Classes resume on Monday and Shane is quick to find his academic rhythm again.
They are all thrust right into it, in fact, the teachers determined to get them back on track. That first week passes so quickly Shane barely has time to stop and enjoy any of it, let alone appreciate that he and Ilya are now a fully official, established couple tied together with love rather than silly teenage affection. Ilya's honesty about his family definitely brought them closer, and Shane feels more entwined with him than ever. He reckons no one, except for maybe Svetlana, ever got to witness this soft side of Ilya, and he's beyond honored that his boyfriend let him in.
Apart from the new label, they still do all the things they did before the winter break, from hand-holding as they walk down the corridor to intense cuddling with loud smooches peppered in. In other words, they are still sickeningly sweet on each other, and Shane is sure that if he was a bystander to this, it would make him roll his eyes so much they'd get stuck in the back of his head.
As it is, Shane simply does not care. He's happy and in love and nothing is going to break his stride.
That is, until the following Tuesday when something does.
They all knew it was coming, and yet the announcement of the second task of the Triwizard Tournament takes everyone by surprise. What's even more surprising is that it's going to happen so soon, this upcoming Sunday. The task will be more difficult at this time of year—no one wants to spend time in the lake in mid-January in the Scottish Highlands if they can help it. It's just on the warmer side of freezing right now, thankfully without snow but with frosty air that bites your cheeks and stills your lungs. A cold that could still fluctuate drastically many times over before the fateful day finally arrives.
Had it not been for Shane's parents mentioning it a little over a week ago, Shane would have totally forgotten about it. Unwillingly, he casts his memory back to that time he was researching injury and death statistics of the past tournaments. It's different now—the stakes are much higher, and he's terrified tenfold compared to how rattled he was during the first task with the dragon. That felt like a clash; this feels like he's going into battle, and Shane is not even the one who has to fight.
Ilya is being great about it though, sensing Shane's growing fear the closer they get to Sunday and doing everything in his power to keep Shane's mind, and presumably his own, off the impending challenge.
He conjures things up for Shane, sometimes failing on purpose to make Shane laugh, other times going so overboard that Shane spends the next two hours trying to shake the fake sticky snow out of his hair.
"There is still some in your nose."
"I wonder how it got there, Ilya."
Shane may be grumpy about it, but he kisses Ilya every time anyway.
Speaking of, they also engage in a lot of displays of affection. What starts off with kisses soon leads to hugging from behind, which turns into other… pressing… teenage issues. Seeing how they need the distraction, and also to satiate their hunger for each other, they find a broom closet once or twice. One time, on Friday and just two days before the second task, they stay behind after Quidditch practice and lock themselves away in the crude shower area. The setting is not ideal—rushed and full of shuffling around to fit both of their athletic bodies in a narrow stall—but they make do.
Ilya is experienced. Not overtly so, but certainly in comparison to Shane. It was already evident during their first time and it's still something Shane notices now, except he's much less self-conscious about his own inadequacies. Ilya makes it easy, guiding him and showing endless patience whenever Shane needs to take a moment to catch his breath or slow down his racing heart. He gets overwhelmed easily and Ilya helps him when that happens.
They want to go again on Saturday, a day before the challenge. Unfortunately, it proves to be a tricky thing to wrangle. They both wake up late, have breakfast and relax for a bit, but then get blindsided and strapped for time when Ilya is whisked away right after lunch. He's gone for most of the day for some tournament-related activities, whatever those are. By the time he's released it's already supper, and one look at his exhausted face tells Shane that maybe sex wouldn't be the best course of action right now.
What he does end up doing is taking care of Ilya during their last meal of the day, making sure he scarfs down everything on his plate and tops it off with a nice boost of orange juice vitamins. Ilya shows his gratitude with kisses just behind Shane's ear and a reassuring knee squeeze.
Shane has managed to keep his anxiety-borne demons at bay, somehow. He's still anxious but, knowing what he knows about Ilya's endless supply of resilience, he has every reason to believe Ilya will come out victorious. How he does it is a different story, but Shane is reserving his judgement and trepidation for after the task. He will either yell at his boyfriend for pulling another crazy stunt like with the dragon, or kiss him stupid for a drama-free victory. Or both.
The second challenge is due tomorrow at noon and the whole group unanimously decided to have an early night, especially Ilya. They review some last-minute preparation with him, making sure he's got his wand on him tomorrow and that he knows which spells to potentially use, most important of all the one that will allow him to breathe underwater for an hour.
"What is the spell again?" Ilya asks again once they finish talking it over.
Shane narrows his eyes at him while Hayden groans, "Dude, come on. We just went over this."
"Mmm yes but you talked so much, Pike. Nothing but talk, I heard nothing."
"I think you need to go get your ears checked."
"And I think you are so unfunny you do not know what a joke is."
"Oh yeah?" Hayden folds his arms across his chest. "What is the spell then?"
Ilya makes a show of searching his brain for it, faux-stumped, and Shane wants to throttle him. A joke or not, Shane just can't do it right now, not this close to the task. He can't laugh or take it lightly—not this.
Ilya smirks at Hayden. "Hmm—"
"Ilya."
All eyes turn to Shane at the weak but clear warning in his voice. Ilya loses his smug energy and kisses Shane again behind the ear, his favourite spot as of late.
"Sorry, moy lyubimyy. I know what it is, is the Bubblehead Charm. Don't worry."
He even says the incantation, without a wand, to prove he's prepared. Shane's annoyance fades.
They finish the meal a moment later and get up to walk out of the Great Hall and up to their respective dormitories.
But life, as it turns out, has other plans.
A teacher walks up to them with purpose, her wrinkled face serious and posture straight. She's looking at Shane. "Mister Hollander. I must ask you to accompany me."
She offers no explanation beyond that, and they all exchange worried glances. Ilya's arm quietly goes around Shane's waist, the message clear. The teacher probably notices but says nothing.
Her expectant eyes are fixed on Shane. "I am afraid this is important."
She teaches Transfiguration and Shane connects some dots, thinking it has to do with the essay he recently submitted. It wasn't his best work so maybe she wants to discuss it. Why she elects to do it on the weekend this late into the day, Shane can't even hazard a guess, but he nods anyway.
"Alright." He steps forward and out of Ilya's hold. "Don't worry," Shane parrots Ilya's earlier sentiment to him. "Go get some sleep, okay? I will see you tomorrow before the task."
Ilya makes a sound in his throat like he disagrees, but doesn't otherwise comment.
The teacher purses her lips when he falls into step with her. Within seconds, he's already outside the Great Hall, only managing a wave to his friends and his boyfriend before he's whisked up to the fourth floor and into a classroom where they have their D.A.D.A lessons.
Okay, that's weird.
The place looks the same, except for empty desks where students usually sit. Well, all but two.
Shane's memory for faces or names can be spotty, especially if he only dealt with someone for the briefest of moments, but he recognizes the girl as a friend of Victor Warren, the date he took to the Yule Ball in December. He's pretty sure she's in the year below him, so this can't be about anything class-related.
The boy sitting in the desk next to her, on the other hand, doesn't look all that familiar, but Shane deduces he must be who Elise Garreau invited to that same party. Since Shane was Ilya's date, that means there is one person tied to each champion.
A small alarm goes off in his head. Not loud enough to get him to turn around and run, but enough to make him suspicious. Because not only are there the two students, who are both looking at him with similarly confused expressions, there are also three other teachers in the classroom, all strategically placed. It's odd, to say the least. No, this really can't be about his Transfiguration essay.
"What's going on?" Shane asks and his voice echoes.
The teacher who came to fetch him clears her throat. She's entered the room behind him and is now standing to his left, arms folded behind her back. She steps toward the front of the class, Shane following her until he's ushered into a seat by another teacher.
"We've gathered you all here," the Transfiguration teacher starts, "because your involvement is instrumental to the success of your respective champions."
Shane frowns. The alarm is growing louder now, but he's still ignoring it. If he's here to help Ilya win then that's exactly what he's going to do.
"What does that mean?"
"It means, Mister Hollander, that in order for your champions to win, you have to do as I say. Their success and safety during the task depend on it."
"Okay," says the female student. Shane wishes he knew her name. "What do you need us to do, exactly?"
It's subtle, but Shane notices two teachers shuffle on their feet, somewhat nervously. In fact, the whole energy of the room could be described as heavy and nervous and, given how Shane is a naturally anxious person, this is a prime reason to worry.
Or should be. He's still not listening to his instincts screaming at him to haul his ass out of here.
A third teacher turns his back on the rest of those present and rummages through a table in the corner. The clinking of glass can be heard.
Later, much later, Shane will recognize them as potion vials.
The first teacher continues, loud enough to cover the noise. "I understand this may be a bit of a stressful situation for you. How about we all have some refreshments and then we will discuss your participation, hmm?"
In retrospect, this is where Shane should have run out of the room.
He doesn't.
Not only does he stay put, he accepts the goblet offered to him and looks down, swirling the dark liquid within.
He takes a sip when prompted. The other two students do the same. They don't have a reason not to.
There's an underlying taste there, beyond the sweetness of the drink—something bitter, something that lingers and stings his tongue when he swipes it over his teeth. It burns when he swallows.
Shane sets the goblet down on the desk, not liking how slow his movements are. His vision blurs, he can't judge the distance between his hand and the desk, and the goblet hits the wooden edge and falls to the ground with a dull clatter. He goes to pick it up and his head responds with a piercing ache at his temples before it travels to the base of his skull. He lifts his hand to his forehead—or at least tries to, but it refuses to listen, heavy as lead.
Dazed, Shane drags his gaze over to the other students. Their heads are swaying now—or maybe he's swaying?—and he can't see them clearly anymore, just a jumbled mass of torsos and limbs, doubled and blurry.
Panic flares. It's there, rising, but he only senses it as a low hum, something he should latch on to pull himself out of it. His body is too weak, his survival instincts failing him. His consciousness, what's left of it, is failing him, too.
Teethering just on the very edge of it, Shane sees images, memories, distorted and gone in a flash. Eyes, blue-green eyes. Gentle hands, soft smile. Those too, slip away from him.
I didn't kiss Ilya goodbye is his last coherent thought before darkness overtakes him.
***
Whoever thought to host the second task at a lake in mid-January is a moron.
It's not completely freezing, thank god, and Ilya overhears the tournament officials say something about using charms to warm the water and not let all three champions die prematurely within the first minutes of diving.
Still, the point stands.
He's on a platform raised just a few feet above the lake surface, wearing nothing but shorts, a sleeveless top with the emblem of his school proudly in the center, and Rozanov above it. The scantiness of his uniform is making him shiver so hard his teeth are rattling. He's got his wand strapped to his calf with a harness and he unsheathes it now, ready to cast the Bubblehead spell.
Nervous, Ilya glances back at the large round clock levitating behind him. Eleven-fifty-five. He can't wait for this whole thing to be over.
There are two levels to the platform he's on. The lower one is for champions, headmasters and tournament officials, the top is for some important dignitaries Ilya didn't really bother to shake hands with when they all gathered here half an hour ago.
Out in the distance, maybe forty yards away, there are three more identical structures arranged in a curved line, their spectators facing the champions. Large masses of students line each level, waving banners and cheering loudly.
Ilya tries to spot Shane and maybe wave at him and see Shane smile back at him to give Ilya extra courage, but he can't spot that gorgeous boy anywhere at such a distance. He thinks he can see Svetlana, with her recognizable large, curly hair, but no Shane.
Shane also wasn't there in the morning for breakfast.
Ilya was given some weak explanation from one of the teachers when he asked: Shane had to go to the infirmary for a stomach bug remedy. Except if that were true, then Hayden or Rose would have said something. As it was, they knew nothing. Hayden confessed that he didn't actually think Shane even made it back to the dormitory last night, and those words made Ilya's blood turn to ice in his veins.
Ironically, the cold is preventing Ilya from spiraling completely. It's keeping his most horrific thoughts at bay, and instead helps in fooling himself that if something serious happened to Shane, more serious than a supposed stomach bug, the teacher would have surely told him. They wouldn't keep something like this from him and they would certainly look more alarmed about it.
His hands must be shaking from the cold wind, not yet from the growing realization that Shane disappearing this close to the second tournament task cannot possibly be just a coincidence.
But Ilya also remembers the look of annoyance that flashed across the teacher's face at his insistence to go to the hospital to check on his boyfriend, like he was fussing unnecessarily. All of it helps make him believe Shane is okay—maybe actually stricken with some stomach bug, but okay nonetheless. Ilya has to believe it, otherwise he will go insane before he even dives into the frosty depths.
Ilya is still deluding himself until the very moment the Hogwarts headmaster standing to Ilya's right starts speaking to the gathered crowd.
"Last night, something was stolen from each of our champions. A treasure of sorts."
A treasure?
"These three treasures, one for each champion, now lie on the bottom of the Black Lake. In order to win, each champion needs only find their treasure and return to the surface."
Suddenly, one chilling line from the riddle echoes in Ilya's mind:
We've taken what you'll sorely miss
There is only one thing in the world to him that's worth a damn. One person who, if Ilya lost him, he would lose himself, too.
The headmaster keeps talking, unaware that Ilya is falling apart right beside him.
"The task is simple enough, except for this: they will have but one hour to do so, and one hour only. After that, they'll be on their own. No magic will save them."
Too late, it's gone, it won't come back
Oh, god.
Shane?
His odd disappearance last night after being fetched by a teacher.
The flimsy excuse that made no sense to anyone, least of all Ilya.
Him unaccounted for this morning after he'd promised Ilya he would meet him prior to the task.
And then there's the absolute sinking feeling in Ilya's gut that it really is Shane somewhere down there, trapped. Waiting for Ilya to rescue him.
He should have realized something was wrong sooner. Should have prepared for it, prevented it.
The treasure. His only treasure.
The love of his life is trapped at the bottom of the lake, and it's all his fault.
The headmaster then speaks again as a final send-off, brutally snapping Ilya back to even more horrifying reality.
"You may begin at the sound of the cannon."
Seconds later it booms around them and Ilya doesn't think—he jumps in, the first one to break the surface of the water.
The reaction is immediate. Fully submerged, he splutters, his throat both closing and gasping for air, his skin prickling from the cold. They said they'd warm up the lake but it feels even more frigid here than up on the surface, the chill so palpable and all around him, pressing on his chest.
Ilya has just enough presence of mind to tilt his wand up toward his face and cast the Bubblehead Charm. Instantly, his vision clears as a transparent sphere envelops his face and he gasps loudly into the echoing space, coughing and blinking away the droplets from his eyes.
He then remembers something Svetlana said and points his wand at his feet to give himself temporary fins. His toes spread and lengthen, webs of skin forming between them too freaky to look at. He averts his eyes quickly but is still grateful for them as he checks the increased range of motion.
Anything to get to Shane faster.
Because it is Shane. Ilya knows it in his very bones. He doesn't care about anything material, but Shane? Ilya would die for Shane.
And one thing he knows about this tournament is that it's meant to test you. This includes putting your loved ones in mortal danger and watching you struggle to save them before the inevitable happens.
It's a vicious game and it's meant to hurt.
Ilya can't let it destroy him. Now is not the time for that. He has to get to Shane.
But the thing is, Ilya doesn't know where to start.
He looks around, trying to get his bearings. The fins are proving very useful even in the way he sharply turns left and right, taking in the surrounding lake life, but he's still so goddamn slow.
Everywhere he looks, it's green and dark. Grim are even the long swaying algae with their roots somewhere down below beyond what he can see, like they would cause him harm if he got trapped in their shadows. It's not a place he would ever go willingly.
Ilya swims deeper.
Slimy greenery covers every surface of the stoney depths, of the eroded rocks and skeletonized remains of animals who once lived here. He doesn't look too closely.
Instead, Ilya swims to the edge of it all—there's a drop, so deep that not even casting a Lumos spell is able to penetrate more than the first few feet, let alone all the way to the bottom.
His instincts are screaming at him. He needs to go there, wherever there is.
So he dives.
Fish gather around him as he descends—maybe he reminds them of one of their own. They don't attack, but a few poke at him or swipe their long fins over his legs as they circle him. A few stare right at him, and he swears they have red eyes.
In a way, the fish are showing him where to go. Once Ilya descends deep enough he's again met with the stone bottom of the lake, and the fish are swimming ahead of him now. He follows.
Tall, thick algae blocks his way. As tall as trees and far more terrifying, swaying in the current like hands beckoning him to come closer. There's no other path, every other one blocked by rocks.
Ilya swims forward, his wand drawn. Scared shitless, but Shane's life is at stake. And Ilya Rozanov will not let his boyfriend die.
He makes it maybe three feet into the algae thicket when he hears it.
Close, too close, something circling him in the dark, murky water, too fast to be another champion or a regular fish. The slapping of fins and the long, slick drag of something against a cluster of weeds to his left make his skin crawl.
And the chittering. There's just this sound that is neither clicking nor croaking, close to an insect but not quite. Cicadas, Ilya thinks, but deeper and slower, and far more terrifying.
Like it's sneaking, lying in wait…
Kicking his feet as hard as he can, Ilya crosses a few yards, far enough to see glimpses of light peeking between the weeds some distance away. He smiles at the sight, despite the looming danger, and adds harder strokes of his arms to get there even faster, to break through the—
—something yanks him down with such force he screams.
He kicks and roars, instant panic chilling his bones, trying to free himself from a tentacle wrapped around his left ankle. It's thicker than his arm and no amount of wrenching away seems to loosen its hold. The tentacle only tightens almost hard enough to snap bone, cutting off his circulation. His foot goes numb.
It's then that he sees the rest of it. It's not just a disembodied tentacle—it's attached to a pale-green, bulbous creature, with piercing blue eyes on either side of its wide head and claw-like sharp teeth. Its arms don't have hands or fingers but rather more tentacles, and the rest of its body is just one bloated mass that has a dozen or more tentacles growing out of it.
The creature is small, maybe half of Ilya's height, but it looks like it would rip his head off with no effort at all. It snarls at Ilya, and he realizes that's what made the sound he heard earlier—the hissing chatter of its wide jaw rapidly snapping.
Ilya grabs hopelessly onto the algae around him as he is dragged down, fingers ripping through the fragile weed. It disintegrates into flakes, falling down with him. He's yelling still, a purely primal sound vibrating the bubble of air around his face, broken only by more tentacles wrapping with a painful slap around his legs.
There are four of them now, from two creatures, jolting him every which way on the descent towards the bottom of the lake. Ilya instinctively knows that if he gets dragged down there, he will die.
And Shane will die too.
He blinks and three more gnarly beasts attack him. Then two more. Then there's a whole swarm of them, their tentacles wrapping and hitting his limbs and body, painful blows to the head making him dizzy, and the teeth—
They bite him everywhere: his arms, legs, torso, even his neck. Ilya's back is littered with marks, the teeth so sharp they sink into him with no resistance. He can't possibly smell it, not with the bubble around his face that somehow stays on and cannot be penetrated, but he swears there's a distinct stench of blood mixed with the dirty, algae-infested water.
It makes Ilya gag as he thrashes to escape. It's been less than ten seconds of this attack but it feels like five hours—a constant onslaught of what is meant to end with his death, being strangled or eaten alive by whatever these tentacled creatures are.
Grindylows, his mind supplies, still somewhat working. Shane would be proud of him.
Fuck. Shane.
The thought of his boyfriend awakens something in Ilya—a fierce need to push back with all he has. It boils to an inferno within seconds.
His wand, that he has forgotten about, is still somehow clutched tightly in his hand, like he's holding onto it for dear life. Ilya aims. One of the Grindylows bites his arm down to the bone to get him to let go of the wand, but Ilya's grip only tightens.
Absolutely fucking not.
"Stupefy!" he yells, the bubble around him shaking with the force of his scream.
A flash shoots from the tip of his wand and, with the swarming creatures so close together, the surge of the spell sweeps through them like an electrical current. They jerk violently, the tentacles all losing their hold on Ilya's limbs, before they freeze a second later.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then, the creatures shudder back to life and, mercifully, scutter away from him, propelling themselves through the algae walls.
They're gone. They've let him go.
Ilya's whole body is on fire from both the exhaustion and the many stinging bites all over his skin, but he's alive. Very disoriented, but alive. He takes so many fast, steadying breaths he thinks he may pass out from it.
It takes him too long to get his bearings again. Eventually, defeated because everything looks all the fucking same to him, Ilya swims up, and not through the algae anymore. His stomach drops, and he soon realizes that those damn monsters must have dragged him so far down and away from where he wanted to go that it takes him a few good minutes to get to a good vantage point.
The problem, really, is the time.
Ilya cannot possibly have spent nearly fifty minutes underwater already, but that's what his waterproof wristwatch tells him. He swears it's only been maybe a quarter of an hour—he cannot possibly be almost out of time.
And he's not the only one.
Shane is waiting for him. Ilya's beautiful boyfriend who's done nothing wrong, who didn't ask for any of this, who's only down here somewhere, in the vastness of the lake, because he dared to fall for Ilya.
Dared to become Ilya's treasure.
And now he's going to die because Ilya has somehow wasted almost an hour getting to him.
He only has eleven minutes left. Ten, now.
"Fuck!" he screams, a desperate, wretched thing. He's sobbing and heaving now, the bubblehead providing nowhere near enough oxygen to keep up with his rapid intakes of breath.
Ilya is swimming still, pushing through it and trying to go somewhere, anywhere that may be where Shane is, but everything looks the same to him—dark and dirty, colors faded from the world.
And then he sees it.
Well, someone, not it, down below and zipping through weeds, not aimlessly but with a clear purpose. Guiding him, almost. Like the fish did.
It has a tail. A human upper body, but a tail, and thick strands of yellow hair, reminding him of long, rolled rubber. And whoever they are, they're holding a trident.
Is it… a merperson?
They turn once to look up at him. No snarling, no snapping teeth, they're just watching him with intelligent eyes before they continue on, further toward a higher point in the lake where an incline of more slimy rocks lead.
A point where, once his vision clears from tears, Ilya sees dim light illuminate the water. The brightest spot in this entire forsaken place, the clearer water up there glistening, mocking him for not seeing it sooner.
Ilya doesn't waste any more time. He pushes himself onward, finned feet kicking to get there faster, get there right the fuck now.
He just knows that's where Shane is. He has to be.
Because if he isn't and Ilya runs out of time, he's ready to drown right here, right now. Because Shane will be gone. From him, from this mortal coil. Because Ilya will have failed him.
Finally though, when he makes it past the highest point of the incline, he sees some sunken structures in the distance, arches of sorts. As he gets closer, he sees three very human-shaped silhouettes bobbing in the water under the largest of the arches. They're dressed in dark robes, their legs tied to ropes anchored to the bottom of the lake.
The sight of their lifeless, slowly swaying forms makes Ilya pause in shock for a few seconds.
But then his eyes lock on the middle person and he recognizes the black hair and that beautiful face he worships.
"Shane!"
He speeds up, precious seconds ticking by, and he's by Shane in just a few strokes. It feels like eternity before he gets to him though, as if the water itself is resisting him more than it has this whole time. He's swimming so hard he bumps into Shane and holds onto him as they sway with the momentum.
Ilya shakes him by the shoulders with rising fear, but Shane's eyes are closed and he looks asleep, almost peaceful.
There is nothing peaceful about any of it.
"Shane?" Ilya shakes him again. "Fuck, Shane!"
Ilya takes his boyfriend's face in both hands. The rational part of his mind tells him he's under a spell and just unconscious. The other part of him that doesn't care much for wishful thinking tells him Shane is dying.
And he may actually die if Ilya doesn't hurry the fuck up.
Ilya glances at his wristwatch and his stomach drops when he sees he only has six minutes to get them both out. He doesn't even care about himself, all he cares about is Shane and that Shane is here because of him and that Shane is going to die because Ilya caved and listened to his awful father and took part in this fucking tournament.
While his brain is in a nosedive he cannot control, his hands work as if on their own, trying to untie the rope that's wound so tightly around Shane's ankles.
Finally, finally, the rope gives and slips off Shane's legs. Ilya swims up to grab a hold of Shane's arm, wincing at the contact because of his fresh and still-bleeding bites on his palm. It's like Shane's body is an anchor though. He's so heavy and growing heavier by the second. Ilya's calves scream with pain the more he kicks his legs. He feels like he's not ascending at all.
There's a nearby ripple in the water, and Ilya only spares a split-second glance to see that another contestant—the kid from Hogwarts—has arrived, and starts to untie the student that was to Shane's right.
Not really caring that he's in the lead but with a single-mind focus on unconscious Shane, Ilya kicks harder with only one goal: get his boyfriend out of here. He knows he only has maybe two minutes left on the clock, and that's two minutes to cover a hell of a lot of distance between them and the surface above.
Ilya must have blacked out between one kick of his feet and another, because the next thing he knows they are breaking the water, finally tasting air.
The moment they're out, the bubble disappears and the charm on Shane breaks. He starts coughing, Ilya too, coughing and crying and Shane's hands are frantically treading the water and running over his own face, splashing them both.
Ilya clutches onto him tighter, hoisting him just a little higher with an arm around Shane's waist.
"Shh, Shane, is okay," Ilya pants, his voice broken and laced with so much fear like he may choke on it. "I'm here, is okay. I'm so sorry, moy lyubimyy, I am so fucking sorry."
Shane twists to look at him, his gaze hazy at first. Many seconds pass before the haze finally clears, and Shane seems to grasp where he is. The moment he starts breathing heavier in panic is when Ilya kicks his feet more, this time not to get them up but to steer them toward the platform just a few paces away. Some adults are there, crouching to grab them and hoist them out of the lake.
Shane is shaking—or maybe they both are—but the primordial need to get to solid land keeps them going, Shane's own lethargic legs moving weakly to get them there faster. They climb onto the platform and stay on their knees for a long moment before rising, pulling each other up.
Sounds come in waves.
Once Ilya can no longer hear the hum of the underwater, he is pummeled by the ever rising chants from the gathered spectators. He hears them shout his name, proclaiming him the winner of the task. It washes over him, and he may as well be last because that's how his whole self feels—stricken with terror, and worry, and also relief that Shane is out and safe in his arms.
A new fear sets in, though, and with no effort at all he's able to convince himself that Shane will hate him now because Ilya put him in danger. That they will break up this soon after declaring their love for each other and Ilya realizing he cannot possibly live without Shane by his side. But it's too much for Shane, too dangerous, and he will leave—
No. Stop. Ilya must push it all aside. He has to. He must focus on Shane right now. On making sure he's unharmed and cared for, not on his own downward spiral that's only getting worse. He squashes it down as his eyes set on his shaking boyfriend.
Acting on autopilot, Ilya snatches a few thick towels from someone nearby and wraps Shane in both of them, one around his shoulders and one over his head, not even remotely worried about his own now uncontrollable shivering, only heightened by the frigid weather.
Shane notices, though, and he quickly removes the towel from his head to wrap it around Ilya with a look of such concentration Ilya is momentarily stunned to the point of silent tears.
It's finally now, after a few too many seconds, that Ilya's body deflates and he closes the distance between him and his boyfriend—needing to touch him as much as he's afraid to.
Shane moves at the same time, to Ilya's immense relief. They embrace and lay their heads on each other's shoulders, both struggling to catch their breaths.
"I am so sorry this happened," Ilya whispers into the crook of Shane's neck.
It takes Ilya a few good beats to slowly regain control of his senses. He feels Shane's hand rub up and down his back. It leaves chills in its wake, and Ilya doesn't ever want him to stop.
"It's okay," Shane whispers back.
"You almost drowned," Ilya cries, and a sob racks through his body. His shaking returns with double force and he holds onto Shane, clutching the material of the black school robe nearly hard enough to rip. "You are okay, right? Please tell me you are okay."
"I'm okay, Ilya," Shane says softly. "I don't—I don't really remember anything."
The sincerity in his voice cannot break through Ilya's firm conviction that Shane is not okay at all and that he's going to leave him. Break up with him. Dump him because Ilya's mere presence in his life is too dangerous.
And he should. Ilya put him in so much danger, unknowingly but still, and he doesn't deserve Shane and his goodness and how he takes care of him when Ilya falls apart, like right now.
"I almost got you killed." Ilya chokes out, "I promised I would never—oh god."
"Ilya," Shane says, and gently forces him to look up. He does it with delicate fingers under Ilya's chin.
Ilya shakes his head—he doesn't deserve the kindness. He doesn't want to see the look on Shane's face that confirms it's over anyway.
But Shane is stubborn too. "Ilya, please look at me."
And he does. Because he can never say no to Shane, even when it hurts him.
What he sees when he looks up is not an expression of pity or regret. Instead, the look of worry for Ilya cleaves his own heart in two. Shane cups his face and smiles, a sad tug of lips. There's love there in his glossy eyes, bare and powerful.
"It's not your fault, okay?" Shane says.
"But you don't know—"
Shane shakes his head. "I know enough. And I am telling you, it's not your fault."
Ilya opens his mouth to protest, to beat himself up more because of how fucking guilty he feels for putting Shane in this situation and almost not making it to him in time.
Except he doesn't get to say anything more because someone approaches them, a tournament official, and they're escorted to the back of the platform by the railing where a few stools are ready for them to sit and recuperate.
Ilya doesn't want to sit down, he doesn't want such comforts, but one glance at Shane's pleading face makes Ilya follow his lead. He pulls the stool impossibly close to sit opposite Shane so their legs touch, Ilya bracketing Shane's with his. When he squeezes his thighs a bit too hard, needing to be as flush against him as possible, Shane says nothing and scoots even closer.
He does look down at Ilya's exposed legs and arms and neck. He frowns when he finally takes in the extent of his injuries. Murderous is the last word Ilya would ever use to describe Shane, but that's exactly how he looks now, as if ready to jump back into the water and punch out whoever or whatever maimed Ilya.
"Who did this to you?" Shane asks with his jaw tight, his delicate fingers grazing over the painful splotch of purple-y red bruise around Ilya's wrist. It's where one of the tentacles had latched on and refused to let go. His touch is so gentle and soothing and one Ilya does not deserve.
"Grindylows," Ilya says slowly. "A lot of them."
A pause. "But you got out." It's not a question.
There's a very faint smile on Shane's lips, like he's proud.
Ilya winces. The clash with those slimy beasts was what slowed him down so much he barely made it to Shane. Ilya doesn't want to think about what would have happened if they had overpowered him, or if he hadn't had his wand. Getting himself free of them doesn't even feel like a victory. It didn't then and it still doesn't now.
"I got out," he repeats weakly. Maybe one day he will be strong enough to talk about it, if Shane asks.
Today is not that day. It won't be for a long time.
There's a commotion nearby, and Ilya doesn't even have it in him to be glad that the remaining champions have been fished out of the water with their "treasures", no significant injuries present. They're brought to sit on more empty stools and given towels, but Ilya looks at them without seeing.
Someone hands them mugs with steaming tea and Ilya waits, not even sipping it until Shane drinks at least one third of his. He does use it to warm his claw-like, frigid fingers.
Apart from their legs touching, Ilya is scared to do what he knows would ease his panic down to near zero and hold Shane's hand. His gaze drops to it, resting on Ilya's knee while the other is nursing the tea mug, and he just can't bring himself to reach out.
The next moments go by in flashes.
Ilya is asked to stand up, Shane along with him, and they're taken to the front of the platform, both of their mugs abandoned.
Ilya is moved to stand ahead of the other two champions.
Shane is next to him, his hand resting on Ilya's back, grounding him, as he's hailed the victor of this task.
Someone raises his arm in triumph—the Durmstrang headmaster, he thinks, Ilya's sight too blurry and mind too distant to notice—and he doesn't feel like a winner at all.
He blinks and then they are all shepherded onto a boat to sail back to the castle, Shane sitting right next to him, bodies pressed from shoulder to foot.
Ilya focuses on the warmth radiating from Shane, how knowing he's there, beside him and alive, is the only thing holding him back from breaking down completely. How he hates that he almost lost it, all because he thought competing in this stupid tournament would make his father happy. And maybe, just maybe, make him say "I'm proud of you, son".
It has always been too much of an ask and Ilya should have known better.
He doesn't allow himself to fully spiral, though. Shane's hand had wrapped around Ilya's as soon as they boarded the boat, he remembers it now, and it being such a single point of comfort almost makes Ilya believe they're good. That whatever just happened has no way of breaking them apart.
And if Shane believes it, Ilya will believe it, too. Eventually.
Someone is saying something on the journey back, an official sitting across from them—maybe even the same one who ushered them to sit down earlier, Ilya can't be sure. He can't hear anything that's being said, his mind having difficulty processing words right now.
The adrenaline is wearing off, Ilya can feel it leave his body in harsh surges. He slumps his body against Shane, who manoeuvres them so that he can wrap his arm around Ilya, with the other hand still in Ilya's weak grasp.
The official is still speaking to Shane, with him responding every few sentences, his tone questioning. Ilya catches a few simple words here and there, like "drink", "lake" and what sounds like "trap", and notices Shane's slow tonal shift from curious to troubled, then simply angry. Ilya flips their hands to envelop Shane's and squeezes—he hates hearing Shane this upset, this worked up about something.
With the adrenaline now gone from his system, the warmth of Shane by his side and the gentle swaying of the boat make Ilya grow weary. He can't stop his eyelids from falling and really, he can't even tell if they're open or not, his vision and mind so darkened by what just happened and his own exhaustive rumination.
Finally, he just nuzzles into Shane. Someone is still talking, but Shane has fallen silent, and Ilya vaguely feels him lower his shoulder against Ilya's head, getting more comfortable. For him.
Ilya smiles, a ghost of a smile, and lets that simple gesture of care tune everything out for him as he finally closes his eyes and drifts.
***
The tournament doesn't end when they reach the castle.
The competition part has concluded, but given the nature of the task and how none of the champions seem to have managed to go through it completely unscathed, they are all bundled off to the infirmary.
Ilya's injuries are by far the most severe, but the deep gash across the Hogwarts' competitor's chest makes Shane queasy all the same. So do the cuts on the Beauxbaton's champion's legs. Ilya, however, gets priority when they finally reach the infirmary. Shane breathes a sigh of relief when they are both guided to sit upon adjoining beds, legs hanging off and facing each other.
They are too far to touch, so Shane hopes that at least him smiling at Ilya can alleviate some of the tension in his boyfriend's coiled body.
Usually, there is just one nurse working in the infirmary. This time, two more have apparently been called up from somewhere to tend to both the champions and their "treasures", as Shane has been addressed. The somewhat nice sentiment aside, hearing this makes his stomach churn with anger.
Contrary to what Ilya may have convinced himself of, Shane is not mad about being put in this situation because of Ilya. No, what bothers him is the psychological aspect of it all. He knows the game is meant to test the contestants and, having done his research, he knows in some of the previous tournament runs there have been other people involved beside the main three.
But to put their loved ones at risk like that? Make the champions, essentially still kids, believe that someone they hold dear may die if they don't do their job right? It was acceptable for the contestants to risk their lives because they signed up for it and they were aware of the risks. But others? This is the kind of thing that lingers, the fear of making one wrong move that can result in someone's death.
In a way, they've put Shane's life in Ilya's hands.
Shane can see the strain of it in the way Ilya holds himself: his sagging shoulders, his ashen face, his dull eyes that look but do not see. Despite getting Shane out of the clutches of the lake safe and sound, Ilya seems to have left a piece of himself behind.
The nurses toil to get them back to working order. Shane doesn't have any noticeable injuries, and his main ailment going forward may just be some mild short-term cognitive impairment, as the nurse puts it. The prolonged magical submersion doesn't come without temporary side-effects, as she told him, and he's expected to have some brain fog, maybe difficulty focusing, or even dissociation. Nothing he hasn't experienced plenty of times anyway. He is warned not to overdo it at Quidditch for the next few days, though, which sucks. At least he should count his lucky stars he's not entirely benched.
And while Shane's trauma cannot really be solved with tonics, since treating anything relating to the brain is tricky even with magic, Ilya's wounds are easy to handle. Shane watches as another nurse gently swabs all the lacerations, bite marks, and bruises with some strong-smelling ointment. Before their eyes, the injuries fade quickly until they leave nothing behind except for a slight redness.
The nurse works methodically and doesn't engage in chit-chat with Ilya, though Shane doubts she would get a response—Ilya's mind is locked away now, and Shane can almost see him chasing the proverbial rabbit. He can only imagine how loud it must be in his head right now. Or not loud at all.
Ilya may not be paying attention to his surroundings, but Shane continues his diligent observation of the many ministrations done to his boyfriend. Once done with the injuries to his skin that won't even scar, the nurse grabs a vial of clear liquid, uncorks it, and passes it to Ilya.
Shane immediately tenses, reminded of the way he was lured to participate in the task the night before. The clinking of glass has him instantly on high alert, glancing between the nurse and the vial. It can't possibly be anything dangerous, not when a medical professional is administering it. But then again, Shane also trusted his teachers.
Look where that got him.
He gets up, eyes locked on the vial in Ilya's hand. "What is that?"
The nurse gives him a neutral look. "It's for the infection."
"The infection? What infection?" Shane asks frantically. His eyes land on Ilya. "Is he sick?"
"No, but he can still get sick. The Grindylows bit and scratched him a lot, and they're not the cleanest. Better to be safe than sorry."
Okay, that sounds reasonable. The likelihood of another trick to get one of them drugged again when the tournament task is over seems low. Shane would take the tonic himself if he were in Ilya's shoes.
Ilya, meanwhile, eyes the vial in his hand like he expects it to burst into flames. Shane carefully approaches his bed and sits down next to him.
"You can drink it, Ilya. It's going to make you feel better."
"I'm fine."
It's the first time Ilya has spoken since before they got on the boat. His voice, even this quiet and void of emotion, is like a balm to Shane's ears.
"I know, but we have to be sure." Shane gently cradles Ilya's hand that holds the vial in order to steady it—he doesn't have to, Ilya's grip is pretty strong, all things considered, but he still does it anyway. "Please, Ilya. For me?"
It's a cheap shot, Shane knows it. But it works. The next moment Ilya glances at him, expression passive, then nods and chugs the content of the vial in a single swig. He hands the empty vial back to the nurse.
"Thank you," Shane says to Ilya, who nods again and lets Shane lace their fingers together.
"You two may go now," the nurse says. "But come back if you feel worse, both of you." Then she remembers something and turns to Shane. "Oh, do make sure you collect your wand from your homeroom teacher. It had to be confiscated last night prior to the tournament."
"Will do," Shane says, and only feels a fraction pissed about it still.