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

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VIKTOR KRUM
hvannadalshnúkur mountains, iceland
january 1994

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 Icelandic 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 Hvannadalshnúkur Mountains, one of the gargantuan and seemingly never-ending mountain ranges of southern Iceland. 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 mountain 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 a maroon deer skull, with two golden eagles laced in its skeletal horns, 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.

Gruff 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 knowledge. Knowledge of what was to come.

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."

...

      "Sign here."

      The quill in Viktor's hand scratched against the thick parchment beneath it as though it had a mind of its own – he hadn't any control over it.

      "And here," Came the voice of Karkaroff's aide, Akim Davidov, from Viktor's side.

      Viktor's steely eyes snapped upwards to meet Akim's – the younger boy's gaze did not waver. A strong, slender hand reached Viktor's field of vision as it came to rest on Akim's shoulder. Viktor did not miss the subtle way in which Akim flinched at the contact.

      Accompanied by a blackened, toothy grin, Karkaroff towered above his aide as the picture of perfect pride. If one looked too closely, the image of his selfish enjoyment in dragging his Quidditch prodigy protege into yet another one-sided agreement might be observed in its rare form. However – that would only be an observation.

      Statuesque, Viktor surveyed his headmaster and classmate as they stood before him expectantly. Rich, midnight-colored ink poured thickly from the tip of the quill rested in his hand, still as though frozen in place.

      He had known in the mead-hall. He had known the very second that Karkaroff had labelled the Tournament as an honour. He would compete, and he would have no choice. Karkaroff would see to it that Viktor lacked a preference in this matter. Of course, his headmaster would spare no expense, no effort in ensuring that his favoured champion would enter the Tournament and win. It was done.

      Still, as the knowledge of this arrangement burned familiarly against Viktor's skull, he couldn't stop the knotted pit in his stomach as he attempted to wrench his eyes away from his headmaster. Karkaroff's beady, black eyes nailed Viktor's fate into concretion as he looked down upon his favorite student.

      The wooden door flew open and slammed against the wall, rattling the desk and chair Viktor sat at, and snapped Viktor from his trance. Immediately, he lifted his hand from the parchment, where the quill had amassed a substantially sized puddle of ink that had seeped into his fingertips.

      Harlan Veryan's eyes were ablaze with disbelief from where he stood in the doorway. His gaze, set sharply on Viktor, shot towards Karkaroff, who seemed rather affronted by the sudden intrusion.

      "What in Merlin's name is this?" Harlan all but shouted, stepping further into the room, "Viktor, don't sign another thing."

      Viktor gently placed the quill on the desktop.

      "Nice of you to join, Veryan," Karkaroff sneered, the corners of his lips upturned in near amusement.

      "Nice of you to kidnap my player and force him into signing things he doesn't understand," Harlan snapped in return, and Karkaroff's smirk fell from his features.

      "He understands," Karkaroff said roughly, his face set, "he understands what is expected of him – what is expected of all students at Durmstrang."

      Harlan scoffed, a disbeliving smile crossing his lips. "Is that so?"

      His gaze fell to the boy standing beside the headmaster.

      "You," He said with a nod in Akim's direction, "have you been signed up?"

      Akim's complexion turned a ghastly shade of pale, and his eyes flickered briefly towards Karkaroff.

      Harlan laughed coldly. 'Precisely."

      Karkaroff took a sudden step towards Harlan, his features tight, and leaned towards Harlan's ear.

      "He's trained for this," He muttered hushedly, "he knows what this means. He wants to do it."

      A bright shade of purple flickered over Harlan's expression.

      "He does not want to do this–"

      "I do."

      The sudden uptick in noise ailing from Viktor silenced both men, who turned sharply to look at the younger man in surprise. Viktor swallowed and allowed a beat of silence to pass.

      "I do want to do this," He repeated, his voice stoic. "I know what I am expected to do, and I will do it."

      Karkaroff and Harlan stared at him for a moment, their expressions unreadable.

      "It will help my status, no?" Viktor asked, looking to Harlan pointedly.

      Harlan grappled with his words for a few seconds, then closed his mouth and nodded slowly.

      "Yes, it will help, but only if you win, Viktor–"

      "Then, I will win," Viktor pressed strongly.

      The expression on Karkaroff's face through the corner of his eye sent an emotion through him he couldn't quite place. With his gaze set firmly on his Quidditch advisor, Viktor placed his shaking palms flat on his legs, then squared his shoulders and nodded firmly.

      "I will win."

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!