STEP FORWARD

Chapter III: A Matter of Chance

"We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

(Alfred Lord Tennyson)

He woke up to the softly spoken word, lumos, and a faint gleam of light playing about the interior of his cabin. He could feel the ship listing slightly beneath him, like a living thing, but he hardly paid it any attention. The locking charm on his door would have been enough to hold out all but the most determined alohamora, and it was the light spell that woke him, not the unlocking itself.

He kept his eyes closed but for slits, though there was no way there was enough light for it to glitter off his pupils and betray that he was awake. His fingers, lax in sleep, slowly curled over the smooth wood of his wand, cradled still between his fingers. The narrow beam of light from the intruder's want flitted across the ceiling, drifting downwards… almost… almost… now!

"STUPEFY!" he yelled.

"Expelliarimus," the intruder snapped out an instant before his charm; the wand jerked from his hand. "Accio," the man added, snatching the length of hornbeam from the air as it flew to his hand. The narrow beam of wandlight dipped enough to reveal the distinctive hook-nosed, dark-browed profile of Krum, clearly just awoken from sleep, now wandless. It also gleamed off a distinctive white mask.

"Curl your fingers around the wand after you are in motion next time," the intruder advised, reversing the short length of wood and tossing it to the newly awakened, who caught it as deftly as if it were the snitch and he were zipping along at unearthly speeds on a broom. The Seeker's only response was a noncommittal grunt as he shoved the wand carelessly into a pocket in his robes. "Other than that, admirable. One day you will be scraping me off the decking," the dark figure said; Viktor had the impression that he was smiling, though it was impossible to see in this poor light.

"Not likely," Viktor muttered. "Professor."

"That's Erik to you," the man warned. "We are out of class."

"Erik," the Bulgarian grunted.

"Better. Pick up your robe, and follow me. I have something to show you." The tall man turned on his heel and stalked out of the cabin, if 'stalking' was something that could be carried out in absolute silence. Viktor picked up his school robes and wrapped them around his shoulders, and scuffed his feet into his boots. Carefully he checked his wand; the wood was smooth against his fingers. He slouched out of the cabin, tapping the doorknob lightly with his wand and muttering a locking charm. It had not held Erik back, but then… that was Erik.

Speaking of which, the Professor was waiting a little ways down the corridor. He inclined his head and started off; Viktor followed him, as silently as he could, but even to his ears every move he made seemed unnaturally loud in the wake of the absolute silence of the man he followed.

Soon they were off the ship and onto the Hogwarts grounds proper, one tall swift shadow and one slower one, hunched over out of habit and not against the cold. He hadn't bothered with his cloak, and the night air hardly seemed to affect him, cold or no cold. The ground wasn't frozen, nothing to crunch under their feet, nothing but soft grass to whisper in the wake of their passing, a hundred nearly-silent snakes. A silencing charm used on a waterfall that could not quite hide the murmuring susurration.

Unerringly Erik's shadowed form crossed the grass up towards the castle proper, as if he was very much aware of he was going. Viktor followed.

He shuffled into the Entrance Hall, watching where he was going with the periphery of his vision, gaze somewhere on the ground. A faint blue light illuminated the well-worn floors, plenty for him to see his way. A light touch on his shoulder, so faint he almost thought he imagined it, stopped him. "Tomorrow morning, Karkaroff will likely have you lined up to submit your names," the dark man behind him said, almost lightly. Viktor knew without looking that about which he spoke; the blue light was a flickering illumination from the Goblet itself, placed in the center of the entranceway. His Professor moved up beside him, hands folded casually in the small of his back; the faint light gleamed eerily off his mask. "I can't say I'm particularly interested in that parade."

"Parade?" Viktor grunted, tearing his eyes away from the floor long enough to examine the Goblet. "The other sixteen haff been arguing… months… for this 'parade'." The other sixteen, but not himself. He might be Viktor Krum, Karkaroff's prize boy, the Bulgarian Seeker, world-famous Quidditch player, but that was more than he wanted. This 'eternal glory' Dumbledore mentioned he would as soon pass up. Karkaroff, naturally, had not allowed his opinion on the matter.

"I think we all know whose name has a fair chance of emerging from that blue fire, Viktor," Erik said dryly. Funny, that; in Durmstrang he had spoken Russian fluently, so that it seemed he must be a native speaker. But now that his language was English it, too, was accentless. The Durmstrang seventh-year regarded him guardedly; how many languages had his Dark Arts professor mastered? How many pasts had he lived with them, blending effortlessly into every country, before he came to Russia?

Not effortlessly. His dark eyes strayed over the distinctive mask. He had never seen Erik without it; before he had taken it as a mark of wizardly eccentricity. Now, he was not so sure.

He would have preferred to speak in Bulgarian, but he took Erik's switch of language as a cue, a deadpan reminder that now they had to abandon at least part of their multicultural trappings. "Vell," Viktor muttered, "I am remembering that the Headmaster says, it vill haff to be impartial. To choose vich of us vill compete."

"The Goblet of Fire is an impartial judge," Erik agreed, leaving his side, walking towards the Goblet and its makeshift stool. "That does not mean it is witless. Nor is it random. It chooses the best among those who submit their names, freed from human bias, but not human judgment. There is no chance or probability concerned with it. It knows that which it chooses; the time delay is a matter of… convenience. Almost predictable. Ironic, isn't it—it is likely the closest thing to fate the world will ever know." He stared up at it, almost hungrily, pacing just around the edges of the thin golden Age Line. In the faint glow, he looked less a man than something… other. A shadow. A phantom.

"It makes one wonder, doesn't it," the masked man said softly, "for what use it was made. Surely such a magical artifact was not created merely for selecting a champion for something so little as a school competition." He laughed, slightly, and stepped across the Age Line. It remained silent, even as he trailed one finger along the rim of the Goblet. The blue flames danced just within, inches from his fingertip. He did not stir, just looked at it, mesmerized.

It clearly took a great deal of effort for him to take the first step back, and then another, and not until he had recrossed the Age Line did Erik seem his usual dispassionate self. As if privately angry, he pulled his black robes close around his thin frame, glaring at the Goblet.

"That ve vill haff not to know, I think," Viktor said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, glancing over at Erik from beneath heavy brows. He was without his cloak, but the night air was not cold at all compared to what it would be in Durmstrang at this time of year. He knew not to rush things. His dark Professor would come around to the details when he decided it was right. Usually those details were worth knowing.

"No," his strange teacher admitted softly, looking at the Goblet. Then he seemed to snap out of something, an enchantment, looking much like a man who has just broken free of the Imperius Curse. His grey eyes flicked over to Viktor. "Come. This is not what I intended to show you." He made a swift, peremptory gesture, again spinning on his heel, though this time his glance made sure Viktor followed.

He did.

Several long corridors, shifting stairs, and empty halls later, and the shadow that was Erik led him out onto a south-facing balcony propped up on one level of the castle or another. Below them the lawns fell away in a wide sweep that lifted abruptly skyward in a foreboding mass: the Dark Forest. His professor placed both hands on the balcony railing, leaning forward slightly, then raised one gloved hand to point swiftly. "There," he murmured.

Viktor glanced out over the grounds. "Vat?"

"There," Erik said again, gesturing slightly. "At the very edge of the trees."

The Bulgarian's eyes narrowed. "I see nothing," he said, somewhat perturbed. His eyesight was excellent, keen enough to pick up the snitch twinkling a hundred yards away as it darted about the base of a goalpost. If there was something at the edge of the forest, then he could not… wait. He too leaned forward on the rail, his dark brows dropping low over his eyes. "Wat is that?" he asked. "I haff…" he frowned. "I feel I should know vat it is. But I am not remembering."

Erik cocked an eyebrow; it was the closest he had heard to irritation in the Bulgarian's tone. "Thestrals, Viktor," he said, tapping his wand on the railing. The metal hummed faintly. "Apparently Dumbledore has a whole herd of thestrals in these woods, for whatever reason." He did not sound overly curious. Instead, he sounded… confident. Pleased?

It wasn't until the two of them had trekked back to the Durmstrang ship and Viktor had stripped out of his robes and crawled back into bed, fingers of his right hand curling over the handle of his wand carefully, that the import of the entire conversation struck him. They bred thestrals at Hogwarts. Whatever that meant for the school or for international laws, it certainly was an interesting fact. However, it had not elicited a reaction from Erik in its mere self, qua its truth.

No, what had put that self-satisfactory tone into the Dark Arts Professor's voice had been Viktor's admittance that there was indeed something there at the edge of the woods, and in particular that he could see that it was there. It took the silence of the ship about him, and his own stillness, for him to remember when they covered thestrals two years ago, remember the situation concomitant on the ability to see them. As far as Erik knew, and very rightly on the evidence, Viktor had seen someone die, had been present as the life bled from a person, had watched it with his own eyes. Perhaps even done the deed himself.

His hand clenched around the shaft of his wand, so hard the knuckles were bone-white, and he firmly shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to forget.

Needless to say, the attempt failed miserably.

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Notes:

-Insert bow to Ava here- HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 16. Holy cow.

Hopefully I have not terribly distorted anything in cannon. Internet searches have yielded me very little about the actual history of Durmstrang Institute, and sadly the internet is my only current resource. According to Wikipedia, it is likely a German-founded Russian institution, and that is how I am playing it (it makes the most sense in my mind that way).

German and Russian… I definitely have a soft spot for those two.

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.