Viktor
The following weeks had been a relentless test on Viktor's willpower. Rune's class became an endless battle with the bond. Every glance, every fleeting, accidental touch from Miss Granger felt like an electrical shock awakening his senses.
The bond, a forbidden fruit dangling within reach, its fragrance intoxicating, was too powerful to resist. Viktor allowed his gaze to drift towards her for a fleeting moment, his breath hitching as his eyes caught Miss Granger nibbling on her quill. But the stolen pleasure was short-lived. Sigurd's beady gray eyes, sharp as needles, found him, sending an icy prickling sensation down his neck.
Over the weeks, an unsettling feeling clung to Viktor. Professor Sigurd's eyes, usually bored, now held a predatory glint whenever they landed on Miss Granger. The way they lingered on her, tracing the curve of her cheek for the briefest moments, made Viktor's hands clench.
Viktor met the professor's gaze when his gray eyes left Miss Granger. Something different flickered in the depths of those usually bored, indifferent eyes. His gaze danced between amusement and challenge. He had locked eyes with his professor, answering his challenge.
As Viktor stepped onto the ship's deck that night, a heavy hand clamped onto his arm, dragging him towards the dimly lit Captain's quarters. Inside, Karkaroff awaited, his face contorted in a grimace, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of anger and revulsion. He launched into a tirade, his voice hoarse with rage and reeking of strong liquor. "I'd rather witness a kikimora's disgusting ugliness than suffer the sight of that filthy mudblood." Each word was a barbed insult aimed at Miss Granger's blood purity. He spat out accusations of her being unworthy to participate in Sigurd's class and how her presence was a stained poison corrupting the wizarding world.
Viktor fought to maintain his composure, his anger simmering beneath the surface. He forced himself to take deep, measured breaths, his heartbeat a steady drum.
Karkaroff's drunken ramblings about her blood purity evolved into calculated taunts, laced with a twisted sense of entitlement and a desire to exert dominance. He spoke of purebloods, like the Krums' supposed duty to teach Miss Granger her place.
Viktor's anger simmered like a cauldron on a roaring fire, threatening to boil over and engulf him in its wrath. Yet, he sat there, a mask of forced calm plastered on his face, a drink clutched in his hand. Each shite word that spewed from his headmaster's mouth was like a fresh log tossed onto the fire.
Yet he sat there, anger burning his veins. His father and the committee were closing in on their investigation, inching ever closer to uncovering the perpetrators' identities behind the Muggle and Muggle-born attacks. Any slip-up, any hint of suspicion from Viktor could throw off their progress.
A knock on the door jolted Viktor. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side. With a mocking smirk on his face, Sigurd strode in. Finding the perfect opportunity to escape, Viktor excused himself.
On his way out, the professor put a pale hand on Viktor's shoulder. "Caution is the mother of the porcelain box," the older man advised in German. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, "Der Kluge gibt nach, der Dumme stellt sich quer."
The door closed, and Viktor's head snapped to it. His anger burned hot, making his eyes sting and his vision blur. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus on the words. The wise person yields and the fool resists blindly.
The gears in Viktor's mind whirred, grinding against each other as he wrestled with the implications of Sigurd's cryptic message. From that point on, Viktor became acutely aware of Sigurd's actions in class. Every lingering look at Miss Granger, every prompt reply made him suspicious of the wizard. Viktor observed the older wizard interact with the other witches in class, with the same indifference and boredom he was used to seeing.
What had started as a way to maintain his control changed into keeping Miss Granger safe. If Karkaroff ever found out about the bond, he would do everything in his power to get rid of her. How could he have been so foolish? He had let down his guard. He could have put her in danger. He had been right about blocking the bond. It made him stupid, and careless. How could he have forgotten that people were lining up to see his family fall, to see those close to them crumpled? She had no name, and no family to protect her.
Even if he couldn't stop the bond, he could stay away from her.
Deep within the ship, cloaked in shadow and secrecy, lay a hidden chamber pulsating with the faint hum of ancient dark magic. Its walls are adorned with talismans and wards. This became Viktor's sanctuary over the last month.
Their first lesson on working with cursed objects with Professor Kamen had delved into the arcane arts of jewelry curses, equipping them with the tools to detect their presence, weave their enchantments, and break curses. For the next three months, each student clutched their cursed piece.
Hunched over a workbench for weeks, Viktor painstakingly analyzed the Borgia ring. He scrutinized it between his fingers. Its surface was crafted from tarnished gold, etched with swirling symbols. As he traced the intricate patterns with gloved fingers, he could feel the echoes of dark magic.
Bringing the ring into the light, Viktor uncovered its poisoning with Cantarella and its curse with the Morbus Tenebris curse.
Armed with a worn copy of the Book of Shadows, Viktor meticulously researched the ancient texts, searching for any mention of Morbus Tenebris. Minutes bled into hours as he delved into the book. He learned that the curse slowly drained its victims of their life force and sanity.
Viktor found a twisted comfort in the ring. Its icy surface hummed with dark magic. As he traced the intricate patterns with trembling fingers, the metal felt oddly alive, pulsing with a borrowed power that drained his magic. It was a cruel bargain, his magic in change for respite from the bond.
September 30, 1994 Friday
Viktor awoke to the sound of an alarm ringing throughout the ship. He peeled his eyes open and groaned. A wave of fatigue washed over Viktor, his muscles heavy and sluggish. Even casting the most basic spells to get ready drained the little magic he had.
The crisp morning air nipped at Viktor's face as he stood at the deck's edge, joining the other Durmstrang students in their formation. The sunrise painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, but he felt no warmth, only bone-deep exhaustion.
He sighed, noticing Vladimir was not in his spot in line, and tilted his head back, trying to bask in the warming rays. He became increasingly uneasy as the minutes ticked by. It wasn't like Vlad to be late.
Karkaroff arrived, his voice booming across the deck. "I need not remind you why we stand here today," Karkaroff continued, his gaze stern as he addressed the students. "In just two weeks, each one of you will inscribe your name into the Goblet of Fire. This tournament demands the best from each participant."
Viktor felt the headmaster's gaze upon him. He continued to ramble on about the virtues of honor and respect. Viktor wanted to laugh in his headmaster's face at the utterance of those words spilling from his mouth.
Vladimir arrived 10 minutes late. His gait was sluggish, and his posture lacked energy as he trudged along. He looked exhausted, with deep circles under his eyes. He didn't seem to notice that he was dragging his feet, no longer carrying himself with his usual enthusiasm.
Karkaroff's facade immediately dissolved into anger and disgust. His eyes narrowed as they fixated on Vladimir. "If the rats cannot be on time," he sneered, "they should remain where no one can see their filth."
The blonde bowed his head in apology, Karkaroff, never one to shy away from seizing an opportunity to berate someone while they were vulnerable, fumed, "Spare me your worthless excuses," he spat, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. "You and your kind need to learn your place once and for all. You are an abomination. Your mere existence is a sin."
Karkaroff's expression was one of revulsion, contorting his ugly face even uglier. "Get out of my face, you heathen. Your presence ruined my day."
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Karkaroff dismissed the students, allowing them to proceed to their dueling practice.
"You two look like shite," commented Alexei. Viktor felt his brother's eyes on his face. Alexei's gaze fell on Vlad, scrutinizing his pallid skin and sunken eyes. "It came sooner this time."
Oleg examined his friend, brow furrowed. "Are the potions not helping?"
"No," Vladimir rasped, his voice barely audible.
"And you?" Alexei turned to his brother. His brow tightened. "You look like you've been guzzling Draught of the Living Dead." He paused, then added with a sardonic chuckle, "You look like shite. What have you been doing?"
"Work," Viktor replied tersely.
Alexei snorted. "Work? More like slowly killing yourself."
Oleg chimed in, "Viktor, that assignment is supposed to take three months, not one."
Vlad, struggling to regain his usual composure, spoke up, his voice weak but curious. "Does this have something to do with the fiery kitten?"
"No."
Yes.
Viktor thought about telling his friends and brother about Sigurd's behavior, but he didn't have any evidence of him doing anything. And he wasn't even sure if what he had been seeing was true, or if it was the bond making him see things that weren't there. If Sigurd had done anything, Alexei or Oleg would have said something.
Finally, as they reached the dueling classroom, Viktor broke the silence. "We'll bring you the blood at midnight."
Vladimir offered a weak smile, "Thanks, brother."
Hermione
September 28, 1994- Wednesday
Throughout Rune crafting lessons, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on her. She had foolishly hoped she would find a pair of dark eyes looking at her, but Krum's eyes never left the front of the room. She wanted to kick herself for even thinking about it. She wanted to say he had changed, but she stopped herself. The two days she had known him, well-spoken to him, didn't afford her the liberty of entertaining such thoughts.
Still, the feeling of being watched persisted; it prickled at her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Once, she could have sworn the professor was looking at her, but it must have been her imagination, because she only ever found him looking at something else, seemingly oblivious to her.
Lessons flew by as she immersed herself in the lectures. The only time she spoke was when she discussed a question with Dimitrov. He was, as she suspected, incredibly gifted in runes.
Other than the prickling feeling that wouldn't leave her alone, everything had been going well. Except for now.
Hermione clutched her paper, Developing New Runes for Modern Needs: Proposing and testing new runes tailored to address contemporary challenges and situations, her fingers trembling slightly as they traced the bold red "70" scrawled across the front page. She blinked. Her eyes must have been playing tricks on her, because the longer she stared at it, the more it mocked her.
She had meticulously researched every detail, leaving no stone unturned. She meticulously crafted her arguments, backed by irrefutable evidence. Each sentence had been carefully revised, not once, not twice, but three times!
The mockery of the "70" seemed to bore into Hermione's eyes the more she stared at it, igniting a spark of anger. This wasn't just a poor grade; it was a slap in the face! How could Professor Sigurd not see the value in her work? The injustice of it all burned in her chest.
Hermione's eyes scanned the page again, searching for clues, for any sign of what had gone wrong. Were there errors she had missed? Was her logic flawed? Or was this simply a case of her work not conforming to some arbitrary Durmstrang standard?
"Miss Grain-in-ger, are you okay?" asked Oleg with narrowed eyes.
She swept up the paper to her chest. "Just dandy." She bit out.
Alexei looked at her and was about to ask her something, but the way she glared at him dared him to say anything. He raised his hands and let her be.
She hadn't meant to. No, she had, she really had. But she glanced at Oleg's paper and saw he had gotten a 95. She clenched her hands in her lap. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't had the highest grade. Hermione bit her lip and kept her clenched hands on her lap.
The lesson finished, and with a frustrated sigh, Hermione marched to the front of the class. The rest of the students slowly exited. Krum lingered closely behind, his face contorted in a deep scowl. For a moment, she thought he might also have something to say to the professor, but he hesitated, then turned and stalked out of the room without a word.
"Professor," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "may I speak with you?"
Professor Sigurd, hunched over a stack of scrolls, turned his head slowly. His eyes, sharp and icy, met hers for a fleeting moment before returning to his work. "Wot is it?" he mumbled, his voice laced with disinterest.
Hermione took a deep breath, stealing her nerves. "I want to talk about my paper."
Sigurd's lips stretched into a smirk that a shudder coursed through Hermione. He straightened his posture and gestured towards his office in the corner of the room. "Follov me." With a flick of his wand, the heavy oak door shut behind them.
He quirked an eyebrow and demanded, "Wot do you vant?"
Hermione swallowed and straightened her back. "It's about my mark."
He settled into his worn leather chair, his gaze fixed on her. "Wot about it?"
A wave of anger washed over Hermione at his tone, erasing her fear. "I believe it was unfair," she declared, meeting his gaze defiantly.
Sigurd's eyes narrowed. "And vhy iz that?" he challenged, his voice laced with amusement. His gaze lingered on her hands, clutching the parchment.
She met his icy gaze. "Yes, well, you see," she reaffirmed, her voice unwavering. "There are several points that I believe were unfairly marked."
Sigurd leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully. "Explain," he prompted, his eyes burning into hers.
Hermione assumed the professor would offer her a seat, as McGonagall or even Professor Snape would have. When he didn't, she took a breath and began discussing her points.
Hermione took a moment to gather her thoughts, ensuring her arguments were clear and concise. One by one, she meticulously addressed each point of contention, drawing upon relevant knowledge and logic to support her claims.
Throughout her explanation, Sigurd remained silent, his gaze never leaving hers. It was only when she finished his lips quirked up.
He retaliated every one of her points, noting the weakness and narrowmindedness of using complex runes for modern problems. Runes, he explained, was a complicated area that required intensive work, and the user would need to keep in mind historical precedents.
At some point during their discussion, Hermione failed to notice the professor had gotten up from his seat and was sitting on the edge of his desk. His knees were centimeters from touching. She took a step back, but the cramped office offered little space to move.
Her gaze darted around the room as her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her robes. She was about to excuse herself when the professor offered her something she couldn't deny. An opportunity to redo her paper with the counterpoints he presented.
"If you keep in mind wot ve discussed, I shall grant you another opportunity."
Hermione smiled and bounced on her toes. "Really? Oh, prof–"
The door swung open and Snape charged in and pried his voice low. "What is going on here?" His dark eyes surveyed Hermione before landing on Sigurd.
"Oh, Professor Snape, Professor Sigurd was going over my paper with me." Hermione offered the stone-faced professor a small smile.
Snape eyed the paper in Hermione's hands, surely noting the lowest mark she had ever gotten. "I see." He rasped out. "Miss Granger, I do believe it is time for you to head to your common room."
Hermione surveyed her watch. "Oh! It's so late already!" She bent down to grab her bag off the floor and Snape darted across the small space to stand behind her.
"Go. Now, Miss Granger. I have things to discuss with Professor Sigurd."
At the door, Hermione beamed at the rune-crafting professor. "Thank you so much for your help!" The anger she had felt initially dissipated, and in its wake, she felt grateful. The professor had taken time out of his schedule to help her improve, to help her learn.
She closed the door and heard professor Snape say something that almost sounded like a hiss, "Du spielst ein gefährliches Spiel."
September 30, 1994 Friday
"Krum's not here." Stated Ron as he scanned around the Great Hall.
"Merlin, Ron, you sound like his stalker," Ginny commented as he smiled at his brother's flushed face.
"I'm not." Ron looked at his place and shoved a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. "Just sayin'."
"Might as well be with all the Krum posters in your room." Joked Fred. "Wouldn't be surprised if you knew his schedule, ain't that right, Georgie?" Fred shoved his twin with his elbow.
"That's right Freddie." George's eyes went from his brothers to Hermione's. "Wouldn't be surprised if he shoved him in a closet for his autograph."
Hermione's face warmed, and she heard Harry choke on his food. Even though it had been weeks since their "incident," George's jokes still ruffled Hermione's feathers. She needed to get over it. Angelina acted like nothing had happened, she, in fact, had been a lot nicer to the younger Gryffindor. Hermione bit her lip and glanced over at George.
He sent her a flirty smile and a wink. "Ain't that right, Granger?"
A flush crept across her cheeks as she dipped her chin down.
"Why would Hermione know anything about that? She hates quidditch?" Asked a frowning Ron.
George's playful smile turned sly. "Oh, you know because–"
Harry cleared his throat and banged his hands on the table. "Anyone up for a practice game after classes?"
Everyone erupted into discussions of who would be in whose team. Professor Hooch was allowing students to use the quidditch pitch on Fridays to practice. Hermione often wondered if her house had anything else on their heads other than quidditch.
Hermione sighed and thanked Harry. She reached her hand into his and squeezed it. He turned to her and slapped his hand over his heart. He whispered, leaning close so only she could hear, "My lady."
She giggled and felt Ginny's scrutinizing eyes on her. She'd been wanting to tell Ginny, but finding the right words other than, me, your brother and his girlfriend had a moment in the closet, proved to be a challenge.
After eating, Hermione declined her housemates' invitation to watch them play quidditch, stating that she was on her way to visit Hagrid's. Harry told her to say hi to the half-giant and that he'd visit him soon.
A pale freckled hand grabbed her shoulder when she was outside the hall. "Granger, wait up."
Hermione turned around and was met with Fred's happy-go-lucky smile. Her palms itched, and she tried to squelch the sensation by rubbing her palms on her thighs.
Fred's eyes followed her hands, and his smile faltered before he beamed at her. Hermione felt her pulse quicken, and she turned away from him and walked away.
"What do you need Fred?"
"Oh, how you wound me, Granger!" He caught up with her and brought his hands to his chest. "I can't just talk to my brother's and sister's friend?"
She raised an eyebrow. "And when's the last time you talked to me without needing something?"
He pondered her question and grinned, "There's no moment like the present, right?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. She could see Hagrid's hut in the distance. "I'm not helping you."
"You don't even know what I–"
"It's about the tournament."
"Brightest witch of her age." He dropped an arm around her shoulders and Hermione froze. Shivers danced from her shoulders to her toes. She stared into his eyes and saw a flicker of something reflected in his eyes. It was almost the same something she had seen in Krum's eyes. The pull beckoned her to keep looking into his brown eyes and for a moment, she did until Fred abruptly broke eye contact.
"Just tell me what you know about the tournament."
She shooed his arm from her shoulder and continued to walk. "I'm not going to help you go to your slaughter."
"How you exaggerate! We'll be fine!"
"You say that because you don't know! People have died and at least one person always gets seriously hurt."
"Which is exactly why I'm here." He stopped in front of her and they almost collided with each other. The pull made her look into his eyes. Fred smiled in a way that made her skin tingle. "Please, Granger."
The tingles in her hands warmed when he closed their distance. Her pulse quickened and she darted her gaze to the floor. She wasn't sure if she could keep her resolve if she looked at him.
"No. It's dangerous." She muttered.
"We are big boys. We can handle ourselves."
He placed his hands on her shoulders, much like he did with his sister. "We just need a little help with knowing what to expect."
Hermione's face warmed at his touch, and she tried to shake the feeling away. She met his warm brown eyes, and she experienced that thread pulling her to him. "I, um don't."
He lightly squeezed her shoulders, and the gesture ignited the nerves in the area. A soft, warm sensation crept over her skin and she bit her lip.
"Please, Granger, we need you" he implored, locking eyes with her as his red fringe swept across his gaze.
The warmth of his touch cascaded down her chest, eliciting a near-giddy sensation. However, as the warmth neared her collarbone, she promptly stepped back.
Merlin, she was weak. She swatted his hands away and glared at him. She straightened her back and raised her chin. She strode away, turning back to yell at him, "You can find the books about it in the library! I'm not an encyclopedia!"
Her fists clenched, knuckles whitening as her jaw tensed. Why was it that people only talked to her when they wanted something from her? How come they, he, only wanted bookworm Granger?
She unclenched her fits and took a deep breath.
Hagrid's hut came into view. It glowed in the sunset's golden light, with long shadows stretching around it.
Hermione's visits to Hagrid always calmed her nerves. It was refreshing to have someone to discuss magical creatures with without them losing interest. When Hermione first learned about the mistreatment of elves, she was sure that Hagrid would have agreed with her, but unfortunately, he didn't. Although she enjoyed their time together, she could never talk about controversial issues, like elves. He always stated that it was part of their nature and it was best not to go against it.
On her way back to the castle, Hermione stopped to admire the half-giant's pumpkins in the back of his hut. Hermione marveled at the two-meter-tall vegetables, wondering how they could grow to such magnitudes without magic.
Her eyes suddenly snapped to The Forbidden Forest. With a furrowed brow, she squinted, attempting to discern a vague movement that she swore moved in the shadows. She grasped her wand, her hands felt that oh-so-familiar prickling sensation she experienced on Wednesday afternoons.