BENEATH THE ASHES

Out of Place, Right on Time

The first thing Y/N noticed when she stepped off the ship was the cold.

Not the kind she was used to—London winters were miserable, sure, but they were soggy and gray. This cold was dry, sharp, and alive. It sliced through her coat, crawled down her spine, and settled in her bones like it had been waiting.

Snow crunched beneath her boots as she followed the other students up the slope. They walked in quiet clusters, boots moving in sync, their breath fogging the air. She could hear their voices—low, quick, and laced with a language she had only just begun to understand. Not perfectly, but enough.

She didn't speak unless spoken to. She kept her eyes ahead.

She kept her head high, though she felt out of place. Everyone here already knew one another, moving in groups, shoulders brushing as they murmured in that unfamiliar, sharp-edged language she didn't understand.

Just weeks ago, she hadn't even known magic existed. She had been ordinary—just another kid in the shadows of a house that never really felt like home. Then Hagrid came crashing in, talking about Hogwarts, wands, and the parents she barely remembered.

But she hadn't chosen Hogwarts.

She had chosen here.

And Durmstrang wasn't like the brochures (not that there were brochures). The looming towers looked like they'd been sculpted from ice and regret. The stone was dark, weathered, and absolutely unforgiving. No lights twinkled from the windows. No magic sparkled in the air.

It wasn't a place that opened its arms. It was a place that watched you and waited to see if you'd break.

She barely made it three steps into the entrance hall before the whispers started. Not hushed ones either—these students didn't whisper like they were afraid of being heard.

One voice cut through the others. Confident. Smooth. Mocking.

"Did she get lost on the way to Beauxbatons?"

A voice—smooth, amused, and laced with the kind of arrogance that made her skin itch.

Y/N turned and found herself facing a boy her age, slightly taller, his dark blonde hair tousled in a way that looked both effortless and intentional. His fur-lined uniform sat perfectly on him, and his sharp brown eyes studied her like she was something he hadn't quite decided was worth his time.

The words were in Bulgarian, but Y/N understood enough to catch the insult. She turned, expression neutral, and met the eyes of the boy who'd said it.

Tall. Arrogant. The type who knew exactly how good he looked. His hair was a lazy mess of dark gold, pushed back carelessly. His coat was worn loose, like he didn't need it to be impressive—he just was. And his brown eyes studied her like she was a riddle he had no patience for.

Before she could say anything, another voice—lower, thicker—stepped in beside him.

"She understands you, Marcus," came another voice—broader, steadier and apparently observant. The speaker was unmistakable: Viktor Krum. Even she, new as she was, recognized the Quidditch prodigy. He stood beside Marcus with an easy calm, arms folded across his chest.

Marcus. So that was his name.

He looked faintly amused, like that made things more interesting.

"Pity," he said in English this time, eyes never leaving hers. "Would've been easier to call you what you are."

Y/N folded her arms. "And what exactly am I?"

He looked her up and down, eyes lingering—not in a way that made her feel seen, but assessed. "Chaos," he said finally. "Like something dropped into the middle of order. Loud. Out of place. Bound to start a mess."

She blinked. "You got all that from me walking through a doorway?"

"You tripped."

She flushed. It had been barely a stumble. And he smirked.

Before she could respond, a third voice spoke—lighter, but edged like a knife.

"She's brave," said a blonde girl standing just behind them, arms crossed, a dangerous glint in her eyes. She was effortlessly stunning—like snow spun into silk, with the kind of poise that made you feel underdressed just looking at her. "Or stupid."

The girl stepped forward, chin lifted, cold beauty radiating off her like a second cloak. "Ingrid," she said. Not offering her hand. Just giving the name, like it was a challenge.

A dark-haired boy beside her grinned. "Aleksei. And you—are definitely going to make things interesting."

"I like her already," Ingrid said, voice like glass. Not warm. Not friendly. Just amused.

Viktor finally turned to Y/N. "You coming?"

She nodded once, still slightly confused, and started walking. But as she passed Marcus, she caught the tail end of his smirk.

"Try not to set anything on fire, Chaos."

Y/N didn't look at him. "No promises."

But her voice was cool, controlled, and it clearly caught him off guard. She didn't stumble this time.

And as she followed Viktor, Aleksei, and Ingrid into the heart of Durmstrang, she knew two things for sure.

One: this place wasn't going to be easy.

Two: neither was he.

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