CHAPTER THREE: The Tournament Opens
Hope.
The other Durmstrang students made no attempt to sit next to him on the great wooden ship that would bear them to Beauxbatons. These students did not necessarily dislike Aleksandr Gregorovitch, but there was something… different about him, to say the least. His family name had been tainted, yes, but that was not the issue. Indeed, many of the families of Durmstrang had seen members fall into disrepute. But those falls were gruesome, were dark. For better or worse, they were the stuff of legends. The Gregorovitch clan had simply faded after the debacle with Dragomir some five years back.
True, Aleksandr bore no outward signs of weakness, but Dragomir had not either. Rather, it was the manner in which he shied away from controversy and danger that made the other students distrust him. In this darkening era, one simple motto rang true: you are with us, or you are against us. Black or white. There was no room for grey.
Yet Aleksandr refused to choose sides. He would not go out on clandestine Muggle-hunting trips, nor would he openly defend Muggles who had been murdered by wizards. Instead, he remained quite quiet, brooding even. And while Durmstrang had certainly seen its fair share of brooding wizards over the years, Aleksandr was still… different.
Different was not good. Different was not Durmstrang. Different would not do.
***
Faith.
Whatever it takes. The words were still ringing in his ears as the carriage readied itself for transport.
“You all right, Will?” George asked next to him, a reassuring hand on his back. “You look a bit queasy.”
William tried to laugh it off. “I believe I had a bit too much sausage this morning, friend. Trying to stuff myself with some good English food before we become subject to the whim of those dastardly French cooks!”
His schoolmates laughed at this, though there were some who now looked a bit worried, having just heard George’s unfortunate tale of frog legs. George himself smiled and clapped William on the back. “Not to worry. I’ve made an alliance that will ensure our plates will be full of good turkey and thick gravy rather than the dreaded bouillabaisse!” George’s hands flew to his throat and he mimed gagging noises.
William joined in the chorus of renewed laughter, though he could not help but feel a tiny pang of jealousy. That was just like George. He never minded when others held the floor and got a laugh or two, but he always made sure to end the conversation on his terms, with one of his jokes. Indeed, his entire persona was perfectly adapted for this type of behavior. George was tall and lanky, with a very easygoing air about him. It was easy to see that he would feel at home in any number of situations, from very high society to the lowest of the low. Of course, he came from an incredibly well respected line of wizards, so cavorting with said lowest of the low was a decidedly rare occurrence. But despite his renowned pedigree, George Potter rarely came off as haughty or supercilious, at least not to those who knew him well. William was not entirely sure the same could be said about himself.
By all accounts the two boys should have been equals. William was also tall, handsome, and talented. He may not have been as relaxed as George, but he made up for it by maintaining a zealous and genuine politesse. He tried never to be disdainful to those of a lower station, and he never wielded his own impressive name to his advantage. However, each Warrington-Hughes who had predeceased him had done more than enough to ensure that the family’s noble reputation was entrenched in the minds of people far and wide across the Isle.
How many hours had Jonathan Warrington-Hughes spent lecturing his son on the importance of their name? “William, you must trust those that came before you. Everything our family has done has led to this point in your life.” Although he said this at numerous junctures during the boy’s childhood, it never failed to stir up at least some sort of family pride in William.
These reminiscences left William unsettled. Trusting in this pride and relinquishing himself to blind loyalty was a dangerous endeavor indeed, he thought as he felt the carriage lift from the Hogwarts lawn. This filial fidelity betimes led his mind to wander into strange territories, especially when provoked. In fact, at that very moment, George was still holding court in the carriage, and William began to wonder just exactly what it would take to ensure that he, not George, became Hogwarts Champion…
***
Love.
The sun was slowly setting over the low mountains to the west of the palace as Josephine and her classmates filed dutifully out the front gates and stood, waiting to welcome their guests. She allowed herself a small smile upon seeing so many of her friends wearing their nicest robes, with additional accoutrements here and there. Angeline looked particularly beautiful, and Josephine surmised that she had more than just welcoming her foreign colleagues in mind. In fact, Josephine had gathered”from bits of whispered conversation”that Angeline’s family knew one of the students from Hogwarts coming for the tournament, and there were rumors that an engagement could take place. Mademoiselle Laplanche, therefore, was justifiably beside herself, and beside her, Josephine could not help but share Angeline’s energy.
Josephine, of course, had no impending engagement to look forward to, but the handsomeness of Hogwarts men was legendary, and though she had not personally met a very large number of them, she had heard that there was an especially alluring quality about the men of Durmstrang as well.
As she contemplated these facts, she felt a sudden pang of guilt. Pascal. She had not thought of him in some days, much less written to him. And his letters had slowed, too. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he still think of her? The guilt was soon replaced by a powerful feeling of loneliness. These foreign visitors would be a welcome distraction, but would it be enough to fill the void that Pascal had left? Was there even a void to be filled? She was overwhelmed by questions.
Before she could ruminate any more on the subject, she was distracted by a great purple blaze on the front lawn. It burned bright for a few moments before turning to a violent shade of blue, then vanishing completely, leaving a golden carriage in its place. Though the carriage somewhat resembled an overgrown pumpkin, it was certainly luxurious. It made a rather pretty sight as the setting sun glinted off its glistening embellishments. A few of the younger students gasped, though Josephine knew that the carriage was not much more than a large Portkey, rendering the fire a complete theatrical stunt. However, she knew Beauxbatons attempted similar when arriving to Durmstrang and Hogwarts. Their great Abraxan horses surely made the same impression upon young students in those foreign lands. Indeed, the rivalries between the schools were so deep, so ingrained, that each tournament promised to bring new heights of braggadocio.
The Hogwarts students climbed slowly out of the carriage and began to march up to the school when a loud rumbling was heard coming from the direction of the small lake that lay on the western edge of the Beauxbatons grounds. The students of both Beauxbatons and Hogwarts turned as one to look at the lake where a great sucking noise had replaced the rumbling. The surface of the water became frothy, and then a large pole rose out of the center. Eerie black sails soon followed, and within moments, a great warship was drifting along the sun’s vibrant orange path on the lake.
As soon as the anchor was down, the small contingent of Durmstrang students disembarked and began their own march to the palace. A cool October breeze swept through the trees as the parties approached, and Josephine was unsure if the chill she felt was a result of the wind or the anticipation.
The Headmaster of Beauxbatons, a spindly man named Monsieur Autruche, made his way through the throng of eager French students and toward his Hogwarts counterpart. “Ah, Monsieur Eldridge,” he said, wringing the gentleman’s hand. “Bienvenue, welcome again to Beauxbatons.”
Monsieur Eldridge smiled warmly and waved a greeting to the Beauxbatons students. Josephine couldn’t help but notice that he looked decidedly more fit and able than her own Headmaster, as though he had weathered a few harsh winters. The infamously hearty cooking of the north played a role, no doubt. But even despite his rather robust appearance, he seemed quite refined”a marked change from Monsieur Autruche. As much as Josephine loved her school and its Head, Autruche lacked the certain distinguished quality that one would expect to be endowed to his position as the Head of the finest wizarding school in all of Europe.
Monsieur Eldridge led his students in through the gate, which Monsieur Autruche gestured towards most wildly. Angeline Laplanche had narrowed her eyes to properly scrutinize every single male student that passed, no doubt mentally picking her favorites and hoping one of them was her potential betrothed.
Josephine, however, had turned her attention back toward the great ship and the mass of Durmstrang students now getting ever closer to the castle. They did not move in a neat, orderly line like the Hogwarts contingent, nor did they look quite so friendly. She felt another chill race down her spine, and this time it was certainly not due to the breeze. She quickly stole a glance at the students to her right: they, too, seemed to notice the strange aura of the Durmstrang students, and the welcoming smiles pasted on their faces seemed a bit less genuine.
Even Monsieur Autruche was hesitant. Though he shook the Durmstrang Headmaster’s hand just as firmly as he had Monsieur Eldridge’s, his words did not carry the same effusiveness. “Oui, Monsieur Novokov. Bienvenue, welcome, welcome.”
He again gestured toward the open gates and ushered the Durmstrang students inside, then turned around and nodded to his own students. Josephine and her classmates followed, and they all passed through the Grand Foyer and into the Haute Chambre”the High Chamber”where the Welcoming Feast was beckoning.
Beauxbatons was divided into three Colleges, with each College sitting at its own polished mahogany table in the Haute Chambre. Josephine belonged to Giriaume, the oldest College. The Giriaume students sat at the very center of the hall, with students from Billebaut on their left and Nevelet on their right. Extra places had been set at all three tables, and the students from Hogwarts and Durmstrang eagerly filled these seats.
Angeline”who was in Giriaume College with Josephine”practically giggled with glee as a few particularly dashing Hogwarts students sat at the end of the Giriaume table.
Josephine smiled politely at them, but her attention was more focused on the solitary student from Durmstrang who sat down two places from her. Indeed, his blood red robes were quite noticeable against the black Hogwarts garb and the light blue uniforms of Beauxbatons. Josephine wondered why he sat alone, when only a small number had come from Durmstrang”not more than ten. Surely they would want to stick together, or at least split into groups? However, the other Durmstrang students all sat together at the Nevelet table.
Before she could contemplate the matter any further, Josephine’s attention was stolen by the tinkling of a knife against a wine glass”Monsieur Autruche had stood up at the head of the hall and was clearing his throat in preparation for a speech.
Josephine turned her head to listen.
***
Faith.
It truly was a beautiful palace, William thought as he stepped out of the carriage. He agreed with George in that perhaps it was a bit gaudy, but the “austere sincerity” of Hogwarts, as he called it, would be completely out of place here. The palace was dripping with elegance, at least from the outside, and William had no doubt it would be similarly outfitted on the inside. The grounds, too, looked quite exquisite. William paused for a moment and allowed his imagination to wander. He pictured himself as Hogwarts Champion, and wondered just what tasks were in store for the competitors. Where on the grounds would they take place? What kind of beasts would they face, what kind of spells would they need? His stomach churned in anticipation. Or was that nervousness? Either way, he felt good. He felt right.
“See what I mean?” came George’s whisper to his right. “A bit too much, don’t you think?”
“No,” William said, shaking his head. “I think it is perfect.”
George shrugged and plastered a smile on his face as he began to walk toward the palace. William knew his friend had a reputation for being a bit of a playboy, and he smirked inwardly in pity for the poor ladies of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Only three female Hogwarts students had made the trip. There were not many of them enrolled in the school to begin with”there had never quite been parity between the sexes in enrollment, and the dangerous conditions of the age certainly did not help the situation. Many parents felt, for better or worse, that these were not the times to have their daughters far away at school. And of the ladies who were enrolled, perhaps many of them did not feel comfortable making the trip to France, especially with the precarious state of Muggle-wizard relations throughout the world. And yet, William surmised, even if there had been twenty Hogwarts ladies accompanying them, he had no doubt George would enjoy this new society.
William was interested in meeting the ladies of Beauxbatons, to be sure, but had no designs on them, unlike George. Jonathan Warrington-Hughes often joked about his son returning home with a French bride, but William thought that this scenario highly unlikely.
He could not consider the matter further, for at that moment, he heard a great sucking noise come from the lake. He turned his head to see an immense ship emerge from the depths of the water and float casually toward the shore. The Durmstrang students had arrived.
William had never really taken the time to consider his eastern competitors. Of course he had heard rumors about the dark deeds of Durmstrang students, but surely they were just that: rumors. Legends inflated with the passing of time. Certainly these seventeen and eighteen year old students did not go out and hunt Muggles. The thought was ridiculous, no matter how dire the situation in Moscow was. However, based on what he had gleaned from Henry Somerset’s reports from the delegations in Paris, the Muscovite wizards were quite enraged about the status of the world, and eager to do something about it. William made a mental note not to get in too deep with the Durmstrang students, just in case the rumors were true…
He broke off his gaze at the Durmstrang ship and followed Headmaster Eldridge into the palace. His assumptions about the interior of Beauxbatons were not incorrect: it was positively spectacular. “This is the Grand Foyer,” Professor Eldridge said as they waited for the rest of the students to enter the building. “True to its name, don’t you think?” he asked with a wink. And though it was a rhetorical question, William nodded. He couldn’t help but stare, mouth agape, at the breathtaking frescoes that decorated the ceiling of the room. Dozens of feet above him, dazzling in its resplendency, was painted the entire history of magic, from the earliest Greek and Egyptian wizards up through Merlin and other, later sorcerers of the European Renaissance. It was astonishing.
If he had looked down, he would have noticed a few Beauxbatons students looking at him smugly, pride in their palace clearly etched on their faces. But he did not look down, and instead continued to marvel at the palace as he and his friends were herded into another grand room, which he heard called the Haute Chambre. He and George, along with a few other students, sat down at the large table in the center of the room next to some pleasant-looking Beauxbatons girls and a solitary Durmstrang boy, and William finally had the good sense to close his gaping mouth. Just as he shut his, another opened at the head of the room: Monsieur Autruche, the Headmaster of Beauxbatons, was starting his speech.
William wanted to listen, but it was hard to hear the quiet man over the loud whispers from a couple of snide Ravenclaws a few chairs down. They apparently were acquainted with the Durmstrang student, or at least had heard some terrible rumors about him. William could only hear snippets of their conversation:
“… his brother, five years ago…”
“… total collapse, shamed the family to no end…”
“Gregorovitch’s wands haven’t been the same since…”
If the boy could hear them, he made no notice, just continued to stare at the Beauxbatons Headmaster, who was droning on. A part of William wanted to listen more closely. Were they talking about the Triwizard Tournament five years prior? He had stayed at Hogwarts, being too young to compete, but the rumors had reached all the way to England from the east. For a moment, he strained his ears, hoping to hear more concrete details, but he soon changed his mind and listen to Monsieur Autruche. It was no good to deal in rumors and hearsay, especially not at the very beginning of the tournament.
However, throughout the Headmaster’s long speech, William found himself stealing a few extra glances at the boy from Durmstrang…
***
Hope.
The voyage in the ship was mercifully short, yet as Aleksandr climbed down from the ship and hopped onto solid French ground, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. For the next nine months, he did not have to be merely a Gregorovitch, son of the failed wandmaker, brother of the failed Champion. He could simply be Aleksandr, Alexei, Durmstrang student. He would not have to associate with his comrades from the Institute. He was free to interact with the students from Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, hopefully without his tainted name preceding him. And if his most fervent hope came true and he was selected Durmstrang Champion, he would show them. He would show them all.
Aleksandr sometimes wondered if the Goblet of Fire was smart enough to remember the past and take it into considerations. He had of course been at Durmstrang five years previously to see his brother’s name fly out of the cup, just as he had been there in the end, when it all went so wrong. But did the Goblet know? Could it know? Could the prejudice against his name hold true even by a seemingly impartial judge? He wondered.
Even if the Goblet was completely impartial, Aleksandr knew he was a long shot to be selected champion. Nikolai Golovnin had already been anointed by the entire Durmstrang populace. Indeed, Golovnin would be a fine choice. He was talented and handsome, and probably a good match against Hogwarts and Beauxbatons. Most importantly, he was not too Dark”at least not yet. Better Golovnin than, say, Emil Kerensky, whose misdeeds were deplorable at best, murderous at worst.
Aleksandr eyed the Beauxbatons Palace. It was magnificent, to be certain. At least twice the size of the Durmstrang Castle, if not more. More importantly, it did not bear the signs of repeated attacks. No indeed, there were no holes in the outer walls nor scorch marks from countless torch-bearing mobs. Aleksandr felt a strong pang of sorrow at the thought of his beloved, ravaged homeland. How had the West escaped persecution for so long? Certainly, the threat against them was imminent, was it not?
If it was, the palace before him showed no signs. It was a picture of perfection, everything that a legitimate magical academy should be. It was a picture of what Durmstrang could be again. One day…
He let his eyes wander as he marched with his comrades into the palace, though he was careful not to stare too intently at anyone”he had been told that he could be a little intense at times, and did not want to threaten any potential friendships before they had the chance to form.
Once inside the Haute Chambre, he took care not to sit with his former friends. Instead, he sat alone at the center table. Well, he was certainly not alone. It just couldn’t hurt to put a little distance in between himself and his comrades. The rumors of their deeds had no doubt reached ears even as far away as France, and he preferred not to be embroiled in controversy. Besides, what better way to start the tournament then by interacting with foreign students?
But, he thought, being completely honest with himself, the real reason he chose not to sit with the Durmstrang students was twofold: one, he was fairly certain they did not want to sit with him, if the voyage in the ship could be taken as evidence. Two, if his name came out of the Goblet of Fire, he wanted to be far away from Durmstrang.
However, there was ample time before that moment would occur, if it did at all. The tournament had not even been opened; he had at least a full day before the Goblet would make its selections. In the meantime, Professor Autruche, the Headmaster of Beauxbatons, was standing up to make a speech.
Aleksandr shifted in his chair to listen to the man, and tried valiantly to mentally block the vicious whisperings of the Hogwarts students sitting at the end of the table. He had expected this, to be certain. He even guessed that some of Durmstrang’s own students may have been the ones to start the rumors.
What they said didn’t matter to him, though, just gave him more incentive to beat them all. To prove them wrong.
***
Faith, Hope, and Love.
Monsieur Autruche spoke at length about the Triwizard Tournament in general, though no one in the room was unfamiliar with it. The moon rose higher and higher, shining brightly through the topmost mullioned windows. He waxed prolific, if not profound, his spectacles shielding his wide-set eyes from their perch at the tip of his nose. Tufts of white hair wafted from the top of his head, which was situated on top of a very long neck, giving him the distinct quality of his namesake bird, an ostrich. At length, he concluded, and the hundreds of eyes in the room eagerly turned toward what they had been most anticipating: the unveiling of the Goblet of Fire.
Monsieur Autruche waved his wand and a great, jewel-encrusted crate appeared from out of nowhere and settled itself upon the head table. Professors Eldridge and Novokov applauded appreciatively, and the collective audience gasped as Monsieur Autruche tapped the top of the casket three times with his wand. As the lid opened, an eerie blue light emerged from within the casket, illuminating his ornithic face. He reached a thin arm into the casket and withdrew the flaming goblet. He placed it on top of the table and stepped back in great reverence. The wooden cup was still shooting out the bluish flames, and the energy in the room was palpable.
“It is now ten o’clock in the evening,” squawked Monsieur Autruche. “Twenty-four hours from now, the goblet will select the three champions from those who have placed their names inside. Best of luck to you all.”
And with that, the party was dismissed and the tournament opened.
***
Love.
The day passed uneventfully. Josephine and others were recruited to show the visiting students around the palace and grounds of Beauxbatons, and everyone exchanged many pleasantries to while away the time. But soon, the main event was upon them: the selection of the champions.
Josephine sat with Angeline on her right and Remy on her left. She smiled reassuringly at her brother as the Goblet of Fire was presented to the assembly, but then realized that Remy did not look the least bit nervous.
Indeed, any doubts were quickly put to rest as the first charred slip of parchment shot out of the now-red flames. “The Beauxbatons Champion,” said Monsieur Autruche in his most authoritative voice, “is Remy de Tuileries.”
The hall erupted in applause. Beauxbatons was united behind their choice. Remy beamed and strolled gallantly to the head of the hall, giving little waves to fellow students as he went. Josephine was overjoyed.
Faith.
After the Beauxbatons Champion had been selected, William felt his stomach tighten. He had agonized all day about whether or not to somehow sabotage George, but had finally come to his senses around five in the evening. He assumed the Goblet of Fire was somewhat akin to the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts: an incredibly intelligent object. If, therefore, he committed some act of treachery against his best friend, wouldn’t that severely curtail his chances of being selected as the best representative of his school?
He knew his father would vehemently disagree with him on this point, but it all came down to character. That was what the Goblet of Fire would be judging, would it not? William trusted his own judgment, and even went with George to the Grand Foyer where the goblet was waiting. They put their names in the cup in tandem. “May the best man win,” George said with a wink. William smiled back, confident that the best man would. Would it be him?
He felt an incredible sense of calm as he sat again at the Giriaume table in the Haute Chambre. He was at peace with his decision. He had done the right thing. Would he be selected as champion? He certainly hoped so.
And yet now, his trepidation increased precipitously. Before he had another moment to think, the goblet blazed red again and another slip of parchment shot out. Monsieur Autruche caught it. “The Hogwarts Champion,” he said with a gallant attempt at flair, “is George Potter.”
The Hogwarts students erupted in applause and reached over to congratulate George. Their champion. William was silent for a moment, the implications of the event crashing down upon him. His father’s livid face flashed across his mind’s eye. But then the incredible sense of calm washed over him again, and he realized that the whole scenario was preposterous. His best friend had been honored above all others, and William should congratulate him. So he did.
Hope.
Aleksandr had hardly noticed the twenty-four hours pass. Indeed, he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost forgot to submit his name to the Goblet of Fire. But he hastily scribbled it on a piece of parchment and stuffed it in right before the feast began. Unfortunately, the only two girls from Durmstrang had been standing in the Grand Foyer when he had done this, and they let out identical derisive laughs. “Do you really think you can be selected, Gregorovitch?” snorted one, haughtily throwing her fur cape across her shoulders. Aleksandr did not answer, merely steeled his glare and marched into the Haute Chambre.
He hardly touched the food on his plate during the feast, so consumed he was by the impending selection. He knew he would be a good champion, regardless of what the others said or believed. He hoped that the Goblet of Fire would agree.
Still, his resolve lessened with each passing moment. It would be Nikolai Golovnin. It had to be. How could he have entertained the hope that it would be him, a Gregorovitch?
These thoughts consuming his mind, he hardly heard Monsieur Autruche read off the name of the Durmstrang Champion. But the resulting silence was so deafening that he was stirred back to consciousness. What?
As if reading his mind, Monsieur Autruche cleared his throat and read the scrap of parchment again: “The Durmstrang Champion,” he said, looking past a visibly enraged gaggle of Durmstrang students at the Nevelet table, “is Aleksandr Gregorovitch.”
These Three Remain by LuthAn
Chapter Notes: Hello again! Let the games begin: the Goblet of Fire has spoken. Things are getting complicated at Beauxbatons...
Infinite thanks to greennotebook, who went from being my best reviewer to the best beta I could ever have hoped for.
As always, questions and/or comments welcome. Enjoy!