Written in the Stars - The Hard Way

The Hard Way

August 1990

Cassie watched as Harry picked half-heartedly at his breakfast. He’d had that dream again, and though he never cried or whimpered in the night anymore, he did a poor job at trying to hide the fact he was still haunted by it.

Still, they didn’t come as often as they once had. The occlumency lessons she had been giving him over the past few years undoubtedly helping him.

She had begun doing so at the urging of Gellert who believed it would be an invaluable skill for Harry, and the man had taken no small amount of smug satisfaction when she’d informed him of Harry’s progress.

He was still learning to master the art, but none managed it on such a short period of time. It took years to do so, and some practitioners never truly managed it.

Harry would. Of that, Cassie had no doubt, but until then, he would continue to live with the dreams and bouts of anger he exhibited.

She shook her head as she looked upon him.

It was hard to believe that eight years had passed already, and in only one more, he would be heading to school.

Cassie wasn’t sure if she was ready for that day to come, but it was approaching quickly, and it was something that needed to be discussed with the boy.

She had avoided doing so long enough, after all.

“Harry,” she called.

The boy looked up at her questioningly.

“We need to begin thinking about school,” Cassie pointed out. “You’ll be going next year.”

Harry nodded.

“Where will I be going?” he asked.

“Well, that is your choice. Just because I went to Hogwarts and…”

“My parents?”

Cassiopeia nodded.

They had discussed James and Lily Potter, and what had happened to them.

It was not a conversation that Cassiopeia relished, and she had seen just how vulnerable and furious Harry could be when he was at his worst.

The pain and unnecessary guilt he carried coupled with the anger had been a sight to behold.

It had taken Cassie the best part of an entire day to repair the damage his unrestrained magic had done to the house, and though she felt sorry for him, she would feel it more for any who crossed his path.

Harry had the potential to be a powerful wizard in his own right and were it not for his usually kind and thoughtful nature, Cassie would perhaps be concerned.

“That doesn’t mean you have to go there.”

Harry fell silent for a moment as he pondered her words.

“I have enemies there,” he murmured, “but I’m not ready to face them, not yet.”

Cassie nodded her agreement.

“You have nothing to fear from them, Harry,” she said firmly. “Your enemies are mine, and I will do whatever is needed to keep you safe.”

He smiled appreciatively at her.

“I know, but I want to fight my own battles one day,” he explained. “I would like to go to Hogwarts, but it is not what is best for me. What other options do I have?”

“Well, there is Beauxbatons, that’s a school in France, a very prestigious one,” Cassie explained. “It is an excellent choice and has some of the very best people in their fields as instructors.”

“France could be nice. I liked the Eiffel Tower when we went.”

Cassie smiled at the memory.

As much as she wished to keep Harry safe, she realised she could not simply lock him up for his entire life.

Under the guise of concealment charms and a plethora of disguises, she had begun taking him places.

France had been one of the first, and Harry had truly enjoyed his time there.

“Where else?” he asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

“The other well-known school is Durmstrang,” Cassiopeia explained. “It has a reputation for being more liberal on their views of magic, but some of the greatest witches and wizards in history attended. We could always visit both if you wish to see what one feels right for you?”

“Thanks, Aunt Cass,” Harry replied gratefully.

“I will make the arrangements, but for now, don’t you have some work to do?”

Harry huffed as he pushed his plate away before heading towards his room where he would continue his work on magical theory and other studies, he had taken an interest in.

If Harry had his way, he would spend his life on a broom, and though Cassie encouraged him to be active, she would not have him slacking when he could be getting quite the head start.

He would one day be the Lord of two prominent families, and there were expectations he must meet.

Cassiopeia’s for the most part, but her high standards would see to his success.

With Harry set to work, she fetched what she would need to send the two required letters, addressing them for the attention of the headmaster of each school.

When they were written, she sealed them with the crest of the Black family affixed, and sent them off with her own owl, pleased that Harry had decided for himself to avoid going to Hogwarts.

As much as Cassiopeia had enjoyed her time there, she did not want Dumbledore to have any influence over Harry, nor for Harry to be targeted before he was ready to face down his enemies.

Going to school elsewhere would prevent that, but such avoidance, she knew, would only ever be temporary.

One day, Harry would return to Britain.

It was not in his nature to cower or hide from anything, and though the thought filled Cassiopeia with trepidation, she equally looked forward to it.

(Break)

Olympe Maxime was no stranger to receiving missives from prominent families from across the globe. Her position as headmistress of one of the premier academies meant that she often rubbed shoulders with upper echelons of magical society, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the coat of arms for one of Britain’s most notorious families.

France, like the rest of the magical world, had not involved themselves in the domestic vying for power during the Voldemort years, but news of what was happening trickled steadily across the continent, and from what Olympe had heard, the Blacks had sided with the Dark Lord, resulting in the death or incarceration of most of them.

So, to receive a letter bearing the family crest was not something she had expected.

Even before today, as far as she was aware, Beauxbatons had never educated any member of the family.

It was with a curious frown that she removed the parchment from within the envelope, her eyebrows almost vanishing into her hairline when she glimpsed the name of the sender.

Cassiopeia Black.

The woman had perhaps been Grindelwald’s most ardent supporter during his rise some five decades prior and had seemingly faded into obscurity when the man had eventually been defeated.

Olympe couldn’t fathom what the woman could possibly want with her, and her frown fell into place once more.

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to you to request a tour of your academy for myself and my nephew who will be of attending age for your next intake of cohorts.

Currently, he has not decided what school he wishes to attend but has shortlisted Beauxbatons for his consideration.

Please send a response of a date and time that this will be convenient for you to accommodate.

I eagerly await your reply and ask for discretion on this delicate matter.

Regards,

Cassiopeia Black

Olympe released a deep breath as she laid the parchment down and rubbed her temples.

In truth, she did not even wish to accommodate the request, the reputation of the sender not something she wished her or the school to be associated with.

However, despite her feelings on the matter, the Black name, even now, still carried considerable weight and Olympe could not be seen to spurn them.

What harm could a tour of the school cause?

She was also curious as to the identity of the mystery nephew the woman had mentioned.

As far as Olympe knew, the only male alive in the Black family was the rather infamous Sirius who was currently being held in Azkaban and would be much too old to be considered for a place in any school.

The headmistress hummed thoughtfully as she drummed her fingers atop her desk.

No, something was certainly afoot, and though Olympe couldn’t possibly determine what that was, she was no fool.

Cassiopeia Black would not send such a request without good reason, not having lived in isolation for half a century.

Still, Olympe’s curiosity had been piqued, and with a sigh, she sent off her response, inviting Cassiopeia and her nephew to the school the following week.

There would be no students here, so they would be safe, and the entirety of the staff would be back in the palace and would be on hand to ensure nothing nefarious happened.

With her letter sent, the headmistress remained pensive at who this nephew could be, but without any information to hand, she would remain stumped until the boy arrived and she could look upon him for herself.

(Break)

Igor Karkaroff scowled at the letter he had received, the name of the sender pulling his lips into a sneer. Black had been a known supporter of Grindelwald, the very same man that had been expelled from the very institution he was now headmaster of.

Although he could not comprehend the audacity with which the woman had written to Durmstrang. Reading the name sent a spike of worry down his spine.

It was the first time in almost a decade that he had received a letter from someone British, his last excursion there having seen him almost sentenced to an exceedingly long stint in Azkaban.

Much to his relief, however, his naming of Crouch’s own son had bought his freedom but also left Igor vulnerable to the Death Eaters that had escaped justice.

He had needed to hide and having learned a position to teach the Dark Arts at Durmstrang had become available, he had taken the job gladly where he would be safe from any reprisals from his former comrades.

In only a matter of a few years, he had ascended to his current position, and had become accustomed to a somewhat comfortable life.

The school didn’t care about his past associations, only that he was a capable instructor, something that could not be denied by any.

Igor had learned the Dark Arts at this very institution and had excelled in them.

His nostrils flared at the letter he had balled up and thrown across his office.

“Nephew?” he grumbled.

There were no Blacks of school age, other than Lucius’s boy, but the fool would not risk sending his spawn here from fear of provoking Igor.

The headmaster had more than enough dirt on the man to see him spend his remaining years with the Dementors, but if not his son, then who?

He needed to know, to ensure his own safety if nothing else.

Igor knew there were those still out there that would see him dead, but within the walls of his fortress, he was protected.

Even the Dark Lord himself could not get to him here.

The thought made him relax considerably, but he was still curious as to whom Cassiopeia Black was referring to as her nephew.

With an irritable huff, he sent his own missive, inviting the woman and the boy to visit the school as requested before pouring himself a large mug of ale.

Why could he not just be left alone to live his life?

He had left the past where it was, and though the mark of his former master still marred his arm, the man was dead, yet he still somehow managed to haunt him from beyond the grave.

Igor winced at the phantom pain he received from the mark.

They didn’t come often, but when they did, they still felt as real as they had when the Dark Lord would summon him.

(Break)

Gellert had grown used to the tedium of his existence over the years. He had his birds and his books for company, and the past years had seen him invest much of his time pondering the enigmatic boy that Cassiopeia had taken in as her charge.

Harry Potter.

He remembered the boys’ grandfather well enough.

Gellert’s finger trailed across the thin scar on his cheek, a gift from Charlus Potter during one of their confrontations.

He had been a gifted wizard, one that Gellert had come to grudgingly respect, so much so that he felt compelled to assist his grandson.

He would have done it for Cassiopeia’s sake regardless, but there was something undeniably pleasing about paying homage to one of his greatest foes.

In a way, it was almost as though Gellert was getting the last laugh, though there was very little humour to be found in the circumstances.

His findings over the years had been as curious as they were surprising, but equally daunting.

Although he couldn’t be certain of his theory, he was as close to certainty as can be.

He had not mentioned his thoughts on the matter to Cassiopeia.

The woman would just panic unnecessarily when what the boy had been inflicted with could prove to be quite the boon.

Gellert nodded as he made another note in his book.

From his feat of magic in animating the wooden dragon he had gifted him, to the many other traits Cassiopeia had mentioned throughout her visits, Harry Potter was shaping up to be a very interesting boy indeed and Gellert was eagerly anticipating his growth.

The former Dark Lord rolled his eyes as he heard the unmistakeable footsteps of the only person other than Cassiopeia to visit him approached his cell.

Placing his notebook under his pillow, Gellert turned towards the door and folded his arms.

“Do you never grow tired of mocking me, Albus?” he snarked.

“I do not mock you, Gellert,” the man replied. “I thought my visits were a reprieve from the drudgery of your prison.”

Gellert snorted.

“What do you want this time?” he sighed. “You only ever come here if something is bothering you.”

Albus released a deep breath.

“Alas, old friend, there is much on my mind.”

Gellert shook his head.

“Then speak, and the perhaps we can assuage your worries,” he murmured. “It’s not as though I have anywhere better to be.”

Albus raised an eyebrow at Gellert’s flippant behaviour.

“My concern is something that has been with me for some time now,” he spoke, undeterred by Geller’s demeanour. “I know that Cassiopeia still visits you. Has she perhaps mentioned the boy she is housing?”

“Naturally,” Gellert replied guardedly.

Albus gestured for him to continue.

“The boy is safe and thriving,” Gellert assured him.

Albus nodded appreciatively and Gellert smirked, unable to resist the urge to goad the man.

It was not as though he could do anything in his position, after all.

“The boys’ mother, is she somehow related to the Slytherin line?”

It was the final piece of the puzzle that Gellert needed to confirm his thoughts on Harry’s seemingly inherited ability, and a part of him was hoping Albus would answer in the positive.

“No, there is no connection,” Albus denied firmly. “Why do you ask?”

“The boy is a parselmouth,” Gellert huffed, Albus’s reply all but corroborating what he’d already believed.

“Truly?” Albus asked. “That is concerning.”

“No, it isn’t,” Gellert returned irritably. “It is quite clear how he inherited the ability. Now is not the time for denial, Albus. Think! How could someone seemingly take a magical ability from another that is exclusive to one line?”

Albus frowned at the question.

“I would assume that a transference of magic must have taken place when Tom attempted to kill Harry, but I have never heard of such a thing. Magic cannot be simply gifted or stolen in such a way.”

“It cannot,” Gellert agreed, pleased that Albus’s mind appeared to be as keen as ever.

“I find myself at a loss,” Albus admitted, though Gellert was not surprised.

“I don’t suppose you ever looked into that magic much,” he sighed. “Magic cannot be gifted or taken, but it is a part of every bit of us. It is in our minds, in our bodies, and in our souls.”

He emphasised the final word and Albus frowned thoughtfully.

“You believe that a part of Tom’s soul somehow attached itself to Harry,” he mused aloud, his eyes widening at the realisation.

“Correct,” Gellert confirmed. “It is the only explanation that would account for the boys’ ability. Although the Slytherin’s did marry into the Peverell, Harry’s own family did not descend from that branch.”

Albus looked at him in shock, and Gellert smirked.

“I researched the family thoroughly, and lo-and-behold, I found the connection the Potters and the Peverells share.”

“I should have known,” Albus sighed, “but I believe the pressing matter is that Tom’s soul is somehow inhabiting Harry’s body.”

“Not his entire soul,” Gellert pointed out. “It can only be a fragment, fractured from the Dark Lord when he cast the killing curse at the boy.”

“Even a fragment is too much,” Albus balked. “How do we remove it?”

Gellert shook his head.

“It cannot be removed without the boy dying,” he said gravely, “and nor should it be attempted. The soul fragment represents a boon for the boy. If it has manifested parseltongue within him, there is no telling what else he could possibly acquire from it.”

“But such a thing must be dangerous!”

“No,” Gellert denied. “I believe the soul will merely become a part of his own. Two souls cannot occupy one body, and a fragment, regardless of how powerful it is, will never be able to overcome a complete soul.”

“You are certain of this?”

“No, but magically speaking, it is an impossibility.”

Albus seemed to relax somewhat, comforted by Gellert’s deduction.

“I still believe he should be watched closely, just in case something was to go amiss.”

“He is being watched and cared for as best as possible,” Gellert assured him. “Think what you will of Cassiopeia, but she is doing a fine job raising the boy. Your influence would only be a hindrance.”

“A hindrance?” Albus retorted, seemingly offended.

Gellert nodded.

“The boy has enemies, Albus, those that will not hesitate to kill him for what he inadvertently did.”

“He will be safe at Hogwarts.”

“No, he would become weak under your tutelage,” Gellert countered. “Your morals and influence would only get him killed. He must be ruthless, Albus, willing to defend himself by any means necessary. He will need to if he wishes to survive.”

Albus visibly winced but schooled his features quickly.

“You would have him become a monster,” he accused.

“I would have the boy live, Albus!” Gellert corrected hotly.

Albus deflated.

“You always were weak, Albus,” Gellert continued. “You could not even bring yourself to kill me when you knew it would be best for all. Instead, you have locked me in a cell and show your face occasionally just so you can claim to have the moral high ground. The boy would die because you would wish for him to be like you. You have never truly had enemies, so you do not understand the tenacity he will need to have.”

Albus was taken aback by the passion with which Gellert spoke, though he did not deny his thoughts.

“So, I should simply allow him to be raised by Cassiopeia?”

Gellert nodded.

“When the time is right, he will return to Britain, Albus, and he will do so having been tutored by me.”

“By you?” Albus asked worriedly.

“You may not agree with my worldly ambitions, but you cannot deny that I am the best chance he has to survive whatever it is he will one day face,” Gellert returned. “If this Voldemort is still out there, Harry will need to be ready to face him.”

Albus eyed him for several moments before conceding with a nod.

“Perhaps you are right, old friend,” he muttered. “You have given me much to consider.”

Albus turned to leave and Gellert felt a stab of pity for the man.

“I will not turn him into a monster, Albus, but I will give him the tools he needs to live a long and fruitful life.”

“Why?” Albus asked.

“Because despite what you and the rest of the world thinks of me, an innocent child deserves a chance. Without the right guidance, he will not have that.”

Albus nodded his agreement.

“It is unlikely, though there are powerful magics at play here, Gellert, more than you can comprehend. Harry will always have a chance, with or without you.”

“But an undeniably better one with me,” Gellert pointed out.

“Undeniably,” Albus agreed before turning away.

“Are you willing to give him the tools he will need?” Gellert questioned. “He is a Peverell, after all. Their blood flows through his veins. The wand should be his. Even with my help, the odds are not in his favour.”

Albus nodded.

“They are not,” he acknowledged, leaving without another word.

Gellert simply sunk into his chair.

Albus was perhaps the most frustrating person he had ever met, but despite his often-aloof countenance, he was far from foolish, and Gellert hoped he would not become so in the years to come.

(Break)

Cassie watched as Harry took in the Beauxbatons palace. The boy was impressed to say the least, and in a state of awe, though no more shocked than the enormous woman that had greeted them upon their arrival.

Madame Maxime had barely said a word since she had been introduced to Harry, choosing to simply gawp at the boy in disbelief.

Harry had not noticed, his attention focused on the intricacy of the large hall they had been shown into.

Cassie cleared her throat, pulling the headmistress from her thoughts.

“I’m sure my nephew would like to know what classes you offer, Madame Maxime.”

“Of course,” the woman replied apologetically. “At Beauxbatons, we offer an excellent, varying curriculum that will prepare you for any career you may wish to pursue. We are specialists in enchanting and charms, but you will find that all our instructors are highly regarded in their fields. We have had many students go on to be successful politicians, duellists, cursebreakers, and even professional Quidditch players. Whatever you wish to do, we are equipped to assist you in achieving it,” she finished proudly.

Cassiopeia had never visited the school before, but she was impressed by what she was seeing.

The palace was a magical marvel, not as large as Hogwarts, but certainly more homely within the walls.

She was beginning to understand how the Beauxbatons academy had cultivated its renowned reputation.

It had much to offer.

“What do you think, Harry?” Cassiopeia asked.

Harry nodded appreciatively.

“It’s nice,” he replied.

Madame Maxime smiled.

“It truly is a wonderful school,” she said affectionately. “I attended myself and being made headmistress is my proudest moment. The professors are passionate, and our students are excellent learners. We strive to push them to be the best they can, and they rise to the challenge most admirably. We have standards and expectations here, Mr Potter, and expect them to be met.”

Harry offered the woman a respectful bow.

“I can see that,” he returned.

Madame Maxime offered him a penetrating stare before nodding.

“You have ambition,” she declared. “You have goals in mind, and you are willing to work for them. You could very well fit in here, Mr Potter.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured.

Cassie watched the back and forth between the two.

Maxime was sharp, and Harry’s gaze was unwavering as he looked up at the woman.

“What magic interests you most?” the woman asked curiously.

“I need to be strong,” Harry answered simply, “stronger than my enemies.”

Cassie smiled sadly at the boy, and Maxime offered him a look of sympathy.

What had happened on that fateful Halloween night had not remained a secret, and it didn’t take much pondering to deduce that Harry had inadvertently made many powerful enemies.

“Those with enemies need friends,” Madame Maxime murmured. “You will make many loyal friends here.”

Harry nodded but said little else as they were shown around the rest of the palace.

The library was certainly impressive, as were the stables and other habitats that had been created to house the school’s various, magical creatures, but Harry had become introverted, something he did when he was thinking deeply.

“That completes the tour,” Maxime announced as they returned to the front of the palace. “Do you have any questions?”

“Harry?” Cassie prompted.

The boy shook his head and offered the larger woman a polite smile.

“I have seen everything I need to,” he explained. “Thank you, Madame Maxime.”

The headmistress offered him a bow, and Cassie led Harry towards the gates in the distance.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It seems like it would be a good school,” Harry answered thoughtfully.

“But?”

“But nothing,” Harry returned with a shrug. “I won’t make any decisions until I have seen Durmstrang.”

Cassie nodded approvingly.

“It will be quite different,” she pointed out.

“Different might be just what I need,” Harry replied quietly, a frown marring his features.

(Break)

Igor watched through narrowed eyes as the woman and boy approached the front gates, their heads bowed against the southerly, icy wind. Even in August, it was cold here.

It was always cold here.

For the headmaster, it was a part of the charm of the school and made him feel safer whilst behind his walls.

His enemies were plenty, but even the hardiest of them could not hope to reach him at Durmstrang, even if they could find it.

Igor’s gaze swept over the boy, reading his body language.

There was none of the arrogance he would have perhaps expected from someone who had defeated a Dark Lord before he could wipe his own nose, if anything, the Potter was reserved, and rather difficult to decipher from sight alone.

“Welcome to Durmstrang,” Igor greeted the duo as he they reached him. “My name is Igor Karkaroff, I am the headmaster of this institute.”

Evidently, Cassiopeia Black knew who he was.

For a moment, Igor thought the woman was going to draw her wand on him, but he held up is hands to prevent her from doing so.

“I make no secret of what I once was,” he said unashamedly, “but I left that behind. I paid my penance, as you did, Miss Black.”

Cassiopeia’s nostrils flared.

“If I get even a whiff of treachery from you, Karkaroff, I will ensure you die the most unpleasant of deaths.”

Igor smiled.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he assured the woman.

He met her stony glare, and she nodded after a moment, seemingly satisfied.

Throughout the conversation, the boy had looked at them both curiously, and Igor released a deep breath as he rolled up his sleeve, exposing the faded mark he had been branded with.

“I was once a follower of the man that you are credited with defeating,” he admitted.

The Potter boys’ eyes widened in surprise, and there was a part of Igor that hoped he would decide to leave.

The other part of him was curious to see what had been so special about Harry Potter that the Dark Lord had perished at his infant hands.

“Does that make you my enemy?” Potter asked.

Igor chuckled as he shook his head.

“I believe that if anything, your enemies and mine are one and the same,” he replied.

“He means that when he was captured, he turned others in to ensure he received a lighter sentence,” Cassiopeia explained.

“I did,” Igor answered the questioning look the boy gave him. “I was a fool and did not want to pay for a foolish mistake for the rest of my life.”

Potter nodded his understanding.

“You chose life,” he murmured. “Others were not given that choice.”

“I did,” Igor acknowledged as he gestured for them to follow him inside.

Over the years, the headmaster had cursed the boy for what had happened, but he had come to realise that the Dark Lord’s downfall had been a blessing for him.

In the beginning, the war had been going well for the Death Eaters.

They had struck fast, destroyed key enemies, and established themselves as a true threat.

However, wizarding Britain had shown their grit, had brought the fight to the Dark Lord’s forces.

The war had been the result, neither side willing to concede defeat, and once more, the Death Eaters had seized an advantage, and victory was all but within their grasp.

Suddenly, it had come to an end, all because of the boy he had greeted only moments ago.

Igor and many others had been quickly apprehended, and he had done what was necessary to mitigate his circumstances.

In truth, he had no ill feelings towards the boy, not anymore at least.

Igor had moved on, had worked tirelessly at Durmstrang, and he now found himself in a prestigious position.

Much more valuable than he would have ever been to his former master.

Even so, Igor was not certain he wished to have the boy at Durmstrang.

If any were to get wind of it, unwanted attention would shift towards the school.

Not that the likes of Lucius or any other that avoided Azkaban would be able to do anything with the information.

Within these walls, Igor held every advantage.

The dreary grey stone walls were around twenty feet thick, and imbued with an enviable assortment of protective measures, many that would make those who attempted to breach them wish they hadn’t.

There were no weaknesses here.

Durmstrang was a fortress of ice and stone, an unyielding and unforgiving structure.

“Well, at least it is warmer inside,” Cassiopeia commented, rubbing her hands together.

Igor nodded, a grin tugging at his lips.

“It is a hard climate that produces hard people,” he replied. “Part of the experience of our school is surviving the terrain here.”

“What about the rest?” Potter asked curiously.

Igor smiled appreciatively at the question.

“We run a strict establishment based on respect which must be earned throughout your years here. You will be expected to perform magically, physically, and mentally to prove yourself. There is no such thing as an easy day at Durmstrang, but you will only get out of your time here what you are willing to put into it.”

Potter hummed thoughtfully.

“What lessons do you offer?”

“A mix of studies,” Igor answered cryptically. “We take a strong, militaristic approach to our teaching. Here, we embrace all magics, and those that show an aptitude can pursue them. However, not all magics are available to all. We welcome any that possess magical ability, regardless of their origins. We accommodate magic in all forms here, Mr Potter, and Durmstrang is not for the faint-hearted. As you can understand, we are protective of our secrets. To learn them, you must choose to study here. Now, allow me to show you around.”

Igor did so, showing them the various study rooms used by the professors, the main hall where the students ate, and even the dormitories where they slept.

The school grounds were mostly barren, and no amount of magic could change that.

The quidditch pitch was thickly coated with ice, as were the stand hewn from stone.

To most, much of what was on show at the school would be lacklustre, but those who lived here cared little of aesthetics.

Durmstrang was functional, minimal in many ways, but it produced durable, well-educated students.

So long as they were willing to work hard for their achievements.

As the tour came to an end, the boy took a final long look around the entrance hall and nodded to himself.

“Thank you, Headmaster Karkaroff,” he offered sincerely. “You have given me much to think about.”

Igor nodded and watched as the boy and Cassiopeia Black left to brave the wilderness once more.

Harry Potter had not been what he had envisioned.

He was quiet, observant, and rather measured for someone his age.

Still, Igor did not believe he would see him again.

Boys of such a privilege as Harry Potter did not thrive in such adverse conditions.

The landscape and weather notwithstanding, Durmstrang required a toughness, and though the boy had somehow been the downfall of the Dark Lord, luck was not a factor here.

It took toughness, perseverance and durability to survive this part of the wizarding world, and Igor and had not seen enough grit from Harry Potter to give him much faith he could make it.

(Break)

Harry did not have much of an appetite after returning home and had picked at his lunch as he pondered the two very different schools he had visited whilst Cassie watched him, waiting for him to speak.

Beauxbatons had been wonderful; the climate, the palace, the grounds, and even all the creatures the school kept on hand for the students to enjoy.

Harry would have liked to experience his formative years there, but he had been right in his observation that he needed something different.

Durmstrang was almost the opposite of the prestigious, French institution.

It was unbearably cold, and Karkaroff had made it abundantly clear that his time there would be difficult, and that despite the man seemingly holding no grudge against him, that he would not be welcomed with open arms.

“How did Karkaroff serve Voldemort?” he asked.

Cassiopeia shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “No one truly knows the role that each Death Eater played, but he was one of them, Harry. A dangerous, violent man who likely did unspeakable things to many.”

Harry nodded his understanding.

“Durmstrang,” he said firmly. “That’s where I need to go.”

Cassie seemed concerned by his choice. Her jaw noticeably tightening.

“You’re sure?”

“I am. I need to be as strong as I can be, and Durmstrang is the best place for that,” he explained. “France would be nice, Aunt Cass, and I’d love to go there, but it isn’t right for me, not with what I have to do.”

“With what you have to do?” Cassie questioned curiously.

Harry nodded.

“I need to be ready for them, and for him.”

“He’s dead, Harry,” the woman assured him, and Harry deflated at her words.

“No, he isn’t,” he denied. “He’s out there somewhere, I can feel him up here,” he explained pointing to his scar.

For as long as he could remember, Harry could feel something within him, someone else within him.

Occasionally, he would see would things that he shouldn’t know about, see the world through the eyes of another before he would be transported back to himself with a pounding headache to remember it by.

Those had become less frequent since he had learned occlumency, but he still saw things, knew things that no mere boy should.

Cassiopeia was looking at him worriedly now, and Harry offered her a reassuring smile.

“It doesn’t matter,” he comforted. “If anything, I’m glad he’s still out there because it means I get to destroy him properly for what he did to my parents, make him really suffer for it. That’s what we do to our enemies, isn’t it?”

Cassiopeia nodded, her gaze shifting to his own.

“It is,” she agreed quietly.

Harry nodded gratefully as he stood and rounded the table where his aunt was seated.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, offering her a rare show of affection by wrapping his arms around her, “for teaching me.”

“We have a year together yet and your lessons with me are only just beginning,” the woman replied. “Every summer and every Christmas, you will be here with me, and I will be sending additional things for you to work on whilst you are at school. When the time comes for you to return home, it will not matter who your enemies are, Harry.”

“No, it will not,” Harry vowed.