Vasily sat in the carriage, his head leaning on the cold glass window. The countryside darted by, every patch of farmland looking just like the last. Britain was so twee, so picturesque, it made Vasily sick. Everything stunk of nostalgia and rustic charm - the Ukraine was a bleak, uninviting landscape devoid of lush greenery. It was brutally barren, and Vasily adored his homeland. England was far too welcoming and perfect, and this just seemed to insult Vasily even more. If anything, his parents should've sent him to Siberia or the desert - somewhere truly uncomfortable. Britain was a sickeningly sweet punishment.

The train began to slow, and Vasily closed his eyes, his head falling back onto the headrest. It was almost time. Brushing up the collar of his navy woollen coat, he swallowed. Hard. He still couldn't believe he'd received an indefinite prison sentence from his parents - how long would it be before he could return to Kiev? What killed Vasily even more was his sister's reaction; she couldn't have been more pleased when he returned home to find all bags packed. A blazing row ensued, and before he knew it, his father had forced him through the front door out onto the street.

He barely had time to bid his boys farewell, and he knew that somebody would try and seize leadership of the gang in his absence. Not one of them could be as ruthless, as intimidating, as charismatic as him. The new boss would faulter, and the gang's reputation would suffer as a result. His parents had ruined everything.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching Hogsmeade. Please remember all wands and valuables before leaving the train, thank you," rang the muffled voice of the train conductor, and Vasily got to his feet. Gripping onto two large, battered suitcase, he left his cabin and proceeded down the narrow carriage, walking slowly to keep balance inside the rickety train. Thankfully he'd been alone all journey; no overtly polite old dears trying to make pointless conversation, and no 'wizened' gentlemen that didn't recognise his accent. No, his journey had been trouble free, which was good, since his temper was nearly ready to explode.

Leaving the train, Vasily's pale and built appearance seemed out of place in the rurally sweet building that was Hogsmeade Station. It'd taken at least nine hours in train rides; his mother had refused to let him fly, and apparating could be a tricky business internationally. Taking a few short steps onto the platform, he ignored the handful of passengers that strolled on by, seemingly more acquainted with the place than he was.

Looking around for his host, Vasily walked slowly towards the presumed station exit, looking around inquisitively at these strange surroundings. It seemed so quiet, so detached. Nothing like Kiev. Judgemental as he was, Vasily hated it already. Taking a few more steps, the familiar figure of his family member appeared underneath a brick archway near the entrance.
"Uncle Ignan," Vasily called out, his speech embellished with a Slavic tinge. It'd been some time since he'd seen the old authoritarian. He knew that Uncle Ignan wouldn't have changed, not one bit.

Christmas family gatherings always became family bartering ground. The ever so polite gatherings amongst the extended family consisted of boastful reports of how well the younger members of the family were doing at school - the vast majority of those at Durmstrangs. Ignan's extremely aged father would sit in a corner behind his enormous bushy beard (which one of the youngest had remarked was just his once full head of hair, slid down to his face) and tell them that the school was not like it was in his day as Headmaster. Ignan could concur, having spent the past five academic years teaching there, and a former student himself.

While he and his younger sister Imelda shared knowing smirks over their glasses, knowing that it would keep their father distracted for a while, she had dropped the comment about Vasily. Unlike Ignan, his sister had gone forth and built a family, who mostly live in the Ukraine. Their youngest, Vasily, had just graduated from the school, earlier in the year, and Ignan had not kept up with what the young man was doing since. Rather than have many academic achievements, he had rather been better at more violent and physical pursuits, leading up to a brawl that Ignan had been drawn in to split up as his role as a tutor. A clip round the ear was the minimum of what Vasily would have needed to bring him in line in the past.

Family pressure had ensued. Comments on how lonely he must be so far from home, and what a well respected community Hogsmeade was beside the school. By Merlin, the female members of the family could wear anyone down, especially when they drew his father into the conversation to put him on the spot to agree. (Actually, Merik had gone on to try and say something entirely conflicting about how to deal with Vasily, along the lines of putting him into magical military service, which hadn't been too much of a bad idea in Ignan's mind, but the women had closed around again in and effort to silence him.)

It had been agreed. Ignan left the castle, and headed to Hogsmeade train station to meet a train, a day or so after returning to the castle, post Christmas gatherings. It hadn't given him very long to organise much, but it hadn't given him much time to find a way of stopping it either.

"Uncle Ignan," Vasily greeted him off the train.
"Vasily." His great uncle greeted him, extending a leather gloved hand to shake. Not one for embracing, and he suspected neither was Vasily, unless in boyish, dog like pecking order of the gang his parents had mentioned.
"How was the journey?" He asked politely, flicking his wand at Vasily's suitcases to levitate them. He had decided not to pass judgment on Vasily based on what he was like at school. It had been six months since they last spoke a sentence or more to each other, and he'd just been displaced hundreds of miles across a continent.
"Welcome to the quaint village of Hogsmeade. Overrun by students on regular weekends from up there." As they came out of the archway, he pointed up to the castle towering up ahead a little way from the village.
"Which, at some point, I will show you, to sate your curiousity." He smirked a little.

Uncle Ignan was one of the few people Vasily respected. He had a certain dominance about his presence, and he was the type of person who just deserved a student's unwavering attention. Seeing the wizened gent stood under the brick archway, Vasily approached him with caution, bowing his head slightly. Extending his hand to meet Ignan's handshake, the young Ukrainian made sure that his grip was firm but fair; even though Durmstrang was a failure for Vasily, he still adhered to the customs involved. Durmstrang men were supposed to be assertive and authoritative, and Vasily wanted to exude these traits through every action he performed.

"How was the journey?" he asked, and Vasily shrugged as the two walked slowly, his luggage following behind mid-air.
"Dull," Vasily replied, the dark rings under his eyes evidencing how long the trip had been. "It feels a little strange still; it was only this morning I was still in Kiev." The very mention of his hometown made Vasily instantly angry. He had been exiled for no good reason. He was slowly losing control of Kiev every second he spent abroad, and with his stay in Hogsmeade indefinite, Vasily knew that his sister, Valentina, would be attempting to seize control. She had no interest in the gang culture of Durmstrang; Valentina would do it just to spite him.

Outside the station, Vasily peered at the grand skyline of the school against the backdrop of Hogsmeade. Everything was so sickeningly British and quaint and welcoming, but Vasily merely nodded, choosing to suppress his indifference in front of Uncle Ignan. His interest, however, was ignited slightly at the mention of students. There would be plenty of final year British girls that would simply melt at his foreign, alien presence.
"I'd be more than happy to," he replied with a smirk, his usual wicked expression returning once more. "Where will I be staying?"

"I'd be more than happy to," Vasily replied, and Ignan caught sight of the young wizard's usual expression for a moment, instead of the dull, disconnected face he had worn moments ago. 
"Where will I be staying?"

They rounded the corner out of the station and into the lane.
"I have managed to find lodgings for you in the village, though only for a short while." He advised Vasily. "As you'll appreciate, it was short notice for both of us, and my contacts within the village are not half as many as one might expect."

One of Vasily's cases caught up with him a little swiftly, and the senior wizard stopped abruptly to scowl at it before sending them to levitate the other side of Vasily, before they walked on.
"Its a room, though you'll have to appease the landlady for a while. She has agreed a week, as long as you give her no trouble - meaning you tidy up, and bring no callers. I am expecting you will have procured some employment in the local area to either fund extending your stay, or alternative lodgings within the village. Rents are not particularly high if you look off the main street."

What Ignan had failed to tell Vasily was that the landlady kept ten cats and was almost completely deaf, using an ear trumpet to hear you correctly. Ideal for Vasily - who could, therefore, be unlikely to disturb her with noise.

"If you fail to find your own employment, you accept whatever is given to you with respect to task, wage and hours. I believe your parents have ways and means of intensifying the restrictions from their end, but I don't expect we'll need them, will we, Vasily?" Ignan gave a firm look at his younger relative, and allowed the corner of his mouth to curl, in that less-than-reassuring way.

They crossed the main street, which was a little less sleepy than the train station, and headed down a narrow lane of condensed little cottages. Counting the doors, Ignan remembered he didn't really need to, the smell of cat pee was a more than sufficient marker.
"Here we are," he announced, drawing up to the door, that would require them both to stoop to get inside.

Vasily immediately prepared for the worst. Uncle Ignan would no doubt have done his best, but the whole plan of action to get the boy on the straight and narrow had been up in the air from the off. He returned home, bags packed, angry parents and a smug sister. And before he could argue, Vasily was a on a train to Hogsmeade. Before he could even say goodbye. It was like Mr and Mrs Volkov were already resigned to the fact that their youngest and only son was going to end up a jobless reprobate. So, instead of letting him do it in Kiev, they were dumping him with a relative so his transformation could occur away from their nervous eyes. Typical.

"Its a room, though you'll have to appease the landlady for a while. She has agreed a week, as long as you give her no trouble - meaning you tidy up, and bring no callers. I am expecting you will have procured some employment in the local area to either fund extending your stay, or alternative lodgings within the village. Rents are not particularly high if you look off the main street." Vasily remained relatively quiet as his Uncle Ignan explained everything; in the space of day he'd had to grow up, and to stand on his own two feet like a real adult. Life was beginning to get worse and worse every second.
"Callers won't be an issue," he said with a smirk, "since I have nobody to call on me." It was true, and Vasily had to laugh at his own predicament. One minute, king of Kiev, and the next? Another nobody on the beautiful British Isles. Joy.

Uncle Ignan continued to outline the parameters of his punishment, ending with a question that was highlighted with that familiar family glare.
"No, we won't..." he murmured. His uncle was one of the few people Vasily would cross; he'd just tell his mother to go away in far more impolite terms, whilst Vasily would merely laugh at his father when he attempted to discipline his son. There was disrespectful, then there was Vasily Volkov. "I'll get a job somewhere, I promise." This was no lie either. There was no way Vasily could survive on the pitiful allowance his father had allocated him (another branch of the punishment contract), and so employment, no matter how boring or strenuous, was a necessity.

As they reached the house, Vasily grimaced as the whiff kicked in, stooping down after his uncle into the small cottage. The hallway was narrow and decorated with hundreds upon hundreds of photos and pictures from decades ago, and the stench of cat fur and urine was stronger than ever.
"Wow, I love what she's done with the place!" he beamed sarcastically, before chuckling quietly and biting his bottom lip. He had to laugh in the face of adversity, otherwise it would laugh him all the way back to Kiev a shadow of his former self.

He pictured his sister's face now; Valentina would love this. The whole Volkov townhouse to herself, first pick over who was in her clique and an unchallenged chokehold on the Durmstrang graduate scene. Yes, she'd be laughing alright, and it made Vasily want to punch her right between that pair of spiteful eyes.

"Wow, I love what she's done with the place!" Vasily laughed, and Ignan shared a smirk at the sarcasm.

"Glad you like it." He replied with a deadpan expression, flicking his wand again to deposit Vasily's luggage on the floor. Drawing a short piece of parchment and quill from within his winter cloak, he scratched out a message to Vasily's parents in English, as his Ukranian was laughable.

"Vasily arrived safe and on time, shown to lodgings as per your requirements." He read out to Vasily, signing the parchment. "No point telling them anything more than the bare bones, is there? Come along, we'll arrange for this to be posted, and then I think I can stretch to affording my nephew some dinner."

Tucking the parchment back into his robes with the self inking quill, he about turned out of the tiny cottage, ducking out of the front door again, and into the street, pausing to wait for Vasily to emerge behind him.

"Perhaps you can tell me what you've been up to since we both left Durmstrangs?" He asked Vasily, looking up and ahead to the street, rather than at his nephew. "Your version at least, rather than the highlights your mother imparted to try and convince me sending you over here was going to help in the slightest." They rounded the corner, heading for the Three Broomsticks.

Vasily smirked, raising his head slightly at his uncle's expected reply. Ignan Storm was the deadpan of the family, and his humour (although rare) was biting and usually dryer than the Sahara Desert. Vasily respected his Uncle Ignan above most relatives; he never pretended to be the polite and enthusiastic professor everybody expected. His mother had often said that his grandmother and great uncle suffered a rather tough upbringing, and although Vasily knew vague details surrounding his great grandmother's death, he never questioned it. Vasily merely predicted that it left quite the impression on Ignan and Imelda; although his grandmother was the more welcoming sibling, she had enough cynicism and scathe to last a lifetime.

"The little we tell those deserters, the better," Vasily muttered bitterly, still furious at his parents' decision to send him hundreds upon hundreds of miles away. How could a mother and a father (two people that actually believed they were a good mother and father) completely abandon their youngest and dump him on another relative? Vasily, in his post-student grumpiness, saw their actions as extreme. Little did he think that it was his own extreme actions that landed him there.

Following his indefinite carer out onto the street, Vasily walked alongside him, a few inches taller but still lacking the presence of respect and fear Uncle Ignan commanded. That cultivation of persona came only with age.
"I can't exactly say that she'd have embellished anything," Vasily explained, now speaking in his uncle's native German tongue. Shrugging his shoulders, he ruffled his hair a little in thought. "I was never one for books, not like Valentina, and I never cared for the classroom. How else are you supposed to survive Durmstrang if you don't get control another way? It's still the same there, bully or be bullied." Vasily was extremely indifferent towards his time at Durmstrang; he'd succeeded, in his own twisted way, and he was proud of that. Hogwarts and Beauxbatons were like social kindergartens compared to Durmstrang.

"I can't exactly say that she'd have embellished anything, "I was never one for books, not like Valentina, and I never cared for the classroom. How else are you supposed to survive Durmstrang if you don't get control another way? It's still the same there, bully or be bullied."

Ignan tilted his head slightly in thought. He remembered it being much the same, if not worse in his day, when the teachers were not beyond clobbering any of them when they stepped out of line either. As much as Durmstrang promoted excellence, it also promoted the worst.

"We each make the best of what we can in the situation. Unfortunately the best is entirely based on self-judgment. What of you since leaving there though?" Ignan asked, returning the question in the native tongue again, much to the occasional curiosity of passers-by.

They approached the front door of the pub, and Ignan led the way into the warm, allowing Vasily a moment to take in the interior of the Three Broomsticks, and its regular inhabitants.

"I was running in Kiev with the usual suspects," Vasily said with a smirk, acknowledging how unrealistic his life was when comparing it to how the world really worked. "There was no need to get a job, I earned more than enough from racketeering and the like. There was no point looking for a job, I mean, I have no real qualifications, Uncle Ignan. Everyone knew I never cared enough about school to make an effort." Despite graduating little less than a year ago, Vasily had no reason to regret his delinquent actions within Durmstrang. He'd made enough money by merely threatening and intimidating people: who needed a real job?

Entering the pub, Vasily looked around, quietly admiring the cosy surroundings and inviting furniture. Yes, it was all very British, but a free meal from his elusive Uncle Ignan was never a bad thing. The two took a seat, and Vasily removed his coat almost immediately; such warmth was an alien concept in the Ukraine. He hated how the British constantly complained about the weather - unless they experienced the back-end of a Russian winter, they had no idea what 'cold' meant.

"What did my parents tell you?" Vasily asked, raising an eyebrow. He imagined his mother to become extremely irrational, sobbing with all the melodrama she could muster. His father would probably have been the more level-headed, but insisting that their son needed to change. "I mean, I get it; the fighting, the brawling, the duelling, but I never did it on their doorstep."

"I was running in Kiev with the usual suspects, there was no need to get a job, I earned more than enough from racketeering and the like. There was no point looking for a job, I mean, I have no real qualifications, Uncle Ignan. Everyone knew I never cared enough about school to make an effort."

"What did my parents tell you?" Vasily asked, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, I get it; the fighting, the brawling, the duelling, but I never did it on their doorstep."

"I appreciate your frank honesty on your activities." Ignan replied, quite sure Vasily was telling almost the whole truth at least. He did not appreciate bullshit, and in the past Vasily didn't tend to deliver it when cornered on his own at least.
"On their doorstep or off, it is a matter of family reputation. Your mother, your grandmother and the rest of the family do not want to be associated for thuggery." He told Vasily firmly. "I know how well it pays to be able to put a bit of stick about, don't believe that I haven't in the past myself. It did not come to any good in the end - at all." He lowered his gaze a moment and sighed. "They explained their worries, their disapproval of reports from family and friends that their son was not to be crossed for physical beatings." He raised his eyes again disappointingly. "One had hoped it would be gross exaggeration based on your less than happy school days."

"If somebody gets in my way," Vasily explained, leaning back in his seat whilst raising his hands in explanation. "Then it's not my fault if they get a curse and a fist in the face." The youngest Volkov son was known for his incredibly short temper; many a would-be tormentor made comments about Vasily's lack of blood purity, but were soon put off when they had a bloody nose and a magically permanent black eye. He knew that nobody would challenge an iron fist, and Vasily was keen to make his mark within Durmstrang.

He could only agree with Ignan's emphasis upon the family name; people like his grandmother wanted to keep the intertwined family names of Storm and Volkov in the highest repute possible. Their clan had bred countless legendary wizards and witches, and Vasily's actions only corrupted her maintenance of reputation. And big deal? Every family had their black sheep.
"You lot should be proud; would you rather have me grow up as some meek, wet, bullied kid? People in Kiev know me, and they respect me. We all have to earn it our own way."

Vasily knew that he would never be a genius - but he knew that his excellence was grounded in the fields of duelling and intimidation. They had Valentina to carry on bullshitting her way through the Ministry ranks. Perhaps his stay in Hogsmeade should become a permanent arrangement; he'd rather die than live with Valentina as his Minister of Magic.

"You lot should be proud; would you rather have me grow up as some meek, wet, bullied kid? People in Kiev know me, and they respect me. We all have to earn it our own way."

Ignan gave Vasily a frown, which changed into a humoured smirk... possibly even a hint of a smile as he chuckled slightly.

"You see, you do have brains Vasily, don't ever think otherwise." He shook his head in humour.

"I don't ever believe you would be a meek, wet or wilting child, or a man. Not unless your very soul was lost. You have been brought up to have a backbone, which I can not say for some of my students. While we're on that subject, if you do end up planting a fist in the face of one of them, do me the courtesy of letting me know promptly, or better don't plant it at all, alright?" He smirked. There were a few of his students who could do with a lesson at Vasily's fist to bring them into line.

The conversation paused for the two to address a witch wishing to take an order to the kitchen for them. Ignan also ordered a bottle of elven wine for the two of them to share, or not.
"A little early for Ogden's." He justified his reasons needlessly to Vasily. "Though when you visit the castle, I have a particularly good year open." 

"Brains, but not the ones grandmother wants," Vasily laughed in reply, becoming more comfortable with the place and his Uncle each second he spent in that situation. Durmstrang academia had been a huge joke for Vasily - it was not something that should be taken seriously. He could talk the talk when it came to class presentations, and it wasn't that Vasily couldn't do the work, he just felt above it. Why waste time going over Defences when he could easily teach himself in an environment where there was real danger to be found in the social No Man's Land of the Durmstrang dorms?

"Hogwarts pansies," Vasily tutted in disgust, still speaking fluent and rather impressive German to his Uncle Ignan. "I wouldn't waste my time giving them a decent Durmstrang beating. A hex and a punch would be more than enough. Maybe if they had real warriors like you and I, Uncle Ignan, then they wouldn't have allowed a Purist to force his way to power." Vasily didn't care if anyone other than his relative could understand what he was saying; he didn't care that Voldemort was still a controversial topic. No way would a bigoted fascist achieve such grandeur in the Ukraine. No, his ferocity would only have been matched by fifteen other wizards and witches with greater brutality. There was no room for archaic views and secular groups of Death Eaters to thrive in the barren streets of Kiev.

"Uncle Ignan, it's never too early for a real drink," he laughed, nudging his Uncle Ignan in jest. Raising his head slightly, and returning to the English tongue once more, his Slavic accent harshly cut through the pleasantly warm interior of the pub: "A double Moscow Dragon Vodka, on the rocks." Vasily turned to his Uncle with a smile, returning to the German language. "Let's make this a cause for celebration," he replied sarcastically, smirking. "To the only Volkov son, abandoned and disowned by his loving parents!"

"Uncle Ignan, it's never too early for a real drink," Vasily laughed, nudging Ignan humorously.
"A double Moscow Dragon Vodka, on the rocks." Vasily ordered in English, before switching back to German. "Let's make this a cause for celebration, to the only Volkov son, abandoned and disowned by his loving parents!"

Ignan laughed a little to humour Vasily, but couldn't help but feel he had been given a lot of responsibility with supervising Vasily's time in Hogsmeade. This could be difficult, and he didn't fancy it much once term began, when he had students to supervise and bark at instead. With luck, the whole displacement and lack of money would keep him mostly in check. Otherwise, he would have to put his foot down firmly.

It didn't take long until the wine and the vodka arrived, and they toasted to displacement and family - and the future in Britain. Ignan hoped this would be to everyone's advantage...

Raising a glass and lightly tapping it against Ignan's, he gave his uncle a warm smile (one of the few that Vasily had delivered in his entire life) and downed his drink instinctively, as was the Ukrainian custom. Putting his feet up on an opposite stool, the two men, although divided by discipline and generation, spent the rest of their evening talking, chatting and catching-up without the watchful eyes of Mikhail and Lyudmilla.

For that evening, it seemed like Vasily was in Hogsmeade purely to catch-up; there was no punishment, no ill feeling towards his parents (well, not much anyway) and a time when a great uncle seemed more like a confidante than an authoritarian supervisor.

And so, the night disappeared, the drinks flowed, and by midnight, Vasily was inebriated. Safe and sound (minus the cat pee smell) in his allocated lodgings, ready to face his exile.