CHAPTER EIGHT

THE DARK ARTS SEEMED like an illusion to an innocent eye. If you only read about it in books, age old text imprinted on a page—it seemed like a joke, a cruel jest that is meant not to be indulged in, but still, to be thrust upon your face, from a textbook, from an enemy, from your family history. 

Defense Against The Dark Arts at Ilvermorny, was taught by a staunchly built professor, a certain Jebediah Keystone. With his stout height, long ginger curly hair pouring out of his creased hat and down his robes, and his stubby fingers, the man slowly walked about classroom 6B, his arms tied behind his round back, face pulled the ground in deep thought as the wireless on his desk crackled. 

"— with the recent blow at the Diggory family, Amos Diggory of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the British Ministry of Magic, refuses to give a statement regarding the sudden murder of his son, Cedric Diggory. It is believed that the man supposedly allies himself with the belief of Harry Potter and in turn, Albus Dumbledore. Following the death, mass breakouts have been witnessed from Azkaban, prisoners being related or associated to You-Know-Who in the past, as dementors go wild with anguish. The attack on muggles after last year's Quidditch World Cup final also adds greatly to the concern. The Ministry claims to be rounding up the escapees, yet it refuses still to acknowledge Harry Potter's claim. Could it turn out to be true? Is He who must not be named, really back? Is the fall of the Wizarding world as we know it, near? Could this be a resurrection unlike any other?" 

Professor Jebediah Keystone switched off the broadcast, a thick finger pressing a dial as the box crackled off, the British voice on the sound silencing instantly.  

"There," The professor spoke after the silence had penetrated, and I stirred slightly in my seat in discomfort. Mass breakouts from Azkaban? Of things I had mentally prepared for, it was not this. 

The attack on the muggles after the final Quidditch world cup match was something I knew only an overview of. No wireless broadcast, following the final match had taken the liberty to cover the unprecedented event as well. But in all honesty, an attack on muggles didn't mean anything to me for me to venture deeper for more information. 

"So it's true then," The nonchalant form of Zubair Dimitrova leaned in on his desk, eyes peering up at the American professor. "You-Know-Who's really back. Britain seems to be displaying all the symptoms of it." 

For our second class of the day, the participants of the Huntlock were again assembled together in the same classroom, being taught a lesson as though all of us hadn't just left our countries to be here and partake in a series of games, while according to the news, the wizarding world could potentially be falling apart.

Contrary to Dimitrova, I was firm in my belief that Harry Potter was mistaken, yet this mass breakout from Azkaban prodded at my mind like a giant needle. 

For year seven Defense Against The Dark Arts, classroom 2A consisted only of the year sevens of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons—which constituted their entire delegations.

My mind stroked the information of the broadcast, why did he have to make us listen to it? Why, when Madame Maxime and potentially, Albus Dumbledore had gone to great lengths to conceal what happened to Cedric Diggory after the Triwizard Tournament? Why not act ignorant like the Ministry? Ignorance was never the answer, I knew that, but gosh, it felt like the only answer in the world sometimes, despite how hard I tried not to succumb to it. 

"You should switch to a French channel," Gabriel Chevrolet spoke next, leaning back in his seat, with an amused grin on his face. "It's probably broadcasting a recipe to make spark waffles, in stark contrast." 
 
Jean Dubois, as always, was the first, and only to chuckle, his grin matching that of Chevrolet's. 

"You'll see, our government is still in control. So is, I'm guessing, America's," He continued, shrugging, "If You-Know-Who's really back, then it's Britain's due." 

The professor looked pointedly at Gabriel, his eyes narrowing under his shiny spectacles. 

"The wizarding world stands united, regardless of whatever happens," He spoke clearly, his eyes then flitting over everyone in the class, Durmstrangs and Beauxbatons alike, in all our differences and contrasting forms and ideas—I wondered what he truly thought of what he saw. 

Could the wizarding world stand united, when it had never truly done so in centuries? Hadn't the Durmstrang Institute birthed Grindelwald and expelled him only to have him ravage and wreak havoc with his dark campaigns all over the world? Hadn't they then stood aside and watched one of its ex-student destruct and break? 

In retrospect, it hadn't been Durmstrang's fault, yet how else do you justify it? My great uncle was a product of Durmstrang, just as Voldemort was a product of Hogwarts, while intentions had not been there, the resultant had still happened. 

After class, we filed outside the classroom, my hand holding onto the textbook tightly. The news of the mass breakout of Azkaban still floated inside my mind. How far does a mass breakout go? In specific, who had escaped and who hadn't? Azkaban held quite a number of Grindelwald's followers too. Families who had sacrificed and killed for the dark wizard's slogan, it was they too who resided inside. Inside, treacherously, selfishly, I hoped it was none of them, I hoped only Voldemort's death eaters had made the escape. 

For somehow, even though Grindelwald was powerless and locked up in Nurmengard, and the world speculated about Voldemort's return, it was the former who will ever hold the true power to make or break me. It was the former who I was really fearful of, the former who could shatter all that I had become. Because, that former had left his mark on me. He had marked me, and if I sympathized with Harry Potter for one reason, it was for both our marks. Though, he would never know of mine, ever. 

I remembered how Dumbledore had summoned Harry Potter away after the scene Gabriel had caused in the Grand Hall. Agilbert Fontaine had offered Gabriel only a pointed look that seemed to last until it had made the latter queasy and uncomfortable. Then both headmasters had left, Harry Potter trailing behind on Dumbledore's heels. 

Bridgette and Elias' voices were muffled in my ears as they talked about wanting to explore the castle grounds outside with Maximillian— who, had researched all its secret spots and was curiously driven, since we had time before dinner and then practice with Professor Basil at midnight. I didn't know where Gabriel and Jean Dubois had vanished off to after class, nor was I slightly concerned, considering the former's orchestrated pantomime at breakfast in the Grand Hall.

I bid my friends off when they urged me to come, making an excuse to revise the lessons we had had today. Though, it was Professor Jebediah Keystone, who's class in general weighed heavy on my mind. 

Minutes after, I found myself alone in a dark corridor, looking for a library I realized I did not know the directions to in the first place. Nothing stirred, and the castle seemed as silent as a dormouse, save for the people in the portraits on the walls whispering and muttering to each other as they spotted me pass by. I tuned them all out, not sparing any of them a single glance. The was halfway between fully setting, and the sky—that I could make out from the glimpses of the glass windows as I passed them—was turning a deep blue. 

Turning to fully examine the scene, I saw hints of sparkly stars already starting to reappear in areas where the light was slowly going. But, during my inspection through the windows, I forgot to stop or watch where I was going, for I crashed against a hard wall seemingly out of place in the middle of a corridor. 

Except it wasn't a wall, and I only realized that as my textbook went flying out of my hands and I fell on my knees from the impact, a strong hand gripping my elbow to reduce a full tumble I knew would have come. 

Bewildered, I looked up, to find the hard face of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team's seeker looking down at me, with intrigue and.. fascination? swimming in his velvet black irises. 

He pulled me up then, his grip warm, yet firm, through the sleeve of my sky blue uniform. His pull was gentle somehow, as though he was only straightening a bent bloom in a garden. I straightened myself, and he bent down to pick up my textbook and offered it to me. He wasn't having his own, and it looked like he was coming from somewhere else and hadn't just been in the same year seven Defense Against The Dark Arts lecture as I had. Goodness, how long had I been wandering these corridors? 

He was inches taller than me and had changed out of his school's formal uniform, and now wore the Durmstrang Quidditch gear. Was he already off to train? Professor Vane Jamestown hadn't scheduled anything this soon. It appeared to me that it wasn't just Professor Basil wanting to have a hand in their students' training alone. 

"Je suis désolé," I spoke, realizing I hadn't acknowledged his gesture. "I wasn't looking. It is my fault." 

As his anthracite eyes gazed into mine, a slight grin lifted his lips, startling me as I hugged my textbook tighter to my chest. 

"If that first word was an apology," He mused, "It is accepted, no harm done." 

His English was just as it had been before, plunged into his deep and heavy voice, words like heavy boulders rolling off his tongue. 

"Yes," I shifted, slightly embarrassed, "Yes, it was an apology." 

He nodded a slow nod, before looking behind me, eyes falling to me again. 

"Are you lost?" He spoke the question, like he had just inquired of the weather, casually, with an amused sounding tone. Though, his voice was hard to distinguish into tones. 

"Oui," I hurried, glancing around. "I was heading for the library, and I forgot I didn't have the directions. J'aurais dû demander à quelqu'un." 

"I'll take you," Viktor Krum offered, a shrug on his sturdy shoulders. 

I blinked, my eyes looking at his geared up form. He looked pitch ready to mount a broomstick and win an International Quidditch match. He looked like a group of paparazzi will pop out of any corner of this dark corridor with their flashing cameras, and the following day as I would see him in this exact moment, gazing intently through his picture in the morning's lumiére un journal. Perhaps he looked exactly like this, that Quidditch final world cup night when he caught the golden snitch.

I met his eyes. 

"Thank you, but I don't want to keep you," I declined, managing a small smile. 

He grinned again, and it startled me again. His eyes were intense when he smiled like that, he was genuinely amused and it showed like a waft of light radiating from his face. It made him more striking, more attractive. But it confused me, for I was under the impression that we annoyed him. After that rundown with Yordanka Hristova, I supposed he disliked the very sight of us. 

This sudden change was curious and startling. 

"Well, that's a disappointment," The seeker grinned, and a warmth seeped into the skin at my neck and cheeks, the flush taking over my senses. 

"I meant, from your practice," I managed hastily, trying not to smile. 

"It's fine. I am going to be practicing alone, so I can spare a while." 

Practice alone? I looked at him, he was intriguing by the second. How could a Quidditch seeker practice for a game alone? 

"Alright," I smiled, taking a step near him. "Lead the way please." 

"Sure," Viktor let out, taking a side and gesturing me ahead. 

Then, in this strange twist of events, I was walking with Viktor Krum alone, as he navigated the dark hallways of the Ilvermorny castle, and I walked beside him matching his steps and following his lead. 

"The library's all the way in the north wing. From the stairwells, we could've gotten there in minutes, though from these corridors it will take a while. Turning back for the stairwells will take longer." 

"I should've asked," I murmured, though strangely, I didn't regret my mistake fully. 

"It's fine. We get to see some of the castle this way." His gaze was fixed ahead after his brief spells of stealing glances at me. I wondered why he kept looking when he knew I was beside him. 

"You sound like Elias," I couldn't help but giggle, remembering how the latter had just ventured off on an exploration trip with Bridgette's intrigue and Maximillian's knowledge at his side. 

"The dark haired slender boy you hang out with?" He lifted a brow, turning to look at me again. 

"Mhm," I hummed, surprised he had noticed who I hung out with. It didn't feel at all as though Viktor Krum was one to notice things other than what concerned himself and his own peers. "He's off to explore the castle right now, with Bridgette and Maximillian." 

He nodded slowly. "And your boyfriend?" 

I blinked, confusion and surprise wafting over me like those heavy mists that clung to Ilvermorny castle. 

"My boyfriend?" I repeated, failing to keep the amused surprise from my voice. 

"Yeah, the guy you were arguing with, in the common room earlier," Viktor shrugged, forced nonchalance etched in his manner as he didn't meet my eyes and kept looking ahead. "The star of the scene at breakfast in The Grand Hall. He targeted Harry Potter."  

I swallowed an empty lump in my throat. "He didn't mean anything by it, and Gabriel's not my boyfriend."  

A slight ease drifted over him as he relaxed his manner slightly, his nonchalance depleting gradually. 

"Didn't mean anything by what? By arguing with you or by lapping at a fourteen year old boy?" 

His tone hardened, and it was then that I realized I could note the changes in his tone when I paid attention. He was decipherable in this strange way that I couldn't truly comprehend. A weird feeling washed over me, this urge to defend Gabriel because he represented my school and my delegation. In a sick way, in this foreign country and school, Gabriel's mistakes seemed like they were our mistakes too. 

"By both of those things," I answered firmly. "He's an idiot sometimes—"

"Looks to me that he is a constant idiot," Viktor interrupted. "Harry Potter just witnessed a friend die. I was at the Triwizard, and while I don't know half of what he is going through—what he faced at the tournament, that is enough to bring a boy to his knees. Yet, Potter stands straight." 

What he faced. Could Viktor Krum believe what Harry potter believes?  

I looked away and nodded slowly. "Takes courage, I know. Gabriel was wrong to point Harry Potter out like that. I won't let him do that again." 

"Why?" The Bulgarian seeker scoffed, looking at me. "Is he in the habit of being put in place by you?" 

"It isn't like that," I managed, not liking where the conversation was going. When exactly had we started talking about Gabriel Chevrolet? 

In an attempt to change the conversation I asked, "Why did you decide to participate in the Huntlock? I mean, you just returned from the Triwizard." 

Viktor's expression dwelled on the conversation of earlier, before his expression slightly eased. 

"Headmaster Igor Karkaroff," He answered. "You can't resist the man. Besides, I wanted to clear my mind from—stuff." 

Could that stuff be the muggle attack after the Quidditch world cup final? I itched to ask, but I shoved the urge away. Whatever it was, what was it to me? 

"And a series of competitive games was a way to do so?" I inquired.

He managed a grin, eyes flitting to the ground before he met my eyes. 

"Yeah, I'm the most sane only after a match, a Quidditch match, that is." 

"I feel the same way about Archery," I smiled. "It is relaxing, helps me think straight and shut the world out." 

"I saw you shoot at practice today," The seeker fixed his gaze up ahead. "You're good. A bull's eye at that height. It was impressive." 

"Thank you."

The words felt strange on my tongue. When have I ever, in the past seven years of my life, thanked a foreigner in English? It made me realize yet again how limited I had been, tied to my past and looking forward to the future at Beauxbatons each day. 

I suddenly wanted to tell him what I thought of his stunt at the world cup finals night, as we had all sat around the crackling wireless and heard him swoop in to catch the snitch. But I bit it back. 

He glanced at me, a lit expression on his face. "Say it in French." 

I furrowed my brows, an amused expression overtaking my face, before I settled and smiled.

"Merci." 

Turning away, he shook his head, a grin on his face, eyes on the ground before he looked up ahead at the hallway path we were walking in. 

"What?" I giggled at his reaction, my reaction surprising me just as he had. 

"Nothing," He mused, "It's just that, you sound exquisite in French." 

I kept my eyes trained on him, a fluttering feeling in my stomach as though someone had let loose dozens of Cornish pixies inside me. The idea of it was appalling—tiny creatures swarming in my body, but that is what it felt like. 

"You draw my attention like no one else does when you talk in your language," He continued. "It's.. captivating to listen to you. Wish I could understand it though." 

"So that you can eavesdrop effectively?" I huffed playfully, the sudden change in my demeanor startling me. How had I just gone from thinking of him as prideful, to be laughing and talking to him so casually? 

He laughed. The sound was bright, heavy and light at the same time. 

"Hey, that's Viktor Krum!" A voice hushed throughout the hallway, sourcing from a nearby portrait, as all other people in portraits stirred excitedly. 

"Really?"

"Goodness Mr Krum, I'm a big fan sir!"

"Can you sign my portrait Viktor?" 

Viktor stirred uncomfortably under the attention as he quickened his pace and I followed laughing slightly. The cacophony of voices faded slowly behind us.

"Won't you say hi to your fans?" I giggled. 

"Yeah, maybe later," He offered awkwardly, reaching an arm up to touch the back of his neck. 

As I looked ahead, I spotted the library, its entrance stood daunting etched into the walls of the castle. I could make out the gradient of browns and dark books lining mahogany shelves that looked almost maroon in the light of the now dark sky outside. 

"We found it," I let out, hurrying over to it. Viktor followed behind, his heavy footfalls quickly gaining as I entered the library. 

"I already knew where it was though," He grinned in my ear as I gazed at the sight before me, entranced.

The library was much darker than the one at Beauxbatons. From the ceiling hung an iron chandelier with lit candles at the edges. The entire room was cloaked in a soft yellow light that enhanced the darkness of the corners and shadows of the shelves somehow. Desks arranged in between the shelf spaces for seating each had a burning centerpiece of wax, lighting where the need for students would be. 

"It's.. strange," I said bemused, "But in a beautiful way." 

Viktor was peering at me as I turned to look at him. 

"Never heard that one before," He let out, his eyes calculating, tone low. 

"Thank you for helping me find it," I offered, taking a deep breath as I noticed someone approaching us. It appeared to be the librarian, a goblin dressed in a dark green velvet suit that looked worn and age old, his half moon spectacles shining in the fire light as he stopped near us. 

"I am the librarian," The goblin spoke in a gruff voice before Viktor could say anything, turning our attention to himself. "Sections E and F are being renovated, student presence there is prohibited as of now. Section Z is professors only, and is closed to students permanently. Please embrace silence. Missing classes and hiding out between shelves is strictly forbidden. If you would like to check out a book, approach me at my desk with the book in question and I shall sign it out for you." 

With those automated words being said, the goblin walked away to a direction I could only assume lead to his desk. 

"He's enthusiastic," Viktor scoffed, and I suppressed an urge to giggle. 

"As I was saying, thank you," I started again, slightly disappointed at the prospect of being left alone with my thoughts again, or did the disappointment arise from the prospect of his absence? I steeled my inner self. Don't be ridiculous, Dominique. 

"I don't feel like practicing now," Viktor let out, shrugging, "If you don't mind, I'll just hang around." 

Something lighted inside me. "Sure," I tried to keep it from my voice, but as I turned, I realized I hadn't done such a good job. 

As I approached the shelves marked 'histories,' I felt myself halt in place. I had intended to search about Azkaban, about the followers of Grindelwald imprisoned there. Can I continue to do so with Viktor Krum hanging around near me? 

Beauxbatons had had nothing in depth on Grindelwald, Madame Maxime had managed to keep it all away, knowing what I was. The books that adorned my school's library were ones that only mentioned my great uncle briefly. A fleeting mention as though he hadn't been the bane on the existence of the wizarding world for most the entirety of his life up until his capture.

Everything I know about him was from what my mother told me, and glimpses I had seen, and all the things I had heard over the years. What did Madame Maxime mean by hiding everything on the dark wizard away? Her exact intentions on doing so were still unknown to me. Why would she pretend to protect me from my past? The past I had lived and she had only read about? Why can I not read about it?

Would these books mention my grandfather and how he was corrupted viciously under the influence of his brother? Would they mention my father, torn between joining forces with his own father and uncle—but then breaking under pressure and disappearing out of my life? Would these books mention me? A little girl branded with the mark of the deathly hallows because her great uncle had stood over her cot, smiled pridefully, and declared, "She is a reflection of me." 

In this library, maybe, the answers I need resided, and I wouldn't have to go to Albus Dumbledore for them. Maybe one of these books will speak of my family, and I can then pretend to be on the outside for once and assume I am looking at someone else's life unfold. 

I glanced at Viktor Krum, he was touching the dust covered spines of some leather bound books on a shelf across. How would he know my intention, whichever book I open? He was a Quidditch seeker with a wand, and as charming  as I now thought he was, he was the least of my worries. He doesn't know me, and I'm not who he thinks I am. So it doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter. 

Going with my gut, I inspected the shelves, my fingers hovering only a second over each book of the rows, until I found the portion of 'G' and my fingers halted on the spine of 'The Wizarding World and its greatest threat; Grindelwald.' 

Quickly, I pulled the dust covered book out and placed it on a desk. I flipped open the wood cover and the scent of coffee infiltrated the air. If only the contents of this book were just as sweet. What an illusion that would be. Taking hold of a chair and pulling it close to the desk, I sat down and pulled the book to me. 

***

A/N:
I'm working so hard on Viktor's character, trying to make him just as he was in the book, while adding more to him. but his essence will remain the same. anyways, I hope you like this chapter!