all known Death Eaters and their relatives). Strangely, nothing had happened to the five-storey building in the middle of Diagon Alley that housed the Daily Prophet. Even the two-room flat where The Quibbler, a daring new magazine manned by just an unknown journalist named Lovegood, functioned, had been hit. No one had seen any reason for this at that time, as The Quibbler only published stories of dubious veracity.

Then, just when the wizarding world had lost hope altogether for a favourable outcome, the morning of November 1^st, 1981, had dawned crisp and clear, with the voice of WWN announcer Emmeline Vance breaking through the crackling of static electricity and magic to say, 'The war is over. I repeat, the war is over.' The Death Eaters had tried to take over the WWN several times before, with a powerful female voice attempting to cover the dull howling that was radio silence with shouts of 'The Dark Lord will prevail!' and 'We advance towards victory!' Wizards uninvolved in the war had refused to give up on the WWN, keeping their receivers open even with the resonating lament that made their households descend even deeper into sadness and with the occasional interruptions from the female voice that many would identify with Bellatrix Lestrange in the following years. Consequently, Vance's announcement had reverberated in all corners of wizarding Britain, attracting disbelief at first. Then, as wizards and witches everywhere were huddling around the radios, Dedalus Diggle had wrestled with Vance for a few moments in front of her Speak-Bubble, succeeding in emitting a rather high squeal and a short series of 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead. It's over! He's dead! It's all over!' Many had bet that Diggle's announcement had been accompanied by his customary victory dance, judging by his wheezing, but Emmeline Vance had, rather intelligently, kept the end of the war a solemn episode by claiming to have forgotten parts of that eventful morning. She had also regained control and had launched into a report of the past week, ending with the announcement of the Potters' death. Not many had stayed near their radios long enough to learn this or to hear her repeat 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead'.

Dead. Of course he's dead, Cordelia thought nervously. Gone, disappeared from the face of earth, vanished...

'Would you care to explain the meaning of the word 'vanish', Miss Rosier?' It took a minute before she recognised the voice - Karkaroff, in the middle of an introductory 'Legilimency and Occlumency' class, the year before last.

'It means to disappear or to no longer exist, sir.'

'Explain "disappear", Miss Rosier.'

'To no longer be seen, or to no longer exist. Sir. Or to be impossible to find.'

Impossible to find.

'That is what we will learn to do with your memories. Make them impossible to find. They will continue to exist, but will stay hidden from anyone else's mind but yours.'

Impossible to find. Will still exist. Exist. Dead. Impossible to find. Exist.

She breathed out.

'I think you are making a mistake,' Viktor argued coolly. 'Professor Dumbledore is far from insane.'

Cordelia had given up on things before. She had given up on favourite toys, on her father, on dead pets, on ideals, on the tattered book her mother had first read, on ideas. She had clung, had clawed, had fought, had lost. Never before had Cordelia emerged the battle with her head down. She was, after all, half Rosier. With her heart down, yes; but never her head. Now, she did, but not because she felt guilt-ridden about denigrating Dumbledore. Guilt was a gluey feeling, she had experienced, tacky, rather like over-cooked porridge, and Cordelia disliked scrubbing sticky pans. It was downright abhorrent having to scrub the sticky sides of her soul after cooking guilt. Therefore, she preferred to avoid the dish.

'If you ever break, it'll be because you're too confident. You're brittle, Cordelia, as brittle as fine china.'

Thank you, mother, for the warning. Disregarded, as usual.

'Too confident,' her mother had said. 'Too arrogant. Too presumptuous. Never stop and think. Never consider danger, never foresee it. So much like your uncle.'

I'll probably end up like him, as well.

It wasn't my peril to foresee, this return, she argued with her mother's voice.

Not this return, it wasn't. But the birth of another Voldemort, it should have been expected. You are a half-blood, Cordelia. Never forget that there will always be a Voldemort against you. Then, why be shocked? Since this is another Voldemort. Unknown territory.

Dangerous territory. Hic sunt leones.

Hang your head and learn.

'Yes, Viktor, I might be making a mistake,' she admitted, quickly, because it wasn't a phrase she liked saying. 'What happened?'

He appeared relieved.

'It vas the last... Vat do you call it?'

'Task?'

'Task of the Tournament. First, there vas starting the young Potter boy - you know about him? I svear - the Goblet is making a mistake.'

Cordelia nodded. 'Alexei wrote.'

Viktor continued, 'The other Hogvarts boy vas first, also. Diggory. Then, I vas going. Then, the French girl. And I vas entering the maze - there vas a maze vith tall valls of... bush, and then I saw a... a Blast-Ended Skrewt. I passed it.' He rubbed moodily at his right hand, where the skin was taut and still rosy. 'And then there vas a Rotator curse on the grass - the one that makes you do... cart-veels - then there vas a Boggart.'

Viktor's Boggart wasn't a secret to anyone at Durmstrang. Karkaroff had said, at some time, that a true hero's first step to absolving himself of his fears was admitting them to the world. Then, he had made Viktor face a Boggart in front of the whole school, which was neatly assembled in the amphitheatre, waiting with baited breath, all eyes trained on the stage, where a suit of armour wobbled dangerously. Viktor had come into the room, wand held loosely in his hand, frown as present as ever, and at his sign Karkaroff had dismembered the armour, freeing the Boggart. Even before the dust had set, a murmur had started to rise, turning into gasps as more than one thousand students of all ages saw their idol on the floor with both hands cut off, reaching futilely towards a Snitch it could not grasp. Yet, another version of Viktor stood unmoving for a minute before raising his wand and bellowing, 'Riddikulus!' loud enough for it to be heard to the top rows. The figure on the floor received pirate clothes, an eye patch and a three-point hat and both missing hands were replaced by hooks. Laughter had rung throughout the amphitheatre, and Viktor had finished off the Boggart with a flourish of his wand. Cordelia hadn't laughed. Neither had Karkaroff and Viktor, although she suspected that the reasons were entirely different.

'And after the Boggart?' she asked.

'Valls of adamantine, a few Doxies, a lake vith a Grindylow, a potions test and a Pogrebin. Not much.'

'And then?'

'Then, I am thinking I hear something behind and I turned, but before I vas seeing who it vas, someone put me under Imperio.'

Viktor stopped. The wound was obviously still a raw one, more so, Cordelia assumed, since he had been constantly able to break Karkaroff's curse when training for the Tournament. He shook his head, as if to clear it of the remnants of Imperio.

'It vas the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.'

'What?'

Viktor sighed uncomfortably. 'He vas, I am hearing, an Upivaushiesya Smert'u ... Vat do you call it?'

'Death Eater.'

'Yes, he vas under Polyjuice the vhole year. Nobody knew. I... I did not throw it off. He made me cast the Cruciatus. And Potter Stupefied me.'

Oh, Viktor. Fair Viktor, who wouldn't cheat in any Quidditch game, being forced to cheat in the Triwizard. Disqualified, as well, most probably.

'Did they disqualify you?' Cordelia asked.

'Do you think it matters?' he said impatiently. 'I cast Cruciatus on Diggory and one hour later he is turning up dead!'

'Viktor,' she reasoned, 'nobody dies because of the Cruciatus unless under it continuously for at least half an hour. I am certain that...'

'I didn't say it vas my fault. The vizard you call Lord Voldemort killed him.'

Cordelia leaned the palms of her hands on the essays lying on the cold windowsill.

'How?'

'The Cup vas a Portal. Portkey, I am thinking you call it. Potter and Diggory took it both. I do not know many details. Ve vaited and vaited...'

Cordelia was under the distinct impression that this wait can't have been very pleasant for Viktor Krum, suspected of casting a Cruciatus curse on a competitor.

'Later, they are turning up, Potter vith the body of Diggory.' It took a minute for him to recompose himself. 'I only saw them from the distance. Then, at the leaving feast, Professor Dumbledore is telling everybody that... Ty-Znaesch'-Kto is returning. That your Ministry is not vanting to tell vizards, because it is not believing. But Dumbledore is thinking that if ve are knowing about this, ve vill honour the memory of Cedric Diggory and the courage of Harry Potter. Then, he is also speaking about friendship and unity.'

Outside, clouds gathered in a hushed conference with the wind. The sun cowered and hid.

Inside, Cordelia Rosier felt her tainted blood pounding in her ears and Viktor Krum had his head in his hands, both hearing a maddening, repetitive sound that was not unlike crowd cheers at a Quidditch match. Only it was blood-chilling, stronger, more primal, more dangerous. Screaming, as jarring as the noise made by long nails on a blackboard. Deceitful, like a tame tigress that would love nothing more than to tear her master apart. The sound of war.

Cordelia slowly raised her hands from the windowsill. Her joints hurt and pulsed because of the strain. Her palms were bluish, and it took her a minute to realise that the ink on the essays had moistened with sweat and left imprints.

'I am leaving for England today, Viktor...' she said faintly.

'You can't. You mustn't. This is vhy I came to varn you. It is a danger in England now.'

She shook her head stubbornly.

'I know, Viktor, and I thank you for the warning. However, I have a Muggle father, a mother who has used little magic since my birth and a ten-year-old brother who has not shown any signs of magic yet.'

'You cannot cast spells. You are underage,' Viktor reasoned evenly.

'I still hope I won't have to cast them. Just make sure Mum does.' Cordelia laughed carelessly. 'Where is Karkaroff? I will ask for permission and leave as soon as possible.'

Viktor's lip curled in the way that he generally reserved for those who fell for his Wronsky Feint.

'There is no Karkaroff anymore,' he answered, and at Cordelia's puzzled look he continued, 'He fled. He vas an Upivaushiesya Smert'u in the first var and I am thinking he vas afraid of Voldemort. I do not know. Ve haff returned alone.'

'But someone has to be Headmaster!'

'Tatiana Alexandrovna is.'

His tone suggested that this change was not at all to his liking, and Cordelia thought she had a fair idea why.

Tatiana Alexandrovna Dolohova, Headmistress of Durmstrang. Oh, somewhere in Azkaban Antonin Dolohov must have woken up and the Dementors are crowding around his cell right now to suck a sick satisfaction out of him. Only they probably won't be getting anything if he has managed to survive this long.

'I will see Tatiana Alexandrovna, then,' she said resolutely. 'Do you know if she has changed the password?'

'She has. It is "Vlast' t'm'y".'

'"The Power of Darkness". So ingenious. She can say at any time that she has always been rather fond of Tolstoy.'

They exchanged a significant glance.

'Many authors haff vritten about "The Power of Darkness",' said Viktor calmly, as if he was discussing the finer points of Tolstoy's literature, 'but I am thinking that Voldemort's literature is much more to Tatiana Alexandrovna's taste.'

'I hope she gets his full works soon enough,' replied Cordelia viciously.

'Don't vish for this,' he warned. 'I am more afraid that England vill. Come, I vill go vith you to her office.'

*

Three things about Durmstrangskaya Shkola Koldovstva had never changed since 1547, when Ivan the Terrible had founded the school - its name, the foundation of the castle and the location of the Headmaster's office, in the central tower.

In recent times, the founder was rarely spoken of, mostly out of superstition but also because there was little left to remind the students and staff about him except a portrait in the Headmaster's office that couldn't be removed. However, those who had ventured into the library and had had the curiosity to peruse the hand-written 'Chronicles of Durmstrang' had had the most unpleasant surprise to discover that the founder of the only school in Europe where Muggle-borns were not accepted, had, in fact, been a Muggle. Ivan the Terrible had married a witch, Anastasia, who had managed to keep the blood-thirsty, power-fixated and treason-fearful tsar at bay with the help of carefully administered potions and a judicious use of spells. On the day of her wedding, Anastasia had confessed her powers, and expressed her wish to see young wizards and witches formally schooled. Ivan had accepted, not only to respect her plea but thinking of surrounding himself with a powerful group of wizards able to assure the continuity of his power. Princess Anna Glinska, a young and exceptionally bright witch related to Ivan, had consented to head the new school, once it would be built.

Yet, the first attempt to erect it near Moscow had resulted in a tragedy. On June 2^nd, the Church of the Holy Cross was consumed by flames, its fragile wooden frame ignited by sparks from a misdirected Melting charm. Many had considered this a divine sign that Ivan's nature was less than holy. Others had demanded the Glinksy's public lynching. The fire had quickly spread afterwards, burning down huge areas of Moscow, with the flames swaying in a cruel, flattening dance of destruction.

Placed under the sign of devastation from the first minute, Durmstrang, finally built in the little-inhabited area of Murmansk, had begun to thrive after Anastasia's death in 1560, when Ivan had found himself unable to restrain his violent character and his otherwise brilliant mind. The Oprichnina was founded - a group exclusively devoted to Ivan meant to control the entire territory of Russia. The Oprichniki inspired enough terror only with their appearance - they were dressed completely in black, rode black stallions and wore, as symbols, a dog's head and a broom. As Ivan would explain to anyone who would listen, the dog's head was meant to bite the tsar's enemies and the brooms were meant to be used for the sweeping of Russia. Little did most Russians know at the time that some of the brooms were used for more than cleaning out supposed corruption and imaginary traitors. Some of the Oprichniki were Durmstrang-trained wizards who missed no opportunity to put their knowledge into practice and to scour the country of the oppressive nobility, while at the same time gaining impressive fortunes. However, the dissolution of the Oprichnina in 1572 had brought with it an unexpected effect. The Oprichniki had settled down in all corners of Russia, married Muggles and grown families without mentioning their past. Children showing signs of magic had not been sent to Durmstrang in their fathers' fear of being discovered.

Durmstrang had been forgotten, entering myth with few students and even fewer skilled teachers. For nearly one hundred years, it had oscillated somewhere between legend and existence, tarrying on the edge of disappearance.

In 1672, Peter the Great had been born into the Squib family of Romanovs (descendents of Ivan's wife Anastasia), and his inheritance of giant blood from his mother's side and of wizarding blood from his father's side had provided him with magic. Seventeen years later, he had been crowned tsar of Russia, and in 1697 he had left in a prolonged journey through Europe under a fake identity, using Polyjuice when it became necessary to maintain his cover. Upon his return, he had begun a campaign of reforms in Russia. Few knew, however, that Durmstrang had also been reorganised as a result of the strong impression England's Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had left on the scholarly tsar. In his impressive train of nearly one thousand European scientists, scholars, architects and artists he had insisted bringing back to Russia, there had also been a few of Hogwarts' brightest alumni. Their purpose was to physically transport Durmstrang from Murmansk to Saint Petersburg, where it would stand as a proof of progress in Russia's most European city. Then, they would stay in Russia to school a new generation of wizards. 'We'll need Europe for a few more decades; then, we can turn our backs on it,' Peter had said.

He was mistaken in this, as it turned out later. The decision to relocate Durmstrang, however, had been a good one, and it had finally been established as Eastern Europe's finest school of witchcraft, a state of affairs perpetuated until the twentieth century. After the fateful events of October, 1917, Durmstrang was faced with extinction, as the newly risen-to-power Communist Party felt that any trait distinguishing groups of people from the masses went against their ideology. Ironically, it was a woman who saved Durmstrang, just as it had been a woman who had had the idea of its founding. Beautiful, charismatic, resolute, magic Inessa Armand, whom many said Lenin loved despite his inborn puritanism, pleaded with him to allow her to relocate Durmstrang again, removing it from the tsars' city. At the end of January, 1920, the home-schooled witch attempted the transfer with the help of the few wizards who hadn't fled Russia. Inessa succeeded, albeit incompletely, as the spells cast also had the side effect of inverting the climate in the area near Ekaterinburg where Durmstrang was relocated to mimic that of its original location, Murmansk. Therefore, the region was avoided by Muggles on account of these strange manifestations of the weather. Inessa Armand, however, had had all of her power drawn out of her. Half a year later, she died of what physicians insisted on diagnosing as cholera.

The repeated relocations and additions to the original building had taken their toll on Durmstrang. Unrestrained by lack of building material and aided by magic, Durmstrang's builders had erected tall walls of stone and five proud towers, four of them on the corners, and one in the centre. Peter the Great, however, favoured an eclectic style and felt personally insulted by the unique patterns of Hogwarts. Consequently, he asked for Durmstrang to be recreated, while at the same time keeping the old building as a foundation. Never let it be said that Peter the Great intended anything other than reforming Russia. Durmstrang grew, new wings were added to it to create the shape of a cross and at the end the seventeenth century it had six floors; the original towers on the corners had been rebuilt to become wider, sturdier and taller. Tourettes and colonnades had been added to the outside of the building. The central tower, however, had not been rebuilt; of its own accord, it had snaked up in the middle of the newer storeys, like an insidious viper in the heart of the school. None of the Headmasters and Headmistresses of Durmstrang had ever dared to move their office out of this tower, which was usually referred to as Serdtze. The last relocation had had strange consequences for the Serdtze. Again, it had moved of its own accord, burrowing in the cold earth of the Urals, as if it were seeking closeness to the centre of the Earth.

As they descended the stairs from the tower on the north of the cross to hurry along a corridor leading towards one of the stone sphinxes allowing access into the Headmistress' office, Viktor and Cordelia spoke little. There was something foreboding about Durmstrang, something that made speaking in the corridors seem as dangerous as mounting a Kelpie. The air was heavy with the century-old smell of burnt torches, the waft of dust rising and setting in a never-ending cycle, and the sweetish, tacky aroma of paintings. The sun had emerged from the clouds yet again, and flickered through window panes supported by iron bars wrought into the shape of a bucking Thestral, Durmstrang's emblem. Eerie shadows were cast on the bodies of the two; here, Cordelia had bony wings of light, there, Viktor's hands seemed to finish off in bright hooves.

In front of them, the sphinx woke up, stretched out her wings and flicked her long tail at their feet, then let it settle down at her clawed paws. She looked at Viktor for a minute, big, vulture-like eyes sweeping over him, before settling her gaze on Cordelia.

'Da?' the sphinx said.

'I should like your permission to go to the Tatiana Alexandrovna's office,' Cordelia replied. She had never had much patience for the creature with its incessant chattering and inquisitive nature, and she had even less now that she could only think of arriving home as quickly as possible.

The sphinx growled, and Cordelia wondered whether it was in frustration that she refused to speak Russian or in laughter at the thought of a particularly intricate riddle. With sphinxes it was always difficult to tell laughter apart from speaking and any other manifestation.

'Go-ood, lih-ttle one. I think you know the rules.'

Cordelia nodded sharply. No need to lose more time.

'First, think of how to address me without respect,

I tell you it's not a word you would commonly expect,

Next, give me the last word in a sentence often heard

From a person you would probably deem a dullard,

And finally, tell me a word you would not like to hear

Spoken ignorantly after an uttering of your name, my dear.

Now string them together, and answer this if you wish to pass

Who does every other fear of yours meet and surpass?'

Viktor made a small, jerking movement next to her, and Cordelia suspected that he knew the answer. The sphinx had probably caught onto this as well, and spared him a threatening glance. Cordelia felt panic slowly rising into her throat, like a mole pushing against the surface of earth.

Come on. I don't have the time for this. Fear. What do I fear? Rats. Rats. It can't be rats. She can't know.

She took a deep breath. Try.

'So, address you without respect.'

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Viktor. He looked at her steadily, and she almost mouthed 'Me?'.

You. That's it. In Russian, there's a difference.

'Ty. You. Then, a sentence from someone I'd think a dullard.' She faltered. 'I don't know. I bloody well don't know. Oh, please let me in, this is urgent.' The sphinx only blinked, and Cordelia felt the need to do so as well, because her eyes felt raw and abused, as if polished with sandpaper. 'I don't know.' The sphinx growled, and it seemed as if that was the laughter-growl.

I don't know. Only an idiot would say this.

'Know. That's the second word. Now, what people would say after my name to upset me.'

Insult me. No, I wouldn't really care about that. But what do they say ignorantly? What? Who? That would bother me.

'Who. Now, put together, that gives us you... know.' What would surpass all my fears. 'Who. Ty-Znaesh'-Kto.'

'Ve-ehry good. I shall let you pass.'

The sphinx turned around on its large paws, and they creaked with lack of use and age, and moved aside to let Cordelia go through a narrow entrance that had appeared in the wall. She passed right under the sphinx's nose and felt the cold stone of one wing brush against her hand. Viktor made as if to follow, but the creature turned so quickly on its legs that he had no other choice but to stay behind.

Cordelia took a few steps along the corridor and was enveloped by darkness. So... fitting. It made her feel as if she were choking on a too-big bite of treacle pie. She hurried along, her footsteps falling with an annoyingly equal rhythm onto the stone floor. Then, almost when she was running out of air, she reached the end of the corridor. The floorboards under her legs gave way, and after experiencing a sensation similar to Flooing, she found herself in front of a lit oak door with a Thestral carved on it. A cool, brisk female voice that she recognised as belonging to Tatiana Dolohova asked, 'Password?' and Cordelia responded, 'Vlast' t'm'y.' The door creaked open, but the she lingered for a minute in front of it.

What would she say? Somehow, 'Tatiana Alexandrovna, I am highly aware of the fact that today is the last day of school, that Durmstrang is to hold a celebration for the students who have returned from England and that it is entirely against rules to leave school before the official close. However, I would to like to leave early to go home and warn my mother that Lord Voldemort, the man for whom your husband is in prison and whom you support whole-heartedly, has returned to power,' didn't seem appropriate at all. Her mother would have probably silver-tongued her way out of this, but Cordelia was not extremely confident in her talent as an orator.

Bracing herself, she pushed the door and took a few steps to find herself inside the office that had housed all of Durmstrang's Heads. It was a spacious, circular, three-storey-high room, whose ceiling was lost in darkness, making it seem as if it were opening into the heart of the Earth in some unfathomable way. It made Cordelia feel as if the tower was somehow inverted. Considering that this was Durmstrang, it didn't seem like a very far-fetched theory. Most of the walls were covered in tall oak bookshelves with glass panelling and from place to place there were silver torch holders with magical torches that let off no smoke and enough light to illuminate the whole room. In the relative brightness, Cordelia could see books either too valuable or too dangerous to be stored in the library and a strange assortment of artefacts and magical trinkets. In Karkaroff's time, the Sneakoscopes and Foe Glasses had been removed, as he had little need for them, relying more on his Legilimens ability than on such capricious indicators. Tatiana Dolohova, however, seemed to have returned them and replenished the supply; Sneakoscopes littered the shelves and Cordelia chanced a look into the Foe Glass hanging to her right, near the door. There was such a hustle and bustle there that she felt dizzy for a minute. She took her eyes off it and continued to study the room.

There had been few changes; Ivan the Terrible frowned at her from his portrait across the office, a bad omen as far as she was concerned, since Tatiana Dolohova usually seemed to be channelling him. Peter the Great did not raise his head out of his book; only Inessa Armand smiled encouragingly, but that was little comfort to Cordelia, as that was the only expression she assumed with students. The other portraits only gave her momentary looks of disapproval or curiosity, before hurrying out of their frames.

'Did you come to admire the paintings, Miss Rosier, or do you actually have something to discuss?'

The staircase coiling all around the bookshelves had moved with a grunt, and Tatiana Alexandrovna Dolohova stood atop the lowest stair, Levitating what looked like student files in front of her. She had an arresting face, with a strong nose and a chiselled chin, dirty-blue eyes that looked grey in the shadow and thick, oblique eyebrows. Her ash-blonde hair was held up in a bun and she wore the usual attire of Durmstrang professors - simple, grey robes lined with silver fur at the hem. Dolohova looked almost common, just like she looked almost calm and kind. Cordelia, who had known her for almost seven years, could sense the temper bubbling just below the surface; the tranquil mask pasted onto her face did little to attenuate the harshness of her tone.

'Well, Miss Rosier?'

Dolohova descended regally from the stair, and walked towards the large encrusted bureau at the centre of the room. Setting down the files, she proceeded to sit down in the high-backed chair behind it, and regarded Cordelia impatiently.

'I was wondering whether I could be allowed to leave school early, Professor. It is a rather delicate issue that I would like to attend to.'

As soon as she had uttered the sentence, Cordelia was sure that it had been a mistake to come at all.

'Oh, is it? Then, by all means, please share it with me.'

Cordelia wavered. She could not lie; the sound of so many Sneakoscopes could probably wake the dead. She settled on 'It is a personal matter.'

Dolohova frowned in a way deeply reminiscent of Ivan the Terrible.

'Miss Rosier, I would have thought that after seven years you are very well aware of the rules of this school. Please reread them if anything is unclear, although I should think that this is not the case. As far as I know, students are not allowed to leave school for personal reasons, unless these are considered justified by the Head. Since you seem reluctant to detail your reasons, I shall have to conclude that they are not important enough to warrant a violation of the regulations.'

She murmured a Sorting Spell at the files, and they began to neatly arrange into two piles. Cordelia looked at them for a minute before realising that the half-blooded students' files were being separated from those of the purebloods in a considerably smaller pile. Durmstrang had ceased being a school exclusive to purebloods in Peter the Great's time, but it still didn't accept Muggle-borns. Half-bloods were only accepted granted that their wizarding parent came from a strong, noble line. Making hit lists already, are you, Tatiana Alexandrovna, Cordelia thought.

'In fact,' said Dolohova, 'I intended to ask you to stay another day, Miss Rosier.'

Cordelia felt as though all the bookshelves were going to crush on top of her.

'Professor Chernov,' Dolohova continued while extricating Cordelia's file from the smaller pile, 'Has proposed you for the great honour to make an entry in the Durmstrang Chronicles at the beginning of this year, if I recall correctly.'

Cordelia nodded faintly.

Dolohova raised her chin. 'I would like to be answered properly, Miss Rosier. Surely it will not drain you of all energy.'

Cordelia swallowed painfully. 'Yes, Tatiana Alexandrovna, Fedor Sergeyevich has indeed allowed me to do so.'

'On what topic was your entry?' Dolohova asked.

'The additional wards added to our school by Headmaster Karkaroff before leaving for England,' Cordelia answered. And you know this as well as I do. The point, Professor?

'Ah,' breathed Dolohova, a malicious expression spreading over her face. 'And do you care to recount the content of your entry for my pleasure?'

'Igor Stepanovich has added special wards to prevent strangers from entering the school and...' So that is the point. Afraid I'll run away, are you? 'To prevent students from leaving Durmstrang before tomorrow except for trips to Ekaterinburg on outing dates or with your or Fedor Sergeyevich's permission. All wards are bound in Igor Stepanovich's blood and are impossible to remove in his absence.'

Dolohova smiled, and Cordelia concluded that there was more to this matter than she was letting on. 'How dreadful, then, that Igor Stepanovich has had to stay in England for his health.'

For his health, indeed. And if he is still in England, I'll eat my wand.

'It also looks as if,' Dolohova continued, disappearing behind the file, 'Fedor Sergeyevich thought it would appropriate for you to add the last of this year's entries. Surely, you know the topic.'

'The return of our students from Hogwarts as well as Viktor Krum's personal experience in the Triwizard Tournament,' Cordelia answered dully. It would probably take more than an extra day to complete the story as well as to write the bilingual account into the Durmstrang Chronicles in Ever-lasting Ink. While extremely useful, Ever-lasting Ink was tacky, had to be kept at high temperatures in little brass cauldrons and a special potion had to be added to it a short time before use to make it fluid. Another drawback was the fact that it was impossible to erase, which made mistakes out of the question.

Cordelia had a rather strong impulse to ask, 'Should I also include Viktor's retelling of the third task and the leaving feast?', but she bit her tongue at the thought. Look, Mum, you should be proud, I actually thought before I spoke.

'Good,' said Dolohova in a tone that suggested the matter was closed as far as she was concerned. 'Then, we understand each other. You will stay an extra day.'

'Yes, Tatiana Alexandrovna,' said Cordelia.

'Very well. Now, it seems you are running quite late for Potions.' Dolohova continued the sorting, after sneaking a glance into the Foe Glass, where one shape seemed a bit more accented than usual.

'Good day, Professor.'

'Good day, Miss Rosier.'

The door closed behind Cordelia with a prolonged creak that sounded like lynx's laughter.

----~~~****~~~----

'So...' Viktor attempted.

'So what? I'll just try the harder way. Don't worry about it, I'll succeed,' Cordelia said, surprising even herself with the light tone. Hypocrisy really rubbed off people. At Durmstrang, it also rubbed off walls.

They had reached the door of the Potions dungeon, and Viktor bid her good-bye.

'And, Viktor,' she called after him, 'do try to write an account of the Triwizard for the Chronicles.'

He looked at her as if she had just expressed a vivid interest in the behaviour of Flobberworms. It was a widely-known fact that Viktor Krum's writing talent was limited to exact school essays.

'You write a draft, I'll edit,' Cordelia shouted after him, but Viktor was out of hearing range.

She knew that he would do it if hard pressed, but she still hoped that her task would be passed on to someone else. If she couldn't leave early, then she would at least leave on time. Durmstrang taught half-bloods to settle for what was attainable.

The corridor in front of the Potions dungeon was starting to fill with the familiar laughter and chit-chatter that Cordelia loathed at the moment. It took all of her will-power to not take Grzegorz Witkowski aside and tell him about her predicament when he brought her school bag.

'Viktor said you'd be late,' he explained. 'He said I should bring this for you.'

'Thanks, Grisha,' she replied.

Grzegorz was one of the other five half-bloods in her year. After Durmstrang had started accepting half-bloods, the living quarters had been separated. The purebloods had the left and right arm of the Durmstrang cross all to themselves, while the half-bloods inhabited a floor on the northern part of the castle.

Cordelia still remembered waking up on the first morning of her fourth year at Durmstrang to indignant voices rising in the hallway. Throwing on a robe and grabbing her wand from the bedside table, she had rushed towards the door, and opened it a little to see what the commotion was all about.

On the floor sat a sobbing boy with too-long straw-blonde hair that fell in his face and covered his eyes, only to be parted neatly lower down by the blade of a nose he would never grow into. Looming menacingly above him, Nikolai Poliakoff brandished a wand that had obviously been used to draw a blue David's star and a broken wand on the younger boy's sleeve.

'So,' sneered Poliakoff, 'still thinking well of yourself, mongrel?'

'Still thinking better of myself than you,' came a reply that attempted to be proud, but failed a bit because the eleven-year-olds voice was drowned in tears. 'L-look how w-well we Jews have t-turned out. Same t-thing'll happen w-with half-bloods, P-poliakoff.'

'Oh, I don't know. They turned your race into soap once and there's still scum like you. Maybe the second time around, someone will get the clean-up done properly.'

Cordelia had been half out of the door, wand in hand and hex-words ready, when Viktor's strong, somewhat hoarse voice had rung behind Poliakoff.

'Is there any problem, Nikolasha?'

Poliakoff had turned towards him, deceived by the use of his nickname and the presence of another pureblood.

'Yes, there is,' he had said. 'Little Jewish mongrel here passed through the hallway in front of me.'

Viktor's frown had made Cordelia cower, even though it was not directed at her.

'And,' Viktor had asked, without losing the calm of his voice, 'what is that on the boy's sleeve?'

Poliakoff had laughed, in his dangerous, growling laugh and explained, 'I thought it'd be good to be able to tell'em apart. Mongrels, I mean. From the rest. Didn't know what to do with this one. He's doubly half-bred, and I thought he should be marked with both signs.'

'Very well. I'm sure you'll have no problem explaining this to Professor Chernov, then.'

Poliakoff had blanched. Fedor Sergeyevich Chernov was Deputy Headmaster of Durmstrang, along with Tatiana Alexandrovna Dolohova, and, much unlike her, wholeheartedly supported half-bloods.

Viktor had helped Grzegorz up, offered him one of his handkerchiefs and accepted it back, pocketing it, to the horror of Poliakoff. Then, he had beckoned to Cordelia and marched all of them off to Chernov's office, where the outcome had been more than satisfactory.

Almost immediately after the incident, Grzegorz had founded the Half-blood Resistance League, dedicated to the 'protection of half-bloods throughout Durmstrang and to encouraging pureblood liaisons', in his own words. Viktor had been the first member of the society, which Cordelia had only embraced after Grzegorz had grown on her somewhat, with his blonde hair that was always a trifle too long and his encyclopaedic knowledge of the Muggle Second World War. If it hadn't been for him, she would have very much preferred to remain uninvolved. She stuck out as a sore thumb anyway, as the only English girl at Durmstrang.

Now, Grzegorz was looking down his nose at her with an unreadable expression that made her feel unsettled. She thought she could sense some compassion in it, and it made her fidget under his gaze.

'So, who sank all your ships?' he asked.

'The person who usually sinks them,' Cordelia responded, not feeling the need to go into detail.

'Must've been a pretty big fleet this time.'

'I don't want to talk about it,' said Cordelia, turning her head towards the door of the Potions dungeon.

Grisha leaned towards her ear. 'There's no need to play brave. Viktor told me. Thought he should warn all of us.'

Cordelia turned towards him with her eyes turned to slits in anger. 'There's no other 'all of us' here besides the student body as far as I'm concerned. And I didn't hear Viktor making an announcement to the whole school.'

'You know very well what I mean,' Grisha countered. 'All of us half-bloods.'

'You seem so bent on making us stand out, Grisha, It's always "Well, they did the same thing with Jews, and look how well they turned out. What makes you think the same won't happen with us?' with you. I'm sorry, but I don't feel very different.'

'You are,' he said quietly.

'Viktor shouldn't have told you.'

'Why? We're in as much danger as you are.'

'Oh, really,' she hissed. 'Do tell, what is the likelihood that he attacks you in your flat in Warsaw, with your quiet mother and father, most respectable members of the community? Viktor should've kept his mouth shut. Would've spared me the trouble of listening to compassionate speeches.'

'He was worried.'

'That's hardly something new with Viktor,' she said.

Grisha was quickly starting to lose patience. His voice became more urgent and little patches of pink appeared on his cheeks. Blonds blushed unattractively.

'You should thank God for Viktor. If it hadn't been for him, the pure-bloods would have still treated us like dragon dung.'

Cordelia knew that he had a point there, but she had admitted too many mistakes that day to acknowledge one more.

'You know what, Grisha? I don't feel the need to thank God for anything this morning.'

She thanked God, nevertheless, when Professor Chernov arrived and ushered them into classroom. She partnered Grisha, as usual, but they did not address each other before Chernov spoke.

'Good morning, class. Since today is the last lesson of this year, I thought we should try something special.'

Chernov had a very good voice for teaching. That could have been because Russian was an extremely appropriate language for teaching Potions, with apparently harsh, resounding crashes of consonants that reminded one of the fall of a pestle in the mortar and the staunch undertones that spoke of rough, unyielding history. The fact remained, however, that Fedor Chernov's loud, ringing, clear voice that echoed through the dungeon, flowing melodiously off the walls, edging around cauldrons and desks towards the back of the class, was a testimony to his inborn abilities. He had been built to become a Potions Master, with his tall, sinewy frame on which no muscle moved awkwardly and the long-fingered, steady hands that could have just as well belonged to a Healer. His eyes swept the classroom incessantly, never allowing a moment of respite for his students, and as Cordelia felt his gaze reach her, she broke her musings.

'...however, we won't be brewing Veritaserum today. That will be left for your sixth year,' he was saying. 'Today we'll merely attempt a very light modification of Veritaserum, which is based on a different concept. Now, can someone tell me what Veritaserum does?'

Grisha's hand shot up a fraction of a second quicker than Cordelia's.

'Yes, Mr Witkowski?'

'It extracts the truth from the person it is administered to in a procedure similar to Imperio.'

Chernov nodded.

'Yes, that is very exact. A Recklessness Draught will, nevertheless, have the same effect, even though it is limited and can only be used on people with a weak will. Does anyone know what the main ingredient of this draught is?'

Cordelia raised her hand confidently.

'Yes, Miss Rosier?'

'Lovage and scurvy-grass, sir, much like in Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts,' she answered. 'However, sneezewort is not used, as it causes confusion, therefore rendering it useless for its purpose.'

'Very well,' Chernov said. 'Now that you know what the main ingredients are, you can safely begin working on your potion. The recipe is,' - he waved his wand - 'on the blackboard. You have 30 minutes.'

If anyone else had been at the teacher's desk, groans would have resounded throughout the class at the short time given for an advanced potion. With Chernov, however, protests were useless. He did not raise his voice or deduct points, nor did he keep grudges. He simply asked any student manifesting disruptive behaviour to leave his classroom and even offered to let them pass, on the condition that they ceased attending his classes. There had never been a student to accept this proposal. After a few missed Potions lessons, they returned to the dungeons with words of apology on their lips and blurry eyes from attempting to recuperate the skipped classes on their own.

Even as Chernov began his usual trek between cauldrons, righting a vial here and there, steadying a hand that held too much dragon horn powder and dinning the use of Angelica into some inept student, Cordelia's mind tiredly trekked as well, like a jaded pilgrim. She knew that Chernov would understand her plea and that he would not feel offended at all by her refusal of an honour he had bestowed upon her, but the question still remained whether he would be able to overrun Dolohova. The dynamics of Durmstrang's Head Trio had always been rather complicated to divine, and Karkaroff's disappearance further complicated matters to the point where she found the individual strings of thought as difficult to dislodge from the weaving as muddling through the thoughts in a foreign Pensive. She closed her eyes for a minute, imagining a perfect triangle that would have made their Arithmancy professor desperately jealous with the perfection of its equilateral sides. At the vertex stood Karkaroff, a slippery snake whose forked tongue dripped honey; at the base stood Chernov and Dolohova, exuding the exact same amount of carefully honed power, subtle and controlled. It was almost impossible to comprehend why the balance hadn't ever shifted. Karkaroff, while deviously powerful in his own right, would have been ultimately easy to overthrow. There were chinks in his armour, and even some badly-covered gaping holes. Chernov and Dolohova had surely been aware of this all the time they had worked with him. None of them had acted, however, which led Cordelia to believe that they were either satisfied with the situation or held some key to it that she did not know of. Perhaps this was the general dynamic of the world, with Karkaroffs at the top and Chernovs and Dolohovas at the base.

She moved uncomfortably around her cauldron, preventing Grzegorz from adding too much lovage - he also appeared to be concentrating on something other than the potion - and measuring the diluted solution of Alihotsy herself. Something smelled a bit off about it, the usually stinging waft drowned in something more sweetish, and she suspected that her reserve would have to be replenished soon. Such a pity Alihotsy was very perishable.

Perishable. I shouldn't be thinking of this.

She had barely lifted the marked beaker in front of her eyes that her fingers started to tremble and somehow lost hold, causing it to slip and shatter on the floor, splashing Alihotsy solution all over her shoes and the hem of her robe. Cordelia reacted quickly, fetching her wand out of her sleeve and muttering, 'Evanesco. Reparo.', but the cat was already in the pixies. As she looked up and reached towards a clean beaker and Grzegorz's supply of Alihotsy, she could feel all eyes on her, searching, intruding, almost pulling at the hair that fell in her face to see her expression. Cordelia Rosier never made mistakes in Potions. She never dropped vials or beakers, and never messed up potions. They believe the Alihotsy has gone to my head. 'Provokes hysteria,' doesn't it? Only it can't take me further from where I am now.

Chernov, however, remained quiet for a minute before saying, in the too-quiet voice they had all come to know meant that his words were not to be disregarded, 'Please return to your work. Miss Rosier, you will stay after class to discuss your blunder.'

Grzegorz looked at her through his hair as she nodded wearily. Without further words, he picked up from where she had stopped and finished the potion perfectly. If it hadn't been for Cordelia, he would have been the best potions brewer at Durmstrang. She slumped in her chair, and after the thirty minutes came to an end, she failed to listen to Chernov's individual comments on every potion.

'Cordelia?'

'Yes, Grisha.'

'Good luck.'

'Thanks.' She smiled a little. If there was one thing she prized Durmstrang for, it was teaching students to understand each other without many words. As the other students gathered books and quills, shoving them unceremoniously into their bags, and scurried towards the door, Cordelia stood still, attempting to gather her thoughts for a second and then letting them drop back in the heavy mess they were in.

Chernov closed the door.

'It is not prudent to let anyone in on your current state of mind, Miss Rosier. Especially in your situation.'

Cordelia would have almost snorted. 'Situation' lent itself to a pregnancy, not to a discussion about the return of a wizard who would sooner or later target her and her family. Although, if she thought about it, there were few words that lent themselves to this event.

Chernov rested his hands on her desk.

'Come on, Rozirova, the devil isn't as black as he is painted.' He had called her 'Rozirova' since her first days at school, when her lack of a Russian-sounding name had generated endless taunts. It was a running joke between them, one that Cordelia usually played into.

'Maybe not, but he's still a devil,' she said. 'Did Viktor tell you, Professor?'

'Actually, young Mr Witkowski did, right before class. It seems he was worried about you.'

Cordelia snorted. 'I could do with less worrying and more actual help.'

Chernov looked at her seriously. It gave Cordelia the impression that she was a potions ingredient he had never encountered before and which he did not know how to use.

Just store me away in a cupboard, Professor, away from the world. That should do it.

'That means you'll be disappointed with me, Rozirova. Because I can't offer help.'

One usually doesn't crush potions ingredients without preparing them first, Professor. You should know that.

Out loud, she asked, 'Why?' and she didn't feel sorry at all. Chernov had probably tried. It didn't matter, then. For the first time, Cordelia didn't care for her favourite teacher, the one she had dedicated hours of work to when he had had no assistant and had needed someone to prepare delicate potions for his Potions Master examination with him. He had failed then (although she suspected it had been Karkaroff's hand, as much as it had been when Dolohova had failed her Transfiguration Mistress examination). He was failing now.

'Because I was unable to convince Tatiana Alexandrovna.'

Karkaroff would have phrased that differently - 'Tatiana Alexandrovna is at fault here.' Chernov, however, always would take the blame on himself.

'Thank you, sir,' Cordelia blurted out.

She took her schoolbag and was almost out the door when Chernov asked, 'Whatever for?'

For being truthful. For being here.

'For trying.'

'It is a sorry day if you're thanking me for trying, Rozirova. Because "trying is for wimps", isn't it?'

She almost laughed. That was Dolohova's motto.

'At times, sir, trying is for those who would die doing it.'

He laughed, beautiful laughter that did not belong in Durmstrang.

'Keep you ear to the ground, Rozirova. You know, dying might be worth it sometimes.'

----~~~****~~~----

Cordelia kept her ear to the ground later that day, at the feast. She did so even with having to keep track of all Durmstrang students who had gone to Hogwarts and with listening to endless renditions of the same event. Nikolai Poliakoff had drilled the others very well, it seemed. No one mentioned Voldemort to her.

She also kept her ear to the ground later that night, when she arranged her notes into a flowing (lying), comprehensive (incomplete) account of the Triwizard Tournament.

She jumped when Grzegorz knocked at the door and entered, seating himself on her book trunk.

'Do you want help with that?'

'No, thanks, Grisha,' she said while crossing out some of Viktor's report, which had been built out of half-truths so glaring that they contradicted all the others' accounts.

'Why not?' he asked morosely.

'Because in exactly ten minutes Dolohova will be here and get you and I kicked out of school.'

'She's supervising you?'

Cordelia lifted her eyes out of the papers for a minute to roll them better. 'No, she thought I'm a really pleasant company and wanted me to share advice on the design of Headmistress robes.'

Grzegorz bit his lip in that unwelcome way he had. 'We could smuggle you out of here. Do you have an International Flooing Permit?'

Cordelia looked disbelievingly at him. 'How many people do you know who own one of those?'

'Poliakoff does. And Viktor.'

'That's because they're Poliakoff and Viktor,' Cordelia stated matter-of-factly.

Grzegorz's temper rose in a minute. 'Purebloods, you mean?'

'Yes, that's exactly what I mean. The day I'll be getting an International Flooing Permit in Russia will be the day Dolohova and Karkaroff will have disappeared off the face of earth.'

Grzegorz seriously appeared to be considering the possibility.

'Look, Grisha, I already thought about it. Even if I could Apparate, I'd probably get splinched all the way from here to Murmansk with the wards Karkaroff has put up. A Portkey will be detected quicker than you say 'Dolohova' and we only this minute discussed Flooing. Just get yourself out tomorrow and take care of your mum.'

'I'll tell her you send all your best,' Grzegorz said, standing up and advancing towards Cordelia's desk. 'If you ever need help, owl. On second thought, owl whatever the case.'

Cordelia sighed. 'I realised today help was an overrated thing.'

'I'll settle for an owl. I promise I won't try to help,' he said and leaned on the back of her chair. 'My address,' he continued simply and shoved a piece of parchment nearly brutally into her fist. It had been Grzegorz's first rule for the Half-blood Resistance that addresses would never be exchanged to protect its members in case of danger. 'Do take care of yourself.' And he did something he had never done before, leaning closer and kissing her cheek.

When Tatiana Dolohova entered the room, Cordelia Rosier was bent over various pieces of parchment, quill in hand.

----~~~****~~~----

She worked the whole night, with Dolohova sitting primly in a Conjured chair and watching her every movement. At five o'clock in the morning, she fell asleep only to wake in the afternoon with ink smeared all over face and a stiff neck, and with Dolohova still watching her. She began writing again, only to find that she didn't last past twelve o'clock. Dolohova watched.

Three days after Viktor Krum had brought the fateful news, Cordelia Rosier exited Durmstrangskaya Shkola Koldovstva, passing under the two bucking Thestrals who guarded the gates and whose shadows were cast at a long distance, following her like dark omens. Her hands ached as much as her shoulders, and somewhere between hand and shoulder, there was a place in her body that also pulsated with pain, a constant, distant pain that she could not evade.