CHAPTER ONE: Faith, Hope, and Love

Love.

She clasps his hand. They sit together on a bench in the garden. She knows they are watching, knows they do not approve. But it is not for them to decide. It is not for any of them to decide.

“Bonjour, mama. Bonjour, papa,” said Josephine de Tuileries as she entered the main house on her family’s estate at Bouc-Bel-Air, just north of Marseille. She kept her head bowed as she walked through the foyer�”she was becoming quite familiar with the look on her father’s face, and did not feel like taking another round of questions. Not now. Not when there was so much to be decided, so much unknown.

Marie, one of the servant girls, entered the foyer and curtseyed. “Mademoiselle,” she said to Josephine�”she, too, keeping her head down�”“Mademoiselle Josephine, your wand has been cleaned and has been placed in your quarters.”

“Merci, Marie,” Josephine whispered, and made to climb the stairs to her room. But she would not be so lucky.

“Josephine,” came her father’s stern voice. Jean-Batiste was not generally a cross man, but he was also not one to cross. His temper was legendary among the servants of Chateau Clerbise, but then again, so was his munificence. But Josephine surmised this would not be a day for munificence.

She retreated down the few stairs she had successfully managed to ascend, and turned to her father, pretending that she had no idea what he was about to say. “Oui, papa?”

“That boy you were walking with in the gardens. He visits often, yet has not introduced himself to me. This is quite strange, non? Who is he?”

Josephine grimaced inwardly. “He is a friend, papa.”

“Does he have a name, mon chou?”

“Oui, papa. He is Pascal. He comes from Cabriès.” She was being deliberately evasive, though she knew this had a tendency to annoy her father.

“Is that so?” he asked, one eyebrow raised as they stood together on the cold marble floor. “And he is a colleague from l’Académie?”

“Non, papa. He does not attend Beauxbatons with me.” She again bowed her head and tucked a loose curl of dark hair behind her ear. Marie would have to re-pin her hair before dinner.

“Is that so?” he repeated. “He is an exchange student, then? Perhaps he attends Hogwarts with our friends the British?” Jean-Batiste had a particular dislike and distrust of the British. Not surprising, given the fact that the British and French were currently at war. Though their war did not disrupt Jean-Batiste’s daily life, and had not for many years, he still regarded the entire British culture with an air of disgust.

“Non, papa,” repeated Josephine.

“Perhaps Wasserschloss, in Germany? It is a new school, but it will be respected soon enough. Or the once-great Durmstrang? Is your Pascal a student there?”

Josephine blushed and could not help the smile that briefly crossed her lips. “He is not my Pascal,” she whispered. “And he does not attend either of those schools.” Her smile soon disappeared, though, as she felt her father’s anger bubble to the surface.

“It is as I thought, then!” he said, his face turning a violent shade of red. “As I suspected, you are putting yourself and your family in danger, because, Josephine, am I correct to assume that he is un Moldu? That he is not a wizard?”

Josephine did not respond. She brushed her pale hands against the dark silk of her skirts and fiddled with the ribbons lacing the front of her corset. It felt too tight; she had the sudden strong urge to untie it. She finally raised her head, but still avoided her father’s glare. Instead, she turned her gaze on her mother.

Josephine took after her father in few ways, but more than made up for it in her resemblance to her mother. She had inherited many things from Eleonore, including her dark brown hair, her round face and pale skin, and her tendency toward a cheerful�”and indeed sometimes dangerously foolish�”naïveté. How Madame de Tuileries’ sweet and innocent demeanor had held up so many years against Monsieur le Baron’s temper was a constant question for many of the household staff.

The two women locked eyes and Josephine silently pleaded with her mother, begging her to intrude and soften the blow. Eleonore opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it as soon as Jean-Batiste started speaking again. No, not speaking. Yelling.

“Josephine, answer me at once! Is he or is he not a wizard?”

“No, father, he is not,” she said quietly, turning her brown eyes on him and feeling them brim with tears. She knew what was coming next. It was what she had always feared, always expected. She knew that one day she would be caught, and today had to be the day.

Jean-Batiste spoke his next words with a quiet, measured rage. “Why, Josephine, why do you do this? Do you know what kind of danger that puts you in? Are you at all aware of what is going on right now in Paris? Are you?” he demanded.

Josephine nodded. Eleonore moved closer and grasped her daughter’s hand. “Monsieur,” she said to her husband, “Do you not even want to hear about the boy?”

“No, I do not! He is not a wizard. He cannot stay. One hundred years ago, fine. Twenty years ago, fine. Not today,” Jean-Batiste continued. “Why can you not be like your brother? He knows what is safe and what is best for our family.”

Josephine merely nodded again. The comparisons to Remy were frequent and rarely flattering. Remy was everything Josephine was not. He was polite and charming, tall and handsome. Josephine was short, and while she was not especially quiet, she was also not especially charming, much to her family’s chagrin. Remy was smart and funny and possessed all the airs of nobility. Josephine often felt out of place wrapped up in the trappings of her family’s wealth. Remy was already betrothed to a pureblood witch from Aix-en-Provence, and they would marry as soon as he completed his final year at Beauxbatons�”where he would no doubt be Triwizard champion. Josephine, like most of the few female students at Beauxbatons, was expected to go keep her head down, learn basic magic, and meet a wizard to marry by the time she graduated.

This suited her, for the most part. She was not an outstanding witch by any means, though she had no trouble with moderately difficult magic. And there were plenty of wizards at Beauxbatons that would make perfectly amiable matches, at least on paper. Yet she was almost seventeen and not engaged, with only two years left at school. Pascal certainly could take some blame for that. But even with all the changes taking place around her, even with the pressure to marry young, even knowing all the dangers and the drawbacks of a relationship with a Muggle, she could not leave him.

Her father was right. Remy would never dream of anything so illicit as this. The thought had probably never crossed his mind. But Remy was perfect. Josephine was not.

As she thought this, the man himself strode into the room, a riding crop in his hand and his riding boots impeccably clean. “Father,” said Remy, placing a hand on his father’s shoulder�”the two men were almost equal heights, with Remy perhaps claiming a slight advantage. “Do not be so hard on her. Surely you remember what it is like to be in love?” He winked and leaned down to kiss Josephine on the cheek. He kissed his mother on the forehead and began to climb the stairs, then turned around to face them again. “But Josie, do be careful. There are people who know about you and Pascal, and they are not pleased.”

Josephine drew a sharp breath. Remy’s words shocked her; she thought Pascal had done a good job keeping the relationship secret, and Josephine had certainly not let anyone outside her family even see them together. Well, besides the servants, but they would lose more than their jobs if they betrayed any Tuileries family secrets.

She expected her father to continue his screaming at this revelation, but his words were calm and hushed. He pulled his daughter close and looked her straight in the eyes. “Josie, mon chou,” he said, stroking her cheek lovingly with his thumb, “you know that you can no longer see him. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

The tears finally started to fall and Josephine could do nothing to prevent them. She nodded silently, falling into her father’s embrace. “But papa,” she half-heartedly protested, her words muffled in the folds of his brocade jacket. “Papa, I love him.”

“Well,” he said, hugging her tightly, “fall out of love.”

***

Faith.

They ride across the field. They disagree. It is silent, unspoken, but acknowledged. They both know it. But it is his place to uphold the family’s honor, no matter the cost. He must decide.

“Bloody peasants. Always up to no good,” said Lord Jonathan Warrington-Hughes as he and his son William rode across their Ruschliffe estate.

“Father,” William said calmly, turning in his saddle to face the elder Lord Warrington-Hughes, “if there were no peasants, who would work the land?”

“But why do they have to be Muggles?” Jonathan exclaimed, taking his wand out of the sleeve of his jacket and shooting a jet of red sparks toward a near haystack, which promptly burst into flames. “Good,” he said, as three nearby women screamed in fright and ran away.

“Father,” William said again, this time with a touch of frustration in his voice, “why do you insist on doing that? You know there is nothing they can do now.” He ran a hand through his light brown hair in frustration.

“Precisely, my boy!” said Jonathan forcefully, yet almost jovially. “Someone needs to put these Muggles in their place, and that someone today is me.”

“You know, that view could soon get you into a bit of hot water, Jonathan,” came a voice from behind. Father and son turned around to see another man trotting up on a chestnut horse. A smile was on his face and he doffed his hat in greeting as he pulled his mount up next to the Warrington-Hughes’.

William, too, broke into a smile. This man was his father’s oldest and closest friend and advisor, and a generally great man. He was Henry Somerset, the Duke of Beaufort, and a right powerful wizard as well, with strong connections to both the Muggle royals and the newly established British Ministry of Magic. William secretly regarded him as a second father of sorts, though he would never tell his own father this. Though Jonathan and Henry were staunch allies, the former often spoke out against the latter’s views on Muggle rights and relations.

“Nonsense, Henry,” Jonathan said with a smile as he clapped his friend on the back. “The statute won’t pass.”

“We shall see soon enough, I suppose,” Henry responded, sending a stream of water out of his own wand to extinguish the haystack fire. Jonathan grunted in mild disapproval, though William was not sure which was more troubling to him: the passing statute or the non-flaming hay.

“Do you really think it will pass, sir?” William asked the duke, his eyes bright.

“Still too early to tell, I think,” he replied. “But I’ll return to Paris in three days and send a report as soon as I arrive and meet with Bonaccord. How does that sound?”

William nodded his thanks, and found himself amazed once again at the duke’s connections. The Bonaccord he mentioned was none other than Pierre Bonaccord, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, perhaps the most influential wizard of the day. William did not know much about the deliberations currently going on in France, but he intended to pester Henry with owls until his curiosity was sated. And if he could even arrange a meeting with Bonaccord… Well, that would get his father off his back, for a short time at least.

“Well, gentlemen, I must be off. I still have many preparations to make before I leave,” said Henry, gently squeezing his horse and trotting ahead of the Warrington-Hughes men. “Will, I doubt I will see you before you return to Hogwarts, but I imagine it won’t be too much longer after that before our paths cross.” He winked at William, nodded a goodbye to Jonathan, and spurred his horse onward.

William knew what he was referring to. The Triwizard Tournament, of course, which was taking place this year at Beauxbatons Academy in France. His father had made no secret of the fact that he expected William to be chosen as the Hogwarts champion and�”moreover�”to win the whole thing this year. William planned to enter, mainly because his father would never forgive him if he failed to do so, but he had no serious designs on winning. There were many talented wizards in the upper years at Hogwarts.

“Father,” he said, attempting to ward off another inevitable speech, “please. I know what you want to say. And yes, I am going to enter the tournament. And yes, I will try to win it.”

Jonathan closed his mouth and instead gave a big chortle, shaking his rather rotund body. “All right, then. I promise: no more speeches until the tournament begins and you are chosen as Hogwarts champion. But I’ll have no more of this ‘try’ nonsense. You’ll win it, boy.” He nodded and tapped his horse’s flank with his crop, urging his mount forward. William followed suit, trying not to grimace as his father continued his grumbling about the Muggle peasants all the way home.

***

Hope.

It was so long ago, and yet not long ago at all. It is now up to them to restart, renew, reestablish. Up to one of them. Will it be him? No. He knows it will not. They know it will not. There is nothing left to decide.

Being the son of a world-renowned wand-maker should have given way to a decent life. And it had, for a time. When Aleksandr Gregorovitch was growing up, his father often took Aleksandr and his older brother Dragomir on trips all across the region. They hunted for dragon heartstring in their homeland of Russia, flew across the continent searching in vain for certain creatures of the Siberian steppes, and found the best woods from the Kingdom of Hungary. Aleksandr’s memories of watching his father handcraft the wands were some of his fondest.

But the happiness ultimately proved short-lived.

Aleksandr ruminated on the hard times as his cold, dark eyes peered out the dirty window of his father’s run-down shop. He rested a hand on his chiseled jaw and slowly inhaled. Gregorovitch’s had once been the most impressive building on this block, having been handed down from generation to generation of Gregorovitch men, each of whom became more famous than the last. But now the shop was showing signs of ruin. The whole block, the whole section of Moscow was falling into disrepair.

Aleksandr remembered the first night the mobs came. More than ten years ago. Scads of people all carrying flaming torches and pitchforks. Swords, knives, and things he later learned were called “muskets.” Muggles. They came in droves, looking for wizards to burn, to kill. And the wizards in Moscow fell to them, one family after the other.

Nobody knew exactly how the wizards had managed to arouse so much ire and hatred, but most supposed it had something to do with a dragon. Dragons are not easy to hide, after all, and not easily tamed. The most prevalent story was that a Ukrainian Ironbelly had escaped from wizard control somewhere near Kiev, and the repercussions had rippled outward from there.

The wizarding community of Eastern Europe had been shattered. Durmstrang had lost almost half its students in just a decade. Families that managed to escape persecution were rapidly moving westward where anti-wizard violence was not as prevalent. But there were some, like Aleksandr’s father, who refused to leave Moscow. Some prominent Muscovite wizards had banded together and hastily constructed spells and enchantments to enclose and hide the wizarding community. They sent emissaries to the International Confederation of Wizards in Paris, but the deliberations were agonizingly slow and it often seemed that no good was being done, at least not for the wizards east of Germany.

Now many wizards in Moscow, in Kiev, in St. Petersburg, were talking of a bias against the East. For some, hatred of the West was almost as strong as hatred of Muggles. Wizards were concocting new ways to retaliate every day. Sinister ways. It pained Aleksandr to see so many of his friends turning to the Dark Arts, but he knew it pained them more to see their once-great communities falling from grace. And falling fast.

Talk was frequently turning to the Triwizard Tournament, and there was an incredibly powerful desire among the wizards of the East to have a Durmstrang student win this year, no matter what. Some older wizards who had witnessed or even participated in a Tournament themselves were establishing training camps all around the region, inviting promising students to come prepare. Aleksandr, though an immensely powerful wizard himself, had not been invited to any of these camps.

They all remembered what had happened five years prior. What happened with Dragomir during the Tournament at Durmstrang. Dragomir, who was to be victorious for Durmstrang. Dragomir, who was to be the savior of the East.

No one spoke of Dragomir anymore, or of the fateful Tournament of 1687. But they were careful never to mention anyone of the house of Gregorovitch when discussing preparations for this year’s tournament. They all assumed it ran in the family. Aleksandr would not compete. Aleksandr could not restore Durmstrang to glory.

There was no question.

CHATPER TWO: Everything Changes

Love.

The carriage rattled loudly down the road leading away from Chateau Clerbise, though its two occupants remained silent. Josephine sat with her head down, her hands in her lap. She occasionally moved to fiddle with a loose thread on her traveling cloak, but other than that she sat quite still, braced against the wall of the carriage.

Her brother Remy, on the other hand, was moving constantly, twitching as though possessed by a nervous energy. Josephine knew he was anxious to return to school for his seventh and final year. He was anxious to see again his friends and his fiancée. But he was most anxious for the start of the Triwizard Tournament. Beauxbatons was hosting this year, and it was all but guaranteed that Remy would be chosen as its champion. Josephine smiled at this thought. She was proud of her brother, and knew he would honor the school and the family.

But this was the only happiness that Josephine had been able to feel for quite some days. After her confrontation with her father over Pascal, she had been thrown into a fit of doubt and despair. She knew she loved Pascal, or at least thought she could, but the fact remained that she was a witch and he not a wizard. “One hundred years ago, fine. Twenty years ago, fine. Not today,” her father had said. Not today. The words repeated themselves over and over in her mind.

He was right, of course. The country was aflutter with rumors that the International Confederation of Wizards had almost concluded their negotiations and would be passing the statute any day. The International Statute of Wizard Secrecy. It would be the end of her relationship.

True, Pascal already knew that she was a witch, so staying with him would not be breaking any laws. And true, there were many witches and wizards throughout the world who were already married to Muggle men and women�”certainly they would not be made to divorce.

But the passing of the statute signaled the changing times. The entire way that witches and wizards lived their lives would be put to the test, carefully examined, and indubitably altered. Her family’s estate, for instance, currently the centerpiece of the town of Bouc-Bel-Air, would likely have to be made Unplottable. Muggle servants would have to be dismissed, replaced by wizards and witches. No longer would Josephine be able to use her wand to repair a broken toy belonging to a neighbor’s child or to clean the hem of her dress while strolling the streets of the town. The family de Tuileries did not flaunt the fact that they were magical, of course, but neither had they done much to conceal it over the years. Now, they would have to.

She let out a small sigh and turned to rest her head on the glass window of the carriage, watching the countryside pass by. Remy, sitting across from his sister, turned his head toward her. “Sister,” he said, resting a comforting hand on her knee. “Do not trouble. You will surely forget about this matter as soon as we are back at l’Academie.”

“I do not want to forget, Remy,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I want nothing to change.”

“Everything changes, sister,” he said. “Everything. You knew this was coming, you have seen the signs just as clearly as I have. They are rioting in the East, for Merlin’s sake. Just be thankful that there have not yet been any angry mobs come knocking at our door.”

“We could withstand the mobs,” she said quietly.

This made Remy scoff and draw his hand from her knee. “Don’t be such a fool, Josephine. Don’t be so naïve. They murder wizards. They would put you to death and kill Pascal right along with you.” His normally warm blue eyes had suddenly become cold and steely as he stared at her. She said nothing, for she knew he was right.

The carriage rumbled on, again in silence.

***

A few hours later they drew up to the front gates of Beauxbatons Academy. Despite her morose mood, Josephine could not help but feel a sense of warmth and pride well up inside her as she gathered the many folds of her skirts and stepped out of the carriage. The palace was truly breathtaking, and it never ceased to amaze her.

Though the building that housed the Academy had always been grand, it had undergone renovations no more than a century ago, and now was a shimmering monument to the Baroque movement that had swept France and the Continent in general. In fact, the Muggle King of France, Le Grand Monarque Louis XIV, had modeled his own Palace of Versailles after the Academy upon the recommendation of Monsieur Geoffroi Autruche, current Headmaster of the school.

Josephine felt another pang in her chest as she thought of this fact. If the statute passed, that would be the end of the great collaborations between Muggles and wizards. No longer could she and her family dine at the King’s table. No longer would they retain their noble titles. Yes, the statute would have many repercussions…

She opened her parasol and clutched her small traveling bag as Remy instructed the footmen where to take their trunks. No doubt the house-elves were eagerly awaiting the arrival of their luggage. Remy offered his arm to Josephine, she accepted, and the two of them moved in tandem up the driveway, stopping to greet fellow students along the way.

There was always a sort of vibrant energy around the Academy when school resumed each year, but in Triwizard years, the energy intensified exponentially. It was only a matter of weeks now before the contingents from Hogwarts and Durmstrang would arrive, and despite the frequent hostilities between the three schools, they would certainly add some excitement to an otherwise routine year. Their arrival would mean stories from abroad, fresh faces, and�”of course�”balls. Beauxbatons was famous in both wizarding and Muggle societies for the multiple balls they hosted every year, but Triwizard years saw these balls become infinitely grander. Josephine almost had to stop to catch her breath out of excited anticipation.

They paused right before the main doors of the palace and Josephine smiled warmly at the girl to her right, turning to give her a kiss on both cheeks. It was Angeline Laplanche, one of Josephine’s oldest friends, and one of the few who knew about Pascal. “Comment ça va?” Josephine asked in greeting.

“Well, thank you,” Angeline responded, squeezing Josephine’s hand. “How are you?”

“I will be better after the negotiations are completed,” Josephine replied honestly. It was not a woman’s place to discuss politics outside of the home, but she could not resist. Angeline merely nodded and gave her another reassuring squeeze.

There was no time for further conversation, however, for at that moment the students heard a great rumbling. They smiled and exchanged looks of glee, for the rumbling could mean only one thing: the palace doors were opening.

Sure enough, the gilded gold doors were slowly pushed apart, no longer charged with the lamentable duty of concealing the glorious interiors of the Palace Beauxbatons.

Josephine felt her smile widen and she tightened her grip on Remy’s arm. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her senses eager to welcome back the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of the palace. And indeed, as she crossed the threshold of the palace and beheld the Grand Foyer, all thoughts of Pascal were pushed completely�”if only temporarily�”from her mind.

***

Faith.

“I cannot tell you how disappointed I am that our tournament has to be hosted by Beauxbatons.”

William Warrington-Hughes heard this statement spoke, but it floated around the outer regions of his mind, not quite fully registering. He was too engrossed in his most recent letter from his father to pay much attention to anything else at the moment.

“I say, William, don’t you agree?”

The voice was louder this time, and William became vaguely aware that someone was talking to him. He looked up from his fourth perusal of the letter’s contents, and directly into the face of his friend George, who was busy readying his trunks for the journey to France.

“Oh, yes, George. Couldn’t agree more,” he said off-handedly, no clue as to what he was agreeing.

George seemed to accept the agreement as genuine, however, and thus continued on. “Their palace is just such a ghastly place. Entirely too done-up and ornate�”have you seen it recently? It is truly an assault on the senses. I much prefer the understated, austere sincerity of Hogwarts.”

William allowed a nod and a non-committal grunt, and again focused himself completely on the particularly vexing letter in front of him.

“Come, William!” George said, snatching the letter from William’s hands and re-folding it. “You’ve hardly touched your trunk and we’re due to leave within the hour. Whatever your father has to say cannot be that important.”

William slowly felt the panic that had arisen as George grabbed the letter subside as the tall, dark-haired boy handed it back to him with a smile. William took it, perhaps a bit too forcefully, and placed it deep within the folds of his robe. He managed a feeble smile back as he looked around his room. George was right: his trunk was in no state to be loaded into the carriage that would transport them to Beauxbatons. With one flick of his wand, however, he saw robes and coats and stockings and schoolbooks all fly into the trunk and heard it close with a satisfying latch.

George smiled and clapped him on the back. “A nice bit of magic, my friend. Too bad you won’t be able to put your skills to good use when I am selected as Hogwarts Champion!” He winked and gave a jovial chuckle.

William returned the laugh, but said nothing in response. Normally, he would have shot a barb right back at George�”that was the nature of their friendship. But today, he could not bring himself to do it. Not after the letter.

***

William took his seat next to George in the plush carriage parked on the Hogwarts lawn near the lake. He looked around and surveyed the other students that would be making the journey to Beauxbatons for the tournament: it was a larger than usual group. This year’s tournament seemed already to be marked by increased competition, and William had no doubt that victory would only be claimed after some hard-fought battles.

The schools put no age restrictions on the competitors, but the Goblet of Fire had never selected a champion younger than fifth-year level, and even that was a rare occurrence. Thus, William found himself surrounded mainly by students in his year�”seventh�”and the year below. Hogwarts’ finest. He felt a bit queasy at the thought of disappointing his father by not being selected Hogwarts Champion, but he forced himself to have faith and steel his courage�”something he was supposed to be possessed of in abundance as a member of Gryffindor House.

To say that he had been shocked when the Sorting Hat placed him in Gryffindor six years prior was an understatement. To say that his father had been appalled and disgusted was not. The entire Warrington line�”save for an errant Ravenclaw here and there�”had been in Slytherin for as long as anyone could remember. The Hughes, too, practically bled Green and Silver. Thus, William Warrington-Hughes had been certain he would be residing in the dungeon under the lake. Being assigned to the Scarlet and Gold had caused not only murmurs of some sort of defect but also the return of many previously purchased gifts.

In time, the rest of the family grew to bear it tolerably well. His mother’s family especially, since there had been more than a few Gryffindors in their lineage. Even his paternal grandparents eventually warmed up to the idea of a Lion in their midst once William proved that his Quidditch talents would be celebrated no matter what banner he flew under.

His father, however, was always the sticking point.

To William’s right, George was entertaining the carriage with his story of a youthful visit to France and subsequent accidental consumption of frog legs�”much to the general delight of the carriage’s passengers. William�”who had heard the story many times before�”had opened up his father’s letter and was reading it for the final time:

William: A short missive before your journey to France.

You know how much this tournament means to your family, and to me especially. Henry Somerset has assured me that this year’s field will be second to none, so you must ready yourself and do whatever it takes to ensure you are selected as Hogwarts Champion.

Your mother and I have faith in you, but you must understand that there may be few others who do. The odds-makers in London are making a great fuss about Mr. Potter, but I know you will be able to overcome allegiances to do whatever it takes to ensure your victory.

I cannot stress this enough, my son. That Potter boy is currently an obstacle, and I trust you will do everything in your power to make him an obstacle no more.

Should you require help, I can send a list of names of associates located in and around the region of Marseille.

Yours &c.

William silently contemplated the magnitude of what his father said. Whatever it takes. He certainly could not have made himself clearer on that issue. The question was, could William indeed do whatever it took? Did the tournament and, more importantly, pleasing his father, mean so much to him that he could commit acts of sabotage?

He was jilted from his thoughts by the loud voice to his right. “And so I said to him, I said, ‘My good sir, would you please be so kind as to remove this amphibian from my plate?’”

The carriage erupted into raucous laughter upon the completion of the tale regaled to them by none other than William’s closest friend and most trusted ally: George Potter.

***

Hope.

“What is the news this morning, father?” Aleksandr sat down at the old, wooden breakfast table. It was already October, but there was no need to be at Durmstrang. Due to the ongoing violence and the dearth of eligible and willing students and teachers, the Lower School had been closed indefinitely, and students in fifth through eighth years�”the Upper School�”would only need to report to Durmstrang if they planned to travel to Beauxbatons for the Triwizard Tournament. The ship would not leave for another week.

Aleksandr peered intently at his father, who was reading Moscow’s Wizarding Paper, the Stars and Herald. “It seems the statute will pass before the year is out,” said the elder Gregorovitch, no discernable emotion apparent in his voice.

“That is good news, is it not?” Aleksandr was in favor of the statute. Anything that put distance between wizards and Muggles was, in his mind, a good idea, especially since it was his firm belief that the “Muggle problem” was the main impetus for so many of his friends to turn to the Dark Arts.

“Da, I suppose it is,” said his father, his words coated in his thick accent.

“But you are not excited?” Aleksandr queried.

“Nyet,” came his only response.

“Why not? Father, this will make wizards accountable for the damages they inflict upon Muggles. It will punish them!”

“Perhaps, my son, but will it punish the Muggles for attacking us?”

Aleksandr was silent for a moment. “No, I suppose it will not.”

Gregorovitch continued: “And do you truly believe that a piece of parchment will stop your Durmstrang colleagues from continuing to torture Muggles? Lord knows there will be little to no enforcement of the Statute, at least not in Moscow.”

Aleksandr knew his father was right. Much as it grieved him to admit it, he knew that many of his former friends would stop at nothing to exact their revenge upon countless numbers of anti-wizard Muggles. Still, the statute was a good gesture. He spoke this opinion to his father.

“Ha!” Gregorovitch spat out a derisive laugh. “Our people do not need good gestures, my son, they need action.”

“They can change, father. I know it. I know they are not evil in their hearts and minds,” Aleksandr spoke softly, his head bent down toward the table. He and his father disagreed on this point, and had spent many fruitless hours arguing it. Gregorovitch opened his mouth to respond, but Aleksandr was not through. Tentatively, he raised his head little more than an inch. “This is why I must enter the tournament.”

Gregorovitch abandoned his previous thought and instead slammed his fist hard upon the table, but his son did not flinch. “Aleksandr, we have discussed this enough, have we not? You cannot enter the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Why not, father?” he queried darkly, his cold eyes suddenly blazing with intensity. He fully lifted his head to stare at his father. “Why not? I am more talented than any other student in the Upper School. I could win, I know it. I could restore Durmstrang!”

His father was enraged, and drew himself up to his full, considerable height. “Do you think that is not what your brother said five years ago? Those exact words, my son. And look what happened to him! Look what happened to us because of him! You will not enter the tournament. Doing so will only bring more dishonor to this house, and I will not stand for it.”

Aleksandr mimicked his father’s action and they stood eye to eye across the table. “You say the people need action, father, and here it is. I would win in an honorable way. I would not stoop to cheat, as I know so many of my colleagues would. I would set us back on the right path!”

His father sighed and drew one gnarled hand across his furrowed brow. “Alexei,” he said wearily, “it is my belief that were you to enter and be selected, your students would not support you, and indeed may seek to sabotage you. Tournament rules state that if a champion is injured or killed and thus can no longer compete, a new school champion will be selected in his place.” Gregorovitch’s face was grim, his eyes pools of frustration and despair. “They will kill you, my son. Do you not doubt it?”

Aleksandr shook his head. He certainly would not put it past some among his numbers to be capable of such treachery. But he could not let history continue to unfold itself thusly. He could not�”he would not�”stand to see his father and the entire Gregorovitch name reduced to further shame and sorrow. He had to change his father’s mind, had to convince him. Aleksandr knew at that very moment that he had to enter the tournament, and he had to win.

“I do not doubt it, father,” he said calmly, balling his hands into fists and resting them on the table. His eyes were once again steely and cold, though his glare had not lost its intensity. “So I suppose the only course of action is to not give them that chance.”

The matter was decided.

CHAPTER THREE: The Tournament Opens

Hope.

The other Durmstrang students made no attempt to sit next to him on the great wooden ship that would bear them to Beauxbatons. These students did not necessarily dislike Aleksandr Gregorovitch, but there was something… different about him, to say the least. His family name had been tainted, yes, but that was not the issue. Indeed, many of the families of Durmstrang had seen members fall into disrepute. But those falls were gruesome, were dark. For better or worse, they were the stuff of legends. The Gregorovitch clan had simply faded after the debacle with Dragomir some five years back.

True, Aleksandr bore no outward signs of weakness, but Dragomir had not either. Rather, it was the manner in which he shied away from controversy and danger that made the other students distrust him. In this darkening era, one simple motto rang true: you are with us, or you are against us. Black or white. There was no room for grey.

Yet Aleksandr refused to choose sides. He would not go out on clandestine Muggle-hunting trips, nor would he openly defend Muggles who had been murdered by wizards. Instead, he remained quite quiet, brooding even. And while Durmstrang had certainly seen its fair share of brooding wizards over the years, Aleksandr was still… different.

Different was not good. Different was not Durmstrang. Different would not do.

***

Faith.

Whatever it takes. The words were still ringing in his ears as the carriage readied itself for transport.

“You all right, Will?” George asked next to him, a reassuring hand on his back. “You look a bit queasy.”

William tried to laugh it off. “I believe I had a bit too much sausage this morning, friend. Trying to stuff myself with some good English food before we become subject to the whim of those dastardly French cooks!”

His schoolmates laughed at this, though there were some who now looked a bit worried, having just heard George’s unfortunate tale of frog legs. George himself smiled and clapped William on the back. “Not to worry. I’ve made an alliance that will ensure our plates will be full of good turkey and thick gravy rather than the dreaded bouillabaisse!” George’s hands flew to his throat and he mimed gagging noises.

William joined in the chorus of renewed laughter, though he could not help but feel a tiny pang of jealousy. That was just like George. He never minded when others held the floor and got a laugh or two, but he always made sure to end the conversation on his terms, with one of his jokes. Indeed, his entire persona was perfectly adapted for this type of behavior. George was tall and lanky, with a very easygoing air about him. It was easy to see that he would feel at home in any number of situations, from very high society to the lowest of the low. Of course, he came from an incredibly well respected line of wizards, so cavorting with said lowest of the low was a decidedly rare occurrence. But despite his renowned pedigree, George Potter rarely came off as haughty or supercilious, at least not to those who knew him well. William was not entirely sure the same could be said about himself.

By all accounts the two boys should have been equals. William was also tall, handsome, and talented. He may not have been as relaxed as George, but he made up for it by maintaining a zealous and genuine politesse. He tried never to be disdainful to those of a lower station, and he never wielded his own impressive name to his advantage. However, each Warrington-Hughes who had predeceased him had done more than enough to ensure that the family’s noble reputation was entrenched in the minds of people far and wide across the Isle.

How many hours had Jonathan Warrington-Hughes spent lecturing his son on the importance of their name? “William, you must trust those that came before you. Everything our family has done has led to this point in your life.” Although he said this at numerous junctures during the boy’s childhood, it never failed to stir up at least some sort of family pride in William.

These reminiscences left William unsettled. Trusting in this pride and relinquishing himself to blind loyalty was a dangerous endeavor indeed, he thought as he felt the carriage lift from the Hogwarts lawn. This filial fidelity betimes led his mind to wander into strange territories, especially when provoked. In fact, at that very moment, George was still holding court in the carriage, and William began to wonder just exactly what it would take to ensure that he, not George, became Hogwarts Champion…

***

Love.

The sun was slowly setting over the low mountains to the west of the palace as Josephine and her classmates filed dutifully out the front gates and stood, waiting to welcome their guests. She allowed herself a small smile upon seeing so many of her friends wearing their nicest robes, with additional accoutrements here and there. Angeline looked particularly beautiful, and Josephine surmised that she had more than just welcoming her foreign colleagues in mind. In fact, Josephine had gathered�”from bits of whispered conversation�”that Angeline’s family knew one of the students from Hogwarts coming for the tournament, and there were rumors that an engagement could take place. Mademoiselle Laplanche, therefore, was justifiably beside herself, and beside her, Josephine could not help but share Angeline’s energy.

Josephine, of course, had no impending engagement to look forward to, but the handsomeness of Hogwarts men was legendary, and though she had not personally met a very large number of them, she had heard that there was an especially alluring quality about the men of Durmstrang as well.

As she contemplated these facts, she felt a sudden pang of guilt. Pascal. She had not thought of him in some days, much less written to him. And his letters had slowed, too. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he still think of her? The guilt was soon replaced by a powerful feeling of loneliness. These foreign visitors would be a welcome distraction, but would it be enough to fill the void that Pascal had left? Was there even a void to be filled? She was overwhelmed by questions.

Before she could ruminate any more on the subject, she was distracted by a great purple blaze on the front lawn. It burned bright for a few moments before turning to a violent shade of blue, then vanishing completely, leaving a golden carriage in its place. Though the carriage somewhat resembled an overgrown pumpkin, it was certainly luxurious. It made a rather pretty sight as the setting sun glinted off its glistening embellishments. A few of the younger students gasped, though Josephine knew that the carriage was not much more than a large Portkey, rendering the fire a complete theatrical stunt. However, she knew Beauxbatons attempted similar when arriving to Durmstrang and Hogwarts. Their great Abraxan horses surely made the same impression upon young students in those foreign lands. Indeed, the rivalries between the schools were so deep, so ingrained, that each tournament promised to bring new heights of braggadocio.

The Hogwarts students climbed slowly out of the carriage and began to march up to the school when a loud rumbling was heard coming from the direction of the small lake that lay on the western edge of the Beauxbatons grounds. The students of both Beauxbatons and Hogwarts turned as one to look at the lake where a great sucking noise had replaced the rumbling. The surface of the water became frothy, and then a large pole rose out of the center. Eerie black sails soon followed, and within moments, a great warship was drifting along the sun’s vibrant orange path on the lake.

As soon as the anchor was down, the small contingent of Durmstrang students disembarked and began their own march to the palace. A cool October breeze swept through the trees as the parties approached, and Josephine was unsure if the chill she felt was a result of the wind or the anticipation.

The Headmaster of Beauxbatons, a spindly man named Monsieur Autruche, made his way through the throng of eager French students and toward his Hogwarts counterpart. “Ah, Monsieur Eldridge,” he said, wringing the gentleman’s hand. “Bienvenue, welcome again to Beauxbatons.”

Monsieur Eldridge smiled warmly and waved a greeting to the Beauxbatons students. Josephine couldn’t help but notice that he looked decidedly more fit and able than her own Headmaster, as though he had weathered a few harsh winters. The infamously hearty cooking of the north played a role, no doubt. But even despite his rather robust appearance, he seemed quite refined�”a marked change from Monsieur Autruche. As much as Josephine loved her school and its Head, Autruche lacked the certain distinguished quality that one would expect to be endowed to his position as the Head of the finest wizarding school in all of Europe.

Monsieur Eldridge led his students in through the gate, which Monsieur Autruche gestured towards most wildly. Angeline Laplanche had narrowed her eyes to properly scrutinize every single male student that passed, no doubt mentally picking her favorites and hoping one of them was her potential betrothed.

Josephine, however, had turned her attention back toward the great ship and the mass of Durmstrang students now getting ever closer to the castle. They did not move in a neat, orderly line like the Hogwarts contingent, nor did they look quite so friendly. She felt another chill race down her spine, and this time it was certainly not due to the breeze. She quickly stole a glance at the students to her right: they, too, seemed to notice the strange aura of the Durmstrang students, and the welcoming smiles pasted on their faces seemed a bit less genuine.

Even Monsieur Autruche was hesitant. Though he shook the Durmstrang Headmaster’s hand just as firmly as he had Monsieur Eldridge’s, his words did not carry the same effusiveness. “Oui, Monsieur Novokov. Bienvenue, welcome, welcome.”

He again gestured toward the open gates and ushered the Durmstrang students inside, then turned around and nodded to his own students. Josephine and her classmates followed, and they all passed through the Grand Foyer and into the Haute Chambre�”the High Chamber�”where the Welcoming Feast was beckoning.

Beauxbatons was divided into three Colleges, with each College sitting at its own polished mahogany table in the Haute Chambre. Josephine belonged to Giriaume, the oldest College. The Giriaume students sat at the very center of the hall, with students from Billebaut on their left and Nevelet on their right. Extra places had been set at all three tables, and the students from Hogwarts and Durmstrang eagerly filled these seats.

Angeline�”who was in Giriaume College with Josephine�”practically giggled with glee as a few particularly dashing Hogwarts students sat at the end of the Giriaume table.
Josephine smiled politely at them, but her attention was more focused on the solitary student from Durmstrang who sat down two places from her. Indeed, his blood red robes were quite noticeable against the black Hogwarts garb and the light blue uniforms of Beauxbatons. Josephine wondered why he sat alone, when only a small number had come from Durmstrang�”not more than ten. Surely they would want to stick together, or at least split into groups? However, the other Durmstrang students all sat together at the Nevelet table.

Before she could contemplate the matter any further, Josephine’s attention was stolen by the tinkling of a knife against a wine glass�”Monsieur Autruche had stood up at the head of the hall and was clearing his throat in preparation for a speech.

Josephine turned her head to listen.

***

Faith.

It truly was a beautiful palace, William thought as he stepped out of the carriage. He agreed with George in that perhaps it was a bit gaudy, but the “austere sincerity” of Hogwarts, as he called it, would be completely out of place here. The palace was dripping with elegance, at least from the outside, and William had no doubt it would be similarly outfitted on the inside. The grounds, too, looked quite exquisite. William paused for a moment and allowed his imagination to wander. He pictured himself as Hogwarts Champion, and wondered just what tasks were in store for the competitors. Where on the grounds would they take place? What kind of beasts would they face, what kind of spells would they need? His stomach churned in anticipation. Or was that nervousness? Either way, he felt good. He felt right.

“See what I mean?” came George’s whisper to his right. “A bit too much, don’t you think?”

“No,” William said, shaking his head. “I think it is perfect.”

George shrugged and plastered a smile on his face as he began to walk toward the palace. William knew his friend had a reputation for being a bit of a playboy, and he smirked inwardly in pity for the poor ladies of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Only three female Hogwarts students had made the trip. There were not many of them enrolled in the school to begin with�”there had never quite been parity between the sexes in enrollment, and the dangerous conditions of the age certainly did not help the situation. Many parents felt, for better or worse, that these were not the times to have their daughters far away at school. And of the ladies who were enrolled, perhaps many of them did not feel comfortable making the trip to France, especially with the precarious state of Muggle-wizard relations throughout the world. And yet, William surmised, even if there had been twenty Hogwarts ladies accompanying them, he had no doubt George would enjoy this new society.

William was interested in meeting the ladies of Beauxbatons, to be sure, but had no designs on them, unlike George. Jonathan Warrington-Hughes often joked about his son returning home with a French bride, but William thought that this scenario highly unlikely.

He could not consider the matter further, for at that moment, he heard a great sucking noise come from the lake. He turned his head to see an immense ship emerge from the depths of the water and float casually toward the shore. The Durmstrang students had arrived.

William had never really taken the time to consider his eastern competitors. Of course he had heard rumors about the dark deeds of Durmstrang students, but surely they were just that: rumors. Legends inflated with the passing of time. Certainly these seventeen and eighteen year old students did not go out and hunt Muggles. The thought was ridiculous, no matter how dire the situation in Moscow was. However, based on what he had gleaned from Henry Somerset’s reports from the delegations in Paris, the Muscovite wizards were quite enraged about the status of the world, and eager to do something about it. William made a mental note not to get in too deep with the Durmstrang students, just in case the rumors were true…

He broke off his gaze at the Durmstrang ship and followed Headmaster Eldridge into the palace. His assumptions about the interior of Beauxbatons were not incorrect: it was positively spectacular. “This is the Grand Foyer,” Professor Eldridge said as they waited for the rest of the students to enter the building. “True to its name, don’t you think?” he asked with a wink. And though it was a rhetorical question, William nodded. He couldn’t help but stare, mouth agape, at the breathtaking frescoes that decorated the ceiling of the room. Dozens of feet above him, dazzling in its resplendency, was painted the entire history of magic, from the earliest Greek and Egyptian wizards up through Merlin and other, later sorcerers of the European Renaissance. It was astonishing.

If he had looked down, he would have noticed a few Beauxbatons students looking at him smugly, pride in their palace clearly etched on their faces. But he did not look down, and instead continued to marvel at the palace as he and his friends were herded into another grand room, which he heard called the Haute Chambre. He and George, along with a few other students, sat down at the large table in the center of the room next to some pleasant-looking Beauxbatons girls and a solitary Durmstrang boy, and William finally had the good sense to close his gaping mouth. Just as he shut his, another opened at the head of the room: Monsieur Autruche, the Headmaster of Beauxbatons, was starting his speech.

William wanted to listen, but it was hard to hear the quiet man over the loud whispers from a couple of snide Ravenclaws a few chairs down. They apparently were acquainted with the Durmstrang student, or at least had heard some terrible rumors about him. William could only hear snippets of their conversation:

“… his brother, five years ago…”
“… total collapse, shamed the family to no end…”
“Gregorovitch’s wands haven’t been the same since…”

If the boy could hear them, he made no notice, just continued to stare at the Beauxbatons Headmaster, who was droning on. A part of William wanted to listen more closely. Were they talking about the Triwizard Tournament five years prior? He had stayed at Hogwarts, being too young to compete, but the rumors had reached all the way to England from the east. For a moment, he strained his ears, hoping to hear more concrete details, but he soon changed his mind and listen to Monsieur Autruche. It was no good to deal in rumors and hearsay, especially not at the very beginning of the tournament.

However, throughout the Headmaster’s long speech, William found himself stealing a few extra glances at the boy from Durmstrang…

***

Hope.

The voyage in the ship was mercifully short, yet as Aleksandr climbed down from the ship and hopped onto solid French ground, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. For the next nine months, he did not have to be merely a Gregorovitch, son of the failed wandmaker, brother of the failed Champion. He could simply be Aleksandr, Alexei, Durmstrang student. He would not have to associate with his comrades from the Institute. He was free to interact with the students from Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, hopefully without his tainted name preceding him. And if his most fervent hope came true and he was selected Durmstrang Champion, he would show them. He would show them all.

Aleksandr sometimes wondered if the Goblet of Fire was smart enough to remember the past and take it into considerations. He had of course been at Durmstrang five years previously to see his brother’s name fly out of the cup, just as he had been there in the end, when it all went so wrong. But did the Goblet know? Could it know? Could the prejudice against his name hold true even by a seemingly impartial judge? He wondered.

Even if the Goblet was completely impartial, Aleksandr knew he was a long shot to be selected champion. Nikolai Golovnin had already been anointed by the entire Durmstrang populace. Indeed, Golovnin would be a fine choice. He was talented and handsome, and probably a good match against Hogwarts and Beauxbatons. Most importantly, he was not too Dark�”at least not yet. Better Golovnin than, say, Emil Kerensky, whose misdeeds were deplorable at best, murderous at worst.

Aleksandr eyed the Beauxbatons Palace. It was magnificent, to be certain. At least twice the size of the Durmstrang Castle, if not more. More importantly, it did not bear the signs of repeated attacks. No indeed, there were no holes in the outer walls nor scorch marks from countless torch-bearing mobs. Aleksandr felt a strong pang of sorrow at the thought of his beloved, ravaged homeland. How had the West escaped persecution for so long? Certainly, the threat against them was imminent, was it not?

If it was, the palace before him showed no signs. It was a picture of perfection, everything that a legitimate magical academy should be. It was a picture of what Durmstrang could be again. One day…

He let his eyes wander as he marched with his comrades into the palace, though he was careful not to stare too intently at anyone�”he had been told that he could be a little intense at times, and did not want to threaten any potential friendships before they had the chance to form.

Once inside the Haute Chambre, he took care not to sit with his former friends. Instead, he sat alone at the center table. Well, he was certainly not alone. It just couldn’t hurt to put a little distance in between himself and his comrades. The rumors of their deeds had no doubt reached ears even as far away as France, and he preferred not to be embroiled in controversy. Besides, what better way to start the tournament then by interacting with foreign students?

But, he thought, being completely honest with himself, the real reason he chose not to sit with the Durmstrang students was twofold: one, he was fairly certain they did not want to sit with him, if the voyage in the ship could be taken as evidence. Two, if his name came out of the Goblet of Fire, he wanted to be far away from Durmstrang.

However, there was ample time before that moment would occur, if it did at all. The tournament had not even been opened; he had at least a full day before the Goblet would make its selections. In the meantime, Professor Autruche, the Headmaster of Beauxbatons, was standing up to make a speech.

Aleksandr shifted in his chair to listen to the man, and tried valiantly to mentally block the vicious whisperings of the Hogwarts students sitting at the end of the table. He had expected this, to be certain. He even guessed that some of Durmstrang’s own students may have been the ones to start the rumors.

What they said didn’t matter to him, though, just gave him more incentive to beat them all. To prove them wrong.

***

Faith, Hope, and Love.

Monsieur Autruche spoke at length about the Triwizard Tournament in general, though no one in the room was unfamiliar with it. The moon rose higher and higher, shining brightly through the topmost mullioned windows. He waxed prolific, if not profound, his spectacles shielding his wide-set eyes from their perch at the tip of his nose. Tufts of white hair wafted from the top of his head, which was situated on top of a very long neck, giving him the distinct quality of his namesake bird, an ostrich. At length, he concluded, and the hundreds of eyes in the room eagerly turned toward what they had been most anticipating: the unveiling of the Goblet of Fire.

Monsieur Autruche waved his wand and a great, jewel-encrusted crate appeared from out of nowhere and settled itself upon the head table. Professors Eldridge and Novokov applauded appreciatively, and the collective audience gasped as Monsieur Autruche tapped the top of the casket three times with his wand. As the lid opened, an eerie blue light emerged from within the casket, illuminating his ornithic face. He reached a thin arm into the casket and withdrew the flaming goblet. He placed it on top of the table and stepped back in great reverence. The wooden cup was still shooting out the bluish flames, and the energy in the room was palpable.

“It is now ten o’clock in the evening,” squawked Monsieur Autruche. “Twenty-four hours from now, the goblet will select the three champions from those who have placed their names inside. Best of luck to you all.”

And with that, the party was dismissed and the tournament opened.

***

Love.

The day passed uneventfully. Josephine and others were recruited to show the visiting students around the palace and grounds of Beauxbatons, and everyone exchanged many pleasantries to while away the time. But soon, the main event was upon them: the selection of the champions.

Josephine sat with Angeline on her right and Remy on her left. She smiled reassuringly at her brother as the Goblet of Fire was presented to the assembly, but then realized that Remy did not look the least bit nervous.

Indeed, any doubts were quickly put to rest as the first charred slip of parchment shot out of the now-red flames. “The Beauxbatons Champion,” said Monsieur Autruche in his most authoritative voice, “is Remy de Tuileries.”

The hall erupted in applause. Beauxbatons was united behind their choice. Remy beamed and strolled gallantly to the head of the hall, giving little waves to fellow students as he went. Josephine was overjoyed.

Faith.

After the Beauxbatons Champion had been selected, William felt his stomach tighten. He had agonized all day about whether or not to somehow sabotage George, but had finally come to his senses around five in the evening. He assumed the Goblet of Fire was somewhat akin to the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts: an incredibly intelligent object. If, therefore, he committed some act of treachery against his best friend, wouldn’t that severely curtail his chances of being selected as the best representative of his school?

He knew his father would vehemently disagree with him on this point, but it all came down to character. That was what the Goblet of Fire would be judging, would it not? William trusted his own judgment, and even went with George to the Grand Foyer where the goblet was waiting. They put their names in the cup in tandem. “May the best man win,” George said with a wink. William smiled back, confident that the best man would. Would it be him?

He felt an incredible sense of calm as he sat again at the Giriaume table in the Haute Chambre. He was at peace with his decision. He had done the right thing. Would he be selected as champion? He certainly hoped so.

And yet now, his trepidation increased precipitously. Before he had another moment to think, the goblet blazed red again and another slip of parchment shot out. Monsieur Autruche caught it. “The Hogwarts Champion,” he said with a gallant attempt at flair, “is George Potter.”

The Hogwarts students erupted in applause and reached over to congratulate George. Their champion. William was silent for a moment, the implications of the event crashing down upon him. His father’s livid face flashed across his mind’s eye. But then the incredible sense of calm washed over him again, and he realized that the whole scenario was preposterous. His best friend had been honored above all others, and William should congratulate him. So he did.

Hope.

Aleksandr had hardly noticed the twenty-four hours pass. Indeed, he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost forgot to submit his name to the Goblet of Fire. But he hastily scribbled it on a piece of parchment and stuffed it in right before the feast began. Unfortunately, the only two girls from Durmstrang had been standing in the Grand Foyer when he had done this, and they let out identical derisive laughs. “Do you really think you can be selected, Gregorovitch?” snorted one, haughtily throwing her fur cape across her shoulders. Aleksandr did not answer, merely steeled his glare and marched into the Haute Chambre.

He hardly touched the food on his plate during the feast, so consumed he was by the impending selection. He knew he would be a good champion, regardless of what the others said or believed. He hoped that the Goblet of Fire would agree.

Still, his resolve lessened with each passing moment. It would be Nikolai Golovnin. It had to be. How could he have entertained the hope that it would be him, a Gregorovitch?

These thoughts consuming his mind, he hardly heard Monsieur Autruche read off the name of the Durmstrang Champion. But the resulting silence was so deafening that he was stirred back to consciousness. What?

As if reading his mind, Monsieur Autruche cleared his throat and read the scrap of parchment again: “The Durmstrang Champion,” he said, looking past a visibly enraged gaggle of Durmstrang students at the Nevelet table, “is Aleksandr Gregorovitch.”

CHAPTER FOUR: The Tasks at Hand

Hope.

“Aleksandr Gregorovitch.” The words were still echoing throughout the Haute Chambre as Aleksandr slowly pushed his chair back and rose. He just stood there for the briefest of moments before glancing to the Nevelet table to his right and then marching to the front of the hall, where the two other champions had already gathered. He knew they did not comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened, but the tension lingering in the room was thick, palpable.

“Congratulations, Monsieur Gregorovitch,” said the waifish Head of Beauxbatons. “I have no doubt you will serve Durmstrang Institute well.” The wavering quality of his voice betrayed the fact that he most likely did have some serious doubts. Aleksandr merely nodded, fully aware that his selection would be met with more jeers than cheers.

Nevertheless, he looked to his own Headmaster, hoping to get some sort of reassurance. Novokov was not smiling; rather, his countenance was markedly resolute, and he nodded gruffly. He reached across the table to shake Aleksandr’s hand, and the look in his eyes betrayed a deeper meaning. They will accept you, he seemed to say. We will make this right. The barest hint of a smile crossed his lips before Autruche opened his mouth to speak again.

“Mesdemoiselles et messieurs,” he said, striving to regain the pomp and circumstance that the reaction to Aleksandr’s selection had knocked out of him, “join me in congratulating your Triwizard Champions!”

The hall burst into applause again, and Aleksandr felt an upwelling of happiness to see that even one or two Durmstrang students were clapping. He fervently hoped that his name coming out of the goblet would be the event that would cause his name to return to the good graces of Moscow society.

For now, though, he had little time to worry more about the reaction of his fellow students, for he and the other two champions were being herded into a smaller salon at the back of the Haute Chambre, followed by the heads of the three schools. As they entered, Aleksandr saw the only other occupant was a very short, bespectacled wizard wearing robes of glistening gold, though a more careful examination revealed that they were fraying at the hem.

The short wizard cleared his throat and nodded his head in a curt bow before holding one hand outstretched. “Your wands, if you please,” he said in a garishly nasal voice.

Aleksandr was relieved to see that the other two were just as confused as he, and they all turned toward Autruche, who nodded his head. “The Weighing of the Wands,” he said, as if this would elucidate the situation. When the three champions still reacted with blank stares, he continued. “It is a tradition as old as the tournament itself. We must inspect your wands, you know, make sure they have not been tampered with, make sure they are not defective.”

Aleksandr almost laughed, but restrained himself. His wand, of course, had been hand-crafted by his father�”with substantial assistance from Aleksandr himself�”and had hardly been out of his possession since the elder Gregorovitch had put the finishing touches on it. It was in perfect condition. He nevertheless pulled it from his sleeve and placed it in the smooth palm of the short wizard. The other champions followed suit, and Aleksandr was pleased to see that his wand was the longest of all three.

“I am Louis Mouchet,” said the wizard, laying two of the wands on the table and keeping one in his hands. “I am the finest wandmaker in all of France, and it is my job to ensure that your wands are in perfect working order. However, since none of you has purchased one of my fine French wands,” he sent a derisive sneer at the Beauxbatons Champion, “there is only so much I can do.”

Aleksandr merely raised an eyebrow at these words, and kept silent while Mouchet inspected the first wand. “An Ollivander creation, I assume?” he asked, rolling his eyes in the direction of the Hogwarts Champion, who nodded. “Ten inches�”far too long if you ask me,” continued Mouchet. “And the core is… dragon heartstring? Yes, that is one of Ollivander’s favorites. The wood is ash, of course. A thoroughly uninspired choice, but it all appears to be functional. Gramenticara,” he said, casually waving the wand at the ground, where tufts of bright green grass shot up from the floor. Aleksandr saw Monsieur Autruche flinch at the sight.

Mouchet handed the wand back to the Hogwarts Champion, who grabbed it a bit defensively. “Thank you,” he said, but all present knew he hardly meant it. Mouchet had moved on, however, to the second wand.

“Mine is an Ollivander as well,” the Beauxbatons Champion said, extending his hand to the boy from Hogwarts. “I’m Remy de Tuileries.” They shook hands. “George Potter,” came the response. Both boys turned now to Aleksandr and extended their hands. He shook them both, and opened his mouth to speak: “I’m Aleksandr Gr�””

“If you please,” said Mouchet, interrupting Aleksandr. He shot stern looks at all three, then twirled Remy’s wand around in his fingers. “As you have already so kindly pointed out, this is an Ollivander. Ten and one half inches, and containing a unicorn hair?” Remy nodded in response, but Mouchet just clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “They make for flighty wands, as I am sure you have discerned.” He flicked his wrist and great golden bubbles emerged from the tip of Remy’s wand, and then proceeded to float lazily around the room.

“And finally,” Mouchet intoned, tossing Remy his wand, “we have the final wand. A Gregorovitch, no doubt.” He picked up Aleksandr’s wand disdainfully, putting a finger at each end. “Thirteen inches. Entirely too long. Oak. An acceptable choice, I suppose.” He peered intently at the wand. “Of course, Gregorovitch used to be a fine wandmaker. Yes, his wands were once quite powerful. He has slipped recently, there is no doubt about that.”

Aleksandr could hold his tongue no longer. “Pyotr Gregorovitch is my father,” he said, his temper bubbling just below the surface and threatening to erupt. He clenched his hands into fists at the insolent man’s suggestion that his father’s talent was waning.

There was a tangible pause where no one seemed to know what to say. Mouchet did not look embarrassed, merely annoyed. “Indeed,” he said in his nasal voice, still examining the wand. “Did you make this wand, then?”

“I helped, yes,” Aleksandr responded through gritted teeth.

“And you did not tamper with it in any way? Place two wand cores in it, perhaps, for added strength?”

“It contains a single plume from an Occamy, and nothing else,” Aleksandr said, doing all that was in his power to steady his breathing.

“Occamy, you say? A strange choice. Well, we shall see if you are telling the truth with a simple test.” He pointed the wand at the ground. “Firmamento!” he exclaimed with derisive gusto. The floor began to tremble slightly, rattling a large porcelain vase on a table. Monsieur Autruche looked a bit queasy as he reached out to steady the vase. Then Mouchet raised the wand with a swift upward jerk and the trembling stopped. “It is no more powerful than an ordinary wand. Perfectly mediocre.”

It was all Aleksandr could do to restrain himself and resist snatching the wand from Mouchet and beating him over the head with it. It was one thing to insult him, Aleksandr, or speak of what had happened to Dragomir at the last tournament. But his father’s wands had never once faltered. Indeed, sometimes Aleksandr wondered if wandmaking was the only thing that kept the elder Gregorovitch alive day to day. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to carefully whittle, sculpt, mold a wand. He had been hoping that Dragomir would take over the family business, but of course that was hardly possible now.

Aleksandr was in quite the foul mood by the time Mouchet said his final disparaging words and left the small chamber. Remy and George and their respective Headmasters exited as well, but Aleksandr stayed behind, and Professor Novokov with him.

For a few minutes, neither spoke. But Aleksandr had something to get off his chest. He looked down at the floor, sheathing his wand back in its sleeve pocket, and inhaled deeply. “I am sorry, Headmaster,” he said, switching to their native Russian, eyes still trained at the lush carpeted floor.

“For what, Aleksandr?” Novokov took an almost imperceptible step forward and crossed his arms.

“For being chosen, sir. I know you were hoping it would be Nikolai whose name came out of the Goblet.”

Novokov nodded his head. “Yes, Mr. Golovnin would have been an excellent choice, would he not?”

Aleksandr paused and raised his head. “He is very talented.”

“Quite so,” Novokov responded. “And yet, I was not upset that his name did not fly out of that goblet. And I was not upset that yours did.”

Aleksandr said nothing in response, so Novokov continued. “But was I happy? No, I certainly was not. You being chosen puts you in a very precarious situation, Aleksandr, a situation I prefer to keep my pupils out of. You know as well as I do that the rest of the students were not expecting you to be selected. Mr. Kerensky, in particular, looked especially upset. But, if you will forgive me for speaking so openly of your classmates, they are shortsighted in regards to this tournament. They want glory for Durmstrang, and they want it at any cost. That is a dangerous goal in these times, as you well know. The relentless pursuit of anything is a surefire way to have it all come crashing down on you in the end.”

The headmaster was talking about Dragomir now, Aleksandr knew. They had discussed it five years ago, but hardly since then, though everyone else in the school frequently opined on the matter�”behind closed doors, at least.

“Yes, I am speaking of your brother now,” Novokov said, as if he could read Aleksandr’s mind. “You are like him in so many ways, Aleksandr, which may not be something you wish to hear, but I say it as a compliment. Dragomir was one of the finest students to ever attend the Durmstrang Institute. You share his immense talent and power�”this cannot be denied. The challenge for you, then, will be to wield it better. I trust that you will.”

Aleksandr nodded, letting the professor’s words sink in. He was powerful. He knew that. Mouchet had underestimated his wand, and the connection Aleksandr felt whenever he used it. The tasks of the tournament would be mere trifles. Surviving the jeers and stares of his classmates, however, could not be helped by thirteen inches of oak.

Again, as if on cue, Novokov spoke. “Aleksandr, we will speak to them together. They will accept you as their champion before the night is over. It will be a long battle, but we will be victorious for Durmstrang. Go now to our chambers. I will meet you and the rest of the students there after I speak to Monsieur Autruche.”

Aleksandr nodded again and left the room, stepping back into the Haute Chambre just in time to see Emil Kerensky whip out the main door and out of sight. He looked to his left, where Emil had been talking to a couple of students, and his heart sank to see that it was George and Remy. If either of them saw Aleksandr, they made no motion of it, and exited through the door just as swiftly as Emil. My name impugned before they even know it, Aleksandr thought to himself as he walked slowly through the deserted room. A long battle indeed.

***

Love.

Josephine was waiting in the Grand Foyer, for Remy had yet to come out of the Haute Chambre. She was twisting her hands in nervous anticipation�”she had barely had time to congratulate her beloved brother before he had been whisked into the side chamber.

Most of the other students had already filtered out of the room in a great tide, and Josephine wondered if she had missed one. The door opened, and she beamed, but her smile was in vain for no one but a dark-haired Durmstrang boy exited. He glanced at her briefly before whipping his dark red robes about him and heading down the right-hand corridor.

She tapped her foot impatiently, and was about to head back to the dormitory when the door opened for a second time and Remy came out, another tall boy at his side. Remy smiled as he saw her, and pulled her into a great embrace. “Congratulations, Remy!” she said, closing her eyes as she hugged him. “I knew it would be you.”

“Let’s make Father proud, shall we?” he said, squeezing her back. Then he released her from his grasp and gestured to the boy beside him. “Josephine, may I present George Potter, the Hogwarts Champion. George, this is my sister, Josephine.”

Josephine knelt into a deep curtsy and George Potter bowed. “How do you do, Mr. Potter?”

“I am quite well, mademoiselle. Thank you.” He smiled and clicked his heels together. “Well, I best go find my friend William, and leave you two alone to plot how best to overthrow me!” He gave a genial wave and headed down the left-hand corridor.

“He seems very nice, Remy,” Josephine said, linking her arm in her brother’s as they headed for the Giriaume dormitories.

“He is. It’ll be a shame to beat him,” he said with a smile.

She laughed. “Was that the Durmstrang Champion who left the room right before you?”

Remy paused in recollection, then said, “No, I believe that must have been Emil Kerensky. He had just introduced himself to George and me.”

Josephine nodded. “What about the Durmstrang Champion, then? Did you speak to him?”

“Hardly at all,” Remy said, his forehead creasing into a frown. “He nearly assaulted Monsieur Mouchet in the small chamber.”

“The wandmaker? Why?” Josephine was shocked.

“Mouchet insulted his father. Without knowing it,” he said at Josephine’s startled intake of breath. “Aleksandr’s father is Pyotr Gregorovitch, the wandmaker,” he added by way of explanation.

“So Aleksandr assaulted him?” Josephine was fascinated. So much drama already, and the tournament had just been opened!

“Well, perhaps I exaggerated the situation. He did not assault him, but it was quite clear he was perturbed.”

“And with good reason, it seems,” Josephine stated with an emphatic nod. “Monsieur Mouchet has no place insulting Monsieur Gregorovitch like that, regardless of whether he is a competitor’s father!”

“That is true, I suppose,” Remy said, suddenly coming to a halt. He turned to Josephine and grasped her hands. “Listen, Josie,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay away from Aleksandr Gregorovitch, will you? The other Durmstrang students do not speak very highly of him at all.”

Josephine frowned. “I wonder why. Did they say?” When Remy shook his head, she continued. “Well, I cannot imagine that we will come into contact too much.”

“Good. Just promise not to seek him out, sister.”

“I promise,” she said. He relinked her arm in his own and they continued their walk back to Giriaume.

***

Faith.

William lay on his bed in the sumptuous guest rooms of the Beauxbatons Palace. The other boys sharing his dormitory had all fallen asleep, for the most part, except for George, who had yet to return from the main wing.

William sighed. He was happy for George, he really was. Thankful, even, that he himself would not have to compete. He had heard great tales of the danger of the Triwizard Tournament, and a large part of him was relieved not to have to put himself in mortal peril.

Still, he could not deny that he was also disappointed. The Goblet of Fire had chosen which of the two was more worthy, and it had not been him. It was George, just like always. To think of his father’s reaction made him even more depressed. Quite frankly, he was surprised to have not received a Howler. Maybe his father hadn’t heard the news yet. But he would soon, and then William would have to deal with a Howler personified. It was not a pleasant thought.

He sat up in bed and glanced at his pocket watch, a gift from his father upon his seventeenth birthday. The tiny, ornate hands were creeping slowly onward, and William was not sure just how much longer he could wait for George before fatigue overtook him. But just as he was deciding to retire, the door burst open and George stood silhouetted in the frame, beckoning William to join him in the antechamber.

William dutifully hopped off his bed and crossed the room to join his friend, shaking George’s hand when he reached him. “Congratulations, George. I really am happy for you.”

“Thank you, William,” George said, shutting the door to the main room as they passed through it. “That means a great deal to me. And you know that cup had it down to the two of us. Luck of the draw, right?”

William smiled, but shook his head. “No, you deserve it. The cup made the right choice.”

“Well, you can’t argue with magic, right?” George asked with a wink.

They moved in tandem to the two chairs on one wall of the small room. They both sat, but neither spoke. Pleasantries aside, there was still a bit of tension. Finally, William cleared his throat. “So did you meet the other two champions?”

George’s face lit up. “Yes, I did. Remy de Tuileries from Beauxbatons�”he’s our sort of man. Funny and clever, and all that sort. He’s got a wand from Ollivander’s, too, so at least he recognizes British superiority in that field!”

William smiled, thinking of his own wand, also from Ollivander’s. Eleven and a half inches and made of cherry wood, with a single unicorn hair inside. It was magnificent. What a shame it would see hardly any action this year… He shook his head and tuned back in to George, who was just finishing up the details of a conversation he and Remy had.

“… so Kerensky thinks we should stay away from him.”

“The Durmstrang Champion?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t missed anything too important.

“Right. Says he’s trouble�”his whole family.”

William frowned. “That seems odd, since he was good enough to be selected champion, right?”

“Could be true. Could be that he fixed the goblet to spit out his name,” George said pointedly.

“I guess so. What did you think of him?”

“He seemed fine enough. A bit touchy, maybe. He’s a Gregorovitch, though�”his father’s the wandmaker. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slipped in a little something extra to fix up his own wand.”

William could not think of anything to say in response to this, so he settled for a noncommittal grunt. Another long silence passed. “When is the first task?” he finally asked.

George stifled a yawn. “Two weeks. Hardly any time to prepare.”

“I don’t suppose there is anything to prepare, is there?” William asked. Surely the competitors didn’t know what the tasks were in advance.

“No, I suppose you’re right,” George said, yawning again, though William detected a slight shiftiness in his manner. “Well, we should get to bed. Lots to see tomorrow�”Remy said he would take us on a tour of the grounds.”

“Us?”

“You and me,” George said. “I told him I would introduce you. I tell you, he’ll fit right in.”

“Excellent,” William said with a smile. “Right, well, see you at breakfast, then?”

“I never miss it!” George said, clapping him on the back as they rose from their chairs.

Once in the dormitory, William loosened his cravat and leaned against one of the posts of his bed. He was happy for George. He really was. At least, he would be if he kept telling himself over and over again…

***

Hope.

Aleksandr opened the door to the Durmstrang guest quarters and found�”not surprisingly�”the entire contingent awake and waiting. They wanted to hear his defense, wanted him to plead his case. He shut the door quietly behind him and merely stood there, waiting.

An agonizing silence passed before Emil Kerensky spoke. “So you, Gregorovitch, think you’re the one to lead Durmstrang back to glory?”

Aleksandr shook his head and said placidly, “No, Emil, the Goblet of Fire thinks that.”

Kerensky snorted. “The Goblet of Fire must have a short memory, friend. It must not be able to tell that blood runs thicker than water, and�”in your case�”is the weakest link in an already feeble chain.” He practically snarled the last words as he took two steps closer to Aleksandr.

Aleksandr felt his blood pumping in his ears, but he could do nothing but grit his teeth. Novokov’s faith in him would disappear completely if he were to return to find him embroiled in an all-out brawl.

Just then, the door opened and Novokov entered. He was a physically imposing man, tall and dark with impeccable good looks. At least, that is how he used to be. The years of terror in the East had taken their toll on everyone, but Ilya Novokov had borne them with extreme sorrow. The Institute that he had worked so hard to build had taken a sharp turn for the worse, and it was all he could do to try to pick up the fallen pieces.

Aleksandr knew that the times must have been hard on his Headmaster, but he had never really stopped to examine the lines in the man’s face. As Novokov stood in the threshold of the room, though, Aleksandr realized for the first time that the situation in Moscow was killing him.

“Sons and daughters of Durmstrang,” Novokov said, taking a step forward and closing the door behind him, “few things in this world grieve me more than seeing our school’s name fall from grace, but to have it fall even farther would be the single most painful thing I can imagine.” He stopped and looked around the room, staring into the eyes of each and every one of his students. “We all know that our glorious Institute has fallen on hard times. We all know what the West thinks of us. We all know that the Paris delegations care more for arguing about petty political issues than for helping us solve our very real problems. So this is why we must, must unite.” He pounded his fist in his palm for emphasis.

There was a long pause while he allowed his words to sink in. A few students shifted uncomfortably, and Emil Kerensky had hardly backed down from his aggressive stance. Novokov continued: “The International Confederation of Wizards sees our entire region as nothing more than a set of quarreling factions. They believe that since we cannot agree on a course of action for ourselves, they will have no better luck trying to help us. This, as you may be able to reason, is erroneous logic, and perfectly foolish given the nature of the situation.”

An eerie calm had fallen over the room, and students all around Aleksandr were starting to listen intently. Aleksandr was also quite intrigued: he had never heard Professor Novokov speak his mind so openly. “Ah, I am sorry,” Novokov said, once again displaying his uncanny knack for reading the mood of the situation, “I am waxing far too long on this topic, and perhaps it is not my place to do so. It is certainly not the matter that is most pressing for us at present. No, students, that matter would be the Triwizard Tournament, and your champion, Aleksandr Gregorovitch.”

Another silence ensued, though Emil Kerensky seemed to be struggling to keep his mouth shut. Novokov stood next to Aleksandr and put his hand on his shoulder. “This is your champion, Durmstrang,” he said, his booming voice carrying to all four corners of the room. “Aleksandr Gregorovitch is one of the finest students to ever walk the halls of Durmstrang, and he will do us proud. I should not have to implore you to support one of your own, students, but I do expect you to support Mr. Gregorovitch in his every endeavor during this tournament.”

Aleksandr looked around the room and was pleased to see some of the students nodding at Novokov’s words. Some even smiled. Still Novokov continued: “What he does echoes in what we all do. And, in return, what we do will reflect right back on him. Please, friends, let us not give the West any more reason to doubt and mistrust us. Let us be victorious for the East, and united for Durmstrang!”

At these words, the crowd burst into applause. Aleksandr allowed himself a real smile for the first time in months as a wave of blood red robes swept toward him to shake his hand. Many students apologized. A few clapped him on the back. Nikolai Golovnin embraced him, and said softly, “To be quite honest, I am glad it is you, Alexei.”

At the very end of the line was Emil Kerensky. The other students fanned out into a circle as Kerensky walked slowly toward Aleksandr, his expression unreadable. Aleksandr felt his heart start to race again, but it slowed as Kerensky smiled. It was far from a grin, but it was good enough for Aleksandr. Kerensky extended his hand, and Aleksandr grasped it. “I am sorry, Alexei,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Aleksandr replied. Though this was perhaps untrue, he agreed that a fresh start was exactly the thing they needed.

Kerensky moved closer and whispered in his ear: “For Durmstrang. It is all for Durmstrang.”

Aleksandr nodded again, but as he released Kerensky’s hand and watched him walk away, he could not help but notice a strange look that had overtaken the boy’s face. It was wholly unsettling, but gone in the blink of an eye. Perhaps he had imagined it?

He tried to put it out of mind, but as he tossed and turned that night, the look on Kerensky’s face haunted his dreams.

***

Faith.

By the time he awoke, William was feeling marginally better about the whole scenario. The year might turn out to be less exciting now that he was not Hogwarts Champion, but it could still be fulfilling. He turned on his side to see if George was still asleep in the bed to his right. He was. George Potter was a notoriously late riser.

William smiled and put his hands under his head, thinking that a few more minutes of sleep would certainly not hurt.

His potential reverie was interrupted, however, by a portly red face suddenly looming in front of him. Jonathan Warrington-Hughes had come to call.

“William, if you please,” his father said, “I would like to have a word with you.”

William instantly sat up in bed, not even bothering to wonder how his father had gained access to the dormitory. He pulled a robe around his shoulders and followed his father into the small antechamber where he and George had talked the night before, steeling himself for the haranguing that was sure to follow.

Surprisingly, however, Lord Warrington-Hughes did not yell. He merely paced around the room a few times, his hands clasped behind his back. After a good length of time, he turned to William and spoke. “Son, I did not come here to tell you what I felt upon hearing that your name had not come out of the Goblet of Fire.”

William furrowed his brow and sat on one of the chairs. “Then why did you come?”

“I need you to trust me, William,” his father said, apparently thinking this would serve as an explanation.

“Trust you to do what?”

“Trust me to make it right.”

William’s furrowed brows deepened. His father was making no sense. “Make it right?” he questioned. “What do you mean? What will you ‘make right’?”

His father did not answer immediately, but started his pacing again. When he did speak, it was impassioned: “You should be Hogwarts Champion, not George Potter. You, William.”

“Well, father,” William said calmly, somewhat reassured to see that the lecture was imminent, “the Goblet of Fire chose. There was nothing I could do.”

“Oh, that’s where you are wrong, William. Did you not receive my letter? Do whatever it takes? And what did you do? Nothing! Not a single thing to ensure that it was you and not Potter.”

William stood up and moved directly in front of his father. “Yes, father, that is true: I chose not to cheat! You think the goblet would have rewarded me had I cheated and made sure George did not put his name in?”

“Do not be so naïve, William,” Jonathan said, equally miffed. “Everyone cheats in the Triwizard Tournament. You lacked the courage to cheat, but this does not make you above those who do cheat.”

William had had enough. “Father,” he said curtly, “I thank you for coming down here to see me, but I really should get ready for lessons now. I assume that you will go see Henry Somerset in Paris, so I trust that I will see you soon.” William turned around and made to head back into the dormitory.

Jonathan, however, was not finished. He grabbed William’s shoulder and pulled him back around so they were face-to-face. “Just tell me, William, if you trust me to make it right.”

“Father, how can I trust you if I have no idea what you are saying!” William raised his hands in exasperation.

“Just tell me if you trust me!”

But William could not answer, for at that moment, George Potter walked through the door. “Oh, good morning, sir!” he said cheerily, extending his hand to Lord Warrington-Hughes.

William’s father shook it briefly with a grunted greeting, then turned again to William: “Think about it, son.” With that, he hastily left the room.

“What was that all about?” George asked, crossing his arms.

William answered truthfully: “I have no idea.”

***

Love.

The morning of the first task was unusually cold, even for October. Josephine brought an extra cloak with her just in case�”the wind from the sea could certainly make for a chilly breeze.

No climatic factors, however, could dampen her excitement. She and Remy had spent many hours over the past two weeks reviewing various types of spells and charms, and trying to find out as much as they could about past tournaments and their tasks. Some seemed laughable, some positively terrifying. They both hoped the tasks at this year’s Tournament would fall somewhere in between.

Remy had been called to the arena about an hour prior, so Josephine and her friend Angeline headed down together�”along with everyone else in the palace, of course. As they approached the arena, Josephine smiled. Even the makeshift auditorium that Beauxbatons had erected was dripping in elegance. She and Angeline climbed up the golden steps to their very plush, purple-cushioned seats and sat down. Josephine withdrew a small pair of Omnioculars in order to inspect the field, but quickly realized she would not need them: not only was the field incredibly close, it was also covered in hard-to-miss volcanoes. Josephine heard her voice be added to the chorus of murmurs around her as she turned to Angeline: “Volcanoes?”

Her heart caught in her throat. Volcanoes were terrifying. Mount Etna in Italy had erupted barely more than twenty years prior, killing a Beauxbatons student who had been vacationing with his family. As if to further arouse her fright, the volcano closest to her erupted, spewing a jet of blue fire out its top.

“It’s all right, Josephine,” Angeline said reassuringly. “They are only miniature volcanoes, after all, and look: there are a dozen wizards ready to assist.” She pointed at a gaggle of Beauxbatons staff members waiting around the outskirts of the arena.

Before Josephine could wring her hands any more about the task, however, a booming voice was heard, magically amplified throughout the arena. Josephine turned her head to an elevated platform at the center of the stands opposite where she was seated and saw Monsieur Autruche speaking with his wand pointed at his throat. It was quite strange to hear his soft voice so magnified, and Josephine felt shivers run down her spine at his words. He was introducing the Tournament judges. The task was about to begin.

The Headmasters of all three schools would be judging, as well as Monsieur Thierry Barnier from the French Ministry of Magic�”this the students knew in advance. But the identity of the fifth judge had yet to be revealed. Monsieur Autruche knew the moment was upon him and he took a dramatic pause before he waved his arm in a flourish and a short, dark-haired man emerged onto the platform, resplendent in blue and red spangled robes. There were a few sharp intakes of breath around Josephine, though she could not identify the wizard herself. “May I present, mesdames et messieurs, Monsieur Pierre Bonaccord.”

Now it was Josephine’s turn to be surprised and she clapped heartily along with the rest of the crowd. Bonaccord, of course, was currently making headlines as the Supreme Mugwump of the First International Confederation of Wizards meeting in Paris. Though she may have disagreed with the proposed Statute of Secrecy, she nonetheless felt a swell of pride to know that such an important personage was at her beloved Academy. This pride was swiftly swept away, however, as her thoughts did turn briefly to the Statute, and, consequently, to Pascal. She had received only one letter from him in the past two weeks, and sent none back.

At that moment, though, she heard a great clanging, and understood that the task was about to commence. Gripping Angeline’s hand in her own, she focused her full attention to the field.

***

Hope.

The three champions were huddled together in a small tent outside the arena. A strange smell was in the air, as if something was burning. Aleksandr wondered about the source of the smell, and what exactly the first task would involve, but he supposed he would find out soon enough. Indeed, no sooner had they met the two other judges than they heard a bell, signaling the start of the task. A French wizard was speaking to them in very vague terms about what they would face once they were in the arena, then he finished with a flourish: “Your task is to coax out the secrets. Bonne chance. Good luck!”

They had drawn lots to determine the order, and George Potter would be going first, Aleksandr second, and Remy de Tuileries third. This suited Aleksandr perfectly well. It would give him some time to collect his thoughts, and ruminate about meeting the man that was so completely ignoring his people.

Pierre Bonaccord. Aleksandr wondered if the Supreme Mugwump knew how much his name was slandered in the wizarding taverns of Moscow and St. Petersburg. Yet he had seemed a pleasant man at the very least�”Aleksandr had been mildly surprised by his amiable appearance and manners. Perhaps not all was as it seemed.

His thoughts turned to the task at hand. Coax out the secrets. What did that mean? He glanced at the large hourglass that was marking George’s time. Only five minutes had passed, but Aleksandr heard a huge roar from the crowd and then the magnified voice of Monsieur Autruche proclaiming that Potter had completed the task.

It was his turn. Aleksandr cast a sideways glance at Remy, who looked decidedly more nervous. Aleksandr felt hardly nervous at all. He could feel his heart beat against his chest, but it was purely in anticipation. He knew he could face whatever lay beyond the curtain.

As he strolled into the arena, however, and heard the signal to start, it took moment for him to fully comprehend what he saw before him: volcanoes. Seven miniature volcanoes, each spewing a different color of fire and magma.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. Coax out the secrets. From where? The fire? The rock? It was entirely possible that these things could have been magically endowed with the property of speech, but Aleksandr had a feeling that this was not the intent of the message. Coax out the secrets. Coax…

Then it dawned on him. He had never enjoyed Durmstrang’s classes on Magical Creatures, finding them tedious, but he had always respected the creatures themselves, especially the ones with interesting qualities. His father was always on the quest for new wand cores, and Aleksandr had come into contact with species far and wide. One now particularly stood out in his mind: the Thikara.

In the early days, before things started to get bad, Pyotr Gregorovitch had been testing out wand cores that relied heavily on secrets and memory�”he believed such a magical core would ensure that the wand remain truer to the wizard who owned it. He had tried Jobberknoll feathers and Gedaken scales, but had only achieved success�”albeit marginal�”with the tail feathers of the Thikara, a small, bird-like creature with a tufted crest, overlarge eyes, and a pair of slightly pointed ears. And, Aleksandr remembered with a smile, the Thikara preferred to live in the most inaccessible climates: Pyotr, Dragomir, and Aleksandr had found them huddled in a nest in the frozen tundra of Siberia, though Aleksandr had heard reports of them in the densest jungle thickets, the most arid deserts, and�”to his great delight�”inside volcanoes.

Aleksandr remembered questioning his father about the strange habitats of the Thikara as they had traipsed across the barren tundra. What made the world’s harshest climes suitable homes for the creature? His father had smiled. “Aleksandr,” he had said, “the Thikara exists for one simple purpose: to keep the secrets of the wizard. Imagine that you are so distraught with a burden you have been forced to carry, the deepest, darkest secret, and you desire someone, something to hear your thoughts and share your pain. Do you stroll down to the local pub and tell the proprietor? No. You must be willing to go to the ends of the earth to ensure the safety of your secret, and that no normal being will be able to hunt your precise confidant down and force him to reveal it. However,” he had added with a laugh, “Thikaras are notoriously long-winded once you do track them down, so you must be prepared to listen to other people’s innermost thoughts before you are allowed to speak your peace!”

Aleksandr shifted his thoughts back to the present and looked around him. Surely this was their task: to find the Thikaras and coax out their secrets. He marveled for the briefest moment at how esoteric the required knowledge was, and wondered how Potter had managed to complete the task in such a short amount of time. Aleksandr glanced at the hourglass and saw that a full minute of his time had elapsed, and he had done nothing but stand and reminisce. He chastised himself inwardly and began to survey the volcanoes.

The hardest thing would be to convince the Thikaras to leave the mouths of the volcano, for certainly he could not dive in after them. He approached the nearest volcano cautiously, wand at the ready. When he was mere inches away, it burst forth in a stream of yellow fire. Aleksandr lifted his wand and sent a powerful jet of water at the flames, causing them to flicker and fade. Dozens of salamanders scampered up and down the sides of the volcano as Aleksandr peered at the top. There was no sign of the Thikara, and time was moving fast.

He racked his brain. Surely a Summoning Charm wouldn’t work? He tried�”“Accio Thikara!”�”but to no avail. The only things that came hurdling toward him were small bits of rock. Then something dawned on him. His father’s words floated back through his mind: “The Thikara exists for one simple purpose: to keep the secrets of the wizard.” This creature wanted nothing more than for Aleksandr to give him a secret, so he would.

“I have a secret,” he whispered, feeling extraordinarily foolish. Still nothing. “I have a secret,” he whispered a bit louder. Sure enough, a tufted head peeked over the rim of the volcano and a Thikara came scurrying down the edge. Before Aleksandr could speak his pretend secret, however, the Thikara opened its mouth and began to spew words. Aleksandr glanced around, but he knew there would be neither quills nor parchment to collect the secrets. He pointed his wand at the Thikara and spoke a fairly complex incantation to ensure that the secrets would be remembered in the wand itself. If he had performed the spell correctly, he would later be able to point his wand at parchment and have the secrets transcribe themselves upon it.

“This is far too easy,” he muttered to himself as the Thikara scuttled back into the mouth of the volcano. Leave it to the French to come up with something so tame, he thought. The Durmstrang Tournament had featured a whole host of terrifying creatures, none so fluffy as the Thikara.

But lost in his musings he neglected to be mindful of his surroundings, and a volcano erupted just inches from his face, flicking bits of green magma onto his robes, which promptly burst into flames. He cursed silently and muttered, “Aguamenti.” A jet of water shot out the tip of his wand, and he hoped the judges hadn’t noticed. He had been too careless and headstrong�”qualities the Tournament was no doubt intended to bring forth to be judged. He smiled ruefully. Beasts may be one way to bring out the best in a wizard, but even the simplest task could betray one’s basest characteristics.

He took great care to avoid or extinguish all further fire, and finished the task in a respectable ten minutes. As he strode out of the arena, however, he wondered just how George Potter had managed to finish so fast…

***

Faith.

The first task had been splendid, and George was comfortably in the lead, having beaten Durmstrang by five minutes and Beauxbatons by a full ten. Though William hated to see his new friend Remy in last place, he was ecstatic at George’s success. The more he considered the matter, the more pleased he was that George had been chosen, and not him. Just the sight of those volcanoes was enough to solidify his position as number-one supporter rather than secretly jealous best friend. Not even his father’s disappointed looks could shake William’s fervent belief that the goblet had done right in selecting George.

Come to think of it, though, he thought, where is George? He had been so caught up by the tidal wave of people after the first task that William had not had a chance to speak to him, but it had been more than an hour and George had not returned to the dormitory.

William did not have to wait long for an answer, though, for he soon saw their classmate Charles Hurst enter the room.

“Charles, have you seen George? I haven’t congratulated him on his fantastic debut!” William smiled at his friend, but his smile quickly faded as he saw the look on Charles’s face�”he was ghostly-white and looked as if he might have been weeping. “What’s the matter, Hurst?” William felt the color drain from his own face. “What’s the matter?” he repeated. “What’s happened?”

“William,” Charles said slowly, cautiously. “George is… George is dead.”

CHAPTER FIVE: Suspicions

Hope.

The first task was over. The second task would not take place until after the New Year. Even so, Aleksandr felt no sense of calm, no sense of peace. He was pleased by his performance in the first task, and most of Durmstrang had congratulated him on his cool handling of the volcanoes, but something was not right.

He had escaped the throng of well-wishers who had been waiting outside the arena after the first task and had let his feet carry him on an extended tour of the magnificent Beauxbatons grounds. After nearly an hour, he finally came to rest in a picturesque clearing between the lake and a small copse of trees. He cast a brief look around to make sure he was alone, then collapsed onto the ground and lay down on the grass. The earth was cold and hard against his back and the air heavy with rain. Aleksandr surmised that it might be possible for him to fall asleep here. As he closed his eyes, however, he heard a noise and sat bolt upright, searching for the source.

He found it, or rather, her, sitting on a bench near the edge of the clearing. He had no idea how he had missed her in his first survey of the area. He hastily got to his feet, fully aware that to be seen in such a lazy manner while in the company of an unattended woman would be highly improper. He cleared his throat and brushed a few blades of grass from his robes, and made his best attempt at a smile. “Please forgive me, mademoiselle,” he said, assuming she was a Beauxbatons student. “I did not see you sitting there.”

She put down the letter that was in her hands, smiled, and rose from her bench. “There is nothing to forgive, monsieur. You have as much a right to be here as I do!” The lilt of her accent confirmed his suspicions.

She was quite pretty, he noticed, as the overwhelming majority of the Beauxbatons women were. Certainly more fair and dainty than the tall, thick women of Durmstrang. However, she looked troubled, and Aleksandr got the distinct impression that he had intruded on a rather private reverie.

“Forgive me again�”where are my manners?” he asked rhetorically, his smile widening as he crossed the clearing toward her. He swept into a deep bow. “I am Aleksandr Gregorovitch.”

He pretended not to notice her sharp intake of breath at his name, and she tried to disguise it with a cough. “The Durmstrang Champion?” she asked. “Yes, of course. I recognize you now from the first task. You performed very well.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” he said with a nod. “May I enquire as to your name?” He felt ridiculously formal saying these words, but rumor had it that the Beauxbatons women were sticklers for formality.

“Of course,” she said, extending her hand. “I am Josephine de Tuileries.”

His eyebrows rose of their own accord as he planted a swift kiss on her proffered hand. “You are related to Remy de Tuileries?”

“Oui, he is my brother,” she replied.

Aleksandr thought about this for a moment before he realized he had not yet let go of her hand. He dropped it hastily and cleared his throat, dismayed to see her face flush crimson, though she was still smiling.

“How did your brother fare in the task? I confess I did not watch.”

“He performed admirably, I think, though not so fast as you or George Potter.”

“Indeed,” Aleksandr said, again starting to feel that he had intruded on something very personal, for a moment passed and the earlier sadness crept back into her eyes. He was just about to concoct a reason to excuse himself when he was spared the task: his classmate Mikhail burst into the clearing, completely out of breath and with a very red face.

Aleksandr ran to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Mikhail! What is it? What has happened?”

Mikhail doubled over, propping his arms on his knees. “Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, nodding at Josephine. He then turned his head up toward Aleksandr. “Alexei, you are needed in the palace immediately.”

A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, and he dwelled first on his father. Had something happened? He straightened up and turned to follow Mikhail out of the clearing, only just remembering to excuse himself to Josephine before they fled through the trees and out of sight.

***

Twenty minutes later, he had heard the terrible news: George Potter had been murdered. He sat with Remy de Tuileries and the three headmasters in the small salon where the Weighing of the Wands had taken place. He looked around the room cautiously, surveying the emotions of the assembly. Professor Novokov looked somber, leaning against the fireplace. Monsieur Autruche flitted around the room, wringing his hands and looking worried. Professor Eldridge, the Hogwarts Headmaster, wore a grim countenance and sat enveloped by a majestic sorrow. Remy, Aleksandr was surprised to notice, looked the most upset of all. His devastation hung around him like a fog.

Aleksandr had of course noticed that Remy and George Potter had been spending a lot of time together in the interim between the Goblet of Fire and the First Task, often with another Hogwarts boy. Aleksandr had never been invited to join them, thus confirming his fear that Kerensky had scared them off. As he looked at Remy’s shocked face, he suddenly felt guilty for not having been better friends with George, and vowed to remedy the situation with Remy.

This was certainly not the time for that, however, as two questions now loomed: Who killed George Potter, and what should be done about the Tournament? The former question seemed unanswerable at the moment, at least by those present. The latter was also a tricky matter, since the Tournament was governed by very strict and complicated magic.

Autruche broke the silence first: “What is to be done, gentlemen? Do we consult the Goblet of Fire?”

“The Goblet of Fire will not reignite until the start of the next Tournament,” said Professor Eldridge solemnly.

“Then what do we do?” asked Monsieur Autruche. “Do we continue with the Tournament?”

“Yes, we must.” Novokov clasped his arms behind his back and began pacing around the room. “These two are magically bound to see it through to the end. Even in the face of extreme danger and death.” He gestured at Remy and Aleksandr.

Eldridge nodded. “Ilya is right. We must select another Hogwarts Champion to complete the remaining tasks.”

Silence fell over the room as each realized this choice would be neither easy nor popular.

“Sir,” Remy asked, to no one in particular, “what happens if Aleksandr and I both agree not to finish?”

Monsieur Autruche frowned and shrugged, but Eldridge shook his head. “It would not matter. Your obligation to the Goblet of Fire remains until the third task is finished and the tournament is declared closed. No amount of persuasion can change this. It is a binding magical contract.”

Aleksandr hung his head in his hands. He had hardly known George, it was true, but that did nothing to temper his grief. True, the champions knew that the tournament would be dangerous and death was a definite possibility, but George had not died in the course of Tournament action. He had been murdered. And Aleksandr had a sneaking suspicion of the culprit.

Try as he might to ignore it, he could not forget the look that had passed through Emil Kerensky’s eyes the night of Aleksandr’s selection. And his words, too: “For Durmstrang. It is all for Durmstrang.”

What did that mean? Certainly there were rumors about Kerensky, dark, dark rumors, but was there any truth to the accusations that he was a murderer? Now, with George Potter’s death, should all Durmstrang fingers be pointing at one man, or would that be an overreaction? Aleksandr was worried.

Conversation continued as Aleksandr silently pondered these things, and by the time he brought himself back to the present, the headmasters had apparently decided to let the Hogwarts contingent select a new champion in a quiet ceremony. He and Remy were dismissed from the room. While Remy went straight down the hall without another word, Aleksandr lingered outside the door, waiting for Professor Novokov to emerge.

After a few moments, he did. “Not a word,” said Novokov as he grabbed Aleksandr by the arm and dragged him down a side corridor. Once he was assured that no one had followed, he rounded on Aleksandr and pointed a finger millimeters from his face. “Did you have anything to do with this?” asked Novokov in a cold, fierce whisper. “If you did, I swear I will not rest until no one in the world knows the Gregorovitch name.”

Aleksandr backed into the wall, eager to get away from Novokov’s piercing stare, and unable to speak. Novokov jammed his finger into Aleksandr’s chest. “Answer me!”

Aleksandr found words, and quickly. “Professor, I swear, I had nothing to do with it!”

“Swear it on your father’s name,” Novokov growled.

“I do! I swear!” Aleksandr was petrified. He had never seen Professor Novokov so angry, not even in the midst of all the challenges that had plagued his tenure at Durmstrang.

“Do you have any idea who did?” The headmaster’s finger was still pressing hard into Aleksandr’s chest, his eyes still boring straight into him, as if they could see to his very soul.

Aleksandr hesitated, unsure of what to say. Did Novokov already suspect Kerensky? Did he, Aleksandr, have any basis on which to accuse him? Such an accusation would not be taken lightly�”could Aleksandr willingly endanger Emil’s life with no more proof than a strange look he thought he had seen?

As was often the case, Novokov seemed to be reading his mind: “Kerensky. You suspect him?”

Aleksandr stammered. “I… I do not know, Professor. I have no real grounds to suspect him, but something about him seemed amiss a few days ago.”

Aleksandr thought this might provoke another outburst, but instead, Novokov sighed and withdrew his finger from Aleksandr’s chest. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Kerensky did not do it,” he said softly.

“You are sure?” Aleksandr asked, feeling relieved and yet…

“He has an alibi. At the time of the murder, he was with a few other students, even some from Beauxbatons who can swear to it.” He began pacing again.

“But Professor, this is good news, no?” Aleksandr asked tentatively, wondering if Novokov also felt conflicted.

Novokov turned his piercing stare on Aleksandr and surveyed him for a moment. After a full minute of scrutiny, he spoke. “Yes. It is of course a good thing that Kerensky is not a suspect. But that does not alter the fact that there will be many in this palace who will automatically assume that a Durmstrang student or affiliate was the one to murder Mr. Potter. Make sure that you have an alibi, Gregorovitch, and make sure it is a good one.” Realizing, perhaps, that his words and actions had been a bit harsh, Novokov placed a reassuring hand on Aleksandr’s shoulder for a brief moment before turning on his heels and marching down the corridor, leaving Aleksandr completely alone.

He sank to the floor and leaned his head back against the wall, crossing his arms over his knees. What was his alibi? He had been wandering around the gardens when the murder had occurred, but no one had seen him. Until he had reached the clearing, that is, and found Josephine. She could be his alibi. Did she even know yet what had happened? Mikhail had run breathlessly into the clearing to retrieve Aleksandr, but had not given away any specifics. Someone should tell her…

He did not know exactly what force compelled him back to the clearing, all he knew was that he wanted to return, and he hoped she would be there. He walked as if in a daze all the way through the gilded corridors of Beauxbatons, back out the ornate doors, around the edge of the lake, and into the secluded clearing where, sure enough, she remained, still sitting on her bench.

As his presence was announced by the rustling of tree branches, she rose and turned around swiftly to face him. Her face was ashen and tear-streaked. Had she already heard the news? He took a few steps toward her and cleared his throat.

“What is it, Monsieur Gregorovitch?” she asked, clutching an embroidered handkerchief. “What is the news?”

***

Love.

“What is the news?” Josephine surveyed Aleksandr Gregorovitch while she waited for his answer. She was so afraid that something had happened to Remy, yet there was a part of her that knew this could not be: they would have sent for her to come to the castle, too. Still, whatever had happened was surely grave, for the look on his face was grim. He took another step toward her and she felt her heart flutter. He was very close…

“George Potter has been killed,” he finally said.

Josephine seemed to hear his words as if they came from the end of a very long tunnel. George Potter has been killed. She did not believe it. “What?”

He nodded solemnly. “He has been murdered, Mademoiselle de Tuileries.”

The corners of her vision began to blur and she suddenly felt very faint. She felt her knees give out below her and she took a wobbly step toward him, very nearly falling into his arms.

He reacted instantly, placing one hand on her hip and sliding one under her arm as he steered her back toward the bench. The intricate dynamic of their position forced him to sit down next to her, and to Josephine’s dismay, he picked up her discarded letter and began to fan her with it. Though she knew it was wildly inappropriate for a number of reasons, she could not help but think that she did not want Aleksandr to know she had been weeping over another man. Over Pascal.

Josephine took a deep, steadying breath and gave a little nod to indicate that she was well again. Aleksandr stopped fanning her and handed her the letter, which she folded and placed at her side. She noticed that his hand had not left the small of her back, but she did not say anything: it was quite comforting.

“Please tell me everything you know,” she whispered, clasping her hands together in her lap and looking into his face. Something in his hard, dark eyes moved and he looked away.

“I confess that I do not know much more. They found his… they found him in a patch of woods between the arena and the palace about thirty minutes after the first task was completed. His parents are here already, since they watched the task. It looks to have been the Avada Kedavra, but they have no suspects.”

“Poor George,” she breathed. She took another steadying breath and for a moment believed that the worst was over and she would not break down. But her emotions got the best of her and she heaved a great sob. She brought her handkerchief to her face in a vain effort to hide her tears, but Aleksandr showed no sign of being uncomfortable. He merely sat on the bench with her silently, his hand still on her back.

“I just keep thinking,” she said through her sobs, “what if it had been Remy? What if he’s next?”

“Josephine,” he said calmly, and she felt her heart flutter again at his use of her first name, “I am sure this was an isolated incident. Maybe even an accident.”

“You really think so?” she asked, looking up at his face again.

He looked down at her and smiled, but before he could respond, a shout came from the edge of the clearing, where Mikhail had stumbled through an hour before.

“Josephine!” It was Remy.

Josephine’s breath caught in her chest and she felt Aleksandr slide away from her instantly, removing his hand from its precarious position. Remy did not look pleased.

“Josephine!” he repeated, marching toward her. “What are you doing?” he asked in French. “What is he doing here?”

She rose from the bench and ran toward Remy, throwing herself at him and sobbing into his chest. She was mildly aware that she looked rather foolish and overly emotional, but it had been an incredibly trying day, and all she wanted was comfort. Remy obliged, putting his arms protectively around her and rubbing her back.

“You heard the news?” he asked, and she nodded in response. “Then you know it is not safe to be alone! Especially with… with…”

She pulled away and looked him in the eye. “With whom?”

“With a Durmstrang student?” Aleksandr offered, rising from the bench. The siblings both turned to stare at him, completely surprised that he had understood. “Yes, I speak French,” he said coolly. His fists were balled at his sides and he was glaring at Remy. “And I do not like your assumption that it was a Durmstrang student who murdered George Potter.”

“Well, Gregorovitch,” Remy sneered. “If your lot were not so tainted by dark reputations, we wouldn’t have such strong grounds for assumption. And just what exactly were you planning on doing with my sister? Going to finish her off next?”

Josephine gasped and turned back to Remy. “No! Remy, it was nothing like that. He happened to find me here an hour ago, and then he was called back to the castle, and he returned to tell me the news,” she explained breathlessly.

“Ah, he told you the news, did he? Did he mention that he was involved in the plot to kill George?”

Josephine gasped again, louder this time, and whipped back around to Aleksandr. When he spoke, it was directly to her: “I had nothing to do with Potter’s death. I would never do anything like that.”

Remy laughed a cold, derisive laugh. “That’s not what your fellow students say, Aleksandr. ‘Bad blood,’ they say. You just couldn’t stand being in second after the task, could you? If you didn’t kill him, where were you when it happened?”

“Monsieur de Tuileries, please,” Aleksandr pleaded, taking a cautious step toward him. “I did not kill Monsieur Potter, and I have no idea who did. I took a walk around the grounds after the first task was over. I met your sister an hour ago when I happened to walk into this grove and then I came back to tell her about Potter. You can believe any of this or none of it, but it’s the truth.” He held his hands up and looked Remy straight in the eye.

Josephine stood between the two of them, completely at a loss for words. She believed Aleksandr, she honestly did. But she also knew that Remy had a tendency to be overprotective and�”consequently�”quick to distrust people. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Remy, he is telling the truth.”

Remy looked at them both for another minute, then grabbed Josephine’s hand and pulled her back to the palace. She knew it was best just to not fight it, but as he dragged her out of the clearing, she cast one fleeting look over her shoulder, where Aleksandr remained unmoving, staring back at her.

***

“Well, you can hardly blame him, Josie,” said Angeline after Josephine had recounted the tale of Remy pulling her out of the glade and away from Aleksandr. They were sitting in their bedroom in the Giriaume wing of the palace, isolated temporarily from the rest of the students.

“How can you say that? You do not know him at all, and neither does Remy!” exclaimed Josephine.

“And neither do you,” Angeline retorted. Josephine was silent. “Remy only acted in your best interests. The Durmstrang students have a bad reputation for a reason. Have you heard some of the rumors? It’s terribly dreadful, especially against Muggles. Given your situation with Pascal, I would expect you to be a little more careful!”

At the mention of Pascal’s name, Josephine was torn. She felt she hadn’t fully defended Aleksandr, but she had a confession to make to Angeline.

Her friend must have noticed her hesitation: “What’s the matter? Has something happened to Pascal?”

Josephine pursed her lips, honestly unsure how to answer the question. Nothing specific had happened, but she had perceived a notable shift in Pascal’s tone in his last letter. How could she put this in words and explain to Angeline?

“It’s… It’s nothing definite. He just seems… different, is all. This most recent letter is the shortest he has ever written, and he sounds so distant.”

“Maybe that is just his loneliness, or longing?” Angeline suggested hopefully.

Josephine sighed. She knew it would be difficult to explain. “No, it’s not that. I have felt that in his letters before. This one left me cold.”

Angeline looked and Josephine and there was worry in her eyes. “Do you think… Do you think he has fallen out of love with you?”

“I am not sure he was ever in love with me,” Josephine said, instantly surprised at her own remark. She had never allowed herself to say that before, but as the words came out of her mouth, she knew there was truth to them.

Angeline’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. “No. No, Josephine, that’s not true. You’re just upset over the events of the day. He loved you. He loves you still!”

Josephine shook her head. “No,” she said simply. “No, Angeline, the more I think of it, the more I am convinced he does not love me and I do not love him! There was a time when I thought myself to be in love with him, but that time is… gone.”

Angeline was beside herself, but Josephine felt more at ease than she had in months. She let out a little laugh. “I confess I am surprised that I have not realized it until now.”

“But…” Angeline stammered, still unwilling to accept the news. “But after spending so much time together, surely you have some sort of… regard for him? Affection?”

“Certainly there was affection between us. I enjoyed my time with him. But I think that affection was not borne of love, but rather… fascination. Yes, fascination. He was new, he was exciting,” she said, seeking to clarify both for herself and for Angeline. “He was different in every sense of the word. But as time passed and the situation with Muggles grew more dangerous and father began to disapprove, I just went along with it. I protested because I felt that I ought to fight for him, for us, but I do not think I ever believed that I truly felt that we should stay together.” She breathed a deep sigh of relief. It felt good to say it all out loud.

“I don’t understand!” Angeline said, despondent. Josephine knew her friend had always envied their relationship, perhaps even lived vicariously through it. She smiled at the fact that this revelation was hurting Angeline more than it was hurting her.

Josephine put her fingers to her lips and stared at the wall behind Angeline’s head. “When I saw Monsieur Bonaccord at the task today, it made me think of the Statute of Secrecy and the Paris negotiations. Then I read Pascal’s letter and began to feel that we were drifting irretrievably apart. And then I met Aleksandr, and I started thinking about the rumors coming out of the East and the terrible situation there between Muggles and wizards. And now it seems to me that all these things are signs, Angeline. They have to be!”

“Signs telling you what?”

“That the situation is much graver than we realize. It’s not just about a silly affair between a wizard girl and a Muggle boy. People’s lives are on the line!”

At this statement, however, she was reminded of an even harsher reality: George Potter was dead. She shook her head. “We should not talk about this now. It is neither the time nor the place. Tonight, we must mourn George Potter.”

Angeline nodded, but Josephine could tell she still had something to say: “May I at least read the letter?” she asked timidly.

Josephine smiled and went to remove it from the hidden pocket of her school robe, but it was not there. She had left it on the bench. With Aleksandr. “I left it on the bench,” she said, gathering her skirts and heading toward the door.

“Josephine, it is almost sunset. Wait until morning�”it will still be there!”

Josephine had reached the door, but she turned back and looked at Angeline. True, the letter would be there in the morning. But would Aleksandr? She wanted to see him again, and something told her he would still be there. She didn’t say anything, merely smiled and ran out the door, leaving Angeline stunned on the bed.

***

He was still in the clearing, in almost the same spot she had left him an hour before. Try as she might, Josephine could not prevent the smile that crept across her face when she saw him. Again, she reminded herself of the impropriety of the situation, but again, she was delighted to see him smile back at her. “You waited?”

“I knew you would come back for your letter,” he said, holding it up in his hand. “I wanted to be here when you did.”

She felt her face crimson as she demurely held out her hand to receive the letter. She knew it was ridiculous to act so simple, but a part of her reasoned that if she kept things at this level, she would not feel guilty for disobeying Remy. There was no need to talk about the tournament, about Remy’s suspicions, or about George Potter. As far as Josephine was concerned�”at least the part of her that was in charge for the moment�”they could sit on the bench and not talk at all.

But Aleksandr had other plans. “Mademoiselle de Tuileries,” he began. She could not stop the frown that graced her face at his renewed use of her surname, and perhaps he noticed, for he continued: “Josephine. I feel like we did not start on the right foot earlier today. Certainly the circumstances were regrettable, and I understand if you would prefer not to be here. Your brother seems not to trust me, though I assure you there is no reason to fear. But he undoubtedly acts with your best interests at heart, and if you want to leave, please do so. If it pleases you, however, I would very much like to take a walk around the grounds. There are some things I was not able to say this morning, about Monsieur Potter and about the tournament. A brief walk, before the sun sets. Will you accompany me?”

Josephine was overwhelmed and impressed by the quality of his address. Her preconceived notions of Durmstrang students were proving to be false very quickly. He was polite, well-spoken, and courteous, not to mention fantastically handsome in a dark sort of way. And he’s a wizard, unlike Pascal.

At the same time, however, he raised some excellent points, namely that Remy would be less than pleased to know that she had returned to the clearing he had so recently dragged her out of.

She realized that she was taking an inordinately long time to respond to his request, so she decided to go with her first instinct: she nodded.

After all, what was the purpose of the Triwizard Tournament if not to meet students from other schools?

***

Faith.

George Potter was dead.

It had been hours since Charles Hurst had told William, hours since Professor Eldridge had sat him down and given any further details, and hours since William had been able to speak.

The sun was setting over the beautiful manicured gardens on the west side of the campus, and William watched it absentmindedly from his position on his bed, which he had occupied since noontime. It didn’t seem real to him. None of it did; not the sunset, not his bed, not the fact that he would never be able to speak to his best friend again.

He found he could only hold on to one thing: the desire to find out who did it, and make him regret it. Truly, deeply, and forever. William did not consider himself a generally passionate man, and was even vaguely aware that such a vendetta was completely against his natural character. At this moment in time, however, it was the only thing that felt right.

Something was haunting him, though, preventing the idea to really take hold. Something his father had said only two weeks before: “You should be Hogwarts Champion, not George Potter. You, William… Just tell me if you trust me to make it right.”

What had he meant? Surely, surely Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was not so obsessed with having William be champion that he would go to such lengths? That he would… murder George?

William shook his head. The very notion of it was preposterous, and he felt guilty for even allowing himself to entertain the idea.

Yet still…

There was a soft knock on the door, derailing William’s dangerous train of thought. He made no move to get up and open the door, and was not surprised to see it open and Remy walk through. “Hello, William,” he said, standing in the threshold.

William nodded and beckoned him to come in, which he did. “How are you?” Remy asked.

“Do they have any more details?” was William’s only response. His voice was raspy after hours of disuse, and it sounded strange and hollow in his ears.

Remy shook his head, and there was genuine sorrow etched in the lines of his face. “None. I heard that Kerensky was with a bunch of Beauxbatons people when it happened, but I’m still trying to figure out who.”

William nodded. Though Remy had only known George for a matter of days, he was very involved in helping William find out who did it, and together they had come up with a list of potential suspects�”William’s father remaining off said list, for the time being. “What about Gregorovitch?” William asked.

Remy sighed and looked away. “I found him in a clearing by the lake. With my sister.”

William sat up in bed. “What?”

“Right. They were sitting together on the bench. A bit too close, if you ask me.”

“Did you ask him where he was when it happened?” The fact that Gregorovitch was alone with Josephine did nothing to strengthen his case. In William’s mind, that was suspicious behavior.

Remy seemed to agree. “He says he was walking the grounds when it happened, then he ‘stumbled’ into the clearing and ‘chanced’ upon my sister. It seems just a little too convenient, doesn’t it?”

William blinked and stared down at his hands. He hardly knew Gregorovitch at all, it was true, but he had always assumed him to be a good person. The Goblet of Fire had selected him, after all, and it was supposed to be a good judge of character. William considered the evidence against Gregorovitch, though: his own classmates had said some pretty damning things about him, there were those suspicious rumors about his brother, and he came from Durmstrang. Not to mention this new business with Remy’s sister. And not to mention that if Gregorovitch did it, my father didn’t.

“What do you think?” Remy’s voice jarred him back to reality.

William fished around for words. It was important not to sound to eager to go after Gregorovitch. That might arouse suspicion, and in turn lead to suspicion of his father. William furrowed his brow. “We have to keep your sister away from him regardless. To protect her.” Remy nodded in agreement. “Let’s just see what unfolds in the meantime.”

***

The meantime, William soon found out, was already chock-full of activity. At first, no one was sure exactly what to do. How long was it proper to mourn George? Should classes continue? Should the Durmstrang and Hogwarts students return to their own schools in the interim between the tasks? It seemed as if everyone’s fate was up in the air.

Eventually, the three Headmasters announced the course of action. All students currently at Beauxbatons would remain as scheduled. Classes would resume after two days of fixed mourning. The Yule Ball, a Triwizard tradition, would be postponed until some time in the New Year, if not canceled entirely. Finally, there would be a service honoring George Potter and a separate gathering to decide the replacement champion.

It was all a bit overwhelming, especially since William had still not come to terms with the death. The matter was not helped by the arrival of his father, unannounced as always.

William was sitting alone in one of Beauxbatons many interior courtyards, his cloak drawn against the bitter cold. It was two days since the murder, and Remy had just reported that he had seen Gregorovitch and Josephine together again, taking another walk around the grounds. William was more troubled by another sight: his father striding towards him across the cold, hard stone. Remy excused himself, and William desperately wished he could do the same.

Soon enough, however, Lord Warrington-Hughes was upon him, and�”much to William’s surprise�”he was smiling. “Well, is it you?” he asked his son.

William just stared at him, completely at a loss for words. The hollow feeling had not yet left him. “What do you mean?” he finally asked, hoping his confusion was not, as he feared, tinged with disgust at his father’s flagrantly inappropriate good mood.

“The next champion! Is it you?” The man was positively jovial.

William ceased to care if his disgust was apparent and he let it spread all over his face. “Are you serious?” he seethed, standing up to look his father in the eye. “Are you serious? George Potter, my best friend, is dead, and all you’re worried about is the bloody Triwizard Tournament?”

Jonathan looked momentarily affronted, but he rearranged his expression to one of mild displeasure, even annoyance. “William, it is on everyone’s minds. I have been in Paris these past two days gathering information from Pierre Bonaccord himself, and Henry Somerset has met with the Minister of Magic. Everyone is talking about the murder.”

“Right, father, the murder. Not who will succeed George as champion!” In a way, it was good to feel emotion again, though he knew that this might certainly get him into trouble.

“They have no suspects, you know,” Jonathan said, completely ignoring William’s remark.

William would have said something, but he was far too interested in the strange look in his father’s eyes. That look brought all his suspicions flying to the surface�”he was no longer able to keep them in check. Was his father happy that there were no suspects? Was he relieved? Did that confirm that he was a suspect? “Just tell me if you trust me to make it right…” The words kept repeating themselves in William’s head, over and over and over again.

He shook his head and backed away from his father. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “No.”

“No, you’re not champion?” Jonathan asked, his eyes widening.

William ignored him. The time was upon him, the moment was now. Possessed of some unknown courage, he stared at his father and narrowed his eyes. “Did you have something to do with the murder?”

For the first time, Jonathan actually seemed to have heard him, but his answer was noncommittal: “What?”

“Did you,” William said slowly, anger simmering underneath every word, “have something to do with the murder?”

Jonathan’s eyes shifted and he glanced around him�”was it frantically?�”trying to see if there was anyone else in the courtyard. They were alone. Still he did not answer.

“Answer me!” William demanded. “Did you have something to do with George Potter’s murder?”

Finally, Jonathan responded. He pulled himself up to his full height and his words came in a blast of fury. “How dare you disrespect me like this, William!” he bellowed, shaking his head haughtily at his son. “And in public!” His face was a deeper shade of crimson than William had ever seen.

“We are not in public, father, and it is you who is disrespecting me by not answering!” William was yelling now, not caring at all whether others could hear him.

Jonathan’s chest was still puffed out and his face bore every sign of anger. For a moment, William was afraid his father might strike him. Then, inexplicably, the anger vanished, to be replaced by something else: shame. Disappointment. “You should not have to ask,” Jonathan said, and in an instant, he was gone.

William turned on the spot, searching in vain for his father. He had not even heard the crack of Apparition, but then again, sudden appearances�”and disappearances�”had always been his father’s specialty.

Shivering, William sat down again on the bench. He knew not if he shivered from the cold or the confrontation. “You should not have to ask.” What did that mean? His father had not confirmed his involvement in the murder, but neither had he denied it. The look on his face before he had Apparated… William already knew it would plague his every waking moment. It was a look layered with disbelief, shock, and disappointment. But had it also betrayed guilt?

The guilt suddenly fell upon William’s own shoulders as he came to full recognizance of what he had done. He had just accused his father of murder, or at least plotting to commit murder. He had completely and totally disregarded seventeen years of trusting his father’s every move, and for what? A rash claim with no support other than a cryptic inquiry.

William was ashamed that he had again doubted his father, but he could still not shake a peculiar feeling that Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was not telling him everything…

***

George Potter’s memorial service was very tastefully done. Beauxbatons had gone to great lengths to decorate the Haute Chambre in black and the whole affair was somber, but also inspiring. Thankfully for William, it was mercifully brief. He could not stand more than an hour of watching George’s parents and brothers sob silently next to him. It was all he could do to choke back his own tears when Mrs. Potter had embraced him at the end of the service.

Perhaps an even more somber occasion was upon the Hogwarts contingent now: choosing George’s replacement for the tournament.

Professor Eldridge had gathered the students together at the end of the service, and they sat now in the empty hall, still bedecked in black.

“I thank you, friends, for being here with me tonight,” Professor Eldridge began. “You know as well as I do that the circumstances of our gathering are far less than ideal, but our task remains: we must choose a new champion. Though George Potter was as good a choice as our fair Hogwarts ever could have wished for, the strict magical rules of the tournament necessitate the naming of a replacement. The Goblet of Fire will not ignite until the next tournament, so we will have to improvise.” He pulled out his wand and conjured one of Beauxbatons’ embossed crystal goblets. He smiled his now-usual grave, sad smile and placed the goblet on the small table in front of him. “Now, students,” he said, waving his wand once more, “you each have a scrap of parchment and a quill. Please write on that scrap of paper the name of the Hogwarts student you nominate to replace Mr. Potter. Each student will have the choice to accept or reject the nomination, of course, bearing in mind full well what it means to be Hogwarts Champion. After the nomination period we will vote by secret ballot.” He surveyed the room and nodded, indicating it was time to nominate.

William looked down at his own scrap. He did not want to nominate himself, for a variety of reasons. It was poor form, to be sure, but more importantly, he was not sure he actually wanted to be champion. He knew others were worried that the Hogwarts Champion would now be marked for death, but this concern was not paramount in William’s mind. No, the only thing William could think of was George. This was supposed to be George’s, his and his alone. Despite their playful rivalry, William had finally come to terms with letting George claim this victory. Now, if he were to be chosen replacement champion, it would be like stealing what rightfully belonged to George. It seemed mean-spirited.

He looked around, surveying the pool of nominees. Most of the boys were fidgeting nervously, perhaps wrangling with the same questions as William. Most of the girls were still teary-eyed from George’s memorial service. A few were still weeping. William sighed and scribbled Charles Hurst’s name on the paper. If it were not George and not he, Charles would be best. He walked forward and placed it in the goblet, eliciting another sad smile from Professor Eldridge. William did his best to return it, then retook his seat.

Moments later, all scraps had been turned in. Professor Eldridge reached into the goblet and withdrew the first slip. “Charles Hurst,” he read aloud. “Do you accept the nomination?”

Charles flushed, but his face remained grave. He shook his head. “Respectfully no, Professor.”

Eldridge was not upset. He merely nodded and withdrew the next piece of parchment. “William Warrington-Hughes,” he said, looking directly at William. “Do you accept the nomination?”

William swallowed. He suspected someone would nominate him, but had not properly formulated his answer yet. He opened his mouth to decline the nomination, but no words came. He cleared his throat and inexplicably found himself posing a question: “Perhaps, Professor, I might have some time to further consider the matter?”

The Professor nodded, though William could not suppress the look that must have passed over his own face. He had already considered the matter! There was nothing left to consider!

Professor Eldridge moved on to the next scrap. He smiled. “This one is also for you, Mr. Warrington-Hughes.”

William forced himself to smile, but the façade became harder to keep up as piece after piece of parchment bore his name. All of them, in fact. Except for William’s own nomination of Charles Hurst, not another soul had been nominated. All the eyes in the room eventually turned on him as Professor Eldridge withdrew the final scrap: “William Warrington-Hughes,” he read slowly. The eyes blinked in anticipation and William cleared his throat again.

“Well, Mr. Warrington-Hughes, I believe we must have a decision!” Professor Eldridge said in an attempt at humor.

William surveyed the room once more, taking in the faces of his expectant classmates. They had all chosen him to replace George. They all wanted him to be Hogwarts Champion.

Somewhere, deep inside, something stirred. Was it the flame of competitiveness that had slowly been extinguished after his name had not shot out of the Goblet of Fire? Was it the comforting warmth of the knowledge that his friends had not lost faith in his abilities, as he himself had?

No, it was none of these things. It was the feeling that George would be pleased with this outcome. George would want William to accept, to be champion. George’s own words floated back to William’s mind: “You know that cup had it down to the two of us…” And George Potter was never wrong.

William nodded, relieved to feel genuine happiness creep into his smile. “I accept.”

CHAPTER SIX: New Year, New Challenges

Hope.

After the first task and the ensuing madness surrounding George Potter’s death, November and December passed with relative calm. The three headmasters and various authorities from the French Ministry of Magic had left the case open, finding no suspects to pursue, though they constantly reminded students to report any suspicions.

To Aleksandr, it seemed that everyone was keen to move on from the whole nasty business, though with more than usual amounts of caution, even trepidation. Students from Hogwarts and Beauxbatons rarely interacted with students from Durmstrang, and if they did, it was often in large groups with the conspicuous presence of a professor. The Durmstrang students, however, were fine with this. They preferred not to mingle with the westerners. The divisions that had seemed to almost fade away at the beginning of the year were certainly reinstated, perhaps with even more rancor.

Aleksandr, however, took no heed. His past two months had been consumed by three things: classes, preparing for the second task, and Josephine de Tuileries. Though classes and task preparation were no simple matters, it was Mademoiselle de Tuileries who really vexed him. Not she herself, but everything that came with her. He was tired of constantly having to peer over his shoulder to make sure her brother and the new Hogwarts Champion, William Warrington-Hughes, were not watching. Also, though he and Josephine had gotten to know each other extremely well during their limited time together, he could not help but feel that she was holding something back. She had hinted of a past relationship with someone named Pascal, and Aleksandr often wondered about him, and if he was the cause of her frequent reticence.

He could not find fault with this, however, as he had yet to tell her about Dragomir, a particularly large skeleton in his own closet. When the time was right, she would know. By then, she probably would have heard every conceivable rumor out there, but she would eventually know the truth.

It was now the Christmas holidays, and Aleksandr was safely back home in Moscow, but home was no longer the welcoming place it once had been. He was still greeted with death and devastation on seemingly every corner, but now had to deal with another type of despair within the four walls of his house: his father was ailing. The illness did not seem especially severe, but Aleksandr soon realized that perhaps the very will to live was being drained out of his father. His wandmaking business had slowed to almost a complete standstill, and with Aleksandr away at the Tournament, the wizened old man had very little left with which to occupy his time.

Aleksandr offered numerous times to withdraw from the Tournament and stay at home with his father, but Pyotr refused, often chastising him for even considering it. Besides, he was magically bound to compete.

“Aleksandr,” his father said in his gruff voice one morning just before the New Year, “Few things would cause me more joy than to have you win the Tournament.”

“I will, father,” he replied. “I will.”

***

Love.

“Are you sure this is not considered cheating?” Josephine asked as she sat next to Remy in one of the small sitting rooms at Chateau Clerbise.

Remy laughed. “Of course not, Josie! I am merely showing you what it’s like to be on this side of the Tournament.” He smiled good-naturedly and thumbed her cheek. “Besides, even if it is cheating, it will certainly overlooked by the Tournament Committee. Really, it would be a shame for you not to help me, since you are so gifted at Herbology!”

Josephine smiled, though she felt just a little bit guilty at the prospect of helping Remy with the clues for the second task. She cared not what the Tournament Committee would say, but thought rather about the other two champions, and how the playing field would no longer be level. She thought of Aleksandr in particular.

Her face flushed pink high around her cheeks and she smiled at the thought of him, but this did not escape Remy’s notice. His formerly benign countenance soured as he glared at her. “You’re thinking of that Gregorovitch, aren’t you?”

She was momentarily caught off guard. “Yes, but of Mr. Warrington-Hughes, too! If I help you with the clues, the challenge is no longer equal.” She fiddled with her handkerchief, the same one she had been holding when she met Aleksandr two months prior.

Remy seemed to accept this, though she sensed he was still angry. “I am sure they will do fine, Josephine,” he said. He took a deep breath, then smiled again. “Now, let’s have another look at these riddles, shall we?”

Josephine nodded. Despite any guilt she felt about helping her brother, she was excited to see what the Tournament Committee had planned. The “secrets” that the champions had collected from the Thikaras in the first task had actually turned out to be a series of riddles. After Remy had transcribed them on parchment, he showed them to Josephine. To her great delight, each riddle seemed to describe a certain plant, and she and Remy had spent a few hours over the Christmas holidays poring over herbology guides and herbal dictionaries.

Though Josephine was moderately successful in most of her classes, she excelled at Herbology. She had spent prodigious amounts of time in the gardens of her family’s estate since she was a child, and considered herself well-versed in plants both magical and Muggle. That Remy, her incredibly intelligent brother, was asking her for help only added to what would already have been an exciting task.

The two of them had identified five of the seven plants mentioned in the riddles, but the first two were giving them particular trouble. Josephine glanced at the parchment again:

First is that which twists and snares;
its branches take you unawares.
Careful that you trim it right:
cut pods will leave you in a plight!

“You are sure it is not a puffapod?” Remy asked.

Josephine twisted her mouth into a frown. “I do not think so. Puffapods hardly twist and snare, and I think it would be hard for them to take you ‘unawares,’ seeing as they are bright pink.” She bit her lip. “I will have to think on this one more, Remy. There are a few plants it could be referring to, but I have to check my other book again. Could I see the second riddle? I think I may have an answer.”

He obliged, sliding the parchment closer to her. She read:

High as your waist the second grows,
cloistered is he who wears these clothes.
Use roots the width of your left thumb:
much more, your poisoned body’s numb.

“Yes. Yes, I’ve got it. We have been so ignorant, brother! The clue is right there in the second line: ‘cloistered is he who wears these clothes.’ Cloistered. Cloîtré. Like a monk!”

Remy looked confused for a moment, but then revelation dawned on him. “You mean monkshood!”

Josephine nodded and pointed to a page she had marked in one of her dictionaries. “Aconite. It fits: ‘High as your waist the second grows.’ Aconite grows up to a meter tall. ‘Roots the width of your left thumb,’ too, because if you’re making a potion, you cannot put much more in, or it will become toxic. And that leads to the final line. Too much aconite numbs the body completely. It has to be this!”

Remy beamed. “I believe you are right, as always, Josephine.” He glanced at his pocket watch and promptly jumped out of his seat. “Mon dieu, I am late.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have business for father in Le Verger.” He was putting on his jacket and fixing his scarf in quite a hurry, but he turned to her and said slowly, cautiously, “I am… I will be passing by Cabriès, if there is anything… if you would like to come with me?”

He was referring to Pascal, whose family’s estate was located there. She shook her head. “No, thank you, Remy. That will not be necessary.”

He looked again at her, and there was sorrow in his eyes. As he buttoned his top button, he leaned down and planted a swift kiss on her forehead. “Thank you, Josie,” he said before quitting the room.

She bit her lip again, this time to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. Though she and Pascal had corresponded only twice since she met Aleksandr, there were still many unanswered questions, and she did long to see him again. She had hoped to visit him over the holidays, only to learn that he and his family would be wintering with relatives near Nantes.

Compounding this grief was the fact that owls traveling between her family’s estate and Aleksandr’s residence in Moscow were extraordinarily slow. Days would pass between letters, and Josephine often found herself staring out the window for hours at a time, waiting to see some sign of her familiar tawny bird. She knew it was imprudent and frowned upon, and perhaps even dangerous, but she could not wait to be in his company again, back at Beauxbatons.

***

Faith.

The Christmas holidays of 1691 were perhaps the worst William had ever weathered. Normally, he loved Christmas. Though he had no brothers or sisters, his family’s grand manor would always be full of aunts, uncles, cousins; any relatives within a decent radius of Rushcliffe would stop by. The Potters would always come, too, even if just for a dinner. Though Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was never fully supportive of William’s friendship with George (always worried George was up to no good), he nevertheless always welcomed the Potters to his home: they were, after all, one of the most respected wizarding families in all of Britain.

This year, however, the Potters’ loss was felt throughout the whole community. There was much less revelry, many fewer visits, and an altogether subdued holiday season. Tensions within the Warrington-Hughes household were almost insurmountable, with Jonathan hardly speaking to his son. William had tried to apologize a thousand times, it seemed, but Jonathan would not hear it.

“I don’t understand,” William said one day to Henry Somerset, who had returned from the negotiations in Paris to spend the holiday in England. “I have apologized so many times for what I said. He must know I feel terrible about the whole situation.”

Henry shook his head solemnly. He had been apprised of the “whole situation” by William, and no doubt by Jonathan, too. “I know, William, but you must understand how deeply you offended his honor. For a man like your father, that is considerable! His own honor and the honor of your family’s name are two of the most important things in his life. When you were not named Hogwarts Champion, that was a huge slight, and�””

“But I am Champion now!” William protested, interrupting Somerset. “And there was nothing I could do about it before!”

“Yes, William, I know. Your father knows, too. You just have to give him time. Things are very different for him now, for all of us. The Paris negotiations are affecting everything.”

William wanted to ask what the International Confederation of Wizards had to do with his best friend’s murder, but he realized that perhaps Henry was just trying to change the subject. He would take the bait. “How are they going, sir?” he asked dutifully.

Henry Somerset was smart enough to see through this. He smiled. “I was not trying to change the subject, William. I am not saying the events are connected, but it’s high time wizards started examining the Big Picture�”your father especially. In years to come, I predict, your family name won’t matter half as much as it does now. No one’s will. If wizards are forced to go into hiding, we must also be forced to live in a division-less world.”

William nodded, though to him it seemed that Somerset’s words were a bit optimistic. He had seen firsthand the prejudice that existed between certain groups of wizards. In fact, he had participated in much of it with Remy in their scorn of Durmstrang, and Aleksandr Gregorovitch in specific.

Thinking of Gregorovitch made him think of the impending second task�”his first, of course�”and how little he had done to prepare for it. He excused himself from Henry and went to his room to look at the parchment again. The Tournament Committee had decided to give him the riddles that George had discovered during the first task so he would be on an even keel with the other two champions, but it didn’t much matter in William’s opinion: he was dreadful at Herbology, and all the riddles seemed to be talking about plants. They might as well have sent him into a pit full of dragons.

He looked down at the parchment and studied the riddle that seemed easiest to him:

The fourth of these has mundane twin.
Select it, and you will not win.
But choose the right one and you’ll see
it's so much more than wand-wood tree.

Clearly, it referred to a type of tree that could be used to make wands but also had a sister tree with more magical properties. William had made a list of all the wand trees he could think of: ash, oak, elm, willow, holly, yew, walnut, hawthorn. His own wand was made of cherry, though as far as he knew, that tree had no magical twin.

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, almost yanking a few strands out in frustration. Maybe agreeing to be Hogwarts Champion had been a mistake. He was completely at a loss for the second task, his father was not speaking to him, everything was a mess. Worst of all, there was no George Potter by his side, making jokes and making things better.

He laid his head down on his desk, bringing his hands to rest on the back of his neck. He breathed deeply, taking in the smell of the parchment, wondering if there was any way, any way at all, to make it better.

***

Hope.

Aleksandr had rarely found himself this excited, and certainly never over a girl. He was incredibly anxious to return to Beauxbatons, even if it meant leaving his father. After all, Pyotr Gregorovitch had promised to come watch the second task and had assured Aleksandr many times that things were not as bad as they seemed. So, clutching Josephine’s latest letter in his hand, he once again boarded the ship with his fellow students and prepared to return.

The journey was much more pleasant this time than it had been in October. Their isolation from the other two schools, though somewhat self-imposed, had made the Durmstrang students closer than they had been in many years, and they all seemed to rally around Aleksandr. This made him proud, certainly, but at the same time, he was careful not to be too taken in by it. If he knew one thing about the minds of Durmstrang’s finest, it was that they were fickle. One false move and he would fall from favor as fast as… well, as fast as Dragomir had.

He assumed that some of his classmates knew about Josephine, or at least had suspicions, though he had confided in no one. Her friend Angeline certainly knew, and often accompanied them on their long walks around the grounds. While Aleksandr was not keen on the intrusion, he realized that Angeline’s presence perhaps would lessen suspicion that he was doing anything… illicit. Still, he chose to keep the relationship as secret as possible. He was well aware of the vicious rumors that persisted in blaming him for George Potter’s death, and he did not wish to bring any undue shame or scrutiny upon Josephine.

As they neared the Beauxbatons Palace, he stole another look at her letter. They had arranged to meet in the clearing by the lake at four o’clock that day. He glanced at his pocket watch: it was already nearly half past three. He bid the ship forward in his mind, fully aware that his thoughts in fact had no influence on the ship’s movement. Still, he was anxious.

At half past three exactly he felt the ship touch down in the Beauxbatons lake, and then heard the familiar sucking noise as they floated to the surface. There was a fair number of Beauxbatons students waiting to welcome them, though most looked like they were bound by duty, not by courtesy. Aleksandr was pleased that Josephine was not among their number: he wanted to see her alone.

Though he still had plenty of time, he headed immediately for the clearing. His plans were thwarted, however, by Emil Kerensky, who caught up with him right before he turned for the clearing. “Aleksandr,” he said, grabbing him by the arm. “I have something to tell you.” His face was alight with a strange expression, not entirely unlike the one Aleksandr had seen the night he was selected as Durmstrang Champion…

Aleksandr was nervous. “Yes?” he said tentatively, wondering what on earth Kerensky could have to tell him that would elicit such a look.

“I did it,” he whispered, the gleam in his eyes sharp and steely.

Aleksandr blinked and shook his head, certain he had heard incorrectly. “What?”

Kerensky looked around excitedly, then steered Aleksandr even farther away from the ship and closer toward the woods. When he was certain they were out of earshot, he spoke again, almost jubilantly this time: “I did it. I killed George Potter!”

Aleksandr felt all his breath catch in his chest and was positive his heart actually ceased to beat for a moment. He stood there, swaying awkwardly on his now-unsteady feet, completely at a loss for words.

Kerensky looked positively gleeful, apparently unaware that Aleksandr’s mind was reeling. “Well? What do you have to say to that?”

Finally, Aleksandr found words. And rage: “What do I have to say to that?” he roared, feeling his whole body start to tremble. “Emil, are you serious?”

“Of course I am! For Durmstrang, remember? It is all for Durmstrang!”

Aleksandr was beside himself. “Emil… no… that can’t be right�”you had an alibi! Professor Novokov said so!”

Kerensky let out a chilling laugh. “Novokov doesn’t know everything, Alexei. There are ways to murder and still ensure your innocence.”

Though the statement terrified him, Aleksandr was suddenly possessed by curiosity. “How? How did you do it?”

Kerensky must have mistaken his shock for interest, for his smile widened in appreciation. “Oh, the usual tricks. I’ve used Polyjuice Potion in the past, but that was too tricky for this. No, for Potter, I just used Imperius on some poor Beauxbatons man�”he did the actual deed, and had no idea. Still doesn’t.” He cackled again.

Aleksandr was speechless again, and his heart was pounding in his ears. He had no idea what to do next. Should he turn Kerensky in? Was Kerensky out of his mind?

“So when do you think I should dispose of the new champion? Before, during, or after the Second Task?”

Suddenly, the situation was thrown in sharp relief for Aleksandr. This was not an isolated incident. This was not the happenstance workings of a too-proud Durmstrang student. Kerensky was a sadistic madman, and he intended to kill Warrington-Hughes! Probably de Tuileries, too! Aleksandr knew he had to act, and act fast. He whipped out his wand and pressed it to Emil’s throat. “Kerensky, I swear on my father’s name that if you do anything to harm the other two champions, there will be hell to pay.”

Kerensky seemed momentarily confused, for the look in his eyes lingered for an instant, then faded away. His countenance turned and his face twisted into an ugly leer: he was angry. “Are you not proud?” he asked, leaning nearer to Aleksandr’s face, despite the wand pointed directly at his throat.

“Proud?” Aleksandr growled. “I am horrified. I am disgusted. You say you act for Durmstrang? You disgrace Durmstrang.”

Kerensky spat in his face, forcing Aleksandr to break his concentration. In the split second that he did so, Kerensky whipped out his own wand and pointed it at Aleksandr’s chest. “You are just like your brother, Aleksandr,” he whispered fiercely. “No idea what’s best for you, what is best for us! You’ll end up just like him, too.”

Aleksandr had strengthened his grip on his wand and pointed it at Emil’s chest. He could feel the wood vibrating in his hand as if beckoning him to act. But he could not. If he attacked Kerensky, he would almost certainly be blamed for Potter’s murder, too. Aleksandr knew the same thing was passing through Emil’s mind: if he murdered Aleksandr, there was no alibi intact to protect him this time. They were at an impasse.

Kerensky was first to break the silence. “Gregorovitch,” he said calmly, “watch your step. If you tell anyone, I’ll know. If you try to protect the other champions, I’ll know. Win this next task and win the final task. Win the Tournament for Durmstrang, or else.”

Aleksandr wanted to sneer “Or else what?” but Kerensky preempted him: “Or else your little French girlfriend is dead.”

Aleksandr did not even blink. He took one step closer to Kerensky so they were just inches apart, wands rammed into each other’s chests. Emil had gone too far. “Kerensky,” he breathed, “Stay away from the other champions. Stay away from the students of Hogwarts and Beauxbatons. Stay away from Josephine, or I will kill you.”

His words were precise and powerful, and they seemed to have the desired effect. Kerensky’s nostrils flared in defiance and he blinked three times, his eyes darting left and right. Aleksandr remained stone still. Only his wand moved, still vibrating, perhaps letting Kerensky know that he was inches from death.

Finally, Kerensky took a step backward. “I’ll be watching you,” he sneered as he turned and marched back to the palace.

Aleksandr watched Kerensky all the way back up to the palace, and only when he was totally out of sight did Aleksandr allow himself to breathe. He felt weak again and backed into the nearest tree, letting the implications of everything come crashing down on him.

Josephine. Kerensky had threatened Josephine. This changed everything. Aleksandr had always had mild fears that Josephine would be in danger by associating with him, but he had never seen them realized. Until now.

He let out a strangled yell, suddenly overwhelmed by guilt. How could he have let things with Josephine go so far so fast? He had put her in an incredibly dangerous position: Kerensky was mad, he was twisted. He would kill Josephine if given the reason. No, he did not even need a reason. All he needed was the chance. So Aleksandr would make sure he never got it.

***

Love.

He was late. He was never late.

Josephine paced nervously around the edge of the clearing, wringing her handkerchief in her hands as she so often did. Finally, she heard a rustle and whipped her head around, beaming as she saw Aleksandr enter through the trees. Her smile soon faded, however, as she saw he looked paler than usual, almost ashen.

She ran toward him and pressed her hand to his forehead. “Aleksandr, you look unwell. What is wrong?”

He smiled, removed her hand from his forehead, and brought it to his lips. “I am well, thank you, only a bit seasick from the voyage on the ship.”

Something told her this was a lie, but she decided not to press the matter any further. She merely smiled and led him to the bench, where they both sat down. “How were your holidays?”

“Long and lonely. How were yours?” he replied, gazing at her. She smiled again, though she could not help but notice a strange look in his eyes. He seemed more anxious than usual�”she had rarely seen him nervous about anything in the short time she had known him. It must be the second task, which was fast approaching.

“They were fine, thank you.” She looked down at her hands, still clutching the handkerchief. “I have a confession, though.” She did not meet his eyes.

He reached out and placed two calloused fingers underneath her chin, bringing her face up to look at his. She felt her face color at his touch, though she returned his gaze. “I helped Remy with his preparation for the second task.”

Aleksandr regarded her for a moment with his dark eyes, then looked away and laughed. “Oh, Josephine,” he murmured.

“Well, it made me feel guilty, since that meant the playing field would no longer be even,” she said, aware that she sounded naïve. “And I wanted to offer you the same help I offered him.”

“That is very generous of you, but I have it all figured out.”

“You have solved all the plant riddles?” she asked, impressed.

“All but one,” he confessed, taking a sheet of folded parchment out of his pocket and handing it to her.

She unfolded it to see the riddles copied down and six plant names scribbled next to each verse�”each verse but number three. “I have yet to figure that one out,” he said. “But I shall, before the task occurs.”

“I know this one!” she exclaimed. “I can tell you right now! Oh, please, Aleksandr, it would make me feel so less guilty.” She clasped his hand in both of hers and sent him a pleading look. He seemed to be wavering, but finally his expression softened and he acquiesced.

“Beautiful woman the third is not,” she read aloud, “Its berries make your insides rot. But with their essence you will find some wide-eyed pleasure and peace of mind.”

“There are many plants whose berries are poisonous and whose essence can be used in pleasure- or peace-creating draughts,” he mused.

“Yes, but the answer is here, in the first line,” she said. “Beautiful woman. How do you say that in French?”

A playful smile crossed his face. “Josephine,” he whispered.

She quivered and blushed again, but remained resolute. “Non, mon cheri,” she said. “Try again. How do you say it in Italian?”

“Beautiful woman? Belle dame in French,” he stated dutifully. Then, just as it had with Remy, a look of realization crossed his face. “Belladonna! Of course. It’s so simple!”

Josephine nodded, proud that she had helped him.

“That is wonderful,” he said, scribbling “belladonna” on his parchment. “You are wonderful.”

The same strange look reappeared in his eyes as he said this. He looked sad, troubled. “Alexei,” she whispered, “something is troubling you. I can tell. What is it? Please tell me.”

He looked away for a moment and seemed to be weighing a heavy matter over in his mind. When he did finally return her gaze, there was genuine regret in his look. “I cannot, Josephine. I am truly sorry.”

She nodded, and somehow knew that when the time was right, she would know.

***

Faith.

The day of the second task dawned cold and bright. It was the middle of February, and if they had been at Hogwarts, there may have been snow on the ground. This was the south of France, however, so William was relieved to step into the crisp, precipitation-free air.

He was feeling infinitely better about the task, though perhaps not about life itself. Relations with his father were still tense, but they were showing possible signs of improvement. Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was coming to watch the task, at the very least.

A few consultations with Remy and many late nights in the library had led William to feel relatively confident that he had identified all the plants in the riddles correctly, and he hoped he would be able to remember which was which during the task itself.

As he approached the arena, he noticed a pungent odor filling the air, and heard what sounded like a waterfall somewhere nearby. He smiled warmly at Remy who had just arrived to the staging tent, and even managed a nod at Aleksandr Gregorovitch, who was already there.

His dislike of Gregorovitch had not waned in the months since he’d been chosen replacement champion. Gregorovitch had not done anything to cause specific injury to William, it was true, but still, there were those nasty rumors and the way he carried on with Remy’s sister. It was best not to trust him, international camaraderie be damned.

Now the judges were strolling down to the tent to shake hands with the Champions. The three headmasters all appeared to be in good spirits and Monsieur Barnier from the French Ministry of Magic looked as haughty as ever. Only Pierre Bonaccord looked downtrodden: his face was riddled with stress and exhaustion. William had not been paying very close attention to the negotiations in Paris�”at least, not as close as he should have been�”but he had heard some news about the Liechtenstein contingent and a bad batch of mountain trolls. William certainly did not envy the man his job.

Soon, pleasantries were dispensed of and the champions could hear the other students filing into the arena to take their seats. There were a few gasps and whispers, but they seemed to be gasps of amazement rather than horror. William took this as a good sign. Still, he was nervous, and could not help bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

Then came Monsieur Autruche’s magnified voice announcing the start of the task, and the Beauxbatons professor in the tent turned to them. “Your task, champions, is to read the clues, collect the ingredients, and brew the correct potion. Bonne chance. Good luck!”

So it was a potion, William thought. But a potion to do what? He glanced sideways at Remy, who seemed to be contemplating similar questions. There was not much more time to ponder, however, for it was almost William’s turn to enter. He would go into the arena first, his head start earned by George’s rapid completion of the first task. Gregorovitch would follow a few minutes later, and Remy after that.

William heard the bell and practically leapt out of the tent. As he beheld the arena, the first thought to cross his mind was that it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The field of volcanoes had been turned into an immense jungle, with hundreds of different plants waving at him from all directions. He could hardly even see the faces in the crowd, such was the density of the flora. The sights and smells overwhelmed him, and he wasted a full thirty seconds just admiring the beauty of it all.

Suddenly, he was gripped by panic. How would he find the correct herbs amidst all the plants? He had a tentative grasp on the plants in the riddles at best, and would be doing a lot of guesswork as it was. He thought of his father, though, and steeled himself for the task ahead. He pulled out his parchment and looked at the first riddle. He had to find a Doblesson stalk. Remy had helped him identify this one, as William had never even heard of it before�”apparently they were not naturally cultivated in Britain.

William wandered into the thicket of flowers, trees, and ferns, searching desperately for Doblessons, but to no avail. Perhaps they are further in, he reasoned, and looked at his list to see if any other choice was in his immediate reach.

The sixth looked promising: a Cantarius flower. He thought he heard its telltale hum somewhere to his right, so he reread the clue:

The sixth is fair as day is long,
but tarry not to hear its song.
Take one part only to advance,
the others leave you in a trance.

Yes. It was definitely a Cantarius flower, and there was a whole patch of them growing next to a large bush of rhododendrons. He leaned in and looked at them�”they truly were stunning. Large, brilliant purple petals held smaller, vibrant yellow petals in the center, all atop a sturdy stem with curved thorns and shiny green leaves. The plant was known for its beauty but also for the hypnotic hum that emanated from its core. More than one weary traveler had been found dead asleep amidst fields of Cantarius, William had learned. He had also found out that it was only the yellow petals that he needed; all the other parts of the plant were poisonous. He pulled out his knife and cut three of them off. Placing them carefully in a pocket, he moved on, in search of the next.

He thought he heard the bell ring, but he was fairly deep into the jungle now and sounds were muffled�”expect for the sound of rushing water, that is. There was certainly a waterfall nearby, though William could not see it. What he did see was hellebore, the answer to the fifth riddle. He read it again just to be sure:

Fifth’s green or black or ghostly white,
it takes some skill to choose the right.
Add it to potion, you’ll move on.
Add others and your life is gone.

The only problem was, all three types of hellebore were growing in front of him, but he could not remember which he was supposed to choose. He had written down black, but a little voice inside was telling him that was not right. He shook his head. It must be right, he wrote it down. He withdrew his knife again and moved to slice off a few leaves of the black hellebore.

“I would not do that if I were you,” came a voice to his left. William jumped. It was Gregorovitch, and he was gesturing toward the plants with his own knife, his parchment unfurled.

“What do you mean?” William asked, suddenly nervous. Here he was, alone in a thick jungle with Aleksandr Gregorovitch and his knife…

“The black hellebore is extremely poisonous. Put it in your potion and you’ll die. Take the green instead.”

William frowned. “But I wrote down black.”

“Well, you wrote down the wrong color,” Gregorovitch said patiently. “Look, Warr�”” he stopped and exhaled. “William, just please trust me on this one. I know you don’t like me, and I don’t know why, but black hellebore is the wrong choice.”

Without another word, he was gone, deeper into the thicket and William was left alone in the midst of a quandary. Should he trust Gregorovitch? He had written down black, it was true, but there was that nagging voice telling him it was not right. Perhaps, then, he should choose white hellebore? Or maybe Gregorovitch was right, and was actually trying to help?

William glanced at his pocket watch, surprised to see how much time had elapsed. He had to make a decision, and he had to make it quick.

***

Hope.

Aleksandr walked swiftly away from William. He knew that it would be hard for the Hogwarts champion to trust him, still he was frustrated that his genuine advice might not be heeded. He had found his own leaves of green hellebore before he had chanced upon William, but time was ticking and he was not willing to debate the matter. Either William would accept his advice and succeed, or he would fail. At this point, Aleksandr’s most pressing issue was finishing the task quickly.

He took stock of the list. He had already found Doblesson, monkshood, and hellebore. The rough leaves of the hornbow tree mentioned in clue four had been his first find: his father used the tree’s twin, hornbeam, as wood for many of his wands.

Aleksandr spied some belladonna a few feet in front of him. He picked a few berries and smiled, thinking of Josephine. He did not let his imagination wander too far, however, for he knew that there were still two plants to find and a potion to brew. Time was of the essence.

He looked at his list again. He had yet to find Cantarius flowers, though their bright purple petals should be relatively easy to spot. Number seven, also, should be quite simple, seeing as it was a tree. He read the clue once more:

The seeds of seven cause skin to burn,
a fact, no doubt, you’re pleased to learn.
But if you yearn for victory,
you'll take the risk and climb the tree.

The peccamore tree. A relatively short tree, to be sure, but with distinct bluish-green leaves that clustered together around blood red flowers. Sure enough, one was planted not twenty feet from him. He ran to it as fast as he could, given the thick overgrowth of plants in the way, and shimmied up the trunk until he reached a low-hanging branch. He pinched off a few large seeds from where they dangled below the flowers and then promptly dropped to the ground, only to find he had plopped right into a patch of Cantarius flowers, humming gently and waving back and forth, though there was no wind. Smiling at his good fortune, he carefully removed the yellow petals, then paused. What to do next? Would he need to summon a cauldron and water to boil the potion?

Instinct told him to head toward the sound of rushing water, as that would, at the very least, give him the liquid needed to brew the potion. It was somewhere to his left, though the mass of trees would prevent him traveling in a straight line. He dipped and weaved his way to the sound, when suddenly, he was there. He could finally see the sun above his head, and as he stepped out of the thick jungle air and into a bright clearing, he was struck by how cold it actually was outside. At the edge of the clearing was a brilliant blue waterfall, maybe twenty feet wide, tumbling down over a small cliff. Through the water he could see a sort of small hole in the cliff, and beyond that was a patch of light�”the edge of the arena and the end of the task. The only thing that stood in the way was the dazzling blue waterfall and a table with three simmering cauldrons.

Aleksandr glanced to his left and right to see if the other champions were near, but there was no sign of them. He took another step into the clearing, nearly tripping on some overexcited vines that continued to snake their way out of the jungle, and made his way toward the table. There, sitting next to one of the cauldrons, was the final part of the riddle. He read it:

You’ve come thus far, through jungle fought,
though danger is not ended yet.
The way is blocked by magic falls�”
safe passage now you will not get.

The herbs you have so wisely found
can help you pass through water blue,
but don’t be hasty with your mix:
there’s something more you have to do.

A simple potion does the trick
to help you ford the wat’ry way,
but more complex brews are preferred:
true potions skill you must convey.

The best among you will concoct
a brew with properties unseen.
So cut and stew and simmer herbs:
with luck, more than your thumb is green.

So, they had to brew a potion that would not only take them safely through the waterfall, but would also make it change color? Aleksandr raised his eyebrows�”he had hardly ever brewed something so difficult. The challenge would be to extract the most out of each berry, petal, and seed in order to make the potion as potent as possible. There was no time to waste.

Aleksandr carefully removed each ingredient from his pockets and spread them out on the table. The colors were dazzling�”red, blue, green, violet�”it was almost a shame to dump them unceremoniously into the vat of water, but dump he must.

Since there were no explicit instructions, he had to rely on his memory to know how best to proceed. The leaves should go in first in order to let their essence open up into the water. Petals should be crumbled as gently as possible, but also as thoroughly as possible in order to produce maximum effect. Berries should be squeezed not by hand, but with the aid of a knife. Was that right? Aleksandr seemed to remember his potions professor giving similar instructions in his six years of study. Plus, Dragomir had been a phenomenal potions student, often sharing tips with his younger brother…

Aleksandr pushed the memory out of his mind and concentrated on the task at hand. He gathered the leaves of the peccamore and hornbow trees and placed them gently in the water, which instantly turned green. That was a good sign.

He bent his head down and worked diligently, stopping only briefly to wonder where the other two were. They should have made it to the clearing by now…

As if on cue, William stumbled into the clearing, panting hard. He nodded at Aleksandr and looked as if he were about to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of Remy, also out of breath, who joined them at the table. “Venomous Tentacula?” Remy asked. William nodded.

They all shared a brief laugh before William and Remy realized how far behind they were and set to work on their potions. “You don’t think we could just walk through the water now, do you?” William asked, and Aleksandr was not sure if he was joking. Though they were all clearly trying to keep the mood light, there was a great deal at stake, and Aleksandr did not have time for jokes.

His potion was nearly done, he surmised. It was incredibly fragrant and still a pretty shade of green, though perhaps not as deep as he would have liked. A few more stirs should do the trick…

Aleksandr stole a glance at Remy to his right. He seemed to be off to a good start, having already added the leaves and started in on the petals. He looked to his left: William seemed to be having a bit more difficulty, though Aleksandr saw that he had taken the green hellebore after all. He smiled and turned back to his own simmering cauldron.

It was done. He had added all the right ingredients, hopefully in the right order, and all that remained would be to fill up a vial, drink the potion, and hope for the best. Remy and William had temporarily stopped their brewing in order to watch Aleksandr as he dipped the small flask in the cauldron. The potion was green and frothy, and smelled inexplicably like mint. He strode out from behind the table and approached the blue waterfall. With a somewhat nervous laugh, he raised the vial. “Cheers,” he said, as he put it to his lips and took a swig.

He could feel the hot potion as it traveled down his throat. It was spicy and made him just a bit woozy, but as he stepped tentatively through the water, he knew it had worked. The water around him lit up the clearing with a bright green flash, and Aleksandr emerged completely dry on the other side. He headed for the small hole and out through the tunnel into the edge of the arena, where hundreds of spectators cheered him from their vantage points in the stand.

Aleksandr knew he would have to wait a few minutes until the other champions finished to see if his water had been the greenest, but he took pride in the fact that he had finished fastest. His thoughts turned to Kerensky, and he scanned the crowd looking for him, but it was impossible to discern all the faces from where he stood.

He paced around the arena, waiting for the other two to emerge. After a few minutes, there was a flash of pale green coming from the clearing, and William exited the jungle. He looked a little nauseous, but smiled and waved to the crowd, which erupted in cheers for him. He wandered over to Aleksandr and gave him another small nod.

“How is he doing?” Aleksandr asked, gesturing to the clearing. An idea had seized him, and if he wanted to go through with it, he needed to act fast.

William looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged. “He’ll be all right, I think, but was having a few problems at the last minute that he had to sort out.”

Aleksandr nodded and maintained a neutral face, but he dropped his voice in urgency. “Listen, William, I have something very important to tell you. Please keep talking to me as if we are merely discussing the task, but pay attention.”

William furrowed his brow and looked as if he was about to protest or ask a question, but the pleading look in Aleksandr’s eyes must have made him change his mind, for he nodded, almost imperceptibly. Aleksandr continued: “I know who killed George Potter.”

William’s face became suddenly ashen and he took a step backward. Aleksandr knew William was doing everything in his power not to react in an outburst, and for that he was immensely grateful. “I am very sorry to have to tell you like this, I really am, but there is no other time to do it without arousing suspicion. My life is in danger, Remy’s life is in danger, your life is in danger.” He paused. “Josephine’s life is in danger.”

“Who is it?” William asked, his voice strong though his wand was shaking in his hand. “Who killed him?”

Aleksandr took one last glance around the arena, searching for Kerensky, but still could not pick out his face from the crowd. Still, if ever there was a time they were least likely to be overheard, this was it. “Emil Kerensky,” he breathed.

He waited for William’s reaction, but none came, for just then, a flash of turquoise light rose from the clearing and Remy stumbled out, promptly doubling over and them crumpling to the ground. William rushed to his side, where a dozen staff members were already flocking, one of whom looked like he was holding a bezoar. Aleksandr followed William and knelt beside him, knowing full well that their conversation was over. He only hoped that William believed him.

CHAPTER SEVEN: Against All Odds

Faith.

William stood in front of the mirror and fidgeted with his cravat. He was trying on various dress robes, attempting to pick one for the ball that would be held the following week. Normally, he was not so fussy about what he wore�”his upbringing allowed him the good fortune of being able to pull off most styles with a casual elegance. However, the champions and their partners would be opening the ball with a dance, and William wanted his attire to match his place on the scoreboard.

That place was second, but very nearly first. Gregorovitch had won the second task in February with a near-perfect 48 points, but William had done a respectable job and scored a 42. That, combined with George’s first place in the first task had left Hogwarts and Durmstrang neck-and-neck. Poor Remy, who had gotten the bad end of a Cantarius flower in the second task, was hovering below them, solidly in third.

As each day passed, William allowed himself to think that he could really win the whole thing. Against all odds, he had succeeded in being named champion and was within striking distance. Could it actually happen? Could he actually overtake Gregorovitch?

He shook his head and picked up another robe to try on. He would do his best, and would merely have to trust in his own abilities to get him through. If he won, excellent. If Gregorovitch won…

William had not fully made up his mind about his Durmstrang rival. Nearly four months had passed since Gregorovitch had told him that Emil Kerensky had killed George, but William had never acknowledged this statement, and Gregorovitch had not pressed the issue. Nothing else had happened to make William suspect either Gregorovitch or Kerensky, but the tournament was not over yet.

His instinct was to trust Gregorovitch, though he had originally suspected him. After all, if Gregorovitch had wanted to kill him, he could easily have done so during the second task, in the middle of the jungle. Instead, he had helped him�”telling him to choose the green hellebore instead of the fatal black. Surely that was a sign that his intentions were good?

William glanced at his watch. His father was due to arrive any minute�”this time, he had announced his impending arrival with a letter, which was a step in the right direction, in William’s mind. Indeed, relations between father and son had seemed to improve marginally since William’s solid performance in the second task�”at least Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was speaking to his son now, though they had still not addressed their confrontation.

At that moment, William heard a knock on the door to the bedchamber, and his father promptly entered. “Hello, Son,” he said, his hands stuck awkwardly in his waistcoat.

“Hello, Father,” William dutifully replied, straightening his dress robes. “Thank you for the new set of dress robes.”

Jonathan puffed up with pride to see his son look so handsome. “With the ball approaching, I had to make sure you represented the family well, didn’t I?”

William smiled, though he couldn’t help but muse to himself that opening the ball by dancing solo would certainly not represent the family well�”he had yet to secure a partner for the first dance.

His father was aware of this fact. “Tell me, William, have you chosen a partner yet?”

William shook his head and returned to fidgeting with his cravat. “Not yet, father.”

“Good.”

William was confused by the response. Good?

“You did not mishear me,” Jonathan said with a smile. “That is the purpose of my visit.” He pointed his wand at a nearby chair, which promptly flew toward him. He took a seat, carefully arranging the many folds of his fine robe around him. “Son, you know as well as I do that the air between us needs to be cleared.”

William was again confused. It was unlike his father to take the first step like this�”he thought Jonathan would be content to never speak of the matter again. He nodded, however, and began to apologize for the thousandth time, but was stopped by Jonathan, who threw up a hand. “William, the time for apologies has passed. I do not know if I will ever be able to completely forgive you for the injurious slander you cast upon me, and we will not speak in specifics of that grievous occasion.”

It took everything in William’s power to suppress the smile that was threatening to break across his face�”here was the Jonathan Warrington-Hughes he knew.

“However,” his father continued, “I believe it is my duty, especially with the upcoming ball, to explain my motives that day. You know full well that our family’s honor was slighted when you were not selected Hogwarts Champion as I was, as your grandfather was, and as his father was.” Jonathan raised his hands again to preemptively stop William’s further apology. “Immediately, I realized that something would have to be done to correct such a slight and restore you and our family to prominence and honor. Can you think what that might have been?” He hardly waited for William’s response before he continued: “An engagement, my son. An engagement to a lady from a prominent French wizarding family. Not only would this elevate you in the eyes of British society, but would carry the Warrington-Hughes name across the English Channel. I entered into negotiations on your behalf and everything was nearly final, until Potter was murdered.”

William balked to hear his friend’s name spoken like this, but knew he could not respond�”not until his father had finished. Jonathan hurdled on: “Tragic as that event may have been, it caused many things to happen. Of course, it delayed my ability to announce the engagement, since attention was focused elsewhere, but it also made me realize that perhaps a more lucrative arrangement could be mastered, if you were to succeed in replacing Potter as Hogwarts Champion. After all, who wouldn’t want to marry their daughter to the eventual winner of the Triwizard Tournament?”

There was a momentary pause, and William took this as a sign that it was his turn to speak, but it was not so. His father was merely catching his breath. “Indeed, the Warrington-Hughes name became quite the commodity after your announcement as champion, though after your outburst in the courtyard, I found myself thinking that I had gone to so much trouble for an ungrateful and unappreciative son. Fortunately for you, Henry Somerset was able to persuade me that I should not give up on you, and my own investigations found that no one heard you lob those wholly insulting comments my way�”be thankful for this, William,” he said, waving a stern finger at William’s face. “The arrangement I had previously agreed to was still in play, and after your success in the second task, they were practically banging down the door to secure the match. Imagine if you had placed first!” Jonathan said good-naturedly, though William could detect a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning forward a bit in the chair. “Would you like to know who it is? Of course you would! Mademoiselle Angeline Laplanche. Are you acquainted with her? What do you think?”

William blinked. There was so much information to digest; he hardly knew where to start. “I… I…” he stammered. “Thank you, father.” He supposed he did not have a say in the matter. Perhaps the engagement could be discussed at a later date, but for the present, the only thing he could do was express gratitude. His father really did everything in William’s best interest, after all, and he should be thankful. He was thankful. Mademoiselle Laplanche was a close friend of Remy’s sister, Josephine, and William had spoken with her a few times. She was quite pretty and seemed to be pleasant enough. Perhaps this engagement would be a good thing after all… “Yes, thank you, father. I shall ask her permission to escort her to the ball immediately.”

Jonathan Warrington-Hughes beamed.

***

Love.

Josephine was finishing a short essay for her Potions class when Angeline practically floated into the room and collapsed onto her bed. Her face was alight with joy, and she looked bursting with news. Josephine took the bait.

“It is William,” Angeline said, sitting up in the bed just as swiftly as she had lain down on it. “I am to be engaged to William Warrington-Hughes!”

Josephine’s eyes widened at the news. “William?” she repeated. “Well, congratulations!” At the beginning of the year, Angeline had constantly spoken of this rumored engagement her parents were arranging. She knew it to be with one of the Hogwarts boys�”her first guess had been George Potter�”but as the Tournament progressed and schoolwork intervened, the matter was eventually dropped. It seemed that Monsieur and Madame Laplanche had continued to scheme behind the scenes, however.

“Yes. He came up to me in the Haute Chambre a few minutes ago and asked if I would dance the first dance with him at the ball next week!”

“That is wonderful, Angeline, but dancing the first two dances does not mean you are engaged!” Josephine chided playfully. She, Josephine, would also be opening the ball�”with Aleksandr, of course�”but they were certainly not affianced.

“No, Josie, I am certain of it. There was such kindness in his face, but nervousness in his voice. He knows, and it is only a matter of time!” She beamed and went to try on her dress robes yet again. “Oh, and Remy is looking for you,” she added as an afterthought.

Josephine would have chastised her friend for not relaying the message earlier, but she was fairly certain Angeline would not hear it anyway, so she put down her quill and went to find her brother. He was waiting in the great room of the Giriaume wing.

“I have just heard from Father,” he said as Josephine took her seat opposite him. He looked worried, and he held a long letter in his hands. “Do not worry�”he and Mother are fine, but there has been a Muggle uprising in Paris, near where the Confederation is meeting. Father was there, listening to the delegations, and he saw it all. They stormed the place with torches and weapons.”

Josephine gasped. “Was anyone injured?”

“Two Muggles were killed. It would have been more, but Bonaccord stepped in and kept everyone in line. Father says it was an awful mess�”Obliviators worked a long time afterwards to modify the memories of the Muggles.”

She shook her head. It was the third Muggle “incident” in two months�”there had been a riot in Lyon at the end of April and another near Reims in mid-May. The very idea of Muggles and wizards coexisting peacefully was beginning to seem laughable at best, dangerous at worst.

Josephine’s mind wandered to Pascal. She had not heard from him since before Christmas, and did not suspect she would hear from him any time soon after this recent outburst in Muggle animosity. She felt a tiny pang of regret that the relationship had so languished, and she hoped he was well, though there was really no way to find out. If he was found out to be in contact with a wizard, the consequences might be horrendous.

“At least it’s not as bad here as in the East,” Remy said. Two wizards had been killed by mobs in Bulgaria the week before, and another in Romania.

Josephine nodded. Aleksandr had told her of some of the horrors that had plagued his region. It was terrible�”wizards were practically already in permanent hiding from the area Muggles. New charms were being created every day to protect wizarding establishments, according to Aleksandr.

Josephine was due to meet Aleksandr in an hour for a walk before dinner, she happily recalled. Angeline was to accompany them, but Josephine doubted if her blissful self would want to do anything but stay in bed and think of William.

She was happy for Angeline, but news of the pending engagement made her think of her own situation. She had mentioned Aleksandr to her parents, but not in any way to make them suspicious of her intentions�”he was merely a friend that she had met in the course of the tournament. What were his intentions, though? Josephine knew that she was an admirable match for any wizard: she came from a solid pureblood family with good connections all through France. Certainly her parents had thought of her engagement prospects before, but they had yet to mention anything to her. Were they, like the Laplanches, working on something in secret? Would she soon be accosted by a Hogwarts boy and betrothed before the end of the month?

At least William was out of the way now. Josephine had some suspicions that Remy was trying to press him upon her in an effort to make her forget about Aleksandr. William was pleasant enough, of course, and it would have been a very agreeable match in the eyes of society, but he was much better off with Angeline. Her own heart belonged elsewhere.

***

Faith, Hope, and Love.

Beauxbatons Academy had pulled out all the stops to decorate the Haute Chambre for the ball. It was a beautiful Saturday evening, and the high windows of the room were thrown open, allowing the sea breeze to waft in. The room�”already magnificent�”was taken to new heights of opulence. Glittering gold fabrics festooned every imaginable surface and magical bird ornaments, carved in an azure stone, floated lazily around the ceiling. The orchestra�”comprised of both wizard and Muggle instruments�”sat upon a platform at the front of the room and a dancing area was surrounded by dozens of small tables and chairs, each lavishly carved and bespangled with gold stars and other decorations.

The students from all three schools filed into the hall, each looking magnificent in their best dress robes. Most students moved to the edges of the room, claiming seats to watch the first dance, and the Champions and their partners moved to the center of the room. As Host Champion, Remy de Tuileries was at the head of the procession, his fiancée Sophie on his arm. William Warrington-Hughes followed, accompanied by Angeline Laplanche, and Aleksandr Gregorovitch and Josephine de Tuileries brought up the rear.

The first dance would be the traditional, stately Allemande to start off the suite, then the rest of the attendees could join in for the livelier Courante. Once the Champions and their partners were in place, the orchestra commenced. It was a beautiful melody and the couples danced elegantly.

Faith.

William was pleased to realize that Angeline was a fine dancer, and as she grasped his thumbs and walked around him during the Allemande, he could not help but notice she was quite pretty, too. He smiled at her as she passed in front, and his smile did not fade as he took his turn around her.

Hope.

Aleksandr knew he was not as fine a dancer as either of the other two men, but as the dance progressed and Josephine silently guided him, he allowed himself to relax, if only a little bit. He was keenly aware that Remy de Tuileries was keeping a close eye on him, as if he still suspected something terrible was going to happen. No matter, he thought. Josephine’s eye was also trained on him, but in an entirely different manner, and her gaze was all that mattered.

Love.

Josephine loved balls. In a typical school year, Beauxbatons would host many, often attracting prominent members of wizard and Muggle society from around the region. This year, of course, had been very different. George’s tragic death had prevented a fall ball and the traditional Yule Ball. In spring, the International Confederation of Wizards resumed their delegations, and any additional energy was put into preparations for the second and third tasks of the tournament. Finally, on the eve of the final task, Josephine got her ball, and to be dancing at it with Aleksandr made it all the better.

Faith, Hope, and Love.

The Allemande ended and there was just enough time to switch partners before the Courante began. Remy paired with his sister, handing his fiancée Sophie to William, and Aleksandr danced with Angeline.

Now that the floor was crowded with couples and consequently noisier, there would be room to talk and not have conversation be overheard.

“It is a beautiful ball,” Aleksandr remarked to Angeline, who smiled and looked at William as she responded: “Yes, it is.”

“Your fiancé is a good man,” William said to Sophie.

The lady blushed and nodded her agreement: “He is the best of men.”

“Josie, why have you not heeded my advice to be careful around Gregorovitch? I still do not trust him,” Remy whispered to his sister so the others could not overhear. Her reaction spoke volumes, though.

“Remy, you simply do not understand, and perhaps never will. Aleksandr is a good man, and an excellent wizard. I had hoped you would treat him with respect, but I am determined to continue my association with him despite what you so wrongly believe to be true!” The rules of the dance prevented her from storming away, but the siblings passed the rest of the piece in icy silence.

***

Hope.

An hour of the ball had passed and Aleksandr was tired of it. He did not delight in the courtly dances the way the British and the French did, and he found it amusing that the majority of students sitting and watching the ball were from Durmstrang. He longed to sit down with them, but Josephine loved nothing more than to dance, so dance he did.

Still, as the evening wore on, Aleksandr found himself seized by anxiety. The final task was tomorrow. He was in first place, it was true, but Warrington-Hughes was just a hair’s breadth behind him, and even de Tuileries could make a comeback if the task allowed for high scores.

Plus, there was always that nagging memory of Dragomir. He, too, had made it through the first two tasks and had been in first place going into the final…

At his side, Josephine let out a small cry of pain�”he had not been paying attention to the dance and had stepped on her foot. He whispered a dozen apologies, but she only smiled. “The dance is almost over. Let’s go for a walk when it’s through.”

As the rest of the couples clapped for the orchestra, Josephine grabbed his hand and pulled him out through a small, concealed door in the side of the room. They weaved in and out of corridors until she steered him to a small courtyard, far away from the rest of the gathering. They sat together on a bench, little more than the moonlight illuminating their faces. “Alexei, what is wrong?” she whispered, though there was no one else around.

“I am just anxious about the task tomorrow, that is all,” he lied.

She did not seem to accept this, for her brow furrowed. “Yet you have never seemed so nervous�”not before the second task, at least. And you are in first place! No, I think it is something else that is troubling you.”

He smiled, but it was a sad smile. He knew that if ever there was a time to tell her about Dragomir, this was it. “Josephine, what have you heard about my brother?”

She turned her head away, and this time it was she who was lying: “Nothing, really.”

“Josephine, please. You can tell me.”

She brought her eyes toward his timidly, cautiously, like a frightened child. “Only rumors. Rumors that something happened during the last tournament at Durmstrang five years ago. Rumors that he… collapsed.”

Aleksandr nodded, and was suddenly flooded with recollections of that day. His mind was whirling with images, sights, sounds… Sitting in the stands with the audience, he hears shouts and screams, sees jets of green and red light. Two bodies crumple to the ground, Stunned�”the Hogwarts and Beauxbatons champions. Dragomir appears, triumphant but maniacal. The Durmstrang authorities know something is wrong. Novokov himself tries to stop Dragomir, tries to get him to calm down, but he turns his wand on Novokov, too, and runs. Out of the arena, away forever.

“It was horrible,” he whispered, pressing his fingers to his forehead in an effort to stop the deluge of memories. “It was as if something inside him snapped. He was not Dragomir anymore. He was… something else. I had never seen him behave that way before�”he had always been so quiet and kind. But he cracked under the pressure. Completely cracked.”

“What happened then?” Josephine urged, leaning into him.

Aleksandr shook his head. “No one knows for sure. They found his body outside of Moscow five days later, and they were unable to tell how he died, though they think it was Avada Kedavra. Many people think that he killed three or four Muggles before he died, but I honestly don’t know if there is any truth to that. I like to think that my brother could not be capable of such atrocities, but he truly was no longer my brother.” He stopped speaking and looked down at his hands, which were trembling slightly. He had not discussed the matter this way in five years, and had scarcely allowed himself to think of it so, but there was more to say: “Josephine, I am so scared. I cannot help but wonder if the same thing will happen to me. Against all odds, against the wishes of an entire school and of my father, I was named Durmstrang Champion. All year long, I have been haunted by these memories, haunted by ‘what if.’ What if I end up just like him? What if I collapse, too? My father would never recover. Durmstrang would fall apart. I cannot… I cannot…”

His breath was coming in great, splintered gasps now, and he could not finish the sentence. Josephine stroked the side of his face with her small, cold hand and there were tears in her eyes. “Do not say such things, my love,” she whispered. “Please. I cannot bear it. You are not like him. You will be fine. You are strong and you will not end up that way. I promise.”

Aleksandr watched as her tears began to fall, then he grabbed her hand still upon his face and brought her palm to his lips, kissing it gently. His breathing steadied and she moved her hand, her fingers delicately lingering on his lips for a brief moment before she smiled and pulled her hand to wipe the tracks of her tears from her cheeks. He could not help but stare at her, softly bathed in the moonlight. What had he done to deserve her? What could he do to make sure she never left his side? “I love you, Josephine,” he whispered. “I love you.”

***

Love.

He loved her.

Josephine was consumed by this happy thought all night long. She woke with a smile on her face and a nervous flutter in her heart, and every time she closed her eyes, she thought of Aleksandr’s face. She was certain she loved him in return, and this feeling led her to realize that whatever she had felt for Pascal was but a trifle compared to what she felt now.

Still, the night had produced another revelation, one that was much more troubling: the story of Dragomir Gregorovitch. Josephine’s moments of bliss were often eclipsed by pangs of anxiety�”it pained her to think of Aleksandr so nervous, so worried that he would collapse like his brother had. She knew, though, deep down, that he would not. He could win the tournament.

These thoughts, in turn, made her feel guilty. She loved Remy with all her heart; he was the best brother she could ever have asked for. However, she found herself less concerned for his well being in the third task than she had for the first two. Was it because he was in third place? Was it because he, unlike Aleksandr, did not have such a history to mar his concentration in the present? Or was it because he still refused to support her decision to be with Aleksandr? She was torn.

Josephine decided the best course of action was to force herself to feel the same concern for all three champions�”William, too. She had reason to cheer for each, and not playing favorites would perhaps make the task more exciting to watch.

She and Angeline headed down to the arena at the usual time, flanked by all the other spectators. It was a beautiful June day with hardly a cloud in sight, and Josephine hummed quietly to herself as they filtered into their seats.

Within moments, Monsieur Autruche’s voice was echoing throughout the stadium. “Bonjour, Mesdames et messieurs. Welcome to the third and final task of this year’s Triwizard Tournament!” A great burst of applause filled the arena, and Monsieur Autruche looked positively beside himself with pride. “Before you, ladies and gentlemen, you will see a small platform, raised to a height of six meters.” As he said this, a small dais did indeed rise from the center of the arena. It was perhaps a meter and a half wide, and was supported by a pole that rotated slowly upward. “It is on this platform that our three champions must complete the final task. From all corners of the arena, projectiles will be launched at each of the competitors as he stands on the platform, and it will be his job to defend himself from them. Points will be awarded for each object that is deflected or destroyed, as well as for the variety and difficulty of spells performed. Points will be subtracted for each ball that hits the competitor and also if he should fall off the platform at any time. Spectators be warned and have your wands at the ready: the projectiles could very well veer off course. Be prepared to defend yourself!” He said this jovially and clapped his hands together as the platform rotated back downwards to pick up the first champion.

Josephine glanced to the edge of the arena where the champions would enter as Remy marched out. He stepped atop the small platform and it began to slowly rotate upward, twisting him around as if to display him to the whole assembly. He gave a small wave once the pillar had stopped turning, then assumed a dueling stance and readied his wand.

A hush fell over the crowd as all present awaited the first object. Then, out of nowhere, a large black rock hurtled toward Remy. He deflected it with a quick flip of his wrist, and it fell crashing to the ground. Josephine joined the other spectators in a round of applause, but their celebration was cut short. Two more objects were flying at Remy's head, and one of them was on fire. He shot a jet of water out of his wand to extinguish the ball of flame, and again deflected the other, which careened into the stands, narrowly missing Josephine’s Astronomy professor.

The minutes flew by as Remy teetered atop the pillar. There were a few near misses and close shaves, one including a giant, spectral bird that clawed at his shoulder and almost dislodged him from the platform, but Josephine was overall very pleased, and thought that perhaps his strong performance could lead him to a late comeback in the standings.

Her hopes were dashed, however, in the final moments of Remy’s time: another large bird flew by the platform, clutching something bright red in its talons, which it promptly dropped at Remy’s feet. As the objects burst into flames, Josephine realized what they were: Ashwinder eggs. Remy had nearly caught himself on fire during the first task because of an Ashwinder that had snaked out of one of his volcanoes, and Josephine knew this would shake his confidence. She held her breath and squinted as the flames caught the edge of Remy’s robe and he worked frantically to put it out, hovering dangerously near the edge of the platform. She gasped as he took one step too far and fell backwards, just as the bell sounded signaling the end of his time.

His fall to the ground was slowed by one of the wizards standing by and he appeared to be unharmed, but Josephine wondered if points would still be taken off, since he fell right as his time elapsed.

The scores would not be announced until the end of the task, however, so Josephine would have to wait. She beamed and waved as her brother dusted himself off and strode out of the arena.

Next up was William.

***

Faith.

William listened to the shouts of the crowd as Remy performed the task in the arena. He, William, thought the task sounded a bit silly. Stand on a platform while people hurl things at you? However, he reasoned, he had thought the second task also sounded laughable, and then had been nearly strangled by the Venomous Tentacula, nearly burned by a patch of Fire-Spewing Ferns, and nearly poisoned by black hellebore. Perhaps he should not be so quick to judge…

Indeed, as he saw Remy stumble back into the tent, looking a little worse for the wear, William started to feel very nervous. “Watch out for the bird,” Remy croaked before taking a seat. William smiled, tightened his grip on his wand, and brushed aside the fabric of the tent.

His first thought was that there were far too many people there watching him. In the second task, he had been concealed by a jungle�”no one had seen his many mishaps. This time, he would be completely exposed. It would be a strenuous mental challenge to keep his focus despite so many hundreds of pairs of eyes trained upon him.

His second thought was no less comforting: How was he supposed to keep his balance on top of this tiny platform?

His third thought was positively terrifying: How high was this pillar going to climb?

Despite his many misgivings, he attempted to strike a confident pose astride the platform as it rotated slowly upwards. He caught sight of his father in the audience and felt his hands begin to tremble. It was reassuring and encouraging that his father was there to watch, but also made him infinitely more nervous.

The pillar and its wary occupant had been stationary for merely a second or two before the first object came whirring at William. “Reducto!” he shouted, and the rock�”or whatever it was�”split into pieces and fell to the ground.

William furrowed his brows in concentration and looked for the next projectile. Soon, they were whizzing at him so quickly, he barely had time to register what they were. All he could think about was destroying them, or at least making sure they did not hit him. Gradually, the sound of the audience faded in his mind and he was able to focus on the task. However, as soon as he was no longer worried about the audience, he began to worry that his spells were not varied enough�”surely he had relied on the Reductor Curse too often. How many times had he used it? He racked his brain for another, similar spell, and was so lost in thought that he completely missed a Snitch-sized ball that struck him hard in the leg. He winced in pain and bent down to grab his throbbing shin, only to have another, larger ball come pelting at him. Blocking out the pain�”if only momentarily�”he cast a Shield Charm which successfully deflected the ball. Again, however, the relief was only temporary, for two more objects came spinning at him.

As the minutes passed, William found that there were simply too many projectiles coming too fast. He began to vary his spells less and less, and focused solely on preventing anything from hitting him. He knew that this would lessen his score, but falling off the pillar would be worse, and more embarrassing.

Thankfully, blissfully, his time soon ran out, and William had never felt more relieved than when he hopped off the platform and set foot on solid ground. Incidentally, he had also never felt queasier. He gave a brief wave to the crowd before walking briskly into the tent and collapsing next to Remy. “Harder than it sounds!” he exclaimed. Remy nodded, clutching his stomach.

The chime sounded and Aleksandr Gregorovitch lifted the flap of the tent. “Good luck,” William said as the Durmstrang Champion took a step into the arena.

He turned around and smiled. “Thank you.”

***

Hope.

After three minutes on the platform, Aleksandr was bored with the task. Though his heart was still beating fast in excitement, he wondered if the task would become more challenging. He had yet to repeat a spell, and still had plenty more in his arsenal. At times, it seemed like his wand was doing the work for him�”he would barely mutter a charm or incantation and his wand would know what to do.

Another minute passed and finally the pace started to increase. A green ball came toward him, but as soon as it was within Aleksandr’s range, it exploded into a long vine that twisted itself around his outstretched arm and moved toward his neck. It seemed to be some type of Devil’s Snare, so he remained perfectly calm and pointed his wand at his own arm. A lick of flame leapt from its tip, singeing the plant, which quickly shriveled up and uncoiled itself from his arm. Aleksandr looked down to make sure the plant was dead, and looked up just in time to see two large spheres mere inches from his face. In an instant, he flicked his wand arm from right to left in a strong gesture, causing one of the spheres to knock into the other, both shattering at his feet.

He barely had time to smile at the crowd’s applause before another object flew at him. It was large and black, and Aleksandr didn’t know how, but he suddenly knew that he needed to cast a Patronus to get rid of it. He concentrated on a particularly happy moment with Josephine and aimed his wand at the object. When a giant silvery bear emerged from the tip and chased away the dark object, the crowd burst into renewed applause.

Aleksandr felt a chill go down his spine as he parried away two more spheres (one made of water, one of glass) with two more spells. He knew, judging from the crowd’s reactions, that he was performing better than the other two champions, and he allowed himself to hope, to really believe that it was all over: he had secured his victory. He had won the tournament for Durmstrang. He closed his eyes for the barest hint of a second, but instantly knew something was wrong. He opened them to see a mass of feathers in his face and a massive white bird claw at his arm, knocking his wand out of his hand, and then turn to scratch at his face. The audience gasped and a few people screamed as Aleksandr threw one arm up to protect himself, desperately thinking about his next move. He looked for his wand�”it had fallen to the ground, some twenty feet below.

Suddenly, everything became perfectly still and very clear for Aleksandr. It was almost as if he had stopped time. He had never performed wandless magic before, but he knew that this was the moment, and he would be successful. He stood up straight and moved his arm away from his face, aiming his open palm at the bird. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion: Aleksandr whispered a spell and the bird flapped silently, slowly away. Three more spheres came toward him, but again, they seemed to be moving so very gradually. He again pointed his hand at the sphere on his right, still three feet away from him, and swooped his arm to the left. The ball followed the path of his arm, crashing into the other two. He closed his palm into a tight fist and his wrecking ball crumpled as well, falling to the ground below as little more than dust.

Aleksandr could hear the murmurs of the crowd, but they echoed back to him as if from miles away. Everything took on a very hollow sound. He had never felt like he did at this moment, but suddenly he knew he wanted his wand back. “Accio wand,” he shouted, and his wand shot instantly into his outstretched fingers. He caught it and instantly jerked his arm in an upward motion, causing the final rock-like object to careen wildly into the air, then plummet to the ground. As it struck the earth, the bell sounded, and Aleksandr lowered his wand arm, expecting to hear the applause of the crowd, but an eerie quiet had descended over the stands.

He knew they had all just seen him perform wandless magic, and he had a feeling that the silence that now ensued was a result of this. Wandless magic was typically associated with the Dark Arts�”a branch Aleksandr had tried very hard to disassociate himself from, but now those rumors that Kerensky had spread at the beginning of the year would be weaseling their way into everyone’s minds…

He attempted to smile gallantly and wave at the crowd as they finally began applauding. He could only imagine the questions that would bombard him as soon as he set foot on the ground, and wondered if maybe he should have ignored his instincts up on the platform and just dove off while the bird was attacking him. No, he thought. The wandless magic had saved his first place rank, if not his life. He did not regret doing it, no matter what people would imply about him because of it. Still, he wondered how he had done it…

As the pillar twisted slowly downward, Aleksandr was relieved to hear the applause grow louder as people perhaps began to appreciate his difficult feats. He smiled a genuine smile as he caught sight of Josephine amidst the crowd, waving excitedly at him.

He continued to rotate back toward the ground, but as the pillar slowly turned past a gap in the stands, Aleksandr saw something truly dreadful. No, it cannot be, he thought. He spun around on the platform, frantically searching for Professor Novokov, or Monsieur Autruche, really anyone. He had to warn them.

He finally espied Professor Novokov. “Professor!” he called out, and gestured wildly at the gap in the stands, but the noise of the crowd drowned out his yells. Novokov seemed to see the terror on Aleksandr’s face, for he looked where Aleksandr was pointing, but turned back, confused.

Aleksandr knew the configuration of the arena would make it impossible for anyone in the stands to see what he had seen: a Muggle mob, coming directly toward them.

When the platform was still five feet from the ground, he leapt off, running at full clip to the edge of the arena, and then outside, toward the approaching mob. He hoped someone would follow, but the audience seemed to be overwhelmed by confusion.

Aleksandr stared at the mass of Muggles rapidly approaching the gathering of wizards. Many of them were carrying pitchforks and, he realized with a chill, muskets�”their metal weapons. He again turned his head and yelled for Professor Novokov, and relief flooded him as he saw Novokov hurrying toward him, flanked by Messieurs Autruche and Bonaccord. He whipped his head around again just in time to see one of the Muggles aim his weapon at the trio of wizards behind Aleksandr. Though Aleksandr knew next to nothing about these weapons, he knew that Professor Novokov was in range of the Muggle aiming at him, though said Muggle was too far away for a spell to work. Even Aleksandr was not close enough.

Aleksandr was momentarily gripped by panic, but then�”just as had happened on the platform�”suddenly he knew exactly what to do. “Firmamento!” he shouted, pointing his wand at the mob. It was the spell Monsieur Mouchet had used at the Weighing of the Wands, but Aleksandr had never used it himself. However, instead of the mild tremble that Mouchet had produced, Aleksandr’s spell rocked the ground, causing many of the Muggles to stumble and fall. The one who had been aiming at Professor Novokov staggered sideways, and then there was a deafening blast and a puff of smoke rose from his musket. Aleksandr felt a white-hot pain in his leg, and he looked down to see his blood-red robes stained with actual blood�”the weapon had discharged and hit him instead.

The corners of his vision blurred as he collapsed, but he had to sustain his magical earthquake until the others were close enough to aim their own spells at the Muggles. He rested all his weight on the uninjured knee, but it was too much. He bent over, propping himself up on one arm while the other still trained his wand at the mob, the Firmamento spell continuing to shake the ground, though it sapped every ounce of strength from his body.

The effort soon consumed him, and Aleksandr felt everything drift away as blackness overtook him. The last thing he heard was Josephine’s anguished scream.