There was, darting around the outskirts of Hogsmeade, a small, white, furry blur.

In the pre-dawn dark, it was only flashes of the slowly setting moonlight on starkly silver fur that drew attention to it’s activities, because it made almost no sound as it traveled. At first, it looked like a cat. But closer inspection revealed a nose that was a little too long, legs that weren’t proportioned right, and a fluffy tail even the most luxurious of Persians would envy. There was another thing distinguishing the little arctic fox from a cat as well; it seemed, unerringly, to be taking the path of most resistance. It leapt from a log to a hole in the tree, scampering up and almost losing its balance. From the branch, it leapt to another branch, and then back down to the ground, weaving and dodging.  Mid-stride, the fox suddenly seemed to be leaping upwards, and her form shifted, stretching, fur folding inward to skin, and it was a young witch whose feet hit the ground and continued to dash through the trees without missing the end of her stride.

It was like inhaling water.

Vladlena Savitskaya reached the tree line and leaned over, legs straight and hands on her knees as she panted for a moment, gasping quietly for air. She’d run several laps around the small magical community in the silent, pre-dawn dark, and was unused to the humidity that hung in the hot August air. Which, she reminded herself, was why she was doing extra laps, because the sooner she got used to it, the better.

The glamorous—but cumbersome—uniform robes weren’t particular suited to athletic pursuits, and Vladlena didn’t particularly care to charm sweat out of a perfectly good sports uniform when she wasn’t actually a participant in any sport. She didn’t have any particular aversion to perspiration. It was, after all, vitally necessary for thermoregulation. Which she needed, she thought, almost ruefully, as she brushed off some of the perspiration in question with the back of her hand. Her compromise had been a magically modified version of the sports uniform, an outgrown one she had gotten from one of the Obertiel Quidditch players in return for helping him master one of her hexes. With the split robes and leggings, it sufficiently met Durmstrang uniform code while still allowing the freedom to actually run. Her hair had been pulled into a precise bun before she left, but several of the loose curls had escaped, and she hadn’t yet bothered to remedy the issue.

Her breath wasn’t quite caught, the flush in her cheeks attesting to the whip of the not-quite-morning-yet air, but she started running again, eyes far away and mind casually reciting defensive spells in time to the beat of her feet on quiet ground.