CHAPTER SIX

MAGIC WAS THE SOURCE of the world, and those wise enough, knew it. It was embedded in cores of wands, in the threads of the universe, and in the blood of some like an all encompassing mist clinging and spreading.

Heuristics, that was what that old lady had told me when I went to see her under the cover of the night-a night of desperate actions, intentions. A night of my fifth year at Beauxbatons. That was what it was called, the woman had said, with her skin weary and loose, her back hunched, her wild gray hair falling over her wild yellow eyes. That was what the magic that came out of skin was called.

But there hadn't been a witch or wizard capable of heuristics for centuries, she had emphasized, growing anxious and flitty, her large eyes looking at me as though I was a poisonous weed growing amidst a colony of roses. She had grabbed my hand when I had wished to leave, her boney long fingers wrapping tightly around my wrist to the point that I felt my cursed blood halt in my veins underneath her grip. I had yanked myself free, and then I had made her sleep. For she had intended to tell, to reveal this secret I had trusted her to explain and hide. She had done neither for me.

I had been told the old lady was crazy, that witch or not, she was off her mind. I should've listened, then I wouldn't have gone and hurt her. But at least now I knew that it had a name, what I could do without my wand, the spells I could cast with my hands, my chants and the powerful symbols I could draw, it all had a name. Heuristics. And that wasn't an answer, but it was the start of one. The old woman will be alright, I knew that as I left her sleeping. She would wake up with no memory of me, or of anything else in her life. But she would be alright, she would be alive. That was all that mattered, wasn't it?

The sun rose over the Greylock mountains, and it bled into the sky like melting lead. Its blood was red, warm and orange, and it seemed to seep into everything in its sight. I had risen before it, having seated myself at the glass paned window of our new dorm at Ilvermorny.

The darkness of the walls, and the plainness of the window was unnerving, unsettling. But in a peculiar sense, it was calming. The castle felt strong in all its darkness, and where Beauxbatons had been bold in its light, Ilvermorny seemed to be content hiding.

I caught a flare of light from the sky through the glass, and it danced on the tips of my fingers like a burning flame. I turned it around, molding it into a sparkling small shape of a rose. Then the image burst into a tiny puff of broken light, before I turned it into a different shape, the symbol of Grindelwald. A triangular holding a circle cut through in the middle. The symbol of the deathly hallows. Regaining my reality again, I erased the same, scattering the caught light away.

I glanced at the second bed in our dorm, and found Bridgette's drowsy form shifting, as she slowly rubbed her eyes and sat up.

"What time is it, meilleur ami?" Her voice was thick, as it always became when she was sleepy.

"Almost eight," I whispered, the action feeling strange suddenly.

According to the schedule that had been so meticulously made for us, we had target practice at eight thirty today, after which, we had been assigned two academic classes to tie us over until the evening, at the course of which, we will have our proper Huntlock training. As far as I was informed yesterday by Professor Fabien, the schedule is to remain the same for the entirety of the two weeks till the games, the only part that will switch will be the two classes we will have to take during the day.

Two classes were alright, I suppose. It wasn't hefty, but it worried me still. Going from having eight classes a day before evening fell at Beauxbatons, to just two here at Ilvermorny, felt like I was being left behind. It felt like if and when this ends, I'll emerge half of myself-half of what I was supposed to be. Learning was important to me, and for me it stemmed from my fear of being left in the dark. If the world turned to hell, and if everyone knew what to do except for me, that would be my hell.

"Très bien alors," Bridgette sighed, running her hands through her fawn hair, "I suppose it is time to hit the hay."

We spent fifteen minutes getting ready, our sky blue uniforms adorned, hair done to perfection, and wands tucked in the pockets of our attires, we were ready to leave the dorm. The sky outside, seemed to have rid itself of the sunrise, and now it was the same as it had been yesterday. That same heavy mist clung outside like clouds, the fog seeping into my vision as we embarked on the steps down the tower and passed its numerous glass windows, some open, inviting the cold mist in, and others left shut.

"Gosh, do they not bind these windows?" Bridgette huffed, as a cold breeze wafted through her hair, her eyes fixed on the dark granite steps below.

The tower looked unkempt, as though it hadn't been catered to in a while. The east wing of the castle felt like a maze when we had first entered it. It was a thick tower that led to separate staircases which lead to separate rooms, and as you embarked down after exiting your dorm, all the staircases met in the thick middle, leading to the hall-or the common room. The rest of the Beauxbatons students, Elias, Maximillian, Gabriel and Jean Dubois had taken different staircases to their two rooms. So had the Durmstrangs. All the while yesterday, the latter were witches and wizards of few words, and had spared us the barest glance, even when we were all taking the stairs to the east wing yesterday with no professor or authority around.

Bridgette declared them to be egotistical, and stuck up, but I figured it was something else. Their manner was articulated, as though their every move had been carefully planned. They were all weapons, shiny and firm, yet they were human too, a fact that they only seemed to forget.

We arrived at the hall, or the common room of the east wing dorms. It was empty, just as it had been last night. Ilvermorny students were not housed in this wing, so it made sense. A dark turquoise carpet clad the common room floor, shelves full of dusty cobwebbed books lined the walls, and from the ceiling hung a medieval iron chandelier with old candle wax stubs still left in its corners. The iron swayed a little as a wind hit it, making a distinct creaky sound that seemed to reverberate.

A tumble of voices erupted from above the stairs, among which I could quickly make out Elias' annoyed tone as he argued with Gabriel, the latter's tone as cool as it ever was during his arguments.

"Thank God, they had the decency to not sentence me in a dorm with you," Elias snapped as he disembarked the stairs and barged into the common room, spotting us.

The guys followed behind him, including a very smug looking Gabriel.

"Well, you got saddled with Maximillian," He scoffed, "So what? you two enjoy your slumber party?"

"Yeah," Jean Dubois grinned, "Did you paint each other's nails?"

"Because if you like that type of shit," Gabriel raised a brow, "Je suis contente leaving you two to it."

"Oh shut up," Elias glared at him, before sighing as he turned back to face us. "And you two? How did you guys sleep?"

"Agréable," I shrugged, "Though this will take a while getting used to."

"Yeah," Bridgette scrunched up her face, "The bed was totally rough."

"Oh, was there a pea under your bed, princess?" Gabriel asked, raising a brow laughing at his own jest as he slapped Jean Dubois' shoulder.

Bridgette glared at him, shooting daggers with her eyes as her hand went to her wand in the side pocket of her uniform. "Don't you dare jump on me, Chevrolet, I'll cut you."

"I'm shaking in my boots," The latter grinned, challenging her with his eyes.

"Stop it, Gabriel," I hissed, suddenly noticing the pound of several feet first as Durmstrang figures disembarked the staircase and poured into the common room.

But Gabriel feigned ignorance.

"Nah," His dark eyes darted at me, "I won't just let anyone threaten me, you got that?"

He then turned to Bridgette, eyes going from her to Elias.

"We're not in Beauxbatons, mes amies," He started, voice firm, "From now on if you have a problem with me, you get to challenge me and I get to see you lose."

My brows furrowed in irritation at him, not noticing as the Durmstrang students gathered in the common room, amused expressions plastered on their faces as they observed us.

"What is this mindset, Gabriel?" I criticized, "We are here as a team, we have to work together now that we are not at Beauxbatons. This is no time to satisfy your need for vengeance."

He scoffed angrily, dark eyes narrowing at me. "Work together? You wouldn't have said such a thing to me ever, at Beauxbatons."

"Well, as you said, we are not at Beauxbatons," I affirmed, my voice stern as he glared at me, fury emanating in his eyes.

His lips parted, but before he could retort something else, a clap sounded behind us, followed by two more pairs of hands clapping in lieu. Shocked, I turned around, and noticed fully the Durmstrang students we had just unintentionally staged a show for. And only then did it hit me, the twisted smug looks on all their faces, slanted eyes, lips lifted up in matching sneers, though I could only observe clearly the ones up front. Victor Krum's expression, was covered entirely.

If it hadn't been the language Gabriel and I were arguing in, it was the way we were saying what we said, that had probably made the Durmstrangs sense the discourse. Gabriel looked as though his head might explode, a vein pulsing visibly at his jaw. And I, with my hand twisting into tight fists at my sides and my voice raising with every sentence-surely the nature of our conversation was no mystery to any passer by.

"Day one, and the opponents are already fighting amongst themselves," A dark skinned girl in the front spoke up, her voice loud, demanding, captivating.

She spoke in English, her words sounded so heavy. They were like boulders rolling off her tongue. Her equally dark and curly hair stood like a halo around her head, her skin shone like the ancient palaces of Arabian kings of old.

She added something else in Bulgarian, a tight curt language I could not grasp a single word of. But It didn't take me less than a second to realize that it was a retort-a slash of words at our expense, because it was followed with a round of laughter from her peers, guys and girls alike, grinning with eyes flashing superiority.

"I wouldn't call it a fight," I folded my arms across my chest, defensive instincts kicking in as I dug deep inside me for the English words that mirrored the retort pulsing in my head in French, "A mere skirmish perhaps, mon adversaire ignorant, but not a fight."

"Right, Gabriel?" I turned to him, flashing him a look of warning before turning to face the girl again.

"Yeah," He offered, a shrug playing on his shoulders as his anger died down in the face of the actual opponents he was to deal with.

"Well," The girl grinned, taking slow steps nearer to me and stopping just inches before me.

I didn't flinch back, and returned her stare defiantly, calmly. If she thought she could intimidate me, if any of these Durmstrangs had had the mistake of entertaining a similar notion, then they were all fools.

"It did not look like a skirmish," The girl spoke, her thick lips emphasizing every word. I could feel her breath on my face. "Tell me. Did your boyfriend call you a bitch? Or something worse you French use? I would like to know French slang, in case it comes handy."

"Then you should've learnt it before coming," I offered, keeping my voice light and steady, a stark contrast to hers, on purpose. "Or were you not competent enough?"

Gabriel whistled lowly, adding the burn to my remark, and the girl's skin on her cheeks reddened in frustration. The Durmstrangs in the distance behind her, laid back and watched, their expressions stoic once more, and.. expectant. Maybe they were hoping the girl wouldn't disappoint, or maybe they were hoping to see me overpowered so it would be they who would snicker and whistle low.

The girl breathed through her nose, before forcing a smile on her face.

"What is your name?" She asked, a question so simple that it felt strange from her tongue, strange and misplaced, especially in this conversation.

"Dominique Marie Lavigne," I answered, steeling myself for anything she had further to say.

But she nodded slowly, as if considering my name in her head. A name made up of the first name my mother gave me, the middle name my father did, and the last name I gave myself-in an attempt at hiding in plain sight from a legacy that crept up to me in my bones, twisting in my flesh.

"I am Yordanka Hristova," She spoke next, her name as strong as her words. "Of house Vulpelara, year seven, at Durmstrang Institute."

I nodded, eyes still narrowed, considering her. "Ombrelune, year seven," I offered as my own response.

"I thought Beauxbatons girls were delicate, yet you seem to have quite a will on you," Yordanka declared, her eyes observing me before darting to meet mine.

"A stereotype," I unfolded my arms slowly, catching a pair of obsidian eyes as they met mine over Yordanka's shoulder.

Viktor Krum. I stilled at the contact. His gaze was intense, the look in his eyes was a heavy veil of intrigue I couldn't lift. He seemed to be attempting to analyze me, to strip me of the layers I had built around myself for years, he seemed to be trying to put me apart just to see what lay beneath. But why this sudden interest when he hadn't even noticed me yesterday? Did it take for this to catch his attention, a response dig at one of his peers?

"Ah," Yordanka's voice brought me out of my reverie as she looked over her shoulder, following my gaze. "I see you are fixed on Viktor."

I broke away, still feeling his sharp gaze on me. Beside him, with a hand on his shoulder, stood the bronze skinned Durmstrang I had noticed at the table yesterday. His messy dark hair still falling into his eyes, a rope fastened around his neck with a silver ring band dangling from it.

"Viktor, come, I believe Dominique here would like for you to sign something of hers," Yordanka grinned, turning to consider me. "Perhaps, her forehead? Or would you prefer your chest?"

My fists tightened at my side.

"Now, look here," Bridgette's voice poured into my ears, as she grabbed my arm and stepped up beside me, protectiveness and frustration evident in her tone. Her English was just as I remembered it from one of our final language classes last year, it was smooth, thin and firm. "I don't know who you think you are, but one more untoward word from you and you will pay for it in blood."

"A threat?" The Durmstrang girl raised a brow. "You don't know of what you speak. I can crush you like the pretty flowers you both are."

"Oh vraiment? I'd like to see you try," Bridgette snapped, stepping close with her glaring chocolate eyes.

"Yordanka," A voice called from behind, a deep voice that seemed to reverberate in this empty common room.

The bronze skinned Durmstrang strided towards us, his gait articulated, as his lean form approached us, the ring necklace at his chest moved slightly against his brown uniform, though his messy dark hair stayed in place.

"Such enmity before the Huntlock starts is unethical," He spoke, his deep brown eyes falling from the girl, to me and then to Bridgette. "Did you not hear Fontaine, we are all comrades in arms."

His accent was similar to the girl's though his tone was deeper than hers.

"Precisely," I said, managing a small tight smile, "You do not want to make enemies of us outside of the game fields."

"Oui," Bridgette affirmed, her eyes fixed on the Durmstrang boy. "You will come to regret it."

The boy grinned, his pearly whites on display making the contrast against his skin striking, fascinating.

"And what is your name?" He asked, eyes on Bridgette as I felt her hesitate slightly under his attention, her hold on my arm loosening.

"I myself am called Zubair Dimitrova, of house Wolverine, seventh year," He offered, with a smile that only reflected his genuine amusement.

"Bridgette Monet, Ombrelune, seventh year," Bridgette responded.

"Tell me, Bridgette and Dominique, Mademoiselles," He stretched on the word, trying to fake a French accent and getting none of it right. "Are all Ombrelunes this.. enticing?"

"And you are what, the Casanova of the group?" Gabriel Chevrolet chimed in, scoffing as he stepped up, turning attention to himself.

Zubair Dimitrova's expression hardened, eyes turning to the intruder. "Amongst my other contributions, yes, I may be."

"Zubair," A voice called from behind, silencing every thought I had for a moment.

Everyone turned to look at the caller, Viktor Krum, leaning against a wall, his expression stoic with obsidian eyes narrowed in frustration. I startled, he looked.. dangerous, with that irritation so evident on his face. He looked like he would kill and regret won't come, he looked like he would step over everyone in this common room to get what he wanted. His jaw was tight, I could sense the tension in it, the tension radiating off of him in waves. Was it tension, or was it just his dislike for everything that happened, his dislike for us?

If he was here, in the company of peers like Yordanka Hristova, he'd be no different than them. And his face and posture affirmed exactly that.

"We do not have time for this bullshit," Viktor Krum let out, the anger lining his English like varnish over an old portrait. His voice was deafening, and the people in the moving portraits lining the common room walls, initially engaged in everything that was happening, recoiled in fear and discomfort.

"It is eight thirty, we have target practice," He continued, eyes narrowing angrily at Zubair, before they settled on Yordanka. "We get to the pitch, now."

With that, Viktor Krum was making his way out of the common room. Zubair threw a shoulder, pursing his lips as he made to follow, and Yordanka retreated as well, throwing Bridgette and me a last warning glance before she spoke a curt order to the other five Durmstrangs in Bulgarian and they all made their way outside.

"Ben c'était intéressant," Elias Dupont spoke for the first time in a while, his brows raised and features contorted into amusement.

"What, in that, was so interesting? They are all bastards," Gabriel Chevrolet snapped, hands in fists at his side, his anger flowing perfectly in his French. "They are so going down, just you wait."

"I think the logical thing to do is to simply ignore their antics," Maximillian chimed in, his voice small, considering. "They will like to mess with any of you, so just make them see they can't get through. C'est facile."

I glanced at Maximillian. He was right. I did not come all the way here to get riled up by Durmstrangs. I had important things to worry about. I had to see Albus Dumbledore and hope that I can get out something of value about my great uncle from him, something of value about what I was becoming. He would know, he's one of the powerful wizards of this generation, if he doesn't know, I'm not sure anyone does. The whole reason I had agreed to attending these games was because I supposed I could claw tooth and nail to find out about myself in the process too.

Isn't that what Headmaster Agilbert Fontaine said? The Huntlock games are supposed to enlighten you, help you discover your true potential.

It is my true potential that I'm after, and no Durmstrang is going to get in the way, not even the stone statue-Viktor Krum.

***

A/N:
Okay, so you've met all the key players of this story in this chapter. The storyline comes into play next! <3