Sour Grapes

[Demyan Severov]

Demyan was starting to get pissed off. This was the third time he'd been put on babysitting duty, first in third year when a prefect took a liking to him (which usually meant they thought he was a snooty little upstart and wanted a whipping boy to give all the crap jobs to) and now twice in fourth year, and it was only week three of classes. The young Russian left his common room and yanked his beanie down onto his head after it had been knocked off by an irritated fifth former. New prefects loved to take up the reigns when the older ones had studies to focus on, and he'd obviously been informed that Demyan was the perfect target who wasn't too small of a challenge and therefore still fun to torment.

"I'll show him target," Demyan muttered as he stalked through the corridors to the head of house's office where the transfer student was waiting, thinking of his archery practice later on during the day. He'd ruined the last two student's day with his displeasure with the task, never mind that he had nothing against them, so he tried to put on a better face upon entering the room. It didn't quite work. There was a short introduction before the two boys were sent on their way, Demyan with his hands jammed into the pockets of his red uniform coat. "Keep up," he muttered to the transfer student shortly. "You'd think they'd just give you people a map ..."​

 

[Artur Ivanoff]

Transferring schools was an unpleasant experience, though compared to his past few years studying, or at least putting a quarter of an effort into studying at Koldovstoretz, it was the lesser of two evils. It wasn't like Artur had many friends to lose by leaving the Russian academy, no solid relationships had been built over the course of three years, and his professors didn't find him particularly talented. Though if there was anything he'd miss at all, it would be the more extreme flying related sport style they played in his home country. It was a queer concept to him that Durmstrang, and by extension the majority of foreign magical schools played Quidditch on broomsticks, which sounded too tame and almost boring in contrast to the entire uprooted trees Koldovstoretz competed played on. At the very least, he was glad that his parents hadn't decided to send him too far from home, though they were somewhat apprehensive about Durmstrang at first, a professor had implied that the boy's behaviour would benefit more from the Scandinavian school than elsewhere. A handful of people he'd known, and been acquaintances with at best, had transferred to a Hogwarts branch on the other side of the world. He didn't want to imagine how much more difficult adjusting to an entirely different culture and hemisphere would be. At least Durmstrang had quite a few Russian students of its own.

Fidgeting impatiently in his seat and feeling slightly uncomfortable in his new uniform, which felt ill-fitting, Artur waited for his supposed tour guide to arrive. When a boy roughly his age entered the room, the Russian was confused. His expectations were to be lead around by a sixth or seventh year, someone with a status, not some random kid he could only assume had been plucked out of a classroom at random. "Privet." He mumbled in greeting, not entirely enthusiastic about being shown around by someone both his age and who didn't appear to be too excited to carry out the task. Getting to his feet, he followed the boy, whom he was introduced to as Demyan, and wandered out into the hall. Despite being urged to keep up, Artur shuffled along a few steps behind, growing accustomed to his surroundings at his own speed. "Would you like to draw me one, then?" He replied in his native tongue, more than happy to show himself around the place. Though the last time he'd been left on his own for too long, he'd crashed a tree into a classroom window.​

 

[Demyan Severov]

Demyan paused when he heard his native language emerge from the new boy, whose name was apparently 'Artur'. That, too, was familiar-sounding to him. He actually slowed down a little and gave the kid a half grin and a raised eyebrow, which was more of a proper greeting than he'd given in the first place.
"I would," he replied, foregoing English or Bulgarian altogether and using their mother tongue, "Except I can't draw for poop. Can only shoot," joked the Russian, miming the bow and arrow and letting fly with a 'pcheew' noise before continuing on. In hindsight, he felt a bit bad for dismissing the new student out of hand, although he didn't stop to analyse why it made a difference that they shared the same language. Maybe he was xenophobic, but it was harder and harder to be so when students came from around the world to take advantage of Durmstrang's stellar Dark Arts curriculum.

Demyan actually tried to make conversation with the boy, which was practically a first for him, but it was about time he took advantage of the prefect's bullshit delegating by making a new friend despite them.
"How'd you end up here?" he asked casually as they rounded the corner to the staircases. They were on the first floor, so the Russian decided to take his classmate downstairs to the grounds and skip the classrooms for now. "It's a bit late to be starting in the semester."​

 

[Artur Ivanoff]

Despite taking his time, Artur had somehow fallen almost in step with Demyan, noticing he'd slowed down somewhat. He was glad, not wanting to rush through the entire castle and finish the day with it all being one big blur that he'd forget about by the following day and generally being a complete waste of time. The boys attitude seemed to ease up significantly too. He was about to ask what he had meant by shooting, assuming at first that he was talking about hunting with a rifle or something of the sort, but his air-archery explained it all by the time he opened his mouth. "An actual bow? That's impressive." He commented, having no quirky skills of his own to boast about. He was a mediocre flyer at best. Not a lot particularly appealed to him in the form of extra-curricular activities.

The conversation quickly shifted to the reason Artur was transferring part way through the first semester, which he had expected to come up at one point or another. It certainly would have been easier if he'd changed schools a few weeks earlier, but the fact was that he didn't expect to be doing so until the last minute. "I took a boat from Russia to Norway, then I just walked in through the front gates." He said in jest, when asked of the how he had ended up there. "In all honesty, Koldovstoretz kicked me out." He said seriously, though he shrugged and acted like it was no big deal. He had nothing going there for him. "Or more accurately, "strongly suggested" I would benefit from an education here, that Durmstrang was better suited for someone like me. I think they were considering expelling me, and this was the only viable alternative. I've been a bad boy." Artur smiled slightly as he said it, almost proud of how far he'd pushed the boundaries at Koldovstoretz. The school sucked, the staff sucked, and the students sucked. Stirring trouble was the only thing that got him by.​

 

[Demyan Severov]

As Artur went on, Demyan's eyebrows lifted higher, and when he finished the Russian gave his comrade a mischievous grin. "Sweet," he nodded, lifting his hand for a fistbump. "Mad respect. Oh, you can be really bad here, but here's my advice; there's always someone badder than you, so keep your head down until you know who top dog is. See, me," Demyan jabbed a thumb into his own chest, "I'm in between. Above glasses wearing, arse-kissing teacher's pets, but below detention jockeys who'd rather blow stuff up than learn anything. It's safe," he shrugged, "But you get the crap jobs, like showing people around. You're not so bad, though," Demyan amended fairly.

"Here," continued the fourth year as they hit the bottom of the stairs to the ground floor. "Straight ahead is the assembly hall, and there are three smaller halls to the top, left and right where you'll take meals; you'll be on the left with me. It's old school segregation from when they use to check your blood purity, but now it just cuts down on the amount of people eating in one room. Less fights that way." They had come to face an enormous taxidermied bear in a alcove off the staircases, which Demyan approached and patted on the paw. The bear's eyes seemed to glitter in response, and not in a friendly way.
"If you rub the bear's belly, it'll growl pretty loud, but it'll step aside and open up a passageway to the kitchens. You'll need a pretty decent Silencio to get past without being noticed, so it sort of stops the littlies from sneaking in constantly. If they can manage it, they deserve to get in. So," Demyan continued. "Was there something you wanted to see in particular? We can keep going onto the lawn or we can head back up and I'll show you to your room, now that you know where to get food."​

 

[Artur Ivanoff]

The Ivanoff boy returned his new friend's fist bump, and listened as he explained the pecking order at Durmstrang, and how Demyan played it safe by keeping to the middle. That was fine for some people, but Artur liked the title of "detention jockey". That sounded like it was far more worth his time, and definitely beat being assigned to help out other people. Better a bad reputation than none at all. He grinned broadly as he was told he wasn't so bad, and shrugged his shoulders. "Not so far. Give it another hour and you might hate me." He said, which may very well have turned out to be true, though at this rate things were looking good. He was lucky to have gotten Demyan to show him around, rather than some uptight prefect.

Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, Artur quietly listened and made mental notes of where to eat and go for certain things, and eyed the taxidermy bear with mild interest. He wasn't entirely sure he believed him, as telling someone that they had to scratch a fake bear's belly to enter a room sounded like something he'd make up for fun, and to watch people try it to no avail. The Russian pulled out his wand and prodded it into the stuffed creatures gut. "Animare." He incanted, and while there was a dim glow, nothing else happened. It was too big to animate with such a simple spell, as much as he would have loved to have an enormous bear rampaging down the halls. "Eh. Worth a shot. Let's do something else. Outside sounds good to me, you could show me some of your shooting skills." He mimicked the boy's bow and arrow mime from earlier, with his own 'pcheew' noise for good measure. "See if you're actually any good." He suggested, knocking out the tour of the grounds while doing something actually fun at the same time.
​

 

[Demyan Severov]

Demyan watched bemusedly as the fourth year tried to animate the bear to no avail. "What are you trying to do, dipshit," he laughed. "It's already animate. I'm no liar. But you're right, let's blow this joint." The beanie-headed Russian gave Artur a flick on the forehead as the other questioned his archery skills and took off down the hallway to avoid retaliation. He led his friend on a merry chase through the manor-like school, and fortunately it was a short one since they were near the entrance in the first place. When they arrived at the sports grounds there was already equipment scattered around, including a discarded quaffle and a set of beater's bats that appeared to have been used for an impromptu game of baseball.

"Damnit," sighed Demyan, pulling out his wand and sending the lot into a pile and off to the side. "The upper years are so lazy, I can't even deal with it. Here, hold this," he said to Artur, bending over to toss the quaffle at him. "Accio bow and quiver!" He might have broken a window summoning his archery equipment onto the grounds, but Demyan couldn't have cared less. He had an opportunity to show off a bit and he wasn't going to waste it. He stepped up to catch them as they arrived and turned to his new friend with a very mischievous grin that certainly wasn't to be trusted.
"You can either throw that up," he waved the blunt end of an arrow at the quaffle before nocking it in the bowstring, "Or you can hold it high above your head. I'll hit it either way, but it really depends on how big your balls are." That dark eyebrow was raised again. Demyan was waiting for Artur to take the challenge or leave it.​

 

[Artur Ivanoff]

Artur could only shrug in response to being questioned - sure, maybe the bear was animate, there was definitely something in its eyes, but not to the degree he would have liked it to be. If he had it his way, he'd be riding the bear through the hallways and charging down the other students. Feeling a flick against his forehead, he swiped back to retaliate, but Demyan had already taken off, his hand swiping empty air. "Oi!" He called out, giving chase through the unfamiliar hallways. Thankfully they were already so close to the exit to the grounds that he didn't run the risk of losing sight of the boy through twists and turns, and ending up horribly lost.

By the time they'd jogged down to sporting grounds, Artur had practically forgotten why he was chasing Demyan to begin with, and instead watched with his arms folded across his chest as the boy cleared up some discarded equipment. "That will be us at some point, and some younger kid will be cleaning up our sh*t instead." He said, but if truth be told, even at his age now he would have just left junk he didn't need anymore behind him to be dealt with by someone else. That's what caretakers were paid to do after all, right? May as well make them earn it. Catching the quaffle tossed to him, Artur tried with varied levels of success to spin the ball on his fingertip, having to catch it repeatedly as it wobbled or dropped, only to try again until the bow and quiver had reached them. He raised a brow at Demyan's challenge, and held the quaffle just above his head with both hands. "Tovarishch, they're bigger than yours. Show me what you've got." If he missed, he wouldn't let him live it down. If he missed and struck him, well, then he mightn't have let him live at all. He didn't think too much about the faith he was putting in to what was practically a stranger but life was short. If he was going to die of anything, he wanted it to be memorable. ​

 

[Demyan Severov]

Demyan rolled his eyes at Artur with a grin. "Come on, hoist it up, then. Credit where credit's due; you don't muck about, do you?". The fourth year found himself genuinely liking the new guy, which was rare enough in and of itself, but he slightly admired him, too. He was definitely cooler than Demyan, which was alright by him because sometimes you were cool just by proxy. The only thing he knew he was boss at was archery, and he was about to prove it with a well placed shot to the quaffle.

"Alright, ten paces," he said, and began to back up over the lawn with the bow by his side. At ten, Demyan gave Artur a thumbs up to lift the quaffle, and the young archer grinned fiercely to himself and pulled back the string. "Just ... don't move." Pulling to full draw length, Demyan aimed up the shot and closed one eye briefly to double check the positioning. He held, open both eyes, exhaled, then released.
There was an answering flick from the bow, and no whistling through the air like there was in movies, but he was waiting for the ft-tmp of the arrow hitting its mark, which never came. Demyan nailed the quaffle right on target, but the arrow ricocheted. "Oh poop!" He flinched and ducked instinctively but the arrow had lost its momentum and spun away into the grass a few feet from Artur, but he was in half crouched and looking a bit shocked. Demyan blinked at Artur and began to giggle. "Ohhhhh poop. I thought 'cause it was so beat up ... heh heh heh, Merlin's jocks. Hey, you wanna give it a go?"​

 

[Artur Ivanoff]

Artur grinned and held the ball up a little higher above him. "I muck about when I want to." He said, waiting for the other boy to put some distance between them for his shot. The further he stepped away, the riskier he felt it was, but he kept the quaffle firmly above his head and exhaled through his nose, wishing he'd hurry up and make the shot already. As the arrow was released, he put effort in to not reflexively closing his eyes and succeeded in a slight squint. He did his best not to flinch, though his fingertips tightened on the leather and he felt his arms jerk back as the arrow hit its target, only to bounce back off and spear itself into the ground. Opening his eyes fully once more, he looked at the ball still above him, and at the arrow nearby.

Tucking the quaffle under one arm, Artur clapped slowly. "Check out Demyan the pro archer. That was really impressive. I'm amazed. Ten out of ten." He smirked, impressed that the arrow had hit its target, but much less so that it hadn't stuck it like a pig. He'd expected more. "I'll give it a go. Show me what I need to do. Then you can watch me actually pierce something." Dropping the quaffle from his arm, he gave it a boot and watched it sail a few meters across the grass, before walking back over to Demyan and his bow. If he was going to learn how to use it, he wanted to end the lesson with an arrow sticking out of something, and not just ricocheting into the ground.
​

 

[Demyan Severov]

Demyan glared playfully at his new friend. How as he to know that the arrow would ricochet? You never knew until you shot. "If I'd got you in the neck, it would've stayed put," he pointed out. "Fortunately I wasn't aiming there. Come on, then, let's see what you can do." Demyan walked over to fetch his arrow and pass over the bow, but he wouldn't let Artur nock one until he'd sorted his stance out, which he was very picky about. He moved Artur this way and that, lifting his elbow and dropping his chin for him where he needed it, and only then did he let his fellow Russian test the pull.

"If you don't feel the pull all the way down to your abdominals, you're doing it wrong," he told him, nodding at his stance with approval. "Don't pinch the feathers between your knuckles- cool." Demyan gave him a thumbs up. "Great! Now I can watch you screw it up," he grinned, pulling his beanie down lower on his head. "What do you want to hit? Or attempt to hit."​