CHAPTER SIX: New Year, New Challenges
Hope.
After the first task and the ensuing madness surrounding George Potter’s death, November and December passed with relative calm. The three headmasters and various authorities from the French Ministry of Magic had left the case open, finding no suspects to pursue, though they constantly reminded students to report any suspicions.
To Aleksandr, it seemed that everyone was keen to move on from the whole nasty business, though with more than usual amounts of caution, even trepidation. Students from Hogwarts and Beauxbatons rarely interacted with students from Durmstrang, and if they did, it was often in large groups with the conspicuous presence of a professor. The Durmstrang students, however, were fine with this. They preferred not to mingle with the westerners. The divisions that had seemed to almost fade away at the beginning of the year were certainly reinstated, perhaps with even more rancor.
Aleksandr, however, took no heed. His past two months had been consumed by three things: classes, preparing for the second task, and Josephine de Tuileries. Though classes and task preparation were no simple matters, it was Mademoiselle de Tuileries who really vexed him. Not she herself, but everything that came with her. He was tired of constantly having to peer over his shoulder to make sure her brother and the new Hogwarts Champion, William Warrington-Hughes, were not watching. Also, though he and Josephine had gotten to know each other extremely well during their limited time together, he could not help but feel that she was holding something back. She had hinted of a past relationship with someone named Pascal, and Aleksandr often wondered about him, and if he was the cause of her frequent reticence.
He could not find fault with this, however, as he had yet to tell her about Dragomir, a particularly large skeleton in his own closet. When the time was right, she would know. By then, she probably would have heard every conceivable rumor out there, but she would eventually know the truth.
It was now the Christmas holidays, and Aleksandr was safely back home in Moscow, but home was no longer the welcoming place it once had been. He was still greeted with death and devastation on seemingly every corner, but now had to deal with another type of despair within the four walls of his house: his father was ailing. The illness did not seem especially severe, but Aleksandr soon realized that perhaps the very will to live was being drained out of his father. His wandmaking business had slowed to almost a complete standstill, and with Aleksandr away at the Tournament, the wizened old man had very little left with which to occupy his time.
Aleksandr offered numerous times to withdraw from the Tournament and stay at home with his father, but Pyotr refused, often chastising him for even considering it. Besides, he was magically bound to compete.
“Aleksandr,” his father said in his gruff voice one morning just before the New Year, “Few things would cause me more joy than to have you win the Tournament.”
“I will, father,” he replied. “I will.”
***
Love.
“Are you sure this is not considered cheating?” Josephine asked as she sat next to Remy in one of the small sitting rooms at Chateau Clerbise.
Remy laughed. “Of course not, Josie! I am merely showing you what it’s like to be on this side of the Tournament.” He smiled good-naturedly and thumbed her cheek. “Besides, even if it is cheating, it will certainly overlooked by the Tournament Committee. Really, it would be a shame for you not to help me, since you are so gifted at Herbology!”
Josephine smiled, though she felt just a little bit guilty at the prospect of helping Remy with the clues for the second task. She cared not what the Tournament Committee would say, but thought rather about the other two champions, and how the playing field would no longer be level. She thought of Aleksandr in particular.
Her face flushed pink high around her cheeks and she smiled at the thought of him, but this did not escape Remy’s notice. His formerly benign countenance soured as he glared at her. “You’re thinking of that Gregorovitch, aren’t you?”
She was momentarily caught off guard. “Yes, but of Mr. Warrington-Hughes, too! If I help you with the clues, the challenge is no longer equal.” She fiddled with her handkerchief, the same one she had been holding when she met Aleksandr two months prior.
Remy seemed to accept this, though she sensed he was still angry. “I am sure they will do fine, Josephine,” he said. He took a deep breath, then smiled again. “Now, let’s have another look at these riddles, shall we?”
Josephine nodded. Despite any guilt she felt about helping her brother, she was excited to see what the Tournament Committee had planned. The “secrets” that the champions had collected from the Thikaras in the first task had actually turned out to be a series of riddles. After Remy had transcribed them on parchment, he showed them to Josephine. To her great delight, each riddle seemed to describe a certain plant, and she and Remy had spent a few hours over the Christmas holidays poring over herbology guides and herbal dictionaries.
Though Josephine was moderately successful in most of her classes, she excelled at Herbology. She had spent prodigious amounts of time in the gardens of her family’s estate since she was a child, and considered herself well-versed in plants both magical and Muggle. That Remy, her incredibly intelligent brother, was asking her for help only added to what would already have been an exciting task.
The two of them had identified five of the seven plants mentioned in the riddles, but the first two were giving them particular trouble. Josephine glanced at the parchment again:
First is that which twists and snares;
its branches take you unawares.
Careful that you trim it right:
cut pods will leave you in a plight!
“You are sure it is not a puffapod?” Remy asked.
Josephine twisted her mouth into a frown. “I do not think so. Puffapods hardly twist and snare, and I think it would be hard for them to take you ‘unawares,’ seeing as they are bright pink.” She bit her lip. “I will have to think on this one more, Remy. There are a few plants it could be referring to, but I have to check my other book again. Could I see the second riddle? I think I may have an answer.”
He obliged, sliding the parchment closer to her. She read:
High as your waist the second grows,
cloistered is he who wears these clothes.
Use roots the width of your left thumb:
much more, your poisoned body’s numb.
“Yes. Yes, I’ve got it. We have been so ignorant, brother! The clue is right there in the second line: ‘cloistered is he who wears these clothes.’ Cloistered. Cloîtré. Like a monk!”
Remy looked confused for a moment, but then revelation dawned on him. “You mean monkshood!”
Josephine nodded and pointed to a page she had marked in one of her dictionaries. “Aconite. It fits: ‘High as your waist the second grows.’ Aconite grows up to a meter tall. ‘Roots the width of your left thumb,’ too, because if you’re making a potion, you cannot put much more in, or it will become toxic. And that leads to the final line. Too much aconite numbs the body completely. It has to be this!”
Remy beamed. “I believe you are right, as always, Josephine.” He glanced at his pocket watch and promptly jumped out of his seat. “Mon dieu, I am late.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have business for father in Le Verger.” He was putting on his jacket and fixing his scarf in quite a hurry, but he turned to her and said slowly, cautiously, “I am… I will be passing by Cabriès, if there is anything… if you would like to come with me?”
He was referring to Pascal, whose family’s estate was located there. She shook her head. “No, thank you, Remy. That will not be necessary.”
He looked again at her, and there was sorrow in his eyes. As he buttoned his top button, he leaned down and planted a swift kiss on her forehead. “Thank you, Josie,” he said before quitting the room.
She bit her lip again, this time to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. Though she and Pascal had corresponded only twice since she met Aleksandr, there were still many unanswered questions, and she did long to see him again. She had hoped to visit him over the holidays, only to learn that he and his family would be wintering with relatives near Nantes.
Compounding this grief was the fact that owls traveling between her family’s estate and Aleksandr’s residence in Moscow were extraordinarily slow. Days would pass between letters, and Josephine often found herself staring out the window for hours at a time, waiting to see some sign of her familiar tawny bird. She knew it was imprudent and frowned upon, and perhaps even dangerous, but she could not wait to be in his company again, back at Beauxbatons.
***
Faith.
The Christmas holidays of 1691 were perhaps the worst William had ever weathered. Normally, he loved Christmas. Though he had no brothers or sisters, his family’s grand manor would always be full of aunts, uncles, cousins; any relatives within a decent radius of Rushcliffe would stop by. The Potters would always come, too, even if just for a dinner. Though Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was never fully supportive of William’s friendship with George (always worried George was up to no good), he nevertheless always welcomed the Potters to his home: they were, after all, one of the most respected wizarding families in all of Britain.
This year, however, the Potters’ loss was felt throughout the whole community. There was much less revelry, many fewer visits, and an altogether subdued holiday season. Tensions within the Warrington-Hughes household were almost insurmountable, with Jonathan hardly speaking to his son. William had tried to apologize a thousand times, it seemed, but Jonathan would not hear it.
“I don’t understand,” William said one day to Henry Somerset, who had returned from the negotiations in Paris to spend the holiday in England. “I have apologized so many times for what I said. He must know I feel terrible about the whole situation.”
Henry shook his head solemnly. He had been apprised of the “whole situation” by William, and no doubt by Jonathan, too. “I know, William, but you must understand how deeply you offended his honor. For a man like your father, that is considerable! His own honor and the honor of your family’s name are two of the most important things in his life. When you were not named Hogwarts Champion, that was a huge slight, and””
“But I am Champion now!” William protested, interrupting Somerset. “And there was nothing I could do about it before!”
“Yes, William, I know. Your father knows, too. You just have to give him time. Things are very different for him now, for all of us. The Paris negotiations are affecting everything.”
William wanted to ask what the International Confederation of Wizards had to do with his best friend’s murder, but he realized that perhaps Henry was just trying to change the subject. He would take the bait. “How are they going, sir?” he asked dutifully.
Henry Somerset was smart enough to see through this. He smiled. “I was not trying to change the subject, William. I am not saying the events are connected, but it’s high time wizards started examining the Big Picture”your father especially. In years to come, I predict, your family name won’t matter half as much as it does now. No one’s will. If wizards are forced to go into hiding, we must also be forced to live in a division-less world.”
William nodded, though to him it seemed that Somerset’s words were a bit optimistic. He had seen firsthand the prejudice that existed between certain groups of wizards. In fact, he had participated in much of it with Remy in their scorn of Durmstrang, and Aleksandr Gregorovitch in specific.
Thinking of Gregorovitch made him think of the impending second task”his first, of course”and how little he had done to prepare for it. He excused himself from Henry and went to his room to look at the parchment again. The Tournament Committee had decided to give him the riddles that George had discovered during the first task so he would be on an even keel with the other two champions, but it didn’t much matter in William’s opinion: he was dreadful at Herbology, and all the riddles seemed to be talking about plants. They might as well have sent him into a pit full of dragons.
He looked down at the parchment and studied the riddle that seemed easiest to him:
The fourth of these has mundane twin.
Select it, and you will not win.
But choose the right one and you’ll see
it's so much more than wand-wood tree.
Clearly, it referred to a type of tree that could be used to make wands but also had a sister tree with more magical properties. William had made a list of all the wand trees he could think of: ash, oak, elm, willow, holly, yew, walnut, hawthorn. His own wand was made of cherry, though as far as he knew, that tree had no magical twin.
He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, almost yanking a few strands out in frustration. Maybe agreeing to be Hogwarts Champion had been a mistake. He was completely at a loss for the second task, his father was not speaking to him, everything was a mess. Worst of all, there was no George Potter by his side, making jokes and making things better.
He laid his head down on his desk, bringing his hands to rest on the back of his neck. He breathed deeply, taking in the smell of the parchment, wondering if there was any way, any way at all, to make it better.
***
Hope.
Aleksandr had rarely found himself this excited, and certainly never over a girl. He was incredibly anxious to return to Beauxbatons, even if it meant leaving his father. After all, Pyotr Gregorovitch had promised to come watch the second task and had assured Aleksandr many times that things were not as bad as they seemed. So, clutching Josephine’s latest letter in his hand, he once again boarded the ship with his fellow students and prepared to return.
The journey was much more pleasant this time than it had been in October. Their isolation from the other two schools, though somewhat self-imposed, had made the Durmstrang students closer than they had been in many years, and they all seemed to rally around Aleksandr. This made him proud, certainly, but at the same time, he was careful not to be too taken in by it. If he knew one thing about the minds of Durmstrang’s finest, it was that they were fickle. One false move and he would fall from favor as fast as… well, as fast as Dragomir had.
He assumed that some of his classmates knew about Josephine, or at least had suspicions, though he had confided in no one. Her friend Angeline certainly knew, and often accompanied them on their long walks around the grounds. While Aleksandr was not keen on the intrusion, he realized that Angeline’s presence perhaps would lessen suspicion that he was doing anything… illicit. Still, he chose to keep the relationship as secret as possible. He was well aware of the vicious rumors that persisted in blaming him for George Potter’s death, and he did not wish to bring any undue shame or scrutiny upon Josephine.
As they neared the Beauxbatons Palace, he stole another look at her letter. They had arranged to meet in the clearing by the lake at four o’clock that day. He glanced at his pocket watch: it was already nearly half past three. He bid the ship forward in his mind, fully aware that his thoughts in fact had no influence on the ship’s movement. Still, he was anxious.
At half past three exactly he felt the ship touch down in the Beauxbatons lake, and then heard the familiar sucking noise as they floated to the surface. There was a fair number of Beauxbatons students waiting to welcome them, though most looked like they were bound by duty, not by courtesy. Aleksandr was pleased that Josephine was not among their number: he wanted to see her alone.
Though he still had plenty of time, he headed immediately for the clearing. His plans were thwarted, however, by Emil Kerensky, who caught up with him right before he turned for the clearing. “Aleksandr,” he said, grabbing him by the arm. “I have something to tell you.” His face was alight with a strange expression, not entirely unlike the one Aleksandr had seen the night he was selected as Durmstrang Champion…
Aleksandr was nervous. “Yes?” he said tentatively, wondering what on earth Kerensky could have to tell him that would elicit such a look.
“I did it,” he whispered, the gleam in his eyes sharp and steely.
Aleksandr blinked and shook his head, certain he had heard incorrectly. “What?”
Kerensky looked around excitedly, then steered Aleksandr even farther away from the ship and closer toward the woods. When he was certain they were out of earshot, he spoke again, almost jubilantly this time: “I did it. I killed George Potter!”
Aleksandr felt all his breath catch in his chest and was positive his heart actually ceased to beat for a moment. He stood there, swaying awkwardly on his now-unsteady feet, completely at a loss for words.
Kerensky looked positively gleeful, apparently unaware that Aleksandr’s mind was reeling. “Well? What do you have to say to that?”
Finally, Aleksandr found words. And rage: “What do I have to say to that?” he roared, feeling his whole body start to tremble. “Emil, are you serious?”
“Of course I am! For Durmstrang, remember? It is all for Durmstrang!”
Aleksandr was beside himself. “Emil… no… that can’t be right”you had an alibi! Professor Novokov said so!”
Kerensky let out a chilling laugh. “Novokov doesn’t know everything, Alexei. There are ways to murder and still ensure your innocence.”
Though the statement terrified him, Aleksandr was suddenly possessed by curiosity. “How? How did you do it?”
Kerensky must have mistaken his shock for interest, for his smile widened in appreciation. “Oh, the usual tricks. I’ve used Polyjuice Potion in the past, but that was too tricky for this. No, for Potter, I just used Imperius on some poor Beauxbatons man”he did the actual deed, and had no idea. Still doesn’t.” He cackled again.
Aleksandr was speechless again, and his heart was pounding in his ears. He had no idea what to do next. Should he turn Kerensky in? Was Kerensky out of his mind?
“So when do you think I should dispose of the new champion? Before, during, or after the Second Task?”
Suddenly, the situation was thrown in sharp relief for Aleksandr. This was not an isolated incident. This was not the happenstance workings of a too-proud Durmstrang student. Kerensky was a sadistic madman, and he intended to kill Warrington-Hughes! Probably de Tuileries, too! Aleksandr knew he had to act, and act fast. He whipped out his wand and pressed it to Emil’s throat. “Kerensky, I swear on my father’s name that if you do anything to harm the other two champions, there will be hell to pay.”
Kerensky seemed momentarily confused, for the look in his eyes lingered for an instant, then faded away. His countenance turned and his face twisted into an ugly leer: he was angry. “Are you not proud?” he asked, leaning nearer to Aleksandr’s face, despite the wand pointed directly at his throat.
“Proud?” Aleksandr growled. “I am horrified. I am disgusted. You say you act for Durmstrang? You disgrace Durmstrang.”
Kerensky spat in his face, forcing Aleksandr to break his concentration. In the split second that he did so, Kerensky whipped out his own wand and pointed it at Aleksandr’s chest. “You are just like your brother, Aleksandr,” he whispered fiercely. “No idea what’s best for you, what is best for us! You’ll end up just like him, too.”
Aleksandr had strengthened his grip on his wand and pointed it at Emil’s chest. He could feel the wood vibrating in his hand as if beckoning him to act. But he could not. If he attacked Kerensky, he would almost certainly be blamed for Potter’s murder, too. Aleksandr knew the same thing was passing through Emil’s mind: if he murdered Aleksandr, there was no alibi intact to protect him this time. They were at an impasse.
Kerensky was first to break the silence. “Gregorovitch,” he said calmly, “watch your step. If you tell anyone, I’ll know. If you try to protect the other champions, I’ll know. Win this next task and win the final task. Win the Tournament for Durmstrang, or else.”
Aleksandr wanted to sneer “Or else what?” but Kerensky preempted him: “Or else your little French girlfriend is dead.”
Aleksandr did not even blink. He took one step closer to Kerensky so they were just inches apart, wands rammed into each other’s chests. Emil had gone too far. “Kerensky,” he breathed, “Stay away from the other champions. Stay away from the students of Hogwarts and Beauxbatons. Stay away from Josephine, or I will kill you.”
His words were precise and powerful, and they seemed to have the desired effect. Kerensky’s nostrils flared in defiance and he blinked three times, his eyes darting left and right. Aleksandr remained stone still. Only his wand moved, still vibrating, perhaps letting Kerensky know that he was inches from death.
Finally, Kerensky took a step backward. “I’ll be watching you,” he sneered as he turned and marched back to the palace.
Aleksandr watched Kerensky all the way back up to the palace, and only when he was totally out of sight did Aleksandr allow himself to breathe. He felt weak again and backed into the nearest tree, letting the implications of everything come crashing down on him.
Josephine. Kerensky had threatened Josephine. This changed everything. Aleksandr had always had mild fears that Josephine would be in danger by associating with him, but he had never seen them realized. Until now.
He let out a strangled yell, suddenly overwhelmed by guilt. How could he have let things with Josephine go so far so fast? He had put her in an incredibly dangerous position: Kerensky was mad, he was twisted. He would kill Josephine if given the reason. No, he did not even need a reason. All he needed was the chance. So Aleksandr would make sure he never got it.
***
Love.
He was late. He was never late.
Josephine paced nervously around the edge of the clearing, wringing her handkerchief in her hands as she so often did. Finally, she heard a rustle and whipped her head around, beaming as she saw Aleksandr enter through the trees. Her smile soon faded, however, as she saw he looked paler than usual, almost ashen.
She ran toward him and pressed her hand to his forehead. “Aleksandr, you look unwell. What is wrong?”
He smiled, removed her hand from his forehead, and brought it to his lips. “I am well, thank you, only a bit seasick from the voyage on the ship.”
Something told her this was a lie, but she decided not to press the matter any further. She merely smiled and led him to the bench, where they both sat down. “How were your holidays?”
“Long and lonely. How were yours?” he replied, gazing at her. She smiled again, though she could not help but notice a strange look in his eyes. He seemed more anxious than usual”she had rarely seen him nervous about anything in the short time she had known him. It must be the second task, which was fast approaching.
“They were fine, thank you.” She looked down at her hands, still clutching the handkerchief. “I have a confession, though.” She did not meet his eyes.
He reached out and placed two calloused fingers underneath her chin, bringing her face up to look at his. She felt her face color at his touch, though she returned his gaze. “I helped Remy with his preparation for the second task.”
Aleksandr regarded her for a moment with his dark eyes, then looked away and laughed. “Oh, Josephine,” he murmured.
“Well, it made me feel guilty, since that meant the playing field would no longer be even,” she said, aware that she sounded naïve. “And I wanted to offer you the same help I offered him.”
“That is very generous of you, but I have it all figured out.”
“You have solved all the plant riddles?” she asked, impressed.
“All but one,” he confessed, taking a sheet of folded parchment out of his pocket and handing it to her.
She unfolded it to see the riddles copied down and six plant names scribbled next to each verse”each verse but number three. “I have yet to figure that one out,” he said. “But I shall, before the task occurs.”
“I know this one!” she exclaimed. “I can tell you right now! Oh, please, Aleksandr, it would make me feel so less guilty.” She clasped his hand in both of hers and sent him a pleading look. He seemed to be wavering, but finally his expression softened and he acquiesced.
“Beautiful woman the third is not,” she read aloud, “Its berries make your insides rot. But with their essence you will find some wide-eyed pleasure and peace of mind.”
“There are many plants whose berries are poisonous and whose essence can be used in pleasure- or peace-creating draughts,” he mused.
“Yes, but the answer is here, in the first line,” she said. “Beautiful woman. How do you say that in French?”
A playful smile crossed his face. “Josephine,” he whispered.
She quivered and blushed again, but remained resolute. “Non, mon cheri,” she said. “Try again. How do you say it in Italian?”
“Beautiful woman? Belle dame in French,” he stated dutifully. Then, just as it had with Remy, a look of realization crossed his face. “Belladonna! Of course. It’s so simple!”
Josephine nodded, proud that she had helped him.
“That is wonderful,” he said, scribbling “belladonna” on his parchment. “You are wonderful.”
The same strange look reappeared in his eyes as he said this. He looked sad, troubled. “Alexei,” she whispered, “something is troubling you. I can tell. What is it? Please tell me.”
He looked away for a moment and seemed to be weighing a heavy matter over in his mind. When he did finally return her gaze, there was genuine regret in his look. “I cannot, Josephine. I am truly sorry.”
She nodded, and somehow knew that when the time was right, she would know.
***
Faith.
The day of the second task dawned cold and bright. It was the middle of February, and if they had been at Hogwarts, there may have been snow on the ground. This was the south of France, however, so William was relieved to step into the crisp, precipitation-free air.
He was feeling infinitely better about the task, though perhaps not about life itself. Relations with his father were still tense, but they were showing possible signs of improvement. Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was coming to watch the task, at the very least.
A few consultations with Remy and many late nights in the library had led William to feel relatively confident that he had identified all the plants in the riddles correctly, and he hoped he would be able to remember which was which during the task itself.
As he approached the arena, he noticed a pungent odor filling the air, and heard what sounded like a waterfall somewhere nearby. He smiled warmly at Remy who had just arrived to the staging tent, and even managed a nod at Aleksandr Gregorovitch, who was already there.
His dislike of Gregorovitch had not waned in the months since he’d been chosen replacement champion. Gregorovitch had not done anything to cause specific injury to William, it was true, but still, there were those nasty rumors and the way he carried on with Remy’s sister. It was best not to trust him, international camaraderie be damned.
Now the judges were strolling down to the tent to shake hands with the Champions. The three headmasters all appeared to be in good spirits and Monsieur Barnier from the French Ministry of Magic looked as haughty as ever. Only Pierre Bonaccord looked downtrodden: his face was riddled with stress and exhaustion. William had not been paying very close attention to the negotiations in Paris”at least, not as close as he should have been”but he had heard some news about the Liechtenstein contingent and a bad batch of mountain trolls. William certainly did not envy the man his job.
Soon, pleasantries were dispensed of and the champions could hear the other students filing into the arena to take their seats. There were a few gasps and whispers, but they seemed to be gasps of amazement rather than horror. William took this as a good sign. Still, he was nervous, and could not help bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.
Then came Monsieur Autruche’s magnified voice announcing the start of the task, and the Beauxbatons professor in the tent turned to them. “Your task, champions, is to read the clues, collect the ingredients, and brew the correct potion. Bonne chance. Good luck!”
So it was a potion, William thought. But a potion to do what? He glanced sideways at Remy, who seemed to be contemplating similar questions. There was not much more time to ponder, however, for it was almost William’s turn to enter. He would go into the arena first, his head start earned by George’s rapid completion of the first task. Gregorovitch would follow a few minutes later, and Remy after that.
William heard the bell and practically leapt out of the tent. As he beheld the arena, the first thought to cross his mind was that it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The field of volcanoes had been turned into an immense jungle, with hundreds of different plants waving at him from all directions. He could hardly even see the faces in the crowd, such was the density of the flora. The sights and smells overwhelmed him, and he wasted a full thirty seconds just admiring the beauty of it all.
Suddenly, he was gripped by panic. How would he find the correct herbs amidst all the plants? He had a tentative grasp on the plants in the riddles at best, and would be doing a lot of guesswork as it was. He thought of his father, though, and steeled himself for the task ahead. He pulled out his parchment and looked at the first riddle. He had to find a Doblesson stalk. Remy had helped him identify this one, as William had never even heard of it before”apparently they were not naturally cultivated in Britain.
William wandered into the thicket of flowers, trees, and ferns, searching desperately for Doblessons, but to no avail. Perhaps they are further in, he reasoned, and looked at his list to see if any other choice was in his immediate reach.
The sixth looked promising: a Cantarius flower. He thought he heard its telltale hum somewhere to his right, so he reread the clue:
The sixth is fair as day is long,
but tarry not to hear its song.
Take one part only to advance,
the others leave you in a trance.
Yes. It was definitely a Cantarius flower, and there was a whole patch of them growing next to a large bush of rhododendrons. He leaned in and looked at them”they truly were stunning. Large, brilliant purple petals held smaller, vibrant yellow petals in the center, all atop a sturdy stem with curved thorns and shiny green leaves. The plant was known for its beauty but also for the hypnotic hum that emanated from its core. More than one weary traveler had been found dead asleep amidst fields of Cantarius, William had learned. He had also found out that it was only the yellow petals that he needed; all the other parts of the plant were poisonous. He pulled out his knife and cut three of them off. Placing them carefully in a pocket, he moved on, in search of the next.
He thought he heard the bell ring, but he was fairly deep into the jungle now and sounds were muffled”expect for the sound of rushing water, that is. There was certainly a waterfall nearby, though William could not see it. What he did see was hellebore, the answer to the fifth riddle. He read it again just to be sure:
Fifth’s green or black or ghostly white,
it takes some skill to choose the right.
Add it to potion, you’ll move on.
Add others and your life is gone.
The only problem was, all three types of hellebore were growing in front of him, but he could not remember which he was supposed to choose. He had written down black, but a little voice inside was telling him that was not right. He shook his head. It must be right, he wrote it down. He withdrew his knife again and moved to slice off a few leaves of the black hellebore.
“I would not do that if I were you,” came a voice to his left. William jumped. It was Gregorovitch, and he was gesturing toward the plants with his own knife, his parchment unfurled.
“What do you mean?” William asked, suddenly nervous. Here he was, alone in a thick jungle with Aleksandr Gregorovitch and his knife…
“The black hellebore is extremely poisonous. Put it in your potion and you’ll die. Take the green instead.”
William frowned. “But I wrote down black.”
“Well, you wrote down the wrong color,” Gregorovitch said patiently. “Look, Warr”” he stopped and exhaled. “William, just please trust me on this one. I know you don’t like me, and I don’t know why, but black hellebore is the wrong choice.”
Without another word, he was gone, deeper into the thicket and William was left alone in the midst of a quandary. Should he trust Gregorovitch? He had written down black, it was true, but there was that nagging voice telling him it was not right. Perhaps, then, he should choose white hellebore? Or maybe Gregorovitch was right, and was actually trying to help?
William glanced at his pocket watch, surprised to see how much time had elapsed. He had to make a decision, and he had to make it quick.
***
Hope.
Aleksandr walked swiftly away from William. He knew that it would be hard for the Hogwarts champion to trust him, still he was frustrated that his genuine advice might not be heeded. He had found his own leaves of green hellebore before he had chanced upon William, but time was ticking and he was not willing to debate the matter. Either William would accept his advice and succeed, or he would fail. At this point, Aleksandr’s most pressing issue was finishing the task quickly.
He took stock of the list. He had already found Doblesson, monkshood, and hellebore. The rough leaves of the hornbow tree mentioned in clue four had been his first find: his father used the tree’s twin, hornbeam, as wood for many of his wands.
Aleksandr spied some belladonna a few feet in front of him. He picked a few berries and smiled, thinking of Josephine. He did not let his imagination wander too far, however, for he knew that there were still two plants to find and a potion to brew. Time was of the essence.
He looked at his list again. He had yet to find Cantarius flowers, though their bright purple petals should be relatively easy to spot. Number seven, also, should be quite simple, seeing as it was a tree. He read the clue once more:
The seeds of seven cause skin to burn,
a fact, no doubt, you’re pleased to learn.
But if you yearn for victory,
you'll take the risk and climb the tree.
The peccamore tree. A relatively short tree, to be sure, but with distinct bluish-green leaves that clustered together around blood red flowers. Sure enough, one was planted not twenty feet from him. He ran to it as fast as he could, given the thick overgrowth of plants in the way, and shimmied up the trunk until he reached a low-hanging branch. He pinched off a few large seeds from where they dangled below the flowers and then promptly dropped to the ground, only to find he had plopped right into a patch of Cantarius flowers, humming gently and waving back and forth, though there was no wind. Smiling at his good fortune, he carefully removed the yellow petals, then paused. What to do next? Would he need to summon a cauldron and water to boil the potion?
Instinct told him to head toward the sound of rushing water, as that would, at the very least, give him the liquid needed to brew the potion. It was somewhere to his left, though the mass of trees would prevent him traveling in a straight line. He dipped and weaved his way to the sound, when suddenly, he was there. He could finally see the sun above his head, and as he stepped out of the thick jungle air and into a bright clearing, he was struck by how cold it actually was outside. At the edge of the clearing was a brilliant blue waterfall, maybe twenty feet wide, tumbling down over a small cliff. Through the water he could see a sort of small hole in the cliff, and beyond that was a patch of light”the edge of the arena and the end of the task. The only thing that stood in the way was the dazzling blue waterfall and a table with three simmering cauldrons.
Aleksandr glanced to his left and right to see if the other champions were near, but there was no sign of them. He took another step into the clearing, nearly tripping on some overexcited vines that continued to snake their way out of the jungle, and made his way toward the table. There, sitting next to one of the cauldrons, was the final part of the riddle. He read it:
You’ve come thus far, through jungle fought,
though danger is not ended yet.
The way is blocked by magic falls”
safe passage now you will not get.
The herbs you have so wisely found
can help you pass through water blue,
but don’t be hasty with your mix:
there’s something more you have to do.
A simple potion does the trick
to help you ford the wat’ry way,
but more complex brews are preferred:
true potions skill you must convey.
The best among you will concoct
a brew with properties unseen.
So cut and stew and simmer herbs:
with luck, more than your thumb is green.
So, they had to brew a potion that would not only take them safely through the waterfall, but would also make it change color? Aleksandr raised his eyebrows”he had hardly ever brewed something so difficult. The challenge would be to extract the most out of each berry, petal, and seed in order to make the potion as potent as possible. There was no time to waste.
Aleksandr carefully removed each ingredient from his pockets and spread them out on the table. The colors were dazzling”red, blue, green, violet”it was almost a shame to dump them unceremoniously into the vat of water, but dump he must.
Since there were no explicit instructions, he had to rely on his memory to know how best to proceed. The leaves should go in first in order to let their essence open up into the water. Petals should be crumbled as gently as possible, but also as thoroughly as possible in order to produce maximum effect. Berries should be squeezed not by hand, but with the aid of a knife. Was that right? Aleksandr seemed to remember his potions professor giving similar instructions in his six years of study. Plus, Dragomir had been a phenomenal potions student, often sharing tips with his younger brother…
Aleksandr pushed the memory out of his mind and concentrated on the task at hand. He gathered the leaves of the peccamore and hornbow trees and placed them gently in the water, which instantly turned green. That was a good sign.
He bent his head down and worked diligently, stopping only briefly to wonder where the other two were. They should have made it to the clearing by now…
As if on cue, William stumbled into the clearing, panting hard. He nodded at Aleksandr and looked as if he were about to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of Remy, also out of breath, who joined them at the table. “Venomous Tentacula?” Remy asked. William nodded.
They all shared a brief laugh before William and Remy realized how far behind they were and set to work on their potions. “You don’t think we could just walk through the water now, do you?” William asked, and Aleksandr was not sure if he was joking. Though they were all clearly trying to keep the mood light, there was a great deal at stake, and Aleksandr did not have time for jokes.
His potion was nearly done, he surmised. It was incredibly fragrant and still a pretty shade of green, though perhaps not as deep as he would have liked. A few more stirs should do the trick…
Aleksandr stole a glance at Remy to his right. He seemed to be off to a good start, having already added the leaves and started in on the petals. He looked to his left: William seemed to be having a bit more difficulty, though Aleksandr saw that he had taken the green hellebore after all. He smiled and turned back to his own simmering cauldron.
It was done. He had added all the right ingredients, hopefully in the right order, and all that remained would be to fill up a vial, drink the potion, and hope for the best. Remy and William had temporarily stopped their brewing in order to watch Aleksandr as he dipped the small flask in the cauldron. The potion was green and frothy, and smelled inexplicably like mint. He strode out from behind the table and approached the blue waterfall. With a somewhat nervous laugh, he raised the vial. “Cheers,” he said, as he put it to his lips and took a swig.
He could feel the hot potion as it traveled down his throat. It was spicy and made him just a bit woozy, but as he stepped tentatively through the water, he knew it had worked. The water around him lit up the clearing with a bright green flash, and Aleksandr emerged completely dry on the other side. He headed for the small hole and out through the tunnel into the edge of the arena, where hundreds of spectators cheered him from their vantage points in the stand.
Aleksandr knew he would have to wait a few minutes until the other champions finished to see if his water had been the greenest, but he took pride in the fact that he had finished fastest. His thoughts turned to Kerensky, and he scanned the crowd looking for him, but it was impossible to discern all the faces from where he stood.
He paced around the arena, waiting for the other two to emerge. After a few minutes, there was a flash of pale green coming from the clearing, and William exited the jungle. He looked a little nauseous, but smiled and waved to the crowd, which erupted in cheers for him. He wandered over to Aleksandr and gave him another small nod.
“How is he doing?” Aleksandr asked, gesturing to the clearing. An idea had seized him, and if he wanted to go through with it, he needed to act fast.
William looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged. “He’ll be all right, I think, but was having a few problems at the last minute that he had to sort out.”
Aleksandr nodded and maintained a neutral face, but he dropped his voice in urgency. “Listen, William, I have something very important to tell you. Please keep talking to me as if we are merely discussing the task, but pay attention.”
William furrowed his brow and looked as if he was about to protest or ask a question, but the pleading look in Aleksandr’s eyes must have made him change his mind, for he nodded, almost imperceptibly. Aleksandr continued: “I know who killed George Potter.”
William’s face became suddenly ashen and he took a step backward. Aleksandr knew William was doing everything in his power not to react in an outburst, and for that he was immensely grateful. “I am very sorry to have to tell you like this, I really am, but there is no other time to do it without arousing suspicion. My life is in danger, Remy’s life is in danger, your life is in danger.” He paused. “Josephine’s life is in danger.”
“Who is it?” William asked, his voice strong though his wand was shaking in his hand. “Who killed him?”
Aleksandr took one last glance around the arena, searching for Kerensky, but still could not pick out his face from the crowd. Still, if ever there was a time they were least likely to be overheard, this was it. “Emil Kerensky,” he breathed.
He waited for William’s reaction, but none came, for just then, a flash of turquoise light rose from the clearing and Remy stumbled out, promptly doubling over and them crumpling to the ground. William rushed to his side, where a dozen staff members were already flocking, one of whom looked like he was holding a bezoar. Aleksandr followed William and knelt beside him, knowing full well that their conversation was over. He only hoped that William believed him.
These Three Remain by LuthAn
Chapter Notes: Hello again! We're getting near the end, I'm afraid. How will things work out for our heroes (and villains)?
I am indebted to four entities in the writing of this chapter: The Harry Potter Lexicon, Wikipedia, www.botanical.com, and my beta, greennotebook. Oh, and of course to the woman herself, JKR. Some things mentioned in this chapter are her creations, some are mine. If you have questions, please ask! Enjoy!