The Office of Admissions - Early Summer 2016
Chapter 3: The Office of Admissions Early Summer, 2016
Of all the subjects potential Durmstrang students will be tested on during Selection day, flying was the only one Corvus was seriously worried about. Sure, he was a little unsure about potions, and his history had never been that good, but it would be all for naught if he couldn’t even fly through the school gates to take the test.
Father had said his flying ability could rival a muggle and Corvus begrudgingly agreed that, in this case, he was right.
His broom, a simple but sturdy Bluebell, was little more than a traveling broom, but considering he could only rarely get it to come to his hand when he called it, he doubted he would be making the interschool Quidditch team anytime soon.
He focused on blocking out the other children’s nervous and undignified squalling, a feat in and of itself, considering he’d only ever been around other children once, and that was yesterday. He rose gently, keeping his acceleration slow and fighting to keep his eyes open.
Don’t look down. Don’t think about the broom under you. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
He took a long breath… 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9. 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9. Just keep counting, keep counting and don’t think about the broom.
He chanced a glance at the people alongside him, and was so relieved to find he was not the only one with a white knuckled grip that he accidentally dipped a few feet before he caught himself and had to use all of his ability to stay in line with the pack of giggling girls next to him.
He tuned back into the Flying mistresses’ orders, relieved to find she was approaching the ‘L’ names. He flew, a slow but completely stable and acceptable path towards the flying line. The other two students in the L section were both girls, and taller and more at ease than him. He did not make conversation.
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The girl behind him, a slip of a girl with Mediterranean features and long, dark hair, smiled at his timid flying. It didn’t help. There had to be at least 60 children in the flying line, and almost all of them were flying visibly better than him, the gap between him and the girl in front of him made him want to cry and scowl at the same time.
He pushed just a little harder, just to close that gap. He counted and counted and counted.
And there it was.
Falling Hall was not Durmstrang, but it was the traditional place where selection day was held, and Corvus, feeling desperately faint from flying, had never seen a building so beautiful in his life.
The proctor had already called the first group of testing students, and he sent his greatest thanks to the Stars Above that he wasn’t in it. He had at least a few hours to calm his nerves.
He glanced up at his potential classmates, as they broke off into various small gossip groups. Everyone seemed to know each other already. As he walked he could hear conversations about parents and fantasy books and ‘what do you think the first practical exam will be on’.
He dreaded having to join in a conversation he no idea how to conduct himself in, but dreaded being both the kid-who-could-barley-fly and the kid-who-sat-alone that he looked for a group to stand with.
The first group was French speaking, but all girls, and he wasn’t interested in whatever little girl things they were worried about. The second group was full of boys, but he didn’t know any of the quidditch teams they were talking about. The third group was smaller than most, and full of English speakers, he gravitated towards them, wanting to practice his accent for what was surely going to be a large portion of the language section of the exam. But their pale faces and the blatant exclusion after he had introduced himself as a L’estrange made him realize that perhaps his parents had underestimated how infamous their names were back in Britain.
He drifted over to a corner of the waiting field, not wanting to leave his back open to the hoard of armed children, and waited, reciting his Uncle’s spell-type tables and Monsieur Cornelius’s conjugations.
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The Hall was large and filled with grand, stained glass windows, but Corvus wasn’t paying much attention to the decor. He considered the building like his uncle taught him, with four side doors, presumably leading to other side chambers, and one large door at his back, the only direct exit. A building regularly used by magical children would surely have reinforced windows, no exit there. He took in the proctors as he walked to his labeled desk, three adults, one of superior authority, as she stood at the head of the hall, watching instead of helping kids to their desks like the other two, and five students, presumably the head of years, considering their dark purple sashes and pompous strutting.
He breathed as the authoritative one began explaining the exam process, getting steadily more annoyed as the too-young-to-be-a-headmistress prattled on with flowery and meaningless words.
Get to the point, get to the point.
Finally, the woman did, “The exam was five sections of questions: History, Spellwork, Magical Theory, Dark Arts and Defense, Potions and its plants, and arithmetic. The questions write themselves onto the paper as you go, getting steadily more advanced as you keep answering correctly. Once you can no longer answer questions, or a period of three hours has passed, your scores will be calculated and considered alongside your practical abilities from this evening. You will receive a letter of admittance or rejection before the end of the month. There will be no breaks. Begin.”
She waved her wand, and the papers appeared.
He stopped receiving history and arithmetic questions rather quickly. Apparently “The great tragedy of 1981, in which the Dark Lord Voldemort was temporally and unjustly banished in a freak accident of magic” was not the correct answer to why the most recent British civil war paused for thirteen years. And without the ability to follow his notes, the abstract concept of long division was more difficult than any transfiguration theory.
By the time the first hour was up, he knew he had passed though all subjects except Dark Arts and Defense.
By the time the second hours had passed, he had blocked out the dreadful noise of one of the girls bursting into tears and being helped out by a proctor, he had ignored the annoyed glances of the kids around him who wanted an early dismissal, and he had suffered the embarrassment of both of the adult proctors unsubtly testing him for enchanted quills.
At the end of the three hours, he was the only one still writing, and the bell signaling the end of the period startled him so bad he nearly fell out of his chair. The other boys were giving him annoyed looks, and the girls giggled at the black smudges that had collected on his nose from having his nose so close to the parchment.
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The proctors separated him from the other kids during the DAaD practical.
He was led out of the room full of kids showing off their Wand Lighting spells and Hovering charms by the flower talking too-young headmistress. She brought him into a side chamber with four men and two women, the quiet conversation ceasing as they entered the room. He examined each of them briefly, most were giving him curious looks, with the one exception of a strict looking woman, who looked uncannily like a happier version of his mother, and who was giving him a look of outright loathing strong enough to rival the woman on a bad day
The Dark Arts and Defense professor, Herr Aldinger, was the only one to introduce themselves, but he called the group the Office of Admissions.
He was an older man, with fully grey hair and a long beard, he looked pureblood, but Corvus could see the Auror signet ring he wore, so his morality was dubious.
The man noticed his critical eye, as he glanced meaningfully down at the boy’s own ring, which bore the crow of the L’estrange family. Corvus could barely keep his composure at the knowing look in the man’s eyes, so he focused on the man’s forehead and ignored him.
The man spoke at last, in German, “I was aware a member of your family was taking an entrance exam for my school, yet I am surprised by your abilities. You have indeed, should everything prove honest, tested into a NEWT level—” oh morgana, that’s why everyone thinks he’s a cheat, “—Dark Arts and Defense class, at least in the written portion. This practical is meant to determine your casting ability so that we can accurately place you into the proper year”
The exam continued with the professor listing spells for him to perform and various questions he remembered from the written exam— making sure he actually knew the answers, curses to the wizard that created cheating quills, they made things harder for everyone. He performed well, finishing the first- and second-year spells with ease, he faltered a bit on the questions about dark magical creatures, as Uncle had always focused on the defense against humans, not animals, but they continued none the less.
The questioning went on for nearly an hour, and it nearly rivaled one of his parent’s training sessions in intensity. The auror-professor seemed to catch on to his growing headache and ceased asking questions after they passed the fourth year curriculum, which was well and good, because Corvus was quickly becoming exhausted with all the spell casting and nonstop questions.
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He didn’t make the potions practical, the headmistress had taken him to lie down in the teacher’s chamber with a pain potion after he nearly fell down the stairs getting out of the side chamber.
He was in pain, but content with the knowledge that the headmistress wasn’t concerned about his potions ability. It was a good sign that he would be one of the sixteen students selected if they were already showing an inclination towards him. He closed his eyes with this thought, not even letting his mind worry about the flying he would have to do when he woke up.