Northern Norway, Durmstrang.
As the northernmost magical institution in Europe, Durmstrang remained engulfed in freezing temperatures throughout the year.
Even during summer, young wizards were forced to wear full-length robes to shield themselves from the cold.
Of course, the more skilled senior students relied on warming charms to stave off the chill.
And lower-ranking pure-bloods? They resorted to enchanted robes embedded with protective spells to resist the biting winds.
Years ago, several pure-blood families had proposed installing large-scale warming enchantments around Durmstrang, aiming to turn the school into a haven of perpetual spring.
But their proposal was flatly rejected by the headmistress at the time
Her reasoning was simple:
"Suffering creates glory!"
To her, the relentless cold was merely one of many trials students had to endure.
If they couldn't withstand such minor discomfort, how could they ever hope to achieve greatness?
Upon hearing her stern declaration, the pure-blood parents fell silent.
After all, their goal was to shape their children into strong, capable wizards—not to raise them as weaklings.
And besides, Headmistress Harfang's reputation had been formidable, on par with Dumbledore's.
The dueling and martial magic courses she had established were still taught at Durmstrang to this day, cementing its reputation as a school infamous for its focus on the Dark Arts.
At that moment, Igor Karkaroff, the current headmaster of Durmstrang, was dozing off in his study.
As nothing more than a figurehead, he had long understood that the best way to maintain his position was to do absolutely nothing.
Especially since Lord Grindelwald had personally assured him that as long as he remained quiet and unproblematic, his tenure would be undisturbed.
More importantly, Grindelwald had promised him protection and the eventual removal of his Dark Mark.
And so, Karkaroff chose to play his role wisely.
After becoming acquainted with Grindelwald and his Saints, Karkaroff had abandoned all ambitions of making grand changes in Europe.
Instead, he embraced a different philosophy—one of silent replacement rather than open revolution.
Thus, he spent his days indulging in an idle, almost swine-like existence.
Sleeping. Eating. Reading.
Repeat.
He rarely left his office.
He had no interest in appointing professors—he merely signed off on any recommendations without question.
To him, he was nothing more than a symbol, a stabilizing force to appease the Ministries of Magic across Europe.
Because if those governments realized that Grindelwald had completely overthrown Durmstrang's leadership?
It would trigger global outrage, forcing the Ministries to unite against them.
And that, in turn, would bring trouble to Grindelwald himself.
So Karkaroff continued his slothful existence, resting comfortably in the illusion of safety.
Even after hearing rumors of his former master's return, he did not panic.
Why should he?
After all, Voldemort would never wage war against Grindelwald simply to punish a single defector, right?
It would be like burning down one's own home just to kill a cockroach.
Impossible.
Unrealistic.
And with that comforting thought, Karkaroff drifted into a peaceful slumber.
The Dark Lord Arrives
Buzz!
A faint burning sensation spread across Karkaroff's arm.
The skull and serpent mark began to writhe, glowing with a sickly green light.
A message.
A command.
And then—
Ripple!
The space in Karkaroff's study quivered like disturbed water, distorting and bending.
Through the shifting veil, the ocean, blue sky, and towering cliffs appeared—alongside a vast army of dark wizards standing in formation.
And then—
A pale, skeletal hand pierced through the swirling rift, stepping into Durmstrang's principal's office.
A second later—
Voldemort emerged.
Clad in flowing black robes, his ghostly complexion gleamed in the dim candlelight.
Whoosh!
A wave of bitter cold swept through the room, sinking deep into the air itself.
Even in his sleep, Karkaroff shuddered.
Then—
Thud!
Something hard struck his face.
Groggily, Karkaroff stirred. The sensation was uncomfortable—annoying, even.
He tried to ignore it.
But then—
A chilling presence pressed against him, suffocating, inescapable.
Slowly, he forced his heavy eyelids open—
And found himself staring into scarlet eyes.
His body froze.
That pale, sharp, inhuman face—
The sheer terror that gripped his soul.
It could only be one person.
"M-Master..."
Karkaroff's voice trembled violently.
His mind swirled in disbelief, unable to process reality.
This was impossible.
He had fled England for a reason.
He had betrayed them all—he had sold out every last Death Eater to save himself.
Even Barty Crouch Jr., Voldemort's most loyal and trusted follower—Karkaroff had exposed him without hesitation.
He had angered too many people.
That was why he had fled to Europe.
To escape.
To avoid this very moment.
And yet, here he was.
A Traitor's Fate
"Karkaroff," Voldemort's voice was smooth, ice-cold, dripping with contempt.
"It seems you've been… quite comfortable these past few years."
Karkaroff flinched.
His trembling fingers instinctively reached for his wand—but before he could grip it, it slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the floor.
"Master… M-Master, I—"
He wanted to plead, to explain, but his throat seized up.
His words failed him.
All he could do was stare in horror, silently begging for Grindelwald to appear and save him.
But no salvation came.
And then—
Thud! Thud! Thud!
More footsteps echoed through the office.
Voldemort had not come alone.
Tom Riddle entered next, his dark green robes flowing behind him.
Then—
Barty Crouch Jr.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
And more.
One by one, the Death Eaters entered the room, filling the space with their dark, oppressive presence.
Suddenly—
The spacious principal's office felt claustrophobic.
"Master," Barty Crouch Jr. took a step forward, his voice dripping with anticipation.
"Allow me to teach this fat pig a lesson."
His eyes gleamed with malice, locking onto Karkaroff with pure hatred.
If it weren't for this traitor—he would have never been caught.
Voldemort smirked, sensing the raging resentment within Barty's heart.
He gave a slight nod, stepping back.
The message was clear.
Do as you please.
And so—
"Cruciatus!"
"AARGHHHH!"
The scarlet curse struck Karkaroff's body.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air.
He convulsed violently, collapsing to the floor.
Sweat poured from his pale face as he writhed like a worm, agony consuming him.
Barty Crouch Jr. watched, his lips curling in twisted joy.
Tom Riddle, meanwhile, silently cast a muffling spell, ensuring the screams remained contained.
Then, he turned away.
This was merely a distraction.
His true focus was on something else—
Durmstrang itself.
This was the first step to claiming Europe.
Durmstrang must fall.
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