Summary: Viktor Krum held the belief that Unity, not Magic, is might. Stuck in the middle of a war in Britain, armed with nothing but a broom and a broken heart, Viktor's self-pride may just be his saving grace.
Disclaimer: JKR owns everything Harry Potter-related. I own nothing but my imagination.
So, this is my version of the Deathly Hallows. Viktor Krum deserves recognition; he was not just a plot tool. So, there.
Chapter 2
The summer night sky was clear; a breeze tickled him. The stadium, flooded with greenish golden light, was full of energy and enthusiasm. The field looked fresh, smoothly shaven from his lofty position. Close to ninety thousand witches and wizards from around the world had come to watch the 425th Quidditch World Cup Semifinals. Bulgaria against Canada: the penultimate match. Denmark was the host country; it won the Cup in 1992.
Viktor Krum was hovering about one hundred feet from the ground, inconspicuous, in his usual pensive mood. He was clad in thick scarlet robes and wore black combat boots. He had had his head shaved about two millimeters from the skin all along the hairline and a centimeter from the skin on the top. A stubble on his chin and an outline of a mustache completed his Quidditch haircut. All in all, very aerodynamic.
At the announcement of his national team, his mates zoomed on their broomsticks from the pitch into the air, forming a blurry, red trail after them.
Viktor customarily waited for his special introduction as the best seeker in the world. He was proud of this title. This achievement was his constant self-reminder that he was the best at something. He was the smartest in his year, but his grades did not amount to anything in the last three years.
He was no lightweight athlete. He was in fact, more of a Keeper build, but he was the most agile, the fastest, and arguably the cleverest. When he flew, it was said that he looked weightless, broomless. His air speed dizzied everyone, and when he stopped, everyone gasped. He could dive from a hundred feet in the air to within a foot from the ground in one precipitous drop, whether he was catching a snitch or feigning a catch.
It was not so much the adulation and applause that satisfied him as it was the limits that he pushed himself against.
Viktor loved the thrill of flying, the carefree abandonment. If there was a broom-racing sport, he'd compete in it. He played as Seeker not to score, not to win, but to fly like no other, to catch what only he could see.
His teammates were the ones burdened with garnering points. To anyone else, they looked like out of practice at the sport. But they're competitive, shrewd, intimidating. They had mastered the balance of aggression, bloody violence, entertainment and fair play.
What was better than winning a game? It was having the enemy give it their all, for naught.
Tactics was the name of the game. Aggression gave as great a thrill as victory. When else was violence acceptable by society? People wanted to see athletes bleed, break, fall, and challenge death. To risk one's life meant not to live long enough to enjoy it. The counter was to challenge authority. Rebels were heroes. Be a rebel or be an entertainer. One athlete's finality or immortality rested on memories and opinions of strangers.
Viktor could not remember when he became the leader of the group. All he did was acrobatics. He had command of the game in so far as he could end it anytime he wished, but for all anyone knew, he had quite possibly the most boring job of all. Seeking snitches tended to become predictable and mundane without acrobatics, stunts, or injury.
Viktor could not count the number of times he broke and bloodied his nose not just from the mishaps of overspeeding, but from mauling by competitors. A bloody face enlivened the audience, especially combined with a cracked rib or two. He was a consistent object of pity and admiration. Other players thought he was overconfident. They did not see his hurt ego.
For as long as he entertained, the Bulgarian team remained in business; there would be sponsors, albeit cheap and abysmal. It made sense. It made everyone feel important. At least Viktor thought so.
What was worse than losing a game? It's having the enemy talk you into it.
As soon as Viktor's name was announced to boisterous cheers and massive applause, he zipped through the field, and with one hand on his broom, he somersaulted in the air while he flipped his broom on its end in one flawless, swift motion.
When Viktor righted himself on his broom, he whizzed around the field very close to the stands, then stopped at the middle of the pitch so suddenly for dramatic effect. He thought he had a whiplash injury. His wrists hurt from pulling his broom.
He pumped his fist up simultaneously with chants from the audience of "Krum! Krum! Krum!" Light flashed from thousands of Omnioculars and cameras in the stadium.
Before Viktor knew it, a loud hooting sound signaled the start of the game, and the Canadian Maples began their series of winning goals. They looked sharp and very synchronized. They reminded him of Muggle hockey players slicing through ice. They definitely had more practice.
As the game wore on, Viktor remained about fifty feet higher in the air than the rest of the players, as he watched the Canadian chasers consistently confused Dimitri, Ivanova, and Levski into losing the Quaffle. Zograf, in excellent form as always, swerved from hoop to hoop with fluidity, successfully blocking the Canadian chasers from scoring, until they pulled the Hawkshead Attacking Formation on him. It did not help that all three were women. The beaters Vulchanov and Volkov were merciless, resorting to kicking and elbowing, but still the opponents continued to lead. Viktor was ruminating over another diversionary tactic, when...
"Nice stunt, Krum! I'm afraid for all your disregard for life and limb, you won't be able to catch the snitch. Your glory days are over!"
It was the opposing team's seeker who suddenly appeared about ten feet in front of him, goading him. He looked, what, 19? Did youth really have anything to do with speed or victory? It was the broom that garnered speed. He had trusted this inanimate object with his life. And no kid could scare him into believing he could not think on his feet.
As he scowled at the boy, he inclined his body slightly to the left to let a Bludger whooshed by.
"Did you really hit your head in an accident? Maybe you need to retire, my friend, let the young ones take the glory. We will win in a walk, just you wait!"
Viktor peered down. Where was the snitch? It was dark, but it would reflect the lights from the stands...
"You are crying for the moon! You may have come from one of the biggest schools in the world, but your knowledge of the game is obsolete! Even your broom is not the fastest, not anymore."
And to demonstrate his point, the boy swooped down on the pitch. This alarmed Viktor. Was the boy doing a Wronski Feint, or had he actually seen the snitch? Should Viktor risk it?
No, Viktor was level-headed. Or was he just too scared to break his nose again?
He stared, unblinking, and then he saw it. The boy had indeed been bluffing. Viktor still had the eyes of a hawk, thank God. He shifted his attention to the magical blackboard, where numbers were displayed.
The opponent team had scored 200 to their 40. That meant 20 goals to 4. They had been playing a dismal, all but losing game.
It was too early to focus on the Snitch.
But then, the boy did not come back up, and suddenly there was cacophony in the stands. Viktor scanned the field below. The boy had changed direction, apparently heading for the Golden ball. To let that boy with the faster broom beat Viktor to it meant his popularity would be crushed. With it, his career, his friends' hope for bigger fortunes...
Viktor, abandoning all thought and hope, zoomed for the snitch. No one had been expecting it, so early in the game. He caught it easily, the audience roared in triumph, but the faces on his friends came as a shock.
He did not have to look or listen for the scores. Canada, 200. Bulgaria, 190. Game over.
The Canadian seeker walked briskly past him, shouting, "Thanks for the game, Krum!" His guffaws were ringing in Viktor's ears long after he'd gone.
As Viktor Krum stood on the pitch, his hand still holding the snitch, he felt like he was in a vacuum. Everything before him moved slowly. Blood rushed to his face. There was pounding in his ears, but no other sound. The fangirls were running towards him, but they were stopped and ushered away by wizard officials. He tasted acid in his mouth.
Then he heard a familiar voice. "Viktor, what happened up there?!" It was Levski, who gave him an incredulous look, before he was dragged off by a fuming Dimitrov.
"Someone really has to come up with a better game than Quidditch someday. One that does not depend on one athlete to lose. But till then, it's all we have. Did you think about our pride at all?" Ivanova had never spoken so coldly before. He too, left, huffing.
Viktor turned around slowly, dumbly. Volchanov and Volkov strode over to him as soon as they landed. "Why do you spoil it for everyone, Krum? We were so close! Why do you stray away from the plan?!" Vuchanov shouted.
"My b-brothers, I'm sure our sponsors are happy. We get paid all the same. I-It's just a trophy..."
Volkov's eyes regarded him with contempt.
"This is why we do not get funding! You think we are not good enough team! Not popular without your antics!" Volkov shoved him, and Vulchanov hurled a fist into Viktor's stomach, before both men stalked off, cursing.
Viktor scowled at their backs, until he saw Zograf's pained face.
"What were you saving all your money for, Viktor? Is that all you care about? It's times like these that I wish I had been a Muggle soccer player instead. I'm sick of hiding. Behind Muggles, behind you. So much for friends; for unity."
Before Viktor could say anything, he realized he was alone. The ball was cold in his sweaty palm.
Was he really losing his touch?
The adrenaline had worn off, and fatigue began to set in. His right wrist hurt. A year ago, his Mediwizard had warned him that at the rate he was abusing it, his right hand could go numb in a few months. Was this the time to save face and quit?
Even a Muggle doctor he consulted in Sofia, upon parental advice, agreed. "Athletes are not invincible. You're not the first, certainly won't be the last. You're still young, but it is the young that are reckless and daring. For your condition, I suggest..."
Whatever the doctor recommended was lost on Viktor.
Three years, and he was not a better Quidditch player. He just aged.
A broom holiday was just what he needed; his butt needed a rest. Maybe he could walk straight again.
His parents took the news well. "Fourth place; that wasn't so bad, son." His mother smiled encouragingly. His father remarked curtly. "You've always liked football better. All of you did. It takes grace to admit defeat. Anyway, you're too smart for Quidditch." His mother interjected, pinching his cheek, "this handsome face does not deserve a crooked nose."
Regression was the path for the injured ego.
There was pity for the Bulgarian seeker in the newspaper, The Vulgar Truth. "Fans praised his bravery and tenacity despite the mental handicap that cost the Bulgarians the match." Although some just believed him old. "Some hold the opinion that Mr. Krum had either wanted to retire early, or had been offered to join another team, that made him give the game away. Or maybe this was simply one oversight too many. This is what happens when you play one game too many."
Viktor refused to lose sleep over it.
He focused on swimming for two weeks, along the many shallow rivers and tributaries draining into the Tundzha river. The floaty feeling soothed his muscles and joints. Injuries he dealt with on a regular basis, though pain was not something he got used to.
He was lost in his thoughts again, as he tried to make sense of everything that had happened in the past few months; he was becoming agitated.
Was there something missing in his life? Was there something he had forgotten that caused all these errors in judgment in the first place? Had the head injury addled his mind? He was useless, stupid, and no amount of swear words changed that fact.
At the vehement complaints from the rest of the Bulgarian National Team, the management decided to train a Seeker understudy immediately, in an effort to warn Krum to shape up or sod off.
He welcomed the decision. He had been given two months vacation.
His face was seen in commercials that promoted the sport, as well as in endorsements of the latest edition of the Nimbus broom series. He declined interviews. He still received fan mails, bags of them dumped on his doorstep. He refused to read them.
He visited his parents more often: he allowed his mother to smother him, and serve him. He volunteered to help his father with checking Muggle school papers close to the end of term. His father mentioned that underneath Shipka as well as Kazanlak was a necropolis waiting to be uncovered, filled with rich history and gold that would bring more world attention to Bulgaria.
Great. Wonderful.
Viktor had been waiting for his father to finally come down on him regarding his alternative career choices, but he didn't. He himself was a man of contradiction.
His father believed that it was the magic in Viktor that truly saved him from death in the Balkan mountains. Magic that allowed him to survive. As Muggle he would've died a long time ago, having made Quidditch a more dangerous sport than ever.
"Magic does not have the capability that Muggles have. Muggles have all these inventions and innovations that make life better for mankind. They have no need for magic. We are intruders, getting by. Invisible."
Both father and son scowled at the idea. They were seated across from each other at the dining table, shuffling papers dispersed before them, his father drinking rose bandy. It was close to dinner time, and Viktor was glaring at the Muggle pen in his hand like it had offended him.
"But, we must not forget who we are. We must always foster magic. Use it to protect our families, to defend our country." His father continued.
Viktor thought the Muggles were holding up nicely on their own. Muggle weaponry could annihilate more people than a wand could. Magic had been relegated to something that was superstitious, against spiritual good, ludicrous, entertaining, deceptive.
"We cannot even use it to simplify our life. What is the point of charms, spells and even transfiguration?"
His father sighed, before staring at his son unbelievingly. He pulled out his wand and transfigured Viktor's pen into a thorny rose. Viktor stifled a gasp as he dropped the rose; his finger had been punctured and was bleeding minimally. The rose was transfigured into a gauze that wrapped around his wounded finger. He stared at his father.
"To save a life, maybe. Maybe if you use your wand more, you wouldn't need saving, Viktor."
Torrential rain had fallen when Viktor flew homeward one night after having spent a day and a half hiking and camping at the Bulgarka Nature Park. Rainy days were his absolute favorite days even as they were his parents' dreaded days. He brought a bottle of red wine and his accumulated mail from both owl and Muggle posts to his bedroom.
As he turned on his desk lamp, he saw the familiar three Martenitsa trinkets that hung on its shade. They were from his mother. One for each springtime since he "flew the nest." Each was given to wish him good health. An intertwined white and red woolen figures of a male and a female, respectively. The trinkets made him feel discomfited, but he kept them for her sake, and not because he was superstitious. So Muggle of her. They obviously did not work, as no superstition did, but he would never cross her. He couldn't figure out women, his mother included. He took a swig from his bottle.
He started his hearth going; the fire crackled merrily, consuming all his fan mails, suffusing his room with warm honey light. He took off his wet shirt and laid it on the back of his chair. He sat on his desk to start on the rest of the owl-mail that he received during his encampment. He had been in a sour mood since he read news of the death of a great man. One letter, however, managed to cheer him up; he wanted to reply urgently.
He opened his drawer to fish out a pen, when his fingers caught something else. The wedding invitation from Delacour. He banged the drawer shut.
He sat on the side of the bed. A glow rushed over him as he watched the flames. He wanted to burn the card.
Viktor Krum was not jealous of Delacour. He had love in his life and that was enough.
He tried to imagine Yordanka's face. Her straight, short dark hair that she refused to fuss over. Her lips that quirk when he silenced her impatience and second thoughts with kisses. Her stern eyes that lit with a passion for research. She wanted a solution for every problem in the world. Illiteracy. Pollution. Poverty. Prejudice.
His feeling of emptiness had nothing to do with her leaving. He had always felt this way ever since he gained international fame as a professional athlete. It was only natural since he was always surrounded by strangers.
He never warmed up to the attention, yet it would be hypocritical to complain when he was compensated. There were perks. He was not stuck in Bulgaria waiting for things to happen. Until now.
Now, he was stuck in Bulgaria wondering whether he was still in the running for Seeker...
Viktor had often wondered what would've happened had he prioritized his studies. Former Headmaster Karkaroff had discouraged him from considering other options for a career. The Triwizard championship was just to confirm that Durmstrang students were as good as Hogwarts students.
That period in his life was unforgettable. He was second best, only five points behind. The Potter boy did not count: he had help.
He met his first love, though he said some things he shouldn't have.
On the other hand, it was a sad point in his life, as well, when a student was murdered in his own school: Cedric Diggory. When a dark lord came back to power, as Potter claimed. When all the spells and curses Viktor had learned from the Hogwarts library for the Final Task was useless as he was Imperiused to harm his friends.
The guilt gnawed at him. Yet again.
He was supposed to be versed in the dark arts. And here he was, a Quidditch Player. His Gregorovitch wand just a narrow strip of wood.
He covered his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
Quidditch was all he cared about now. His career needed an overhaul. He had to win back his friends...
Hermione had steadfast friends. She made him feel pathetic. She stopped writing two years ago...
If he stayed away, Hermione would remain in his mind a girl. A fourteen year-old girl.
Viktor picked up the letter that he had dropped on the floor. It was from his best friend who moved to Romania to study and work with dragons. He'd rather see a dragon for sure.
Dragons were fascinating creatures; not easy to forget once you've seen one. What better way to appreciate one's existence, or one's relevance, than have it exposed to challenges and danger? What better place? Did he need perspective? Advice? No, he needed a friend.
He needed to feel good about himself. This friend would help.
AN: Thinking about it, wouldn't it be nice to transfigure all non-biodegradable trash like pens into biodegradable ones like roses? Be inclined to leave a line. And, read the next chapter, which I think is better, cause this one's a bit wordy.