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It's summertime and school's out, but school's never out when you attend the Durmstrang Institute for Might and Magic. A ghastly yet gorgeous ship floats on the immensity of Lake Ladoga, an equally ghastly yet gorgeous young man herding youth aboard two by two by means of implied threat.
"Get on the ship." Yuri says, the cold breeze coming off the lake fluttering the black fur of his hat and coat.
A delinquent student flaps his gums. "But-"
"No buts. You left something behind due to your own lack of organisation? So suffer."
For an added incentive never to bother him again, the headmaster's aide shocks the slightly younger man annoying him, using his wand like a cattle prod. It produces the desired effect, with the fool yelping and scurrying full speed up the gang plank. He'll have to borrow a toothbrush from someone kinder. Finally, the ship can get underway.
"I saved you a seat, brother." Says Viktor Krum at dinner, motioning to the bench beside him. The ship groans, and so does Yuri.
"No you didn't. That's my spot, and you have to sit with me." He says, taking his seat, and pulling a entire roast fowl his way.
The quidditch superstar smirks, lifting a pork chop on a fork while the rest of his comrades-in-schooling inhale their own food. "It's the thought that counts. Haven't you heard that idiom before?"
"Lower your voice, Vitya. You know that's heresy here."
From the captain's cabin floats violent classical music, the best sort.
Where does Durmstrang hold its summer camps? Siberia, of course. On the tundra surrounding the closed city, Norilsk, in particular, so as to maximise the number of daylight hours to twenty-four. To get there the ship has to enter the Arctic Ocean, smashing lingering sheets of ice as it does whenever it rises to the surface, which is not often.
One day, weeks after it left port, its portly belly full of barrels of vodka and wine, the ghost ship of Durmstrang surfaces in the middle of a blood red river bathed in the ethereal golden light of the midnight sun. A group of yawning boys and girls exit and traipse off into a wood formed of blasted trees, followed by their headmaster and his second in command.
"Yes. This'll do." On the shore of a blood red stream backed by trees, Igor Karkaroff pushes his silver sunglasses up his nose and magics a sun lounger into existence, then turns to his clutch of grim chicks. "Well, get to work. Viktor-"
But Viktor has already picked up a magic saw and is swiftly vacating the vicinity of his headmaster.
Some hours later, cabins exist where none did before, and most of the happy campers are sleeping, looking forward to a day full of dueling, hunting, and other hi-jinks. Sadly, as the sole camp counselors, Viktor and Yuri are still awake, tipsy, and roasting marshmallows in the cabin they share, the most luxurious after the headmaster's.
"Last year we were attacked by a muggle maniac in a mask. I hope that occurs again." Comments the latter, as he watches his marshmallow's skin burn and crack and ooze it's soft innards.
"Same. Dive bombing him was good practice," replies Viktor, similarly torturing his marshmallow over the magical fire in the middle of the cabin floor. "I hope he gets Karkaroff...no offence."
"None taken."
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A super secret military operation seems to be occurring in the dead and dying woods near Norilsk, but that's only half true. Regardless, the boys and girls of Durmstrang frolic over heath and marsh and mountain, exploring the tundra like goats and enjoying themselves like foxes. Professor Karkaroff strives to simultaneously improve his tan and pay less than no attention to his charges. That is what he has an aide for after all - to do all his work for him. The boy came at a discount too, seeing as Igor spawned him from his loins. Sadly, in the Arctic it's very difficult to tan without burning to nothing, but he's not a dark wizard for nothing.
Once everyone is released from their hutches to enjoy themselves and get into trouble as best they can, the counselors set to doing the same thing. Having built themselves a hot tub, they throw off their clothes, climb in, and proceed to get plastered on wine and vodka, their laughter enlivening the polluted wasteland surrounding the isolated nickel city.
Slurring rapidly incorporates itself into their speech.
"You know, Yura, you remind me of someone I used to know..."
"You remind me of someone I used to know too! Isn't that funny?"
"Do I remind you of me?"
"Could be, Vitya. Could be! Hahaha!"
Meanwhile, Jason Voorhees: Russian Edition, is stalking his way over to the stand of trees, rusted Soviet machete in hand, rusted Soviet mask covering his face. He's been waiting an entire year for campers to arrive, and finally, his wishes have come true. He only hopes these aren't the ones from last time. By the time he makes it across the tundra from his shack underneath one of the stilt buildings of Norilsk, most of the roaming campers have returned, offering him a buffet of options. Sadly for him, he has chosen the wrong summer camp to bedevil, and the first girl he attempts to molest punches him in the face and kicks him in the genitals, with her boyfriend coming over to finish the job.