Marauders - Always - Part One

CXCVIII: Un... deux... trois... quatre... cinq...

Viktor Krum woke in his bed before the sun had risen. His stomach was sick and every limb felt like gelatin as he crawled out of bed and got dressed, pulling on a protective underlayer his father swore was flame resistant, which he was to have on under his clothes. He flexed his fingers in the tight dragon hide gloves as he pulled them tight and tied them off at the wrist.

Aleksander stood on the dock of the Durmstrang ship when Viktor stepped out of his room. He stared at Viktor with a look stuck somewhere between terror and regret. The boy looked around, making sure they were alone on the deck, then took the five steps separating the pair of them and pressed a medallion on a chain into Krum's palm.

Viktor turned the medallion over and found the likeness of Saint George the dragon slayer pressed into the silver.

Aleksander stared into Viktor's eyes.

Viktor put the necklace on, his gaze never leaving Aleksander's as he fastened the clasp at the nape of his neck, the valiant saint's medallion falling against his chest, still warm from being clutched in Aleksander's fist.

"Thank you," Krum murmured.

Aleksander nodded. "Just don't be killed or any other thing of that sort," he said quietly, a weight to his voice that Viktor could feel compressing his chest. "Please."

The last word was desperate.

"I will do my best," Krum answered.

Aleksander stepped back, allowing Viktor to pass by. Viktor walked to the bridge that slanted down to the grounds of the school, and paused, hands resting on the wooden walls of the ship on either side of the plank door, and he looked down at his chest, at the silver metal catching the grim early morning light. As he stared at it, a mist shimmered over the grounds, making the lake sing, and Viktor turned around. "Aleksander," he said.

But Aleksander was gone.

Viktor felt a lump rise up in his throat. He shook his head, turning and trotting quickly down the plank without pause.

Fleur Delacour's hands shook as she braided her hair, staring into her own eyes in the mirror over her vanity table. She breathed slowly, counting between inhale and exhale in an attempt to soothe the nerves channeling through her.

Un... deux... trois... quatre... cinq...

She wove a ribbon through the strands. Her sister had given it to her. For good luck. Her sister who did not know there were dragons waiting for her. Her sister who didn't realize Fleur could die in the task.

Un... deux... trois... quatre... cinq...

Fleur had practiced gymnastics for many years, since she was a child, and she had dreamed of this tournament being similar to the muggle Olympics. A showcase of the strength and talents of well-practiced champions.

It wasn't.

These expectations were higher than she'd ever dreamed they could be.

Un... deux... trois... quatre... cinq....

"Fleur?"

Her father's voice came through the door. "Come in papa," she called. 

The door opened and her father came inside. His face was worn with lines he didn't have when she was a little girl, but the feeling of relief that flooded over her then was just as strong as it had been back then. She leaped from her stool and threw herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck, choking back emotions that she'd been suppressing with her breathing exercises. He squeezed her tight and rubbed her back, his palms splayed between her shoulders.