You'll make sure we're not disturbed then, right?

Hey, you.

Look, whomever took my fucking key to the fucking closet I use to change in can fuck off.

I'm not in a fucking mood to fucking deal with it today, and thanks to you I just cut my fucking hand trying to break a fucking iron lock just so I could put on my kit for this fucking match.

And keep away from my fucking vodka.

Krum

I’m angry.

I think I have been for weeks now. I just haven’t been letting myself feel it. Or I couldn’t feel it. It seemed wrong somehow. Unsupportive. Something.

But I want to put my fist through a wall this morning. Or someone’s head, though I suppose the latter would be far more problematic than just having to patch up the plaster.

I’m angry with Ron for being such a fucking shit for getting into this fucking mess in the first place, for telling me what he thinks I should do, for not listening to me. I’m angry with myself for not realising there was something wrong with him sooner, for not insisting that he see someone, for thinking that he’d be okay eventually, that things would sort themselves. I’m angry with the Ministry for not stopping him. I’m angry with Potter for…for just being, for dragging Ron into the war, for being the one that Ron can’t let go, for being more than I ever can be. I’m just Viktor Ioannovich Krum. The most I can do is catch a fucking Snitch, not save the world. How can I ever measure up to that? Why should I have to?

Fuck.

And I’m angry with the Weasleys. ( I don't understand them. )

Tomorrow is Orthodox Easter. I’m going home tonight, for the lighting of the candles at church come midnight, for Mama’s roast lamb and Nono’s koznuak, for Papa’s red wine, purchased a year ago and waiting for tomorrow’s dinner, for the laughter and teasing of my sisters, for my mother’s tight hug, for the egg fights my brothers and I will get into, smashing our painted eggs against each other’s until the one left intact is deemed this year’s winner.

And for a few hours, perhaps, I can pretend I’m happy, that I’m not angry. And I can know I’m loved. And not alone.

I miss my family.

I used to be happy.

I should get dressed and go over to Lake Cottage to ask for a new photograph of Lily. I don't know which of the Weasleys might show up to see Ron today. But maybe they'll let me have five minutes to talk to him. Maybe.

I hope.

I should owl Nono. I should go visit Ron. I should walk to the shop for milk and tea; the tin's far too low. I should, I should, I should.

It's always I should.

Ilyia owled. I should take the coach's position, he says, or at least let him find a speaking engagement or agree to an interview. Everyone's curious about the reclusive Viktor Krum, after all. Fuck them. All they'll want to know is why I do it, why I wait. It appalls them and fascinates them and it's none of their fucking business.

I love him. I miss him.

The money I left on the table was gone when I woke up this morning, but I could still smell Elena on my sheets, on my skin. They'd love to know that, wouldn't they? That I'm not the romantic saint they make me out to be. I'd like to see what they'd do if they were allowed one fucking conjugal visit a month for fifteen fucking years. It's not as if I fuck her every night. Only when being alone feels too much to bear. I pay her to take the Polyjuice Marik brews for me--and Christ I hate the pitying look in his eyes when I ask him for it, but there are times when when I need to feel Ron. To smell him and touch him. To pretend he's still here.

Lily slept over Sunday night. I went with her to see him. It's always hard for her, but she prefers going with me than going with Harry. She can hide her emotions better with me, or so she thinks. More like I let her hide them and pretend I don't hear her crying in her room when it's dark and silent. I wonder if that's the right thing to do, but it's hard for me as well, seeing him locked up still, wanting him out so fucking badly. I don't think I can bear her grief too. That makes me a horrible parental figure, I suspect.

But she talks to me some, about what it's like to be Potter's daughter, all the eyes and expectations of the wizarding world on her at such a young age. I understand. They were making action figures of me when I was seventeen. It's nothing that her father wouldn't understand, as well, if she talked to him, but she's hesitant to. Doesn't want him to think that she resents him for putting her in this position, which is ridiculous. Of course she does. She's a teenager. Irrational resentment towards your parents is part of growing up.

I said again she shoud find her own flat, make her own way in the world, instead of living in that dreary old house in Cornwall with her father, and she just looked at me with those eyes that have seen far too much for a girl her age, hair just like her Da's falling into her face, and told me someone had to look after him. Someone has to look after all of us. Ron, Harry, Draco, Snape, me. It's too much. She shouldn't be responsible for us. She's a good girl, that one. Too old for her years.

Sod the tea. Maybe I'll Floo Ginny. She can come over and share a bottle of vodka with me.

You didn't have to come over. I'm fine.

Ginny,

Thank you. Marik is with me right now, but perhaps I could come by in the morning before I go to the Ministry and St Mungo's. If you'd like to come with me there, or your parents, please, that would be good.

I'm sorry. I would say more, but I don't know the words at the moment. If it is this horrible for me, it must be worse for you and your family. Our family. Thank you. I will come by. I promise.

Love,
Vitya

Ron,

I don't know where you are or what you're doing, and I'm not sure if I want to. I don't know what to think. Or what to do. You should come home. If St Mungo's didn't work, then we can try one of the private hospitals. Please, Ron. The Aurors are after you, and, Christ, I can't even say they shouldn't be. You locked up my best friend. For weeks--and would you have killed him? I don't know.

I don't know. This isn't you. It's not the Ron I know. Not the Ron I love.

And Malfoy...you could have hurt him. You could have killed him. What are you thinking? What are you doing? A letter came for you Tuesday. I opened it; it was from the Wizengamot. Your hearing over Lily was cancelled. Malfoy dropped the suit.

I had a match last night. I won it. I don't remember most of it. I was thinking about you.

Please, Ron. Come home. We can fix this. Please. Even after everything, I love you and I can't watch you do this to yourself. It hurts.

Love,
Viktor

Attached is a letter on heavy parchment, with a broken Wizengamot seal.

Hello?

Ron,

Where the fuck are you? They said you walked out last night; they owled me--and I've been out looking for you since. I even tried the tracking spell you taught me, but it's not working and Jesus, Ron. Where are you? Please. Just tell me, love. Please.

Viktor

*the slam of a cupboard door*

I think I said I didn't really want to talk about it.

Nymphadora,

I would assume he's at Hogwarts. What disappearance are you talking about? Sorry--bit of a crisis here tonight, apologies for being short, but I'm not really certain I know what you're asking?

Viktor

He should have been home by now.

What are you doing?

Come on. She's still a quarter-hour before she has to be in bed and she ate all that treacle tart George gave her at dinner, bastard that he is. Running around in the lane for five minutes will wear her out. I'll be down there with her.

This is possibly a horrible idea. And Ron will be angry with me, I'm quite certain. But I don't know what else to do. And I know the lot of you don't know me all that well, so you've really no reason to believe me when I say there's a problem, but there is.

Something's not right. It hasn't been right since we got back to England, but it's at least been tolerable. But lately...well, he's spent the past two days fiddling with a dark spell detector that he's installed over our front door. And don't get me started on the wards.

Please don't say it's just Ron. I know Ron. Really damn well now, I'd say, and this isn't like him. I don't know what to do.

Translated from the Bulgarian and written in increasingly messy penmanship.

Nono,

I don't know whom else to talk to about this—and don't suggest Marik because I don't want to. At least not yet. That's a conversation that will require a conversation before it about other things that perhaps I'm still angry about. Any matter, you'll keep your mouth shut to other people, I know. I trust you.

You can mock me later for being so damn maudlin and whingy. I just need to talk to someone. I've tried to deal with it by myself for too long and I don't know what to do anymore. Remember when I showed up on your doorstep after Isabella, and I was such a fucking bloody mess that you wouldn't let me leave until we'd had a good piss-up and I finally told you what was wrong? Right. Well, imagine we've had a piss-up. Hell, I might as well have. I've been through half a bottle of vodka since noon—I think, it might be more, I don't know--and I don't have any damn intention of stopping any time soon.

Things are…well. Not the best they've been, I suppose. With me and Ron. I don't even know where to start. The only part of it he's willing to acknowledge is the part that involves Potter. He's still in love with him; he told me that, not that I didn't already know. But he's always denied it before. Always told me I'm being mental when I suggested it, or that there's no way he could care about Potter after everything that's happened. And now…it's different. It's been for a while, I suppose, just under the surface. But lately things have happened that involve Lily and he's terrified he's going to lose her and I keep telling him there's no way Potter would allow that. He wouldn't. I don't like the bastard much, but he'd never do that to Ron. Even I can see that. ( But Ron…<i>fuck.</i> )

I don't know what to do. He'll be home in a few hours and I should be sober. Or at least pretend to be sober. I wonder if he'd notice the difference?

It's shit to be in love with someone who thinks they're in love with someone else, you know. The fuck of it is I'm pretty certain he's in love with me. Potter's just a what-if. But he's just too fucking obsessed to realise it.

I have to go, Nono. I think it's time to sit on the shower floor for half an hour.

Love,
Vitya

Careful, Lily-girl. Don't fall on the andirons.

Translated from the Bulgarian

Iliya,

Good thing you ran this past me; they've got the fucking stats on my card wrong again. Merlin, how bloody hard is it to do a bit of fact-checking? I'm suspecting Momchil or Radko in the Bulgarian front office. They've been shits since they sacked me.

Any matter. They need to change my wand. It's not oak; it's hornbeam. With a dragon's heartstring core. And I'm 180 cm and 12 stone. Christ, I don't want people to think I've gone to fat.

Ron and I've settled in Islington, by the way. You should come by for dinner one night. We'll show you London. And I think I'm ready to start looking for another position. Know of anyone who might be seeking a Seeker? Not a national team though, and don't roll your eyes at me. It's best if I stay in the UK for the moment. I don’t want to be bouncing around the globe again. I've a little girl around who needs a bit of stability of sorts and I don't want to upsot that more than I have to.

Viktor

Attached is a galley proof of a Famous Quidditch Players Throughout The Ages card detailing Viktor's Quidditch career.

Hurts.