CHAPTER FOUR: The Tasks at Hand
Hope.
“Aleksandr Gregorovitch.” The words were still echoing throughout the Haute Chambre as Aleksandr slowly pushed his chair back and rose. He just stood there for the briefest of moments before glancing to the Nevelet table to his right and then marching to the front of the hall, where the two other champions had already gathered. He knew they did not comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened, but the tension lingering in the room was thick, palpable.
“Congratulations, Monsieur Gregorovitch,” said the waifish Head of Beauxbatons. “I have no doubt you will serve Durmstrang Institute well.” The wavering quality of his voice betrayed the fact that he most likely did have some serious doubts. Aleksandr merely nodded, fully aware that his selection would be met with more jeers than cheers.
Nevertheless, he looked to his own Headmaster, hoping to get some sort of reassurance. Novokov was not smiling; rather, his countenance was markedly resolute, and he nodded gruffly. He reached across the table to shake Aleksandr’s hand, and the look in his eyes betrayed a deeper meaning. They will accept you, he seemed to say. We will make this right. The barest hint of a smile crossed his lips before Autruche opened his mouth to speak again.
“Mesdemoiselles et messieurs,” he said, striving to regain the pomp and circumstance that the reaction to Aleksandr’s selection had knocked out of him, “join me in congratulating your Triwizard Champions!”
The hall burst into applause again, and Aleksandr felt an upwelling of happiness to see that even one or two Durmstrang students were clapping. He fervently hoped that his name coming out of the goblet would be the event that would cause his name to return to the good graces of Moscow society.
For now, though, he had little time to worry more about the reaction of his fellow students, for he and the other two champions were being herded into a smaller salon at the back of the Haute Chambre, followed by the heads of the three schools. As they entered, Aleksandr saw the only other occupant was a very short, bespectacled wizard wearing robes of glistening gold, though a more careful examination revealed that they were fraying at the hem.
The short wizard cleared his throat and nodded his head in a curt bow before holding one hand outstretched. “Your wands, if you please,” he said in a garishly nasal voice.
Aleksandr was relieved to see that the other two were just as confused as he, and they all turned toward Autruche, who nodded his head. “The Weighing of the Wands,” he said, as if this would elucidate the situation. When the three champions still reacted with blank stares, he continued. “It is a tradition as old as the tournament itself. We must inspect your wands, you know, make sure they have not been tampered with, make sure they are not defective.”
Aleksandr almost laughed, but restrained himself. His wand, of course, had been hand-crafted by his father”with substantial assistance from Aleksandr himself”and had hardly been out of his possession since the elder Gregorovitch had put the finishing touches on it. It was in perfect condition. He nevertheless pulled it from his sleeve and placed it in the smooth palm of the short wizard. The other champions followed suit, and Aleksandr was pleased to see that his wand was the longest of all three.
“I am Louis Mouchet,” said the wizard, laying two of the wands on the table and keeping one in his hands. “I am the finest wandmaker in all of France, and it is my job to ensure that your wands are in perfect working order. However, since none of you has purchased one of my fine French wands,” he sent a derisive sneer at the Beauxbatons Champion, “there is only so much I can do.”
Aleksandr merely raised an eyebrow at these words, and kept silent while Mouchet inspected the first wand. “An Ollivander creation, I assume?” he asked, rolling his eyes in the direction of the Hogwarts Champion, who nodded. “Ten inches”far too long if you ask me,” continued Mouchet. “And the core is… dragon heartstring? Yes, that is one of Ollivander’s favorites. The wood is ash, of course. A thoroughly uninspired choice, but it all appears to be functional. Gramenticara,” he said, casually waving the wand at the ground, where tufts of bright green grass shot up from the floor. Aleksandr saw Monsieur Autruche flinch at the sight.
Mouchet handed the wand back to the Hogwarts Champion, who grabbed it a bit defensively. “Thank you,” he said, but all present knew he hardly meant it. Mouchet had moved on, however, to the second wand.
“Mine is an Ollivander as well,” the Beauxbatons Champion said, extending his hand to the boy from Hogwarts. “I’m Remy de Tuileries.” They shook hands. “George Potter,” came the response. Both boys turned now to Aleksandr and extended their hands. He shook them both, and opened his mouth to speak: “I’m Aleksandr Gr””
“If you please,” said Mouchet, interrupting Aleksandr. He shot stern looks at all three, then twirled Remy’s wand around in his fingers. “As you have already so kindly pointed out, this is an Ollivander. Ten and one half inches, and containing a unicorn hair?” Remy nodded in response, but Mouchet just clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “They make for flighty wands, as I am sure you have discerned.” He flicked his wrist and great golden bubbles emerged from the tip of Remy’s wand, and then proceeded to float lazily around the room.
“And finally,” Mouchet intoned, tossing Remy his wand, “we have the final wand. A Gregorovitch, no doubt.” He picked up Aleksandr’s wand disdainfully, putting a finger at each end. “Thirteen inches. Entirely too long. Oak. An acceptable choice, I suppose.” He peered intently at the wand. “Of course, Gregorovitch used to be a fine wandmaker. Yes, his wands were once quite powerful. He has slipped recently, there is no doubt about that.”
Aleksandr could hold his tongue no longer. “Pyotr Gregorovitch is my father,” he said, his temper bubbling just below the surface and threatening to erupt. He clenched his hands into fists at the insolent man’s suggestion that his father’s talent was waning.
There was a tangible pause where no one seemed to know what to say. Mouchet did not look embarrassed, merely annoyed. “Indeed,” he said in his nasal voice, still examining the wand. “Did you make this wand, then?”
“I helped, yes,” Aleksandr responded through gritted teeth.
“And you did not tamper with it in any way? Place two wand cores in it, perhaps, for added strength?”
“It contains a single plume from an Occamy, and nothing else,” Aleksandr said, doing all that was in his power to steady his breathing.
“Occamy, you say? A strange choice. Well, we shall see if you are telling the truth with a simple test.” He pointed the wand at the ground. “Firmamento!” he exclaimed with derisive gusto. The floor began to tremble slightly, rattling a large porcelain vase on a table. Monsieur Autruche looked a bit queasy as he reached out to steady the vase. Then Mouchet raised the wand with a swift upward jerk and the trembling stopped. “It is no more powerful than an ordinary wand. Perfectly mediocre.”
It was all Aleksandr could do to restrain himself and resist snatching the wand from Mouchet and beating him over the head with it. It was one thing to insult him, Aleksandr, or speak of what had happened to Dragomir at the last tournament. But his father’s wands had never once faltered. Indeed, sometimes Aleksandr wondered if wandmaking was the only thing that kept the elder Gregorovitch alive day to day. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to carefully whittle, sculpt, mold a wand. He had been hoping that Dragomir would take over the family business, but of course that was hardly possible now.
Aleksandr was in quite the foul mood by the time Mouchet said his final disparaging words and left the small chamber. Remy and George and their respective Headmasters exited as well, but Aleksandr stayed behind, and Professor Novokov with him.
For a few minutes, neither spoke. But Aleksandr had something to get off his chest. He looked down at the floor, sheathing his wand back in its sleeve pocket, and inhaled deeply. “I am sorry, Headmaster,” he said, switching to their native Russian, eyes still trained at the lush carpeted floor.
“For what, Aleksandr?” Novokov took an almost imperceptible step forward and crossed his arms.
“For being chosen, sir. I know you were hoping it would be Nikolai whose name came out of the Goblet.”
Novokov nodded his head. “Yes, Mr. Golovnin would have been an excellent choice, would he not?”
Aleksandr paused and raised his head. “He is very talented.”
“Quite so,” Novokov responded. “And yet, I was not upset that his name did not fly out of that goblet. And I was not upset that yours did.”
Aleksandr said nothing in response, so Novokov continued. “But was I happy? No, I certainly was not. You being chosen puts you in a very precarious situation, Aleksandr, a situation I prefer to keep my pupils out of. You know as well as I do that the rest of the students were not expecting you to be selected. Mr. Kerensky, in particular, looked especially upset. But, if you will forgive me for speaking so openly of your classmates, they are shortsighted in regards to this tournament. They want glory for Durmstrang, and they want it at any cost. That is a dangerous goal in these times, as you well know. The relentless pursuit of anything is a surefire way to have it all come crashing down on you in the end.”
The headmaster was talking about Dragomir now, Aleksandr knew. They had discussed it five years ago, but hardly since then, though everyone else in the school frequently opined on the matter”behind closed doors, at least.
“Yes, I am speaking of your brother now,” Novokov said, as if he could read Aleksandr’s mind. “You are like him in so many ways, Aleksandr, which may not be something you wish to hear, but I say it as a compliment. Dragomir was one of the finest students to ever attend the Durmstrang Institute. You share his immense talent and power”this cannot be denied. The challenge for you, then, will be to wield it better. I trust that you will.”
Aleksandr nodded, letting the professor’s words sink in. He was powerful. He knew that. Mouchet had underestimated his wand, and the connection Aleksandr felt whenever he used it. The tasks of the tournament would be mere trifles. Surviving the jeers and stares of his classmates, however, could not be helped by thirteen inches of oak.
Again, as if on cue, Novokov spoke. “Aleksandr, we will speak to them together. They will accept you as their champion before the night is over. It will be a long battle, but we will be victorious for Durmstrang. Go now to our chambers. I will meet you and the rest of the students there after I speak to Monsieur Autruche.”
Aleksandr nodded again and left the room, stepping back into the Haute Chambre just in time to see Emil Kerensky whip out the main door and out of sight. He looked to his left, where Emil had been talking to a couple of students, and his heart sank to see that it was George and Remy. If either of them saw Aleksandr, they made no motion of it, and exited through the door just as swiftly as Emil. My name impugned before they even know it, Aleksandr thought to himself as he walked slowly through the deserted room. A long battle indeed.
***
Love.
Josephine was waiting in the Grand Foyer, for Remy had yet to come out of the Haute Chambre. She was twisting her hands in nervous anticipation”she had barely had time to congratulate her beloved brother before he had been whisked into the side chamber.
Most of the other students had already filtered out of the room in a great tide, and Josephine wondered if she had missed one. The door opened, and she beamed, but her smile was in vain for no one but a dark-haired Durmstrang boy exited. He glanced at her briefly before whipping his dark red robes about him and heading down the right-hand corridor.
She tapped her foot impatiently, and was about to head back to the dormitory when the door opened for a second time and Remy came out, another tall boy at his side. Remy smiled as he saw her, and pulled her into a great embrace. “Congratulations, Remy!” she said, closing her eyes as she hugged him. “I knew it would be you.”
“Let’s make Father proud, shall we?” he said, squeezing her back. Then he released her from his grasp and gestured to the boy beside him. “Josephine, may I present George Potter, the Hogwarts Champion. George, this is my sister, Josephine.”
Josephine knelt into a deep curtsy and George Potter bowed. “How do you do, Mr. Potter?”
“I am quite well, mademoiselle. Thank you.” He smiled and clicked his heels together. “Well, I best go find my friend William, and leave you two alone to plot how best to overthrow me!” He gave a genial wave and headed down the left-hand corridor.
“He seems very nice, Remy,” Josephine said, linking her arm in her brother’s as they headed for the Giriaume dormitories.
“He is. It’ll be a shame to beat him,” he said with a smile.
She laughed. “Was that the Durmstrang Champion who left the room right before you?”
Remy paused in recollection, then said, “No, I believe that must have been Emil Kerensky. He had just introduced himself to George and me.”
Josephine nodded. “What about the Durmstrang Champion, then? Did you speak to him?”
“Hardly at all,” Remy said, his forehead creasing into a frown. “He nearly assaulted Monsieur Mouchet in the small chamber.”
“The wandmaker? Why?” Josephine was shocked.
“Mouchet insulted his father. Without knowing it,” he said at Josephine’s startled intake of breath. “Aleksandr’s father is Pyotr Gregorovitch, the wandmaker,” he added by way of explanation.
“So Aleksandr assaulted him?” Josephine was fascinated. So much drama already, and the tournament had just been opened!
“Well, perhaps I exaggerated the situation. He did not assault him, but it was quite clear he was perturbed.”
“And with good reason, it seems,” Josephine stated with an emphatic nod. “Monsieur Mouchet has no place insulting Monsieur Gregorovitch like that, regardless of whether he is a competitor’s father!”
“That is true, I suppose,” Remy said, suddenly coming to a halt. He turned to Josephine and grasped her hands. “Listen, Josie,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay away from Aleksandr Gregorovitch, will you? The other Durmstrang students do not speak very highly of him at all.”
Josephine frowned. “I wonder why. Did they say?” When Remy shook his head, she continued. “Well, I cannot imagine that we will come into contact too much.”
“Good. Just promise not to seek him out, sister.”
“I promise,” she said. He relinked her arm in his own and they continued their walk back to Giriaume.
***
Faith.
William lay on his bed in the sumptuous guest rooms of the Beauxbatons Palace. The other boys sharing his dormitory had all fallen asleep, for the most part, except for George, who had yet to return from the main wing.
William sighed. He was happy for George, he really was. Thankful, even, that he himself would not have to compete. He had heard great tales of the danger of the Triwizard Tournament, and a large part of him was relieved not to have to put himself in mortal peril.
Still, he could not deny that he was also disappointed. The Goblet of Fire had chosen which of the two was more worthy, and it had not been him. It was George, just like always. To think of his father’s reaction made him even more depressed. Quite frankly, he was surprised to have not received a Howler. Maybe his father hadn’t heard the news yet. But he would soon, and then William would have to deal with a Howler personified. It was not a pleasant thought.
He sat up in bed and glanced at his pocket watch, a gift from his father upon his seventeenth birthday. The tiny, ornate hands were creeping slowly onward, and William was not sure just how much longer he could wait for George before fatigue overtook him. But just as he was deciding to retire, the door burst open and George stood silhouetted in the frame, beckoning William to join him in the antechamber.
William dutifully hopped off his bed and crossed the room to join his friend, shaking George’s hand when he reached him. “Congratulations, George. I really am happy for you.”
“Thank you, William,” George said, shutting the door to the main room as they passed through it. “That means a great deal to me. And you know that cup had it down to the two of us. Luck of the draw, right?”
William smiled, but shook his head. “No, you deserve it. The cup made the right choice.”
“Well, you can’t argue with magic, right?” George asked with a wink.
They moved in tandem to the two chairs on one wall of the small room. They both sat, but neither spoke. Pleasantries aside, there was still a bit of tension. Finally, William cleared his throat. “So did you meet the other two champions?”
George’s face lit up. “Yes, I did. Remy de Tuileries from Beauxbatons”he’s our sort of man. Funny and clever, and all that sort. He’s got a wand from Ollivander’s, too, so at least he recognizes British superiority in that field!”
William smiled, thinking of his own wand, also from Ollivander’s. Eleven and a half inches and made of cherry wood, with a single unicorn hair inside. It was magnificent. What a shame it would see hardly any action this year… He shook his head and tuned back in to George, who was just finishing up the details of a conversation he and Remy had.
“… so Kerensky thinks we should stay away from him.”
“The Durmstrang Champion?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t missed anything too important.
“Right. Says he’s trouble”his whole family.”
William frowned. “That seems odd, since he was good enough to be selected champion, right?”
“Could be true. Could be that he fixed the goblet to spit out his name,” George said pointedly.
“I guess so. What did you think of him?”
“He seemed fine enough. A bit touchy, maybe. He’s a Gregorovitch, though”his father’s the wandmaker. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slipped in a little something extra to fix up his own wand.”
William could not think of anything to say in response to this, so he settled for a noncommittal grunt. Another long silence passed. “When is the first task?” he finally asked.
George stifled a yawn. “Two weeks. Hardly any time to prepare.”
“I don’t suppose there is anything to prepare, is there?” William asked. Surely the competitors didn’t know what the tasks were in advance.
“No, I suppose you’re right,” George said, yawning again, though William detected a slight shiftiness in his manner. “Well, we should get to bed. Lots to see tomorrow”Remy said he would take us on a tour of the grounds.”
“Us?”
“You and me,” George said. “I told him I would introduce you. I tell you, he’ll fit right in.”
“Excellent,” William said with a smile. “Right, well, see you at breakfast, then?”
“I never miss it!” George said, clapping him on the back as they rose from their chairs.
Once in the dormitory, William loosened his cravat and leaned against one of the posts of his bed. He was happy for George. He really was. At least, he would be if he kept telling himself over and over again…
***
Hope.
Aleksandr opened the door to the Durmstrang guest quarters and found”not surprisingly”the entire contingent awake and waiting. They wanted to hear his defense, wanted him to plead his case. He shut the door quietly behind him and merely stood there, waiting.
An agonizing silence passed before Emil Kerensky spoke. “So you, Gregorovitch, think you’re the one to lead Durmstrang back to glory?”
Aleksandr shook his head and said placidly, “No, Emil, the Goblet of Fire thinks that.”
Kerensky snorted. “The Goblet of Fire must have a short memory, friend. It must not be able to tell that blood runs thicker than water, and”in your case”is the weakest link in an already feeble chain.” He practically snarled the last words as he took two steps closer to Aleksandr.
Aleksandr felt his blood pumping in his ears, but he could do nothing but grit his teeth. Novokov’s faith in him would disappear completely if he were to return to find him embroiled in an all-out brawl.
Just then, the door opened and Novokov entered. He was a physically imposing man, tall and dark with impeccable good looks. At least, that is how he used to be. The years of terror in the East had taken their toll on everyone, but Ilya Novokov had borne them with extreme sorrow. The Institute that he had worked so hard to build had taken a sharp turn for the worse, and it was all he could do to try to pick up the fallen pieces.
Aleksandr knew that the times must have been hard on his Headmaster, but he had never really stopped to examine the lines in the man’s face. As Novokov stood in the threshold of the room, though, Aleksandr realized for the first time that the situation in Moscow was killing him.
“Sons and daughters of Durmstrang,” Novokov said, taking a step forward and closing the door behind him, “few things in this world grieve me more than seeing our school’s name fall from grace, but to have it fall even farther would be the single most painful thing I can imagine.” He stopped and looked around the room, staring into the eyes of each and every one of his students. “We all know that our glorious Institute has fallen on hard times. We all know what the West thinks of us. We all know that the Paris delegations care more for arguing about petty political issues than for helping us solve our very real problems. So this is why we must, must unite.” He pounded his fist in his palm for emphasis.
There was a long pause while he allowed his words to sink in. A few students shifted uncomfortably, and Emil Kerensky had hardly backed down from his aggressive stance. Novokov continued: “The International Confederation of Wizards sees our entire region as nothing more than a set of quarreling factions. They believe that since we cannot agree on a course of action for ourselves, they will have no better luck trying to help us. This, as you may be able to reason, is erroneous logic, and perfectly foolish given the nature of the situation.”
An eerie calm had fallen over the room, and students all around Aleksandr were starting to listen intently. Aleksandr was also quite intrigued: he had never heard Professor Novokov speak his mind so openly. “Ah, I am sorry,” Novokov said, once again displaying his uncanny knack for reading the mood of the situation, “I am waxing far too long on this topic, and perhaps it is not my place to do so. It is certainly not the matter that is most pressing for us at present. No, students, that matter would be the Triwizard Tournament, and your champion, Aleksandr Gregorovitch.”
Another silence ensued, though Emil Kerensky seemed to be struggling to keep his mouth shut. Novokov stood next to Aleksandr and put his hand on his shoulder. “This is your champion, Durmstrang,” he said, his booming voice carrying to all four corners of the room. “Aleksandr Gregorovitch is one of the finest students to ever walk the halls of Durmstrang, and he will do us proud. I should not have to implore you to support one of your own, students, but I do expect you to support Mr. Gregorovitch in his every endeavor during this tournament.”
Aleksandr looked around the room and was pleased to see some of the students nodding at Novokov’s words. Some even smiled. Still Novokov continued: “What he does echoes in what we all do. And, in return, what we do will reflect right back on him. Please, friends, let us not give the West any more reason to doubt and mistrust us. Let us be victorious for the East, and united for Durmstrang!”
At these words, the crowd burst into applause. Aleksandr allowed himself a real smile for the first time in months as a wave of blood red robes swept toward him to shake his hand. Many students apologized. A few clapped him on the back. Nikolai Golovnin embraced him, and said softly, “To be quite honest, I am glad it is you, Alexei.”
At the very end of the line was Emil Kerensky. The other students fanned out into a circle as Kerensky walked slowly toward Aleksandr, his expression unreadable. Aleksandr felt his heart start to race again, but it slowed as Kerensky smiled. It was far from a grin, but it was good enough for Aleksandr. Kerensky extended his hand, and Aleksandr grasped it. “I am sorry, Alexei,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Aleksandr replied. Though this was perhaps untrue, he agreed that a fresh start was exactly the thing they needed.
Kerensky moved closer and whispered in his ear: “For Durmstrang. It is all for Durmstrang.”
Aleksandr nodded again, but as he released Kerensky’s hand and watched him walk away, he could not help but notice a strange look that had overtaken the boy’s face. It was wholly unsettling, but gone in the blink of an eye. Perhaps he had imagined it?
He tried to put it out of mind, but as he tossed and turned that night, the look on Kerensky’s face haunted his dreams.
***
Faith.
By the time he awoke, William was feeling marginally better about the whole scenario. The year might turn out to be less exciting now that he was not Hogwarts Champion, but it could still be fulfilling. He turned on his side to see if George was still asleep in the bed to his right. He was. George Potter was a notoriously late riser.
William smiled and put his hands under his head, thinking that a few more minutes of sleep would certainly not hurt.
His potential reverie was interrupted, however, by a portly red face suddenly looming in front of him. Jonathan Warrington-Hughes had come to call.
“William, if you please,” his father said, “I would like to have a word with you.”
William instantly sat up in bed, not even bothering to wonder how his father had gained access to the dormitory. He pulled a robe around his shoulders and followed his father into the small antechamber where he and George had talked the night before, steeling himself for the haranguing that was sure to follow.
Surprisingly, however, Lord Warrington-Hughes did not yell. He merely paced around the room a few times, his hands clasped behind his back. After a good length of time, he turned to William and spoke. “Son, I did not come here to tell you what I felt upon hearing that your name had not come out of the Goblet of Fire.”
William furrowed his brow and sat on one of the chairs. “Then why did you come?”
“I need you to trust me, William,” his father said, apparently thinking this would serve as an explanation.
“Trust you to do what?”
“Trust me to make it right.”
William’s furrowed brows deepened. His father was making no sense. “Make it right?” he questioned. “What do you mean? What will you ‘make right’?”
His father did not answer immediately, but started his pacing again. When he did speak, it was impassioned: “You should be Hogwarts Champion, not George Potter. You, William.”
“Well, father,” William said calmly, somewhat reassured to see that the lecture was imminent, “the Goblet of Fire chose. There was nothing I could do.”
“Oh, that’s where you are wrong, William. Did you not receive my letter? Do whatever it takes? And what did you do? Nothing! Not a single thing to ensure that it was you and not Potter.”
William stood up and moved directly in front of his father. “Yes, father, that is true: I chose not to cheat! You think the goblet would have rewarded me had I cheated and made sure George did not put his name in?”
“Do not be so naïve, William,” Jonathan said, equally miffed. “Everyone cheats in the Triwizard Tournament. You lacked the courage to cheat, but this does not make you above those who do cheat.”
William had had enough. “Father,” he said curtly, “I thank you for coming down here to see me, but I really should get ready for lessons now. I assume that you will go see Henry Somerset in Paris, so I trust that I will see you soon.” William turned around and made to head back into the dormitory.
Jonathan, however, was not finished. He grabbed William’s shoulder and pulled him back around so they were face-to-face. “Just tell me, William, if you trust me to make it right.”
“Father, how can I trust you if I have no idea what you are saying!” William raised his hands in exasperation.
“Just tell me if you trust me!”
But William could not answer, for at that moment, George Potter walked through the door. “Oh, good morning, sir!” he said cheerily, extending his hand to Lord Warrington-Hughes.
William’s father shook it briefly with a grunted greeting, then turned again to William: “Think about it, son.” With that, he hastily left the room.
“What was that all about?” George asked, crossing his arms.
William answered truthfully: “I have no idea.”
***
Love.
The morning of the first task was unusually cold, even for October. Josephine brought an extra cloak with her just in case”the wind from the sea could certainly make for a chilly breeze.
No climatic factors, however, could dampen her excitement. She and Remy had spent many hours over the past two weeks reviewing various types of spells and charms, and trying to find out as much as they could about past tournaments and their tasks. Some seemed laughable, some positively terrifying. They both hoped the tasks at this year’s Tournament would fall somewhere in between.
Remy had been called to the arena about an hour prior, so Josephine and her friend Angeline headed down together”along with everyone else in the palace, of course. As they approached the arena, Josephine smiled. Even the makeshift auditorium that Beauxbatons had erected was dripping in elegance. She and Angeline climbed up the golden steps to their very plush, purple-cushioned seats and sat down. Josephine withdrew a small pair of Omnioculars in order to inspect the field, but quickly realized she would not need them: not only was the field incredibly close, it was also covered in hard-to-miss volcanoes. Josephine heard her voice be added to the chorus of murmurs around her as she turned to Angeline: “Volcanoes?”
Her heart caught in her throat. Volcanoes were terrifying. Mount Etna in Italy had erupted barely more than twenty years prior, killing a Beauxbatons student who had been vacationing with his family. As if to further arouse her fright, the volcano closest to her erupted, spewing a jet of blue fire out its top.
“It’s all right, Josephine,” Angeline said reassuringly. “They are only miniature volcanoes, after all, and look: there are a dozen wizards ready to assist.” She pointed at a gaggle of Beauxbatons staff members waiting around the outskirts of the arena.
Before Josephine could wring her hands any more about the task, however, a booming voice was heard, magically amplified throughout the arena. Josephine turned her head to an elevated platform at the center of the stands opposite where she was seated and saw Monsieur Autruche speaking with his wand pointed at his throat. It was quite strange to hear his soft voice so magnified, and Josephine felt shivers run down her spine at his words. He was introducing the Tournament judges. The task was about to begin.
The Headmasters of all three schools would be judging, as well as Monsieur Thierry Barnier from the French Ministry of Magic”this the students knew in advance. But the identity of the fifth judge had yet to be revealed. Monsieur Autruche knew the moment was upon him and he took a dramatic pause before he waved his arm in a flourish and a short, dark-haired man emerged onto the platform, resplendent in blue and red spangled robes. There were a few sharp intakes of breath around Josephine, though she could not identify the wizard herself. “May I present, mesdames et messieurs, Monsieur Pierre Bonaccord.”
Now it was Josephine’s turn to be surprised and she clapped heartily along with the rest of the crowd. Bonaccord, of course, was currently making headlines as the Supreme Mugwump of the First International Confederation of Wizards meeting in Paris. Though she may have disagreed with the proposed Statute of Secrecy, she nonetheless felt a swell of pride to know that such an important personage was at her beloved Academy. This pride was swiftly swept away, however, as her thoughts did turn briefly to the Statute, and, consequently, to Pascal. She had received only one letter from him in the past two weeks, and sent none back.
At that moment, though, she heard a great clanging, and understood that the task was about to commence. Gripping Angeline’s hand in her own, she focused her full attention to the field.
***
Hope.
The three champions were huddled together in a small tent outside the arena. A strange smell was in the air, as if something was burning. Aleksandr wondered about the source of the smell, and what exactly the first task would involve, but he supposed he would find out soon enough. Indeed, no sooner had they met the two other judges than they heard a bell, signaling the start of the task. A French wizard was speaking to them in very vague terms about what they would face once they were in the arena, then he finished with a flourish: “Your task is to coax out the secrets. Bonne chance. Good luck!”
They had drawn lots to determine the order, and George Potter would be going first, Aleksandr second, and Remy de Tuileries third. This suited Aleksandr perfectly well. It would give him some time to collect his thoughts, and ruminate about meeting the man that was so completely ignoring his people.
Pierre Bonaccord. Aleksandr wondered if the Supreme Mugwump knew how much his name was slandered in the wizarding taverns of Moscow and St. Petersburg. Yet he had seemed a pleasant man at the very least”Aleksandr had been mildly surprised by his amiable appearance and manners. Perhaps not all was as it seemed.
His thoughts turned to the task at hand. Coax out the secrets. What did that mean? He glanced at the large hourglass that was marking George’s time. Only five minutes had passed, but Aleksandr heard a huge roar from the crowd and then the magnified voice of Monsieur Autruche proclaiming that Potter had completed the task.
It was his turn. Aleksandr cast a sideways glance at Remy, who looked decidedly more nervous. Aleksandr felt hardly nervous at all. He could feel his heart beat against his chest, but it was purely in anticipation. He knew he could face whatever lay beyond the curtain.
As he strolled into the arena, however, and heard the signal to start, it took moment for him to fully comprehend what he saw before him: volcanoes. Seven miniature volcanoes, each spewing a different color of fire and magma.
A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. Coax out the secrets. From where? The fire? The rock? It was entirely possible that these things could have been magically endowed with the property of speech, but Aleksandr had a feeling that this was not the intent of the message. Coax out the secrets. Coax…
Then it dawned on him. He had never enjoyed Durmstrang’s classes on Magical Creatures, finding them tedious, but he had always respected the creatures themselves, especially the ones with interesting qualities. His father was always on the quest for new wand cores, and Aleksandr had come into contact with species far and wide. One now particularly stood out in his mind: the Thikara.
In the early days, before things started to get bad, Pyotr Gregorovitch had been testing out wand cores that relied heavily on secrets and memory”he believed such a magical core would ensure that the wand remain truer to the wizard who owned it. He had tried Jobberknoll feathers and Gedaken scales, but had only achieved success”albeit marginal”with the tail feathers of the Thikara, a small, bird-like creature with a tufted crest, overlarge eyes, and a pair of slightly pointed ears. And, Aleksandr remembered with a smile, the Thikara preferred to live in the most inaccessible climates: Pyotr, Dragomir, and Aleksandr had found them huddled in a nest in the frozen tundra of Siberia, though Aleksandr had heard reports of them in the densest jungle thickets, the most arid deserts, and”to his great delight”inside volcanoes.
Aleksandr remembered questioning his father about the strange habitats of the Thikara as they had traipsed across the barren tundra. What made the world’s harshest climes suitable homes for the creature? His father had smiled. “Aleksandr,” he had said, “the Thikara exists for one simple purpose: to keep the secrets of the wizard. Imagine that you are so distraught with a burden you have been forced to carry, the deepest, darkest secret, and you desire someone, something to hear your thoughts and share your pain. Do you stroll down to the local pub and tell the proprietor? No. You must be willing to go to the ends of the earth to ensure the safety of your secret, and that no normal being will be able to hunt your precise confidant down and force him to reveal it. However,” he had added with a laugh, “Thikaras are notoriously long-winded once you do track them down, so you must be prepared to listen to other people’s innermost thoughts before you are allowed to speak your peace!”
Aleksandr shifted his thoughts back to the present and looked around him. Surely this was their task: to find the Thikaras and coax out their secrets. He marveled for the briefest moment at how esoteric the required knowledge was, and wondered how Potter had managed to complete the task in such a short amount of time. Aleksandr glanced at the hourglass and saw that a full minute of his time had elapsed, and he had done nothing but stand and reminisce. He chastised himself inwardly and began to survey the volcanoes.
The hardest thing would be to convince the Thikaras to leave the mouths of the volcano, for certainly he could not dive in after them. He approached the nearest volcano cautiously, wand at the ready. When he was mere inches away, it burst forth in a stream of yellow fire. Aleksandr lifted his wand and sent a powerful jet of water at the flames, causing them to flicker and fade. Dozens of salamanders scampered up and down the sides of the volcano as Aleksandr peered at the top. There was no sign of the Thikara, and time was moving fast.
He racked his brain. Surely a Summoning Charm wouldn’t work? He tried”“Accio Thikara!””but to no avail. The only things that came hurdling toward him were small bits of rock. Then something dawned on him. His father’s words floated back through his mind: “The Thikara exists for one simple purpose: to keep the secrets of the wizard.” This creature wanted nothing more than for Aleksandr to give him a secret, so he would.
“I have a secret,” he whispered, feeling extraordinarily foolish. Still nothing. “I have a secret,” he whispered a bit louder. Sure enough, a tufted head peeked over the rim of the volcano and a Thikara came scurrying down the edge. Before Aleksandr could speak his pretend secret, however, the Thikara opened its mouth and began to spew words. Aleksandr glanced around, but he knew there would be neither quills nor parchment to collect the secrets. He pointed his wand at the Thikara and spoke a fairly complex incantation to ensure that the secrets would be remembered in the wand itself. If he had performed the spell correctly, he would later be able to point his wand at parchment and have the secrets transcribe themselves upon it.
“This is far too easy,” he muttered to himself as the Thikara scuttled back into the mouth of the volcano. Leave it to the French to come up with something so tame, he thought. The Durmstrang Tournament had featured a whole host of terrifying creatures, none so fluffy as the Thikara.
But lost in his musings he neglected to be mindful of his surroundings, and a volcano erupted just inches from his face, flicking bits of green magma onto his robes, which promptly burst into flames. He cursed silently and muttered, “Aguamenti.” A jet of water shot out the tip of his wand, and he hoped the judges hadn’t noticed. He had been too careless and headstrong”qualities the Tournament was no doubt intended to bring forth to be judged. He smiled ruefully. Beasts may be one way to bring out the best in a wizard, but even the simplest task could betray one’s basest characteristics.
He took great care to avoid or extinguish all further fire, and finished the task in a respectable ten minutes. As he strode out of the arena, however, he wondered just how George Potter had managed to finish so fast…
***
Faith.
The first task had been splendid, and George was comfortably in the lead, having beaten Durmstrang by five minutes and Beauxbatons by a full ten. Though William hated to see his new friend Remy in last place, he was ecstatic at George’s success. The more he considered the matter, the more pleased he was that George had been chosen, and not him. Just the sight of those volcanoes was enough to solidify his position as number-one supporter rather than secretly jealous best friend. Not even his father’s disappointed looks could shake William’s fervent belief that the goblet had done right in selecting George.
Come to think of it, though, he thought, where is George? He had been so caught up by the tidal wave of people after the first task that William had not had a chance to speak to him, but it had been more than an hour and George had not returned to the dormitory.
William did not have to wait long for an answer, though, for he soon saw their classmate Charles Hurst enter the room.
“Charles, have you seen George? I haven’t congratulated him on his fantastic debut!” William smiled at his friend, but his smile quickly faded as he saw the look on Charles’s face”he was ghostly-white and looked as if he might have been weeping. “What’s the matter, Hurst?” William felt the color drain from his own face. “What’s the matter?” he repeated. “What’s happened?”
“William,” Charles said slowly, cautiously. “George is… George is dead.”
These Three Remain by LuthAn
Chapter Notes: Hello there! Apologies for the extreme length of this chapter--on a deadline, you know! Hopefully the next few will be a bit shorter. As a disclaimer: the Occamy and the Jobberknoll are JKR's creations, and I claim no credit!
Many, many thanks to beta extraordinaire greennotebook who was invaluable in the planning of this chapter. I hope everyone loved "Deathly Hallows," and I hope you enjoy this chapter!