Disclaimer: Still don't own it [alas!] This pairing was developed by Mew-Tsubaki and Morgan, and is for the M&MWP challenge!
"Magnifique," she cooed in the dark as he rolled off her, spent yet still desolate, fulfilled yet empty. Seeking comfort among strangers, they found each other, mourning in silence for a temporary ally while his family and friends wept and prepared for a war that would inevitably draw them in.
And he fancied himself a little in love with her, but what man wouldn't? She was inhumanly beautiful and good and pure, and despite his fame, he was still in shock she came to him. Competitors, yes, but friends, no. Yet here they were, acquaintances in desperate need of something real.
They were real.
So he whispered, "Mer-ci ma co-pine," in stilted French and she laughed haughtily at his words, because he mangled her beautiful language. Because the words weren't true and they both knew it. There were true loves waiting, to be met, to be realized. But they knew it wasn't each other.
Yet for a moment, it was.
OOO
Once upon a time he was a teenage heartthrob, flitting across the poster-covered walls of every hormonal Bulgarian teenager. But the war trumped plans, and injuries trumped goals. The face of a new hero decorated the walls of the Quidditch fanatics while Viktor's joined the ranks of the heroes on the front page of the Daily Prophet, cleaning up what was left of a castle he briefly called home.
OOO
When she sighed "Magnifique" into his shoulder, her mussed strawberry blonde hair spread across his chest, he was hit with a sense a vague sense of déjà vu. A gut instinct that this was wrong- in more ways than one- and a heart that screamed at him to ignore his gut.
His hair was graying, his shoulder irrevocably damaged from a curse, and his personality more serious and stoic now that he was a coach than he ever was as a player. And she was his star [in more ways than one], twenty-five, the daughter of his friend and once lover.
And he loved her.
He knew the risks if they were discovered. The accusations of favoritism and the loss of his job. The rumors in the gossip rags that he was using her because her mother's heart belonged to the scarred curse breaker instead of the damaged seeker. The certain bilingual death threats from a pair of angry parents, and even angrier grandparents.
Viktor didn't care. She brought him joy- joy that had been absent for far too long- and he'd go back through hell all over again to give her the same.
So he whispered "J'taime, ma che-rie" in stilted French in the darkness, and was rewarded with light giggles, because despite having been raised to speak both French and English, Victoire had never quite been able to emulate her mother's impeccable, authentic accent.
And when she responded, "Аз ви обичам също така" as she climbed above him and curtained their faces from the candlelight with the lengths of her hair, he found he couldn't laugh at her stilted Bulgarian in return.
She was as human as he. And it only made him love her more.
Hope you enjoyed! Reviews, and constructive criticism, are always greatly appreciated. Best wishes- Jac