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strangeness & charm.
act one, are you satisfied?
chapter two, weight of worlds.

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VIKTOR KRUM
january 1994
(five months prior)

       IVORY SNOW CAPPED THE VAST MOUNTAIN SCAPE IN THE DISTANCE.

      The snowfall had ceased days beforehand, yet snowflakes hovered thickly in the air like icicles dangled from some invisible ledge, making visibility a foreign dream. The lake in between the nearest two mountains stood rigid, frozen solid from the bitter temperatures. Frigid winds whipped across the surface of the ice, warding off any living creature that dared to venture near it with a harsh whisper. Frost had settled in thick layers on the limbs of the pines that stood on the lake's banks; if there were any remaining needles on the fingers of the branches, it would remain a mystery until a thaw graced the terrain.

      Viktor Krum felt as though he were one with the landscape that stretched beneath him. From where he stood upon a stone balcony hundreds of miles from the snow-covered mountain range, he, too, bore the weight of a thousand pounds of rock-hard sleet - metaphorically, speaking.

      Flaked snow was now a permanent fixture upon the fur around his shoulders after his nearly eight years of life in the Russian mountains, as was the stoic expression he donned, even now. Both had served him well - the snow kept the warmth at bay, and the expression... well, it did wonders at keeping the people at bay.

      Durmstrang Institute, a seemingly formidable fortress, stood in one of many valleys within the Ural Mountains, one of the gargantuan and seemingly never-ending mountain ranges of northern Russia. Though the valley enclosed the school, it felt as though there was no end to the miles and miles of the school's official grounds. Parts of the scenery within the grounds, however - glaciers, polar bears, landslides - did little to encourage the students of Durmstrang to explore them. Viktor had pondered about venturing outside the castle walls quite often during his years at the school, as did most students, but had never summoned enough courage (nor, stupidity, he thought) to do so. Besides, he had a heavy enough load to shoulder without the image of a polar bear's jaws wrapped around his torso.

      And that heavy load to bear... he wasn't convinced any person but himself fathomed just how substantial it was. The stress of his education was manageable - he was a bright student with bright prospects and the full support of his family and those around him. No, it wasn't school that burdened him so. The position of an international quidditch prodigy was no easy place to reside.

      Perhaps that made him ungrateful - he hoped it didn't. He had joined the Bulgarian Quidditch team due to his love for the sport, for the way his heart glided on a broomstick. The worldwide attention on him at all times, however, was something he naively hadn't anticipated, nor asked for. Now, after two successful years in the league and the start of his career, he had lost a manager of his team to a dreadful case of dragon pox and had no decent contenders to take his place. As if that fact weren't enough, he was meant to depart Durmstrang in a mere five days to begin practice for the Quidditch World Cup, in which the Bulgarian team was set to compete against Ireland.

      Viktor inhaled deeply and welcomed the icy Russian air that assaulted his nostrils and lungs. There was nothing on Earth that could compare to that feeling. The rush of frigid wind into his system cleared his head like nothing else could. His sinuses seemed to drain, his eyesight sharpened, and any drowsiness that lingered from such heavy thoughts was swept away as he breathed back out.

      A deep, archaic bell rang out, echoing across the mountain facets, and reverberated against the stone beneath Viktor's feet. His eyes found the clock perched upon a bookshelf nearby that confirmed the hour. Viktor stole one last glance at the icy scenery beyond the balcony, then closed the glass doors and turned on his heel.

....

      The dining hall bustled with a cacophony of voices that seemed to rise to the rafters. Viktor's eyes absorbed the scene before him from where he sat at the edge of the room; the tables, which were the full length of the hall, were filled with Durmstrang students, all with a heavy mead in hand. He was quite tempted to jinx every mead tankard out of his classmates' grasp, for their rowdy behavior had long begun to cause a headache.

      The hall, typically decorated blandly, sported vivid, maroon banners that hung upon all four walls. The Durmstrang crest, consisting of two majestic eagles facing one another, was plastered on any surface it could be shoved onto - the banners, the goblets, even the staff's pointed hats donned the symbol. A magnificent bouquet of maroon dahlias sat in a golden, handled vase on the staff table, which rested on a raised platform at the front of the room.

      The school officials had announced the mandatory attendance of a celebratory gathering the day prior, and it had taken everything within Viktor not to feign illness when the time came to attend. He would have done so, if not for his primary Quidditch advisor and personal trainer, who had all but forced him to attend and now sat to the left of him.

      With a groan so low only he could hear it, Viktor leaned an inch to his left to reach the ear of Harlan Veryan.

      "What is taking so long?" He muttered, and Harlan made a tsk sound masked by his breath.

      "Patience, Viktor. You have five days left to enjoy this - I suggest you do just that."

      Viktor fought back the strangled noise that begged to escape his throat at Harlan's words.

      "Enjoy... this." He made no effort to hide the disdain laced in his voice.

      Harlan merely shook his head. In all his years, he had never come upon a teenage boy so intent on being, well, the opposite of a teenage boy.

      As though summoned by the two men's words, the Durmstrang Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, emerged from his place behind the employee dining table and lifted his long, wooden staff in the air. The hall fell deathly silent as though it were empty; all eyes rested upon the man at the front of the room.

      "Good evening. How grateful we are that you all received our newsletter. I can't tell you all how glad I am to see you... enjoying yourselves," Karkaroff said, his voice rising and falling in rough tones, and a grin broke across his features.

      Laughter erupted across the hall and many students raised their tankards in the air as an acknowledgement. Karkaroff raised a hand, and silence fell again.

      "As much as I would like to say that we called this gathering simply to celebrate, I must guide us to approach the true meaning behind this meeting tonight."

      Viktor's gaze flitted across the faces of his classmates, each one enraptured by their headmaster. He had always found their allegiance to him odd if nothing else.

      "It is my great pleasure to announce that the Triwizard Tournament will resume its annual occurrence this year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

       Viktor's heart stumbled. A wave of gasps and whispers erupted across the group that not even Karkaroff could silence with a raise of a hand or a staff.

      "I expect most of you understand the meaning behind this tournament - however, as Durmstrang has never, er... triumphed in this tournament, I would not blame those who do not." Disdain laced Karkaroff's voice at the memory. "For those of you who do not know, the Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European wizarding schools: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion is selected from each school from its pool of students, and the three champions compete in a series of magical trials. A rather intriguing idea. Even so, the tournament was halted due to the insurmountable death toll."

      Viktor swallowed hardly. Death toll.

      "This year, the Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided to rekindle this old flame for another run. All three schools have worked tirelessly with the Ministry of Magic to ensure that all trials are made so that no student finds him... or herself... in mortal danger." Karkaroff bit out the last few words of his sentence, and Viktor couldn't help the distaste that spread across his features at his headmaster's tone.

      A sharp, but small, jab to his ribcage from Harlan alerted him to the fact that his expression was very much readable.

      "Durmstrang, as well as Beauxbatons, will begin the journey to Hogwarts in late October with a handful of student volunteers, who will then be weighed by an impartial judge as to their ability to compete. I tell you all this: the chance to compete, to show the magical world and the Ministry what Durmstrang Institute is capable of... is the highest honor."

      The vigorous pounding of his heart against his ribcage nearly made Viktor lightheaded. Clarity was not a foreign concept - it flooded through his veins like fresh blood. His fingers, wrapped tightly in a knot beneath the tabletop as to to hide from Harlan, trembled with adrenaline.

      Karkaroff cleared his throat, and it sliced through the air like a branding knife through soft butter.

      "Now, then. You all know what is asked of you... what is available to you. I shall not, nor shall any Durmstrang staff member, require anyone to give their person for this task. I only say this: let us show the world what we are made of."

      It was only then that Karkaroff lowered his staff. If he had expected the hall to erupt in pledges of volunteers, he would be sorely mistaken. Viktor felt as though his breath, heavy and shaking, could be heard across the room; and perhaps it could. His entire being quivered with something he was all too familiar with - whether it was adrenaline or pure, brazen fear, he knew it all too well. He felt it when his stomach flopped as he pushed away from the ground on a broomstick. He felt it diving for the golden snitch. He felt it as he held a golden trophy in his hand, sporting a bloody nose and a grin.

      Do this, and the attention only gets worse. You'll hate it, a voice echoed. His heart panged at the thought but this was soon outweighed by the deep, soul-driven part of him that screamed for this chance. His eyes settled hardly on his headmaster who gazed expectantly upon the crowd before him, and then, he hardly registered what happened.

      He didn't feel his legs as they kicked the seat away from the table. He didn't feel his body as it rose above the horde surrounding him. He didn't feel the horrified, irate gaze burning through the side of his skull ailing from Harlan. All he felt, as he stood proudly like a dandelion forgotten by a lawn spell, was pure, hard resolve.

      "I will go."

author's note.
a little viktor pov to spice things up!
I highly recommend writing from
other characters' perspectives, it's so so
interesting.

also, a psa that I will not be
writing viktor's accent into the
dialogue (ex: 'vot' instead of 'what')
because it's personally distracting
for me 🙈 he is still very much bulgarian
though, so feel free to use your
imagination!

thank you for reading!