Rating:
PG-13
House:
Astronomy Tower
Characters:
Hermione Granger Viktor Krum
Genres:
General Romance
Era:
Multiple Eras
Stats:
Published: 06/09/2003
Updated: 11/20/2003
Words: 224,686
Chapters: 100
Hits: 71,003

Past Present

Miss Yetigoosecreature

Story Summary:
Hermione, Harry, and Ron visit Viktor Krum in Bulgaria and discover there's a lot more to Viktor's past than they could have imagined.

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary:
The exciting conclusion to the internationals, tons of bizarre names, and some whizzing, whacking, unbalanced, and wild Quidditch.
Posted:
06/15/2003
Hits:
743
Author's Note:
Uploading...uploading... lots of uploading. Thought I would knock of formatting and chaptering several at once.

Settling back into the booth, it was only a short time until the referee strode out onto the field behind the announcer. A full three-quarters of the stadium was outfitted in bright Bulgarian scarlet. The white and royal blue colors of the French team were overwhelmed in the stands. The usual mascot festivities took place, the veela dancing, the hippogriffs of France parading and swooping.

It all went by in a blur until the introductions. France was introduced first. "Alouette! Madeleine!" , six streaks of blue in all, then finally, Viktor's counterpart, the French seeker, Jean-Paul De La Croix. De La Croix was a regular on the Quafflepunchers, as were most of his teammates. He was of a much slighter build than Viktor, not nearly as tall and muscular, but he streaked in impressively on his broom. Then the Bulgarian team, nearly drowned out by the crowd's thunderous cheering. "Ivanova! Dimitrov! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov!" The six players hovered near midfield, as the announcer paused dramatically. "Aaaaand... Krum!"

If the cheering had been thunderous before, it now threatened to shake the stadium apart. The crowd still remembered his heroic effort to get the snitch despite a broken and bloody nose last year. Viktor streaked into the stadium, his uniform a blur of black and scarlet and gold. He halted just short of his teammates, they conferred for a moment, and then scattered to their respective posts. As in the World Cup, the referee was Hassan Mostafa. Harry wondered if this time, he had any veela-proof earplugs. And a fire-proof broomtail.

Mostafa mounted his broom, sweeping his bright green robes aside. He kicked open the crate and the four balls shot upward, a last glint of light catching the snitch as Harry gazed through his onmioculars, and then it was gone. The whistle sounded and the pace was so fast that the announcer often had no time to complete a player's name as he called the play. "Aloue..., Lev..., Ivanova, Levski, Madeleine blocks!" Play went on, fast and frantic up and down the field. Soon Harry's nose ached from pressing the onmioculars against his glasses, and his hands grew weak from clutching them. Viktor and Jean-Paul were dueling near the Bulgarian goal, jockeying for position, for some window to locate the snitch. They split only for a moment when a bludger smacked by Vulchanov at De La Croix whistled between them.

Viktor obviously had the advantage when it came to muscle and speed, fending De La Croix off, always edging ahead slightly, impeding him so that he finally, in frustration, committed a foul, blatantly elbowing Viktor hard in the face. "Wonder if ninety percent of his injuries are his nose..." Ron mused. On the penalty shot, Ivanova scored, putting Bulgaria ahead 70 to 60.

Thirty minutes into the match, play was still as wild as at the beginning. "What's he doing?" Ron asked.

"Where?" Hermione looked about wildly.

"Up there...no wait, down there..." Ron followed Viktor's rapid plummet.

"Feint?" Harry ventured, and was about to add more, when he removed the onmioculars and realized what had Ron so confused. Viktor was diving right down toward the spot where the chasers and beaters were converging on the quaffle from all directions.

"Surely it's not a feint...that's suicide!" Ron yelled. All ten of the French and Bulgarian chasers, beaters, and seekers were headed right toward midfield, quaffle flying furiously between them, bludgers whirling from club to club.

"De La Croix knows Viktor's a feint waiting to happen, but he couldn't take the chance that Viktor is just feinting, he might have seen it!" Hermione clutched the rail, her knuckles turning white. De La Croix raced after Viktor, pulling nearly even when the entire group of players reached midfield. Viktor wrapped himself flat as possible onto his broom, pulling in his elbows and knees, weaving through a narrow opening between Vulchanov and Volkov. His boots nearly brushed their noses, and even they looked surprised to see Viktor cut it so thin.

De La Croix clipped Fontainebleu, his own teammate, nearly taking him off the broom, and wobbled unsteadily after Viktor. They continued to hurtle down through layers of Quidditch players, Viktor pulling up and skimming over the surface of the field at the last possible moment. De La Croix crashed, though not a spectacular crash, skidding off of his broom, bouncing across the pitch on his backside.

"Gets them every time!" Ron cheered. Play was stopped, until De La Croix waved off the mediwizards, and climbed gingerly back onto his broom. Viktor, hovering near the French goal, used the opportunity to seek solo. When play resumed, De La Croix stayed a bit further away, following more warily. France managed two more goals, fueled by anger and embarrassment. "Look! I think De La Croix spotted it!" Ron pointed to the French seeker.

Viktor appeared to hear the snitch before he saw it, and Harry caught it zooming past his shoulder, and toward the other side of the field. De La Croix had a bit of a head start on him, but he leaned forward, and began to close the distance, soon pulling even.

They began a brutal series of hip checks and bumping while striving for position. Harry winced as he thought about how Viktor could have slammed into him that way during practice. It made his him sore just to think of it, crashing into Viktor's solid wall of muscle. The snitch led them on a complete loop of the field, circling and heading directly toward the box where they sat.

Harry looked over at Anya and Nikolas. They were both leaning against one another, nervously clutching hands, onmioculars now forgotten in their laps. They both wore clouded, anxious expressions.

"Incoming!" Ron said, the snitch continuing on its course toward the box. As the two headed after the snitch, which now kept leading them higher and higher, Viktor began to stretch, only one hand on the broom, even bracing his feet across the top, straining upward and pushing up over the broom so he could get a greater reach. From the precarious perch, he began to crowd De La Croix over, outreaching him by a hand length. He was going to..

"Bludger!" Hermione shrieked, pointing at the dark blur headed toward Viktor and De La Croix. Viktor, locked against De La Croix and intent on the snitch, had no time to react as the bludger smashed into his broomstick just below his waist, splintering it beneath him, knocking him into De La Croix first, then plummeting him down, tumbling in the air. The snitch was lost, and the entire stadium gasped as Viktor hurtled toward the pitch, De La Croix ricocheting sideways, but still on his broom.

"Ivanova!" Harry pointed, just finishing the name when Viktor latched on to the back of Ivanova's passing broom. The broom bucked wildly, and Viktor twisted beneath, holding on with one hand when one of them slipped free of the handle. Ivanova began circling near the Bulgarian end of the field, trying to give Viktor a hand up, but with Viktor behind her, Ivanova could not reach his free hand. Even with perfect leverage, her slight frame had no hope of hauling the much larger Viktor up onto the broom without some help.

She started to spiral downward, obviously trying to land safely with Viktor beneath, but Viktor's grip was slipping. As they passed parallel to and level with the front of the box, Viktor dropped from the broom, kicking wildly. The entire stadium gasped again, a moment of silence, and then a roar of approval. "Viktor!" Hermione yelled. "What are they cheering? Why are they bloody cheering! That is the Bulgarians cheering, isn't it?"

"Yeah, where is he?" Harry answered. Anya and Nikolas looked sick, frozen with their hands clamped over their mouths.

Ron leaned over the rail and screamed back, "There he is!" The seven occupants of the booth rushed forward and leaned over.

There, below and between the boxes, Viktor dangled from a stadium railing used to hang banners, hauling himself upward with his hands. They could see him muttering, a familiar scowl on his face. He was probably cursing a blue streak in Bulgarian now, Hermione thought, looking at his mouth working as he muttered to himself. Anya finally let out her breath and laid a hand over her heart.

He managed to plant his feet, bracing the soles of his boots against the wall of the stadium, and dared to lean out, waving his arm, trying to catch Volkov's attention. As Volkov turned, though, a bludger drew near, and he gave his full attention to beating it away from his face, like some overgrown bee. Ivanova was trying frantically to attract Mostafa's attention, but he was busier eyeing the shrieking veela on the sidelines warily.

"No one can see him out on that end of the field! The banner's got him blocked off! Oh, come on, ref, time out!" Ron hollered. Viktor's feet slipped, and he spoke again, fumbling at his robe pockets with first one, then the other hand. The occupants of the booth imagined they could make out Accio broom, interspersed with what sounded like some very rude Bulgarian indeed.

From near the benches, an unmanned broom shot toward the railing, though it was wobbling and meandering a bit, not sticking to a straight path. "He must have gotten to his wand... oh, thank goodness!" Hermione exclaimed. Viktor clamped onto the broom zooming by with both hands, twisting beneath for a moment before narrowing his eyes in concentration and chinning up against the broom handle.

He first managed to lay across the speeding broom on his stomach, legs dangling off one side, head off the other, wobbling unsteadily. As he made to climb up the rest of the way, Ivanov screamed, "Viktor, duck!" Viktor folded limply over the broom just in time, nearly overbalancing and heading over the handle head first, the bludger grazing his hair.

Viktor pushed up and swung his right leg over the handle, laying low, urging the broom after De La Croix, who had by now, relocated the snitch. Viktor soon drew even and nudged De La Croix, forcing him aside with his greater weight. They both shot straight up, following the snitch, and the crowd could only tell that their hands tangled, and the flash of gold disappeared among their fingers. Even with onmioculars, it was impossible to tell which team had just won.

"Who got it?" Ron squealed. Judging from the absolute quiet, no one else in the stadium knew, besides the two seekers. Both Viktor and De La Croix banked and flew toward Mostafa, who was hovering near the ground, surrounded by Bulgarian players who were berating him for not stopping play earlier, so Viktor could be gotten down from the railing and supplied with a new broom. The veela looked as though they would like to give him a piece of their minds as well.

De La Croix dismounted, and stood before Mostafa. A second later, Viktor glided in, dismounting the broom before it came to a complete stop. With long strides, he marched over to Mostafa. "I still don't know!" Harry replied, "Maybe neither. Maybe they're all so peeved they just came in to complain."

De La Croix had a blank look, neither happy nor sad, fists clenched. Viktor paused before Mostafa, breathing deeply, nostrils dilating, scowling heavily, chin tilted up proudly, defiantly, fists clenched at his side. He stood there for a long moment, glaring at Mostafa with such force that the referee took a hesitant step back. Then Viktor lifted his right fist, parted his fingers, and showed the tiny golden snitch, trapped against his palm.

The entire stadium exploded in a cacophony, the veela struck up a song and began to dance in joy. Viktor simply stood there, stock still, as his teammates dismounted and ran up to pound him on the back. This went on for several minutes, until he lowered his hand, and a slight smile crept across his face. So slight that only those who knew him best would have dared to term it a smile. He turned and strode toward the locker room, full of purpose, snitch still in hand, as though the stadium was cheering for someone else entirely.