bony coated window frames gave way to a view of a frost bitten land. And in the little alcove to the right there rose a vivid cluster of plants and flowers, an almost beautiful sight if it hadn't been for the artificiality of it.
Hermione pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to imagine that her scar wasn't hurting as bad as it really was, that she might forget the pain. Durmstrang was not as capacious as Hogwarts; but Hermione had made a point of exploring its halls. When she wasn't in the library, when she wasn't attending a pseudo class in the Hogwarts carriages, Hermione roamed these narrow corridors, these vaulted ceilings. She did not venture out, it was too cold and she wasn't used to it yet.
At the moment, a black leather bound copy of Human Transfiguration was open on a solitary, conjured desk in the tiny classroom. She supposed she could always practice spells in the abundant grounds, but Hermione didn't want to venture through the rapidly seeping cold. She didn't like it.
Hermione raised her left hand, holding it under her wand. She waved it in precise, clipped movements, and watched, fascinated, as the skin on the back of her wand seemed to wither, turning waxy, unhealthy like something that belonged on a corpse.
Slightly amused, Hermione clenched and unclenched her fingers, and it felt like the smallest of movements might shatter the brittle bones-
The classroom door swung open.
'Wer ist da? Who is there?'
There was an almost comical expression of shock on Stefan's face, as his lips formed an O.
'It is you,' he said softly. 'What- what are you doing- you could be-'
She supposed he was about to say expelled, but then, she was already expelled. Or maybe he'd read a translation of the Daily Prophet.
Hermione Granger. Unstable. Unfit. Attempted murder- what a pleasant label-
'Don't bother,' she said drily, and now started to remove the enchantments on her hand. It was captivating, fixating, as the skin shifted, seemingly backwards in time...
'You vere very good,' said Viktor Krum, now running a hand through his hair. Hermione and Krum were out in the large grounds, in the rapidly fading sunlight.
It had been a day since the first task had ended and Krum had spent most of the previous day in the infirmary. Apparently, Pucey had not just given him a broken nose. Hermione sighed.
'You flatter me, Krum, but the only reason I won was because Delacour underestimated me.'
Hermione slipped on her hood, watching a small group of red robed students racing each other on brooms. They were streaks of bloody red in the gray sky and their raucous laughter echoed around, as they skirted at the freezing lake's edges.
'Nevertheless,' allowed Krum, with a wave of his wand. 'It was very clever; that you thought of it at that moment. I must congratulate you.'
McGonagall had congratulated her too, and Hermione had not been able to stop that part of her that drunk it all in, that relished the words, that flushed up with pride. She wanted appreciation, she realised, she wanted acceptance and praise- and maybe it was because she had always been so insecure deep down, so afraid of never truly belonging.
Padma Patil, Terry Boot and Ginny had sent her clippings of the Daily Prophet (Hermione had been surprised, that they had for once, relayed the news as it was.)
Almost sub- consciously, she gingerly touched at her right ear. It hadn't healed; instead dried flakes of blood stuck over the still bleeding wound. She had had to drink a Replenishing potion once a day for at least four more days.
("These sort of curses are meant to be prolonged," explained the Healer, a stout, dark woman. "We must wait for it to stop bleeding itself. Bandages, gauze, magic, nothing will staunch the flow.")
And there had been those birds. She'd be having lots of souvenirs to keep as scars.
In an ugly contrast, Fleur's broken finger bones had been fixed in seconds.
Oh well. She'd won.
'Thank you,' said Hermione, feeling slightly awkward. 'I didn't see your duel though, but well.'
There was a long silence. Krum locked his fingers together, and turned to look at her.
'I don't think you like Durmstrang, Hermione.'
Of all the things, she had never expected to hear this.
'Is that so surprising?'
Krum blinked, seemingly surprised. 'Not all of Durmstrang believes in blood-vat do you call it?'
'Supremacy? Purity? Obsessive bunch of nostalgic creepers who-'
'Yes,' said Krum, looking uneasily around, which made Hermione look around too, a sort of brash flame in her. 'In fact, some of my friends wanted to see you.'
Hermione made a non committal noise in her throat. 'Is that Stefan one of your friends too?' she asked, remembering yesterday evening. She twisted her fingers together, surprised to see how easily that dead hand had become smooth and healthy.
Unexpectedly, Krum threw his head back and laughed. 'Stefan does not like me very much. He is vat you say, jealous.'
Hermione shrugged. 'Of what, your Quidditch skills?'
'Maybe. At Durmstrang, they make special arrangements for me, because I miss so many classes. And even then, Headmaster Karkaroff, has always considered me one of the best. Stefan, he is jealous. He works hard- he does all this-' Krum waved his hand around the vast grounds. 'jobs, say , but he does not gain the respect he vants. And that,' added Krum, his dark eyes meeting her brown. 'is because he is a coward. He doesn't stand up for himself. He lets himself be valked over - is that the phrase?- and does not fight back, vhether face to face or any other means.'
They were now walking along the edges of the frozen lake. Hermione suppressed an involuntary shudder.
'And that,' finished Krum, with the air of someone who had been musing over philosophical questions of life. 'is why his jealousy makes him worthless.'
Hermione sighed. 'Alright, can you help me out with this bit at Transfiguration?'
Jealousy, bitterness, loathing, this has been a constant in Hermione's life as long as she can remember. How did it matter that she got the best grades in her Muggle school, when she stammered through her words? They came so easily on paper, but in front of searching eyes, it all disappeared. How did it matter that she was better than all her yearmates back at Hogwarts, when she knew everyone only saw her as oh, that Hermione Granger?
And Hermione has always been jealous, jealous of little kids smiling there with siblings and parents and cousins, jealous of her yearmates with their vaults and vaults of gold, jealous that they didn't need to go anywhere with self doubt hanging like a cloud around her. They were born knowing who they were, knowing what they were going to be.
But jealousy has not made her worthless.
Hermione doubts herself, but she doesn't show it. She strives for perfect grades, and acts like its her birthright, acts like magic has always been hers. No, jealousy has strengthened her. She's fifteen years old and she's just bested a seventeen year old, perfect, beautiful girl.
Jealousy has made her strong, yes. If she'd grown up comfortable, always in her own, she would not have searched for knowledge and curses the way she has. Krum is wrong.
All she needs to do, is not let that jealousy take over her.
Finally.
Excitement surged through Hermione, and she bounced on the balls of her feet, locking the door of the carriage in which she was standing.
Finally, she'd figured out why Millicent Bulstrode had given her a seemingly useless Sickle. The silver coin burned up in her hand, and she watched as it suddenly increased in size, nearly bigger than her palm.
The engraved letters that referred to the currency shifted; spelling out a message. Protean charms then.
Not half bad, Granger. Just use this for emergencies- I'm gonna try to improve this thing.
Untraceable?
Of course. If it was traceable I'd have stuck to parchment. And to think you've survived Slytherin for four years. What are we going to do with you?
Hermione was horrible at Transfiguration. Not very horrible, but horrible, considering that she needed to survive two more tasks of this horrid Tournament. So, she needed to practice a lot more.
They had classes inside the Hogwarts Express- mostly practical, which suited Hermione. Theory could be learned from books. Skill was learnt only from practice. And her reflexes had always been slow, she knew this, knew that sometimes, it felt like she froze in fear.
Bu the surprise was Durmstrang. So far, the students had maintained cool aloofness, excepting Krum, and the Beauxbatons students seemed to think they were the most precious little angels, so Hermione had spent her time mostly with Cedric, Pucey and another Ravenclaw girl from the student guild. There were two from Gryffindor, and only one she recognized, a dark skinned, beautiful girl called something Johnson. She'd seen Johnson in Quidditch games.
It seemed her win over Delacour had created a reputation. They acknowledged her, some made small talk, a few of them had started sitting at the Hogwarts table, even. Evidently, they had formed an impression of her, cemented a reputation for her.
Hermione found the whole situation perplexing and precarious, but she decided, that for the moment, she would just go with it. It was amusement, and she would keep it that way. As long as she didn't let herself believe they liked her, she was safe. In fact, thought Hermione wryly, they probably saw her win as some sort of amusing trick their pet had done.
After all, who knew better of disappointment than herself?
The narrow corridor was filled with people, walking to and from classes. Hermione pulled her coat tighter around her. Durmstrang was an organized system of bells and soft instructions, and Hermione found the lack of any general chaos unsettling. In Hogwarts, the corridors were never silent, even with the four hundred and fifty one rules Filch had enforced.
It was a throng of people in fur coats and red and black robes, and Hermione, whose hands were full of books, started picking pace, moving towards the library.
There was a loud bang. Someone screamed, high pitched; out of control and Hermione stopped dead, that old feeling of paranoia coursing through her.
The Durmstrang students continued on, dividing into smaller groups; through the vaulted ceilings and black marbled floors. Hermione's back was pressed to the wall, her mouth slightly open. She was the only one even slightly fazed, the rest of them took no notice.
Another scream rented the air. There was the smell of singed cloth.
The Durmstrang students continued on.
In the middle of the corridor, a dark haired boy was on the ground, drool running down his chin. His coat was off, lying a few feet away from him and kneeling beside him was a tall, sleek haired girl.
The girl screeched and seethed, switching between languages with perturbing finesse. She had light, glossy hair and wide blue eyes, giving her somewhat of a doll like look;something like a little child- she had a slight dusting of freckles over rosy, chubby cheeks.
'You dare!' she shouted. 'Sag mir! I won't have it - sag mir die Wahrheit!'
'Nur ein Witz,' rasped the boy. 'And you know it!'
The Durmstrang students continued on.
The girl cracked her wand in a whip like movement, a loud bang resounded in the air and blood was dripping on the floor. A deep gash cut in the boy's cheek. It was bleeding badly, dark, heavy red-
She waited till his screams went hoarse and then, silent. Another gash cut in, crossing the other one in a gory 'X'.
'There.' said the girl coldly. 'I don't see you repeating it, will you?'
The boy spat at her shoes. He rasped something vindictive in another language and the girl screeched, literally screeched, biting her lip.
The girl knelt even lower. Her long, shiny hair swayed prettily in the wind, and she cracked her wand once more. The boy went paler, drool and blood running down his chin. He screamed again, a sound that seemed to hang in the air like a noose.
Hermione bit her tongue so hard she could taste blood when the next crack reverberated through the corridor.
The boy screamed the worst now, and Hermione saw that his finger had bent backwards and the blood- red, red, on a stone wall lit by greenish light, in a dark room that succeeded murder, blood a story written on a silver mask-
'You do that again, my heart and I'll carve out your eyes.'
The blonde girl had intertwined her long, neat fingers with his broken fingers. She was whispering, a breathless, shrill voice in another language.
The noose had tightened. Another sickening crunch. She could see the blood, on the floor, flowing from his cheek, lacing his teeth, as his mouth gaped open, his ragged breaths filled the silent corridor; quiet yet busy- his fingers bent at an abnormal angle, another horrible scream...
The Durmstrang students continued on.