Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3250493.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Captain_America_(Movies), The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies)
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers, Minor_or_Background_Relationship(s),
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes_&_Peggy_Carter_&_Steve_Rogers
  Character:
      Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Peggy_Carter, Natasha_Romanov, Sam
      Wilson_(Marvel), Clint_Barton, Thor_(Marvel), James_"Rhodey"_Rhodes, Tony
      Stark, Pepper_Potts, Bruce_Banner, Rebecca_Barnes_Proctor
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Hogwarts, Romantic_Comedy, Tropes, Celebrity_Crush,
      Crush_at_First_Sight, Matchmaking, Flirting, Mutual_Pining, References_to
      MCU, Marvel_Cameos, X-Men_Cameos, Social_Justice_Warrior_Steve_Rogers,
      Social_Justice_Warrior_Bucky_Barnes
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-29 Updated: 2016-04-27 Chapters: 7/20 Words: 51773
****** Steve Rogers and the Tri-Wizard Tournament ******
by gryffindor17
Summary
     There’s not a person who walks the halls of Hogwarts who doesn’t know
     Steve Rogers: the boy with the righteous streak, hot temper, and
     massive crush on the Romanian Longhorns’ star Chaser, Bucky Barnes.
     But Bucky exists to Steve only on the front page of The Daily
     Prophet. He has long since resigned himself to admiring from afar,
     catching games when he can or otherwise following Barnes’s crusade
     against injustice through printed page.
     Until the man himself walks into the Great Hall on the first night of
     their Seventh Year.
     Bucky’s life outside of the spotlight is hardly worthy of a footnote,
     never mind a headline, but no one wants to read about Bucky Barnes
     being found face-down and fast asleep between the shelves of
     Durmstrang’s impressive library. Between his studies and the
     Quidditch Finals looming around the corner, the last thing Bucky
     needs is something like the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He knows
     Headmaster Pierce is expecting him to volunteer, but all Bucky really
     wants is to pass his N.E.W.T.S. and maybe twist The Minister’s arm
     into passing the bill about guaranteed pay for House Elves.
     That is until he spots Merlin’s gift to man sitting at the Gryffindor
     table.
     Then things get complicated.
Notes
     OH YEAH. THIS IS WHAT WE'RE DOING NOW.
     So it has come to my attention that this fandom has a glaring lack of
     Hogwarts AU's and, really, I feel like it's the bread and butter of
     all AUs. Everybody's got them. And this is my contribution to the
     cause. It's practically community service, if you think about it...
     This idea has been nagging at me while I’ve been trying to tie up my
     other AU, so anyone also reading Leap Year ought to know that the
     final chapter is underway, but I am easily distracted and literally
     COULD NOT keep writing without getting this story started, too. It is
     one of my many character faults.
     ANYWAY.
     So let's pretend, for a moment, that Hogwarts accepts American
     students. Also, I feel the need to say that while I am borrowing his
     world, Harry Potter does not exist in this AU. While I'm at it, I
     should say that I neither own Harry Potter nor the idea of the Tri-
     Wizard Tournament nor any of the wonderful details of Rowling's
     world.
     Also, before we get this show on the road, I feel the need to say
     that if you do not agree with the Houses I've sorted the characters
     in to, I'm sorry! I respect other people's headcannons, but I put a
     lot of thought into my own and I hope you will respect them, too.
     Comments and kudos and ramblings and smoke signals are always
     welcome. I am here to be yelled at/whispered at/squealed at/flailed
     at so use me at your disposal. I love hearing from you guys and your
     kindness and critiques have helped me grow as a writer.
     SO WHO'S READY FOR A HARRY POTTER VS. MARVEL-PALOOZA?
***** The Tri-Wizard Tournament *****
Steve Rogers.
The mere mention of him prompts wistful sighs from the highest peak of
Ravenclaw Tower to the lowest pits of the Slytherin dungeons.
Gryffindors love him for his nerve. No one else can talk Professor Phillips
into a corner quite like Rogers can, and he won’t stop until Phillips admits
that the injustices which wizards claim against the Muggles are the exact same
which wizards continue to perpetuate against other magical creatures. “The
House Elves in the kitchen, for example, Professor Phillips? The giants in
Romania? Or how about the Centaurs in the Forbidden Forest, sir?” Oh yeah,
Rogers will go red in the face over just about anything.
Hufflepuffs admire his loyalty to his friends and his dedication to creating
safe outlets for wizarding students within the walls of Hogwarts. His Muggle
Born and Pure Blood Relations club has been a resounding success and his
influence is the sole reason why you’re likely to catch the sons and daughters
of prestigious Pure Blood families donning t-shirts boasting everything from
One Direction to Mountain Dew.
Ravenclaws admire his quiet intelligence. His grades aren’t quite as gilded as
his reputation, but there isn’t a Ravenclaw alive that can call Steve dim
witted. Sometimes, on a particularly rainy Sunday morning, Steve can be found
in a battle of riddles with The Grey Lady over breakfast. Rarely does he ever
win, but that’s more a testament to The Grey Lady’s brilliance than to Steve’s
limitations, though every once in a while he’ll stump her and she’ll smile a
slow, awed smile before rising from the table and drifting away.
But of all the houses, it is perhaps Slytherin house who most reveres Steve
Rogers. Their head of house, Professor Darkhölme, watches him with her haunting
yellow eyes and often wonders how it could have been that Steve didn’t end up
in her house. At least once a week there’s a student in Madame Temples’s office
with some small injury claiming it to be the work of Steve Rogers. More often
than not it’s a series of heinous warts protruding from their forehead,
labeling them ‘MISOGYNIST’ or ‘PURIST’ or ‘RACIST’ in painful looking
blemishes, though Rogers has never been too good for a classic right hook,
either. Steve is practically a Slytherin hero, seeing as how he’s lost
Gryffindor more house points than any other student combined for the past six
years running.
When asked about his reputation as Hogwarts’ resident vigilante, Steve will
blush from his cheeks to his chest and deny it, never one to toot his own horn.
He leaves all the tooting to Sam, who’s always more than happy to gloat about
how his best friend tore all the assigned gender signs off the bathroom doors
in a sign of support for non-binary students.
Steve prides himself not on his actions, which he believes are a sign of
humanity more than heroism, but on the fact that most everyone in Hogwarts
considers him a friend. There’s not a person who wanders the halls of Hogwarts
who doesn’t know Steve Rogers: the boy with the righteous streak, hot temper,
and massive crush on the Romanian Longhorns’ star Chaser, James “Bucky” Barnes.
Steve didn’t let that last part slip himself. That was the work of Clint and
his big fucking mouth. And it’s not a crush, its admiration! As Keeper and
Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team himself, he can certainly appreciate
Barnes’s technique and control of his broom and his…ball handling…
Alright, so it’s a crush. One that Steve’s had since his fifth year when Barnes
first joined the Longhorns roster and shot to immediate stardom after scoring
570 points his rookie year. To say Steve is enamored would be an
understatement, especially after the stunt Barnes pulled at the Quidditch World
Cup when he’d charmed his uniform to proudly boast the colors of the bisexual
flag following a rather nasty disagreement with his management about the nature
of his relationships. Barnes scored 170 points that night, a poignant middle
finger to anyone who thought his sexuality had anything to do with his ability
to perform.
Steve dropped ten galleons on a Barnes jersey the next day.
But it didn’t stop there. Following the World Cup, Barnes went on to campaign
for the ethical treatment of the dragons from which his team drew their
namesake. It has since become unlawful for Longhorns to be poached or placed in
captivity, due in no small part to Barnes’s advocacy. Then there was the march
on The Ministry that Barnes had organized in an effort to bring attention
towards the lack of proper education allotted to non-Wizard folk. He made
headlines when he dropped nearly 20,000 galleons of his own money to found the
first ever school for House Elves looking to improve both their magic and their
minds.
It’s easy to forget sometimes that Barnes is older than Steve only by a couple
of months. When he’s not on the Quidditch pitch or saving kittens from trees,
Barnes attends Durmstrang Institute. He, too, will be returning this semester
for his seventh year despite rumors that he was going to drop out in order to
play full time. Barnes had scoffed at the claim.
“What kind of example does that set, huh?” he’d asked in response. “How am I
supposed to tell kids to stay in school if I don’t?”
“You should get his name tattooed on your ass,” Clint joked around a mouth full
of cereal at breakfast during their Sixth Year, “he practically owns it
anyway.”
But there would be no tattoos on Steve’s ass to speak of, despite Clint’s
repeated offers to do it for him. Bucky Barnes exists to Steve only on the
front page of The Daily Prophet. Steve has long since resigned himself to
admiring from afar, catching games when he can or otherwise following Barnes’s
crusade against injustice through printed page.
Until the man himself walks into the Great Hall on the first night of Seventh
Year.
                                      ***
“On your right!”
That’s all the warning Steve gets before Sam flies by him on his right side,
followed by a strong wind that nearly topples the precarious stack of trunks
he’s balancing in his arms for a couple of doe-eyed Second Years.
Sam is incredibly down to earth, though his feet rarely ever touch the ground.
If he’s not on his broomstick, he’s thinking about being on his broomstick, and
when he is on his broomstick, he’s thinking about when the next time he’ll be
able to get on his broom stick is. Last year, Headmaster Fury actually
confiscated Sam’s broom and kept it locked in his office after Sam started
flying to class every morning. That lasted all of a week before Sam and Steve
broke into Fury’s office and stole back the limited edition Falcon 0-100, the
fastest broom in production.
“What’s your hurry?” Steve calls, voice muffled by the trunks.
His answer comes a moment later when Tony Stark flies by on Steve’s left,
nothing more than a black, silver, and green blur before he disappears from
sight.
“Give it back, Wilson!”
Tony Stark wears his last name like a crown, which for all intents and
purposes, it might as well be. Howard Stark, Tony’s late father, made a name
for himself in Muggle-Wizard relations, leading to the invention of the
prototypical Hover Car, a combination between Muggle engineering and Wizard
charm. Tony carries on his father’s legacy both as a brilliant inventor and as
a proud traitor to his pure blood, but he isn’t above a little inter-house
rivalry, hence the game of Capture the Flag that he and Sam have been playing
since First Year. It seems Sam’s got the jump start this year. Steve imagines
he’s got the Slytherin House banner tucked into his pocket, lifted from the
rafters of The Great Hall.
Just when Steve thinks he’s got a handle on the trunks again, Headmaster Fury
flies overhead, following Sam and Tony while muttering under his breath
something that Steve dare not repeat in the company of Second Years. The trunks
tip dangerously, nearly toppling over before someone on the other side catches
them.
He’s not surprised to see Pepper Potts as she takes some of his burdensome load
into her own arms, though she looks a bit surprised to see him. Pepper’s got a
sixth sense for when shit’s about to go wrong, though it usually leads her
directly to Tony.
“Steve! I didn’t think you were here yet.” She says by way of greeting, falling
into step beside him. The oncoming tide of students parts like the Red Sea,
allowing them to move along without hindrance. That never happens for Steve.
It’s a Pepper thing.
Hufflepuff prefect in her sixth year, Head Girl in her seventh, Pepper Potts
sits atop Hogwarts’ student body with grace. When she approaches the spinning
staircase, the steps lurch towards her as if on command. She walks the
corridors with enough confidence to kill a man, and should she ever do just
that, she’d probably get away with it.
“Just got in, actually.” Steve replies, checking over his shoulder to make sure
he’s still got his two Hufflepuffs in tow behind him. “Caught these guys lost
on the staircase,” he explains.
Pepper hums in sympathy. They chat companionably until they arrive at the
painted portrait of the pear that stands sentinel at the entrance of the
Hufflepuff common room. Pepper shifts the weight of the trunks to one arm and
reaches forward to tickle the pear. It gives a delighted giggle before the
frame swings open, revealing the long hall beyond.
“Thanks Captain Rogers!” The children cry, taking their trunks and shuffling
along the hall, waddling a bit under the weight.
“It’s…Steve…” Steve says belatedly.
Pepper swings the frame shut and pouts. “Why do you get a fan club?”
Steve scoffs, “I do not have a fan club.”
“Captain Rogers?”
Pepper and Steve both turn to find Phil Coulson, Second Year Hufflepuff and
president of the nonexistent Steve Rogers Fan Club, standing behind them with a
twinkle in his eyes that shines only for Steve.
The Sorting Hat didn’t even touch little Phil Coulson’s head before it declared
him a Hufflepuff. Fiercely loyal and dedicated to working hard, Phil boasts the
Hufflepuff colors with pride. His first year at Hogwarts was tough, but he
survived with the help of Captain Rogers, always ready to lend a hand to anyone
in need, and boy, was Phil ever in need of help in Transfiguration. (Professor
Darkhölme scares him, though he feels better about her class knowing that Steve
is a little afraid of her, too.)
Pepper gives Steve a pointed look. “Has Phil showed you his trading cards?
“Trading cards?” Steve echoes.
“He’s very proud.”
“Oh, can I, Captain Rogers? Can I? Can I? Can I?” Phil begs, clasping his hands
beneath his chin and bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I have…trading cards?”
“Correction, Phil has trading cards. Of you. They’re one of a kind. He made
them himself.” Pepper says. She’s almost insufferably smug as she mouths the
word ‘Fan Club’.
Phil shoves the aforementioned cards in Steve’s face, standing on the tips of
his toes to wave them in front of Steve’s eyes. “I lifted the official
statistics from Fury’s office,” he explains proudly. “You made 137 saves last
year, did you know that? That’s 840 saves over the past six years! All’s you
got to do is save 58 shots this year and you’ll be the best Keeper in Hogwarts
history!”
“Wow, Phil, that’s…” Steve takes the cards from Phil’s hand and looks them
over, “impressive.”
“I’m gonna try out for Quidditch this year!” Phil exclaims. “Seeker, I think.
While I’m still small enough to play, anyway. I’ve been practicing all summer!”
“Oh yeah?” Steve asks.
“You bet!” Phil says cheerily. “Been watching Quidditch all summer. Did you see
the Longhorns in the semi-finals?”
Steve perks up. “Oh, absolutely!”
“Barnes scored the winning point—”
“—seconds before the Irish caught the Snitch!” Steve cries, reaching low to
high five Phil. “Romania 270, Ireland 260. Amazing game!”
Phil stares the offered high five and promptly faints, passing out right there
in the corridor with nothing more than a dreamy sigh.
Steve lowers his hand slowly. “I—should we move him?”
Pepper sighs heavily and stoops down, scooping Phil into her arms with a fondly
exasperated expression usually reserved for Tony. “You go on. I’m sure there
are plenty more doting admirers who need help with their trunks.” She holds out
a hand to Steve. “The cards, please? He doesn’t go anywhere without them.”
Steve hands over the cards, resolutely ignoring the smug grin on Pepper’s face
as he turns to leave. He hears the pear giggle again as he turns the corner,
falling back into the tide of students that no longer make room for him without
Pepper Potts in tow.
“Master Rogers!” A squeaky voice calls to him.
Steve recognizes it. He turns this way and that, trying to find the source.
“Master Rogers, down here, sir!” Steve looks down to find a House Elf tugging
at the leg of his pants, urging him towards the kitchen. Steve follows.
The kitchen is alive tonight as House Elves work to prepare the Welcoming
Feast. Steve knows the conditions are about as good as any and that Headmaster
Fury compensates them well, but his stomach still turns to know that House
Elves live their lives in blind subjugation. It’s taken him six years to get
them to call him Master Rogers as opposed to just Master. Steve has taken the
time to learn their names, despite their resistance to do the same.
For instance, it’s Wally who guides him to the pantry and climbs up the small
step stool to fetch a box of—
“Poptarts?” Steve asks, looking the box over with disbelief.
Wally nods emphatically. “Master Odinson was very specific, Master Rogers.”
Wally puffs out his chest and puts his small hands on his hips, “I ask you a
favor, Elves of the House. Might you procure for me a box of the Popping
Tarts?” He says in a spot-on imitation of Steve’s fellow Gryffindor.
Steve shrugs, “Well, alright. I’ll be sure he gets them, then.”
Wally steps down from the stool and begins pushing at Steve’s shins, urging him
towards the door. “I’m sorry, Master Rogers, but I must ask you to go now! Much
work to be done for the big night. Biggest night of all nights, Fury says! Fury
says it’s a big night, indeed!” He prattles.
Steve’s brows draw together in confusion. “What do you mean? It’s the Welcoming
Feast, nothing you guys haven’t done a thousand times before, right?” He asks.
Wally freezes like he’s been struck and immediately drops to his knees and
begins banging his head off the floor. “Wally has been bad! Wally has told
Master Rogers a secret! Wally must punish—,”
“Wally will not punish.” Steve says firmly, catching Wally’s head gently in his
hands. “Forget I asked, alright? I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.” Steve’s
eyes flick to the bald patch atop Wally’s head. “Or, well, you know. It’s a
figure of speech.”
Wally nods and sniffles deeply. He stands and escorts Steve to the door,
shutting it heavily behind him as he turns to leave.
Fury’s got a lot of secrets, like the third floor corridor that he’s strictly
forbidden student access to, for example. Fury’s got more secrets than he does
students but Steve can’t recall a time when House Elves were ever in on the
secrets with him. He gets so lost trying to make sense of the sudden trust
between Fury and the Elves that he doesn’t notice the girl dancing towards him
any more than she notices him. They collide painfully and Steve drops Thor’s
Poptarts to rub the spot where her elbow had collided with his forehead.
“Oh, shit, dude! I’m so—Steve?” Steve cracks an eye open to see Darcy Lewis
hastily pulling her headphones from her ears. “Sorry, buddy, but this song is
my JAM. You ever heard of Michael Jackson?” She asks, bopping on the spot. Her
music is loud enough that Steve can hear it over the din of the corridors.
I want to love you! (P.Y.T.) Pretty young thing! You need some lovin’!
(T.L.C.)Tender lovin’ care!
Steve laughs and nods. Darcy may be pure by blood, but she’s Muggle by heart.
Steve’s pretty sure the rumor about her keeping her Arithmancy notes in a Harry
Styles folder are true. Between Parker and Quill, she’s got more than enough
music on her iPod (“A box full of music, how clever are these freakin’ Muggles,
dude?”) to keep her bopping happily down every corridor on her way to class.
She’s stepped up as head of the Muggle Born Pure Blood Relations Club after
Steve stepped down to focus on captaining the Quidditch team, and since then
hasn’t been able to spend as much time doing what she does best: meddling in
her best friend Jane’s life until she asks out Tall, Blond, and Dreamy. (Her
words, not Steve’s, though if only given three words to describe Thor, he’d
probably choose the same ones.)
Speaking of which, she bends down to pick up the fallen Poptarts. “Oh, hey, are
these for Thor?”
“Yeah,” Steve says as he takes them back, “they come special delivery from the
House Elves.”
Darcy rolls her eyes. “Parker brought some to the last MBPBRC meeting and Thor
cleaned house in, like, two minutes flat. All eight of them. Gone. Where does
he put them, man?”
“I’ll be sure to ask!” Steve says as he makes to leave.
“Hey, when you see him, tell him Jane’s looking for him!” Darcy calls as she
slides her headphones back over her ears.
“Is she really?”
“NO!” Darcy yells, though Steve doesn’t think she realizes she’s doing it. “BUT
HE DOESN’T HAVE TO KNOW THAT!”
Steve nods and carries on his way. By some miracle he manages to make it to
Gryffindor tower without getting sidetracked again. He greets The Fat Lady
kindly and provides the password when asked. The portrait swings open and Steve
fits himself through the hole in the wall, something that’s become a lot more
difficult since the first time he’d done it all those years ago. He passes
through the common room without a fuss, heading for the boy’s stairwell and
climbing it to the top. He follows the short hall to the heavy wooden door
marked by a golden ‘7’ and pushes it open.
“ROGERS!”
Steve looks up to find Clint hanging from the wooden beams above in a make-
shift hammock that looks suspiciously like the curtains from common room.
Knowing Clint, that’s probably exactly what it is.
“A hammock Clint, really?”
“It’s not a hammock, Rogers, it’s a hanging oasis.”
“Don’t you have a bed?” Steve asks, just this side of exasperated.
“Yup,” Clint says, popping the ‘p’. “But now, I’ve got two.”
He doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Clint’s found a way to monopolize
sleeping space. It’s common knowledge amongst seventh year Gryffindors that
he’s not to be disturbed until well after noon on any given day. It’s rare to
catch Clint without a piping hot cup of coffee in his hand, and it’s even rarer
to catch him coming to class on time because of it. Coffee first, everything
else second, that’s the Barton motto. Despite his less than pristine attendance
record and questionable sleeping patterns, Clint’s actually one of the
brightest wizards at Hogwarts. He’s a walking paradox like that, brilliant yet
lazy, arrogant yet humble, smart yet clueless. Clint’s always quick with a joke
but slow with an answer, but when he finally gets around to giving one, it’s
usually right.
“Where’s everybody else?” Steve asks. Thor’s school robe is hanging from the
post of his bed, so Steve knows he’s been here, and he’d seen Sam in the hall.
He hasn’t seen nor heard from Rhodey yet, but that’s not abnormal. He’s arrived
last for six years in a row, much to his chagrin.
“Uhhhhh…” Clint drawls, proving Steve’s point about the whole ‘slow with an
answer’ thing. “I think they…uhhhhh…”
“Coming through!”
Steve turns and ducks out of the way just in time as Sam flies into the room,
landing on his bed in a heap. The Falcon 0-100 falls harmlessly to the ground
without Sam to pilot it.
“Did you get it?” Clint asks, craning his neck over the edge of his hammock.
Sam thrusts the Slytherin banner victoriously in the air, earning whoops of
approval from Steve and Clint. He sits up slowly and catches his breath. “I’ll
tell you, boys,” he says between gasps, “Stark can fly.”
“He can’t, the Mark 42 can.” Clint corrects, referring to Stark’s flashy new
broomstick of his own design.
“Yeah, well, it couldn’t fly fast enough.” Steve says, taking the banner from
Sam and hanging it off the beam not currently occupied by Clint’s hanging
oasis. “Score one for Gryffindor!”
Thor ambles into the room and lights up immediately. “This is the first victory
of many, my brothers!” He boasts. “The serpent is no match for the mighty
lion!”
“What he said.” Clint says.
Thor comes from the Odinson line, a family known for their strength in battle.
It’s for that reason that the elder Odinson boy is competitive and easily
instigated, but he’s also one of the most humble students at Hogwarts despite
the weight of his family name. He has a brother the year beneath him. The pair
seems at first glance to be polar opposites—Thor, the handsome athlete, Loki,
pale and snide, but Thor assures everyone he meets that he and his brother are
the closest of friends, a sentiment which his brother seems reluctant to share.
He also has an apparent penchant for Poptarts, evident in the way he nearly
tackles Steve when he sees the box in his hands.
“My Elven friends have fulfilled my request!” He says, tearing into the box on
the way to his bed. “They are wondrous creatures, are they not?”
“Yeah, know who else is a wondrous creature?” Steve asks as he flops down on
his own bed. “Jane Foster. And she’s looking for you.”
Thor’s face turns a brilliant shade of red. “Is she?”
“Come on!” Sam teases. “Aren’t we supposed to be brave or something? What’s the
hold up on that? You’ve been dumb over her since First Year, man!”
Thor turns impossibly redder as he crawls into his bed and sits cross legged
atop the scarlet and gold sheets. “The Lady Jane is one who’s beauty and
intellect both awe and intimidate me. I could never hope to woo her.”
“Have you looked at yourself, buddy?” Clint asks from above. “It’s like staring
into the sun. You’re like a Golden Retriever but in human form.”
“Speaking of, how’s Lucky doin’?” Sam asks.
“So glad you asked.” Clint says, climbing out of his hammock and dropping to
the floor with an eerily silent thud. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket
and flips it open. The accordion photo strip falls out, revealing at least 30
pictures of Clint and his beloved dog. “This is us when we went backpacking in
France. And this is us when we went swimming in the Black Sea. And this is us
when we skydived over Brazil. And this is…”
“Anyone ever tell you how weird it is that you keep that many pictures of your
dog in your wallet?” Sam asks.
Clint snaps his wallet shut with a glare. “Rogers has a poster of Bucky Barnes
hanging over his bed but does anybody say anything about that? No!” He storms
over to his bunk, grumbling to himself all the way. “Cute ass dog…Don’t
understand…Freakin’ best dog ever…”
Steve’s eyes flick up to the incriminating photo of Bucky Barnes that does
indeed hang above his bed. Barnes’s jersey is seared and smoking, revealing
wide expanses of tanned skin and chiseled muscles. In the background a Romanian
Longhorn spits fire and roars menacingly, but Steve didn’t buy the poster for
the dragon.
“That’s beside the point.” Steve says defensively.
Rhodey appears in the doorway, effectively ending the argument. “Aw, man! Last
again?” He whines, loping into the room with his trunk in tow.
“Look at the bright side, we’re bunk buddies again!” Clint says happily.
Rhodey appeals to the rest of the room. “Please, guys. He hums in his sleep.”
“I do not!”
“Six years, Clint!” Rhodey says, holding up a hand to keep Clint from speaking.
“Six years!”
But not even Steve is willing to endure the torture of sleeping beneath Clint.
Rhodey sighs and accepts defeat, dragging his trunk to rest beside Clint’s at
the foot of the bed. He spots the Slytherin banner hanging proudly from the
ceiling. “Does Tony know you’ve got that?” He asks Sam.
“Yup.”
Rhodey runs his hand over his face. “You know he’s gonna be up my ass to get
that back, don’t you?”
“Yup.”
Rhodey heaves a long suffering sigh and falls face first into his bed. Tony and
Rhodey are excellent friends despite being in “rival” houses. Rhodey doesn’t
really feed into that crap. He knows Tony. The guy is cunning and resourceful
and easily the most ambitious kid Rhodey’s ever met, sure, but he’s got about
as much evil in him as Rogers does, which is to say: not much.
“Anyone know when dinner’s on?” Sam asks.
“Six o’clock, same as every year.” Clint says.
“A man can dream.” Sam pouts. “I’m starving. Hope the Elves are cooking up
something good.”
“They’re up to something.” Steve says, recalling his conversation with Wally.
“Fury’s orders. Wally said something big is happening tonight. Something really
important.”
“No shit? You know, I noticed The Great Hall lookin’ a little different today.
I think they actually shined the armor. When’s the last time they did that?”
Sam asks.
“Who knows? I, for one, hope that whatever this “important” thing is, it
includes bacon.” Clint says, earning a hum of approval from Thor.
                                      ***
The Great Hall fills up fast. Sam drags them all down early so he can watch as
everyone files in and notices his handy work. While the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff,
and Ravenclaw banners hang proudly above their respective tables, Slytherin’s
banner is noticeably absent from the bunch. Word flies around the room that Sam
threw it in the Great Lake. Tony Stark climbs atop the Slytherin table to make
100% certain that Sam sees him when he flips him off. Unfortunately, Sam’s not
the only one who catches the gesture.
“That’ll be 10 points from Slytherin, Mr. Stark.”
The Great Hall falls silent immediately. A thousand heads turn to the High
Table where the staff has begun to file in. At the center, standing in front of
his ornate dining chair, is Headmaster Fury looking thoroughly unimpressed.
“As for you, Mr. Wilson.” Fury says, turning his one good eye on Sam. “100
points will be deducted from Gryffindor if that banner is not returned here in
the next two minutes.”
“But that’s a five minute run!” Sam cries in indignation.
“Better get a move on then.” Fury replies coolly.
Sam whines miserably and rises from the table.
“You call that running?” Steve teases as Sam sprints down the expanse of the
Great Hall and disappears through the double doors.
Fury waits patiently for Sam’s footfalls to fade before beginning his Welcoming
Address. “Welcoming” being a relative term where Fury is concerned. Steve’s
always seen this as Fury’s way to remind everyone just how intimidating he is,
lest they forgot over the summer break.
“I would like to begin by welcoming back Professor Selvig to our esteemed panel
of professors.” The students applaud politely when Selvig stands and bows, but
the applause can’t drown out the speculative whispers. After a brief stint in
St. Mungos, Professor Selvig returned to Hogwarts with more than a few
idiosyncrasies in tow. On one memorable occasion, students walked in to find
him in the buff ranting about how Stonehenge was the work of intergalactic
wizards attempting to convey a message. Some days are better than others for
the professor, but if one pays close enough attention to his tangents, there’s
usually a glimmer of wisdom in his words. Unless he’s talking about Norse
mythology, in which case all bets are off.
“Next, I would like to remind you that all students are denied entry to the
Forbidden Forest after sundown.” Fury says firmly. His eye roams over the
Ravenclaw table. “I’m speaking, of course, to you, Mr. Parker.” He adds when
his eye finally lands on the Sixth Year.
“Acromantulas are seriously misunderstood creatures!”
“Take it up with Professor McCoy.” Fury says, effectively ending Peter’s rant
before it’s begun.
“I would also like to address the matter of the missing bathroom signs.” Fury
continues. “It has been brought to my attention multiple times that there are
students who are not comfortable with gender specific bathrooms. That being
said, there will be no effort to replace the signs that were stolen at the end
of last term. The only limitations that still stand are those which regard the
Prefects bathrooms located on the sixth floor.” There’s scattered applause and
sighs of relief around the room. Steve looks up and catches Fury’s eye, nodding
his thanks. Fury nods almost imperceptibly in return.
“Now, as is tradition I believe it’s time that we begin the Sorting. I feel the
need to remind you that placing bets on which House will get the most First
Years is forbidden and those who orchestrate such bets will cost their Houses
50 points.”
The words are no sooner out of Fury’s mouth than Steve feels someone punch his
knee beneath the table. He looks down to see Peter Quill squatting between the
legs of Steve’s fellow Gryffindors, hidden from Fury’s prying eye.
“You bettin’ this year, Rogers?” He asks.
Quill and his buddies have been running this pool since their First Year. Sure
enough, when Steve’s eyes flick over to the Hufflepuff table, he’s able to see
Rocket shuffling along beneath the table, collecting sickles left and right.
Luckily Rocket’s pretty small for a Fourth Year. Quill doesn’t look like he’s
got the same luck, judging by the hunch of his shoulders and his pained wince.
It’s a wonder how Drax manages to do it at all.
Steve bets ten sickles on Gryffindor, same as every year.
The ornate wooden doors of The Great Hall swing open to reveal an orderly line
of wide eyed First Years. Before the procession has a chance to begin, Sam’s
voice echoes through the halls.
“WAIT!” Sam sprints through the door with the Slytherin banner clutched in one
hand and The Falcon in the other.
Fury glances from Sam to the watch on his wrist. “Cutting it close, Mr.
Wilson.”
“I know, I know!” Sam grumbles as he mounts his broom and takes off, rushing to
replace the stolen banner. He hangs it amongst the others on the rafters,
taking the time to smooth it out under Fury’s watchful stare.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Wilson. I think there are a few First Years who’d
like to be sorted before they’re Second Years.” Fury says dryly.
With Sam back on the ground and the Falcon 0-100 tucked beneath the table, the
Sorting Ceremony is finally under way. There are scattered whoops from the
Gryffindor table as their Head of House, Professor Erskine, leads a parade of
frightened looking First Years down the long aisle between the Gryffindor and
Ravenclaw tables. It seems like only yesterday that Steve was doing the same.
In the end it’s Ravenclaw who gains the most students, beating out Gryffindor
by one.
“RIGGED!” Clint shouts.
“SUCK IT, SUCKAS!” Darcy calls back.
“Mr. Barton. Miss Lewis. Would it be too much to ask for another minute of your
attention?” Fury asks in a way that makes it sound less like a question and
more like a threat. A murmur travels around the Great Hall. It’s unusual for
Fury to make an announcement after the Sorting unless he’s asking students to
“Please use your utensils this time,” before unleashing them on the feast. Fury
waits for the whispers to die down before he continues. “I have an announcement
to make regarding the nature of the upcoming year.”
“Think he’s finally gonna sack Darkhölme?” Sam whispers conspiratorially.
As if she can hear him from her perch at the far left side of the High Table,
Professor Darkholme’s yellow eyes snap towards the Gryffindor table and the
scales of her blue skin prickle ominously. Steve’s own skin crawls under her
gaze.
“Hogwarts will be playing host to students from two other prestigious schools
of magic for the duration of this year.” The Great Hall is uncharacteristically
silent as everyone hangs off Fury’s every word. “I expect all of you to be on
your best behavior.” His eye darts around the room, lingering particularly long
the Slytherin table before moving on.
“Some of you may be wondering why it is these students will be staying with us
for such a prolonged period of time. I am pleased to announce,” Fury says,
though he doesn’t sound very pleased, more like politely apathetic, “that
Hogwarts will be hosting the 425th Tri-Wizard Tournament.”
“By the beard of Odin!” Thor cries over the explosion of chatter which blooms
in every corner of the Hall.
“Tri-What-y What, now?” Rhodey asks.
“The Tri-Wizard Tournament.” Clint repeats breathlessly.
“It would seem as though most of you are familiar with this event,” Fury speaks
over the din, “and so it should go without saying that the Tournament comes
with a strict set of rules that I expect you all to abide by.” His eye darts to
the Slytherins again.
“Despite the competitive nature of the Tournament, it should go without saying
that you are to make these students feel welcome. Your home is their home, so
to speak.”
“Where are they gonna sleep?” Clint yells, raising a few chuckles from around
the room.
Fury isn’t quite as tickled. “Accommodations have been prepared in the
Slytherin and Hufflepuff dormitories.”
“I feel sorry for the poor bastards who have to room with Stark.” Sam whispers
under her breath, drawing a chuckle from Steve. Steve knows all too well what
it’s like to share a room with Tony. While visiting Rhodey over the summer,
Steve woke up in the middle of the night with half-finished equations scribbled
on his forehead all because Tony had a breakthrough on an invention and
couldn’t find any parchment to put it down on. Every student in Hogwarts has
borne witness to one of Stark’s tangents, where he’ll mutter madly to himself
under his breath and snatch every spare bit of parchment within arm’s reach and
fill them to the margins with illegible scrawl.
“Don’t bother. He usually passes out in the Room of Requirement.” Rhodey
whispers across the table, “They probably won’t even see him.”
“What’s he do in there?” Steve asks.
“Hell if I know.”
“With that being said, I feel the time has come to welcome the young witches
and wizards with whom you’ll be sharing the grounds this year.” Fury says.
Anticipation mounts and every head swivels towards the double doors at the end
of the Hall. “I introduce to you all, the lovely ladies of the Beauxbatons
Academy of Magic.”
The doors swing open on a gentle breeze that smells like orchids and fresh
rain. Blue birds soar into the room, tweeting a melodic song in harmony with
one another as they circle overhead. Students around the Hall crane their necks
to get a better view as twenty young women file in, dressed in powder blue
uniforms that flutter prettily as they walk. Every head turns to follow their
stride. It’s mesmerizing, the way they all move in perfect synchronization.
Their hair even swishes in time with one another. It’s like, well, it’s like
magic, Steve thinks stupidly.
The girls are halfway down the aisle when three new figures appear in the
doorway. In the center is a serious looking brunette dressed in a stiff black
suit. On either side of her she’s got a blonde and a brunette, both wearing
uniforms identical to those of the girls ahead. Steve recognizes them
immediately.
“Those are the Carters!” He blurts.
Steve knows from the countless articles he’s read about their family. The
legendary Carter line is known for its strong women, most of whom have gained
notoriety in The Ministry both as Aurors and as counsel to the Minister
himself, practically unheard of for the women of their time.
Peggy Carter, the formidable brunette, exemplifies the dignity and grace of her
ancestors before her. The only thing more iconic than her red lip is her right
hook, something that’s been captured on the front page of The Prophet more
times than Steve can count. More often than not it’s being delivered to
whichever poor sad sack thinks they can put their paws on Carter while she
attends a function as representative of her famous family.
Sharon is Peggy Carter’s little sister, though if that’s how you refer to her
you’re gonna get a left hook that rivals her sister’s. It’s this exasperating
comparison that’s turned Sharon into a bit of a rebel. She attends functions
only to nick as much Firewhiskey as she can before her sister catches her at
it. She’s even got a tattoo of a siren on her back that neither her sister nor
their parents knew about until it made the front page of Witches Weekly.
The three women walk in unison down the aisle. The charming birds from earlier
stop their singing. The only sound throughout the Hall is the echo of heels
clicking rhythmically against the stone floors. It’s already an intimidating
display long before Peggy and Sharon raise their wands towards the enchanted
ceiling. What was once a starry sky becomes charged with electricity at the
command of the sisters’ magic. Lightning illuminates the Hall and thunder
shakes the tables.
“Glorious!” Thor shouts, gawking at the sky above.
The sisters share a smug smile before schooling their features into haughty
indifference.
The girls who had gone before them have since lined up in front of the High
Table, nine on each side with a space in the middle for the three women coming
to join them. Peggy, Sharon, and the severe looking woman between them fall
into place. Just when Steve thinks it’s over, all twenty witches raise their
wands in tandem and point them skyward, creating a lightning storm the likes of
which he’s never seen before.
The ladies of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic lower their wands and the storm
stops. They hold their arms stiffly at their sides and bow to the Hall, smiling
politely at the roaring applause that rains down on them.
“You said those are the Carters?” Sam shouts over the noise. “Think we’ll get
to see ‘em throw a punch?”
“God, I hope so!” Steve shouts back.
Fury comes to stand beside the woman in the black suit. “It is my great honor
to introduce you to my colleague and dear friend, Headmistress of Beauxbatons
Academy, Maria Hill.” The Hogwarts students politely applaud her while her own
students bow their respect. Headmistress Hill offers the crowd a tight lipped
smile and a nod.
“Does Fury actually have a friend?” Clint whispers down the table.
“I’ll be damned.” Steve says in awe. “I owe Stark 20 galleons.”
The Hufflepuffs make room for the witches of Beauxbatons at their table. Pepper
greats every girl with a smile, welcoming them with open arms. Steve watches as
Peggy Carter takes a seat between her sister and a wide eyed Phil Coulson. It
looks like his hero worship extends beyond Steve, after all.
“Think they’re gonna try and steal Pepper away? Recruit her to teach at their
school or something?” Rhodey asks, watching Pepper greet Headmistress Hill with
a firm handshake.
“Tony won’t let that happen.” Steve says. “Even if it did, he’d put on a wig
and follow her there.”
“Now that I’d pay to see.” Clint says with a chuckle.
Fury waits for the students to settle again before speaking. “As you well know,
there is a third school joining us in competition and study this year. I invite
you now to give a warm welcome to the talented students of the Durmstrang
Institute.”
“Durmstrang?” Steve chokes.
The double doors fly open and rattle on their hinges and a single firework
soars through the doorway. It’s about as inconspicuous as any firework from
Zonko’s Joke Shop, whizzing around the Great Hall with brilliant flashes of
orange light.
“Is that it?” Clint chuckles. “I gotta say, I was expecting something a bit
more—,”
No one will ever know what Clint was expecting from Durmstrang’s grand
entrance. The deafening crack of the exploding firework effectively drowns out
the end of his sentence. Steve has to shield his eyes against the blinding
light, brighter than Beauxbatons’s lightening by a mile.
The sparks come together into the shape of a Romanian Longhorn. Its eyes burn
brightly as it opens its mouth and emits a rumbling roar before shooting flames
down the length of the Great Hall. The flames take shape of a dozen other
mythical creatures before fading into a dark, curling smoke that floats around
the Great Hall like an eerie fog.
From the smoke emerge the witches and wizards of the Durmstrang Institute lead
by none other than Bucky Barnes.
***** The Students of Durmstrang *****
Chapter Notes
     OKAY. WOAH.
     What can I even say right now? For real. The responses to this fic
     have been INCREDIBLE and I can't even begin to put into words how
     much your kind works and kudos have meant to me. You're all SO sweet,
     SO SWEET. You make writing this fic SO much fun for me, you have no
     idea. I am going to tell you guys again and again and again how
     wonderful you are because you have made me feel so wonderful about
     this. Seriously. Wow.
     I love hearing from you guys, so if you have thoughts or critiques or
     critisisms, lemme have 'em! I try to get back to everyone ASAP,
     because I feel like I need to thank everyone and let them know that I
     appreciate their thoughts! ALSO!!! Any ideas or headcannons or
     whatever that you'd like to see in this fic--feel free to share! I'd
     love to be able to work in little things like that where I can to
     make this fun for everyone. I'd be sure to credit you in my notes,
     obviously, if you'd be kind enough to trust me with your headcannons.
     AND NOW, ONWARD, TO CHAPTER 2! (AKA - Bucky Barnes and the Mysterious
     Case of Love at First Sight [Featuring Meddling Friends and an
     Adorably Flustered Steve])
Bucky Barnes made headlines long before he ever set foot on a Quidditch field.
The murder of Bucky’s parents at the hands of the notorious dark wizard Red
Skull was front page news for weeks after the fact. Their murderer escaped that
night, taking with him not only the lives of George and Winifred Barnes, but
the better half of Bucky’s left arm, too. He can still remember, clear as day,
the way his left hand shook as he held his wand up high, ready to defend his
six year old sister in the next room with his own life. He knew the curse. He
knew the repercussions of using it. It was Unforgivable. His lips had only just
begun to form the words when the Red Skull turned his wand on him.
The Healers at Saint Mungo’s gave Bucky a prosthetic that was damn near
impossible to discern from a regular arm save for the fact that it’s made of
steel. It’s even charmed to grow as he does. It’s a nifty piece of magic; one
that Howard Stark had a hand in designing not long before his untimely passing.
He was reluctant to use it at first, favoring his right arm and letting the
left hang limp and useless at his side until the day that a Healer with the
kindest blue eyes Bucky had ever known sat on the edge of his bed and brought
out a paint set from behind her back.
“What’s your favorite color, Bucky?”
“Red.”
“Red it is, then.”
She’d dipped a brush in the red paint and brought it to Bucky’s arm, keeping a
steady hand as she outlined a five-point star on Bucky’s shoulder. It was
something so small, yet it made the arm seem more a part of Bucky than it had
been before. Knowing that his arm was unique made him more apt to use it.
Pretty soon he was playing catch with Rebecca in the halls, much to the
annoyance of the Saint Mungo’s staff.
Following his discharge from Saint Mungo’s, Bucky and his sister had no choice
but to live with their uncle in Romania. Both he and his wife worked training
dragons and sometimes, if Rebecca and Bucky behaved that week, they’d bring
them along to meet the creatures they worked with. Bucky’s favorite the
abnormally small Hungarian Horntail with all the tenacity that his species was
known for despite his underwhelming stature. Bucky liked the little guy. He
always snuck him an extra steak when his uncle wasn’t looking.
In his first year at Durmstrang Bucky excelled in all his classes, though most
of the attention he drew came from the curiosity of his left arm. Rebecca
joined him four years later. She followed him by the coat tails day in and day
out, but he never complained. She was one of the few who saw him as more than
The Kid with the Metal Arm until Bucky hopped aboard a broomstick and someone
handed him a quaffle for the first time.
From there it was a roller coaster ride to reluctant stardom.
Bucky suited up for the Romanian Longhorns for the first time during the summer
between his Fifth and Sixth year. He made waves his rookie year by scoring more
points than the top three scorers in the International Quidditch Association
combined. After that, people starting staring at the arm with reverence rather
than pity. It became a source of great debate amongst the International
Confederation of Wizards' Quidditch Committee whether or not Barnes’s
cybernetic enhancement gave him an unfair advantage over other players.
“What next? You gonna ask if having dead parents makes me fly any faster?” He’d
snapped during a meeting with the Committee. The quote was on t-shirts the next
morning. Fame is a funny thing.
And with the fame comes the fans. To this day, Rebecca remains his biggest
supporter, fighting her way to the front row of every match, screaming herself
horse amongst the thousands of other fans who pay a pretty penny to watch him
play. They say he’s like a ghost, the way he flies. He’ll disappear from sight
long enough to catch the other team by surprise when he reappears behind a
vacant goal with the quaffle clutched in his left hand. Bucky doesn’t feed into
the hype. He shows up, he plays, he goes home.
To say his personal life has suffered would be an understatement.
Before Quidditch, Bucky was able to pass through the halls of Durmstrang as
anonymously as anyone with a metal arm and dead parents could hope to. But now,
Bucky’s got professors asking him to sign stuff for their nieces-nephews-sons-
daughters-whoevers. He can’t take a piss without turning around to find some
starry-eyed fan breathing down his neck.
It had been fun at first. Real fun. He and Rebecca stayed up reading and
responding to fan mail. Bucky dated his way through half the Durmstrang student
body. He had dinner with The Minister and even got to snap a selfie with him
before he left. But when the novelty of fame wore off, Bucky realized that it
wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sure, he’s still got Rebecca, now in her
Third Year at Durmstrang, and he’s got his teammates, but friends are hard to
come by when you’re paranoid about whose genuine and who’s just using you for
the fame or the money. And don’t even get him started on dating.
Bucky made sure to send his publicist the biggest box of Chocolate Frogs money
could buy following the PR nightmare that was his extremely public coming out.
He never meant to become a rallying point for gay rights or anything, he was
just a kid tired of being told who he was gonna date, but when the fan mail
started pouring in about how his coming out inspired some of his fans to do the
same, Bucky realized that maybe his fame didn’t have to be the curse he’d made
it out to be. And thus began Bucky’s slippery slope towards full blown
political activism.
Bucky’s life outside of the spotlight is hardly worthy of a footnote, never
mind a headline, but no one wants to read about Bucky Barnes being found face-
down and fast asleep between the shelves of Durmstrang’s impressive library.
Between his studies and the Quidditch Finals looming around the corner, the
last thing Bucky needs is something like the Tri-Wizard Tournament, a glorified
pissing contest between the three largest wizarding institutions in Europe that
draws press like flies to honey. He knows Peirce is expecting him to enter the
games this year, but all Bucky really wants is to pass his N.E.W.T.S. and maybe
twist The Minister’s arm into passing the bill about guaranteed pay for House
Elves.
That is until he spots Merlin’s gift to man sitting at the Gryffindor table.
                                      ***
“Did you know that Hogwarts has the largest student body of any wizarding
institution in Europe?”
The ship lurches ominously as it encounters a changing tide. Bucky squeezes his
eyes shut and tries his best not to hurl. Put him on a broom a thousand feet in
the air, sure, no problem, but put him below deck on Durmstrangs’ favorite form
of cross-sea transportation and you might as well hand him a complimentary
brown bag while you’re at it. He can’t even bring himself to look at Natasha
right now.
“There’s over 1,200 students in this year’s returning class.” She continues
conversationally, undeterred by Bucky’s silence.
“No, I didn’t know that.” Bucky responds dryly.
“Did you know that I intend to set you up with every single one of them?” She
asks.
Bucky smiles despite himself. “That I did know.”
Natasha Romanov. Natalie Rushman. Natalia Romanova. Any way you spin it, she’s
the best friend Bucky has at Durmstrang. They’ve known each other since they
were First Years, long before Bucky Barnes was Bucky Barnes!.
Natasha’s family sent her to Durmstrang Institute in the hopes that she’d share
their affinity for the Dark Arts, but it became apparent to her the moment she
sat down in Defense Against the Dark Arts that her calling came in fighting
dark magic rather than practicing it. She plays her role well, though, knowing
full well the consequences that befall traitors of the Romanov name. It’s hard
to tell where the act ends and the person begins but Natasha seems content to
live in the grey area in between.
Her friendship with Bucky began with reasoning as simple as him being the only
boy in their year who didn’t underestimate Natasha’s ability to curse him six
ways to Sunday, and so he was the only First Year in all of Durmstrang that was
able to walk without a limp that year. Since then their friendship has evolved
into some sort of sibling bond. She’s like a sister to him, a sister who’s made
it her life’s mission to find him a happy, loving relationship. She recently
dried up her options at Durmstrang, which is part of the reason why she lit up
like a flame when Headmaster Peirce informed them that they’d be spending the
year at Hogwarts to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
“You’ve got to admit, I was close with Lillian.”
“Lillian…Lillian…”
“Lip piercing.” Natasha provides helpfully.
Bucky snorts. “No, no.”
“No?”
“Absolutely not.”
Natasha tsks softly. “Thought I had you with that one.”
“You were closer with Matt.”
“Matt?”
“Matt.” Bucky repeats with a low hum. “Almost had me with Matt.”
Natasha smirks. “He was the Keeper, wasn’t he?”
Bucky leans back against the wall behind them and smiles. “Keepers are
keepers,” he says in sing-song.
“Noted.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. Maybe if he ignores her, she’ll go away. It hasn’t worked
for the past seven years, but he’s willing to give it another shot.
“What about Professor Lehnsherr?”
Bucky gags. “Professors, Natasha? Really?”
“You’ve left me no choice.” She says gravely. She always did have a flare for
the dramatics.
Bucky’s about to shoot down Natasha’s latest (and possibly her most desperate)
suggestion when Headmaster Peirce’s disembodied voice interrupts.
“Is this—is it working? Is this working? Yes? Okay, let’s get this underway.
Students!” Their Headmaster announces in the voice he employs only when
addressing Durmstrang students or politicians, “We will be breaking surface at
any moment and I ask you to be prepared.”
“This means not a hair is to be out of place,” Bucky mocks in his Headmaster’s
haughty tone.
“—nor is a button to be left askew.” Natasha finishes.
“After all, it is our appearance which makes an impression long before our
actions.” They mock in unison.
“I expect to see all of you on the top deck for some final thoughts before our
arrival.” Pierce concludes.
Bucky snickers and moves to stand. “You know, you’d think for a guy so
concerned about appearances, he’d have given up on that comb over.”
Natasha throws her arm across his chest, forcing him back into his seat.
“Wait.” She says sharply. The ship lurches violently and Bucky can hear the
bodies of students in the cabin next door hit the floor painfully. The ship
rights itself a moment later.
“Good call.” Bucky says. “Think we’re above water?”
Natasha stands and crosses the room, pulling their thick red coats from their
hangers. “Only one way to find out.”
They dress in uniform quickly, minding their hair and buttons as they pull
their woolen coats over their shoulders. They exit the cabin and join the flow
of students moving along the passageway. Pierce didn’t choose a particularly
large group to accompany him to Hogwarts, making it easy to spot the head of
bouncing brown curls up ahead. Bucky sneaks up and twists his finger around a
strand, pulling it straight before allowing the curl to spring free.
Rebecca rounds on him with a fire in her eyes that makes his chest ache with
how much it reminds him of their mother. “You better knock it off unless you
wanna lose the other arm, you big jerk!”
“Aw, come on! That’s no way to talk you your big brother!” Bucky teases,
nudging her with his elbow until she smiles.
She does, big and toothily, just like their father. Bucky reaches over and
adjusts her trapper hat, a furry black monstrosity that hides half her face.
She slaps his hand away and he laughs at the look of fond exasperation on what
little he can see of her face.
Rebecca Barnes might as well be the poster child for little sisters everywhere.
When she’s not hanging off of every word her older brother says she’s
reprimanding him for slouching, or cussing, or whatever it is that Bucky’s
doing that isn’t to her liking. Her favorite pastime? Helping Natasha find her
brother a special someone to date. Speaking of which…
“Hey, did you know that Hogwarts has the largest student body of any wizarding
institution in Europe?” She asks as they climb the stairs towards the top deck.
Bucky throws his head back with a groan. “Oh no, Beck, not you, too!” He
whines.
Natasha throws her arm over Rebecca with a proud smile. “We only want what’s
best for you.” She says.
“What’s best for me?” Bucky laughs. “Was that what you were thinking when you
set me up with Brock?”
Natasha winces. “A minor oversight.”
“He tried to kill me!”
“Alright, a major oversight.” Rebecca admits.
They step onto the top deck and fall into formation, one long row of twenty
students standing side-by-side with their arms behind their backs. Bucky scoffs
at the two of them and their twin expressions of determination. “Has it ever
crossed your minds that I don’t want to date anybody?”
“Sure, it’s crossed my mind.” Natasha says. “And then I laugh and remind myself
that you, James Barnes, are a hopeless romantic masquerading as a disillusioned
pessimist doomed to spend your life pining after someone that does not exist.”
“Seriously,” Rebecca agrees, “where are we supposed to find someone just as pig
headed and opinionated at you are? Not everyone is willing to go to Nurmengard
over equality for House Elves.”
“Well they ought to,” Bucky snaps.
Rebecca rolls her eyes, “I know, Bucky. Don’t forget who sat with you in that
cell all night.”
“All’s we’re trying to say is that maybe you need to set some more realistic
standards.” Natasha says gently. Bucky gives her a pointed glare. She sighs in
defeat. “Fine, 1,200 students is a lot to work with. Maybe we’ll find you
another bleeding heart philanthropist.”
Rebecca snorts. “Yeah, and maybe Pierce will give up the comb over.”
The man himself emerges from the Headmaster’s quarters and comes to a stop in
front of them. Bucky swallows his laughter and averts his eyes, trying to look
at anything but the mink fur cloak and white suit that he’s chosen for the
occasion. It’s clear that Headmaster Peirce is aiming to make a statement,
though Bucky’s not quite sure what he’s trying to say.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Peirce says with a big, political smile, “I know that I
need not remind you what an honor it is to be here.”
“And yet he reminds us anyway.” Rebecca grumbles.
“You are the finest collection of young men and women that Durmstrang has to
offer,” Peirce continues. His eyes linger on Bucky for a moment before moving
on down the line. “You were hand selected by myself based on strength of
character, intellect, and how I feel you will represent Durmstrang in this
competition.”
“Still don’t get why I’m here, I can’t even compete.” Rebecca whispers.
“Because Peirce knows Bucky’d never leave you behind.” Natasha answers. Bucky
doesn’t dispute it.
“I ask only a few things in return for awarding you this incredible
opportunity.” Peirce says. “I ask that you bring honor to the Durmstrang name,
that you conduct yourselves with respect and dignity, and,” Peirce chuckles,
“that you win the Tournament, of course.” His eyes fall on Bucky again.
Bucky drops his gaze. He has no intention of volunteering for the Tournament,
“opportunity” be damned. He’s read the history books. The Tri-Wizard
Tournament’s got a death toll and he’s not looking to add to it any time soon.
Peirce looks up to a place above their heads. “Ladies and gentlemen of
Durmstrang, it is with great pleasure that I give you Hogwarts, your home for
this year.” He says.
Twenty heads swivel around and twenty jaws drop in unison. Hogwarts emerges
from the thin fog in the air, windows burning brightly in the lateness of the
hour. Pictures hardly do justice to the immaculacy of the castle. Bucky figures
you could probably fit about fifteen Durmstrangs in there and maybe a little
extra. It sprawls across rolling fields of green and towers so high overhead it
seems as though it may touch the stars.
“Think they’re compensating for something?” Bucky asks.
“Come on, I want a better look!” Rebecca cries, taking Bucky by the wrist and
leading the rush towards the portside. She, Bucky, and Natasha lean over the
gunwale and watch as the castle’s reflection in the glassy waters ahead is
disturbed by the unseen dock rising up from beneath the surface.
“Sweet Merlin,” Rebecca gasps.
A shadowy figure moves along the dock, draped in a billowing black cloak. The
figure comes to meet them as the ship pulls up, waiting patiently as the ramp
descends and rests against the aged, wet wood of the platform.
It’s hard to make out all his features in the moonlight, but the man at the end
of the dock paints an intimidating picture regardless. He watches with cold
ambivalence as students pass, expression stony and body stiff. Bucky meets his
eye for only a second before dropping his gaze.
“Nick!” Headmaster Pierce cries as he bounds down the ramp.
“Headmaster Pierce.” The man says stiffly. “Always a pleasure.”
“He makes it sound like losing his eye was more pleasurable.” Natasha whispers.
Bucky snorts into his hand.
“How long has it been?” Headmaster Pierce asks, throwing his arm around the
other man’s shoulders in a show of camaraderie. “Ten years? Twenty?”
The man steps out from beneath Pierce’s arm. “I’ve lost track of time.” He says
coolly.
“Students of Durmstrang!” Pierce says, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“I would like to introduce you to my colleague and longtime friend, Headmaster
Nicholas Fury.”
There’s an awkward smattering of light applause. Fury doesn’t look affronted by
the lack of enthusiasm. In fact, he seems more offended by the hand lingering
on his shoulder, which he’s glaring at out of the corner of his eye. Bucky
makes himself laugh about how fitting the man’s name is of his character.
“Thank you, Headmaster Pierce.” Fury says stiffly, shrugging off the offending
hand.
Headmaster Pierce doesn’t seem to notice Fury’s chilly demeanor. “Have our
sisters from Beauxbatons arrived? I feel as though I haven’t seen Maria in
ages.” He laments dramatically.
“They have,” Fury says shortly.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Pierce cries.
Fury casts a look around the Durmstrang students clumped together. “I assume
you have trunks?” He asks.
Pierce barks out a laugh that sounds more sincere than the ones he usually
fakes. He must be practicing. “Surely your Elves can see to the luggage?”
Bucky stiffens. “Don’t.” Rebecca hisses. “Not now, Bucky, please.”
Fury’s eye narrows. “Due to recent advances in the ethical treatment of House
Elves, students have begun carrying their own trunks.”
Pierce’s grin falls from his face. “But—but it’s their job.”
“Their job is to cook and clean when necessary. That is what they are paid to
do.” Fury corrects sharply. “My students are capable of carrying their own
trunks. I dare say yours are as well, Alexander.”
“You pay them?” Pierce repeats in disgust.
“You pay them?” Bucky asks.
Fury’s eye finds Bucky in the crowd. “Mr. Barnes, is it?” He asks, to which
Bucky nods. “It seems your message about Elfish welfare is spreading.” He says.
Bucky beams. “Glad to hear it.”
“Well then,” Pierce splutters, obviously flustered at this new development, “I
suppose we can—we’ll just—yes, I’m sure it will be no problem at all to—.”
“Great.” Fury says curtly, interrupting the rambling. “You’ll meet with the
students from Beauxbatons within the hour, then?” Headmaster Pierce nods
stiffly and Headmaster Fury turns away. The Durmstrang students form a path for
him to pass through. He’s nearly half way down the dock when he calls over his
shoulder, “I hoped you packed lighter than last time!” Bucky can’t be sure, but
he could almost swear to it that he hears a bark of derisive laughter after
that.
                                      ***
“Tell me again how we got roped into doing this?” Bucky grumbles, shifting the
weight of Headmaster Pierce’s sixteenth trunk onto his left arm.
“Because you can’t read hand signals.” Natasha growls from the other side of
the trunk.
“Because your hand signals suck!” Bucky cries, nearly dropping the trunk in his
indignation.
“This is the last one, right?” Natasha asks, carefully stepping down the stairs
leading to the dungeons.
“If it’s not, I’m throwing the rest overboard.”
“Beautiful, beautiful!” Bucky and Natasha share a meaningful glare as Pierce
himself walks over to them. “It’s this kind of strength and perseverance I hope
to see shine through in the Tournament!” He says.
“Well, here’s hoping there’s a trunk-carrying task.” Natasha mutters under her
breath. They drop the final trunk alongside the others stacked in front of the
stone wall leading to the Slytherin common room. They’ll move their trunks into
their dorms after the Welcoming Feast, but for now Bucky and Natasha both heave
sighs of relief.
Rebecca wades through the tide of students and appears at his side. “Did you
know The Carters are here?”
“The Carters?” Bucky repeats.
“Right?” Rebecca says excitedly. “Do you think Sharon’ll remember me?”
Bucky laughs. “We all spent a night in Nuremgard together, how can she not?”
Natasha’s eyes narrow. “Just how many nights have you spent in Nuremgard?” She
asks.
Bucky dodges the question.
Sure enough, when Durmstrang and Beauxbatons converge in the Entrance Hall,
Bucky spots The Carter sisters side by side, speaking with who Bucky can only
assume is their Headmistress, given her age. He wades his way over to them,
catching Peggy’s eye.
“Oh, you old git!” She cries, running to meet him and pulling him into a tight
hug. “Thought I’d seen the last of you.”
Bucky laughs. “Nuremgard ain’t as fun without you, Peg. We ought to do it again
some time.”
Peggy scoffs and steps away, reaching up to take his face in her hands. “You’re
too pretty for prison, darling.”
“Mind telling that to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”
Peggy smiles and presses a wet red kiss to Bucky’s cheek. Bucky pretends to
make a fuss about wiping it off, but Peggy Carter’s mark is one he doesn’t mind
wearing. He, Peggy, Sharon, and Rebecca shared a cramped cell in Nuremgard
after a protest gone awry. It had been Peggy who’d taped up Bucky’s gushing
nose after taking a punch intended for Sharon. They’d posted bail in the
morning and gone their separate ways after that but continued to speak highly
of one another in the press.
Bucky looked over to see Sharon and Rebecca talking on the outskirts of the
crowd. Rebecca’s talking and she’s talking fast and it looks like Sharon is
playing along, obviously aware of Rebecca’s undying adoration. Bucky gets it.
He can’t imagine growing up in a shadow as big as the one he and Peggy have
cast over their siblings.
“Will I be seeing you in the Tournament?” Peggy asks, bringing Bucky’s
attention back around.
“Not if I’ve got a choice.” He says, glancing at Pierce who’s swooped in on
Beauxbatons’ Headmistress, much to her visible dismay.
Peggy smirks. “He’ll put your name in for you, you know.” She says smartly.
“You’re his pride and joy.”
Bucky winces. He’s well aware of Pierce’s obvious favoritism. “Yeah, well,
he’ll have to learn how to spell it first.”
“Ladies of Beauxbatons,” a commanding voice announces, echoing through the
hall, “If you’d line up as we’d discussed, we’ll be making our way to the Great
Hall.”
“That’ll be Hill.” Peggy says mournfully. She grips Bucky’s arm firmly as she
turns to leave. “Be sure to find me sometime, alright? We’ll catch up.”
Bucky nods. “I’ll follow the sound of a right hook landing on some poor sap’s
skull.”
Peggy smiles, dazzling and dangerous. “That’s where you’ll find me.”
Bucky watches her go. Rebecca makes her way back over to him with stars in her
eyes, watching Sharon join her sister on either side of Headmistress Hill as
the students of Beauxbatons sashay their way towards the Great Hall with eerie
synchronization and grace.
“Pierce told Hill that you’re his top prospect for the Tournament.” Natasha
says, appearing on Bucky’s left. “He’ll throw you in himself if he has to.”
Bucky shrugs. “So let ‘em. There’ll be plenty of names in that Goblet. What are
the odds that it’ll spit mine out?”
“Can’t you just, I don’t know, not compete?” Rebecca asks.
“No,” Natasha answers, “the Goblet’s answer is definitive.”
Rebecca sighs. “It’s been nice knowing you, Bucky.”
“Students of Durmstrang!” Pierce announces, bouncing to the front of their
little assemblage. “It is time to make our arrival! If you’d follow me,
please…” He turns on his heel and snaps his fingers twice, prompting them to
follow.
The floor is still rumbling with Beauxbatons’ thunder as the students of
Durmstrang approach the ornate double doors of the Great Hall. Pierce circles
back to where he and Natasha stand and grips their shoulders like a vice.
“Just as we practiced now, alright?” He asks, tightening his grip with
something akin to reassurance.
“How could we forget?” Natasha deadpans.
“Excellent.” Pierce says, not picking up on the sarcasm. He pushes Bucky and
Natasha to the front, not allowing Bucky to so much as glance back at Rebecca
who’s taking in the scene with watchful eyes, making sure Pierce isn’t pushing
too hard to gripping too tight. The Barneses are a protective sort like that.
The thunder ceases and the ensuing applause is deafening even through the
doorway. It must’ve been one Hell of a show. Maybe Carter socked someone in the
middle of the room.
The applause dies down and Fury’s voice permeates through the thick wooden
doors. “As you well know, there is a third school joining us in competition and
study this year. I invite you now to give a warm welcome to the talented
students of the Durmstrang Institute.”
“You ready?” Natasha asks, squaring her shoulders and drawing her wand.
“Not at all.” Bucky says, drawing his own.
With a flick of their wands the double doors fly open. A lit firework flies
overhead, zipping into the room beyond and flitting about erratically. It soars
high above the tables, nearly touching the rafters before exploding in a blast
of brilliant light.
The light takes the shape of a Romanian Longhorn. Bucky rolls his eyes at the
obvious implications. The dragon’s thunderous roar marks their cue. With one
last look at each other, Bucky and Natasha storm through the doorway, leading
Durmstrang’s march through the dying fire.
For a few blissful moments, no one seems to recognize him. Maybe it’s the smoke
or the ash or the fact that he’s in school uniform and not plastered all over
the pages of The Prophet, but for just a brief instant, Bucky’s anonymous in a
crowded room, something he hasn’t been in years. What he wouldn’t give to
suspend this moment forever, to just be another face in the crowd.
“Blimey, that’s him, isn’t it? That’s Bucky Barnes!”
Well, it’d been nice while it lasted.
“Your reputation precedes you.” Natasha murmurs, quiet and discreet enough that
no one would know she’d spoken but him.
“When doesn’t it?” He asks, not cocky, but bitter.
They reach the end of their march and form two lines along the length of the
High Table, leaving room in the center for Pierce to stand. With their
Headmaster in position between them, Bucky and Natasha lift their wands and
produce a flaming, two headed eagle reminiscent of the one on the Durmstrang
crest. It swoops high overhead before bursting into a rain of dazzling
fireworks. The crowd goes wild for it. At least that’s what Bucky hopes they’re
going wild for. He keeps his eyes down, unwilling to find out whether 1,200
pairs of eyes are looking at him or the impressive display above.
The question answers itself when a girl climbs atop the Hufflepuff table and
shouts, “I LOVE YOU, BUCKY!” at the top of her voice. The applause only grows,
along with Bucky’s blush. Pierce wraps an arm around him and gives him a
playful squeeze. It’s supposed to look fatherly, of course, but it feels more
like a tentacle threatening to suffocate him. He puts on a good show, though,
leaning into Pierce’s hold and waving to the girl still standing on the
Hufflepuff table.
Like he said, fame is a funny thing. He just wishes he was in on the joke.
“I think that’s quite enough.” Fury’s voice resonates through the hall, cutting
through the fanfare like a knife. Bucky’s grateful for the unerring command he
has over his students. “I introduce to you all my,” he pauses, presumably to
search for a kindness to appoint to Pierce, “honored colleague,” it’s stiff,
but it passes, “Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, Alexander Pierce.”
Pierce bows theatrically. “The honor is entirely mine, Headmaster. To be in the
presence of such young, thriving minds is humbling.”
Bucky hears Natasha scoff and struggles to suppress the same reaction.
“Humble”, as if Pierce knows the meaning of the word.
The tight look on Fury’s face says that he’s not buying it either. “Well put,
Headmaster.” He says flatly. “I think you and your students will find
yourselves at home with the Slytherins, if you care to join them.”
The Durmstrang students break formation and move towards the Slytherin table
located at the far right of the room. Every head turns to follow Bucky.
“It’s amazing, don’t you think?” Natasha muses, falling into step at his side.
“There are two people in this room with blue skin and yet you’re the one
everyone’s staring at. You’re not even that good looking.”
A whistle attracts his attention towards the end of the Slytherin table,
followed by two quick snaps and a shout of his name. “Barnes!” Tony Stark’s
familiar face stands out from the crowd, looking expectant and impatient. “Come
on, limited time offer here, pal.” He urges, patting the open seat beside him
on the bench.
“Is that Tony Stark?” Rebecca asks, following behind with Natasha as Bucky
moves to take the offered seat. “What’s he doing here?”
Bucky shrugs. “Maybe he just wants to be a normal kid for a while.” He can sure
sympathize with that. He takes the open seat next to Tony while Rebecca and
Natasha settle in across from them.
“I’m guessing we can skip the formalities here, then?” Tony asks, glancing
around their group. “You know who I am.”
“And you know who we are?” Natasha asks skeptically.
Tony smirks. “Natasha Romanov, of the Romanov line. That’ll be Russian, if I’m
not mistaken?”
Natasha smiles slowly. “Impressive.”
Tony’s eyes flick to Rebecca. “Which makes you Rebecca Barnes. I hardly
recognized you outside of your brother’s shadow.” Rebecca’s eyes flash
dangerously. “Hey, no one knows more about living in a shadow than me, alright?
“Which brings us to you,” Tony says, turning to Bucky with a wolfish grin.
“Nifty stunt you pulled in the semi-finals. What’s that broom of yours got in
it? 110, 120 miles an hour?”
Bucky shrugs. “More or less.”
Starks eyes light up. “You ought to let me look at it. See if I can’t push it
to 150.”
“That’s impossible.” Rebecca says smartly, clearly still stung about the shadow
comment.
Tony’s grin only grows. “It’s only impossible when I say it’s impossible.” He
says cockily.
“Students, if I could borrow just another moment of your time.” Fury says, not
so much asking for a moment as taking it. “As I mentioned, there are a few
rules to the Tournament I feel the need to go over with you.”
“Would it kill him to serve an appetizer during his monologue?” Tony mumbles.
“The Tri-Wizard Tournament, as I’m sure most of you are well aware, consists of
three tasks.” Fury explains. “Three extremely dangerous tasks, the likes of
which you have never seen. Believe me when I tell you that this contest is not
for the faint of heart.”
A door behind the High Table opens and several men emerge, carrying a tall
gilded capsule covered in ancient runes.
“The Hell you reckon that is?” Bucky asks, watching as the men struggle under
the burden.
“Something tells me we’re about to find out.” Natasha says.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Fury says as the men drop the capsule, nearly as tall
as he is, at his feet. Fury runs a hand over the golden inscriptions. “Each
competing school is allowed one Champion to represent them during the
Tournament.” He says. Bucky glances at Pierce, who’s already watching him with
knowing eyes. Bucky looks away, metal fist clenching beneath the table.
“Now, let me be clear.” Fury says gravely. “If you are chosen to compete, you
compete alone. You are to receive no outside help from anyone, including
friends and teachers. Cheating is frowned upon and will result in
disqualification from the Tournament as well as an inquisition from the
Ministry.”
“Someone better repeat that one to Pierce.” Rebecca mumbles.
Bucky doesn’t dare look at his Headmaster again, but he’s pretty sure Pierce is
wearing a villainous grin, one that says cheating is only illegal if you get
caught.
“An understanding of advanced magic is required not only to survive, but to
compete.” Fury continues. He takes a deep breath and sighs, steeling himself
for what he knows is coming. “It is for this reason that my colleagues and I
have imposed an age restriction on the Tournament, allowing only for volunteers
of legal wizarding age to participate. That’s seventeen, for those who are
unfamiliar.”
The Great Hall erupts with cries of indignation. “THAT’S RUBBISH,” from the
Hufflepuffs. “YOU CAN’T DO THAT,” from the Ravenclaws. “THAT’S A LOAD OF
BULLSHIT,” from a few seats away at the Slytherin table.
Fury opens his mouth to speak several times, but the chatter swells with every
attempt. Bucky watches Fury’s patience wear thin until it runs out altogether.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!”
The Great Hall falls silent immediately. Fury draws his wand and waves it over
the golden capsule before him. The hostile glares turn into wide-eyed looks of
awe as the capsule melts away, leaving only a massive stone goblet in its
place. It’s nowhere near as large as its golden vessel but the goblet still
stands tall enough to reach Fury’s waist. It blazes with a bright blue fire;
flames lick the air as they reach towards the ceiling above.
“The Goblet of Fire.” Fury says, staring into the flames. “Students wishing to
participate in the Tournament need only write their names and their schools on
a piece of parchment before placing it in the flames. The Goblet will act as an
impartial judge and select what it considers to be the best student from each
school.” He explains. “This should be done by this hour on this night next
week. But be warned,” he says, his eye narrowing as it scans the faces before
him, “if you are chosen, there’s no going back.”
A hand shoots up at the Gryffindor table.
Fury sighs. “Yes, Mr. Barton?”
“Here we go.” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Clint. Don’t ask a stupid
question, don’t ask a stupid question…”
“What do we win?” Clint asks. “If it’s so dangerous, the payoff’s gotta be
worth it, right?” Interested whispers bloom around the Hall.
Fury sighs deeply, as close to an eye roll as he can get while maintaining his
professionalism. “Aside from the recognition and glory that comes with being a
Tri-Wizard Champion, there will also be a handsome monetary prize awarded to
the winner.”
“How much we talkin’ here?” Clint asks.
“25,000 galleons.” Fury says.
Excited chatter spreads around the Hall like fiendfyre. Bucky turns to Rebecca
and Natasha, both wearing expressions of shock that mirror his own.
“Pierce certainly forgot to mention that.” Natasha says. “Sounds to me like
25,000 reasons to throw your name in the Goblet.”
“Like he’d see a knut of it.” Bucky growls. “He throws me in, fine, but that
money’s goin’ towards something decent. I’m not gonna sit around and watch
Pierce blow it on fur cloaks.”
Tony snickers beside him. “Oh, man. I’ve got to introduce you to Steve.” His
eyes light up like he’s just now realized something he should have a lot
sooner. “I’ve got to introduce to you Steve.” He repeats breathlessly.
“Are there any more questions?” Fury asks, casting one last glance around the
room. “No?” He asks when no one speaks up. “Then as of this moment, the Tri-
Wizard Tournament has begun.” As if sensing the energy in the room, the
Goblet’s fire hisses and flickers, burning brighter and higher. “Without
further delay, I think it’s time we dig into the food our House Elves were kind
enough to prepare for us.”
“Come on; let me introduce you to the guys!” Tony says eagerly, springing up
from the table to eagerly tug on Bucky’s arm.
“But—”
“No buts!” Tony says sternly, continuing to tug insistently. “You see what I’m
doing right now?” He asks, gesturing to himself with the hand not currently
wrapped around Bucky’s forearm. “That’s called standing, which means I’ve
already committed myself to moving. There’s no going back from here. Besides,
Gryffindor always has the best treacle tart. The Elves probably didn’t think
anyone would notice, but I did! It’s filthy, filthy politics, I’m telling you.”
Bucky looks to Natasha, silently pleading for her to put an end to this.
Naturally, she does the exact opposite. “Mind if we tag along?” She asks,
sickly sweet in the way she only uses when she really, really wants something.
Bucky kicks her swiftly under the table. Twice, for good measure. She doesn’t
even blink.
“The more the merrier!” Tony says.
Bucky doesn’t miss the triumphant grin on Natasha’s face as she rounds the
table to join them, Rebecca hot on her heels. “I’m on to you.” He says
menacingly. Her grin only grows.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
Bucky resigns with a sigh and allows himself to be pulled from the safety of
the table into the scrutiny of hundreds of starry-eyed gazes. Tony is
practically skipping as he drags Bucky across the Hall. “You know, I can’t help
but think that this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.” He
muses aloud. “Steve really looks up to you, you know?” Literally, he thinks,
he’s got a poster of you above his bed. He laughs to himself, imagining the
look on Rogers’s face if he just so happened to let that secret slip.
“Is that so?” Bucky asks.
“Oh yeah,” Tony laughs. “Rooo-gers!” He calls across the room. “Steve, dear,
where are you? I’ve got someone I’d like for you to meet!”
“Right over here!” Bucky recognizes Clint’s voice. He watches Clint stand on
his bench and wave Tony down.
Tony cackles like mad and quickens his step. “How’s about I give you a little
run down, alright? Take the edge off a bit?” Bucky doesn’t respond one way or
the other. Tony doesn’t seem to mind. “Well first, you’ve got Rhodey. Best guy
in the whole world, alright? He’s too good for us, honestly, and probably the
only reason we’re still alive, what with the Giant Squid incident and all.”
Tony visibly shudders. Bucky refrains from asking.
“Who else…who else…” Tony ponders. “Well, there’s Thor.” He chuckles. “He, too,
is a firm believer in the man-bun. So you’ll bond about that.” He says, tugging
at the loose knot at the back of Bucky’s head. “Comes off a bit strong, at
first, but you’ll grow to love him.”
“Bit ironic coming from you, don’t you think?” Bucky asks.
“Touché.” Tony laughs. “Alright, who else we got… Oh, Barton!” He says with a
snap of his fingers. “Bring him coffee and ask him about his dog: I cannot
stress the importance of that enough.”
“Is he here? The dog?” Rebecca asks.
“Nah, he wishes, but don’t think he hasn’t tried. He wrapped him up in an
invisibility cloak in our Fourth Year. Nearly made it all the way to the dorms
before Darcy’s cat got loose and Lucky chased it straight into Fury’s office.
Shoulda seen Clint’s face, though. Priceless.”
Tony hums thoughtfully. “Can’t forget Sam, of course. That’d be Rogers’s
partner in crime. Though—is it really crime if it’s for a good cause?” He
ponders. He shrugs it off after a moment’s thought. “That’s beside the point,
the point being that where you find Wilson, you find Rogers, and where you find
Rogers, you find trouble. Trouble that Sam usually wants no part in but isn’t
given much of a choice about.”
Rebecca scoffs. “I feel him on that.”
Tony clucks his tongue. “Them’s the breaks when you chain yourself to a
liberalist political comet, kid.” He says bluntly. “Which brings us to Steve
himself. He’s a good guy so long as you like ‘em big and muscly and radically
philanthropic.”
As it so happens, that’s exactly how Bucky likes them… He works to keep his
expression neutral and his eyes as far from Natasha’s as humanly possible. He
can practically feel them boring holes into the back of his head and he knows
that anything he says can and will be used against him for an indefinite amount
of time. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t…curious.
“Radically philanthropic?” He asks.
“Sure, Fury’s got Rogers in his office every other day with some new idea for
‘the betterment of Hogwarts’. Between you and me, I think it’s only a matter of
time until Fury throws in the towel and just hands Steve the school.”
“Well, what do you know,” Natasha says slowly, “a bleeding heart
philanthropist.”
“Natasha, no.” Bucky warns.
“Natasha, yes!” Rebecca cries.
“Would you two just—,”
“There he is!” Tony cries, letting Bucky go and rushing to the Gryffindor
table. He runs up behind a blond boy who looks like he’s trying his best to
disparate on the spot. Tony catches him around the neck in a playful chokehold,
ruffling his meticulously parted hair until its standing wildly on all ends.
“How’s my favorite crusader against all that is unjust?”
“Tony, stop!” Steve complains, wrestling against Tony’s grip. “Tony—Tony, I’m
serious, cut it out!” He chokes.
Tony cackles and lets him go, ruffling his hair one last time before taking a
seat beside who Bucky can only assume is Rhodey, given the less than impressed
expression on his face. Tony looks expectantly around the table. “Well, are you
guys going to welcome our guests or not?” He scoffs. “Chivalrous, my ass.”
Rhodey stands and reaches across the table, offering his hand to Bucky. “James
Rhodes, you can call me Rhodey, though. I apologize for anything he may have
said to you.” He says, nodding to Tony. “And I apologize in advance for all the
things he’s going to say in the future.”
Bucky laughs and shakes his hand before stepping aside to let Natasha and
Rebecca do the same. “James Barnes,” he says, “call me Bucky.”
Clint hops over the table, sending cutlery flying this way and that only to
land gracelessly in front of Natasha. “Clint Barton.” He says breathlessly,
taking her hand to kiss it tenderly. “Call me Hawkeye, all the pretty girls
do.”
“Pretty girls being his mother.” Tony teases.
Clint rounds on Tony. “She, among many others!”
Natasha smirks. Bucky knows that smirk. Bucky lives in fear of that smirk. It
says that she’s about to have one Hell of a lot of fun with Clint. “Natasha.”
She says simply.
“Natasha,” Clint repeats with a smile. Bucky rolls his eyes. He gives it a
week.
A great, hulking shadow looming over him is all the warning Bucky gets before
he’s swept into a bone-crushing hug. “It is an honor to meet you, James
Barnes!”
“Great—to meet you—too, pal!” He wheezes, patting the back of his captor.
“Thor, drop it!” Tony barks.
Thor drops him. Bucky catches his breath and looks up and up until he reaches
Thor’s face. It’s like looking into the sun, for Merlin’s sake. “How’s it
goin’, Thor?” Bucky asks.
“It goes excellent!” He says. “I have heard many things of you!”
“All good things, I hope.” Bucky says.
Thor smirks. “I assure you, I have heard only the best.”
“We all have.” Clint says as he settles back into his seat. “Many, many times.”
Thor moves to welcome Natasha and Rebecca with the same enthusiasm. Rebecca
ducks behind Natasha and Natasha holds up a hand to stop him. “Maybe some other
time.” She says.
“Don’t mind him. They do things different where he’s from.” The boy next to
Steve says. “Sam Wilson, how you guys doing?”
“Better once we get some food.” Rebecca says, rubbing at her growling stomach.
“Ain’t that the truth?” Sam says.
“Say, Rogers, why don’t you pull some strings and get the Elves to send the
food up some time before we graduate.” Tony says.
Steve, who’s been doing his best to hide behind Sam this entire time, sighs.
“That joke gets better every year, Tony.”
Bucky looks around the room, expecting the House Elves to march in at any
moment, carrying individual plates for every student like they do at
Durmstrang. “Where are they?” He asks.
“Where are who?” Tony asks, shaking out his napkin and tucking it into the
collar of his shirt.
“The House Elves.”
Tony looks baffled. “Home? Asleep? On a bender? Hell if I know.”
“They don’t have to stay?” Bucky asks, thinking of the shameful conditions that
Durmstrang’s Elves are forced to live in, sleeping under tables and inside
cabinets.
“Why the Hell would they do that?” Clint asks.
“Don’t they live in the castle?” Bucky asks.
Tony snorts. “Not since Rogers here twisted Fury’s arm into setting them up in
the old grounds keeper’s hut.”
“Tony, don’t—”
Sam speaks over Steve, turning to Bucky with a proud grin. “Steve hung back
over Christmas break a couple years ago, clearing the place out and setting it
up. Not bad digs, considering.”
“They ought to have their own dorms.” Steve mumbles. Bucky can hardly hear him;
he’s hunched so far over the table he’s practically kissing the mahogany.
“What a coincidence.” Natasha says, oozing with false surprise. “You know,
Bucky is really interested in Elfish welfare, too.”
“You don’t say?” Sam says.
“Well, what good is this Tournament if not to promote international magical
cooperation?” Tony joins in. “Who knows, maybe Steve could show him a thing or
two.” Bucky doesn’t miss the innuendo. By the sight of the blush creeping
steadily up his neck, neither does Steve.
They’re saved by the arrival of the food, which appears suddenly, in the blink
of an eye. One minute Bucky’s looking at an empty table, the next it’s
overflowing from end to end and edge to edge, no space left unfilled. There are
at least four different types of meat, eight different kinds of vegetables,
four dessert trays, and several pitchers of juice, and that’s just in their
area of the table alone.
“You wanna stare at it, or do you wanna eat it?” Clint asks, dishing himself a
healthy serving of mashed potatoes that nearly fills his whole plate.
Bucky picks his jaw up off the floor and looks for a space along the benches.
Clint’s already shuffling aside to make room for Natasha on his left and Thor’s
already offered his seat to Rebecca, choosing to stand with his plate in his
hand.
“Got a seat for you right here.” Sam says brightly, shuffling aside and patting
the open space between himself and Steve. Steve’s blush is burning all the way
up his ears now, Hell, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if his whole face was about
as red as the tie around his neck.
“You don’t gotta do that.” Bucky says. “I can go back to—”
“If you don’t sit your ass down...” Sam threatens playfully, grabbing him by
the wrist and dragging him into the seat. “Steve, pass the man some treacle
tart. You know we got the hook up on the treacle tart.”
“I KNEW IT!” Tony screams around a mouth full of Yorkshire putting.
Steve turns and reaches down the table. Bucky gets a glimpse of the muscles
Tony had mentioned earlier, hidden under a tight black sweater. Steve turns
back with the tray of treacle tart and hands it to Bucky.
“Thanks,” Bucky says, taking the tray before glancing up and getting his first
look at Steve Rogers.
The treacle tart hits the ground a moment later.
Tony failed to mention this, and quite frankly, Bucky could have used the
warning. Maybe he could have prepared himself for blue eyes and a shy smile,
for a pink blush blooming on faintly freckled cheeks. Instead he’s just gaping
like an idiot in the face of a goddamn angel with a tray full of treacle tart
splattered on the ground between them.
“Butterfingers, Barnes?” Natasha asks, doe-eyed and innocent.
“Aw, man!” Tony whines, cheeks still full to burst. “Not the tweekle tawt!”
Serves him right, Bucky thinks. That’s what he gets for conveniently leaving
“Merlin’s gift to man.” out of his description of Steve Rogers.
***** First Day of Classes *****
Chapter Notes
     I feel like I always say this, but you guys...are...amazing... You
     have left me totally speechless once again and I just...wow...there
     are NO words.
     So this update took a little longer than I would have liked. I'm
     having writer's block like crazy (see the war ground that is my
     unfinished epilogue of Leap Year, for example), but this chapter
     FINALLY came together and I'm excited to get it out to you guys!!!
     I want to thank everyone again for your support and kindness! You're
     all SO lovely and I can't begin to tell you what it means to be for
     you to be enjoying this. Feel free to come and drop me some
     suggestions or critisisms or just come tell me about your day or
     something. I also mentioned this in my last notes, but I'll say it
     again: Any headcannons you guys have about this story or Hogwarts AUs
     in general are welcome, if you have suggestions to make that you'd
     like to see in the story. I'm gonna try my hardest to fit them all in
     there and I'd be sure to credit you for your ideas. I just want this
     to be as fun for you guys as it is for me!
     OKAY! No more rambling: Let's watch Steve make an adorable ass of
     himself.
Do something, you idiot! Steve thinks. Say something! He can’t be sure how long
he’s been staring at the tempting curve of Bucky’s lips, but he’s pretty sure
it’s long enough to make the silence stretching between them uncomfortable.
“Hi.” He blurts at last.
Brilliant.
Those perfect lips curl into a smile. “Hi.” Bucky says. “Bucky Barnes.” He
adds, holding his hand out for Steve to shake.
I know. I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen.
“Steve Rogers.” Steve says. In his haste to shake Bucky’s hand he knocks over a
jug of pumpkin juice, spilling it over Bucky’s coat, soaking the fabric
completely.
Tony snorts into his hand. Sam at least has the mercy to cover his laughter as
a coughing fit.
“I—I’m—,” Steve stutters, tripping over a dozen different apologies. “I’m
so—Bucky, I’m—”
“You’re fine,” Bucky says, reaching for the buttons of his jacket. “It was
getting too hot in this thing anyway. You did me a favor, really.” He shrugs
his coat off, revealing the fitted black shirt beneath it. Steve wonders if
it’s regulation that all Durmstrang’s shirts be that tight. Bucky tosses his
coat beneath the table and sighs. “Much better.”
Steve can’t help but agree.
Bucky reaches for the steak and kidney pie in front of Clint. Steve catches his
wrist, thankfully managing to do so without upending any more juice. “I
wouldn’t if I were you,” he says quickly, “it’s a bit hit or miss.” He adds
lamely.
“Here, try the spotted dick,” Natasha says. “You like dick, don’t you?” She
asks innocently, grabbing the bowl to her left and offering it to Bucky.
Juice comes out of Clint’s nose, but Bucky isn’t laughing. “As a matter of
fact, I do.” He says stiffly, taking the bowl from Natasha with a little more
force than is entirely necessary. “Thanks, Nat.”
“Say, you ought to pass that Steve’s way when you’re done.” Clint says, wiping
his nose on the sleeve of his sweater. “He’s a pretty big fan of dick himself.”
“I get the feeling we are no longer speaking about pudding.” Thor says with a
chuckle.
Steve buries his face in his hands. “This isn’t happening.” He mumbles into his
palms.
He’s saved by the grace of a polite cough from behind, too feminine to be Thor
and too pointed to have been genuine. Steve turns around to find Connie Alves
twisting a strand of brunette hair nervously around her finger. She clears her
throat again with her eyes set on Bucky.
Steve’s heart sinks a little. Connie’s brilliant. She’s smart and she’s kind
and she always brings the best snacks to the MBPBRC meetings and makes a point
of staying late to help clean up. She also happens to carry the same torch that
Steve does, one that burns white hot for Bucky Barnes. Hell, she’d just climbed
atop the Hufflepuff table and screamed it for the world to hear (not that Steve
wasn’t tempted to do the same thing, mind you.) She’s an easy girl to like, and
that’s why Steve can’t bring himself to watch as Bucky turns around and comes
face to face with her bright smile.
“Hi, Bucky.” She says.
Steve stabs at his carrots. She says hello like it’s nothing and he spills
juice. Great.
“Hey,” Bucky says. “Weren’t you the girl who…”
“Stood on the table, yeah.” Connie finishes for him, blushing prettily and
tucking her bangs behind her ear. “Got a little carried away. It’s not every
day that a guy like you comes along.”
Steve takes a particularly vicious stab at his carrots, accidentally bending
the prongs of his fork. He sets it aside and starts in on his soup, stirring it
moodily rather than actually eating it.
“I was wondering,” Connie continues, “if you’re not doing anything after
dinner, I could show you around.” She offers politely. So damn politely that
Steve can’t even bring himself to be mad at her. He just wishes he’d had the
courage to offer himself.
Bucky goes to answer, but Tony’s quick to cut him off. “You know, I think Steve
was just about to do that, actually. Weren’t you, Steve?” He asks, looking his
way expectantly.
“I—uh,” Steve gapes soundlessly for a moment, looking between Tony and the bowl
of pea green sludge in front of him. He chances a glance at Bucky, and maybe
it’s just wishful thinking, but he looks relieved and maybe even a little
hopeful. At this point, he’ll take any excuse he can in order to escape this
table without another dick joke. There’s a gleam in Tony’s eye that says he has
one ready to go at a moment’s notice. “Yeah, I was.” He says finally.
“I shoulda known,” Connie says with a playful smirk. “Well, I won’t keep you,
then. Groot and his buddies snuck in a trunk full of Mandrakes and hid them in
Greenhouse 4. If you can manage to nick a couple earmuffs, you ought to check
them out before they fall asleep.”
“You do realize that involves stealing from the Herbology room and breaking in
to the Greenhouse, right?” Rhodey points out.
“Let’s do it.” Steve says.
“Of course.” Rhodey sighs.
“Come on,” Steve says, getting up from the table and nodding towards the open
doors. “No one’s around to stop us.”
“You’re serious?” Bucky asks. His blue eyes narrow and rake down Steve’s body.
“You don’t strike me as a rule breaker.”
Sam scoffs. “Remind me to tell you about the year that Gryffindor finished dead
last in the House Cup.”
Steve winces. “It wasn’t that bad…”
“Negative two thousand points,” Sam clarifies. “Negative.”
Bucky whistles low and cocks a brow. “And that was all you?” He asks Steve.
Steve fidgets, “I mean, I may have…contributed…” He says evasively.
“If you consider 1,500 of those points ‘contributing’.” Clint says, air quotes
and all.
Bucky grins and stands as well, pulling his coat from beneath the bench and
shrugging it on quickly. “Well, what are we waiting for?” He asks. “Lead the
way, troublemaker.”
Steve blushes at the nickname and turns to leave. A small hand on his shoulder
stops him. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s Connie, pulling him down
to her eye level with a firm grip. “I want stories, Rogers.” She hisses,
quietly enough that Bucky remains oblivious standing mere feet away. Steve nods
quickly and tries to move. Connie tugs him back to her side. “I want details.”
She says, gripping the knot of his tie fiercely. “Leave nothing out.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
Connie smiles and shoves him away. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Steve stumbles back to Bucky’s side, straightening his tie and glancing over
his shoulder. Rhodey looks particularly weary, though that’s unsurprising. Thor
is waving him off and Clint offers him a mock salute. Tony makes a crude
gesture with his hands and thankfully Rhodey is there to smack it down before
either Natasha or Rebecca notice. Sam looks insufferably smug as he mouths
‘Good luck!’ and throws him a supportive thumbs-up. Steve blushes and faces
forwards again.
It’s going to be a long year.
                                      ***
Steve pins Bucky against the door of the empty Transfiguration classroom and
tries not to think of the look on Professor Darkhölme’s face should she ever
find out about this.
“It’s getting late. They’re gonna wonder where we went.” Steve whispers against
Bucky’s lips, swollen and red from feverish kisses.
“So let ‘em,” Bucky growls back, “but don’t you dare stop.” He fists his hands
in Steve’s hair and reclaims his lips, tugging the bottom one between his teeth
and sucking until Steve surrenders a broken gasp. “Steve,” he whispers, soft
and desperate.
Steve can hear footsteps just outside the door, drawing closer. Someone’s
coming. Someone must have heard…
“Bucky—”
“Don’t stop.” Bucky whines. “Steve, come on.” Bucky’s fingers fall from his
hair to his tie, tugging harder and harder, keeping Steve as close as possible.
The footsteps are upon them, but Steve’s not stopping. He can’t. He can’t. He’s
wanted this for too long and he’s scared that if he stops now, he’ll never be
allowed to have it again. He’ll take all the detentions Darkhölme can dish out.
If he can just have this…the press of Bucky’s lips against his own, Bucky’s
body under his hands…
He slides his thigh between Bucky’s legs, pressing him harder against the door.
“Steve, Steve!” Bucky gasps. His head falls back and Steve can’t resist
temptation. He drops heavy, open-mouthed kisses along the column of Bucky’s
throat, sucking bruises into the skin.
“Steve…”
The door swings open. Light floods the dark classroom.
“STEVE, COME ON! GET UP!”
THWAP!
Steve cracks an eye. Sam is standing over his bed, armed with a pillow and
ready to strike again. He groans and rolls over, dragging his sheets over his
head. If he tries, he thinks he can still feel Bucky’s lips against his…
THWAP!
“Alright, alright! I’m up!”
“It’s about time!” Sam teases.
“What time’s it?” Steve slurs.
“Time for you to get your sorry ass out of bed.” Sam yanks Steve’s sheets away
and tosses them to the ground. “Come on, Clint’s up, and that’s saying
something.”
Steve whines and buries his face in his pillow, still trying to pull himself
from his dream. The bright sunlight and fresh air streaming through the open
windows is a far cry from Professor Darkhölme’s classroom, but he can’t seem to
shake the way Bucky’s body felt beneath his hands, dream or no dream.
THWAP!
“Sam!”
“Alright, alright. Last one, I promise.” Sam says, tossing his pillow back on
his bed in surrender. “What time did you get back last night?”
Steve rubs his eyes. “I don’t remember.” He mumbles. “Twelve? One?”
“Rogers, you dog! Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Nothing happened. We just talked.”
“Talked,” Sam scoffs and crosses the room to Steve’s wardrobe, “you think I
don’t know what that means?” He starts throwing clothes at Steve, his pants,
his tie, a pair of socks.
A shirt lands on Steve’s face and he sighs hard enough to move the fabric. It’s
the thought of Professor Howlett’s stern expression and his intolerance for
tardiness that finally drags Steve out of bed. He pulls the shirt from his face
and glowers at Sam when he recognizes his Romanian Longhorns jersey. “Not
funny.” He mumbles, tossing the shirt aside.
Sam snickers. “It’s kinda funny.” He reaches back into Steve’s wardrobe and
pulls out a white button up and a black sweater. “Come on, man, spill. Was it
everything you thought it’d be? Where’d you do it? I heard the boat house can
be real romantic.”
Steve glares at Sam and reaches for his button up. “Nothing happened, Sam.” He
repeats firmly.
“Fine, nothing happened,” Sam says appeasably. “Will you at least tell me what
you two talked about?” He asks.
“Stuff, Sam, I don’t know!” Steve says vaguely, buttoning his shirt to the top
before reaching for his sweater. To Sam’s unwavering stare, he shrugs. “We
talked about a lot of things; I can’t remember.”
That’s a lie, of course. While he and Bucky may have talked about a lot of
things last night, Steve remembers all of it, from the sly smiles to the
playful teases and everything in between. Steve wants to tell Sam all about it,
Hell, he wants to tell anyone who will listen, but he just doesn’t think he can
do justice to the memory of how Bucky looks when he laughs. He busies himself
by pretending to be caught in the neck of his sweater.
The bathroom door opens and Clint walks in, groggy and grumpy, clad in only his
boxers with a coffee mug in each hand and a towel wrapped elegantly around his
head. Steve’s grateful for his appearance, since it seems to divert Sam’s
attention for the time being.
“You were up early.” Sam says.
“Yeah,” Clint says bitterly, “someone woke me up. Have a good dream, Rogers?”
He asks innocently. “Oh, Bucky! Bucky! Oh—ah!” He moans theatrically.
Steve’s head pops free from his sweater. “I don’t sound like that!” He appeals
to Sam. “Do I sound like that?”
Sam suddenly finds something incredibly interesting in Steve’s wardrobe, given
the way he’s fussing with it. “I mean—I’m not gonna say you don’t sound like
that…”
Steve lunges across the bed, sending pillows flying this way and that in an
attempt to give Sam the hard whack off the back of the head that he deserves.
Sam twists out of the way and sprints across the room, grabbing the Falcon and
rushing to the open window. “Gotta be faster than that!” He shouts, leaping
through the window before Steve can lay a hand on him. He gets his broom
beneath him and takes to the sky. The wind carries his laughter back to Steve,
who flips him off before slamming the window shut.
As it turns out, Steve and Clint have History of Magic together. He waits
patiently while Clint dresses, taking the time to run a wet cloth over his face
and brush his teeth before heading out the door. And if he so happens to
unscrew the posts of Sam’s bed while Clint has his back turned, well…
The halls are buzzing with gossip this morning. Steve catches snatches of
conversations as he and Clint navigate the chaotic corridors with the practiced
ease that comes with having done this for seven years. A blush creeps up his
neck when he catches the tail end of a Slytherin girl’s whisper about how she’d
seen Bucky Barnes stepping out of the shower this morning. It’s bad enough that
every time he catches a glimpse of a blood red coat he’s reminded of a boyish
grin and contagious laughter, but now he’s got that mental image to deal with,
too.
“I take it last night went well, then?” Clint asks as they round a corner,
deftly avoiding a parade of oncoming first years that have yet to learn the
flow of traffic in the halls. He ignores Steve’s answering scowl. “Come on,
Rogers, fess up. Are you still pure as the driven snow?” He teases.
“I met him yesterday.”
“You’ve been in love with him for two years.” Clint argues. “Nothing? Not even
a kiss?”
“No.” Steve says firmly.
“A hug?”
“No.”
“A little over the pants action?”
“Clint!”
Clint relents. “I’m sorry, alright? Come on, I’ll stop.” When Steve continues
to scowl, Clint steps in front of him, walking backwards. “You gonna see him
again?”
Steve’s stony expression melts. “I hope so.” He says earnestly.
Clint pretends to gag. “Come on, Steve. I can’t handle this much melodrama
before my third cup.” He says. “Speaking of which…” He spins around a plucks a
coffee cup from a random passerby, ignoring their indignant squawks of protest.
“Did you tell him that?”
“No,” Steve admits, shoulders sagging. “It’s not that simple.”
Clint gives him a disbelieving look over the rim of his mug. “Not that simple?”
He echoes.
Steve shrugs. “Look at him, Clint. The whole world’s in love with him. Maybe
all he needs is a friend.”
“Well, why don’t you ask him yourself?” Clint asks, craning his neck to look at
something ahead. “He’s headed this way.”
“Where?” Steve asks, ducking behind a statue of Rowena Ravenclaw and wishing
he’d taken the extra time to run a comb through his hair.
Clint doubles over with laughter. “Oh—Oh, shit, your face, Rogers! Oh, this is
gonna be a good year!”
                                      ***
Professor Howlett’s classroom is a lot like the man himself. Although it’s not
nearly as grim as Darkhölme’s, it’s not quite as homey as Erskine’s, either.
The walls are bare and the air is stuffy and the windows are rarely ever open
unless Howlett breaks out an especially dusty collection of texts for them to
review.
Steve walks through the door and immediately spots Pepper’s strawberry blonde
head of hair at the front of the class. He and Clint settle in at the table
behind her, Clint on the right and Steve to his left. Steve recognizes a few
other familiar faces around the room, including that of Gabe Jones. He’s
sitting further towards the back with his face obscured by A History of Magic
Volume 7; alone save for the messenger bag beside him. If it were anyone else,
this wouldn’t strike Steve as odd, but for Gabe to be by himself is a
particularly worrisome sight.
Steve glances at Professor Howlett’s empty desk before calling to Gabe across
the room. It takes a few tries, but eventually Gabe looks up from his book,
blinking owlishly. “Where are the guys?” Steve asks, nodding to the empty
tables around Gabe.
Gabe rolls his eyes and shakes his head gravely. “Somewhere they shouldn’t be.”
He says somberly.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Jones,” Pepper says, employing her Head Girl
voice while fishing through her bag for a quill.
Stick him with any other group and Gabe is just a normal guy, but in the rag
tag team he runs with he might as well be a saint. He’s studious, though his
friends constantly find ways to equate that to being boring. If getting decent
grades and a good night’s rest is their idea of boring, Gabe is just fine being
the kill-joy of the group. He’ll be the one laughing when he’s sitting on The
Minister’s council and they’re scrubbing the toilets.
“Should I be worried?” Steve asks.
“I am.” Gabe says before disappearing behind his book once again.
“I didn’t hear that, either.” Pepper says.
Students continue to trickle through the door until ten o’clock, at which point
Professor Howlett walks in and silence falls over the classroom. He stands in
the doorway with his hands on his hips, surveying the class with tired eyes.
His stare lingers on the empty tables surrounding Gabe. He enters the room
slowly, leather boots scuffing loudly against the worn wooden floors. He shrugs
off his leather jacket and throws it over the back of his chair, revealing the
tight white tank top underneath that the students of Hogwarts have come to
regard as his uniform. He reaches into the top drawer of his desk and produces
a cigar, which he lights with his wand before placing between his lips, puffing
at leisurely as he turns to address the class.
Don’t let the cigar fool you; Professor Howlett takes his job very seriously.
He’s not supposed to be influencing these kids, he’s supposed to be teaching
them. You want to pass out during his lesson? Great. You’re thinking about
cutting his class? Be his guest. Just don’t be surprised when he slaps a pop
quiz on your desk with a smirk and a middle finger. Professor Howlett isn’t
exactly winning awards in congeniality, but his tough-love method of teaching
is surprisingly effective. There’s a rumor going around that he only teaches
this shit because he’s lived through half of it. Steve didn’t believe it at
first, but then an incriminating photo popped up in one of their text books
placing their Professor at the American Civil war. Steve’s been a believer ever
since.
“History of Magic.” Professor Howlett says gruffly. “I assume you’re all in the
right class?” He asks. He sounds about as bored as he looks. “Great.” He says
when no one answers. “For those of you who do not know, my name is Professor
Logan Howlett. Today you—”
A gentle knock on the door brings everyone’s attention towards Peggy Carter
standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry, sir.” Peggy says, squaring her shoulders
and keeping her head high in the face of Howlett’s scowl. “History of Magic?”
Professor Howlett grunts something that could be a confirmation.
“Forgive me, but the stairs…” She trails off, but the look on her face speaks
volumes of her experience with the spinning stairs. Steve remembers his first
time. He’d puked over the railing.
“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Professor Howlett says, waving her towards the open seat
next to Pepper.
Peggy nods curtly and crosses the room, taking the suggested seat. Under the
guise of sliding her bag beneath her chair, she leans in towards Pepper and
whispers under her breath. “Bit of a jackass, isn’t he?”
“You have no idea.” Pepper whispers back.
“As I was saying,” Professor Howlett begins again, “today you’ll be…”
He’s interrupted again by the sound of thunderous footsteps approaching his
classroom. It sounds like a stampede coming down the hall, footfalls echoing
around the empty corridors and bouncing off the stone walls, rising to a
crescendo as four boys try to stumble through the doorway at once only to get
stuck in the frame.
“Oh Hell,” Gabe mumbles, sinking into his seat.
The boys continue to wriggle and writhe until they spring free and fall to the
floor in a heap, moaning about sharp elbows and bony asses.
“The Hell’s all this?” Howlett growls.
The boy on top of the pile looks up from beneath the brim of his bowler hat.
“Howling Commandos reporting for duty, sir.” He says timidly, shrinking under
Professor Howlett’s glare.
Howlett’s expression softens immediately. “Oh yeah?” He asks. “What is it this
time?”
The boy rolls off his friends (not without loud protest and shouts of agony)
and reaches for his messenger bag. He pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey bigger
than his own head. “Nicked it from his office.”
Professor Howlett takes the bottle, inspecting it with interest. “Does he know
it’s gone?”
The boy shrugs. “He’s got an idea,” he says vaguely.
Professor Howlett chuckles and slides the bottle into the top drawer of his
desk. “Fifty points to Hufflepuff.” He announces.
Steve’s not quite sure how it came to be, but at some point over the last seven
years, Professor Howlett took these five (“Dum Dum” Dugan, Jim Morita, “Monty”
Falsworth, Jacques Dernier and Gabe, when he can be persuaded) under his wing,
using them and their penchant for pranking in order to extract frequent (and
sometimes downright cruel) revenge on Professor Summers. It’s for that reason
that on the days when Summers is most red in the face, Hufflepuff sees the
greatest increase in House Points.
“Is he allowed to do that?” Peggy asks quietly as the Howling Commandos make
their way to the back of the classroom, high fiving and laughing all the way.
Pepper, who’s been doing her best to pretend she’s not seeing or hearing and of
this, shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
“Let’s try this again, alright?” Professor Howlett asks after the Commandos
have settled in. “Today…” he pauses and glances at the door before continuing,
“you’ll be reading about the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Turn to page 560 of your
books and—,”
“HOWLETT!”
Professor Summers appears in the doorway, clothes singed and hair smoking,
covered in ash everywhere but beneath the thick goggles over his eyes.
“Did you do something with your hair?” Professor Howlett asks.
Professor Summers’s jaw ticks dangerously and he points an accusing finger at
the Commandos. “Your students hid a Bombastic Bomb under my desk!” He shouts.
Professor Howlett looks personally affronted. “That’s a Hell of an accusation
to make. Can you prove it?”
Professor Summers hesitates. “No.” He admits.
“Then get the fuck out. I’m teaching.” Professor Howlett says dismissively,
relighting his cigar with his wand. The silent, “Fuck you,” is heavily implied.
Professor Summers lingers in the doorway for another moment before turning on
his heel, slamming the door and leaving the lingering smell of smoke behind
him.
“Did I say fifty?” Professor Howlett asks. “Make that a hundred. Good work,
boys.”
“Where the Hell did they get a Bombastic Bomb?” Clint asks in awe. “Those’re
harder to get than the whiskey is.”
“It wasn’t a Bombastic Bomb; otherwise I’d have confiscated it.” Pepper says.
“Jacques made it himself, it’s his own design.”
Clint’s eyes bug out of his head. “You knew? But you’re the Head Girl!”
Pepper flushes a bit beneath her freckles. “Summers gave me an Acceptable on my
O.W.L. exam.” She says defensively. “I deserved an Outstanding!”
“So you let him build a bomb?” Steve asks.
“You should see the things I’ve let Tony get away with.” She says with a
shudder.
Professor Howlett falls into his chair and kicks his feet up on his desk. “As I
was saying,” he says, puffing from his cigar, “page 560. Read through the
chapter. Write down some facts. Just look busy, alright?” He instructs.
Keeping her voice quiet so as to be masked by the sound of turning pages, Peggy
leans in towards Pepper again. “What’s up with his hair?” She asks, eying the
admittedly bizarre styling.
“Don’t ask.” Clint says grimly, turning Peggy’s attention around.
“Why not?” She asks.
Clint lifts up his sweater and points to three long, thin scars across his
ribs, perfectly straight and equidistant from one another. “I asked.” He says.
Peggy winces.
“Peggy, this is Clint Barton,” Pepper says, “and Steve Rogers.” She adds,
nodding to Steve.
Peggy offers them both a friendly smile.
“That doesn’t look like reading.” Professor Howlett says, narrowing his eyes at
their group. They all bow their heads and begin to read.
  “The Tri-Wizard Tournament is an honored event in the wizarding community,
    though that isn’t to say its name is not synonymous with controversy…”
“What do you think, you volunteering, Rogers?” Clint whispers.
“You know, I was thinking about it,” Steve says, flipping through the pages of
his book. He pauses on a picture of a young witch thrusting the Tri-Wizard Cup
into the air, her triumphant grin captured for eternity. “It’d be a good way to
end the year, wouldn’t it?”
Clint scoffs. “Pretty good way to die, too.” He says, picking up his book and
shoving it in Steve’s face, forcing him to look at the picture of a wizard
being carted to Saint Mungo’s.
Steve winces and pushes the book away. “I take it your name won’t be in the
Goblet then?”
“Hell no,” Clint chuckles. “What about you, Pep?” He asks.
Pepper shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.” She says.
“Too scared?” Steve teases.
“Too busy.” Pepper amends. As if to prove her point, she begins jotting notes
down on her parchment, brow furrowed in concentration. Beside her, Peggy laughs
through her nose but doesn’t lift her eyes from her place on the page.
“And you, Carter?” Clint asks.
“What about me, Mr. Barton?”
“You sitting this one out?”
“And miss an opportunity to remind the wizarding world what women are capable
of?” She shakes her head. “Not a chance.”
“You do that plenty already.” Steve says. “Though I guess a little refresher
couldn’t hurt.”
Peggy looks up from her book and turns his way. She assesses him carefully,
sharp brown eyes narrowing skeptically. “And what would you know about the
capabilities of women, Mr. Rogers?”
Steve shrugs and fiddles with his quill. “Being raised by a single mother will
teach you a thing or two about that.” He says. “I’ve learned that it’s up for a
woman to decide for herself just what she’s capable of doing.
Peggy’s icy stare thaws. “Oh, I like you.” She decides.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pepper says dryly, “he’s gone on that Chaser the
papers are always talking about.”
“I am not gone on him!” Steve says defensively.
“And Thor’s not a natural blond.” Clint deadpans.
“You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Bucky Barnes now, would you?” Peggy
asks. The guilty look on Steve’s face must say it all. “Oh, I adore Bucky!” She
says, abandoning her book as she turns to join the conversation. “He and I
spent a night in Nuremgard together a few summers ago.” She recalls. “Met up at
a rally for equal wages for witches in The Ministry. I’m sure you heard about
that one.”
“Sure,” Clint says, “Barnes’s bloody mug was all over the evening Prophet.”
“And wages were raised within the month,” Pepper adds.
“And I am not gone on him!” Steve argues, though he might as well be speaking
to a wall for all the good it does.
“Give it up, Steve. Even the paintings are talking.” Pepper says.
Steve blanches. He’d forgotten that not every pair of prying eyes at this
school was human. “What are they saying?”
“Can’t speak for them all, but Sir Cadogan’s going around saying that he saw
you sneaking up to the Astronomy Tower with someone last night.”
Clint rolls up his parchment and swats Steve off the back of the head. “The
Astronomy Tower, Steve? Really?”
“Nothing happened!” Steve cries, ducking the repeated swats.
“’Nothing’ doesn’t happen in the Astronomy Tower!” Clint hisses.
“I assume from all this talking that you’ve finished the reading?” Professor
Howlett interrupts, dropping his feet with a dull thud and moving to the
chalkboard. “How’s about we go around the room and you tell me one thing you
learned about the Tri-Wizard Tournament. That sound easy enough? Mr. Falsworth,
you start.”
The thick, musty air starts getting to him after the third or fourth bullet.
Steve’s mind begins to drift, wandering to last night and what really happened
atop the Astronomy Tower.
     They take the steps two at a time, Steve in front with Bucky hot on
     his heels. They’d just barely avoided being seen by Peeves, escaping
     via the spiraling stairwell leading to the Astronomy Tower. Steve can
     only hope that they’ll be alone at the top. The highest point in all
     of Hogwarts has a bit of a reputation for being the go-to spot for
     heat of the moment hookups, leading to its unofficial renaming as the
     Anatomy Tower. Steve tries not to think about that, or the
     implications of coming here with Bucky.
     Bucky trips up a step and Steve has to turn around and clamp a hand
     over his mouth to smother his laughter before it can give them away
     to the troublesome ghost below. Steve shushes him, straining his ear
     for the sound of jingling bells, a dead giveaway of Peeves’s
     presence.
     Bucky pulls Steve’s hand away and grins wolfishly. “What’s the
     matter, troublemaker? Scared of getting caught?” He teases in a
     whisper.
     Steve shoves him away, hiding his smile by turning his back and
     continuing up the stairs once he’s sure that Peeves won’t be joining
     them.
     “What’s up here anyway?” Bucky asks, hurrying to catch up.
     “You’ll see.” Steve says.
     “I don’t like surprises. Especially at high altitudes.” Bucky says,
     just to be difficult.
     Steve laughs and runs on ahead, bounding up the stairs. “You’ll like
     this one, I promise.” He calls over his shoulder.
     “Hey, wait up!”
     Steve leaps up the last step, landing on the observation deck.
     Thankfully the only other presence here is that of the planetarium
     moving in perfect sync with the universe beyond. Steve watches Earth
     spin faithfully on its axis while he waits for Bucky to catch up.
     “Woah.”
     “Do I keep my promises?” Steve asks, grinning from ear to ear.
     “You sure do,” Bucky says breathlessly. His eyes dart around the
     room, landing first on the planetarium, then on the painterly
     rendition of the starry sky on the ceiling above before finally
     coming to a rest on the view from the deck’s edge. His jaw drops a
     bit. “This can’t be real.”
     Steve laughs. “Wanna get closer?”
     Bucky’s eyes light up. “Can we?”
     They scoot to the very edge of the deck. Bucky curls his legs up to
     his chest and Steve allows his to hang over the edge, swinging in the
     warm September breeze. The Great Lake stretches far beyond where
     their eyes can see, merging with the inky blackness of the sky. The
     water is smooth tonight, creating a mirror image of the stars above
     in its reflection.
“Rogers?”
     “It’s beautiful up here.” Bucky whispers, resting his chin on his
     knees.
     Steve can’t take his eyes off the loose hairs tickling the side of
     Bucky’s face. He sits on his hands, resisting the urge to reach out
     and touch. “Yeah, it is.” He says softly, averting his gaze before he
     can be caught staring.
“Mr. Rogers?”
Steve is pulled into the present by a sharp pain in his shin. It takes him a
moment to realize that Clint kicked him. It takes him another moment to realize
that Professor Howlett is staring at him expectantly, eyebrows raised and lips
pursed in a hard line around his cigar.
Steve shakes his head, dispelling the memory. “Could you repeat the question,
sir?” He asks.
Professor Howlett growls unhappily. “A fact, Mr. Rogers, about the Tri-Wizard
Tournament. Something you found interesting?” He asks tersely.
“Oh, um,” Steve glances down at his parchment, “In 1792, The Tournament was
discontinued due to the rising death toll of its champions.”
Professor Howlett blows a long puff of smoke through his nose. “A fact which
Mr. Barton gave us two minutes ago.” He says dryly. “Five points from
Gryffindor, Mr. Rogers. At least pretend to pay attention, would you? Next.”
Professor Howlett dismisses them at the end of the hour. Clint is off to Muggle
Studies and Steve’s got Potions with Summers, something he’s not looking
forward to given the events of earlier.
“Consider yourselves lucky,” Pepper says, “I’ve got Transfiguration.” She says
miserably.
“What’s so bad about that?” Peggy asks.
“Darkhölme.” Clint, Pepper, and Steve moan in unison.
They split up at the staircases, Pepper taking Peggy and teaching her the ways
of the stairs while Clint and Steve are swept away in the opposite direction.
Clint entertains himself on their walk by sliding along the walls and peering
around the corners in search of Bucky.
“Clear!” He calls, waving Steve around the corner.
“Would you cut that out?” Steve asks. “I’m not avoiding him.”
“Lighten up, Rogers. I haven’t had this much fun since we left Thor and Jane in
Madame Pudifoot’s on Valentine’s Day.” He lays himself flat against the stone
and peers around another corner. “Woah, hold up, not clear! I repeat, not
clear.” He says, throwing an arm across Steve’s chest.
Steve bats it away. “Ha, ha, it’s not as funny the second time around.” He
says. “Matter of fact, it wasn’t funny the first time, either.”
“Steve, really!” Clint says, grabbing at the back of his sweater. “He’s
right—,”
Steve turns the corner and runs into a solid body in a blood red coat. They
both lose their footing and end up in a graceless heap on the floor, Steve on
top with his face pressed into warm wool that still smells a bit like…pumpkin
juice.
He looks up slowly and comes face to face with Bucky Barnes. “Well hey there,
troublemaker.” He says with a grin that sends Steve’s heart racing quicker than
it has any right to. “Funny running in to you.”
Steve blushes as red as Bucky’s coat. It’s going to be a long, long year,
indeed.
***** Names in the Goblet *****
Chapter Notes
     I CAN'T TAKE YOU PEOPLE ANY MORE. I CAN'T. MY HEART CAN NOT DO THIS.
     SERIOUSLY.
     Once again, you've all AMAZED me with your kind words. This update
     took a bit longer than I'd hoped, but I'm excited to finally be
     getting it out to you. I'm hoping to finish the final chapter of my
     other AU in the meantime (seriously...I'M GOING TO DO IT. IT WILL BE
     DONE.) as well as the update for this chapter within the next week or
     so, if my schedule permits it.
     ALSO a few people have noticed that the number of chapters has been
     set at 22 for this fic. That's a fairly certain number that I based
     on my rough notes and the basic breakdown of the story. If it
     changes, it means I either cut something or added something!!! So,
     yeah!
     Also, there was a comment left by a friend named AC (hi, pal!!!) who
     asked if there could be little teasers of the next chapter included
     at the end of every update and I TOTALLY loved that idea. So check
     that out at the bottom in the author's notes if you wanna!!!!
     AS ALWAYS your comments and criticisms are always always always
     welcome. I'm totally up to hearing any and all input towards this
     story. Hearing you guys respond is just as fun as writing it!!! SO
     YEAH come yell at me/with me if you want because that's what I am
     here for. (LITTLE SIDE STORY: I accidentally hit 'Delete Work' when
     checking my inbox on mobile and almost deleted this whole thing.
     Wouldn't that have been S O F U N N Y ? ? ? H A H A.)
     SHUTTING UP NOW SO YOU CAN READ.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Bucky’s rushing, taking corners quickly and weaving between students. He’d
woken up late this morning to the sound of frustrated mumbles and cracked an
eye to find Tony sitting over him, scribbling long equations down the length of
his right arm in black ink.
“Oh good, you’re up.” He’d said. “Been working on a design for that broom of
yours. I meant to ask, what model are you flying right now?”
Bucky continues to rub at the lingering ink stains on his skin that not even a
twenty minute shower could do away with. He gives up and tugs the sleeve of his
coat down. He’ll worry about it later. Preferably once he’s in class, hopefully
on time.
Tony had sent him on his way to Muggle Studies with nothing more than a clap on
the back and a, “Good luck, champ.” No instruction. No nothing. All he’s got is
his schedule on parchment and Abraham Erskine’s name printed beside the course.
He’s still staring at the parchment in his hand, willing it to tell him where
to go, when he turns the corner and gets flattened by another student.
Bucky looks down at the 150 pounds of adorable lying on his chest and grins.
This isn’t the way he imagined he would get underneath Steve Rogers, but he’ll
take what he can get. “Hey there, troublemaker.” He says. “Funny running in to
you.”
He watches Steve’s blush spread from his cheeks to his neck before disappearing
beneath his collar. He wonders just how far down it goes, if Steve’s a full
body blusher. Bucky can think of a few things off the top of his head that he
can do to turn Steve red all over.
“I’m—God, Bucky, I’m sorry, I…” Steve stammers, lifting himself onto his elbows
so he hovers above him, wide eyed and frantically apologetic.
“Told you so.” Clint says, coming around the corner to lean against the wall.
Bucky doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but apparently Steve does. “Shut
it.” He mumbles, scrambling to his feet before offering Bucky a hand up. “Are
you alright?” He asks.
Bucky takes his hand and allows Steve to pull him up. “Yeah, don’t worry about
it,” He says, ignoring the crick in his spine and the bump he can feel forming
on the back of his head.
“Where you headed in such a hurry?” Clint asks.
“Muggle Studies,” Bucky says, glancing at his parchment again. “Erskine’s
class?”
Clint grins and leans off the wall. “You don’t say! Well, that makes us Muggle
Studies Study Buddies!” He looks over to Steve, “Ain’t that great, Steve?”
Steve looks significantly paler than he did a moment ago. “Yeah, great…”
“Well, we’d better get going.” Clint says, heading down the corridor. “Come on,
Barnes. I’ll tell you the real ins and outs of this place,” he says over his
shoulder.
Bucky goes to follow, but Steve grabs him around the elbow and pulls him back.
“Stay on his left side, alright?” He advises in a whisper.
“What? Why?” Bucky asks, glancing back at Clint.
“Dumbass won’t wear his goddamn hearing aid. He thinks we don’t notice, but we
do.” Steve says.
“He’s deaf?” Bucky asks.
“Half,” Steve corrects, “but he likes to play it up when he hears something he
doesn’t want to. Just…stick to the left, alright?”
“Yeah, alright.” Bucky says. He glances down at the spot where Steve’s still
got a grip on his elbow. “You gonna let me get to class or you gonna keep me
here all day?” He teases.
Steve stares at him blankly for a moment before realizing his mistake. He lets
go of Bucky like he’s been burnt. “Oh, right. You should definitely go. To
class. Because class is…class is important,” he rambles. “Alright, I’m gonna,”
he points vaguely in the opposite direction Clint went, “I’m gonna get going
now.” He spins on his heel and walks away.
Bucky can’t help himself but to check out the view. He’ll have to send a letter
of thanks to whoever made those pants. “Nice ass, troublemaker!” He calls after
him.
Steve whips around, rosy red all over again. “What did you say?” He asks.
Bucky smirks. “I said have a nice class.” He lies.
“Barnes, come on!” Clint shouts from down the hall.
“Later, Steve.” Bucky says, turning away and finding Clint in the crowd. He
resists the urge to turn back for one last look. By the time his resolve breaks
and he allows himself a quick glance over his shoulder, Steve is already gone,
lost to the tide of students.
                                      ***
“So anyway, that’s when Rhodey showed up with Fury, and Fury was the one who
got the Squid to let Tony go.” Clint explains, finishing his story right as he
and Bucky arrive at Erskine’s door. “But I’ll tell you, it was a close call. I
thought Rogers was gonna faint.”
Bucky laughs, picturing the look on Steve’s face when Tony was plucked off the
shore by a monstrous tentacle. Clint’s been retelling the story of their run in
with the Giant Squid and Bucky’s starting to see why Tony was reluctant to tell
the story himself. By the sounds of it, the entire fiasco was his fault.
They walk through Professor Erskine’s door and Bucky gets his first look at the
inside of a Hogwarts classroom. It’s cozy, Bucky thinks; small and circular
with a fireplace burning at the front of the room between two bookcases full to
burst with trinkets and books. The desks are pushed close together and the
chairs are mismatched and there are tapestries hanging from the ceiling above
in different shades of scarlet and gold. Unlike the classrooms at Durmstrang,
Professor Erskine’s classroom is well lit with natural sunlight that streams
through the open windows, a far cry from the lantern-lit chambers Bucky’s used
to. He can even smell the woodsy aroma of the Forbidden Forest in the air as a
strong wind rustles the scarlet curtains.
There are pictures hung all around the room. It reminds Bucky of the portraits
Pierce keeps in his office at Durmstrang, though all of his photos feature him
with a death grip on the hands of uncomfortable looking politicians. Professor
Erskine’s portraits couldn’t be more different. Every photo seems personal,
like keepsakes he’s brought from home. One picture in particular catches his
eye. In one of the largest frames, Steve, Clint, Sam, and Thor hoist a laughing
Erskine up onto their shoulders. Erskine’s got a trophy in one hand and a
Gryffindor pennant in the other. ‘2012 HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH CUP CHAMPIONS,’ the
frame’s engraving reads. Bucky smiles and watches Steve throw his head back
with laughter over and over again, frozen in the moment.
“Hey, come on,” Clint says, jarring Bucky from his thoughts, “there’re still
some seats left.”
The class is nearly full, but luckily there are still two seats left next to
each other towards the back. Bucky goes to hang his bag over the chair to
Clint’s right, but Steve’s warning echoes through his head at the last minute.
“Stay on his left side, alright?”
“You mind if we switch?” Bucky asks quickly.
Clint freezes with his book bag half on, half off. His eyes narrow in
suspicion. “Did Steve put you up to this?” He asks.
“Will you be mad at him if I say yes?” Bucky asks tentatively.
“God damn mother hen.” Clint grumbles under his breath. “Fine,” he bites,
moving to the chair on the right.
Bucky sits down and pulls out his quill and parchment. “Why don’t you wear it?”
He asks, aiming for casual rather than accusing.
Clint scowls and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t?” Bucky asks. He waves to Clint with his metal hand. “Hey, Bucky
Barnes: amputee since childhood, nice to meet you.”
Clint’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. I just,” he pauses and tries again,
“They look at you different, you know? When they see that you’re…”
Disabled. Bucky can fill in the blank because he knows the feeling. He knows
what it’s like to be under the scrutiny of every eye in the room. “What about
your friends?” He asks.
“What about them?”
“They treat you any different?”
Clint scoffs. “No.”
“Then why’s it matter what anyone else thinks?” Bucky asks. “Think you’re gonna
find you’re a lot happier once you stop caring what everyone else thinks.” His
hand flexes subconsciously beneath the table.
Clint looks at him with a curious expression, almost like he’s judging him.
After a few moments of scrutiny, he seems to pass the Barton Test. “You’re
alright, Barnes.” He says.
Bucky grins. “I’ve been told as much.”
A few more students trickle through the door, the last of which is Thor. “My
friends!” He greats them warmly as he settles down into the desk behind them.
“Say, Thor, you remember Bucky from last night, don’t you?” Clint asks.
“Sure,” Thor says brightly, “though I must say, I hardly recognize him without
the war paint,” he adds with a sly grin.
Clint cackles and pounds his fist against his desk, laughing until he turns an
unnatural shade of red. Bucky fails to see the humor. “It was one time!” He
snaps defensively, silently cursing the day he’d agreed to do those stupid
promotional posters.
Thor leans forward and pats his shoulder consolingly. “There is no shame in a
warrior’s paint, my friend. The men and women of my ancestry wore their paints
proudly.” He says supportively.
“Yeah,” Clint says, wiping a tear from his cheek, “not to mention the wonders
it did for your eyes.”
Thor and Clint both collapse in fits of laughter, leaning back in their seats,
positively howling at the ceiling. Bucky crosses his arms and pouts. Stupid.
Fucking. Posters.
Bucky huffs and shrugs off his coat moodily, suddenly feeling too hot under the
thick wool. He pushes the sleeves of his undershirt up to his elbow, frowning
at the ink traces still visible on his skin. A shadow stretches over him,
looming from behind. “Well, that’s interesting.”
Bucky looks up and immediately recognizes Professor Erskine from the pictures
around the room. Bucky hadn’t heard him come in over the sound of Thor and
Clint’s laughter. He looks a bit older than his former self, what with his
greying hair and small, circular glasses, but he’s got the same bright eyes and
warm smile, both of which are directed at Bucky. “Your arm,” Erskine clarifies.
Bucky runs a hand over the metallic plates of his left arm and shrugs. “Not
really, it’s…”
“No, no,” Professor Erskine chuckles, “not that one, this one.” He says,
lifting Bucky’s right arm up and inspecting the faded equations. “I see Mr.
Stark’s got some ideas about your broom, eh?” Bucky nods and Professor Erskine
smiles. “I knew his father, you know.” He says, pointing to a picture towards
the front of the room featuring himself and Howard Stark, arm and arm in front
of a cluttered lab table. “Tony is his spitting image.” Professor Erskine
continues fondly, eyes lingering on Howard’s devious smirk. “Your broom is in
capable hands, Mr. Barnes.” He concludes, laying Bucky’s arm back on the desk
carefully.
He continues on towards the front of the class. There’s no desk or chair for
him to put his worn leather satchel on, so he sets it down beside the fire and
turns to address the class with another smile. “Good morning, I’m Professor
Abraham Erskine. You may call me Professor Erskine if you so choose, though
those in my House know that Abraham will work fine as well.”
Bucky glances around the room. The class seems to be a pretty even split
between Gryffindors and Slytherins, though the only people he recognizes are
Thor and Clint.
“Before we get started, I must ask, who’s thinking of coming to the MBPBRC
meeting this Friday?” Erskine asks.
Half the hands in the room shoot up, mostly Gryffindors with scattered
Slytherins. Bucky frowns in confusion. “MBPBRC?” He asks Clint in a whisper.
“The Muggleborn Pure Blood Relations Club.” Clint explains, holding his hand
high while Erskine takes a head count. “Steve came up with it in our Second
Year. It helps Purebloods understand Muggle culture and it makes Muggleborns
feel more at home. Plus, there’s free snacks.”
Bucky grins and puts his hand up as well. Of course Steve came up with an idea
like that.
“Seventeen, excellent!” Erskine says. “I will see you all there! I’ll be trying
my hand at making a Muggle confection known as the “Rice Crispy Treat”, he
says, pronouncing the words carefully.
“Why would the rice be crispy?” Thor ponders. Bucky smothers a chuckle. If
there were ever any doubt about Thor’s blood status before, he’s pretty sure
it’s gone now.
“Now, regarding our subject matter for this course, I’d like to start the year
with a study in Muggle literature and storytelling.” Erskine explains to the
class. “I thought we might begin with one of my personal favorites,” he draws
his wand and points it to the bookshelf, “The story of David and Goliath.”
A small, leather bound book flies off the shelf and into his waiting hand. He
blows the dust off the cover and flips it to the page bookmarked by a thin
golden ribbon. “I thought I might read it to you, if you don’t mind.” When no
one objects, he adjusts his glasses and begins to read.
“A champion named Goliath, who was from Gath, came out of the Philistine camp.
 His height was six cubits and a span. He had a bronze helmet on his head and
                         wore a coat of scale armor…”
Bucky’s mind begins to drift. His eyes slide to the window and the immaculate
view it offers of the clear blue sky, stained only by wisps of white clouds. He
wonders what the view would look like from the Astronomy Tower, if the Great
Lake looks like molten silver in the sunlight.
He pictures himself there, curled up on the edge of the observation deck,
sunning himself like a cat in the light’s beam. On his left his pictures a pair
of long legs swinging back and forth and Steve’s warm voice telling him stories
like the ones he’d told last night. Stories about himself, his friends,
Hogwarts… Bucky smiles, remembering their conversation atop the Tower.
     “It’s beautiful up here.” Bucky says softly, resting his chin on his
     knees. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Steve’s hand resting
     in the space between them, an innocent invitation that Steve may not
     even be aware he’s giving. Bucky wants to reach out and touch, to
     rest his hand on top of Steve’s and admire the view in perfect
     silence, but just when he gets up the courage to try it, Steve shifts
     his hand away and tucks it beneath his thighs.
     “Yeah, it is.” Steve says. “No place like home, though.” Steve says
     after a moment.
     “Oh yeah, and where’s that?” Bucky asks, reclining back onto his
     elbows.
     “Brooklyn, born and raised.” Steve says. “Well, sort of raised. My ma
     moved us over here after I got my letter.”
     “I remember Brooklyn,” Bucky says fondly.
     “You been?” Steve asks.
     “Lived there for a minute, can’t you tell?” Bucky asks, exaggerating
     the faint Brooklyn accent he hasn’t been able to shake since he was a
     kid.
     Steve throws his head back and laughs. “Can’t believe I didn’t notice
     it before.” He says.
     Bucky shrugs it off. “Nah, it only comes out when I’m mad.” He says.
     He neglects to mention the other times it slips out, when he’s turned
     on to High Hell and can’t help but run his mouth, spinning pure filth
     in between sighs and moans. Or when he flirts, when he wants so bad
     his very words are dripping with it.
     Silence falls for another minute and the warm wind blows Steve’s
     carefully styled bangs across his forehead. Bucky wonders what it’d
     be like to drop kisses that soft across the skin… “What about you?”
     “What about me?” Bucky asks with a start.
     “Where’s home for you?”
     Bucky shrugs. “We were here and there, you know?” He says, thinking
     of the places he and his family had bounced to for ten years. His
     father’s job as an Auror kept them in nice houses, beautiful houses,
     even, but it couldn’t give them a home. The closest thing he’d ever
     known to home was when he and Rebecca would squeeze between their
     parents’ bodies and doze in their warmth. “Brooklyn for a couple
     years. Think I was seven when we left for Germany. Then it was
     France. Russia, India for a bit, back to Germany. And that’s where,”
     he pauses, swallowing thickly and backtracking, “and then Romania,”
     he says instead.
     “And what’s that like? Romania?”
     “Depends on the season.” Bucky jokes, though it’s not really much of
     a joke at all. “It’s cold when I come back for Christmas, same as
     Durmstrang. It’s just…cold.” He says. “Pretty nice in the summer,
     though, but there’s nothin’ like this up there.” He adds, nodding to
     the view.
     “Guess you’d better make the most of it while you can then, huh?”
     Steve asks.
     Bucky grins, giving Steve a slow once over that the other boy is none
     the wiser to. “I intend to.”
“Mr. Barnes?”
Bucky blinks a few times before realizing that all eyes are on him. “Sorry,
sir?”
Erskine smiles kindly. “I asked your thoughts on the story. I’m sorry; I didn’t
mean to catch you off-guard. I’ll give you a moment to think…”
“No, no, it’s alright, um…” Bucky sits up in his seat and struggles to remember
whatever details he can about David and Goliath. The last time he’d heard it;
his mother had been sitting on the edge of his bed, soothing him to sleep with
the tale of a tiny boy fighting a mighty giant. “I think…” his face twists up
in thought, “I think it’s about time that the little guys got some recognition.
The hero isn’t in the body, it’s in the heart.” He says, quoting what his
mother used to tell him when she’d reach the end of the story and lean in to
kiss him good night.
Erskine nods in agreement, smiling. “To the little guys.” He says, toasting an
invisible drink in the air. “Who else?” He asks, turning to the other side of
the room.
Bucky relaxes back into his chair with a heavy sigh. Daydreaming. He’d been
caught daydreaming. All he can do is thank his lucky stars that Natasha isn’t
around, otherwise she’d never let him live it down. Even so, Clint’s staring at
him with a funny glint in his eye like he knows what’s going on. Bucky refuses
to look at him, instead focusing on the fire still roaring in the fireplace
ahead.
                                      ***
“Now, you remember where you’re going?” Clint asks after class.
Bucky scrunches his nose and tries to remember the instructions Clint had given
him on how to get back to the dungeons. “Take the spinning stairs down two
flights, pass the statue of Wilfred the Wistful, then go down until I can’t go
down anymore.” He recites.
Clint claps him on the back. “You got it. I’d show you myself, but I’ve got a
date with my mattress and I hate to keep a lady waiting.” He says before
turning away, joining the frenzied bustle of students in the corridor.
“Alright,” Bucky says to himself, “just keeping going down ‘til you can’t
anymore,” he repeats. “Easy.”
As it turns out, it’s not so easy. By the time he beats the spinning stairs and
makes it back to blessed immobile ground, he’s more than a little dizzy. He
staggers past the statue of Wilfred the Wistful, not seeing the leg that swings
out to trip him until it’s too late.
“Oof!” He hits the floor for the second time this morning, wincing at the
shooting pain in his back. Unfortunately, Steve isn’t there to sweeten the deal
this time.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Bucky looks up to see Natasha stepping out from
behind the statue.
“I have not.” He says.
“Is this about the dick thing?” Natasha asks, offering him a hand. “It totally
is, isn’t it?”
Bucky smacks her hand away and comes to stand on his own, dusting off the knees
of his pants. “I told you, I’m not avoiding you.” He says.
“How else was I supposed to let him know you play both sides?” Natasha asks.
Bucky glares at her. “Think I let the whole world know, Nat. It made a couple
headlines, you might have heard.” He picks up his bag and throws it over his
shoulder, already turning to leave.
“Where are you headed?” Natasha asks, falling in to step beside him.
“Dorms.” He says shortly.
“Oh, great, me too.” She says cheerily. “Now you’ve got time to tell me what
you and the American Dream did last night.”
“Nothing, Natasha, for the love of Merlin.” Bucky growls.
“You’re glowing.” She says, eying him suspiciously. “Come on, fess up. How was
it?” Bucky walks faster, trying to shake her. It’s no use. “The silent
treatment, huh? Alright, fine.” She holds her hands out in front of her,
leaving a small distance between them. “Just tell me when, alright? You can
keep the rest of the dirty details to yourself.” Bucky watches her hands move
further and further apart. “Anytime you wanna stop me…” Bucky rolls his eyes,
but her hands keep moving. “Oh my God…How are you even walking right now?”
“Nothing happened!” Bucky shouts, turning a few heads by doing so.
Natasha drops her hands and pouts. “Well why not?”
Bucky looks scandalized. “Because, Nat, despite what the papers tell you, I’m
not that easy. You of all people ought to know.”
Natasha laughs humorlessly. “Do I ever.” She grumbles.
They’re able to make it back to the Slytherin common room without another
mention of Steve. Bucky’s just begun to think that the topic has mercifully
dropped itself when he spots Rebecca curled up on one of the luxurious leather
couches in front of the fireplace.
She looks up from the book in her hands and grins, tossing the book aside
carelessly. “Well what happened?” She asks, leaning over the back of the couch
excitedly.
“Keep it down, would you?” Bucky hisses, glancing around the empty common room.
“How many times am I gonna have to say it?” He whines, running a hand over his
face. “Nothing. Happened.”
Rebecca slouches and pouts. “Lame,” she says, sliding back down onto the couch.
“Well, while you were doing ‘nothing’,” Natasha says, stressing the word like
she still doesn’t quite believe it, “I was doing some research.” She crosses
the room and joins Rebecca on the couch before opening her book bag and
reaching inside.
“I got a feeling that this “research” has nothing to do with school.” Bucky
says, setting his own bag down beside the roaring fire and coming to sit cross-
legged in front of them on the floor.
“And you’d be right,” Natasha says, pulling out a worn file three inches thick
labeled ‘ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT’ in bold red ink.
“Where do you get that?” Bucky asks suspiciously.
“Not important.” Natasha says evasively, flipping the file open and picking up
the first page. “Did you know he’s a Cancer?”
Bucky arches a brow. “They keep that kinda stuff in there?”
“No, but they do keep birthdays.” She says. “Can you believe the American Dream
was born on the Fourth of July?”
“I can, actually,” Bucky says. “You ought to put that back where you found it.”
He adds reproachfully.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Rebecca asks, reaching into the pile herself. “Check
it out,” she says, plucking a paper from the bunch, “he’s on the Quidditch
team!”
“What’s he play?” Natasha asks.
Rebecca grins, “Keeper.”
Natasha smirks. “What’s that thing you said about Keepers, James?” She asks
slyly.
Bucky scowls and snatches the paper from Rebecca’s hand. He glances down the
roster and sure enough Steve’s name is there, along with his cumulative
statistics for the past six years. “He’s good.” Bucky says, reading the
numbers. “He’s amazing, actually.” Bucky says.
“Try not to drool,” Rebecca teases, stealing the paper back.
“What else you got in there?” Bucky asks, reaching for the file himself.
Natasha slaps his hand away without looking. “Did you know he’s fluent in
French?”
“No, I didn’t,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his hand with a pout.
“What are all those at the bottom?” Rebecca asks, pointing to the yellow sheets
of parchment clipped together at the bottom of the file.
Natasha slides them out and leafs through them quickly. “Well I’ll be damned,”
she says slowly, “they’re incident reports.
“All of them?” Bucky asks, ogling the impressive stack.
“Every last one,” she says, sounding a little awed herself.
“Lemme see those,” Bucky says. This time Natasha obliges, handing them over
immediately. He reads them one by one. Assault. Misuse of Magic. Disruption of
Class. Graffiti. Destruction of School Property. “Arson?” He whispers, reading
over the brief synopsis of Steve’s transgression.
     On September 17th of 2011, the student,[ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT], used
     the prohibited charm[INCENDIO]on school grounds, causing irreparable
     damage to school resources. When asked to provide reason for their
     actions, the student,[ROGERS], claimed that they committed this
     offense knowing that the destruction of said resources would result
     in their immediate replacement with higher quality editions at the
     expense of The Ministry in accordance with the Amendment made to
     Section VIII in the Code of Magical Education. [“It falls upon The
     Ministry to replace any and all educational resources lost to
     disasters, accidents, or otherwise unpredictable events (I.E.:
     Flooding, landslides, explosions, fires, and instances of the
     like.)”] The authoritative figure overseeing this matter,[FURY,
     NICHOLAS JOSEPH], has chosen not to take disciplinary actions against
     the accused.
“Gryffindor, my ass.” Bucky says. Setting fire to old, outdated materials in
order to get new ones on the Ministry’s dime? That’s a Slytherin move if he’s
ever seen one.
“But look at this,” Rebecca says, pulling out a photo of Steve handing out
plates at a bake sale. “He raised money to buy new cauldrons for the school,”
she says, reading the information on the back of the picture.
“And he tutors First Years in History of Magic.” Natasha adds, pulling up a
list of Steve’s extracurricular activities. “He’s also the Former president and
founder of the Muggleborn Pure Blood Relations Club, Captain of the Quidditch
Team, former Gryffindor Prefect, Head of the Student Union, and a member of the
Committee of Young Academics for the Promotion of Witch’s Rights.” She breathes
a deep sigh and sets the paper down. “Shit, James. If you don’t date him, I
just might have to.”
Bucky scowls. He’s about to make a smart retort when Tony’s voice cuts him off.
“What are we doing over here?”
The three of them scramble to get Steve’s file back in order. Natasha just
manages to snap the folder shut and slide it into her bag before Tony comes
around the couch, still wearing his pajamas from this morning. “Why was I not
invited?” He asks with mock offense.
“Thought you might still be working on my broom.” Bucky lies quickly. “How’s it
coming?”
“Ought to be ready for the Finals. I was thinking of calling it The Winter
Soldier: 2.0.” Tony says thoughtfully.
“How long’d it take you to come up with that one?” Rebecca dead pans.
Tony throws a fleeting glare at her before turning back to Bucky. “Gotta say,
those Russians knows their brooms. Wasn’t much improvement I could make to the
stability factor, but I managed to get the speed up to 130 and I added an anti-
freezing element. That ought to tack about two hundred feet on your max
altitude.”
“Wow,” Bucky says, genuinely impressed, “thanks, Tony.”
Tony waves him off. “It’s nothing,” he says, somehow managing to be smug and
humble at the same time. “So, what did I miss? I assume Hogwarts fell to
shambles in my absence?”
“Not quite,” Bucky says.
“Hm,” Tony hums, pursing his lips. “What time is it? Did I miss lunch?” He
asks.
“Half past twelve,” Bucky says.
“Oh, good.” He says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Come on,” he says, heading
for the door, “if we hurry, we can still catch the guys.”
“Don’t you want to change?” Natasha suggests.
Tony glances down at his ratty t-shirt and boxer shorts. “Maybe,” he says. He
pulls the fabric up to his nose and sniffs at it, “Definitely.” He amends.
They wait for him while he changes. He returns in his Hogwarts uniform, near
pristine save for the tie hanging loose around his neck. “Shall we?” He asks,
gesturing to the door.
The Great Hall is packed when they arrive, buzzing with conversation. Sunlight
streams through the windows, turning the stone walls gold. Every table is full
to capacity as students from every house mingle at one another’s tables.
Miraculously they’re able to find their friends quickly, seated in almost the
exact same spot as last night. As they approach the table, Bucky wonders if
they haven’t reserved the spot especially for themselves. The group is almost
the same as last night, too, save for one new face and Thor’s absence.
“Hope you saved me some treacle tart,” Tony says, squeezing in to the non-
existent space between Rhodey and a boy in a Ravenclaw tie that Bucky hasn’t
met yet. “Seeing as how someone saw to it that I couldn’t have any last night.”
Bucky wants to point out that it was just as much Tony’s fault as it were his
own, but he thinks better of it after realizing that it would involve telling
Tony that maybe mentioning Steve’s frankly unfair good looks might have saved
his beloved treacle tart.
“Room for a few more?” Natasha asks.
Clint shoves Sam to the ground. “Absolutely, got room for one right here,” he
says, patting the open seat to his right. From where he’s standing, Bucky can
see a small white hearing aid tucked into Clint’s ear.
“Yeah,” Sam grunts from the floor, “not like I was using it or anything.”
Natasha takes the seat but allows Sam to squeeze between her and Steve, leaving
Rebecca and Bucky in the open space opposite Steve next to the boy in the
Ravenclaw tie.
Whoever he is, he’s nursing a large cup of coffee, staring irritably over the
rim of the mug with bloodshot eyes. He sets his mug down and continues to
glower, itching irritably at his skin like he’s about to up and crawl out of
it. There are dark bags under his eyes and faint scarring around his cheeks.
They’re jagged and thin, almost like claw marks.
Bucky figures now’s as good a time as any to make an introduction. “Hey. Name’s
Bucky.” He says, offering the boy his hand.
“No shit,” the boy growls. He takes another long sip from his mug, ignoring
Bucky’s hand completely.
Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Sure, he’s well aware that his
reputation precedes him, but it’s not usually met with this much hostility. He
glances across the table at Steve and finds that he looks about as surprised as
Bucky feels.
“Jeez, Bruce, who pissed in your cauldron this morning?” Clint asks.
“It’s his time of the month.” Tony says with a smirk. He ruffles Bruce’s hair
and points to Bruce’s untouched plate. “Come on, buddy. Wolf that down. Got a
big night coming up!”
Bruce glares at Tony but ultimately obliges him, taking small bites out of the
corner of his toast before returning to his coffee. Bucky tries not to take
Bruce’s bad mood to heart.
“Say, Barnes, we were just talking about you. You seen the papers yet?” Clint
asks, holding up a copy of this morning’s Prophet. “You made the front page!”
‘DURMSTRANG’S DARLING DELINQUINT TO BECOME TRI-WIZARD CONTENDER?’ the headline
reads, accompanied by a photo of him smirking at the camera with blood
trickling down his nose. Of all his many mug shots, they at least picked his
favorite one. It almost makes up for the fact that the entire article pins
Bucky as Durmstrang’s obvious front runner for the Tournament.
His heart seizes up in his chest and plummets. He glances at the High Table.
Headmaster Pierce sits on Fury’s left, dressed in another ostentatious suit
paired with a fur cloak that looks like it would smell like mothballs and stale
air. He’s got his own copy of The Prophet laid out before him and he’s reading
it with a small, satisfied smile that makes Bucky’s blood boil. Bucky wouldn’t
be surprised to find that Pierce had written the article himself.
Tony reaches across the table and snatches the paper from Clint. “It is true,
Barnes? Have you had a change of heart? Gonna buy Pierce a few cloaks with
those 25,000 G’s?”
“Hell no,” Bucky says, meeting Pierce’s eyes from across the room when the man
looks up from the paper. Pierce smiles, nodding to Bucky like a proud parent
would. Bucky shakes his head and turns away.
Tony tsks mournfully. “Right, right, I forgot. You have those things…those
annoying things…what are they called again?”
“Morals,” Rhodey supplies helpfully.
“Those.” Tony says, handing the paper across the table to Natasha’s waiting
hand.
Her green eyes fly across the page. “Oh, come on, who writes this garbage?” She
laughs. “’Barnes, seventeen and in his final year at Durmstrang Institute, is
best known for being the blue-eyed bad boy taped to the walls of every Witch’s
bedroom. He’s tragic, temperamental, and troublesome, but will we be adding
Tri-Wizard Champion to the long list of things that we call everyone’s favorite
Chaser?’“ She recites. She snorts and crumples the paper up into a ball. “I
don’t know what’s worse, the alliteration or the thought of someone hanging
pictures of you on their wall.”
“Seriously, who would wanna look at your ugly mug?” Rebecca asks.
Steve chokes on his sip of pumpkin juice.
“Thor mentioned putting his name in this morning,” Rhodey says. “Something
about how his family’s been competing in this thing for eons.”
“Where is Malibu Ken anyhow?” Tony asks.
“Where do you think?” Sam asks sarcastically.
Tony rolls his eyes. “Astronomy tower?”
Clint snorts. “Yeah, says it’s a ‘full moon’ and he wanted to go ‘check it
out’.”
Bruce fidgets uncomfortably. “Sounds like an excuse to go moon over Foster to
me.” He says. His voice is rough and low, almost like a growl.
“Has anybody volunteered yet?” Rebecca asks.
“No…” Clint says slowly, standing up and craning his neck. “But it looks like
Carter’s about to.”
Bucky hadn’t noticed until now but the Hall seems to have gone entirely silent
as Peggy makes her way to the Goblet. It hasn’t moved since last night. It’s an
intimidating presence at the front and center of the room, commanding attention
as its flames continue to spit and dance. There’s a faint white line around the
base like a fine mist. Bucky figures that’s the age like that keeps anyone not
of wizarding age from entering the Tournament.
Bucky’s eyes follow Peggy across the Hall as she strides confidently towards
the Goblet with a small piece of powder blue parchment clutched in her hand.
She crosses the age line and reaches up, offering her name to the flames. They
swallow the parchment up, roaring skyward with a hissing crackle. The corner of
her red lips twitch as she steps away and applause breaks out around the room.
“ALRIGHT, ENGLISH!” A blonde with banana curls cheers from the Hufflepuff
table. She, Sharon, and Pepper are all standing on their benches, shouting at
the top of their lungs. Headmistress Hill looks extremely pleased from her
perch on Headmaster Fury’s right. She offers Peggy a pointed nod as she passes
on her way back to her table.
“Alright, who’s up next?” Clint asks, glancing around the table. “Rhodey?”
“I’m not letting a glorified cup decide whether or not I survive my Seventh
Year or not.” Rhodey says. Across the Hall, the Goblet’s flames roar wildly as
if it could hear him. He glances over his shoulder at the vengeful flames and
winces. “Yeah, count me out.”
“I’ll have to do the responsible,” Tony pretends to choke on the word, “thing
here and agree with Rhodey.”
“Can someone get that in writing?” Steve teases.
Tony forces a laugh and points an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t see your
name in that Goblet, Rogers. What’s the matter? Burned up all that courage and
nerve and whatever other crap your house is built on?”
“Give me a quill, Stark.” Steve says; narrowing his eyes in a challenge.
“You’re serious?” Sam asks.
“Give me a quill.” Steve repeats, holding out his hand expectantly.
Tony pulls one out of his pocket and hands it over. Steve immediately sets
about pulling a sheet of parchment from his pocket.
“Steve, man, you might want to think this one through a little more.” Sam says
nervously.
“What’s there to think about?” Steve asks, jotting his name down on the
parchment. “There’s no telling that the Goblet’ll choose me. Even if it does,
there’s no telling whether or not I’ll win. But if I do, you best believe that
money’s going towards a good cause.”
Rebecca kicks him under the table. Bucky kicks her right back. “Oh yeah, like
what?” She asks.
“Heard about a school for House Elves that just opened up.” Steve says, “might
be a good investment.” He meets Bucky’s eyes as he stands up from the table and
tosses Tony’s quill back at him. “Here goes nothing.”
Sam turns and watches him go with wide eyes. “He’s not serious, is he?”
“Looks pretty serious to me,” Clint says.
“You had to say something, didn’t you?” Sam says accusingly, glaring at Tony.
Tony throws his hands up in disbelief. “How is his death wish my fault?”
Bucky watches Steve make the same walk to the Goblet that Peggy did. He, too,
crosses the age line and offers his name to the Goblet. He’s barely even got
the parchment over the basin before the flames reach up to take it, burning it
to ash immediately. Professor Erskine stands up immediately at the High Table,
leading the applause for Steve.
“THATTA BOY, ROGERS!” Clint shouts over the deafening celebration of every
Hogwarts student.
When Steve comes back to the table he’s flushed and grinning and there are
adorable crinkles by his eyes from smiling so hard. He looks smug and self-
satisfied and the only thing that’s keeping Bucky from climbing across this
table right now is the hundreds of other eyes in the Great Hall. Even so, he
has to white knuckle the edge of the table to keep himself from doing anything
stupid.
“Bruce, buddy, you ought to get in there.” Tony says, ribbing Bruce gently.
Bruce smiles weakly. “I don’t think I’ve got the right…temperament for the
Tournament.” He says.
“You’re tip-toeing, big man, you need to strut.” Tony advises, though his words
seem moot point when he shovels his face with treacle tart a moment later.
“Come on, Durmstrang, you’re up.” Clint says, tossing a piece of broccoli at
Bucky.
“No way,” He says. “There’ll be plenty of other names in that cup. I’m sure the
Goblet won’t miss mine.”
“Come on, who else is gonna volunteer?” Clint asks.
“I will.” Natasha says suddenly.
“What?” Clint and Bucky blurt in unison.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out her quill and parchment, hastily
scribbling her name. “I’ll volunteer,” she says, betraying no nerves even
though Bucky can see her hand shaking. “It’ll be fun.” She says.
Bucky reaches across the table and catches her wrist, pausing her hand over the
‘o’ in ‘Romanov’. “What are you doing?”
She gives him a meaningful stare. They’ve perfected the art of silent
communication over the years given Durmstrang’s strict rules on conversation in
the classroom and the meaning of her look is clear as day. “I’m bettering your
odds.” She says without speaking.
Bucky lets her go reluctantly. She finishes writing her name with a flourish
and stands from the table, tossing her fiery red hair behind her as she walks
away.
Clint stands to applaud when the Goblet swallows her name but quickly sits when
he realizes he’s the only one. Bucky’s too pissed to cheer, Rebecca’s too
stunned, and the murderous look on Pierce’s face speaks volumes of the fate
that will befall any Durmstrang student that so much as whispers her name.
“He’s not going to like that,” Rebecca whispers.
“No, he’s not.” Bucky says gravely.
“Why?” Clint asks. “Why isn’t anyone cheering?”
Natasha returns before he can answer. She’s pale as a sheet and her hands are
still trembling, though she hides them in the sleeves of her coat before anyone
but Bucky can notice.
Because it’s supposed to be me, Bucky thinks. He steels his nerves and looks
back to the High Table. Pierce’s eyes are unwavering, boring holes into the
side of Natasha’s head. If looks could kill…
Pierce’s cold grey eyes flick to Bucky. There’s a threat and a promise in that
stare. It seems that Pierce, too, is well versed in conveying a silent message.
“You’re going in.” It says cold and firm. Like an order.
Bucky squares his jaw, challenging him with a glare of his own. “You won’t like
what happens if I do.”
Pierce’s aged face contorts into the serpentine grin that turns Bucky’s guts to
stone. He reaches for his glass and raises it to Bucky, toasting him. Mocking
him.
“You alright?”
Steve’s voice brings his attention back around. He looks across the table and
meets Steve’s eyes, infinitely kinder than Pierce’s, but beneath the kindness
there’s concern, worry.
“Fine,” Bucky says with a fleeting smile.
Neither he nor Natasha or Rebecca touches their food again.
Chapter End Notes
     CHAPTER FIVE: The Goblet's Decision
      
      
     “STEVEN GRANT ROGERS,” his mother’s voice shrieks, “DID YOU PUT YOUR
     NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIRE?” Steve tries frantically to catch the
     Howler and force it shut, but to no avail. It slips between his
     fingers and continues to attract attention from all corners of the
     Hall. “IF I DIDN’T THINK YOU WERE DETERMINED TO KILL YOURSELF, I’D
     COME DOWN THERE AND DO IT MYSELF!”
     Steve rounds on his suddenly sheepish looking friends. “Who told
     her?” He growls.
     Sam winces. “Well, you see, it was a group decision to—”
     “It was Sam’s idea!” Clint blurts.
     “Clint, what the Hell?” Sam shouts.
     “Sam?” Steve cries, shocked and indignant.
     “DOES THIS HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT BOY YOU LIKE?” Steve
     blanches and redoubles his efforts at catching the Howler, refusing
     to so much as glance at Bucky for fear of the look on his face. “DID
     YOU THINK YOU’D PULL THE WOOL OVER YOUR DEAR MOTHER’S EYES WHILE YOU
     RISKED YOUR LIFE TRYING TO IMPRESS HIM?”
     “This just gets better and better.” Clint chuckles.
***** The Goblet's Decision *****
Chapter Notes
     OKAY. OKAY. I SWEAR I CAN EXPLAIN WHY THIS WAS SO LATE:
     Guess who didn’t realize last week was Mid-Term week until she sat
     down in her 8:30 and got slaPPED IN THE FACE WITH A BIO MID-TERM.
     THIS GUY. OH YEAH. So after a week of frantic cramming and general
     pathetic crying, I RETURN!!!
     Okay, so since you guys have been so amazing and given me so much
     support and positive feedback, I’ve decided to clue you in on where
     this story is headed! I made a quick little Table of Contents, if you
     will. Anything marked with a little [*] is where this story is gonna
     earn its E rating (except for Chapter 10, where they just stop being
     stupid and kiss already SHEESH) and as you can see, it’s gonna earn
     it. A lot. Multiple times. In multiple places. I might even throw in
     more to chapters I haven’t labeled. Who knows. (ALSO, this is sort of
     a tag-as-I-go story. Basically the things I can guarantee at this
     point is a whole truck load of kink discovery on Steve's part and a
     whole lot of dirty talk from Bucky.) Anyway, here they are:
                  STEVE ROGERS AND THE TRI-WIZARD TOURNAMENT:
                         I. The Tri-Wizard Tournament
                        II. The Students of Durmstrang
                           III. First Day of Classes
                            IV. Names in the Goblet
                           V. The Goblet’s Decision
                        VI. An Interview with Everhart
                            VII. Quidditch Try-Outs
                          VIII. The Forbidden Forest
                              IX. The First Task
                                X. Hogsmede [*]
                               XI. The Clue [*]
                             XII. Everhart’s Story
                             XIII. The Second Task
                            XIV. The Yule Ball [*]
                           XV. The Quidditch Cup [*]
                             XVI. Parents’ Weekend
                             XVII. The Third Task
                         XVIII. The Winner’s Feast [*]
                                XIX. Going Home
                         XX. Epilogue (10 Years Later)
     You also might have noticed I dropped two chapters and that’s because
     they sort of got absorbed into other chapters. Each chapter is
     shaping up to be somewhere in the 4k-8k range, so I’m definitely
     looking at a bigger fic than I’d bargained for, but it’s SO FUN and
     you guys’ response has made this an amazing adventure! I love love
     LOVE hearing what you think and getting your reactions you guys are
     all SO AMAZING and I really do try to keep up with everyone’s
     comments so LET ME HAVE THEM because I LOVE YOU GUYS.
     OKAY: ENOUGH CHATTER. THE CHAPTER!!! FORGIVE ME FOR ANY MISTAKES
     BECAUSE I EDITED THIS SO SO SO FAST. (Oh, and check out the Chapter 6
     preview at the bottom, if you’d like!!!)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
On Wednesday, Clint pauses while quizzing him on the ingredients of Liquid Luck
to ask if he’s, “gotten lucky with Bucky yet?” On Thursday, Sam writes ‘ASK HIM
OUT’ in his peas at dinner and Steve has no choice but to charm Sam’s plate
into his lap seconds before Bucky can glance over and see the message.
Worse yet is on Friday when Tony tosses a paper air plane across the room
during Defense Against the Dark Arts, aiming it so it lands perfectly on
Steve’s desk. He no sooner smoothes out the parchment than Tony’s hand shoots
into the air.
“Professor Phillips, Steve’s got a note!” He tattles.
As a stony faced veteran of the last wizarding war, you’d be hard pressed to
find someone more qualified to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts than
Professor Chester Phillips. As for teaching said skill to children, well, a
rock would probably be more nurturing. He’s grumpy, stern, and takes house
points like it’s what he was put on this green Earth to do.
Phillips calls him out, demanding that Steve read his note aloud in front of
the class. Steve looks from Phillips’s waiting expression to the paper and
reads it silently to himself.
“RUMOR HAS IT HIS ARM VIBRATES. YOU SHOULD ASK. OR FIND OUT IN MORE INTERESTING
                                    WAYS.”
Steve looks from the note to Tony, trying to convey murder with a simple glare.
He can’t read this aloud, not when Bucky’s looking right at him from his seat
beside Tony.
In an act born of pure self-preservation, he lies. He clears his throat and
pretends to read, “Tony said, ‘Professor Phillips looks a bit like a toad.’”
Professor Phillips swells like a toad and turns on Tony. “That’ll be ten points
from Slytherin, Mr. Stark,” he barks before turning back to his chalkboard.
A second paper airplane lands on Steve’s desk minutes later. This time he
slides it beneath his desk before opening it.
                                  “ASSHOLE.”
His only reprieve from their incessant badgering comes from the stolen hours he
spends alone at the edge of the Lake, shrouded from sight by the thick roots
and low, drooping branches of a wilting willow. It’s here that he hides away
now, tucked amongst the gnarled roots with his sketchbook open in his lap, idly
tracing rough sketches of an indefinable face on the page. He gives the figure
a strong jaw and loose tendrils of long, dark hair.
Steve sighs and flips to a new page, promising to stray away from faces and
focus on the view in front of him. He’s just begun to sketch the horizon when
he’s distracted by the heavy trample of a dozen footfalls headed his way.
Confused, he sets his sketchbook aside and stands, moving to peek around the
wide expanse of the willow’s trunk to see whose coming.
Bucky’s on him before he gets the chance. He swings around the trunk with speed
and nearly knocks Steve flat. For a moment they stare at each other, slack
jawed and wide eyed like they’ve never seen the other before.
“Come on, I think he went this way!” A feminine voice cries.
The heavy footfalls grow closer and Bucky cusses softly under his breath. He
backs Steve into a deep niche in the willow’s bark before crowding close
against him.
“What are you—“ but that’s all Steve manages to say before Bucky clamps a hand
over his mouth, shushing him gently with finger pressed to his lips. Steve nods
minutely and tries not to think too hard about all the places he and Bucky are
touching.
Bucky tilts his head to listen as the footsteps grow louder before passing by
and fading away as the girls run past. He waits until long after their giggles
and chatter have faded into the sounds of the forest before dropping his hand.
He looks equal parts grateful and sheepish as he steps away. “Sorry about
that,” he apologizes, “couldn’t shake ‘em.”
“Poor you,” Steve says dryly.
Bucky laughs. “They only want me for my body,” he says with mock offense.
Steve tries very hard not to look at said body, unfairly on display in a tight
black t-shirt with the Durmstrang crest sewn over his chest. Instead he looks
at the ground, far less interesting but also less likely to be offended by his
staring.
“So what brings you down here, huh?” Bucky asks, settling down amongst the
roots, making himself right at home. “There a group of girls trailin’ you I
ought to worry about?”
Steve snorts, belatedly realizing how unattractive the sound is. “Oh yeah,
whole pack of them. You just missed them, actually.”
“I’d believe it.” Bucky says, propping his legs up and reclining leisurely.
“Best Keeper in Hogwarts history? It’s a wonder you can keep ‘em off you.”
“Now where did you hear about that?” Steve asks, though he thinks he already
has some idea. He’d seen Phil Coulson trailing Bucky around the other day,
practically treading on the older boy’s heels while he recounted Bucky’s
performance in the semi-finals play by play, complete with personal commentary
and sound effects.
Bucky fidgets a bit and glances away. “Heard it around.”
Steve laughs. “Well, I’m far from the best. You probably heard that in the same
place they say your arm vibrates.” He says.
Bucky’s head pops off the root it had been resting against. “Is that what
they’re saying?” He asks incredulously. “No wonder they’re chasing me,” he
mutters, dropping his head heavily.
Steve picks up his sketchbook and resituates himself, leaning back against the
willow’s trunk and trying to get back into the landscape. It’s hopeless. The
light of Sunday evening’s setting sun filters through the leaves and dances
across Bucky’s skin as gentle winds sway the branches above. It’s distracting
to say the least. Steve huffs and turns the page.
Bucky turns to him and squints. “How come you didn’t show me this place before,
huh?” He asks, dipping his fingers in the nearby water and running them across
the smooth surface.
“Because I’ve never shown it to anybody,” Steve says without thinking, still
immersed in capturing the way the shadows flit across Bucky’s face.
“Oh,” Bucky says. He pulls his hand back from the water and hastily dries it on
his pants while shifting to get up. “Right, sorry. Sort of invited myself, huh?
I’ll just—”
“No!” Steve blurts. “No, you’re fine! You can stay,” he says, “if you want to,”
he adds as an afterthought.
“You sure?” Bucky asks.
Steve shrugs. “So long as you promise not to tell the guys where I hide,” he
says, eying Bucky carefully.
Bucky grins and falls back against the roots. “I swear, your secret’s safe with
me,” he says, crossing his heart with his fingers.
They spend hours that way, hidden from meddling friends and love struck fans.
Bucky tells him about his first week at Hogwarts, about how he loves
Transfiguration but loathes Darkhölme and how he’s already finished three of
the assigned reading books for Erskine’s class. He plays idly with the water
while he talks and Steve draws him, glancing up every once in a while to just
watch. While Bucky’s left hand dips in and out of the water, gleaming silver
beneath the surface, the right is curled up behind his neck, resting between
his head and the roots.
At some point Bucky’s eyes slip shut and the rise and fall of his chest becomes
steady, though his fingers continue to stroke the water. Steve’s thankful. It
allows him to look without fear of being caught.
Steve returns to the dorms well after sundown with his sketchbook filled from
cover to cover with half-finished sketches of Bucky Barnes: the lazy curve of
his sleepy smile, the cocky tilt of his jaw, the way his eyes droop while he
stares at the skies above. By the time he slips into the Seventh Year dorm,
everyone is asleep but Sam, who’s got his wand between his teeth, lighting the
parchment in his lap.
“Homework?” Steve asks, shutting the door gently behind him.
“Nah, writing Riley.”
Steve can’t say he’s surprised. Sam always sets aside the time to sit down and
write home to his Squib friend, for whom he records every single detail of his
daily life so the boy won’t feel like he’s missing out on the Hogwarts
experience.
“You tell him about the Tournament?” Steve asks, crossing the room to his
trunk. He opens it and hastily stashes his sketchbook inside, hidden beneath
his winter sweaters.
Sam chuckles. “Yeah, told him about how my idiot friend volunteered, too.”
“So did you.” Steve points out.
“Yeah, only because I figured maybe the Goblet would choose my dumb ass and
spare yours.” Sam argues back. Rhodey shifts in his sleep and Sam drops his
voice to a whisper. “Where have you been?”
“Nowhere,” Steve lies, though his grin gives him away.
Sam points his wand at Steve, nearly blinding him with light. “We gonna play
Good Cop/Bad Cop or are you gonna come right out and tell the truth?” He asks.
“Think I’ll take my chances with Bad Cop,” Steve says, stripping down to his
boxers and undershirt before climbing into bed.
“Were you with him?” Sam asks. He doesn’t clarify who he means but, then again,
he doesn’t really have to.
Steve settles in beneath the covers, turning his back on Sam before throwing a
cheeky glance over his shoulder. “Maybe.”
Sam laughs and lowers his wand. “And…?”
“Nothing happened, Sam.” Steve says, repeating the tired phrase.
“If you say so,” Sam sighs, placing his wand back between his teeth. “Night
Steve.”
“Night Sam,” Steve hums.
                                      ***
It arrives at breakfast the next morning.
A tawny owl lands in front of him carrying a blood red envelope stamped with a
black seal. Steve freezes with his next bite of oatmeal suspended halfway
between his bowl and his mouth, blinking at the equally wide-eyed bird staring
back at him.
“Check it out, guys!” Clint laughs, smacking Thor and Rhodey on the shoulders
to get their attention. “Steve’s got a Howler!”
“No I don’t!” Steve says despite the red letter that says otherwise. “Shoo, go
away!” he hisses, nudging the owl away. Still, it’s insistent, scuttling back
across the table and shaking the envelope adamantly.
“Don’t think it works like that.” Sam says. “Speaking from experience, it’s
best to just get it out of the way.” He adds, and he should know. Darlene
Wilson sends her son a Howler every time she receives another report about Sam
flying inside the castle. Steve can still remember the time Sam hid an unopened
Howler under his bed only to have it blow a sizable hole in his mattress twenty
minutes later.
Steve sighs and carefully takes the Howler from the owl’s beak. It offers Steve
a sympathetic hoot before stretching its wings and soaring away.
The Howler quivers in Steve’s hands, emitting a high pitched whistle like the
sound a kettle makes when left on a stove top for too long. Steve squeezes his
eyes shut and breaks the seal, steeling himself for what he knows is coming.
The Howler burns so hot that Steve has to drop it. It flits about erratically
in the air, steaming and smoking and spitting flames. A mouth forms from the
broken seal and Sarah Rogers’s voice fills the Great Hall.
“STEVEN GRANT ROGERS,” his mother shrieks, “DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET
OF FIRE?” Steve frantically tries to catch the Howler and force it shut, but to
no avail. It slips between his fingers and continues to attract attention from
all corners of the Hall. “IF I DIDN’T THINK YOU WERE DETERMINED TO KILL
YOURSELF, I’D COME DOWN THERE AND DO IT MYSELF!”
Steve rounds on his sheepish looking friends, all of whom are suddenly
suspiciously interested in their breakfasts. “Who told her?” He growls.
Sam winces. “Well, you see, it was a group decision to—”
“It was Sam’s idea!” Clint blurts, pointing an accusing finger.
“Clint, what the Hell?” Sam shouts.
“Sam?” Steve cries, shocked and indignant.
“DOES THIS HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT BOY YOU LIKE? THE ONE THE PAPERS ARE
ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT?”
Steve redoubles his efforts at catching the Howler, refusing to as much as
glance in Bucky’s direction. He’d seen him come in earlier with Natasha and
Rebecca in tow. For a moment it seemed as though they’d join them at the
Gryffindor table again, but Peggy Carter called them over to the Hufflepuff
table instead. Steve had to try very hard not to notice when Bucky took a seat
between Connie Alves and Pepper, both of whom sent him devilish grins from
across the room.
“DID YOU THINK YOU’D PULL THE WOOL OVER YOUR DEAR MOTHER’S EYES WHILE YOU
RISKED YOUR LIFE TRYING TO IMPRESS HIM?”
“This just gets better and better.” Clint chuckles.
“MERLIN’S BEARD, STEVEN. WHY DON’T YOU JUST ASK HIM OUT LIKE A NOMRAL BOY?” She
sounds incredulous, now, but no less mad and her voice certainly hasn’t gotten
any lower. “I DIDN’T NURSE YOU THROUGH DRAGON POX SO YOU COULD DIE IN A
TOURNAMENT!”
“An excellent point.” Sam murmurs into his glass of pumpkin juice.
“Oh, don’t you even start,” Steve warns.
“I CAN’T SAY I’M SHOCKED. I’M SURE THAT BOY IS BOUND TO NOTICE YOU WHEN THEY’RE
CARRYING YOU AWAY ON A STRETCHER. THEN THEY’LL BRING YOU TO SAINT MUNGO’S AND
I’LL BE THERE WAITING TO TELL YOU I TOLD YOU SO.” She seethes.
The Howler shakes itself and straightens as if regaining its composure. Steve’s
seen his mother do it a thousand times before and is mildly impressed to see a
piece of paper capture the movement so perfectly. “Oh, and Samuel, dear,” she
says, soft and sweet and lacking any of her former malice, “I’ve sent cookies
in the post; I hope they’re still warm. Thank you for being the voice of reason
my boy so dearly needs. Don’t let him get his heart broken. His body I can fix,
at least.”
The letter rounds on him on him one last time. “WELL, STEVEN. YOU’VE TRULY
OUTDONE YOURSELF THIS TIME. I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY,” his mother concludes. The
Howler blows a malicious raspberry in his face before snapping shut and falling
back to the table, completely innocuous, nothing more than an envelope once
more.
Not a moment later, a snowy owl soars overhead and drops a neatly packaged box
in front of Sam. Steve can smell his mother’s homemade chocolate chip cookies
even through the wrapping. The rapt silence of the Great Hall slowly breaks up,
starting with awkward laughter and hushed whispers before blooming into the
normal morning conversation.
“You weren’t writing to Riley last night, were you?” Steve asks flatly.
“No. No I was not.” Sam admits.
The silence at the table continues to swell until Clint breaks it with a
pointed cough. “So…” he says, dragging out the word, “…about those cookies…”
Sam pushes them across the table into Clint’s eager hands.
“Doth my ear deceive me?” Tony asks, appearing behind Steve, breathing heavily
like he’d just sprinted across the Hall which, come to think of it… “Cookies?”
He asks, pointing to the box.
Clint tears the box open. “Cookies,” he confirms. Within seconds, he, Thor,
Tony, and Rhodey all have their hands in the box, taking as many cookies as
they can fit between their fingers.
“Lighten up, Rogers, it could have been worse.” Tony says, shoving a cookie
into his mouth. “She could ‘ave named dwopped.”
“She might as well have.” Rhodey points out. To the group’s questioning glance,
he explains, “I mean, how many guys can you think of who get as much press as
Barnes does?”
“Could be me,” Tony suggests.
Steve scoffs. “Please.”
“Don’t say you’ve never thought about it.”
Steve glares at him as he stands from the table, figuring now is as good a time
as any to head to History of Magic. At least there he’ll be able to forget his
embarrassment in favor of memorizing the names of everyone on the Minister’s
council during 1943. He shoves the Howler in his book bag and turns to leave,
but not before reaching for a cookie himself.
The box rebuffs him, snapping shut as soon as his hand comes close and opening
again only when he shifts it away. It’s a trick his mother’s been using for
years. Steve huffs in frustration.
Sam reaches into the box himself and offers him the biggest cookie of the
bunch. It’s an apology and a peace offering, Steve can tell, one that he
accepts after only a moment of petty hesitation.
                                      ***
Much like Professor Howlett’s classroom, the dungeon in which Professor
Darkhölme teaches Transfiguration bears many of the same characteristics she
does: it’s dark, creepy, and Steve doesn’t want to be anywhere near it unless
he absolutely has to.
The only personal effects the professor keeps in the room are a serpentine hour
glass and a framed photograph of herself arm in arm with Professor Xavier and
another man Steve doesn’t recognize. It’s an old photograph, Steve can tell by
Professor Xavier’s full head of hair and the way that Professor Darkhölme is
smiling.
That photograph could very well be the only piece of evidence that proves she’s
capable of doing so, but right now Steve is focused solely on the hour glass
positioned in the center of Professor Darkhölme’s desk. He’s long since tuned
out the sound of Darkhölme’s cold, clipped voice as she explains the
complicated process of becoming an animagus.
“Mr. Rogers, are you paying attention?”
Steve meets her sharp yellow-eyed stare. “Yes, Professor Darkhölme,” he says
flatly, ducking his head and pretending to scribble down a note on whatever it
is she’s been saying.
As soon as her back is turned, Steve’s eyes slide back to the serpentine hour
glass. He watches as emerald venom drips steadily from its silver fangs into
the glass basin below, keeping time with every drop. As it is, the glass is
nearly full and at the end of the hour the fangs will have run dry completely.
Usually Steve can distract himself, get into the lesson and actually
participate despite Darkhölme’s less than encouraging nature, but tonight he
can’t seem to manage it. Tonight, his mind is on the Goblet, whose decision he
and the rest of Hogwarts will assemble for as soon as the last drop of venom
joins the others.
While Steve continues to track the steady drip-drip-drop of time passing,
uncomfortable laughter blooms around the dungeon. Steve perks up immediately.
Laughter in Darkhölme’s classroom never means anything good. He looks up to see
Bucky staring back at him from the front of the room.
Bucky’s blue eyes bleed into bright yellow. “Maybe this will get your
attention, Mr. Rogers?” Professor Darkhölme taunts.
Steve’s cheeks burn and he wonders just how much embarrassment he can endure in
a single day. He knows Clint has a big mouth, and it isn’t like he’s guarded
the secret particularly well himself, but Darkhölme, for Merlin’s sake?
The last drop of venom drips into the basin, freeing the class. Gryffindors and
Ravenclaws alike scurry to cram their books into their bags and flee the
dungeon, bottlenecking at the door in their haste to leave. Professor Darkhölme
doesn’t seem to take much offense. In fact, she looks rather pleased, watching
on as lethargically as ever, wearing Bucky’s body and an empty grin that looks
so wrong on his face.
“See you next week, Mr. Rogers!” She calls to him as he scrambles out the door.
He doesn’t stop running until he’s made it to the spinning stairs, at which
point he leans on the railing to catch his breath, huffing and puffing so
loudly that he doesn’t hear the distinct sound of clicking heels joining him on
the staircase.
“I assume this is Darkhölme’s doing?” Steve looks up to see Peggy Carter
looking back at him, brows drawn upward with concern. “What’s she up to this
time?”
Steve laughs and straightens up. “Promise not to tell?” He asks.
“On my grandmother’s grave,” Peggy swears.
“She, ah…She turned into Bucky so I’d pay attention.” Steve admits.
Peggy cracks a smile. “Well, that’s one way to do it, I suppose.” She pauses.
“Did it work?”
Steve scoffs with mock offense. “Think I’m that easy, huh?”
“Well, since you’re avoiding the question, I’ll have to assume…” she trails off
suggestively.
Steve smiles and rolls his eyes. “No, it didn’t work.”
Peggy hums thoughtfully. “No, I suppose it would take a lot more than Barnes’s
good looks to make that class tolerable.”
They navigate the stairs together down to the main floor. Peggy manages to
transition from staircase to staircase without a single misstep. Pepper’s
lessons must be paying off. It took Steve the entirety of his First Year just
to take the stairs without feeling sick to his stomach afterwards. As they step
off the stairs, a voice calls to them from behind.
“Hey British, wait up!”
A petite blonde with bouncing curls and a Beauxbatons uniform hurries down the
staircase, taking them two at a time to catch up. She leaps from the fourth
step as the stairs begin to shift away, stumbling to a stop in front of them,
knocking her hat askew in the process.
“Do be more careful, would you?” Peggy asks, adjusting the girl’s hat. “What’s
the rush?”
“I want to make sure I’m sitting next to you when your name comes out of the
fire!” She says like it should be obvious. “Who’s this guy?” She asks,
acknowledging Steve’s presence.
“Angie, Steve. Steve, Angie Martinelli.” Peggy says.
“Call me Angie,” she says, taking Steve and Peggy by the forearm and tugging
them along with the tide. “Steve…” she says to herself. “Steve…Steve…I don’t
like it. Too generic. Where you from, Steve?”
“Brooklyn.” Steve answers.
“Brooklyn!” Angie cries. “Brooklyn, it is!”
“And now you know why she calls me English,” Peggy utters under her breath.
“I heard that!” Angie snaps. She tugs harder on their arms, weaving through the
bodies as they make their way towards the Great Hall. “Come on, come on! It’s
not every day that you get to witness your best friend making history!”
“And if the Goblet doesn’t choose me?” Peggy asks. “It might just as well
choose Dottie. Or Gwen.”
Angie scoffs. “Now you’re just talking crazy. Underwood’s tough and Stacy’s
brilliant, but you’re Peggy Carter.”
Peggy preens a bit at that, holding her head high. “I am, aren’t I?”
“What about you, Brooklyn?” Angie asks. “Saw you put your name in. You think
you got a shot?”
“My odds are as good as anyone’s, I guess.” Steve says, thinking of the other
names he knows are in the Goblet. There’s Thor and Sam, both of whom he’d
watched volunteer last week. The Howling Commandos had all offered their names
as well, even Gabe. There has to be more, Steve is sure, but those are just the
names he knows.
“Well, between you and me, my money’s on you.” Angie says confidently.
“And Durmstrang?” Steve asks.
“Well, I’d say Barnes was a shoe-in, but the Romanov girl’s the only one who
volunteered, isn’t she?” Angie asks.
Steve remembers the deafening silence that had followed Natasha’s entering of
the Tournament. Since that night, he hasn’t seen a single red coat approach the
Goblet again.
“Something tells me Pierce will find a way to get what he wants.” Peggy says.
“And what’s that?” Steve asks.
“Bucky in the Tournament by any means necessary.” Peggy explains.
“But he doesn’t want to compete.” Steve says.
Peggy scoffs. “As if Pierce gives a damn about what Bucky wants.”
Steve wants to ask what she means by that, but anything he was about to say
would have likely been drowned out by the excited buzz of chatter as Angie
hauls them into the Great Hall, shouldering her way through the thick crowd
none too gently.
It’s apparent that tonight is one of the few nights that Fury has imposed the
House-regulated seating assignments. Every Hogwarts student is seated at their
designated table while the students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are mixed in
amongst their hosting Houses. It takes Steve no time at all to find Bucky, the
red of his coat and Natasha’s fiery hair beside him stands out against the sea
of green and silver.
He splits away from Peggy and Angie, wishing Peggy good luck before fighting
through the crowd on his own. He falls into the open seat beside Clint with a
sigh of relief. When he turns to say something about how he can swear the
school’s gotten smaller since they were First Years, he catches sight of
something that makes him stop short.
“Are you wearing your hearing aid?” Steve asks, staring at the white plastic
tucked into Clint’s right ear.
“You nag me about it for six years and now you’re surprised?” Clint asks
incredulously. To Steve’s unwavering stare, he sighs. “It was Barnes, alright?”
“Oh, come on,” Sam whines, “don’t tell me you’re in love with him now, too!”
“And risk getting ‘TRAITOR’ cursed into my forehead for all eternity? Yeah,
right.” Clint scoffs. “Besides, my tastes cater towards scary red heads with a
low tolerance for bullshit.”
“You ought to tell Tony that,” Rhodey says, “you two can start a club.”
As the last few students trickle through the double doors, Steve’s eyes are
drawn to the High Table. It’s rare for all the professors to assemble on the
same night, but tonight sees the reunion of the entire Hogwarts staff. Even the
reclusive Professor Xavier has emerged from his Divinations tower for the first
time since last year’s Year End feast. Steve can’t remember the last time he’s
seen them all together like this. He supposes it’s a testament to the
importance of what’s to come.
Fury stands from his seat at the center of the table and silence falls over the
Hall. “Is this everyone?” He asks. He takes the silence that follows as an
answer and points his wand at the doors. They swing shut with a heavy thud that
resonates throughout the hall, echoing in the high ceilings.
“I take it you all know why you’re here.” Fury says, walking slowly behind the
chairs of the staff, surveying the crowd carefully. “To find out which students
will represent you in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and bring honor and glory to
your schools.”
“Or die trying,” Clint whispers ominously.
“I would like to commend those of you who honored the rules set by me and my
colleagues in regard to the age restrictions placed upon those eligible to
complete.” He continues, turning the corner and continuing his path along the
front of the table. “With the glaring exception of one student, there were no
attempts made to fool the Goblet.”
“Who was that?” Steve asks. “Who was the one who tried?”
Sam chuckles. “When’s the last time you saw Peter Quill?”
“With that said, I do believe we have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Professor Fury says, raising his wand to the basins hanging from the stone
gargoyles around the room. He casts his wand at each one in turn, dimming the
flames dancing in their basins until the only light comes from that of the
Goblet, whose fire burns on brightly, casting an eerie blue light over
everything.
“It is time now for the Goblet to make its decision. I doubt I need to remind
you that if your name is chosen, there is no going back. You are bound by
magical law to compete.” He says gravely. “If selected you will come up and
greet your Headmaster and they will lead you into the Trophy Room where you
will await further instruction.”
“Trophy Room?” Clint whispers.
“The door behind the High Table,” Rhodey says.
“That’s what that is?” Clint asks incredulously.
“What did you think it was?” Rhodey asks.
“…the bathroom?”
“I ask that Headmaster Pierce and Headmistress Hill join me at the Goblet.”
Fury says.
There’s scattered applause as Hill and Pierce stand from the table. While Hill
and Fury seem to be on the same page in regards to their stiff black suits and
matching cloaks, Pierce has chosen to honor the occasion with his most
ostentatious suit yet: a golden, glittering disaster completed by a dragon skin
cloak of green and gold. They join Fury beside the Goblet, Pierce to his left
and Hill to his right, just as they’d sat at the table.
“First,” Fury says, reaching his hands towards the Goblet, “The Beauxbatons
Champion…“
The air in the room is electric, punctuated by gasps and squeals as a single
scrap of parchment shoots from the Goblet, leaving a trail of burning ashes in
its wake. Fury reaches up and plucks it from the air, turning the pale blue
parchment in his hand. He unfolds it carefully and reads the name upon it.
“Margret Carter,” he announces.
The Great Hall explodes with applause as Peggy stands from the Hufflepuff
table. The ladies of Beauxbatons raise theirs wands and conjure sparks of
brilliant blue fireworks around the room, popping and exploding with vivid
color. They light the proud smile on Peggy’s face as she makes her way across
the Hall.
Angie Martinelli leads the Hall in a chant of, “CAR-TER! CAR-TER!” and Steve
can’t help but join in. He’s unsurprised when Bucky stands on his bench and
whistles, loud and crisp with his fingers between his lips.
Peggy arrives at the Goblet and bows to her Headmistress. Hill bows in return
before putting an arm around her and leading her into the Trophy Room. The
applause continues long after the door shuts behind them.
“Now,” Fury says, his deep voice resonating above the crowd, “The Durmstrang
Champion…”
Silence falls once again as Fury reaches his hand up to the flames. For a long
time, nothing happens. The Goblet continues to burn, but it offers no name.
Whispers stir around the Hall and Fury’s eye narrows in suspicion. To his left,
Pierce fidgets uncomfortably with the sleeve of his suit, tugging at the cuff
nervously.
Finally, after nearly seven minutes of hesitation, the Goblet spits out its
second scrap of parchment. Fury plucks it from the air and reads the name.
“James Barnes.”
“I didn’t know he volunteered.” Sam says, nearly inaudible over the ensuing
applause.
Steve cranes his neck to watch as Bucky rises from the Slytherin table. There’s
a look on his face that Steve’s never seen before, not in person or in papers.
It’s purposefully blank, like he’s schooled his features into careful
indifference. He nods to Headmaster Fury as he passes but refuses to meet
Pierce’s gaze and shrugs off the hand that Pierce tries to place on his
shoulder. Steve’s reminded of him and Peggy’s conversation from earlier.
“As if Pierce gives a damn about what Bucky wants…”
Bucky doesn’t wait for Headmaster Pierce as he walks out of the Hall, joining
Peggy and Headmaster Hill in the Trophy Room. Pierce offers the crowd a jovial
wave and a quick bow before disappearing through the door as well.
“And The Hogwarts Champion…” Fury says as soon as the door swings shut behind
Pierce.
The energy in the room becomes tense once again as the Goblet shoots the third
and final name into the air. Fury catches it and shakes off the burning ash.
“No hard feelings, my friends?” Thor says while they await the verdict.
“None,” Sam promises and Steve nods in agreement.
Fury unfolds the parchment and looks to the Gryffindor table. “Steven Rogers.”
The Great Hall erupts in applause. Steve blushes hard; refusing to stand until
Sam has to physically push him from the bench.
“Go on, get up there!” He urges, shooing Steve along.
The gravity of the situation hits him right as Fury offers him his hand to
shake. He’s not thinking of the applause or the proud look on Erskine’s face as
he passes along the High Table. He’s thinking of the look on his mother’s face
when she finds out he’d not only volunteered for the Tri-Wizard Tournament, but
he’d been chosen to complete. He’s thinking of the death toll and how he hopes
his name doesn’t join the notorious list of Tournament fatalities.
When he and Fury enter the Trophy Room, the scene inside isn’t quite as he’d
imagined it. Peggy and Bucky stand side by side in front of a roaring fireplace
that reflects off the glittering gold and silver trophies around the room, hung
from every wall and displayed on every shelf. Headmistress Hill stands close at
Peggy’s side while Pierce and Bucky aren’t even looking at one another, though
that seems to be more Bucky’s doing than Pierce’s.
“Shall we get started?” Fury asks as he comes into the room.
“Ready when you are, my friend.” Pierce says happily.
Steve’s not sure if he imagines the slight roll of Fury’s eye. “Then let’s not
waste any more time than we have to,” he says, waving his wand at the door.
“STOP!”
A small figure slips through the closing door and storms into the room. Rebecca
Barnes emerges from the shadows with her wand drawn; wielding it menacingly at
Pierce’s stunned face.
“What is the meaning of this?” He sputters indignantly.
“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!” She shouts. Bucky steps between the two and catches
Rebecca around the waist, pulling her away. “He can’t do this, Bucky, he
can’t!” She sobs, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. “He can’t get away
with this! You didn’t volunteer! There has to be some way…”
“That’s a serious accusation, Miss. Barnes. Is it true?” Fury asks with his eye
trained on Bucky.
Bucky’s eyes dart quickly to Pierce. “No, sir,” he says, then, after a beat, “I
volunteered myself.”
“Bucky, no…” Rebecca whimpers, fisting her hands in Bucky’s coat and burying
her face in his chest.
“See? The girl’s simply overreacting.” Pierce says jovially. “Anyone would,
given the circumstance. Though I’m sure Mr. Barnes wouldn’t have volunteered if
he didn’t think he could handle it.”
The look Bucky gives Pierce is downright icy as he wraps an arm around Rebecca
as she continues to sob into his chest. Steve averts his eyes, meeting Peggy’s
gaze from across the room. She looks about as lost for what to do in this
situation as he does.
“Mr. Barnes, might I ask you to escort your sister back to the dormitories?”
Fury asks, though Fury has that way about him that even his questions come out
sounding like orders.
“No problem,” Bucky says, holding Pierce’s gaze for a moment longer before
turning and guiding Rebecca out of the room, keeping one arm around her slim
shoulders and her face buried in his coat. Steve thinks he can still hear her
whispering, “You didn’t, Bucky! You didn’t!” as the door closes heavily behind
them.
“Well,” Pierce says, throwing his arms up with a sigh, “women, am I right?” He
says with a grin, a grin which falls as soon as he catches the full effect of
Headmistress Hill’s glare. “Nick…” he says uneasily, “you were saying
something?”
“I think this has been enough excitement for one night.” Fury says, watching
Pierce through his narrowed eye. “What’s say we reconvene tomorrow? 10 o’clock,
my office.” He suggests.
“Works for me,” Pierce says, tone light as if none of this has any effect on
him.
Headmistress Hill offers a stiff nod. She, too, is assessing Pierce carefully
out of the corner of her eyes.
“Me as well.” Peggy says.
“Yeah, I can do that,” Steve says.
“Then you two are free to go.” Fury says, nodding to the door. “And if you see
Mr. Barnes, be sure to tell him about tomorrow.” He says to both of them,
though his eye lingers on Steve.
Steve and Peggy nod in understanding before taking their leave. The door is
barely opened before the applause in the Great Hall begins anew and a fresh
batch of Beauxbatons’s fireworks lights the sky, now including a few sparks of
scarlet and gold.
“Go,” Peggy says over the noise. “Find him.”
And he does. He ignores the calls from his friends as he sprints past the
Gryffindor table, trying to imagine where Bucky may have gone. As it turns out,
he doesn’t have to look all that far. Two doors down from the Great Hall, a
sliver a light cuts across hallway. Steve approaches the open door, peeking
through the crack left in the doorway.
Rebecca and Bucky stand alone in the empty classroom and while Steve can’t see
Bucky’s face, he can see Rebecca’s, swollen and red and stained with tears that
continue to fall.
“Why did you lie?” Rebecca sobs, hands fisted in Bucky’s collar once again
while her eyes search her brother’s face for some sort of explanation.
“You know why.” Bucky snaps. “You know what would have happened if I hadn’t
stopped you.”
“Bucky, I don’t care—,”
“Well I do!” Bucky shouts. “You think I’d let that bastard do that to you?”
Rebecca sobs and shakes her head. “I’m scared for you.” She whispers softly.
“You’re all I have.”
Steve backs away slowly. He’s already seen too much, he thinks. He sticks to
the shadows as he makes his way back towards the Great Hall, all the while
trying to piece together what he’d just seen. One phrase keeps repeating itself
in his mind, over and over:
“As if Pierce gives a damn about what Bucky wants…”
Chapter End Notes
     CHAPTER SIX: An Interview with Everhart
     “So, tell me Steve,” Everhart says, poising her quill over her
     journal, “what makes you so special?”
     “Nothin’,” Steve says with a shrug, “I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”
     “Just a kid from Brooklyn.” Everhart repeats, obviously disinterested
     by Steve’s humility. “But the Goblet chose you. Surely there must be
     something about you that sets you apart?”
     Steve shrugs again. “Maybe that’s a conversation you ought to have
     with the Goblet, Miss Everhart. As far as I’m concerned, I’m no
     better than anyone else who volunteered.”
     Everhart’s eyes narrow. Steve’s giving her nothing to work with.
     Bucky can see the gears of her malicious mind turning. “And what of
     your competitors?” She asks finally. “Why do you think they were
     chosen?”
     Steve flushes and shakes his head. “I don’t—I don’t know. It’s hard
     to pick just one thing, you know? They both do so much, so much for
     the wizarding world and to pick just one thing would be—,”
     “Woah, woah!” Everhart chuckles, scribbling furiously in her journal.
     “Slow down there, Mr. Rogers. Someone may think you have a crush.”
     Steve turns impossibly redder and Everhart notices. She grins and
     scribbles another quick note. Steve gapes soundlessly, watching her
     hand fly across the page.
     Bucky comes to his rescue. “Don’t see how that’s any of your
     business.”
***** The Ghost of Tournament's Past *****
Chapter Notes
     *crawls from the literal pits of Hell with this chapter clenched in
     my teeth.*
     Okay, so obviously I owe a bit of an explanation here. This chapter
     has been a battle ground for my writer's block for 3+ months. I've
     also been really struggling with my anxiety and depression while also
     working the summer away, and this story definitely struggled because
     of it.
     BUT NOW I RETURN, WITH MORE CHAPTERS! I was really hoping to surprise
     everyone with TWO new chapters, but Chapter Seven still needs a
     little tweaking, so I'll be getting that up tomorrow. (It's my first
     day off in 3 months, so I'm excited to say the least.)
     Okay, with all that being said, I just wanted to thank everyone who
     has CONTINUED to show this story support despite it's slow updating.
     I'm going to respond to everyone as SOON as this chapter's posted
     because you guys are what kept me motivated to actually write this
     thing. So thank you again. SO SO SO SO MUCH. I hope to hear from you
     guys again (and please be gentle with me, I really truly am SO
     sorry), your comments, jokes, thoughts, headcannons all make this SO
     fun and I love every single little thing you guys say. You're all so
     wonderful and I can't thank you enough for your support.
     And, finally, I've got a little warning for this chapter. The scene
     is brief, but the Cruciatus Curse is used at one point during this
     chapter. It's brief, but I wanted to warn those of you who might not
     wanna read that! This chapter's a little plot-heavy, but I hope it's
     still got all the magic and fluff that has made you guys like it so
     much.
     OKAY. I'LL SHUT UP! And I'll add the Chapter Seven preview at the
     bottom. I think you guys will really like it. We're going to see SO
     many cameos you will not know what to do with yourselves. :D
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“I know you’re there. You might as well come out now.”
Bucky sighs and slides his book back on the shelf, filling the space that just
so happens to offer the perfect view of Natasha’s red head bowed over her
Arithmancy book. “How’d you know?”
“Because no one is that interested in Herbology,” she says. “You’ve been
staring at that book for twenty minutes. I hope you learned something, at
least.”
“Learned that I still can’t pull one over on you,” Bucky says, coming to join
her at the table and taking the open seat across from her, “and why no one is
interested in Herbology.”
Natasha offers him a small quirk of her lips and nothing more, fully immersed
in the text beneath her.
Bucky’s been keeping a watchful eye over her every second of every day since
she volunteered and while he knows she’s more than capable of looking after
herself, that doesn’t mean Pierce can’t catch her off guard—a fact that he
reminds her of constantly, including now as he glances around the library
wearily.
“No one catches me off guard,” she says without taking her eyes off her book,
the response having become practiced over the past week.
Bucky laughs and relaxes back into his chair. It’s been fun, the way their
roles have reversed. It almost makes up for the years of disastrous
matchmaking.
Almost.
In fact, she’s been so busy trying to avoid him that she hasn’t had the time to
bother him about his progress with Steve, or rather the pathetic lack thereof…
“Well if you’re just going to sit there, why don’t you make yourself useful,”
she says, sliding a scrap of parchment across the table. “I need that.”
“You tryin’ to get rid of me?” Bucky asks in mock offense, picking up the
parchment and reading ‘New Theory of Numerology’.
Natasha smirks. “Is it that obvious?”
Bucky stands and takes the parchment with a dramatic flourish. “I can see when
my presence isn’t wanted,” he pouts.
“Not unwanted,” Natasha says, “just unwarranted.”
Bucky scoffs and disappears into the stacks, deftly ducking the self-sorting
books as they flutter past, a skill he’s had to learn the hard way through
trial and error and more than a dozen painful bumps on the head.
The Arithmancy section is kept towards the back, nearest to a long line of
floor to ceiling windows overlooking the lawn and the sparkling surface of the
Great Lake beyond it. Bucky takes a second to admire the view, a rolling
expanse of green grass filled with students studying or otherwise pretending
to. One student in particular catches his attention, carrying a sketchbook
across the grounds towards the thick woodlands that lay on the Lake’s edge.
He watches Steve disappear into the tree line and realizes that this could be
his chance to finally get a minute alone with Steve, but he’s got no reason to
be in the forest. He sighs and looks away from the window, shoulders sagging in
defeat. Where’s Rebecca and her nagging ideas when he needs them most?
He freezes and turns back to the window as an idea begins to form in his head.
Rebecca…
He runs his finger along the spines of at least a hundred books before
happening across ‘New Theory of Numerology. He pulls it from the shelf with an
excited whoop and almost forgets to duck the incoming books in his rush to get
back to Natasha. He throws the book on her desk, finally eliciting enough
interest for her to lift her head from her book with a cocked brow, demanding
an explanation.
“Sorry, something came up,” he says hastily, already three shelves away.
“Tell Steve I say hi,” she calls to his retreating back.
Bucky can picture the grin on her face, partly because of the comment and
partly because she thinks she’s finally free from Bucky’s watchful eye. Bucky
laughs. Little does she know…
He stops at a book case three aisles away and whistles a quick two-note tune.
Clint’s shock of blonde hair pops out from above.
“Watch her,” Bucky orders.
“Like a hawk,” Clint promises with a salute before returning to his post.
With that taken care of, he sets out to find his sister. Not hard to do, given
that she and her fellow Third Year friends tend to stick to the same familiar
loitering spots. What’s harder to do is convince them to go along with his
plan.
“You want us to what?”
Eight sets of disbelieving eyes stare back at him and Bucky resists the urge to
roll his own.
“Keep your voice down, would you?” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder
quickly to make sure the coast is clear. Thor’s just down the hall, Bucky can
hear him speaking loudly with a pretty Ravenclaw about “the alignment of the
nine realms”, and Grant Ward won’t be back to take his prefect duties too
seriously for at least another ten minutes. He turns back to the small group
assembled in the alcove beneath the main stairwell before repeating himself for
what feels like the hundredth time. “I need you to chase me to the Great Lake.”
“Why?” Rebecca asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.
Bucky opens his mouth, a lie already on his tongue, but at the last minute he
snaps his mouth shut and settles for a meaningful look, one that Rebecca must
understand given the way her face lights up immediately.
“What’s in it for us?” She asks, crossing her arms with a cocked brow and a
smirk.
This time, Bucky really does roll his eyes. “What do you want?”
“A hundred galleons,” she says, “each,” she adds, earning a chorus of approval
from her friends.
“Each?” Bucky scoffs. To Rebecca’s firm nod, he shakes his head. “Fifty,” he
bargains.
“Two hundred.”
“One hundred.”
“Deal,” Rebecca says with a grin.
Behind her, Rebecca’s friends giggle excitedly, eyes shining like the galleons
that are about to line their pockets. Bucky realizes a moment too late that
he’d been tricked and reminds himself to keep his sister away from Quill and
his buddies.
“Fine, hundred galleons each,” Bucky concedes. “And you don’t tell anybody
about this.”
“Silence’ll cost you ex-tra,” Rebecca says in a sing-song, bouncing on her
toes.
And that’s how he finds himself nearly a thousand galleons lighter, sprinting
across the same quad he’d admired from the window. You’d think for an athlete
he’d be able to handle a little long distance running, but by the time he hits
the dirt path carving through the thick woodlands, his legs and lungs are
burning with every step he takes.
He ducks behind the thick trunk of a weeping willow for a few seconds of rest
only to find that he’s not alone, and while he may have been winded from his
run, it’s the sight of Steve Rogers wide eyed and slack jawed that really takes
his breath away.
“Come on,” he hears Rebecca yell. “I think he went this way!”
Bucky glances back and forth between Steve and the hallowed bark of the
willow’s trunk behind him before hastily backing him into that niche, one hand
flattened in the center of his chest, the other braced against the bark. Bucky
glances down at the space between them, or rather the lack thereof, and bites
his bottom lip to keep from grinning at the sight.
“What are you—” Steve manages to say before Bucky can clamp a hand over his
mouth, shushing him with a finger pressed to his own lips. Steve nods minutely
and Bucky feels his pulse quicken at the sight of Steve’s blue eyes so wide and
innocent above his hand.
Bucky reluctantly looks away and tilts his head to listen as the footsteps grow
louder before passing by and fading away as the girls run past. He waits until
long after their giggles and chatter have faded into the sounds of the forest
before dropping his hand. It’s well worth a thousand galleons to see the blush
on Steve’s cheeks when he does.
“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, “couldn’t shake ‘em.”
“Poor you,” Steve says dryly.
Bucky laughs. “They only want me for my body,” he says with mock offense.
Bucky doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes sweep over his body before he catches
himself and stares resolutely at the ground. “So what brings you down here,
huh?” He asks, settling down amongst the roots growing up from the ground in
gnarled patches. “There a group of girls trailin’ you I ought to worry about?”
Steve snorts and glances away with an easy smile. “Oh yeah, whole pack of them.
You just missed them, actually.”
They ought to make a cure for that smile, because as far as Bucky’s concerned
that shit’s contagious. It’s got him grinning like an idiot, too. “I’d believe
it,” he says, propping his legs up and reclining against the tree roots. “Best
Keeper in Hogwarts history? It’s a wonder you can keep ‘em off you.”
“Now where did you hear about that?” Steve asks.
Bucky freezes for a minute. It’s not like he can admit that he (albeit sort of
reluctantly) snooped through Steve’s private file.
“Heard it around,” he says evasively, which is still true. It’s hard to make it
from class to class without hearing about Captain Rogers! and the perfect
season where he didn’t allow for a single point, especially when Phil Coulson
catches up to him and gives Bucky a detailed play-by-play of every game from
that year.
Steve must buy it, though. He laughs and shakes his head. “Well, I’m far from
the best,” he says humbly. “You probably heard that in the same place they say
your arm vibrates.”
Bucky’s head pops off the root it had been resting against. “Is that what
they’re saying?” He asks incredulously. “No wonder they’re chasing me,” he
mutters, dropping his head heavily. He glances at the arm in question and pouts
thoughtfully. Not a bad idea, though…
The sound of shuffling draws Bucky’s attention. He watches as Steve picks up
his sketchbook and resituates himself against the willow’s trunk, flicking
through the pages, scribbling a detail here and there before turning to a new
page with an agitated huff.
Bucky watches him work for a few minutes before breaking the silence between
them. “How come you didn’t show me this place before, huh?” He asks, dipping
his fingers in the nearby water and running them across the smooth surface.
“Because I’ve never shown it to anybody,” Steve says without looking up from
his sketchbook.
Bucky’s heart sinks. “Oh,” he says. He pulls his hand back from the water and
hastily dries it on his pants while shifting to get up. Stupid, stupid… If
Steve had wanted company, he’d have asked you himself. “Right, sorry. Sort of
invited myself, huh? I’ll just—”
“No!” Steve blurts. “No, you’re fine! You can stay,” he says, “if you want to.”
“You sure?” Bucky asks, frozen between leaving and staying.
Steve shrugs. “So long as you promise not to tell the guys where I hide,” he
says with a pointed look.
Bucky grins and falls back against the roots. “I swear, your secret’s safe with
me,” he says, crossing his heart with his fingers.
The blue sky above bleeds pink around seven and Bucky watches as the day
becomes dusk through the leaves. When the pink finally succumbs to the inky
blackness of night, the only light comes from the stars above and the fireflies
that blink steadily in the darkness.
Steve abandons his sketchbook at sundown, choosing instead to join Bucky by the
water. Even in the limited light he can see Steve’s eyes, big and bright,
watching him like Bucky’s the most interesting thing in the world while he
rambles about his week. So Bucky keeps talking. And Steve listens.
For the past two years it feels like all Bucky’s done is talk about himself,
but it never felt like anyone was listening. With Steve he doesn’t have to be
interesting or composed or controversial. He can be Bucky Barnes—just a regular
boy who falls asleep in the library more often than not and snorts when he
laughs too hard. But that’s alright, because Bucky can make Steve laughs so
hard he gives himself the hiccups, which Bucky finds hopelessly, pathetically
endearing.
That’s why, at the end of the night, Bucky finds himself wandering in the
lantern-lit halls dazed and grinning like he’s been stupefied. He’s nearly back
to the Slytherin dungeons when the soft sound of footfalls alert him to another
presence in the hall.
“Steve?” Bucky asks, trying not to sound too hopeful as he searches the
shadows.
“Mr. Barnes.” Bucky’s stomach drops at the sound of Headmaster Pierce’s voice.
He appears beside him in a fitted black suit and simple black cloak, subdued
for his usual taste. “I was wondering if we might have a word?”
Bucky neither agrees to nor declines the conversation, not that it matters to
Pierce. “You know, James, I’ve had my eye on you for a while,” he says. When
Bucky offers no response, Pierce continues undeterred. “Your work has been a
gift to our kind. You’re shaping the century.”
“Didn’t know you were a fan,” Bucky says, keeping his eyes on the stone floor
that glows golden in the light of the torches.
“Oh, but I am,” Pierce laughs, “and I know I’m not alone in that. That’s why
I’ve come to talk to you.” He pauses. The silence stretches between them and,
once again, Pierce is the one to fill it. “I think you and I could help one
another, Mr. Barnes,” he says. “Perhaps…come to an understanding of sorts?
Something…mutually beneficial?”
“Why?” Bucky asks, finally meeting Pierce’s eye. In the flickering light of the
torches, his age shows in the deep lines of his face.
“Your friend Miss Romanov made a very big mistake,” Pierce says
conversationally, masking his threat in informality.
“What do you want, huh?” Bucky asks. “I didn’t ask her to volunteer! There’s
nothing you or me or anyone else can do about it.”
“But don’t you see?” Pierce asks, taking on a softer tone. “That’s where you’re
wrong.”
Bucky narrows his eyes, which Pierce takes as a sign to continue. “While it’s
true that you may have seen your fair share of mudslinging in the press, I
think you and I can both agree that the Romanov name is dripping with blood.
And it’s not exactly a secret, is it?” Pierce chuckles softly. “Dreykov’s
daughter…Sao Paulo…the hospital fire…”
“That wasn’t her!” Bucky snaps, taking a step towards Pierce.
Pierce holds his hands up in surrender. “Maybe not,” he appeases, “but I’ll
take a little mud over blood any day, for appearance’s sake.”
“And you’re all about appearances, aren’t you, Headmaster?” Bucky asks. He
doesn’t care to hear any more. He turns on his heel and starts to walk away,
but Pierce stops him with a single sentence.
“You can do something about it, James.” Bucky freezes on the spot. He’s torn
between telling Pierce to take a hike and actually listening to what he has to
say. Pierce makes the decision for him. “Put your name in.”
“Piss off,” Bucky says, taking another step away.
“Crucio!”
Bucky’s legs buckle beneath him, sending him to his knees as searing agony
wracks his body. He cries out in pain, his screams echoing off the stone walls.
He collapses on his side, twitching through the aftershocks. He forgets where
he is for a moment and who he’s with, but it all comes flooding back to him
when Pierce’s shiny dress shoes come into view.
“I think we understand each other now. Don’t we, Mr. Barnes?” Pierce asks,
crouching over Bucky’s body. “It would be a shame to subject Miss Romanov to
the same fate, wouldn’t it?”
Bucky forces himself to look up and meet Pierce’s gaze. He gives a weak nod,
earning a smile from the man above him.
“Get up,” Pierce says as he stands and tucks his wand inside his jacket, “you
haven’t got much time.” His footsteps retreat down the hall, echoing quietly
off the stone. Before he turns the corner, he looks back to Bucky and frowns.
“It didn’t have to be this way, Mr. Barnes,” he says sadly, turning away
without another word.
Bucky drags himself down to the Goblet and puts his name in as soon as he can
get his feet beneath him again.
                                      ***
“What the Hell were you thinking?” Natasha asks, dumping too much phoenix ash
into their cauldron, turning it a swampy green color that isn’t even mentioned
in the text. “I could have handed it!”
He tells her during Potions the day after the Goblet’s decision. It isn’t like
telling Rebecca, but then again, few things have ever broken Bucky’s heart like
the way Rebecca’s voice cracks when she’s upset. With Natasha there aren’t any
tears, not that Bucky expected them, just a hard look in her eyes that says if
she could hit him right now, she absolutely would.
Bucky glances over his shoulder to make sure that Professor Summers is still at
his desk before turning back to Natasha. “What could you have done?”
“Do you want me to list the hexes alphabetically or rank them by pain?” She
asks, pulling a pile of dandelion roots towards her and picking up a blade. “I
can’t believe he’d do that,” she hisses as she begins chopping, “that curse is
Unforgivable.”
Bucky watches the blade inch steadily closer towards Natasha’s fingers. “Nat…”
“You could take it to the Ministry.”
“Nat…”
“Then again, Pierce has got his hand so far up their asses it might as well be
a puppet show.”
Bucky catches her hand seconds before she can nick her finger by mistake.
“Nat,” he says, “let’s talk about something else, alright?” He pries the blade
from her fingers and takes over the job himself.
“Fine,” she says, retreating to her stool to watch on as Bucky tries to save
their brew of Amortentia. “How’s Steve?” She asks after a few moments of stony
silence.
Bucky sighs and starts chopping. He’s not sure whether to be relieved for the
change of topic or disappointed that his reprieve from her efforts in
matchmaking has finally come to its inevitable end. “Steve is fine,” he says.
“Recovering well from that Howler?”
Bucky gives her a pointed glare as he slides the chopped roots into their
potion. She of all people should know just how hard he’d worked to distract
everyone within earshot from listening in on Steve’s Howler. She’d watched with
knowing eyes while he did all he could to take the attention off the heated
blush creeping up the back of Steve’s neck.
“Haven’t talked to him since.”
“But you heard what it said, didn’t you?”
“Didn’t everybody?” Bucky asks while scanning the page of their textbook for
instructions on how to save this thing from disaster. By this stage, it’s
supposed to smell like at least one of the three things that attract the
intended recipient, but all Bucky can smell is burnt rubber and rotting
pumpkins.
“You know what I mean,” Natasha says. “Did you hear the part about the boy he
likes? The one the papers are always talking about?” She quotes smugly.
“That could be anybody,” Bucky says evasively. “Besides, it ain’t our
business.”
Natasha laughs incredulously. “Name one, just one other person who’s made half
as many headlines as you and I’ll drop it,” she swears.
“Tony Stark,” Bucky says smartly. The triumphant smirk falls from Natasha’s
face at about the same time Bucky realizes that he just might be right about
that. “You getting anything from this?” He asks in an attempt to distract both
himself and Natasha from that particular thought.
Natasha gets up and leans over their cauldron, taking a tentative sniff at the
smoke curling in the air. “Coffee,” she says, “not much else, though.”
Bucky’s eyes flit to the other side of the room where Clint is fast asleep
beside his cauldron despite the four empty mugs in front of him. “Coffee, huh?”
He asks smugly.
Natasha follows his eyes across the room. “That’s a coincidence,” she says. If
she starts turning the pages of their text book with a bit too much vigor,
Bucky doesn’t mention it.
A gentle knock turns their attention to the doorway. Phil Coulson stands there
with a piece of parchment in his hand. “Professor Summers,” he says, “it’s
urgent, from Headmaster Fury.”
Bucky can’t see Professor Summers’s eyes from behind his thick protective
goggles, but he must be reading the parchment. As soon as he’s done he looks up
in Bucky’s direction. “Mr. Barnes,” he says, “you’re wanted in the Headmaster’s
office.”
“I’ve been asked to bring you there myself,” Phil informs him.
“Fury must trust you then, huh?” Bucky as he stands and gathers his book bag
from beneath the desk.
“He says I’m his one good eye,” Phil says proudly, cupping his hand over his
left eye in an impersonation of his Headmaster.
Bucky laughs and follows Phil into the hall, feeling a little guilty for
leaving Natasha with their temperamental potion. He leads him along every twist
and turn until they come to a gargoyle standing sentinel at a dead end. He’s
about to ask if they’d taken a wrong turn when the gargoyle’s eyes shift
downward, fixing them with a disapproving stare.
“Password?” It demands in a deep, rumbling voice.
“Ezekiel 25: 17,” Coulson says.
The gargoyle hums and steps aside, revealing a circular staircase spiraling
upwards towards what Bucky can only assume is Headmaster Fury’s office. They
ride the stairs to the top and step off onto a small ledge leading down a
short, lantern-lit hall towards a heavy wooden door.
“Cool, huh?” Phil asks, taking the lead once more.
“Yeah, cool…”
They’re nearly at the door when Phil rounds on him without warning, grabbing
him by the jacket and whirling him around with all his meager might, pressing
him into the stone wall just outside of Fury’s door. “Look Barnes, I like you,
I really do,” he hisses, “but the Quidditch season’s coming up and Captain
Rogers doesn’t need any distractions while he goes for the record, understand?”
“Not…really…” Bucky says weakly, swallowing hard.
Phil narrows his eyes and presses his fists harder into Bucky’s chest. “Don’t
hurt him, because if you do, I swear, I’ll stun you and watch while you drool
on the floor.”
“I don’t—I wouldn’t—,” Bucky scrambles for the right thing to say, “Alright,
yeah. I won’t hurt him.”
“Good.” Phil says pleasantly, releasing his hold on Bucky and smoothing out the
wrinkled fabric of his coat. “Glad we talked that out.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says breathlessly, “me, too...”
Phil smiles and knocks three times on Fury’s door.
“Come in,” is the immediate response from the other side.
Phil turns the handle and allows the door to swing open before gesturing Bucky
inside. “After you,” he says politely.
Bucky enters the room slowly, feeling hot under the watchful gaze of all the
three Headmasters. Both Fury and Hill are impassive as ever in their stiff
black suits, but Pierce wears the smallest, smuggest smirk and a blood red fur
trimmed cloak. Bucky’s left hand twitches involuntarily.
Peggy and Steve are there as well. Bucky joins them by filling the empty space
between them in front of Fury’s desk. A Pensieve sits at the center,
accompanied by three small vials.
“Mr. Barnes,” Fury says, “thank you for joining us.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did I?” He asks, a reflexive jab that doesn’t go
unnoticed by his Headmaster, given the narrow eyed glare he receives.
Fury fixes him with a lingering stare of his own, his expression unreadable.
“Let’s get started,” he says after a long moment. “Mr. Coulson, you’re free to
go.”
Phil’s jaw drops. “But, sir, I—,” he gestures to Peggy, Steve, and Bucky,
failing wildly like standing in this room means something to him beyond words.
“Goodbye, Mr. Coulson.” Fury says firmly.
Phil crosses his arms and stomps out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.
“I assume you know why we’ve called you here?” Fury asks
“To discuss the Tournament, sir?” Peggy asks.
“Indeed, Miss Carter,” Fury says. “I hope you’re all aware of what it is you’ve
gotten yourselves into,” he says gravely, glancing at each of them in turn. “I
take it you’re familiar with the nature of these tasks?”
“You mean the body count?” Steve asks, looking unimpressed as he crosses his
arms over his chest.
“Yes, Mr. Rogers,” Fury sighs, “I mean the body count.”
Fury reaches for the vials and studies each one carefully in turn. “As
Champions you join a long list of skilled students, students that were the best
and brightest of their time,” he says. “However, if the Tournament has taught
us nothing over the years, it’s that skill does not mean survival.” With that,
Fury pours each vial slowly into the Pensieve, allowing the memories to run
together. “Rather than tell you what’s at stake here, I thought we might show
you.”
“We’re going in there?” Bucky asks.
“Will that be a problem, Mr. Barnes?” Fury asks.
“No, sir,” Bucky says too fast to be believed.
“Perhaps it would be best if you went together,” Fury suggests, sounding nearly
amused.
“We can do that?” Steve asks.
“We’re about to find out,” Fury says. He nods to the Pensieve, both an
invitation and an instruction wrapped up in one simple gesture.
Bucky, Steve, and Peggy share similar expressions as they step up to the
Pensieve, regarding it with varying degrees of trepidation. Bucky is the first
to reach out and grip the stone edge with shaking hands. He screws his eyes
shut and focuses on keeping his breathing steady despite the hammering in his
chest. He opens his eyes only when he feels the warmth of another hand over his
own. He looks down to where Steve’s hand is covering his before looking up to
Steve himself.
“You can do this, Buck,” Steve says, “it’s like flying.”
“Flying,” Bucky repeats flatly, “sure.”
Peggy takes his other hand in a firm grip and squeezes reassuringly. “Come now,
surely it can’t be worse than prison,” she jokes.
“Ladies first, then?” Bucky offers with a nervous laugh.
Peggy snorts. “How chivalrous.”
One after another they each take a deep breath and lean into the Pensive, Peggy
first, then Bucky, and then Steve. Bucky keeps his eyes screwed shut and his
fingers locked in a vice grip with Steve’s as they submerge their faces
completely.
It’s anticlimactic, to say the least.
At first he thinks they’ve done something wrong. It feels like he’s got his
head in a sink. When Bucky opens his eyes, he’s expecting to see the bottom of
the stone basin, or even just the swirling mass of glimmering memories.
He’s not expecting to be looking down at a tumultuous storm brewing above the
Great Lake from more than a hundred feet above the shoreline.
With a sudden lurch, Bucky feels his feet leave the floor of Fury’s office like
he’s been catapulted into the Pensive.
Their screams pierce the air, louder than the whipping winds around them as
they hurdle towards the earth. The grip he has on Steve’s hand grows tighter by
the second as the ground comes speeding up to meet them. The sky and the
shoreline blur together and Bucky can only think of all the things he hasn’t
done. He never renovated Wool’s Orphanage. He forgot to ask Wally what he
thought of the Muggle stories he left for him outside the kitchen. He didn’t
tell Rebecca he loved her today. He left Nat with that awful potion. He never
kissed Steve. He never kissed Steve…
And then they stop.
Bucky opens his eyes hesitantly and stares at the ground beneath him, blinking
once, twice, before letting out a whoop of relief. They drop harmlessly into
the cool sand and Bucky resists the urge to kiss every last grain on the shore.
“For the record,” he gasps, fisting clumps of wet sand in his palms, “that was
nothing like flying,” he sits up and flings a fistful of sand at Peggy and
Steve in turn, “and much worse than prison.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Barnes.”
Bucky freezes with a handful of sand still balled in his fist and casts a
sheepish glance over his shoulder. He brings his gaze upward and sees
Headmaster Fury, seemingly unphased by the sudden appearance of three students
who had just fallen from the sky. His long black clock billows in the wind,
though the leather doesn’t look nearly as worn as the last time Bucky had seen
it, mere moments ago in his office.
“Sorry, Headmaster,” Bucky says, letting the sand run through his fingers.
Fury doesn’t acknowledge him, but continues to watch the storm with a pinched
expression.
“Headmaster?” Steve tries, standing slowly, brushing the sand from his pants
and shoulders.
“Headmaster!”
Now Fury turns, revealing the left side of his face and the absence of the eye
patch that usually obscures it. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that this is
Fury’s former self, the present version of which stands a few paces behind,
watching on with the same stoic expression.
Bucky follows the path of those two dark eyes and sees a boy no older than
himself sprinting across the shore. By the looks of it he’s one of the other
Champions, dressed in the Hogwarts colors with the crest printed proudly in the
center of his chest.
“Headmaster, please!” The boy begs, falling at Fury’s feet. “You have to help
her!”
Fury looks pained for a moment. “My hands are tied, Mr. Summers,” he says,
turning back to the Lake. “You know the rules.”
The boy lifts his head to gawk at Fury and Bucky’s able to recognize his
Potion’s professor, years younger and without the clunky protective goggles
obscuring his eyes. “Headmaster, please!” Summers begs, balling his hands into
fists and pressing them to his red-rimmed eyes. “Please, please, help her!”
His pleas are cut off by a second voice, ringing clear above the sounds of the
storm.
“OUT OF MY WAY!”
A shiver runs through Bucky’s body when Headmistress Hill runs through him like
he were nothing more than a cloud of mist, reminding him that they’re ghostly
spectators of a memory. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that this version of
Headmistress Hill is younger and infinitely less composed than the one standing
at Fury’s side. This version of Hill is manic, rushing to the shore with her
wand at the ready.
“Maria!” Fury’s former self calls to her. “You know the rules!”
Hill glances over her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears. She turns away
and crumples to her knees a moment later, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She
tosses her wand aside and curls in on herself, howling into the sand.
“This is your memory, Headmaster?” Peggy asks tentatively.
“The 424th Tri-Wizard Tournament,” Hill says with a brief, small nod. “Three
students were given a mythical creature to protect in the event of a magical
disaster. While the Champions from Hogwarts and Durmstrang were able to
complete the task, Jean was…” she pauses and looks away, “the Beauxbatons
Champion, regrettably, did not survive. Miss Grey was the first student I
lost,” Hill swallows thickly and bows her head, “and the only. There was
nothing I could do.”
At the center of the storm, Jean is just barely visible. Her hair is as red as
a phoenix’s flame, whipping around her terrified face seconds before she’s
crushed beneath a tidal wave.
“JEAN!” Summers screams, his voice cracking with emotion.
“Miss Grey,” Fury pauses, and then changes his tone, “Jean was only fifteen
years old,” he explains, “much too young to be exposed to the strain of the
Tournament.”
“The Tournament was disbanded following the incident,” Hill says, still
refusing to watch said incident unfold for a second time, “so you can
understand why, when it was reinstated, it was done so with rules in place to
protect those too young to compete.”
Bucky thinks of the students he’s heard complaining in the Common Room about
the Tournament’s latest addition to the rule book. He wonders if they’d think
the same after watching Jean’s body being pulled from the churning depths of
the Great Lake.
“A shame indeed,” Pierce adds airily, lacking the same sincerity as his
colleagues.
It doesn’t go unnoticed to Bucky that his Headmaster’s former self is
noticeably absent from the scene despite having been Durmstrang’s Headmaster
for the past 40 years. He looks further down the shoreline to the spectator
stands erected at the lake’s edge. If he squints, he thinks he can make out the
vividness of a blood red, fur-trimmed coat in the midst of a media swarm. He
scoffs and turns away. Typical.
“Perhaps it’s time that we moved on,” Fury says, eying Hill wearily. She meets
his eye and offers another small, perfunctory nod in agreement, and with that
the scene around them dissolves in a swirl of grey, like ink through water. The
greys and browns turn to greens and blacks with bright flashes like lightning
that nearly blind Bucky as a new world comes into focus around him. When the
memory finally solidifies, he finds himself standing in a forest clearing, lit
only by the vivid spark of spells flying past.
“This is the Forbidden Forest,” Steve says, eyebrows knit in confusion. “There
hasn’t been a task here since…”
“1962,” Fury finishes curtly. “And how, exactly, do you know what the Forbidden
Forest looks like, Mr. Rogers?”
A spell whizzes by Steve, lighting the guilty look on his face. Bucky snorts,
earning him a discreet punch to the shoulder from Steve that only makes him
laugh all the harder. When another spell lights up Fury’s unamused expression,
Bucky sobers up and thinks about exactly what it was that Fury just said.
“Wait,” he says, “1962?”
“Welcome to the conversation, Mr. Barnes,” Fury says.
While it may have been long before his time, Bucky (and just about every other
kid born after that fateful year) had been raised on stories of the 1962 Tri-
Wizard Tournament, when Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, and Moira McTaggert met
for the closest and most controversial contest in Tri-Wizard History, or at
least that’s the way the Prophet made it seem. It all came to its dramatic
conclusion in the Third Task: an old-fashion duel in the Forbidden Forest.
“Come on, old friend, I know you can do better than that!” Xavier jeers from
the darkness.
“Expelliarmus!”
A bright red light flies straight through Steve’s chest and whizzes into the
darkness. Bucky can just make out the figure of a boy darting out of the way,
evading the spell with ease.
“I think you’ve forgotten that this is a duel, Charles!” Lehnsherr teases,
though Bucky can’t pin quite where it’s coming from.
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Xavier says, proving his point by sending a hex in
Lehnsherr’s direction. It’s a near miss. Bucky can see the blue of Erik’s eyes
before he manages to dive out of the way.
“Bastard!” Erik shouts in protest.
“I think you’ve forgotten this is a duel, Erik!” Charles mocks smartly. Three
hexes come his way in rapid succession, and its three near misses, the last of
which singes the ends of Charles’s hair. “Hey, watch the hair!”
Spells fly around the clearing, deflecting, colliding with trees, sparking
brightly in the night. McTaggert had sworn tearfully in the aftermath that it
had all been a horrible accident, and Bucky’s starting to see how that could be
true. It all happens so fast that not even he can see who delivers the fateful
blow.
One minute, Xavier is dancing between bursts of light. Then next, a spell
deflects once…twice…before hitting him directly in the back. He falls like a
puppet cut free from its strings and the whole world plunges into an eerie
silence.
“Charles?” Lehnsherr whispers.
“Oh no,” McTaggert whispers, small and broken. “L-Lumos!” A ball of light forms
at the end of Moira’s wand and illuminates her frightened face. At the sight of
Charles’s body, McTaggert drops her wand and, a moment later, falls to her
knees with an anguished sob.
Lehnsherr runs across the clearing and drops to his knees at Xavier’s side,
rolling the boy onto his back and pushing his wild curls from his face.
“Charles, I’m sorry! Charles, I’m so sorry!” He presses his forehead against
Charles’s own, screaming his apology over and over.
“Erik…” Xavier whispers, his voice soft like he’s in awe rather than pain.
“Erik, I can’t feel my legs…”
“Your…legs…” Erik says slowly, turning his bloodshot eyes towards Xavier’s limp
legs. Comprehension dawns on his tearstained face.
With shaking hands, McTaggert takes her wand again and fires off a red flare
that pierces the darkness of the forest, the universal sign of surrender in the
Tournament.
That seems to remind Lehnsherr that he and Charles are not alone in the forest.
Bucky watches his eyes shift from sadness to rage as he slowly rises to his
feet, reminding Bucky of a snake ready to lash out. “You…” he hisses.
“Erik?” McTaggert asks, raising her wand defensively. Bucky doesn’t blame her.
Bucky’s never seen a rage like that on his Professor’s face, not even when
Bucky hexed his room so that all the furniture hung from the ceiling.
“You did this!” He shouts, aiming his wand as well.
“Erik…don’t do this…” McTaggert pleads, her wand shaking. “Don’t make me do
this, Lehnsherr!”
“Cruci—,”
“Expelliarmus!”
Lehnsherr’s wand flies from his hand, falling harmlessly to the ground a few
feet away, but it wasn’t McTaggert who cast the spell. From every side,
professors of the past flood the clearing, though it’s one in particular that
catches Bucky’s eye.
A young Fury tucks his wand back into his leather cloak and enters the clearing
in wide, slow strides, carefully sidestepping troublesome roots like he’s got
the forest floor mapped out in his mind. It’s Fury who pries Lehnsherr away,
keeping a strong grip on his shoulders while Charles is carried away by a team
of Healers. Erik fights against him, spitting and sobbing, screaming for his
friend and promising revenge of McTaggert, who’s currently being shielded away
by Headmistress Hill’s predecessor.
“This is your memory,” Bucky deduces.
“It is,” Fury confirms.
“And what are we supposed to learn from this?” Steve asks.
“The consequences of becoming too close to your competitors,” Fury says. “I
doubt I need to remind you what became of Mr. Lehnsherr.”
50 years in Azkaban for the attempted practice of the Cruciatus Curse, that’s
the punishment handed down by the Ministry. And when he returned to his former
Institute, it was as a hardened man that bore no similarities to the smart-
mouthed boy he’d once been. Save, perhaps, for the sepia-toned photograph of
himself and Xavier that the Dark Arts professor keeps in his classroom.
Bucky casts a quick glance at Steve, wondering if history is doomed to repeat
itself. He can’t bear to imagine it, so he looks away, keeping his eyes on the
forest that fades to blackness around them.
The next memory begins the same way the last one did, in a swirl of color as
the worlds transition. This time, the inky blackness of the forest bleeds red
and gold and orange until the memory solidifies.
This time the scene is familiar, if not quite how Bucky remembers it. Through
the thick smoke in the air he can see the fractured rafters of the Quidditch
pitch and the once pristine Championship pennants that hang tattered and limp
from the splintered wood. There are hundreds of them, beginning in 1301, and
all of them burn slowly with the rest of the pitch. Even the sky above is on
fire, stained in shades of red and orange and clouded with the rising smoke.
“Durmstrang…” Bucky whispers sadly.
“As it once was,” Pierce says nostalgically.
“Say, Barnes…” Peggy says slowly, her eyes on the pennants, “didn’t you win the
Championship two years ago?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says absently as he watches one of the posts on the far side of
the field give in to the flames, toppling over and taking the others down with
it. The ground beneath them shakes with their heavy impact.
“Then why do you suppose the most recent pennant is from 1937?” She asks.
Bucky scans the rafters. 1932…1935…1937…and then nothing. Nothing but open
space where his and dozens of other pennants once hung.
“When are we?” Bucky asks; though he dreads the fact that he might already know
the answer to that.
“1944, Mr. Barnes,” Pierce says, confirming Bucky’s worst fear.
“This is your memory?” Steve asks.
Pierce nods to something behind them. “See for yourself.”
They all turn in time to see a dark figure immerging from the haze. With their
back to them, it’s hard to make out much, but Bucky can tell it’s a boy, tall
and slender. The figure pauses at a pile of broken beams shifting beneath the
flames. He kicks at the burning debris, revealing the face of who is undeniably
a young Alexander Pierce.
“Please,” he begs, hiding his ashen face, “please don’t kill me.”
The boy turns up his nose and considers him for a moment before reaching for
his wand.
“No!” Pierce cries, trying to shrink into the wreckage. “No! No, please!
Please!”
The boy laughs. It’s a horrible, twisted mockery of joy that sounds right at
home amongst the crackling flames. He aims his wand directly between Pierce’s
wide eyes. The curse has just begun to form on his lips when a cloud of white
light sweeps by, knocking the wand from the boy’s hand at the last moment. He
turns to the sky with a scowl and growls at the sight of at least a dozen more
Aurors circling him.
As one Auror closes in on him, their white light illuminates the deep red of
his Durmstrang uniform. The boy twists on the spot, vanishing in a cloud of
smoke before the Auror can get their hands on him, but not before Bucky can get
a glimpse at the once handsome face of Johann Schmidt.
“NO!” Bucky shouts, stumbling back until he’s caught by a pair of strong arms.
Those arms pull him tight against a warm body that Bucky collapses against. He
clings to that warmth, hoping it can smother the cold dread that sinks in his
gut.
This is the end of the memory, but as the world dissolves into an inky swirl,
Bucky manages to get once last look at his Headmaster’s youthful face. Instead
of seeing the fear he might have expected, Pierce looks awestruck, almost
reverent as the world continues to burn around him…
Bucky tucks his face into the curve of the warmth’s neck, refusing to open his
eyes until he feels them land back in Fury’s office, the sound of crackling
fire and hallow laughter left behind in the depths of the Pensieve.
“Are you out of your mind?” Steve snaps accusingly. Bucky realizes belatedly
how close his voice is and turns his head slightly, just enough to see the
Gryffindor crest just beneath his chin. He quickly pulls away, running a hand
through his hair and trying to regain some of his composure. He’s sure Peggy
would be laughing at him if she weren’t currently irate.
“You should have warned him!” She shouts.
“A lesson had to be learned…” Pierce says.
“And what lesson was that?” Steve scoffs.
“Opportunity,” Pierce says. “You are on the world’s stage and one should always
act as such. This is an opportunity for you as well as those around you.”
“So you use Schmidt as an example?” Steve argues. “The people ‘around him’ were
his followers, who turned into his army! He used that opportunity to kill
thousands of people!”
“But can we not take this as a lesson in what not to do?” Pierce asks.
“Well, sure, Headmaster. I guess I’ll have to take my plans for a Purist regime
elsewhere,” Steve says.
“Enough with the sarcasm, Rogers,” Fury says, sounding as though this is
something he’s said a thousand times before.
“And you? You agreed to this?” Steve asks.
“Not quite,” Fury says. He falls heavily into his chair, looking slightly
haunted as though the memory had taken a toll on him as well. “Hill, the dates
for the Tournament, please?” He asks.
Steve goes stiff, ready to go again, but Bucky catches his wrist and gives a
small shake of his head. Steve relaxes immediately, blue eyes going soft,
searching, silently asking if Bucky’s alright. He nods.
“The First Task will take place on October the 11th,” Headmistress Hill
reports, “that gives you nearly a month to prepare. The Second Task falls on
December 21st and the Third and final Task will be held April 13th.”
“Any questions?” Fury asks, searching each one of their faces in turn. He
pauses on Bucky’s. “No?” Bucky shakes his head minutely. “Then at this time I
ask you to report to Professor Howlett’s classroom for an interview.”
“Interview?” Bucky asks. “With who?”
Fury picks up a stray piece of parchment from his desk and squints at it.
“Christine Everhart.”
Both Peggy and Steve turn to look at him in unison, wearing the same strained
expression.
Bucky hangs his head and sighs. Fuck.
                                      ***
Christine Everhart.
She’d famously penned the article calling his coming out a ham-fisted publicity
stunt, which led to wands being drawn at a Longhorns press conference. Everhart
went on to call him ‘short tempered’ and ‘hot headed’ on the front page of that
evening’s Prophet. It seems every week she’s got a new, inventive way of
smearing his name and bringing about the temper she so loves to pick apart.
She’s good at what she does, and what she does is piss Bucky off until she gets
the story she wants.
They no sooner get through the door of Professor Howlett’s classroom than
they’re blinded by the flash of a camera.
“Shit! Sorry!” The camera man says.
“Peter?” Steve asks, still rubbing the flare of the bulb from his eyes.
Bucky blinks until the world comes back into focus. Before him stands a
Ravenclaw about his own age, maybe younger, who’s face is obscured enough by
his camera that Bucky can only see his mop of messy brown hair and a pair of
wide eyes behind his thick rimmed glasses. Bucky thinks he remembers him as the
boy Fury had spoken to about trespassing in the Forbidden Forest.
“Yeah,” Peter laughs nervously, lowering the camera to rest against his chest.
“Sorry again, but the Prophet is great exposure and if I ever want to get my
thesis on Acromantula silk out there then I…”
“Parkman, was it?” A voice asks from further into the room. “Make sure you get
a good one of Barnes. It’s so rare to see him without blood on his face.”
“It’s…Parker…” Peter says lamely, already lifting the camera to take another
photo. The apology goes unspoken but implied as he blinds Bucky again with the
flash.
This time when the world comes back to him, Bucky looks over Peter’s shoulder
to see Christine Everhart standing at the center of the room, dressed head to
toe in shades of grey. She’s already got her journal open and balanced
carefully in her palm while she scribbles notes, the inky black feather of her
quill twitching with every movement.
“Let’s see…” she says thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her quill. “We’ll
need a headline, something catchy. Something to do with the number three. Or
maybe tri-…”
“How’s about try-hard journalist has a trying time coming up with witty titles
to hide her shotty journalism,” Peter grumbles from behind the camera, drawing
a chuckle out of Bucky just in time for him to catch it with another blinding
flash.
Everhart looks up from her journal with a sound that’s equal parts delight and
surprise. “Well done, Parkson! You’ve done the impossible,” she says with a
grin. “Who knew Barnes could smile?”
“He said his name is Parker,” Bucky says, ignoring the jab intended for him.
“Oh,” Everhart says airily. Bucky might as well have not spoken at all, for all
his words seem to get through to her. “That’ll be all, Peterson. Thank you.”
“Close enough,” Peter mumbles, slipping out the door with a defeated slouch to
his shoulders.
Bucky can’t help but feel like he’s being lined up before a one-woman firing
squad as they settle into the uncomfortable wooden chairs she’s set up for
them. By the time Everhart gets herself situated, poised and ready to write
with her quill in her hand, Bucky’s already stiff and fidgeting, eager to get
this over with.
“Well, let me just say that it’s no surprise to see the two of you here,” she
begins, flicking the point of her quill between himself and Peggy, “but you,”
she turns the quill suddenly on Steve and Bucky doesn’t miss his sharp intake
of breath, “who are you?” she asks in a way that makes it sound more like an
accusation than a question.
Steve swallows hard. “I’m Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers,” he says.
“So, tell me Steve Rogers,” Everhart says, poising her quill over her journal,
“what makes you so special?”
Steve shrugs and shakes his head. “Nothin’, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”
“Just a kid from Brooklyn,” Everhart repeats, obviously disinterested by
Steve’s humility. “But the Goblet chose you. Surely there must be something
about you that sets you apart?”
Steve shrugs again. “Maybe that’s a conversation you ought to have with the
Goblet, ma’am. As far as I’m concerned, I’m no better than anyone else who
volunteered.”
He’s good, Bucky thinks, for someone who’s never done this before. He still
remembers his first interview, when he’d sat down across from J. Jonah Jameson
and his infamous moustache and endured an hour of ruthless questioning about
his arm.
Everhart’s icy eyes narrow. Steve’s giving her nothing to work with and Bucky
can see the gears of her malicious mind turning. “And what of your
competitors?” She asks finally. “Why do you think they were chosen?”
For the first time since they’d begun the interview, Steve flushes. “I don’t—I
don’t know. It’s hard to pick just one thing, you know? They both do so much,
so much for the wizarding world and to pick just one thing would be—,”
“Woah, woah!” Everhart chuckles, scribbling furiously in her journal. “Slow
down there, Mr. Rogers. Someone may think you have a crush.”
Steve turns impossibly redder. Everhart notices and begins scribbling another
quick note. Bucky watches red ink flow from her quill like blood in the water,
blood that Everhart can smell a mile out like the shark that she is. Steve may
be good, but this is what makes Everhart great.
“Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
Bucky doesn’t realize he said that out loud, not until Everhart finishes her
note with a flourish and turns to him with a forced grin. “Mr. Barnes. We meet
again.”
“Lucky us,” he says, tone flat.
“You gave an impressive performance in the semi-finals,” she says, shifting
gears with practiced ease. “With the title match mere days away, how do you
think the pressure of the Tournament is going to affect your ability to perform
in the Finals?”
“It won’t,” Bucky says shortly.
Everhart stiffens. “No?” She asks. She sets her quill down and holds his stare.
She changes tactics once again, searching for the string of questioning she can
pull on to unravel him “How have you been adjusting to life here at Hogwarts,
Mr. Barnes?”
“Been doin’ alright,” he says. If vague answers are what she hates, then its
vague answers that he’ll give until he’s blue in the face. At least the focus
is off of Steve, who looks equal parts thankful and anxious as he watches on
from his spot beside Peggy.
“Keeping up in all your classes?”
“So far.”
“Making your parents proud?”
And there it is. Bucky’s already got his hand halfway to his wand by the time
Peggy gets an arm across his chest, forcing him back into his seat before he
can do anything irrational.
“That was outta line!” Steve snaps.
Everhart arches a brow. “Maybe so…” she says thoughtfully, reaching for her
quill to jot something down. “Mr. Barnes, care to comment?”
“No,” Bucky says stiffly.
He’s seething, but that’s exactly what she wants. The words ‘short tempered’
and ‘hot headed’ echo around in his memory, making him wonder if Everhart may
have been right about him all along. He relaxes back into his seat and Peggy
slowly lowers her arm, watching him wearily like she expects him to lash out as
soon as she lets her guard down.
“Of course not,” Everhart sighs. “Perhaps you, Miss. Carter?” She asks, turning
to Peggy with renewed vigor. “Exciting to see a fellow woman in the games.”
“Is that what you are then?” Peggy asks brusquely. “And to think, I’d mistaken
you for a harpy all this time.”
Bucky glances from Peggy to Everhart, wondering if Everhart can draw her wand
faster than Peggy can throw a punch. He looks to Steve only to find that
Steve’s already looking at him, wide eyed and tight lipped like he’s about to
burst.
Everhart’s cheeks turn red as her ink and she swells in indignation. “Miss
Carter, as a supporter of Witch’s Rights, I find it appalling that you would—”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you there,” Peggy says politely, smile
and all. “The Witch’s Rights movement doesn’t exist to defend your awful
behavior,” she says coolly, “and I’m curious to know what made you believe
otherwise.”
Everhart bawks for a moment before finding her voice once more. “Miss Carter,
I—”
“—think we’re done here?” Peggy interrupts, already standing to leave. “I
couldn’t agree more,” she says.
“Aw, so soon?” Bucky whines. “This was just getting interesting.”
Everhart stands as well, looking down her nose at Peggy before turning her
glare on him. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Barnes,” she says venomously.
“Wish I could say the same,” he says.
Everhart forces a smile and goes to tuck her journal into her bag, but as she
does, the strap snaps, spilling its contents across the floor. Everhart makes
to pick it up, but Steve beats her to it, crouching down and stacking her
things into a manageable pile before handing them back to her.
“Huh,” she says with a small smile, “good to see one of you has manners.” She
turns on her heel and makes quick strides out the door, letting it fall shut
heavily behind her.
“Damn, Carter. Where’d that come from?” Bucky asks.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to say that,” Peggy says, sighing
like a physical weight has been lifted from her shoulders. “Ever since she
wrote that piece about Howard Stark dealing weapons to the Red Skull. That man
was many things, a misogynist, a drunk, and a downright ass at times, but he
was a family friend. Only a coward attacks a man who isn’t even alive to defend
himself.”
“Well, I don’t think she’ll be attacking anyone else any time soon,” Steve
says, pulling Everhart’s journal from inside his book bag.
“Is that what I think it is?” Bucky asks, glancing between the book and Steve’s
smirking face.
“I realized we had the same one about halfway through the interview,” Steve
says, flicking through the pages casually. “So, I switched them. Hope she likes
Arithmancy.”
“How?” Peggy asks.
Steve reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wand, twirling it between his
fingers. “Straps are just so flimsy now-a-days, you know? They don’t make ‘em
like they used to.”
“Let me see that!” Bucky says, snatching the journal and flipping to today’s
page. “I’m not fifteen,” he shouts indignantly, “and my eyes aren’t ‘swimming
with the ghosts of my past’!” He scans further up the page, glancing over the
notes Everhart made on Steve. Charming. Well-spoken. Humble. Handsome. Easily
flustered. BARNES???“Though she does make some good points…”
Steve snatches the journal back, ignoring Bucky’s protests as he crosses the
room and opens one of Professor Howlett’s windows. The hinges creak with
neglect and a cloud of dust is swept into the air on a breeze. Steve hums the
journal out the window, watching with a satisfied smirk as it Frisbees through
the air.
“Fuck her points,” Steve says to Bucky’s slack jaw, “a good journalist knows
how to improvise. Speaking of which,” he crosses the room again and reaches for
his book bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a sigh, “I need to get to the
library. I have a week’s worth of Arithmancy notes to rewrite.”
“’The Theory of Numerology,” Bucky blurts when Steve’s halfway out the door.
“Huh?” Steve asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“It’s um…it’s good,” he says lamely, “helpful.”
Steve smiles. “I’ll check it out. Thanks Buck. I’ll see you, Peg,” he says,
letting the door fall shut behind him. Bucky continues to gape at the door long
after the sound of Steve’s footsteps are gone.
“Seven,” Peggy says.
It takes Bucky a moment to realize she’s speaking to him. “What?” He asks,
turning back to her.
“Seven,” she repeats with a knowing grin. “Quidditch try-outs, Saturday
morning, seven o’clock on the pitch.” To Bucky’s curious stare, she shrugs.
“Thought you might be interested. For the sake of…athletic interest
and…strategic comparison,” she says teasingly.
Bucky scoffs and waves her off, but his mind is already working to come up with
an excuse for dragging Rebecca and Natasha out of bed before the crack of dawn.
But just for…athletic…whatever Peggy said.
Chapter End Notes
     CHAPTER SEVEN: Quidditch Try-Outs
     Steve’s heart skips a beat and he has to refrain from searching the
     stands too eagerly. It’s a good turnout, considering the hour. The
     stands are filled mostly by the friends of those who are trying out.
     Rhodey and Tony sit towards the front, both looking as though they
     didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, as do Thor’s friends from
     Hufflepuff. Even Peter Parker has come to join Jane Foster in
     pretending not to be interested while still regularly peeking over
     the edge of whatever book is it that they’ve brought with them.
     That being said, it’s still relatively easy to find Bucky shuffling
     along the stands with Rebecca and Natasha in tow.
     “Well I’ll be damned.” Sam says with his eyes on the stands above.
     “What’s he doing here?”
     “Come to check out the new talent?” Steve suggests, watching as Bucky
     takes a seat in the row behind Tony and laughs at something he says.
     Clint snorts. “Yeah, he’s come to check out something alright.” He
     dodges the hard swat he knows is coming for him by mounting his broom
     and taking to the sky, beginning his practice lap.
***** Quidditch Try-Outs *****
Chapter Notes
     Uh..hi!
     So after the longest mental/scholarly hiatus EVER I am back! I've got
     two new chapters for you guys (the second one is in it's final stages
     of editing and hopefully will be up later tonight). Hopefully I'll
     also be able to get through all the amazingly kind comments you guys
     have left for me! Thank you for all the support! It's you guys that
     made me want to get back to this story!!!
     SO ARE YOU READY FOR A CAMEO PARADE THE LIKES OF WHICH YOU’VE NEVER
     SEEN???
     Obviously, to make a Gryffindor try-out chapter, you need some
     freakin’ Gryffindors. I apologize if I put a character in here that
     you believe would be sorted into another house (I can think of two
     right off that bat that gave me second thoughts), but as I’ve said
     before, these are my headcannons, and I’m ready to defend them,
     though I totally respect your ideas as well! You can even tell me
     about it and I’ll probably respond with a long ass comment about how
     I agree and then also discuss my own reasoning because my geek ass
     loves this stuff so much I could talk about it forever.
     As usual there's a little preview for the next chapter at the bottom
     and I'd LOVE to hear your feedback!
     Without ANY more rambling.... Here's the long awaited Chapter Seven.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Mid-October brings about the start of the Hogwarts Quidditch season, meaning
that as the sun rises on Saturday morning, Steve finds himself blinking
owlishly at the rowdy bunch of hopefuls gathered in front of him at the center
of the pitch.
It doesn’t seem all that long ago that he was standing in their spot, damn near
drowning in his oversized jersey and trying his best to ignore the whispered
jeers of the boys behind him. That had all gone to Hell, of course, when one of
the boys made a snide comment about Captain Danvers, leaving Steve with no
choice but to turn around and sock him in the mouth, knocking two pearly white
teeth out of his arrogant grin.
When Captain Danvers herself finally pulled him out of the ensuing dog pile,
she’d fixed him with a curious stare while attending to his bloody nose.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve going after Ward like that,” she’d said, smiling
apologetically when he winced at the touch of the cold, wet cloth in her hand.
“Yeah, well, ‘daring, nerve, and chivalry,’ and all that,” he’d said with a
hallow laugh. “Could’ve used some common sense, too, I guess.”
“No…” Danvers had said thoughtfully with an approving look, “I think we could
use a little nerve on this team…”
That was the first season he would suit up in scarlet and gold, but it was far
from the last. Steve followed Carol’s lead to five consecutive appearances in
the Quidditch Cup finals, three of which lead to victories for Gryffindor. They
were still celebrating their latest Quidditch Cup win when she’d pulled him
onto the confetti-strewn couch and fixed him with a serious look before
offering him the team.
He’d declined her then (and nearly every time after) but Carol Danvers was
nothing if not persistent. She cornered him in the library, the Great Hall, the
prefect’s bathroom, and even the showers before Steve finally, finally said
yes, because any girl who’s willing to get a detention from Erskine for being
in the men’s showers must really believe in him.
He tries to keep Danvers’s conviction in mind while he stands in the spot that
was once hers. “Can I get everybody’s attention?” He asks politely.
The chatter continues as if he hadn’t even spoken. Amidst the chaos, Wade
Wilson is wielding his beater’s bat like a sword, fighting an invisible
opponent and repeatedly whacking Sif in the back of the head on every upswing,
earning a warning glare from her and a chuckle from Thor. Clint and Second Year
Kate Bishop are in a heated argument on who has better aim, chasers or beaters,
and Steve can already sense a bet brewing in the air. In the thick of it all,
Kamala Khan stands with her shoulders back and eyes bright, grinning like
there’s nowhere else she’d rather be than amongst the twenty other hopefuls
looking for a spot on the team.
Steve turns to Sam, standing in co-captain position to his left, and gives him
a helpless look.
“Use the Captain Voice,” Sam suggests with a shrug.
Steve squares his jaw and turns back to the group. “ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!”
Silence falls immediately and Steve can’t help but feel a little smug. “Today I
expect to see the best of everyone. Just because you made the team last year,
that doesn’t guarantee you a place this year.”
“Wait, really?” Clint asks.
“Yes, really,” Steve says, ignoring the indignant look Clint sends his way.
“Before we get started, I’ll need your names, first and last, then the position
you’re trying out for. After that, I want you in the sky. Do a lap, then bring
it back here. Sam will be timing you. Any questions?”
Wade’s hand shoots into the air. “Snack breaks?”
“No, Wade,” Steve sighs. “Does anyone else have a question?”
When no one speaks up, he points to Sif: a long-time friend of Thor’s and head
of the Dueling Club who introduces herself proudly as, “Sif, chaser.”
“Siiif…” Sam says slowly, writing the name on his parchment. “Is that your
first name, or last?”
Sif’s dark brows come together in confusion. “It is the only name I have,” she
says. “I am Sif.”
Steve and Sam share a quick glance. “Alright,” Steve says, “take a lap…uh…Sif.”
She takes to the sky, black hair whipping behind her in the morning winds. As
soon as she’s out of earshot, Sam leans in towards Steve. “Is it S-I-P-H or S-
I-F?” He whispers, quill hovering an inch over his parchment.
Steve shrugs helplessly, leaving Sam to scowl at the roster.
“Kate Bishop, Chaser,” steps forward and Steve can’t help but notice the
numerous bandages and bruises marring her face. He watches with a skeptical eye
as Kate kicks off the ground and wobbles unsteadily into the air.
“You have flown before, right?” Clint asks, voicing Steve’s own concerns.
“Oh yeah, sure!” She says, all confidence and bravado as she struggles to find
her balance. “Loads of times!”
“That explains the bandages,” Clint mumbles to Thor over his shoulder.
Steve watches Kate take her lap wearily; keeping in mind the entire time that
Madame Temple is ready at a moment’s notice in the hospital wing, probably
waiting by the door with a tired expression and a sling already made up.
Next up is “Wade Wilson, Beater, but I’ll take what I can,” who’s seen his fair
share of tryouts, not one of which has been successful. While he may play well
enough, Carol always said he was too much of a loose cannon to be a dependable
part of the team.
Steve can see what she meant by that. As Wade passes by the stands on his lap
around the pitch, he freezes mid-air and Steve can hear him shout, “HOLY SHIT.
IS THAT BUCKY BARNES?”
Steve’s heart skips a beat and he has to refrain from searching the stands too
eagerly. It’s a good turnout, considering the hour. The stands are filled
mostly by the friends of those who are trying out. Rhodey and Tony sit towards
the front, as do Thor and Sif’s friends from Hufflepuff. Even Peter Parker has
come to join Jane Foster in pretending not to be interested while still
regularly peeking over the edge of whatever book it is that they’ve brought
with them.
That being said, it’s still relatively easy to find Bucky shuffling along the
stands with Rebecca and Natasha in tow.
“Well I’ll be damned.” Sam says with his eyes on the stands above. “What’s he
doing here?”
“Come to check out the new talent?” Steve suggests.
Clint snorts. “Yeah, he’s come to check out something alright.” He dodges the
hard swat he knows is coming for him by mounting his broom and taking to the
sky, beginning his practice lap. “Barton, Beater!” He calls hastily over his
shoulder.
Steve scowls at his back before turning to Sam. “Add ten seconds on his time,”
he snaps.
“He’d still have a better time than Wilson,” Sam says, glancing up from his
wrist watch to where Wade is currently clamoring up the stands towards Bucky.
Tony seems to be getting a kick out of it, at least. Steve can hear him
laughing all the way from here. Peter Parker doesn’t seem nearly as amused,
standing abruptly from his seat and stuffing ‘Acromantulas: The Gentle Giants’
hastily into his book bag as he storms from the stands.
“Besides, what would Danvers say if she knew you were messing with the stats?”
“Carol trusted me to take charge of this team and I’m not gonna let her down.”
Steve says seriously, watching as Wade tackles Bucky, knocking him back between
the seats.
At the mention of Gryffindor’s former Captain, Kamala Khan perks up. Steve
recognizes her from the front row of every Quidditch match last year, where
she’d shouted herself hoarse whenever Captain Danvers flew by her, blowing
Kamala’s scarlet scarf around her head as she passed.
“Kamala Khan,” she introduces herself proudly, “Seeker.” After a moment, her
confident demeanor cracks and she bursts into a fit of excited laugher. “Wow,”
she sighs, “I’ve been waiting all my life to say that!”
“Says the Second Year,” Sam says with a chuckle while he takes down her name,
“I have t-shirts older than you.”
“I’m twelve!” Kamala snaps defensively.
“Like I said,” Sam says.
“I think that says more about you than her,” Steve says, earning a glowing
smile from Kamala and a scowl from Sam. With a sly grin in his friend’s
direction, he turns back to Kamala. “Take your lap. And don’t let him get in
your head, alright?”
They work their way through the rest of this year’s hopefuls fairly quickly.
With everyone back on the ground, Steve opens his mouth to divide the group by
position and carry on with the try-outs from there, but he’s interrupted by a
tap on the shoulder from Sam.
“Uh, Steve,” he says, pointing towards the tunnel leading on to the field, “I
think we got another one.”
Steve turns to see Matt Murdock coming down the tunnel, armed with his broom in
one hand and a long white cane in the other, sweeping it from left to right as
he makes his way on to the field. His ever-present shades glint red in the
light of the rising sun.
“Is that Murdock?” Sam asks. “I didn’t even know he played,” Sam says.
“Neither did I,” Steve says, but Matt’s scarlet and gold warm up jersey is
evidence enough of his intentions.
“I’m not too late, am I?” Matt asks. “Couldn’t really see the time, so…”
Steve’s not quite sure if he should laugh at that or not, though Matt seems to
be smiling. “Nope, we’re just getting started.” Steve says.
“Steve, I don’t know about this…” Sam says uneasily.
“Let me talk to him, alright?” Steve says, already hoisting his broom onto his
shoulder and walking towards Matt. “Divvy up the teams, get a game going. I’ll
be right there.”
“Alright, man. You’re the captain.”
It’s been four years since Steve first met Matt Murdock, but he still has a
hard time seeing him as anything more than the First Year he’d carried out of
Professor Summers’s classroom after a freak cauldron explosion. Even now, as he
crosses the field to meet him, Steve can’t believe that this is the same boy
who’d clung to his shoulders, screaming for his father as the world went dark
around him.
“Matt, I—,” Steve says when he’s close enough to be heard.
“Don’t,” Matt says, interrupting him in a way that still somehow seems polite.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do…what?” Steve asks.
“That thing,” Matt says, “that thing where you pity me. I’m here to try out,
just like everyone else.”
Steve nods, understanding and respecting what Matt’s saying, but still… “Matt,
this isn’t about pity. Quidditch is a dangerous sport. Given your disability, I
don’t think—”
“Clint’s half deaf. You let him play, no questions asked!” Matt argues.
Steve remembers hearing once that Matt wants to be a lawyer—advocate for those
who don’t have the means to defend themselves—and right about now, Steve’s
seeing his potential in the field.
“I know, but that’s one thing. Being blind is—,”
“Is what?” Matt asks, raising his brows expectantly, waiting for the answer
that Steve can’t give. “Why don’t you hand me the quaffle and we’ll see what
being blind is,” Matt smiles wryly, “well, you’ll see, anyway.”
Against his better judgment, Steve agrees.
“Watch and learn,” Matt says before taking off into the sky.
Steve mounts his broom as well and takes off a moment later, heading to the
posts to watch with bated breath as Matt swoops around the field. It’s amazing,
the way he flies, almost like he’s gliding with the wind, letting it guide him.
He deftly dodges the other players in the air, weaving between them like he’s
got the field mapped out behind his tinted frames.
Thor pulls up beside him, watching Matt with the same weary expression. “This
is unfair,” he says.
Steve shakes his head. “Unfair would be telling him he couldn’t try out,” he
says.
With his mind made up, Steve gives the orders to the other players awaiting his
call. “Murdock, you’re with Sam’s team! We’re gonna run a scrimmage. I’ll be
looking for shooting and defensive skills as well as your ability to work
together!”
The players fall into formation. Thor casts one last grim look at Steve but
takes off down the field regardless, taking his position across the field from
Clint.
Matt takes the position of center chaser with Sam in left field and Kate to his
right. The quaffle hangs in the air in front of him. Steve lifts the captain’s
whistle to his lips and wonders if he imagined the cocksure smirk playing at
the corner of Matt’s lips.
On the whistle, the quaffle launches into the air and Matt moves with a
quickness Steve couldn’t have predicted, nor could Sif, apparently, who he
pushes aside in a fight for the ball that leaves her tangled in her scarlet
try-out robe.
Matt continues down the field, passing the quaffle deftly between Kate and Sam,
somehow always knowing where they’ll be or otherwise carrying it downfield
himself. Clint swoops in, firing a bludger aimed directly at the boy’s chest.
Steve prepares for the impact, but it never comes. Matt ducks out of the way,
evading the bludger with ease.
Steve watches with a slack jaw as Matt glides between Thor and Clint, dodging
their bodies as well as their bludgers. After the first couple swings, Steve
can tell that neither Thor nor Clint is pulling any punches anymore. They’re
giving it their best, but even with their combined efforts they still can’t
land a hit on Matt.
And when he takes his shot on Steve, he shoots low left and sends the quaffle
speeding past Steve’s outstretched leg, fast and hard enough to leave a sizable
dent in the rafters behind the posts.
Steve chuckles in awe. “Holy shit,” he says. His smile wavers a bit when he
realizes that he’ll have to explain the damage to Fury, but applause from the
crowd pulls him away from that troublesome thought.
“ATTA BOY MATTY!” Foggy Nelson cheers, backed up by the whooping of Karen Page
beside him, having traded in their black and yellow scarves for scarlet and
gold in a show of support. Matt smiles sheepishly and waves to them, somehow
knowing the exact place they’re sitting. Steve’s eyes fall on the opposite side
of the stands to where Bucky is cheering as well, whistling loud and clear with
his fingers caught between his lips.
“Okay, I’m calling a do-over!” Clint shouts, pointing his bludger accusingly at
Matt.
“Come on, Clint; give your ass a break,” Sam says, pulling up beside Matt to
clap him on the shoulder proudly, “seeing as how it just got kicked so hard.”
“And what a pleasure it was to have my ass kicked by an athlete as fine as
yourself!” Thor bellows.
“Alright, that’s what I like to see out there!” Steve says. “Rotate out! Let’s
make sure everyone’s playing the positions they want! Sif, I want you in right
field against Sam! And Wade—Steve pauses, noticing for the first time the empty
space in the air where Wade should be. He looks back to the stands where Wade
is still seated next to Bucky, uncomfortably close with his hands on his chin
like a love struck child. “Wade, are you…”
“Nope!” Wade shouts without prying his loving gaze from Bucky’s profile. “I’ll
stay right here.”
And Merlin help him, Steve can’t say he blames him.
After the scrimmage, Steve ends the practice with drills lasting the rest of
the hour, ending just as the Ravenclaw team wanders onto the field, eager to
begin their own tryouts. After careful deliberation and consultation with Sam,
Steve decides on the final team.
“Starting Chasers,” Steve announces to the crowd after having gathered in the
locker room, “I want Wilson, Bishop, and Murdock. Beaters, Barton and Odinson.”
“Gimme the thunder,” Clint says, holding up his fist for Thor to bump. “BOOM!”
they shout in unison when their fists collide.
“Five years running!” Thor shouts while Clint winces and shakes his hand,
glaring at Thor’s biceps.
“Keeper…” Steve says awkwardly, “Um, Steve Rogers...”
“Damn, I really hate that guy,” Clint stage whispers.
“And finally, for our Seeker. Well, that seems pretty obvious…” He grins at
Kamala, who still holds the fluttering snitch in her hand.
                                      ***
Despite the cuts made, the chatter in the locker room remains friendly as ever.
Steve can overhear snatches of conversation while simultaneously listening as
Wade goes into explicit detail about a dream he once had about Bucky and a
chimichanga.
“…so after that, I’m like, woah, you know?” He concludes, wrestling his t-shirt
over his head. “Ran out and bought a poster the next day.”
Steve tosses a careful glance over his shoulder to where Clint and Kate are
talking aerodynamics and wind speed before ducking behind his locker and
dropping his voice to a whisper. “The one with the dragon, right?”
Wade’s face lights up at the same moment the locker room goes deathly silent,
something that usually only happens after a particularly hard loss. Steve turns
around to see Bucky standing in the doorway.
“Hey,” he says with an easy grin. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
One by one, every head turns towards Steve until it feels as though there might
as well be a spotlight on him. He swallows thickly, willing the words to come
but none do. Thankfully, Wade is there to fill the silence.
“You know, I’ve had at least ten sexual fantasies that began with a scenario
scarily similar to this one,” he says.
“On that note, I’m out,” Sam says. “Got a ten inch essay due for Darkhölme,
figure I’d better get a jump on it.” He nudges Thor in the ribs as he passes,
hardly being discreet.
“I, too, must leave.” Thor says. “The constellation Aquarius will be in sight
tonight. Jane and I have plans to record it in our Astrological journals,” he
explains, shouldering his own bag and taking his leave.
The room empties steadily, each excuse more flimsy than the last until only
Clint is left. “And I’m just gonna go…away,” he says vaguely, not even
bothering to come up with an excuse for his hasty exit.
“Was it something I said?” Bucky asks, looking apologetic as he comes further
into the room.
Much like Wade, Steve can think of ten dreams off the top of his head that
began with this same scenario.
“You got some real talent out there.” Bucky says, pulling Steve from his
thoughts and coming to sit on the bench behind him. “That Murdock kid, he’s
somethin’.”
Steve shakes himself into the present and even manages a laugh. “I’ll say. He
could be some serious competition for you coming down the line,” he teases.
Bucky laughs. “I was thinking we ought to recruit him,” he says. “Make a team
and sound like the start of a bad joke. ‘How many disabled Chasers does it take
to catch a quaffle?’”
Steve chuckles and continues to throw his clothes in his locker. “You could be
on to something there, you know. Be great for kids to see a team like that in
the league.”
Bucky hums thoughtfully. “Merlin knows I coulda used it growing up.”
“I hear you.”
“You?” Bucky asks, narrowing his eyes skeptically. “What? Too many muscles? All
the other kids make fun of you for deadlifting buses?”
Steve laughs and nods solemnly. “I know. Kinda hard to believe now,” he says.
“Didn’t always look like this, though,” he adds, taking out the lone photograph
taped in his locker and offering it to Bucky. “See for yourself.”
Bucky takes the photo, glancing between it and Steve a few times before shaking
his head. “That’s not you,” he says adamantly.
“It is!” Steve says with a laugh.
“Come on, how old were you?” Bucky asks. “Six?”
“Ten,” Steve corrects, “small for my age.”
“I’ll say,” Bucky says, handing the picture back to Steve. “That your old man
with you?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, running his finger over the frayed edges of the photograph
as he tucks it back into the corner of his locker. His younger self smiles back
at him from beneath the weight of his father’s arm. He remembers that day
clearly, the Father-Son Field Day they’d held in Central Park the year before
Steve left for Hogwarts. “He’s, um, he’s not around anymore.”
Bucky frowns and hangs his head. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I know how much I hate
it when people say it to me, so…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says, shutting his locker gently. He can sense
the question hanging in the air and Bucky’s hesitance to ask it. “Killing
curse,” he says, “from the Skull himself.”
“Shit,” Bucky says under his breath.
“Yeah,” Steve says, “shit.”
Bucky looks up and smiles, just a small one, just a barely-there curve to his
lips, “Guess we got more in common than just Quidditch, huh, troublemaker?”
“Again, with the troublemaker?” Steve asks, feigning annoyance as he turns to
leave, though he’s grateful for the change of subject. “I haven’t gotten into
any trouble since you got here.”
“Correction,” Bucky says, following after Steve with effortless swagger, hands
in his pockets and a grin on his face, “you haven’t gotten caught since I got
here.”
Steve grins. “And how would you know that?”
Bucky shrugs, so exaggerated that his shoulders nearly reach his ears before he
drops them with a chuckle. “Maybe I overheard Quill talking about how you
cornered the kids who gave him a shiner for saving a frog in Phillips’s class.”
Steve feels a now familiar flush creeping up the back of his neck. “Quill’s a
good kid,” he says evasively.
“Seems to be a trend with you Hogwarts punks,” Bucky teases, passing Steve and
continuing on ahead.
“And what about you, huh?” Steve asks, rushing to catch up. “Rumor has it
someone’s been leaving textbooks outside the kitchen every morning,” he says.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“How’d you hear about that?” Bucky asks evasively.
“Connections,” Steve says, “Wally, actually. He’s quite taken with Household
Charms for the Helplessly Hopeless.”
Bucky offers only a tight lipped grin and another shrug, which is as good as a
confession in Steve’s book, given the glint in his eyes.
“Well,” Steve says, playing along for Bucky’s sake, “if you find out who’s
behind it…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Bucky promises.
They turn the corner and nearly run headlong into Peter Quill, who is holding
yet another frog that he’s no doubt just sprung from Professor Phillips’s
classroom, saving it the peril of another demonstration.
“Hey, Captain Rogers!” Quill squeaks, quickly hiding the frog behind his back.
“I was just looking for you. I meant to ask, are we still on for tomorrow
night?”
“Sure are…” Steve says. He nods over Quill’s shoulder. “You can even bring your
friend.”
Quill’s eyes grow to the size of saucers. “I’m just putting him outside, I
swear,” he says with a defiant jut to his chin, like he’s waiting to see if
Steve will report him to a Prefect.
Steve steps aside, creating a space between him and Bucky for Peter to run
through. “Not on the pitch, alright?” He calls to Quill’s back.
“You got it, Cap!”
“Tomorrow night?” Bucky asks when the sound of Quill’s footsteps have faded
away into silence.
“Oh, yeah,” Steve says, forcing a laugh. “Uh, before you got here—well, not
that it matters that you’re here now, well, it does matter because it’s great
that you’re here, but I don’t want you to think we’re only doing it because
you’re here, it’s just a coincidence that—”
“Steve?” Steve looks up to see Bucky fighting a grin.
He sighs and laughs at himself. “It’s sort of Gryffindor tradition that
everyone listens to the Cup Finals in the common room.”
“Shit, that’s tomorrow?” Bucky teases, earning himself a well-deserved punch in
the shoulder.
“You’d better win. I’ve got 50 galleons on you.” Steve says. “Quill doesn’t
think you’ll break the record.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s in it for me if I do?” Bucky asks.
“Besides being a Quidditch Champion, living legend, and the only player to
score 1,000 points in a single season?”
“Maybe I’m after something better than all’a that.” Bucky says, soft and
earnest and dripping with a familiar gentle Brooklyn rumble.
Steve thinks he must have imagined the way Bucky’s voice dropped into a
flirtatious purr, because that voice is reserved for the pretty girls and boys
Bucky gets photographed with in the shadows, away from the prying eyes that
would have them believing there’s anyone else but Bucky in the world.
“Figure you could have anything you want,” Steve says regardless, because for
now it’s enough to pretend that the darkened corridors are a shadowed alley and
the glint in Bucky’s eye means more than a playful tease between friends.
“Anything I want?” Bucky echoes, smiling like he’s won the Cup already as he
turns to leave, “I’m holding you to that, you know,” he calls over his
shoulder.
Steve wants to follow, but he feels frozen to the spot. Instead he can only
watch as Bucky disappears around the corner, humming happily to himself.
“I hope you do,” he whispers to whom he thought was only himself, but he swears
he hears Bucky chuckle from out of sight.
                                      ***
“And it’s Barnes to Dvorak, Dvorak back to Barnes and ANOTHER POINT, ROMANIA!”
The applause starts up again, startling the sleeping portraits with their
thunderous sound. Steve thinks he can hear a Rrrr-ibbit! somewhere in there and
narrows his eyes at the suspicious lump in Quill’s shirt pocket.
The Gryffindor common room is a sea of green and gold as students from all
Houses gather around the ancient radio and listen as the Romanian Longhorns
take on the New Zealand Nymphs. To his right, Tony stands on the couch
cushions, waving the Romanian flag back and forth while leading the crowd in a
chant of, “LONG-HORNS, LONG-HORNS, LONG-HORNS!” and to his left, Sam blows into
his Longhorns megaphone, which produces the deafening and realistic sound of
the dragon’s roar.
“Shut up, shut up, I can’t hear!” Clint says, though his voice is muffled by a
realistic Longhorn mask, complete with nostrils that shoot flames at his will.
“Someone turn it up!”
A hand reaches up to turn the dial until the voice of the announcer can be
heard above the noise. “I’ll tell you, if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes,
I wouldn’t believe it. That’s Barnes’s 25th goal tonight, tying him with the
previous record!”
“You hear that, Quill?” Steve calls across the room, cupping his hand to his
ear. “Think that’s the sound of 50 galleons in my pocket.”
“You might want to get your hearing checked, old man,” Quill shouts back. “He’s
still one goal short!”
“Give it up, Quill!” Clint shouts. “The record’s his!”
A hard knock brings Steve’s attention to the portrait hole. He hops from the
couch and wades through the crowd, dodging the sloshing butterbeer and hastily
thrown elbows. When he reaches the portrait hole, he pushes it forward,
revealing the two people he was least expecting on the other side.
“Natasha?” Steve asks, even as the girl herself breezes past him, wearing war
paint reminiscent of the poster above Steve’s bed. Out of the corner of his
eye, he sees Clint hastily tug his mask off and toss it across the room,
nailing Sam in the back of the head and earning a loaded glare in return.
“Barnes told us you were having a party,” she says, scanning the room in a way
that has Steve wondering if maybe the streamers were a little too much. “Didn’t
take you for the type, Rogers.”
“That’s me,” he says feebly, “full of surprises.”
“You sure are,” Natasha says, turning her unnerving stare on him. “Nice shirt,
by the way.”
Steve looks down at himself and blushes. When he’d pulled out the jersey
earlier, Sam had given him a knowing smirk while Clint and Tony had broken out
into a rousing chorus of, “Bucky, I love you! Bucky, I do! When we’re apart, my
heart beats only for you!” He’d forgotten he was wearing it until now, but that
does him little good as he watches the jersey change from pink to purple, well
on its way to blue by the time he meets Natasha’s eye again.
“Did we miss anything?” Rebecca asks, clamoring through the portrait hole
decked out from head to toe in Longhorns garb. Steve hardly recognizes her
beneath all the face paint. “Did he break a thousand points yet?”
Steve is grateful for the change of subject. “Last I heard he’s a goal short,”
he says, choosing to focus on Rebecca’s scowl rather than Natasha’s smirk.
“Shouldn’t you be at the game?” He asks.
Rebecca’s scowl only deepens. “Students aren’t allowed off grounds, Fury’s
orders. Bucky’s got a pardon since he’s playing,” she explains in a whining
tone that suggests she’s no stranger to being on the short end of her brother’s
special treatment.
“She tried to hide in his equipment bag,” Natasha says smartly. “It was very
convincing until she sneezed.”
I would have liked to see you do any better!” Rebecca snaps. “It reeks like
something died in there!” With that she leaves them in favor of shouldering her
way to the front of the room, making a spot for herself closest to the radio.
“Natasha, come on!” She calls.
Natasha turns to consider Steve for a moment before deciding something. “You,
too,” she says, curling her arm around his to drag him through the crowd. He
can almost feel Clint’s jealousy radiating from somewhere in the room and
wonders if he won’t be the one with ‘TRAITOR’ burned across his forehead for
years to come.
Natasha gets them to the front of the room with only minimal butterbeer sloshed
onto their clothes. It’s hotter up here, but the energy is electric as everyone
clings to the announcer’s every word.
“With a staggering 210 point lead, Romania has already secured their victory,
but there is still some unfinished business left in the air tonight. One thing
seems to be on the mind of every Longhorn and that’s ‘Get the quaffle to
Barnes!’”
“Come on, Buck!” Rebecca shouts, gripping the radio tight and giving it a shake
as if it were her own brother.
“It is a neck and neck battle for the snitch, but the Nymphs aren’t going down
without a fight. Man to man coverage on every player, making the pass game near
impossible. But, wait—I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! I CAN NOT BELIEVE IT!”
“WHAT?” Rebecca shouts, giving the radio a hard whack.
“I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS BEFORE! PIOTR RASPUTIN IS IN PLAY! RASPUTIN HAS LEFT
THE POSTS, GIVING THE LONGHORNS THE MAN-ADVANTAGE THEY NEEDED OVER THIS NYMPHS
DEFENSE!”
“YES!” Rebecca whoops, throwing an arm around Steve and Natasha and crushing
them to her side.
“And it’s Rasputin, using that frankly colossal bulk he’s got, that gives
Barnes the edge over his defender. Barnes is off with the Quaffle! He’s headed
straight for the posts! HE SHOOTS—,”
Steve doesn’t breathe for the next second, and whether that’s from his own
nerves or Rebecca’s arm around his throat, he’s not sure.
“AND SCORES! BARNES SHOOTS LOW LEFT, STRAIGHT THROUGH THE POST AND INTO THE
HISTORY BOOKS! BARNES BREAKS THE THOUSAND POINT, SINGLE SEASON RECORD!”
Sparks and streamers fly overhead as the balloons floating in the rafters above
burst over the frenzied crowd. Even the portraits give up on their sleep and
begrudgingly join the applause. Tony starts up a new chant of ‘BARNES! BARNES!
BARNES!’ and the roar of Sam’s megaphone shakes the floorboards beneath them.
“HE DID IT!” Rebecca shouts, tears streaming down her painted cheeks. “HE DID
IT! HE DID IT! HE DID IT!”
Steve grins and picks her up, throwing her into the waiting hands of the crowd
with ease. While she surfs around the room, cheering herself hoarse, Natasha
steps into her empty space, watching with crossed arms and a tight grin. “He
did it,” she says quietly, meeting Steve’s eyes as her lips spread with a proud
grin.
The announcer continues to shout over the noise of the crowd. “AND IN THE
EXCITEMENT, THE LONGHORNS CATCH THE SNITCH! THE ROMANIAN LONGHORNS ARE YOUR NEW
QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP CHAMPIONS!”
The applause, if at all possible, only grows louder. More students surf around
the room, more fireworks burst overhead, and all Steve can think about is
Bucky. He wonders if he’s laughing, or smiling, or flying celebratory laps
around the pitch with the wind in his face. He doesn’t need to wait long to
find out.
“It is a scene here tonight, folks, as the Longhorns team dog piles Barnes at
the center of the pitch. I don’t know what got into him tonight, but watching
him play has been nothing short of magical. This is a night that neither Barnes
nor the hundred thousand fans packed in the stands will soon forget. We go now
to our field correspondent who’s standing by with Barnes, just as soon as she
can get him out from under that pile of happy Longhorns…”
“SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” Rebecca shouts, scrambling to ride the crowd back towards
the front of the room. “STEVE, TURN IT UP!”
And Steve does, turning the dial until the reporter’s tinny voice crackles over
the dated speakers.
“I’m here with the man of the hour, Bucky Barnes.” She pauses to let the
applause swell around them. It lasts a full minute before dying down enough for
her to be heard. “Bucky, how do you feel right now?”
“Tired,” Bucky sighs, and he truly sounds it. His laughter is a cross between a
pant and a chuckle.
“And no wonder why. 1000 points in a single season, that’s a new record!” The
applause swells again, this time peppered with chants of Bucky’s name.
“Is it?” Bucky asks, not even to be coy, but rather because he sounds too
exhausted for the weight of the statement to settle in. “That’s…that’s great.”
“Talk to me about that last goal,” the reporter asks. “Low left, not your usual
style.”
“No, it’s not,” Bucky agrees, “but I saw something new today and thought I’d
try it out. I owe Matt Murdock for that one. Remember that name, alright? He’s
gonna be big someday.”
“Holy shit!” Steve can hear Foggy Nelson’s voice clear across the room and when
he turns, he sees the back of Nelson’s blond, shaggy head while he hugs a
completely stoic Matt, who’s either frozen with shock or has very recently been
Petrified.
“A friend of yours?” The reporter asks in interest. “Or a friend of yours?”
“Hey, come on now!” Bucky chuckles.
“Come on, Barnes, I’ve got to ask,” she says playfully, “is there anyone
special?”
The room swells with childish ‘Oooh’s’. Steve glances surreptitiously over his
shoulder, just to be sure not everyone is staring at him. Bucky pauses and
Steve’s heart doesn’t beat quite right until he answers.
“Yeah, I’ve got my eye on someone.”
Steve’s torn between being hopeful and being realistic. On the one hand,
Bucky’s got his eye on someone at Hogwarts, and he is most certainly a someone,
but there are also 1,199 other someone’s that may have Bucky’s attention.
Still, he has to smother his cheer as a cough, turning away from Natasha as he
does.
“I wonder who that could be,” Natasha says thoughtfully.
“You mean you don’t know?” Steve asks.
“I only act like I know everything, Rogers,” she says, though her grin tells
another story entirely.
“Lastly, Bucky, how are you gonna celebrate tonight?”
“With eight hours of sleep.” Bucky says. “That’s how everyone should be
celebrating; it’s late, isn’t it? Rebecca, if you’re listening to this, go to
bed!”
“Dork!” Rebecca shouts. Steve doesn’t dispute it, though he finds it hopelessly
endearing.
“Alright, go get some rest. You earned it! And congratulations again to the
entirety of the Longhorn’s team for their legendary performances here tonight.”
“Well, come on, what are we waiting for?” Clint shouts, hopping onto one of the
streamer-strewn coffee tables. “We’ve gotta be there when he gets back!”
The crowd shouts their approval and begins their stampede towards the door.
“But it’s after hours!” Rhodey shouts, hoping onto another table across the
room. His horned helmet sits lopsidedly on his head, a gift that Tony bestowed
on him before forcibly dragging him from his desk to join the party. Steve
caught him multiple times during the night casting longing glances towards the
stairwell to the dormitories, no doubt thinking about Darkhölme’s ten-inch
essay due Monday morning.
“What is life without a little risk?” Tony asks, earning a round of applause as
he hops onto the table beside Clint, throwing his arm over the other’s
shoulders in a show of allegiance.
“Generally, safer,” Rhodey says, crossing his arms.
“What do you think, Steve?” Tony asks suddenly, putting Steve on the spot in a
way only Tony Stark can.
“Yeah!” Clint shouts, “What do you say Steve?”
Steve glances between Rhodey’s weary expression and the hopeful looks around
the room. He weighs the pros and cons: a week’s detention for everyone found
out of bed versus being there for Bucky when he walks through the door…
“Let’s do it,” Steve decides, as if there was a debate in the first place.
“Why do I even bother…” Rhodey grumbles, hopping off the table with a resigned
sigh.
Steve leads the way through the portrait hole. He glances left and right,
making sure the coast is clear before creeping slowly into the darkened hall.
Thankfully, the Fat Lady is asleep tonight, humming between rumbling snores.
The same goes for nearly all other portraits lining the darkened halls. Every
once and a while, the light of Steve’s wand will rouse one of the subjects
enough to warrant a scathing complaint before drifting back to sleep.
They make it as far as the third floor before running into Professor Erskine,
bed rumpled with a cup of chamomile tea in his hand. Steve skids to a halt but
Clint, who’s too busy showing Natasha pictures of Lucky to notice, collides
against his back, followed by Tony, Thor, and Rhodey, causing a pile up that
knocks Steve straight into Erskine’s chest. He steps back, chancing a sheepish
glance at the amused face of his Head of House.
“Mr. Rogers,” Erskine says, “why am I not surprised to see you out of bed at
this hour?”
“What did I say?” Rhodey whispers, appealing to the group of Second Years
behind him. “You heard me say this was a bad idea, right?”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Steve says, “we were just—we were only—”
“Sneaking off to greet Barnes upon his arrival?” Erskine finishes with a
knowing grin.
Steve’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Yes, sir.”
“Well,” Erskine says, surveying the wide eyed crowd, “you’re in luck. It seems
as though your Head of House has fallen asleep after a cup of tea and could not
possibly conduct a headcount…”
Steve looks up slowly to meet his Professor’s twinkling eyes. Professor Erskine
winks and steps aside, feigning a yawn. “You’d best hurry. While I myself may
be a rather heavy sleeper, I know Professor Phillips is up at the sound of a
fallen feather.”
“Thank you, Professor!” Steve says. “Thank you!”
Erskine smiles and passes on through the crowd. “And Mr. Rhodes,” he says as he
goes, “do, how do you say it…lighten up, won’t you?”
Rhodey’s expression is priceless as he watches Erskine retreat towards his
chambers. He turns back to the crowd, who all stare at him expectantly.
“Alright, alright,” he sighs, pressing the button on his hat that makes the
horns glow golden, “let’s go.”
By far the most difficult part is getting nearly two hundred students across
the spinning stairs without losing anyone, but it’s well worth it when they
reach the main entrance. The crowd gathers around the tall wooden doors and
buzzes with anticipation. Steve tries to stay towards the middle, but a firm
hand catches him by the wrist and drags him to the front.
“Rebecca?” Steve asks.
“He’ll want to see you,” she shouts, her brown curls bouncing as she runs,
“believe me!”
When they arrive at the doors, Natasha is already there with her ear pressed
against the thick mahogany.
“Well, do you hear anything?” Tony asks, laying an ear on the door himself.
“Not yet,” Natasha says, sounding like a mother speaking to a petulant child.
“Give him time.”
It’s another twenty minutes before Natasha steps away from the door with a
grin. “He’s here,” she says, taking one of the heavy iron knockers in her hand.
She nods for Rebecca to take the other, which she does, and together they pull.
The doors open with a deep creek and the warm orange light of the castle spills
out over the lawn, bathing Bucky in its glow.
He barely has time to blurt out an awed, “What?” before the crowd rushes around
him, dragging Steve along with the current. Rebecca races forward and launches
herself into her brother’s arms. He catches her easily and spins on the spot,
laughing into her curls.
“Thought I told you to be in bed early?” Bucky says.
“Natasha said it was okay!” Rebecca argues. When she pulls away, she leaves
half her golden face paint smeared in Bucky’s hair, not that he seems to mind.
“Well, if Natasha says…” Bucky says.
“Give it a rest, Barnes,” Natasha says fondly. “Besides, it was Steve’s idea.”
Steve gawks at her, shaking his head adamantly, trying to find the words to
deny it as Bucky turns his amused smirk on him. “Well, if it isn’t the
troublemaker,” he says, “out after hours.”
“No, no,” Steve says evasively, looking around the frenzied crowd, “it was
Clint’s idea, he’s here somewhere… I’m just here looking for Quill, he owes me
50 Galleons.”
Bucky laughs. “Which reminds me,” he says, and maybe it’s just the tiredness
that adds the rumble to his voice, but Steve would like to pretend otherwise,
“you still figure I can have anything I want?”
Steve’s attention snaps back to Bucky. He forgets about finding Quill in the
crowd and focuses on the cocky grin and tilted jaw in front of him. “Well, I
think you earned it, don’t you?”
Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut short by loud complaints as Tony
shoulders his way towards them.
“Excuse me, coming though…” Tony says, pushing his way to the forefront.
“Barnes, tell me… How’d she handle?” He asks, looking equal parts nervous and
hopeful. “And don’t butter me up just because I know where you sleep.”
“Like a dream,” Bucky says with a grin, pulling his broomstick from its holster
on his back. “Hit 150, no problem.”
Tony’s face splits into a wide grin, dropping all sense of doubt. “I knew she
would!” He announces to the crowd.
“In fact…” Bucky says, “the whole team wants one, if you think you’re up to the
challenge.”
Tony’s eyes light up. “Well…” he says, trying to remain casual, “got to give
the people what they want…that’s…that’s simple supply and demand.” He takes
Bucky’s broom, making it all of three steps towards the dungeons before
breaking out into a sprint, no doubt headed for the common room where he can
work by the light of the fire until Pepper has to forcibly drag him away.
So concerned is Steve with watching Tony push-tackle-and-shove his way through
the crowd that he doesn’t notice the ball of light moving shakily down the
corridor until it’s too late.
“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?”
Steve, as well as every other head in the crowd, turns to see Professor
Phillips storming down the hall. His sleeping cap sits slightly askew on his
head, the pom-pom at the end swinging back in forth in front of his indignant
expression.
The ensuing silence is almost comical, quiet enough that the sound of Phillip’s
slippers shuffling against the floors is audible as he draws ever closer. It
isn’t until Phillips is nearly upon them that the gravity of the situation sets
in and the silence is disturbed by Clint’s panicked shout.
“EVERYBODY RUN!”
“What did I tell you?” Rhodey shouts to no one in particular, glancing over his
shoulder in the midst of the ensuing stampede. “What did I tell you? I hope
this was worth it!”
Steve has half the mind to agree with him, wondering if all of this was really
worth it, but then he catches a glimpse of Bucky running towards the dungeons.
With one hand he throws Rebecca over his shoulder and with the other he catches
Natasha’s wrist and pulls her around the sharp corner. Just before he can
disappear down the stairs, he glances over the shoulder not currently
supporting his irate sister and meets Steve’s eye, grinning wide.
And it’s worth it.
Chapter End Notes
     CHAPTER EIGHT: The Forbidden Forest
     Bucky rises from his seat and purposefully ignores the curious glance
     Natasha is sending him. Steve is out the door already and Bucky
     follows close behind. They walk side by side in unison, Steve seeming
     to have caught on to the fact that Bucky’s leading the way on this
     one and that they need to be quick. He glances over his shoulder to
     make sure they haven’t been followed before grabbing Steve and
     tugging him behind the hanging tapestry that he knows conceals one of
     the dozens of passageways hidden around the castle.
     He swings Steve around and pins him to the wall, keeping his fists
     balled in the fabric of his button down. He hits the wall with a soft
     Thud! that knocks the breath of him, leaving him looking at Bucky all
     doe-eyed and slack-jawed. Bucky fights to remain focused.
     “You told me if I won the Cup, you’d let me have anything,” he
     whispers quickly. “Well, this is it.”
     Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh?” He breathes, sounding nearly hopeful.
     “Right now?”
     “Tonight,” Bucky corrects. “Are you busy?”
     Steve shakes his head furiously. “I-I was going to draw up some new
     plays with Sam, but it can wait.”
     Bucky grins. “Good. I need you to take me to the Forbidden Forest.”
     Steve blinks once, twice. “Oh,” he sighs, his shoulders sagging
     slightly under Bucky’s hands. “Why?”
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