Title: Morning Sunsets; Segment Untitled (in the art of furthering her Lord's cause)
Rating: PG-13 (sexual innuendo, references to alcohol)
Genre: Umm . . . Drama . . ?
Spoilers: Philosopher's Stone to Half-Blood Prince
Period: circa 1996 (after HBP)
Pairings: Implied Viktor Krum/Bellatrix Lestrange
Summary: Krum had yet to choose an allegiance. So Bellatrix chose one for him.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The plot, however, is created by the writer and is not to be replicated by another. The lyrics included are performed by Green Day on their American Idiot album. They can be found in these songs (in chronological order): Homecoming, Jesus of Suburbia (2), Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Holiday, and Give me Novacaine.
Writer's Notes: This was intended to be the beginning chapter of an epic piece that took place right after Half-Blood Prince, but I don't know if I will continue it or not. I suppose it depends on a few factors, such as the reception of this, if I have time to continue it, if my muse hasn't abandoned me after all these years. I will keep the readers posted. I have a few other segments written, that are Hermione/Viktor, that I will eventually post as subsequent chapters.
- - -
do you think what you need is a crutch?
;;
Dusk tinted the sky a weak hue of indigo. The sinking sun hid being the blossoming trees; the dying rays fell against the leaves and cast them into an emerald brilliance. The deadened air was thick and much too muggy for the late spring season.
Trojinos, a wizarding village near the Black Sea borders of Bulgaria, was silent this evening; not even the winds dared whisper among the trees and cobblestone roads. When a solitary Greenfinchflew overhead and settled in the branches, the ruffling of her wings and wheezy call immorally fractured the silence.
The waning gibbouswas painted with dreary shades of greying-white; it was an unsightly void in the otherwise indigo sky. As the pale sun withdrew below the horizon, its illumination died and the millions of lighted specks in the atmosphere emerged. While dusk crossed the gauzy edge between twilight and darkness, a resonating pop! cracked through the village. The echo sent the Greenfinch on her wings.
The black-robed form of a pawn of the Dark Lord materialised from nothing.
;; oh therapy, can you please fill the void?
The velvet robes clung at her waist and displayed an unnecessary amount of the pallid skin of her legs and breasts. The moonstone mask that marked her as a Death Eater hid her dark eyes that were glazed over with rapture. Dilated pupils fleetingly scanned the village--old wooden houses with cracked windows were boarded up and abandoned decades ago; the town square in the centre of the market place was overgrown with spider vines and wild plants; a few wooden carts were parked next to stalls that once sold fresh fruit and vegetables, their produce rotted away; off in the distance, away from the bustling market, an old brick building stood.
The Death Eater's lips parted into a smirk as she observed the lights shining from the broken windows. The damaged building was once used as a rendezvous point during some long-forgotten war, but in these times of Muggle amity, it was transformed into a locker room for the Bulgarian Quidditch team. Nowadays, if a Muggle were to walk this way along the path, they would see nothing of the small village and building.
Removing her mask with her claw-like fingers, she followed the cobblestones through the darkness down to the Quidditch field.
Bellatrix Lestrange stalled at the opening of the locker room, her ears twitching against the sound of water draining through the pipes. Dense clouds of steam billowed from the showers, merged with the musky aromas of testosterone. She breathed deeply, the air burning her nasal passages, and entered.
;; signs misleading to nowhere // the centre of the earth is the end of the world
Viktor Krum slanted his head back, letting the hot water wash over sweat-tangled black hair. The stench of defeat overwhelmed the dank air, and the twenty-year-old breathed deeply, the fumes mixing with the vapours evaporating from the water. A single shower poured forth--the Seeker was the last of the team left inside the locker room. Viktor had heard the clamour of the other six players fade into the distance some time ago; they left to find their victory in the bottom of a glass.
A sharp breath escaped Viktor's cracked lips, and he turned off the hot water valve. He stepped from the shower with only a cotton towel tied around his waist. Small droplets of water trickled down his muscular arms and chest, soaking into the towel. He stared absently at the scarlet robes draped across a wooden bench, damp with sweat and defeat. Although Viktor had caught the Golden Snitch soon after the moon rose to compete with the sun, France was victorious.
Viktor held responsible those who wore bandages wrapped around their forearms. In the intensities of war, Quidditch was an unnecessary disbursement of energy, and the Bulgarian players found glory in something other than flying.
A sudden pain burrowed through his temples. Viktor sighed and sat heavily on the bench, using a discarded towel to dry his hair. He glanced up as an young woman entered the locker room, his eyes enticed by the way her hips jetted from side to side as she walked, by the glare of a choker fashioned into two Siamese cats curved around one another.
The woman stopped in front of him, stared down and offered an hand.
Viktor's eyes, in time, trailed from the woman's hips to her opened hand. Her fingers were long and slender, and her jagged nails decorated in the colours of the noir enclosed her fingers with his hand, a familiar gesture for the Seeker, and pressed his lips to the milky skin of her backhand.
She quickly withdrew her fingers, slipped both hands into the sleeves of her robes.
;; i'm walking down the line / that divides me somewhere in my mind
"It is interesting how you play a dying game," she lightly commented, averting her attention to study the locker room as though this conversation already bore her. "I've had the pleasure of encountering your other team-mates, they understand the wisdom of my Lord's lips."
Viktor dragged himself to his feet, his hands tying the towel around his waist into a tighter knot. "You haff resorted to drafting?" he grunted, happening to be slightly acquainted with the silver-stitched, black robes of the Death Eaters.
A spasm of irritation traversed Bellatrix's aristocratic features. "I thought you would have forgotten this silly game of Quidditch. You were a favourite of Karkaroff after all. Albeit a traitor, he knew the worth of others," she snapped, her annoyance confirmed with her tones. She shook her hands free of the confinement of her sleeves with one sharp motion.
"My one passion is Quidditch. Vot you offer does not manipulate me."
Bellatrix's shoulders rose and fell with a soft chuckle. "I have stumbled upon this squabble with your team-mates, and they have now found other passions, some which mere games cannot bring. Do you understand that, what Quidditch offers, our Lord can offer as well?" she whispered, faintly cocking her hips toward him. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, her eyes exploding with insinuation. Bellatrix mischievously blinked, and pulled Viktor forward by the knotted towel so that their noses touched.
Viktor's wet chest was pressed against Bellatrix, and he glared down at her with condescension, shoving her to a distance with one hand. "All you vould charge is allegiance to your lord, correct? Tell me, crone, do you come here on his demands, or yours?"
"Mine," Bellatrix mouthed the word, her breath hot against his mouth. "For when our numbers grow, so does my Lord's power. He will have this wretched world beneath his fingertip when his ambitions are brought to an end!"
A frown jerked on the corners of Viktor's cracked lips.
;; to find the money's on the other side
"Are you to be one of the faithful, Krum? You can join your team and survive this war," Bellatrix's lips passed over Viktor's, touched them with feathery kisses. She felt him stiffen, but not pull away, and she beamed with contentment silently.
"Zograf and Volkov?" he asked with difficulty.
Bellatrix laughed feverishly. "And the rest of them!"
The Seeker nodded slowly, contemplating even as he agreed.
Viktor's hand slipped around Bellatrix's neck and pulled her close with a sudden jerk. Bellatrix's tongue flicked over her crimson lips and she pressed her lips to his with powerful kisses. Her fingers played at the towel worn around his waist, and congratulated herself in furthering her Lord's cause.
;;
tell me Jimmy i won't feel a thing