Rating:
PG
House:
The Dark Arts
Characters:
Viktor Krum
Genres:
Angst Fandom
Era:
The Harry Potter at Hogwarts Years
Spoilers:
Goblet of Fire
Stats:
Published: 02/20/2007
Updated: 02/20/2007
Words: 884
Chapters: 1
Hits: 433

Under the Surface

sparkz_277

Story Summary:
Viktor Krum's thoughts as he prepares for a match.

Chapter 01

Posted:
02/20/2007
Hits:
433


The locker room was chaos as the team rushed about, readying themselves for the match. Last minute changes, adjustments, and preparations were taking place throughout the room, but the lone figure seated away from the rest of his teammates didn't pay any mind to the distractions taking place around him.

He sat on one of the benches, leaning against the cool metal of the lockers behind him. His eyes were closed, but under the lids his unintelligible brown eyes were flickering about madly with nerves. His face was carefully blank, intent on hiding the nerves he felt.

It was like this before every match, even though he'd playing for half his life. He couldn't escape the insecurity, the worry that he would screw up and make a fool of himself.

He knew that quite a few of his teammates felt the same way at times, but he'd never outright asked them how they could possibly seem so calm and collected. Viktor Krum, Bulgaria's prize Seeker and the youngest player in the international league, was starting to panic.

Squeezing his eyes shut even more tightly than before, he tried to block out the noise around him and concentrate on memories of previous matches. The one where he'd caught the Snitch while hanging upside down from his broom, the match when he'd wrapped his hand around that struggling ball with only one arm to steer, the game where he'd jumped off his broom to snatch it out of the air.

He remembered the triumph, the rush of beating his opponents to the Snitch time and again. He was the best of the best, he knew that. But he was still only twenty years old, and no one wanted to admit that he was a better Seeker than anyone they'd seen before was.

Holding onto the feeling of exhilaration he felt when his fingers curled around the fluttering golden ball, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He was in game mode now, and the minute he was in the air, all his fears and insecurities would fall away, forgotten. Flying was his release.

Pushing aside his nerves as best he could, he forced himself to his feet and went through the motions of readying himself for the match against England. Thank god Harry Potter wasn't on the team yet, he though absently as he searched his duffel bag for his wrist guards. He'd seen the Boy-Who-Lived fly during the TriWizard Tournament, and truthfully had no desire to go up against him. They made a tentative truce when he'd left at the end of that year, and while he didn't know the boy very well, he was happy to count him among his friends.

Shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind, he pulled on his Quidditch robes and straightened them. His number, 7, as well as his name were clearly displayed on the back, for all to see.

He laced up his boots and shoved his duffel in a random locker, then grabbed his faithful Firebolt from its position beside him and clomped over to the doorway, where several of the other players were gathered, waiting tensely for their names to be called.

Viktor was glad he was usually last in the lineup, but in a way that made it all the worse, waiting for his name to be called while everyone else had already left.

He looked down at his hands, with their crushing grip on the handle of his broom. His knuckles were turning white, he noticed idly as he stood there. The English team was introduced first, and as they rocketed out onto the field amidst raucous cheers from their supporters, he leaned against the wall for support.

Ivanova shot him a concerned look, eyeing his pale face and the set of his mouth as he waited stoically. She nodded to him, and he returned the gesture, smiling slightly in thanks. He could tell she genuinely cared that he was about to have a nervous breakdown, and it was pretty clear she recognized what was going on in his head. She'd known him long enough to realize that it was the normal pre-game jitters he had the luck to be cursed with, no matter what he did about it.

Finally, Dimitrov's name was called, and he shot out onto the pitch to wild applause from Bulgaria's fans. Ivanova was next, followed by Zograf, Levski, Vulchanov, Volkov, and finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Viktor.

He swung his leg over the broom handle, straddling it, silently thanking whoever had the sense to put cushioning charms on the Firebolt. Kicking off, he soared out onto the field, and, with the wind roaring in his ears and his blood pounding, all his fears dropped away and he joined his teammates for a lap around the pitch, his emotionless mask firmly in place.

He spotted his parents in the Family Box, smiling and cheering on their son and the rest of the team. He looked towards the Top Box, and his breath caught in his throat. The Weasleys were here, and so were Hermione and Harry.

Shoving that to the back of his mind, he concentrated on the game. The whistle was blown, and the game was on. England didn't stand a chance.