CHAPTER SEVEN

THE COLD AIR WAS a knife trailing along my skin, not hurtful, yet still irritating, making my skin prickle all over. I could feel its sharp caress through my uniform, I could feel its grip in my hair as it threaded through my dark hair, kissing the back of my neck.

Professor Caldwell Faustus had brought in another Ilvermorny professor into the equation, Professor Vane Jamestown, an allegedly renowned wizard known for his past endeavors as part of the National American Quidditch team decades ago. It was his expertise in the field he had previously traversed in, that had qualified him to assist in the training of the Durmstrangs, as well as to aid us in our directions for the Huntlock.

It appeared that the Durmstrang champion delegation consisted of Archers and Quidditch players both, and the Ilvermorny champions consisted of Quidditch players and Wizards chess players, the Hogwarts delegation was of yet still a mystery since they were due to arrive today, and the Beauxbatons delegation were a selection of capable Archers, with most of us having a steady hand in both Quidditch and Wizard chess-though only Gabriel Chevrolet and Elias Dupont played Quidditch for their houses at Beauxbatons every year, and Bridgette, Maximillian and I were were more than efficient at Wizards chess. However, it had still come as a surprise when we had been told the Huntlocks could set us on a pitch we were not confident about stepping on.

"What do you mean, all four games can come into play?" Gabriel Chevrolet had thundered at Professor Fabien, his jaw twitching as the new information just came to light. "You mentioned only three just now! Et pour l'amour de dieu, we were under the impression that we only have to compete in Archery."

"That is the challenge of the Huntlock, Monsieur Chevrolet," The professor offered a small smile, "Competitors have to be faced with the unknown, to keep the essence of the twisted legacy alive, despite how wrong it had been. By keeping a part of it in the games, we tell the les dorés that we acknowledge their suffering."

"Enough of that," Gabriel snapped, his eyes viciously glaring at the former. "Get to the point, Professor, we have to take part in four games?"

"Archery, Quidditch, Wizards Chess and the le défi inconnu," The professor mused, a dazed look in his eyes. "For the challenges you will be given, all these can come into play."

"What in hells is that?" Chevrolet was quick to bark, "I don't do Wizards chess professor, that game is for nerds and I'm not built for it. As for Quidditch, I'm more than good at it, but if you expect me to team up with them-" He gestured to us and huffing, I crossed my arms in annoyance.

"Then you're mistaken. They don't know a lick about Quidditch and you can't just train them all in two weeks! As for le défi inconnu, what do they mean by putting up an unknown game skill set in the Huntlock? How soon can we know what it is?"

"This is what the mixed training is for, Gabriel," Professor Fabien sighed, rubbing his temples, "The delegations are supposed to aid each other in areas they excel at and the others don't. Just as you will need to train beside the Durmstrangs for a better hold at Quidditch, they will have to look to you for your expertise in Archery. Both schools can then learn the trade of Wizards chess by looking to the Ilvermorny champions. And as for the le défi inconnu, It will not be a game, but a challenge, and it will only be revealed on the day of the tournament, or perhaps, the day before."

Gabriel's jaw had then steeled, a pulse visibly throbbing at the edge as he had stormed off, his bronze muscles tight and bulging, eyes glaring at the way ahead as he made himself scarce in anger.

Now, we were all here. On a scaled out training ground set in between the Greylock mountain and the cluster of other mountains beside it. The Ilvermorny castle stood a distance away, it's dark mist hugged form the size of my palm from this distance. The sun had claimed its place in the sky, though the clouds and mist in the air had obscured its wrath entirely from the competitors below.

Professor Vane Jamestown marched, with his hand pinned behind his robes, his bald head held high, as he observed all our forms. We stood behind him in queues, and before having asked us into those queues, he had mixed our arrangements in, himself.

I was placed beside the dark-skinned Durmstrang Zubair Dimitrova, with the Ilvermorny girl, Olivia Keystone at my right. She was considerably shorter than me, her striking ginger head matching up to my shoulder, while Dimitrova towered at my right, slightly taller than I. It felt strange, standing amidst students not of my own school. Had I ever really stood beside Wizards and Witches that did not go to Beauxbatons, or were not French, at all?

Bridgette and the others were given similarly vague positions amongst the other students, and an air of heavy unease tainted the air all around us at the forced proximity.

"Today's first is target practice," Professor Vane Jamestown called, his loud voice drifting all throughout, aided by the wind, as his robust form was highlighted by the little sun managing to escape amidst the mist and clouds up ahead.

"Target practice bleeds into all three of the games, and, hopefully, will aid you in the fourth challenge as well, the unknown challenge. You will all practice aim with different objects, catering to all three of the games mainly, and any other thing I might deem necessary."

His English accent was similar to that of Caldwell Faustus' or rather, most everyone's I had heard speaking during my short time here. The people in the portraits clung to the walls, the students of Ilvermorny. Still it sounded foreign and strange to my ears, how long before I naturally swept past that and focused on the message first? How long before I get over the fact that I had left France, and found myself in one of the countries my great uncle promenaded his dark campaigns in? How long before I realized I was closer to him than I had ever been before?

Professor Jamestown called up a name, and it took me a while to realize who's it was until I saw the figure of the tall and grim Viktor Krum making his way past the queues to approach the Ilvermorny professor up front. Krum's face was contorted in his usual stoicism, harder this time, to the point that he seemed irritated, furious even, that Jamestown had wrapped his tongue around the name in the first place. Krum hated attention, I realized, as Maximillian's words echoed in my head. It was strange. Why would a world famous Quidditch player hate attention, knowing how good at his craft he was?

The Professor then pulled out a sleek wand from amongst his robes and with a muttered spell and a flick of the stick, he made appear a round target high in the sky. The target floated gently, not staying affirmed to one place, and from where I stood watching, the target appeared the size of my thumb, obscured by shreds of clouds and mist as it was. The form of Professor Basil appeared in the sky just beside it, as he flapped his oak colored wings and swooped down towards us, gust of wind in his wake as he made his way towards.. me.

Stopping himself just above me, Professor Basil lowered himself down, the wrath of his wings making my sky blue uniform skirts flutter wildly as soon, I felt his talons grip my shoulder. Professor Jamestown, blinked at the interruption, before clearing his throat and turning to Viktor Krum. The rest of the students in the training queues however, had a hard time turning away from Professor Basil's form sitting perched on my shoulder.

"Professor," I spoke to him quietly, knowing that my voice was adequate enough for his sharp ears. "Floating targets? Shouldn't someone else be behind them?"

Floating targets could be controlled by the one who had pinned them so in the first place, which meant that Jamestown currently held the power to make any student he wished, to miss the mark. Which wasn't fair, despite the intentions the foreign professor held. The only way the use of floating targets would be fair, was at the Huntlock games themselves, when the control would be in the hands of the magic that bound the les dorés to these lands. The magic that knew no wizard, witch or unwanted, but saw all as one.

"Aim and strike, Miss Lavigne," Professor Basil spoke, his tone deep and firm. "Your main goal is to emerge victorious at the Huntlock. Here, just aim and strike how you believe best."

And indeed, that was what Viktor Krum seemed to have done. He yanked an arrow into the air towards the target, his physique schooled as a statue. Soon enough, the target board slowly floated down, and it was until it ventured close to the ground, its size similar to that of the doors of the Grand Hall of Ilvermorny, did we see the thin arrow lodged through it.

Viktor Krum had not hit the bull's eye, his arrow had thrust itself into the region considerably close, yet considerably far from the center. Yet his aim, from the distance, was impeccable. To the point I doubted my own ability to see past all the mist and clouds.

"The Hogwarts delegation has arrived," Professor Basil spoke up, bringing me out of my thoughts. "They may join this target practice soon, or they won't. But after this, and your two classes for the day, I will continue your training at night. Gather your peers and meet me here when the clock strikes midnight, we shall have this place to ourselves."

With that, his grip on my shoulder loosened, and he flapped his dark brown wings, lifting himself up and swooping away towards the castle in the distance.

I breathed slowly. Albus Dumbledore had arrived, and so had Harry Potter. It felt as though I had been waiting desperately for this moment, and now that it was here, I was dreading it. How was I to converse with Albus Dumbledore, and inquire of him questions of my great uncle that only he could answer? How was I to phrase the questions and to ensure his discretion? Would he hand me over to the American Ministry if he learned of the sign on my shoulder? Or if he learned of my connection to Grindelwald? Or even the Heuristics I dwelled in? Would he see me locked up in Nurmengard, just as he had imprisoned my great uncle there?

The initial round of the target practice passed by in a blur for me, every motion I made bled into another in my mind. And when I was called up, my name pronounced tonelessly by a foreign tongue, and I had aimed my bow at the target high up in the sky and let it loose, my mind was still infused with thoughts of Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Fear traversed through my skin as the target board floated downwards and I saw my arrow lodged clean through, right in the exact center as I wondered if dwelling on the dark wizard would trigger the sign at my shoulder, if my thoughts could somehow make it twist and burn in pain again.

I felt no thrill knowing I had hit the mark clean, despite the odds, for my mind had become a torture chamber in itself, perhaps one even dangerous than the ones Grindelwald had made in Nurmengard for his enemies, ones he himself had become subjected to in a peculiar twist of fate. Sick irony. Perhaps that was what scared me. Knowing that my path would lead me somewhere I didn't want to go, but knowing that I was powerless to change it.

After target practice, with Jamestown giving students who missed three chances, with a flick of his wand he made appear several target boards all around the training field. Then he left us all to our own devices, at the onslaught of which we retrieved our own bows and arrows, crowded together with our own peers and positioned ourselves seven yards away from boards, practicing arrow after arrow.

"Can't believe I had to stand next to that petulant sock puppet, Yordanka, for like an hour," Bridgette huffed, angrily letting an arrow loose at the target board beside mine. "Tu ferais mieux de croire, Dominique, my will was a hair's breadth away from pouncing on her."

"Just wait till the games," She added, eyes fiercely aiming for the board again as she let loose another arrow and it lodged itself clean in the middle.

I managed a small smile at her retort, the thoughts in my head quieting briefly. Shooting my own arrows, I spoke, "The Hogwarts delegation is here."

Bridgette scoffed. "Took them a while."

"Well yeah," Elias chimed in from my left, flinging his bow across his shoulder as he ran a hand through his ebony hair. "Considering the claims that boy has been making, they must've been taking precautions the entire way here."

"Why come at all?" I questioned, though I knew their presence was crucial to me in ways I cannot name to any of my friends.

"Guess Albus Dumbledore prefers ridicule," Gabriel saw his invitation to join in, his eyes fixed on his target board as he aimed. "Personally, I'd stay at home."

"Albus Dumbledore isn't you, Gabriel," Maximillian retorted, scrunching his face as he rolled his eyes. "He's one of the most powerful wizards of this generation."

Gabriel glared at Maximillian, and the latter shrank back.

The target practice changed routes, with Professor Vane Jamestown orchestrating a series of small matches, pinning two students of the same school against each other to test more than just their team work. It all lasted about an hour and a half more, and by the end, my arm ached-a streak of pain winding through my elbow up and down my entire arm, throbbing like a pulse.

After the practice, we were dismissed to freshen up before the late breakfast arranged for us in the Grand Hall. Hunger wound through me, my stomach rattled with it. The Hogwarts student delegation had not joined the target practice, my eyes kept searching for the presence of approaching figures to the training field, yet the clouds and mist hid no one else but the mountain forms and the blue sky overhead.

Bridgette and I made our way to our dorms, with the guys following behind and the Durmstrangs, weirdly seeing no significance in freshening up, headed straight for the Grand Hall.

As we disembarked the staircases to the east wing after the quick trip to our dorms, feeling less like we had plowed mountains for three hours straight, Bridgette hummed a soft tune, before speaking.

"Why do you think they didn't come to practice?"

I looked at her as we walked, only to find her eyes fixed ahead in deep thought. She was thinking about the Hogwarts delegation.

"Perhaps they were tired, after their journey," I offered, shrugging, "You forget, we slept the night through before this practice when we arrived."

"Or perhaps, they don't need to," She murmured as though I hadn't spoken.

My brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Perhaps they don't think practice is necessary," Bridgette continued, her teakwood irises finding mine, "Perhaps they believe in You-Know-Who's comeback so much, they think Huntlock is the least of their worries."

"Bridgette, no," I spoke, pursing my lips, "We talked about this, You-Know-Who cannot be back. There's no proof of it except for a student's death. Which could be caused by anything at all. A spell gone wrong, a malicious attack by another student, an unsuspecting charge by a frustrated magical creature, anything."

"So then, why hide it?" She asked the same question again, the one we had both pondered over in the Ilvermorny express, as it raced through oceans and mountains to arrive here.

I swallowed and looked away as the Grand Hall emerged in sight. "I don't know."

We entered the Hall, only to find it half empty. A large fire crackled in the fire place, its warmth seeping slowly into the air. The rows of tables were adorned with food at only the spots that were occupied by students. The Durmstrang group sat huddled together at the front of the far left row, the Ilvermorny students sat on the right row talking furiously-conversations both cheery and debated, with another group of students I didn't recognize. Dark robes that resembled Ilvermorny's except for their different colored collars and a red emblem at the chests. Some of the students wore wool scarves around their necks, matching the colors of their collars. Green, red, blue or yellow.

This was the Hogwarts delegation.

"Dominique," Bridgette nudged me, bringing me out of my trance as I realized I had been staring. "Come."

With that she made her way towards the table in the center row where Elias, Maximillian, Gabriel and Jean Dubois were seated-already attacking the foot appearing in front of them hungrily. Elias and Maximillian stole brief glances at the Hogwarts students, their eyes calculating as we approached.

"Which one do you suppose-" Bridgette started wearily, helping herself to toast.

"The one on the far left," Maximillian answered quickly, knowing exactly who she meant. "Short messy hair hiding the scar on his forehead, round glasses, red scarf around his neck."

I saw the boy he meant, and sure enough, it was Harry Potter. The fourteen year old boy who had survived the killing curse. The chosen one. He sat nudged beside a ginger haired boy and a curly haired girl who was clutching a leather bound book to her chest. I read the title, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. I stilled slightly, jaw tightening. Watching that book so close in Harry Potter's proximity was unnerving.

Bathilda Bagshot was Grindelwald's great aunt. She was a part of my family history just as Grindelwald was, but did she bear the same burdens as I did? I doubted it. She came before the dark wizard, and I came afterwards. The ones who came afterwards held no precedence, they would forever be left with the ruins nobody else wanted to shoulder.

Watching her name so close to Harry Potter felt like an intersection, as though both our stories were trying to merge in a way I could not comprehend. I turned away, I was reading too much into it, into this, into him. I focused on the honey dripping waffles I had put on my plate instead.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes at me, having caught my strange.. fascination perhaps, reflecting in my eyes. He scoffed and I looked at him.

"There is no way you are still transfixed at this boy," He spoke, voice loud enough to be heard. I cringed as Bridgette's eyes widened.

"Soyons de vrais, gars," He cried, "Look at him! He's just a stupid boy. Why in hell would anyone care what he has to say just because he survived a curse?"

"Gabriel, shut your mouth," Elias hissed, cautiously looking around just to find almost every student present with their eyes on us.

"No, you know what, let's confront him," Gabriel stood up, hands slamming on the table as the ceramic plates rattled. Then he turned to face the seated Hogwarts students beside the Ilvermorny students, and my stomach constricted in anxiety.

"Hey, you," Gabriel switched to English, his words rough with multiple edges. He pointed at Harry Potter, and the boy's soot eyes widened as he was targeted.

"Harry Potter, isn't it?" Gabriel asked, raising a brow. "The chosen one." His mocking tone was shockingly disturbing, infringed with hatred.

"What do you suppose word is on Voldemort? Did you manage to scruff him off your scent? Or is he hiding in those robes of yours?"

Jean Dubois wheezed, slapping the table top in encouragement as Gabriel glanced back just to grin.

"You know, attention seekers get what they deserve," Gabriel's tone turned solemn as everyone watched him, silence emanating in the Grand Hall. "And if fate isn't quick, I'd love to speed things along."

"Leave him alone!" The curly sable haired girl cried, putting her book on the table, eyes small and sharp as she glared defiantly at Gabriel.

"Aw," Gabriel mused, the grin on his dark lips intense, "You get little girls to stand up for you? Out here making a cheerleading team, are we?"

"Gabriel," I exhaled pointedly, my voice steady as I warned him.

"What?" He turned to me, anthracite eyes glinting at me. "You joining the cheerleading team too, Dominique?"

"I would much rather have you cheer for me, than for a fourteen year old boy with Voldemort hiding in his underwear," He spoke, switching to French, his grin turning into a vicious smirk. "The latter would be unethical, would it not?"

"Gabriel. Stop, It," I emphasized on each word, anger bubbling like a cauldron inside of me. The mark on my shoulder throbbed suddenly, and I had the furious urge to watch Chevrolet's skull crash against a wall so hard that I would be showered with splinters of bone and splashes of blood and muscle.

I saw it play out in my head, Gabriel's body slumping to the ground with his eyeballs now out of their sockets as they dangled down his face by a thin blood streak of muscle and vein. I shivered, blinking and crashed into reality. Gabriel was looking at me, his eyes now narrowed in slight concern than mischief.

I stilled at the sudden hate that had overtaken me. Gabriel was a crook, but I hadn't ever wanted to take his life. So what was that I had just seen and felt? What was happening to me?

"As I was saying," He regained his composure, turning to look at Harry Potter, lifting his lips back into a grin and switching to English. "I don't care for little boys prancing about with lies on their tongues. So you better not come in my way, Harry Potter, or you'll regret it."

A Hogwarts boy, with short platinum hair and pale skin, mirrored Chevrolet's grin. He wore a green scarf around his neck, glancing back and forth between Harry Potter and Gabriel with intrigue.

"It's not a lie!"

A loud shout broke the stillness of Chevrolet's dominance in the Grand Hall, like a veil had been blasted through, instead of being torn with a pair of scissors. All attention diverted to the boy who had spoken. The Hogwarts boy who had now stood up, his round glasses reflecting a bit of light with his small lips twisted in anger. Harry Potter, standing up for himself.

"I never lied," He raged, though his fury seemed like a crushable insect, it was the kind of fury that incited nothing in me, compared to growing up with the intense kind of rage that I had been brought up with, the rage that my great uncle and grandfather indulged in.

"Voldemort is back!" Harry Potter shouted again, as though he intended to yell it one more time to make sure everyone had heard. His words bounced against the dark walls, reverberating deep in stone as they echoed sharply in my ears. Gasps ensued around the Grand Hall, punctuated by furious whispers, in Bulgarian, in English. But we French stood still, communicating with each other only through our eyes.

The curly sable haired girl at Harry Potter's side grabbed hold of his elbow, murmuring something in his ear-an attempt to calm him as commotion sounded at the entrance of the Grand Hall.

I turned to look, and was met with the striding figure of the wizard, Albus Dumbledore. His hair was coated in gray, his beard so long and encrusted with golden bands, dangled at his stomach. His half moon shaped spectacles showed his small glinting light eyes, and before I could think of anything else, they found mine. Something passed in them then, and I couldn't place it. It was something familiar, was it.. recognition?

But I had never met him before, nor had he met me. The look in his eyes vanquished as soon as it had come, and he looked away to Agilbert Fontaine, striding into the Grand Hall with his amber eyes narrowed at the commotion he had definitely overheard.

***

A/N:
This is about to get so complicated I swear.

anyways, I'm on my reread of Deathly Hallows, its been inspiring me to write. I plan on getting most chapters out quickly before my finals start.