"Trust me, you shouldn't want anyone like me on your back."
"Maybe I don't want anyone like you on my back," His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, confining me tighter into barely any space as my back pressed against the wall.
"Maybe I want you. U...
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CHAPTER FIVE
THE DURMSTRANG DELEGATION had gotten off their carriage in a perfect queue. They had all gathered promptly, and I saw a visage of hard brown uniforms, marked with a single small red and gold emblem across each of their chests. Flashes of mundane, glimpses of the strange in each flicker.
I stood near the entrance into the castle, and with Madame Maxime's giant form towering behind, crowded by Professors Fabien, Basil, and the Ilvermorny Professor, Caldwell Faustus, I could not make out precisely the foreign witches' and wizards' faces. Their forms, crowded around each other, looked distinguishable, regardless of the same aura about all of them.
Tall and strong, the Durmstrangs were seemingly built of iron and wood—just like their ship had appeared to be. Their bronze, sand, and distinguishing fair skins seemed exuberant against their bleak uniforms. They stood wide, hands tied behind their backs, feet apart, as though they were ready for an attack at all times.
I inched upwards, putting weight on my toes for a better view as curiosity seeped into me like poison, rendering my rationality dormant. There were eight of the students, four witches and four wizards. Before I could make out faces, the lean figure of the Durmstrang headmaster moved up front.
Igor Karkaroff, was a muscular wizard, his age and stealth evident on the grim lines of his face. Having heard of him often, his presence was daunting, intimidating—even from where I stood. He seemed to call every bit of the attention for himself, trapping it in his shoulder length dark sleek hair, and his thick moustache. He was the kind of headmaster that gave rise to circulated rumors vicious each time they were heard, striking fear in hearts of those who had never even seen him.
Two more figures, dressed differently, though in the same bleak brown colors, stood on either side of Headmaster Igor Karkaroff, as the former greeted Madame Maxime before he acknowledged the Ilvermorny professor.
These were Durmstrang professors, and though they were not in robes and were clad in tight leather pants with a deep brown cloak thrown over their shoulders, their presence carried the same professorly wise aura that seemed to demand respect regardless of their lanky forms compared to their rigorous students.
Suddenly, Bridgette grabbed my elbow tightly, leaning into my ear.
"Oh mon Dieu, it's that guy from the Bulgarian National Quidditch team." She let out, her tone lined with the intense intrigue that I felt.
I strained for a better view, and as if sensing my struggle, Madame Maxime moved a little to the side in order to converse with the ecstatic Caldwell Faustus—who seemed to have broken his neck at an odd angle for a better view of the Madame entirely.
Upon her movement, I made out the face of the Durmstrang student I had seen multiple times in the lumière un journal—most recently, during the Quidditch world cup final.
