A/N: Thank you to Zsenya and Arabella, my awesome betareaders, and to anyone who is actually still reading this story. J
Chapter Four: Ground to Gain
Viktor went to the clearing every morning for the next week, and Rositza was almost always there, her head bent over her notebook. They both still acted as if these meetings were chance. He knew he shouldn't go, knew that it would invite complications eventually, but the beech copse was becoming one of his favorite retreats, a place where he didn't have to deal with any of the other issues pressing in around him in the real world. It was pleasant to sit in the grass and watch Rositza draw, or listen to her talk about her dreams of leaving the village. He knew he could not relax entirely around her, and he dreaded the times when she asked questions about his life, but these were rare; she never pressed for answers. Often they did not even speak at all, but sat a few feet apart in the clearing, lost in their own thoughts. As if, Viktor often thought, they were enjoying the solitude together.
He knew that he should stay away, that even a friendship with this girl was probably impossible. But he found it difficult to deny himself the comfort of her company, the thrill of looking forward to seeing her smile at him each day. Practice sessions with the Vultures had become increasingly difficult; Ligachev was now using every opportunity to belittle him or mention that terrible article in Boyar's hearing, and, after a few days of strained awkwardness, Viktor and Susannah seemed to have come to a tacit agreement not to discuss You-Know-Who or his return. But he often felt her watching him carefully, assessing him, and her apparent unwillingness to openly discuss it with him made him ever more suspicious. The thought of someone like Susannah supporting You-Know-Who was enough to give him a stomachache.
And so it was that the hours just after dawn became the best part of each day. Rositza did not seem to want anything at all from him, except perhaps his company. And she was something that was his alone, that he did not have to share with the rest of his world. He liked it that way.
~**~
It was a sunny July morning, the evergreens along the mountainside sharp against the blue sky. Viktor hadn't even bothered to bring his broomstick with him this morning, partially because he wanted the walking time to think, and partially because he did not want her belief that he walked to the beech copse each morning to be founded on a total lie. The walk was longer than he had thought it would be, however, and he was breathless and his legs were cramped by the time he reached the clearing.
Rositza was there, and heard him coming before he even came out of the trees.
"Are you all right?" she asked, her face looking alarmed, when he limped into the clearing.
"I am fine," Viktor grunted, and eased himself down onto the ground. He was definitely not used to that much walking, and it required different muscles from Quidditch.
"Are you sure?" asked Rositza. "I have never seen you so out of breath."
"I…was hurrying to get here," Viktor said quickly. "I left late."
Rositza gave him a shy smile and looked down at her notebook. She passed her pencil lightly over the page a few times. "I am glad you came," she said without looking up.
A warmth spread through Viktor's chest that had nothing to do with his morning exertions. It was something, to think that she valued this time as much as he did.
"So am I," he said quietly. She didn't look up, but her cheeks went slightly pink, and he could tell that she was pleased.
"How was your football practice yesterday?"
"It was fine." Viktor wished he could have told her about the way the other players teased about that Witch Weekly article, or his concerns about Susannah. But no, he didn't want her to get mixed up with any of that. Even if he could have told her those things, he wouldn't.
Rositza nodded; perhaps she had learned not to expect extended answers from him. She frowned. "I wanted to ask you something," she said. "You said you'd been in England, at school. Did you visit any of the universities while you were there?" She looked up at him, eyes shining.
Viktor shook his head. He hoped she wouldn't ask him any further questions. There were so many things he could not say to her. Was it always this way, with girls?
"Oh." Rositza looked down again, lips pursed. "I only wondered. I have been reading about different universities in Europe, and I thought that you might have…"
Viktor was suddenly reminded of Hermione and a conversation he had had with her in the library, not long after he had asked her to the Yule Ball. She had gone on for a full hour about the rating system employed in An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe. He smiled, and realized with some surprise that the memory was a fond one, without bitterness.
Rositza pushed her hair behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture; she thought that he was smiling at what she had said, he realized. He hurried to say something to put her at ease.
"You want to go to university?" he asked.
She looked up sheepishly. "I suppose it's silly. I will probably never get there." She turned her head away from him. "Just a dream."
Something pitying stirred in Viktor's heart, and he wanted to tell her that dreams could come true, and that sometimes the reality of them was not as good as the dreaming. But the words stuck in his throat.
"What do you want to study?" he said instead.
She looked at him, surprise in her eyes.
"Art," he said, answering his own question.
She smiled slightly. "Yes," she said, running her hand almost lovingly along the edge of her notebook. She paused. "In the afternoons, I help old Eliza Angelova at her pottery shop. She throws all the pots herself. You should see them. They are beautiful." Rositza bit her lip. "Sometimes she lets me help with the designs. She was the one who gave me my first sketchbook, when I was only thirteen. I used to love to go into her shop on summer days and look at all the pots lined up on the shelves, and she would let me touch them if I was careful."
Viktor nodded.
"Anyway," Rositza went on, "I work there in the afternoons now. My father lets me because we need the money." Her eyes flicked quickly to his face, as if assessing his reaction, but Viktor was not surprised. From what he had seen of the village, few people of great wealth lived there. He thought of all the Galleons he had earned playing Quidditch, and wished he could give her some of them. But they would do her no good, even if he could.
"I enjoy it, though," said Rositza. "And…Eliza has a special pot at the back of the store, a big blue one. She calls it my university fund. If I do a good job, or if she gets a little extra money, she puts it in there. She says that she will give it to me when it is full, and I will fly away from Pupgorodok and became a famous artist, and that I am not to forget the little old potter who sent me." Rositza grinned fondly, and then her face cleared. "She has never told my father about the blue pot, and neither have I. Do you think that is wrong?"
Viktor thought of all the things he had kept from his own parents, including his meetings with Rositza. "No," he said. "It is not wrong. Not all secrets are bad. It is your secret."
"And yours, now," said Rositza, smiling.
Viktor nodded. "Where will you go, if you go?"
Rositza shrugged. "Anywhere. Away from here." She looked down at the notebook and sighed. "If I am even accepted."
"You will be," said Viktor automatically. "I am sure that you have a great deal of talent."
Rositza looked up at him warily. This was the closest Viktor had come to asking to see her drawings. He had never prodded her to show them to him, though he had to admit he was curious. But they were hers, and if she did not want to show them to him, he would understand. Some things were too private to share, with anyone.
"You can look at them, if you like," she said quietly.
Viktor nodded, and she handed him the notebook. It was open to a half-finished sketch of a dragon, its wings open in flight. He looked up at her quickly. He knew that Muggles had myths and legends about dragons, and that they often had fanciful notions about the creatures.
Rositza had become engrossed in studying her fingernails, as if she was afraid to see what he thought of her drawings.
Viktor turned the page and gasped. There, staring up at him with yellow eyes, was a full-color drawing of a Swedish Short-Snout. The details were not exactly right; the flame coming from the beast's nostrils was red instead of brilliant blue, and the claws were too curved. But the silver-blue scales had been colored meticulously, and the rearing posture spoke to the knowledge of the freedom of the sky.
Viktor flipped through the rest of the notebook. Dragons filled every page, some fully colored in reds, greens, and blues, some half-sketched and then abandoned, some curled into sleeping postures, some in flight, some reared as if to attack. A few were recognizable as Welsh Greens or Hungarian Horntails, though their details, like the Short-Snout's, were off enough that it was clear that Rositza's knowledge of them had come from folklore rather than first-hand experience.
"They're silly, I know," Rositza said at last, breaking the silence.
Viktor looked up quickly from the red dragon he had been studying. "No," he said. "They are very good. Many of them are very…realistic."
Rositza's eyes shone. "Do you really think so? I have always loved to draw dragons, I don't know why. I used to read stories about them as a small girl." She scooted closer to him. "There was one, about a girl who befriended a dragon, and the two of them would fly off and have adventures. The dragon would cast up a magical shield around them whenever something bad tried to attack them. I tried to draw that one, but I could never get the tail right." She reached over to the sketchbook and turned a few pages, and then pointed to a drawing in the lower corner. Viktor could see the outline of a girl, seated on the dragon's back, and he held back a snort. Why would anyone in their right mind want to ride a dragon? Muggles really had no idea what they were talking about.
Rositza sighed. "I know it's silly, but…sometimes I want it to be real so much that it hurts, like an ache in my heart." She leaned back against the rock behind her and closed her eyes. "The dragons, the magic…all of it." She opened her eyes. "Do you ever feel that way?"
Viktor struggled for something to say, but before he could, she laughed. "No, I suppose it's silly." She reached over to take her notebook back from him.
Viktor held on to the notebook. "It is not silly," he said softly. "Wishes are not silly."
She met his eyes hesitantly, as if she thought he might be mocking her. Viktor was suddenly aware of how close she was sitting, of the heat of her leg only inches from his, and of the place just above his elbow where her arm brushed his as she reached for her notebook. His mouth went dry.
"It is not silly," he repeated.
Rositza's eyes softened and her mouth curved into a small smile. "Maybe not," she said, "but most people don't understand it."
"I understand it."
Rositza cocked her head and looked at him. "I think you do."
Viktor realized he was still gripping her notebook, and let go. Rositza placed the book in her lap and looked down at it, her cheeks pink.
"Have you shown your drawings to your parents?" Viktor asked.
Rositza looked up at him and shook her head, eyes wide. She gave a little laugh. "Silly imaginings, they would call them." Her face grew sad for a moment, and then she cleared her throat and stood up, tucking her pencil into the pocket of her skirt. She looked down at Viktor. "I…will not be able to come tomorrow. My father will be at home."
Viktor looked up at her in surprise. "He does not know you come here?"
"No, of course not," said Rositza, rolling her eyes. "He does not like the mountains. I think he believes the ghost stories. But he thinks that anywhere outside the boundaries of Pupgorodok is dangerous. He would never let me come, if he knew."
"Oh." Viktor felt suddenly very selfish. He had only considered his own situation coming here; it hadn't occurred to him that these daily meetings might be a risk for her, as well. That seeing him might be worth that.
But then, he told himself, she had come here to draw, before she'd even met him, so maybe it had nothing to do with him after all.
Rositza was looking down at him now, an indefinable expression on her face. "Well, goodbye, Viktor."
Viktor nodded. The sun was behind her, lighting up the edges of her curls with an auburn glow. Did he imagine it, or did disappointment cross her face? Before he could tell, she turned and began to walk across the clearing.
"I hope you will show me some more of your work," Viktor said, before he'd planned it.
Rositza paused and looked over her shoulder. "Of course, if you'd like."
"I would."
Rositza smiled, and he thought that her steps were lighter as she turned and walked out of the clearing.
~**~
He was in the stands at the first task. He looked down, and there was a model of a Chinese Fireball striding across his palm, but there was something wrong with it; it was missing its golden spikes, and the eyes were too flat.
"Isn't this exciting?" said a voice next to him, and he turned to see Ivan sitting next to him. Edina was seated on Ivan's other side. They both looked at him expectantly.
"Well, aren't you going to use it?" Ivan asked, pointing at Viktor's hand, and Viktor looked back to see that he now held his wand instead of the dragon. It was thick and comforting in his hand.
Viktor shook his head. "I don't need it yet."
Ivan laughed. "You will. You can't just sit there. Look, it is Diggory's turn."
Viktor turned toward the field below. Cedric Diggory was striding into the arena, and the Swedish Short-Snout reared up when she saw him. Her claws were curved and far too sharp. There was no way Diggory would be able to get past her.
Viktor stood and sprinted down the steps. He lifted his wand to aim a Conjunctivitis Curse at the dragon, but before he could open his mouth, a dreamy haze fell over his brain.
Pain, said a voice in his head. He aimed his wand at Diggory.
"Crucio," said a voice, which seemed to come from his own mouth, and outside himself, all at once.
Diggory's grey eyes opened wide with shock, and his body fell twitching to the ground. Viktor lowered his wand, satisfaction and disgust mingling in his chest.
But then he looked again, to where Diggory was pulling himself to his feet, but it was no longer Diggory. Rositza stood there now, her dark curls disheveled about her flushed face, and a bewildered look of pain in her eyes as she stared up at him.
Viktor slowly became aware of the shouts in the stands all about him.
"It's a Muggle!"
"Don't let it escape!"
"Who let that thing in here?"
Rositza looked around fearfully, then ran to hide behind the dragon. But the Short-Snout raised its lethal claws, and brought them down –
Viktor woke up breathing hard, his sheets soaked with sweat. Morning light slanted in across his bed, and he pulled himself up into a sitting position and mopped his forehead with a dry corner of the sheet. He'd thought the nightmares were going away, but it seemed they'd only decided to take on newer and more disturbing forms.
He squinted at the light coming in through the window and decided that it was not too early to get up. He had already thrown on his robes and was lacing up his boots when he remembered that Rositza would not be waiting for him in the clearing that morning. Cursing softly, he sat down on the bed. He knew it had only been a dream, but he very much wanted to see her, to make sure that she was all right.
You are being foolish, he told himself. It was only a dream, nothing more.
He went downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother sat at the table, her coffee cup stirring itself before her.
"Good morning, dear," she said, her voice too cheery, too bright. Viktor was immediately on edge.
"Good morning, Mother. What is wrong?"
"Nothing, dear, nothing. Come sit down. I will have Akakii bring you some breakfast." She stood and walked over him, and kissed him on the cheek. "Not flying this morning? You never have breakfast with your mother anymore," she complained. "The younger, prettier girls get all your attention now, I suppose."
Viktor flinched. He wished she wouldn't say things like that. It reminded him that she had actually seen the things that wretched Skeeter woman had written, and his face burned.
"Where is Father?" Viktor asked.
His mother's smile faltered a tiny bit. "Oh, he is working in the den. He is always working now, it seems."
Viktor turned to go to the den – something did not feel right, and he knew that his mother would not tell him whatever it was – but before he had taken two steps, his father burst into the kitchen and slapped a newspaper down onto the table.
"There, Anna, do you see this? Now will you listen to me?" he said.
Viktor looked at the newspaper. It was the Daily Prophet, and there, on the front page, was a photo of a tiny Muggle cottage, or what was left of it. The roof had collapsed, and smoke rose all around it, wisping out of the frame. Over it all hung the glittering points of the Dark Mark. "It Never Ends" blared the headline.
"Where?" demanded Viktor. His stomach felt as though it was suddenly filled with ice.
His father turned to face him. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was grey; he'd clearly been up all night. "Near Byala," he said, his voice hoarse now.
That was not so far away. They were getting closer. "Too close," muttered Viktor.
His father nodded, his eyes somber. "It was a family of Muggles," he said. "They'd been celebrating the younger boy's birthday. He'd just turned five. It is all there in the article." He smacked his hand down on the paper, and it made a hollow sound.
Viktor turned to his mother. She had sunk back into her chair, and was sitting with her eyes closed tightly. "Mother," he said gently, touching her shoulder.
She let out a stifled sob and fled from the kitchen. Viktor moved to follow.
"Let her go," said his father, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It is difficult for her, because of Tereza."
Viktor nodded. He had never known much about his mother's cousin Tereza, only that she had been killed the last time You-Know-Who had risen. She and his mother had been extremely close, and his mother never liked to talk about what had happened; it pained her too much.
"What will be done?" asked Viktor.
His father gave a bitter laugh. The same that is always done. The Muggle Explanation Unit has already taken care of the site and modified the memories of the neighbors. And now there will be even more pressure on those of us in research and surveillance." He shook his head sadly and looked down at the picture. "We will all be touched by it, before this is over."
"Father, is there anything – "
"No," said his father quickly, his head snapping up. "Go to practice, Viktor. Stay out trouble. Do not give anyone a reason to…well, be careful."
Viktor nodded. His father clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a half-hearted smile. "I need to go back into the office and help sort things out," he said. "Give your mother some time, but check on her before you leave, yes?"
"Yes, Father."
His father pulled his wand and Disapparated. Viktor sat down and began to read the article, but felt nauseated before he'd reached the second paragraph, and pushed the paper away. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his palms, but the Dark Mark glittered there behind his eyelids, just as it had the night of the Quidditch World Cup.
We will all be touched by it, before this is over.
He could only hope his father was wrong about that.
