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Venomous Tentacula
“I don't think gardening is for you, Vitya.”
“Don't rain on my parade, Yurets. Everyone needs a hobby.”
“You already have one. Your hobby is being single.”
A fine spring morning finds a couple of best friends pottering around an old Victorian greenhouse, as gentlemen do. However, the greenhouse in question belongs to Viktor Krum, which means it's full of beautiful, interesting, architectural, and occasionally deadly plants. Not being in possession of a green thumb by birth, he had to purchase one in the form of an ancient old man who occasionally sends him out to acquire new specimens for his rich man’s garden.
Ignoring this last statement by his companion, Viktor comes to a stop before a shelf of plants that look like the lovechild of a grape vine and an olive tree, and unfurls a roll of parchment. “The next on the list is the Whomping Willow. Ivan says that spot down by the stream will be perfect for it, and I agree.”
Likewise coming to a stop just behind him, Yuri stares at the plants on the shelf, his eyes narrowing. “I know you're Thracian, but please don't climb onto the backs of any suspiciously shiny horses standing near suspiciously picturesque bodies of water. You know I won't be able to help you if you do.”
“My friend, Karkaroff may have told you that the kelpie was coming to get you if you were bad, but you don't need to be afraid of it anymore. You're a grown man now, not a child.”
Yuri stares daggers into the seeker’s back. “...Why couldn't you have reassured me that they don't exist?!”
“Because they do exist. But they don't exist to punish naughty thirty year old men.”
“As far as you know, Mr Single.”
“I'd rather be Mr Single than Mr Bicycle. Unlike that vermin infested shack of yours, my body is a temple.”
A wand manifests itself from a pocket. “That's it. Wizard’s duel, right now.”
It's while the duo are arguing over whether tomato plants are sentient enough to count as seconds, that the venomous tentacula on the shelf fling out their barbed tendrils, wrapping them around the men's necks with murderous intent.
“Yura, help! I'm being attacked by fans!” Viktor gasps, his hands at the vines encircling his throat.
Fortuitously having had his wand out at the time, Yuri sets fire to his and Viktor's attackers, as well as the entire greenhouse for good measure.
Whomping Willow
“You know, Vitya, some friend you are. You didn't proclaim my innocence and good behaviour when you said I shouldn't worry about the kelpie.”
“Because you're not innocent. Or goodly behaved.”
“I hate you.”
“Why? Because I tell you the truth? Also, you're lying right this second. Stop doing that.”
A pair of friends smirk and smoke and snark all the way down to a river somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Europe. Although both are extremely fit, young, and not at all blind, they use their Durmstrang issued giant walking sticks anyway, because they come in handy for beating people (and plants) and look cool. They also happen to be petrified whomping willow branches, so they may help to establish affinity and intimacy with Viktor's target.
“And there she is. Isn't she beautiful?” Throwing his arms out wide, the champion hails the giant, gnarled, and extremely violent tree standing on the riverbank. Dark as it is, it stands out starkly against the grey sky and pale blue water, leaning at an anxiety-producing angle over the river. Its roots twist into the bank and the earth beyond that and its size gives it an extremely intimidating look, regardless of the knowledge that it's also incredibly aggressive.
“No. How do you suppose you're going to transplant this monster into your garden a thousand miles away, Vitya? Are you going to use reducio?” Asks Yuri, wisely standing a safe distance away from the giant.
To this question, Viktor pulls out a pair of pruning shears, holding them in one hand and his Firebolt in the other. “I'm going to take a cutting, of course.”
Three minutes later and he's calling for help, his broom flying riderless around the tree like a small dog while the willow attempts to kill the greatest quidditch player of all time.
“Yura! You're a cop! Shoot!!”
Whipping his wand out, the aforementioned uses reducio on Viktor himself, followed by accio. With the little man firmly in his grip, he runs his ass out of there, followed by the loyal broom. In broom as in friendship, you truly do get what you pay for.
Madagascar Tree
Next stop - Madagascar. Viktor's old man gardener has a plant on the list which he assures his employer will be only one of two in the entirety of Europe and Asia should he manage to acquire a sapling. It's called the Yateveo in nerd speak, and much like the venomous tentacula and whomping willow, it uses its branches as its method of attack. Worse, it's quite a bit larger than the latter, and even more aggressive, sometimes tearing its own roots out of the ground and toppling over in an attempt to reach its prey.
Footsteps crunch across tree bark and dry earth, the African sun laying on the ground in molten pools where the canopy does not protect the soil. A pair of men pause to drink water from the muggle plastic bottles they bought at a muggle petrol station.
“Africa. The last place I'd expect to find myself wandering about with you, Vitya. You sure do take me to exotic locations.”
“We were here last week for Bulgaria v South Africa. We got royally wasted in Cape Town and you fell off the famous mountain, remember?”
“....True. And no. My bad.”
“Well, you did smash your skull on a rock, so-”
‘I see yoooou!’
The young men pause, and listen. That noise, like a grandmother calling to the children she's spying on through her curtains.
‘I see yoooou!’
Yuri looks around, slack jawed, his voice all a hush. “Lord save us. It's the Eye of Sauron. Take off the ring!”
Viktor checks his hands. “I'm not wearing any rings!...Oh, wait. Yes I am.” He takes off his class ring, but the shrill voice keeps claiming to see them.
A rustling nearby announces the arrival of a pack of lemurs, who gallop past the human beings. There is little to no undergrowth, so by virtue of following the direction the cute little creatures came from, the wizards arrive in front of the thing bothering them - a Madagascar Tree, whose scientific name means ‘I see you’. Of all the plants in the world, it comes the closest to looking like the head of Medusa stuck in the ground, its branches as thick, scaly, flexible, and deadly as boa constrictors, but much, much faster. The remains of a worrying amount of skeletons cover the earth at its base, rendering the soil bone white where it isn't a sticky blood red.
“Oh no, we aren't doing this again…” Local Cop Pulls Out Wand, but before he can make a celebrity teeny tiny in order to put him in his pocket, Viktor makes a run for it.
“I need a cutting! Just one!”
Looking upon the man-eating tree inspires a thought in magical law enforcement’s mind. “Vitya, the kelpie is known for murdering and eating adults.”
“Only adults with the minds of children. Adults who climb onto random evil horses with no saddles. You’d never do something so stupid. You don't need to worry.” Answers Viktor, from amongst the whirling branches of the Yateveo.
Pretty Girls
Pretty girls - Viktor Krum's mortal enemy and constant delight. If only he could grow them in his greenhouse. Sadly, almost every time he gets close to acquiring a cutting, his mate leaps out of nowhere to ‘save’ him. It is rather tiresome, but that's why he has a cunning plan.
“I know you are a failed horse boy, Yura, so I've bought you a present,” He holds out a pair of tickets entitling the holder (and friend) to riding lessons at a luxury school for the delinquent scions of royal houses, offering them across a brass banded table. The duo are enjoying a pleasant spot of afternoon tea in some posh tea house in England. Betty's, it's called. “Make sure to take the girl who likes you the most.”
Yuri puts down his cup and studies the passes for a bit, considering. “That'll be Princess Eugenie.”
He tries his best not to give in, but Viktor shifts his weight in his chair and an anxious whine enters his voice. “Who?...How do you know she likes you? Just hypothetically speaking.”
His friend looks up, stashing the tickets in a pocket. “All women like me. It's a given.”
“It's because you're the gay best friend and the bad boy boyfriend and the dad they never had and the teen love interest who ignores them, all rolled up in one.”
“...Don't make me kill you, Vitya.”
Regardless, with Yuri taken care of, for now, Viktor goes about his merry way, skipping down the pavements of Harrogate, pruning shears in hand, glower on his face.
Tree of Death
Fans are like lightning. Sometimes you see them approaching in the form of an ominous black cloud floating across the earth towards you, and sometimes they strike out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever. The latter occurs while Viktor and Yuri are attempting to take a cutting from the infamous Tree of Death, the absolute last tree in the world a cutting should be taken from since its sap inflicts chemical burns, and every inch of it is full of sap, to the point of exploding out of its pores at high pressure. Also, go ahead and eat its fruit and freaking die a terrible death burning from the inside out.
“I think I'll keep a few of these…” Yuri says, juggling and then stowing the small green fruits in a pocket.
“Just don't eat them when you wake peckish in the night.” Viktor performs a sort of war dance around the tree, looking for some way he can snip a bit off without killing himself and his friend in the process. It's just then that a crazed tourist, lost in the jungle for who knows how long, falls out of the undergrowth to his right.
“Ah! Water,” gasps the man, whilst laying face down on the ground, his clothes all torn and faded, his voice almost non-existent. However, when Viktor approaches with a plastic bottle, he perks up dramatically, leaping to his feet, his clothes magically restoring themselves. A hand shoots out to grasp that of his saviour. “Blimey. It can't be…Viktor? Viktor Krum?”
The seeker's face, which had been set to ‘bright’ swings back to its much more commonly seen form: ‘gloomy’. “Da.” He says, proceeding to speak an incomprehensible mixture of Russian and Bulgarian to the man. Becoming extremely bored without something violent happening in the last five minutes, Yuri blasts the tree with lightning, and disapparates with his celebrity charge.
Reeds
In an effort to collect the humble river reed for his flourishing garden, a pursuit that should in no way be dangerous provided one is not drunk, Viktor drags his pal with him back to Scotland, solely because being in that damp and depressing country reminds him fondly of Hermione Granger, the one that got away number nine hundred and ninety nine.
“Reeds, Yurets. There's no way anything can go wrong collecting reeds. You can put your wand away.” He says, his shears going snip snip snip, hollow tubes of giant grass piling up under his arm. Halfway through he realises he needs to pull them up by the roots instead, so that he duly does, occasionally peering through his legs at his companion, who is sure to either get into or cause trouble any second now.
Truly, they know each other too well.
An equine snorts nearby, Yuri displays his exquisite profile when he turns his head to stare at the most beautiful black horse he's ever seen. The animal, sleek and shiny, like it's just stepped out of a river, stares back out of a pair of sky blue eyes belonging, unequivocally, to a woman.
Blinking rapidly lest he be blinded by the glory in front of him, he smoothes a hand over his mane of thick black hair.
In response, the creature paws the sodden earth and tosses its head, its own locks straight to his curly, but equally as magnificent.
The man turns to face it, his hand resting on the imaginary sword at his belt.
The horse turns side on to present its shapely flanks.
Viktor, still peering upside down between his legs, watches the courtship, and takes notes.
‘Snort.’
“I know I am, but what are you.”
‘Whinny!’
Only when his mate is perched on the back of the beast, does Viktor quit lollygagging, standing up so fast he almost passes out. “Nononononono!” he shouts, running over and grabbing the victim's arm. It's as he feared though, his worst nightmare, no matter how much he yanks, he can't pull the man off the monster, a monster which is slowly walking towards the river it emerged from, the diabolical grin on its face revealing its fangs.
“Nononononono!” So careful, he has to be so tremendously careful not to touch the entity's skin.
“Pockets…Vitya…” Yuri, too terrified to say any more than that, can only gasp for air and stare at his friend, his unseeing eyes rolling in his head.
“Pockets? Pockets?” He checks his own, but only comes back with broom polish and lint. But with all four of the kelpie’s feet already in the water, along with its unwilling rider's lower legs, Viktor hits on what Yuri meant, scrambling in his pockets, pulling his hand back clutching the cute little apples of the Death Tree.
“Hey, hey, horsey. Here. A treat.” He has to swim over to the kelpie's head, hand extended. The demon ceases walking, and turns its head, considering for a second, before biting at the offering. Just in time the star seeker yanks his hand away before it can take it with the fruit.
The results are quick and ugly, the monster dissolving into stinking black foam beneath its rider, dropping him into the muddy water.
“Ah! My hair!!”
