I'd like to start this off with a disclaimer: All characters, settings, and cannon events told within this story are the property of J.K. Rowling, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Leroux, Kay, and the other geniuses behind the writing and scripting of both Harry Potter and The Phantom of the Opera. I have no claim to them whatsoever, nor do I intend to pursue such. This is for the pure enjoyment of (ph/f)ans and authoress alike.

Also, endless thanks to Ava, who not only beta-read this but also suffered to look up quotes in GoF since her copy is handy and mine isn't, and retype half the novel into AIM so I got the words right. Viele danken, Ava… viele danken!

Hello, and welcome to my first-ever Harry Potter fanfic. Though, strictly speaking, this has less to do with Harry himself than the world he is in. This is (as the summary states) an AU interpretation of Harry's fourth year and the infamous Triwizard Tournament, with a Phantomized twist. What if Karkaroff was not the only professor to come with the Durmstrang students? What if events turned out differently, and Harry was not the only one to receive 'outside help'? What if, in short, there were four Dark Mark bearers wandering Hogwarts grounds that year, instead of three?

Dragons rampage, merpeople end up mute, and portkeys don't always go where they intend to…and more than one violent snake gets bitten on by a skull in this AU retelling of the tale of the Goblet of Fire.

STEP FORWARD

Chapter I: Patience, or Lack Thereof

"The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart."

(Saint Jerome)

"You're dead certain about this, aren't you?"

"I have told you before, Igor, but I will not again," he hissed in fluent Russian. "Tell him it is to continue the student's studies. Tell him it is for the honor of Durmstrang. Tell him you've got a dragon in the bowels of the ship and want someone to watch over it—I don't care what you say or how crazy it sounds, but my mind is set on this entire affair; let me make that perfectly clear."

He practically spat the last words. The thin, reedy Headmaster looked back at him, trying—and failing—to keep his expression smooth. "Very well," Karkaroff said at length. The man standing in the frame of the doorway favored him with a sardonic smile before turning to go, his footsteps hardly a creaking whisper on the floorboards of the ship.

There were several long moments of silence before the student on duty appeared in the doorway. "Headmaster?" he asked, curious, finding Karkaroff staring blindly off into nowhere.

The Headmaster blinked, and jerked his gaze to the seventh-year. "Dastrovsky. Find Viktor and tell him I want to see him."

"Yes, Professor…" he said, fully aware that Karkaroff was no longer listening.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Saints and sepulchers, they make even more racket in English than they do in Russian, he sneered to himself. The noise from the adjacent hall was deafening, despite what he could recognize to be the voices of several teachers raised in protest. He imagined he could feel the stone of the wall itself vibrating against his back with the sound, but of course that was in his mind only. Hogwarts was as solidly built as Durmstrang, if not as secretive. It had witnessed a hundred times as more dangerous exploits as an exuberant bunch of students yammering at the top of their lungs… it would survive tonight.

At length he heard a tone that could only belong to Dumbledore, and thankfully the brouhaha quieted to a more respectfully low murmur. Imperceptibly he shifted his back against the cold stone wall, turning his head to glance over at Karkaroff. The Headmaster actually had the audacity to send an oily smile his way. He tilted an eyebrow, and turned his concentration to attempting to listen in on the Hogwarts Headmaster:

"…and now, our friends from the north…"

Ah, Karkaroff, here's your cue. Don't miss the entrance.

"…the proud sons of Durmstrang!"

Right on target the gathered students in the corridor outside the Great Hall banged the doors back and marched in on perfect time. Good, he thought, as they filed swiftly past him; they had practiced enough to get this perfect, and if they botched it now there'd be the Dark Lord to pay…

Awed silence, and then that inevitable susurration, hundreds of whispered voices overlapping each other. It ran together to his ears, but this close to the door he could pick out when one student purportedly leaned to the one next to him and said a bit louder than the rest, "It's him! Krum!"

No, really, the silent listener thought. I was under the impression that it was your grandmother, dropping by for a spot of tea. He crossed his arms, alone now in the darkened hallway. Light from the adjacent room flashed through the half-open doorway, pooling brilliantly on the stone corridor's floor. In its reflected glare he was little more than a faint shadow, outlined in his black robes as a formless figure leaning against the adjacent wall. He stood there for a long while, even after the murmur of conversation and clink of silverware told him that dinner was well begun, and Karkaroff was likely wondering where he had got to.

His slight downcurl of the mouth became a full sneer that flashed white teeth, startling in the darkness. The Headmaster knew well enough his distaste for crowds. Out of all his years at Durmstrang, how often had he bothered to turn up for a single formal session?

That was out of the question, though, this year. It had taken a great deal of coercion and no little threatening before Karkaroff reluctantly included him on this little expedition. The Triwizard Tournament, who had not heard of it? When the first rumors of its reinstallation were confirmed, he had waved them off as a useless trifle. Let Dumbledore stage his little affair; it would come to nothing in the end.

It wasn't until only a few weeks back, when the actual arrangements for who exactly was to attend were being made, that he had cornered Karkaroff in his office. He still remembered that encounter, leaning far too blandly forward over the heavy oaken desk, a terrifyingly benign expression on his face as he informed Igor in no uncertain terms that there had better be a place booked for him on the Durmstrang ship.

It hadn't been so easy as that, of course, and while Karkaroff had started off adamant, he had had his ways. In the end it had come to his flat-out threats before the Headmaster had relented. Igor held out quite a while, protesting that nowhere in the rules did it mention that the delegations of students were to be accompanied by anyone other than their Headmaster or –mistress; of course, it did not say that staff members from the schools were not allowed to attend, either. It was just that none of them would abandon the rest of the school's students to a year's worth of incompetent substitutes.

From what I hear, Potter's had three years of "incompetent substitutes" and hardly seems to be suffering in any of his 'acquaintances' with Voldemort, he had snapped icily.

With… Him? Don't make me laugh… surely you don't actually believe the stories Dumbledore prates about… His… imminent return, Karkaroff said, his shaky smile not quite masking the underlying fear in his voice.

He had leaned close, putting their faces within inches of each other, his voice perfectly flat. So quick to write it off, Igor? One might think you are nervous about Voldemort's return.

Don't—

I will say his name as I wish and when I wish, Karkaroff, he had snapped back, his patience thoroughly at an end. Were I in your position, something as silly as a word would be among the least things I had to fear. Now. I am quite certain the students can manage a single year without me. Dolohov is messy, I admit, but he knows the basics, and the older students are advanced enough in the subject to get along fine with their studies. Karkaroff had actually opened his mouth to argue, but a cocked eyebrow and a violent glare convinced him otherwise. I did not haul you out of that messy situation eleven years ago just to lose the chance to start it up again, Igor. I am coming with you, and that is the end of it.

He remembered he had laughed then. You'd probably mishandle our favorite Bulgarian if I didn't come along, anyways. I'm beginning to think he's even more advanced than you are in certain subjects. Loyalty, for one. He knows where the truths lie, and it will take more than a whispered Imperius Curse to shift that around.

What, not so certain? Believe me, I've put him through it more than once. He's almost as good at shaking them off as he is casting them. Talent for all sides of the Dark Arts; it runs both ways.

That hadn't been the end of it, and even his patience was beginning to be tried before Karkaroff caved and allowed him along. As if he wouldn't just Apparate into Hogsmeade and stay on the ship anyways. It was just… easier… to make everything look official. Then there would be fewer questions about his presence on the grounds, especially if he made his ties to the Durmstrang students painstakingly clear. No need to give the Ministry a bone to chew.

Speaking of which, by the sounds from the adjacent hall, dinner was about concluding. He pushed himself off the wall, somewhat surprised by how stiff he was, and how long he had been leaning in the shadows, thinking to himself. Well, he should get into the hall before the unveiling of the Triwizard Cup, or Karkaroff would be beside himself. Not that that was not amusing at times, but he could do without the lecture; he had already promised the Durmstrang students a session aboard ship that evening—no need to let their studies slip, Tournament or not. Dealing with Karkaroff beforehand would put him in an irritable mood, never good for getting the point across when he was dealing with matters of finesse, like the Imperius Curse. The other two Unforgivables, maybe, but an angry mind behind imperio! usually made the curse crack under significant pressure, and a successful cast got the point across more quickly to the class.

He paused outside in the shadows of the door for a moment, allowing his gaze to stray across the room before he entered. It was easy to locate the Durmstrang contingent, over at what he presumed to be the Slytherin table from the green-and-silver banner hung directly overhead. Slytherin—ah, if he could think of a more elegant prat than that one, he would be amazed. Brilliant, but incredibly shortsighted nonetheless.

He located Karkaroff up at the teacher's table, along with several other unfamiliar faces—he would have to get to know them sooner or later, but later was preferable. Thankfully the student's attention seemed to be fixed on Dumbledore, who was on his feet for another speech, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. The watcher managed to keep his expression from twisting in contempt and instead slid in through the door, into the light. Not one of the students even glanced his way, intent on the other side of the hall. He could have sworn he felt Dumbledore's eyes on him though, and resisted the desire to hunch his shoulders and slouch over like Krum was prone to doing in public congregations. Instead he contented himself with sliding quietly along the wall to the far corner, and crossing his arms in his midnight robes, waiting with not nearly as much patience as his position suggested.

Grey eyes scanned the students in the hall out of boredom, not looking for anything in particular. Finally his gaze settled on Krum, seated next to a pale-haired Slytherin boy who looked rather like his bench was really the Stone of Scone and he was about to be crowned King of England. Viktor was his usual dour self, scowling at the table and largely ignoring him. His familiar, predictable behavior—retreat, lay traps, retreat, and glare at the enemy as he tangled himself up uselessly—was reassuring.

Finally his gaze grazed over the teacher's table at the far end of the hall, skipping from one to the other. His eyebrows rose. Well well, it wasn't Dumbledore that was looking at him after all. Hello there. You likely weren't expecting to see me here this year, were you old friend? Well, snap for expectations. What about a nice welcome for me? It has been a while, hasn't it?

He might need Legilimency to read minds, but there was no way that Severus Snape could mistake the slow sardonic smile from the masked figure reclining in the corner to be anything but what it was: a sly greeting from a very old friend.

It might serve to explain why a certain spot on his left forearm seemed to be burning its way through his skin.