Chapter Text
“The grounds are small,” Gimli observed as they crossed the short distance from the lake to the doors of the castle.
“There’s a nice big forest off that way,” Kíli pointed out. “Plus the castle is bigger than ours.”
Gimli looked up at Hogwart’s edifice. That it certainly was.
“I am thinking ve overdressed for the veather,” Viktor said, coughing deeply into a gloved hand.
“Viktor! Keep to the front,” Karkaroff barked. Viktor obeyed, his head lowering into a fierce scowl. He stood beside Karkaroff, who was easy to spot in the night with his great silver fur coat.
“Quick, before we get our commoner germs on him,” Kíli muttered darkly, waggling his fingers at the back of the Headmaster’s head.
“Well, it was you who thought it a great idea to go ice fishing the night before we left,” Gimli pointed out.
“Hey, Viktor practically pulled my arm to take him with us.”
“Aye, and you had one arm left to snatch a bottle of contraband fire whiskey,” Gimli returned.
“It was my civic duty to calm the nerves of our champion before we shoved off,” Kíli sniffed with the air of the unjustly maligned.
“You didn’t have to dare him to streak either,” Fíli added, smirking at his brother.
“You’re the one who ran off with his clothes!”
“The both of you are hopeless,” Gimli chided, though his glittering eyes probably gave him away. He had, after all, caught a sizable trout that night, so he could hardly complain. “I wouldn’t start envying Krum—he’s got to spend the next few months with Karkaroff breathing down his neck.”
“Still,” Ingrid piped up from behind them, lowering her hood so her great locks of tightly curled hair framed her dark face. “Eternal glory and a thousand galleons are not bad deal.”
“He’s already a Quidditch star! How much fame and fortune does he need?” Lukas whined, slumped down into his coat so far that he appeared almost as tall as Kíli. “‘Sides, maybe the Goblet will pick someone else.”
“Please,” Ingrid scoffed. “Haffen’t you read the history on the Goblet of Fire? It always chooses champions that look good in newspaper spreads.”
Gimli had to agree with her. He’d looked up a list of past champions himself shortly before leaving and it was like perusing a who’s who of the wizarding elite. Viktor hadn’t been keen on going in the first place, so Karkaroff had bribed him by letting him personally fill the remaining eight spots with his friends, all of whom were hardly the stuff of legend. Gimli had agreed to come readily enough, as he’d get to travel and spend his last year of school outside classrooms.
Their conversation was cut off as they stopped at the foot of the front steps. Karkaroff was speaking with Dumbledore, an insincere smile fixed in place. Gimli felt Kíli fidgeting next to him. He couldn’t blame him—the feel of the heartily warm entryway was almost irresistible.
Finally, they were led to a great feasting hall. Karkaroff had gone somewhere with Dumbledore, so that left the nine of them standing at the doors, unsure of where they were to sit. Several of the Hogwarts students were beckoning Viktor to their table, and a few more were murmuring and pointing at Gimli or even Fíli. Gimli refused to touch his beard or look bothered by the open stares.
“Let us sit near the Beauxbatons group,” Ingrid said decisively, easily inserting herself to the front of their group and leading the way. “Symmetry!”
“Seems a good a place as any,” Fíli agreed.
Ingrid led them to the table filled with students wearing green and silver ties. They busied themselves with sitting down, shaking off great fur coats that were suddenly stifling.
“Check out the ceiling!” Clara nearly squeaked, pointing upwards. Gimli took in the vast expanse of the night sky in awe.
As they sat, a young blonde boy sandwiched between two hulking gargoyles bent forward to earnestly talk to Viktor. Gimli listened faintly to some nonsense about the boy’s father and the Quidditch World Cup.
“Do you think these plates are gold-plated or solid all the way through?” Lukas asked, spinning a plate around on his hand.
Gimli picked up a golden fork and bit the end of it. The metal did not give at all.
“Plated.”
“How did you figure that out just by chewing on it?” Clara demanded, flipping her blonde hair behind her shoulder imperiously.
“Gold will give if you bite down with a certain amount of pressure. We Durins have particularly strong teeth,” Gimli explained, setting the fork down.
The sound of a door opening near the staff table got their attention. Karkaroff made his way to Dumbledore’s side. Behind him came the largest woman Gimli had ever seen. She stood what had to be ten feet tall and was dressed in black satin and fine opals. The Beauxbatons students immediately leapt to their feet when their headmistress appeared, earning themselves scattered laughter. They seemed unembarrassed, however, and appeared to be waiting until Madame Maxime was seated.
A shock of long, golden hair caught Gimli’s eye from the group of Beauxbatons students. The hair belonged to a boy with equally golden good looks. He stood out starkly from the group of pale blue uniformed students at attention. As Madame Maxime seated herself, they sat too, and Gimli tried to work out why the boy seemed instantly familiar to him, but his thoughts were interrupted by Dumbledore’s speech.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and—most particularly—guests. I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable. The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast. I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”
The table in front of them was suddenly laden with a bountiful feast. They tucked in swiftly, filling their plates and goblets with gusto. As he partook in the glorious food before him, Gimli found himself looking at the Beauxbatons lot again. Something about that blonde boy set Gimli’s teeth on edge, like he had once accidentally knocked Gimli to the ground somewhere and never apologized for it.
He must have sensed Gimli’s stare, because his coolly indifferent gaze snapped to Gimli’s with a birdlike curiosity. His slender eyebrows were furrowed like he was trying to figure out some puzzle. His eyes slid to either side of Gimli where Fíli and Kíli were seated, and recognition seemed to hit him a second before it hit Gimli. He had seen this boy’s picture in a newspaper, but even without that confirmation Gimli would recognize that arrogant smirk anywhere.
“Fíli! Kíli!” Gimli whispered harshly. “Third Beauxbatons boy to the left is the son of Thranduil!”
“No,” Kíli breathed, gawking. Fíli had a more natural reaction, leveling a stern glare at the bloke.
Thranduil’s get looked away as if he was already bored with this situation. That didn’t stop Gimli from keeping a weather eye on him.
“I can’t believe we’re in the same room as the spawn of Satan,” Fíli sighed. “What rotten luck.”
“He keeps angelic company,” Kíli said appreciatively.
“What, the blonde girl next to him?” Fíli asked, some of his anger fading away to amusement. It was quite common for Kíli to find some young lass to fawn over any time they were somewhere new.
“No, the ginger one,” Kíli said absently, like his whole world had narrowed down to him and the girl. Gimli spared a glance at her. She was fair all right, but most people’s attention seemed to be on Thranduil’s son. A first-year girl was near-swooning next to him and a few more seemed just as fascinated, even the boys.
“I see he’s got his dad’s looks,” Fíli muttered, arching an eyebrow.
“You guys talking about Mr. Right over there?” Clara asked from further down the table. “I’ve got dibs on him. He’s got to be a Veela or something.”
“No such thing as full-blooded male Veela,” Ingrid corrected, though Gimli noticed that she too was staring.
“Quarter Veela, possibly,” Gimli grumbled, recalling that Thranduil was half.
He didn’t quite understand the fascination, Veela blood or no. Objectively, the flawless skin, long golden hair, swan-like neck, and crystalline eyes were attractive, but it was like someone had been given a blueprint for the perfect being and chiseled it out of cold marble. He seemed to also have all the personality of a slab of stone, enduring the dinner conversation as if he was a king among peasants.
Gimli added, “I wouldn’t get too close to that one. His dad’s a nasty piece of work, and I’m willing to bet that the apple doesn’t rot too far from the tree.”
“You mean fall?” Ingrid asked.
“Rotten is a better way of describing that family tree,” Gimli said darkly.
“Want to fill us in on this family feud?” Lukas asked.
“You know, it’s a long story,” Fíli said equably. “Let’s just say that his dad is responsible for a lot of grief to our family and we want nothing to do with the bastard.”
The others sensed Fíli’s unwillingness to gossip on this and moved on to admiring the ghosts floating about. Kíli rested a solid hand on Gimli’s back and whispered, “Don’t let it get to you. It’s not like you’ll have to see him much while we’re here.”
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted from above them. They looked up to see the red-headed Beauxbatons girl of Kíli’s recent dreams. “Are you finished with the ratatouille?”
“Which one is it?” Fíli asked gamely, surveying the more untouched dishes on their table.
“It’s this one,” Kíli said, fumbling for the dish. He held it in both hands like he was offering her a rare treasure. “It’s really good.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, clearly seeing that the dish was unspoiled and untried, and left gracefully, taking Kíli’s heart with her.
“They don’t make them like that at Durmstrang,” Kíli sighed, leaning on the table while cupping his head dreamily.
“You are right—they make them better,” Ingrid declared, throwing a roll at Kíli’s head, which bounced off without Kíli’s notice.
“You’ve got your elbow in a treacle tart,” Fíli noted. Kíli kept it right where it was, unconcerned. “Also your lady is giving the ratatouille to arsehole junior.”
The vile temptress was indeed pushing the dish over to the wanker, who thanked her and began speaking as if everything in the room was an irritation to him.
Aside from that spectacle, dinner passed unremarkably and ended with the introductions of Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch. Gimli did appreciate the unveiling of the Goblet’s jeweled casket, which was given to Dumbledore by an unpleasant curmudgeon with a cat trailing him. Hogwarts was a strange place.
“The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: The Goblet of Fire.” Dumbledore tapped three times on the casket and brought out a wooden cup that would have been unremarkable if it wasn’t full of dancing blue-white flames.
Dumbledore went on about an Age Line and taking the contest seriously, which Gimli had already heard back at Durmstrang, so he took another look at the Beauxbatons table. Thranduil’s son was already looking at Gimli. Gimli glared back in interest and would probably have started a staring contest had the feast not ended then and everyone began to leave the hall.
“Back to the ship, then,” Karkaroff said, bustling to their table. “Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send for some mulled wine from the kitchens?”
Viktor shook his head and pulled his coat back on.
“Professor, I vood like some vine,” Serge said hopefully.
“I wasn’t offering it to you, Poliakoff,” snapped Karkaroff. “I notice you have dribbled food all down the front of your robes again, disgusting boy—”
Karkaroff turned summarily and walked out. Poliakoff was moodily examining his robes and Johanna broke out of her brooding ways to tell him where he had dropped some brown gravy on his blood-red robes.
At the front of the hall, Karkaroff was transfixed by a boy who stood as tall as Gimli and had a wild mop of black hair and spectacles. Ingrid, quick on the uptake, recognized him.
“It is Harry Potter! Vere was he hiding before?”
Poliakoff nudged Clara and pointed at Potter’s scar. Then a strange-looking old man with a magical glass eye trudged up and made Karkaroff’s face drain of color, which was probably the best thing Gimli had seen all day. He would have savored the moment, but the Beauxbatons lot were leaving as well and Gimli didn’t know if he could keep himself from starting a fight in this fine hall.
***
That night, Gimli sent an owl to his father, giving him the news of Thranduil’s son being within striking distance of Gimli. He sighed when Galadriel flew out of the ship’s porthole. He was starting to regret telling his father, as he didn’t want him to start reliving old memories. Gimli was doing that for the both of them.
He fetched an old tapestry from his trunk and returned to his desk, unfolding the cloth neatly across the surface. Woven into the fine fabric were the names of the Durin family lineage, going back as far as Gimli’s great-great grandfather. His hand hovered over his grandfather, Groin Durin. Gimli had never even met him.
A knock sounded on his door.
“Come in,” he called. Fíli opened the door and Kíli inevitably piled in after him.
“I just knew you were in here brooding,” Fíli said, shaking his head at the unfolded tapestry.
“Do you blame me?” Gimli tersely asked.
“A little,” Kíli said, bouncing on Gimli’s bed. “We get enough brooding from Uncle Thorin. Don’t you go joining him.”
“If only I could, lad,” Gimli said, filled with melancholy. Fíli sighed heavily and fetched a kettle.
“I’ll make you some tea, before you start on a vicious rant.”
“I should be going with him to Erebor!” Gimli yelled, smacking the desk with his hand.
“Too late,” Kíli quipped, falling backward on the bed dramatically.
“Gloin is just looking out for you,” Fíli said soothingly as he flicked his wand and conjured a small set of bluebell flames under the kettle. “The only reason we’re going is because Uncle Thorin is our legal guardian. Nepotism is lost on Uncle, I’m afraid.”
“Nepotism and proper courting rituals,” Fíli said slyly. “Did you hear he’s taking Bilbo the baker? You remember Gimli, the wee man with the curly hair?” enthused Kíli, arms reaching up to flap about excitedly from the bed. “Likes to cook without shoes? You know, I wonder if he ever drops anything on those toesies.”
“A baker, going off to fight a horde of bloodthirsty dragons,” Gimli muttered bitterly. “I ask you, what is the justice in sending him rather than me?”
“To be fair, I don’t think he’s going for the fighting, just to cook meals and settle legal disputes,” Kíli assured. “Also, I think Uncle Thorin’s after his sweet, sticky buns, if you know what I mean.”
“Good thing I’ve gone temporarily deaf just now,” Fíli said fervently as the kettle began to steam right nice.
“Oh don’t act like you’re not in the betting pool for when they’re going to stop bickering and start with the snogging. I hear Nori has raised the stakes to include a bonus if they do the naked embrace before Christmas.”
“I live in a world where Uncle Thorin doesn’t have sex,” Fíli insisted. “That world is where inner peace can be found. Gimli, please shut him up. I beg you, cousin.”
“You are both straying from the point. Here I am, legally an adult, and yet I’m considered too young to kill dragons,” Gimli scoffed. “As if age means anything when it’s one’s home you’re talking about.”
“To be fair, none of us here have even seen Erebor,” Kíli said soberly, sitting up in the bed. “I’m more for taking revenge on Thranduil’s hide than dragonhide. Killing a bunch of dragons isn’t going to bring back your granddad or our parents.”
Gimli deflated. “But do you see how much this means to our family, to our colony? Everyone lost someone back then, and all I get to do is look at that traitor’s bastard son each day, fed so long by a silver spoon that his hair sapped its gleam.”
Fíli and Kíli went silent, knowing when Gimli was not just ranting but was fixed in his opinion. Gimli grimly folded up the family tapestry and put it away again in the continued silence. A mirror was fixed just above the trunk, a little too high for him to see himself properly. Gimli tilted his head up to inspect his thick, red beard and saw that the two small braids he had put in this morning were coming undone. If only the length of a beard determined age instead of years lived.
“Don’t you even think of cutting it off again,” Kíli warned, sensing Gimli’s mood. “You finally got it to braiding length again.”
“I won’t laddie,” Gimli said, accepting a prepared cuppa from Fíli. “My chin is weaker than I’d like to admit.”
“Well,” Fíli said decisively, toasting Gimli and Kíli’s cup with his own. “To majestic beards and not having to shiver our way through winter at Durmstrang Institute, at any rate.”
***
They placed their names in the Goblet the next morning in front of a crowd of curious Hogwarts students, Viktor at the lead.
“Wonder why we’re putting our names in anyway,” Lukas groused as the Goblet sent sparks after his slip of paper.
“Propriety mostly,” Clara sniffed, daintily flicking in her own.
After breakfast there was an interesting tour of the castle proper, which is when they were warned that the forest was off limits. Durmstrang Institute had miles and miles of grounds to make up for its rather small castle, and Gimli had to admit that he didn’t like the idea of staying indoors the rest of the year, least of all on the ship. It took only one night’s sleep to discover that he absolutely loathed life at sea. He’d had to take a sleeping draught to induce sleep, and upon waking he’d feared the infernal boat was going to fall apart from the relentless rocking.
They were allowed free reign for the afternoon, so Gimli decided to explore the shores of the lake, dipping his feet in and lounging in the grass. He didn’t see the legendary giant squid, but he was sure he’d see it from their ship soon enough. He also discovered that the Beauxbatons’ lot was staying in a gigantic blue carriage next to a small hut that sat at the edge of the forest. He wistfully noticed a set of crates that held what looked like some kind of scorpion crabs, but he was keen to stay as far away from certain foreigners as he possibly could, so he stayed right where he was and skipped stones.
Shortly before the Halloween feast was to begin, he was approached by a rather excitable young girl with bushy brown hair who went on a passionate plea for the liberation of house-elves and tried to get him to buy a badge which spelled out S.P.E.W. Gimli declined, as he explained patiently that house-elves would be offended if you offered to free them, but didn’t mind the idea of freeing one if they asked for it. She huffed in annoyance, but thanked him anyway before heading to the castle.
Hogwarts seemed to go all-out for Halloween, enchanting bats to fly around and hanging glowing pumpkins from their ceiling. The feast was much more subdued and fraught with tension as everyone anxiously waited for the champion choosing to begin. Finally, the tables cleared and Dumbledore announced that the Goblet was almost ready to make its decision. He extinguished all the candles with a wave of his wand, the only light coming from the blue flames of the Goblet.
“It better hurry and start coughing up names,” Kíli whispered. “I ate too much and I am not belching in front of Tauriel. Damn Hogwarts and back-to-back feasts!”
“That her name?” Gimli asked.
“Yeah,” Kíli said, heartfelt. “Took me three tries to get it. I think she finds me endearing.”
“Is that what they’re calling ‘annoying’ these days?” Fíli asked in amusement.
Clara shushed them all loudly. The Goblet had started admitting red sparks. In the next moment a tongue of flame hit the air and Dumbledore snatched a piece of charred parchment from the air as everyone gasped dramatically.
“The champion from Durmstrang,” he read in a strong, clear voice, “will be Gimli Durin.”
Surely he must have heard wrong. He was certainly not alone in his doubts. Everyone in the hall was staring at Gimli in a range of astonishment, though they clapped loudly in the spirit of things. Karkaroff looked furious, like he thought Dumbledore had read the name wrong on purpose. Gimli was actually with him on this.
“Well, go on!” Kíli said excitedly, perhaps the only one in the room who truly was. Gimli rose from his seat, thankfully not shaking, and lumbered up the hall. As he passed Dumbledore, he winced at their great height difference and knew everyone was sizing them up as well. It was thankfully a short distance to the next chamber and he was soon away from the press of eyes upon him.
The room was empty. There were many paintings on the walls and a large, roaring fire. Gimli hunched in front of it, still in a state of shock. Triwizard champion. What on earth had possessed that cup to choose him over Viktor Krum? Gimli had never even considered the possibility of being chosen. Now that it had happened, he found that he wasn’t scared or upset, just bewildered. There was nothing particularly special about himself, save for the deeds of some of his family. Perhaps it had mistaken him for Thorin or his father.
His whirling thoughts were cut off when the chamber door opened and the last person Gimli would want to see at that moment entered the room. His new theory was that the Goblet was pulling names ironically. Tall, golden, and pompous didn’t appear surprised at being selected as Beauxbatons’ champion.
Gimli was dead set on ignoring the bane of his existence, but the idiot had no sense of self-preservation, walking gracefully across the small room and standing in front of the fireplace as well. It would look too much like fleeing if Gimli moved away, so he stood his ground and glared into the middle distance. Unfortunately, he could feel the tosser staring at the side of his face. When Gimli glanced over to check, he saw that he was not so much staring as he was studying Gimli like he would an impossible mathematic equation and he wasn’t pleased with his own progress solving it.
“You are a Durin,” Thranduil’s son observed with a voice devoid of character or warmth. Gimli would have thrown him into the fire if his entire world hadn’t been shaken to its core quite recently.
“Aye,” Gimli challenged, “and you are a Greenleaf who possesses ears that can hear.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I am surprised to see you in the champion’s chamber. I was told the Goblet of Fire hasn’t been used in a century. Perhaps its wisdom is slipping.”
“Well, then,” Gimli said, infusing his voice with as much condescension as he could summon in that moment, “that explains your presence then.”
The boy looked more surprised than insulted which in turn insulted Gimli, because did he think Gimli incapable of quick wit? Gimli assumed a combative stance, but the sound of the chamber opening once more stayed him.
“Hello,” a hesitant voice greeted. Gimli didn’t recognize the boy, but he seemed harmless enough. “I’m Cedric Diggory.”
“Gimli,” he greeted, shaking his hand.
“And I heard your name out there, Legolas Greenleaf,” Cedric said, and there was the name of Thranduil’s hellspawn. Legolas was as cold and unyielding as snow in winter as he inclined his head toward Cedric and grasped his hand, but Gimli had seen the beginnings of an avalanche in him and would not be fooled.
An awkward silence followed, all three of the strangers not knowing what to say to the other. Gimli wished he were with his kin, as they would all start boasting about who was going to win. This stiff formality was going to grate on his nerves in the long run.
The door opened again, and in walked Harry Potter. Everyone turned to him, and Gimli started to wonder if the boy was used as the Hogwarts official messenger. The boy looked shaken.
“Are we wanted in the hall?” Legolas asked.
“All right, laddie?” Gimli asked instead, because of course the idiot thought his magnificent presence was needed at once. Harry didn’t say anything, just looked at them all like he had no idea why he was there any more than they did.
Ludo Bagman clattered into the room, taking Harry’s arm and leading him in like a show pony.
“Extraordinary!” he muttered, squeezing Harry’s arm. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen, may I introduce—incredible though it may seem—the fourth Hogwarts champion?”
Gimli kicked his previous theory out and decided that the Goblet was off its tits. “Isn’t he a little young?”
“Well…it is amazing,” Bagman said, smiling down at Harry like he was a proud father, “But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name’s come out of the Goblet…I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage…it’s down in the rules, you’re obliged…Harry will just have to do the best he—”
The door opened a final time and a large group poured in: Dumbledore, Karkaroff, Maxime, Crouch, Bagman, and two Hogwarts teachers he’d never met.
Everyone but the four champions began arguing wildly about the rules and whether Harry cheated or not. Gimli blocked them out, focusing on Harry. The boy looked utterly lost and overwhelmed—either he was a very talented actor or something was amiss. He did start to listen again when Crouch insisted that Harry had to compete and Karkaroff demanded that each school be allowed another champion. Gimli glared at him, knowing that Karkaroff just wanted Krum to be in the running so he could be proud of at least one of his champions.
That strange professor with the glass eye, Moody, entered the room and raised the possibility of someone trying to kill Harry, which set off another round of arguing, and someone finally said, “Let him compete.”
As everyone went silent and turned in his direction, Gimli realized that he was the one who’d said it. Gimli bunched up his shoulders, standing by what he said.
“He has as much chance of dying as any of us.”
“And if someone is trying to kill him as they say?” Legolas inquired condescendingly.
“They hardly need the excuse of a tournament to do it. It’s impractical and I can’t imagine who would go through such a convoluted plan.”
“You don’t quite understand the minds of Dark wizards, do you Mr. Durin?” Moody growled, as if Gimli had personally offended him. “In the case of someone like Potter, it’s not how he is killed, but in what manner.”
Gimli had had enough of this foreboding nonsense. “If you can think of a way to get him out of an ancient magical binding contract, then do it. Otherwise it makes no difference to me if I have to go up against two or three competitors. A win by Durmstrang or Beauxbatons will be more impressive this year and a win by Hogwarts will be questioned, so may the best school win.”
Dumbledore was giving him a serenely amused look. Harry looked a bit paler, but more resolved in the matter. Madame Maxime was affronted while Karkaroff stood furious. Legolas, however, was looking at Gimli in a new manner. For the first time, his face was alive and interested, like the promise of a challenge had woken something within.