#its Viktor brain rot time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

necroheir · 4 years

Text

weeks have turned to months and your journey to olympus, your acceptance of your life as a demigod, has lead up to this moment. it's been brutal, wrought with pain and close calls, thick with loss, but you've endured. as you begin to get ready to sleep, winding down for the night, something inside of you feels different. there's a strength that grows that you only dimly knew was there before. you feel stronger, faster, more attuned to your senses and your own inner power. if you ever doubted that you might have divine blood in your veins before, now, more than ever, you feel it. as soon as your head hits the pillow you fall fast asleep, exhausted from the events that have lead up to this point. who knows however long later, you "awaken". you're not where you fell asleep, there's no familiar body curled beside yours, nothing is as it was when you slept. you have to blink a few times but you realize that you're in a place that seems familiar to you. describe this place? what does it look like, sound like, smell like?

viktor awakes to the feeling of cool rain against his face. his lids open, and he sees the sky, slanted, silver streaks of rain pattering onto his wasted mug, as if to rouse him conscious. he shifts and feels the uncomfortable jab of cardboard boxes pressed into his spine. he fidgets again, and a pile of rotted trash knocks over and clatters to the ground next to him. his body feels like a thousand tons and he knows... knows by the muffled sound of bar tunes and the stench of alleyway filth that he'd blacked out drunk in his own vomit again. he drags himself up, sitting properly against the brick wall behind him, and closes his eyes to clear the pounding headache in his brain.

with your eyes closed, you will your headache to go away, will your senses to block out the familiar stench of trash and vomit, the familiar sounds of the jukebox that plays song after song. after a while, with the rain still battering down upon you, an onslaught of cold, you open your eyes to see a figure standing in the alleyway, looking toward you. it's obscured by the heavy rain, making it almost appear like a dark blot in your vision. for a second you maybe think that it's nothing more than a trick to your eyes, but after blinking a few more times, you can see something or someone is actually there. for a moment, the rain all but stops around them and you get a proper glimpse as to who or what is there. what do you see? describe what the figure is. is it a person an animal? be as descriptive as you'd like.

the miserable sights and sounds around him are too familiar to him, reminiscent of his days in russia, getting wasted every chance he got. he blinks away the rain and drags a too-heavy hand down his face as he makes out a familiar figure in the rain. a small, sincere smile traces onto his lips. "pashka?" the burly man curls himself forward and opens his hands for the cream-colored kitten that he'd befriended in the rain, some years ago. little pashka, with his cream-colored coat drenched and taut against brittle bones. he'd found him chewing on a rotted core of an apple that day, and brought him home. little pashka, the first thing to love someone like him. this little one, however, is not like the pashka he remembers vividly in his memories. this one has blue, comforting eyes, like yves'.

bright, comforting blue eyes look up into yours as you extend a hand out toward pashka. the cream-colored coat sticks to his frail bones like a second skin and, even though he looks miserable out in the rain, he perks up when he notices that it's you. sauntering over toward your hand, he butts his nose and forehead against your calloused fingers before he slinks his body along your hand, down his mane and back. then, pashka speaks. at first, you think you heard something—it's a muffled noise, maybe the rain battering against dumpsters and pavement makes it harder to hear, but it almost sounds like something is being muffled by water or glass. you strain to hear once more and you can make it out. a voice. coming from the cat. after the shock settles, you hear it clear as day, as if the rain is gone and there's nothing but you, pashka, and the voice speaking to you. what do you hear? what does the voice sound like? is male, female, animalistic? describe the reaction you have to hearing it.

viktor doesn't recognize the voice, but it sounds like a little boy's, not exactly like his son's. it sounds playful, and peppy, like he always remembered pashka to be, bounding up and down his bedroom corridor with an excitement that always had his hind legs teetering above his little head. even his own son looked upon him with disappointment and disdain, but pashka, his little kitten, had never, always greeting him with affectionate mewls and yowls. a soul snatched so soon. as viktor closes a hand over the kitten's head and thumbs it behind his ear, he remembers coming home one day to pashka's mangled head and gouged body on his doormat. then, the sneer of a stray dog with its muzzle coated in blood. a tear rolls down his cheek as he hears the voice, but he wipes it away quickly. "pashka," he wheezes mournfully. "pashka, my little boy."

the excited mewl turns into a voice as a gentle purr begins to rake through pashka's body. his eyes close, the bright blues closed happily as you pet behind his ears. "i've been waiting for you!" he says happily, the purr coating every word, the excitement and joy ringing true in his voice. "i knew you'd find me again and i'd find you! what took you so long?"

"i'm sorry," viktor chuckles through his tears. he's glad it's raining, and that nobody would think twice about glancing his way like this. he'd always been something of human trash, invisible and unloved. he wipes his snot and tears across his sleeve. "i have found someone who loves me." he laughs and cups pashka in his hands. he's barely a few ounces in his gigantic palms. "can you believe that, little pashka? someone like me. i have been... very happy."

pashka purrs happily as you say this and opens his eyes. he looks up at you and you find yourself staring back into the same ocean blue eyes that you stare into more often than not, the ones that look at you like you belong, like you matter. pashka moves to jump into your lap and curls up, legs outstretched over your side, and lays sideways a little to crane his head up toward you. "that's exciting! i knew someone else would love you." he butts his head against your stomach, getting comfortable against you. "you deserve to be happy! you always have!" he stops wiggling to look up at you again, his small mouth looking as if it's curled in a smile. "does it scare you, though, viktor? feeling worth something to someone?"

with pashka, it has always been easier to confess some of his deepest darkest secrets without fear of scrutiny. this little pashka with the color of yves' eyes makes him feel even more comforted, and at home. "no," he mumbled as he wipe away the last of his tears. he sits there, cross-legged, and strokes pashka's fur, wet and matted against his palm. "i am not afraid of being a monster." he wasn't afraid of being unlovable. he'd done far too many vile things in life to expect that kind of gesture from anybody, but... "i am scared of losing..." the knot tightens in his throat but he has to push this out. "i am scared of losing that someone." not for his own selfish gains, surprisingly enough. if someone or something was so pure to love someone like him, why couldn't it be him to die? maybe the gods had a plan for everything, but he just couldn't understand the fairness of that. when he'd come home, grocery bag in hand, to see pashka's blood smeared across his doormat, he'd wondered: why couldn't it have been him instead? he'd felt that when yves had gone down. dane couldn't have understood his mad desperation to save the person who viktor had thought too good to die. too loving. if not to love him, he knew pashka, or even yves, would sow that love to someone else undeserving.

"then we'll make sure you won't let that happen!" pashka says it as if it's the easiest truth to swallow, like a gummy bear versus a pill. he bounces up onto his paws, kneads into your thigh, and looks up at you with bright, intense eyes. "you're different now, you know! you're not the same viktor that found me. i think some of it has to do with this someone, but there's more to it. you've changed!" it's not a question really, nor a statement, but an observation. "you're not like your father, even if you still have that bottomless rage in you."

he doesn't know if pashka's words are true, but he wants to believe it. he's tried so hard these days to be someone deserving of yves' love. of pashka's love. "i didn't really know him," viktor chuckles. "but you are right." the russian hiccups, feeling a little more at ease as the rain soaks through his clothes and washes down his face. "i have to be steady," he drunkenly mumbles. "like the cliffs. i have to protect yves, because i could not save you, little pashka. you didn't deserve that."

"you do not know him, but i do." pashka's words are a purr as he nuzzles against your side once more. he looks up at you as you say his name and, for a moment, his eyes get sad. "your heart is in the right place. do you think you'll be able to be as strong as a mountain and as steady as a cliff, as fierce as the ocean, where you're at?" he butts his head against your chest after stretching to be on his hind legs. as he does so, you see flashes of the ASPIDA house and how you belong there, but then there's flashes of the other houses, too. "is that where you belong?"

viktor smiles easily and kisses the little kitten's apple-head. "of course," he chuckles, drunkenly confident. but something says that he's normally like this when he's sober, too. "i'm viktor zalessky. no matter how the wind howls, the mountain does not bow to it, eh?" he squints a bit as he sees flashes of the ASPIDA house. he sees his housemates, too, and while he has his differences with them, he considers them family. they all want to protect someone, just like him. belong. now, that wasn't a word he'd heard in a while. "maybe," viktor shrugs, and then he imagines an empty spot next to yves in their bed back home. that's where he belongs. not in some house. not in some bratva. not in prison. just there, next to yves, protecting him by all means necessary, even if it is a bit selfish. but ASPIDA... ASPIDA is the closest he's felt to home besides his boyfriend's arms, sure.

it's almost as if pashka can see what you're thinking, can see the same flashes as he lays his forehead against your chest, listening to the steady drumming of your heartbeat. "you love him." he says to you, looking up, craning his head to get a better look into your eyes. "you'd destroy the world to keep him safe." he doesn't form it into a question because he knows the answer already, knows the harsh reality of he tsunami and earthquake of your love. as harsh as it may be, as volatile and dangerous, pashka knows the calm eye of the storm that is your protection, your love. "we will make you strong enough to keep him safe." he kneads at your chest, claws digging in affectionately. "if you let me."

viktor's heartbeat is steady, like he's never been more sure of something in his life. "i do," he confesses with a slow exhale of relief. "i love him." he'd done worse things in exchange for much less. stolen, scammed, and even killed for money. for love? there was virtually nothing he couldn't do. he glances down, a hand protectively cupping the kitten's bottom so he doesn't tumble off. pashka had always been slow to recover from his maladies, growing much slower than other kittens his age. "i will, whatever it takes."

"whatever it takes." pashka says in return, purring deep and loud. "when you wake up, you'll be stronger! you'll be the biggest, baddest mountain ever! unstoppable!" he mewls loudly, the sound cutting through the pattering of rain that still falls on them. "we'll see each other again, i promise! just keep doing right by him and by you." clumsily, pashka jumps from your arms and skids a little, paws falling out from under him as he topples over before he slowly gets back to his feet. his tail sways from side to side, high and proud, as he walks away, out of the alleyway and into what looks to be spots of sun. you wake up in the middle of the night feel warm, droplets of sweat hang on your brow and yves' body is curled against yours. this, you think, is home. this, you know, is where you belong. you feel stronger now, more revitalized, but you still fall back asleep easily with your arms wrapped around your lover. when you wake in the morning, you feel brand new, unstoppable.

#path

6 notes · View notes

youremarvelous · 6 years

Text

Clumsy

It’s not arrogant for Viktor to think of himself as a generally dexterous person. His career revolves around performing incredible feats of athleticism and artistry balanced on a thin blade atop a slippery ice slab, so really, it’s a natural conclusion to reach.

It’s also why it shocks more than embarrasses him the first time he reaches for a dumpling—engrossed in a riveting conversation about his old oxblood red, velvet and gossamer Persephone-inspired SP costume (he had no idea Yuuri was such a dual fashion design and ancient Greek mythology enthusiast)—and elbows a glass of water right into Yuuri’s lap.

By the time Viktor’s brain has fully processed what happened, Yuuri has already pushed himself back from the table and started patting down his jeans with a napkin.

Water drips off the edge of the tabletop, pooling on the floor in telling Rorschach patterns, and Viktor pulls his arms back with a quiet hiss. “Sorry, Yuuri—” he stands, tries not to stare too hard at the wet spot positioned right over Yuuri’s crotch. “I’ll get a towel.”

It’s not his proudest moment—for one, he doesn’t remember the last time he honest to god blushed over the mere thought of someone’s dick—but he doesn’t think much of it until two days later when he slips over a rotted, partially flattened banana peel on the Ice Palace walkway.

Viktor scrapes himself off the concrete—pride wounded, body less so—and tries to pass it off with some lame joke about how “bananas” it is to fall victim to such a cliché trope. He considers it further proof of Yuuri’s generosity and overall loveliness when he actually laughs.

Something about Yuuri makes him stupid about his own dimensions, Viktor decides when a week later he narrowly avoids jogging right into an open manhole during his and Yuuri’s morning run.

“Sorry,” he pants, blinking at the dark chasm visible beyond the obstruction of his knees and sneakers. It takes him a full few seconds to realize he’s sitting on the asphalt, back leaned against Yuuri’s heaving chest. “Are you okay?” Viktor scrambles to stand a little too fast. He gets tripped up over his own feet and nearly topples back into the hole, but Yuuri maintains his grip in the back of Viktor’s shirt, pulls him away from the ledge.

“Fine,” Yuuri exhales. The word wobbles a little at the end, laughter bursting at the edges. “Are you?”

Viktor straightens his shirt and taps a toe on the ground. “It’s these shoes, you know?” He looks to Yuuri—still sprawled on the street, glasses crooked on his nose. “I heard they had a recall.”

“Is that right?” Yuuri asks, accepting Viktor’s hand when he offers it.

“‘Fraid so,” Viktor nods, pulling Yuuri back to his feet. “Not at all manhole resistant.”

Yuuri covers his mouth with his hand and laughs and Viktor only just manages to bite back a comment about how much he relates.

“It’s his hair,” Viktor tells Chris over facetime later that night. He leans his elbow on his desk, his forehead in his palm. “It’s just—” he waves his free hand around, searching for the word. “It’s so—”

Chris tilts his head. “...Black?”

“I know, right?” Viktor snaps his head up, eyes wide.

“Wow,” Chris’ mouth tilts into a sardonic smile. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Truthfully, neither did Viktor. He stares into the mirror that night, fingers gripped against the porcelain countertop. “You’re Viktor Nikiforov,” he tells himself. He runs a hand through his hair, tries to flash his trademark practiced smile. It’s always been something of an act, but this time it feels fake in a way that makes his skin crawl. His shoulders slump and he sighs, turns his eyes to the ceiling, wonders how the hell he’s supposed to convince Yuuri to believe in him when he’s having trouble believing in himself.

Two weeks later he trips while chasing Yuuri down the shoreline and catches himself on the back of Yuuri’s swim trunks. He gets a face full of sand and spends the next few hours blinking grit out of his eyes, but at least the view was nice going down.

“They’re running again,” Viktor whispers, wraps his fingers around Yuuri’s forearm. The flight from Hasetsu to the Rostelecom Cup is fifteen hours and he and Yuuri have spent the last eight of it watching French Kiss, Sleepless in Seattle, Bridget Jones’ Diary, and When Harry Met Sally in mind-numbing succession. “What is it about love that gets people in such a rush?”

He finds out a few agonizingly long days of contemplative airplane window gazing, veterinary office pacing, and white-knuckled tv watching later.

‘When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody—’ Billy Crystal’s voice as Harry Burns echoes through Viktor’s mind when he catches his first sight of Yuuri since they parted ways in Russia—eyes to his feet, visibly lonely in a way that hurts—‘you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.’

Viktor explodes from his seat and runs to meet Yuuri at the exit, Makkachin in tow. He weaves around piles of luggage and milling travelers, trajectory clear, feet surer than they’ve been since he first landed in Japan seven months ago.

When Yuuri falls into his arms, Viktor understands the concept of ‘home’ in a way that expands time or space. He feels the earth tilt on its axis, his equilibrium slide back into place, a new sense of self and certainty ground him to the spot.

He closes his eyes, breathes in the familiar scent of Yuuri’s soap, lets the clamor of the crowded airport fade out and the rightness of the moment soak into him.

‘If I had to fall for anyone,’ he thinks, shuddering against the warmth of Yuuri’s breath against his cheek, ‘I’m glad it got to be you.’

#yuri on ice #yoi ficlet #victuuri #my writing #I wrote a thing for valentine's day #if you would like musical accompaniment may I suggest Clumsy by Fergie #I just really like romcoms okay ???? ?

149 notes · View notes

xellawritesx-blog · 6 years

Text

Victuuri Witchcraft fic

TLDR; Victuuri Witch Fic where Viktor is a witch and Yuuri is just a regular human and they are an adorable couple. They own a little perfume shop called Agape & Eros where they sell charmed scents. Not only do their scents smell amazing, they’re blessed with a little magic. For those who need some magic assistance and are willing to pay a extra, you can have Viktor make a special perfume potion or aphrodisiac for you (and of course, the creators totally test all their sexytime perfumes on each other). It’s my brain dump of the perfume and witchcraft fic absolutely no one asked for.

There was something strange about the perfume shop on Third.

If you knew the neighborhood, you knew the tiny storefront sandwiched between the bakery and a shoe shop was once upon a time a barbershop until the mid-century when it was converted into a bookstore. Decades later, it was a coffee house. It was a shame when the coffee house went, because the drinks were good and there was always plenty to watch as the uptown crowd filtered in and out of the boutiques that lined the street. The space sat for a good while empty, and there was a flood a while back that left the floorboards rotted and the walls chewed with mildew. So, it was a surprise that anyone would see something in it - especially a guy like him, with his fashionably cut silvery-blonde hair and expensive leather shoes. He walked right in, took one look at the cobwebs and rot, and turned to his dog. The poodle was feverishly sniffing every nook and cranny. “What do you think, Makkachin?”

The dog’s tail wagged. He took that as approval, because he turned to the landlord next and said, “It’s a real mess. And it smells like a dead animal. But I’ll take it. At my price, of course - but I’ll take it.”

His price was low. But it was better than anyone could expect to get for a flood-damaged shack of a space - so the landlord easily took the money and ran, glad to have dumped it on some other sad sack who had big dreams and a big budget to waste.

But within a month, there was an Open sign hanging in the glass-paneled front door, and the floor was replaced with marble and the interior brick painted fresh-white. Inside, alabaster shelves lined with hundreds of jars and vials decorated the walls. The shop sign read: Agape & Eros. Third Street’s first perfumery.

But this perfumery, despite being wildly popular, was strange. The hours were wacky and unpredictable. Randomly closed on the odd business day, open on holidays, occasionally taking customers past nine p.m. Occasionally, there’d be a piece of paper, ripped out violently from a notebook and taped to the front door. In someone’s handwriting it read in cyrillic: Time to eat! Be back sometime.

It was difficult to get an appointment if you wanted a custom order. And that was the very thing everyone recommended. People all over the city insisted thirty minutes with Viktor Nikiforov was well worth the wait.

So, like everyone else, you put your name on the list and you waited.

And on that day, when you managed to find an hour when they were open, and someone was actually there, and there wasn’t too many customers causing a line out the door, and it was long past lunch hour, you’d be able to take your appointment. The first thing that hit you was scent. Spices. Flowers. Delightful and clearly curated depending on the day and mood, and god it was delicious. Better than a pastry shop.

The next thing that greeted you was a whirlwind dog. She was a large, teddy bear of a poodle and eager to make sure she took in every scent you brought along with you. Nuzzling her snout into your hands, bag, unmentionables, until the young man with dark hair and glasses sitting at the counter looked up from his book at scolded, “Makkachin!”

The dog, all the sudden deflated, would mosey back to its bed.

“Sorry,” he said. He was nondescript and quiet, and greeted you in shaky Russian, then in English before turning back to his book.

The shop was bright with natural light, chic white with fresh flowers in the window sills. Hundreds of glass vials reflected the sunlight, filled with liquids and dried flowers and spices - like an apothecary or science lab - but delicate as a dream. For a moment you’d think your friends were shitting you with all this talk of voodoo and hocus-pocus. Clearly it wasn’t happening in this place. It was chic as a fashion showroom with a guy manning the counter that was as regular as regular could get, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Hiding behind his glasses.

He didn’t say anything at all, letting you curiously peek at the contents of the jars and vials - cardamom, musk, lavender, sea salt - until he all the sudden he piped up. “Premade scents are over here.” He’d get up and show you. “There are some for spring and summer. The mood and inspiration is written on the bottle. You’re welcome to test any of them.”

But, if you heard the rumors, you knew you weren’t looking for pre-made scents. Everyone knew you’d have to let him know you had a custom order. When you did, his expression would shift ever so slightly and you couldn’t decide if you had asked the wrong question or not. He nodded. Then, he’d gesture for you to follow him into the back.

It was a small room and there was a couple chairs and a table. It was still just as plain and regular as the front - no witch’s lair hiding back here. He’d sit you down and offer you tea. “Viktor will be down in just a moment,” he said, turning to leave. “If you need anything in the meanwhile, I’m right out here. My name is Yuuri, by the way.”

The owner, Viktor Nikiforov, was very handsome. This was just as widely whispered about as the shop’s mystical reputation. So, when he came in the room fifteen minutes or so later, you knew exactly who was standing in the doorway.

He was gorgeous in the way that supermodels and film stars are gorgeous - and clearly he knew it made people nervous around him. And he didn’t like it. Because of this, he was quick to bring himself to your level. Bright as sunshine, looking into your eyes as he said, “Welcome!” He’d take your hand to shake and put on this affectionate smile, like all his life he’d been eagerly waiting your arrival. “So pleased to meet you. Come. Sit. Let’s talk.”

You’d chat and it’d be so easy to talk to him. He’d ask a million questions and indulge you with the little details of his own life. That he was working on new perfumes, and reading Faust, and he had forgotten to do the laundry after his boyfriend (the guy at the front of the shop nonetheless) had asked him to a million times. He had a sweet, self-amused little laugh that made you laugh too.

Before long, without you even realizing it, the consultation began.

He always knew what you were looking for before you did. Love? Good luck? Confidence? Without a word, he just knew. It was surprising, when he’d suddenly ask a question like: What is their name?

Whose name?

Their name of course. The one you desire.

He was intuitive in that way. Read you like a deck of cards. And that’s when you’d realize, those blue eyes were calculating and that his dizzy way of conversation was well-choreographed waltz. The questions eventually got more pointed.

Are you in love with this person? Or do you just want to sleep with them? Is there anything in the way of this happening? How long do you want the spell to last?

Of course, this was more than perfume.

Finally, he’d say: “I know exactly what you need.”

He came with a pad of paper, and jotted down a list of things you needed to bring to him.

A lock of your lover’s hair. Soil from the neighbor’s yard. An eyelash. A sparrow’s feather.

Depending on the weight of your request, he’d ask for more peculiar things.

Dried leaves. Salt. An enemy’s spit. Blood.

“When you’ve gathered this list of items, bring them back in a single package, individually wrapped. You can use jars, sandwich bags, whatever you’ve got around the house. Leave them in the mail slot at the back door. Makkachin won’t bother them I promise.” Once you supplied the items, he told you to return in two weeks and provide whoever was working at the time with your name to receive your package.

When you did return, (on a day when they were open, and not out to lunch or walking the dog, and it wasn’t too busy to breathe) the dark haired man was there to take your name. He handed over a small box wrapped in foil-paper, pretty as a Christmas gift. With a card on top. It read:

Designed for uniquely for you. In a full moon, apply the perfume the pulse points and let it warm on the skin of whoever you’d like the spell to take effect upon. Within 7 hours of application, recite these words…

Underneath, he’d written what appeared to be a spell. First in Latin. Then, in cyrillic.

Two nights and your spell will take effect.

Blessed by,

Agape & Eros.

#the brain dump #literally no one wants this #and no one asked for it #but its been burning a hole in my brain so...sorry guys #im literally obsessed with this idea #viktor and yuuri in their cute little shop #making gorgeous perfumes that are actually potions #and being the worst shop owners because they are too busy being in love to worry about managing their shop #yuuri on ice #victuuri #victor x yuuri #yoi fic #yoi fic idea #yoi #yoi fanfic

2 notes · View notes

jii-chanwrites · 7 years

Text

Prompt 99. Yurio/Otabek

Prompt 99. Yurio/Otabek – “We’re in an abandoned lodge in the middle of nowhere. Sure, you’re totally right, nothing bad could ever happen here.”

Thanks for sending me a prompt, @genichirolto! I hope you like this! Feel free to tell me what you think.

More prompts here. Feel free to send me one! I’ve had writer’s block like mad. Maybe these will help me out. Expect more soon!

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Yuri hissed, clutching his phone in a white-knuckled grip. No signal. No apps loading. Nothing. They were lost.

“God dammit!” Yuri slammed his foot into the wall, digging his heel into the brittle, aging wood of the cabin wall.

“Yura, just calm down—”

“Calm down?!” Yuri turned on Otabek, jabbing a finger into a face he could barely make out. “We’re fucking lost!”

“I know that!” Otabek shouted back, swatting at his friend’s wrist. He clutched the flashlight tight enough that he thought the plastic might crack. “Venturing off was your idea.”

“Oh, so this is my fault, huh?!” Yuri stepped in closer, thinking it would make Otabek back down.

“Kind of, so don’t freaking yell at me,” Otabek said.

“Well, you got a better idea? Besides sitting in this damn shed?” Yuri asked, throwing his arms out and letting them drop back down.

“No. This is the best bet we have.” Otabek crossed his arms.

“We’re sitting here doing nothing—”

“We’re waiting.” Otabek said it like it was obvious.

“How do you know anyone will find us in here?!” Yuri was almost surprised at how much he raised his voice, and he worried Otabek might have been bothered, but he couldn’t really tell in the dark room.

Otabek didn’t say anything. The two of them stayed there for a short moment, glaring at each other, before Yuri let out a quick huff and turned away. He slumped down to the floor, pulling his hood over his head. At least they’d found someplace to get away from the cold wind. Yuuri, Viktor, and the others were back at the campsite probably wondering where the hell they were. If they didn’t find their way back, their friends would start searching for them. The idea made both of them uneasy. This was supposed to be a fun trip, and here they were, screwing it up for the rest of them just because Yuri was slightly tipsy and both of them were curious. An unfailing recipe for bad decisions. Bad decisions that led them to take shelter from the cold in an old, abandoned cabin that smelled like cheap cologne.

“Whose idea was it to even go camping anyway?” Yuri asked, leaning his head back and gnashing his teeth.

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s just stay here for now. At least it’s not that cold, and it should be safe.” Otabek sat across from him, attempting to balance the flashlight on its end, hoping to illuminate more of the small cabin they were in. The wood floors were too uneven, so it wouldn’t stay. He let it drop down onto its side with a dull clack.

“Sure, super safe. A bear could just rip this rotting door down and maul us.” Yuri jabbed his thumb to the wood door. It had some gaps and chips in it, which made the wind whistle occasionally. He wouldn’t admit it, but it was freaking him out.

“Or maybe, for all we know, this place could be fucking haunted,” Yuri spat, pressing his hands to his face as he sighed.

“It’s better than just being lost outside,” Otabek said, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees.

Yuri peered through his fingers at what little he could make out of Otabek. He could see some of the right side of his friend’s face and a vague outline of his body all bulky from his thick coat. He couldn’t even remember what color it was. Blue? Green? Gray? Whatever it was was better than Yuri’s hoodie. He didn’t think it would get that cold, so he never bothered to bring anything heavier. He was regretting it by now, and even though he knew outside would be worse, he still felt like sitting here and doing nothing was a waste.

Yuri got up, pacing to try and keep himself warm and keep his mind from wandering. The wood floor clunked under his shoes with the five steps it took him to cross the room, only to turn and continue the pattern. He started to wonder how many animals might have snuck in here for warmth. He figured not many, since he couldn’t hear anything but his own footsteps. They probably were alone.

It wasn’t the feeling of being alone that made him uneasy, though. He just wanted to know his way back so he didn’t get stuck out here. But alone is what he’d wanted. That’s why he’d wandered off with Otabek – to be someplace alone with him. Yuri wouldn’t have agreed to even go camping if Otabek wasn’t coming along. But he was, and that changed things. This could give him his chance to finally talk to Otabek without someone breathing down his neck, like Viktor or Mila or even his grandpa. Why was everyone so nosy? Sure, he was interested in Otabek, but he didn’t want other people interested in him being interested.

“Cold?” Otabek asked.

Yuri gave a low grunt in reply.

“Bet I could do more pushups than you,” Otabek said. A challenge seemed like a more fun way to keep warm and pass the time.

“No way am I puttin’ my hands on this shitty floor. It’s probably full of splinters,” Yuri said.

“Fair enough.” Otabek shrugged and lay back, folding his hands behind his head. The ceiling was a black expanse and he was sure if he looked at it too long, it would suck him in. He wondered if anything could be up there, hiding away in here with them. Whatever it might be sure was quiet.

Yuri’s steps came closer to him, and soon his form loomed over Otabek.

“How long do you think we’ll end up waiting?” He asked.

“Dunno. An hour? We didn’t get that far,” Otabek said. He was trying to convince himself of this, too, but it was barely working.

The floor creaked as Yuri knelt down. He leaned forward, his narrow hips fitting just between Otabek’s thighs as he let himself drape over his friend, hands planted on either side of Otabek’s torso. Otabek could feel his face, neck, and ears getting warm. Was Yuri still feeling tipsy?

“Uh, Yura, is everything okay?” Otabek moved his hands from behind his head, half tempted to push Yuri off of him. He hadn’t really noticed until now, but Yuri was getting taller, and his build was much broader now. The young Russian took up more space than he used to.

“I already said – I’m cold,” Yuri said, as if this made perfect sense.

“Oh. Sorry.” Otabek slowly rested his hands on Yuri’s back. Strings of blond hair tickled Otabek’s neck.

Yuri could feel his hands starting to shake. This is stupid, he thought. What the hell am I doing? He could feel his own breath pooling against Otabek’s neck in warm puffs. He still smelled like booze, but he wasn’t feeling buzzed anymore. Maybe it was the oddness of the entire situation, but being close to Otabek felt more than comforting; it was tempting – magnetic. Besides, they were all alone now. He didn’t exactly screw that up.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Otabek asked. Yuri could feel the rumble of Otabek’s voice in his chest. For no longer being buzzed, his mind sure felt fuzzy.

“Yeah,” Yuri croaked. He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing up against Otabek’s clavicle.

The pads of his fingers dug into the wood floor as Yuri pushed himself up, just enough to hover above Otabek’s face. It was nearly impossible to make out Otabek’s expression in his own shadow that blocked the yellow light from reaching their faces. Propping his elbows above Otabek’s shoulders, Yuri pushed his hands down into Otabek’s hair as he leaned forward and kissed him. The warm rush of excitement as his heart rattled against his ribcage definitely helped in the cold, and the low moan that made its way up Otabek’s throat sent Yuri’s brain into a whirl. To Yuri’s relief, Otabek reluctantly kissed back, and he could feel Otabek’s hands grip his shoulders.

Yuri pulled away for a breath, his hands still shaky and his pulse throbbing in his ears. He didn’t dare look down at Otabek, even if he couldn’t see him too well.

“Didn’t think my first kiss would be with a drunk guy on a dingy cabin floor,” Otabek said.

Yuri sat back onto his haunches, his hands pressed against Otabek’s knees as he stared down at him.

“What?! There’s no way this was your first kiss!” Yuri scrambled to point an accusing finger at Otabek, even if he wouldn’t really see it. “And I’m not drunk!”

Otabek laughed. “Okay, so you’re not drunk. Still. This is…really unexpected.”

“’First kiss’ my ass!” Yuri could feel his face heating up, and the warmth was spreading down his neck and to his chest.

“Yura,” Otabek laughed, reaching up to put his hands on Yuri. He settled for resting them against Yuri’s chest. “Stop screaming, you’ll wake up the whole forest.”

Yuri let out a disgruntled huff. His eyes trailed along the dark walls of the cabin until they found their way back to his friend. Friend? Could that still work? What even were they now? Shrugging off that thought, Yuri let himself lean into Otabek’s hands, gripping his wrists as he got closer again.

“You serious? This was your first kiss? Shit, Beka, I wouldn’t’ve guessed.” Yuri made an effort not to laugh. Otabek seemed like the kind of guy who’d been in a few relationships – at least casual ones. This had to be a joke.

“I guess it wasn’t a terrible first kiss. I dunno what I expected. But definitely not this,” he said.

Otabek wrapped his arms around Yuri, keeping him pinned down.

“Still cold?” He asked. Yuri might still be cold, but Otabek was completely okay with the warmth radiating from him. He wasn’t about to ask this human blanket to move.

“Maybe,” Yuri said, pushing his hands back into Otabek’s hair. “We’ll last longer if we stay like this anyway. It’s really starting to get to me in here.”

The grip on Yuri’s shoulders tightened as Otabek leaned in for another kiss. The intoxicating feeling of those warm lips pressed to his own made it much easier to keep from worrying about when they’d be found.

Cutting through the sound of the wind were a series of quick huffs and sniffs. Yuri pushed himself up, looking to the door. A mixture of fear and anger rose in his chest. An animal had found them.

He put a hand over Otabek’s mouth, trying to get across the idea that he shouldn’t make any noise. Otabek gave a short nod and Yuri was up. He grabbed the flashlight, holding it like a club as he faced the door. His shoe scuffed against the floor as he got into a more stable stance. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to fight off an animal like the few fights he’d been in with people, but it was a better chance than nothing.

Some more muffled sound came from the doorway, and then the door burst open. Yuri could feel his heart jump into his throat as he quickly stepped forward, only to be met with laughter and then the impact of paws meeting his stomach and almost knocking him down. The dog in front of him panted, not sounding the least bit threatening.

“Funny finding you here,” Viktor’s voice said from the doorway.

Yuri shined the flashlight his way, hoping to blind him. Behind the silhouette of Viktor was another figure. Probably Yuuri.

Otabek was up and at Yuri’s side. The two of them stepped out of the cabin with Makkachin tailing behind them.

“How was your little adventure?” Viktor sang, a smug smirk on his face.

Yuri’s face flushed with embarrassment as anger rose in his chest. As if you two have any room to talk, he thought, noticing the two men were already holding hands. Gross saps.

“Shut up, we just got lost,” he said, turning the flashlight off and shoving it into his hoodie pocket. He definitely wasn’t about to explain any of this to Viktor.

“Nosy fucking bastard,” he muttered.

A low chuckle came from Otabek as he looped an arm through Yuri’s. Yuri wouldn’t have much more time to avoid questions any longer. At least Mila would give him enough booze to forget his embarrassment.

#yuri on ice #otayuri #yuri plisetsky #otabek altin #yurabek #otabek x yurio #yurio plisetsky #yoi #y!!!oi #yuri!!! on ice #yuri on ice fanfic #yoi fanfic #otayuri fanfic

36 notes · View notes

readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

The First Task

Harry got up on Sunday morning and dressed so inattentively that it was a while before he realized he was trying to pull his hat onto his foot instead of his sock. When he'd finally got all his clothes on the right parts of his body, he hurried off to find Hermione, locating her at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, where she was eating breakfast with Ginny. Feeling too queasy to eat, Harry waited until Hermione had swallowed her last spoonful of porridge, then dragged her out onto the grounds. There, he told her all about the dragons, and about everything Sirius had said, while they took another long walk around the lake. Alarmed as she was by Sirius's warnings about Karkaroff, Hermione still thought that the dragons were the more pressing problem. "Let's just try and keep you alive until Tuesday evening," she said desperately, "and then we can worry about Karkaroff." They walked three times around the lake, trying all the way to think of a simple spell that would subdue a dragon. Nothing whatsoever occurred to them, so they retired to the library instead. Here, Harry pulled down every book he could find on dragons, and both of them set to work searching through the large pile. "Talon-clipping by charms...treating scale-rot...' This is no good, this is for nutters like Hagrid who want to keep them healthy..." "Dragons are extremely difficult to slay, owing to the ancient magic that imbues their thick hides, which none but the most powerful spells can penetrate...' But Sirius said a simple one would do it..." "Let's try some simple spellbooks, then," said Harry, throwing aside Men Who Love Dragons Too Much. He returned to the table with a pile of spellbooks, set them down, and began to flick through each in turn, Hermione whispering nonstop at his elbow. "Well, there are Switching Spells...but what's the point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs for wine-gums or something that would make it less dangerous....The trouble is, like that book said, not much is going to get through a dragon's hide....I'd say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really haven't got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall...unless you're supposed to put the spell on yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But they're not simple spells, I mean, we haven't done any of those in class, I only know about them because I've been doing O.W.L. practice papers...." "Hermione," Harry said, through gritted teeth, "will you shut up for a bit, please? I m trying to concentrate." But all that happened, when Hermione fell silent, was that Harry's brain filled with a sort of blank buzzing, which didn't seem to allow room for concentration. He stared hopelessly down the index of Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed. Instant scalping...but dragons had no hair...pepper breath...that would probably increase a dragon's firepower...horn tongue...just what he needed, to give it an extra weapon... "Oh no, he's back again, why can't he read on his stupid ship?" said Hermione irritably as Viktor Krum slouched in, cast a surly look over at the pair of them, and settled himself in a distant corner with a pile of books. "Come on, Harry, we'll go back to the common room...his fan club'll be here in a moment, twittering away...." And sure enough, as they left the library, a gang of girls tiptoed past them, one of them wearing a Bulgaria scarf tied around her waist. Harry barely slept that night. When he awoke on Monday morning, he seriously considered for the first time ever just running away from Hogwarts. But as he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time, and thought about what leaving the castle would mean, he knew he couldn't do it. It was the only place he had ever been happy...well, he supposed he must have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn't remember that. Somehow, the knowledge that he would rather be here and facing a dragon than back on Privet Drive with Dudley was good to know; it made him feel slightly calmer. He finished his bacon with difficulty (his throat wasn't working too well), and as he and Hermione got up, he saw Cedric Diggory leaving the Hufflepuff table. Cedric still didn't know about the dragons...the only champion who didn't, if Harry was right in thinking that Maxime and Karkaroff would have told Fleur and Krum.... "Hermione, I'll see you in the greenhouses," Harry said, coming to his decision as he watched Cedric leaving the Hall. "Go on, I'll catch you up." "Harry, you'll be late, the bell's about to ring -" "I'll catch you up, okay?" By the time Harry reached the bottom of the marble staircase, Cedric was at the top. He was with a load of sixth-year friends. Harry didn't want to talk to Cedric in front of them; they were among those who had been quoting Rita Skeeter's article at him every time he went near them. He followed Cedric at a distance and saw that he was heading toward the Charms corridor. This gave Harry an idea. Pausing at a distance from them, he pulled out his wand, and took careful aim. "Diffindo!" Cedric's bag split. Parchment, quills, and books spilled out of it onto the floor. Several bottles of ink smashed. "Don't bother," said Cedric in an exasperated voice as his friends bent down to help him. "Tell Flitwick I'm coming, go on..." This was exactly what Harry had been hoping for. He slipped his wand back into his robes, waited until Cedric's friends had disappeared into their classroom, and hurried up the corridor, which was now empty of everyone but himself and Cedric. "Hi," said Cedric, picking up a copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration that was now splattered with ink. "My bag just split...brand-new and all..." "Cedric," said Harry, "the first task is dragons." "What?" said Cedric, looking up. "Dragons," said Harry, speaking quickly, in case Professor Flitwick came out to see where Cedric had got to. "They've got four, one for each of us, and we've got to get past them." Cedric stared at him. Harry saw some of the panic he'd been feeling since Saturday night flickering in Cedric's gray eyes. "Are you sure?" Cedric said in a hushed voice. "Dead sure," said Harry. "I've seen them." "But how did you find out? We're not supposed to know...." "Never mind," said Harry quickly - he knew Hagrid would be in trouble if he told the truth. "But I'm not the only one who knows. Fleur and Krum will know by now - Maxime and Karkaroff both saw the dragons too." Cedric straightened up, his arms full of inky quills, parchment, and books, his ripped bag dangling off one shoulder. He stared at Harry, and there was a puzzled, almost suspicious look in his eyes. "Why are you telling me?" he asked. Harry looked at him in disbelief. He was sure Cedric wouldn't have asked that if he had seen the dragons himself. Harry wouldn't have let his worst enemy face those monsters unprepared - well, perhaps Malfoy or Snape.... "It's just...fair, isn't it?" he said to Cedric. "We all know now...we're on an even footing, aren't we?" Cedric was still hooking at him in a slightly suspicious way when Harry heard a familiar clunking noise behind him. He turned around and saw Mad-Eye Moody emerging from a nearby classroom. "Come with me, Potter," he growled. "Diggory, off you go." Harry stared apprehensively at Moody. Had he overheard them? "Er - Professor, I'm supposed to be in Herbology -" "Never mind that, Potter. In my office, please..." Harry followed him, wondering what was going to happen to him now. What if Moody wanted to know how he'd found out about the dragons? Would Moody go to Dumbledore and tell on Hagrid, or just turn Harry into a ferret? Well, it might be easier to get past a dragon if he were a ferret, Harry thought dully, he'd be smaller, much less easy to see from a height of fifty feet.... He followed Moody into his office. Moody closed the door behind them and turned to look at Harry, his magical eye fixed upon him as well as the normal one. "That was a very decent thing you just did, Potter," Moody said quietly. Harry didn't know what to say; this wasn't the reaction he had expected at all. "Sit down," said Moody, and Harry sat, looking around. He had visited this office under two of its previous occupants. In Professor Lockhart's day, the walls had been plastered with beaming, winking pictures of Professor Lockhart himself. When Lupin had lived here, you were more likely to come across a specimen of some fascinating new Dark creature he had procured for them to study in class. Now, however, the office was full of a number of exceptionally odd objects that Harry supposed Moody had used in the days when he had been an Auror. On his desk stood what looked hike a large, cracked, glass spinning top; Harry recognized it at once as a Sneakoscope, because he owned one himself, though it was much smaller than Moody's. In the corner on a small table stood an object that looked something like an extra-squiggly, golden television aerial. It was humming slightly. What appeared to be a mirror hung opposite Harry on the wall, but it was not reflecting the room. Shadowy figures were moving around inside it, none of them clearly in focus. "Like my Dark Detectors, do you?" said Moody, who was watching Harry closely. "What's that?" Harry asked, pointing at the squiggly golden aerial. "Secrecy Sensor. Vibrates when it detects concealment and lies...no use here, of course, too much interference - students in every direction lying about why they haven't done their homework. Been humming ever since I got here. I had to disable my Sneakoscope because it wouldn't stop whistling. It's extra-sensitive, picks up stuff about a mile around. Of course, it could be picking up more than kid stuff," he added in a growl. "And what's the mirror for?" "Oh that's my Foe-Glass. See them out there, skulking around? I'm not really in trouble until I see the whites of their eyes. That's when I open my trunk." He let out a short, harsh laugh, and pointed to the large trunk under the window. It had seven keyholes in a row. Harry wondered what was in there, until Moody's next question brought him sharply back to earth. "So...found out about the dragons, have you?" Harry hesitated. He'd been afraid of this - but he hadn't told Cedric, and he certainly wasn't going to tell Moody, that Hagrid had broken the rules. "It's all right," said Moody, sitting down and stretching out his wooden leg with a groan. "Cheating's a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and always has been." "I didn't cheat," said Harry sharply. "It was - a sort of accident that I found out." Moody grinned. "I wasn't accusing you, laddie. I've been telling Dumbledore from the start, he can be as high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old Karkaroff and Maxime won't be. They'll have told their champions everything they can. They want to win. They want to beat Dumbledore. They'd like to prove he's only human." Moody gave another harsh laugh, and his magical eye swiveled around so fast it made Harry feel queasy to watch it. "So...got any ideas how you're going to get past your dragon yet?" said Moody. "No," said Harry. "Well, I'm not going to tell you," said Moody gruffly. "I don't show favoritism, me. I'm just going to give you some good, general advice. And the first bit is - play to your strengths." "I haven't got any," said Harry, before he could stop himself. "Excuse me," growled Moody, "you've got strengths if I say you've got them. Think now. What are you best at?" Harry tried to concentrate. What was he best at? Well, that was easy, really - "Quidditch," he said dully, "and a fat lot of help -" "That's right," said Moody, staring at him very hard, his magical eye barely moving at all. "You're a damn good flier from what I've heard." "Yeah, but..." Harry stared at him. "I'm not allowed a broom, I've only got my wand..." "My second piece of general advice," said Moody loudly, interrupting him, "is to use a nice, simple spell that will enable you to get what you need." Harry looked at him blankly. What did he need? "Come on, boy..." whispered Moody. "Put them together...it's not that difficult..." And it clicked. He was best at flying. He needed to pass the dragon in the air. For that, he needed his Firebolt. And for his Fire-bolt, he needed - "Hermione," Harry whispered, when he had sped into greenhouse three minutes later, uttering a hurried apology to Professor Sprout as he passed her. "Hermione - I need you to help me." "What d'you think I've been trying to do, Harry?" she whispered back, her eyes round with anxiety over the top of the quivering Flutterby Bush she was pruning. "Hermione, I need to learn how to do a Summoning Charm properly by tomorrow afternoon." And so they practiced. They didn't have lunch, but headed for a free classroom, where Harry tried with all his might to make various objects fly across the room toward him. He was still having problems. The books and quills kept losing heart halfway across the room and dropping hike stones to the floor. "Concentrate, Harry, concentrate...." "What d'you think I'm trying to do?" said Harry angrily. "A great big dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason...Okay, try again..." He wanted to skip Divination to keep practicing, but Hermione refused point-blank to skive off Arithmancy, and there was no point in staying without her. He therefore had to endure over an hour of Professor Trelawney, who spent half the lesson telling everyone that the position of Mars with relation to Saturn at that moment meant that people born in July were in great danger of sudden, violent deaths. "Well, that's good," said Harry loudly, his temper getting the better of him, "just as long as it's not drawn-out. I don't want to suffer." Ron looked for a moment as though he was going to laugh; he certainly caught Harry's eye for the first time in days, but Harry was still feeling too resentful toward Ron to care. He spent the rest of the lesson trying to attract small objects toward him under the table with his wand. He managed to make a fly zoom straight into his hand, though he wasn't entirely sure that was his prowess at Summoning Charms - perhaps the fly was just stupid. He forced down some dinner after Divination, then returned to the empty classroom with Hermione, using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers. They kept practicing until past midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Peeves turned up and, pretending to think that Harry wanted things thrown at him, started chucking chairs across the room. Harry and Hermione left in a hurry before the noise attracted Filch, and went back to the Gryffindor common room, which was now mercifully empty. At two o'clock in the morning, Harry stood near the fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books, quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of Gobstones, and Neville's toad, Trevor. Only in the last hour had Harry really got the hang of the Summoning Charm. "That's better, Harry, that's loads better," Hermione said, looking exhausted but very pleased. "Well, now we know what to do next time I can't manage a spell," Harry said, throwing a rune dictionary back to Hermione, so he could try again, "threaten me with a dragon. Right..." He raised his wand once more. "Accio Dictionary!" The heavy book soared out of Hermione's hand, flew across the room, and Harry caught it. "Harry, I really think you've got it!" said Hermione delightedly. "Just as long as it works tomorrow," Harry said. "The Firebolt's going to be much farther away than the stuff in here, it's going to be in the castle, and I'm going to be out there on the grounds..." "That doesn't matter," said Hermione firmly." Just as long as you're concentrating really, really hard on it, it'll come. Harry, we'd better get some sleep...you're going to need it." Harry had been focusing so hard on learning the Summoning Charm that evening that some of his blind panic had heft him. It returned in full measure, however, on the following morning. The atmosphere in the school was one of great tension and excitement. Lessons were to stop at midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons' enclosure - though of course, they didn't yet know what they would find there. Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing "We'll have a box of tissues ready, Potter" as he passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn't just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight. Time was behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, History of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch...and then (where had the morning gone? the last of the dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall was hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Lots of people were watching. "Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now....You have to get ready for your first task." "Okay," said Harry, standing up, his fork falling onto his plate with a clatter. "Good luck, Harry," Hermione whispered. "You'll be fine!" "Yeah," said Harry in a voice that was most unlike his own. He heft the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall. She didn't seem herself either; in fact, she looked nearly as anxious as Hermione. As she walked him down the stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon, she put her hand on his shoulder. "Now, don't panic," she said, "just keep a cool head....We've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand....The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you....Are you all right?" "Yes," Harry heard himself say. "Yes, I'm fine." She was leading him toward the place where the dragons were, around the edge of the forest, but when they approached the clump of trees behind which the enclosure would be clearly visible, Harry saw that a tent had been erected, its entrance facing them, screening the dragons from view. "You're to go in here with the other champions," said Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice, "and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in there...he'll be telling you the - the procedure.... Good luck." "Thanks," said Harry, in a flat, distant voice. She left him at the entrance of the tent. Harry went inside. Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a how wooden stool. She didn't look nearly as composed as usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum looked even surlier than usual, which Harry supposed was his way of showing nerves. Cedric was pacing up and down. When Harry entered, Cedric gave him a small smile, which Harry returned, feeling the muscles in his face working rather hard, as though they had forgotten how to do it. "Harry! Good-o!" said Bagman happily, looking around at him. "Come in, come in, make yourself at home!" Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown cartoon figure, standing amid all the pale-faced champions. He was wearing his old Wasp robes again. "Well, now we're all here - time to fill you in!" said Bagman brightly. "When the audience has assembled, I'm going to be offering each of you this bag" - he held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them - "from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different - er - varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too...ah, yes...your task is to collect the golden egg!" Harry glanced around. Cedric had nodded once, to show that he understood Bagman's words, and then started pacing around the tent again; he looked slightly green. Fleur Delacour and Krum hadn't reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly how Harry felt. But they, at least, had volunteered for this... And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking....Harry felt as separate from the crowd as though they were a different species. And then - it seemed like about a second later to Harry - Bagman was opening the neck of the purple silk sack. "Ladies first," he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour. She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon - a Welsh Green. It had the number two around its neck And Harry knew, by the fact that Fleur showed no sign of surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he had been right: Madame Maxime had told her what was coming. The same held true for Krum. He pulled out the scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number three around its neck. He didn't even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground. Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came the blueish-gray Swedish Short-Snout, the number one tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Harry put his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the Hungarian Horntail, and the number four. It stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared its minuscule fangs. "Well, there you are!" said Bagman. "You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I'm going to have to leave you in a moment, because I'm commentating. Mr. Diggory, you're first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now...Harry...could I have a quick word? Outside?" "Er...yes," said Harry blankly, and he got up and went out of the tent with Bagman, who walked him a short distance away, into the trees, and then turned to him with a fatherly expression on his face. "Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?" "What?" said Harry. "I - no, nothing." "Got a plan?" said Bagman, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Because I don't mind sharing a few pointers, if you'd like them, you know. I mean," Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further, "you're the underdog here, Harry....Anything I can do to help..." "No," said Harry so quickly he knew he had sounded rude, "no - I - I know what I'm going to do, thanks." "Nobody would know, Harry," said Bagman, winking at him. "No, I'm fine," said Harry, wondering why he kept telling people this, and wondering whether he had ever been less fine. "I've got a plan worked out, I -" A whistle had blown somewhere. "Good lord, I've got to run!" said Bagman in alarm, and he hurried off. Harry walked back to the tent and saw Cedric emerging from it, greener than ever. Harry tried to wish him luck as he walked past, but all that came out of his mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt. Harry went back inside to Fleur and Krum. Seconds hater, they heard the roar of the crowd, which meant Cedric had entered the enclosure and was now face-to-face with the living counterpart of his model.... It was worse than Harry could ever have imagined, sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed...yelled...gasped like a single many-headed entity, as Cedric did whatever he was doing to get past the Swedish Short-Snout. Krum was still staring at the ground. Fleur had now taken to retracing Cedric's steps, around and around the tent. And Bagman's commentary made everything much, much worse....Horrible pictures formed in Harry's mind as he heard: "Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow"... "He's taking risks, this one!"..."Clever move - pity it didn't work!" And then, after about fifteen minutes, Harry heard the deafening roar that could mean only one thing: Cedric had gotten past his dragon and captured the golden egg. "Very good indeed!" Bagman was shouting. "And now the marks from the judges!" But he didn't shout out the marks; Harry supposed the judges were holding them up and showing them to the crowd. "One down, three to go!" Bagman yelled as the whistle blew again. "Miss Delacour, if you please!" Fleur was trembling from head to foot; Harry felt more warmly toward her than he had done so far as she heft the tent with her head held high and her hand clutching her wand. He and Krum were left alone, at opposite sides of the tent, avoiding each other's gaze. The same process started again...."Oh I'm not sure that was wise!" they could hear Bagman shouting gleefully. "Oh...nearly! Careful now...good lord, I thought she'd had it then!" Ten minutes later, Harry heard the crowd erupt into applause once more....Fleur must have been successful too. A pause, while Fleur's marks were being shown...more clapping...then, for the third time, the whistle. "And here comes Mr. Krum!" cried Bagman, and Krum slouched out, leaving Harry quite alone. He felt much more aware of his body than usual; very aware of the way his heart was pumping fast, and his fingers tingling with fear...yet at the same time, he seemed to be outside himself, seeing the walls of the tent, and hearing the crowd, as though from far away. "Very daring!" Bagman was yelling, and Harry heard the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd drew its collective breath. "That's some nerve he's showing - and - yes, he's got the egg!" Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass; Krum had finished - it would be Harry's turn any moment. He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. He waited. And then he heard the whistle blow. He walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside him. And now he was walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence. He saw everything in front of him as though it was a very highly colored dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he'd last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, heaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Harry didn't know or care. It was time to do what he had to do...to focus his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance. He raised his wand. "Accio Firebolt!" he shouted. Harry waited, every fiber of him hoping, praying....If it hadn't worked...if it wasn't coming...He seemed to be looking at everything around him through some sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of faces around him swim strangely.... And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind him; he turned and saw his Firebolt hurtling toward him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside him, waiting for him to mount. The crowd was making even more noise....Bagman was shouting something...but Harry's ears were not working properly anymore...listening wasn't important.... He swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground. And a second later, something miraculous happened.... As he soared upward, as the wind rushed through his hair, as the crowd's faces became mere flesh-colored pinpnicks below, and the Horntail shrank to the size of a dog, he realized that he had left not only the ground behind, but also his fear....He was back where he belonged.... This was just another Quidditch match, that was all...just another Quidditch match, and that Horntail was just another ugly opposing team.... He looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the gold one, gleaming against its cement-colored fellows, residing safely between the dragon's front legs. "Okay," Harry told himself, "diversionary tactics...let's go..." He dived. The Horntail's head followed him; he knew what it was going to do and pulled out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where he would have been had he not swerved away...but Harry didn't care...that was no more than dodging a Bludger.... "Great Scott, he can fly!" yelled Bagman as the crowd shrieked and gasped. "Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?" Harry soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still following his progress; its head revolving on its long neck - if he kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy - but better not push it too long, or it would be breathing fire again - Harry plummeted just as the Horntail opened its mouth, but this time he was less lucky - he missed the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes - He could feel it stinging, he could hear screaming and groans from the crowd, but the cut didn't seem to be deep....Now he zoomed around the back of the Horntail, and a possibility occurred to him.... The Horntail didn't seem to want to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on Harry, she was afraid to move too far from them...but he had to persuade her to do it, or he'd never get near them....The trick was to do it carefully, gradually.... He began to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make her breathe fire to stave him off, but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept her eyes on him. Her head swayed this way and that, watching him out of those vertical pupils, her fangs bared.... He flew higher. The Horntail's head rose with him, her neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, hike a snake before its charmer.... Harry rose a few more feet, and she let out a roar of exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was longing to swat; her tail thrashed again, but he was too high to reach now....She shot fire into the air, which he dodged....Her jaws opened wide.... "Come on," Harry hissed, swerving tantalizingly above her, "come on, come and get me...up you get now..." And then she reared, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small airplane - and Harry dived. Before the dragon knew what he had done, or where he had disappeared to, he was speeding toward the ground as fast as he could go, toward the eggs now unprotected by her clawed front legs - he had taken his hands off his Firebolt - he had seized the golden egg - And with a huge spurt of speed, he was off, he was soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely under his uninjured arm, and it was as though somebody had just turned the volume back up - for the first time, he became properly aware of the noise of the crowd, which was screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup - "Look at that!" Bagman was yelling. "Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr. Potter!" Harry saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to subdue the Horntail, and, over at the entrance to the enclosure, Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody, and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, all of them waving him toward them, their smiles evident even from this distance. He flew back over the stands, the noise of the crowd pounding his eardrums, and came in smoothly to land, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks....He had got through the first task, he had survived.... "That was excellent, Potter!" cried Professor McGonagall as he got off the Firebolt - which from her was extravagant praise. He noticed that her hand shook as she pointed at his shoulder. "You'll need to see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your score....Over there, she's had to mop up Diggory already...." "Yeh did it, Harry!" said Hagrid hoarsely. "Yeh did it! An' agains' the Horntail an' all, an' yeh know Charlie said that was the wors' -" "Thanks, Hagrid," said Harry loudly, so that Hagrid wouldn't blunder on and reveal that he had shown Harry the dragons beforehand. Professor Moody looked very pleased too; his magical eye was dancing in its socket. "Nice and easy does the trick, Potter," he growled. "Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please..." said Professor McGonagall. Harry walked out of the enclosure, still panting, and saw Madam Pomfrey standing at the mouth of a second tent, looking worried. "Dragons!" she said, in a disgusted tone, pulling Harry inside. The tent was divided into cubicles; he could make out Cedric's shadow through the canvas, but Cedric didn't seem to be badly injured; he was sitting up, at least. Madam Pomfrey examined Harry's shoulder, talking furiously all the while. "Last year dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school next? You're very lucky...this is quite shallow...it'll need cleaning before I heal it up, though...." She cleaned the cut with a dab of some purple liquid that smoked and stung, but then poked his shoulder with her wand, and he felt it heal instantly. "Now, just sit quietly for a minute - sit! And then you can go and get your score." She bustled out of the tent and he heard her go next door and say, "How does it feel now, Diggory?" Harry didn't want to sit still. He was too full of adrenaline. He got to his feet, wanting to see what was going on outside, but before he'd reached the mouth of the tent, two people had come darting inside - Hermione, followed closely by Ron. "Harry, you were brilliant!" Hermione said squeakily. There were fingernail marks on her face where she had been clutching it in fear. "You were amazing! You really were!" But Harry was looking at Ron, who was very white and staring at Harry as though he were a ghost. "Harry," he said, very seriously, "whoever put your name in that goblet - I - I reckon they're trying to do you in!" It was as though the last few weeks had never happened - as though Harry were meeting Ron for the first time, right after he'd been made champion. "Caught on, have you?" said Harry coldly. "Took you long enough." Hermione stood nervously between them, looking from one to the other. Ron opened his mouth uncertainly. Harry knew Ron was about to apologize and suddenly he found he didn't need to hear it. "It's okay," he said, before Ron could get the words out. "Forget it." "No," said Ron, "I shouldn't've -" "Forget it, "Harry said. Ron grinned nervously at him, and Harry grinned back. Hermione burst into tears. "There's nothing to cry about!" Harry told her, bewildered. "You two are so stupid!" she shouted, stamping her foot on the ground, tears splashing down her front. Then, before either of them could stop her, she had given both of them a hug and dashed away, now positively howling. "Barking mad," said Ron, shaking his head. "Harry, c'mon, they'll be putting up your scores...." Picking up the golden egg and his Firebolt, feeling more elated than he would have believed possible an hour ago, Harry ducked out of the tent, Ron by his side, talking fast. "You were the best, you know, no competition. Cedric did this weird thing where he Transfigured a rock on the ground...turned it into a dog...he was trying to make the dragon go for the dog instead of him. Well, it was a pretty cool bit of Transfiguration, and it sort of worked, because he did get the egg, but he got burned as well - the dragon changed its mind halfway through and decided it would rather have him than the Labrador; he only just got away. And that Fleur girl tried this sort of charm, I think she was trying to put it into a trance - well, that kind of worked too, it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and this great jet of flame shot out, and her skirt caught fire - she put it out with a bit of water out of her wand. And Krum - you won't believe this, but he didn't even think of flying! He was probably the best after you, though. Hit it with some sort of spell right in the eye. Only thing is, it went trampling around in agony and squashed half the real eggs - they took marks off for that, he wasn't supposed to do any damage to them." Ron drew breath as he and Harry reached the edge of the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken away, Harry could see where the five judges were sitting - right at the other end, in raised seats draped in gold. "It's marks out of ten from each one," Ron said, and Harry squinting up the field, saw the first judge - Madame Maxime - raise her wand in the air. What hooked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it, which twisted itself into a large figure eight. "Not bad!" said Ron as the crowd applauded. "I suppose she took marks off for your shoulder..." Mr. Crouch came next. He shot a number nine into the air. "Looking good!" Ron yelled, thumping Harry on the back. Next, Dumbledore. He too put up a nine. The crowd was cheering harder than ever. Ludo Bagman - ten. "Ten?" said Harry in disbelief. "But...I got hurt....What's he playing at?" "Harry, don't complain!" Ron yelled excitedly. And now Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused for a moment, and then a number shot out of his wand too - four. "What?" Ron bellowed furiously. "Four? You lousy, biased scum-bag, you gave Krum ten!" But Harry didn't care, he wouldn't have cared if Karkaroff had given him zero; Ron's indignation on his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him. He didn't tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt lighter than air as he turned to leave the enclosure. And it wasn't just Ron...those weren't only Gryffindors cheering in the crowd. When it had come to it, when they had seen what he was facing, most of the school had been on his side as well as Cedric's....He didn't care about the Slytherins, he could stand whatever they threw at him now. "You're tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!" said Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off back toward the school. "Listen, I've got to run, I've got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I'd tell her what happened - but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah - and they told me to tell you you've got to hang around for a few more minutes....Bagman wants a word, back in the champions' tent." Ron said he would wait, so Harry reentered the tent, which somehow looked quite different now: friendly and welcoming. He thought back to how he'd felt while dodging the Horntail, and compared it to the long wait before he'd walked out to face it....There was no comparison; the wait had been immeasurably worse. Fleur, Cedric, and Krum all came in together. One side of Cedric's face was covered in a thick orange paste, which was presumably mending his burn. He grinned at Harry when he saw him. "Good one, Harry." "And you," said Harry, grinning back. "Well done, all of you!" said Ludo Bagman, bouncing into the tent and looking as pleased as though he personally had just got past a dragon. "Now, just a quick few words. You've got a nice long break before the second task, which will take place at half past nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth - but we're giving you something to think about in the meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs you're all holding, you will see that they open...see the hinges there? You need to solve the clue inside the egg - because it will tell you what the second task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear? Sure? Well, off you go, then!" Harry left the tent, rejoined Ron, and they started to walk back around the edge of the forest, talking hard; Harry wanted to hear what the other champions had done in more detail. Then, as they rounded the clump of trees behind which Harry had first heard the dragons roar, a witch leapt out from behind them. It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid-green robes today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended perfectly against them. "Congratulations, Harry!" she said, beaming at him. "I wonder if you could give me a quick word? How you felt facing that dragon? How you feel now, about the fairness of the scoring?" "Yeah, you can have a word," said Harry savagely. "Good-bye." And he set off back to the castle with Ron.

#GobletofFire #HarryPotter

1 note · View note