Here's the adopted Version of It's Not Easy by Ashvarden.
Date abandoned: February 22nd, 2010.
Date Adopted: January 30th, 2012.
Adopted Author: SlytherinPrincess1993
Summary: Harry grew wings; on his Sixteenth birthday, at midnight. Needing a place to go, he ends up on the Bulgarian Quidditch Team with an old friend and former Twi-Wizard Champion, Viktor Krum. They grow to be more than friends, but what happens when one of Harry's former friends decides she can't handle Harry having something she doesn't?
Chapter 2.
They reappeared in the hall a moment later, outside the door to Viktor's flat. He owned a flat in the nicer part of Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, within easy Apparation distance of the Vultures practice pitch. Quietly, so as to not disturb his neighbors, he unlocked the door and let the two of them in. Stepping inside, Harry got a good look at place. It wasn't huge, but it was definitely nothing to scoff at, and the décor seemed nice enough. The entryway was nice, with a few hooks for clothes and a mat to wipe his feet on. The fact that it was an exact replica of a Quidditch pitch wasn't lost on him, nor were the simple words, Home Sweet Home, underneath it.
The floor was carpeted in plush crimson, and the walls were caramel-colored paneling. Appreciatively, he said softly, "Nice place."
Viktor merely offered him that rare half-smile and herded him into the living room. "Sit. I haff a guest room; I'll get it set up. There's food in the kitchen, eat votever you vant." Harry smiled, thanked him, and pulled off his jacket, hanging it up by the door. Awkwardly, he ventured into the living room as Viktor disappeared, presumably to get his room together. He saw that the same theme was present here, though it was mixed stylishly with black. The furniture was mostly black or caramel, some a combination of all three colors; there were two reclining chairs and a nice leather couch, with a mahogany coffee table between them, and, surprisingly, a TV and two huge windows overlooking Sofia. The flat was obviously on at least the second or third floor. The Quidditch gear scattered around the room, however, softened its neat perfection, and the pictures pinned up above the fireplace added a personal touch.
He was surprised to find a picture of Viktor, Fleur, Cedric, and him over the mantle, between a picture of the Vratsa Vultures and a photo of a smiling woman with long dark hair, delicate features, and warm brown eyes. She looked an awful lot like Viktor, even though her build was decidedly different, being both petite and distinctly female.
His stomach interrupted his inspection of the room, and he obliged it. Venturing into a room just across the hall, he found the kitchen right away. It was fairly large, with a black tiled floor, a variety of obviously muggle cooking appliances and smooth tiled red and caramel countertops. Rooting through the icebox, he found some ham, cheese, and bread. He made a sandwich and, taking deliberately slow bites, seated himself at the island in the center of the kitchen.
Viktor seemed to materialize next to him and said, "Done. I vill be off to bed now, I think. Continent-crossing Apparation is very taxing."
Harry nodded. "I think I'm going to turn in, too. It's been a long day." He finished his sandwich and cleaned up, then followed Viktor into the back, where he guessed his room was. Yawning, he allowed himself to be steered into the guest bedroom and over to the bed.
"'Night, Viktor," he muttered as he flopped unceremoniously onto the bed.
"Good night, Harry," the reply came, so softly he wondered if he'd imagined it.
Viktor left Harry in his room and proceeded across the hall to his own. Stripping down to his boxers, he climbed into bed and pulled the covers around him. Gradually, his breathing slowed and evened out, and he fell into the abyss of slumber.
He was woken abruptly after what seemed like only minutes. Silence was thick in the air, and his brow creased as he wondered what had awoken him. Then came the soft, muffled groan and the muttering, followed by a slightly louder intake of breath and a whimper. Frowning, he stumbled out of bed and across the hall, into Harry's room. The dark-haired youth was splayed across his bed, the sheets twisted around him and half on the floor.
Oddly enough, he appeared to have had the energy to change before he'd collapsed onto the bed, and lay on the bed bare-chested and clothed in his pajama bottoms.
Another whimper from the youth urged him from his contemplation of the younger boy, and he hurried to his side. Awkwardly, he sat on the edge of the bed and shook him awake gently. "Harry. Harry, vake up." Those vibrant green eyes snapped open, and he was surprised to see them filled with unshed tears.
"Harry?" he asked, uncertain of what to say.
The dark-haired boy, staring intently at a point over Viktor's shoulder, answered, "Nightmare. Sorry."
Blinking, he answered, "Don't vorry about it. Are you alright?"
Harry nodded slowly, and he took that as his cue to go back to bed. He started to stand, but a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "Don't go. Please?"
The uncertainty and nervousness in Harry's quiet request spurred him to come back. He quietly crawled into the bed and wrapped an arm around the younger boy's torso. "I'm not going anyvere," he promised softly, settling in for the night. Harry was asking him to stay and damn it this was probably the only chance he'd ever get, so he took it.
He was surprised when the younger boy snuggled up, pressing closer and resting his head on his chest. He bit his lip to hide the sharp intake of breath when bare skin met smooth, tanned flesh.
Harry lay still, reveling in the feeling of warmth and security. A curious tingling ran under his skin like an electrical current, and he sighed deeply, letting sleep take hold of him and pull him down into the depths of slumber.
The next morning Harry awoke to find the space in the bed beside him was empty. For a moment he wondered if he'd imagined it, but then he spied the indentation of where a body had lain.
The smell of something cooking brought him to his senses and he climbed out of bed, stretching languidly. Muscles rippled enticingly under taut, tanned hide as he leant over to rifle through his trunk for a pair of jeans. He tugged them on and, barefoot and shirtless, slipped into the kitchen. The delicious scent of bacon and pancakes roused him fully, and he poured himself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher in the icebox.
"'Morning," he said, voice muffled by the sweet liquid.
In a voice that was rapidly becoming very familiar, Viktor replied, "'You too. The bacon's almost done if you vant some."
"Thanks. So, what're you doing today?"
Shrugging, the almost-20-year-old answered, "Not sure. I haff Quidditch practice today, that vill take a few hours. Do you vant to come vith? Ve could use another person there, so ve can scrimmage vith full teams. Vulchanov retired after last season, and our only reserve Beater isn't nearly as good. Ve might be able to talk our manager into playing; Mikolav used to be a Beater for the Sliven Sparrows."
Harry, grinning, replied, "Sure. I haven't played in a while, though; that ugly cow of a Defense teacher I told you about, Umbridge, gave me a life ban from playing on my House team. She locked my broom up and everything." His expression was one of disgust when he spoke of the toad-faced Ministry official Hogwarts had been 'gifted' with last year.
Viktor, understanding Harry's frustration at being stuck on the ground, nodded and said, "Your skills von't matter; I just hope you're an OK Beater, because if not you're mincemeat."
The shorter boy shrugged a shoulder. "My old Quidditch captain, Oliver Wood, said I would've made a fair Beater if I wasn't so small. It's kind of hard to wail on one when you're as scrawny as I was; in my first year I was smaller than the rest of my classmates, and that's including the girls. It was actually kind of embarrassing, standing next to Ron and 'Mione and having to look up to talk to them."
Viktor smirked slightly, "I never had that problem," he said in a mock-superior tone.
Harry just raised an eyebrow archly and replied in his stuffiest voice, "I see."
Sharing amused looks, they polished off the rest of the breakfast Viktor had whipped up. To be fair, Harry cleaned up afterwards, and then they wandered into the living room.
After about an hour of making small talk, Viktor looked up at the clock and said, "Time to go. You'd better change; a close-fitting shirt vill do. Ve don't need robes just for practice, and I haff an extra pair of Quidditch breeches in my locker that you can vear." Harry nodded and retreated into his new room, dug through his clothes until he spied a tight black T-shirt, and changed hurriedly.
He met up with Viktor by the front door and the Bulgarian cast several spells before he stepped outside and locked the door. At Harry's questioning look, he explained, "To keep the fans and reporters avay. I vonce came home to find vone in my bed; I haff kept security spells up ever since."
Harry covered his snicker with a coughing fit, at least until Viktor continued, "Of course, vonce people find out you're staying here, too, they vill come flocking, and I'm not about to haff them breaking down my door to get at you." All traces of humor immediately vanished from the English boy's face.
"Not funny," he said tartly as Viktor grabbed hold of him and Apparated.
They materialized just outside a door, rather prudently labeled in big, easy to read letters that proclaimed: LOCKER ROOM. Viktor opened the door and led the way inside, nodding hellos to the other Quidditch players in the room. The women on the team had their own locker room, so it was only men he saw as Viktor practically dragged him over to a corner of the room, where Harry presumed his locker was.
Undoing the lock, he rifled through the mess inside until he found an extra pair of breeches. Tossing them to Harry, he said, "Get dressed; I vill take care of introductions."
Nodding, Harry traded his jeans for the breeches; they were a little long, since Viktor was several inches taller than he was, but overall they fit surprisingly well, hugging his muscular calves and toned thighs in a way that had even the straight men staring.
Viktor tore his gaze away from the lower half of a certain green-eyed 16-year-old's body and said, "Guys, this is Harry Potter. Harry this the pride of Bulgaria, the Vultures Quidditch team. Ivanova, Kaishoff, and Levik vill get to meet you later," he added to Harry.
Harry nodded to the team; the team nodded back. Most of them seemed nice enough, a few even offering him smiles or handshakes. Maybe he would enjoy this.
Viktor prodded his shoulder and gestured towards an average-height, stocky man with ash-brown hair. He had a strong chin and a demeanor that promised nothing but pain if you got on his bad side. Otherwise, he seemed nice enough.
"Harry, this is Anjay Volkov. He's the team captain. Don't get on his bad side; he's tough as nails. If he likes you, though, you can piss him off all you vant and he von't say a thing."
Harry smirked at the description; it sounded a lot like Mad-eye Moody. "Yeah? Well, let's hope he doesn't hate me, then. Keep your fingers crossed, because I don't have the best track record with making friends."
Viktor just said, "Believe votever you vant, Harry. I know for a fact that you haff lots of friends."
"Yeah? Name a few."
He turned away under the pretense of tying his bootlaces, and, judging from the flush and the slight glaze to Viktor's eyes as they drifted over his ass, he didn't look half-bad.
Clearing his throat, Viktor led Harry out through a door near the shower room, onto the pitch. Sunlight nearly blinded him as they went outside, pausing at the rack just inside the door jammed full of practice equipment. Selecting one of the Seeker's build brooms, Viktor picked out a hybrid for Harry. It was the latest version of the Firebolt, the Inferno, and while it was clearly a Beater's broom, it was built for Seeking as well.
Together they went out onto the pitch, brooms in hand. Viktor immediately mounted his broom, launching himself into the air with a grace most people could only wish for. It was a far cry from the duck-footed, round-shouldered, distinctly awkward gait he used on the ground. When he was flying, he was like a bird. The broom was an extension of his body.
Harry straddled his Inferno, rocketing into the sky at top speed. The familiar rush he felt when he was flying returned full-force, and his grin was that of someone without a care in the world.
He flew in lazy loops and circles, diving and swooping like a bird of prey closing in on its victim. Not so far away, Volkov was sitting astride his own broom, watching him fly. Ivan Levski, the voice of logic for the team, sat beside him, examining Harry's flying. He was obviously a natural, almost as much at home in the open air as Viktor Krum himself.
"He's an amazing flier, I vill give him that," Volkov said as he watched Harry go into a steep dive and pull up at the last second.
"Give him a couple years and he could be on Viktor's level," Levski agreed.
"Ve don't haff a couple of years, Ivan. You think he is good enough?"
"Yes. He's obviously a good flier, but can he hit a bludger? Vait and see before you ask him," Levski advised, though he was positive it wasn't necessary.
Volkov shrugged. "Very vell. I vill see if he's Beater material." Just like that, he was gone, presumably to fetch a Beater's bat and a Bludger. Meanwhile, a very relaxed Harry Potter was hanging upside down from his broom, using only his legs to guide the slim piece of wood.
His fragile state of relaxation was broken by the whoosh of air. There was a loud crack, and something came flying straight at him. Rolling over quickly, now upright on his Inferno, he ducked the Bludger and streaked sideways. It came at him again, obviously aimed right on target. He was reminder strongly of the Slytherin/Gryffindor match in his second year, when Dobby had cursed the Bludgers to chase after him the entire game.
Spinning around, he dove down and snatched a Beater's bat out of one of the player's hands. He returned to playing height just in time to feel the Bludger rocket by inches from his left ear. Performing an admittedly impressive barrel roll one-handed, he met the oncoming Bludger at approximately 50 feet up. He hauled off and hammered the animated black ball as hard as he could, jarring his forearm in the process. The Bludger soared across the pitch and smashed into the stands on the opposite side of the pitch.
Volkov blinked once, twice. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "Who needs Chasers ven ve can get Potter to knock them all off their brooms?"
Levski, smirking, asked jokingly, "So he's on the team?"
The practice was longer than normal, but it had an air of high spirits to it that had everyone smiling and laughing with surprising levity. Towards the end they scrimmaged, the reserves against the starters. Nikolaus Mikolav, the team manager, was cajoled into playing Beater for the reserves, and, shockingly to everyone who hadn't seen his earlier performance, Harry was a Beater for the starting team. The starters always had the most talented players and the fact that Volkov chose Harry over Mikolav for the position of second Beater surprised almost everyone. Viktor and Ivan Levski took it in stride; Viktor because he'd known from the start that Harry was a Quidditch prodigy, and Levski because he'd seen Harry's flying, as well as Mikolav's, and seen that, while distinctly different, Harry was more comfortable on a broom.
The scrimmage was playful but intense, and by the time they were done everyone was nursing injuries, even the Seekers. After practice, Volkov beckoned Harry over and asked him the question he'd been waiting to throw at him for hours.
"Vill you play for us?"
"What?"
"Vill you play for us? As a Beater? Viktor is of course our Seeker; you excel most in that position, but you have potential, Potter. Anyvone vith an eye for talent can see that. You murdered those Bludgers ven ve vere scrimmaging; you are already a better player than the reserve Beater. So, vill you?"
Harry blinked, then looked over his shoulder at Viktor. The reason was obvious in his eyes. Do you want me to stick around or go? If things don't work, can you handle having me around so much?
Slowly, Viktor nodded.
Harry turned around again, met Volkov's eye, and said, "I accept. So, do I get one of those classy red lockers? I hear that the London Lions have new ones. You have something better to offer?"
Smirking, Volkov led him over to the shower room and opened the door. Harry gaped for a moment, then collected himself and said faintly, "Ok, you got me. Nothing beats power showers."
Volkov just laughed and said, "I thought you might like them. Viktor is alvays going on about how vonderful they are." Harry snorted and said dryly, "I bet. The shower at his flat isn't nearly this nice."
Snickers behind him alerted him to the fact that the rest of the team had been listening in on the conversation. Viktor, blushing, snapped, "Oh get it out of your head, people! One vould think all ve do at practice is sit around and look at dirty magazines, vith the vay your imaginations jump to conclusions."
Volkov raised his eyebrow in amusement. "Vot are you talking about, Viktor? They are just laughing at the fact that even after nearly 5 years, you are still a sheep farmer's son at heart."
Everyone got a laugh out of the look on the tall Slavic man's face as he realized what Volkov was on about. Mock glaring at his teammates, he huffed loudly and stormed into the showers, slamming the door dramatically after him. Harry snickered behind his hand, and it caught. Soon the entire room was laughing and applauding jokingly.
"Encore!" Dimitrov, one of the starter Chasers, bellowed.
Viktor's only reply was to inch the door open and throw one of his wrist guards at the fair-haired Bulgarian. It hit him in the forehead, and everyone exploded with laughter again. Harry, using the wall for support, sides heaving, was right at home with the rest of the team. Even more surprising, the rest of the team was right at home with him, something that didn't happen a lot unless you were the kind of person it was hard not to get along with, or you were close to someone on the team, Harry of which was both.
After a long shower, Harry emerged from the bathroom, water running down his defined chest and wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. It had been three days since he'd joined the team, and he was already friends with almost the entire team. A couple of them, a slim blond woman, the reserve Seeker, who Viktor had called Taila Levik, and one of the reserve Chasers, Damek Volsha, were still rather lukewarm in regards to him, but Taila seemed nice enough, and Damek was neutral, probably feeling him out or something like that.
Running a hand through his eye-length raven locks, he padded down the carpeted hall to his room. On his way, he passed Viktor's room, where the dark-haired Bulgarian was trying to give his closet some semblance of order.
Rolling his eyes, (he wasn't the neatest person in the world, either, but at least he kept his room semi-organized) he slipped into his room and dressed himself in comfortable jeans and a crimson T-shirt. It was fast becoming one of his theme colors. He found that instead of clashing with the bright green of his eyes, the darker shades of red only enhanced them. He shuddered at the thought of wearing magenta, though.
Barefoot, he wandered out into the hall and closed his door. The kitchen was, surprisingly, rather clean. At least, it was for two teenagers living there alone, neither of which were particularly inclined to do housework.
Grabbing himself a quick lunch, he made a plate for Viktor as well and went back down the hall, balancing the plates, cutlery, and drinks precariously. He made it half way down the hall before he dropped a fork.
"Damn."
Leaning down awkwardly, he tried to pick it up, but his hands were full. Then it hit him. Carefully, he leaned over and picked it up with his teeth.
He walked slowly the rest of the way and gladly handed over the drinks when Viktor noticed his plight and came to help. With a sigh, he flopped down on Viktor's bed and started to shovel food into his mouth. He finished quickly and asked, "Are you going to eat that?" eyeing the piece of chicken on the other boy's plate. At Viktor's incredulous look, he said defensively, "I'm a growing boy!"
Viktor cast a pointed look at him, and the youth admitted defeat. Viktor was taller than he was, and undoubtedly he always would be. It was hard to match 6' 1" when you spend ten years sleeping in a cupboard and living off scraps.
The duo spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in Viktor's room, chatting and looking at the mountain of Quidditch magazines stacked haphazardly under his bed. Quidditch was a topic they touched on a lot, their mutual love of the sport ensuring that they never ran out of things to talk about.
August 11th rolled around, and practice that day was lighter, and more for the sake of appearing to practice than for actual practice. Harry wasn't sure why until after they'd landed and were heading into the locker rooms. Viktor was one of the first into the showers, probably so he could drag it out and not keep everyone waiting.
Harry, meanwhile, was still in the changing room; his clothes scattered on the floor and bench around him. At the moment he was searching for his left sock, which had been on the top of the pile when he'd left and was now mysteriously missing. Half-naked, with his shirt off and his Quidditch breeches not leaving much to the imagination, he overheard Levski and Dimitrov talking.
"Vot'd you get the birthday boy?" That was obviously Levski; he had a deeper voice.
"I vos thinking about getting him a pair of handcuffs and some vipped cream, but my vife vouldn't let me. She said it vos too suggestive; as if ve didn't know he vos pining for Potter a long time ago, eh? From vot I can tell, it's not exactly vone-sided, either."
His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline upon that revelation. He hadn't actually thought Viktor might like him back; he guessed he'd never really thought about it. Studiously appearing as if he were distracted by his task, he listened on. It occurred to him after a moment that it was his enhanced hearing that was allowing him to listen in on this conversation; both of the Chasers were speaking quietly, and they were on the other side of the room, behind a row of lockers. They clearly didn't expect him to be capable of listening to this particular talk.
"Vell, they're both shy as hell, and I doubt either of them vill haff the guts to admit they like each other. Vot do you think ve should do about this? It vould make Viktor happy; he's too serious for one so young, growing up vithout a real childhood like he did. Rather a shame, but there's not a lot ve can do about it. Potter's been good for him, though; it's only been a couple veeks and he's already smiling and joking more than I've ever seen him vithout being in a drunken stupor. It's Viktor's birthday tomorrow, August 12th, I think. He'll be twenty; vot do you say to a little matchmaking?"
Dimitrov shrugged. "Vy not?"
As quietly as possible, Harry straightened up and slipped into the showers; he could find his sock later. It was Viktor's birthday tomorrow. What the hell was he supposed to get him?
Viktor was awoken by something tickling his face. He swatted at it and hit something fleshy and warm. He was shocked when it groaned in protest. Cracking an eyelid, he spied several strands of eye-length black hair falling in front of his face. And they weren't his.
Equally shocking was the identity of the person tickle-torturing him. Harry, grinning, was leaning over him, his face only inches away. "Get up, birthday boy." Viktor started to reply, then stopped, his dark eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
"How did you know it vos my birthday?"
Harry smirked teasingly. "The voices in my head told me." He offered the older boy a hand up. "Come on, out of bed and into the kitchen. I made breakfast!"
Viktor blinked. "You can cook?"
"Of course I can cook! What'd you think I was doing the other day when I was making dinner?" Harry cocked an eyebrow, his tone playful but his face completely serious.
Sighing, he dragged the taller boy out of bed and ordered him to get a move on. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched languidly. "Votever you say, Harry dearest," he replied dryly, not noticing the slight widening of Harry's eyes before he masked his reaction. As Harry grabbed his arm and started to lead him out into the hall, he noticed that they were both shirtless and barefoot. Harry's current state of undress didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination. He absently told himself that Harry was the age of consent, 16, and if anything were to happen it would be perfectly legal, but another part of himself whispered that Harry would turn him down, or even hate him for coming onto him like this.
He shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind when they entered the kitchen and he saw the veritable feast laid out for him. The bacon looked perfect, and those eggs were obviously expertly scrambled, and some of the food was Bulgarian, obviously well made. And they were his favorite dishes. He wondered when exactly Harry had learned to cook so well, blinking stupidly before saying, "Mm."
Harry understood the emotion behind that simple word and smiled. "I talked Volkov into helping me out with the food, and Levski managed to procure this from somewhere. Don't ask me, I didn't want to know and I still don't."
He produced a bottle of amber liquid from the icebox and handed it over. Viktor's jaw dropped comically.
"Averjesky?" he asked eyes glued to the label in awe. Even for a celebrity, procuring a bottle of the stuff was very difficult. He could only assume that Harry had pitched in to get it in time for his birthday.
Harry leaned over casually and closed his mouth with a Quidditch-callused hand, smirking. Viktor relished the gentle touch and could feel it even after Harry had pulled away to put the bottle back in the icebox. He seated himself at the table and served himself a bit of everything with glee. He hadn't had a banquet like this since he'd stopped living with his mother last year, after he'd finished school.
Breakfast was a prolonged affair, and afterward Harry set the dishes to washing themselves and the pair got dressed, Harry in jeans and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and Viktor in laced trousers and a black T-shirt.
Viktor Apparated them out to the Vultures pitch for practice, and was greeted with the sight of the entire team, reserves included, waiting for them.
Grinning, Harry stepped back to watch as the team crowded around their Seeker, rallying to present him with their gifts. A new watch, a set of anti-slip leather Quidditch gloves, a bottle of Firewhiskey, and a pair of handcuffs later (the last courtesy of Dimitrov, despite his wife's wishes) Viktor was smiling and, on a rare impulse, raised his arms in a group hug. Everyone, including Harry got in on the action. For some reason Harry found himself right at the middle of the pack, practically in Viktor's arms, even though he was sure he'd been on the outskirts to begin with. With a mental shrug, he leaned into that heartfelt embrace and wrapped an arm around the 20-year-old.
Operation Get-Harry-And-Viktor-Together had been launched, and in the eyes of their teammates, it was going to be a success.
Xxxx : Line Break : xxxX
Please review and lemme know what you think!
I do hope that after Chapter 13, you guys enjoy the story. I know I'm itching to write it! :D :D
Thanks for reading so far!
