Past Present

It always began the same way. In the cafe. There was always the same group there, the same group that had been there over and over, countless times, the young man with the tired, gray face standing out particularly, because he had been facing him the entire time he sat at the table. He could have described him to perfection at the drop of a hat, every line of his face, he had seen him so many times. So many years. Over in the corner, the dark haired woman with the two children, one a toddler she had perched on the edge of the table and crooned to while the little boy next to her ate. Otherwise deserted and quiet except for the older woman with her gray hair pulled back in a bun, wiping the counter. It was too early for the lunch crowd yet.

And every time, Papa would get up and walk to the counter, lean against it, make small talk with the woman behind the counter, and after a minute, the washed out man would join them too and begin talking. He could never make out what they said. He was bored, so he slid off the seat and walked away from them to the door, leaning his forehead against the cool glass and looking back down the street. Then up. Nothing but shoppers with their bags and parcels, walking up and down the sidewalks and a few on the benches next to the fountain. Then he caught the dust, from the corner of his eye, before the sound really registered, back down the street, the rumbling, then the smoke mixed with it, and he pushed the door open.

Somehow he had gotten down the street. Though he didn't remember walking or running the distance, he must have. At first his eye had picked out only piles of rubble and he had wondered where the building had gone. Buildings. Where the buildings had gone. Then things too big to be rubble, covered in stony gray dust and streaked with red and black. Blank, staring eyes. And he couldn't stop himself from walking farther, toward where the building they had come from should be, but wasn't anymore. He dimly registered the heat, the rawness of his throat, the dust and smoke making his eyes water, the burnt, oily taste in his mouth, the smell, singed hair and skin, the far off sirens and the voices. Some were shouted names, others wordless wailing and keening that sounded like the sirens. He studied a man who stood there while he walked by, silent and still, holding his shopping bag as though he couldn't decide which shop to enter next. He wasn't watching where he was going, and his foot wobbled when he stepped on something rubbery on the sidewalk, almost turning his ankle. He had looked in spite of himself, he told himself not to look, then and now, but he always did. It was a hand and arm. Not attached to anything. Severed at the elbow. Lying there with nothing else of the body it had once belonged to, in front of the toe of his sneaker.

Then Papa's voice screaming his name, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him backwards, so hard that he left his feet before Papa even put an arm beneath his armpits, seeing the hooded, masked figure across the square before Papa finished gathering him up and pressed his face into his solid shoulder. There was nothing but Papa's hard shoulder beneath his face and his big hand cupped on the back of his head, smoothing his hair down and carrying him back toward the cafe. Papa's arm squeezed his ribs so hard he could barely breathe, but he didn't care. It meant he was safe. He didn't have to think or look anymore. "Ne poveche. Stiga smyrtta," Papa said to someone after he had stopped. He kept hearing it. Had he repeated it that many times? He must have fallen asleep then, the last time sleep would be a complete refuge from that scene.

The next thing he always remembered was darkness and being shaken, and how at first he thought that he had just had a nightmare or overslept. Then he opened his eyes and the bright lights made his eyes ache. He ducked his head back toward Papa's chest, away from the lights, and realized that it was shaking. He leaned his head back, and saw that Papa was crying. That part always shook him worse now than what he had seen in the square. Because it was the first time he had seen an adult cry. Because he knew now what came next. "Viktor, Mama's hurt. It will be a while before she comes home with us. Violeta... she's not coming home," he said in a strangled voice. He touched Papa's cheek and it came away wet.

His hand was wet. He parted his eyelids and the bright light made his eyes ache for an instant, but he squeezed them shut, then reopened them, and they adjusted. Everything felt vaguely unused and neglected, as though he had slept far too long. Then he remembered where he must be. Hogwarts. He felt a raspy tongue drag across his right palm and heard a plaintive whimper. The dogs. One of them, anyway. The other one wouldn't be far. He twisted his head to the left instead and saw the back of a dark, bushy head resting on the bed level with his hip. This side of it, a piece of parchment and a quill. He reached out across them and touched her hair with his fingertips, just to convince himself it was really there, he wasn't seeing things. "Sokrovishte." She stirred and turned her face toward him, looking at him impassively, picked up the quill and waited, with it paused over the parchment. He waited a moment for her to say something, and when she didn't, he tapped her nose lightly with his index finger. "Waiting for me to dictate a letter?" he asked thickly. Now why would he have a fat lip? he thought, testing the split with the tip of his tongue.

She couldn't have been more surprised if he had gotten out of bed and done a cartwheel. "Viktor...oh... Viktor..." she started crying and fell fiercely on his neck.

"Ow! Wait, wait, wait, stop that for a minute, get up! Where are Harry and Ron?" Not in any of the other beds, apparently, they were all empty. The only other alternatives were very, very good or very, very bad.

"In class," she wailed, not moving.

"Wait. You did say in class, did you? No offense, but you are going to haff to loosen your grip a little, I cannot breathe with you doing that. My chest hurts. Let me up first. And to think I once called Elena a python, you put her to shame!" He gingerly propped up on his left elbow when she let go. "Another pillow?" he asked.

"You're okay?"

He looked down at the other arm, which ached dully, and the heavy splint on the left leg. Most of the bruises had faded to a nasty green or yellow or brown, some of the worst ones had settled into a deep purple. His chest felt like a mountain troll had mistaken it for a kettle drum. Even his cheekbones throbbed. "Okay might be overstating the case. But considering I should be dead, I am rather better than should be expected. Just throw it back there," he said when she grabbed the pillow from the next bed. He pushed up with his left hand and slid back, propped against the headboard with the pillow between. Ow, ow, ow. I wonder if I could hold my breath for the next week? "In class? They're okay. You're okay?"

"Okay might be overstating the case," she laughed, wiping her cheeks. Ivan and Natasha were shoving their heads up over the edge of the bed, jousting jealously for position, tongues lolling and tails wagging.

"Stupid dogs," he said affectionately, giving them each a quick scratch under the chin with his right hand. The twinge that ran up his arm almost made him regret it.

"Viktor!" Harry yelled from the doorway and ran in, grabbing him.

"Not that I do not appreciate it, but ow already! Off my ribs! Next person that hugs me gets the dogs set on them!" Harry thought he had never been so happy to have someone be irritable with him, and he pulled away with a mumbled apology. Viktor regarded him for a moment. "Last time I saw you, your glasses were in sorrier shape. When was the last time I saw you, anyway?"

"This is the third day," Harry said.

"Three days. No wonder I feel stale then. Sorry I shoved you down the hill," he said to Ron.

"Didn't apologize to those two, and they went down a lot harder than I did," Ron grinned.

"But I did not see them at all until we were halfway down the hill in the dark. I pushed you on purpose."

"Had to, didn't you? I was busy being a stubborn, pigheaded idiot and you didn't have time to argue."

"Join the club. Where's Dumbledore? I need to talk to him. And you three."

"If Mr. Weasley will go get him, and you'll sit still for five minutes and let me examine you, I just might let you have a powwow," Madame Pomfrey scolded. "I wondered when you were going to rejoin the land of the living."

"You still look horrible," Harry said.

"Gee, thanks," Viktor said sourly. "On the bright side, I do not think my nose is broken. Has to be a first. It feels like the only thing that is not broken." He shook his head as though clearing it.

"Just about. You've got one of each limb still in the right number of pieces and one or two of your ribs might be intact. Now would you stop wriggling around so I can have a look at that cut on your forehead?" Madame Pomfrey complained. "That should be nearly healed. I'll be mending your bones for days yet."

Ron and Professor Dumbledore came in and Dumbledore walked to the side of the bed, greeting the dogs with a friendly pat, then turning to the resident of the bed. "Ah, Viktor, welcome back. More ways than one," he said with a wry little smile.

"By the way, the answer is yes," Viktor said.

"Yes?" Dumbledore asked with raised brows.

"Yes, part of it figured out now. Unfortunately, until three nights ago, the answer was no. Wish it had not taken quite that long," Viktor said, fingering the locket at his chest.

"And what the blue blazes are you two talking about? Why doesn't anyone ever explain anything to us!?!" Harry shouted.

"If you would stop shouting and making my ears ring, I would be glad to explain, I think," Viktor told him, while he rubbed his temple.

"Maybe it would be best to start from the beginning. Or near enough the beginning that these three will understand what we're talking about," Dumbledore said as he settled into one of the chairs by the bed.

Viktor took a deep breath and began, "This is what I was trying to work out. Well, not this exactly," he added, looking around at the bed, "but coming here. I only haff to work in two more exams, and that is it. I will haff graduated. Vratsa was willing to let me train on my own as long as I could still go to Hogsmeade and Apparate back for games. Then I was going to fill in the rest of the time by being a sort of teacher's assistant. I did not want to finish at Durmstrang. Dumbledore tells me a few of the teachers are going to be a bit, er, extra busy for a while," he said, cocking a brow at Harry. "Extra assignments, so to speak."

Viktor shifted to get more comfortable. "You remember what I told you on the porch that night? About what happened in the maze? I wrote to Dumbledore after that. We think now there might be more to it than Crouch as Moody getting into my head."

"But why?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Because it was not a voice. If it were just Crouch as Moody, doing the Imperius, and he outdid Karkaroff, it should haff been Moody's voice, same as you heard when he did the Imperius on you. No reason why it should not haff been. When Karkaroff really pushed, I heard his voice. Plain as if he were talking to me. When he did not push, I got whispers, but it was still a voice. Even when he had the dementors working on me as well, I still heard his voice. When someone does the Imperius, you should hear their voice," Viktor explained.

"So?" Ron said.

"So... I did not hear a voice. I heard... screeching. Wailing. No words, no voice, nothing distinguishable. It did not even sound like a person. Then I remember nothing. I should be able to remember. We think it might be someone or something that is still here. It may not haff been just Moody... I mean, Crouch. He may haff had help. Here. There might be a way to find out, but we will go into that later. Much later," Viktor looked at Dumbledore for a moment, then spoke again. "When I wrote you last, I had already left Durmstrang and I still did not know what all that business I wrote you about meant. Went home for a few days. Sent the dogs on ahead, so Hagrid could take care of them if I got delayed. Left there and went to Hogsmeade. Actually got there early. Igor was there. I found out he was staying at the Hog's Head after he almost turned a corner on the street and bumped into me, literally. He was coming down the street and I... I just knew he was there. I ducked into a shop and he went by. I asked around until I found out where he was staying. The same night, I left Hogsmeade. Maybe he did some asking around of his own, because by the time I got near the grounds, I knew he was following."

"How did you know that, Viktor?" Hermione asked.

"I...just did. Same way I knew there was something wrong about him from the moment I met him. Same way I knew you were alright when I saw you in the library, before I met you. Same way I knew Rita Skeeter was in the bushes that night outside the tent. Same way I knew Igor was in the same town before I saw him. In other words, I haff no idea. It has been happening more lately. Knowing things for certain that I have no way of knowing. I am no seer, but I get these... feelings about people sometimes. So strong that I would bet on them. Do bet on them. Just one of the things I haff no explanation for. Like that broom at internationals," Viktor said, looking at his hands in his lap.

"Oh, when you fell off? What do you mean 'no explanation'? Can't have been easy to summon it with your wand in your pocket while you're practically dangling by your pinkies, and it wasn't pretty, but it got there, didn't it?" Ron prodded impatiently.

"Oh, it was in my pocket, alright. The pocket of my equipment bag, in my locker," Viktor replied, looking up at Ron.

"But that... oh... that would explain why you had such an odd expression when you picked it back up and put it in your robe pocket before we left..." Hermione mused out loud.

"At first, I thought I must haff been shuffling things around, stuck it back in the bag with my other equipment, and just did not remember. I was pretty scatterbrained that day. But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that I could not remember getting it out in the first place after doing the earplugs. Then I thought maybe one of the others did it. Saw me and sent the broom out. I asked. I do not think they did it. I cannot haff summoned a broom without a wand, now could I?" Viktor said, shrugging his shoulders.

He continued, "But there is no other explanation. Ivanova was the only other person on the field who even knew I was dangling, and she was too busy getting after Mostafa to stop play to do it. None of the coaches are allowed to haff wands on the field, and in professional competitions there is a charm on the field that prevents people in the stands from using their wands on anyone or anything on the field. They let players carry wands if they wish for emergencies, and emergencies only, but I saw none of them with their wand out. I usually do not carry mine anyway, was not allowed when I was underage, got used to not being able to carry it. The others were too busy playing. That leaves Ivanova and me, and Ivanova even says she did not do it. That leaves me. And if my wand was in my pocket, I never felt it. Even if it is an impossible explanation, it is the only one left. That I managed to do it without a wand."

"What are you talking about, Viktor? What's it mean?" Harry asked.

"I am not sure. You remember that before you got your wand, sometimes things would happen without explanation, especially when you were afraid, or angry, or in danger? Uncontrolled, wandless magic. Usually happens when your powers are just starting to manifest themselves in earnest, but before you haff been matched with a wand and trained. Most people raised in wizarding families come to expect it when you are about eleven. Goes along with growing up, those power surges. Maybe it was because I was in danger of dying. Maybe that is why the summoning worked without a wand. Maybe that is why the charm worked the other night. We were all going to die if it had not worked. That is how it usually works when you are younger. You get scared out of your wits or so angry you cannot see straight, and something happens that you cannot control. Extreme fear, anger, maybe it is necessary for it to work. At any rate, I knew he was following, and I tried to get to the castle before he got here. I ran into these two in the dark, literally, and I am sure they told you the rest of it, right?" Viktor asked Dumbledore.

"But how did you know what to do? Fear and anger might explain the ability to do magic without a wand, but how did you know what charm to use?" Dumbledore queried, examining Viktor over his glasses.

"The Guardian. He told me. Twice. Once when I took these three in, once before I left. He kept telling me to look to my heart. That I would know what it meant when the time came, it was very important advice. At first, I thought he meant the decision about coming here. But then Igor used those exact same words with me. Look to my heart. Ask myself if it was worth it. He said it twice. The Guardian said it twice. I looked down, and there it was. The answer. I haff been wearing this locket next to my heart since the day I got it. There is a charm written on it. I researched it in Durmstrang's library, what little there is on the charm. That is part of why I went back, at least for a few weeks. To get thing in order. To find out more about those words. Telling these three about Guerda Engelikos made me curious about it again. A charm against the evil eye. Romany words. Romany were very big on wandless magic once. The evil eye is supposed to be a death curse. It all fit. Too well," Viktor replied. He was looking paler and weaker now, after sitting up for a while.

"Well, then. I will have to do some research of my own. We'll talk more later. In the meantime, get some rest. You three try not to overstay your welcome, or Madame Pomfrey will be tossing you out on your ears," Dumbledore admonished. "Viktor, you can fill me in on any more pertinent details you think of later. For now, I'll leave you to bed," he added. "You three, all three of you, I think you had best be back in class tomorrow. Even you, Hermione."

"Yes sir," she replied softly.

When he had gone, Viktor picked up Hermione's hand from the edge of the bed, studied it and ran a thumb over the back of it. "By the way, what did he haff to say for himself?"

"Say for himself?" Hermione echoed.

"Igor. What excuse did he give? Who did he blame everything on? Or did he just offer to name names again in exchange for leniency?" Suddenly Viktor looked particularly weary. The trio looked at one another, silent, none of them willing to answer. "Well?" Viktor asked, looking up into her face.

Hermione went paler as well. "Viktor...Karkaroff...he's not saying anything... he's dead," she whispered.

Viktor knitted his brows together and a look of distress passed over his face. "Dead? But... I... oh... I..." he stammered, then dropped his gaze to his knees, silent for a long moment. "I did it, did I?" he finally asked in a soft voice.

"Not exactly," Hermione replied. She struggled for further words.

"I am no better than he was, then," Viktor whispered.

"Why's that?" Hermione asked.

"I killed someone. I hated him. I threatened him. I wished him dead. I pictured him dead. I wanted to make it as painful and as awful as possible, too. I am a murderer, no better than Kark..."

"Now listen here!" Hermione said sternly, putting her hands on his face and turning it toward her, "You listen to me! You stop blaming yourself! Karkaroff was threatening your life, our lives. And you stood him down. You kept putting yourself between him and us. You didn't attack him unprovoked, you didn't even point your wand at him and say the words. You defended yourself, defended us. Nothing more, nothing less. You didn't even strike him back. You didn't say the words."

"I wanted to," Viktor said weakly.

"But you didn't. I don't know that I would have been that charitable in your position," Hermione said angrily.

"I wanted to use every horrible thing I know how to do on him," he argued in a low voice.

"But in the end, you didn't. Doesn't matter why. Even if you had, no one would blame you. What matters is, in the end, you're no more guilty of murder than Harry was when he was a baby. Karkaroff might as well have turned his wand on himself. He cursed you, used Avada Kedavra, and it came back to bite him. Just like Harry and Voldemort. Viktor, I don't think it counts for nothing that you never did the easy thing and gave in, instead of doing what was right. You could have stayed at Durmstrang... safer there right now, isn't it? Instead, you stood with us. For us, really, when we couldn't stand for ourselves. It's a protection charm, isn't it? Not a curse. Not a curse. You didn't use one curse. Now does that sound like a murderer to you? And do you know that you did something even Dumbledore didn't know was possible? You killed a dementor," Hermione said gently.

Viktor pursed his lips soundlessly, then finally formed the word. "What?"

"The dementor. With Karkaroff. It's nothing more than a squidgy pile of goo by now, if it's stopped smoking," Ron piped up.

"I am not sure I want to figure the rest out, then," Viktor said glumly.

"Figure the rest of what out?" Harry asked.

"All the rest of what the Guardian said. I am not sure I want to find out about anything else I might be capable of doing. Although, maybe finding out slightly more than right about the time it becomes a matter of life or death would be handy. On the other hand, we could not have ended up more dead if I was wrong, now could we?" Viktor asked.

"No. Dead's dead. Anything the Guardian told you that we haven't heard?" Harry asked, sitting on the neighboring cot.

Viktor flexed his left hand and examined it. "You mind if we leave that until tomorrow?"

"We had better go anyway. Madame Pomfrey keeps looking us over, and if we have to go to class, I've got some work to do. Get some rest," Hermione said, tapping his arm and getting up from her seat.

"Yes ma'am," Viktor laughed softly under his breath. As he watched them go, he thought to himself, more will become clear after, eh? That part was a blatant lie. I'm more confused than ever, now. I need to start fresh and reread the whole thing again. Maybe I am missing something obvious.