Unplottable Territory, Norway

That the dirt beneath her feet was now made of familiar seasons past brought calm to Magdalena’s face. It was what she had needed, a proper good-bye to this place.

If Durmstrang was a cruder fortress to the warmth and richness of Hogwarts Castle, its own stones were ones that held meaning and familiarity, memory and the fleeting act of growing up. It had its own warmth, to be sure, and that coldness that she had always loved. Even now, in the summer, it was the right kind of warmth, not stifling and cloying, like syrup, but breezy and green and broken by cool lakes. The stars could not be matched by any Enchanted Ceiling, and the hours of sunlight at summer solstice would make anyone jealous.

They had had a few days to collect anything they might have left behind, to sit their own tests, and to see old faces. It was not the exams that had been the challenge, in fact. They were nothing if not prepared.

Her reds were packed now, folded beneath books. They had been replaced by a summer uniform, and then clothes of her own choosing, for yet another journey. At the water, students lingered, swimming, fishing, practicing spells that might not have been allowed elsewhere. Character building was encouraged here.

Everyone had their own manners of getting home. Apparating, port-keys, and Floo (all a fair distance from the school proper, whose Unplottable nature was never forgotten). Some on brooms, in magicked carriages, and by water.

She had a leisurely journey to make, by broom, to the first Apparation point. She would be returning to that island with its love of rain and bureaucracy. But London, she knew, held a fresher path than that small patch of Scotland. There was family there, besides. Not that Magda would ever claim to need anyone (though she had, of late, grown attached).

If it was silly to find sentiment in a place she could visit any time she liked, there something in being released from it by its own will, by its own insistence, that was emotional. It did not show in her still-calm face much. Eyes seemed to see harder, somehow, and look softer; pupils dilated with the involuntary act of love, despite the sun. It was like a person, this place where she had grown up. And it had every characteristic she valued: roughness, a chill, unyielding walls, dark beauty, and discretion. There was intelligence in its masonry, utility in its rooms and halls, and wilderness everywhere. Little bits of wonderful indulgence where it counted. Things you could earn or take. It was perfectly trained and perfectly untamble.

The owl took a few steps on the stone bench, which was cool and a little damp, having been built in the shade of a dark green tree. Alexei, two years old, had the sharp beak and mistrustful eyes of an owl a few years older. Magda was proud. She wove her wand through air, tying a bit of string to the bird’s patiently extended leg; the other end was looped through a carefully folded letter. Alexei poked affectionately at his mistress’ palm, a promise to deliver it to the correct set of hands. If it as a strange name for an owl, it suited him, a Ural owl, round-faced but keen-eyed, the colors of birch wood. He was off, just like that, with no prodding.

Magda stepped out of the shade and toward the grass, walking nearer the water, nearer the sound of splashes, fearless Durmstrangen plunging. Her walking was without hurry. The bird had been a minor, necessary distraction. Her things had been sent ahead, out of practicality. Now it was just Magda, a small bag, and her broom stood in the patch of green with a good view of the water.