Chapter 3

"Next time…" I sighed wearily, already noticing a group of classmates approaching us, who were, in fact, my other friends-comrades-subordinates.

"Judging by how that little schizophrenic ran off, you must have said something to her again…" one of the approaching pranksters examined my face carefully, where a tired smile hadn't quite faded yet. "Definitely said something, that grin says it all…" said this rather cocky brunet, standing a head shorter than me.

He spoke in Russian, notably. In Durmstrang, as in Beauxbatons, there was an amusing situation regarding languages. People from all over gathered at these institutions, and everyone needed to communicate and understand each other. While the problem with textbooks could be solved by simply making copies in different languages, and for someone to become a teacher at Durmstrang, they would also need to know the required languages at a decent level, at least. Fortunately, potions allowed for accelerated language learning.

However, for many children, especially those who were restless, such a task was often beyond their abilities... Particularly for half-bloods. Not because of their blood status, but because they often lacked strict upbringing at home and the necessary funds for the potions.

To solve this problem, universal magical translators were invented.

Due to the high cost of production, such artifacts, embedded in a belt buckle of the Durmstrang uniform, were only given to a student upon arrival on Durmstrang grounds. They were taken back when the student left.

However, there was a small exception. Future first-years were given the buckle with the translator already on the ship, so they could get acquainted without any issues.

As a result, some rather amusing situations often occurred at the port, when best friends who hadn't bothered to learn the languages couldn't understand each other during the holidays or before the start of the second year.

But why am I bringing this up?

With my, likely, best friend — Ivan Volgin, who, incidentally, was now standing in front of me — the same situation occurred during our first year. Of course, I understood him, since I had known Russian from my past life… But, damn, I just couldn't show it.

Because my maman, and others around me, would naturally have questions about how I even knew him if I hadn't studied Russian. Learning it from early childhood? I simply hadn't thought about it at the time. I didn't know many details about Durmstrang, or about the magical world in general, and I was captivated by real magic… Plus, in general, I just hadn't considered studying a language that I already knew perfectly and that felt completely natural to me, as I thought in it.

Moreover, I would've needed to justify an interest in learning not English or French, but Russian. My mother wasn't stupid; she understood that a child doesn't develop an interest out of nowhere, without reason. There had to be some premise — in this case, an interest in learning Russian.

And besides, my maman wasn't some irresponsible fool who had dumped my upbringing on a nanny or a house-elf. She managed to raise me personally.

So, when Ivan and I met outside of Durmstrang... Well, it was a situation as amusing as could be.

Thankfully, now there were plenty of reasons to study various languages, and I could manage to explain myself in almost any Eastern European language.

…Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit, but I could definitely speak five or six.

"It's not a grin, but a smile, my Russian friend." Sometimes it's amusing to put on the caricature of a foreigner. And, to my considerable surprise, it doesn't stand out too much from the local behavior. "Nonetheless, I'm glad to see you, gentlemen."

"Cut the formalities, Herr, um, Scheiße, Stahlwolf." The silver-haired girl who had come with Ivan rolled her eyes, now speaking pure German, which, by the way, was somewhat more archaic in the magical world than in the regular one. "We've had enough of that back in the first year, and at home, I still have to listen to the same… M-m-m... how can I say this politely... well, the same stuff."

"Your esteemed parents wouldn't agree… but yes, I'm rambling..." I stretched in a way most un-aristocratic. Well, I started to stretch... halfway through the movement, I managed to stop myself. After all, such inappropriate actions could be noticed by those who really didn't need to see it. "Hm-m-m... Weaver isn't here yet?" I quickly scanned the trio that had joined us.

"He might have overslept," said the big guy standing behind Erika — as the silver-haired girl was named — and Ivan, in a good-natured tone.

Anton Karpishin, a half-Ukrainian, half-Russian fellow. His family was so mixed with members of both nations that it was impossible to tell which bloodline dominated. But formally, the Karpishins were under the jurisdiction of the Ukrainian Ministry of Magic. By the way, an interesting fact: in the magical world, Ukrainians and Russians get along quite well... After all, the minds of these peoples weren't brainwashed by centuries of propaganda, and all those Muggle scuffles, wars, unrest, and other such things didn't touch wizards at all.

Even before the Statute of Secrecy, wizards rarely involved themselves in Muggle affairs. There was little to be gained from it.

The same can be said of other nations. So at Durmstrang, there is almost no ethnic-based hostility.

"He didn't oversleep…" Erika said with slight surprise in her somewhat raspy voice, looking somewhere behind me.

Quickly determining the direction of her gaze, I turned and peered into the milling crowd of students, their parents, and other relatives.

"Herr Weaver," I greeted the boy hurrying towards us with a quick nod, looking disapprovingly at the disheveled state of this... character. Another academic type, but from Charms. Flitwick would have liked him for sure.

"A-Adal…" struggling to catch his breath from his brisk pace, the boy stammered, clutching a thick book in his hands.

A grimoire, to be precise. An interesting artifact that lightens the burden of using the spells recorded within it. Because, unfortunately, unlike in canon (as far as I remember), in reality, wizards have limits, and we can't cast spells indefinitely.

Casting spells tires you out, just like physical exertion. However, physical training, which increases the endurance of regular people, doesn't improve the situation at all. That's why there's no point in training your body for this purpose.

The nature of this fatigue is different. The amount of this "magical" stamina is highly individual for each wizard, though there's one common pattern. The older the wizard, the more resilient they are, and the more spells they can cast.

That's why old wizards in the magical world are incredibly dangerous, and an adult wizard is almost always stronger than a teenager or, even more so, a child.

Even the canon familiar to me doesn't contradict this, since aside from magical stamina, there are magical genes*, which also influence stamina. And sometimes they can compensate for the age difference. On average, pure-bloods have better genes due to long periods of intermarriage with other wizards, who themselves mostly possess strong magical genes. But, as with anything, there are exceptions.

Occasionally, some Muggle-borns develop exceptionally strong magical genes, even though there were no wizards among their close ancestors. Incidentally, such individuals were often the founders of today's pure-blood families. Of course, that fact is something people now prefer to forget, but the truth can't be changed. It can be hidden, but not altered.

You could draw an analogy with physical appearance, for simplicity. Those who consistently marry beautiful people will also have beautiful descendants. In the same way, two unattractive individuals might unexpectedly give birth to a new Apollo.

As for Weaver... He is the heir to the young Swedish Velvet family and is practically obsessed with his artifact, constantly trying to improve it further. This is despite the majority of wizards firmly believing that grimoires have already reached their limit and cannot be enhanced any further.

But given his considerable intelligence… maybe he'll manage something. That's why I support him in this endeavor.

"That's him…" I said, barely holding back a condescending chuckle.

"S-sorry for being late! It's just that I..."

"Weaver. I'm not Romanova to yell and scold over every little thing. You know that yourself." I gently interrupted him, easily choosing my words. However, this kind of timidity irritates me a little. I just don't like impressionable and weak-willed people, even if they occasionally show the exact opposite traits.

I don't like them, and that's that. I can't do anything about it, nor do I want to.

"...So I'll simply loan you out as an assistant to Gertrude." I continued in the same unchanged tone, seeing how the boy instantly paled. He couldn't stand Potions, just like he couldn't stand his fellow disheveled colleague, ever since the beginning of the second year.

That was quite an amusing situation, too, indeed...

"Maybe it's not necessary?" Weaver looked at me with hope in his dark eyes, the shortest member of our group.

Ha-a... No, my friend. I've warned you before. Tardiness not only affects how teachers, especially those who value punctuality, perceive you, but also people like me — pure-bloods from older families — who already look down on you with superiority. It's just a given.

And while I, as someone more mature and friendly toward you, can tolerate it, others won't...

"Ivan?" I glanced at him, sensing that he wanted to say something. He often repeats this phrase… for some reason, it feels vaguely familiar to me.

"It's necessary, Weaver, it's necessary." Ivan declared with a satisfied grin, looking at our downcast companion.

"Anyway, as far as I know, your younger sister is starting next year. Will you introduce us?" I decided to change the subject so as not to let Weaver become too discouraged.

...Though it seemed that my words only made him even more disheartened.

"That's even worse than standing over a cauldron with Gertrude..." the Swede sighed. "Leaving aside your schem- cough, you know what kind of tendencies I mean… Ingrid is a nightmare in its purest form. She was such a wonderful little sister just a few years ago, but now…" he grimaced, dropping his gaze to the floor and nearly doing the same with his grimoire.

"It can't be that bad, Weaver," Karpishin countered, folding his arms across his chest. Seriously, this guy should have gone into weightlifting instead of becoming a wizard. What were they feeding him that made him grow so big?

I've been wondering about that since first year.

"...Anton, just so you understand, Ingrid is… Basically, if she were older, she'd be the perfect example of one of those girls who try to sneak a love potion into every drink or meal Adal consumes." Velvet said with deadly certainty, hanging his head.

Hmm… I've met his sister, and although it was a few years ago, she seemed like an angel to me back then, even if a dark-haired one… What happened? And could I be to blame? I don't remember what we talked about back then, and maybe I said something… casually, if I can use slang. But it's unlikely.

Weaver is almost certainly exaggerating, probably by a good hundred percent.

The devil isn't as scary as they paint him to be.

While Anton, Weaver, and the occasionally chiming-in Erika and Ivan debated over the character of Weaver's sister, I noticed de Welt out of the corner of my eye. She had finally stopped hiding behind people and was now boldly beckoning me with her finger.

Shameless girl. But amusing in her own way. She livens up the otherwise monotonous days at Durmstrang.

Hm-m…

I glanced at the time, or rather, at the large station-like clock. There were only a few minutes left until eight in the morning, which meant… playing games with de Welt was off the table.

I clapped my hands to get everyone's attention.

"Gentlemen, it's time for us to leave. The ship won't wait for us, even if this conversation is of utmost importance."

As we arrived at the (currently closed) pier, we were greeted by quite the spectacle. The top of the ship's mast and the crow's nest, barely rising above the water's surface, seemed to float along with it. In the crow's nest stood a man in a fur coat, peering at us through a long spyglass.

That man was Trifon Rangelov, a Bulgarian who managed the estate. Essentially, a much more pleasant version of canon Filch.

Although, I don't particularly blame the latter either. Few would keep their composure in a place filled with children from various social strata and cultures, most of whom had likely only read about calm and balanced behavior in books, if at all. And then there's the relentless clash between modern and traditional cultures and values... especially considering what went on in canon. You almost feel like sympathizing with him, really…

Meanwhile, interrupting my thoughts, the crow's nest began to rise, and a few moments later, the ship fully emerged from the water.

…You have to see this in person. You just have to. After witnessing something like this, many of the usual sights in the Muggle world seem rather ordinary by comparison.

A breathtaking sight, further enhanced by the ship's appearance, which practically screamed that this vessel was bound for a place where real Dark Magic was taught.

A grim Slavic-Gothic style... like a peculiar blend of Baba Yaga's hut on chicken legs crossed with a typical Koschei's castle, set afloat.

And despite such a fusion, the ship's style looked incredibly cohesive.

...Indeed, the Foundress Nerida not only had a good eye for art but was clearly familiar with the folk tales of this part of the world. Perhaps she even contributed to some of them. After all, she lived about eight centuries ago.

Meanwhile, this work of art began to approach us...