Viktor came to pick him up half an hour later. Harry, changed and ready, grabbed his Firebolt and followed Krum out of the hallway and down a staircase. He was pleased to see that Viktor was carrying the same model broomstick, used in the Quidditch World Cup.
The Quidditch World Cup. What Harry wouldn't give to play on that team one day…
"So how was playing on a professional Quidditch team?" Harry asked, trying to make conversation as they headed out a back entrance to the Quidditch field.
"I vas very happy vhen I made the team. But I have a lot of schoolvork, so I cannot train as much as my teammates. I try my best, though," Krum said, shrugging. He didn't seem very bothered by the fact that he was an international Quidditch star, working with some of the best players on the planet. Harry was trying very hard to not fangirl.
"Who did you say was coming again, to play with us?"
Viktor scratched his face with his free hand. "Silva, Yates, and Frey. They've been my buddies for many years. Vhen I first get here, they are very nice to me. Like Cedric," he added as an afterthought. Harry's stomach clenched.
The Quidditch pitch was cast in shadows by the time they reached it. Wispy dark clouds painted the dusky sky.
Unlike the Hogwarts field, Durmstrang's Quidditch field had only a few short rows of bleachers (which made sense, seeing that Durmstrang had less students). The goal hoops loomed high over their heads. People on broomsticks swooped through them, their robes flapping in the wind. They flew with a predatory feel, leaning flat against their broomstick handles and squinting against the wind as they hurtled towards the ground. Harry tried not to flinch at the thud they made.
Viktor made introductions, and Harry (though he wasn't proud to admit it) was relieved to see that no one had a broom superior to his. It made him feel a little better, because he was nervous about the skill of these players. There was a tall, blond boy, leanly built, who introduced himself as Silva. Frey was a slightly weedier player with dark burgundy hair and an absurd amount of freckles. He was silent, however, and only gave Harry a nod.
"Ve are waiting for one more, I think," Krum said, scanning the skies with one hand shielding his eyes.
Suddenly, a silhouette on a broomstick appeared out of the sky, zooming towards the ground in a perfectly controlled dive, and dismounted smoothly. The speed took Harry's breath away.
"Gilvan!" Viktor said, doing a sort of one-armed hug.
"Hey," said Gilvan to Harry. "Nice to meet you. I'm Yates. Gilvan Yates."
"Nice-nice to meet you too." Harry shook his hand. Gilvan tilted his head from side to side, getting cricks out of his powerful neck.
Yates looked about the same age as Viktor, both tall and hulking. Harry felt like a gnome in comparison.
"I hope you don't mind; I brought an extra person," Yates said to Krum, pointing his thumb back behind him.
A muscled girl on a broom came shooting into the field, a couple feet off the ground, unlike the male players that dropped in from above. Her dark hair was cropped short in a practical bob, and the impressive muscles in her arms flexed as she directed her broom.
"Hi! I'm Zoey Veruca, nice to meet you all." She nodded around at everyone, eyes glinting. She stayed mounted on her broom, legs braced against the ground in a defensive stance.
Harry thought, despite the cheery introduction, that she had the Pansy Parkinson feeling, like she was nice on the outside but a mean and nasty person on the inside. But he wasn't going to make assumptions until he knew her better.
They warmed up with a few laps around the field, in an unofficial race. Harry soared on his Firebolt, an elated grin plastered on his face. The wind whipped through his hair, and he whooped out loud.
Several of the Dursmtrang students gave him understanding looks, then leaned forward and zoomed ahead. Harry, desperate to catch up and prove himself to the older players, urged his broomstick faster and faster. His breaths came in short gasps, cold air rasping through his throat and lungs.
They looped in and out the goal hoops, made figure-eight patterns, and flew so high they almost touched the clouds. Harry hadn't flown so happily and well in a long time. The more experienced players pushed him to do better, and it was Harry's first time being the worst player on the field. Determination seized him in its iron grasp and he gritted his teeth against the stinging wind.
When they all landed back on the ground, Harry was flushed and feeling ready.
Viktor divided them into two teams and magicked some makeshift Quidditch balls for them to play with.
Since there weren't enough people for real teams, there was no Seeker position. Harry was assigned a Chaser, and they were off once again. Harry kicked off as hard as he could, shooting into the air.
The Dursmtrangs flew like bullets. Fast, hard and unrelenting, Harry's neck cramped trying to keep his eyes on everyone at once as they swooped around him, communicating in the way only true players could. Harry was desperate to get into the game and be part of it.
They moved so fluidly the Quaffle was just a blur in the evening sky. Harry twisted around midair to see where it was-
"Harry!" Viktor yelled, and lobbed the ball towards him. Harry turned his Firebolt towards it and flew as fast as he could, but Veruca blocked him, shoving him out of the way, and snatched the ball, then threw it through the goal hoop for the first goal of the evening.
The people on Harry's team groaned good-naturedly, patting him on the back. They flew off.
Disappointment and the feeling of letting down his team weighed on Harry's mind as he flew back towards the ground with the rest of the group for a quick break.
He panted, sweat running down his face, and gave his Firebolt a grateful pat. He'd just have to try harder and be more fierce on the field.
Many of the other players had Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, yet they outstripped Harry and flew circles around him. When they took to the air again, Harry started with the ball and passed it off to one of his teammates, who immediately passed it back for Harry to make an unexpected goal.
Harry thrust both fists into the air with a whoop of victory. The other players (both on his team and not) fist-bumped him in congratulations. He could feel some of the old thrill coming back. His hair whipped off his forehead from the wind as he grinned, taking a celebratory lap. There were some stares at his scar, and Harry thought of Voldemort for the first time in a long time. He'd been having too much fun flying. He wasn't going to let bad memories ruin this experience for him.
They had several more fast-paced scrimmages, Frey and Veruca scoring most of the goals and Silva making the most successful passes. At the end of their practice session, Harry was feeling thoroughly beaten and tired. It was illuminating to play with such talented people, to help him improve, and such. Sweat soaked his shirt. His Firebolt felt slippery in his loose grasp. His legs, arms and torso felt numb and sore after spending a couple hours in the air.
As they all trooped off the pitch, Veruca drew him aside.
"Nice flying, Potter. You're pretty good for someone so small."
"Thanks," Harry said, a bit wary. Veruca was the brute of the bunch, shoving, intimidating, and unafraid to be violent in order to gain possession of the ball. Harry kept a safe distance away, noting the thick bands of muscle that wrapped around her arms and torso. She could crush him like a bug if she wanted to.
Viktor and his friends peeled away from the group, leaving Harry alone with Zoey Veruca. She held her broomstick casually, swinging slightly from her large hand.
"So what's Hogwarts like? Me dad was going to send me there, before he decided on Durmstrang."
"Hogwarts is...not the same. We learn things slightly differently."
"I suppose you don' learn about the Dark Arts?"
"Oh, er, no. We have a Defense Against the Dark Arts class, though."
Veruca snorted. "Defense? We don' have anything like that. We don' need anything like that."
Harry was liking her less and less. She was reminding him of Malfoy. Cocky and ignorant.
"Say," she said suddenly. "Why d'you hang out with that Mudbloo-Muggle born anyway? It's not like she's any good."
Harry was taken aback. "Hermione? She's my best friend and the best witch in our year!" He said defensively.
"Oh, okay! No need to get all worked up. I just...er...we don't take kind like them here. Karkaroff never liked her with Viktor anyways." She smirked. "The others, they're pureblood. They're okay. Hogwarts is twisted." She said meanly, giving him a strong Malfoy-crossed-with-Parkinson vibe. The false sweetness of Parkinson and the cruelty and unfairness of Malfoy.
Harry glared at her. "It doesn't matter what family you came from or what blood you have as long as you're a good person on the inside. She's just as good as any of us, if not better."
He left Veruca standing there and stomped up the stairs to his room, then flung himself on the bed, his insides churning.