NOTE: If you are reading this during the weekend of 17/1/21, this is the second installment that has been posted. Go back and read the Interlude, A Cunning Man, if you have not yet done so. You will not want to miss it.
France was a beautiful country. It had beautiful people and even more beautiful scenery. Unfortunately, however, Viktor wasn't a huge fan of France. It wasn't anything personal, really, but the French always acted as though they were superior, from the cut of their clothes to their magical ancestry. If it was French, it was better; if it wasn't French, it was lower than low.
Sometimes, though, the French got things wrong. And their Quidditch stadium, in Viktor's opinion, got things very wrong. The stadium should have been beautiful. It was close to the Château des Rêves, a castle constructed early in the 15th century by a wizard for his lady love. Said wizard had also had a massive obsession with quidditch as well and so had built an extravagant pitch that he could use with his friends.
Unfortunately for Viktor, that pitch had become so famous that the French universally adored its idiotic composition and voted to make it the home of the French National Quidditch team. He felt sorry for the team given that they had to fly over a pitch composed of a damned hedge maze that also included fountains that spouted water at sporadic intervals, but he mostly felt aggrieved on his own behalf.
"It's a flying hazard," he complained as the team stared at the pitch, which was trimmed and pruned to obsessive perfection. "What if the snitch flies by the fountain and the fountain decides to go off?"
Next to him, Vasily looked at the maze with similar distaste. "I've heard the maze is magical and the bushes will eat you if you get too close."
"Is this even legal?" Clara wanted to know. "Has anyone lodged a complaint with the IQA?"
Pyotr shot her an unimpressed look. "If you think for even a moment that the International Quidditch Association is going to get off their arses and do a preliminary check, you're out of your mind."
"I still think it's worth it," she replied, crossing her arms. "Surely there's precedent. As professional players we're expected to play in any conditions, but I would think a man-eating maze and high velocity fountains are likely classifiable as obstructions rather than as conditions."
"By all means then," Pyotr made a grand sweeping gesture, "Off to the IQA headquarters with you. We'll play Koleva in your place since there's no way you'll be back in time for the match."
"Shut up, Vulchanov. I just think it's unfair."
"What I'm more worried about," the normally reticent Ivan spoke up, "is if something like Alexei's fall happens again."
As a group, their attention swung back to the hedges.
"Definitely a violation." Vasily folded his arms and frowned.
"Why couldn't they have just used the pitch over by the Notre Dame?" Alexei complained. "We're used to it!"
Zograf drummed his fingers against his legs. "The French are exhibitionists. They like to show off."
"Doesn't make it right," Pyotr commented. "This poses a danger to all players, not just visiting players."
"Are you all still complaining?" Islov strode up to them, his usual training outfit replaced by a button up shirt, trousers, and semi-formal robes he hadn't bothered to close with the clasp at the top. "Put your things in the lockers so we can get a move on. The Meet and Greet starts at half ten."
"Aren't you concerned about the pitch at all?" Vasily wanted to know.
"What about it?" Islov asked impatiently. "The French put a ward ten metres up. None of the decorations will interfere with play, even if the hedges have developed a tendency for eating wizards on Wednesdays and weekends. The Catchers will be stationed at their usual spots and both sets of Healers are aware of the added complexity."
Clara looked at him like he was insane. "A tendency for eating wizards?" she echoed. "And you want us to play on top of that?"
"You either play or the second string plays, Ivanova. The match is going to go on with or without you." Islov's matter-of-fact pronouncement nipped any developing rebellion in the bud, and the team bent under his will.
Dangerous pitch or not, Viktor had his routine, and the sooner he started it the better. "What I don't understand," he muttered under his breath to Alexei, "is why we have this Meet and Greet prior to the match. In the past it's always been after."
Shrugging, Alexei replied, "Part of the package of being a professional player, I suppose. We have these during the regular season with the Tengus and they're traditionally pre-match, so I'm used to it."
"I don't like it." Viktor adjusted his robes, an understated navy, to sit straight on his shoulders. "I don't like it at all."
Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder companionably. "It doesn't matter one way or the other, my friend. We've all got to do it, although Pyotr somehow wrangled his way out of it. I think Krasmira wanted to see him?"
"What for?" he demanded. "Isn't he cleared?"
The Chaser shrugged. "I think so. He didn't say he wasn't."
Their conversation was cut short as they were escorted to an apparition point. Moments later, they were in an upscale restaurant—or perhaps a bar?—with enormous windows, industrial wood, and metal tables and seats that were softened with pale linens.
Next to him, Vasily was patting his pockets, an unusually concerned look on his face. "Shite."
"What is it?"
"I must've left my translator charm in my bag." Viktor winced, recalling how Vasily had once told him that he was horrible with languages, especially English, which was problematic since it was the universal language used in international games.
Viktor pursed his lips together, thinking quickly. "You can have mine. My English isn't great, but it's passable."
Vasily looked uncertain. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah." He nodded.
The Chaser blew out a breath, relieved. "Thanks. I owe you one."
"Don't mention it." Quickly, he took the thin bracelet holding the charm flat to the inside of his wrist off and handed it over to the older wizard, who took it with the air of a man whose execution had been stayed.
Licking his lips, Viktor prayed his English lessons that he'd taken on and off over the years at Maika's insistence would pay off. He hadn't been lying when he said his skills weren't great, but he figured this would give him a good estimation of what his baseline was without a charm. After all, he was going to be living in Scotland for almost an entire year, where the only language most people spoke was English, and he didn't want to have to rely on a charm.
Besides, if he wanted to get out of a conversation, he could always pretend incompetence. He smirked.
As soon as they entered the main area of the restaurant, people flowed towards both he and Vasily in an enthusiastic wave. Luckily the team provided security, so Viktor didn't need to concern himself with the possibility of a repeat of that one time in Bucharest. It helped, too, that this gathering was much smaller, and the people were assured that they would all have their chance to talk to him.
It was tiring, still, to try and parse their words before painstakingly constructing a response in English. Luckily, they were patient as he pieced together his responses after he explained he had given his translation charm to someone else, and he was grateful for it. There were, of course, a few who were impolite or even rude about it, but when the two wizards flanking him shifted their weight and gripped their wands a bit tighter, they typically subsided.
"Thanks." Viktor sighed as an American wizard, who had grown agitated when Viktor had been too slow for his tastes, finally left under Sasha and Ruzmena's watchful gazes. "At least things are better than the last time we did this."
Sasha, who had been with the team since Viktor had joined, nodded and leaned forward on his toes a bit. "Gatherings like these are easy. It's the public ones that make me worry."
On his other side, Ruzmena shifted, her alto voice pitched low as she said, "Incoming."
Interested to see what could make the normally unflappable witch give a warning, Viktor looked straight on and saw a girl about his age mincing forward, her hair a shining cascade of silvery-white that reached almost to her waist.
"Like moonbeams," Sasha, who had not a romantic bone in his body, murmured, his voice slightly dazed.
"For Merlin's sake," Ruzmena snapped, exasperated. She reached behind Viktor and tapped Sasha with her wand, muttering something under her breath. Moments later, Sasha stiffened, his face going a ruddy red.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Don't forget your spells next time," his partner chastised. "I swear, Sasha, one of these days you'll see a Veela and do something you regret."
Viktor was more interested in the byplay going on between the two of them than the girl (a Veela, apparently?) approaching him, but they both shut up as she came within earshot.
"'ello," she said pleasantly, her voice clarion clear like a bell. "My name is Fleur Delacour."
He bowed. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Her gaze sharpened at his response and she looked at him assessingly as her mouth, painted a striking vibrant pink, curled into a little smile. "Interessante. Well, it is what it is." She sniffed daintily. "I 'ave 'ad ze pleasure of watching you play before, Mister Krum, and I must say 'ow impressive it was." Her eyes, blue like the summer sky, looked up at him through thick eyelashes. "You must be very strong, non?"
"I train as much as I can," he replied diplomatically. "Quidditch is very, hm," he frowned as he searched for the word in English, failed, and instead ended up saying, "I must vork hard to be good."
She tilted her head to the side, her hair slipping over one shoulder. "I admire zat very much. I was wondering, Mister Krum — may I call you Viktor?" Her accent stretched his name out so it sounded like Veektor, her lips rounding on the last syllable as it were something savoury. "I was wondering if you 'ad any advice for someone 'oo is not too good at flying?"
He thought of Hermione and her repeated refusals to fly with him. "Are you scared of it?"
Shaking her head, Fleur replied, "Ah, non. I am merely, 'ow do you say, trés mauvais. Terrible." She smoothed her skirt in a practiced motion. "I could, per'aps, use some guidance?"
Her eyebrow, a delicate curve on her perfectly proportioned face, arched in an unmistakable question.
Ah. She was one of those types.
"I am sure that you vill find some," he said politely, resisting the urge to pinch his brow. "For now, let me tell you a few charms that haff helped me along the vay for keeping my balance." Quickly, he listed off a few basic charms and how he applied them to his flying, and Fleur's other eyebrow winged up.
"That is very smart and innovative," she commented, her English becoming suspiciously posh as she forgot to layer on her very French, very alluring accent as her interest in the topic at hand grew. "I wonder…'ave you considered applying Williams's Triadic Theorem to the spells?"
He frowned. "Villiams? The vizard out of America in the 1920s? Isn't he an alchemist?"
She nodded, tossing her hair in an absent gesture. "Yes, but the thing is, the Theorem is actually applicable to other areas as well. I think if you applied them to the three spells you just outlined that their effect could be more powerful and longer lasting."
Viktor looked at her for a long time, long enough that she sat back on her heels and her animated look faded a bit. When she spoke again, her accent had grown noticeably thicker. "What are you looking at? Is zere somezing on my face?"
"No," he said evenly, "You are much more appealing ven you are being honest than vhen you are being...French. That is vat I am thinking."
She flicked a hand dismissively, although her smile grew smaller and, he thought, a bit more genuine. "Don't be ridiculous. I am French, and I am being 'onest all ze time."
A minute or so later, Fleur Delacour took her leave of him by giving him one more flirtatious look before swanning off. "I am sure zat we will meet again soon, non?"
He inclined his head. "As you say."
Teeth flashing in an ultra white smile, she left, her heels clicking on the floor as she went to bowl over one of his other teammates with her...allure.
Viktor stared after her, bemused. What an interesting witch.
"A Veela, you say?" he murmured to Ruzmena as heads turned towards her like she was the sun as she passed through the crowd.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. "Not whole, or there would be a bloodbath as everyone went for her. But at the very least, partial. I would guess a quarter? Maybe half?"
"Hm." Interesting. Very interesting indeed.
Soon enough, things wound up and Viktor was thankful for it. His mind was tired of translating things first into Bulgarian and then back into English, and he was ready to focus on things he knew well.
Surreptitiously, Vasily passed Viktor's translation charm back to him with another word of thanks after they returned to the locker room and kitted out. Viktor nodded and pocketed the item as he opened his bag, only to stop short at the sight of a note written in Krasmira's familiar slanted print left on top of his shirt.
Viktor,
As discussed, your mother and Demetrius will be allowed to remain in the visitors' Healing Hall so she might watch you play. The official dispensation came through yesterday evening. I think it is a good compromise, especially given her improvement and how well she has been doing these last few weeks. The three of us will watch over her.
Krasmira
He blew out a breath, elation rising in him. So Maika could watch him after all. Her joke that she'd never missed a match would be able to continue.
"Hey, you coming?" Pyotr, who looked alive and well, knocked a friendly fist on top of his head.
He nodded, folding the parchment and putting it back into his bag. "Of course. Hey, are you feeling alright?"
Pyotr threw him a quizzical look. "Me?"
"Yeah."
Still confused, Pyotr replied, "I'm fine. Why are you asking?"
"You weren't at the Meet and Greet." Viktor shrugged. "I heard that Kras called you in so I wanted to make sure you were good for today, that's all."
"Oh. Yeah, she just wanted to check on my knee," Pyotr said offhandedly as he tapped his right knee, which he had injured last week in a scrimmage. "You know Kras. Always double checking to make sure we're in fighting form."
What Krasmira was was amazing. Viktor didn't know how they'd managed to get a Healer of such calibre on their staff, but he was grateful for her every day. She knew everything, and if she didn't know it, she'd either figure it out or invent a solution.
"But it's fine?" Viktor asked, glancing down at the offending joint.
Pyotr nodded, his smile bright. "Right as rain. I'm all cleared and ready to go."
"I'm glad to hear that." Viktor grabbed his broom in one hand and headed out the door, Pyotr at his side. "I wouldn't want anyone else playing your spot."
Pyotr exhaled a laugh. "Me neither. I'd do anything to play the game today. Anything. I'm sure you feel the same."
His reply was immediate and without thought. "Of course I do. Luckily we're both in good shape thanks to Krasmira, so we don't have to worry so much."
Pyotr's grip tightened on his broom before releasing. "Yeah. You're right. Thank Merlin for that."
Shortly thereafter, they all stretched in the centre of the maze, one of the only places with enough clear space that they could do so, and then broke off to do their pre-match warmups. Viktor did his usual ritual, but he couldn't stop his gaze from going to the visiting team's Healing Hall again and again, his mind distracted by the two women he most wanted to see.
At last he angled his broom down and flew over, the temptation too much to resist. He sighed, knowing it would cause a stir amongst the growing audience as the stands filled up, but it didn't matter to him. Whatever would make sure his head was in the right place was what he needed, and what he needed was to see Hermione and Maika both.
A few moments after he placed his hand on the opaque wall, the one-way window vanished and he stepped in.
"Viktor?" Hermione hurried towards him, her burgundy robes trailing behind her as her expression creased. "Are you all right?"
Unaccountably, he felt his face flush with colour. His hand rose to grip the back of his neck as he cleared his throat. "I'm fine. I just...wanted to see you before the match started. And Maika!" He hurriedly added. "Is she doing all right?"
Hermione's expression cleared. "That's so kind of you to worry about your mum. Yes, she's fine. Demetrius is here with her too, although she insists all of this is overkill. Her words, not mine," she tacked on hastily as Viktor frowned.
"Better to do too much than not enough," he muttered, frustrated that his mother was still so blasé about her health when it was such a precarious thing.
"Don't worry," she reassured him, reaching out a hand and touching his arm. His attention arrowed to the connection, her hand burning him like a brand even through his jersey. In his distraction, he almost missed her last words. "We'll take excellent care of her. Just focus on the game."
Unable to help himself, he covered her hand with his own, his heart thudding in his ears at his gesture. Her eyes widened a little and she watched as her eyes flicked down for a bare instant before meeting his again, a light dusting of pink spreading across the bridge of her nose. "Has Islov caused you any more trouble?"
She shook her head, her plait sliding over her shoulder. "I've not heard a word from him since he came in here and tried to sack me."
"Good." His satisfaction was fierce. "You'd tell me if he did?"
"Viktor," she asked, exasperated, "could you even do anything if he did?"
"No," Krasmira cut in as she joined the conversation, her match-day burgundy robes starched to militant crispness, "but he could tell me, and I could do quite a lot."
Both She and Viktor exchanged wordlessly smug glances before looking back at Hermione. The brown haired witch might be self-reliant to the point of self-sabotage, but the two of them had her covered, even if she didn't think to ask.
Tartly, Hermione replied, "All that is well and good, but let's focus on the matter at hand, shall we?"
At his blank expression, she sighed. "The match, Viktor. The one that you're about to play in an hour? Ring any bells?"
"Yes, what are you even doing here?" Krasmira folded her arms.
Viktor coughed. "Checking on Maika?"
She raised a single brow in response. They both knew Milena was in good hands—the best hands, even. "She's fine. Even if something were to occur, she's literally surrounded by medics. I know that her constitution is delicate and that too much excitement can be problematic, but Viktor—she'll be fine."
He resisted the urge to scuff a shoe on the ground like a little boy. "I know, I know. But she's my mother. I can't help but worry."
"We'll take good care of her, I promise," Hermione promised earnestly. At her words, his shoulders relaxed and he sighed.
"I know. I'm being silly, aren't I? She's watched hundreds of games. It's just that recently…"
"Are you worrying about me again?" His mother strode out of the back, Demetrius at her side. "Viktor Grigoriev Krum, stop wasting your breath and get onto that field right now."
"Maika…"
Milena Krum folded her arms, her eyes narrowed. "Don't Maika me, young man. We've all done far too much to appease your worries and yet you've still somehow managed to work yourself up. Get out of here and onto that field, or I'll not come to your next match."
He blanched. "You wouldn't."
"Try me. If I'm distracting you from doing your best, then I can't come, easy as that. So." She pointed. "Out. Now."
Reluctantly, he removed his hand from where it had held onto Hermione's and picked up his broom from where he'd leaned it against the end of a bed. "I'm going, I'm going."
"Good. Now go out there and beat them, and remember not to get caught up in Gustafson's wake when they inevitably do the Björn Blizzard."
"Yes, mother," he nodded obediently. Next to Milena, both Hermione and Demetrius were hiding smiles, neither of them very successfully, and he held that picture in his mind as he kicked off and flew back up into blue skies dotted with long, lazy clouds.
They all knew the match was going to be fierce, especially against the Nordic team who was famous for their combination moves. The team had studied the Nords in depth, dissecting the most recent games and using Pensieves to examine memories of past games.
From these studies, Viktor knew that Lundstrom, the Seeker, had mastered both the Haversham Spiral and the Izenbard Lunge, but he also knew that Lundstrom favoured a slower broom because it had greater dexterity. Lundstrom was excellent, it was true, but it was also true that she was no Konrad Weiss, and Viktor was fairly certain that he could outfly her so long as he remained vigilant and kept his head down.
By the time the match started, Viktor was locked into the proper mindset, all his ties to the earth falling away like trivialities as he became a being of the wind and sky. His body felt melded to his broom, his hands fused to the wood as his feet pushed against the metal stirrups.
Just as he had seen thousands of times before, the snitch rose out of the trunk in a gleam of golden, fluttering wings before it shot off, and just like he had done for most of his life Viktor chased after it, his entire being bent to his task.
Both the press and his fans had often asked him about what it was like to chase the snitch, and he never had a good answer for them. Nothing that would satisfy them, at least, as it was all very mundane. Unfortunately, he didn't have a secret formula or strategy: most of his success could be boiled down to a finely honed instinct borne of practice and obsessive study.
For one, he knew all the different manufacturers of snitches and their quirks and behaviours. Qin's snitches had a flutter rate of 722 beats per minute, making it faster than Lewis and Clarke's, which had a rate of 684. Zapata's snitches out of Argentina were known for their tendency to follow more geometric patterns of flights, preferring angular patterns as opposed to smoother circular patterns seen in snitches that came from Heikkinen's snitches.
It was this kind of knowledge that let him tailor his response to the snitch in each game. As soon as he successfully identified the make, he knew better how to track it. His obsessive practice with each type had helped him create a set of approaches and manoeuvres that he knew were most efficient, and so it was that he knew this snitch was likely out of Finland due to the slightly smoother path it cut through the sky.
Unfortunately, this type often required more spirals than the other types, which Lundstrom was extremely proficient at. Fortunately for Viktor, though, his broom was faster than Lundstrom's, so he could outpace her. It would be better, however, if he could approach from a different angle to intercept the snitch and remove her from the equation altogether.
He was flying high above the match when one of the players flew in front of him and he lost the snitch, his eyes scanning the sky. The sun was approaching the horizon as dusk approached, the wash of reds and oranges making it difficult to catch the golden glint against the variation of colours.
There!—a glint by the goal post as a stray ray of the sun hit it just right. He was off, arrowing towards Helstrom as the Keeper lunged to catch a Quaffle that Clara threw at a hoop. His vision narrowed to the speck in the distance, everything else taking on an indistinct blur as he sped towards it, hunched over his broom.
A flash of an ice blue jersey, a warning yell, and then he was blindsided, one of the players hitting him side on as they reached out with their bat to hit a Bludger. They went tumbling down, their brooms locked as their robes flapped around them while they scrambled to disentangle each other, cursing the whole time. Moments later they split apart, Viktor's ribs on his left a spike of agony as he inhaled and his left ankle throbbing.
"Fuck!" He exhaled sharply, trying to reorient himself, and regretted it moments later as his chest protested the action.
Fine. He didn't need perfect ribs to get the snitch. When push came to shove, all he needed was excellent vision, functioning hands, and pure grit and determination.
Grimly, he looked around, ignoring the roar of the crowd as Vasily handled the free throw the foul had given them and raked in ten more points. Well, good. At least they got something out of that collision.
And then—out of the corner of his eye, the hint of a glimmer—there!
He was off again, pressed down against his broom as low as he could go. Ahead of him, the snitch went up in a gradual arc, its wings fluttering like mad as it climbed and climbed until it threatened to join the ranks of stars beginning to wink into the sky. Accordingly, he adjusted his trajectory, his angle growing ever steeper and the noise of the crowd growing quieter as he flew higher.
As if sensing his presence, the snitch veered left, then swung right before abruptly plummeting, and Viktor hurtled towards the ground, the hedges coming up to meet him in a rush of greens and browns before he pulled up. The strange warmth of the air alerted him to the wards Islov had mentioned earlier as he skated over them, the invisible spells the only thing separating him and the hedges. The snitch sped ahead of him, almost skipping as it hopped up and down in the air like a rock skipping along the surface of the lake.
He smiled small and tight as he drew closer. The skip, while disjointed in movement, slowed the snitch down in forward speed, and he hunched over as the golden ball came into arm's reach, and then—
His fingers skimmed one of the wings and he twisted his hand at the wrist just slightly so he could grasp the body more firmly. The heat of the snitch burned against his palm even through his gloves, and then it abruptly cooled into something more palatable as the wings shuddered and collapsed in to fold around the body.
He'd caught it.
The game was over.
Around him, noise crescendoed and collapsed in on him like a tsunami of sound as he heaved in gulps of air. "Krum, Krum, Krum, Krum!"
Bent over, his lungs burning as the pain in his chest suddenly became top of mind, he nonetheless raised the hand holding the snitch in the air. The roar grew louder, if possible, and he looked up to see a concerned Ivan and Vasily draw up even with him.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Witches and Wizards, Bulgaria has won the semifinal and is advancing to the Quidditch World Cup Finals!"
Loud booms erupted and sparkling fireworks of burgundy and silver floated through the air as the stadium erupted in chanting and singing.
"Viktor," Ivan had to yell over the noise, "are you okay?"
Slowly, he nodded. "I think so. My ribs—"
Vasily came in closer, his hand reaching out to grip Viktor's broom, and touched a metal piece at the tip of the handle. It glowed and turned a deep blue, and Viktor knew that Krasmira and Hermione had been alerted and would be waiting for him.
"Do you need help?" the Beater asked him directly, hazel eyes worried.
"I—" he hesitated, loath to ask for it, before giving in. "An escort would be nice."
Wordlessly, Vasily hooked his foot into Viktor's stirrup and maintained his grip on the broom handle with his left hand, his right hand firmly grasping his own.
"It was Hansen," Vasily told him as they banked left and down. "He wasn't looking—well, he was looking all right, but he was trying to get a good angle to hit the Bludger at Alexei. Doesn't matter." He flashed his teeth, his expression mean and vengeful. "Pyotr and Ivan got him good for you, and I got us a nice easy goal. Thanks for that."
"What was the score?"
"370-130." Viktor grinned at Vasily's reply. It hadn't even been close.
They approached the entrance to the visitor's Healing Hall. Krasmira and Hermione were outside, their burgundy robes a welcome sight.
"When I said not to worry about your mother," Krasmira commented as they came within hearing distance, "that was not blanket permission to go get yourself pummelled so you could come check on her again."
Though her words were tart, her magic was warm as she immediately cast a pain-relieving spell on him. "Can you dismount on your own?"
He nodded, though he groaned as the movement made something inside him scrape together.
Next to her, Hermione cast the long-familiar vitals spell, his stats presented to both Healers as pale lavender numbers floating in the air. Krasmira took a cursory look at them and then asked, "Which side did he hit you on?"
"Left side. My ribs and my ankle..."
Surreptitiously, Krasmira cast a featherlight spell on him before casting a levitation spell on him. "Pretend to walk," she told him. Viktor nodded, knowing that the more normal he appeared, the less press they would get on the impact of his potential injury. More importantly, though, it would make Maika less concerned if she were to see him walking in on his own power.
His feet hovered just barely over the grass as he 'walked' in, and the moment they were over the threshold the window went back up and they were hidden from public view, the noise of the crowd muffled. His shoulders slumped in relief and he allowed himself to breathe in light pants: anything deeper was too painful, even with the pain-relieving spell that Krasmira had cast on him moments earlier.
As soon as he laid flat on the bed, Krasmira released the spells and scanned his torso, a projection of his thoracic cavity floating over him. "Well," she said after a moment, "you've got one broken and two fractured ribs and a bruised liver. Luckily, the broken rib didn't perforate anything."
Another quick scan, this time of his ankle, and she added, "Your ankle is sprained as well, but that's an easy fix. A few potions for that and all you'll feel is a lingering soreness for a day or so. The ribs, though...well. That's going to hurt."
You've got two options," she continued. "We can either mend the rib now and put you on some light pain relieving potions for the next few days as it all heals up, or we can drug you and gradually heal it over the next few days. Unfortunately, we can't Vanish and regrow the ribs because they're structural support and will run the risk of collapsing your lung. Well, we can, but that's only in dire situations." She looked slightly sympathetic. "You don't fall in that category."
"The first one," he said immediately. "I don't even know why anyone would do the second."
"Healing it all in one go is more painful," Hermione spoke up for the first time, her tone clinical.
"But it allows for more ease of movement, right?"
"Yes." Krasmira clasped her hands behind her back as she explained, "You'll be able to do most of your daily routine — aside from practice for a day or two — with minimal impact."
He nodded. "Yes. I want that."
"Very well. This will be painful," she warned.
He shrugged. "I've probably had worse."
"Merlin save me from macho Quidditch players," Krasmira muttered. Fixing him with a commanding look, she ordered, "Lie down."
Obediently, he followed her instructions, gingerly letting his torso rest against the starched sheets.
"Vitya?" His mother's voice accompanied the sound of her footsteps as they heralded her approach. "What's going on?"
"Madam Krum," Krasmira said politely, "I must ask you to step behind the curtains."
"I'm fine, Maika," he reassured his mother, who appeared alarmed as the colour rapidly fled her face. "It's merely a minor injury that they're fixing."
"Minor? How minor?"
"A few bruised ribs, that's all."
Above him, Hermione and Krasmira exchanged glances. He refused to feel bad for playing it down so that Maika wouldn't worry, his mouth firming.
"Shall we get on with it?" he asked pointedly.
"Would you like me to cast a silencing spell?" Krasmira inquired.
His mother frowned, her brow creasing. "Whatever for?"
"Nothing," he replied shortly. He remembered Vasily telling him once of how Krasmira had cast a Silencio once when he was undergoing a particularly painful bone mending treatment and hadn't wanted to wake Clara, who had been sleeping off a concussion after being dosed for it. "Don't worry." He gazed up at the Healer. "It won't be necessary."
"Viktor—"
"I said it won't be necessary. Now, please, can we just get this started and over with?"
Looking displeased, Krasmira nonetheless pulled the curtains shut. "Very well."
Shortly thereafter, she began instructing Hermione on the mechanics of what they were going to do, Hermione nodding intently as she followed along. When the explanation at last wound up, Krasmira turned to him and told him to try and hold his breath for as long as possible, as it would help them repair his ribs.
"And for the love of Merlin," she ordered him, "do not move once I begin. It could be dangerous for you."
He nodded, and then she began casting in slow, sweeping movements, her wand held parallel to his torso. A dull heat began to throb in his side, and he gritted his teeth as it increased. Against his will, a grunt escaped, and then as he felt his ribs literally start to shift, he groaned, the sound deep and agonized.
"Viktor?" His mother's worried voice came through, and he closed his eyes. He had to remain quiet. "Viktor?"
Abruptly, something scraped together in his chest as a result of Krasmira''s actions. His head snapped back at the sudden, excruciating pain even as a chime went off, and he gave a short yell. "Ah, there we go," the Healer announced, satisfied. "I've aligned them. And not even a punctured lung to show for it. That last bit was tricky."
On the other side of the curtain, there was a thud, and then Demetrius cursed.
"Maika?" Alarmed, Viktor craned his head towards the noise and even tried to sit up. A stern hand pushed him back down, and he looked up at Krasmira, who was glaring at him and shaking her head as she continued an incantation she had just begun.
When no response was forthcoming from where his mother and Demetrius had been, Viktor tried once more to get up, caring far more about the ominous silence than his own health. Moments later, restraints snaked up over his shoulders and across his hips, and he couldn't move if he tried. "Let me go," he demanded, craning his head even further to try and catch a glimpse of his mother. "I need to see Maika."
"We're almost done," Hermione assured him, her focus totally on him as she manipulated something in his side. Neither she nor Krasmira had looked behind them, too involved in what they were doing to be distracted.
The pain grew until it was almost unbearable, his chest feeling as though molten iron were being poured on it. His hands dug into the bed, his back arching, and then, suddenly, somehow, it stopped, leaving only an echoing soreness that worsened when he breathed in.
"Let me go," he commanded again, his hands scrabbling at the restraints.
"But Viktor, we're not done—"
"Let. Me. Go." He snapped at Hermione, who flinched before looking at Krasmira.
"We need to do your ankle and then dose you," the Healer told him calmly, unperturbed by Viktor's anger.
"Krasmira," Demetrius said from across the room, "I would like your assistance if you can."
Black brows furrowed on the witch's face briefly before she turned, her burgundy robes spinning out behind her as she left Viktor's bedside. "Give him the potions," she instructed Hermione. "You know which ones."
Hermione's eyes widened, and then she bit her lip, thinking hard. "I'll be right back," she said, and then she was gone, too, leaving Viktor trapped on the bed and frantic to know about his mother.
"What's wrong with Maika?" he demanded to know. "Is she okay?"
Moments later, Demetrius replied, "She's just had a bit of overexcitement, I think." His tone was calm. Too calm. It was the same tone he had used when Kosta had fallen off his broom and been impaled by a tree branch when Viktor was a boy.
That tone meant bad things.
Hermione appeared back by his side, a handful of potions clutched to her chest. "Here we are," she said, placing them carefully on the table by his head. "I've got a—"
"I don't care what you've got," he snapped. "Give them to me so I can go, or so help me—"
"I think that she should be seen by Mitkov," Demetrius was saying. "He specializes in things like this, and I want a second opinion."
"I can't believe...like this," Krasmira's reply was too low for Viktor to hear, especially with Hermione saying, "I know you want to go, but you have to drink them all, Viktor. You must."
He exhaled. "Fine. The faster I drink them, the faster I can see to Maika. Release the restraints so I can drink them while you measure them out."
She blinked. "Really?
"Yes, really. Mia, for the love of Merlin, give me the damned potions." He growled.
In the background, he could hear Demetrius's muted voice. "She insisted...against my recommendation, I might...the floo open?"
"...not sure about the international floo." For once, Krasmira sounded unsure. "We may have to go to L'hôpital de la Miséricorde and floo from there."
Hermione carefully measured out the doses, and as soon as she gave each phial to him he threw it back. Even as he felt things moving around inside him, flaring with heat and pain and some strange mintiness, he was on his feet, rushing past Hermione without a thought.
The sight of his mother collapsed on the bright golden wood in a pool of burgundy and gold robes was one he would never forget. "Maika," he said, choked, as he collapsed to his knees beside the Healers. "Maika, please wake up." When no response was forthcoming, he looked at Demetrius and then Krasmira. "What's wrong with her? Why isn't she waking up?"
Edited: 2/13/21