Summary: Viktor Krum held the belief that Unity, not Magic, is might. Stuck in the middle of a war in Britain, armed with nothing but a broom and a broken heart, Viktor's self-pride may just be his saving grace.
Disclaimer: JKR owns everything Harry Potter-related. I own nothing but my imagination.
So, this is a long time coming. My version of the Deathly Hallows. Viktor Krum deserves recognition; he was not just a plot tool. So, there.
Thanks to Wikipedia for the facts inserted in the first three chapters.
Chapter 1
It was Sunday afternoon. Viktor Krum was standing inside the Shipka Memorial Church. The church was built to commemorate the fallen Bulgarians and Russians that opposed the attack of the Turkish more than a century ago. There were sarcophagi inside the temple in which the dead heroes laid to rest. The church bells were cast from cartridges from the historic battles.
He was observing women pray and recalled Levski's words, "If you're looking for a decent woman to be your girlfriend or wife, you'll find one in church."
He did not know what he needed more, friends, or a decorous woman.
He was jolted from his thoughts by a pygmy owl that had landed on his shoulder. It pulled out its leg to expose a rolled-up envelope. Out of respect, he walked outside and sat on the paved stairway in front of the church.
Inside the envelope was a wrinkled card. It was from his friend Fleur Delacour.
Fleur was a witch graduate of Beaubatons Academy in France who had immigrated to Britain. She, like Viktor, represented her school in the Triwizard Tournament two years ago. Neither won, but sometimes the journey and what they gained from it was more rewarding. Well, who was Viktor kidding?
Fleur who was his only source of news about Britain, had written him previously about working at the wizarding bank, Gringotts, with Bill Weasley. Though Viktor never wrote her back, she considered him a friend worth keeping. The card in his hand was an invitation to their wedding in August next year.
Viktor sighed, as he offered the owl some candy from his pocket, ignoring its hoots of protest. From her brief news, there was a war in progress in Britain. Escaped Deatheaters still at large, causing devastation disguised as disasters. Dementors roaming the streets, spreading despair. Ministry of Magic losing public trust. Businesses closing.
Was a wedding really necessary? Or was it because of the war that they were doing this? Not like he cared.
He would not attend such a social event for whatever reason. Hermione Granger was friends with the Weasley family. She would surely be invited. And with her, Harry Potter. Viktor scowled.
He remembered her wild hair, her pile of books, her warm, smiling brown eyes, her trusting nature,...God, he was such an idiot.
Frowning, Viktor scribbled a hasty reply on the envelope, then folded and fastened it on the owl's leg before shooing the bird away.
He had a girlfriend now. Yordanka Petrova. She was the winner with the title of "Queen of the Roses" in the 1996 Rose Festival in his parents' hometown of Kazanlak. Viktor remembered being overwhelmed by the amorous scent of the famed red roses in bloom in that town. His eyes and heart opened up to her. She was a nice, lovely, bright, shapely young Muggle woman who wanted a better life for herself. She had won his parents' hearts, and had been devoted to him.
She was not aware of his international popularity and he had obliviated her time and again when she had caught on to his magical world. She had been harmed by a fangirl more often than she deserved. They were supposed to go to Sofia today for dinner and more, but she had requested to meet him here.
He did not think that he was ready to settle, despite his mother's encouragement. Their relationship had barely been a year, although it escalated quickly.
"Yordanka!" He saw her on the road leading up to the Church. She waved at him. He immediately sensed that she was less cheerful than usual. He thought it must have been the chill of beginning winter. Summer was her favorite season. She was wearing jeans and a light sweater. Why did she not dress prettily today?
And why was she with Emanuil Leviev, a common friend?
She walked briskly to stop at the bottom of the stairway.
"Viktor, we need to talk."
Everything within sight was a blur to Viktor. Her voice sounded far away. Either that or every word she said stung. She sat beside him, her hands on her knees, and gave him a hard stare.
"Viktor, I cannot wait anymore. It is obvious to me that you do not take your future seriously. You have no job, you live in the mountains doing goodness knows what. You hang out with your friends drinking and laughing like there's no tomorrow. Your friends have no jobs. Zograf had at least a potential future in soccer.
"I have dreams, I told you. I cannot stay in this country anymore. If I am to succeed, I must decide now. I like you, Viktor, but there is nothing for me here." Something about the economy and lack of opportunities.
She caressed his cheek, and kissed him on the lips. "Thank you, Viktor. Forgive me for ending it. You are a wonderful man, but you must strive to do something at least for your future family." She wistfully played with his stubble, before she caught herself.
Viktor was shocked. He was not ready for marriage, but surely she felt his love for her?
And, he had a career, his friends were all Quidditch players. But, yes, she would never know that.
He could not fault her for her decision. He knew she had been wanting to study in Britain since he had met her. He had just delayed the inevitable, and it was not fair to her. No words came out of his mouth, even as he opened it. Her determined or pitying gaze silenced him.
He glanced at Emanuil, resisting the urge to scowl; he knew the man would take care of her. They were both studious, both dreamers. They deserved each other.
Viktor felt like he betrayed her by even remembering Hermione.
Yordanka had been a wonderful distraction after his first heartbreak. They shared beautiful not so innocent moments, marred with excuses, absences, and lies. He had wanted to reveal to her his hidden world, but the memory charm had been convenient. It had been a cowardly choice. Maybe if Emanuil had not been around now, Viktor would have shown her. But maybe the sight of Emanuil was a wake-up call in itself.
He could not promise any woman anything. His career came first. There was so much that he wanted to do.
Viktor stood up as Emmanuil approached. Both shook hands and shared restrained smiles, their faces reflected an unspoken agreement. Yordanka hugged Viktor, and he noticed that she looked relieved and happier than he'd ever seen her.
How long had they planned this? Did they have plane tickets already? Visas?
The parting smile he gave her did not reach his heart.
He turned his back to them, as the pair walked away. He took a long hard look at the majestic Muscovite-style church with its onion-shaped domes gilded in gold and tents of bell towers, with ornate borders, arches and pillars. It was a symbol of...what exactly? He was lost for words.
Dimitrov said he was becoming boring; he needed to pull new stunts. The sports fans wanted to see bloody violence...
Viktor needed to meet with his friends. Over drinks. Alcohol was the ultimate cure for distractions, boredom and the chill inside of him.
Viktor lived in the town of Shipka, 650 m above sea level, in the Balkan mountains, not far north from Kazanlak. Unlike his parents' house, his was a modest one-level stone house with two bedrooms, one bath, one receiving area, and a dinette. He had Muggle appliances. His friends would come over four nights a week.
He had stocked up on Mavrud wine, beer and rose brandy. His friends joined him for dinner of salad, cold meat, bread, and soup. They were his Quidditch team mates. All older than Viktor. The chasers Dimitri, Ivanova, and Levski, the beaters Volkov and Vulchanov, and the keeper Zograf.
Zograf brought some VHS tapes of past Muggles sports games on Volleyball, Football, Basketball, and Tennis. Watching the games was the highlight of their evenings together. Muggle sports made sense; it was more fun and exciting compared to Quidditch. They watched these games to pick up some pointers or techniques that they could apply to Quidditch, but in the end, the games were just delightful distractions.
Zograf, 23 years old, was the one who strategized their games. He had Muggle soccer athletes for friends. They, unaware that he was a wizard, had welcomed him to their group. Soccer was good training for goalkeeping in Quidditch, since it entailed a good bit of blocking.
"Nice, Zograf, as always, what are we going to do without you?" Volkov slurred, while drinking beer. It was already past midnight, his eyes a bit cross-eyed from watching.
"Well, since the management had reduced our funding, we have to find other places and ways to practice..." Zograf looked grim, but not defeated.
"It's hard to practice with the Quaffle you know, without flying. My neighbors found it funny how we pass it around like idiots on the ground." Dimitrov said. The Quaffle was no football, its shape alone was funny, weird.
"Yeah, I could fly around their houses just to freak them out, but your mother won't have it." Ivanova said absently, as he mulled over the tapes' covers.
"We play basketball more often, about the same thing, we are thinking." Levski shrugged.
"I refuse to be put down by this! Our international ranking will improve this time. If this is what it takes to get into their good graces, we will give them the game they want!"
Vulchanov suddenly stood up as he exploded, banging his beer bottle on the table.
He looked at Viktor pointedly.
"What?!"
"No more distractions, Viktor. Get your head out of the gutter."
He was regarded as the baby in the group. The boy who had yet to grow up. They were hypocrites, the lot of them.
"Look who's talking. Don't think we don't know what you and Volkov do in your spare time in Sofia. Muggle tourist guides. I'm sure the tourists get more than they asked for." There was a mixture of catcalling, chortling and sniggering.
"The point, exactly. Just fleeting fancies. No attachments."
They've been playing far longer than any of the team. They were always bored with practices even in the good old days. Viktor would not be surprised if they had decided on another worthy investment of their time.
"Unlike us, you guys don't need practice. You just need to get angry and beat someone up." Levski pointed out. He meant they were the burliest of the group. And, really, beaters required just the basics of instinct.
"Viktor here, just needed some inspiration. Don't you?" Levski wiggled his eyebrows, grinning. He had been hoping for his own inspiration for the longest time.
"Quidditch has become boring, at least for me, the older I get. The magical world should take after Muggles, invent a better game, I am thinking. Maybe I should do you all a favor, and think of one." Ivanova stated. The alcohol had emboldened him as he was visibly lost in his thoughts. Sadly, would he remember this all by tomorrow?
Yordanka thought they were doing nothing. They took their profession seriously.
Zograf said. "I have gathered enough leva to bribe some of my acquaintances into breaking into a small football field in a school in Sliven. I foresee no problem, just silencing charms and anti-Muggle wards. There's only the school guard to deal with. If we're lucky we could do it three nights in a row. You all in?"
Bulgaria was surrounded by Muggle countries, and even the Balkan Mountains had passes through which Muggles had access. The country was industrialized and urbanized. The pollution alone from the industries was a health threat especially to wizards. There was too much magical interference. No one wanted to be seen by Muggles, nor be smashed against buildings, power plants or water dams.
If they were being honest with themselves, they felt constricted by the environment they lived in. The management did not care.
When everyone cheered and chorused their concurrence, Zograf approached Viktor privately.
"Viktor, try to focus on the game, alright?" Zograf, the closest in age and affinity to him knew about his heartbreak. Viktor nodded assent.
"As for you, no more dodging vehicles running in the opposite direction, okay?"
"Hey, it was fun! I was invisible, I was flying." Zograf drained his wine glass.
"Stupid and dangerous, my friend." Viktor put a hand on his shoulder.
"It's not fair that only you get to fly." They had been hard-pressed to practice on their own in the last year.
"Don't envy me. You do more for this team than I do. Catching the Snitch is okay. But stunts?" He held his nose in reflex.
"Yordanka had noticed." Viktor nodded, grudgingly.
"Vain now, are we Viktor?" He scowled. Zograf chuckled.
"Learn to fix it properly, then. Practice your stunts, but be careful, Viktor. It's more a matter of control and timing. Not everything rests on your shoulders. Unity is might. I hate this as much as you do, believe me. I'm beginning to agree with Ivanova."
They both turned to the rest of the team, who were laughing, drinking beer, singing Bulgarian songs in unnerving keys.
All of them were brothers Viktor never had. He felt responsible for them. He would do what it takes.
There was something to be said about doing something wrong when no one was watching that appealed to young men. Although they were really doing it out of necessity. Only it was too good to last.
Zograf blamed the unrestrained whoops from Dimitrov hurtling the Quaffle though the goalpost, Viktor's yelps after receiving a Bludger to his nose, and Levski's idiotic screaming while looping in the air like a roller coaster. Or his teeth chattering that prevented him from intoning correctly or from hearing the guard's footfalls.
Everyone else claimed it was Zograf's fault: his silencing charm was weak, and he obliviated the school guard too late, after the National Police Service had already been alerted.
There was something about a gun that stunned or intimidated a wizard. It was Viktor's father who freed them from detention by obliviating the guard, the police, other prisoners, bystanders, and later Zograf's friends. All Muggle paperwork, and Mugshots pertaining to them were incinerated. He had to answer to the Accidental Magical Reversal Department official as well. It was the shame and not all the bribable leva spent that put a stop to the shenanigans.
Viktor's father had no words for them when they apologized profusely. He was proud of Viktor, but he was not a fan of Quidditch. He probably regretted the day he bought his son the magical toy broom that inflamed Viktor's self-confidence.
The winter stunted the group as the friends curbed their alcohol and resorted to playing football at the Seuthopolis Square in Kazanlak to the amusement of Muggles. Meanwhile, Viktor refocused on brainstorming, that is, staging his "death-defying" stunts. They were better than the Wronski Feint, he had reassured his friends.
One time, Viktor woke up to find himself lying in a hospital bed surrounded by his team mates, and his parents. It reminded him vaguely of one of their games, those times when the Mediwitch was treating him for sports injuries, particularly teaching him how to fix his broken nose. His nose was fine, but he had a bandage wrapped around his head.
"Don't touch it, Viktor, you might bleed." Zograf standing on his right admonished him, before stepping aside.
"Good thing he didn't bleed inside his head. He's fine now, he's awake, and he'll be up and about in a day or two." It was a female voice. The Muggle nurse had started to remove the contraption on his hand, his apparent lifeline.
He saw his mother seated on a chair by the foot of the bed, sobbing, his father silently stroking her back, his face weary.
Viktor tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but Levski to his left gently pushed him back on the bed. He had a disconcerted expression on his face.
"Just rest a bit. We're just waiting on the doctor. I'm sorry, this was the nearest place I could take you, Viktor." A small private room with a window that allowed daylight in but failed to warm him. His bed was uncomfortable, or maybe it was just the prevailing atmosphere of gloom.
"You really don't remember what happened, do you?" Zograf asked irritably. He was met with silent confusion. He nodded like this was expected.
"Last night, you were trying on a stunt." Levski spoke nervously, glancing at Viktor's parents furtively. "You were flying so fast along the slopes, I could barely keep up. You hit an oak tree branch, I think, and suddenly you were falling." He gulped.
"I knew I wouldn't be able to get to you in time. I was so afraid." He wiped his brows.
"He Summoned you, and brought you here. And called us all." Zograf finished.
"If the fool had not brought his wand, what would've happened then?!" His father scowled, his voice a tone of menace.
Viktor could not remember what transpired the previous night. All he knew was that he was planning on some stunts for their upcoming games. They were dangerous, but he did not think they would almost cost him his life.
He could not bear to look at his parents. He could imagine his mother crying in the hours that he was unconscious. His friends had the grace to keep quiet, though he could see Vulchanov nodding in approval.
"You are all young! Why do you treat life like it's a sport? There is so much more to life than playing! Money isn't everything. Damn international magical cooperation! You are breaking your mothers' hearts...Life matters!" She seized her scarf and blew her nose on it. "What if he had not woken up at all?" She choked out the last question, and received whispers of comfort from his father. She hated that the team was banking on Viktor's popularity.
The Muggle doctor came a few minutes later to tell him that he had suffered from a concussion, but his mental faculties had been restored. Aside from the sutures on his face and forehead that would be removed in a week, he was free to go.
Viktor considered just vanishing the wounds away, but his mother would likely disapprove. She worked as a pharmacist, after all. He was so dissociated from the accident, likely because of the amnesia, that he was not dissuaded from his original plans.
Despite Viktor's head injury, he continued to fly, this time over the Black Sea, almost every weeknight. His friends that were with him were able to practice passing the Quaffle and Bludgers around. There were no hoops, the Quaffle kept dropping into the sea, but there was camaraderie.
If there was a formula for victory it was unity. As spring symbolized to Muggles death to new life, gloom to happiness, it meant for them a new outset, a new mindset. Anything was possible if it was made a common cause.
They continued to practice despite all restraints, remained optimistic despite all obstacles, in the months leading up to the match with Canada. In other times, they soared the skies for the simple truth that they were wizards, and they were flyers.
Viktor would choose friends over women any day.
AN: I have divided the first chapter into two. It was lengthy. So, if I could interest you in reading the next chapter,...
