"A broken arm and I didn't even get to see her," Pyotr said mournfully. Said arm, whose bones had been fixed by Krasmira in between narrowed eyes and lecturing on 'sacrificing the pride of the nation to see a little girl', looked little the worse for wear. The same could not be said for Pyotr himself, as the man sulked on top of his broom like a child deprived of his favorite toy.

"Tapak," Viktor said, wiping a hand over his face before wiping it on his thigh. He, like everyone else, was sweating profusely. It was a tie between which was more brutal, the sun or Islov, but between the two he was certain nobody would be left alive by the end of the day.

Pyotr waved Viktor's criticism away, flashing a gamine smile. "Perhaps, but I am an idiot who is good at hitting things, da?"

It was true. Pyotr had some kind of unnatural relationship with his bat that allowed him to hit Bludgers with unceasing accuracy towards his intended target. He was known and feared throughout the Southern European League for his stone cold focus that caused game-ending injuries. It was this skill that caused him to be selected for the National Bulgarian Team and that let him get away with his antics.

"Lunch time!" Clara caroled as she flew by them in a streak of chestnut hair and flapping robes.

Pyotr growled at her retreating figure. "I bet she's having lunch with Krasmira." He thumped a hand against the handle of his broom in frustration. "Dammit, she's going to hear everything about the girl first!"

Did it really matter who figured out what about the girl first? Viktor wondered as he and Pyotr headed down to the pitch to dismount and store their brooms. She certainly wasn't going to be some life-altering occurrence, but it might not be her so much as 'winning' the race to find out information about her, he thought idly. Pyotr and Clara were wildly competitive with each other off the field, always trying to one up each other. He wondered when they would finally realize that they were channeling their sexual attraction for each other into competition.

Even he, who was younger than them both by almost ten years, could see that much, as could everyone else. He had five galleons riding on them getting together by the end of the Quidditch World Cup, although some on the team had bet it would happen during the QWC Ball in July.

"Viktor!" Zev Lograf, the veteran Keeper for the team, called his name as they stored their brooms in their cubbies. "Come into town with us! We're getting moussaka from that place you like!"

He thought about it, truly, he did. But the idea of going with part of the team, and undoubtedly some of the players from the reserves, into town for lunch did not appeal to him. There would be so many fans, and so many people, and they would want his attention, and he would have to smile and nod and talk.

"Tomorrow," he called back, raising his hand in the air in acknowledgement. The lure of his Charms text was too much to resist, especially since he was almost to the chapter introducing elemental charms. If he could finish it today, he'd reward himself by going out with the team for lunch tomorrow. Hopefully they would want to go somewhere more private; going out en masse tended to cause swarms of fans, and they all preferred quieter places during lunch where they could decompress.

"I'll hold you to that," Zograf replied before nodding to a couple others. With several loud cracks, the men Apparated, leaving Viktor alone in the room.

Quickly, he took off his shin guards and goggles, shrinking them and putting them in his cubby. An envelope addressed to him in a harsh, bold script lay innocuously on top of his folded shirt, and he frowned. What was Headmaster Karkaroff doing writing to him during the summer?

He broke the seal, a deep crimson wax embedded with Durmstrang's crest, and unfolded the letter, frowning as he scanned the script.

Viktor, my boy,

Excellent job catching the snitch during the game against those Spaniards! You flew circles around Del Rey: the fool couldn't even figure out where the backside of his broom was. I am sure that you will continue to demonstrate your superb skill and bring Bulgaria to prominence in the Quidditch arena.

I do not write to you about Quidditch, however. The next year at Durmstrang will bring many surprises, and I expect you to bring the same focus and drive to school as you do Quidditch. Something called the TriWizard Tournament is to be reinstated, where Durmstrang will be competing against top students from two other schools, Beauxbatons and Hogwarts, to win eternal glory and recognition for our school via a series of tasks over the course of a year. Of course, there will be a selection process to decide which students I will take with me to England — the competition takes place on Hogwarts' grounds — but I see it as a foregone conclusion that you will be attending and that you will be the champion. Because of this, I expect you to revise your schoolwork and do outside study for the summer. I have already sent several texts I think will be useful to your house. I look forward to your weekly reports on your progress. It is your duty, after all, as the best of Durmstrang's sons, to be at your best.

Do not disappoint me.

Karkaroff

He inhaled sharply at the last line, hand tightening around the missive and crumpling it. Damn Karkaroff and his machinations. Weekly reports? Outside work in addition to revising his schoolwork? He was in the middle of progressing through the Quidditch World Cup, for Merlin's sake. Everyone expected him to carry the team and catapult Bulgaria to their first World Cup win, and now Karkaroff expected him to do the same for Durmstrang, too?

Damn him, and damn this TriWizard Tournament that he spoke so reverently of. He had enough on his plate, and his revisions for the MLOKs would have to suffice. Warily, he eyed the parcel that had been tucked underneath the letter and decided to at least page through the books. If they were relevant to his studies, he would read them. If not...well, Karkaroff would never know. Besides, he did not have any loyalty to the man, nor to Durmstrang. Not after last year.

Slowly he uncurled his hands, which had unconsciously fisted, and took a deep breath. The new stress still lingered, and he knew he would snap at others if he were to be in company. He needed a bit of time to himself to adjust to the new burdens placed on his shoulders. An idea occurred to him, and he made his way to the kitchens to request kebapche with a side of tarator, along with several carafes of water, to go. He would take it down to the river that followed the stadium's edge on one side and eat at its banks in the shadows of the trees. The elves were accommodating as always, and he thanked them tersely before apparating to his favorite place, the picnic basket firmly in one hand and his Charms text, which he'd taken from his bag, clutched in the other.

The world cracked into focus as he arrived, the sound of the slow moving river familiar against his ears, and he relaxed marginally as he turned around. Perhaps, he could get some -

About a hundred metres from him sat a girl on a picnic blanket, her hand holding a sandwich midway to her mouth. She was young, perhaps a year or two younger than him, her brown hair neatly corralled in a french braid.

His stomach dropped. A fan? Here? How had she discovered him?

He frowned, striding towards her, his legs eating up the distance. "What are you doing here? This is private property. You cannot be here."

Her face, which was quite delicate up close, with a dash of freckles sprinkling a pert nose and long lashes fringing hazel eyes, tightened as she frowned. "I'm eating lunch here," she said defensively, her Bulgarian heavily accented.

Even worse. A foreign fan. They were often the craziest ones.

Stiffly, he said, "You cannot be here. Leave, now."

Her shoulders hunched before they went down and her back straightened. "I have the right to eat here just as much as you do!" she shot back, clambering to her feet. He took perverse satisfaction that he was almost a head taller than her, and she had to look up to meet his eyes.

"No, you can't. I understand that you may have come here to find me and get what — an autograph? A picture? — but fans aren't allowed onto the grounds unless there's a game or a sanctioned event."

"A fan?" Her eyebrow arched, and she crossed her arms. "I don't know who you think you are, but I can assure you, I did not come here, to this precise spot, to ask for an autograph." Her tone was acid.

Who he thought he was? He was Viktor Krum, the Seeker for the very team whose stadium she was at, and she was intruding. Suspiciously, he asked, "Then what do you want?"

"To eat my sandwich!" She threw her hands in the air in exasperation before looking pointedly at the item in question, which was lying neatly on a napkin.

"Then eat it somewhere else," he said reasonably. "This is my part of the river, my place for solitude, and I certainly won't cede it to some pale skinned girl who fancies herself cleverer than the other fans. Look," he continued, crossing his arms, "if you want an autograph, I'll give it to you. Just promise you won't tell anyone where you found me — or how you got past the wards." He narrowed his eyes. "Really, I should call the Aurors for that."

"Why, you — you — Fine!" She huffed, apparently beyond words, and squatted down to rapidly pack up her things, which really did appear to be a picnic lunch and a book or two. She picked up her robes — burgundy, of course, since it was the main team color — and laid them over her arm, brushing off some dirt and grass.

Fire snapping in her eyes, she retorted, "I'm going. See? Are you happy? You can have your river and your solitude all to yourself." She sniffed, that pert nose stuck in the air, and huffed. "A fan! Harry and Ron are going to laugh themselves sick!"

With that, she stomped off towards the training pitch, leaving him behind.

Well, he thought, watching as her figure receded until it rounded the side of the stadium, that went better than he expected. He settled onto the bank of the river, stripping off his flying robes and placing them on the ground next to him. It left him in a thin undershirt and trousers, and he sighed in relief as the cool breeze stroked against his overheated skin. That done, he turned to eating his lunch, his truly voracious appetite helping him polish off both dishes in minutes, before focusing on what he really wanted to: his charms text.

Many didn't expect it of him, but he truly loved charms. It was an incredibly useful and versatile subject, especially given his passions and responsibilities. There were multiple charms that he had had to perfect years ago when he had first taken up Quidditch in order to properly maintain his broom, such as the Cushioning Charm, the Charm to Cure Reluctant Reversers, and the Braking Charm and its more advanced cousin, the Horton-Keitch Braking Charm. These charms were critical to giving him an edge over his opponents — the better he casted the Reluctant Reverser, the faster he could change direction. The same went with the HK: if he could master the Charm, which was highly advanced, he would be able to brake easily and quickly. It was true that Quidditch was an athletic sport, but it was a wizard's sport as well, and the saying went that you knew how good a wizard was by his broom.

Viktor, of course, hadn't had as much time to master these charms given his age, but he was determined and motivated. He had first been interested in learning charms simply to apply the cushioning charm as he pleased because he flew so much it often wore off. However, as he played more and discovered the complexities of broom maintenance and allowed customization spells, he grew invested in his wandwork and charmswork so he could become a better player. Charms, once a subject he was ambivalent about, became one of the classes he cared most about.

Of course, it helped that charms had such wide ranging applications. While broom maintenance charms had rather narrow applications, other charms were not so easily classified, and he often wondered about the efficacy of applying charms generally useful in one context to another. For example, could he apply the simple Depulso to a cloud and avert its course so it would ruin a field of crops? Could he use Partis Temporus to temporarily gouge the earth and allow water to flow through it, since the earth would technically be parting? If so, would the earth return to its original form, or had the subversion of the charm from its original purpose and his altered intentions cause the earth to retain the new path?

The manipulation of the very world around him was unceasingly interesting, not only because he was so in tune with the air and wind but also because he was responsible for the land of the Krums and those who lived on it. He, as the second son, would be the steward, and that responsibility was not something that he took lightly. Hopefully knowledge of elemental magic, that of manipulating the environment around him, would be of considerable value to him as he took over his duties later on. There was so much he could use it for while working with the land. Water for rain, earth for soil, wind for fresh air, and fire. Fire, the element that he felt most similar to and yet so wished to distance himself from. However, it had its own uses, as it destroyed the old only to pave the way for new growth with rich, re-energized soil. All of them, tricky in their own unique ways, were things wizards studied their whole lives to learn.

He frowned down at his book and tapped the cover before spelling it open to the page he last read. While he didn't have his entire life to dedicate to the elements, he at least had time to read a chapter about them. It was a start.

He stretched out under the canopy of the tree and lay back, setting the book to float above him as he crossed his arms behind his head. As he read the first few lines, he felt his entire body begin to relax. Just him, the book, and the warm summer for the next — he checked the time — thirty-seven minutes.

But halfway through the chapter, the image of that girl popped into his mind, her hazel eyes crackling with indignation as she stood her ground with him and argued about her right to read her very own book where he now lay. There was something about her, he thought. Something...different. It almost made him wish he hadn't sent her away, but it was for the best. He had no time for fans or for complications.

Translations

Tapak = idiot

Moussaka = an eggplant or potato-based dish that has ground meat and tomatoes and is topped with a white sauce; considered a Bulgarian staple

Kebapche = a long piece of grilled meat that consists of a mix of beef and pork; some compare the shape to a hot dog; traditional summer food that is often paired with beer

Tarator = a traditional Bulgarian dish, it is a yogurt-based soup with cucumbers, dill, and garlic; super refreshing