Chapter Text
At the referee's whistle, a narrow compartment in the Quidditch ball crate sprang open. The Golden Snitch shot into a sky already crowded. Seven broomsticks cut across the pitch beneath it. Three Irish Chasers swept towards the Bulgarian hoops with the Quaffle moving between them too quickly for any one pair of hands to keep for long. A Bludger tore through the space they had occupied a heartbeat earlier. Far below, the grass burned green under hundreds of floating lamps, sharp and bright against the August night.
The Snitch climbed. Around it, the World Cup stadium rose in great tiers packed almost to the roof. Irish green covered one half in flags, painted faces and enormous shamrocks. Bulgarian red answered from the other. Leprechaun gold still drifted through the air in places, thousands of bright coins turning lazily as they fell. The Snitch passed straight through them and became, for a moment, only one glint among hundreds.
The noise never stopped. A roar followed the Quaffle through the Bulgarian hoops and rolled around the stadium hard enough to shake the hanging banners. Drums started somewhere behind one goal. A Bulgarian chant pushed back from the opposite stands. Bagman's amplified voice boomed over both and was swallowed by another cheer before he had finished. The Snitch skimmed beneath all of it, close to the grass, then tucked itself into the shadow behind one of the Irish goalposts while the match tore past.
Viktor Krum saw it first. He broke from his high circle and folded over his broom. A few hundred people noticed him move, then thousands more rose because everyone else had. Red flags surged upwards. Green ones followed. Aidan Lynch came down from the other side and both Seekers closed on the same patch of air. Krum got there first, almost. His fingers were inches away when the Snitch shot upwards between them. Lynch hauled aside. Krum twisted after it. The crowd groaned as one and dropped back into their seats.
The Snitch kept climbing until the game shrank beneath it. From there the pitch was a bright green rectangle in the dark, crossed by red and green streaks. Illuminated advertisements drifted above the highest seats. A broom the size of a house swept across the stars before breaking into sparks. Green fire burst from the Irish end when another goal went in, followed by a fresh shower of leprechaun gold. The Snitch turned through the falling light and disappeared again.
It found the stands next. It skimmed a lower rail close enough to make a witch spill her drink, vanished beneath a Bulgarian flag and appeared thirty feet farther along between two rows of waving arms. Nobody saw it. The match had every face turned towards the pitch. By the time it rose again, Krum was back above the players, searching, with Lynch circling the other half.
Another Irish attack sent the Quaffle racing towards the hoops. The crowd rose with it. The Snitch did not. It slipped away from the pitch and climbed towards the highest tier, where the noise was still loud enough to make the brass rail tremble beneath people's hands. The Top Box sat above the packed stands in a row of gilt seats and dark polished wood. Ministry robes mixed with evening clothes. Omnioculars flashed as heads followed the Quaffle far below.
Nobody in the box was looking at the small gold shape coming up beneath them. The Snitch cleared the carved edge of the balcony, skimmed past a row of knees and changed direction at the last possible second. It passed a thin boy with summer-tanned skin and a nest of thick, wild black hair. He looked up at exactly the right moment. Under all that hair, his eyes were a startling green against the tan of his face. Gold caught in them for one bright instant as the Snitch sped away.
Harry flinched. “Was that the Snitch?”
Ron spun round so quickly his omnioculars knocked his glasses crooked. “Where?”
“Here. It just went past us.” Harry leaned over the rail with Hermione, one hand clamped around the brass bar while the stadium plunged away beneath his trainers. Nothing. Green banners thrashed in the warm night. Red sparks burst somewhere below. A roar travelled around the stands before Harry knew what had caused it.
He shoved the omnioculars back to his eyes and found Krum already halfway across the pitch. Of course he had.
Harry forgot about the Snitch for a moment. He had spent rather a lot of the match doing that. Every time he found Krum through the omnioculars, he seemed to forget what else he had been watching. Krum cut between two Irish Chasers, ducked a Bludger and climbed so sharply Harry lost him at the top of the lenses. Harry found him again just as he turned.
Then Krum dropped. Straight down. Lynch saw him go and dived after him at once. Harry jerked the omnioculars lower, following both Seekers as the grass rushed up beneath them. Neither of them slowed. Ten feet. Five. Harry's fingers tightened around the brass casing.
Krum pulled out so late Harry's stomach seemed to stay somewhere above the pitch. Lynch did not. He hit the turf hard enough for the crowd to make one enormous sound, and Krum was already climbing again before the Irish Seeker had stopped rolling.
“Wronski Feint!” Ron yelled beside him, thumping Harry on the arm. “Did you see that?”
Harry nodded because his voice had gone somewhere. His mouth was dry. He swallowed and it made no difference. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, which was stupid. He was sitting down. He had not done anything.
He lifted the omnioculars again. Krum's hair had come loose and was blowing back from his face as he climbed. Sweat had darkened the collar of his robes. Harry watched him glance down once towards Lynch, then turn his attention back to the match.
Harry lowered the omnioculars for a second and looked at Hermione. She was watching the Quaffle. Ron was still shouting about the feint. Neither of them seemed to have noticed anything odd. Harry looked back at the pitch and made himself follow the Quaffle instead.
Ireland scored. The green half of the stadium exploded as Bagman's voice boomed overhead, announcing one hundred and seventy to eighty. Ron punched the air. Fred and George were on their feet behind him. Somebody's hat landed in Harry's lap and was snatched away again before he could work out whose it was.
Harry tried to concentrate on the score. Another Irish goal came, then another. Lynch was back in the air by then, though he was taking his turns wider now and keeping more height beneath him. Krum flew high above it all.
The next time Harry found him, Krum wasn't looking at the Chasers. He wasn't looking at the scoreboard either. His whole body had gone still except for his head.
Searching.
Harry did the sums without meaning to. If Bulgaria scored twice. If Ireland missed the next. If Krum waited. No. Even then the gap was too wide.
His chest tightened. He knew what was coming before anyone around him seemed to.
A tiny flare of gold winked beside the Irish hoops and Krum moved. Harry stood so fast his knees hit the rail. “He's seen it.”
“What?” Ron shouted over the crowd.
“The Snitch.”
Lynch had seen it too. Both Seekers dived, and the stadium became one enormous noise that Harry barely heard. He could see the line Krum had chosen. He could see Lynch gaining from the other side. Twenty feet. Ten.
Krum stretched. His fingers closed. The whistle screamed.
For one ridiculous second Harry expected the Bulgarian end of the stadium to erupt. Then the scoreboard changed.
Ireland had won.
A hat hit Harry in the back. Ron grabbed him around the shoulders and shouted directly into his ear. Fred nearly went over the row in front. Green light burst across the sky. Harry laughed because everyone else was laughing, but he kept looking at the pitch.
Krum had landed. He opened his hand once, just enough for the Snitch to flash between his fingers, then closed it again.
“He knew,” Harry said.
Hermione looked at him. “What?”
“He knew they couldn't catch up.”
She followed his gaze. Harry couldn't quite explain the rest of it. Krum had lost. He'd known he was going to lose, and instead of circling above the match waiting for Ireland to make it worse, he'd ended it when he chose.
There was something about that Harry understood more than he wanted to.
Hermione nudged his shoulder. “Come on. They're starting the presentation.” Harry blinked and dragged his attention back to the box.
For the next twenty minutes he was jostled, deafened, hugged by people he barely knew and nearly concussed by a small brass shamrock. By the time the Irish team had gone past, his ears were ringing and his throat hurt from cheering.
Ron had become unbearable.
“I touched Moran's sleeve.”
“You've said.” Harry folded the omnioculars into their case while Ron carried on.
“I actually touched it.”
“Ron.”
“And Connolly looked right at me.”
Harry snapped the case shut. “He was probably checking you weren't going to grab him as well.”
Ron ignored that. He had gone rigid, staring towards the stairs. Harry followed his gaze.
The Bulgarian team were coming up.
Something cold slid through Harry's stomach. No. Absolutely not.
Krum was near the back. Harry had spent most of the match watching him through the omnioculars, which had made it easy to forget there was an actual person on the other side of the lenses. Now that person was coming straight towards the Top Box.
On the ground, Krum looked nothing like he did in the air. His steps were heavy and a little awkward, and he kept his head down while people leaned over the railings and shouted his name. Harry watched him dodge one hand reaching for his shoulder without ever looking up.
That was odd. Harry had expected someone who played in a World Cup final to look as if he belonged in the middle of all this.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Ron said beside him, much louder than he needed to. The stadium was still roaring, but not that loudly.
Harry wiped his palms on his jeans. Krum was getting closer.
Ron leaned towards Hermione. “Should I ask for an autograph?”
Harry didn't hear her answer. Krum passed the row beneath them and Harry stood.
He had no idea why. One second he was sitting down. The next he was in the aisle.
“Harry?” Hermione said.
He ignored her. Krum was seventeen, had just played in the World Cup final and was probably sick to death of strangers shouting things at him. Harry was fourteen and had a shirt on that Dudley had once complained was too small.
He should sit back down.
He didn't.
Krum was almost level with him. Harry opened his mouth and nothing came out.
Brilliant.
“Mr Krum!”
Harry had to raise his voice more than he meant to. A fresh cheer had gone up from the Irish supporters below, and for a second he wasn't sure Krum had heard him.
Krum stopped. He turned and looked along the row until his eyes found Harry.
Up close, he looked knackered. There was dried blood beneath one nostril and the bridge of his nose had already begun to swell. His hair stuck damply to his forehead. He didn't look much like the photographs Ron kept shoving under Harry's nose.
He just looked seventeen.
“Yes?” Krum called back over the noise.
Harry's mind went completely blank. Behind him, Ron made a strange choking sound.
“Sorry. I just wanted to say...” Harry rubbed the back of his neck and tried again. “The Snitch. At the end.”
Krum frowned slightly, leaning closer so he could hear.
“You knew they weren't going to catch up,” Harry said, louder now. “And Lynch was hurt. You could've kept going and let Ireland score more, but you didn't. You ended it.”
The noise around them seemed to make the pause longer than it probably was. Harry wished he'd stayed in his seat.
“I thought it was brave,” he added.
Krum stared at him for another second, then smiled. Not the quick thing Harry had seen during the presentation. A proper smile.
“Thank you.”
Harry nodded, unable to think of anything sensible to do with his hands.
“You play?” Viktor asked.
“What?”
“Quidditch.” Viktor pointed towards the pitch. “You play?”
“Oh. Yeah. Seeker. For Gryffindor.”
“Hogwarts?”
“Yeah.”
Viktor nodded once. Then he raised his voice again as another chant rolled through the stands. “What is your name?”
“Harry.”
Viktor leaned in a little, one hand lifting towards his ear.
“Harry Potter,” Harry said, louder.
There it was. That tiny pause.
Harry knew it too well. Usually people looked at his scar next.
Viktor did, but only for a moment. Then his eyes came back down.
“Viktor,” he said.
Harry blinked.
“Not Mr Krum.” Viktor smiled again.
“Right. Viktor.”
Someone farther along the box shouted for him. One of the Bulgarian players had stopped by the stairs and was waving him over.
Viktor glanced back.
Harry's stomach sank. He'd done it now. He'd actually spoken to Viktor Krum and somehow not made a complete prat of himself. Best not to ruin it.
“I see you at Hogwarts,” Viktor said.
“What?”
“October.”
Harry frowned. Viktor's teammate called again.
“Why October?”
Viktor's eyes widened just a fraction. Then he laughed and shook his head.
“I should not say.”
“You just did.”
“Only October.”
Viktor started to turn away.
Harry's mouth moved before he'd decided whether this was a terrible idea.
“Viktor?”
He stopped again.
“Could I write to you?”
Viktor's brow creased.
“You write.”
“Yes, of course I can write.” Harry stared at him. “I mean, not brilliantly, but... yeah.”
Viktor smiled again, and Harry felt even more confused.
“Sorry. My English.”
Oh.
Harry's face dropped before he could stop it. Of course. Viktor had only been being polite. Maybe writing in English was difficult, or maybe he hadn't understood what Harry was asking at all.
“No, that's fine,” Harry said quickly. “Forget it.”
“No, no.” Viktor shook his head. “Umm, I think I mean yes. You may write me.” He stopped, frowned at his own words, then pointed between them. “With me.” His smile returned. “I would enjoy very much.”
Harry looked at him.
Viktor gave a small, helpless shrug.
Harry grinned. He couldn't help it.
“Yeah. All right.”
“And I answer,” Viktor said, sounding much more certain about that bit.
“Okay.”
His teammate shouted for a third time. Viktor rolled his eyes, gave Harry one last smile and turned towards the stairs.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
“Night, Viktor.”
Harry watched until he disappeared down the steps. Then he turned back.
Ron was staring at him.
Hermione was pretending not to.
“You just asked Viktor Krum if you could write to him,” Ron said.
Harry sat down and set the closed omniocular case across his knees.
“I know.”
“And he said yes.”
He worried at the little brass clasp with his thumb until his face cooled down.
“I know, Ron.”
Days later, Harry could still see the Dark Mark when he shut his eyes.
The Burrow was quiet in the thin grey light before sunrise. Ron was asleep in the other bed with one arm hanging over the side, and somewhere downstairs a pipe gave a soft knock inside the wall.
Harry had been awake for ages.
The campsite kept coming back in bits. People running. The tents. Hermione grabbing his sleeve. That green skull over the trees.
And, annoyingly, Viktor Krum kept turning up in between all of it.
Harry rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
He'd said he could write.
Harry had spent three days not doing it because writing straight away would look stupid. Now not writing was starting to feel even more stupid.
Ron snored and turned over.
Fine.
Harry found his glasses, pulled on yesterday's jeans and crept downstairs.
The kitchen windows were beginning to turn pale. He lit a lamp anyway, found parchment and ink, then sat at the table with the quill between his fingers.
The blank page was much worse than talking to Viktor had been.
He tried one opening, crossed it out, tried another and hated that too. The third sounded enough like him to leave alone.
Dear Viktor,
Sorry I didn't write sooner. Things went a bit mad after the match. Some Death Eaters attacked the campsite and someone put the Dark Mark in the sky. We're all okay. I hope your team had already left.
Thanks again for talking to me. I meant what I said about the Snitch. I still think you made the right choice.
How do you practise the Wronski Feint without smashing into the ground? I play Seeker for Gryffindor and got on the team in first year. But... oh, I think maybe I told you that. Sorry. I'm not boasting. I mean, it isn't important. I've got a Firebolt too, but I've never tried anything like that.
Hope your nose is okay. I know you're probably busy, so you don't have to write back. I just wanted to say hello.
Harry
Harry read it once. Then again.
It wasn't very good, but it was a letter. More importantly, it was finished.
He folded it before he could start changing things.
Outside, the sky had lightened enough to show the orchard. Hedwig had just settled on the shed roof after a night's hunting, her white feathers puffed slightly as she tucked one foot beneath herself.
Harry stopped below her and felt a bit guilty.
“Sorry.”
Hedwig opened one eye.
“I know you've just got back.”
The other eye opened.
Harry held up the letter.
“It's for Viktor Krum.”
Hedwig looked at the parchment, then at Harry.
“Please?”
She dropped down to the fence post with a soft flap of wings. Harry smiled and scratched gently beneath her beak before tying the letter to her leg.
“Thanks. You can sleep there if he writes back straight away. Don't let him rush you.”
Hedwig gave him a look that suggested Viktor Krum would have very little say in the matter.
Then she spread her wings and lifted over the orchard.
Harry watched the white shape grow smaller against the brightening sky until he couldn't pick her out anymore.
That afternoon was hot enough to flatten everyone. Ron and the twins had taken over a patch of shade near the paddock and were arguing about the World Cup for what felt like the four hundredth time. Hermione had a book open against her knees. Ginny was lying on her stomach making occasional comments designed to annoy Ron.
Harry had escaped beneath the oak tree. He was trying to read and had been on the same page for ten minutes.
A white speck appeared above the hedge.
Harry sat up.
No. It couldn't be.
The speck became wings.
Harry dropped the book.
Hedwig swept low over the garden and landed on the grass beside him with the air of someone returning from a successful military campaign.
“You found him.”
She held out her leg. There was a letter attached.
Not his.
Harry's fingers felt too big for the knot.
“All right, all right.”
Hedwig nipped him.
“I'm going as fast as I can.”
The parchment came free. Harry looked towards the paddock. Ron was still arguing. Hermione turned a page. Nobody was watching him.
He got to his feet.
Hedwig hooted sharply.
Harry looked down. “What?”
She fluffed herself up.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He dug into his pocket, found the last of the owl treats he'd brought outside and tipped them into his palm. Hedwig accepted them with the dignity of someone who had just crossed a country for him.
Then Harry went inside. He made it as far as the bottom of the stairs before Mrs Weasley appeared from the pantry with a jar in each hand.
“Everything all right, dear?”
“Yep.” Harry became aware he was holding the letter behind his back.
Mrs Weasley's eyes flicked to his arm. Harry smiled. She smiled back. It was not the same sort of smile.
“Good.”
Harry waited.
Mrs Weasley put the jars on the counter. “Off you go, then.”
He went.
Ron and Harry's room was empty. Harry shut the door, sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter.
The first line made him stop.
Harry,
Your owl is terrifying.
She arrived at my hotel window at six this morning and would not give me the letter until I opened the window properly. I think she was judging me.
Thank you for writing. I thought maybe you would decide not to.
I am in London for three weeks before I return home. Durmstrang is visiting Hogwarts this year, which I was not supposed to tell you at the World Cup. Now I have told you properly, so I cannot get in trouble for saying October.
Our headmaster arranged extra English lessons for some of us before school starts. Mine is good enough, I think, but I want it better. You can tell me when I say something stupid.
About the attack, we had already left. My coach was furious with me and made the team go straight back to London. I was angry then. I am less angry now.
I am glad you and your friends are safe.
You say “things went a bit mad” as if Death Eaters and the Dark Mark are normal after Quidditch.
Your question about the Wronski Feint has an easy answer. Water.
Practise above a lake. You still hit hard if you get it wrong, but you do not break your neck. Usually.
I started Seeker in first year too. I trained in other positions because our coach makes everyone do it, but I hate Chaser. Too many people. Seeker is better.
I was fifteen when I first played for Bulgaria. I like Quidditch. I do not like everything around Quidditch.
I am glad you understood why I caught the Snitch. My coach did not. He understands now, maybe because I explained very loudly.
For the feint, do not practise alone. This is important. If you are as stubborn as I think you are, I am writing it twice.
Do not practise alone.
If you need school things before September, would you like to meet in Diagon Alley while I am still in London? We could have tea. Or fly, if there is somewhere quiet and people do not keep coming to us.
You do not have to say yes.
Viktor
P.S. Do not tell me I do not have to answer. I want to write to you. You keep writing me too.
A laugh escaped Harry somewhere around the first sentence and came back twice before he reached the end. By the time he got to the invitation, he had stopped laughing.
Tea. With Viktor Krum.
He looked towards Ron's empty bed. “No.”
The word came out aloud. Not no to Viktor. Just no in general. No to the whole situation.
His face was hot.
He read the invitation again. Then the line above it. Then, for no reason he could defend, the first line about Hedwig.
By the fourth read, Harry was lying flat on his back with the letter resting on his chest.
Viktor Krum had written to him. Not a signed photograph. Not two polite lines because Harry Potter had asked. A letter. A funny one.
Harry covered his face with both hands. This was getting embarrassing.
The door opened.
He sat up so fast the letter slid onto his stomach.
Ron walked in and stopped.
Harry grabbed the parchment.
Ron looked at him. Harry looked back.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you red?”
“It's hot.”
Ron glanced at the open window. “Right.”
Harry shoved the letter under his pillow. Ron narrowed his eyes, and for one horrible second Harry thought he was going to ask.
Then Fred shouted something downstairs about exploding custard, and Ron forgot Harry existed. The door banged shut behind him.
Harry stayed still until the footsteps had gone. Then he pulled the letter out again.
Just once more.
Mrs Weasley said no to Diagon Alley before Harry had properly finished asking.
“No, Harry.”
“But I wasn't going alone.”
“That isn't the point.” She kept kneading the bread.
“He'd be there.”
Mrs Weasley's hands stopped in the dough.
Harry realised his mistake.
“He?”
He looked at the flour on the table. “Viktor.”
A beat passed.
“Viktor who?”
Harry gave her a look.
Mrs Weasley's eyebrows rose. “Viktor Krum?”
“Yeah.”
“You've been writing to Viktor Krum?”
Harry found the kitchen extremely interesting. “A bit.”
“A bit?”
“Two letters.”
Mrs Weasley wiped her hands on her apron and leaned back against the counter. Harry waited for the lecture.
Instead she said, “Well, that's nice.”
He looked up. She meant it, and some of the knot in his stomach loosened.
“He asked if I wanted to meet him in Diagon Alley while he's in London.”
Mrs Weasley's expression changed immediately. Harry knew that look too.
“I know,” he said. “After the World Cup.”
“Exactly.”
“I said I knew.”
“And you're fourteen.”
“So?”
Mrs Weasley gave him a look that made him regret the word before it had properly left his mouth. “So you will not be wandering around London with a seventeen year old boy I have never met.”
Harry opened his mouth.
“Harry.”
He shut it.
Mrs Weasley went back to the bread. Harry watched her fold the dough once, twice, then press the heel of her hand into it.
She sighed. “You can invite him here.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“If he wants to visit you, he may visit here. I can meet him properly. You can use the field for flying as long as you stay inside the wards.”
Harry tried not to smile too quickly. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He was already backing towards the stairs.
“Harry.”
He stopped.
Mrs Weasley pointed a floury finger at him. “I mean it about the wards.”
“Yeah. Course.”
“And don't look so terrified. I said yes.”
“I'm not terrified.”
She looked at him.
Harry fled.
He wrote the reply at Ron's desk because his own hands were still a little shaky. The first sentence made him laugh enough that he kept it.
Dear Viktor,
Your English is fine. Better than Ron's.
Hedwig is only terrifying if she thinks someone is wasting her time, so I think you must have been too slow with the window.
I am glad you had already left before the attack. Your coach sounds horrible. I suppose I'm glad he made you go back to London, though, because it meant you missed it. That sounds bad. I don't mean I'm glad he shouted at you.
Thank you for the advice about the feint. I promise I won't practise it alone.
I know what you mean about Quidditch and everything around it. I love flying. I don't like strangers knowing stuff about me when I don't know them at all.
Mrs Weasley said I can't go to Diagon Alley yet because of what happened after the match.
But she said you can come here, if you want.
There is a field inside the wards, so we could fly. The Burrow is a bit mad because there are loads of Weasleys here, but Mrs Weasley said she won't hang around after she meets you. We could have tea here too.
How long have you been flying on a Firebolt? Do you use the same broom for Bulgaria and school? What was the first match you ever played?
Hope your English lessons aren't too boring.
Harry
Harry looked at the signature. After a moment, he added a small x.
Then he stared at it in horror.
No. Absolutely not.
He scratched it out so hard he nearly tore the parchment. The mark left behind was considerably more obvious than the x had been.
Harry swore under his breath. There was no chance he was rewriting the whole thing.
Outside, evening had softened the heat. The sky beyond the orchard had gone orange near the horizon, fading into a bruised purple higher up. Hedwig was perched on the shed roof and watched him approach.
Harry held up the letter. “Don't start.”
Her feathers lifted.
“He wrote back.”
Hedwig looked insufferably pleased with herself.
“Yes. You're brilliant. Happy?”
She dropped down to the fence post beside him. Harry tied the letter to her leg.
“He's still in London, so it isn't as far this time.”
Hedwig nipped his finger gently.
Harry smiled. “Try not to terrify him.”
She launched herself into the warm evening air. Harry watched until she passed over the orchard and disappeared into the darkening sky.
Only then did he realise he was smiling hard enough to make his cheeks ache.