This fic is dedicated to ReineP, who won the ficlet giveaway for my 150 followers give away for Hunting Shadows. She mentioned meet cute, and this story contains not one, but two of them. Hope you like it, ReineP!
Note: It is complete at 3 chapters, which I'll finish getting up by the end of this week.
P.S. This story does not take itself seriously whatsoever (I have done no research and made no timelines) and is totally gratuitous fluff. The other working title was 'the adventures of broomstick girl and boggart boy' no I'm not even kidding lol smh these two idiots kill me...with love 3 3
The crisp fall air was a relief to Viktor, who had been hoping for a day such as this to go flying. The past few days had been rather wretched, with howling winds and sheets of rain. Even he, who was willing to go flying in the most inclement weather, found himself dissuaded. Scotland, it seemed, was far more dreary than he had expected. The weather was poor, the castle was grey and damp, and the students were all too starstruck to hold an intelligent conversation about anything but Quidditch.
Not that he disliked Quidditch, mind you, but to be pigeonholed as a one subject wizard was rather disheartening. He had other interests, but nobody outside of the Durmstrang delegation seemed interested in discussing them with him, preferring instead to lurk from a distance and watch him with wide eyes. Those brave enough to approach were typically stuck on his title of Most Brilliant Flyer of the Twentieth Century and tended to ask for autographs, flying advice, or a combination of the two.
Really, it was rather depressing, and he was stuck here for seven more months with them. Perhaps even more alarming was the looming spectre of fighting a dragon, which would happen in the next few weeks.
In short, things were not looking up.
In a sudden burst of misplaced optimism, he looked out the library window in the hopes that it still wasn't raining in sheets so he could go flying.
It was.
He sighed and scooted forward in his chair a bit, bending over the Grimoire of Moste Fearce and Foule Beasts. While the spelling in the ancient tome left much to be desired, he hoped it would keep him alive and distract him from the two girls he could hear giggling three rows down in the Herbology section.
An hour or so later, it was nearing lunch time, his back was hurting, and the rain had stopped.
The cursory look he had cast at the window was so brief he had to look again. Once he was convinced that it had, in fact, stopped raining, he was out of the library like a shot, the giggling girls, dragons, and a small amount of self-pity left behind in favor of the outdoors.
Once he was in the air, the brisk fall wind grabbing at his robes, he truly relaxed as he took in the view. It was truly spectacular, with a forest on one side, a giant, a seemingly endless lake on the other, and a stately castle behind him.
"Yes, this is exactly what I needed," he said to himself. Just him, the sweet fall air, and the girl hurtling past him crying bloody murder.
Wait.
The girl in question zipped by him in a series of erratic moves, the broom hurtling upwards before spinning downwards. The witch was a flurry of flapping hair, streaming robes, and shouted invectives.
For a moment, he watched in horrified fascination at what was, quite possibly, the worst flying he had ever seen.
A particularly nasty sideways jigger by the broom caused the incredibly inept girl to almost lose her hold, and Viktor sprung into action, speeding towards her to try and prevent her unseemly—and untimely—demise.
With an ease born out of years of flying, he came in fast and close to fly by her side, stopping on a knut as he reached out to grab the handle of her broom.
"Stop struggling," he instructed, "and the broom will stop resisting."
Breathless and wild-eyed, she looked at him. "Are you kidding me? The broom is trying to kill me!"
"It's reacting to your fear," he told her, nodding at the chokehold she had on it. "If you loosen your grip, it vill settle down."
Disbelieving, she nevertheless painstakingly (and excruciatingly slowly) relaxed her hands from around the handle. Sure enough, the broom stopped juddering under her.
"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.
Brown eyes that glinted amber in the sun's light glared at him. "Of course I would be caught by the bloody international Quidditch star," she huffed, grabbing on to the broom more tightly than necessary as she perilously wobbled again. "As if this wasn't already embarrassing enough."
"I'm sorry?" he asked, slightly disbelieving.
Pushing back a hank of absolutely out-of-control chestnut hair, the witch looked at him, slightly embarrassed. "I lost a bet, you see," she explained, "and my punishment was to get on a broom. There's a reason I don't get on brooms, but do they ever listen? No. Of course they don't."
She sniffed, dainty nose pointed in the air. "I could've died, and they'd still all be laughing away at Hermione Granger and the Unfortunate Broom Incident. Anyways, thanks for, er, catching me." A tight, polite grimace. "I'll just be going now."
"Wait—" he called after her, myriad questions at the tip of his tongue. Unfortunately, she was already plodding away, her back straight on the broom in an attempt to be dignified even as she held the handle in an inappropriately tight chokehold yet again. He hadn't the heart to chase after her, given her obvious mortification, and instead watched her slow, meandering return to the grounds from a distance.
"Ridiculous," he murmured as she performed a clumsy dismount. "A true travesty of flying."
As he watched her gingerly pick her broom up before heading inside, the image of her hurtling by him in a flurry of flying hair and flapping robes came to the forefront of his mind.
For the first time since he'd come to Hogwarts several weeks ago, he found himself smiling.
She really was truly wretched at flying.
o-O-o
Later that evening, he was comfortably ensconced at a table in the library in a place so far out of the way that he wasn't sure most people knew it existed. He was grateful for its existence as it allowed him to study unmolested; it also afforded a nice view of the Quidditch pitch through a recessed, arched window.
It seemed, however, that his time alone was about to end. For the past fifteen minutes, someone had been watching him. He wasn't sure who, but he would bet it was one of his extremely persistent fans. However, he wasn't all that bothered by it since he had managed to get a surprising amount of work done that day, which he attributed it all to his new study space.
Moments later, his prediction was borne out. A stiff, controlled, and familiar voice said, "Excuse me."
Slowly, he turned around, and there she was: the girl who had tried her model best to have the first flying death at Hogwarts in 126 years.
She was actually fairly cute, he noted, now that she wasn't scared out of her mind and disheveled from being thrown every which way. Her hair, while still a bit crazy, was actually a glorious riot of curls that begged to be pulled so he could see if they sprang back. It framed a thin, somewhat angular face that housed faintly almond shaped eyes with a slight tip up at the edges. The intelligence lurking within them made them sparkle brightly, and he was drawn in despite himself.
"Hello," he greeted. "It is good to see you on solid ground, yes?"
Almost instantly, her face went up in flames, and the slight tenseness that had been running through her short, lean body ratcheted up. She drew into herself, and the light in her eyes dimmed a little. "Yes. Very nice." Abruptly, she pointed at one of the tomes on the desk and asked, "Are you using that?"
He frowned, glancing over at the book. "Ah, the treatise on Transfigurations Seen Across the World? No. I haff finished vith it."
"Great. May I please borrow it? I've been looking for it for ages." Her tone implied her minor irritation with the fact.
"Of course." He held it out to her and she grabbed it, but he refused to let go, trying to think of a way to speak with her longer and to rid her of her irritation with him.
As it became clear that he wasn't going to let go, she looked up from the book to him, and he took his chance. "I am sorry. I haff offended you vith my comment?"
Marginally, her expression softened. "No, I'm sorry," she apologized after a long moment. "It's just...it was very embarrassing for anyone to see me that way. I'm really quite terrified of flying, actually, and you're...well, we all know that you're not."
He huffed a laugh. "Yes, but I am bad at other things." Leaning forward, he said, "I am scared of boggarts."
Incredulously, she drew back. "Boggarts?"
Emphatically, he nodded. "Very much."
"But they're third year beasts!" she exclaimed. "You can get rid of them easily, just by—" Catching herself, she stopped and bit her lip. "Thanks for telling me that."
He let go of the book, and she stepped back. "Ve all have our fears, strange and stupid as they might seem. Do not let them get the best of you."
After a long, assessing look, she slowly inclined her head. "That's a good point." And with that, she walked away.
Viktor stared after her, feeling curiously bereft but slightly intoxicated at the same time.
Who was she?