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”Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.”
- Lord Voldemort
*
October 30th
The arrival of the groups from Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang Institute had caused a flurry of activity and interest amongst the Hogwarts students—but the reactions from the various years and Houses had been something that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Peter Hale, had been anticipating for days, for weeks: honestly, ever since the Triwizard Tournament had officially been announced by the Headmistress.
The man leaned his forearms against the parapet that circled the balcony on the school’s fourth floor, glad to have been able to bow out of helping with the students for the other schools’ arrivals. Excitement and trepidation both flavored the air, turning it sour, and Peter could hear the whispers from the students loud and clear even all the way up here. It was enough that the ‘wolf had been tempted to take a sabbatical year away, but McGonagall had somehow managed to stare him down when he had initially brought it up and had convinced Peter to stay.
Needless to say, the blue-eyed professor was regretting that particular capitulation.
Setting aside his annoyance, Peter shifted his attention towards Beauxbatons’ arrival: the carriage had just cleared the rippling green expanse of the Forbidden Forest, and the students that hadn’t attended Hogwarts during the last Triwizard Tournament gasped in awe, eyes wide as the powder-blue carriage bounced once—twice—as it slowed to a stop on the lawn that had been cleared for its runway. The winged Abraxans stomped their hooves, wild-eyed and snorting fire and jerking at the reins as the herd immediately tried to break free from their confines now that they had finally landed.
Peter snorted, not at all envying the job in store for the current Magical Creatures professor.
“Look! The lake!” one of the students suddenly shouted—one of Peter’s third year Hufflepuffs, if he wasn’t mistaken—and the student body almost immediately shifted their attention towards the now-bubbling and boiling Black Lake. It was a sight that the ‘wolf had seen several times already, but there was still something almost awe-inspiring as the Durmstrang ship suddenly erupted up from the murky depths—masts breaking the surface first, then the empty deck, but soon enough followed by the remainder of the haunted ship.
The international magical community certainly knew how to make an entrance—but, then again, this was perhaps the first interaction that many of the students would have with one another and intimidation was still a valid weapon to be wielded in the pseudo war ahead. All’s fair in love and war, indeed.
The professor snorted silently to himself as he watched the various students disembark from either the carriage or the ship. They tended to group around one or two students in each enclave; like Hogwarts, there was an expectation that a certain student would be picked by the Cup. For the Beauxbatons group, it seemed to come down to a choice of three students—two girls and a boy. The Durmstrang assemblage seemed to believe that their school’s Champion would be a wavy-haired boy with a crooked jawline and equally crooked smile. Nearly the entirety of the group trailed after the teen, begging at his heels like an eager pile of puppies: eager for the attention and the prestige that came with associating with the boy.
One Seventh Year trailed along at the back of the pack, however; pale, mole-kissed, and lanky—but the thing that caught Peter’s attention was the fact that the other teen made no effort in gaining the ringleader’s attention, content with being left behind.
The contrast between the others and this sole student was enough to catch and hold Peter’s attention. He rumbled to himself in interest, curiosity piqued for the first time this year, and leaned further across the safety that the parapets offered.
As if feeling the weight of the professor’s gaze, the teen glanced upwards and sunlight-warmed amber met icy blue.
*
If anything, Peter’s interest spiked higher still.
The teen remained on the outskirts of the Durmstrang group, trickling along behind everyone else as the Easter European magical institute put on their demonstration for the rest of the Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students. He sat nearest the Slytherin students as the foreign students made their new home at the House table, never once glancing towards the others.
Overlooked, pushed out, lingering on the outskirts: an omega among his peers.
And yet…
The ‘wolf continued watching the teens from the corner of his eyes, making his way through the several cups of tea and the plate of food that comprised Peter’s dinner. And yet: it was still too early to tell, but from the little the professor had observed, Peter didn’t think that it was an omega that the others had pushed aside.
Not from the small use of wandless magic that the others hadn’t noticed.
Not from the sharp-tongued replies dished out when the sharks had congregated at the apparent scent of blood in the water.
Not from the aristocratic tilt of the boy’s chin to the heavy-lidded, contemplating glance he tossed the Cup’s way when the Headmistress finally stood and revealed it to the faculty and students gathered together in the Great Hall.
There was something dark and dangerous that lay buried within the boy’s magic, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder when this particular wolf would discard his sheep’s clothing.
*
Two a.m. and the castle was quiet, students and staff alike slumbering away in their beds—tucked away and safe from the world at large, though some were also caught up in dreams of glory and gold and the promise of tomorrow.
It was Peter’s favorite time to wander through the school, steps predatory-soft as he made his way along corridors and down moving staircases. The world may lay sleeping, but this was the ‘wolf’s preferred time to range throughout the school. Instincts had claimed the castle as his territory and the professor had long ago given to the habit of patrolling along the seemingly-empty halls long after the prefects and other professors had found their beds.
It was routine and soothing both to Peter Hale, everything as expected and the silence stretching far and wide and filling up the empty spaces that overflowed with chattering students during daylight hours—
Except for the soft scuffing of a boot against the stone floor, the sound coming from the castle’s trophy room.
As Peter stepped, wolf-silent and stalking, into the large room, the professor was both surprised and not to find who it was that was out after curfew.
Unphased at being caught out of bed, the teen that Peter had spent the majority of dinner watched spared the professor a brief glance over the curve of a shoulder before turning his attention back to the various awards that had hung on the wall for decades.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Peter murmured as he made his way closer to the too-still boy. “It’s a big day tomorrow, what with the Champion selections.”
The teen hummed, shifting his weight from foot to foot before settling quietly once more. “Is it? Everyone’s expecting Scott to be picked by the Cup, so it shouldn’t really matter if I get a full night’s rest or not.”
“Then there’s still the fact that you’re breaking school rules in being out of bed after curfew, dear boy,” the ‘wolf purred out, predatorily intent as his eyes flashed neon. “What reasoning will you offer up for that particular bit of disobedience?”
The amber-eyed boy quirked a small, knowing smile at the professor’s inquiry and returned his gaze to the award-strewn wall. His eyes never settled on any specific one for long, however, so Peter could never figure out which plaque had drawn the Durmstrang student to this lonely, out of the way room. “My grandfather attended Hogwarts for his schooling. I never met him, so I admit that I was feeling a bit… nostalgic.” The boy’s smile deepened and he turned on a heel to offer Peter a slight, almost mocking bow. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, Professor. I’ll see myself back to the ship.”
He left then, steps as silent as Peter’s own, and the ‘wolf turned a contemplative gaze towards the trophy wall—wondering, absently, which one it was that the boy had been staring at before the professor had made his presence known.
*
The Great Hall was filled with chattering, over exuberant students: the stink of adrenaline and excitement mixed with the overwhelmingly sugary scent of the offerings spread out over the House tables. Halloween and the start of the Triwizard Tournament, the Headmistress firm in holding to tradition no matter the commentary Peter had offered up when the event had originally been brought up in discussion.
The professor’s attention drifted towards the teen he’d met the night before, watching how he ate at his plate of food with almost mechanical efficiency while ignoring the excited chattering that went on around him. Not without being affected, however: Peter could see how the teen’s jawline clenched and flexed at one particular comment from the boy that the rest of the Durmstrang body believed to be their Champion.
Eventually, however—
The Cup flared brighter still, lighting the Great Hall with a wavering, ghostly flame. The students from all three schools gasped in both surprise and awe, and Headmistress McGonagall required no action on her part to get the children to quiet.
A pin could drop and the student body would have been able to hear it ring loud and clear.
“And now, the selections for our esteemed Champions,” the Headmistress begin, grim smile curling her lips upwards as the Cup burned higher still—filling the Hall with whispers that seemed to echo with the names of the students who’d submitted their entries to the Cup, hoping to be picked: the cream of the crop amongst their peers.
The first slip of paper shot into the air, and the elderly witch snatched it from the air with a Seeker’s unnerving accuracy. “The Champion for Durmstrang Institute is… Mieczysław—“
McGonagall gasped and dropped the ragged piece of paper as if it was on fire as the color bled steadily from her face; she reached out to steady herself against the faculty table at her back, wide eyes lifting to glance towards the students from the Dark magic school. “Mieczysław… Mieczysław Slytherin.”
The ‘wolf’s boy smiled.
*
Peter’s eyes widened, fingers curling tight to hide the claws that now tipped his fingers, and drowned out the roaring of staff and student alike as the ‘wolf recalled one specific award amongst the others that the boy had been staring at the night before—
Awarded to
Tom Riddle
For Special Services to the School
June 13, 1943
::end::