The wind bit into his face as Viktor hunched forward, trying to eke as much speed out of his broom as possible. The practice match had been going on for almost four hours, which meant that he was at the edge of his window of time to catch the snitch. QWC qualifying matches were limited to four hours (although one would think they could last an entire day and night without pause if one listened only to Islov), and if he didn't catch the snitch before then they would have to rely on scored points only.
As far as he was concerned, there was no reason that he shouldn't be able to catch the snitch within that window of time, regardless of the fact that traditional matches didn't have a time limit. He currently held one of the top ten records for fastest catch, and he'd only officially been playing professional Quidditch since the qualifiers started a year and a half ago.
"Faster, faster," he urged his broom, racing after the glint of gold racing ahead of him. The broom seemed to listen to him, and he pulled alongside the small ball. It was too far for him to lean over and grab, but if he could hook around the handle and then lunge, it would be just enough.
Quickly, he adjusted his position on the broom, making sure his feet were locked around the opposite ankle, and then took a deep breath. In an explosion of motion and muscle, he lunged towards the snitch. His hand closed around sun-warmed metal, and then he was hanging from his broom only by his feet, his weight pulling painfully at his joints. He looked down at the players so far beneath him and gave a yell, the hand holding the snitch outstretched towards them victoriously. Their cheers echoed in his ears and he grinned almost ferally before beginning to pull himself up slowly and laboriously towards his handle.
What felt like hours later, he was safely back on his broom, seated firmly on the built-in cushion of air. His breath whooshed out of him in one long exhale, and he wiped at his face with his free hand. Coming back from the Izenbard Lunge was always excruciating and left him feeling like a limp washcloth. His legs positively ached, but he felt like he could do anything right now, what with the snitch secured.
"You are an absolute madman, and I mean that in the best way," Vasily Dimitrov told him admiringly as he met up with the rest of the team over the pitch.
Clara slapped him on the back, the hit reverberating through his entire torso. "You crazy fool," she laughed. "The things you do on that broom. I don't know how you do it."
He grinned at them both. "I may be a fool," he parroted Pyotr from a few days ago, "but I am a fool that can fly, da?"
"Enough celebration," Islov reprimanded them sharply. "Krum, good job with the snitch - though I would prefer you try not to kill yourself before we go head-to-head with the Moroccans. We've talked about this. Don't do the Izenbard unless absolutely necessary. It's too dangerous to mess around with."
This was coming from the same man who had told Viktor to perform twenty Wronski Feints, an equally dangerous move, the day before. "Yes sir," Viktor replied dutifully.
"Levksi, Dimitrov, Ivanova," he addressed the Chasers, "good work, but I expect to see more teamwork. Minkov," the reserve Keeper they'd played against in the scrimmage, "nearly handed your arses to you several times. You need to keep each other in line of sight better. I want you all to spend two hours doing drills tomorrow flying the Quaffle up and down the field. Your defensive tactics were sound, but you can improve."
They nodded at his comments, and Viktor watched them quietly begin to compare their own notes as Islov moved on to critiquing the Beaters, and last, Zograf. The sweat on his skin dried as he cooled down, and he was thankful when Islov dismissed them for the day, ready for a shower.
Quickly, he gathered his things. He was having dinner with his family tonight, so he made sure to clean rapidly but thoroughly, donning a pair of black trousers, a loose linen shirt that opened at the throat in a thin vee, and semi-formal robes. His parents maintained a more traditional household, and he would not disrespect them by showing up improperly attired.
He Apparated from the players' lounge directly to the estate, the ancestral grounds' wards attuned to his magical signature, and appeared in the front lawns of his parents' house with a crack. He was greeted by the familiar sight of sprawling grounds, rich with a riot of flowers and lush with verdant greenery.
"Vitya!" Milena Krum's voice spanned the lawn and soared over the bubbling trio of fountains. He could see her familiar figure, small and bright, against the double doors.
His lips curved up in a smile. "Maika," he returned, and hurried over. He stopped in front of her, clicked his heels once, and kissed her hand, as Pureblood etiquette dictated, before sweeping her off her feet and into a careful, yet strong hug.
"Prestani," she laughed. "Put me down, you silly boy." He did so, making sure she was steady on her feet, and obediently bent over so she could push a stray piece of hair off his forehead. "How is my boy doing?" she asked. "Did you eat lunch today? I know you forget sometimes."
He groaned dramatically. "Mother, you know I do not forget to eat. Stop treating me as if I were still hiding in your skirts."
"You know how I worry, Vitya." She looked up at him, almond eyes laughing. "Come, come. Kosta is here already, and he wishes to see you."
She moved inside, wrapped her hand around his arm, and they progressed through the warm foyer carefully. He glanced down at her, taking in the dull sheen of her hair, styled in a chignon, and the paleness of her skin. She seemed in good spirits, and her health had not noticeably declined since the last time he saw her, but worry settled in his gut. He would ask Kosta how she was doing, since he was able to spend more time with her.
Father likely wouldn't know, not that he would be here to ask, and he wouldn't care.
"Kosta? Kosta!" she called imperiously, and moments later, his older brother appeared, his beautiful Russian wife, Svetlana, hanging off his arm. He and Viktor looked much the same, Viktor knew, with similar builds and dark hair and eyes. Kosta, however, was never able to forget his place in society, and it showed in his elegant mannerisms and occasionally aloof personality. Where Viktor fumbled over words, Kosta spun phrases of silk; where Viktor tripped over his feet, Kosta glided. Where Viktor caught the snitch, Kosta crushed his business opponents.
Despite their differences, they still loved each other, in some distant, nebulous way that harkened back to the days where they played Quidditch together over the back gardens, laughing at each other as they tried to outdo each other by performing more and more ridiculous tricks. His brother was, after all, the one who had taught Viktor how to fly. As time passed, though, Kosta had drawn away, feet staying firmly planted on the ground as he spent his time at Durmstrang and grew into his role as the family heir while Viktor, too young to follow him, had flown further and further away into the clouds.
"Hello, brother." Viktor gave a shallow bow.
Kosta nodded in return. "Viktor."
Svetlana took a step forward, extending a pale hand, and purred, "Hello, Viktor."
"Good evening, Svetlana." Sweeping her perfectly shaped hand into his own, he kissed it before dropping it and stepping away. He wished that she would not eye him as she did, like he was so much a piece of meat; it reminded him of his more avaricious female fans, but it was made magnitudes worse because she was his sister-in-law. By all rights, she shouldn't be looking at him that way.
Polite niceties observed, they stood in the foyer, silent for a moment. "How is training going?" Kosta asked at last. "Your catch against the Spaniards was excellent."
"Thank you," Viktor replied. "We are doing well. Islov is pushing us hard, as he should, to make us better. The Moroccans are ranked far below us, though, so they shouldn't pose too much of a challenge." He expected they would take them in a few hours, especially if he could catch the snitch quickly.
"I heard that Al-Azm has been practicing his own Wronski Feint," Kosta noted.
Milena's grip on Viktor's arm tightened as she proudly responded, "Nobody is as good at it as my Vitya is."
Coolly, Kosta replied,"I didn't say Al-Azm was as good as Viktor — I simply said he's been practicing it."
Viktor nodded. "I've heard about it. It should be fine — I've been practicing pulling up at the last second when doing my own practicing, so even if he fools me I should be able to make it in time and follow him out of the break." He thought wryly of yesterday's practice and how his ability to hurtle towards the ground at truly breathtaking speeds until the last possible moment had marginally improved. It was only his stomach that had suffered so.
"That's good, that's very good," Kosta said. "I trust the Firebolts are treating you better than the Cleansweeps?" The family business, which was one of the team sponsors, had helped with purchasing brooms for the team.
This time, Viktor's smile was genuine. "Da," he agreed enthusiastically. "They go so incredibly fast, and the turning radius is amazing. It's much more responsive than the Cleansweeps were, which let me take my Wronskis to the next level. In the past, I had to pull up sooner because the Cleansweeps took longer to respond, and now it feels as though the broom knows what I'm thinking almost before I do it."
Kosta broke out into a true smile at Viktor's enthusiasm, the first one Viktor had seen in a long time. His brother didn't smile very much these days, he thought, perhaps because he was so busy trying to fill the shoes that their father expected and required him to. "That's good, that's good. I haven't had a chance to try one out myself, you know." His gaze flicked to Svetlana. "I've been rather occupied."
"We've just been attending so many outings," Svetlana added, her nails digging into Kosta's arm. "You know how it is — so many invitations, not enough time! It's so demanding to be one of the Svyato, but you would know that, wouldn't you Viktor?"
He managed to quell the urge to reply that yes, he obviously would, since he, like Kosta, was Pureblood. "The season is tiring," he acknowledged, but also refrained from mentioning how bloody grateful he was not to be making the rounds.
Svetlana extended a hand, the diamond bracelet hanging off her wrist glinting in the light. "You should join us," she suggested, red mouth curved invitingly. "You would be so very welcome." Her tone made it clear in more ways than one, and Viktor couldn't help his mouth from curling in distaste. Why his brother had married this vapid social-climber was beyond him. Kosta was of a calibre far beyond her.
"I'm afraid I simply don't have the time," he responded politely, sticking his hands in his pockets. "What with Quidditch and all, and I'm trying to do some extra revision over the summer." And now that TriWizard Cup, which he needed to research, too.
Milena reached up and patted his cheek. "You are so serious about everything, Viktor. I worry that you cannot relax and simply be the boy you are."
He had left boyhood behind long ago, somewhere between casting his first Dark curses in a Durmstrang classroom and becoming a household name, but he wasn't about to tell his mother that. Let her believe what she wanted.
Catching her hand, he cupped it to his face. "I am fine, maika," he reassured her. "Now, shall we eat?"
The meal was pleasant, the conversation dominated by discussion of the annual Harvest Blessing, a festival that took place on Krum lands that both celebrated the land and prepared and blessed it for the autumn to come. As the second son, Viktor would be in charge of the planning and execution of the festival once he was deemed ready to take over the reins. For now, he was learning his duties under the watchful eye of his mother and the senior Steward, Nevena, who had been overseeing such things for decades.
"We have almost finished making the preparations," he assured his mother and Kosta. "The supplies have been ordered and I have begun the base preparations with Nevena."
Kosta sipped his wine and set the glass down. "Have you sent them to her for review?"
He nodded, resisting the urge to shift in his seat. "The Charms portion was not too difficult, although the combination with the runes we decided upon for the upcoming year was a bit tricky. Some of them, such as ingwuz, had their effects offset slightly by the layering of the traditional Charms, and the binding rite on top of that made it more difficult to ensure their efficacy. However, I consulted some of the Masters and they provided some alternatives that I want to show Nevena."
His mother frowned. "The ingwuz rune was problematic?"
"That, and berkana," he confirmed.
"Hm." Lightly, she tapped her chin in thought. "Perhaps if you reorder the two and separate their placement with that of eihwaz? That way, the runic inscription will be ingwuz for fertility, eihwaz for defense of the land and protection of the elements, and berkana for for growth and rebirth."
He considered it, his mind clicking through the probabilities, and said slowly, "I think that could work. It could be that having such a focus on growth may be unbalancing the entire thing."
"I trust you'll make it work," Kosta said briskly. "The drought last year was difficult for us all, the business included." While the Krums, by necessity, had to get the majority of their potions ingredients for the company elsewhere, they were a large producer of many valued ingredients. The decrease in product had not only hurt the business, as Kosta mentioned, but also the tenants, which Viktor felt more pressing. The business, and the family by proxy, could survive for quite some time without the income, but the people they relied on to produce and nature the plants were not as fortunate, and he had seen the effects of the bad season with his own eyes.
"I know." Methodically, he tore the piece of bread in his hands into tiny pieces. "I really believe that the Blessing this year will help ensure a return to normalcy. Nevena told me she will get back to me tomorrow."
Kosta spared the topic no more thought, deeming it closed by Viktor's reassurance, and the conversation moved on, though Viktor remained weighed down by the thoughts of Milena's suggestions regarding the runes. By the end of dinner, he had thought more on the topic and decided to send Nevena an owl with the revised inscription describing the changes and the potential benefit. It would be interesting to see her thoughts, and they did not have much time to dally over the minute points much longer. The festival was in a month.
Translations
Maika = mother
Prestani = stop it
Svyato = hallowed. Here it is used as the equivalent to the Sacred 28.