Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane watches the Durmstrang boat rise from the lake with undisguised hatred.

He wants to drown every single one of them—it's because of them that he doesn't get a Quidditch season. 

"Dude," Hayden says, swapping his yellow scarf tighter around himself. "You're gonna burst a vein. Relax." Hayden should know better than to tell Shane that. It's cold for late October, but Shane's letting the chill freeze him from the inside out. It's the 30th, which should mean the start of the Quidditch season, but instead, the ministry had decided to be fucking original and bring back a death tournament. 

("It's not a death tournament." J.J. had complained to him the first time Shane had told him that.

"Yeah, it's not like the deaths literally were the reason it was cancelled." Shane had argued back as they'd left the Great Hall, Dumbledore's 'painful duty to inform you the inter-house Quidditch Cup will not take place this year' echoing in his ears. It's still echoing now.)

Shane knows he's being overly bitter about it, but who can blame him? He'd signed with the Haileybury Hammers in Ontario last spring and had agreed to defer it a year when he'd received the news he was to be Head Boy and Slytherin Quidditch Captain. Now he's only Head Boy.

Not only that, but by being a Slytherin, the Gryffindors are making it their mission to be absolute assholes to him. Shane had already had to defuse four different traps in the Slytherin dormitories, including two in the first years' dorm. Shane had learned from his first year that Slytherins and Gryffindors have this whole rivalry, but he frankly thinks it's stupid. Both houses have arrogant hotheads that like fighting. It seems inevitable. 

Perhaps it's because Shane and his parents had only moved to England when Shane was ten because Hogwarts has much better pre-professional Quidditch teams that Shane doesn't get the culture. 

Either way though, it's these dozens of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students (as well as the Hogwarts ones) that want a death tournament keeping Shane from Quidditch. 

The boat moors and there's the thunk of a plank as it descends from the depths. People start disembarking; Shane can see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship’s portholes. All of them, he notices, seem to have a beater's build, sturdy and thick, but as the group moves closer, he sees that their bulk was really because they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. The man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

"Dumbledore!” The Durmstrung headmaster calls heartily as he walks up the slope, the rest of them following like sheep. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replies but whatever else is said is lost on Shane's ears as right then, Shane makes eye contact with Durmstrang's second-in-command. 

Ilya fucking Rozanov stares back at him. 

And winks. 

The girl in front of Shane squeals like it had been directed to her, but Shane knows Rozanov too well from the one time they'd played each other in the 17-and-unders last year. Or rather, Shane knows him as the chaser that kept Team Canada from winning the junior 17-and-under league last year. 

Ilya fucking Rozanov only winks at people he wants to piss off.

Shane is so, so fucked.

|~|~|

"Head up, shoulders back! We're almost there!" Karkaroff barks as Ilya watches the sea move above them. Poliakoff gulps and leans slightly into Ilya's side. Despite himself, Ilya lets him. Poliakoff is blind in one eye, which basically automatically disqualifies him from cup potential, but Durmstrang doesn't care about that. 

What they care about is Krum representing them. 

"Remember what we practiced!" Karkaroff continues to bark as the water spins above them. "The boat will rise, we will dock, and then Viktor and I will debark. Then, Rozanov and Vinogradova, and the rest will follow behind them. You will be hot, but you will be fine. Keep your furs on; we need a good impression." Ilya exchanges a look of abhorrence with Nastasya Vinogradova, who shrugs. They're the heads of Durmstrang, even if Durmstrang doesn't use those terms. If it wasn't for Viktor, they'd probably be the top options in the running. 

If Ilya was a different man, perhaps he'd be angry at Viktor, but he's not. Because of Viktor, Ilya has a whole extra school year to drink and fuck and barely study. He'll be starting with Montrose (probably. He has multiple contracts to review but Montrose is the best of the teams) next fall anyway, so grades don't matter, and because Ilya had agreed to come back to Durmstrang for one more year to be a fake potential for the tournament, he is paying nothing for it and getting a monthly stipend. 

The boat lurches to the right and everyone except him, Viktor, and Nastasya fall. Ilya smirks.

Broom legs. 

The water bubble they're in splits and Ilya sucks in a breath seeing the stars again. He kisses his crucifix once, then tucks it beneath his robes. At Hogwarts, he will have no one: no Sveta as she is working already, no Sasha as he didn't need the money rich bastard, no Alexei or Papa though he'd barely spoken to either of them in a year. He's already been told not to associate with the others from Durmstrang too. 

("This is a chance for us to change our reputation! I want you to go make friends, make connections. Do not let them see us as brutes Ilyusha." )

Ilya will be totally alone, but at least he is not the only one in that boat. 

The lake water sloughs off the hull in sheets as the ship rises, as if Hogwarts itself is reluctant to let them breathe or even accept them on their shores. Cold air hits Ilya’s face—damp, sharp, smelling like stone and moss and something sweet underneath, like the castle is trying to pretend its innocence. The shoreline is a smear of dark trees puncturing the darker sky. Above it all, the silhouette of Hogwarts sits like a jaw full of teeth, windows glowing in uneven clusters.

It doesn’t look real.

The ship nudges into the shore with a soft shudder and Ilya watches as the plank is thrown down. Karkaroff fixes his fur collar one final time. Viktor doesn’t. Viktor, instead, stands at the prow with that quiet patience he's had since he was a child, hands loose at his sides, expression blank in the way that makes people project whatever fear or awe they want onto him.

Karkaroff steps onto the dock first, all theatrical dignity, and Viktor follows. Then Ilya and Nastasya, because that’s the order. Not because Karkaroff says so—Karkaroff can bark himself hoarse—but because Durmstrang likes hierarchy and Ilya is, whether he wants to be or not, the top rung that isn’t already occupied by a world-famous Seeker.

Poliakoff and Katarina come after, swallowing hard. Poliakoff's good eye is wide and searching.

Ilya elbows him lightly. “Head up,” he murmurs, softer than Karkaroff’s shouting. “You look like you going to faint.”

“Am not,” Poliakoff whispers back, offended. None of them have perfect English. In fact, out of all of them, Ilya probably has the best, which is another reason he's been shoved into the spotlight. Ilya had studied English all summer with Svetlana in Boston, but he hadn't thought it had helped him in comparison to her native fluency until he went back to Durmstrang. 

“Then don't,” Ilya replies, which in Durmstrang counts as encouragement.

"Dumbledore!" Headmaster Karkaroff calls heartily, as he walks up the slope, the rest following him. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?" Dumbledore, an impossibly old man with more white hair than Ilya has ever seen on a person, steps forward. He walks with confidence and a certain lightness unfitting of his age. His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse, but strong.

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore replies. He says nothing else, letting the whispers of the Hogwarts students fill the air. Ilya looks around, assessing them. They're all huddled upshore at the castle's entrance, staring down, giving Hogwarts the impression of a gaping mouth full of people. Ilya feels a smirk crawling up his face.

"Dear old Hogwarts," Headmaster Karkaroff continues, looking up at the castle and smiling. "It's been a while since I've been here." That's the code and like they practiced, Viktor steps forward. Karkaroff continues. "How good it is to be here, how good ... Viktor, come along, into the warmth ... you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold ..." Viktor has no such cold, but they needed a reason to show him off. 

Ilya's a little sad his suggestion that Viktor had caught a horrific case of mumblemumps on his ass had been rejected. 

They move as a unit up the path, listening to all the students tweet like birds around them. The Hogwarts grounds are too open. Durmstrang is stone corridors and iron habits, corners you can check, walls you can press your back to if you have to. Here, everything is wide and rolling, the dark stretching out like a hand waiting to grab your ankle.

And then the castle doors swing wide and Hogwarts swallows them whole.

Warmth hits first, the heat from a hundred candles, from bodies, from food. Then sound. A wave of it rolls out, crashing into Ilya's ears: chatter, laughter, the scrape of cutlery. Ilya’s boots echo on the flagstones. Hogwarts students stare like they’re watching aliens, and maybe to them, it feels like they are. Durmstrang is a rumor to most of them after all. If the jokes Sveta told him are true, to these students, Durmstrang is the story parents tell their children about bad manners and darker magic.

Ilya lets them look. He looks forward to breaking every one of their expectations. 

The Great Hall opens up and it’s…ridiculous. An objectively small hall with floating candles and a ceiling bewitched to show the sky awkwardly welcomes them, in a similar manner to when a party of ten enters a small restaurant. The scale of it makes Durmstrang’s feasting hall look as wide as the sea. It's multiple degrees warmer inside simply due to the bodies and Ilya curses under his breath as sweat continues to pill at his armpits and crouch in the heat. There are four long tables, each marked by color and banner and the kind of house pride that makes Ilya’s teeth itch. Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. How descriptive. At the front is the staff table where Headmaster Dumbledore sits like a bright bird on a perch, Headmaster Karkaroff is preening, Headmistress Maxime is towering, and beside them, there's the assortment of Hogwarts professors that look like they were built with a lack of strictness from the designer.

Then Ilya spots him.

Hollander.

He isn’t at the professor's table, of course, though Ilya could picture him there with a face like that, a face so controlled, so severe, so aware of being watched. He is wearing green robes, sitting at the green table. A badge catches candlelight on his chest. Head Boy, Ilya remembers reading from that crappy drama magazine Katarina always has imported from London. Useful now!

Hollander's not pretty in the soft way Hogwarts boys tend to be. There’s something honed about him, like a blade kept clean on purpose. Ilya remembers seeing him fly in the junior leagues, how he'd fought Poliakoff so harshly, but never cruelly, no matter what anyone had chirped at him. Boring Hollander who is signed to the Hammers, the magazine's whisper.

Ilya’s lips twitch.

Karkaroff gestures them forward with a flourish, like he’s presenting them to an audience that doesn’t deserve them. “Durmstrang will sit,” he says loudly, and the noise dips—just enough to prove Hogwarts can hush when it wants to.

There's not a designated table for them, but that leaves a different problem: wherever they sit will say something about them, even if Ilya does not know or care about the meanings of the houses. Ilya looks at the tables the way he looks at a room before he enters: exits, sight lines, who can reach for a wand first. He looks carefully for the one that would make Nastasya feel safe, Viktor relaxed, and him happy. They are wearing red robes beneath the furs so, like Beauxbatons, they could sit with the red table. Ilya doesn't want to though because the red table feels too exposed and too many of them are staring hungrily at Viktor. The green table, with Hollander, is against the wall. If you sit there, your back is protected. You can see the entire hall. You can watch the doors. You can watch the staff.

He could sit and learn who Hollander is.

Ilya makes his decision. He lifts a hand— a small, subtle Durmstrang signal—and the students behind him follow the motion automatically. Viktor glances at Ilya once, a silent question.

“Green,” Ilya says quietly.

Viktor’s mouth barely shifts. Agreement, if not trust. Ilya's one of the few people Viktor trusts, which Ilya knows not to keep for granted, as Ilya is one of only five people Viktor trusts outside of his team. Viktor never told him that, but Ilya has eyes.

They move as one unit, boots thudding and furs brushing benches. Hogwarts students track them with their eyes like they’re counting knives.

As they near the green table, the students there go taut, as if Durmstrang is a storm cloud drifting into their weather. A blond boy—Malfoy, Ilya thinks, because he remembers the families his father knew during the war—sits up straighter, smirking already like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. Ilya ignores him. If he's a Quidditch fan and Ilya bets he is because everyone should be, he'll be Viktor's problem and given how Viktor glares at Ilya, he knows it. Ha. His funeral. Ilya is here to party and fuck and relax before he works til he dies and that doesn't include looking out for Viktor's feelings (much.)

Hollander looks up as Durmstrang approaches, face unreadable. His eyes flick over Viktor with recognition, then over Ilya, and Ilya sees the briefest furrowing of his brows. Curiosity, he hopes, because Ilya has curiosity about him. The green students all scoot, leaving space at the table for them to sit as the twelve person unit they are. Still, Ilya stops at the edge of the bench instead of sliding in. A show of manners.

“Hello,” he says. “Can we sit?" He gestures with his hand, directly to the empty seat next to Hollander. It's the seat with his back facing everyone, which means other more scared people like Poliakoff don't have to sit there.

Hollander’s gaze drops to Ilya’s hand, then back to Ilya’s face. The pause is half a second too long for politeness, which means Hollander is thinking. Always thinking. Then Hollander nods.

“Of course. Please." Hollander replies, and his accent makes Ilya raise an eyebrow — it's not the traditional British prose, but Canadian, with a specific twang that settles hot in Ilya's gut. Up closer, Ilya can see Hollander's got freckles painted across his cheeks and nose. Fuck. Ilya's a slut for anyone with freckles.

“Okay,” Ilya says, and slides onto the bench with deliberate ease. The rest of Durmstrang fills in around him. Nastasya sits to Ilya’s other side, posture impeccable. Poliakoff wedges beside Viktor with visible relief, because Viktor’s presence steadies people the way walls do. Viktor got stuck sitting across from Malfoy to Ilya's delight. Viktor always gets so embarrassed when he has to talk to fans for more than the five seconds needed for an autograph. 

Hollander watches Durmstrang arrange themselves, and Ilya watches Hollander watch. Across the hall, murmurs swell. Words drift like smoke: Krum… Durmstrang… champion…

Durmstrang isn’t supposed to have a champion, officially. That’s what the official rules say, because the Goblet is meant to choose one from each school and yada yada.

That said, Durmstrang doesn’t do “official” the way others do. Durmstrang does what works for them. Everyone who came on the ship knows it already: Viktor is their champion. Not because the Goblet says so yet—though Ilya knows it will—but because Durmstrang has decided it. The rest of them will be putting Viktor’s name down on the paper they are given, because if 1/12 odds for Viktor to be chosen are good, 12/12 odds is better. It is the common goal of all Durmstrang students to make fate work for them, not against them.

Ilya leans back slightly, comfortable, and lets his gaze sweep the hall again. No one is really of interest here, but many people he'd love to learn about. Hollander's eyes haven't left him. 

Then, "I'm uh, Shane Hollander. I'm Head Boy.” By sitting next to each other, Ilya can see how focused Shane's eyes are on his empty plate. He wants those eyes on him. He wants that attention on him. 

Ilya’s smile is small, smug. “I know.”

Hollander’s eyes narrow slightly and he twists to look more at Ilya. “Do you.”

“I read Quidditch magazine,” Ilya says, like it’s obvious. “It was big deal that you signed to the Hammers, but did not join them immediately. You are… how you say…everyone’s favorite problem.”

A flicker—annoyance, maybe, or reluctant amusement—crosses Hollander’s face and is gone. “Shut up.”

Ilya mimics locking his lips with a key, which makes Hollander narrow his eyes more. He smirks. Svetlana had taught him that expression, along with 90% of his English. 

Food begins appearing—platters and bowls piled high with food, making Ilya raise his eyebrows.

"Хогвартс хвастается своими достижениями." (Hogwarts is showing off for us) Ilya says, making the rest of Durmstrang laugh. Even Viktor gives a small smile which is good enough for Ilya, for now. It has been hours since they ate before the boat so Ilya eats like a pig and the food mostly isn't terrible. They do at least have some Slavic dishes between the English slop: bowls of Borscht and goulash, plates of vareniki and sarma, and platters of carbs. Ilya is in the middle of stroganoff when there's a tap on his shoulder. 

Ilya turns, then cackles.

"Marleau!" Cliff Marleau, American-French, one of the few players that was actually good from Ilya's junior league, stands behind him in the blue silk Beauxbatons robes, complete with the stupid little hat. He looks ridiculous...and freezing. 

"Ты ублюдок, you did not say!" (You bastard) Ilya laughs, pushing himself up and pulling him into a hug. "You look...like butterfly, so pretty." 

"Eat shit, Rozy." Marleau laughs. "I'm shocked Durmstrang thought you were one of the best they had to offer." 

"Motherfucker, I am surprised is you! You can not even read." Ilya laughs, pushing Marleau back, and looking at him properly. Stupid Hogwarts and their terrible heating: Marleau is freezing. Ilya pulls off his ushanka and shoves it on Marleau's head, right over that stupid useless hat before shrugging off his furs and putting it over Marleau's shoulders too. The fact Marleau barely protests says everything - fucker must have been frozen solid. He's proud to see his furs prove he is still taller and studier than Marleau ever had a chance of being. 

"Delicate thing." Ilya teases before turning back to the table. "Hollander, this is..." 

"Cliff Marleau." Hollander finishes. "Yeah, you played in the American 15-and-unders right? I remember you - you're a hell of a beater. Do you have a team?" Marleau relaxes from where he'd tensed at Ilya's introduction. 

"Thanks man," Marleau says. "You're...Shane Hollander right? You're joining the Hammers?" Hollander nods. "Then you'll be seeing me around. I joined the Meteorites." Shane lets out a laugh.

"You're subjecting yourself to Saskatchewan, man?" 

"I'm subjecting myself to a six figure pay check Hollander, don't get up my ass." 

"Oh yeah? Hammers are paying me—"

"—Okay, shoo." Ilya interrupts, getting a little fed up of Hollander being happy with Cliff and not him. Marleau thankfully doesn't seem to care much, punching Ilya on the shoulder one last time before standing to leave. 

"We'll talk more about Canada later then, Hollander. See you around, Rosy!" He calls.

"Fuck off, Marleau! That’s not my name!" Ilya yells in response, ignoring the glare he gets from some random blue robe wearing person, laughing as Marleau bows to him. 

Hollander is still looking at him with careful eyes as Marleau leaves. His voice drops, aimed at Ilya and only Ilya. “Right. So. Uh, you chose this table because of the wall, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says easily.

“No other reason?”

Ilya turns his head just enough to meet Hollander’s eyes. Candlelight gilds the edges of Hollander’s face. Close up, he looks even more severe. Even more…tempting, in that frustrating way.

“I just liked this location the most,” Ilya lies. Nothing about the company. 

Hollander’s mouth tightens like he wants to laugh and refuses to. “Right.”

Ilya lets his knee shift, brushing Hollander’s under the table—accidental if anyone asks, deliberate because Ilya is not a coward. Hollander goes still for the smallest moment, a tell no one else would catch. Emboldened, Ilya lets his hand move, casually, resting on the bench near Hollander's thing. Not touching. He moves it closer. Now it is not not touching.

Hollander jerks his leg back. "Fuck off." He whispers. Ilya narrows his eyes - had he misjudged? That is rare for him. Then,

"Not here." Hollander adds.

Ilya’s pulse kicks, pleased. Not here is not a no. 

At the staff table, Ilya watches as Dumbledore moves to stand. Ilya tilts his head and the rest of the Durmstrang students settle into silence—automatic discipline—before the rest of the students realize what is happening. Nastasya’s gaze sharpens at the staff table. Poliakoff fidgets, stopping when Ilya’s foot nudges his: control yourself.

Hollander glances along the row of Durmstrang faces and then, begrudgingly, back to Ilya. “They listen to you,” he says.

“They are not idiots,” Ilya replies. “They know who keeps them alive, and who has best vodka.”

Hollander’s eyes flick to Ilya’s throat, where the chain of Ilya’s crucifix disappears into his robes. Then back to Ilya’s face. “And who keeps you alive?”

Ilya’s smile is slow. “Me.”

Hollander’s expression flickers into something irritated and faintly impressed.

"The moment has come,” says Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.” There is polite applause. 

Dumbledore drones on about the tournament and Ilya tunes it out. He knows all this already and it does not matter as he is not competing anyway. Instead, he leans close, voice low enough that it doesn’t travel. “After dinner,” he says, as if discussing patrol schedules. “You show me the grounds. Where the ship is, where the lake is. You are Head Boy. You know paths, yes?”

Hollander’s eyes sharpen. “That’s not—”

“A request,” Ilya finishes, bland. Polite. “From Durmstrang leader to Hogwarts leader. Very proper.”

Hollander looks like he hates that Ilya is framing it like duty.

Hollander looks like he hates that duty is the easiest excuse in the world.

Finally Hollander says, clipped, “Fine. Meet me at the shore at 9:30.”

Ilya’s grin flashes, quick and satisfied.

"Are you going for this?" Ilya adds, nodding his head to Dumbledore. 

"Are you?" 

"Of course." Ilya lies. 

"Me too." Hollander says. Ilya's eyebrows rise. Hollander is a terrible liar. What a pleasant surprise.

|~|~|

"What do you mean you're not submitting your name?!" Rose snaps. "You're kidding me Shane, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" They're in the Slytherin dorms, Rose sprawled out on Shane's bed, red hair matching the green perfectly. The colors are the reason Rose always gives when asked why she, a muggle-born, was sorted into Slytherin. As she explains, she looks horrible in Hufflepuff's yellow, her hair is already Gryffindor red, and she doesn't care enough to be smart for Ravenclaw so that left the hat with only one option. 

Shane also thinks the fact she's got five movie deals lined up is enough to land her in Slytherin too, but she didn't ask him. 

"Seriously, you should do it." Rose continues. "I would do it if I was a seventh year." 

"Wouldn't your movie deals stop you?" 

"Eh." Rose says, twisting til she's on her stomach. "I wouldn't care. I'd lose a movie for the Triwizard Tournament." She swoons as she says the name, like it's a man she was in love with. Shane shrugs off his shirt, stomach twisting. Thanks to the cup, his damn schedule is broken. Since his second year, outside of practice, he'd always flown at sunrise and at 10pm to train his eyes to sun glare and the dark. Professional games often last long enough that it's night by the time it ends, and the last thing the Hammers need is a rookie who can't fly in the dark. Hayden says he's slightly obsessive, but he'll be playing for Puddlemore United and Shane'll be playing for the top team in the Americas so really, Shane just has the better approach.

Shane's packing his gear: helmet (he's been hit in the head one too many times to fly without it), mouthguard, knee pads, shin guards (he got these from Flint last year, they're nicer than he can afford frankly), kit, and his broom Voyager. He's had it since he was a boy back in Ottawa. Even when Malfoy bought new brooms for the team two years ago, Shane had refused to switch over. He knows this broom, even if it's slower than the newest models.

"Hey," Rose says, blinking. "Where are you going? There's no Quidditch anymore, is there?" 

"Patrol." Shane lies. "Then maybe for a fly later." 

One of the good things about being head boy is the patrols. 

Or rather, how no one patrols after them. He'll give Rozanov his stupid tour (he still can't believe he agreed to it), then fly for an hour. It's not proper Quidditch by yourself, but at least it's something.

"Have fun," Rose calls after him and Shane flushes despite himself.

He better not.

|~|~|

Ilya’s waiting in the cold when Hollander finally appears, a little pink on his cheeks from the bite in the air. He’s bundled up, scarf wound tight, hair damp at the edges from where it’s met fog. Over one shoulder hangs a larger Quidditch bag—professional-grade, the kind with reinforced straps and a stitched panel that’s been repaired twice instead of replaced.

As if Ilya wouldn’t notice.

“Wow,” Ilya says, letting his gaze drop deliberately to the bag. “You play?”

Hollander scowls, then rolls his eyes.

“I don’t have to do this,” Hollander mutters. “I could leave you here.” Here is the slope that leads down toward the black shine of the lake, where the wind comes off the water like it’s got a personal grudge. Somewhere behind Ilya, the boathouse creaks. Somewhere above them, Hogwarts glows warm and golden, oblivious.

“You will not, though?” Ilya asks, pitching it like a question and a dare at the same time.

Hollander exhales low through his nose. It’s almost a laugh if you’re generous, or a warning if you’re smart. Ilya's many things, but he's never claimed he's that.

“Sure,” he says.

Hollander starts walking without waiting, boots sure on the half-frozen path. Ilya falls in beside him because letting Hollander lead is part of the game, and because there’s something entertaining about watching someone try to pretend they aren’t aware of every inch of space between them.

Hollander’s shoulder brushes his once as they round a bend—accidental in the way a Bludger is accidental.

“You’re late,” Ilya remarks.

“I’m Head Boy,” Hollander replies without looking at him. “I have responsibilities.”

“Like giving private tours to Durmstrang boys in the middle of the evening?”

Hollander’s jaw works once, like he’s chewing the response into something he can swallow. “Like making sure guest students don’t get themselves killed doing something stupid.”

Ilya hums. “So this is not a date.”

Hollander stops so abruptly that Ilya nearly walks into him. They’re close enough that Ilya can see the faint freckles across Hollander’s nose—they're fucking pornographic framed by Hollander's blush.

“It is absolutely not a date, Rozanov.” Hollander snaps. The way Hollander says his name is oddly careful, as if he’s placing it down like a piece on a chessboard. The tone isn't affectionate nor hostile. It's not neutral, either.

Ilya tips his head. “You are disappointed.”

“I’m cold,” Hollander snaps, and resumes walking. “Try to keep up.”

Ilya smiles into the dark.

The castle pulls them in like it’s breathing—stone and torchlight and that old, living magic that settles in the bones. The Entrance Hall is empty now, banners stilled, the air smelling faintly of wax and polish and something sweet lingering from the Great Hall's dessert. Footsteps echo too loudly, so Hollander keeps to the edge of the hall as if he can command silence by proximity alone.

“Rules,” Hollander says, voice pitched down automatically. “Don’t touch anything that looks like it wants to touch you back. Don’t talk to portraits unless I’m there. Don’t wander off.”

Ilya glances at him. “You are worried I will wander.”

Hollander’s eyes flick, quick and irritated. “It's easy to get lost here.”

“That is not an answer.”

“That's the entire answer.”

They pass the hourglasses for House points—glittering rubies, emeralds, sapphires—and Ilya notes, with some satisfaction, that Slytherin’s is the highest. He'd learned the houses during dinner, but he's content to forget them again. That being said, Durmstrang is sitting at the Slytherin green table so Ilya will cheer for them and for Hollander. Hollander doesn’t look at the display but his posture shifts, just a fraction, like he’s resisting the urge to straighten it further.

“Proud?” Ilya asks.

“I’m responsible,” Hollander says.

“You are responsible for everything,” Ilya decides. “Even the stones.”

“Someone has to be.”

There’s a strange little pause in the air after that, one that lands between them like a quiet confession. Hollander’s mouth tightens again as if he regrets it. Ilya feels an unexpected pull in his chest, like someone tugged a thread he didn’t realize was there.

They move into the Great Hall. It’s dim now, long tables cleared, candles floating lower and fewer, their flames small and sleepy. The ceiling is ink-black scattered with stars. From the dais, the staff table sits empty and watchful. Ilya walks slowly, letting his boots thud a bit on purpose. He wants Hollander to react, especially because Hollander is trying so hard not to. His jaw is dead-locked with tension.

“This is it?” Ilya says, blandly unimpressed. “It is…small.” It does seem smaller without all the students.

Hollander shoots him a look so flat it could slice. “It’s a thousand years old.”

“In Durmstrang, our halls are older.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am not,” Ilya corrects, letting the words curl like smoke. “Or maybe I am. You will never know.”

Hollander makes a sound that might be a scoff if it weren’t so controlled. He walks past Ilya, heading toward one of the side doors, and Ilya follows—not because Hollander told him to keep up, but because the alternative is letting Hollander get away with having the last word. As they cross the space between tables, Ilya’s shoulder brushes the edge of Hollander’s cloak. Hollander shifts automatically, making room. It’s an instinct Ilya recognizes from flying: give the other player space, but not too much. Not enough to lose them.

“You see?” Hollander says, as if continuing a conversation they never started. “No one else. Like you wanted.”

Ilya blinks, caught, and recovers by smiling. “I did not say I wanted.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Hollander pushes open the door into a corridor lined with suits of armor. Their metal faces stare blankly. One of them turns its helm slightly as they pass, and Hollander’s hand lifts without thinking, hovering just behind Ilya’s elbow.

Not touching. Not not touching.

“If they move,” Hollander says, a little too quickly, “don’t react. They like attention.”

Ilya glances down at Hollander’s hand and then up at his face. “You are brave, Hollander.”

Hollander’s ears go faintly red. “I’m tired.”

“Of me already?”

“I’ve known you for—” Hollander checks himself, as if he’s about to say two hours but realizes that would require admitting he’s been counting. “—long enough.”

Ilya laughs, quiet in the armor’s company. “You are funny when you are angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Mm.”

They take a staircase that shifts underfoot. Hollander doesn’t even flinch; he steps like he knows where the stair will land before it chooses. Ilya watches him instead of the moving stone, and it’s almost a mistake: Hollander’s eyes are forward, focused, but his awareness keeps flicking outward, checking that Ilya is still there.

It’s annoying, frankly. It’s also hot.

“How did you become Head Boy?” Ilya asks, because he wants Hollander to talk about himself. He wants to learn what the shitty gossip mags will not tell him.

Hollander doesn’t take the bait, or perhaps he does not see it. “Grades. Discipline. Not getting caught.”

“Not getting caught doing what?”

Hollander’s mouth twitches. “Late night Quidditch.”

A soft warmth sparks in Ilya at Hollander's words. A crack in the polished badge. He files it away like a stolen Snitch.

“Late night Quidditch,” Ilya repeats casually.

Hollander’s gaze slides to him. “It's not exactly recommended.”

“It is sexy though.”

That earns him a real reaction: Hollander’s breath stutters, the smallest hitch, and then he looks away like he can pretend it didn’t happen. Ilya, of course, doesn’t let it go.

“You signed with the Hammers,” Ilya adds, letting the name land heavy. “Congratulations.”

Hollander’s shoulders go rigid. “It’s not that well-known.”

Ilya lifts a brow. “It is… known though.”

Hollander gives him a look. “Is that why you wanted this tour? To pry?”

Ilya leans in slightly as the stair turns, forcing Hollander to either step back or hold his ground. Hollander holds, chin lifting. His eyes are bright in the torchlight, shimmering with something like challenge.

“I wanted,” Ilya says slowly, “to see if you are as boring in person as reputation.”

Hollander’s lips part, like he’s about to retort—and then, very quietly, he says, “And?”

Ilya holds the beat, and lets the tension stretch.

“You are worse,” he decides. "You give terrible tour."

Hollander’s laugh is a single breath. “Asshole.”

That word—asshole—shouldn’t sound like that in Hollander’s voice. It shouldn’t settle warm in Ilya’s chest. They pass through a corridor with windows overlooking the grounds. The lake is a smear of darkness, the Forbidden Forest a deeper one. Far off, the Quidditch pitch is a ring of pale goal hoops against night.

Ilya stops at the window without meaning to. The pitch is like a magnet in his bones.

Hollander notices, because of course he does.

“You want to see it,” Hollander says.

It’s not a question.

Ilya glances sideways. “No, but you will show me because you are nice.”

Hollander snorts. “Fuck off.”

They take a quicker route there—Hollander’s version of quick, which is brisk and controlled, as if running would imply panic. They slip through a side door and down a narrower stairwell that smells like old stone and winter air. Somewhere above, a portrait whispers shame in a delighted tone as they pass; Hollander ignores it so thoroughly it must be practiced.

The door to the grounds opens with a protesting groan. Cold hits Ilya’s face, immediate and invigorating. Hollander steps out first, scanning the dark the way a chaser scans the clouds: not with his eyes alone, but with his whole body.

“Here,” Hollander says, pointing, and they walk along the edge of the pitch until the towering hoops loom overhead like pale ghosts. Up close, the place feels different. Sacred. Even empty, it hums. Ilya tilts his head back, letting the height settle into him. “It is smaller than Durmstrang’s.”

“Everything is bigger in Durmstrang,” Hollander says dryly.

“Yes. Everything.”

Hollander’s head turns sharply. For a second, Ilya thinks he’s gone too far and that Hollander's going to close up and leave him here. But he doesn't. Hollander just looks at him. Really looks. His eyes flick over Ilya’s face like he’s trying to decide if Ilya is actually flirting.

Ilya meets the gaze without blinking.

Finally, Hollander exhales. “Rozanov.”

It’s a warning. It’s also… an acknowledgment. Hollander has decided Ilya is worth the effort of containing.

Ilya smiles, slow. “Hollander.”

The wind tugs at Hollander’s scarf and he reaches up to adjust it, fingers quick. The movement draws Ilya’s attention to his hands—strong, callused in the way of someone who grips broom handles and fights gravity weekly. Not soft hands. Not just a Head Boy's hands.

“You play center chaser,” Ilya says, not a question.

Hollander’s brows lift. “You do too.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Do you prefer offense or defense?”

Hollander’s mouth tightens, thoughtful. “Both.”

Ilya’s grin sharpens. “Of course.”

“And you?” Hollander asks, almost reluctant, as if his own curiosity annoys him.

Ilya considers. “Offense.”

Hollander huffs a laugh. “Of course.”

They stand there for a moment in shared understanding, an unspoken I know your type hanging between them. It should feel like rivalry. It does feel like rivalry. It also feels like something that could turn into something else if either of them took one step wrong.

“You have options,” Hollander says after a beat, eyes still on the hoops instead of Ilya. “Teams.”

It’s said lightly, but there’s a tension under it. A test. Hollander pretending he doesn’t care while measuring anyway.

Ilya’s chest warms at the challenge. He keeps his voice casual. “A few.”

“Which ones?”

Ilya turns his head, watching Hollander’s profile. “Why? Planning to recruit me to your precious Hammers?”

Hollander’s lips twitch. “We don’t need you.”

“Is that so?”

“We already have a better center.”

Ilya’s gaze sharpens immediately. “You?”

Hollander finally looks at him again, and the air shifts. “Yes,” Hollander says, confidence for the first time slipping into his tone. “Me.” 

Something about that—about the quick possession—makes Ilya's dick prick up. Ilya steps closer, just enough that their shoulders almost touch. Hollander doesn’t move away. Hollander’s pulse is visible at the side of his throat, quick and steady.

“You are lying,” Ilya says softly.

Hollander’s eyes narrow. “I'm not. You don’t know shit about how I fly.”

“I know you,” Ilya counters, and it’s ridiculous because it’s been—what, two hours?—but it lands anyway. He feels Hollander’s attention sharpen, the way a chaser's does when the quaffle is thrown.

“You know of me,” Hollander says, correcting, voice low.

Ilya tips his head, letting his breath fog between them. “And is that enough?”

Hollander’s gaze drops, very briefly, to Ilya’s mouth, then snaps back up like he hates himself for it. Chemistry is a funny thing. It doesn’t care about uniforms or schools or contracts. It doesn’t care about what words are supposed to mean. Hollander clears his throat, stepping back at last, restoring the careful distance like he’s resetting the board.

“This is the pitch,” Hollander says flatly, as if narrating a textbook. “Happy?”

Ilya lets him have the retreat—because letting Hollander think he’s in control is also part of the game.

“For now,” Ilya says. “What else?”

Hollander's brown furrows. He turns, looking back toward the castle. “Uh. The Astronomy Tower. I guess?”

Ilya’s brows lift. “Romantic.”

“Fuck off.”

“And you are saying this is not a date,” Ilya reminds him.

Hollander shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Keep talking and I’ll leave you in the owlery.”

“You will not,” Ilya says easily. "You like me too much."

Hollander’s mouth tightens like he’s trying not to smile. They climb in silence for a while, the kind of silence that isn’t absence but pressure. Ilya notices the way Hollander’s pace matches his without thinking—how Hollander slows half a step when the stairs narrow, as if instinctively shielding Ilya from the wall. To test him, Ilya lets his glove catch on a stone edge and Hollander reaches back to free it without looking, fingers brushing Ilya’s wrist for a single, electric second.

Neither of them mentions it.

At the Astronomy Tower, the world opens up. Wind sweeps clean across the parapet. The grounds stretch out in shadow and silver. The stars look close enough to steal. Hollander steps to the edge, hands braced on stone, and for a moment he looks younger—less badge, more boy. Ilya moves to stand beside him, close enough that their sleeves touch. Hollander doesn’t move away.

“This is my second favorite place,” Hollander says, tripping over his words like he's getting it out before he can stop himself. "Outside of the pitch."

The admission hangs bare.

Ilya’s chest tightens, unexpectedly gentle. He keeps his voice light anyway, because softness is dangerous and Ilya has been trained for danger. “You bring all your guests here?”

Hollander’s gaze slides to him, unimpressed. “I don’t have guests.”

Ilya smirks. “Your dates then?”

Hollander’s expression shifts like he’s about to argue—and then he doesn’t. He just looks back out at the sky, and the wind tugs at his scarf again. Ilya reaches out and catches it, flipping it back into place against Hollander's throat with a quick, neat motion. A touch that could be nothing.

Hollander stills. When he turns back, his eyes are very bright.

“Don’t,” Hollander says, voice low.

Ilya keeps his hands on the edge. He's suddenly very aware of his fingers. “Don’t what?”

Hollander’s jaw tightens. “Don’t—” He exhales, frustrated. “Don’t make this weird.”

Ilya’s smile fades into something quieter. “I thought you liked weird. Said in that article, two years ago, yes?”

Hollander looks at him for a long second, and Ilya feels it like a hand around his throat.

“I said I liked uniqueness,” Hollander finally admits, as if against his will. “In the air.”

“And on the ground?” Ilya asks.

Hollander’s gaze flicks to Ilya’s mouth again, like a bad habit.

Then, sharply, he looks away.

“That’s the tour,” Hollander says, voice rougher than before. “You’ve seen the castle. The hall. The pitch. The tower. Congratulations, Rozanov.”

Ilya leans his elbows on the stone beside him, mirroring Hollander’s posture like it’s nothing. Like he isn’t deliberately matching him.

“It is pretty,” Ilya says.

Hollander hums. “Hogwarts?”

“You,” Ilya corrects. He's flirting harder than he normally should, but he can't stop himself. Hollander's reactions are downright addictive. 

Hollander goes still again.

For a heartbeat, neither of them speaks. The wind whistles. Somewhere far below, an owl calls.

"Not much competition here though." Ilya adds and Hollander cracks, laughing again. His voice, when it comes, is quiet.

“You’re an ass.”

Ilya smiles, and this time he doesn’t hide the warmth in it. “Yes. But you like that.”

Hollander’s gaze shifts, finally meeting his. The stars barely paint his face and Ilya wants to drag him into the light. Wants to kiss him dumb. Instead of that though, Ilya lets the moment sit between them, charged and unspoken. Then, because he can’t help himself, because it’s what he does, he nudges—just a little.

“So,” Ilya says, eyes on Hollander’s face, “tonight. If I appear at the pitch at, say 11:00?”

Hollander’s mouth twitches. “I might be there,” Hollander says carefully.

Ilya tilts his head. “I might beat you.” Hollander’s eyes narrow, but there’s something bright in them now, something alive. He steps closer, just enough to reclaim space, just enough to remind Ilya that Hollander is not only discipline and duty—he’s Slytherin ambition.

“No fucking chance, Rozanov,” Hollander says.

Ilya’s grin sharpens into something delighted. “Good lie Hollander.”

|~|~|

Shane spends the next forty-five minutes walking the pitch in a frenzy. He should go. He should go, for so many reasons. He could get in trouble in so many different ways: for being out of bed, for being out of the castle, for flying, for flying at night, for inviting a guest to fly at night, for... 

By 11:00, Shane's ready to go, standing by the entrance like a dumbass. To distract himself, he starts stretching and just his luck, when he's in the middle of a forward fold, someone stands next to him, adjusting their knee pads. 

Shane looks up, then looks up more. 

Rozanov is next to him, also in standard Quidditch apparel but...no. His broom, Raider if the name Shane memorized is correct, is blackwashed wood. It's pointy and also clearly loved based on the damage in the wood. His Durmstrang uniform is skin-tight, almost see-through. It's red. Shane wants to see him in green, his green. No, not his green - just. Rozanov would look good in green. Shane doesn't look good in red.

"Ready to play?" Shane asks. 

"Want to lose?" Rozanov asks back. Now in the dark, Shane can barely see his lips and it gives his voice a stronger accent. Despite its coarseness, Shane can hear the ego in it. 

"Not a chance." Shane scoffs and Rozanov shrugs, reaching forward and grabbing the quaffle from Shane's hands. His hand lingers, just for a second. Shane's entire body jolts. "Standard 1-on-1 rules?" Standard 1-on-1 means one bludger, and no keeper or seeker. The goal is simply to get the quaffle from each other, with all hits legal. The only safety is Lumos on your wands at the front of your broom for visibility though the full moon glows bright as a bulb despite the fog.

"See you out there." Rozanov says in agreement, before flipping onto his broom and disappearing out the flap. Cold air hits Shane in the face as he leaves. He swallows, blinks, and takes a few breaths before following.

The pitch is a cold bowl, ringed on one side by the Forbidden Forest's pines. The castle gleams gold to their right, while leaves rest on the stands to the north in soft, uneven clusters. The faint moonlight makes them glow like embers. Above, the clouds were low and bruised, and every gust made the goal hoops moan faintly, the metal complaining into the wind. It's as haunted as late October can get. 

Shane’s broom, Voyager, vibrates under him, a living thing eager to move. The handle's been worn smooth where his gloves have bitten into it since he got it for his 11th birthday years ago. The air's a blade against his skin; it cuts clean through his robes and into the heat building at his core. His breath streams in front of him in pale ribbons, then snaps away, torn apart by speed.

Somewhere out in the dark, the bludger whistles by like a bullet. Rozanov must have released it already.

Shane banks hard, shoulder dipping, ribs tightening against the turn. The world tilts as he lifts off—fog, moonlight, and sky rotating in a clean, practiced arc. When he levels out, he sees Rozanov, hovering near center pitch like he owns the place. He's broad in his gear, his posture arrogant even at rest. His blonde curls lie wild and unbound under his helmet, the ends whipping against his jaw. There's a flash of metal at his wrists where his bracers caught the light, and another against his chest where that chain lies.

Rozanov turns, no longer looking at the hoops. He's looking at Shane.

The staring is old, familiar, a mirror image of what they'd exchanged hours earlier. At the table, it had felt like a dare. Here, in open air, it feels like being sighted down.

Shane tightens his grip and drives forward, lunging as Ilya dives to avoid him.

The next few minutes were pure muscle memory: the snap of acceleration, the flex of thighs around the broom, the clean burn in his shoulders as he forces the handle where he wants it. Shane cuts through the sky in hard lines, chasing a quaffle not only because Rozanov had it first, but because Ilya had the nerve to think Shane wouldn’t attack him as aggressively as Shane would hunt down any opponent.

Wind tears at Shane’s hood, making his eyes water. He blinks it away, jaw set, and closes the distance.

Ilya moves at the last second—too early to be polite, too late to be clean.

Their shoulders clip.

It's not a collision, not fully, but it's just enough contact to turn the air between them into something charged and snapping. Voyager judders, channeling Shane's adrenaline and ire, and Rozanov's broom twists in agreement. The impact runs through Shane's body like lightning. For half a heartbeat he is off-balance, drifting into Rozanov's wake, before he corrects with a grunt.

Rozanov does it again on the next pass, cutting across Shane’s line like he owns it and the rules were for other people. It's similar to how Flint always flew whenever they scrimmaged.

Shane responds the only way he ever has: refusing to yield even a fraction.

He drives his broom closer, tighter, until there isn't enough sky left between them to pretend it was accidental. Their robes snap together, fabric slapping hard in the wind. Shane’s knee brushes Rozanov’s. A jolt runs up Shane's inner thigh that had nothing to do with cold.

Rozanov’s eyes flick down—quick as a snitch—and then back up.

The air changes, becoming denser, as if the night has decided to pay attention.

A Bludger screams past, close enough that Shane feels it yank the air off his cheek. He doesn't flinch. Neither does Rozanov. Their focus had narrowed to something smaller than the whole pitch.

Shane feints left, then cuts right, baiting him. Rozanov rises with the move, matching altitude, refusing to give Shane the space. Their brooms climb together, the bleachers shrinking below, the wind sharpening until it hurts.

Up here, the cold is vicious. It scrapes at exposed skin, making Shane’s lips crack. Despite the cold, however, his body is hot: his blood is pumping faster and faster, adrenaline lifting Shane into a bright, fierce clarity. Rozanov pulls alongside him, close enough that Shane catches the scent of him—leather, cigarette smoke, something clean and biting under it. It's the kind of scent that belongs in a locker room, in a fight, in bed. Wrong and right, all at once.

Shane twists, reaches for the Quaffle the instant it comes near, fingers stretching out—

Rozanov swipes it first, a brutal, elegant steal.

Shane’s frustration flares. He surges after him, cutting so tight around Rozanov’s flank that the bristles of their brooms nearly kiss. The movement forces their bodies close, shoulder-to-shoulder again, and this time the contact holds for a fraction longer than it needed to.

Rozanov's glove brushes Shane’s wrist.

The bracer under it was warm, and the heat hits Shane like a punch. 

He snaps his hand back. Keeps flying, chasing and pursuing. Refuses to let it show.

Below them, fog began to build again—slow, fat plumes. Above them, darkness thickens. Their breath begins to hang in the air briefly, then vanishes.

Rozanov dives.

It isn't a gentle dive; it's a drop straight down and reckless, the kind that always makes Shane’s stomach lift and his pulse spike. Unlike all the other times, however, Shane follows him without thinking, chasing the line, trusting his own control. The world becomes the howl of wind past his ears.

They break through the fog like blades.

The pitch rushes up as the hoops flash by Shane's periphery. The ground appears too close, too fast, and Shane can see, with sudden clarity, the edge of Rozanov’s mouth under his helmet set in a hard line that wasn’t fear.

It's fucking exhilaration.

Shane’s fingers tighten until the leather creaks.

Shane has been flying since he could walk, since he could move.

Flying had never felt like that.

At the last moment, Rozanov pulls up hard. Shane follows, their brooms barely leveling out just above the grass. The tip of Shane's toes skim the ground. The maneuver drags a sound from Shane’s throat—nothing like a word, something barely audible under the wind.

Rozanov’s head turns slightly. They slow, both suddenly far too aware now of how close they’d come to eating dirt, and more likely, a potentially season-stopping injury. Voyager drifts him into a hover near the far end of the pitch, away from the glow of the castle. Here the darkness is thicker, safer.

Quieter.

Shane’s chest rises and falls in deep pulls. His thighs ache. His hands are numb with cold and alive with sensation at the same time. He can feel his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers and in his ears. In his pants.

Rozanov hovers just an arm’s length away.

He's close enough that the warmth of his body is a real thing in the night. He's so close that Shane can see the faint sheen of sweat at Rozanov's throat where his collar gaped, and close enough to watch how the fog's condensation catches in Rozanov's lashes and melts.

Shane’s gaze stops there.

Then on Rozanov’s mouth again. Then lower, to the line of his jaw.

The Quaffle is still tucked under Rozanov’s arm, forgotten.

Rozanov shifted on his broom, a small movement that regardlessly brings his left knee against Shane’s. Despite the subtle movement, the touch is not a brush this time but firm contact. Their brooms rock slightly from the transfer of weight. Shane’s breath hitches, sharp, obvious in the cold.

Rozanov leans in.

Not a lunge. Not a grab. Just a slow, deliberate closing of the space, as if daring Shane to be the one who moves away. 

Shane doesn't retreat.

He lets his broom drift forward half an inch, and his body meets Rozanov's nearness like it had always been inevitable. The air between them, impossibly, warms.

Their foreheads don't touch. Their mouths don't either. It's worse, in a way—the suspended moment, the tension stretched to the edge of snapping.

Rozanov’s gloved hand lifts, slowly, and hooks two fingers into the front of Shane’s robe, just below his collarbone. Shane’s fingers find Rozanov’s forearm, curling around the bracer, feeling the flex of muscle beneath. His thumb slides, almost involuntary, along the edge of the strap.

Rozanov's breath shudders out, white in the dark.

Shane leans in the last fraction without deciding to. The front of his robe brushes Rozanov’s. Slytherin green replacing Durmstrang red. Their knees stay pressed together. Their brooms hold steady, as if they understood what is at stake.

"You want?" Rozanov breathes into Shane's mouth. 

Shane doesn't have the words. He doesn't have anything in the world but the desire for Rozanov's lips on his. He nods.

Rozanov’s mouth finds Shanes’s.

It's not gentle. It's not slow. It's not even playful like that one time he'd kissed Rose on a dare.

Kissing Rozanov is heat slamming into the cold, a hungry collision that makes Shane’s whole body go bright. The kiss tastes like Halloween's air and adrenaline and something sharp and private. Rozanov’s grip on Shane’s robe tightens, pulling him closer until their bodies align, until there is no question of distance.

Shane’s hand slides up Rozanov’s arm, into the edge of his shoulder guard, fingers pressing hard as if to anchor himself against the vertigo of wanting. He wants it off, wants to feel the full heat of Rozanov's body against his.

Rozanov kisses back like he flies: unyieldingly and relentlessly. He sucks Shane's lip into his mouth like he’s been waiting to do this for years even though they've met that day.

Fog curls around them in slow, silent spirals.

Shane breaks the kiss only to breathe, mouth hovering at Rozanov’s, both of them panting softly. Rozanov’s forehead tipped forward, not quite touching Shane’s, close enough that their breath mingled and warmed the space between their faces. This close, Shane can count Rozanov's moles and beauty marks, the scars on his upper lip from biting, the dent in his cheek from acne.

At some point, the Quaffle had slipped from Rozanov’s hold and dropped, forgotten entirely.

Shane’s body thrums with ideas he's only had in his best fantasies: how easily he could unhook his leg and climb onto Rozanov's broom, how easily he could pull Rozanov onto his, onto him, how this dark corner of the pitch hides them from anyone who looks.

Ilya’s hand slides from Shane’s robe to the back of his neck, fingers fitting there like they’d always belonged. He tilts Shane’s head, mouth brushing the line of his jaw, then the soft skin under his ear. Shane’s eyes fluttered half-shut, a moan stuck low in his throat.

The cold has no business feeling like this heated.

Shane’s fingers tighten in Ilya’s gear, then ease—control, then surrender. He draws in a breath and tastes Ilya in it.

"Fuck." Shane whispers and Rozanov hums in agreement before he slips his hands under Shane's robes. He tugs Shane's nipples and Shane whimpers, collapsing against Rozanov with a groan. His legs are shaking. He feels the hand Rozanov has on his neck tighten, and then they're both brought to the ground. Wet grass soaks the back of Shane's robe and he has a split second to think fuck, grass stains before Rozanov's body is on his again and all Shane's thoughts disappear again.

His lips find Shane's neck, then his ear.

"Oh, shit, Rozanov." Shane gasps, feeling teeth, then tongue against him. Shane's never felt so hard in his life and they'd only kissed. He grinds up into Rozanov's body, his chest, his crotch. He's fucking soaked with sweat and Rozanov is too, Shane sees, as he pushes back and shrugs off part of his robes. He leans back, resting his weight on Shane's thighs and Shane watches, frozen, as Rozanov drags his thumb over Shane’s lips and then gently pushes it inside. Shane closed his eyes and sucked it into his mouth, letting his tongue wrap around it. He was shocked at how naturally he did this; by how much he loved the sensation.

He feels Rozanov shudder. Shane feels light-headed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. He sucks Rozanov's thumb deeper, eyes rolling back. He's going to cum in his fucking pants like a teenager like this. Like a goddamn teenager and yet he still wants to suck Rozanov's dick, wants him to suck his, he wants him to...

"Shane?" Shane chokes on Rozanov's thumb, throwing himself back across the grass, pushing Rozanov off him with force he didn't think he had. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, what the fuck had he been doing, he'd almost....

"Shane?" J.J.'s voice calls again from across the pitch. "Are you here?" 

"I.." Fuck, Shane's voice sounds destroyed. "I'll be back in a few, guys!" 

"Okay!" Hayden calls. "Sorry man, it's just midnight and Adrian noticed you weren't back yet so we worried." 

"All good - see you guys in a bit," Shane calls, then chokes when he feels Rozanov wrap his hand against his dick. The warmth takes Shane out immediately, immediately unwinds him, and with a groan, Shane comes right into Rozanov's hand.

"Shit." Shane breathes. "Shit, oh fuck, Rozanov. Shit, I'm sorry." His cum is all over Rozanov's chest. It's on the edge of his robes. "Fuck, I'm..." Shane fumbles for his wand, but Rozanov shrugs it off. 

"No worry." His eyes flash gold and Shane watches in shock as it rises from his robes (and from Shane's) before splatting next to Shane in the grass. 

Rozanov stretches out next to him. "Was good, yes?" Shane groans again. 

"Did you come?" There's a pause.

"Yes Hollander, I came while watching your pretty mouth suck my thumb like a cock. Pity you have nosy friends." 

"Fuck off." Shane mumbles, still loose-limbed and happy. "You don't have any friends." Then

"What the fuck was that?" 

"Hm?" Rozanov hums. "Oh, that. Wandless magic. Durmstrang teaches it - you know, because we are a better school. Is my specialty." 

For a second, Shane imagines all the shit they could do with that. Then reality hits. Shane's eyes snap open. "Shit, we've got to go. I need to...to..." To get the bludger, to get the quaffle, to put them all away, to do so much considering how exhausted he suddenly is. 

Rozanov lets out a noise of disagreement. "Stay there, it's fine. I will clean up." Rozanoz says and Shane relaxes into the wet grass, relaxed. He's floating out of his mind until he hears what Ilya calls. "Accio Bludger." Fuck. Shane's eyes snap open; he's played too much 1-on-1 to know what a disastrous move that is. 

"Wait, get down—"

"—Блять." (Fuck) Rozanov grunts, and Shane watches in horror as Rozanov takes a bludger powered by accio straight to the gut. It knocks him straight onto his back and whizzes away, the wind whistling like laughter as it leaves. 

"Here." Shane says, pulling himself up into sitting. "Watch." 

"Lumos maxima," Shane says and they watch as the light flies from Shane's wand. Where, where...there. By the Gryffindor grandstand. 

"Immobulous!" Shane yells and the pitch freezes. 

"Now," Shane says with no small amount of smugness. "Accio Bludger." The bludger slowly floats over to Shane, where he grabs it from the air, one-handed. 

"You show off." Rozanov snorts. 

"I am not!" 

"Hmm, you are. Is okay though - very sexy." Rozanov pulls himself up, before looking back and giving Shane far too chaste of a kiss considering what they just did. "I will see you around, yes?" 

Rozanov leaves, and it takes Shane thirty minutes to pull himself back to any kind of state. 

|~|~|

Ilya wakes up the next day by falling off his bunk as the ship rocks harshly starboard. Fuck. Ilya needs to find someone to sleep with at Hogwarts fast otherwise he will have a concussion by the time this tournament is over. He imagines for a second asking Hollander: how his face will flush from his neck to his ears in outrage, but also how he would probably say yes because Hollander is too nice a person. He'd probably lay out a whole miniature bed on the floor for Ilya, which Ilya would have to work his way out of to get into Hollander's actual one. 

Durmstrang does not have to start classes until tomorrow so Ilya lazes around, exploring the ground and the castle in a far more detailed tour than Hollander had given him the night before. He learns quickly that Hollander hadn't been kidding how labyrinthine Hogwarts actually is. By the time of dinner, Ilya somehow managed to find himself in one of the houses' common rooms just by following people. 

"Where were you?" Viktor asks as Ilya stumbles into dinner twenty minutes late. 

"Lost." Ilya says, looking over to Hollander for a reaction he doesn't get. Hollander is fidgeting with his fingers and chewing on his lips, which Ilya is proud to see are still swollen from last night. He's nervous. He remembers how Hollander had said in everything but words that he would not be competing for Hogwarts's champion. Had he changed his mind? Had Hollander submitted his name? Does he now regret it?

The food this time is just British slop so Ilya is incredibly grateful when, at long last, the golden plates return to their original spotless state. Anticipation settles over the hall, growing stronger as Headmaster Dumbledore gets to his feet. On either side of him, Headmaster Karkaroff and Headmistress Maxime look as tense and expectant as anyone. Ilya has no idea why Headmaster Karkaroff looks nervous: they all know Krum will be their champion. Perhaps Karkaroff is worried about Beauxbatons' champion? Surely they can not be worried about Hogwarts's chances: as far as Ilya is concerned, the only threat would be if Hollander was champion because Hollander is the only one who seems to be competent in any way and he said he wasn't competing.

"Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision," says Headmaster Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" – he indicates to the door behind the staff table – "where they will be receiving their first instructions." 

He takes out his wand and gives a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them all into a state of semi-darkness. The Goblet of Fire now shines more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watches, waiting ... a few people keep checking the time ...

Ilya reaches across and gently squeezes Viktor's arm. Viktor jumps. 

"Relax," Ilya whispers. "It will be okay." Ilya means that in more ways than one. Viktor knows it. He blinks twice, then nods.

The flames inside the Goblet turn red. Sparks begin to fly from it and then, a moment later, a flash of flame shoots into the air, releasing a charred piece of parchment. Dumbledore catches it and holds it at arm's length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue white.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice. Ilya holds his crucifix. It will be Krum, it will be Krum, it will be Krum, it will not be you... "is Viktor Krum."

Immediately, Ilya is on his feet, hooting and hollering, and then dumping his full goblet of wine on Viktor's head. Viktor swats at him, finally smiling, and through the storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall, he stands, walks, and disappears through the door into the next chamber. Ilya is so happy for Viktor that the stone is his stomach that is his own small disappointment at having to make it Viktor is basically gone.

Ilya looks around to make sure everyone is cheering for Viktor too, then allows himself to look across to Hollander, who's laughing into his sleeve. 

Ilya made uptight boring Hollander laugh.

He's the true Champion.

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention is focused again on the Goblet, which, seconds later, turns red once more. A second piece of parchment shoots out of it, propelled by the flames.

"Five galleons on Delacour." Nastasya whispers next to him. 

"No deal, it is her. I heard Maxime say it." 

"Cheat."

"The champion for Beauxbatons," says Headmaster Dumbledore, "is Fleur Delacour!" 

Another cheer rises and Nastasya laughs and grabs at Ilya's wallet. 

"Fuck off, I said no deal!" Ilya says though he himself is laughing too. 

"Look at their acting!" Poliakoff laughs and Ilya cranes his neck to look. Poliakoff's not kidding -- two of the girls who had not been selected were in tears, sobbing with their heads on their arms. Marleau is flat out weeping. Ilya has to give it up to them. Perhaps he should have looked more depressed when Viktor's name was called.

When Fleur Delacour, too, vanishes into the side chamber, silence falls again, but this time it is a deeper silence, so stiff you could almost taste it.

"All Hogwarts has a stick up their ass," Ilya whispers to Hollander, who glares at him. His knuckles are white. Ilya wants to reach across the table and hold them, kiss them. He wants to make Hollander break, the same way he had yesterday.

The Goblet of Fire turns red once more; sparks shower out of it; the flame shoots high into the air, and from its tip, Headmaster Dumbledore pulls the third piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts champion," he calls, "is Cedric Diggory!"

The yellow table explodes: every single person in yellow is on their feet, screaming and stamping, as a rather plain looking boy makes his way to the chamber, grinning broadly. Indeed, the applause for Cedric goes on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.

"Sad it is not you?" Ilya calls and Hollander glares. 

"Fuck off, I didn't even put my name in." 

"What, is Head Boy Hollander too much of a good boy to com-"

"-Excellent!" Headmaster Dumbledore calls happily, bringing Ilya's conversation to a halt. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster." Nastasya rolls her eyes. Ilya agrees. Why were they singled out? The tables in red had barely cheered for Cedric, and not at all enough for Viktor or Delacour. If some needs to be called out, it is them. 

"By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real –"

Headmaster Dumbledore suddenly stops speaking, and it becomes quickly apparent to everybody what distracted him. The fire in the Goblet had turned red again. Sparks are flying out of it and for a fourth time, a long flame shoots suddenly into the air, and borne upon it is another piece of parchment. Headmaster Dumbledore reaches out a long hand and seizes it. He holds it out and stares at the name written upon it. There is a long pause, during which Headmaster Dumbledore stares at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stares at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore clears his throat, and reads out –

"Harry Potter."

For a heartbeat, Ilya is convinced he mishears. That name doesn’t fit the shape of the moment. It is like someone saying “suntan” in the middle of a rainstorm.

Then the Hall explodes.

Sound crashes back in all at once—chairs scraping, shrieks, laughter, outright yelling. The red table erupts first, half of them on their feet like they’ve been handed a trophy, the other half cheering. The yellow table looks offended. The Slytherin table—Ilya’s table now, the wall at their backs—goes tense in a way that makes Ilya’s spine go straight.

Someone broke the rules.

Someone broke the Goblet and its ancient magic, defied its international tradition. Someone made a hypocrite of Dumbledore’s smug little speech. Someone reached in and pulled a thread they weren’t supposed to touch, and the whole room is now watching it unravel.

Ilya feels his shock first, clean and bright, like cold water. Then, excitement—because that is the kind of thing Durmstrang respects. Audacity. Craft. The willingness to look at a rule and say, no.

He lets out a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t swallowed by the uproar.

“Who—” Nastasya breathes, eyes wide, and Ilya doesn’t answer because he’s thinking the same thing: who is clever enough to cheat the Goblet of Fire? This isn’t a school prank nor is it some stunt. This is warlock-level magic. This is the kind of thing that gets written into history books with blood.

At the staff table, Headmaster Karkaroff is already halfway out of his seat, face flushed with anger. Headmistress Maxime’s expression is razor-thin. Dumbledore keeps holding the parchment, but the softness in his face is gone. It’s the first time tonight Ilya sees something sharp underneath the kindly grandfather act. Something that reminds Ilya, unpleasantly, that Dumbledore survived a war. A war Ilya knows the damage of well.

Ilya’s gaze snaps to Harry Potter.

Potter looks like the floor has opened beneath him. His face has gone pale in a way that doesn’t look dramatic. He looks sick. He stays seated for one second too long before standing as if he’s being hauled up by invisible strings.

And the looks he's getting—

The Gryffindors stare at him like he’s a miracle. The Hufflepuffs stare like he just stole someone’s meal. The Slytherins—most of them at least—stare like they’re delighted the universe has finally given them a new reason to sneer. Ilya watches Potter blink rapidly, eyes shining behind his glasses, and a bitter little thought slides in: this is what it always is with famous boys. People make a story around them and then act shocked when the boy can’t breathe inside it.

Pike is already halfway up from the green bench where he'd been sitting, furious, face as red as Potter's robes. Ilya hasn’t known him long, but he knows the shape: pure entitlement, wrapped in moral outrage.

“Are you joking?” Pike spits, loud enough that at least three nearby Slytherins turn to listen. “He takes fucking everything, everything Shane. Quidditch, house points, the championship. Now the Tournament too? Can't the rest of us have one fucking thing for ourselves, one goddamn thing...”

Ilya's eyes flick back to Hollander, who isn't listening. In fact, his face is perfectly blank, which is, in itself, an answer. Ilya has seen Hollander smirk. He has seen Hollander laugh. As of last night, he has seen Hollander come. This isn’t that. This is Hollander putting his emotions in a box and locking it, because the room is full of witnesses. Hollander knows the politics of this place. Hollander knows what Potter’s name means in a room like this.

Someone at the red table shouts, “Did you put your name in?” and the question is stupid and loud and cruel, because Potter can’t answer it without losing either way. Smartly, he doesn't, which makes the whispers grow. It does not matter now what the truth is: everyone will believe Potter somehow got his name in. 

Watching Potter disappear, Ilya’s mind, annoyingly, drifts to his father. Not because Potter resembles him—Potter looks like a child, all bone and panic—but because the story resembles him. The way a narrative forms around a person and then becomes armor. The way men come home from war and decide they are heroes because it is easier than being guilty.

His father’s Howlers had always started the same: Ilya, you must understand— then some excuse about survival, about necessity, about how he was “inside” the Death Eaters to “help,” as if being near monsters automatically makes you a spy instead of simply someone who stayed too long in the dark. As if discovering his best friend was a real spy, dying and noble and too late, somehow retroactively cleans his own hands. 

Ilya isn’t stupid. He knows what a real spy looks like, and what actual courage looks like. It never looked like his Papa, even before Papa was sick. His father wears his lies like medals anyway, because people want to believe the version that makes them comfortable.

Potter has a legend built around him before he can even shave. They’ll let him get away with things because it’s easier to worship a story than look at what the story costs.

Dumbledore’s voice cuts through the silence Potter had left, not loud, but carrying with the kind of authority that makes even portraits shut up.

“Mr. Hollander. Miss Finch,” Dumbledore calls. “Come with me.”

Ilya watches Hollander school his face into something solemn—Head Boy mask snapped into place like a visor. Pike leans toward Hollander as he passes, whispering furiously.

“Don’t let him compete,” Pike hisses. “It’s not fucking fair.”

Ilya’s lip curls, immediate and contemptuous. It's like Pike thinks Hollander is the Ministry, like Hollander can argue with the Goblet itself because he has a small little badge and title. Pike is the kind of boy who throws pressure at other people and calls it righteousness.

Hollander doesn’t even look at him. That, more than anything, is proof Hollander has been doing this job long enough to know what deserves attention. Something in Ilya’s chest hums—shock still, excitement still, and beneath it a darker thread: whoever did this is close. Whoever did this sat in this Hall and ate dinner and waited for fire to speak.

Then the older woman in green robes (McGonagall, Ilya remembers) turns her gaze outward like she’s selecting pieces on a board.

“Rozanov. Vinogradova. Toussaint. Roux.” she says, each name clipped and precise. “Please follow Head Boy Hollander and Head Girl Finch. We will be meeting in Dumbledore’s office.”

The whispers explode again, wildfire racing through dry grass.

Ilya stands smoothly, because if there’s one thing Durmstrang teaches you, it’s how to move like you belong even when you don’t. Nastasya rises with him, eyes bright with interest and anger. Toussaint and Roux follow, with their Beauxbatons posture ramrod straight.

Ilya’s gaze catches Hollander’s for half a second.

Hollander doesn’t smile nor scowl. Instead, he just looks at Ilya like get in line, keep it together, don’t make this worse.

Ilya’s mouth twitches anyway.

“Lead the way, Head Boy,” Ilya says graciously, because he can’t help himself.

And because somewhere deep down, beneath the arrogance and the careful control, Ilya is thinking—sharp and thrilled and afraid all at once—

Someone broke the rules. Perhaps Hogwarts is not as boring as he initially thought.

|~|~|

Headmaster Dumbledore's office is a winding circular room, with few windows and hundreds of gossiping paintings. Shane's been in it a few times, primarily to discuss prefect and now Head boy duties, but it doesn't get any less unnerving watching the audience of painted eyes all around you.

"Clearly, they do not want this to be a secret meeting," Rozanov whispers to the Durmstrang Head Girl behind Shane, clearly thinking the same.

"It is an odd choice." Vera Finch agrees. Vera is a 7th year Ravenclaw, top of her class in Transfiguration. She has an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's. She's a good pick for the other Head Girl in that she is organized and able to keep the peace far better than Shane himself can.

The doorway reforms and Shane watches as a whole parade of people enter the space: Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor Snape, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, some of the ministry people Shane's already forgotten the names of, and finally, Harry Potter himself. Harry's whole face is white, but there's a hard set of anger beneath the jaw.

"So, you discovered the trick, yes?" Rozanov says, breaking the silence. He's leaning against the wall, tall shoulders currently being ogled at by the 5th Headmistress of Hogwarts. It makes Shane's gut clench. For unknown reasons.

"We have a hypothesis, Mr. Rozanov." Dumbledore says mildly. "Please, sit." Chairs spring from the floor as the space groans, then expands. Shane sits. Rozanov does not.

"The problem, of course, is that all people who have their names entered in the cup must compete." One of the ministry people pipes up. He looks far too happy about that news. "And so, therefore we just...we must have Harry Potter compete." Shane's jaw drops and he hears Roux from Beauxbatons mutter something absolutely filthy in French. Harry squirms, sticking his chin out defiantly.

"You can not be serious." The Durmstrang Head Girl eventually says. "Giving Hogwarts two champions?!"

"Especially that champion!" Roux snaps, finally switching into English with the kind of contempt that doesn’t need translation. "He is a child."

"Yes, exactly, no one is wanting this," Madame Maxime says, long fingers tightening around the arm of her chair. Her eyes flick, briefly, to Harry—assessing, weighing, and then softening in a way that makes Shane’s stomach do something irritatingly human. Clearly the non-students in the room have already had this discussion. "But the Cup has…how you say…selected him."

"It’s because someone entered Harry's name in the Cup to kill him." Professor Moody says. Like Rozanov, he has also refused to take a seat.

The word drops into the room like a stone.

"Kill?" Vera repeats, voice thin. Behind her, one of the portraits gives a delighted little gasp, as if this is the best entertainment they'd gotten since the time someone had tried to kill Harry Potter two years ago.

Harry’s head jerks up, like he’s being yanked by an invisible string. His eyes go to Professor Moody, then Dumbledore, then the ministry man who still looks smug, as if the idea of a dead fourteen-year-old is just an unfortunate footnote beneath Proper Procedure.

"And so if you're convinced they did this to kill him, why are you letting him compete?" Shane snaps before trying to swallow his words. Fuck, he shouldn't be speaking out in front of teachers, in front of his headmaster, but the words boil like acid in his throat. He can feel the weight of his Head Boy badge, as if it’s physically dragging on his robes: duty means speaking when it matters, doesn’t it? He didn’t claw his way into this position just to sit.

Professor Moody turns to look at him. The glass eye twitches beneath its socket, locking onto Shane with a sharp, unnatural precision.

"Watch your tongue, boy." Professor Moody snaps.

"But you are! You're letting him compete?!" Shane's on his feet before he can stop himself. Hayden's younger sister Amelia is fourteen and she still plays with barbies when she thinks people won't notice. Fourteen is not an adult, fourteen is a child.

"I said, watch your tongue." Professor Moody repeats, squaring up with Shane like Shane had invited a fight. There's something darker in his voice that makes Shane try to take a step back. His chair eats into his legs. Professor Moody's wand is out and Shane automatically reaches for his too. He keeps it in a pouch on his robes, right where his fingers fall. It's the best place for Quidditch, even if he has to keep it locked down during a game. He can't fly without it, it's one of his superstitions. Shane wraps his fingers around his wand, gripping it tighter—

Moody takes a step forward—

—and Shane’s brain does a quick, ugly calculation: distance, angle, teachers present, consequences, consequences, consequences.

Snap.

Shane gasps, turning on his heel from where Moody's wand is now dangling in two dead pieces to see Rozanov's eyes return from the gold of wandless magic he'd shown off last night. Rozanov is no longer relaxed in his slouch against the back wall. His back is straight and his shoulders are tense. His face is twisted in a nasty grimace, the kind of expression Shane has only ever seen on Slytherins right before a duel turns real.

"Holy shit," Shane hears Vera breathe, but he can't even think. Rozanov just snapped Moody's wand. He didn't throw it in the air, or bend it, or shrink it. He snapped it—a clean, final, humiliating action, like breaking a bone.

Moody’s mouth does something strange for half a second, like a smile trying to happen and failing. Then the anger slams in, sudden and feral, and Shane feels it like a pressure change in the room. The portraits go quiet, the way gossipers do when they smell blood.

"So," Rozanov's accent wraps around each word, constricting Shane in the best way. There's force behind each syllable, the kind of force that automatically makes Shane sit up straighter and knees quiver. "You threaten students here when they make good points?"

He moves forward, standing level with Shane. Shane's suddenly back in last night: Rovanoz's windswept curls peeking out from under his helmet. Now, his hair looks molded, too neat for a fight, which somehow makes the violence in him worse.

"Rozanov, прекратить." (back down) Professor Karkaroff snaps, and Rozanov looks at him, before deliberately stepping—not back—but behind Shane. Like a wall deciding where it wants to stand. Shane can feel his breath on the back of his neck and resists the urge to shudder. It’s absurd, being protected in the Headmaster’s office like he’s a first-year. It’s also—infuriatingly—effective.

Moody looks between the two of them, then takes a swing from his flask, as if he’s washing down an insult.

Professor Snape's lip curls. McGonagall’s nostrils flare like she’s holding herself together by pure Scottish rage. Dumbledore, maddeningly, just watches calm like this is all part of some grand, measured lesson.

"I would like to echo Mr. Hollander's point." Madame Maxime starts again. "It is unsafe, is it not?"

"It's very unsafe." Shane replies, then immediately regrets the fact he’s talking again like he’s in a debate club instead of surrounded by adults who can end his entire academic career with a look. But if he stops now, if he lets the momentum die, then Harry Potter becomes a spectacle then a corpse and everyone will say oh what a tragedy, oh what could we have done, and Shane will know the answer was something.

"Alastor," Dumbledore says, softly. A warning disguised as a name. "Put your—temper—away."

Moody, in response, does not put anything away. His real eye is on Shane now, hard and assessing, like Shane's a stain someone left on his best rug.

"The Goblet is a binding magical contract," the ministry man says, quickly, as if desperate to reclaim authority after a Durmstrang student just committed what looks like wand assault in the Headmaster’s office. "The moment the Goblet accepts a champion, it creates an obligation. The champion must compete."

"Then explain to me," Shane says, voice tight, fingers still wrapped around his own wand like an anchor, "why that obligation matters more than the fact someone tried to—"

"Watch it," Moody cuts in, and this time he doesn’t even look at Shane when he says it. It’s worse, somehow. Like Shane is a background noise. Like Shane is a distraction from the real thing.

Harry’s head snaps toward Shane at that, and Shane feels it: the immediate, irrational, Gryffindor way of it. Oh. So you’re the problem. As if Shane being right is somehow a personal attack.

"Okay, so he has to compete but he doesn't have to compete," Shane barrels on before his common sense can tackle him. "I mean, what happens if he just…doesn't show up at the first challenge? Or instantly disqualifies himself?"

The Beauxbatons Head Boy makes a sharp approving sound, like the first sane thing he’s heard all evening.

"But I don't want to—" Harry tries to argue.

"No one cares what cheater wants, Potter." Rozanov snaps. "We are trying to keep you from dying."

Harry’s fists clench. Child, Shane thinks. He's a stubborn child, too proud to be afraid in public even when the adults are basically outlining his funeral.

"And we don’t even have proof he put his name in," Vera says quickly, because she’s smart enough to hear the dangerous word cheater and correct it before it becomes an international incident. "Someone else could have—"

"We know that," McGonagall says, clipped. "Miss Finch is correct. There is no accusation being made against Mr. Potter in this room."

Moody’s laugh is low and humorless. "Doesn’t matter who wrote it. His name came out. He competes."

Shane turns to stare at him. He can’t help it. Moody looks…wrong. Not in the obvious ways—the scars, the eye, the limp—but in the way he wants this. The way he plants his feet like he’s defending a principle when it feels more like he’s defending the chance to throw a boy into the arena and see what happens.

"And if the contract is binding, then modify the competition," Shane pushes. "If it's a maze or something, Harry competes in a different maze actually appropriate for a fourteen year old."

"That defeats the purpose," Moody snaps instantly, too fast. "The Triwizard Tournament doesn’t get watered down because you’re small."

Small. Like Harry is nothing. Like Harry is a lesson.

Like Harry is meat.

"Purpose?" Shane repeats. His voice goes cold. "The purpose is international cooperation, isn’t it? Tradition? Not—"

"Testing," Moody says, and now he is looking at Shane, and Shane hates the way that glass eye swivels, hates the way it feels like being pinned to a board. "Champions are meant to be tested. Full standards. Full dangers. That’s what makes it mean something."

"And what makes you think," Shane says slowly, every word controlled, "that a fourteen-year-old being forced into adult standards doesn’t just make it…a slaughter?"

Moody’s jaw flexes. "Because the world doesn’t change its standards because you’re young."

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpens—briefly, there and gone. "Alastor."

Shane hears Rozanov inhale behind him, a tight, contained sound, like a dog hearing a whistle.

"Well there's still a major gap in knowledge," Shane adds, because he refuses to let Moody’s worldview become the final word in Dumbledore’s office. "Like, apparition is something all the champions know but Harry. It's intrinsically more dangerous. He can't even legally learn it yet."

"And there was no waiver signed," Vera brings up. "I mean, you have to sign a waiver to even go to Hogsmeade as a third year student. You can't enlist or smoke or drink or anything at fourteen."

"Exactly," Shane says, very relieved to have backup besides Rozanov. "So either the contract doesn’t override basic age protections, or Hogwarts has been negligent in a way the Ministry would love to pretend isn’t their fault."

The ministry man bristles. "Now see here—"

"Enough," Dumbledore says, and the room quiets like someone’s placed a hand over a mouth. Dumbledore folds his hands. "We are not ignoring safety. We are not indifferent. But the magical contract is…ancient. Stubborn. And it does not respond well to loopholes."

"Then break the rules so someone doesn't die!" Shane argues. His chest feels tight. He hates that his voice is rising. He hates that he can feel Harry watching him like Shane is the villain in this story. "I mean, Professor Moody, you've seen the Dark Arts Harry has been battling since he got here, how are you—?"

"Mr. Hollander." Dumbledore calls. Shane swallows.

Shit.

He's really gotten too invested.

He forces himself to unclench his hand from his wand and sit, resting it on his knee like a polite, civilized person. His leg bounces anyway. 

Moody’s gaze stays on him, and there’s something in it that makes Shane’s skin crawl. Not anger. Not exactly. Calculation. Reassessment. Shane's glad, not for the first time, that DADA is not a mandatory class for 7th years. 

"We’ll increase oversight," McGonagall says. "Extra supervision. Additional safeguards."

"Safeguards won’t help if the person who entered him did it to kill him," the Durmstrang Head Girl cuts in. "They will sabotage. They will cheat. You are handing them the opportunity and opportunity not just of Harry death, but Hogwarts win."

Karkaroff’s mouth tightens like he’s tasting something sour. "Then we find who did it."

"And until then?" Shane presses. "You’re…what, just hoping it doesn’t work?"

Madame Maxime’s eyes go to Dumbledore, steady. "Hogwarts has a responsibility."

Dumbledore’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice lowers, gentler. "I am aware."

Harry shifts in his chair like he wants to stand, like he wants to make a speech about bravery and fate and how he’s not scared. He looks so young all at once that Shane almost forgets to be irritated.

Almost.

"What about disqualification?" Shane tries one final time, softer now, because he can hear Dumbledore’s patience thinning and he can’t afford to be thrown out. "If Harry intentionally fails, does the contract punish him? Does it…hurt him?"

The ministry man opens his mouth. Hesitates. That, more than anything, makes Shane’s heart leap. Perhaps there's a chance?

Moody’s mouth twists. "The contract should punish champions who refuse."

"Should?" Rozanov repeats, as if he didn't believe that was the word Moody used.

"It’s not a science experiment Alastor," McGonagall snaps back. "Stop speaking as if—"

"As if it’s not a person’s life?" Shane says, and he knows that’s a line, knows he’s crossed it, but it’s already out. He looks straight at Moody. "You’re insisting on ‘full standards’ like you want him in the ring. Like you’re offended by the idea of mercy."

Moody’s real eye narrows. "Mercy gets you killed."

"And obsession with proving a point gets people killed too," Shane shoots back.

“Mr. Hollander,” Professor Snape snaps, and his voice is silk pulled tight over steel, “stop grandstanding.”

Shane’s jaw clenches. “I’m not grandstanding. I’m—”

“Head Boy,” Professor Snape finishes, the Slytherin part of Head Boy unsaid but so implied Snape might as well have yelled it. His eyes meet Shane’s. There's no warmth in them; Snape doesn’t do warmth. But there's…something like ownership. Something like remember who you are and act like it.

Remember your house.

Shane swallows the rest of his sentence.

Dumbledore steeples his fingers. “We will increase security,” he says. “We will watch more closely. Champions will be monitored. Staff will be present. Mr. Potter will receive additional instruction.”

Harry’s head snaps up. “I don’t need—”

“You do,” Rozanov says, eyes twinkling. “You absolutely do. Young baby wizard.” Harry's eyes fill with shocked indignation. It takes everything in Shane not to cackle. 

“And we will investigate how this happened,” Dumbledore adds, ignoring Harry's scowl at Rozanov. “Thoroughly.”

Then Dumbledore stands.

"Harry will compete," Dumbledore says, and the words land with the dull finality of a gavel. "But he will not do so alone. Hogwarts will support him. The staff will watch, and I will watch. Mr. Hollander, Miss Finch, I expect you both to do your parts to keep the houses civilized. This is not how I wished for it to go, but it's what tradition is demanding and thus, we will do it. Schedule meetings with the prefects tomorrow morning. The other schools will be informed fully by their Headmasters and Head Boy and Girl. We will take every precaution available to us within the bounds of the contract."

Harry exhales in relief, but it's not Harry Shane's looking at. It's Moody.

Rather, it's how Moody's expression relaxes like he’s won.

Shane notices it.

Harry’s chair scrapes as he half-stands, then sits again, torn between wanting to thank them and not wanting to look weak or like he wanted it. His eyes cut to Shane—sharp, accusing.

There. Shane sees it click into place in Harry’s head: Shane, Head Boy, Slytherin, last year's Quidditch Captain, always speaking too much, trying too hard to control things. Shane, standing in the way of Harry Potter’s…whatever Harry thinks this is. Destiny, probably.

Harry’s gaze says: You’re going to be a problem.

Shane’s jaw tightens.

Rozanov’s hand, which had been resting on Shane's chair, settles briefly on Shane’s shoulder—light, possessive, a warning and a promise all at once. It’s gone before anyone can accuse him of anything.

Moody takes the two snapped halves of his wand and tucks them away like it’s nothing. Like it wasn't a response to his threat.

"Meeting adjourned," Dumbledore says, and the office seems to breathe again, the portraits immediately resuming their murmurs like a flock of birds starting up again.

Shane stands automatically, smoothing his robes because he has to do something with his hands, and the movement grounds him. Duty. Procedure. Keep it together.

Harry pushes past first, shoulders tense, refusing to look at anyone. McGonagall moves after him immediately, and Professor Snape follows, before pausing, just long enough beside Shane to murmur, without looking at him, “If you’re going to be reckless, Mr. Hollander, at least be precise. Yelling is for Gryffindors. We chose a Slytherin for a reason.”

Shane blinks. “Yes, Professor.”

Snape’s robe swishes past, and Shane realizes—two seconds too late—that was as close to approval as he’s ever going to get. 

Moody lingers too, because of course he does.

Realizing he'll have to leave before Moody, Shane begins to head to the staircase before there's a hand on his elbow. Pinching, hard. Moody’s glass eye swivels again, catching him. "Careful, Head Boy," he says, quiet enough that it feels meant for Shane alone. "You keep sticking your nose in things, you’ll get it bitten off."

Shane’s mouth goes dry. He manages, barely, "Noted, Professor."

"And if you keep threatening students, I break your other eye." Rozanov is over his shoulder again. He's got a hand on Moody's elbow, gently but firmly pushing it. Moody’s laugh is a rough exhale. He takes another drink from the flask, looks between the two of them with a look Shane couldn't describe for the life of him, and limps out.

Shane watches him go, spine stiff.

He doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t even know why he doesn’t trust him—he just knows the feeling is sharp and certain, like tasting something spoiled. It's the same way he felt about Professor Quirrell his 3rd year and that man had literally been possessed by Voldemort if the rumors were true. 

|~|~|

"There will be bullies too." Ilya says in the hallway, keeping his voice low. The corridors outside the office feel suddenly too normal: torchlight, stone, the distant echo of students who have no idea what’s just been decided above their heads. The Beauxbatons students and Nastasya had split off already leaving, him, Hollander, and the Hogwarts head girl alone. "If I were the yellow house…"

"Hufflepuff." Hollander corrects.

"If I were Hufflepuff, I would lock Harry up in a dungeon." Ilya finishes.

The Hogwarts Head Girl snorts. "Tell me about it. Every year it's just been Potter, Potter, Potter. Dumbledore loves him; you remember how Dumbledore just gave Gryffindor the cup for three years for doing like jack shit? Like he literally gave Ron Weasley fifty points for 'the best chess game he's ever seen' when he's not even on the chess team, like hello? McNully would have crushed him."

Shane hums in agreement. "McNully did crush him, Vera. Twice. Ron just did it in a dramatic life-or-death way, and apparently that counts as athletic excellence."

Vera as she is called bumps her shoulder lightly into Hollander's. "You’re going to get murdered by a portrait for saying that."

"Let them try," Hollander mutters, then sighs, because Hollander is so boring, he can not joke for five seconds. Ilya should introduce him to Viktor - they would get along. "But she’s right. It’s not just jealousy. Everyone’s going to be furious. Hogwarts doesn’t do ‘fair’ when it comes to Potter. That’s…half the school’s hobby."

Rozanov lets out a sound of agreement. His eyes are scanning the corridor, alert in the way that is required at home: Durmstrang vigilance, the habit of expecting ambush even in a castle full of children. If it were Durmstrang, there would already be a very pissed 7th year waiting with their wand around the hallway to demand information.

"He already hates you," Vera says to Hollander, nodding toward the stairs where Harry disappeared. "You saw his face."

Hollander grits his teeth. "I have barely spoken to him before today. Maybe a few chirps on the Quidditch pitch but that's it." 

"I would pay money to hear you chirp," Ilya says with a laugh. "You are so uptight, Hollander, what is your chirp: hope you play better next time?"

"Oh fuck off," Hollander scowls in that exact way Ilya has learned means Hollander finds it funny. So far Ilya has learned three different scowl expressions from Hollander: annoyed (like he was when Ilya flirted with him in the dining hall), mad (like he had been with the professor with the glass eye) and relaxed. Right now, it is in-between annoyed and relaxed.

"And yet," Vera continues, dry, "congratulations Shane. You’ve been selected. You’re this year’s Harry Potter's evil Slytherin."

There is lore there Ilya does not know and he looks down at Hollander expectedly. Hollander sighs. 

"Harry Potter is a Gryffindor - the red house." He explains. "They have a big rivalry with my house, the Slytherins. Every year it feels like Harry chooses a different Slytherin to make his mortal enemy: his first year it was Snape, his second year it was Draco Malfoy, his third year it was, who was it?" 

"Snape again?" Vera offers. 

"Nah, Harry really hated Marcus Flint that year though." 

"Well, Marcus is a dick." Shane agrees. "I thought I'd actually have a potentially winning season of Quidditch without him this year, but no. Why me though? I hate this whole 'Harry Potter versus whoever stands in front of him that's a Slytherin.' I get Draco and even Snape to a degree, but what the hell did I do..." Hollander trails off. He looks defeated.

Ilya watches as Hollander looks down at his Head Boy badge, bright in the torchlight. For a second, Ilya is certain he sees hatred in Hollander's eyes. Then he straightens his shoulders.

"Fine," Hollander says, more to himself than to them it seems. "Then I’ll do my job. If Potter’s going to compete, then he’s going to do it with as much structure and safety as we can force onto it—even if Moody wants ‘full standards’ like it’s a fucking Quidditch."

Ilya feels his mouth curve despite himself, just slightly. "This is why you're Head Boy," he says, as a compliment and a warning. Whichever Hollander wants it to be.

Hollander's ears go warm and pink the same way they did last night, after Ilya had made him moan. He scowls to cover it. Relaxed scowl, Ilya thinks.

"Don’t start." Hollander says instead.

Vera’s expression sobers. "We need to think about logistics. If there’s increased risk, there needs to be increased supervision around him. Prefects. Patrols. Especially near the lake, the forest, the usual places people go to be idiots."

Hollander nods. "We're speaking to the prefects in the morning, I'll send a note. I'll make sure Hufflepuff's there too. I don’t care if they want to hex him for fun—this is international. If someone harms a champion, the Ministry will crawl over the school like rats. And if someone harms him because the tournament forced him into it..." Hollander cuts himself off. He looks slightly sick, wherever his brain was leading him "We keep him alive. That’s it."

Rozanov’s hand brushes the small of Shane’s back as they walk, casual enough to be mistaken for accidental if anyone looks, deliberate enough that Shane feels it for ten steps after it’s gone. "I will talk to Durmstrang and Beauxbatons tomorrow too. They will be okay." It's not like an opportunity was lost for them anyway, Ilya thinks. They're foreign students in an unknown school; they all have bigger problems. 

"And Moody?" Vera asks quietly. "Because I don’t like him. I know he’s—supposed to be good, and all, but that was…"

"Off," Hollander finishes. He swallows. It's not a sexy one like last night sadly. "I don’t know what his damage is, but he was eager. And he threatened me for pointing out the obvious."

Ilya's teeth grind beneath his lips. "He threatens you again, I snap more than wand," he says, like it’s a fact of weather. It is. Ilya's handled more than his fair share of Quidditch injuries and dueling injuries and Alexei injuries before he got himself shipped back to Muggle Russia. Ilya knows how to fight. How to fight adults too.

Ilya waits for Hollander's rebuttal: Hollander, being the good Head Boy, should tell Ilya to stop, should say it’s not his school, not his place, and I am Head Boy, and I can handle a professor, and all of his other terrible lies. Instead however, Hollander exhales and keeps walking, because the corridor is long and the castle is full of corners and Harry Potter is fourteen and marked for death by someone clever enough to cheat a Goblet of Fire.

"Just—" Hollander starts, then catches himself, jaw tight. He tries again. "Stay close. Both of you. If the person who did this is in Hogwarts, they’re going to be watching all of us now."

Vera’s eyes flick to his badge, and her expression softens—not pity, exactly. Recognition.

"Yeah," she says. "Duty, right?"

Hollander nods once.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Vera replies. "Sleep well you two." 

"You too Vera," Hollander says quickly before Ilya can say something funny like 'they will, together.' Very sad. 

Vera’s footsteps fade up the corridor. Ilya slows without meaning to. It’s strange how quickly this foreign castle can become intimate when there’s no audience—how the air still tastes like that Headmaster's office and snapped wood and politics, and yet Hollander is right here, walking beside him like they are simply two boys headed back to bed.

Hollander’s shoulders stay squared, but his hand keeps drifting toward the pouch where he keeps his wand, then away again, then back—like his body hasn’t decided if the danger is over. Ilya watches the pattern and feels something in his chest tighten, irritated at the world more than at Hollander. Irritated that a professor can step forward with a wand like it’s nothing. Irritated that Hollander has to be “Head Boy” even when his jaw is clenched hard enough to crack teeth.

“You look like you want to bite someone,” Ilya says, because Hollander is easier to handle when he’s annoyed and speaking than when he goes quiet and sharp.

“I’m fine,” Hollander says automatically, in the tone of someone who has never been fine a day in his life and is committed to keeping the lie alive.

Ilya’s mouth curves. “Yes. Very convincing. Do you want to bite me?”

Hollander shoots him a look, the one that tries to be threatening and mostly just reveals he’s aware of being observed. “Fuck off. Don't-just don’t start.”

“I do not start,” Ilya says. “You started it in the office. With crazy eye man.”

“Moody,” Hollander corrects, then rubs at his forehead like the name itself gives him a headache. “He’s… he’s just—”

Too sure, Ilya thinks. Too eager. Ilya doesn’t know all the politics here, but he knows the kind of man who thinks “hard” is automatically “right.” Durmstrang produces them like a factory.

They round a corner and the corridor opens into a stretch of shadow where the torches burn low. They are outside the dining hall, Ilya thinks, though he is not sure. This castle is much smaller than Durmstrang's but far more confusing. He will have to stick with Hollander simply so he does not die of starvation trying to find his way out. They turn another corner then Hollander pauses. Ahead, a figure leans against the wall as if he’s been placed there on purpose—dark hair, glasses catching a thin strip of light, posture rigid with the effort of not falling apart in public.

Harry Potter.

He’s alone.

Ilya’s first thought is practical: stupid place to be alone. His second is less kind: of course he is alone. Dumbledore had said Harry would have protection and here he is, minutes later, wandering empty halls. Truly, Hogwarts is a bastion of the safety of children.

Potter’s head lifts as they approach. His eyes land on Hollander’s badge first, then on Hollander’s face, then on Ilya’s. The look that follows is immediate and ugly.

Suspicion.

Blame.

That bright Gryffindor instinct to pick a villain and grip him with both hands that Hollander had said earlier. Ilya wonders for a second if Potter has ever left Britain, or if Ilya is the first foreigner he has met. Potter is certainly acting like he is.

Potter straightens. “What are you doing with him?” he demands, and it would almost be funny if it weren’t so raw. As if Hollander and Ilya were a plotted  conspiracy already formed.

Hollander’s mouth tightens. “I'm walking Rozanov back to the ship,” he says, flat. “Hogwarts is complicated if you don't know the layout.”

Potter’s gaze flicks to Ilya. “You’re Durmstrang.”

Ilya lifts a brow. “Yes.”

“And you snapped Professor Moody's wand,” Potter says, like it’s an accusation but with something close to awe at the end he refuses to admit.

“Yes,” Ilya says again, because he won’t pretend to be ashamed of it. In fact, he's rather proud; Mama had been an expert in all types of unconventional magic. Wandless magic had been her favorite. Ilya had been studying it for years.

Potter’s eyes narrow. “So you’re on his side then, Hollander.”

Hollander makes a sound—half laugh, half choked-off profanity. “His side? Harry, I’m on the side of ‘not letting you die,’ regardless of who's on it, whether you like it or not.”

Potter’s nostrils flare. “Don’t act like you care.”

Ilya watches Hollander hold still under that, as if flinching would be losing. He can’t see Hollander’s thoughts, but he sees the control: the way Hollander swallows whatever he wants to say. The way he forces his voice into something almost reasonable.

“I don’t need to care,” Hollander says instead of cursing out the kid like Ilya would have by now. “I need to do my job. Which includes keeping you and the rest of students at Hogwarts safe.”

Potter looks like he wants to spit. “And you’re doing it with Durmstrang?”

Ilya steps half a pace forward, not enough to be a threat in Hogwarts terms, but enough that Potter has to look at him directly. “You think Durmstrang wants you dead?” Ilya asks, voice mild. “We want the tournament to be fair so we do not want two Hogwarts champions. We want no scandal, but someone put your name in. That is… not good for anyone.”

Potter’s jaw works. His hands flex at his sides like he’s gripping an invisible wand. He looks so young for a second that Ilya almost softens.

Almost.

Then Potter says, “Cedric thinks you’re up to something.”

Hollander’s eyes sharpen. “Cedric left you alone in the corridor right now?”

Potter’s expression shifts—an instant of embarrassment, then anger at being seen. “He didn’t— He went to—”

“To his common room?” Hollander cuts in. “He didn't walk you to yours?”

Potter’s face goes red. “He's a good person. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

“I’m not talking about him,” Hollander says, clipped. “I know Cedric is a good person. I got drinks with him after every game last year. I'm talking about you. You’re in the open and you’re a target. Do you understand the concept of ‘target,’ or has your last years not been enough to convince you that someone's after you?”

Potter’s eyes flash. "Yeah, someone Slytherin.”

“Someone Slytherin,” Hollander snaps, patience finally cracking. “Was Quirrell Slytherin? Was Ginny Weasley? Was Sirius Black? You're talking to the Slytherin who just argued with a professor on your behalf while you sat there making faces like I personally threw your name in the Goblet.”

Potter’s mouth opens, then shuts.

For a heartbeat the corridor is painfully quiet—just the torches, the castle breathing, the portrait at the end of the hall pretending to be asleep while absolutely not asleep.

Ilya feels Hollander’s frustration like heat off a fire. He also feels, distantly, a different kind of heat: the memory of Hollander’s mouth, Hollander’s hands, Hollander making those small, involuntary sounds like he hates himself for needing anything at all. It’s not the time. It’s never the time. The castle makes sure of that, but damn does Ilya love it when Hollander finally stands up for himself.

Hollander exhales through his nose and forces the Head Boy facade back into place. Ilya wants to rip it apart with his teeth. “Potter,” he says, more controlled, “go back to your common room. Don’t take shortcuts. Don’t go near the forest. Don’t go near the lake. If you see anyone following you, go to a professor. McGonagall. Flitwick. Sprout. Moody. I don't care. Do you understand?”

Potter stiffens at the command in Hollander’s voice. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I can,” Hollander says, the slightest edge of smugness in his voice already sending heat to Ilya's crouch. “I literally can. That’s what the badge is for. Now go or I'll start deducting points.”

Potter glowers at Ilya one last time, like he’s trying to memorize his face to blame later. Then he yanks his gaze away and storms off, shoulders tense, footsteps too loud for the hour.

When he’s gone, Ilya lets out a quiet breath. “He is… dramatic.”

Hollander’s laugh is short and sharp. “He’s fourteen.”

“He is fourteen,” Ilya agrees, then adds, because it matters, “and someone wants him dead.”

That wipes the humor off Hollander’s face. For a second, in the dim torchlight, Hollander looks older than he should—like duty is a weight he has been wearing for too long.

“Come on,” Hollander says, and doesn’t explain where. He just starts walking, and Ilya follows because he already knows he will.

They take turns Ilya doesn’t recognize, corridors that slope subtly downward, then the draft shifts—cooler, wetter, smelling faintly of grass even through stone. A side door looms ahead, heavy and old. Hollander murmurs something under his breath and the latch clicks.

Outside, the night hits like a slap. The grounds are black and silver, the sky thick with clouds that swallow starlight. The lake is a darker void beyond the slope of the grass, and somewhere out there Durmstrang’s ship sits like a secret—its lanterns faint, its outline barely there unless you know to look.

Hollander walks quickly at first, as if he’s trying to outrun the feeling of Dumbledore’s office, Potter’s glare, Moody’s too-sharp smile. Then, as they get farther from the castle, his pace eases. The silence between them grows less sharp, more…occupied.

Ilya feels it the way he feels weather changing: the air is heavy with what they are not saying.

“Why did you bring me here?” Ilya asks, quietly.

Hollander doesn’t answer immediately. He stops near the edge where the grass gives way to a gentle drop toward the water, the lake lapping faintly like it’s breathing. He turns, and the darkness hides most of his expression—except his eyes, catching a thin strip of moonlight.

“I don’t know,” Hollander says, and the honesty of it is almost violent. Then, like he regrets giving that much away, he adds, “You’re Durmstrang. You should be going back to your ship.”

Ilya’s mouth tilts. “Yes. And you are Hogwarts. You should be going back too.”

Hollander makes a frustrated sound. “This is— It’s stupid.”

Ilya steps closer anyway, slow enough to give Hollander time to move away if he wants to pretend harder than he wants to breathe. Hollander doesn’t move.

Ilya reaches up, not touching yet, letting the moment sit on the edge of contact. “You are very good at pretending,” he says softly. “But you are not as good as you think.”

Hollander’s breath catches—barely, but Ilya hears it in the quiet like a snapped thread. “Fuck off,” Hollander whispers, which is not an order so much as a plea.

Ilya’s fingers settle at Hollander’s jaw, gentle. Hollander’s skin is cold from the night, and the touch makes Ilya’s own pulse jump. He leans in and kisses him—slow, deliberate, nothing hurried or messy, just mouth to mouth with the kind of care that still feels dangerous.

Hollander freezes for half a second, and then—like his body makes the decision without waiting for his pride—he kisses back. It’s restrained, but there’s a tightness to it, a hunger held behind his teeth. Hollander’s hand grips Ilya’s sleeve, not quite pulling, not quite letting go.

For a few breaths the world narrows to the cold air and the quiet water and the warmth where their mouths meet.

Then Hollander breaks it like it burns.

He pulls back fast, eyes wide, scanning the darkness behind Ilya like he expects a Durmstrang student to materialize out of the lake itself. His hand drops. His whole posture shifts into alarm.

“Merlin—” Hollander says, harsh. “Rozanov, what the fuck are you doing? Anyone could see.”

Ilya blinks at him, still close enough to feel Hollander’s breath. “Who?”

Hollander gestures, furious and panicked at once. “Your ship. Your— anyone. Karkaroff—”

“It is dark,” Ilya says simply.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“They do not care,” Ilya cuts in, calm as stone. “And they are not looking. It is Halloween. They are sleeping, or drinking, or kissing someone. There is probably no one on the ship at all; they all out celebrating Krum and wasting his paycheck. No one is watching the lake for Head Boy of Hogwarts.”

Hollander’s face tightens like he wants to argue on principle. He looks torn between indignation and fear and the undeniable fact that his mouth is slightly swollen now, and Ilya can see it even in the dark.

Ilya lets his hand slide down to Hollander’s wrist, a grounding touch. “You are scared,” he says quietly.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Ilya says, and there’s no accusation in it. Just noticing. “Hollander… it is only us.”

Hollander stares at him for a long second, jaw working, and Ilya can almost see the battle: duty versus want, reputation versus the simple relief of being held in the dark where no one can name you.

Finally Hollander swallows. “This is—” he starts, then stops, like he doesn’t have a word that doesn’t sound like a confession. He glances toward the ship again, then back to Ilya. “If anyone finds out—”

“They will not,” Ilya says, shrugging one shoulder. “I am not a idiot. I have done this before with stupider men." Sasha's face cuts across Ilya's mind unprompted and unwanted. "And you are Head Boy. You know how to make rules. You also know how to break them in a way no one will know.”

Hollander’s mouth twitches like he hates how that line landed. He's still scared though, and Ilya will never push even if his dick will hate him for it, hard as it against his robes.

He leans in, not kissing this time. They're just close, close enough that Hollander can feel the promise without having to answer it. “I will go,” Ilya says, softer. “I return to ship. You return to the castle. You pretend. I pretend. We jerk off in our own rooms, so sad. So good of us.”

Hollander huffs a quiet, miserable laugh.

Ilya kisses him once more—brief, careful, like sealing a letter with a kiss—then pulls back before Hollander can have another panic attack. He does not allow himself to look back until he's boarded the ship. By then, good boy Hollander is already gone. 

|~|~|

"Dude." Hayden says at breakfast that next morning. He's decked out in so much yellow and black it's slightly blinding to the eyes. House and true champion pride he'd declared when Shane had asked. "You okay?" 

Shane blinks, shakes himself more awake. His boner hadn't gone down since Rozanov had left him blue-balled on the slope. He is exhausted and cranky and done. 

"I'm fine, Pike. Just tired." 

"Busy Halloween?' 

"Nah." Shane says, deliberately trying not to see how Rozanov was sitting in his seat at the Slytherin table. He sends him a wink across it, then, unprompted, tips back a whole goblet of milk into his mouth. A tiny drop slides down his face, down his neck. Shane wants to lick it, wants to shove Ilya's mouth against his and drink. 

What the fuck is wrong with him. 

"Just late night flying again."