She leaned over the edge of the hammock and peered down. Kalina lay sprawled across her cot like some overdramatic Renaissance painting: arms above her head, cheeks flushed, last night's mascara smudged halfway to her ears, humming an unfamiliar tune with a faint, satisfied smile.

Aleksandra blinked. "Why do you look like you just robbed Gringotts and got away with it?"

Kalina yawned. "Can't a woman be happy for once?"

"Not this early," Aleksandra croaked, then winced at her own voice. "Ugh, I sound like a dying banshee."

Kalina chuckled softly. "You sound like a woman who just outwitted a dragon."

That shut Aleksandra up for a second.

Then: "Come on. Let's get Mateusz before he gets into trouble."

Twenty minutes and a series of groans later, both girls had untangled their wild hair, wiped the remnants of smeared eyeliner from their eyes, and swapped yesterday's chaos-stained robes for clean uniforms. They still smelled faintly of smoke and pear wine, but it was better than nothing.

Aleksandra, still slightly sore, made her way through the narrow hallway and thudded a heavy knock on Mateusz's cabin door. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.

The door swung open with a groan, revealing the looming figure of Jozef Horký — the tallest student on the Durmstrang ship, whose beard probably had its own birth certificate.

Aleksandra froze.

Jozef stared down at her like she was something sticky he'd just stepped on. His eyes narrowed.

"...Good morning?" she offered meekly.

Instead of punching her — which honestly felt like a distinct possibility — Jozef let out a long sigh and turned into the cabin. Moments later, he reemerged dragging a very sleepy Mateusz by the foot, still tangled in his hammock like a caterpillar in denial.

"Put him back when you're done," Jozef grunted, and walked off without another word.

Mateusz blinked up at his sister from the floor. "Why does my face feel like it's full of bees?"

"That's just what victory feels like," Kalina said brightly.

By the time the three of them made their way toward Hogwarts, Aleksandra's legs felt like stilts made of regret and stone. None of them said much. Not on the walk. Not even once they entered the Great Hall, which was already filled with the usual morning noise — clattering plates, enchanted ceiling sky, owls overhead, and more than a few students still whispering about dragons with the wide-eyed awe of near-death spectators.

The Durmstrang table, by contrast, was eerily subdued. Half the delegation was either still asleep or deeply hungover. A girl to Aleksandra's left had simply put her head on the table and refused to lift it again. No one asked questions.

Aleksandra wasn't particularly hungry — her body still too wound up and sore to entertain the idea of chewing. But she poured herself tea and sat there, trying to will the room to be quieter.

Victor wasn't there. She noticed it without meaning to. Strange.

It was Mateusz who broke the silence, because of course it was. He reached across the bench and plucked something off an empty seat.

"Look!" he said, mouth full of toast. He held up a copy of The Daily Prophet, already stained with what looked like marmalade and dragon soot. "You're famous again."

Aleksandra blinked at the headline.

ALEKSANDRA ZALINKA – AN INCREDIBLY BRAVE SOUL

"Zalinka?" Kalina barked. "How do they keep inventing new ones?"

"I hate everything," Aleksandra muttered, flipping to page two with the gentle rage of someone resisting the urge to set things on fire.

Beneath a blurry photograph — likely taken during the Fireball's purring moment, her hand barely visible against its snout — was a paragraph that began with familiar dread:

Sources close to the Durmstrang delegation suggest the girl used obscure Eastern-European rituals to 'calm' the creature—

"I said please in Polish," Aleksandra snapped.

Mateusz leaned over her shoulder, eyes wide with glee. "Ooh. They called you the Dragon Whisperer."

"And the Whispering Witch again," Kalina added. "You should really start keeping track of these for your memoir."

"I'm going to hex Rita Skeeter's entire wardrobe," Aleksandra muttered, folding the newspaper with a savage crinkle.

— ✧ —

After breakfast, their Potions professor, Daciana Vetrova, had given them the unenviable task of brewing Amortentia — the most complicated love potion in the syllabus, and arguably the most dramatic. Unfortunately, Professor Vetrova had also failed to bring enough peppermint or rose thorns, and after some muttering in what Aleksandra was fairly sure was old Romanian profanity, she had sent a handful of students out to the Hogwarts greenhouses to collect more.

Which is how Aleksandra now found herself elbow-deep in a particularly unfriendly rosebush.

"Kurczę..." she hissed, jerking her hand back as one of the thorns jabbed her finger. A bright bead of blood welled up instantly.

She stuck it in her mouth, muttering curses against the entire botanical kingdom.

"Alek!"

She froze.

The voice was unmistakable — light, amused, and unreasonably chipper for someone who never seemed to take anything seriously. George Weasley was making his way through the greenhouse archway, hands in his pockets, grinning like he'd just caught her doing something scandalous. Fred and Lee were behind him, chatting animatedly but slowing down as they spotted her.

"Why are you hiding in a rose bush?" George asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because my potions professor forgot to plan ahead," Aleksandra replied flatly, pulling her hand from her mouth and inspecting the thorn-prick with a scowl. "And apparently I am now a forager. A bleeding one."

George crouched beside her with exaggerated concern. "Did the rose offend your honor? Should I duel it?"

"It already won."

He grinned. "You make this whole 'cursed forest witch' thing look very glamorous, you know."

Aleksandra rolled her eyes and wiped her fingers on a handkerchief. Then, after a beat, her face shifted—remembering something.

"Oh, wait."

She reached into her satchel, dug around between wrinkled notes and potion ingredients, and finally pulled out a slightly battered sketchbook. She flipped to a worn page tucked into the back cover — the drawing she'd done weeks ago, by the Black Lake.

She held it out to him silently.

George took it carefully, as if it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

It was a pencil sketch, clean and spare but unmistakably him: slouched posture, lazy grin, wind-tossed hair, half-shaded freckles. He was leaning on a rock by the lake, looking off at something out of frame — not posed, not heroic. Just... real.

"I had completely forgotten about this one," George murmured, studying it. His voice was suddenly softer, without his usual mischief. "You even got the lopsided part of my nose."

"It is quite lopsided," Aleksandra noted.

He laughed.

Fred appeared behind them just then, peering over his brother's shoulder. "Oi! Is that me?"

"No," George said, turning the page a bit. "Just the more handsome twin."

Fred squinted. "I think you've drawn his chin too charmingly."

"That's how it looks," Aleksandra said without looking at him.

Lee popped his head in from the side. "Didn't know the Whispering Witch did commissions."

George slipped the sketch carefully into his pocket. "She doesn't. I'm just lucky."

Aleksandra pretended not to hear that — and definitely pretended not to blush.

Fred gestured to the rose bush. "Well, as long as you're bleeding for your art, mind grabbing a few extra rose thorns for our potion too? You know, since you're bonding with the plants."

Aleksandra raised an eyebrow. "If you help me up, maybe."

George offered a hand without hesitation. She took it — not gently, not dramatically, just... casually. Like it was easy now.

Like this sort of thing might happen again.

As she stood, she turned to him, wiping her palm on her robe. "And next time you sneak up on me in a greenhouse, maybe bring gloves."

"Next time," George said, "I'll bring roses."

Fred groaned. "Merlin's moldy socks, you two are disgusting."

Aleksandra just smirked and turned back to the bush — bleeding, blooming, and still stubbornly worth it.

— ✧ —

Aleksandra was in a rare and unmistakably good mood when she stepped back into the potions classroom.

She had been in a good mood when she'd first brewed Amontina, and an even better one when the professor held up her cauldron as the example for how the potion should look when properly finished — shimmering pale pink, veined with threads of silver like frost on glass.

The scent had been just as striking. Amontina smelled like burning wood and wild berries, with the soft warmth of cinnamon laced beneath it — familiar in a way that made her throat tighten unexpectedly. She couldn't quite place it. Perhaps her Babcia's winter baking. Or the spice cupboards of childhood. Or something else entirely.

"And that's it," said Professor Vetrova, brushing her hands together as the potion in her cauldron burbled to a noxious green. "On Christmas Eve, December 25th, each school will participate in the Yule Ball to celebrate the Triwizard Tournament and, of course, encourage stronger inter-school ties."

A collective groan swept through the room like a rogue gust of wind.

"A formal event," Vetrova added, smirking faintly. "Dress robes required. Third-years may only attend if invited by an upperclassman."

A ball. To encourage magical diplomacy. As if forcing a bunch of anxious teenagers to nearly die for sport wasn't enough — now they had to do it in formal wear, gracefully.

Aleksandra stared at the cauldron. The bubbling green potion looked exactly like how she felt inside.

Great.

She shoved her notes into her satchel and hoisted it over her shoulder. Her boots echoed against the stone floor as she slipped out of the classroom early, trying not to think about how she didn't own a single dress that didn't look like it could also be used in ritual combat. Or how Mateusz would be absolutely devastated when he learned he wasn't even allowed to attend.

She was halfway down the corridor when she collided full-force with a small, dark-haired storm.

"Merlin's cracked elbow!" Kalina hissed, bouncing off her like a hexed bludger.

Aleksandra blinked. "Why are you running at people like that?"

"Why are they throwing parties when you've barely survived your brush with death?" Kalina snapped. "What sort of twisted logic is that? 'You might die! But at least you'll do it with excellent posture and a dance card!'"

Aleksandra tried not to smile. "It's diplomacy. Or something."

"It's nonsense," Kalina fumed, stomping beside her now. "Do you know what they said in Beauxbatons' hall last night? 'Imagine being so cold that only a dress and a dance can thaw her heart.' You've become poetry now. Prophetic and pathetic."

Aleksandra made a face. "Did they really say that?"

Kalina waved a hand. "Roughly. I translated. Artistically."

They walked in silence for a few steps before Kalina squinted sideways at her.

"You are going, right?"

Aleksandra shrugged. "It's not like I have much of a choice."

"Well," Kalina said slowly, "have you decided who you're going with?"

Aleksandra blinked. "It's not until December."

"Exactly. That's like tomorrow in Dress Robe Panic Time. You should start making lists."

"Lists?" Aleksandra raised an eyebrow.

Kalina nodded seriously. "Lists. Contenders. Pros and cons. Height rankings. How likely they are to step on your feet."

Aleksandra tried not to laugh. "Should I rank them by wand polish level too?"

"I already do," Kalina muttered.

They reached the edge of the courtyard. The wind picked up, biting through their cloaks.

"Anyway," Kalina added, arms crossed, "I hope someone worthy asks you. Not some mouth-breathing Slytherin with too much hair gel."

Aleksandra tilted her head. "Anyone in mind?"

Kalina cleared her throat and looked dramatically away. "Just... someone who doesn't spell your name wrong or call you a moon witch."

Aleksandra caught the flicker of a smirk on her friend's lips.

"You're thinking of the red-haired one again."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The one who keeps trying to steal potions ingredients when he thinks no one's watching."

Kalina huffed. "They're all red-haired!"

Aleksandra laughed. "True."

Kalina looped her arm through hers. "Well, whoever it is, just remember: If they hurt you, I will curse their kneecaps backwards."

"Romantic."

"Effective."

As they headed down the hall, neither of them noticed the thin figure waiting in the shadows by the staircase — arms crossed, expression thunderous, mustache twitching.

Karkaroff had heard just enough.

And the party might be over, but his wrath?

Was just beginning.

"Miss Zielińska?"

Both girls turned.

Karkaroff stood just behind them, his expression unreadable save for the thin smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Neither Aleksandra nor Kalina had noticed him approach.

Aleksandra straightened at once. Kalina, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes and folded her arms, already halfway to a cutting remark.

But Aleksandra gave her a warning nudge with her elbow — subtle but firm. Not now.

"Of course, Professor," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

Karkaroff gestured for her to follow. "A moment in my office."

His office on the ship was dimly lit and over-warm, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the November chill outside. The space smelled faintly of old cigars, damp fur, and something faintly metallic.

He settled behind his polished desk with the kind of self-importance usually reserved for minor monarchs. Aleksandra took the smaller leather chair across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"You've made quite an impression," he said at last, his voice smooth but cold.

"I suppose so," Aleksandra answered quietly.

On the desk lay the newest issue of The Daily Prophet, folded open to the center spread. Her face was there — blurred and grainy, beside the Chinese Fireball — caught mid-breath, her hand outstretched toward the dragon's massive muzzle. The headline read:

ALEKSANDRA ZALINKA – AN INCREDIBLY BRAVE SOUL

Karkaroff tapped the page with one long finger. "This is not what Durmstrang is known for."

Aleksandra's throat tightened. "But I won," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I came first."

"You made us look merciful," he snapped, the false warmth in his voice gone. "Sentimental. Gentle." He said the last word like it physically offended him. "Acts of compassion do not build reputations worth fearing."

Aleksandra blinked, unsure if she'd heard correctly. "You would've preferred I cursed it?"

"I would've preferred," Karkaroff said, leaning forward, "that you represented us as strong. Ruthless, if necessary. Not as some soft-hearted... caretaker."

Aleksandra swallowed hard. "Are you not proud of me?"

There was silence for a moment.

"I'm proud," he said slowly, "that you survived. That's all that matters now."

He sat back in his chair, the leather groaning. "But for the next task... I suggest you remember where your loyalties lie. You are not here to make friends or play nursemaid to beasts. You are here to win, and to remind them who we are."

Aleksandra's fists clenched slightly in her lap.

"I understand."

"Good." He paused, then waved a hand as if brushing away the moment. "Also, don't forget to arrange a suitable escort for the Yule Ball. It's tradition."

Aleksandra blinked. "May I bring my brother?"

Karkaroff's eyes sharpened. "Absolutely not. Someone your age. Older. Someone who—" He hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. "—reflects well on the school."

She didn't reply.

"I expect a name by the end of the week," he added curtly, already reaching for another parchment.

Aleksandra stood. "Yes, Professor."

He didn't look up.

She left without another word, biting down the urge to slam the door behind her.