A/N: OMG!! An update! Are you all shocked? :D

The trek down to the kitchens was pretty uneventful. Save for a rather close call when Filch doubled back mid-corridor and started heading their way when they were out in a relatively long, open hallway with nothing to hide behind--there weren't even any suits of armor, which was practically unheard of considering the fact that there were very few halls in the entire castle that didn't contain at least one--and they had to duck into an empty classroom nearby to avoid detection, it passed smoothly, and soon they were standing in front of the giant fruit painting that hid the entrance into the kitchens.

Neville watched in confusion as Harry tucked the Map away in his pocket, and his expression absolutely priceless as Harry tickled the pear, causing the handle to appear. Yanking the door open, the dark-haired youth glanced back at his friend and grinned.

"Coming, Neville?" he asked, disappearing into the room beyond. Blinking, Neville tentatively stepped inside, closing the door behind himself. Almost immediately, both of them were accosted by knee-high house elves offering them food in amounts considerably larger than they would be able to eat in a week, let alone a single sitting.

One particular elf was especially enthusiastic in greeting them--he nearly knocked Harry off his feet when he latched onto his knees. "Harry Potter sir!" the elf squeaked, "You is here!"

"Hi there, Dobby," Harry said, patting the small creature rather awkwardly on the head. "How're you?"

"Oh, Dobby is wonderful sir! Wonderful!" He shot Harry a toothy smile, tennis ball-sized eyes impossibly bright, and asked, "Is there something you is wanting, Harry Potter sir?"

"Nothing in particular, no. Thank you though, Dobby."

Dobby's eyes grew even brighter, if that was possible, at being thanked. "Oh, it's no trouble, no trouble at all, sir. If you is wanting something, let Dobby know and Dobby will get it for you."

"Alright. It was good seeing you again, Dobby." The elf nodded, his ears flapping comically, and disappeared back into the crowd of elves, presumably to continue whatever he'd been doing when Harry and Neville had entered the kitchens.

Neville waited until he was out of earshot to say, "A bit overenthusiastic, that one, isn't he?"

"Yeah, a bit. He's a friend, though--he used to be the Malfoys' house elf, but I tricked Malfoy Senior into freeing him."

Neville winced in sympathy for the small creature. "Poor thing. I'd be a bit off my rocker as well if I had to live with the Malfoys."

After turning down a number of different pastries, fruits, and desserts--although Harry accepted a plate of peach cobbler and Neville had no problem allowing the house elves to shove a tray full of glazed, fruit-filled pastries into his hands--they seated themselves at a small table in a corner, which seemed to have appeared out of thin air as soon as their presence was known. Within moments, more elves were crowding around, this time with pitchers and glasses, offering up tea, juice, milk, anything they wanted.

Neville, watching as one of the elves poured him a glass of orange juice--his drink of choice, much preferable (in his opinion, anyway) to the coffee Harry opted for--asked Harry in a hesitant voice, "So... what exactly did you get up to this summer?"

Harry, who up until that moment had been occupied with trying to figure out how to eat his cobbler without disturbing the whipped cream on top of it--he wanted to save that part for last--shrugged and said, "Well, you know the basics already. What d'you want to know?"

"What's Bulgaria like? And the Quidditch team you're playing for now?" Neville had already been told about most of what had gone on--one of the perks of being Harry's closest friend included being privy to information the vast majority of the school would positively salivate over--but Harry, outside of outlining the major events of his summer, hadn't coughed up too many details about what things had been like. Unbeknownst to Neville, Harry had left out a few other details, too; he hadn't admitted to the fact that he and Viktor were anything more than good friends yet, although he was planning on doing that sometime soon (before Neville found out the hard way), and likewise he also hadn't mentioned the fact that he was a little more creature and a little less human than he'd previously thought. Come to think of it, he should probably mention that to Neville sometime soon, too; with any luck, the other boy would be able to point him in the direction of some more information on the subject of his heritage. Neville was a pureblood, after all, and although that didn't necessarily mean that he would know anything more about it than Harry did--or Viktor, for that matter; he was pureblooded as well, but Bulgaria and England were a lot different and it wouldn't be a big surprise that something one of them knew about, the other didn't--but it was still worth a try. Besides, Harry had a feeling that keeping secrets from Neville would do nothing but make things tougher for himself in the long run. At least if Neville knew what all was going on, Harry could still go to him for advice or aid, should it come down to that.

Shoveling a forkful of cobbler into his mouth, he said thickly, "S'nice." Swallowing, he continued (in a much easier-to-interpret voice, now that he wasn't talking with his mouth full), "The team's great, too. I was a bit worried they wouldn't like me at first, but they were all really friendly and everything." He grinned. "They can play a mean game of Quidditch, too--we're at the top of the league right now, and I wouldn't be surprised if most of the team gets selected for the World Cup again next year."

Neville took a big bite out of his cherry turnover, hastily holding the pastry over his plate as some of the filling oozed out, narrowly missing ending up in his lap. Swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked, "What does this mean for the House team, then? You can't still play for Gryffindor, can you?"

Harry took his time answering, picking up his coffee mug and taking a swig. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the strong, rich brew. Merlin, but the house elves made good coffee. It would almost be worth finishing his last two years of schooling at Hogwarts just to be able to drink the coffee every morning.

Finally, after he'd downed a couple more mouthfuls, he said, "No, I suppose I can't. One more reason for everyone to hate me."

"Ah, come off it, Harry. You're playing for a professional team. They'll be a bit put out, I'm sure--I mean, you're one of the best seekers we've ever had--but they'll find someone to fill your spot."

"Yeah, I guess. I just don't want them thinking I'm abandoning them or something, y'know? I mean, Ron's a brainless arse and Ginny's not much better, but no one else on the team's ever done anything to me."

Neville shrugged. "Look at it this way: would you rather play the game you love with good friends--oh, and make money at it, too, I suppose--or play the game you love at a less advanced level with people you honestly don't give a damn about?"

A small smile quirked the corners of Harry's lips up. "It sounds so easy when you put it that way."

"Well, isn't it?" He bit into a second pastry, the blueberry filling inside it dripping onto the plate from between his fingers.

"Yeah. I guess I just needed to hear it from someone else... crazy as it seems, I feel a bit guilty about leaving them in the lurch like this."

"Understandable," Neville murmured.

"Yeah."

They were both quiet for a moment before Harry broke the silence. "No one knows it's me yet."

"What d'you mean?" Neville asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Vratsa. We haven't told anyone that it's me playing for Vratsa."

"But wouldn't they have to announce you at games and such? Or do they do things differently in Bulgaria?"

"We all get announced, but we haven't been using my real name. The media would've gone mad over it, and I sort of didn't want my name and location splashed all over the papers all summer. Y'know, with the whole everybody's-favorite-target thing," Harry explained, taking another sip of his coffee. "We're planning on letting that little bit of information slip at the match on Friday."

"You'd best keep your Beater's bat with you to ward off all the reporters after the game, then," Neville joked. "I can see the headlines now: "Boy-Who-Lived On His Deathbed: Crushed By Mobbing Reporters."

Harry picked up one of Neville's pastries and chucked it at him; it bounced off his shoulder and disappeared underneath the table. Neville grabbed his shoulder dramatically, exclaiming "Ow! Merlin, I think you broke it!" Unfortunately, he was grinning the whole time so it wasn't really that convincing of an act. All the same, Harry couldn't hold back a laugh. It surprised him a little, even though it probably shouldn't have; he'd never really seen Neville being playful before, at least not in anything more than the occasional joking comment.

Things quieted down a little after that, and they ate mostly in silence for a little while. Key words there: a little while. It wasn't long before Neville commented idly, "Blimey, it's a bit hot in here, isn't it?"

Harry voiced his agreement. "Absolutely roasting. It's the stoves, I expect." His gaze wandered over to the row of stoves, where the house elves were hard at work preparing food for breakfast the next morning. He turned back to Neville just in time to see the other boy undoing the top couple buttons of his dress shirt. He followed suit, reveling in the sudden rush of air as it touched his sweaty skin. He was still a bit on the warm side, though, so he undid the rest of the buttons and flapped the sides of his shirt, trying to get some air moving underneath it.

A sudden choking sound drew his attention to Neville, who was staring at the general vicinity of his neck and choking quite loudly and violently on the chunk of blueberry pastry lodged in his throat.

Hastily, he drew his wand and pointed it at the other boy. "Anapneo!"

The small piece flew out of Neville's mouth and shot across the room. Death-by-pastry now averted, he burst out laughing. Harry looked at him in confusion. He'd just choked; shouldn't he be scared or traumatized or something?

"Harry, have you seen your neck lately?" the slightly pudgy boy asked him, the laughter dying down but humor still quite evident in his voice.

"Um, no, I haven't," Harry answered confusedly. "Why?"

"You've got a bite mark. There--" he pointed at Harry's neck, although that didn't narrow the field down too much considering he was sitting all the way across the table and thus wasn't close enough to be very specific "--right where your neck meets your shoulder. Merlin, I can't believe you didn't notice it."

Harry snatched up a fork and transfigured it into a small mirror, holding it up and angling it so he could examine his neck/shoulder area. Sure enough, a set of teeth marks marred the juncture of where his neck sloped into his shoulder. The outline of every tooth was completely visible, dark purple in color and standing out quite clearly from the rest of his skin. Flushing, he rubbed his fingers over the bite, careful not to press down too hard. The previous night rushed back to the forefront of his mind--complete with Viktor turning his neck into a veritable chew toy.

"So who was it?" Neville asked curiously, still grinning. "Anyone I know?"

"Umm..." What was he supposed to say to that? 'Yeah, you and ninety percent of the Wizarding World'?

"I'll assume that's a 'yes'."

The next day passed with agonizing slowness. The only thing on Harry's mind the entire time--throughout meals, classes, hell, even while he was taking a piss--was the fact that in only a few short hours he'd be seeing Viktor again. Of course, 'a few short hours' was still far too long for his tastes, but under the circumstances he really didn't have any room to complain. If they hadn't gotten to meet all the time for practices and games, he wouldn't have seen Viktor again for months. All the same, he was looking forward to Christmas break and the window of opportunity it signified.

By the time dinner--and, subsequently, Viktor's impending arrival--finally came around, Neville was looking just as eager for him to go as he was himself. That was understandable; putting up with a bored, impatient Harry all day would frustrate anyone, even someone as patient and laidback as Neville.

All the same, Neville's smile was just a tad too relieved for Harry's tastes when Mr. Tall, Dark, and Duck-footed himself appeared in the doorway and departure was imminent.

His first instinct, oddly enough, was to sprint over to the older man--to his horror, not entirely unlike running through a field of flowers with his arms open wide, like in those cheesy movies his Aunt had so enjoyed watching when he was younger--and grab him by the nearest appendage (an arm, maybe, or his shoulders) and snog him senseless in full view of the entire student body. Fortunately, his common sense wasn't so addled that he actually followed through on the urge. Even after a long night and an even longer day, he still had enough brain cells functioning to realize that it would be a very bad idea to do so.

Instead, he said a quick farewell to Neville before getting up from the table and making a beeline for the door, forcing himself to keep his pace to a walk rather than the full-out run he was itching to break into.

Once within arms' reach of Viktor (after what seemed a torturously long walk to the doorway from the far end of the Gryffindor table), he broke into a grin and called out, "Fancy seeing you here!"

Viktor smirked down at him--their height difference didn't allow for anything else--and started to reply, probably with some sort of smart-arse comment knowing the surly twenty-year-old's sense of humor. Before he could get it out, though, he was interrupted by a loud voice behind him. "Shove over, would you? You're blocking the door."

Viktor turned to find Ron standing behind him, scowling. He was accompanied by Hermione, whose facial expression made it clear she was a tad uncomfortable with the situation. Viktor crossed his arms and shifted so that he was blocking the entire doorway instead of just most of it.

"Better?" he asked, the frigid look in his eyes completely at odds with his polite tone of voice. His face, however, wasn't so ambiguous. Hard and remote and decidedly hostile, his expression couldn't be construed as anything but a challenge, even by someone as thick-headed as Ron Weasley.

Harry stood frozen, watching the confrontation. It was like seeing a car wreck; horrible to witness, but you just couldn't look away.

Ron's expression darkened even further and he started to reply hotly, but Hermione smacked his shoulder and hissed, "Ron, shut up!"

Turning to Viktor, she adopted an apologetic tone and said, "Sorry about him, Viktor. It's good to see you again." It wasn't lost on either of the darker-haired men that she deliberately left Harry out of both her apology and greeting. "You haven't been answering any of my letters, how are you?"

"Vell, up until a minute ago I vas perfectly fine. Now, though, I am thinking I vould rather be leaving."

The look on Hermione's face once she'd registered his rejection of her was priceless. Obviously she'd thought she would be greeted warmly. She'd probably expected Viktor to be pleased to see her, too, and eager to strike up a conversation with her. Harry couldn't help but think that was rather stupid of her - she knew he'd spent over half his summer in Bulgaria, and yet she didn't realize that the person he'd been living with the entire time might not be too happy with her treatment of him? And she was supposed to be the smartest witch in their year - hah!

Viktor, of course, wasn't going to make small talk with her now that he knew what kind of person she really was. He set great store by loyalty, and she'd made it abundantly clear that she didn't have it in any large amounts, if at all.

"Viktor?" she asked, frowning.

He ignored her, glancing over at Harry. "Ready to go?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

The two of them started to walk away, but before they could get more than a few steps, Ron seemed to recall that he was, in fact, capable of human speech. "Yeah, that's right, run away with your tails between your legs like the cowards you are!"

Harry whipped around and opened his mouth to snarl something back--he'd had the entire summer (not to mention his classes, during which "Mentally Bitch at Ron and Hermione" had become a favorite way to pass the time) to come up with vicious insults to throw at the redhead and he felt that now would be an opportune time to make use of them--but Viktor beat him to it, a ferocious look on the Seeker's face that Harry had never seen before, even when they'd argued. Viktor tended to be the less volatile of the two when they fought.

"The only covards I see here are you--" he jabbed a finger in Ron's direction "--and her." He glared at Hermione, leaving no doubt as to identity of the "her" he was referring to. "Anyvone vith guts vould stand by their friend. You abandoned him. You should be ashamed!"

"Ashamed?" Ron sneered. "That's rich, coming from someone that knows more Dark Arts than most Death Eaters. Been putting them to use lately, Vicky?"

Viktor's expression grew even colder, if that was possible. "I haff never used my knowledge in such a vay, and I never plan on it either, you conceited bastard. And yes, you should be ashamed, you idiot, I thought Gryffindors vere supposed to be brave, not jealous, sneaky rats like you." Almost as an afterthought, he snapped, "And don't call me Vicky!"

Finished for the moment with Ron, he turned to Hermione and said acidly, "I knew he--" he gestured at Ron, whose face and ears had turned a lovely shade of scarlet "--vas a vorthless friend, the Tournament proved that, but you... I thought better of you. You shame your blood and your family and I'm embarrassed to haff ever called you vone of my friends." Having said everything he felt the need to, he took Harry by the elbow and stormed away without giving either of the red-faced Gryffindors a chance to retort. (Well, unless you count the faint squeak of outrage--which, given a little more time, might've become actual words--from Hermione just before Viktor slammed the door behind them.)

Once outside in the cool evening air, Harry murmured a quick, "Thanks."

"For vot?" Viktor asked, confused. Harry glanced over at him; his face was still red with anger, and the scowl was in full force.

"For sticking up for me like that. I mean, I know Hermione was your friend..."

Viktor's voice was firm when he replied. "She is not my friend anymore. Anyvone who can act as she did is not vorth being friends vith."

Harry smiled slightly. "Thanks anyway, though." They continued the walk down to the gates in silence, everything that needed to be said having already been voiced.

Friday came upon them with frightening speed. Well, frightening for Harry, anyway; it was the day he would finally be unmasked, and he honestly had no clue what the fans' reactions would be like. The reporters were predictable enough--they'd just go rabid and attempt to corner him anywhere they possibly could for an "exclusive interview", which would make getting to and from the pitch and locker rooms a nightmare--but it was Vratsa's supporters he was most worried about. What if they didn't take kindly to a foreigner playing on their team? He couldn't imagine them being too terribly excited about it; after all, he'd heard plenty of grumbling among his fellow students about who was being signed to fill in Quidditch rosters for the British and Irish League teams, and if there was one thing that seemed to be universal, it was dedication to and enthusiasm (and, in some cases, fanaticism) for sports.

The anxiety ate away at him all day. Butterflies ran rampant in his stomach, making it extremely difficult to eat anything substantial or concentrate on his classes and schoolwork. He was almost--almost--grateful when Viktor arrived to bring him to the game and he no longer had to sit in awkward, jittery silence with Neville (the fellow Gryffindor boy had tried several times to initiate a conversation, but Harry hadn't been in anything even close to a fit state for lighthearted banter or intelligent, thoughtful conversation about... well, to be honest he wasn't even entirely sure what Neville had been trying to get him to talk about).

Unfortunately, the nerves that were attempting to twist his guts into a huge knot didn't seem to want to dissipate as the match drew closer.

He remained tense and fidgety the whole time he was in the dressing room. While putting his pads and robe on, his hands shook with slight tremors--even when he put them on his thighs and clenched the fabric of his Quidditch breeches between his fingers to still the shaking. His palms were sweaty as he adjusted his flying gear, and his fingers kept slipping on the buckles and catches. Even with his enhanced eyesight, everything was stark and difficult to focus on under the harsh lighting as he gave his broom a last once-over, checking it for bent twigs, gouges, and anything else that might affect it's performance.

Even Viktor's swift hug and peck to the lips before they left the locker room to fly onto the pitch did nothing to calm his buzzing nerves. His breathing seemed unnaturally loud and erratic as the door banged shut behind him and he straddled his broom, knuckles clenched so tightly on the handle that he was sure his fingers were white with the strain of it. He couldn't actually see the blood leeching itself from his skin--wearing gloves made it kind of difficult to see your hands, y'know--but he knew it all the same.

Finally, the time came for the team to be announced. In rapid Bulgarian--for the millionth time, Harry was grateful for the translation charm Viktor had cast on him--the Quidditch announcer's voice echoed around the full-to-capacity stadium (both the Vultures and the opposing team had a fairly large and dedicated fanbase): "Hello, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the eagerly anticipated match between the Vratsa Vultures and the Svishtov Sharks!"

The crowd's response was quite vocal--Harry, despite having played in quite a large number of Quidditch games (even a couple professional ones before term started) over the last several years, was still rather shocked by the sheer volume of all the screaming and shouting. It put the Hogwarts games he'd played in to shame.

"For the Sharks--an impressive line-up this year, I must say--we have Zoravkov! Angelov! Lovkanova! Boyanov! Mihaylov! Hristov! Kostov!"

Harry swallowed tightly, his throat suddenly feeling constricted.

"The Vultures have quite the line-up this year as well. We've got Dimitrov! Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Volkov! Krum!" There was a surprised sound, as if the announcer had just realized something, and then he continued, "The Vultures' current second Beater--as of the last match, Identity Undisclosed--has finally got a name, everyone! Vultures fans, I'm pleased to introduce Harry Potter!"