The match against Australia was weighing heavily in everyone's minds, and the mood on the pitch reflected it. They had made it from the final sixteen down to the top eight, and the country was buzzing with excitement. Viktor had agreed that morning, on advice of his publicist, to sit for a photoshoot and an interview that would be released sometime in the next few weeks right before the game occurred. The shoots made him feel exposed, as if the entire world were peering right at him, but he knew that they were a necessary evil. The team had already done the official shoot, but the additional press was to be expected. Others on the team had also done shoots of their own, and the Chasers and Beaters were also getting photoshoots done in groups. If they made it to the semifinals, the amount of press was sure to skyrocket, and he was not looking forward to that.
"Viktor," Vasily called out to him as they ran punishing laps around the perimeter of the pitch, "I heard that you ran into Mia in town? How is our little Healer?"
He rolled his eyes. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"
"Someone sure is sounding defensive," Alexei joined in, sweat beading on his forehead as he kept pace with the taller men. "Vasily was only trying to make conversation, you know. It's what friends do, haven't you heard?"
Pyotr laughed at that. "You can't converse your way out of a paper bag, tüpak." Alexei shoved him with a hand and he laughed even as he protested, "Hey! Precious cargo here. However will I protect our most precious and beloved Chasers if I'm injured?"
"As if I need protecting," Clara threw over her shoulder from her easy pace several metres ahead of them. "I'll outfly any Bludger headed my way without your bat."
"Brave words from a little bird," Vasily retorted, his stocky frame steadily pounding against the dirt. "I'll keep that in mind when I see Martin hit one at you in the next match and just let it fly right past me."
Clara's affronted face caused Viktor to huff out a laugh in between even breaths, and the sound brought Vasily's attention back to him. "Don't think I've forgotten how this conversation started, Krum. The girl. How is she?"
Viktor shrugged, thinking about the surprise over the weekend. "She's surprisingly good company," he admitted thoughtfully. "I got the feeling she isn't particularly popular at school, was perhaps even bullied, and she's a bit shy as a result. However, she's very polite and earnest."
Several of the men, Alexei in particular, frowned. "Bullied? Our Mia?" He asked. "I couldn't see why—well," he grimaced, "I suppose I could. A quiet girl that's smarter than everyone else could be an easy target."
Thinking of their first encounter by the river, Viktor laughed. "I wouldn't necessarily call her quiet, per se."
"Oh?" Sensing a story there, Pyotr moved in closer. "Is she fiery? Does she have a temper?"
Above them, Islov's swooping figure loomed, and he yelled, "If you are talking, you aren't running fast enough!"
"Gluposti," Zograf, who had been silent up until now, snarled. "He's going to call in the dogs. You know how he gets when you run your mouths."
Viktor sighed. Zograf wasn't this grouchy unless he was nursing a hangover, and that seemed more often than not the past month or so. He wondered if the taciturn Keeper was having trouble at home, but pushed the thought of his mind as the familiar shadows of the hounds leaping from Islov's wand greeted him. The shadow hounds, or Hounds of Hell (as the team called them out of Islov's earshot), existed only to torture them and nip at their heels as they raced to outrun them.
The phantom sensation of teeth grabbing at his calf set Viktor to running faster, and he and the rest of the team bent their heads and pushed their strides further as they rounded the long side of the pitch where the entrance to the Healing Hall was. They passed the wall to wall windows without a pause, and Viktor barely spared a glance at the opaque windows. There were more important things to think about than Mia and her proclivity for sunny reading spots in gardens.
Luckily, the cardio training wound down soon enough, and they were back on their brooms for a good hour and a half before they broke for lunch. Viktor had gotten another letter from Karkaroff earlier in the week that demanded he write back on his progress training for the Triwizard Tournament, and Viktor had merely put the letter on top of the stack of correspondence he needed to get to at some point. The Headmaster could berate Viktor all he wanted for taking too long to respond to his letter, but he had neither the time nor the motivation to assuage the man's anxiety.
It had, however, prompted Viktor to bring one of the books the Headmaster had sent him, one rather blandly entitled Ancient Wizarding Traditions. The chapter on the Tournament seemed interesting if nothing else, and he wanted to skim it during lunch.
When he went to pick up the picnic basket the team elves knew to create for him, he spied Mia sitting alone in the corner of the dining hall, her head bent over a thick tome and her lips soundlessly practicing an incantation.
Before he knew it, he had made his way over to her. When his shadow fell on the pages of her book, where a complex diagram of some hideous wound was being discussed, she looked up, her eyes wide in surprise. "May I sit?" he asked, motioning at the bench across from her.
"Of course. It's only...well, I won't be much company, I fear," she replied, frowning. "I want to finish at least two more chapters before the end of lunch. There's so much to learn..."
He waved away her fears and put his own book on the table. "I have something of my own to study."
Her face brightened in curiosity, and she bent her head to look at the spine of the book. "You do? What is it?"
"There is something called the TriWizard Tournament happening," he replied, interested to see her reaction. "It is happening this year, and will take place between three of the top wizarding schools."
"Durmstrang," she said immediately, then paused in thought. "And surely Hogwarts, I suppose, but which other one?"
"Beauxbatons," he answered, and Hermione nodded.
"That makes sense. They've got an incredible reputation as well, particularly in transfigurative arts. How does the tournament work, exactly?"
Viktor leaned forward. "Honestly, Mia, I'm not sure." He tapped the book with a finger and told her mischievously, "That's why I've got this, you see."
He watched the flush creep over her cheeks and climb to the tips of her ears. "Of course, of course," she responded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. "I should have known, obviously, that you wouldn't know. That's why you've got a book, after all. Right."
"Mia," he said calmly, "there is no need to be like that. You were simply being interested. I'll tell you what I know now, and then I'll tell you the rest once I've read it."
A little less embarrassed, she nodded and shut her own book after marking it with a slip of paper, giving him her full attention. The weight of her gaze once again rested upon him, and he straightened up. He had forgotten how heavy it was, how wise her eyes were for one so young.
"The Triwizard Tournament," he began, "is a tournament that takes place between three schools, one of which hosts the tournament on its grounds. This time, I believe it will take place at Hogwarts."
Hermione reared back in surprise, taken aback.
"It will?" she asked. "I mean, I think I read about this in passing in Hogwarts: A History, but I feel as though it was said that the Tournament was a disaster when it last took place at Hogwarts Although," she ventured, "I'm excited for you to come. I can show you all the best places and even some secret passages. But Viktor…Viktor, I think someone died the last time, if I'm remembering correctly."
He did not doubt her memory, and he frowned. "I have not read much about it," he reminded her, "but I think it must be very dangerous. My Headmaster owled me with books to prepare for it. He says that there are qualifying trials to determine who will travel to represent Durmstrang but anticipates—no," he corrected, "expects me to not only qualify but also to act as Durmstrang's champion."
She bit her lip. "That's a lot of pressure and a lot of expectation to put on you."
Shrugging, he said, "It is nothing I am unfamiliar with, but it is rather inconvenient because of the timing. Karkaroff—Headmaster Karkaroff—expects me to train for the tournament while I am in the middle of the World Cup and all that entails, not to mention studying for my M.L.O.K.s." At her blank expression, he explained, "The exams at the end of seventh year. Although if I am in England for this tournament, I don't see how all of the visiting Durmstrang students' studies will continue." And that was very heavy food for thought.
"Surely they will let you take classes with us," Hermione responded promptly. "I would think that they wouldn't require students to come at the expense of their studies, especially for students who have exams like N.E.W.T.S or O.W.L.s. Oh, I need to tell you all about the Professors! Viktor, you will love most of them. I particularly enjoy Charms and Transfiguration."
His interest piqued, he asked, "Charms?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes! Professor Flitwick is incredible. He used to be a professional duelist outside of school, which I personally think lends an interesting perspective to charm applications. Also, his teaching style is truly excellent. Why? Do you like Charms?"
Leaning forward, Viktor confided, "Charms is one of my most favourite subjects. You see, I want to pursue a career as a Weather Wizard when I am finished with Quidditch. As the second son of the Krum family, I am expected to act as steward and ensure that both our lands and our tenants prosper. I think and hope that a Mastery in Weather Magic would help me attain this goal."
Impulsively, she reached across the table and touched his arm. "That's incredible," she told him earnestly. "Weather magic is an incredibly difficult field to master as it is, but your reason behind it...I find that perhaps more impressive than your goal. You want to help the people you are responsible for, and I think that's really quite admirable." Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and he smiled back in spite of himself.
"You and I are the same, I suppose," he said, somewhat surprised at the thought even as it passed his lips. "Both wanting to help others."
Hermione nodded, and an accord passed between them for a moment. Right then, Viktor felt as if he had been seen and understood in a way that perhaps he hadn't quite been before. She had been so interested in how they impacted him, not in how his decisions affected his Quidditch career or even his familial obligations.
It was strange, he thought, that he could relate better to some English girl that had appeared by the riverbank one afternoon than to others he had known for a longer time. Very strange indeed.
"Oy, Viktor! You gonna get up off your lazy arse and fly a broom or what?" Vasily yelled across the hall, then grinned at Hermione's expression and waved. "Hey Mia," he greeted in a much more polite tone. "Hope that idiot didn't bother you too much."
Viktor stood and grabbed his book from the table, running his hand through his hair. "Shut up, Dimitrov," he called back. To Hermione, he said, "I'll see you later?" Though he wasn't sure why he had asked it like that, as if there would be another meeting between just the two of them. He was bound to see her sooner rather than later.
She nodded, her lips tilting up, and he felt her gaze on him as he left the hall with Vasily and Zograf, the former companionably ribbing him about spending extra time with the 'little Healer', as he'd begun calling her.
The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly, and Viktor felt tired but energized at the end of practice. His mind was alert and embroiled in strategy as he cleaned up and apparated to Krum Manor for dinner. He tried to make a point to have at least one or two meals with his mother a week now that he was free to do so, and Thursdays had become rather a standing date between the two of them unless something interfered.
The family's Healer, Demetrius Matsoukas, was leaving the house just as Viktor apparated into the courtyard. The curly haired man nodded at him as they passed each other, and Viktor came to a halt, turning around and asking, "How is she?"
Demetrius stopped and faced Viktor, the crags of his weather-worn face deeper than usual. "Her vitals are good, but Viktor...she is weaker. I fear she will succumb if she becomes ill. You must protect her, even from herself." He smiled wanly. "She is quite intent on attending your games, you know."
"And you don't wish her to? Is it not safe?"
Regretfully, Demetrius shook his head. "I worry that the excitement might be too much. If she were somewhere quiet and away from it all, then perhaps she could. Even in the family box, I worry. She could be exposed to an illness, or the heat and noise could cause her distress."
Viktor bowed his head. It would be...disappointing, for her not to see him fly at the pinnacle of his sport, doing what he did best and what she had always encouraged and fostered. But if his Maika, his most beloved mother, could not handle it as she grew frailer, then he would survive.
Surviving her disappointment, however, was another story. He sensed a fight in his future.
"I understand," he murmured. "Thank you, Demetrius. You have always served us well, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am."
As always, the Healer bowed. "We've served your family for hundreds of years, my Lord, and I hope we will serve hundreds more."
"I as well." Viktor clicked his heels together and bowed. "If I can do anything to help you as you have helped me, please do not hesitate to send me an owl."
Demetrius' mouth softened. "A truly noble man you are, Vitkor. I am pleased to see you grow up into someone the people can love." He laughed suddenly and corrected himself. "Who they do love. They're truly Quidditch mad around here. It's really something to see."
Self-consciously, Viktor rubbed the back of his neck. "It's a national pastime. I wouldn't say it has anything in particular to do with me."
"Keep telling yourself that if it makes you better." Demetrius bowed again shallowly and said, "Now, I really must go. Bitty will have my head if I am not home in time for dinner!" His house elf was rather militant about keeping set eating hours, since Demetrius was prone to forgetting to eat otherwise.
Viktor nodded and they parted ways. His steps felt heavier than usual as he ascended the steps, and if he greeted his mother with a little more solemnity and tenderness than usual, she did not notice.
"How was practice today, Vitya?" she asked. "I read in the papers that the odds are slightly stacked in favor of Australia winning the upcoming match, but that has changed since the press was allowed to watch you practice a few days ago."
"Has it?" he asked disinterestedly, focusing on the meal in front of him. "The press is full of rubbish. If they don't have an Arithmancer on staff predicting the match, then I couldn't care less. And even if they did," he added, "I would want to see the equation."
She laughed. "So distrusting," she chided. "Where did you get that trait from, hm?"
He swirled the liquid in his glass instead of responding, knowing she wouldn't like the words that had sprung so easily to his lips. From watching you and Father. No, she would not like that implication at all. For all that he loved her, he was aware of her faults, and Milena Krum did not like to be criticized. At least she did not have a deep well of temper like his father, Grigor, which Viktor had had the misfortune of inheriting. She may lash you with her tongue, but she would return to tranquility a bare moment later.
"Ah!" she exclaimed not a moment later, previous conversation forgotten. "I forgot to mention— Kosta wanted me to ask you to attend a little get together in a week or so, shortly before the match. It's in your honour, of course, to wish you well."
Viktor huffed. "However he wants to couch it is fine. We both know what it is: a ploy to use me to further his business connections."
Milena leaned back in her chair, a reproving look on her face. "While that may be true - and I'm not saying it is—if your brother asked you to attend, you had best do so. As a son of Krum, you are expected to participate in society and further the family's name and connections. Besides, Kosta is only trying to do things like this with our family and fortune in mind."
He hated this, especially knowing the type of people to attend gatherings like this. "And I am the prize pony to be trotted in front of everyone else while he lingers in the background, rubbing elbows and schmoozing, I suppose. Typical."
His mother pinched the skin between her eyebrows and sighed. "Vitya, please. Do this for me, will you?"
Viktor felt the familiar flame of temper, this time ignited out of resentment, simmering within him. Instead of giving into it, he thought of flying up into pure blue skies and leaving his anger far behind him. He exhaled a long, drawn out breath as he resigned himself to the idea of going to yet another gathering that he had neither the time nor inclination to join. But if Maika had asked it of him, then he would go.
Taking a deep breath, he reached across the table and took her hand as he looked into her tired, grass-green eyes. "For you, Mother, anything."
Her hand gripped his. "You're a sweet boy, Viktor. Thank you."
She pressed the invitation into his hand as she saw him out of the house, admonishing him not to forget. Equal parts admiring and rueful, he realized how neatly she had managed him. One moment, he was saying no, and the next, he had not only agreed but felt obliged to see it through.
If he could figure out how to replicate her deft hand in a social setting, he would feel much better at navigating his way through the social sphere in which he moved. Unfortunately, he didn't have her finesse. No, Kosta had gotten all of that. Instead, he was the quiet one that managed to bumble his way through events like this with sheer grit.
Well, he thought with a grimace as he placed the invitation down on his desk. Duty called, and he would always answer.
He was simply not capable of doing otherwise.