A few days after he had come across the hunched form of Hermione sitting in the stands, Viktor had to set his concerns about her aside and don the robes of his public persona. Cognizant of the promise he made his mother, Viktor prepared rather grimly for the party he was to attend.

Because it was hosted by Radomir Kostadin, the patriarch of one of the longest-lived and most respected Pureblood families in southern Europe that had extensive business ties across the region, the fête was sure to include the premier wizarding families in Bulgaria and other assorted high profile individuals.

Ones like himself, he thought dryly as he donned his robes, a thin weave of linen lined with acromantula silk. Anything to make the fete an event to discuss in the weeks to come.

Sighing, he looked over the carefully calligraphed invitation and gripped the small metal crest, the portkey to the evening's location. At approximately seven, he felt the familiar hook in his navel and then he was in Sophia at the Kostadin's summer home, a spacious, airy affair nestled on the coast in Burgas that made one think of languid evenings spent in enjoyable conversation with friends.

The reality was much different.

"May Ingrede take your robes, Master Krum?" A house elf in Kostadin livery stood at the opened double french doors, wide yellow eyes staring at him unblinkingly.

"No, thank you." He would prefer to keep his armour on, however hot it made him. And it was hot, the salty summer air thick and humid as it drifted in from the Black Sea and wound around him. He could already feel his shirt, a thin navy linen, beginning to stick to his back.

"Brother!" Svetlana approached him almost instantly, her startling silver eyes glittering above an equally startling golden dress that dipped low in front and even lower in the back. She was, of course, impeccable from head to toe, her bronzed skin glowing. He wondered what charm she had used to make her normally wintry skin so naturally tanned but found he didn't care enough either way to spend another moment thinking about it.

"Svetlana," he greeted in turn. Hands were bent over; cheeks were kissed; and he was made uncomfortable by her nakedly lascivious gaze before he was carted off into the crowd, Svetlana's hand a shackle around his forearm that he could not escape.

"You simply must meet Irina," Svetlana was saying. "She's been a guest at our house for the past few weeks—here from Saint Petersburg, you know, a family friend—and she's simply been dying to meet you."

"I await your introduction with baited breath," he lied without pause, subtly trying to loosen her grip on his arm.

Svetlana's tinkled laugh grated against his ears. "You are too charming by half, Vitya. I can't understand why you haven't snapped someone up, yet. Every lady wants a piece of you."

A brief image of messy curls tamed into a neat braid flashed in his mind. "Not everyone," he replied dryly, distracted by the thought that Hermione had come to mind so easily at Svetlana's comment. Why would he be thinking of her now?

"Stop being so modest," his sister-in-law chided, ripe red lips parting in a silken smile. "You're quite a catch, you know."

He resisted the urge to point out that she had already caught him simply by the death grip she had on his arm, knowing that she wouldn't take it kindly. "Where's Kosta?" he asked instead.

"Oh, around here somewhere," Svetlana dismissed her husband idly. "Probably talking about business as usual. He can be so very dull at times."

Viktor gritted his teeth but managed some sort of pleasant reply, though he would be hard pressed to recall exactly what he said. If there was one person he could say he loathed with absolute certainty, it was Svetlana, who Kosta had married at their father's insistence and who had slowly leeched the very life out of him.

"Viktor! How very good it is to see you!" Radomir Kostadin, a heavyset, barrel-chested man with a propensity to be loud and an even bigger propensity to make it a habit of knowing everyone who was anyone, approached him, beaming, and heartily clapped him on the back. "Good game against the Moroccans, eh? That maneuver of yours against the other Seeker was simply brilliant. Come, several people are waiting to talk to you. After all, it is not every day we are in the presence of a national figure, hm?"

Viktor was so grateful for the chance to be rid of Svetlana that he departed to be mauled by fans with alacrity. He accepted their compliments and spent the next half hour giving vague predictions of the team's next match, telling the witches and wizards clad in gleaming summertime finery that he would be honored that they would be there to see them at the next match. Some of them who fancied themselves true Quidditch players gave him advice, which he pretended to listen to and thanked them for as sincerely as possible.

It was all so empty and predictable, he thought. Nothing anyone had said interested him, as he had all heard it before. The sheer banality of attending yet another party was enough to spoil his appetite, though at least the canapes were as good as he remembered.

However, he had promised Maika that he would attend, so he made his best effort, talking, engaging, and doing his best to further ingratiate himself with others. Nobody treated him particularly seriously, of course, as he was just a Quidditch player, and even when he was more than that, he was just the second son. Of course, second sons had the responsibility of the lands, but these days wealth was not generated there—it was generated in deals that happened at parties like this by the true powers that be.

The shine of golden hair caught Viktor's eye as he was discussing his last year at Durmstrang with one of his classmate's fathers, and he turned. Moments later he found what he was seeking, and he took in a sharp breath. It was Mister Quickfoot, clad in his finery and directing that genuine, dangerous smile of his at none other than Svetlana, who was looking rather self-satisfied.

"Ah, caught sight of Quickfoot, did you?" Kostadin looked rather satisfied himself when he spied the pair talking to some decidedly foreign wizards. Their robes, while of the newest cut and finest fabrics, were much too heavy for the Bulgarian summer. "He is a rather charming fellow. If you don't know him, I rather think you should. He has some excellent connections back in England, you know," he said confidentially.

"I know the man," he replied shortly. A rather charming fellow indeed, he thought sourly, thinking of Hermione's quaking shoulders set against the backdrop of a nearly set sun.

Kostadin turned in surprise, his face never losing its perpetual smile. "You do? I had so looked forward to the idea of introducing two of the most interesting men I knew to each other."

"His charge, Mia, works as an apprentice healer with the team," he explained, and left it at that, hoping it would end the conversation.

Instead, Kostadin seemed thrilled, clapping him on the shoulder and exclaiming, "Excellent! It would be rude not to say hello, what with your beautiful sister-in-law Svetlana with him and all."

Hand lightly gripping his shoulder, Kostadin weaved through the crowd. "Gentleman and the fair Svetlana," he greeted the group. "Viktor and I saw you having far too much fun without us and decided we simply had to join."

Interestingly, Svetlana bypassed the opportunity to latch onto Viktor, choosing instead to give him a knowing smile from her spot next to Quickfoot. "Viktor," she said smoothly, "I've heard that you've met Mister Quickfoot?"

Viktor pressed his lips together and nodded. "Briefly. I am...good friends with his ward, Mia."

Quickfoot laughed, the light sound pleasant. "Mia? Is that what you all are calling her these days?" He looked at the group and easily said, "I suppose Hermione is too much of a mouthful. Honestly, I don't know where her parents came up with the name."

Lightly, Svetlana dismissed, "Muggles are such strange creatures, aren't they?"

Viktor felt the familiar heat of anger start to heat his blood and took a deep breath. "I think it's a lovely name. It's just unfamiliar and hard to say, that's all."

His sister-in-law shrugged one dainty shoulder. "Mia is as good a name as any, isn't it? I don't particularly see what you're making a fuss about."

One of the two men, who had been silent up to now, shifted his lean form forward, his long mahogany hair slipping over his shoulders. "While Hermione is, of course, of the utmost interest, given that she's your, hm, responsibility," he said in cultured tones, "I think it only polite to observe the niceties. It is, of course, what separates us from the rabble. Mister Krum, I am Frederick Mulciber, of the Sacred Twenty-Eight in England, and this is Louis Avery, also of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Viktor nodded to both, noting that Quickfoot seemed intent on his reaction. "A pleasure, I'm sure," he responded politely. "I hope you are finding Bulgaria to your liking on your visit."

Mulciber casually slid his hand into his pocket, weight resting on one foot in a relaxed pose. "It has been rather nice," he remarked. "I myself am not a frequent visitor, but Louis recently told me something I had thought lost to me forever is rumoured to be in the area."

"Yes," Svetlana added, "Mister Mulciber is a...rather avid purveyor of rare and valuable artefacts."

Interested almost despite himself, Viktor asked, "What kind of artefacts?"

The other English wizard, Avery, vaguely replied, "Oh, this and that. Although I do find Dark artefacts to be of particular interest simply given their propensity for having abilities and sometimes even personalities of their own. I tend to collect such trinkets because I find their study so fascinating."

Privately, Viktor thought that the wizard, who had close-set, glittering eyes set in a long face, seemed like someone who would collect to display his collection of wealth rather than collect to study.

"That is how we connected with Magellan," Louis added smoothly. "I had met him before, of course, under different circumstances—" he smirked slightly "—but I find we have much more in common now that we did before. Why, just the other day, he was able to obtain and show us a rather rare artefact. Eurydice's Lullaby, it's called. Have you heard of it?"

He tried to think back on his reading from the last few years. "That is the music box that causes listeners to fall into a trance and remain spellbound?"

Quickfoot nodded, a slight smirk on his face as he said, "I've close...associations with the family who has had possession of it for ages, and I was able to get a hold of it eventually, though it required quite a bit of work."

Now Avery looked pleased, and Viktor had a feeling there was an entirely separate conversation being conducted under his nose. His feelings of distrust and blossoming dislike for the man solidified. Even had he not been as neglectful to Hermione as he had been, there was still something distinctly...strange, about Magellan Quickfoot. Someone who was able to get access to a fête after living here for such a short time was either extremely powerful or had extremely good connections.

With Quickfoot, he couldn't tell, and he didn't particularly wish to know.

"I'm sure it's fascinating," he said politely. "I find my interests lay in the sky, as you all are aware—" everyone laughed as he meant them to "—or in the land itself. I suppose I am much too focused on the elements to consider Dark artefacts of interest."

At his words, Avery and Mulciber nodded, seeming to accept his words at face value. He always found it interesting that people were so quick to write him off. In this case, however, he found himself glad, as it let him escape the intent, blue gaze of one Magellan Quickfoot.

An hour or so later of meaningless chatter, he felt he had fulfilled his obligations and could escape. Making his excuses, he made his way to the exit everyone wishing him well as Kostadin insisted on toasting him. "To Viktor, who will bring Bulgaria to victory!"

"To Viktor!"

He smiled even as he sighed inwardly, feeling the heavy mantle of responsibility resting on his shoulders.

Hopefully things would go to plan tomorrow.

They had to.

o-O-o

The next morning dawned bright and clear, a most favorable set of conditions for a match. As soon as he arrived at the stadium time sped up as he was caught in the traditional match-day tumult, though he wished time would pass faster as he dealt with the special edition QWC presser they had been roped into.

Dutifully, he posed with the team on the ground and in the sky, by himself and with others as the lights of the camera flashed. As he watched the Chasers and Beaters pose together, he noticed that Pyotr and Clara, who normally always posed next to each other, had kept Ivan and Vasily between them. Narrowing his eyes at the sight, he wondered if something was amiss. They couldn't afford for it to be, not with the game happening in eight and a half hours.

"Everything all right?" he queried, angling his broom towards Pyotr a few minutes later.

Pytor affected a confused expression. "What are you talking about?"

In response, Viktor merely angled his head at Clara, who was having a solo shot taken of her racing around the stadium.

The Beater's shoulders tensed. "Nothing's wrong."

He arched a brow. "Well, whatever isn't wrong," he parroted Pyrotr's words, "I would like for it to be fixed before the match tonight. We can't afford to have any kind of friction on the team whatsoever right now."

"You think I don't know that?" Pyotr fairly growled, running a hand over his head of unruly hair. "I don't know what happened—she won't talk to me—"

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off as the reporter for Selfridge's International Gazette, one of the most widely circulated papers in the wizarding world, approached them. They ran through the typical gamut of questions — How are you feeling about the game today? What do you expect to encounter on the field? Worried about Echunga's skill with the bat? No? Karoonda's uncanny snitch-finding abilities? What do you want to tell the fans that will be listening by radio at home? and so on, until Islov came storming over and asked them what was taking so long.

He had no chance to finish the conversation with Pyrotr as Islov threw them into their pre-match routine with a vengeance. Thankfully, he found comfort in the rituals, first stretching out his whole body until limber before cleaning his broom meticulously by hand and conducting some final broom tuning with his wand. Then it was time for hand exercises, a light meal, some quick drills, six meditative circuits around the pitch, and the pre-match speech given by Vasily, who was Captain of the team for the game.

By that point, the stands were filled with fans, a swath of green and yellow competing against the darker burgundy and black for dominance. He stretched his arms behind him as he idly watched a family settle in on the stands, a little girl with curly hair watching the field eagerly. Even though her hair was fair and pale, the curls reminded him of Hermione's when she let them loose.

The thought made him look over at the familiar opaque window that the Healing Hall was located behind, and he wondered if his arrangements with Madam Lazarov regarding his mother had come through. He had gotten permission from Demetrius to have Milena attend his games if she stayed with the Healers in case the excitement became too much or she began to feel ill.

The thought of her locked behind the window, watching him from the infirmary, made something clench inside him. Her health was so fragile these days.

He shook his head, unwilling and unable to entertain the thought, and made another loop, making sure to pass by the little girl and salute her with a flick of his finger. She gave an excited yell, bouncing up and down, and a small smile tucked itself onto his lips.

Only bare minutes later they were all assembled in starting formation. Moments later, the game began in its familiar rush, and he was quickly immersed in the familiar chaos happening beneath him as he soared ever higher into the powder blue summer sky, his eyes intent on the space below him for that familiar flicker of gold. He saw Karoonda slowly circling the space by the Zograf, her body tense in a way that shouted she had seen something, and he flew towards her.

There! A glimmer of gold between the left and center hoop—he dove for it even as Karoonda spun around and sped towards the same place. But then the snitch was gone, flying low towards the pitch closer to him. The familiar exhilaration of the hunt was on, and he found his teeth bared in a fighting smile as he bent over his broom. Karoonda could get dusted. That snitch was his.

Not even a moment later he had pulled up from where he had sworn he had seen it, the space empty of the glittering golden ball. Frowning, he rolled his shoulders. Where the hell had it gone? Damn thing.

High above him Vasaily shouted and swerved suddenly, and he gave a laugh. There it was, his malük priyatel. It would not escape so easily this time. Angling his broom, he banked swiftly and flew up, spiraling as he wove around the frenetic paths of the players throwing Quaffles and hitting Bludgers. Narrowly, he missed the bristles of Monteith's broom as he arrowed past the Australian Chaser.

He overshot the snitch as it suddenly zigged back down and he cursed, gritting his teeth and plunging downwards.

Karoonda, who had been hot on his tails, had her hand outstretched in front of her as they both strained for the snitch. Looking at the distance between her hand and the snitch and his placement, he realized he wouldn't make it in time unless—

He hooked his ankles around the broom and threw himself down into the air, lunging for the snitch. His fingers touched a wing and he grabbed at it again, this time closing his grip firmly around it.

He had done it. The match was theirs.

The photo on the front of the papers the next morning was of him laughing in exultation as he hung upside down from the broom in the infamous Izenbard Lunge. KRUM CATCHES SNITCH AS AUSTRALIAN BEATER LEFT IN COMA BY BLUDGER: BULGARIA GOES TO SEMIFINALS!

AN: Hello everyone, I have returned! I am really grateful to those of you who asked how I am - I have been pretty sick but am now on a good set of medicine to regulate my internal organs so hopefully I won't be that sick again lol

I have also gone through a large confidence crisis with this fic in tandem with my health issues. For a long time I was unsure if it was worth continuing, honestly, because I felt as though it may not be worthwhile or that people enjoy it. However, there are a few people who seem to enjoy it, so here we are! I can't promise regular updates or anal retentive editing as I used to due to the fact that I have two jobs and am still recovering, but I will try to post as frequently as I can.