Chapter Text
The first time Shane Hollander ever sees Ilya Rozanov in person, he wants to punch him.
Youngest ever drafted to a national Quidditch team, the seventeen-year-old Russian Chaser is everything Shane wishes he was. Everything he strives to be. Talented, inexplicably charismatic, and above all, noticed.
Playing professional Quidditch is the ultimate goal for Shane. Seeing someone his age, still in school and already achieving that dream, feels like a slap in the face. Last he checked, Rozanov was never a captain of his team at school, nor was he ever voted Best Player two years in a row.
And yet, not even a smidge of recognition for Shane. What the hell is he doing wrong?
Actually, he knows what. Unlike Rozanov, Shane lacks one simple yet key quality: being personable.
He’s always lived in an isolation bubble of his own making. Being timid and withdrawn never got him anywhere—even though he works hard, harder than most, he still falls short when it comes to making himself appealing. Someone others would want to root for. And at its core, that’s what Quidditch is all about. Being skilled is one thing—being able to sell yourself to the masses is something altogether different and incredibly intimidating for someone as reserved as Shane.
“You have to get out there, honey,” is something his mother tells him often in varying forms. Sometimes even the look she gives him speaks louder than words.
It’s hard for him, though; she doesn’t understand, not really. He struggles with making friends, let alone navigating small talk. He keeps his head down and goes unnoticed because it’s easy, because it’s safe. It does nothing for his career prospects, though.
So when towards the end of summer he attends the Quidditch World Cup with his parents and the only two friends he has ever had his whole life, it’s hard not to feel a little jealous toward the young Russian Chaser.
And the fact that Shane may or may not own memorabilia with Rozanov’s likeness does not factor in at all. He’s a fan, sue him. Skill recognizes skill, as they say, but Shane doesn’t let it stop him from hating the guy who has it all.
Shane also hates that his best friend Hayden Pike knows about his little obsession with Rozanov, having found Shane’s square tin box with player trading cards just yesterday. He hasn’t stopped teasing Shane about it since—not before they got to the large, packed camping ground hours before the match, and not now, high in the stands of the stadium with only minutes until the game starts.
“Hey look Shane, there’s your boy!” Hayden screams to his right, barely louder than the legions of fans around them.
Despite himself, Shane’s head whips to where his best friend is pointing, heart hammering in his chest both from the absolute deafening pandemonium of nearly a hundred thousand spectators, and also from that once quiet, now roused anticipation of seeing Rozanov in the flesh. The kind of hopeful impatience he’s felt the entire day since they Portkey-ed here, able to override his reticence for large crowds, fireworks going off every five seconds, and the constant sound of booming orchestral music.
Shane doesn’t linger on any of it now, the sound drowning out everything without him even trying, his eyes tracking a player of the Russian representation clad in red and black, speeding ahead of the rest of his team and performing death-defying flips on his broom to the excitement of the audience.
Shane is watching, stuck somewhere between wide-eyed amazement and sweltering jealousy, as Ilya Rozanov does a loop around the stadium, holding onto the broom with one hand and the other punching the air. His face is blown up behind him where the stands turn into a giant moving billboard, showing him in real time as he’s cheering along with the crowd chanting his name.
And of course Rozanov has to be good-looking. Shane’s known it, obviously, but it was always easier to ignore that part of the Russian when Shane only looked at the collector card he had of him. Charmed to look like the photo was alive, the man in it smirking, his broom thrown across the back of his shoulders, wrists holding it down loosely in place, back arched. Effortlessly handsome.
Not that Shane looks at it often, nothing like that. There is no reason at all why it’s the top card in his tin box, either.
It’s really his hair, now that Shane thinks about it. The golden curls cupping his face in a halo too innocent for the type of player Shane knows him to be. There’s also something almost of chiseled quality to his face, a yet another feature of him that seems unfair, out of place.
Other players have skills or looks. Never both, not in equal amounts at least. Rozanov has both in spades.
“Oh my god, he’s so good!” Shane’s other best friend, Rose Landry, hollers on his left. She’s jumping in her seat, all of them standing in unison as is the custom at the beginning of the game. This year, more than ever, it has a lot to do with the Russian Quidditch prodigy that is taking the magical world by storm.
And Shane could not hate him and want to be him more.
Rozanov does not waste a second once the horn blares to show just what he’s made of. He’s playing against Ireland, arguably the best team in the league, but with the likes of the Russian menace it looks like it will be a close game. The experience of a three-time World Cup winner versus the daring arrogance of a single seventeen-year-old carrying his lineup on his shoulders.
Because he’s skilled, Shane has no problem admitting that. The way Rozanov tackles every insane pass, every even more outrageous tactic, it’s like he’s born to do it. He makes it look so easy, easier than walking, the way he cuts through the field, unencumbered by the obstacles of other players or hazard of injury. He’s fearless, fully in his element and commanding of the space in a way Shane has yet to bring out of himself whenever he plays.
The large enchanted projection is still showing the game, now hovering over the crowd and multiplied on each side of the egg-shaped stadium, displaying Rozanov more often than any other player, along with the face-splitting cocky grin that is always there like he’s having the best time of his still very young life.
Like he knows there is no one better.
He’s probably right about that.
The Irish team is struggling to even keep up with him, the Quaffle out of his hands and through the hoops before anyone can blink, again with a triumphant fist in the air, hungry for applause.
Shane joins the roar every time, mesmerized.
Time after time Rozanov scores, closing the lead, assisting the other two Chasers on his team on occasion, whenever he remembers he’s not the only one out there. Drafted mere four months ago and he’s already the star of the show.
Arrogant prick.
Shane is buzzing with both envy and wonderment so much he should sit down, but he doesn’t want to miss even a second of the game, eager to see it all, experience it all. Eager to find out what he should be doing when it’s time for him to play Quidditch during the school year so that he too can achieve such greatness.
The game continues, and every time Rozanov flies close to Shane’s section of the stands, Shane’s heart is in his throat. There’s no way Rozanov would ever see him, not among so many countless faces all mushed together. And yet, to have the young Russian player be so close causes something funny to happen in Shane’s stomach—not entirely a drop, but more than a prickle. He has yet to look away from him despite there being thirteen other highly professional athletes Shane could follow and learn from.
He’s always had impossibly high standards, though.
The game ends after a grueling eighty-four minute fight that culminates with the Russian Seeker leaping from her broom and rolling onto the middle of the field, the furiously flapping golden snitch raised high in her clenched fist.
The roar of the crowd that ensues a second later could raise the dead.
And Shane is crying, the emotions of watching his first World Cup live finally spilling, coupled with witnessing possibly the greatest player of this generation lead his team to unprecedented smashing victory. 310 to 90. One for the history books. Despite wearing green and white, the colors of the Irish team, Shane finds himself elated with the smashing success of the Russian representation.
Both of his parents, standing in the row above him, are clutching his shoulders. Shane looks over to see his mother’s eyes wet with happy tears, because apparently even Yuna Hollander can’t deny the skill of Ilya Rozanov that comes only once, maybe twice a century.
A rookie. A damn rookie is what’s getting his mother emotional. Shane clocked her following Rozanov’s play throughout the game because he was morbidly curious if that obsession of his extended to the rest of his family, and he wasn’t disappointed. Or rather, is. Because his mother, his “I only support the Irish team” die-hard fan mother, is getting choked up over a boy playing the same sport as her son, same age and all, and Shane really fucking hates it.
He’s distraught knowing that for the first time ever she has conceded that a player on another team is perhaps better than she would like him to be, and there is perhaps nothing for her to gripe about, because that other player is just so damn fucking perfect.
A weight settles in Shane’s stomach, this time unpleasant and lingering for hours after the match is over and they’re back in their tent, recapping the game. Shane is quiet, sitting on a sofa in the center of the magically-enlarged space, deep in thought. He’s listening to the others rave about the boy wonder that is Ilya Rozanov.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Shane’s dad says. He’s slowly sipping the tea his wife has just brewed for him. “Only seventeen, huh? Incredible.”
Hayden, perched next to Shane as usual, nods. He’s munching on some lava-colored chips he tried to offer Shane a moment ago, but Shane’s stomach feels bad enough already.
“And that save early on, when Avseyenko fumbled that pass? I have never seen a narrow dive like that! Not even Shane can do it.” Hayden reaches out to pat Shane on the shoulder. ”No offense, buddy.”
“That’s because I don’t pull stunts like that. It’s too risky,” Shane grumbles.
Because Shane plays it safe. Too safe. Never one to throw caution to the wind and only following clear, sanctioned tactics.
He sounds boring to himself in his own head.
Hayden shrugs. “Still, it won him the game.”
“He wasn’t the only one on the team, Hayd.”
“Might as well be. The other Russians weren’t pulling their weight at all.”
He smells Rose’s perfume a second before she sinks onto the couch next to him.
“You have to admit, the guy is insane. Good insane.” She turns to Yuna. “He’s the youngest ever drafted, right?”
Shane’s mother nods from her spot by the table, waving her wand to set it for dinner. Plates, cups and cutlery come flying from the nearby dresser, arranging themselves with soft thuds. She nods and holsters her wand, then bends over the back of the couch to snatch Hayden’s bag of chips, and sets it aside on the counter in the makeshift kitchen a few steps away.
“Don’t spoil your meal, Hayden—and yes, honey, the youngest ever. I think he beat that new Seeker on the Spanish team by a few weeks, drafted just before Rozanov.”
Hayden scoffs. “Well, he sure didn’t get to celebrate for long.” Shane feels, more than sees, Hayden turn to him. “But you can still beat that record, right?”
“I’m older than Rozanov by a month. And we’re both in Year 7.”
“Oh. Right.”
The conversation shifts then to the topic of dinner as the five of them migrate to the dining table. Shane’s mind, his own worst enemy, is replaying the same three words over and over again.
Youngest ever drafted.
Impossible four months ago, even more impossible now. There goes that dream.
***
The Quidditch World Cup took place on Wednesday and now, a Sunday, the first day of school arrives.
Well, technically it’s the following day, but the year always begins the day before classes start with a lavish feast worthy of kings. That evening is spent in the Great Hall, mostly eating and listening to the headmaster talk about the same things year after year, ranging from simple class announcements to mild warnings about venturing out into the Forbidden Forest at night.
This year though the vibe is different. There is something hanging in the air, a level of anticipation most students can probably sense from the shifty way the teachers are looking at each other.
Or maybe it is the presence of an honest to god black pirate-like ship currently docked by the boathouse, shrouded in unnaturally thick mist despite the lovely, light, early September evening.
As far as Shane knows, no one has disembarked from the ship since it laid anchor there, nearly two hours ago.
Then there was the sound of heavy wings they all heard beating somewhere above the castle twenty minutes ago. That, too, felt just as worrisome, just as foreboding.
And from the looks of it, they are about to find out what all the ruckus is about.
Shane is hardly the only worried student currently staring at the headmaster standing tall at the podium, waiting patiently for the murmuring to die down. They have gone through their usual welcome feast stages, sorting hat and whatnot, except for the food.
Because the food is not even here yet.
The weird, loaded atmosphere, the mysterious ship, even the flapping of wings—altogether they are nowhere near as odd as the lack of food, in Shane’s mind. It also reminds him of something, something on the very edge of his mind he ought to remember.
He doesn’t even get a chance to dwell on it as the booming voice of the headmaster rolls over the Great Hall, effectively putting an end to all the hushed chatter.
“Welcome again, to another great year at Hogwarts!” The older man smiles, partially obstructed by his long, white beard. “And welcome to our bright-faced First Year students. We are thrilled to have you here with us!”
No deviation there—word-for-word, it’s the same speech every year.
Shane waits, worrying at his bottom lip.
It’s only then, belatedly, that Shane realizes there’s more table space added to the front of the two rows in the center, on either side of the wide pass down the middle. More than is ever needed for new student arrivals every year. By Shane’s estimate, it could probably fit around twenty more students.
The headmaster continues. His voice is louder now, more official.
“Now that we’re all settled in and sorted, I’d like to make an announcement. This castle will not only be your home this year, but home to some very special guests as well.”
A pause, to let the murmurs spread once again. Students look at each other, confused.
That thing that Shane thought he should have remembered sooner is taking a shape, one back from when he was only twelve and in Year 2. Exactly five years ago.
“You see, Hogwarts has been chosen to host a legendary event: The Triwizard Tournament.”
The murmurs transform into scattered cheers. Everyone knows what it is, at least those old enough to remember the Tournament taking place every five years like clockwork, always hosted by one of the most distinguished magical schools. With Hogwarts being among them for the past two centuries, if Shane’s memory serves him right.
He feels stupid for not connecting the dots sooner.
“For those of you who do not know, the Triwizard Tournament brings together three schools for a series of magical contests. From each school, a single student is selected to compete.”
Two Hufflepuff twin brothers, sitting across from Shane to the right, high-five each other, the air of healthy rivalry hanging around them. They are almost rising from their seats in all the excitement.
“Now, let me be clear,” the headmaster goes on. His expression is now grave, like what he’s about to tell them may shake the very foundations of their lives. “If chosen, you stand alone. And trust me when I say these contests are not for the faint-hearted.”
Silence. Heavy, intense silence—and yet, Shane can spot quite a few smiling faces of students eager to take on the challenge.
The headmaster’s smile returns. “But more on that later. For now, please join me in welcoming the lovely ladies from the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and their headmistress.”
He gestures toward the Great Hall door which as if on cue opens inward, the old wood loudly creaking. Arranged in perfect triangle formation, around a dozen beautiful female students walk into the room. They are all clad from head to toe in pastel blue satin dresses, complemented by short cloaks and elegant, pointed hats in the exact same color. Long hair tied back to showcase their blemish-free faces and high cheekbones, they catch and hold the attention of everyone, without exception.
They are so light on their feet it’s like they’re hardly touching the ground at all as they strut toward the front of the hall, each smiling at the dazzled students they pass. Their pointed heels click in unison as the aroma of flowers fills the room. Petals and butterflies dance in the air before disintegrating in a puff of blue cloud, leaving behind only air glistening with glitter.
When they finally reach the headmaster, they all take a synchronized bow while facing the rest of the hall. There's maybe a second of silence before the room erupts in loud cheers and whistles, mostly coming from the male populace, Hayden included. He even elbows Shane without realizing it as he jumps to his feet, clapping like his life depends on it.
Shane remains quiet, but he allows himself a small tug of his lips. The ladies are truly lovely, all possibly his age, but he knows himself well enough by now to know that women are not his type.
The Hogwarts headmaster, having shaken hands with the tall headmistress of the French school, takes to the podium again. The Beauxbatons students, meanwhile, have already taken seats at one of the two additional tables.
“And now,” the headmaster starts, “our fiery friends from the Durmstrang Institute and their high master.”
Alarms go off in Shane’s head. Durmstrang?
The Russian school?
He’s not the only one whose reaction is shock, especially when through the open door a group of another dozen students walk in, their simple but heavy black-and-red uniforms not the only intimidating thing about them. Both male and female, their expressions are hard, unwavering and—
Shane’s mind short-circuits. All he can do is stare.
Because no, it can’t be.
He blinks, but he still sees him.
Ilya Rozanov? The Rozanov? Here?
What the actual fuck is going on?
Shane glances at Hayden, hoping to see him unfazed, a confirmation that Shane is just imagining it. But no, his best friend is sporting the same dumbfounded expression, eyes wide and jaw on the floor.
Everyone at the Hufflepuff table, the entire hall really, is watching the best active Chaser in the Quidditch league walk at the very head of the Russian representation, chin raised high and looking straight ahead with a stone-cold expression, like every single one of those gathered were beneath him.
Halfway to the front of the hall, two male students break off from the group and race forward, performing some effortless flips and kicks in the air like it’s the most natural thing to do at this moment. Once they stop right before the daïs, the rest of the group, Rozanov included, all turn in practiced unison on their heels, one hundred and eighty degrees and their backs now turned to the podium and facing the hall, solely for the purpose of observing the rest of the acrobatic show. It ends when one of those performing kneels down and, using a rather impressive display of wandless magic, proceeds to breathe fire from his mouth.
Gasps spread, the Hogwarts students closest to the inferno leaning away from it as far as they can—First Years, newly sorted, terrified to death.
And then it happens.
Because Shane’s gaze doesn’t linger and shifts back to Rozanov, he sees the exact moment Rozanov starts scanning the crowd, uninterested, his expression never wavering.
That is, at least, until it lands on Shane and stays there.
Shane is hardly the only one staring at Ilya goddamn Rozanov, but it’s Shane that the Russian’s gaze fixes on for some unfathomable reason. Shane is tempted to sway a little, to maybe turn or even duck his head to see if he’s mistaken and Rozanov is not looking at Shane but perhaps rather at Rose sitting next to him, but he ultimately doesn’t. Not even because of the potential embarrassment if Rozanov really is looking at him, but the fact that Shane, quite simply, cannot move a muscle.
He’s heard of animals being able to petrify humans, turn them into blocks of stone. He’s never heard of a human being capable of it, too. Obviously Rozanov is not hexing him, that’s not what Shane thinks at all, but apart from him getting so starstruck by a boy he mere days ago vowed to dislike for ever, this seems like the only logical explanation why Shane is so transfixed.
Because Shane cannot be this in awe of him, right?
He’s jostled back to reality when an unknown time later there’s an echoing thud in the place where Rozanov was just a moment ago, now replaced with a tall, tiered golden tower. The podium is gone too, and Shane can’t stop from frantically blinking and looking around until his eyes land on the Russian representation that has, without him realizing, moved to sit in the other pre-prepared vacant space.
Rozanov’s eyes are not on him anymore, this time fixed upon the tower the headmaster is standing next to, his wrinkled hand placed on the top layer in reverence.
“I’d like to say a few words.” His voice once again commands silence. “Eternal glory. That is what awaits the student who wins the Triwizard Tournament. But to do this, that student must survive three tasks. Three extremely dangerous tasks. Additionally, no student under the age of sixteen shall be allowed to put forth their name for the Triwizard Tournament.”
He then pulls out his crooked wand and aims it at the tower, the gold melting away from the top before everyone’s eyes, revealing a large, gargoyle-sized goblet. Then, a small blue orb shimmers to life right above it and grows in size, azure flame rippling, its apex high above the headmaster.
“The Goblet of Fire,” he announces. “Anyone wishing to submit themselves to the tournament need only write their name upon a piece of parchment and throw it in the flame before seven o’clock on Sunday night.”
Raised voices again, students chatting amongst themselves, so many of them keen and restless to do just that. Shane could not be more unwilling—ambitious as he is, he does not have a death wish. He’s learnt enough about this tournament to still his hand. That, and he would rather be alive, or at least not maimed if and when the Quidditch draft comes around.
The headmaster nods, as if to himself, seeing the response. His expression is anything but cheerful.
“Do not do so lightly,” he warns. “If chosen, there is no turning back. The tournament is meant to test its champions' courage, intelligence, resourcefulness, but above all, the ability to stay alive against all odds.”
Shane swallows hard. He watches as the headmaster spreads his arms wide, standing before the Goblet of Fire and addressing the crowd. What he says next, a simple statement in that roaring voice of his, sends a shiver down Shane’s back.
“As of this moment, the Triwizard Tournament has begun.”
***
“Holy shit.”
“Hayden.”
“Holy fucking shit.”
“I know.”
Hayden’s agape mouth hasn’t really closed since dinner an hour ago.
“Rozanov. Arguably the best Chaser in the world, the Rozanov.”
Not bewilderment over the legendary Triwizard Tournament happening at their school and they get to witness it, no.
Ilya fucking Rozanov. In the flesh. Right here.
Shane shares Hayden’s sentiment. “Yes.”
“At our school. For the whole year.” And then, “Attending our classes.”
What?
“What?”
Hayden pauses his pacing around their dormitory and looks at Shane.
“Well yeah, he’s our year, right? They’re all gonna live and study here until June, that’s what the headmaster said.”
To be honest Shane didn’t pay much attention to that or what the headmaster had later explained about it once the meal had been consumed.
Hayden’s words give him pause, and subsequently a headache.
“He’s not going to be here for all of our classes, right? I mean, he must have some electives.”
Hayden is giving him a curious look, a smile bubbling in the corner of his lips that Shane has no energy to dissect.
“I thought you were a fan.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I am a fan of his skills. Not him.”
Hayden muses. “Yes, and a little jealous, too. And don’t bullshit me you’re not, I saw you glare at him at the World Cup.”
“Because he’s a pompous asshole.”
Hayden laughs. “Have you even met him?”
“I don’t have to meet him to know I want nothing to do with him.”
The knowing hum that Hayden gives him in return is infuriating.
“I think you doth protest too much.”
Shane huffs and unceremoniously heaves his still unpacked suitcase on his bed, if only to give himself an excuse to turn away from his best friend.
“Whatever. As long as he stays away from me.”
Even when he says it he knows it’s possibly the most delusional he’s ever been.
He admires Ilya Rozanov. It’s a fact, the same as grass is green. So too is it true that, given a choice of players to idolize, Rozanov is at the top of the list for Shane. And just as the reason for that admiration is Rozanov’s extraordinary talent, so too it is why Shane despises him. A month younger and already having achieved what Shane fears won’t be his for many years to come.
And now he’s here, him of all people, and Shane is forced to see him every single day like it’s some big, cosmic joke the universe is playing on him.
Shane can’t trust himself to be even a little okay about it.
A distraction or not, he actually does end up unpacking his suitcase while listening to Hayden change gears entirely and go on and on about some pretty girl he spotted among the Beauxbatons delegation.
“You saw her, right? The one with dark hair.”
“A few of them had dark hair. You have to be more specific.”
He hears Hayden unzip his own suitcase. “She was at the back, the one with green eyes.”
“You saw her green eyes all the way from where you were?” Shane laughs.
“She’s beautiful,” is Hayden’s simple reply, like it explains everything.
Another laugh, this time sincere despite his words. “Okay, I will take your word for it.”
He turns and watches as Hayden just stands there, a pile of folded sweaters in his hands, looking a little awestruck.
“You okay, Hayd?”
Hayden nods. An expression of resolve sets on his face. “I’m going to talk to her tomorrow.”
“I have no doubt you will,” Shane says and goes back to his belongings, taking them to the foot of his bed where a large chest stands. It’s already open and empty, and Shane deposits the stack of identical black pants in the bottom left corner. Same as every year.
Pause. “And you should talk to Rozanov,” Hayden suddenly says.
Shane turns so fast something cracks in his neck. “What?”
“He’s your hero, right? Talk to him, get some pointers.”
Shane grimaces at the term. “Please don’t call him that.”
“What, am I wrong?”
The hesitation is answer enough.
It’s not like he can deny it—Hayden has seen the trading card of Rozanov among Shane’s collection, clearly frequently admired given the already withered edges despite it being out for no more than four months. It’s now safely tucked away in his childhood bedroom back home, but it exists. Shane knows Hayden will never let him live it down as well as he knows that Shane would never let it go if Hayden fumbled it with the new target of his affection, the mysterious dark-haired girl.
Not that Shane is comparing those two, oh no. One is a simple recognition of talent, the other is what is starting to sound like the beginnings of an epic love story.
Not the same at all.