Title: Support
Disclaimer: Just a fanfiction. Nothing to see here. Move on.
Pairings: None
Rating: K+
Warnings: I'm not Bulgarian, so take this story with a grain of salt. Maybe several grains.
Summary: Before you can make your country proud, you have to make yourself proud first.
Word Count: 2,699
Position Prompt: Write a story that takes place during an actual treaty in Muggle history. I chose the Treaty of Accession 2005, otherwise known as Bulgaria and Romania's entry into the European Union.
Author's Note: This was written for Round 3 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 2.
Obviously this is an AU in which Viktor is the son of a Bulgarian mayor (which is apparently called a kmet, but feel free to correct me in a PM). If you happen to be from the region mentioned here, please accept my apologies for replacing your mayor with Mr Krum.
According to the Wiki, Viktor's last name should really be Krumov, with Krum being a possible Anglicisation, so Krumov it is in this story.
Assume that everyone in this story is speaking in Bulgarian and that this is just my English translation of what's happening. Therefore, I'm not going to write accented dialogue, because they're actually speaking their native tongue.
Hope you enjoy!
.x.x.
Support
"This is a momentous event in history."
Kmet Krumov whispered the words as he stood on an old wooden crate—his makeshift stage—in the middle of their living room.
Despite the added height, he did not cut an imposing, threatening figure. This was partly due to his small stature and partly due to the way he dressed: collared white shirt, grey trousers with red suspenders, and brown shoes. He should have had a coat, or maybe even a cloak, but there he stood, vulnerable.
He looked strange, this little man on a box. Almost unreal. With that dark hair and hooked nose, he had had a face that could have dominated campaign posters around the world—in an alternate universe, perhaps he could have been the next Dark Lord or maybe the next Dumbledore.
Yet in this world, he was cursed with short legs for which his barrel chest struggled to compensate, and he did not have the help of magic, either.
So there he was instead: Kmet Krumov, mayor of Devnya. A Muggle.
Viktor forced himself to sit up straight and cease these traitorous thoughts about his own father. He was supposed to be proud. After years and years of working a dreary, thankless job as a campaign manager, his father was finally getting his chance to be someone of note, to have the stage, even if it was just a wooden crate in his own home at his very first party as mayor.
Not everyone got to be mayor in their lifetime.
Viktor was proud.
He really was.
So proud that he was staring at the ground, not wanting to look at his father anymore.
"Finally, we Bulgarians get the recognition we deserve," Kmet Krumov continued. "You have all witnessed the heated debates in our town centres, the voices of encouragement and doubt."
The close-knit crowd, consisting of Kmet Krumov's supporters and friends, nodded and murmured in agreement. Yes, yes, the encouragement, the doubt. Anyone with a functioning brain for the past couple of years was aware of those.
"It is understandable that there would be concerns. After all, what does it mean to become part of the European Union? Does it mean conformity? Sacrificing our individual integrity for the might of the many? Do we now become dependent?
"Yet all of you standing here understand that these thoughts are folly. There is no shame in solidarity. In this increasingly uncertain world, where riots can break out at a moment's notice, where entire regimes can topple at the push of a button, there is no shame in wanting some security for ourselves."
The elders in the crowd nodded with a sombre smugness; they were always ranting and raving about the atrocities in the world today, and they were glad to see someone take them seriously.
"We are Bulgaria, proud and legitimate. We have been Bulgaria for a long, long time. We will continue to be Bulgaria, even though this treaty has been signed. The fear-mongering fools have tried to tell us that somehow, with this piece of paper, we have ceased to be Bulgaria, but you can see now that that is not true. Did we not just exchange martenitsas last month? Name another nation that does that!"
The crowd laughed, even as Viktor hid a harrumph. He still had his own martenitsas hanging somewhere in his bedroom, which he fervently missed at the moment.
"The European Union—of which we are now on our way to becoming a member—cannot and has no desire to change our customs, our beliefs, or our identity. We are who we are. Now we simply have the addition of the support and recognition of other nations—as we should.
"Thus we are gathered here to celebrate, my friends. All over the nation, bigger celebrations are already taking place in larger homes, but I hope you will be happy enough with the small celebration that shall take place in my own humble home."
He bowed at this point, and the crowd cheered, clapping and rushing up to shake his hand.
Viktor clapped perfunctorily. It had been a decent speech. No one could ever accuse his father of being ineloquent, at least. He had watched him practice this speech in the mirror, over and over, for the past week leading up to this party, so it was no surprise that he performed well.
His father was living his dream right now.
Viktor was happy.
He really was.
So happy that he was now exiting the room, quietly, while his own father didn't even notice.
.x.x.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
A typical teenage pose, but he was no longer a typical teenager.
Viktor Krum, once the darling of the Bulgarian wizarding media, was now twenty-nine years old.
Twenty-nine.
And what did he have to show for it?
Not the Quidditch World Cup.
He scowled. This was not how he had planned out his life. He had wanted to make his country proud; his father was not the only one with Bulgarian pride, damn it. His whole life had been devoted to Quidditch, dreaming of the day when he would catch the Snitch at a World Cup final match, holding it up in the air, basking in the glory.
Yet that dream was crushed three years ago, when Egyptian Seeker Rawya Zaghloul had achieved that glory instead.
He remembered that event in the cruel clarity that only humiliation brought to his memories: her dark hair shining in the reflected light of the struggling Snitch in her hand, the crowd roaring her name, his mouth gaping with disbelief as he felt the finality of his futility.
After the match, after his shameful shower in the locker room, he had stepped out to meet his parents, hoping they would comfort him.
His mother had stood there in silence, her shoulders slumped, her lips moving silently as if performing wordless magic, though her wand was still tucked in her sleeve.
His father, on the other hand, had simply moved forward and clapped him on the shoulder.
"It's alright, my son. Dreams don't always come true, and you tried your best. Now you can move on from this magical nonsense and come back to the real world, eh?"
There was really nothing to say to that.
These awful words had echoed in his head as he announced to the camera, several days later, that he was retiring, hanging up his Quidditch gear, and the rest.
Immediately after that, he moved back home and locked himself in his room for two days, refusing meals until he gave in to his hunger on the third day.
When Viktor finally emerged, his father simply shook his head.
"All this drama, over flying on a broomstick! If you really want to make Bulgaria proud, serve your country. Marry a nice Bulgarian woman, start a family, and do some good around the community.
"You've been traipsing off to that magic world for too long; do you even know who our current president is? When your mother sent you to that school in Norway, I allowed it only because I thought it would do you some good to embrace that part of your heritage, but look at you! Miserable and unappreciated. All your friends have started their families and their careers, but what have you got to show for the past couple decades of hard work?"
Viktor simply clenched his jaw and ate his tripe soup in silence. There was no point in answering any of his father's longwinded speeches. He wrote campaign speeches for a living. Trying to get him to stop being "inspiring" was like trying to derail a train with one's bare hands.
"My son, it is time that you woke up. I only say this because I care about you, you know. There's no future in brooding."
Yet Viktor did not much care for the future at the time, and he still did not care about it now, lying in his bed all alone, the sounds of celebration drifting up from downstairs.
He turned towards the blank white wall and closed his eyes. Hopefully a nap would cheer him up at least a little, enough so he could go back down there and be a good son. Rationally, he knew he was being petty and selfish right now, brooding as his father was trying to have his victorious moment, but emotionally there were some things that could not be helped.
.x.x.
"Viktor."
He awakened to the firm feel of a hand on his shoulder and turned, only to find himself staring at a mass of dark hair. His father.
"Why did you sneak off, my son? Was the food not good? Did the music displease you?"
Viktor shook his head. He had not tasted the food, and the music had been lively and pleasant.
"Are you sick, then? Come to think of it, I haven't seen you wave that stick in a long time. Your mother has been worried about you."
"I'm fine, Father. I just haven't been in the mood for magic lately, that's all. I can't do it in front of your guests, anyway."
"Ah. Is that it? Do all the guests make you uncomfortable? It's an unfortunate consequence of being mayor, you know."
"No. It's not the guests. Speaking of them, though, shouldn't you be out there entertaining them right now, Kmet Krumov?"
His father grinned cheekily, almost looking young again. Viktor absently noted that he looked more handsome that way, instead of the impassioned expression he forced on his face whenever he gave a speech.
"They will take care of themselves for a few minutes. They're all likely drunk off the Merlot, anyway."
"True." Viktor sat up and stretched. He was starting to feel a bit peckish. Hopefully there was still some food downstairs.
His father blocked him from leaving the room, however, with his continued presence.
"So tell me what occupies your mind, my son. If it's not the party and it's not the guests, what is it?"
He shrugged. If his despondency since the World Cup had not been enough of an indicator over the past couple of years, then nothing he did now would be.
His father nodded anyway, as if Viktor had just said something very enlightening and profound.
"I see." He looked around Viktor's room before discovering the martenitsas hanging off the knobs of his dresser drawers. Smiling, he picked them up, and Viktor watched him curiously, already seeing a speech building in his father's forehead.
"Viktor, do you know what these martenitsas mean?"
He stared at the little wool dolls in his father's hand. As is the custom, one of them was a woman in a red dress with white sleeves, and the other was a man dressed in white with red sleeves, both made out of woven threads. Their names were Penda and Pizho, respectively.
"They mean the coming of spring, Father, and a wish for good health. Everyone knows that."
His father continued to smile. "Yes, very good, but do you know why they come in pairs?"
Viktor frowned. "Is this your way of nagging me to get a wife?"
His father burst into laughter. "No! Although, you really should find one soon, but that is not my point. Look at them. They are both a mix of red and white, are they not? The red stands for life and passion, and the white stands for purity."
"Ah. I see." He did not know where his father was going with this, but so far this speech wasn't as bad as his usual ones.
"In other words, our existence is not one-sided. It comes in many sets of twos. Passion and purity. Life and death. Good and evil. Happiness and sorrow.
"These things are not separate. They are intricately tied together, which is why these dolls, though each one is predominantly one of the colours, have both colours.
"Do you see now, my son?"
Viktor shook his head, though he was now staring intently at the dolls regardless, hoping to glean the answer from their soft bodies.
"What you're feeling right now, this sorrow, it will soon be overtaken by happiness. You will not be sad forever. These simple little dolls know that already; surely you can figure that out, too."
He looked away from the dolls and stared balefully at his father's face, which was indeed now impassioned. The boyish smile had been better.
"Father, this does not cheer me up at all. And it's okay. You really don't have to try—please stop. I'm just going to go downstairs, eat the good food you mentioned earlier, and enjoy the music."
Some of the liveliness faded out of his father's face, and he sighed the rest of it out.
"Okay. So you are not cheered up by my words, or our customs?" He waved the dolls almost threateningly, and Viktor felt sorry for Pizho and Penda.
"You cannot solve everything with a speech, Father. Some things just take time. I know you're grumpy because I'm not cheerful at your delightful party, and I'm sorry. I'm happy that you're mayor, and I'm happy that all these guests showed up to celebrate Bulgaria with you. I really am. It's just that my problems are my own, and they haven't gone away yet."
His father threw the dolls onto Viktor's bed, startling him.
"Problems do not 'go away'! They are resolved with time and effort! I have not seen any effort in you since that sorry match!
"Anything you want in life, Viktor, requires you to be alive first! You have to live! Do you think we entered the EU by just existing? Don't you understand how much effort, how much campaigning went into this? I know it's not as glamorous as defeating or wielding the forces of evil or whatever grandiose ideas your magical school put into your head, but this is real! This is something that was achieved through passionate effort, too! None of the Bulgarians involved in this treaty will ever be internationally famous, but they make this nation proud, too!
"Why can't you see that? Instead of sitting around here, moping about World Cups, you could be doing something else, moving towards new goals! Before you can make your country proud, you have to make yourself proud first!"
Viktor stared at him, unable to say anything. He had never seen his father so angry.
His father growled and started opening Viktor's drawers.
Viktor snapped out of his stupor immediately. "Father! What are you doing?"
"Where is it? I know you've stashed it somewhere here. Where is—ah!"
He pulled out Viktor's wand, which he hadn't touched since the match.
"Father! My wand, what are you—"
He shoved the wand into Viktor's protesting hand. "Here. Cast a spell."
"Father, what—"
"Cast a spell! Now, before anyone comes up to investigate why I've been gone from the party so long!"
"No. You can't make me—"
"Cast a spell or I'm casting you out of the house."
He stared at his father, whose face quivered unceasingly. His father, the Muggle, the one who had always scoffed at magic, wanted him to cast a spell?
"Well?"
Viktor drew a deep breath, blinked slowly, and whispered, "Lumos."
The wand lit up, exactly as it should, almost as if Viktor had been casting the spell regularly every day.
His father smiled grimly. "Doesn't that feel better?"
Viktor shook his head, even as he held his wand tightly. "I thought you said magic was nonsense."
"It is. I still think so. But what's more nonsensical is you extinguishing your light inside. I want my son back, not this shell of a son."
Viktor sighed and said, "Nox." The light went out.
"What am I supposed to do now, Father?"
He shook his head. "I can't answer that for you. All I know that is that it involves getting out of this room. It's been three years, Viktor."
Viktor tucked his wand into his pocket. "Alright, Father. Let's go back downstairs. Your guests probably miss you now."
His father smiled again and opened the door.
They stepped out together.