Snow fell gently in purposeful flakes, the kind that blurred outlines and muffled sounds. By the greenhouses, with the winter light fading into dusk, Viktor Krum stood with his hands tucked in his coat pockets, gazing not at Harry but beyond him, towards the trees marking the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
"I heard you are different," he finally spoke, his English rough but steady. "Not the school-dueling kind. I would like to see. Properly."
Harry observed him closely. There was no arrogance, no hostility—only a professional curiosity. "All right," he said. "Tonight."
Hermione made a small skeptical sound, but it didn't alter their decision. Neville pulled his scarf tighter, excited and wide-eyed.
They slipped out after curfew, cloaks pulled tight against the cold, the castle's illuminated windows twinkling like coins behind them. The forest greeted them with the soft crunch of boots on hard-packed snow and the pine-scented breath of the trees. They navigated through the dark trunks until they reached a quiet clearing, shielded from the wind. Hermione and Neville took their positions on the periphery. Viktor removed his heavy coat and laid it carefully on a stump, revealing practical wool beneath that moved silently. He rolled his shoulders, took his wand, and weighed it in his hand, much like a beater would with a bat.
Harry relaxed his own shoulders. The basilisk-hide vest lay concealed beneath his jumper and robes, offering comforting reassurance. He didn't reach for his wand; instead, he took a deep breath. The stillness took hold, his awareness expanding to sense the tension in the air, the subtle pull of the wind, and the way sound hovered at the edge of silence. The Force came to him naturally, as familiar as balance.
Viktor bowed in a duelist's manner, and Harry returned the gesture. Hermione's voice cut through the stillness: "On three. One… two… three."
No shouts. No dramatic gestures. Viktor acted first, moving like a competitor who knew how to win smoothly.
His wand traced a precise line, sending a sharp red bolt skimming across the snow. Harry wasn't there when it arrived; it was not a frantic escape but a fluid repositioning, as if a giant hand had nudged him aside. Snow dust rose where he had stood.
Viktor remained unfazed. He adjusted his approach, delivering another tight arc. A second bolt aimed for Harry's chest, curving to catch a dodge. Harry's fingers opened, palm down, and the space between them thickened. The bolt sagged and disappeared, its energy absorbed by a barrier that hadn't existed a moment before.
Hermione gasped softly. Neville instinctively grasped her sleeve.
Viktor's lips twisted into something resembling approval. He drew his other hand close, elbows tight, and stepped forward. Spells began to come in layers: a quick jinx to raise Harry's guard; a low swipe aimed to knock him off balance; a silent binding curse hidden in the wake of the others. Every movement was purposeful, no unnecessary flourishes. He fought like he flew—efficiency foremost, flair absent.
Harry retreated by choice, not under pressure. He let a sharp line pass so close that it lifted a hair from his head, stepped into a stun spell that dissipated against an invisible barrier he created. His left hand formed a small circle, directing a fallen branch to rush at Viktor's legs. Viktor's wand flicked, reducing it to chips without breaking stride.
They engaged in silence—wood, air, breath. Initially, Harry's defenses appeared to rely on luck until a clear pattern emerged: he met streams of force with subtle alterations in the medium surrounding them. A shove sank into the ground and released as steam. A binding curse aimed for his ankles collided with a swirl of packed snow that crumbled with a touch. Where a shield was expected, only a ripple in reality formed, sending the hex skittering away as if encountering glass.
Viktor's gaze sharpened as he sought to strike with more force, testing for weaknesses. His wand dipped, producing a tight cone of freezing energy that swept past Harry with a chill, leaving frost on his shoulder. The following attack came as a blunt wave meant to force the air from Harry's lungs; Harry countered by raising his palm, splitting the pressure into two streams that billowed past him, sending a flurry of snow into the air.
He hadn't uttered a word or touched his wand yet.
"Is he… bending the spells?" Neville whispered.
Hermione replied softly, "He's changing how they land. Like angling rain off a roof."
Viktor readjusted his strategy—building an invisible barrier around Harry, assaulting him with attacks that curved politely, seemingly anticipating his movements. A curse sliced at shin height behind Harry as if it had the patience of a ghost, another materialized at his nine o'clock, and a third waited before lunging at his hip when he twisted. Harry slipped through the gaps, making the last curse connect with empty air.
Viktor's expression shifted. He moved in closer, eyes steely.
His next barrage was quintessentially Durmstrang: a rapid red spell designed to confuse reflexes, a sneaky purple jinx aimed to slip under any defenses up for the red, and a hefty strike meant to land right where panic could slow responses. Harry remained calm. He let the red spell edge towards him, observing its angle, and let it draw the purple along with it. With a single flick of his wrist, he redirected both spells, causing them to miss by an insulting inch. The heavy strike arrived late; instead of dodging, Harry stepped into it, redirecting it into the trees. Snow fell from the firs above, dusting him in white.
Viktor clenched his jaw.
Both were breathing hard now, their breaths appearing in white puffs that the wind whisked away. The clearing had transformed into a story: footprints and melted paths in the snow where warmth had touched. Harry decided he had seen enough of Viktor's defense tactics and adjusted his stance.
Viktor felt the change. He retracted his last jinx and reset.
Harry's initial true pressure moved silently. A ring of air tightened around Viktor's waist, firm yet gentle, like a belt fashioned by no tailor. It lifted him slightly and set him back down—more a demonstration of control than aggression—causing Viktor's eyes to sparkle with acknowledgment.
Then the ground shifted. The snow compacted around Viktor's shins with a thought—turning from grain to cement—holding him long enough for an attack that never followed. Viktor flicked the snow aside in annoyance but found nothing waiting there. His wand etched clean lines in the air that met planes and curves crafted with expertise. He tried to constrict, but it merely slipped harmlessly around Harry's shoulders and fell away at the lightest touch.
Next came a different sensation from Viktor's wand—metallic, sharp, hinting at an impending storm. Pale branches splintered off trees as arcs shot towards Harry, eager to make contact. Harry raised his hand, not to defend but to refuse, and the spell disintegrated at his palm, dissipating harmlessly into the snow.
Viktor's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he quickly pushed ahead.
He utilized the environment—weathered stumps and uneven snow—tumbling a rotting trunk that spun slowly like a gate; Harry split it apart with a thought and moved effortlessly through the gap. As Viktor slickened the ground beneath Harry's next step, Harry treated it as if it were welcoming ice. He set an invisible snare at ankle height precisely where Harry was likely to land; Harry preempted it with a movement that wasn't really a halt—his mass shifted, but everything around him stayed still—the snare only captured his shadow.
Silence engulfed them both. The only sounds remaining were their breaths, the occasional thump of a cast spell failing on tree bark, and the soft sigh of snow falling. Hermione's fists were clenched in her sleeves. Neville wore a stunned expression, his mouth forming a tight O that hinted at reverence.
Viktor quickened the pace, spells arriving with such speed they began to overlap—fractional delays, aimed at where Harry would be a moment from now under physics' influence. Harry seized control of those laws and brought reason back into play. The spells struck air that wouldn't cooperate and ricocheted off, collided with snow that briefly turned to sand, and encountered a world where timing faltered. He started to counter with more than mere evasions—not pain or harm, but real pressure, real constraints, enough to say "I could if I wanted."
A tight band encircled Viktor's wrist and wand for a moment. He broke free with a growl that didn't require words, retaliating with a narrow gust strong enough to forcefully expel breath if it had landed. It didn't; Harry had already let it pass, offering back only stillness—a stillness that bore teeth.
He concluded the duel with finesse, for Viktor had earned it. Harry allowed Viktor to think the final exchange had cost him—increased guard, exposed himself. Viktor pressed forward—a quick one-two meant to pin and bind—and Harry subtly adjusted the gravitational field beneath Viktor's feet by the slightest measure. The world tilted imperceptibly. Viktor compensated like the expert flyer he was—hips, ankles, knees all in sync—and Harry seized that moment to introduce a precise line of force. Ankles met as elbows locked. The binding spell washed over him like a gentle tide, laying him back against the snow, eyes wide and clear, breathing heavily.
Harry approached the trampled circle, kneeling as his fingers hovered over Viktor's diaphragm. A thought unlocked the tension. Viktor inhaled, rising smoothly and standing without a trace of awkwardness. He brushed off the snow with meticulous pats. The winter light highlighted the contours of his face.
They shared a long gaze before Viktor extended his hand.
"You win," he stated plainly. No sulking, no excuses. "You fight as though there are extra walls in the world."
Harry took his hand. "You fight as if nothing can slow you down," he replied. "Most duelists get flustered by their own chaos. You never did."
Viktor's lips twisted into a hint of a smile—a private moment. "Durmstrang teaches in adverse conditions."
Hermione exhaled, relieved. "Thank you," she said to both. Her tone mingled pride and exasperation. "For not being foolish."
Neville finally found his voice. "Can I learn the... uh... invisible wall technique?"
"In time," Harry responded gently.
As they turned to leave, the forest revealed they weren't alone. Dark figures emerged between the trees—centaurs, their winter coats shaggy and bows strung, their eyes glimmering like wet stones. The lead centaur, pale-maned and solemn, observed them. He didn't nock an arrow or offer a smile.
"Wizards," he said, his voice ancient as the earth. "Less fire than usual."
Hermione lowered her gaze. "We aimed to be cautious."
"Caution is a thin blanket," the centaur replied. His focused gaze lingered on Harry, neither warming nor chilling. "You have not hunted. Go."
The centaurs melted back into the woods, their hooves barely making a sound, the snow swallowing their departure.
They trudged back towards the castle, brushing shoulders when the path narrowed, the enveloping quiet consuming any remaining conversation. As they reached the edge of the woods, Viktor paused to don his coat. The ship on the lake loomed dark against the background, its masts blending into the clouds.
"If you choose not to fight in the tournament, that's your decision," he said, fastening the top clasp. "But you should continue sharpening those skills. There will be winds."
"There always are," Harry replied.
Viktor shared a softened glance with Hermione before nodding at Neville. "You ask good questions. Keep asking." He offered a formal salute with two fingers to his brow, then turned away across the lawn towards the dark water.
Hermione watched him until he vanished on the ship. "You could have finished earlier," she remarked, neither accusative nor critical.
"I'm aware."
"You didn't need to."
Harry shrugged slightly. "He wanted to understand, so I showed him enough."
"Good," she accepted, her voice a whisper.
Neville stamped his feet, shaking off snow. "Hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate," Hermione decided.
The castle enveloped them in warmth—clinks of cups and the ordinary bustle of life. Inside the corridor's embrace, Harry felt his fingers regain feeling, accompanied by aches in shoulders that had grown too accustomed to stillness. He pulled out the Marauders' Map from his inner pocket, glancing at the intricate maze of names on the page, the genuine ones intermixed with those that hid away. The inked footprints moved restlessly, oblivious to duels and currents, to walls that appeared and faded.
For a brief while, he allowed the warmth, the chocolate, and the company to dull the edge. He would hone it again come morning. The forest had given him its serenity. Viktor had offered his best. The world would soon provide its challenges.