STEP FORWARD

Chapter II: Socially Incompetent

"Benevolence alone will not make a teacher, nor will learning alone do it. The gift of teaching is a peculiar talent, and implies a need and a craving in the teacher himself."

(John Jay Chapman)

"The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket—"

The murmurs that followed Dumbledore's statement gave him a reason to ignore the wasp-faced fourth-year on his right, who had all throughout the dinner been trying to engage him in conversation. If you could call his endless talk about wealth and status and wizarding bloodlines "conversation". He seemed delightfully pleased that Durmstrang admitted only pureblood students, as if that somehow raised the quality of the school. Viktor had had that notion soundly disabused out of him the first day the subject had been singled out during Dark Arts…

"…Voldemort did, of course, make one very foolish mistake. In one move he alienated a good portion of the Wizarding community." Singled out because of his Quidditch fame even then, Krum had kept his eyes firmly fixed on the desktop in front of him. He had no desire whatsoever to draw any more attention to himself than necessary.

Unfortunately it was not so easy in this case. "Krum."

He looked up, slightly, dark eyes meeting the grey gaze of his inquisitor. "Professor."

"Perhaps you have some insight as to this situation." The unwavering gaze made the suggestion a command; the almost-present smile made the command a threat.

"He declined half-bloods and muggle-borns from his ranks," the Bulgarian Seeker replied in a low voice. He cut it off there, glowering again at his desk.

"Excellent," had come the soft voice. "Yes indeed. Voldemort, despite his own parentage, was dedicated to the point of obsession with Slytherin's pureblood fantasy. Practically he did not even consider the repercussions of so much inbreeding. One might boast of the pedigree of a fine racing horse, but too many generations in the same bloodline leads terrible defects and eventually extinction…"

Talking about people, about those seated in the room even, as horses, or dogs. The same casual despondency as when he taught the Dark Arts. At least, unlike Karkaroff before he came, he went so far as to teach Defense as well. After all, he had explained, with another of those characteristic wry smiles, the talent went to both sides, and the one enhanced the other…

"…as you know, three champions compete in this tournament, one from each of the participating schools." Viktor looked up again, dark eyes fixed on the Headmaster. He had received this speech before, back at Durmstrang where the attending seventeen were to be chosen, though then Karkaroff had filled it with large protestations about upholding the honor of the school, and living up to the legacy of the Durmstrang Institute. "They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup," Dumbledore was saying. "The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."

"It's about time," the boy next to him—Malfoy, was it?—said, tossing his head. "What is with this rubbish anyways? The way Father mentioned the Goblet of Fire I expected it to be something more, well, spectacular."

The Goblet was wooden, its edges rough, as if it had been roughly carved into the vaguest outline of a cup and set to use before the edges had been properly smoothed and polished. It certainly lacked the grandeur of crystal or gold, and was not spectacularly set with gems of any sort, but there was something oddly regal and mystical to its rustic appearance that made Viktor lean forward slightly, putting more weight on his forearms on the table.

That made no mention of the fact that blue fire was dancing just within the brim of the cup, as if someone had scooped from a lake of the magical flames and set the goblet out filled with this peculiar brew. The light danced across the planes of Dumbledore's face, highlighting his long silver beard, gleaming off the gold of his glasses. "Anyone wishing to submit themselves as a champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said Dumbledore softly, looking out across the hall.

From the eager look in Malfoy's eyes, he was likely already imagining the slip of parchment reading Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts School. Unless his Father had already informed him of the age limit. He found himself oddly wishing that he hadn't, just to see Malfoy's expression…

Right then, however, he caught sight of the shadowed figure in the corner of the hall behind Malfoy from his position, and forgot entirely about the slippery fourth-year for the moment.

He couldn't ever remember seeing his Professor in any gathering larger than his classroom before. Then again, Viktor was not particularly fond of them himself, as they seemed for the most part to include large clusters of girls who were fit to either burst into giggles or keep staring at him the entire time. He hunched over a bit more, attempting to ignore several such stares directed towards him now, Goblet or no Goblet. You would think one of them would have some sense, he thought dourly, but it seemed there was no escaping it even here.

However, there was no mistaking the tall, lean figure standing quietly off to himself. If the black robes and dark hair and unusual light grey eyes did not give him away, then the mask surely would. White leather, it hid everything from mouth to forehead except for those twin burning eyes. No one could ever recall seeing him without it.

Dumbledore's voice brought him back to his surroundings. "…Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."

There was the thunderous grinding noise of hundreds of people pushing back benches as they rose to their feet, talking excitedly to each other. More than a few wore expressions of disappointment, no doubt about the age requirement. There were a pair of redheads one table over that in particular looked as if they found out they had slept through Christmas, and someone had stolen their presents.

Karkaroff stalked by, his expression extremely displeased about something, and gestured the Durmstrang contingent to follow him, waiting only long enough for Viktor to leave the Slytherin table. Apparently they were stuck in snakelike company since Karkaroff was an old friend of their Head of House, or some such. For his own part Viktor would rather have stayed on board the ship for the entire affair. He glanced towards the corner, but his Professor was no longer in evidence. Likely he had taken advantage of the confusion to make a swift escape before the crowds of students began shoving their way towards the door.

Viktor fell into step behind Karkaroff, his hands in his pockets again, looking forward to heading out towards the relative quiet of the ship himself. The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than the Durmstrang Headmaster pulled up to an abrupt halt, staring. Viktor looked up long enough to see a trio of surprised fourth-years—not another three Malfoys, I hope, he thought glumly—standing near the doors. One of them had fiery red hair; he wouldn't be surprised if he was closely related to the twins who had looked so disappointed over the age requirement. The other was a bushy-haired girl with brown eyes. But it was the last at whom his reedy Headmaster was staring, and it didn't take brilliance in any subject to discern who the black-haired, green-eyed boy was, even if he did self-consciously flatten his hair in an attempt to make sure his bangs fell low over his forehead.

"Yeah, that's Harry Potter," growled a voice behind them.

"You!" Karkaroff said, straightening, glaring at the grizzled man who had spoken with utmost distaste.

"Me," the man said grimly, his magical eye fixed firmly upon the Durmstrang Headmaster. "And unless you've got anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You're blocking the doorway." Karkaroff stared at him a moment longer, fury etched into the lines of his face, and then abruptly turned away.

Karkaroff swept out of the hall, back ramrod straight in an attempt to maintain his dignity, and Viktor shuffled out after him with a last glace at the man who could only be Mad-Eye Moody. He reminded him of his Professor, in an odd way. They both had the same roughness, even if in Moody's case it was far more obvious in his actions.

It was blessedly cooler out on Hogwarts grounds and much quieter as well. Night had fallen full-on during the feast and exposition of the Goblet, and the only illumination came from the open windows of the castle behind them, doing little more than to cast odd squarish patches of light across the smooth sloping grass. The Durmstrang contingent trooped down towards the lake with only the occasional murmur of conversation within its ranks, and it wasn't until one or two students had stumbled, muffling curses, that some pulled out their wands, muttering "Lumos," adding narrow shafts of wandlight to the scant illumination.

Consequently it was some time before Viktor realized his solitary position behind Karkaroff had been augmented by a certain tall, dark presence. "Dumbledore mentions nothing that we did not know before," said the quiet, oddly melodious, voice. "Perhaps he truly has nothing else to keep from us, then."

"He does not seem the kind that would, Professor," Viktor muttered, gaze fixed somewhere on the ground.

The Professor laughed softly. "Those are the ones you look for the most, Viktor. The quiet ones who keep their mouths shut, the innocent-looking ones with a Killing Curse on the back of their tongue though you would never know it. The ones who always tell the truth. Voldemort hated liars." For some reason he had the impression that the man was not talking about Dumbledore at all. He felt the cold grey eyes measuring him.

"Enough of this," the man said icily, looking down on him. "No need to teach those who have already learned." He took two quick steps forward, until he was at Karkaroff's side, leaning down slightly to regard the Headmaster. He towered over him, tall and thin even in his black cloak. It fluttered slightly in the wind rising off the Black Lake. "Remind the students, Karkaroff, that there is session tonight in the port hold," he said in a voice like a Durmstrang winter storm. One last glance back over the line of students, a faint grimace, and he paced off swiftly into the night towards the Durmstrang ship.

Only when he was long gone did Viktor see Karkaroff's hands deep in a pocket in his robes unclench. How much would he be willing to bet that the Headmaster had had a deathgrip on his wand?

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"Before we left Durmstrang, we were learning mastering resistance to the Imperius Curse," the tall dark man said softly, pacing the end of the hold, his eyes flashing from one to the other. Even after having him for four years, his intense flickering gaze was unnerving, compelling the students into silence. "We will continue that now. Form two lines," he snapped, and everyone rose to their feet and shuffled into place. "Krum, up here." The Bulgarian slouched out of his position in line and walked to the front of the room, hands firmly stuck in his pockets, his dark gaze dour.

"Now," he said softly. "The two of us will place the Imperius Curse on each of you in line. You all have sixty seconds to resist before it is lifted. Anyone who successfully shakes it off will be free from lessons for the rest of the evening. Those who don't… to the back of the line."

One of the students looked at Krum. "But why does he…?"

"Because Viktor remains the only one of you able to cast a decent Imperius," he hissed at them. "In line, Kostrov. Now, Dastrovsky, step forward." Hesitantly, the student complied. His wand lifted.

"Imperio!"

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Notes:

1001 thanks again to Ava, who tirelessly cross-checked all my dialogue for me so I didn't screw things up. "I suddenly feel as though my fingers don't belong to me anymore," – well, neither do I!

I do apologize for the relatively slow beginning, but I want to get this sorted out in my own head as well as yours.

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.