Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is for entertainment purposes only. Fair Use and all that. I love Harry, Cedric, and Viktor.

Author's Notes: I'm starting another fic while everything else is on near-permanent hiatus x_x sorry, but enjoy this one. It's a budding threesome relationship, pre-slash.

Chapter I: Kinship

Viktor wonders how he ended up having drinks at the Three Broomsticks, against his better judgment. Happens during the start of spring.

o.o.o

The fog around Hogwarts had a less frigid presence than up North, but it was a worthy contender. The cold near the castle didn't bite harshly, didn't seep into the bones like liquid swords, but they made one's skin hard and taut all the same. Viktor, stone-faced yet significantly cross, ached for a dip in the cold waters of the Great Lake. The old headmaster of the school, Dumbledore, didn't deem it necessary to warn anyone about the potential dangers of the Lake during his welcome speech a few weeks ago-which meant that it should be safe-and a bank that plunged deep into the darkness of the waters was but a short walking distance from the shore whereby the Durmstrang ship was docked.

It was night time, and he needed to feel his blood rush through his ears like they did when he flew on a broom, to get his mind off of any and all aggrieving subject matters. A swim came second best when he longed for such a rush. Any normal person would go pale at the thought of diving headfirst into the Great Lake, for fear of freezing to death, but relatively speaking, it was perfectly temperate for the Triwizard champion.

What has gotten him so upset that night was the recent turn-out of the selection of champions for the Tournament. Viktor found it utterly ridiculous to have a fourth contender in a Triwizard tourney, and the mystery surrounding the eligibility of one Harry Potter made it all the more suspicious. His schoolmates couldn't seem to agree more-they wanted a redo of the selection, but the tournament judges informed them regretfully that the Goblet's magic was law, and cannot be overturned.

There had been students under the age of seventeen who wanted badly to contend, but begrudgingly accepted the new rules set by Ludo Bagman and the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Dumbledore was even the officiator of the age line that was drawn around the Goblet, and such magic couldn't be tampered easily, unless the old wizard was in on the whole debacle. That was the word that was going around the Durmstrang cabins, that the old coot was behind all of it, a rumor that further nettled Viktor.

Clad in a set of trunks and an A-shirt, he trudged bare-footed over the pebbles covering the bank, looking for a perfect spot in the water to just ease his way into. The bank transitioned from rocky pebbles to oddly-shaped boulders the size of small Blast-ended Skrewts, and then into grassy patches and shrubs. Viktor found the scenery a bit more pleasant than the harsher ones he was used to-the shores between Ankenes and Bjerkvik were bleak and grey, with barely any vegetation and sunlight even less. It was one of the redeeming factors of the Wizarding school, one that just barely off-set its shortcomings.

He found an ideal spot near a large tree, and without hesitation, plunged right in. The shore ended abruptly into deep waters, and Viktor had crossed the short distance with only a few intent strides before he was treading the water, feeling the iciness stretch over his skin and harden it. His muscles felt relaxed yet alive as they worked to keep him afloat, and all his mental faculties turned instinctual, erasing any thoughts that plagued him. He loved to swim. It was similar to being up in the air, but required much more energy and less balance and concentration. For a while, he just stared up at the sky, floating placidly, his face the only part of his body breaking the surface.

It would be a full twenty minutes later when he would kick towards the shore again, climbing up the underwater cliffside and ambling towards higher ground. Water dripped from him in rivulets, and his threadbare clothes clung to every muscle in his body. When his eyes cast forwards then, he was surprised to find a person there, sitting by the bank, seeming just as surprised as he was. He took note of the glasses and the reflection of the moon in them, just before realizing who it was. It was Harry Potter, sitting alone in the dark, knees huddled close to his chest to presumably keep himself warm. Viktor blinked at him.

"Hullo," Potter said quietly, peering up at him. Viktor didn't exactly know what to say to the boy, so he just nodded once, smoothing his hands over and behind his head. He should have realized it, but he saw Potter before, only he thought the huddled figure was a boulder, just like the many ones littering the lakeside. The Potter boy seemed taciturn as he remained silent, watching Viktor reacquaint himself with the chill of the night. Viktor didn't mind it-he was so used to being ogled by spectators that one fourteen-year old boy hardly bothered him.

"Do you often sit by yourself in the darkness like this?" Viktor thought to ask, voice heavy with accent, when Potter made no move to acknowledge him any further. The Bulgarian stood there, dripping still, eyeing the boy carefully.

Potter shrugged. He didn't look all too excited like Viktor thought he should. Diggory certain did, as did Delacour. Viktor's eyes trailed critically over the boy, sizing him up. Naturally, he didn't expect much from a fourteen-year old boy. He had a slight frame, and his hair was a mess. Viktor supposed it was a style, but he couldn't fathom how anyone could pretentiously dishevel themselves that way, so it must have been a naturally-occurring look. All in all, Harry Potter looked owlish and nonthreatening, like he belonged more in a library than in a magical contest.

"I was hoping to be alone for a few moments," Potter said tonelessly, finally looking at him again. Viktor felt his presence then, in his green eyes and his curious gaze. There was something to be said about wizards with commanding looks, and Harry Potter owned one. It was calm and enrapturing, without ever being imposing or overbearing. Viktor blinked. Harry Potter didn't seem fazed to be in the presence of Bulgarian superstar seeker Viktor Krum, but then it occurred to Viktor that Potter was a celebrity in his own right, even more so than he was. He didn't know what to think of that, except how positively self-centered he must be, to be thinking of such things.

"You are thinking of the tournament," Viktor asked, but it was posed more as a statement of a fact more than anything. He didn't make a move to sit or make himself comfortable He just stood there, like a stone statue, eyes looming over Potter.

"Fuck the tournament," Harry said with a sigh, casting his eyes down to his side and taking a pebble with his fingers. He turned it in his hand absently. "Hermione-a friend of mine-told me how dangerous it was for the Ministry to revive the tournament. She said students have died competing in it."

Viktor found his reaction to be quite telling, and certainly unexpected. His thick eyebrows furrowed together. Along with everyone else, he thought that Potter had found some means to put his name in the Goblet of Fire, tempted by eternal glory and fame. "You put your name in the Goblet of Fire."

Potter shook his head in a manner that Viktor could only pin as frustrated. "Everyone says that, but I didn't put my name in it. And I didn't get anyone to do it for me, either. I don't want to be a 'champion'. I've got enough problems without everyone talking and the press breathing behind my back."

Viktor wondered how a boy could look so small and vulnerable, yet singularly empathic at the same time. He was stumped. If Potter didn't put his name in the Goblet, then who did? With the boy's troubled expression. It seemed as if he didn't know, either. Viktor felt it prudent not to ask. The boy was sitting in the dark, alone, looking out into the Lake. If that wasn't an image of an ostracized boy, he didn't know what was. He wondered if he should just leave, let the boy be alone with his thoughts. But he knew deep down what Potter was feeling. It was the look of one who was unceremoniously shoved into the limelight, the look of someone who was the object of everyone's gossip. Viktor was familiar with that look. It was an expression he often wore when he had no one to turn to. Nobody could quite understand the pressure of being someone like him, and he often went off alone like what Potter was doing, to contemplate and ruminate on his more-often-than-not accursed fame.

Viktor felt an unexpected surge of sympathy, then, for the boy who was huddled under the moonlight. Why shouldn't he believe Potter when he said he didn't put his name in the Goblet? It was certainly uncharacteristic of someone who looked to be exhausted with the public eye. Potter didn't seem like an attention seeker, nor did he look like someone who paid attention to his celebrity status. He was just a student, a boy who was a victim of circumstance. It just so happened that he had a certain air about him, too. All of these factors resulted in a boy primed to be a poster boy of triumph, to be put on a pedestal. But Viktor knew that the kind of celebrity status was a double-edged sword, and Potter seemed to be bearing the brunt of the negative side of his fame.

Viktor grunted. "There is no use thinking about it over and over. Just do the best you can to survive." He sounded harsh and unhelpful, but he could literally think of nothing to say to make the boy feel a little bit better about himself. He could have easily said 'stop being a girl' and would have dealt the same blow. He shook his head, looking down on his feet. He sighed. "I'm sorry. I do not know vot to say to make it all seem less difficult ... but I know how it feels, to haff people vhisper behind you. Back in Bulgaria, one wrong move and I haff the whole Vizarding country soiling my name. And then, it only takes a Snitch in my hand to vin their hearts back again. People are fickle, Potter. Think not of how to please others. Think only of yourself and your survival."

He seemed to have said the right words, then. Potter looked at him oddly, like he was considering telling him some well-kept secret, but Viktor cast it off as a look of acknowledgement and nothing more. Viktor wasn't an expert on feelings and emotions, and didn't offer false pretenses that he did or tried to be. He just said what it was that was on his mind and delivered it with monotone, to remove any presumption of subjectivity in his answers. It has worked for him most of his life, and people have learned to trust him to be honest, sometimes brutally so.

"Thank you," Potter said quietly, peering up at him again as he ran a hand through his hair. "I appreciate that."

Viktor gave him a nod and a smirk, before turning on his heel and walking back to the ship. "Don't thank me yet," he said without looking back. "Ve still haff a tournament to compete in." It was the first of many times he would offer his advice to the young man, and certainly not the last in which they would feel kinship.