Chapter Text
November 18, 1981 - Ribe, Denmark
“What do you think, Astrid?” Mr. Andersen asked one evening over dinner. “I think we should send the boys to Durmstrang. Big school, lots of wizards, no filthy mudbloods…”
Said boys, whose names were Aksel and Berwald, both cringed — Berwald, out of sheer discomfort; Aksel, because he’d wanted to go to Hogwarts since the tender age of six, and Durmstrang was simply not an option for him.
Astrid Oxenstierna, a shrewd, stubborn, and intimidating woman that Berwald took after, seemed to notice this as she took a graceful sip from her glass of wine. “Well, Jens,” she replied as she set the glass down, meeting her husband’s gaze with her own stone-cold glare. “Durmstrang is a great school, but don’t you think we should let the boys decide? We have enough money to send them anywhere in the world, you know, and there's a brilliant school over in Japan…”
Usually, Aksel didn’t like Berwald very much, but right now, he was certainly grateful that they at least agreed on this. Their mother had always favored Ber for some reason or another (Aksel guessed it was because the boy was so quiet and reserved), and Berwald’s discomfort in particular had no doubt fueled that remark.
Their father looked like he was going to protest, but Aksel butt in, voice shrill and bubbling with excitement. “You’re right, Mom! We can go anywhere, and Jan Mulder is going to Hogwarts! And you went to Hogwarts when you were younger, didn't you, Mom?? I wanna be a Slytherin, just like you!”
Berwald mumbled something about Hogwarts not being such a bad school, but Aksel hadn’t failed to notice him shiver at the word Slytherin. Aksel rolled his eyes — Berwald always looked uncomfortable when their family talked about mudbloods and muggles. Aksel could never figure out why his brother was so sensitive. Just because it ‘wasn't fair’ that some wizards came from impure origins (Berwald's words, not his), didn't mean they weren't allowed to talk about it. The Andersen line was pureblood, through and through, and Father had taught Aksel to be proud of it.
There was silence for a few moments, and Aksel took a fierce bite out of his salmon, though he took extra care to chew with his mouth closed. Mom had been on his case about that lately.
Finally, Mr. Andersen spoke again. “We can send them anywhere, Astrid, but why wouldn’t they want the best?” And by the best, of course, he meant the school with the purest blood. That is to say, he meant Durmstrang.
Aksel, who had inherited his father's natural hyperfocus on the ‘best’ things — the best clothes, friends, and schools — begged to differ.
“Hogwarts is the best, Father!” Aksel shot back, clenching his little ten-year old fists.
Berwald jerked towards him with a shocked glare. The two weren’t supposed to speak directly to their father unless he spoke to them first, and unfortunately, Aksel had a hard time remembering that sometimes.
Aksel cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir.”
Mr. Andersen sneered and gulped down his wine, gaze averted almost pompously.
His mother gave the boy a small, reassuring smile, then turned to her husband. “He’s right, you know. Slytherin’s the best.”
Mr. Andersen speared a piece of potato, furrowing his brow as he chewed and swallowed. Then, he nodded. “I guess Hogwarts is alright. Doesn’t exactly compete with Durmstrang, but it’s alright. You’re… sure they want to go there? Is their English good enough?”
“Their English is fine, Jens,” Ms. Oxenstierna insisted, almost amused by her husband’s apparent reluctance.
“Yeah, Dad, we've been learning English forever,” Aksel cut in, before putting a hand over his mouth as he realized he'd spoken out of turn again.
Before he could apologize, Ms. Oxenstierna turned to the boys. “Hey, Berwald? Didn’t you want to show Aksel something earlier?”
Aksel recognized that tone. It was only used when she wanted to shoo him and Ber away, usually because she knew that Mr. Andersen would lose his temper if they stayed.
And lord only knew what would happen if Mr. Andersen lost his temper.
***
May 17, 1982- Ålesund, Norway
There was an owl perched on Eirik’s window sill with a letter in its beak, and he could hardly contain his own excitement. With shaky hands, he plucked the envelope from the bird and stumbled down the stairs as fast as he could, yelling, “Mum! Mum! Look what I got!”
His mom, who was doing dishes in the kitchen with the television on in the background, quickly dried her hands and whirled around, deep blue eyes meeting the letter with a shock.
She raised an eyebrow. “Eirik, where did you get that?”
“An owl just came to my window,” he replied, unable to suppress a smirk. “Do you think it’s my Hogwarts acceptance letter?”
Ms. Jensen had always known that her son was unusual, and was relieved when she’d met Gunnar, Eirik’s step-father, an Icelandic wizard who knew exactly why her son was so strange. Now that her muggle-born son was eleven, the whole family was eagerly awaiting Eirik’s Hogwarts letter.
Hogwarts, of course, because Durmstrang didn't welcome wizards like Eirik. They'd be sending their other son, Eirik's half-brother, there next year, as well.
Dishes forgotten, his mum walked over to the kitchen table and sat down, beckoning Eirik to follow her. “Why don’t we find out?”
Eirik tore open the envelope, his small skinny fingers struggling to tear a straight line, and he read the letter aloud, his exhilaration increasing with each word as he read his acceptance letter, stumbling a bit over the English (though he had studied the language extensively enough to grasp every single, beautiful word).
Just as he started reading the last line, his little brother Ari opened the door — he’d been playing outside — and noticed his brother smiling, which was weird because Eirik tended not to smile much without good reason. “What’s going on?” he asked with a pout.
Eirik’s smile only grew bigger. “I got my letter!”
Ari gaped. “You’re kidding.”
“You can read it, if you’d like.” His half-brother held out the letter as Ari walked up to him and snatched it from his hands.
Though Ari wasn’t quite as good at English as Eirik was, he grasped the language well enough to understand what it meant. His eyes went wide as he spared wide-eyed glances at his brother; then, as he started muttering the supply list under his breath, he started bouncing on the balls or guys get, a smile—half of awe, half of excitement—spread across his face. “That’s so cool!” Ari cried when he'd finished, wrapping his arms around Eirik in his excitement as he dropped the letter, letting it float carelessly to the ground.
***
September 1, 1982 - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
For the umpteenth time in his short life, Tino cursed his last name. What kind of name was Väinämöinen, anyway? He’d heard all the traditional Finnish legends about noble something or other, but those were irrelevant in the wizarding world, especially to an impatient eleven year-old boy. He’d moved to Britain at age five, and whenever he met someone new, they always (always!) had a dreadful time trying to pronounce it.
Today, though, he wasn’t so concerned about pronunciation or sanity as much as order—alphabetical order, to be precise. Frankly, Professor McGonagall had been reading off her roll for ages, and she was still only on the letter ‘O’. Tino, waiting ever less patiently for the blasted letter ‘V’, had just about had it with his stupid last name.
“Oxenstierna, Berwald,” McGonagall called, and a tall blond boy walked up to the hat.
As he passed Tino, Berwald gave him a stern glare, and Tino felt like the boy’s eyes were staring into his very soul. Fortunately, the moment passed, and the boy sat down in the chair up front. The Sorting Hat paused for only a moment before proudly declaring Berwald a Ravenclaw. Again, Berwald passed Tino as he moved to sit at the table, and again, Tino felt himself shudder under his gaze.
Berwald stopped by the Slytherin table on his way, and another boy with spiky hair and a dastardly smile (was his name Anders?) teased him for being in the “nerd house” before Berwald rolled his eyes and sat next to another first-year Ravenclaws boy that Tino thought was called Eric.
That was the last Sorting that he paid attention to before his own. Finally, after ten more minutes of torture, he was called up to the hotseat (as Alfred F. Jones had dubbed it earlier). McGonagall placed the Hat on his crown, and it fell right over his face and engulfed his head.
He swore he heard Anders (was that his name?) snicker.
“Hmmm…” whispered the Sorting Hat. “ Very courageous. Strong, stubborn, and unyielding, but… you seem to have a soft spot for your friends. Your work drive is fantastic, and your loyalty is overwhelming. You almost seem scared of disappointing people, especially those closest to you. If you don’t have a preference…” He trailed off.
“No, sir,” Tino whispered, because really, he’d heard good and bad things about all the Houses.
“In that case… I’ll put you in HUFFLEPUFF!”
There was applause from the Hufflepuff table, and Tino smiled as he removed the Hat and made his way to his table and his new family.
But, as he glanced back at the Ravenclaw table, he saw that Berwald’s eyes looked more disappointed than glaring, and his shoulders were noticeably slumped.
Strange. Tino resolved to talk to him the next day in class. He supposed that he’d probably be a bit less intimidating in person.
That, and… there was something about Berwald’s face when he wasn’t glaring ominously that Tino found he really liked.
It would take Tino two years to realize just how much he liked Berwald’s face, though—and even longer before he did anything about it.