Author's Note: Hello! Any body out there a Viktor Krum fan? Yeah, the part of me that spends a lot of time thinking of Ron and how he feels about things had a hard time not calling him names, I won't lie. But the rest of me thinks that Krum was probably a top notch Quidditch player.
This was written for the Globetrotter Drabble Competition on the Harry Potter Challenge Forum posted by why the caged bird sings for the prompt #19 New Delhi. Special thanks to TheHaloFreak for suggestions and NiftyGirl for her support. Guess what? This is under 500 words! Maybe I'm actually learning how to write drabbles... or maybe I'm just writing sans plots. Oh well, leave me a review and let me know what you think.
I don't own Harry Potter.
Another scream escaped his lips, another semi wordless cheer let loose with a thousand others as the Quaffle soared gracefully through the hoops yet again. It was bitterly cold, his breath an almost palpable cloud in front of his face but his body had hours ago rejected the feeling of cold in favor of the exhilaration that came from the match. Already he could feel that his throat was hoarse from the cheering, but if he had to spend tomorrow in silence than it was worth it.
Viktor Krum flew mere feet from where he watched. He moved casually around the pitch in his search for the Snitch. He moved as fluidly through the air as the air itself, flitting from one point to another like a breeze. He had never seen anyone that could fly like him, let alone dart across the pitch at a moment's notice after the barest glint of gold. He had been called the greatest seeker currently in professional Quidditch, and it didn't seem that anyone could argue with that.
Krum had been voted in unanimously each year when Bulgaria put together their team for the Quidditch World Cup, and no one could forget the year he brought them to the finals, only to valiantly lose the match to Ireland with the most spectacular Wronski Feint that anyone had seen in ages. The victor of that match had been determined by the Quaffle, but everyone agreed that Krum had performed flawlessly.
The crowd let lose another cheer as possession of the Quaffle changed. It was great to see them score, great to see their team doing so well, but he was really there to see Krum, and he supposed the others felt the same. And he didn't disappoint, still in his twenties, he cut an imposing figure mounted on his Firebolt. The rest of the match mattered only marginally; as long as they were afforded the opportunity to watch him diving and swooping around the pitch it could be as cold and as miserable as it wanted.
Krum bolted suddenly toward his own goal and the crowd took up a chant of his name as he flew. However many days he had had to make do without his voice over this were entirely worth it, he thought as he chanted at the top of his lungs. After all it wasn't everyday one got to watch the greatest seeker in the world.