To the you of 1994

Bad Marks

Viktor

The following weeks had been a relentless test on Viktor's willpower. Rune's class became an endless battle with the bond. Every glance, every fleeting, accidental touch from Miss Granger felt like an electrical shock awakening his senses.

The bond, a forbidden fruit dangling within reach, its fragrance intoxicating, was too powerful to resist. Viktor allowed his gaze to drift towards her for a fleeting moment, his breath hitching as his eyes caught Miss Granger nibbling on her quill. But the stolen pleasure was short-lived. Sigurd's beady gray eyes, sharp as needles, found him, sending an icy prickling sensation down his neck.

Over the weeks, an unsettling feeling clung to Viktor. Professor Sigurd's eyes, usually bored, now held a predatory glint whenever they landed on Miss Granger. The way they lingered on her, tracing the curve of her cheek for the briefest moments, made Viktor's hands clench.

Viktor met the professor's gaze when his gray eyes left Miss Granger. Something different flickered in the depths of those usually bored, indifferent eyes. His gaze danced between amusement and challenge. He had locked eyes with his professor, answering his challenge.

As Viktor stepped onto the ship's deck that night, a heavy hand clamped onto his arm, dragging him towards the dimly lit Captain's quarters. Inside, Karkaroff awaited, his face contorted in a grimace, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of anger and revulsion. He launched into a tirade, his voice hoarse with rage and reeking of strong liquor. "I'd rather witness a kikimora's disgusting ugliness than suffer the sight of that filthy mudblood." Each word was a barbed insult aimed at Miss Granger's blood purity. He spat out accusations of her being unworthy to participate in Sigurd's class and how her presence was a stained poison corrupting the wizarding world.

Viktor fought to maintain his composure, his anger simmering beneath the surface. He forced himself to take deep, measured breaths, his heartbeat a steady drum.

Karkaroff's drunken ramblings about her blood purity evolved into calculated taunts, laced with a twisted sense of entitlement and a desire to exert dominance. He spoke of purebloods, like the Krums' supposed duty to teach Miss Granger her place.

Viktor's anger simmered like a cauldron on a roaring fire, threatening to boil over and engulf him in its wrath. Yet, he sat there, a mask of forced calm plastered on his face, a drink clutched in his hand. Each shite word that spewed from his headmaster's mouth was like a fresh log tossed onto the fire.

Yet he sat there, anger burning his veins. His father and the committee were closing in on their investigation, inching ever closer to uncovering the perpetrators' identities behind the Muggle and Muggle-born attacks. Any slip-up, any hint of suspicion from Viktor could throw off their progress.

A knock on the door jolted Viktor. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side. With a mocking smirk on his face, Sigurd strode in. Finding the perfect opportunity to escape, Viktor excused himself.

On his way out, the professor put a pale hand on Viktor's shoulder. "Caution is the mother of the porcelain box," the older man advised in German. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, "Der Kluge gibt nach, der Dumme stellt sich quer."

The door closed, and Viktor's head snapped to it. His anger burned hot, making his eyes sting and his vision blur. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus on the words. The wise person yields and the fool resists blindly.

The gears in Viktor's mind whirred, grinding against each other as he wrestled with the implications of Sigurd's cryptic message. From that point on, Viktor became acutely aware of Sigurd's actions in class. Every lingering look at Miss Granger, every prompt reply made him suspicious of the wizard. Viktor observed the older wizard interact with the other witches in class, with the same indifference and boredom he was used to seeing.