Past Present

It took him a few moments upon waking to remember where he was. Durmstrang. The ball was last night. No, it had to be a dream. Nothing that perfect had ever happened to him at Durmstrang before. But then his eyes fell on the boots sitting next to the chair, and the clothes he had draped over the back only a few hours before. He ruffled his hair and wondered what had woken him. He sat up and listened. Quiet. Too quiet, if it had not been for everyone sleeping even later because of the late night last night. Must have been the sun. Or the twinge in that shoulder. As he stretched, his tight shoulder gave an uncomfortable pop, then eased. Should have leaned the other one against the door frame last night. Two nights in a row must have been too much.

He was sitting there debating whether to roll over with his back to the window and try to get more comfortable, or abandon the bed altogether when a timid pecking sounded at the door. Not Alexei. He did nothing that quietly. "One moment," he called, swinging his legs out of bed and grabbing the dressing gown off the bedpost. Probably Hermione. Or Harry or Ron. Instead, it was the last person he would have expected. "Poppet, something wrong?" Probably here to give me what for about that Hans Hauptmann business, he thought blearily. To his great surprise, she wordlessly threw her arms around his waist.

"P-pushkin p-picked m-me," she said with wonder in her voice, once she had let go. "I-I m-made f-first t-team!" she beamed, then her smile faded. "Oh, V-v-viktor, I w-woke y-y-you..."

"It is okay. I need to get up or I will... he has posted the list already?"

"It is n-nearly e-e-eleven," she said bluntly.

"Oh. No one up yet?" he asked, leaning out to look down the silent hall.

She shook her head and replied, "N-not m-many. Th-th-thank y-y-you V-v-viktor. L-l-last n-night t-t-too."

"Oh, I was forced to," he said without thinking, then catching himself and thinking how that sounded, added, "I did not want it just to be the four of us. Out there. First. Unfair how they used to pick only students in the upper years." I left my head in bed, he scolded himself. Ah, a door jamb. Bang head here, you idiot. I was forced to. What were you thinking? You were not, obviously.

"Still i-it w-was s-sw-sweet," she said, "I w-will l-let y-y-you r-rest." The broad smile was back. He closed his door after he had seen that she made it to the head of the stairs and started down. Poppet. On first team. That would show all the ones who had teased her about being too tiny. Too timid. Thick-tongued. Pushkin always was fairly reasonable. And like any good coach, he just wanted the best overall player, if it be a tall, dark, gangly boy or a petite, fair wisp of a girl. He paused halfway between the door and the bed and brought his brows together. Either it was his imagination, or Poppet's stutter had vastly improved overnight. But he was too tired to think about it much. He returned his dressing gown to the bedpost and crawled back into bed. Consequences be hanged, he had to sleep a little longer. Everyone else was.