Aleksandra and Mateusz had received thick, scratchy towels that smelled faintly of lakewater and woodsmoke. Aleksandra thought it was strange that no one had thought to cast a proper Warming Charm. For all their pomp and grandeur, Hogwarts could still forget the simple things. She rubbed her arms briskly, trying to stop her teeth from rattling. Mateusz, on the other hand, was wrapped like a cocoon, his blue eyes just barely peeking out from the towel's folds.

They had just started across the churned, muddy path that led back toward the Durmstrang ship when a familiar voice called out from behind them.

"Well, well, well—look who finally came up for air."

Aleksandra turned, her damp hair sticking stubbornly to her cheeks. George Weasley stood there, hands in his pockets, grinning as if the whole lake ordeal had been nothing more than a snowball fight. His hair was windswept, freckles lit up by the weak winter sun, and Aleksandra felt her stomach knot in that infuriating way it always did when he looked at her.

"Don't start," she muttered, pulling the towel tighter around her shoulders.

George raised his brows, feigning innocence. "What? I was only going to congratulate you. You know, on surviving the angry merfolk. Quite the performance. Ten out of ten for dramatic flair. Twelve out of ten for stabbing things."

Mateusz snorted into his towel. Aleksandra shot him a warning glance, but her little brother was already smirking.

George leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. "Honestly, I've seen bludgers less terrifying than you down there. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"Good advice," Aleksandra said coolly, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest twitch.

George caught it instantly, his grin widening. "Ah, there it is. A smile. Knew you weren't made entirely of frostbite."

She shook her head, exasperated, and started walking again. Mateusz trudged along between them, towel slipping off one shoulder.

George kept pace, undeterred. "So. I was thinking ... once you've defrosted and stopped glaring at everyone who breathes wrong ... maybe you'd let me buy you a butterbeer? Hogsmeade weekend. Warm fire, no merpeople, I promise. Very low risk of drowning. Unless you count the butterbeer foam, but I've got quick reflexes."

Aleksandra glanced at him sideways, her cheeks prickling hotter than the cold wind warranted. "Is this your idea of subtlety, Weasley?"

"Me? Subtle?" George pressed a hand to his chest. "Never been accused of that in my life. But it's an excellent offer, I'll have you know. Exclusive. Limited time only. Better say yes before I auction it off to someone else."

Mateusz gave a short laugh, muffled by his towel. "You're hopeless," he told Aleksandra.

She sighed, but her lips curved despite herself. "Fine. One butterbeer. But if you spill foam on me, I'm leaving."

George's grin was nothing short of victorious. "Deal. Though for the record, I make an excellent drinking partner. You'll see."

Aleksandra rolled her eyes and pulled Mateusz closer, though her heart was still hammering oddly fast. George fell back a step, hands behind his head, whistling like he hadn't just managed to turn her world upside down with one awkward invitation.

Aleksandra was still trying to ignore the smug little tune George was whistling when movement ahead caught her eye. Fleur Delacour was kneeling in the mud, her silver hair plastered to her cheeks, clutching a small, limp figure in her arms.

Gabrielle.

The younger girl coughed weakly against her sister's shoulder, her lips tinged blue, her curls dripping lakewater down Fleur's torn sleeves. Fleur rocked her, murmuring in French, the words breaking on sobs that carried even over the noise of the crowd.

Aleksandra slowed, her hand tightening on Mateusz's arm. He followed her gaze, blinking blearily from his towel cocoon.

For a moment, she considered walking on — keeping her distance, retreating into Durmstrang steel. But Fleur's eyes lifted, wet and desperate, and something inside Aleksandra shifted. She steered Mateusz toward them.

Fleur looked up fully now, her face streaked with tears, her voice trembling. "She is my heart," she whispered, clutching Gabrielle tighter. "I thought I would never see her again."

Aleksandra's throat closed. She adjusted her grip on Mateusz, who squirmed slightly at the intensity of her hold, and lowered herself into the mud beside Fleur. The cold seeped through her knees, but she didn't care.

"I know," Aleksandra said softly, her voice rough but steady. She brushed a strand of wet hair back from Mateusz's forehead, pressing him closer. "I know. He is mine."

The two girls leaned into each other, their brothers and sisters clutched between them, their foreheads almost touching. For a moment, there were no schools, no banners, no judges — just two champions who had nearly lost everything.

Fleur's hand slid shakily over Aleksandra's sleeve, clinging. Her red-rimmed eyes met Aleksandra's again. "We are sisters," she said. "You and I. We must be."

Aleksandra swallowed hard, nodding once. "Yes."

A small sound made her glance down. Mateusz, bleary but grinning faintly, had wriggled an arm free of his towel. He gave a wobbly wave toward Gabrielle. "Cześć," he rasped.

Gabrielle startled, then — to Aleksandra's surprise — giggled through her tears, her pale cheeks flushing pink. She ducked her head against Fleur's shoulder, though not before peeking shyly back at Mateusz.

The weight in Aleksandra's chest eased, just a fraction. She squeezed Fleur's arm once more, then held her brother tighter, as though the warmth of that fragile moment could carry them both a little further from the lake's shadows.

— ✧ —

The Durmstrang ship loomed dark and hulking against the grey water, its masts jutting like skeletal fingers into the winter sky. The cheer of the stands was far behind them now, replaced by the groan of timbers and the lap of waves against the hull. Aleksandra tightened her grip on Mateusz's arm as they crossed the gangplank. He was still pale beneath the towel, lips tinged faintly blue, his steps clumsy. She half-carried him, though he bristled at her fussing.

The air inside the ship was warmer, thick with smoke from the iron-bellied stove in the common cabin. Students had gathered in clumps, whispering about the Task, their voices rising and dying away like the tide.

And at the center of it, waiting like a spider in its web, stood Igor Karkaroff.

His silver-streaked beard caught the lamplight, his fur-lined coat brushing the floorboards as he turned at the sound of their steps. His eyes — cold, pale, unblinking — fixed first on Mateusz, then on Aleksandra.

"Ah," he said softly, in that voice that carried more venom when it was quiet. "The hero returns."

The room stilled. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Even the fire in the stove seemed to shrink back.

Aleksandra lifted her chin, refusing to let him see the chill that shot down her spine. "I completed the task," she said, her voice rough from the lake but steady.

"Did you?" Karkaroff took a step closer, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "From where I sat, it looked less like a champion's triumph and more like... desperation. Screaming, slashing, tearing at ropes like a peasant girl with a kitchen knife."

Heat flared in Aleksandra's cheeks, though she forced her expression to remain still. Around them, the other Durmstrang students watched with sharp, hungry eyes, drinking in every syllable.

"I saved him," Aleksandra said. "That was the point."

Karkaroff's gaze slid to Mateusz, still wrapped in his towel cocoon, his hair plastered flat to his forehead. "Your hostage." His lips curled faintly. "Your brother."

He paced once around them, like a wolf circling prey. "You allowed your sentimentality to be exposed before the entire school. Judges. Rivals. Do you understand what that looks like? Weakness. You are meant to be Durmstrang's pride. Instead, you looked like a frightened little girl clinging to her doll."

Mateusz stirred against her side, blinking groggily. "She was brave," he muttered, his voice small but fierce. "She fought the merpeople. She saved me."

The silence that followed was brittle as ice.

Karkaroff turned his head slowly, his cold smile curdling. "And you," he said softly, the words a blade. "You speak out of turn in my cabin?"

Mateusz straightened instinctively, though his legs trembled beneath him. His jaw tightened, his small fists clenching in the folds of the towel. "I'm not afraid of you."

Gasps and murmurs flickered through the watching students. Someone stifled a laugh.

Karkaroff's eyes narrowed. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. He took a single step forward, and Mateusz shrank back despite his words. Aleksandra pulled him closer, her arm firm around his shoulders.

"Enough," she said sharply.

The Headmaster's gaze snapped to her, and for a moment, Aleksandra thought he might strike her then and there. Instead, he drew a slow breath, straightening, smoothing his beard with one elegant hand.

"How disappointing," he murmured, his voice silk over steel. "The Zielińska name should stand for discipline. Control. Superiority." His pale eyes burned into hers. "And yet here we are — one child mouthing off like a street brat, the other sobbing into the lake for all to see."

Aleksandra's throat ached, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. Her nails bit into Mateusz's shoulder. "I did what I had to do."

Karkaroff leaned close, so only she could hear. "You did what you wanted. Never forget the difference."

Then, with a flourish of his coat, he turned away, addressing the room at large. "Return to your studies. We will not be remembered as fools. The next task will not allow for theatrics."

The students dispersed in low murmurs, the firelight flickering over their eager faces.

Aleksandra stood rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Mateusz clutched at her sleeve, his face pale but defiant.

"You were brilliant," he whispered fiercely. "Don't listen to him. I was there. You were brilliant."

Her breath hitched, just once. She bent and pressed a quick kiss to his damp hair, the gesture hidden by the shadows. "Go rest," she told him, her voice trembling despite herself.

Mateusz went reluctantly, glancing back at her over his shoulder with a look that promised he hadn't said his last word.

Only when he was gone did Aleksandra allow her shoulders to sag, her nails leaving crescents in her palms. Karkaroff's words rang in her ears, heavy as chains.

Weakness. Sentimentality. A frightened little girl.

But under it, stronger still, was Mateusz's voice.

Brilliant.

— ✧ —

The Gryffindor common room glowed like a furnace that evening, packed wall to wall with cheering students. Butterbeer foamed over tankards, the enchanted bagpipes wheezed out some mangled version of a victory march, and half the younger years were dancing on the rug like they'd been the ones to dive into the lake.

Fred was in the middle of it all, perched on the arm of an armchair and retelling Harry's heroics with increasingly outrageous detail. Lee Jordan was egging him on, shouting corrections that only made the story wilder.

George sat with them, laughing at the right moments, but his eyes kept straying toward the tall windows, where frost webbed the glass and the lake glimmered faintly beyond.

Fred noticed. Fred always noticed.

"You're quieter than usual," he said, cocking an eyebrow at his twin. "Not like you to sit through a party looking like a lovesick poet."

Lee nearly spit his butterbeer. "A what?"

"A lovesick poet," Fred repeated, grinning wickedly. "All moonlight sighs and tragic yearning. Tell me, Georgie — were you staring at the lake or at a certain icy-eyed Durmstrang champion who just happens to have agreed to a Hogsmeade date with you?"

George's ears went red. "It's not a date."

"Oh, it's a date," Fred said smugly. "Butterbeer, roaring fire, two straws—"

"Fred."

Lee leaned in, eyes wide. "Wait, she actually said yes?"

George ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Yeah. She did. But that's not the problem."

Fred smirked. "What's the problem then? You're about to get a butterbeer with the most terrifyingly attractive witch in the castle."

George hesitated, staring into his drink. "The kiss," he admitted finally. "At the Ball. She kissed me back, but then she bolted like I'd hexed her. And now I can't tell if Hogsmeade means she actually wants this, or if she just—" He broke off, shaking his head.

For once, Fred didn't laugh. He leaned forward, voice softer. "If she didn't care, she wouldn't have run."

George glanced up.

"Think about it," Fred pressed. "She doesn't flinch from dragons, or merpeople, or Karkaroff, for Merlin's sake. But she flinched from you. That's not nothing, Georgie. That's... something."

Lee whistled low. "Blimey. That's almost romantic, coming from you."

Fred shoved him, but his eyes never left George's.

George looked back toward the window. The lake was black and still, but in his mind he saw Aleksandra's sharp smile breaking through frost, her "fine, one butterbeer" ringing like a challenge.

Unfinished business. But maybe not hopeless.

— ✧ —

Aleksandra, Kalina, and Viktor sat that evening in the Durmstrang common room. The lanterns burned low, throwing long, wavering shadows across the carved wooden walls. Most of the students had gone to bed, leaving only scattered clusters hunched over parchment. The only sounds were the scratch of quills, the occasional yawn, and the muted crackle of the fire.

During the past weeks, the atmosphere between Kalina and Viktor had shifted into something strange but steady. The tension, the sharp edges — gone. What remained was calmer, touched with a sort of melancholy, as if they both carried a weight neither could quite name.

Aleksandra dipped her quill, trying to focus on the Arithmancy chart swimming before her eyes, but her thoughts kept straying. She didn't know how she'd fallen into this habit of working alongside Viktor Krum, of all people. He was not lively company, nor generous with words. And yet... the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It felt almost safe.

Still, tonight it pressed too heavily on her chest.

How could she say it aloud? That George Weasley — infuriating, grinning, hopeless George — had asked her to Hogsmeade? That she had said yes? Even thinking the word date made her ears burn. And Krum, sitting right there with his quill poised, seemed the last person she wanted overhearing such a confession.

She chewed the inside of her lip. Kalina's eyes kept darting up from her parchment with that sly look she always got when she knew Aleksandra was hiding something.

Finally, Kalina set her quill down with a decisive snap. "All right. Out with it. You've been twitching like a first-year about to confess she cheated on her Transfiguration essay. What's wrong?"

Aleksandra stiffened. "Nothing."

Kalina smirked. "Nothing? Your face says otherwise. You've been distracted since the Task. Distracted in a very particular way..." Her eyes glinted. "Don't tell me this is about the boy."

Aleksandra glared, ready to deny it — but Viktor spoke first. His deep, accented voice cut cleanly through the quiet:

"Is about Weasley."

Both girls froze.

Aleksandra's head whipped toward him. "Excuse me?"

Viktor didn't look up from his parchment. His quill kept moving, steady as ever, as he added, "Tall twin. Laughs too much. Always watching you."

Kalina's jaw dropped, then slowly curled into a delighted grin. "You noticed?"

"Is obvious," Viktor said simply, setting his quill aside at last. His dark eyes lifted to Aleksandra's, calm and certain. "He likes you. You like him. Why else you say yes to Hogsmeade?"

Aleksandra nearly dropped her inkpot. "How do you—?"

"You are terrible liar," Viktor said flatly.

Kalina burst into laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle it. "Oh, Aleksandra, your face! You're redder than a Gryffindor banner."

Aleksandra buried her face in her hands. "This is humiliating."

But Viktor wasn't finished. He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms folding across his chest, and spoke with a rare, thoughtful gravity.

"When I like someone," he said, "I do not waste time. Life is too short for that. You find person who makes you laugh, who makes you fight better, who makes you... want to be more. You hold on. You do not run away."

His words landed heavy in the quiet, sharper for their sincerity. Kalina's laughter faltered. She stared at him as though she'd just seen him for the first time.

Aleksandra lowered her hands, caught off guard by the rawness in his tone. She'd expected teasing, maybe even disapproval. Not this. Not Viktor Krum, the stoic Quidditch star, giving her the kind of advice her own heart had been too afraid to whisper.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The fire popped softly in the grate.

Kalina leaned back, eyes wide. "Well," she said finally, voice tinged with awe, "I did not expect our Viktor to be the one giving romance speeches tonight."

Viktor only shrugged, picking up his quill again. "You asked. I answered."

But Aleksandra wasn't writing anymore. She was staring at the parchment before her, her pulse loud in her ears, Viktor's words echoing there like a spell she didn't know how to undo.

When Viktor finally rose from the table, gathering his books with his usual quiet efficiency, neither girl spoke. He gave them both a curt nod and disappeared up the stairs toward the boys' quarters, his heavy boots echoing against the wood.

The silence he left behind felt different. Not empty — weighted.

Kalina whistled low, leaning back in her chair. "Well. Who knew Viktor Krum had a soul under all that brooding?"

Aleksandra blinked at her, still half-stunned. "I wasn't... I didn't think he noticed anything."

"Oh, he noticed," Kalina said, eyes sharp with amusement. "More than you did, apparently. He practically handed you a permission slip to go snog Weasley under the mistletoe."

"Kalina—" Aleksandra buried her face in her hands again.

But Kalina's grin softened. She reached across the table and nudged Aleksandra's arm gently. "Hey. Don't look so stricken. It's not a crime to want someone. Even Viktor gets that."

Aleksandra peeked at her through her fingers. "Why do I feel like he wasn't just talking about me?"

Kalina's smile faltered — just a fraction. She glanced toward the stairs Viktor had climbed, her expression unreadable for a moment. "Because he wasn't," she admitted quietly. "He knows what it's like, wanting someone you can't quite have."

The words landed heavier than Aleksandra expected. She remembered Kalina's sharp reaction at the Ball, the venom when she'd spat Hermione Granger's name. She remembered the melancholy that had settled between Kalina and Viktor since then, a hush where there used to be fire.

Kalina noticed her look and sighed, running a hand through her copper curls. "Don't overthink it, Ola. Viktor's advice was meant for you. For once, take it. You've been carrying everyone else's expectations for years. Maybe it's time you carried something for yourself."

Aleksandra let out a shaky laugh. "You sound like him now."

"Please," Kalina snorted, but there was warmth in her eyes. "I'd make a much better dating coach. Step one: stop glaring at Weasley every time he tries to make you laugh. Step two: let him buy the butterbeer. Step three: if he's an idiot and spills it, hex him on the spot."

Aleksandra laughed properly this time, the knot in her chest easing just a little. "You're impossible."

"And you're impossible to read," Kalina said, giving her hand one last squeeze before gathering her books. "But I've known you long enough to see when you actually care. Don't run from it, Ola. Not this time."

She left with a wink, leaving Aleksandra alone with her parchment and her thoughts — and the echo of two voices, so different but suddenly in agreement:

Do not run away.