Past Present

"Wales has got no chance, have they?" Ron elbowed Harry.

Harry turned to him and answered, "If you think they do, I wouldn't bother telling Viktor. Unless you want him giving you the nose job or rearranging your face. I swear, I think he's literally snorting steam today. What was it Smythe-Jones supposedly said about him, anyway?"

Hermione cleared her throat, "And I quote, boys, from the Daily Prophet, 'Stupid Slav'. And that's the nicest thing he said. The rest of the Welsh team, they weren't too complimentary either. Not even written by Rita Skeeter, and there's more mud in there than in a bog. You think Viktor's mad, you should see the rest of the team. They might not nursemaid him, but I'd sooner insult a Hungarian Horntail and her brood than let them hear you say a nasty word about Viktor. I don't think he was exaggerating when he said Ivanova would take your eyes out. The rest of the team must have been eating iron filings and gunpowder since the World Cup. They could eat most teams alive, now. On or off the Quidditch field."

Hermione folded the paper, laid it in her lap and sighed. "I gather there was some verbal exchange between coaches about the fact that he attended Durmstrang, as well. The coach ran into the Welsh team yesterday at the practice field after we left, and I suspect they weren't exchanging muffin recipes." She pursed her lips and went on, "Viktor...they...well, they insinuate in the interview that he was involved in... Cedric's death. They don't come right out and say it, but they imply it."

Harry sniffed, "I guess they all went to completely upright and respectable Hogwarts, where everyone's good and kind and they never try to kill you like some people we know, huh?" The sarcasm fairly dripped from Harry's voice as he spoke, "Probably said it because they think he hangs out with dangerous and wacko characters, namely me, after all those Rita Skeeter articles last year."

"I do believe Viktor could have bitten a spiked nail in two when he read it. Harry told me your mum thinks he's a sweet boy, Hermione, but I wouldn't want him mad at me. He grows twelve inches up and twice as broad when he gets angry. Right up there with Hagrid in the towering-over-you-impressively-and-menacingly department. If they were trying to get inside his head, I think they went about it all wrong. I don't think I would want to be Cornelius Cymry today," Ron said, nodding at the Welsh seeker.

The match, somewhat to be expected, began rough and tumble, mostly rough. Vulchanov and Volkov pounded the bludgers mercilessly at the Welsh chasers, driven by the desire for payback on Viktor's behalf. The Welsh, of course, reciprocated, fouls abounded, and penalty shots counted for more than half the score by the ninety minute mark, with a score of 360 to 250, in favor of Bulgaria.

Smythe-Jones committed a particularly vicious foul on Viktor, deliberately clipping him as he and Cymry jockeyed for position near the goal. It was only by his fingertips that Viktor managed to keep his grip on his broom and stop himself flipping off. The referee would have stopped play, but he waved him off, reluctant to stop for as small a thing as a miniscule scrape on his cheek.

"Ninety minutes straight," Ron commented, adjusting his omnioculars.

"One hour forty, actually," Hermione replied, glancing at the time on the scoreboard.

"Nope, ninety minutes. That's how long Viktor's had that scowl on his face. Before that it was a deep frown with a side of surliness. Oh, wait, he just changed to looking absolutely murderous, but then I would too if Cymry kept cobbing me and the ref didn't call it at all," Ron shot back.

Harry looked downfield, where Cymry and Viktor were parrying astride their broomsticks, and he caught the glint of gold as it whizzed between Viktor and Cymry's heads. Viktor stalled and whirled to the outside, getting the drop on the snitch a second before Cymry. Cymry streaked after Viktor, just inches behind. They raced low, nearly dragging the ground, around the inner perimeter of the stadium, boots hitting the grass occasionally. Cymry actually dragged his foot for a moment, before regaining control. The snitch rose a few feet, still roughly following the inner perimeter.

"Ohhh, traffic!" Ron shouted, as Viktor and Cymry weaved through their respective teammates, as Bulgaria worked downfield. Ivanova tossed the quaffle through the goal, adding to Bulgaria's lead, and the crowd roared.

As Viktor rounded the corner of the stadium, Harry noticed a startled look pass across his face, he hesitated a moment before scissoring his outstretched fingers around the tiny wing sticking out from the snitch. "Look! He's..."

"Look out!" Ron interrupted Harry. Harry zoomed back out, and saw what Ron was referring to. Viktor's fingers had no more than touched the snitch than Cymry made his own desperate grab. For Viktor's robe.

Viktor was shooting along at such a high rate of speed when the tug came, the broom bucked and he flipped, literally head over heels, unable to hang on tightly enough with one hand. The crowd groaned in dismay over the blatant attack on their seeker. Or maybe it was more accurate to say Viktor went heels over head.

Viktor tucked in a little as he went flying and made a complete 360, landing arms and chest first in the deep sand beneath the Bulgarian goal, plowing through the pit, cutting a wake through the grains, which sprayed all around him like water. He propped up when he came to a stop at the edge of the pitch, a hill of sand pushed before him, eyes screwed up tight, sand coating his face and hair.

He gave his head a shake, sand flying from his dark hair, then brushed his face with his left hand. Turning over gingerly with his right hand still down, buried up to his wrist, he sprawled, long legs bent, feet buried into the soft sand. He glared at Cymry, who was now off his broom and standing at the far edge of the pit, as though he would like to barbecue him in oil given half a chance. Then he held out his right hand in a cascade of sand, where the snitch was still caught by one wing, fluttering weakly between his index and middle finger. He had left behind a trench fourteen inches deep. "Not a smart move to hack Viktor off," Ron noted.

Hermione took a look through her pair of glasses, "Actually, I think the rest of the Bulgarian team is giving Cymry a look that makes Viktor's expression look positively sweet and charitable by comparison."

Harry scanned the gathering, "Volkov looks like he's swearing a blue streak in Bulgarian. I think if I were Wales, I would watch what I say from now on," Harry said dryly. Viktor stalked off the field, deliberately banging his shoulder into Cymry's on the way to the sideline, shooting him one last withering look over his shoulder. Cymry just stood there, looking absolutely sick and green.