Chapter Text
The Great Hall has been transformed into something astonishing, though it’s always a sight for sore eyes, even on most days. While behind the arching windows the sky is pitch black, the Hall glows with the warm, familiar, and comforting, light of floating candles. They emit different colours, barely noticeable, but they’re there – from sweet periwinkle to the luminous radiance of the obscured moon. It sets the mood that’s draped across all of them, much like their soft cotton cloaks.
The Sorting ceremony had just finished, and with the hat discharged and cheers mute, the Hall swims with anxious anticipation. It had been too dark to see when the other schools had arrived, the evening harsh and cloudy, a severe start to Autumn, but their upcoming advent was all anyone ever talked about since last year. Headmaster Black, a controversial topic to be sure, had surprised everyone with his announcement during the last Sorting – the Tri Wizard Tournament is back. The death toll, it seems, did not dissuade the committee as fiercely as all were led to believe. It’s probably to do with that whole Ranrok ordeal and the absolute lack of preparation and endless list of names to be buried. Some are still being identified today. The newspaper has a whole separate section on it. Truly, what a horrid affair.
Sebastian’s eyes flicker from the quivering fingers holding his cup of pumpkin juice to the doors and back. He wills his hand to still. It works, and while his face remains blank, inside he’s a ball of anxious energy. He appreciates drama, but like any good Slytherin, he likes control: of himself, of events, of fate itself if he was able to grasp it in his hands. Would they shake then, too? He despises that line of thought as it leads to Anne, and Anne leads to his incompetence as a talented wizard, and, most of all, loving brother. No cure. All this trouble and still, nothing.
But maybe that’ll change.
Once those doors open, and the future arrives, and the Goblet of Fire is erected for all students to send in their ballot, perhaps then, then his mission will be fruitful. It must. He’s running out of options. Anne’s running out of time.
His attention is, then, suddenly and inexplicably, drawn to you – sat across and warming a seat next to Imelda, which you had informed him, on many occasions he may add, that you disliked instinctively. Drawn together with your chin hovering just above her shoulder begs to differ, or so he thinks.
Why hadn’t you sat with him?
It’s a rattling thought, one he didn’t expect, but he is gracious enough to admit (privately) that he had missed you over the summer and that your letters (which he kept, all of them, neatly arranged by the date in a box hid by his bedside drawer) were insufficient enough to satisfy him. You had sent him a portrait near the Alps – a trip about which you were more tight-lipped than usual (so likely it was not only needlessly dangerous but possibly a matter of national security) – and you were talking, then you glanced at the camera, and your eyebrows flicked upwards and there was your signature smile. The photograph kept repeating the motions and he kept watching enraptured, reading your lips to find out what you had said to someone behind the camera obscura.
He was just curious. This is the only reasoning he had and he would hold onto it till death or otherwise.
First, the trip. Then your absence from the Slytherin compartment in the train – while usually you could be found haunting Sebastian and Ominis, you were gone. Rumour has it you had been chatting with the Gryffindors, Natsai and Gareth, more than comfortable in their presence, sprawled on the seats and eating enchanted cadies. Now, you sat close to Imelda, eyes set forward and lips barely parted, on the verge of speaking. Your eyes glimmer with excitement in the kaleidoscopic light. You look –
The doors burst open and he jerks, sloshing some of his drink on his sleeve. Ominis sends him a look, and while Sebastian knows he can’t actually see, his ability to hear and simply perceive even the minuscule movement of his closest friend is downright terrifying. That interaction doesn’t last long, as the Hall takes a collective breath and the swarm of glowing cerulean butterflies erupt over the tables and rush forward, leaving only wispy, melting particles in their wake. The crowd laughs and cheers and the ladies dressed in fine silky uniforms appear from the darkness with a dance. Beauxbatons.
Merlin’s Beard, they’re all positively gorgeous: sculpted noses, long limbs, shiny hair, and pearly teeth. They move like a gaggle of swans and the eyes of the students move with them. Yours do, too, and you’re clapping, mouth agape, and when had he stopped watching them in order to watch you?
The magic barely has time to dissipate before a fiery serpent soars across the candle-lit sky, devouring all in sight. Durmstrang’s boys make quite a forceful entrance after that ballet. All gruff, mean mugs and tightly clasped wooden sceptres, the red of their uniforms the colour of blood and conquest. He’s not that captivated, but he doesn’t miss the quick flick of your wrist on Imelda’s shoulder. She turns, quickly, eyes bright and smile wide, and the two of you giggle before continuing to admire the view. He grows cold in his seat, though the Hall is more than hot. Surely you can’t be enjoying this?
“’S not that impressive.” Sebastian mutters to Ominis, as he must make his opinion known. He can’t be quite sure his friend heard him over the cackle of teenagers.
Surprising to no one, he does, “The crowd begs to differ.” He supplies unhelpfully.
“The crowd lacks taste.” Sebastian states, taking a sip of his drink. Yuck, nasty – did Durmstrang poison it? He wouldn’t put it above them.
To his horror, everyone in the Slytherin table shifts to make room for the Durmstrang boys, one even weaselling in between you and Imelda. You two are quick to greet him, and he’s only more so pleased to take off his ridiculous fur hat and introduce himself. You shower him with praises for such a powerful entrance, and oh, Imelda is quick to pipe up, what is that they teach you lot in Durmstrang? If he was less polite, Sebastian would gag.
Why couldn’t the Beauxbatons’ ladies sit with them instead? It seems the school year begins with questions he has no answers to, and knowing his luck, never will. Fate must hate him, that’s the only explanation.
The Headmaster takes stage shortly after, raising his hands to pacify the rowdy crowd, “Everyone,” he relinquishes his wand, “it is with great honour,” a few gentle spins and the Goblet of Fire grows, materialising out of thin air and taking everyone’s breath away as it blooms with that cold, blue fire, “that I announce the start of the Tri Wizard Tournament.”
As if spellbound, the students jump to their feet, cheering. Even he’s not impervious, swept away from his bitter thoughts with a growing, childish excitement. He bumps shoulders with Ominis, and even he’s sporting a happy smile, cheeks flushed – a rare sight indeed.
And then he looks at you, and you’re grinning, and finally, in what feels like an eternity, your gazes meet, and it feels like your smile grows just a tad more. A traitorous beat skips in his chest, one he’s familiar with but doesn’t dare to name. Not yet. It brings him back to the waiting, the summer, the train, the evening before the Goblet.
You look beautiful.
_
It’s not enough that the Durmstrang boys must sit with them, it turns out their living arrangements are in the dungeon, too. The castle had helpfully provided a dozen more empty rooms for them to sleep in the boys’ quarters. At least we won’t share a room, Ominis had whispered when this news came to light. And while Ominis does not hold some sort of newly uncovered grudge against a whole school, he doesn’t like strangers, doesn’t like noise, doesn’t like sudden change. It’s understandable, giving his predicament. Sebastian is only too quick to agree.
You and Imelda, helpful as a pair of blushing Hufflepuff second years, kindly take a group of boys under your wing. Sebastian has never seen you or Imelda so helpful and so docile (the two of you live up to the Slytherin name, both in the best and worst terms of the fact), and he’d like to think you’re scoping out the competition. Poking for weakness, or blackmail. A good witch or wizard will employ all benefits in pursuit of victory. The two of you are only being diligent. If not laughing a bit too hard. Surely what they say can’t be that funny.
The Common Room’s buzzing, and everyone needs to introduce themselves and shelve out helpful instructions: I can be your guide, trust me, you’ll need one here, and what astonishing uniforms, it makes mine look so shabby by comparison! Good Merlin, someone save him before he dies of second-hand embarrassment. Though, it seems that the other boys are just as displeased with Durmstrang, as if they had invaded sacred territory. And they have. So while the girls dote and swoon and awe at barely concealed muscles and calloused hands, the gentlemen glare fiercely from outside the bubble. It’s a reminder not to get too comfortable.
Worst of all, Sebastian hasn’t even had the time to talk to you. You and Imelda had been much too enraptured with a fellow the two of you call Nyushka. The name coming from your lips sounds as high-pitched and gross as one would imagine. Sebastian will take to miming it once they’re all settled in their dorm. He’s sure his companions will appreciate a good laugh after all this gobble. He’s surprised the floor isn’t covered in drool since the Durmstrang boys seem to be drowning in it.
Never in the history of this house had any of the Slytherin boys been met with such rapture. Scorned and underappreciated, they don’t try to hold in their laughter when some of the Durmstrang boys try following the girls up to their dorms. The stairs promptly turn to a slide and they tumble down, embarrassed. Perhaps this night isn’t as horrible as Sebastian had thought it’d be. Silver-lining and all.
“All right, shows over!” The Prefect sounds, an uptight, snoot-nosed kid that only got this position because he’s insufferable. Sebastian and he have a delicate, hateful relationship – mostly to do with Sebastian’s love of rule-breaking and detention record. He’d set it a few years ago, and no one so far has come even close to breaking it, “Everyone, off to bed! Classes start early tomorrow, and yes – yes you must study, we are not giving Gryffindor the House Cup again. Go, quickly! Durmstrang, follow me.”
The students filter, but Sebastian and Ominis linger. They’re inseparable, despite the few times their differences had separated them quite harshly. But a friendship forged under a fire like that unites people more than anything. Imelda saunters away after whispering something to you, and as you bid goodbye to the retreating Nyushka, you trek closer to them.
“They’re quite something, aren’t they?” The first words you speak to him after the summer, and it’s about Durmstrang. Worst yet, you’re breathless, still buzzing with excitement. His mood is, once again, instantly sour.
“If by something you mean utterly buffoonish, then yes, Durmstrang is, truly, something.” Sebastian quips. Your smile falls.
“Don’t.” You chide, “They seem like a nice enough bunch. Quite sweet underneath that fur and armour. They do look like they’re from the military, or something.” You then glance at Ominis, “Sorry.”
“I gathered as much from the…chatter.” Ominis says, “Seems like they’re of split opinion, or so the gossip goes.”
“Unlike Beuaxbatons,” Sebastian says, and there’s an inkling in him, and urge he can’t seem to fight, “that entrance and them were...wow.” He emphasises, and while he tries appearing nonchalant, he gauges your expression. To see if your mask slips and the tinge of something he felt when you were chatting with Nyushka makes its presence known in you, “Shame they weren’t housed with us.”
You nod a little, glancing at yours hands – nowhere near as gentle as most of the girls’ your age – and then you speak, with an odd sombre note, “They were quite striking indeed.” You turn your face slightly, so he wouldn’t be able to see the scar running across your cheek. Suddenly, he feels sick. He gulps, but can’t seem to swallow past the lump. You smile, “I’ll be off to bed now. Night, both of you.”
“Goodnight.” Ominis wishes for the both of them.
Silence fills the space. Sebastian anticipates what Ominis will say, but hearing it doesn’t make it any less painful, “That was unkind.” It’s a simple fact, void of scrutiny.
Sebastian sighs, “Wasn’t purposeful.”
“I know.”
“Still sounded like a right arse, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“But, c’mon,” He turns to Ominis, voice laced with exasperation, “she has to know that –“ and the words die on the tip of his tongue. Merlin, he can’t say it. Doesn’t want to say it. Feels like he’ll choke if he does. He’s never been shy, and now he’s not either (truly) he just doesn’t want to give you arsenal if you happen to overhear him admitting that you’re pretty. Surely you’ll tease him all the way to graduation and beyond. And so will Ominis. Abandoning that train of thought, he sighs, and this sigh is much heavier, as if the burden of the whole world now laid on his shoulders, “Whatever. Let’s go.”
Ominis merely hums, but a barely visible quirk of his lips informs Sebastian that somehow he knows. He knows that what Sebastian wanted to say is that she’s pretty, that she’s prettier than the lot of them combined. Mercifully, Ominis refrains from commenting and simply takes out his wand. He navigates to the dorm first. Sebastian, begrudgingly, follows after.