The earth will see our eyes (the earth will rot away)

Коготóк увяз - всей птичке пропасть. ”If the claw is stuck, the whole bird is lost.”
- Russian proverb

Crowds are oppressing. People all around, the sheer amount of involuntary bodily contact and the warmth radiating off of every single individual surmounts to a sort of visceral unrest, the steady strength needed to push against the pull of throngs of people walking on direction threatening to fork you right with them.

The hallways and dungeon corridors of Durmstrang Academy aren’t small by any means, with ceilings so high that even a giant wouldn’t have a problem walking beneath them, and broad enough to have a carriage pulled by thestrals pass through them without touching up on the walls to either side. Yet, the amount of students breathing life into the stones upon stones stacked into the massive castle throning at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Norwegian Sea, they move like bees in their respective hive, making the act of actually walking a sport for itself. It’s just manageable when you’re a walking 6’4’’ mountain of a man, like at least half of the early-blooming guys attending Durmstrang, but it proves almost impossible for a girl barely towering over the year 3 students, and the weight scraping along the minimum requirement for the roller coaster at the annual lantern festival at Lake Ladoga.

Alana is the type of girl that looks like she should’ve rather been named Hennessey, eyes the color of Marinace Verde, and with a voice so sultry that the tone of it alone could knock life flat on its ass, like she smokes a pack of Salem’s a day. She smiles like a young Carly Simon, and has never cared much for the titles of her family, or the renown that comes with it. Instead, she likes to sneak out of the castle at night, shed her robe, and go for an icy swim after climbing down the rocky path to the shores of the sea, chug a whole vial of beatitas elixir and wind down to the strumming vocals of Trent Rezno.

It is also notable that she’s best friends with Viktor Krum.

Ever since they first shared a cabin upon the Durmstrang Galleon six years ago, they’ve been grown together by the hip, and it just went on from there. She once beat up a girl a few years her senior for shoving a then very bony and fragile Viktor standing at least a foot shorter than everyone else, into a group of Year 7 guys, and you never really get over that sort of thing.

Viktor is also the one she’s currently waiting for, embalmed in the force of a near war-mongering crowd of students on the way to lunch, trying hard to stand her ground until the man in question finally steps out of the classroom, tall enough to part the wavering throngs like Moses parted the Red Sea. The black pullover is too tight around his shoulders and biceps, the red jacket draped over his arm, a look pulling his face tight like he wants to be everywhere but here - but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. It stems from the way he’s been brought up, outright conditioned by his parents and the school all the same, all soldiered up with no war to fight. His parents are actual nutjobs, daddy used to beat on him when he’d been younger, and his momma got no backbone, covered in expensive clothes and jewellery like a tsarist noble lady at the turn of the century, having a near slavish obedience to whatever the family patriarch - aka Viktor’s father - has to say.

“Took you long enough,” Alana mutters as her greeting, taking the arm he offers her, though unable to refrain from pinching his side as they go.

He feigns pain, nudging her. “You know Professor Orlova. Damn woman’s making my patience run short.” Viktor makes a face, pushing his way through a group of younger students, and dragging Alana right along with him.

“She’s literally deifying you.” She gives a mock shudder. Professor Orlova is old even by wizarding standards, with long, grey hair always collected into a braid, and a voice so chortling it bears close resemblance to a biddy. A strange one by all means, though good as they come off the shelf, and the odd one out among the school’s faculty. “You’re a star now, hubby,” Alana apes the professor with a giggle.

“Stop,” he mutters, somewhat between flustered and annoyed. It’s true, however. Despite his unusual humility towards the subject, Viktor has become quite the star in the recent year and a half, thanks to his unmatchable talent concerning quidditch, and has secured himself the position of the seeker for the Bulgarian national team. Despite them not yet having won a world cup, he still continues to rise to somewhat of an international phenomenon, someone the girls swoon over and write letters to, with papers carrying the scent of rose or lavender, and little hearts adorning the the i’s, talking about their love for him and his virility.

He cleaves the way for them both down the stairs, graciously acting like a roadblock keeping the too energetic younglings from running Alana straight over on their way to the great hall. She purses her lips at the sight of them, at how lively they still are, like they didn’t just sit through five hours worth of enervating classes, and don’t have at least a dozen half finished assignments pressing against her neck. Halfway through the dimly lit corridor at the foot of the stairs, they are joined by Leonid who with blithe nonchalance shoves aside a dwarf of a boy to bump shoulders with Viktor, before pulling Alana into a very unceremonious hug.

“Shit, you look half dead,” she remarks at the sight of the lilac bags underneath his eyes, and the unusual pale face, faint bruising still visible on his cheek and jaw with dim opalescence. It stems from a bloody collision with a bludger a few days back on the pitch, an accident that left half his face disfigured like a crushed soda can, and knocked out at least a handful of his teeth - all of which are now back anchored in their respective sockets.

“Lookin’ good as new, more like.” With a grin, half to showcase the unblemished row of white teeth, he holds up both thumbs much like a comic character would, and turns to walk alongside them, hands buried in the pockets of his linen pants. “Did I miss much?”

Stepping through the winged doors, they enter the dining hall, and take a seat at their designated table. It’s a massive room, wood-vaulted ceilings with spandrels in the edges holding up circular chandeliers, and huge windows on one side placed far too high up to be able to catch a glance of the outside world. Paintings and statues of past wizards adorn the wainscoting, watching the students with feigned interest and throwing in a few words where they think it’s worth giving their two cents of knowledge. The chairs sport fur-covered cushions, and the tables are sparsely ornated at the sides and the legs, set with plenty of food and drink to choose from, and brought alive by the buoyant chatting all around them.

“Professor Haugen got bit by a Fanged Geranium on Tuesday, and Erno blew up his cauldron during Potions yesterday. Should’ve heard Professor Vuković totally annihilating that boy,” she updates him, pouring water into her goblet. “You think they can see me from here?” She motions at the professors sitting not too far from them, looking over her shoulder like someone that’s about to do something very illegal.

“Shit. Not if you’re quick.” Viktor leans forward as to reach for the bowl of baked potatoes, conveniently covering Alana in the act.

She does make a quick study out of it, transforming the water into a jug of vodka with the jerk of her wand alone, smiling something wicked, like there’s not one nice and compliant thought behind those eyes, and lifting the goblet to her lips.

“I hope I’m getting some of that,” a female voice chirps in, and a tall girl falls down on the empty chair to Alana’s left, snatching the alcohol from her hands and taking a hearty sip out of it, followed by a heavy sigh of content. “I needed that.”

“Jesus, Daria.” Letting his body settle, Leonid makes no effort hiding the way he lets his eyes drop down her body all the way to where the table hides the rest, before raking back upwards. “You look a mess. Better fix your uniform before Professor Karkaroff sees you.”

She looks down on herself, muttering something unintelligible as she fixes the leather belt holding her tunic tight around her waist, before blaming it on her Shamanism class and some angry spirit that another student unleashed to wreak havoc on everyone around.

Not long after, and the iron-studded swing doors behind the teacher’s desk fly open, the chains on them grating along the stone wall behind, loud enough that Alana can almost physically feel the vibrations of it, and the school’s headmaster bursts through it with long strides. He’s dressed in black pants and a white coat embroidered with black shoulder boards, belted at the waist, face pulled grim as he assumes a position before his chair in the middle of the table. “Attention, students!”

It’s dead silent on the beat, students scrambling to raise from their seats and stand to attention, waiting for his next words motionless, hands crossed at the back. Alana isn’t too fond of the headmaster, though she doesn’t have any problems with him per se, quite the opposite, actually. But his past is no stranger to anyone in this castle, his ties to the Dark Lord and his stay at Azkaban something that has shaped the student body here fundamentally, and it’s no surprise that half the parents themselves have some sort of ties to the Death Eaters, or at the very least would be quick to support them, should the unimaginable become reality. It’s like the whole school has grown darker and more dangerous, and not seldom does she see dubious shadows scurrying through the hallways at night when all students should be in their dorms, or feel the eyes of creatures far from human on her as she takes the narrow path down the mountain to the sea. And she knows it’s the mark Grindelwald has carved into this castle that is the root of most evil, the mark that Karkaroff secretly seems to aid. And she knows it’s the reason her parents have sent her here instead of the more closely located academy of Koldovstoretz, to learn what it’s like to use your wand for more than seeing in the dark and growing flowers out of the tip of it.

“Good afternoon, students of Durmstrang,” he calls, voice firm and hard, merciless.

“Good afternoon, Professor Karkaroff,” the entirety of the great hall chants back wholly in tune.

His eyes wander across the heads of his students, much like he’s bathing in his own authority, taking a few seconds to finish the daily protocol. “Fall out, students!”

Alana slumps back into her seat, continuing to pick on her bowl of Shchi she’s taken from the tablet in the middle of the table. “Did you talk to Karkaroff?” she inquires, turning to Viktor with a hand held before her full mouth, and prodding his leg with her boots.

He huffs, quickly shoving a large potato down his throat to buy himself some time to answer. She’s been urging him to approach the headmaster for some time now, regarding the Triwizard Tournament. The man has been ecstatic about wanting to participate ever since he watched the last tournament four years ago, and hasn’t shut up about the actual possibility next year, considering that he’s not only a top notch student, but also an excellent athlete, and therefore the perfect all-round package. “I did.” Flushing his bite down with a sip of vodka, he adds, “He submitted my name.”

“You better not forget me when you become some legendary super-wizard.” She grins, though it’s meant only half in joke. She does fear, sometimes, that all the fame and the praise and the girls will end up turning him into yet another one of those bigheaded snobs, and leave her at the side of the road like some rusted out car.

Viktor shoots her a dirty look from the side, like he’s genuinely offended. “I’d never forget you.” His face softens then, and something mischievous plays up the dark of his eyes. “I need someone to dust off my coat and polish my shoes, after all.”

Alana huffs, incredulous, nudging his elbow. “Fuck you.”

Daria chimes in then, already half on the move again. She constantly is, busy with everything and nothing, a tornado of a girl leaving absolutely nothing in her wake. The chestnut hair reaches her mid-back, always bobbing in a ponytail, and with eyes so unimaginably blue they border on hypnotizing, she’s turning heads no matter where she goes, and she likes it that way, always a guy pegged beneath her fingernails. She’s that rare, unavailable comet among space waste, living life like it will end literally the next day. “Will you come to the lake with us later? Dmitry said the ice is finally thick enough again, and Leonid is coming, too.”

Leonid nods, as to confirm, but Alana waves it off. “I can’t, got assignments piling up. Tomorrow, maybe,” she consoles her friend, and adding as an afterthought, “Tell Dima I said Hi.”

The rest of the day unwinds quickly, and in the evening she skips dinner to avoid feeling bloated during the ballet lesson right after. She does, however, ask Viktor to save her a piece of honey cake, which is what she’s now eating, perched against the foot of his bed, legs drawn close, and unapologetically calling him out on the pile of used underwear he’s shoved under his bed, something that makes it blindingly clear that, after all, he’s still such a guy. It’s a biological imperative, it has to be. Exhibit A: the all too convenient box of tissues on the side table next to his bed. Hell, he even has a couple of girls from new and old Playboy covers taped to the wall his bed rests against - where he got them from she doesn’t know, Russia doesn’t even issue the scandalous men’s magazine yet. The pictures are borderline judgemental, all baseball tits and leather skin that suggests melanoma in ten years, tops.

The man himself sits halfway behind her on the mattress, reaching down over her shoulder to pick a piece of cake off the plate with his bare fingers, and shoving it down his throat while dropping crumbs all over her pullover. It’s past curfew, and if someone were to check, they’d get into deep trouble, might even get punished, but it’s the last thing on Alana’s mind. She’s in the midst of copying his notes from Monday’s Charms class, which she inconveniently forgot, and Professor Gruev is dreaded for writing surprise tests, so missing notes is on par with getting some deadly flu.

“You got crumbs onto my papers,” she mutters, swiping the yellowy dots off and across the room, sighing when some of the fresher ink smears across the parchment. “Didn’t Professor Gruev say the Imperturbable Charm goes Immobillio?”

Viktor clicks his tongue, leaning forward to take a look at his notes. “No, it’s what I wrote. Inmobullio. You’re not buying real estate, you’re enclosing a room from being eavesdropped on, dumbass.” He laughs, a deep, throaty sound, and pats Alana on the shoulder.

She snorts, shoving him back. “Don’t be mean, Krum. Go back to your rituals.”

Still laughing, he retreats to the relative safety of his bed, and back to his essay for Rituals and Curses, a class they attend together. It’s one of those classes that just got tons of work in tow, a lot of theory, a lot of research, and long hours of reading through ancient tombs in order to write your thesis of the year. Viktor chose to do a deep-dive on the Norse Blót, while Alana keeps herself busy with the ancient Slavic Mechta, a ritual that enables you to talk to the dead via a dream-induced state by burning a ton of mugwort and mumbling sacred words, as well as killing a crow, and digging up a dead body.

“I’m gonna be so tired tomorrow,” mutters Alana, supressing a yawn.

“You mean today,” he corrects, double checking the wooden-framed clock hanging above the window, before falling back into his pile of pillows. He keeps his voice low - sometimes teachers are checking outside the doors to make sure everyone’s in their own rooms. His roommate, Leonid, is still out at the frozen lake, and she doubts they’ll come back any time soon, so they have the whole room to themselves, a small, cozy burrow sheltering them from the hazardous cold, snowflakes collecting at the window and slowly running down in molten drops, the glass foggy. “It’s already one. You have to wake up by six, will moan like a wounded tiger till nine, pick yourself back up around ten, and pull another late night.”

He’s right by that. Still, the prospect of only a little more than four hours of sleep, though she does have the first two periods free on Fridays, is only very little appealing. “I might just crash here,” she says, half in joke, stretching her limbs and arching her back like a cat.

She’s done it before, on a few, rare occasions, and obviously without permission. She can only imagine the face of Professor Ivanov, head teacher for all male students Year five and above, when he walks in seeing them share a bed, and the punishment would probably be very painful to endure.

Though sleeping in one bed and, generally, being in such close proximity while dishevelled or half naked, in his case, isn’t weird, not for them. They act like siblings to one another, like the mere thought of each other without clothes is just kind of gross, something appropriate enough to fall to the ground stomach-down and pretend to be stung by acid, complete with fake wails and cries of nonsense, just at the sight of it. And maybe that’s why it works out so well between them. Alana has known him too long, too intimately, has seen the king without his crown. Disgraced and bare. And he’s seen her all the same. There’s never any stunted, awkward conversation between them, no prolonged eye contact or any lapses of “experimentation” that might fuck up the whole situation. Not even as they lie in bed, with Alana usually closest to the wall, something that has started way back, when she’d asked Viktor to sleep at the edge so that demons that might get in, eat him first, to which he’s dutifully obliged and offered himself up. Not even Leonid cares about her presence, heck they’ve been friends for too long, and so, on occasions, she sleeps over in his room, when they’ve forgotten time, or by coincidence, when they just happen to fall asleep like that.

Viktor huffs. “Are you like, asking?”

Though with a heavy heart, she ends up retorting, “I can’t, actually. Professor Vuković has been doing some surprise drop-ins these past few days to check everyone’s there. Apparently some chick in Year seven got caught screwing her boyfriend the other day.”

He grimaces. “Rough.”

She leans her head back against the edge of the mattress, watching as he puts his books onto the nightstand and rolls to the side very inelegantly, groaning, as if it demands the biggest physical effort from him. Then, after a lapse of silence, she finally gets up herself, returning his notes and gathering her own. “I’ll better get going then. Save me some pancakes tomorrow? I might run late.”

He nods, lazily holding up one thumb. “Take care, don’t let ol’ Timur see you.” Timur, their Dark Arts Professor's and deputy headmaster’s favorite pet, a tiger, likes sneaking through the hallways at night, tracking down rogue students, and scare the first year’s by day. He’s cute, actually.

Alana grins, cracking the door open a hair to check if it’s all clear, before slipping outside. Peeking back in she declares, “Stealthy as a tiger.” With that, she disappears into the darkness of the castle, and leaves Viktor to change and, eventually, go to bed himself.