Remarkable Things

+++

While Sascha and Domi lock themselves away in the library, Andrey wanders around the castle looking for adventures. He visits the kitchens and spends a few minutes with the elves there, politely refusing their offers of more and more pumpkin pie for him “to go.” He meets up with the Weasley twins — he’s always thought they were a great laugh, and particularly now, after the mad blokes went and started inventing their own things. Andrey absolutely admires them: to have not only so much magical prowess and creativity, but to also achieve all that without burying their noses in books is beyond impressive.

“What’s that?” Andrey asks them, pointing at a large piece of folded parchment, and the twins exchange identical mischievous grins.

“Something that we’re gonna pass on very soon,” Fred says. He looks quizzically at George, seemingly having some kind of a twin-special telepathic conversation, before unfolding the parchment. “I’ll show you, look.”

He places the tip of his wand on it and says, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

“Are you?” Andrey grins, but then watches, mesmerised, as inky lines and dots appear on what seems to be turning into a map. A very detailed, moving Hogwarts map.

“Wicked!” Andrey whistles, looking down at it with great interest. “Did you guys create this, too?”

“We wish,” says George. “But no, this piece of genius was created by other masterful troublemakers before us.”

“It’s brilliant!” Andrey exclaims, following the dots with names moving along the map. He looks up the area of the third-floor corridor and immediately spots the dots named Andrey Rublev, Fred Weasley and George Weasley. He then finds the library on the map and stares for a few seconds at the names Alexander Zverev, Dominique Thiem and Hermione Granger, seemingly huddled close at the very same desk together.

The twins let him explore the map for a few minutes, pointing out the various tunnels and secret passageways around Hogwarts and its grounds, and Andrey is ecstatic — he’s so going to use this newfound knowledge to make his last year at school even better than it already is.

Fred is explaining to him all about the secret passage leading to Hogsmeade, when, out of the corner of his eye, Andrey spots the names Daniil Medvedev and Stefanos Tsitsipas, the two of them the only ones in an otherwise empty Charms classroom.

Now that is very interesting.

“This one comes out directly to Hog’s Head,” George is saying, but Andrey is only half listening. His mind is now utterly occupied with theories as to what exactly Dania is doing alone with Stefanos in an empty room at eight at night on a Wednesday.

+++

It takes Dania a couple days to process the experience of the Tsitsipas’ mind, and it mostly feels like coming down with a fever. Sasha Bublik keeps asking him if he needs to go to the Hospital Wing, he looks so sickly, but Dania stubbornly refuses.

He cannot fathom being this at peace with yourself — this calm, this balanced, this content, as Tsitsipas mind seemed to him, which only further irritates him because he couldn’t possibly begin to manage that. The hows and whys of it escape him, but Dania goes to bed imagining he’s there with Tsitsipas, flying on a broom alongside him, the wind tousling his hair.

He sleeps like a baby.

He’s been careful to not mention his extracurricular activities with Tsitsipas to anyone at all, which makes it all the more annoying to find Andrey and fucking Zverev staring at him over the next week with mischievous, knowing smirks on their faces, as if they knew exactly what had occurred, no matter how unlikely it was. Dania ignores the both of them and hangs out with Karen instead.

At the end of the week, Tsitsipas approaches him again — this time, thankfully, doing it without making the affair known to the entire school.

“Hey, Dani— Daniil,” Tsitsipas sputters, then falls tragically silent, his face covered in blotches of scarlet. He looks so pitiful, Dania wants to look away, but also can’t help staring at him. “I was wondering if you wanted to have another Occlumency session. Together.”

Dania ponders it for a moment: what is there left for Tsitsipas to teach him that Dania couldn’t get from a book? It’s not like Tsitsipas is going to keep letting Dania into his mind, and the rest of Occlumency is up to Dania to practice and master. So what is even the point of meeting up again?

“Sure,” his mouth says without his volition. Dania cringes inwardly. “Same time in the Charms classroom?”

Tsitsipas beams at him, his eyes crinkling. “I thought we could maybe try it outside. While it’s still decently warm,” he says, though again it comes out like a question. Tsitsipas’ lack of assertion annoys him. “Could be more helpful with the fresh air all around.”

“Sure,” Dania says again, feeling a bit stupid. “When?”

“I have a free hour this afternoon,” Tsitsipas says, shuffling on his feet. He looks very much like he’s trying to subdue himself. “I’m not taking Runes, so I could meet up with you then. If you want — if you could, too.”

It’s a bit hard to pick any actual information out of this rambling, though Dania manages. He’s got nothing this afternoon after Potions, so the time works for him. He nods and bites on his tongue before he could lamely say another sure.

“Brilliant!” Tsitsipas exclaims, ecstatic. “I’ll meet you at the main entrance, then!”

And off he goes, a new, excited spring in his step.

+++

Tsitsipas, naturally, is already waiting for him by the large ancient doors of the castle, when Dania arrives exactly on time. He is wearing his silvery-blue Ravenclaw scarf, wrapped a few times around his neck, even though it’s sunny and warm outside — Dania’s only dressed in his muggle shirt and jeans himself.

“Shall we?” Tsitsipas smiles, extending his arm as if to hold Dania’s hand, then quickly aborts the motion, going wildly red in the face. Dania feels some second-hand embarrassment just looking at him.

Tsitsipas leads him to the lake, where he finds a nice secluded spot under a tree. He conjures a quilt for them to sit on and promptly lowers himself on as if they were there for a picnic.

Dania sighs and sits down next to him, lets his back rest against the tree trunk.

“You’re not taking any elective classes?” Tsitsipas says.

“I’m taking enough NEWT classes as it is,” Dania frowns, “don’t tell me you’ve spare time to fill this year?”

“No, true,” Tsitsipas concedes, “I’m already taking Divination, Numerology, Care for Magical Creatures, Charms, Potions, Astronomy, Transfiguration and DADA,” he rambles on, as if Dania asked him to list all of his subjects (though he has to admit that this does sound like a bloody lot of them). “And that’s without taking into account our Occlumency lessons,” he grins at Dania like he’s just told some inside-joke, “and Sascha’s Patronus lessons.”

“You still tutor Zverev?” Dania bristles, “why?”

Tsitsipas blinks at him owlishly. “He’s asked me.”

“So you just do whatever people ask you, then?”

“He’s my friend,” Tsitsipas states like he found the question ridiculous.

But why? Dania wants to keep pushing, but holds himself off. It’s not like he particularly wants to talk about Zverev, anyway. “Why are you taking Divination?” He asks instead, cringing. “That’s a nonsense class, isn’t it?”

“It’s interesting,” Tsitsipas argues, leaning back against the tree so his shoulder brushes Dania’s. “Dad always loved it, and it goes together rather well with Numerology and Astronomy.”

Dania, who takes neither, decides not to argue.

“Why are you not taking Care for Magical Creatures?” Tsitsipas continues to ask him, like this was some perverted interview.

“Why would I?”

“I thought you liked animals,” Tsitsipas says cryptically, turning his greenish-golden eyes to stare into Dania’s soul.

“Huh? How so?”

“I’ve seen how you are with Demiguise and Bowtruckles and Hippogriffs,” Tsitsipas explains, “you were very gentle with them, and you seemed to enjoy them a lot.”

Dania stares at him. Seemingly having realised what he’s said, Tsitsipas flushes a now-typical shade of red.

“So you spent a lot of time watching me in class, then?” He snorts, and Tsitsipas blinks very, very fast.

“I love watching other people,” he says, shrugging, though he is still rather pink in the face. “Anyway,” he says somewhat brusquely, “what do you think about trying some breathing exercises? They go hand in hand with occluding.”

As Tsitsipas explains the breathing techniques to him, Dania can’t help being distracted. So Tsitsipas has been watching him a lot, then? Why?

A pleasant little shiver runs down his spine at the thought. Dania is not an idiot, he can make a pretty good guess as to why Tsitsipas would stare at him, going pink in the face. He just prefers not to think about it.

He shakes his head and focuses on Tsitsipas’ voice.

1… 2… 3… 4…

Breathe in…

Tsitsipas’ shoulder is warm against his, burning though the layers of his robe and Dania’s shirt.

5… 6… 7… 8…

Breathe out…

What else has Tsitsipas been learning about Dania? They share a lot of classes this year, so does that mean he stares at Dania during all of them?

1… 2… 3… 4…

Breathe in…

It must be all the warmth radiating off of Tsitsipas like he was a miniature Sun, because Dania is starting to seriously sweat, which is odd, considering he’s only wearing a thin shirt in late October.

5… 6… 7… 8…

Breathe out…

His knee itches, so he reaches down to scratch it without opening his eyes, and his fingers brush against the skin of Tsitsipas’ hand. Dania jolts, as if electrified. His heart is suddenly racing in his chest.

5… 6… 7… 8…

Breathe out… or was he supposed to breathe in? Fuck, his knee is itching again

7… 8… 9, no 1…

Is this how Tsitsipas does it? Just breathes really slowly like a halfwit, until his heart is barely beating? How the fuck is that supposed to help with his magic?

“Are you alright?” Tsitsipas’ voice breaks through his racing thoughts. Dania blinks up at him. “You’re frowning really hard.”

Dania winces and lets his head roll back against the tree. This is bloody hopeless.

“You should really try and relax,” Tsitsipas says gently. “You are way too tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re clenching your fists.”

He glances down — and yes, Tsitsipas is right, Dania’s knuckles are all white from the clenching he’s doing. He forces himself to relax his body, uncurl himself from the defensive pose he’s folded into. Tsitsipas watches him silently.

“My Mum sang to me,” he says suddenly, and Dania turns to him.

“Huh?”

“My Mum sang to me every night before sleep,” Tsitsipas says quietly. “She told me to focus on the melody or the lyrics only. That’s how I learnt to concentrate on each separate thing.”

Dania frowns at him. “I hope you’re not about to start singing to me.”

Tsitsipas flushes as if he was going to do exactly that. “Of course not. But you might try to focus on the sounds around you. Like the birds, the wind, the trees, the insects.”

Dania sighs, feeling more inadequate than ever.

“Fine.”

He closes his eyes and tries to listen in. There’re lots and lots of subtle sounds, now that he bothers to pay attention to them. Birds chirping in the distance, gentle waves of the lake and slow, lava-like movements of the Giant Squid inside it. He can hear the wind moving the trees, Hogwarts students chattering by the castle.

He can also hear the slow gentle breathing of Tsitsipas.

Without thinking about it, he focuses on that.

Now that he’s relaxed and loose, his other senses are picking up: the burn of Tsitsipas’ hand where it rests against Dania’s thigh, the barely-there caress of Tsitsipas’ curl against Dania’s cheek when the wind really picks up, the fiddling of Tsitsipas’ finger, like he cannot keep himself straight.

Gradually, other sounds turn muted, barely-there, while Tsitsipas’ steady breathing grows louder with each second.

Dania counts the seconds between each of Tsitsipas’ breaths.

Breathe in (1, 2, 3, 4)

Breathe out (5, 6, 7, 8)

Breathe in (1… 3…

Breathe out… 5—

“Hey,” Tsitsipas shakes him gently, and Dania flinches, his eyes flying wide open. He’s too loose and pliant, his limbs heavy, and he can’t believe he’s actually fallen asleep — right there under the tree with Tsitsipas by his side and students yelling in the distance. He, who has trouble falling asleep even in the comfort of his own bed, surrounded by silencing charms and a thick curtain.

Tsitsipas is smiling at him. “Well, it seems like there’s some progress at least.”

“Only if you count falling asleep as progress,” Dania mumbles, embarrassed. “How long was I out?”

“Just a couple of minutes,” Tsitsipas keeps smiling at him, like Dania’s gone and achieved something incredible, and it sets him on edge. He turns away. “But it did work, you calmed yourself and you cleared your mind enough to fall asleep! Did you focus on the birds?”

“Yes,” he lies, feeling his own face grow hot. He stands. “Listen, thanks, but… I better go back, can’t be late for Transfiguration.”

“I know,” Tsitsipas says brightly. “Let’s walk together, I’m going there, too!”

“Right,” Dania walks ahead without waiting for Tsitsipas to get up. Very soon he hears him jogging to catch up. “Why are you taking so many NEWT-levels, anyway?”

“I have to,” Tsitsipas shrugs. “Even though I rather want to try for professional Quidditch after school, my family wants me to have all the options available. Besides, I’m a Pureblood, there’re… certain expectations.”

Dania’s fist clench on their own accord. He grits his teeth and walks faster.

“Sascha’s taking the same classes as me,” Tsitsipas babbles on behind him, “except for Divination, he thinks it’s beneath him.”

“Of course he does,” Dania snorts.

Tsitsipas catches up to him again to look him in the eye. “Didn’t you say it was nonsense?”

“Never mind that now,” Dania mutters. They’re almost there, just a few stairs and a couple of corridors, and Dania will be surrounded by people who are not Stefanos Tsitsipas.

“Do you hate him so much that you have to change your opinion now? Just so you don’t have to agree with him?”

Dania glances at him, fully prepared to launch a cutting verbal attack, but Tsitsipas doesn’t sound like he’s lecturing him. If anything, he looks amused, the corners of his lips curled slightly.

“You know what, now that you’ve mentioned it, I don’t think Divination’s so bad, after all,” he smirks and feels strangely uplifted when Tsitsipas laughs.

It’s a curious sound: low and unimposing, but bright all the same. Like bells ringing far away in the distance.

“You’re so petty,” Tsitsipas says just as they come up to the Transfiguration class. No one but Casper is there yet, this much in advance.

“Hey guys,” he smiles sweetly. “Stefanos, you’re up for a fight?”

Tsitsipas looks at him blankly. “What?”

“Quidditch this Saturday,” Casper explains, cracking up. “We’re armed with a brilliant new Seeker this year — he’s gonna give you a run for your money!”

“Carlos, is it?” Tsitsipas says, and Dania swiftly moves away from them. He’s not feeling good as it is, and he has no desire to zap any good mood he might have left by listening to them talk about Quidditch.

Soon enough Andrey and Zverev and Sinner turn up, all part of their respective House teams, and Dania blends in with the wall, tries to not even look at them.

He’ll show them, he vows solemnly to himself. After school, he’ll go and become the best Seeker the Wizarding Britain has ever seen.

He’ll fucking show them all.

+++

“You love flying, so just imagine your Animagus form would be a bird — or, or… better yet, a dragon!” Sascha is rambling into his ear, and Andrey fights the urge to smack him over the head with a rolled-up piece of parchment, like he would a dog. Sascha often got like this, fixated on one idea or another, and there was no getting through to him, and no talking to him either.

So Andrey introduces his favourite way of dealing with an obsessed Sascha — he stays silent, lets him ramble on and tries to hum and nod in the appropriate moments. Sooner or later, Sascha’s going to get bored with this ridiculous idea and move on, and Andrey only needs to wait it out.

On the way to DADA, they meet up with Karen, who informs them that Snape is coming to their class.

“Noooo,” Sascha whines tragically, though Andrey shares the sentiment. The both of them failed to get an Outstanding in Potions at OWLS, which means that they’ve spent the last year and a half blissfully distanced from Snape and his cold, moist dungeons.

“Why?” Andrey says, but it also comes out like a petulant whine.

“Dania said we’re gonna have another duelling session today,” Karen explains.

“Merlin help us,” Sascha grumbles, his shoulders already tense. “Why do we need Snape for that?”

Karen shrugs. “Trust me, the last thing I want is to stare at his greasy hair for the entire class, but you can’t deny he’s a brilliant dueller.”

Neither Andrey nor Sascha replies. Bitterly, Andrey thinks about how easy that is to admit for Karen, because he’d never been humiliated by Snape for five years straight, like they had. Miraculously, Karen always managed to somehow avoid becoming a class scapegoat despite being a Gryffindor.

“Wands out!” Mungley says, when they all gather in the classroom. Andrey spies Snape standing in the far corner of the room, watching them like some blasted vampire, his dark eyes flashing. There’s a smug little smirk pulling at his lips that — Andrey’s not above admitting it — terrifies him.

As Mungley drones on and on about the art of duelling, the same thing he says every time that there’s a demonstration, Andrey starts to forget about Snape’s presence. Instead, he imagines himself on the stage, the eyes of everybody in the room on him, winning a gruelling duel, and his hands itch to get started.

“Who would like to go first?” Mungley says, looking the class over. His gaze stops at Sascha, who, until Stefanos produced a corporeal Patronus, had been his favourite. “Mister Zverev, will you?” His eyes slide over to Andrey next to him. “Oh, and Mr. Rublev, why don’t you try? We’ll have a wonderful demonstration of two opposite duelling techniques!”

Sascha grins at him and gets up on the podium Mungley’s created specifically for the purpose. Andrey climbs up right after him, blood pumping in his veins like it does before a Quidditch match.

“Notice Mr. Rublev offensive stance,” Mungley comments, when Andrey and Sascha have both bowed to each other and got ready for the duel. “And pay attention to Mr. Zverev’s footwork, a real advantage for a defensive dueller!”

They start. Andrey goes all-in for the attack, shooting a Full Body-Bind curse, which Sascha easily deflects. Andrey follows up with a Reducto and an Incarcerous, both of which Sascha dodges. Blood firing up, Andrey yells out a stunning spell, before he remembers that he can — and should — actually do it nonverbally and make the fight a little less easy for Sascha.

Incarcerous, Petrificus Totalus, Locomotor Mortis, he thinks in quick succession, and the last one almost catches Sascha off-guard, making him stumble. Andrey uses the split second to attack him with another Stupefy, but Sascha puts up a shield just as quickly.

He’s not attacking Andrey at all, just endlessly using shields of varied strength and size. Some of them are so strong and powerful that Andrey can actually see them.

Without another tactic in mind, Andrey continues to try and blast through them with the sheer force and power of his spells. He casts another Stupefy, then Tarantallegra, then a Pimple Jinxfor a laugh, and is annoyed to see Sascha either deflect or dodge them all. Blood boiling with frustration, Andrey spends two seconds swearing into the air, a curse in Russian escaping his lips before he can stop himself, which is what, ultimately, costs him the duel.

Sascha uses those two seconds brilliantly. In the time it takes Andrey to draw a breath before screaming Blyat, Sascha quickly sends an Expelliarmus that hits Andrey square in the chest. His wand goes flying out of his hand and Sascha catches it in one fluid swift motion.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Mungley claps, but Andrey’s not looking at him.

He stares at Sascha instead, because over the last few years, what Andrey remembers most vividly of all is the haunted, crazy look in his blue eyes whenever he would mention London or the summer holidays. Sascha would get that look then, half-raging half-deranged, almost desperate to stay at school, anywhere but get back to his house. At times, he’s been reckless to the point of getting himself detentions in hopes of being required to stay.

But in this moment, basking in the glory of his victory, Sascha — Andrey marvels — seems so bright and lively.

“Excellent, Mr. Zverev!” Mungley praises, while Sascha looks about ready to burst from ecstasy. “You’ve demonstrated just how effective defensive stance can be in a duel against a quickly attacking opponent! Ten points to Hufflepuff.”

Mungley spares no praise for Andrey at all. Huffing bitterly and bursting with disappointment with himself, he climbs down from the podium to join everybody else. Just as Sascha is about to follow him, a voice suddenly says:

“Allow me to pick an opponent this time,” speaks Snape for the first time since the start of the class. “Mr. Zverev, don’t leave just yet.”

Snape moves forward, his eyes sweeping the room quickly and efficiently. He smirks.

“Mr. Medvedev. Would you be so kind?”

The entire class — Andrey included — groans out loud. Karen huffs out next to him, “not this again!”

Andrey agrees wholeheartedly: what makes his and Sascha’s duels so enticing — or Andrey’s and anybody else’s, really — is that at least one of them is constantly on the attack. Putting Sascha and Dania together on that podium, on the other hand, will most certainly result in yet another snoozefest, where neither of them will be willing to attack another.

Besides, it’s not like Sascha and Dania need any more reason to antagonise each other.

Dania climbs on the stage with a straight back and his head held high. Sascha, on the opposite end, looks about ready to be sick.

“Please, gentlemen,” Mungley says courteously, and the duel is about to start.

It goes about as well as to be expected: Sascha tries shooting something offensive at Dania — and judging by the beam colour, he’s used a Tongue-Tying jinx — while Dania moves sideways and tries to shoot a spell of his own. Except, it only works every other time. Even his shields are somewhat inconsistent, like an old blanket full of holes, letting Sascha’s jinxes in.

Mostly, though, it’s just the two of them dancing around and putting up more and more shields. Andrey barely suppresses a yawn.

He glances over at Snape, who doesn’t look particularly impressed, either. Andrey wonders why on earth Snape would choose Dania, of all people, to fight Sascha — the two of them make up for the most unappealing duo in Hogwarts in terms of duelling techniques. But maybe Snape wanted Dania to use something in particular? Or did Snape just want to humiliate him? But Dania’s one of his favourites, best in Potions and a Slytherin, too, so probably not. Maybe to humiliate Sascha, then? Who the hell doesn’t Snape want to humiliate, anyway?

He snaps his attention back to the podium, just in time to notice Dania’s hands shaking slightly, the fingers gripping his wand completely white. Andrey stares — Dania’s spells are not working at all, or at least, not in the way they are supposed to, flickering out before they can even reach Sascha.

Sascha, it seems, has noticed this as well and is trying to full on attack Dania now, except that his own spells are flying so far out of the way, it’s like he’s aiming them at the ceiling.

“For God’s sake,” Karen sighs, rolling his eyes. Andrey agrees. He looks around the room, noting the bored, disinterested expressions of everyone present. Everyone, except for Stefanos Tsitsipas. Who is avidly watching Dania as if he were Dumbledore himself about to take down Grindewald.

Unable to help himself, Andrey cracks up. Merlin, this bloke — not even trying to hide his ridiculous crush. Andrey kind of wishes he were this bold about his own feelings.

Meanwhile, Sascha finally manages to hit Dania with a spell. Dania’s hair turns bright, neon pink colour and everybody roars in laughter.

Oh no.

“Nice,” Dania hisses, his eyes wild and angry. He’s never taken a loss particularly well. “Good on you for finally producing a… let me check, a first-year jinx. Good job, really.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sascha snaps, lowering his wand, even though the duel is not officially over.

“Gentlemen! Language!” Mungley scolds.

“How long did it take you to master that?” Dania goes on savagely, and this is not going to end well. Now this is surely going to end with both Hufflepuff and Slytherin losing a whole lot of points. “Only took you about six years to finally hit me with a spell. Shall I expect the next one in 1999?”

“You arsehole!” Sascha yells, his wand by his side, and he looks ready to just prowl across the podium and punch Dania in the face, forgetting all about magic. “As if I didn’t notice you couldn’t even produce a shield! And if not for shields, what the bloody hell else can you even do?”

“Oh, I can do lots,” Dania smirks cruelly, “Like, say, be the best in our year in a subject. Or, score the absolute best grades in OWLs. Or, what was it? Keep my parents unashamed of me.”

Sascha growls. Before Andrey can process what spell it even is, it hits Dania straight in the face.

Dania’s mouth disappears.

“Mr. Zverev!” Mungley yelps, as everybody else seems to freeze.

It looks horrible, like something straight out of a Muggle horror film. The space where Dania’s mouth should be is just the expense of smooth skin, stretching out as Dania tries and fails to open the mouth that doesn’t exist anymore. Andrey can hear mortifying mooing sounds emanating from him, coming out seemingly from his chest. His eyes are huge and horrified as his hands fly up to touch his face.

The sight of it is about to send every bit of dinner back up his throat. He shivers. His heart is suddenly racing with a deafening thud-thud-thud against his ribcage.

“Mr. Zverev,” Snape hisses, sounding more dangerous than Andrey’s ever heard him sound. He fixes Sascha with a stare that stupefies more effectively than any spell. “A hundred points from Hufflepuff.”

The Hufflepuffs let out a collective gasp. Sascha stares right back at Snape, all cocky and self-assured, as if he hadn’t just used, Andrey is pretty sure, a Dark spell.

“And a week of detentions,” Snape adds, now looking Dania over. “Mr. Medvedev, stop fiddling about, I will fix this. Class dismissed.”

As everyone shuffles to the door, Andrey rounds on Sascha:

“What the fuck?” he demands, and Sascha just purses his lips, the fucking audacity.

“What?”

“What? What?!” Andrey seethes. “What the hell was that curse even?”

“Aeternuquies,” answers another voice, and Andrey turns to see Stefanos having caught up with them. He’s glaring at Sascha like at an Azkaban-worthy criminal, but he also looks scared as hell, his eyes wide and white-rimmed. “That curse is illegal, Sascha!”

Sascha grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything.

“It was banned decades ago, how on Earth do you even know such a spell?”

Sascha stops walking. “Get the fuck off my back, alright? It’s not like I bloody Crucio’d him, is it?” There’s that mad glint in his eye again, the darkness that scares Andrey so much and that, before now, he’s only ever seen emerge under the cover of the night. “No different than a Silencio, really.”

“Are you joking?” Stefanos rounds on him, and wow, Andrey’s never seen Stefanos so angry, either. “Do you even know how that spell was used? It was used on torture victims, so they wouldn’t be able to scream. Grindewald used it on his prisoners of war.”

“Well, I didn’t torture him, did I?” Sascha snaps. “Fuck off with your lecturing! Your Slytherin buddy might as well finally learn when to keep his mouth shut.”

And with that, he storms away, his robes flying behind him. Andrey lets out a breath he hasn’t realised he’s been holding and turns to Stefanos.

“I’m gonna wait for Dania,” he says shakily. “For Snape to fix his mouth. You want to wait with me?”

Stefanos nods, not that Andrey’s expected any different from him.

“Yes. I do.”

They wait together.

+++

The aftermath of Zverev cursing his mouth off his face is long and torturous as Snape keeps muttering spells and waving his wand around Dania’s face in long complicated motions.

His heart is thundering in his chest. He wants to scream, but he has no mouth.

An hour later, when his lips are back where they’re supposed to be, Mungley fixes him with a stern glare.

“This is not how we conduct a duel in this school, Mr. Medvedev.”

Dania fights back a snappy reply — he’s the fucking victim here, not Zverev who can’t help being a twat. Yet, Mungley doesn’t seem to think so.

“20 points off Slytherin,” he adds coldly. “And a week of detentions along with Mr. Zverev — the two of you might actually want to use that time to put aside your differences.”

Dania keeps his mouth shut, glaring right back at him. He can’t believe he’s got a Dark Curse used on him, yet he’s the one getting punished here. He looks to Snape for some sort of support and is at least pleased to see Snape burning Mungley with a glare of his own.

“You’re free to go now,” Mungley dismisses him. Snape stays behind, though, and Dania desperately wants to know what he’s going to tell Mungley know and if he’s going to convince him to let Dania off.

He’s pleasantly surprised to see Andrey… and Tsitsipas waiting for him outside the classroom.

“Are you alright?” Andrey starts, looking him over critically. He stares at Dania’s mouth with a queasy look on his face. Tsitsipas hovers nearby, white in the face. “Did it hurt? Was it hard to fix?”

“I’m fine,” Dania tells them, shrugging as if the experience didn’t affect him. “It didn’t hurt, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine,” Andrey repeats blankly. His expression changes in a matter of seconds. “Then what the fuck were you thinking?!”

Dania stares at him, “huh?”

“Why did you think it was a good idea to provoke Sascha?” Andrey thunders, and even Tsitsipas stares at him incomprehensibly. “Using his parents to humiliate him? Not exactly a way to beat those Slytherin allegations, Dania!”

“Hey!” He yells back, feeling betrayed. Andrey’s words actually sting. “He used Dark Magic, and you’re lecturing me?!”

“Oh trust me, I’m gonna chew him out, too, he doesn’t know what’s coming to him,” Andrey says darkly. “But honestly, Dania, if you said those things to me, I would’ve punched you in the face myself. You’re not eleven anymore, learn to fucking lose gracefully!”

“Andrey, come on,” says Tsitsipas, before Dania can even come up with a worthy reply to that, sputtering and speechless. “You’re not being fair.”

Andrey rolls his eyes so hard it’s like he’s trying to see the inside of his own brain. “Of course you’d say that.”

“What do you mean?” Tsitsipas jerks his head sharply, going even paler.

“Nothing,” Andrey sighs. “Nothing. Fuck, Dania. I mean, we’re graduating in six months. It’s about high bloody time you both grew up a bit, isn’t it?”

He picks his bag from the floor, swings it over his shoulder and claps Tsitsipas on the back. Then he shoots Dania one more disappointed look and hurries off along the corridor.

“Can you believe him?!” Dania exclaims, rounding on Tsitsipas, the only audience he has left. “Is he actually blaming me for Zverev’s Dark curses?”

“Come on, breathe,” Tsitsipas says with a note of urgency in his voice, and Dania realises his hands are shaking again. “Like you did under the tree, come on.”

As if through a thick fog, Dania finds his eyes and forces himself to breathe steadily. His mouth is back where it should be, he reminds himself, and he runs the tip of his tongue over his lips to make sure. He notices Tsitsipas watching the motion closely.

Belatedly, he realises Tsitsipas’ hand is gripping his shoulder, tight and grounding. Dania focuses on that, the warmth seeping though his robes, the way Tsitsipas’ index finger is caressing Dania’s shoulder, as if Tsitsipas didn’t even realise he was doing it.

“Good, good,” Tsitsipas mutters, his shoulders relaxing. “Well done. Did breathing help?”

“Yeah,” Dania says uncertainly, because he’s not entirely sure if it was the breathing or Tsitsipas’ hands on his body, though he’s not about to admit this even to himself. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Tsitsipas smiles a tiny smile. “I’m sorry about what happened there.”

“Fucking Zverev,” Dania riles up again, anger swirling in his stomach, though only some of it is directed at Zverev. The rest is all for himself and his own bloody pathetic inadequacy, his foolish inability to produce a single spell properly.

Tsitsipas sighs heavily and seems to be choosing his words very carefully. “Sascha shouldn’t have used that spell, no matter the circumstances. But you shouldn’t have taunted him like that, either.”

“Gee, thanks for all the support,” Dania snaps, disappointed. He’s been foolish enough to think Tsitsipas was actually on his side in this.

“I’m just being honest,” Tsitsipas sighs again. “Can you do the same? Be honest?”

When Dania only stares at him, Tsitsipas goes on: “You seem very, very angry to me most of the time. Yet you don’t strike me as a naturally angry person. So, what is it? Is it your magic? Is it because you’re having trouble using it?”

And this is certainly one of the most humiliating moments for Dania this year alone, tramping the mouth incident from an hour ago with shining colours. He feels his face grow hot and red in embarrassment and shock that it took Tsitsipas one look at him to immediately scratch beneath the surface.

He hates it, hates this with a passion. More than anything in his life, he despises being vulnerable, particularly in front of people who wouldn’t hesitate to use his vulnerability against him. He’s worked long and hard on becoming the person he is today: mature, steady, independent and, most importantly, entirely in control of his own life.

Right this moment, it’s becoming increasingly obvious just how deluded Dania has been.

He’s not in control of anything. Not even his own fucking magic.

“Look, we all go through some hard times, I get it,” Tsitsipas says with painful sympathy, and Dania can’t take it anymore.

“What the fuck would you know about hard times?” He snarls, and Tsitsipas flinches away from him, his hand falling to his side and hanging there like dead fish. “You — a wealthy Pureblood boy, born with a golden spoon in his mouth? You, who have all the doors ready and open for you, simply due to your bloodline? Don’t you dare compare the two of us, because one of us has to actually work his arse off to get somewhere in life, and it isn’t you!”

Great, now this bloke is staring at him with the same look of disappointment Andrey shot him earlier, only, somehow, it feels a thousand times worse to be on the receiving end of it from Tsitsipas.

He opens his mouth, but Dania’s already gone this deep, so he blasts on:

“Just because your parents are wizards, doesn’t mean you’re better than me!” Dania yells and, horrifyingly, feels his eyes getting wetter, “doesn’t mean I’m worth any less than any of you, arrogant bastards!”

Before Tsitsipas can utter a no doubt calm and patient reply, Dania turns on his heel and jogs off to disappear behind the corner. And good enough, well before he could make more of an arse of himself in front of Tsitsipas, again — and it’s not like Tsitsipas has provoked him into anything.

No, Dania just can’t get his fucking head straight.

+++

The week comes to an end, and Sascha hasn’t come up to him once. Andrey can hardly believe it: in all the time they’ve known each other, Sascha has been the needy, desperate one, trailing after Andrey, talking his ear off. He’s also been the one to always initiate reconciliation, so this suspicious absence of it grates on Andrey.

Sascha stays away from him for the entire month, sitting quietly in the corner of the Common room, his blinds already shut when Andrey gets to the dorm. Sometimes he sees him talking quietly with Domi, another huge tome between them, their noses buried deep in its pages. Other times, he spots Sascha by the Lake, waving his wand furiously, practising spells.

By the time their Quidditch match against Gryffindor comes, they feel less like a team than ever before. Sascha listens to his instructions silently, not looking at him, his gaze stuck on his own broom. For the first time during a Quidditch match, Andrey doesn’t feel the safety of the knowledge that Sascha is watching his back, is ready to keep the Bludgers away or catch him if he falls.

They lose spectacularly. Not only does Carlos fail to catch the snitch, but also every pressure point and key moment of the match, Sascha keeps sending Bludgers so far out of their target, it’s like he’s forgotten how to play Quidditch. Domi is there beside him, hovering uncertainly on his broom, not really defending and not being offensive either.

The score is 120-10 to Gryffindor, when Harry Potter catches the snitch and puts them all out of their misery.

Andrey considers it then — fuck his pride, fuck trying to teach Sascha a lesson, just do something, go talk to him, tell him he’s forgiven him, anything.

But Sascha storms off immediately after the match, not even bothering to pass through the changing room, his broom held tightly in his hand. He looks both miserable and thunderous, and any attempts at a heart-to-heart would surely not be welcome for the foreseeable future.

Andrey misses him. It shocks him, just how much he does.

He misses Sascha impossibly.

And it doesn’t matter that he’s right there — in the same classrooms and the same table in the Great Hall, and in the bed right next to Andrey’s. He might as well be light years away.

+++

The next time Dania can’t fall asleep, he thinks, enough, and opens the book that Tsitsipas has so kindly given him. It’s a large, ancient tome that looks mouldy and smells even worse.

He glares at the cover — Mind Magicks by Armando Beaufort — and opens the first page.

I will frame discussion in terms of A.H. Belby’s "Six Classes of Mind Protection" which Belby himself represented as an inverted pyramid (Collected Papers, volume 2, paragraph 264). The roman numerals represent Belby’s own numbering of his six types. In this version of his six categories, I have supplied key examples of each type that, as divided and classified in the Belbyan system, will each be discussed in detail. I propose to develop a unified visual rhetoric based on Belby’s model which will explain how and why different rhetorical situations require different kinds of visuals, from both a practical and an ethical standpoint.

Dania wants to groan or, better yet, wail in despair. He’s read the paragraph twice before he realises he’s understood nothing of it, the text is so damn unreadable. Might be a hard read at times, Tsitsipas has said. At times, my arse, Dania thinks angrily.

He flips through the pages.

Strengthening one’s mind through practical exercises in mental discipline in all six categories is a prerequisite to developing a proficiency according to Belby. Types I, IV, and V above represent the terminal points of a large triangle. Each of these types can be described as the extreme manifestations of three basic but necessary purposes: (First) to decorate — to create a quality of feeling within oneself — borders, shapes, colour, etc., creating an overall feel for a memory or lived experience. (Second) to indicate — to provoke one’s mind to passive action, locating, dividing, classifying, etc. — establishing memory and sensory links that can be used—

He growls in frustration and shuts the book with vigour. This is not working. It couldn’t, when he has trouble concentrating on comprehending a single paragraph.

For once, he just wants to have nothing to do but eat, sleep, and study, whenever he wishes to, free from the banal responsibilities of representing a House and a whole culture, the ceaseless petty pressures of his faulty magic.

How does Tsitsipas manage it? Not the pressure — it’s not like he has any — but the calming, cleaning of the mind, and so efficiently, too, that he’s the only one in the year managing Auror-level spells? Is that because he’s got nothing to worry about at all in his spoiled, privileged life?

Although, he didn’t seem spoiled to Dania when the two of them sat by the tree, Tsitsipas’ quiet gentle voice wrapping around him, his smile beaming at Dania. He thinks about the pressing warmness of Tsitsipas’ hand on his shoulder, the little caressing motions of his finger, like he couldn’t help himself. He pictures Tsitsipas’ long, long lashes, the scattering of freckles across his face, the lips that looked very, very soft, like a girls—

“Get the hell up, mate!” a voice calls, and Dania jerks.

It’s already morning.

+++

“Lads,” Andrey calls the twins, and they turn to face him synchronously. He jogs up to them and glances around to check that no one’s watching. “Can I please look at that map of yours?”

They exchange a glance.

“Just in time, mate,” says George. “We’re right on our way to give it away.”

“Really?” Andrey says and is stabbed with a tiny prickle of envy. Lucky lad, whoever he is. “Well, I’ll only take a second.”

They unfold the map for him, and Andrey spares no time searching for Sascha on it. He hasn’t seen him since last afternoon, even though Sascha was supposed to join him for Herbology in the morning. He’s getting seriously worried about his friend and, more importantly, about the state of their friendship. It’s not like he’s exchanged a single word with Sascha in weeks.

“Let us help you,” Fred offers. “Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

“Zverev,” Andrey says, his eyes tirelessly sweeping across the vast expanse of the map. “Alexander Zverev.”

“Hmm,” Fred says after a minute, “Can’t see him anywhere at all. You sure he’s at Hogwarts?”

“Where else would he be?” Andrey snaps and feels immediately bad. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just… worried.”

“Could he have gone to Hogsmeade, perhaps?” Fred wonders, letting Andrey off the hook.

“Nah, don’t think so,” Andrey mutters, just as George exclaims: “Found him! There!”

Andrey hurries to look at the area on the map George is pointing to. It’s a second-floor girl’s bathroom.

“What is he doing in there, snogging Myrtle?” Andrey chuckles, but George coos.

“Not Myrtle, but perhaps this Sofia lady,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Andrey notices the dot named Sofia Thomalla. His stomach flips rather unpleasantly as he looks at the two dots in very close proximity. He can’t believe Sascha is seeing a girl right now. It’s even harder to believe Sascha hasn’t told him about it.

“Shouldn’t have worried, Andrey,” Fred winks at him. “The bloke’s doing just fine, obviously.”

“Yeah,” Andrey says listlessly, his fingers gone numb. He clears his throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No worries!” They say in perfect unison, and Andrey is left alone in the fifth-floor corridor.

+++

He finds Stefanos Tsitsipas at the library, sitting together with a bushy-haired girl that Dania immediately recognises as Hermione Granger, one of Harry Potter’s best friends.

It doesn’t even surprise him that Tsitsipas is seemingly sharing his woes with a thirteen year old girl, who, frankly, looks much worse for wear. Tsitsipas is telling her something very animatedly, hands flying around as he gestures, while the Granger girl looks at him sympathetically.

Tsitsipas shuts up mid-sentence as he sees Dania approach, much like a proverbial deer in headlights. Dania gathers his strength.

“Can I talk to you? Please?” He says, ignoring the way the Granger girl is glaring at him. Jesus, did Tsitsipas tell her about him? Did he complain about Dania to a thirteen-year-old?

“Um, yes. Sure, why not,” Tsitsipas babbles and gets up. “Outside, yes?” He glances at Madam Pince who’s already looking less than impressed with all the conversation-having in the middle of the sacred place of knowledge.

He follows Tsitsipas out of the library, then stumbles as Tsitsipas looks at him expectantly.

“Listen,” Dania starts. He’s going to double his annual apology quota, it seems, and there’s still a couple weeks of December left. “I wanted to… apologise.”

“Oh,” Tsitsipas says.

There’s painfully uncomfortable silence, or at least — uncomfortable for Dania, because Tsitsipas looks like he’s out for a casual stroll.

“Yeah. I’m. I’m sorry,” Dania forces out through gritted teeth and winces at having said them. “I was out of line. And it’s not my business whether you’re wealthy or not. Same goes for your blood status.”

Tsitsipas’ expression is strangely one of annoyance. Dania hasn’t has the pleasure to have that look directed at him yet.

“I appreciate how hard it must’ve been for you,” Tsitsipas says in a tone that sounds almost… mocking. “To apologise, I mean.” He squints at Dania. “But I’m not wealthy, Daniil. Never have been.”

“But—”

“Being wealthy isn’t a prerequisite to being a Pureblood,” Tsitsipas states. “I’d have thought you understood such things better than anyone, being a Slytherin.”

“I—” he snaps his mouth shut, giving himself a moment to think about it. If this assumption of his has been wrong, could he be also wrong about other things concerning Tsitsipas? And what does he even mean, being a Slytherin? He hurries to backtrack and gain an upper hand in this conversation before he implodes from embarrassment. “So you’re poor, then? And don’t presume you know what it’s like being a Slytherin,” He adds, feeling marginally better as Tsitsipas looks lost again. “Because unlike you, I wouldn’t give out information like this that could be used against you. And you’ve just handed me a weapon.”

“No, I haven’t!” Tsitsipas argues, sounding more annoyed by the second, and it takes Dania aback. “If you bothered to learn anything about me, ask me anything at all or, failing that, ask anyone who knows me even a little — you’d know that I’m not even remotely wealthy!” As Dania sputters and fights the flush spreading across his face and neck, Tsitsipas fixes him with his shrewd eyes, burning into Dania’s soul. “You only thought that, because, like most Slytherins, you’ve been assuming things about me, instead of actually talking to me! I didn’t hand you any ‘weapons’. You’ve deluded yourself, operating under your own false assumptions about me.”

They stand like that for another moment or two, Tsitsipas looking calmly at him, Dania almost bent double, bearing his humiliation without complaint.

Even Tsitsipas’ angelic patience is annoying.

“Fine,” Dania says, straightening up. “Fine. You’re right. I was wrong. Sorry.”

Just like that, Tsitsipas looks amused.

“Wow, I’d wager that was hard,” he says in a teasing tone. “How many times in your life have you admitted to being wrong?”

“Don’t push it,” Dania grumbles, though he feels inexplicably better. “Are we fine now? You’re not gonna quit helping me with Occlumency, are you?”

“How could I, when you ask so nicely,” Tsitsipas snorts and reminds Dania uncannily of Zverev right this moment. For the first time, he can actually imagine the two of them being friends.

“I’m just— It’s really—“ Dania fumbles for words, as they get stuck in his throat, refuse to come out. “It’s hard for me,” he chokes out, his throat constricting. “To— to—“

“It’s alright,” says Tsitsipas, his expression softening. “I get it.”

Dania nods frantically, grateful to Tsitsipas for understanding him without making him say it out loud.

“But,” Tsitsipas goes on firmly, though he sounds gentle, “if you want to learn Occlumency — really want to learn it this time — you are going to have to get used to revealing a few humiliating memories and thoughts. After all, we all have enough to go around.”

No matter which way he looks at it, he can’t help admitting that Tsitsipas is right. He wouldn’t be able to learn this thing without giving something up in return, and that something might just have to be his pride.

At least he can console himself by knowing that Tsitsipas is never going to know everythingabout him, not really, not in the deepest sense of the word.

“Okay,” he says, full of brand new conviction and optimism, “let’s do this.”

+++

“Sasch,” Andrey calls quietly, his pride be damned — not that he’s a particularly prideful person, though. Sascha jerks his head up from a book he’s reading by the window and squints at him.

“Hmm?”

“Just— how… how are you?” Andrey says rather pathetically.

He misses his friend, misses him needling his elbow into Andrey’s side like he does every time he thinks Andrey hasn’t sufficiently reacted to his joke, eyes flashing like some half-buried gemstone still partially obscured in filth. That is how Sascha is — good, and shining, and beautiful. But only if you pause to scrub away the rough bits.

“Fine,” Sascha says curtly, but at least he doesn’t dismiss Andrey by turning back to his book. There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then: “You?”

“Fine, good,” Andrey says too awkwardly for any of their normal conversations. He feels like an intruder even though there’s no one else in the room. “Do you… want to tell me anything?”

Sascha’s face darkens. He slaps his book shut and stands. “If you’re waiting for some kind of apology—” he starts dangerously, but Andrey cuts through it before the conversation spins out of control.

“No, no!” He insists, while Sascha scrutinises him. “I just… I’ve missed you, is all. We haven’t really talked in a while.”

Sascha’s face is inscrutable. “Well, it’s not like I’ve had a problem with you, is it?” he says in an odd tone. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t,” Andrey argues feebly, though it is rather pointless, because he has.

“Oh, really?” Sascha insists, folding his arms firmly against his chest and sliding into full throttle smartarse mode.

“Sasch, just… let’s forget it, yeah?” He says with no small amount of pleading. “I really wanna know what’s going on in your life, that’s all.”

Finally, finally, Sascha’s harsh gaze softens, and it says a lot about Andrey’s character that he was originally the one who decided to punish Sascha, yet here he is, begging him to speak to Andrey again. He was supposed to beat Sascha in this waiting game, and yet he folded like a house of cards.

“I’m reading about the Animagi process,” Sascha volunteers, gesturing at his book.

“Is that still going on?” Andrey chuckles, teasing, but mostly relieved to be on the talking terms again.

“Yep,” Sascha says. His mouth curls. It looks like a smile, but it’s not. “I’m going to take the test as soon as we graduate. Make it all official, you know, put myself on the registry. So that it’s all legal.”

There’s an unpleasant emphasis on the last word, and Andrey tries not to wince. Obviously, Sascha’s still offended about the whole Curse thing.

“Domi’s studying with me,” Sascha adds like an afterthought. “We’re gonna take the test together.”

“Oh,” Andrey lets out and doesn’t know what to say to that. His insides are squirming and screeching, something painful swelling in his chest. “And what about…” he wants to say your personal life, but that would sound like a parent grilling his child, so he rephrases “any new girl you’ve fallen hopeslessly in love with?”

Sascha looks at him strangely. “Huh?”

“I mean…” he can’t mention that Slytherin Sofia girl by name, because that would be bloody creepy for Andrey to know. “I’ve heard rumours that you’re finally warming up to Slytherins,” he finishes, and wow is he a wordsmith. He wiggles his eyebrows at Sascha to lighten the mood, yet the swirling of something horrible and dark inside his ribcage doesn’t subside.

“Oh,” Sascha blinks. “You mean Sofia?” Andrey shrugs, as if he didn’t already know her name perfectly well. “That’s nothing, really. We’ve just been fooling around a bit.”

Andrey isn’t sure if this statement makes the whole ordeal better or worse. He feels so out of his depth this moment, dancing awkwardly about the subject he wants to dive deep into – something he’s never had to do with Sascha before.

“So… you’re not dating, then?” he adds lamely.

Sascha grimaces, as if Andrey insulted him. “Of course not,” he shrugs, “She’s fit, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Andrey says, feeling lost. A few painfully tense moments pass, neither of them saying anything. For lack of anything else to say, Andrey turns to climb the winded stairs leading to the dorm, but he stops right by the statue, “We’re… are we good, then?”

“Yes, Andrey,” Sascha says, sighing, but at least his expression is softer now. “We’re fine.”

+++

As Christmas holidays come and pass, Dania’s only progress in terms of Occlumency is that he’s learnt to fall asleep relatively quickly and now manages to have a full night of sleep almost regularly.

The problem is, he’s achieved that by imagining himself sitting cosily under the tree with Stefanos Tsitsipas.

They meet up once or twice every week to work on breathing and concentration techniques, though mostly, they end up chattering about school and the upcoming NEWT. Sometimes, Tsitsipas babbles on and on about his family – his parents who stayed back in Greece and his brothers, one of which just started third year in Ravenclaw and the other one got sorted into Gryffindor in September. He talks about wizarding traditions in Greece and compares them to those in Britain; chuckling, he tells Dania about the rumours he heard about himself when he first started Hogwarts – how his mother was actually a direct descendant of Rasputin and his father — an heir of Aristotle himself.

“Rasputin was a wizard?” Dania gasps, and Tsitsipas sends him an incredulous look.

“How can you not know that? You’re Russian!” he says with mock disappointment. “Even Muggles spread rumours about him being some kind of a Magician, I hear.”

“Well, are you?” Dania smirks. “A descendant of both Aristotle and Rasputin?”

“Of course,” Tsitsipas says with awkward sarcasm, like he’s way too inexperienced in it. “Right along with Merlin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Zeus, too.”

“Still better than being an heir of a housewife and a salesman,” Dania sighs.

Tsitsipas snaps his piercing gaze at him. “Why do insist on hating your bloodline so much? You’re the only Muggleborn I know who has such a problem accepting his own history and culture.”

“Because I want to belong!” Dania blurts out and feels horrified at having admitted this much. But there’s no going back now, so instead he chooses to double down. At Tsitsipas’ shocked stare, he rants on: “I’ve missed out on half a lifetime’s worth of magic and culture! You’ve been surrounded with magical stuff since you were born, while I still sometimes get shocked seeing a Portrait move, like… like it’s always there, at the back of my mind, this—this – Muggleness—making me feel like I should be grateful to even be here. That every time I forget myself, I revert right back to my Muggle ways, because I don’t know any better! Because I’ll never quite feel a part of this community, even if I dedicate the rest of my life to learning every single wizarding custom to perfection!”

“Daniil,” Tsitsipas say gently, and the hair on the back of his neck stand with goose bumps at the way Tsitsipas says his name. “Half the wizarding community have no clue about their own traditions. Like everything else, it depends entirely on the family. I mean, look at the Weasleys and the Malfoys: both ancient Pureblood families, yet they couldn’t be any more different in terms of their morals and values.” The smile Tsitsipas directs at him is a little sad, yet still brighter than the sun. This time, it doesn’t look patronising at all. “Besides, what’s the point of worrying about something you can’t change or control? You’ll never be a Pureblood. And that’s not a bad thing – you are who you are, Daniil. Your choices define you, not your family tree.”

“I know that,” Dania snaps, but it sounds more desperate than rude, “I just want—it’d be so much easier—”

“Easier?” Tsitsipas winces. He’s starting to sound slightly annoyed. “Easier for whom? Are you making assumptions about other people again? Do you have any idea – any idea at all – what it’s like to have a million expectations of you? To be equally perfect in all fields of studies and sports, just because otherwise you would be called a ‘Squib of the family’?” His voice is getting progressively louder and shriller as he works himself up. “’It’s all fine if Muggleborns mess up and fail – after all, they’re only Muggleborns, what do you even expect of them?’ On the other hand, if I or Sascha or any other Pureblood kid fails – we’re the shame of our Family House and the entire wizarding world! Are you equipped to deal with this kind of pressure, and at seventeen years of age?And if not – no one cares! Just suck it up and don’t be an embarrassment to your Family Crest!”

Dania leans away from him, taken aback at the rant. He’s never seen Tsitsipas so agitated and almost manic.

“And don’t even get me started on the…” he looks swiftly around in apparent paranoia to make sure no one’s eavesdropping, “on the upcoming war! I highly doubt any Death Eaters will ever approach your family, Daniil, trying to convince them – and failing that, to threaten and intimidate them – into joining the Dark bloody Lord! No, because you’re lucky enough to be spared from this, thanks to being a Muggleborn! Yes, so you’ve missed a couple of wizarding fairy tales, cry me a river! At least you’ve also missed all the impossible pressure of being a Pureblood!”

Tsitsipas pants, finishing his rant, his eyes wild and his chest heaving. Dania stares at him and thinks back to the experience of being inside Tsitsipas’ mind, recalls the feeling of dread and looming fear, as if something huge and dangerous was standing behind his back, breathing down his neck, waiting for the right moment to prowl at him and bite into his jugular.

The realisation, shameful though it might be, comes at him with sudden clarity: he has been unforgivably wrong about Tsitsipas.

“I’m sorry,” Tsitsipas says, panting. His face is all scrunched up, his forehead sweaty. Dania looks at a damp curl stuck against it with perspiration. “I’m sorry, Daniil. I didn’t mean to take it all out on you.”

Dania takes a deep breath. “No. No. I am sorry. I had no idea, Stefanos.”

This is the third time he’s apologised to someone this year, which beats his personal record by three hundred percent. It is also the first time he’s ever called Stefanos by his first name, and the easy familiarity of it makes him momentarily dizzy.

Somehow, saying Stefanos’ name aloud is much bigger deal than his overachieving in the apology department.

Stefanos seems to have it enjoyed it, too, if Dania was any judge – and he is, in all things Stefanos-related. There’s a hot-red flush spreading across his cheeks.

“It’s alright,” Stefanos says softly. “Like I’ve said, we all need to learn to control our emotions. I am no exception.”

They go on with the exercises.

If Dania presses his shoulder a little tighter into Stefanos’ – well, he is not going to dwell on that.

+++

“Wands out, get ready to practice the Patronus Charm,” Mungley says, about forty minutes before the end of the class. The students, who used to be incredibly excited about the prospect only a few months ago, let out a collective groan of frustration.

Even though a few of them have managed to produce silvery fog, to this day Stefanos remains the only one to have cast a corporeal Patronus.

Sascha on his left is brandishing his wand with so much force that he hits his wrist against the sharp corner of the desk. Andrey looks on in sympathy at his bleeding hand.

“Fuck,” Sascha hisses, watching the blood run down his wrist – the cut seems rather deep. “Fucking Patronus!”

“You wanna go to the Hospital Wing?” Andrey asks him.

“Why?” Sascha glances at him. “Just do it yourself.”

Andrey blinks. “Do what myself?”

“Do a Healing Charm, come on.”

“I’ve never done any healing charms, like, ever,” Andrey says very slowly, in order for Sascha to actually hear him.

Sascha huffs. “You’ll do great, come on,” he says with absolute certainty and faith that Andrey doesn’t share.

But it’s a funny thing about Sascha – for all the jokes and teasing that he does in terms of Andrey’s intellect and book-reading abilities, no one has ever made Andrey feel quite as clever as Sascha had. If Andrey was going to figure these Healing Charms out anywhere, it is going to be here, in the DADA class, and, inexplicably, he knows that for sure. With Sascha’s hand in his lap and Sascha’s unwavering faith in him and perhaps some of Sascha’s dry wit, he cansolve any problem. It is the strangest thing about him, in Andrey’s opinion – that he so effortlessly makes Andrey feel smarter. Like the best version of himself. Capable, and strong, and emotionally adept. Sometimes all he has to do is give Andrey a certain look and he'd instantly feel better. It is the strangest thing.

“Alright,” he says and takes a deep breath. His wand is growing hot in his hand. He points the tip of it to Sascha’s bleeding cut, does the wand motion he’s seen Madam Pomphrey do many a time — mostly on himself — and says, Episkey.

“A little more confidence, please,” Sascha snorts when his wound starts to close up, before opening again, blood gushing out even faster. Andrey calms his trembling hand, clears his throat, and says louder and clearer: “Episkey!”

The cut closes up entirely, the skin brand new. Sascha wipes the leftover blood carelessly against his robes and examines his hand. “Nice! Didn’t even hurt.”

Dazed, Andrey stares at his wand. He’s not the slowest student by any means, but he’s not used to producing spells on his first (or second) try, either.

“Mr. Zverev, Mr. Rublev,” Mungley nags them from across the classroom. “I don’t see either of you working on the spell.”

Andrey immediately jumps into action.

“I wonder if he’s only doing it to give himself some spare time to do nothing for forty minutes every class,” Sascha grumbles. Andrey looks at him, and Sascha catches his gaze, smiling ruefully, a tiny splatter of blood caught on his chin. Still, that’s a smile, after weeks and weeks of radio silence, and Andrey is far, far too relieved to be able to deal with the indecipherable feelings that wakes in him.

“Expecto Patronum,” he says without taking his eyes away.

All of a sudden, the room is silent.

“Mr. Rublev!” Mungley exclaims, extra loud in the suddenly deafening silence.

It takes a long moment for Andrey to look up and realise that the silvery kite bird, flying just beneath the high ceiling, is his – his actual Patronus, a corporeal one.

“Wha—” Sascha sputters next to him, staring up at the large, magnificent bird flapping its wings with a regal quality to it. “Did you just—“

“Yeah,” Andrey breathes out, watching the kite bird circle the room. The eyes of everyone are glued to it with various levels of bitterness and jealousy.

“Thirty points to Hufflepuff!” Mungley announces, breaking the spell. “Excellent job, Mr. Rublev, excellent indeed!”

Andrey is too stunned to even respond properly. The second he is distracted by Mungley’s praise, the bird flickers and disappears.

“That’s two students now who have managed a fully corporeal Patronus,” Mungley comments to the class. “By the end of the year, I expect each and every one of you to be able to achieve the same!”

Sascha starts on his wand waving with renewed, maniacal fervor.

“Are you still practicing with Stefanos?” Andrey asks him softly.

“Yes,” Sascha grits out. He then lets out a heavy sigh and rubs at his eyes. “Sorry, mate. Good job. I’m really glad for you. It’s just that—“

“I know,” Andrey says when it looks too hard for Sascha to finish his sentence. “You’ll get there, I promise.”

“I’m really starting to doubt that,” Sascha says in an apparent fit of self-pity, not that Andrey can really blame him. Here he is, producing a fully formed Patronus without sparing a day’s worth of work on practice or studying; and then there is Sascha who’s been taking regular lessons for almost three months and still fails to achieve even the slightest puff of silver.

Andrey’s eyes sweep over the room, taking in the expressions of his classmates’ faces, and he is promptly disappointed. He’d rather not admit it even to himself, but he’s expected more of a warm welcome and celebration of his success, because he’s way more popular than Stefanos Tsitsipas, if he’s being honest. He’s ashamed of the thought as soon as it occurs: what does it matter even—this is not a popularity contest, and Stefanos seems much smarter than Andrey, anyway.

Still, Karen looks strangely somber, his face screwed up as if in constipation; Dania’s face is perfectly neutral, a cold mask of indifference, though Andrey can see a muscle in his jaw contract; Holger Rune looks ferociously determined, his eyes narrowed; Felix looks disappointed, while Denis—mostly angry. Stefanos is the only one who is looking at him with a smile, oddly unruffled, as if everything was going according to plan.

The reaction of his classmates, most of whom are his friends, stings so much that he’s not sure he would be able to produce another Patronus if asked right away.

“How did you do it?” Sascha says desperately, “what did you think about?”

Only now does the realization register in his brain. He can feel his breath hitching, getting stuck in his throat.

Sascha is staring at him expectantly, though least of all Andrey imagines admitting to him that he didn’t even need to think about anything in particular.

Apparently, just looking at Sascha has been enough.

“Quidditch,” he mumbles hurriedly to mask his own growing panic. “Um. Getting into Chudley Cannons.”

“Seriously?” Sascha winces. “Chudley Cannons? Is that what gets you ecstatic? They finished last in the League three years in a row, mate.”

Andrey hums noncommittedly.

“At least Appleby Arrows are rumored to buy Crum next year,” Sascha drones on, though Andrey is not listening. There are still ten minutes of class left, and he would love to practice some more, maybe try and recreate his Patronus to see if he is able to do it again. But he knows he won’t be able to concentrate, not with Sascha sitting next to him, murmuring the incantation like a mantra, his hair flattened on one side of his head as if he’s just been hauled out of bed. The sleeve of his rumpled robes brushes Andrey’s hand with each wand motion.

All of a sudden, it’s unbearable to be near him.

“Excuse me, Professor Mungley!” he blurts out, head spinning, “May I be excused? I need to go to the Hospital Wing.”

“Certainly, Mr. Rublev,” Mungley says generously. “You’ve done more than enough today, my boy!”

“Thanks,” Andrey mutters, flushing at the praise – until today, he hasn’t even thought that Mungley knew his name. Ignoring Sascha’s incredulous gaze, he sprints to the exit, nearly forgetting his wand in his haste.

+++

“Have you already decided what you’re going to do after school?” Stefanos asks him, sipping his Butterbeer.

Dania has suggested sneaking off to Hogwarts – if Andrey and Zverev pulled it off two years ago, so could Dania – but Stefanos turned out to be a goodie-two-shoes. Instead, they’ve bought some contraband Butterbeer off the Weasley twins.

“I…” Dania calms himself, counts his breaths. It’s still hard to talk about anything personal, especially a topic so painful and triggering to him as Quidditch, but he’s been doing it with Stefanos for months by now. And it does make him feel better. “I wanna be a Quidditch player.”

“Quidditch?” Stefanos repeats blankly, as if he didn’t know the word. “But… you’re not even on the House team.”

“So?” Dania snaps, reverting to old habits as soon as the conversation gets even a tiny bit uncomfortable. Stefanos is on his side, he reminds himself. Stefanos is not out to get him. He closes his eyes and counts his breaths again. “I actually played in my Moscow school. And I was a Seeker at Beauxbatons before I moved here.”

“You were a Seeker?” Stefanos repeats incredulously. Dania tries not to take the tone of obvious surprise personally.

“Yes,” he says in a challenging tone, daring Stefanos to question him again. Stefanos wisely chooses to keep his disbelieving comments to himself.

“But that is brilliant!” Stefanos exclaims instead, beaming at him. “That means we could be flying every day if we wanted to! I have an old Snitch we can use!”

Dania grins back at him helplessly, unable to control his own mouth. He’s seen Stefanos fly, so Dania has got a lot of work to do if he wants to catch up to him.

“I’d love that,” he says and curses himself for saying the word love – he should’ve said like, because love makes him seem like a desperate fool. But Stefanos is smiling at him brighter than a Lumos, so Dania can’t really regret it. “Anyway,” he says quickly to change the topic, “What about you? You mentioned Quidditch, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Stefanos nods seriously. “My dad was a Seeker in the Greek National Team, so naturally, I’d want to be one, too.”

“Would want to be one?” Dania says, noticing the conditional. “But do you, though?”

“When I was a child,” Stefanos says with a sad little smile. “I wanted to be a wandmaker.”

“A wandmaker,” Dania repeats incredulously, even though, credit where it’s due – he can easily imagine Stefanos in either of those roles just as easily. In retrospect, this explains Stefanos’ unhealthily obsession with his wand. “Why?”

“It’s always fascinated me, the wandlore,” Stefanos says. “Even more so when I spent almost four hours at Olivander’s, picking out a want. None of them wanted to choose me.”

“Choose you? What do you mean choose you, wands aren’t sentient beings, Stefanos.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” Stefanos smiles and looks suddenly like a practiced storyteller. “They are. The wand chooses the wizard, Dania, not the other way around.”

Dania ignores the earth-shaking jump his stomach makes at Stefanos saying Dania like that – soft voice and curled lips, shyly, as if unsure he was allowed such familiarity. “Does it?” he says dubiously, and his voice comes out croaky and hoarse. He clears his throat and gulps down his Butterbeer to wash it down.

“That’s the fascinating thing about wandmaking,” Stefanos says with that same little private smile that he seems to only direct at Dania these days. “It’s not just simply making a stick with a magical core. You have to gift it the magic, an actual part of yourself.”

And even though Dania doesn’t understand exactly what Stefanos means, he’s willing to sit here for hours, at this empty classroom with the winter wind bashing the old glass windows, and just listen to Stefanos talk.

+++

In his quest to be left alone and hear himself think, Andrey finds himself on the seventh floor, pacing restlessly along the corridor.

What the bloody Gargoyle is happening to him? Is it some spell? Some wicked curse he was hit with without noticing? Did someone slip him Amortentia during dinner at the Great Hall? Because he cannot be thinking about his best friend this way, he simply cannot, not about Sascha who fools around with a different girl every month. Not Sascha, whom Andrey has known since he was ten, before even getting sorted in the same House together. Not Sascha who, Andrey is willing to wager, is already half mad and deeply, irrevocably broken inside.

Andrey just loves him platonically, surely. Can platonic love be enough to cast a Patronus? He’s sure it can, because it can be just as bright and powerful as the romantic kind of love.

And yet… Why did he feel betrayed when he saw Sascha together with Sofia in that bathroom?

It’s only because Sascha didn’t tell him, he convinces himself, but the reason doesn’t seem credible even inside his own mind. He feels drunk, as if he’s had way too much Firewhiskey, like that time he and Sascha sneaked off to Hogsmeade and stole the entire bottle from Aberforth in fifth year. He feels dizzy like he’s just been woken from a sleep that lasted way too long, and he couldn’t even remember the dream that detained him.

I need to know, he thinks desperately, hopelessly. I need to sort my own bloody feelings.

He stops suddenly and stares at the door in the wall that, he’s pretty sure, wasn’t there a second ago. The door is huge, almost twice as tall Andrey, and looks positively ancient, like it was there before the castle itself – like it was already there when the Celts lived, and the Romans invaded. Andrey’s almost afraid to breathe near it for fear of it crumbling down from old age, but at the same time, he can’t look away from it.

It’s beautiful. He wants to touch it. He needs to know what’s inside.

Without even looking around, he steps towards it, transfixed. Looking down, he finds that his hand is already on the door handle, without his volition. His heart racing in his chest, he pulls the knob and steps through.

Inside is Sascha.

Surrounded by eerie darkness, Sascha lies on the floor in a pool of dark crimson.

Andrey can’t breathe. His body is completely paralysed, worse than when hit by the Stunning Spell, worse than ever before in his life. He can’t move. He can’t look and yet he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight, the most horrible one he’s ever seen.

He feels the panicky dread surge up, like he’s stuck in a nightmare, the horror of it pressing in all around him. There’s an animalistic fear that’s been growing in him since he saw the doorthat makes him want to back into the corner of the room and never come out and never open his eyes again.

“Sascha,” he chokes out, the name hardly leaving his lips. He is trembling all over. “Sasch!”

His body wakes up, limbs moving. He runs ahead towards Sascha, and he seems to be running for an eternity or it might be barely a second — the dense darkness around him making it impossible to tell how much distance he’s covered.

Sascha is not breathing. Sascha is dead.

No, no, no no, Andrey screams, or maybe just thinks. The incomprehensible, cosmic horror of what’s in front of him makes it impossible to breathe. Sascha cannot be dead, he cannot be, because Andrey hasn’t told him yet, hasn’t let him know how much—

Sascha cannot be dead, he thinks again, a little clearer, and his heart that has stopped beating, goes into a full overdrive again. Sascha cannot be dead, because Andrey just saw him in the Common room twenty minutes ago.

You wanted to know, Andrey hears from everywhere at once, as if the voice was emanating from the invisible walls, from the very soul of this twisted cursed space. He shakes with the sound of it, booming and all-powerful, and feels surreal. This isn’t happening, he thinks. This cannot be happening.

Now you know, the voice booms. The room changes around him, flashes with a blinding light. When Andrey opens his eyes, he’s outside, just near the Forbidden Forest  with a broom in his hand, Sascha grinning next to him. He looks at once more handsome and mature, older somehow than the Sascha he saw in the Common Room several minutes ago, but also nothing like Sascha at all, though Andrey can’t quite put his finger on it. This is not his Sascha.

I want the real one, he thinks, the thought fleeting but true. The sight of the forest and Sascha and the midnight blue sky crumbles in front of him.

The new Sascha that stands before him is terrifying. His features look sharper, his skin smoother. There’s something horrible in his eyes that Andrey can’t name, and that itches to get out.

I’m the real thing, this Sascha tells him. He looks all wrong, as if someone has made a wax figure of him without looking at the reference. Twisted and cruel – do you still want me?

Yes, Andrey cries and can’t help being honest. Whatever dream or nightmare this is, at least now he realises, now he knows. He loves Sascha in all of his appearances, with all of his flaws and imperfections. Here, in this place that doesn’t exist, he doesn’t need to lie to himself.

He feels it then — the pure, ancient, all-powerful magic in the air. It’s in his blood, it’s thrumming at the tips of his fingers, it’s at the back of his throat when he breathes in. Everything he’s ever known crumbles in the face of it, the mighty, insupportable feeling that is too big, too grand, surely, for Andrey to ever take in, let alone to comprehend it — because this, this incomprehensible magic feels like love, ancient and grandiose and tragic and brilliant and almighty, the kind of love you die for, the kind you never stop feeling deep inside, in the back of your mind, in the very fibres of your soul—

He lets go and feels his identity dissolve into something bigger and more powerful.

The apparition disappears again. Before he gets a chance to see something even more horrible, he shuts his eyes and prays and prays to please let this end, let him out, please—

Just as suddenly as it all started, it ends. Abruptly, Andrey finds himself in the brightly lit corridor, the door being shut in his face.

He collapses onto his knees, shivering, his breaths unable to get out. He feels like he’s coming down with a fever, worse, like there’s some kind of cancer in his brain – or its magical equivalent. Tears are streaming down his face in a steady waterfall. He is shaking all over.

What kind of magic was that? How the hell is it even allowed in Hogwarts? It didn’t kill him, but he certainly wasn’t far from having a very real heart attack — he still isn’t.

Warily, he gets on his feet, his legs unsteady and jittery like jelly.

The door is gone, as if it never existed. There’s only the stone wall stretching out before him.

What the hell was that?! The only thing on his mind, the urgent, pressing thought that tramps everything else, is to run down to the Hufflepuff Common room and check if Sascha’s alive and well. Failing that, he’s prepared to come up to every single person in Hogwarts and demand from them to see the magic map the Weasley Twins showed him, and to search for Sascha there.

He wipes the tears furiously with the back of his hand and gives himself a moment to breathe and calm down. Whatever wicked, twisted dark magic it was, Andrey’s escaped it. He feels wiser, somehow, and older, too. A brand new, different wizard, a better, more honest version of himself.

The time it takes him to sprint down to the Common Room feels like less than a second – he might as well have Apparated there, if Hogwarts allowed it. Barging into the room, he searches for Sascha desperately.

“Domi!” he calls, and the bloke turns to him with a smile. “You’ve seen Sascha?”

“Um, yeah, about half an hour ago,” Domi says.

“He was… alright, yeah?”

“What do you mean alright?” Domi squints, “he was moodier than usual, but otherwise… fine, I suppose. I think he went over to the Slytherin dungeons, if you know what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Okay, good,” Andrey says in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. “Thanks.”

“Andrey,” Domi says slowly, stepping closer. “Is everything alright? You look… you don’t look like yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Andrey says in that same listless, foreign voice. “Never been better.”

+++

“It’s funny,” Andrey says to him on their way to Herbology (Zverev suspiciously absent from his side), “how the more Stefanos gets to know you, the more at ease he seems with you.”

Dania stays silent, waiting for the point. He focuses on his breathing and keeps himself calm, though it’s already torturous enough for his friends to discuss his… personal life like that.

“Whereas with you,” Andrey goes on, just as Karen catches up with them. “It’s completely the opposite. You seem a lot more nervous talking to him now than you were six months ago.” Andrey shoots him an uncannily shrewd look. “Why is that, I wonder?”

His tone is light and teasing, but Dania can’t help noting the underlying sadness. It’s coming off Andrey in invisible, yet very tangible waves, and Dania senses it the same way he’d sense a burst of magic. Andrey’s been smiling all morning, but it hasn’t reached his eyes even once.

Dania thinks this might have something to do with Zverev’s absence and decides promptly to leave it alone.

“What are you talking about?” He says instead, rolling his eyes. “I’m absolutely fine.”

Andrey keeps looking at him closely, his gaze assessing. “Yeah. You seem so. You’ve been a lot… calmer the last few months.”

“Is that a compliment?” Dania asks sardonically, as Karen looks between the two of them with a confused expression.

“Whatcha talking about, lads? And also — where’s Sascha? The arsehole still owes me two galleons and I need them back before we go out to Hogsmeade this Saturday!”

Andrey’s expression doesn’t change one bit. “He’ll give it back to you, don’t worry,” he says in a strange tone that doesn’t bode well. Karen doesn’t seem to notice, though.

“What do you even need two galleons for?” Dania asks him to direct the conversation away from Zverev. “Gonna spend them on another pack of Bertie Botts like a ten-year-old?”

“I did that once!” Karen huffs, then concedes, “alright, fine, twice — but it’s the first magical thing I’ve ever tried, so sue me!”

Andrey is still boring him with his probing gaze.

“Are you gonna go to Hogsmeade this weekend, Dania?”

Dania suddenly feels embarrassed, as if he were caught naked in public. “Probably,” he says carelessly, hoping Andrey will leave it, but no:

“Are you gonna go alone?” Andrey says with a specific inflection, so unsubtle that even Karen pick up on it.

“Oooh, Dania!” He grins maniacally. “Taking someone out for a date this week, huh?”

“I’m not— I wasn’t—“ Dania explodes, the words catching in his throat. True, the thought of asking Stefanos to go together has crossed his mind — maybe even more than once — but Dania has immediately shut it down. Even though it would obviously not be a date, he isn’t about to allow the entire Hogwarts population to speculate on the nature of his relationship with Stefanos.

Studying together is one thing, and pretty common among all Houses, too. But going to Hogsmeade together, letting it look to everyone else as if they were, indeed, on a date — he and one of the biggest weirdos of the school — that is an entirely different matter.

And Dania would love to be associated with a proper Pureblood, particularly one who’s also planning to go into Quidditch as that would open so many doors for him, but just… not thisparticular Pureblood. He really does not fancy setting himself up for mockery, because he’s got too friendly with the lamest bloke in Hogwarts.

“Even if I go, I’ll go by myself,” he says in a tone that bears no argument.

Andrey finally looks away. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna ask Veronika!” Karen volunteers, even though no one’s asked him. Karen’s stubborn and inspired chasing of the Ravenclaw girl, whom he’s been after since second year, is something of a legend by now. The bloke has never looked at another girl once.

“I wonder what she’s gonna say,” Andrey says sarcastically, and Karen smacks him lightly over the head.

“Sod off. This time, she’s gonna say yes!” Karen goes on with a sickeningly cheesy smile. “Last morning, she talked to me for the entire walk to Charms.”

“Enough grounds to get married right away,” Andrey jokes. And still, his smile looks plastic and fake.

“Are you asking anyone out?” Dania addresses Andrey, who shrugs. He looks up at Dania with a strange look on his face.

“Hey, do you know Sofia? She’s Slytherin, too.”

“Yeah, she’s in the sixth year,” Dania says, squinting at him. “Why?” He looks Andrey over, notes his squirming and his fleeting eyes, and it dawns on him. “Ah, Andrey. Being friendly with us is not enough for you, then? You wanna get real close with the Slytherin House, huh?”

Andrey blinks at him as if he hasn’t understood a word.

“Sorry to tell you mate, but I hear she’s already seeing someone,” Dania says, and Andrey’s face breaks a little. Jesus, Dania had no idea Andrey even liked this girl. “Sakkari said she’d caught her with someone in the girls’ dormitory over breakfast, they were doing it right there.”

“I see,” is all Andrey says before storming off ahead off them and disappearing in the Greenhouse.

“Ah, don’t mind him,” Karen tells Dania, shaking his head. “He’ll get over her.”

+++

Dania catches himself staring at Stefanos just before Mungley opens his mouth to reprimand him. He hastily turns back to the task at hand, giving Andrey’s kite Patronus a side-eye as he does.

Damn Andrey, managing to produce this incredibly complex bit of magic without a modicum of hard work that Dania’s put into his own studying and endless practicing. How the hell is that fair? If judged solely by the amount of effort put into it, Dania would’ve been the first in his year to cast a proper Patronus.

Ignoring the desperate yells of Expecto Patronum all around him as numerous students try and fail to produce one, Dania concentrates on his breathing, just like he’s been doing with Stefanos.

Was Andrey right? Has Dania been looking noticeably nervous around Stefanos? Like, like— like some girl with a silly crush? Jesus, and Andrey hasn’t even seen them cozying up to each other under the tree by the lake, hasn’t seen Stefanos caress his shoulder like a lover would, hasn’t been there when Dania allowed himself to be disgustingly vulnerable in front of him, admitting to feelings he’s never once told anyone else—

He takes a deep breath. “Expecto Patronum!”

And then something actually happens.

Silver fog comes out from the tip of his wand, growing as it moves, catching the eyes of everybody in the room. It feels like he’s watching it in slow motion: Mungley turning and noticing his half-formed Patronus, Stefanos sending him a curious, then proud smile, Andrey’s eyes widening as he sees what exactly his Patronus is shaping up to be.

His heart drops into his belly.

“What?” Holler Rune laughs, as everybody’s mouths drop. “Is that another hamster?”

It is. Jesus Christ, it is.

“Merlin’s balls!” Nick screams in between fits of hysterical laughter, and his words almost drown in the sound of the entire room roaring in laughter. “Mate, are you in love with Tsitsipas or what?”

“I’m not— of course not—” Dania stutters, his hands shaking as he watches the silvery hamster run around, identical to that of Stefanos. He can barely breathe, his chest constricting in absolute sheer horror of this humiliation.

The next moment, the hamster fades away.

“It’s completely normal,” Mungley comments generously, probably thinking he’s helping the situation, “for one’s Patronus form to change and replicate the Patronus of the person one loves most—”

The rest of his sentence drowns in another fit of roaring laughter. Even worse, Dania feels actual tears forming at the corners of his eyes, welling up, ready to spill. He’s got to get out of here, now.

His desk shakes and trembles.

“Quiet now, please!” Mungley yells over the crowd of guffawing students, as Dania rages and shakes and hates himself and Tsitsipas. “Mr. Kyrgios, calm yourself!”

“I swear,” Nick is laughing, “This is, like, the most hilarious thing I’ve seen — Medvedev pining over Tsitsipas’ bloody hamster—”

“I’M NOT PINING!” Dania roars, the hurt and humiliation exploding out of him with a snap. The window creaks and breaks, the glass shards flying everywhere. He does not care, he does not stop. His Russian accent is coming out, making the words form even more awkwardly in his mouth. “I HAD A HAMSTER AS A CHILD!” He lies, Tsitsipas’ own excuse coming up to his mind like a lifebuoy. “I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH TSITSIPAS, THE SMALL KID WHO DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO DUEL, THE BLOODY HOGWARTS LOSER — SO— SO SHUT THE FUCK UP, ALL OF YOU!”

Finally, there’s silence. No one is laughing at him now. Or maybe, he just can’t hear them over the violent ringing in his ears.

Without bothering to gather his things, Dania runs out of the room.

He does not dare look at Stefanos Tsitsipas even once.

+++

End of Part I.