I welcomed the sun rising over the Danube, though it brought me little comfort from the things that haunted me in the night. I had been standing behind our house since two in the morning, watching the mist hug the fields and listening to the conversations of birds. I shut my eyes for the first time in many hours. How simple it must be, to fly and exist for nothing else. How liberating.

The beating of wings over my head took my attention again. I craned my neck and watched an owl flapping toward our gatehouse. This means a conversation at breakfast, I thought. Yegor will bring us the mail, and they will probably ask me about it. I know my parents have been worried about my silence since coming home from Durmstrang. To be truthful, they have had much to worry about since Karkaroff decided I was Slavic enough to merit a place on the Quidditch team, and he'd sent those scouts to watch me fly.

The quiet was the best part of at last being home. For eight long years I endured taunts and catcalls and invective from the others at school. Before I had Quidditch, they said I was a Turk, and should not be allowed to come to Durmstrang. Once I found out I could fly -- well, then I had to endure more noise: fawning adults and jealous students. I have not really been home in more than two years, between being "discovered" and representing the Institute which did not like me.

But you are home now, Viktor, I said firmly, and concentrated once more on the sunrise.

I could not keep my thoughts away for long, however. I suppose one who cannot resist the Imperius Curse has little chance against himself.

Had my parents done the right thing, sending me to Durmstrang, and not to the Todorovich
School in Vratsa? Surely they cannot be blamed -- it is so prestigious, if you receive the invitation, you cannot not go. It is rare for students outside of Russia to be accepted, but all wizarding parents here hope fervently for little else. They spend more money than they have on Russian language tutors, since using an Aural Translating Charm is looked down upon. They look down their noses at fine schools all over Eastern Europe: in Poland and the Ukraine and the Balkans. They follow the Russian Ministry of Magic more closely than their own, worried that unrest may close down the school. I was the first in my family for several hundred years to gain the attention of Durmstrang -- I don't suppose any of us had much of a choice after that.

And now? Now I am supposed to be a powerful wizard. I am well versed in both conventional magic and what others call the Dark Arts; I have represented my country in an international sporting competition; I was chosen to fight for Durmstrang at the Triwizard Tournament.

The sky above me was lightening to a brilliant azure -- the promise of a beautiful day. I shrugged my shoulders, feeling my backbone stretch and crack pleasantly. Do not mull over it any longer. You must enjoy the day. It is all you have that is definite anymore.

I turned my back on the sun and the forest and the river it rose over and headed towards our house. The small dining room was soaked with sunlight by the time I came in. My parents were already at the table, chatting quietly over a copy of the Dobrich Dispatch. My mother, Sophya, looked up at me as she sipped her coffee and asked, "Out so early again, Viktor?"

I nodded, not really wanting to talk. My father Dragan greeted me by way of a friendly grunt, and I felt a small smile flicker across my face. When I was little, my father would hoist me up on his shoulders and pretend he was a troll, and he would make those noises while I shrieked with laughter and pretended to beg him not to eat me.

But then I saw the letter sitting quietly on the edge of the table, already opened, and my habitual frown returned. The sealed side was down, but I could tell by the parchment that it was from Durmstrang. "Why are they writing to us? I have left the school," I asked, hearing the rough bluntness in my voice and cringing a little.

My mother looked up from her coffee again, and then exchanged glances with my father. "It's not specifically for you," she said quietly. "It's a form letter. All the students have received one, I'm sure. It's about Karkaroff."

"Hmmph." I reached for the letter and opened it. I did not sit down as I read through it.

I felt strangely unmoved by Karkaroff's disappearance. He had never behaved genuinely toward me either way -- both when he scorned me and flattered me. He never made any effort to conceal either treatment, or the dichotomy between the way he acted toward other students and me. I could almost tolerate him better before I was "Bulgaria's new hero," the national poster child -- before he thought me anything special.

The letter was bland and formulaic. It explained that Karkaroff had gone missing while in England, but not to worry, he shall be recovered, and school will continue as usual next year. The signature of the temporary Headmaster was the only surprise. Theodosius Vasiliov. I smiled a little to myself, rather ironically. Vasiliov is an Animagus, who prefers to stalk the halls intimidating students as a great white wolf rather than a man. It's a wonder they got him in human form long enough to sign the letter.

Leaving Durmstrang has left me cold as well. I suppose there is little explanation needed there. From the instant we were divided into Wolf, Bear, Elk, and Eagle we were taught only to best the others, through whatever means possible. The system of discipline was Spartan: you were only punished if you were clumsy enough to get caught. I never liked pitting myself against my classmates: it did not feel right to me. Perhaps that's why we of Eagle House never did well in those self-contained wars -- we simply looked after ourselves, and didn't bother with any of the rest.

It didn't really bother me until we went to Hogwarts. That was when I saw how much better it could have been. We hadn't had to freeze, or practice curses on each other, or submit to contemptuous teachers: it was all unnecessary. While Karkaroff himself had taught us on our ship last year, the exposure to those of Hogwarts and Beauxbatons made me wish for the first time that I hadn't been Bulgarian, that I had been British or French. I do not think I would be so stony all the time if that had been the case.

I bowed my head. Ah well. Enough. Perhaps when I leave that is something I can work on.

"What do you think you will do with yourself now?" asked my mother, almost reading my thoughts. She has an uncanny perception of human nature. I wish I hadn't inherited it.

I shrugged. "Perhaps I will go back to England." The thought had been in my mind for a while now. If I am such a powerful wizard, perhaps I can put myself to use.

I saw her blanche, and stiffen. "Surely you cannot think of going back there," she said softly, pleadingly. "After the way they treated you? And they are saying that the Dark wizard Voldemort has returned. Surely it is too dangerous right now."

Immediately I think of Hermione.

I remember what I said to her, the day I had to leave Hogwarts and return one last time to Durmstrang. I remember my halting, awkward English, and I remember wishing she knew my own language, so she might know what I had truly wanted to say.

"It would not be wise, I think, for you to come and visit me in Bulgaria right now..." She had furrowed her brow, looking concerned and curious. I could see the question behind her eyes, but I hadn't the time to tell her the political situation at home. She seemed to understand, and asked instead,

"What are you going to do?"

I remember struggling for more words. "I may perhaps come to England. I do not know."

No wonder this conversation with my parents felt familiar, and just as discomfiting.

"Well... alright," she'd said, not quite sure what to do next. "But we will keep in touch, won't we?"

"Oh yes!" I answered, strongly. "Yes, of course. You are too good a friend to lose contact with." We both had each other's addresses already, and after a pause we rejoined her friends.

I remember what I said to Harry Potter too. That had been the time for regrets, and I am not quite sure if it is over or not.

I was greatly grieved when they told me Diggory was dead. When I came home, the first thing I did was write a letter to his parents. It was very hard to compose. I am not sure how well they received it. I do not know if they truly believed I had been under the Imperius Curse at the time. They have not yet written back. Perhaps my Translating Charm was badly executed, since I was quite overcome at the time.

There is so much I do not know still from that night. One moment, I was approaching a turn in the hedges, and the next I know for certain is I woke up, without my wand, in a tent with a nurse and two English Ministry officials standing over me.

"Viktor?"

My father and mother were studying me with concerned expressions. I shook my head quickly and sat down, muttering "I'm sorry," and trying to concentrate on the here and now. I felt my mother's slim hand reach out and give my callused one a squeeze, and a pat.

I remember hearing them outside that tent, that night, hearing their screams above all the chaos. I could hear my parents shrieking and begging for me. But they did not speak English and the guards knew no Bulgarian, and I did not see them until dawn. All that time I was left alone with the two abusive Ministry officials. They kept asking me why I had put the Cruciatus Curse on Diggory. I tried to tell them I did not know how, that even at Durmstrang we had never learned the Unforgivables. They did not believe me.

When I think, very hard, as I try to piece together what happened, I can sometimes hear him screaming. I was hearing it now, faintly, and against that and the harsh, constant whispering in my head the shouts of Harry Potter...

I opened my eyes, which I realized were shut very tight, and found I was gasping. Both my parents were staring at me, bewildered. I sat, panting, for a minute, and found I could not remain, I had to get out. "Excuse me," I think I said, and I pushed the chair back and walked away.

I found my Firebolt, and then fled the house, and ran out into the field behind it. I can't take this, one part of me shouted. The other sternly admonished, You cannot do this! You cannot run forever! I knew I would calm down once in the air. It's the only thing that makes me think truly rationally, flying. I can hardly remember what I did before I found it. And today the tried and true method held out. In the middle of the meadow, still wet with dew, I kicked off and shot upward. The cold air rushed over my face and through my hair, and I immediately felt free again.

I really truly love this, I thought as I sped over the plain and towards the river. You could do this for the rest of your life, you know. You could answer your mother's question and have a direction now that you're released from that school.

I did not contemplate too deeply the thought: this is never a time for making decisions. I continued flying. No dives, no loops today: just velocity, that's all that mattered. It was even more unfettered than a game of Quidditch. How liberating...

I do not know how long I was in the air. Once I was intoxicated and inebriated enough with flying, I reluctantly turned around and began heading home. The sun was much higher now: it was probably eleven or so. My parents might be worried if they didn't know that this is what I do.

Hmm. That question of what I do again.

I landed lightly, in the same meadow behind the house. In truth, though it had been fun, nothing had been relieved. As the air in my lungs heated up, I trudged homeward, the Firebolt slung over my shoulder.

I love Quidditch, but perhaps... perhaps it is not what I what to do with the rest of my life. I remember Ludo Bagman, and the state he had fallen into. I do not want to be fleeing goblins when I have no more career.

And I thought back to the Leaving Feast at Hogwarts, and about what Professor Dumbledore said to us all. "Every guest in this hall will be welcomes back here at any time, should they wish to come."

Perhaps... perhaps I shall return to England. If the events of the Third Task are any indicator, a dark time is ahead. And if Karkaroff was involved with Voldemort, that is a testament to how far his power spread. I am sure I can be of use. A Quidditch player has such a limited role. I know I am more than that. I could not fight the Imperius Curse, true, but it is not an easy curse to throw. Perhaps I shall work on that when I leave.

When I came inside again, I went straight to my room, and found my ink and parchment again. I had not used them for several weeks -- I have not been so good about writing to Hermione. I shall write to her next, I thought, after Professor Dumbledore. Because this war will not be self-contained. Because I know who would be targeted first.