(Poison02) Three. Four. Five.

Three. Mama Do.

Viktor was definitely lost.  He looked around, confused, wishing that he could read English, all the while holding the hand of the precious boy tightly in his own.  Looking back, he saw that the boy was shivering so he carefully pulled him forward until his arm was wrapped around the small wizard’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” the child whispered and Viktor could only smile, wondering what the foreign words meant.

“What’s your name?” he inquired although he knew his companion wouldn’t be able to answer him.

The boy raised an eyebrow, smiling hesitantly.

Viktor sighed.  Pointing to himself he reiterated “Viktor,” before pointing to his companion.

The green-eyed child stared for a moment before comprehension crossed his eyes.  “Harry,” he whispered.

“Harry,” Viktor repeated reverently.  Something about this small form tugged at his heart.  Every gesture, every movement, entranced him and even when he looked away to blindly lead his charge through the streets of Muggle London, his mind never left the boy whom he knew would forever occupy his thoughts.  “My Harry.”

The dusk got deeper and Viktor soon became worried that he wouldn’t be able to find the Leaky Cauldron.  He remembered that it was between a large bookstore and a record shop, but wasn’t sure where those stores were located either.

The Muggle lamps turned on, as if controlled by magic, and Viktor tightened his grip on both Harry and his wand, which was hidden in his robes.  Although he didn’t know many spells, he hoped that if they were attacked he would be able to scare the attackers off long enough to run.

“Viktor,” Harry said quietly as he tugged on his protector’s sleeve.

The older boy turned and saw that Harry was pointing toward a boisterous family who were dressed similarly to him: in robes.  Viktor smiled and quickly kissed the boy’s head as he recognized the strangers as wizards.

“Come along, children,” the redheaded matron said as she pushed along her brood.  “We’re supposed to meet your father at the Ministry.” 

As Viktor looked closely, he thought they looked slightly familiar—perhaps he had seen them while he was shopping in Diagon Alley?—but he quickly brushed away the thought.

“Why Floo Powder had to get so expensive, I’ll never know,” the witch griped quietly.

Harry tugged Viktor toward them, his head ducked in shyness. “Where?” he patiently asked Viktor, hoping that the older wizard would understand the question.

Viktor smiled.  “Leaky Cauldron,” he enunciated slowly before chuckling at the look on Harry’s face.

The green-eyed boy pushed his broken glasses further up his face and rushed toward the witch and her many red-haired children.  One boy looked about Harry’s age, though rather gangly with too many freckles. A small girl grasped the freckled boy’s hand while looking in another direction.  “Oh look, Muggles,” she said in awe, and Harry, for the tenth time that evening, thought he might have dropped into another world.

“E-excuse me?” he said quietly to the woman.

When she didn’t look at him immediately, he grasped her sleeve and tugged slightly.

“Excuse me—” he repeated again when he got her attention.

“Oi, what’s this?” one of the older children said.

“Must be an ickle Muggle,” his twin responded.

Harry pointedly ignored them.  “I’m sorry, but we’re lost.”  He pointed to Viktor who stood a little way off.  His eyes darkened, wondering what Harry was saying, and he protectively took a step forward just in case anything should happen.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear,” the older woman gushed.  “We don’t know London well.”  She looked sadly at the small Muggle boy who was wearing near rags, though when she looked at the child behind him, she started slightly.  Although he was half in shadows, he had dark hair like the boy before her and was wearing rather elegant wizarding robes.

“Not even the Leaky Cauldron?” Harry persisted, and the witch’s gaze returned to him immediately.  “Viktor thought you might,” he added as an afterthought. 

“So he’s not—”

“—a Muggle, like we thought,” the twins said pushing up closer to Harry, who took a step back in fear. 

Harry glanced back at Viktor, who came out of the shadows and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  He glared at the twins who quickly took a step back, wondering at the odd pair.

“Are your parents at the Leaky Cauldron, dear?” the witch inquired.

“Y-yes,” he lied, hesitantly.  “Could you please tell me the way?”

The red-headed witch, however, felt like mothering at the moment, much to Harry’s chagrin.  “What your parents were thinking letting you wander about Muggle London, I don’t know,” she fretted, patting down Harry’s clothes.  “And they really should get proper robes like your –” She glanced at Viktor quickly. “—friend.  What’s your name, child?”

Harry looked skittishly at Viktor, not wanting to give his name to this strange woman as all of her children stared interestedly at him.  What was their problem? he wondered to himself.  And what did ‘Muggle’ even mean?  “My p-parents said never to give my name to strangers,” he lied, thinking of the advice his Aunt Petunia often gave Dudley.

Dudley.  Aunt Petunia. 

He gulped and trembled slightly with fear.

Harry hoped they wouldn’t find him anytime soon.  He knew he would be thrown into his cupboard for the rest of the summer without any food—if he were lucky, that is.  It might be so much worse.

The small girl looked at Harry calculatingly.  Viktor glared at her, and she blushed in response though she didn’t lower her gaze.

“Well, dear,” the witch responded,  “I didn’t mean any harm.  I just wanted to talk to them about letting you wander on your own and about getting you proper clothes.”

Harry huffed indignantly.  He knew he was small and wore rags, but he didn’t need people to rub it in his face, thank-you-very-much.  He got that quite enough from the Dursleys and Dudley’s gang.

His gaze wandered over her own children’s clothes and noticed that they were patched and far from new.  What was she going on about?

Then the woman was speaking again. “How about I give you my name first, would that be alright?”   

Harry suppressed a sigh.  All he wanted to do was get directions and leave with Viktor.  He felt safe with the older boy, in his strange but beautiful clothes that looked like something a prince would wear in a fairy story.  Even though he could barely understand a word Viktor said, he knew he was protected and wanted . . . and he wanted to feel that way for as long as he possibly could.

“Please,” Harry practically pleaded, “could you just give us directions?  We’re already late f-for supper.”  He brushed his fringe out of his eyes, briefly revealing the scar that had previously been hidden.

“Are you Harry Potter?” the little girl asked suddenly and Harry just stared at her.  How could she possibly know his name?

“Um, whatever,” he answered.  “If you don’t want to tell us, just say so.”  He was getting frustrated now.  “We’ll find it on our own, thanks.”

He grabbed Viktor’s hand, as the family of redheads gawped at him, before pulling his companion away.

Viktor’s mind swam.  Harry Potter?  Did the small witch really say Harry Potter?  He glanced through the dusk at the boy.  Could it really be Harry Potter?  But what, then, was he doing with Muggles?  Why was he running from them and why did he have bruises on his arms?

And why was he dressed in oversized rags instead of proper wizarding robes?

Could the British Ministry be so callous as to just cast off the boy savior like that?  How could they do that to any wizarding orphan let alone the Boy-Who-Lived?

It made absolutely no sense!

“Harry dear!” the matronly witch called out to their retreating forms, but Harry just kept on going, pretending he hadn’t heard anything.  Viktor didn’t even glance back, not wishing to give Harry’s identity away—to acknowledge such a name could be dangerous.  The witch could be anyone, want anything from someone as famous as his companion might be.  It was bad enough that they had to ask for directions.

Glancing ahead, Viktor saw a road that looked oddly familiar and pulled Harry—his Harry—onto it.

He saw several wizards congregating up ahead—could they really be so stupid as to think that they were being inconspicuous?—and sighed in relief when he recognized the record shop up ahead. 

“Here, safe,” he said quietly into Harry’s ear before leading him forward. 

Unfortunately, the witch and her large brood were following them.  “Harry!” she called, but the two dark-haired boys continued to ignore her.  Harry could not figure out why she was so obsessed with him, when he wasn’t wondering exactly how the little girl had known who he was.

Had the Dursleys set the police on him?  No, that couldn’t be right.  They didn’t have time and they probably thought they were well rid of him and his freakishness.

Viktor silently wondered if the boy he had rescued in fact was the Harry Potter.  But it didn’t matter to him, not really.  All he cared about were those large green eyes that begged him for help and, at that moment—and for the rest of his life, if he could—he would give that assistance.

The younger boy stared up at him in awe, allowing himself to be tugged along.  Harry barely noticed when he entered the Leaky Cauldron, and just allowed Viktor to lead him up the stairs to a door with the number seven on it.  Viktor quickly knocked on the door and when his anxious mother opened it a second later, he exclaimed, “The mad English witch is chasing us and I found Muggles beating this wizard child.  She says he’s ‘Harry Potter’ and won’t leave us alone.

Damyan Krum appeared behind his wife and quickly ushered the two boys into the room.

“Vhat should ve do?” Silva questioned him under her breath, never losing her poise.

The Bulgarian politician looked at her for a brief minute before glancing down at his son and his charge.  The boy, who was bowing his head, was wearing ripped Muggle rags and had a handprint bruise on one of his wrists.  He even looked undernourished.  What had these Muggles done to this boy?

He is a wizard?” he asked his son calmly as his wife blocked the door.  The English witch was huffing toward the room, her many children bouncing around her as if they were charmed holiday m&ms.

Viktor nodded and Damyan’s eyes glowed.  “Very well.”

Turning to the intruder, he eyed her up and down before walking over to his wife.  “Darling,” he said quietly in English, and yet firmly enough so that the interloper would hear,  “vould you kindly run a bath for Henrik?  Our youngest son appears to haff gone on vone off his adventures again.”

Silva nodded before smiling at the youngest boy.  “Henrik, vhere did you get such rags?” she asked, winking at him so that only he and Viktor could see.  “Haff you been practicing your English on the locals again?”

She scooped him up in her arms before carrying him into an adjoining room.  Viktor quickly looked at his father and when he received an encouraging nod, followed his charge.

Have you eaten?” Silva gently inquired in Bulgarian before Viktor shut the door.

Damyan, seeing his new expanded family was safe, gave his full attention to the witch before him.  “May I help you?” he asked politely, yet coldly.

“That—that boy is Harry Potter,” she said by way of a reply.

Her daughter nodded vigorously while a pair of—twins, was it?—danced around happily behind their relatives.

“You appear to be misinformed.  Those two boys are my children.”

“Then why is one dressed in rags?” the witch inquired rudely.  “And he is Harry Potter!  Ginny saw his scar.”

The politician looked coldly at the woman.  “Are you calling a member of a foreign delegation a liar?” he asked suddenly in unaccented English.  “I daresay Minister Fudge would be most displeased, especially after you chase my somewhat wayward children through the streets and then rudely inquire into my family’s private affairs.”

The witch gazed at him, completely stunned.  “I’ll tell Dumbledore about this.”

Damyan furrowed his brow.  “By all means,” was his only response as he closed the door firmly in her face.  Clearly he and all three members of his family needed to leave England immediately.

Four. Iris.

The Leaky Cauldron, London, Summer 1988 (Viktor 11, Harry 8)

Harry sighed blissfully as the pretty woman ran a bath for him in the inn and put lavender scented bubbles in it. “Now, dear,” she said softly when she turned her attention back to him, “vhat do you say to taking off those – clothing?”  She smiled gently at him before holding up a towel so he could strip in privacy.

“Th-thank you,” the child whispered as he quickly removed the rags before slipping into the warm bath.  He’d never had a bubble bath before.  He was never allowed.  Dudley always got the bubbles and Harry was usually left with a cold shower that was rarely more than five minutes long. 

Looking about, he noticed that Viktor had taken off his own cloak and was sitting on a chair quietly.  The younger boy couldn’t help but stare at him unabashedly.  Who was he?  Who were these people?  What language were they speaking?

And perhaps more importantly, to Harry – why were they helping him of all people?  He was nothing special: an orphan, a boy who lived in a cupboard and wore rags, a child with an ugly scar on his face – a freak.  Why would Viktor help him escape from Dudley? Why would he even smile at Harry?

Harry furrowed his brow.  As his eyes continued to rake over the form of his companion, he could not help but blush and then cast his eyes down demurely. Although he was only a child of eight,  there was something about Viktor, something that drew him in.  He felt protected, wanted, loved even.  He never wanted to let this other boy down, wanted to do everything to please him, and all because the foreign child had walked underneath the tree, looked up into the branches, and smiled at him.

He could not understand; he was even frightened a little.  He was terrified that the boy’s parents would redress him in his rags and send him away, somewhere other than where Viktor was.  Viktor.  Harry didn’t even know his full name.  Just Viktor.  His Viktor.

Yes, his Viktor and his alone.  And if the little boy could help it, no one would ever take his protector away from him.

“Viktor?” Harry asked quietly, only truly trusting this young stranger.  The older boy turned his head, his dark eyes gazing into the green eyes of his companion.  He smiled slightly.


“W-what’s happening?”  He looked at his friend, knowing that Viktor probably couldn’t understand him, wouldn’t be able to understand him.  Yet, he had to ask.  He knew that even though Viktor would not comprehend the words, he would understand the sentiment.

“Vell,” the lady responded as she got out pink coloured shampoo, “ve vill talk about it after your bath, Harry.”  Her voice was melodious and deep, comforting, and Harry couldn’t help but smile a little at the sound.  The woman was so pretty, so perfect.  She was what a mother should be, Harry thought sadly.  If only he had a mother like that instead of a screaming aunt who hated him . . . if only he had a mother at all.

He shook his head.  He would not think of that, of them.

“Are you Viktor’s mum?” he inquired as the woman began to wash his hair for him.

Silva smiled.  “Yes, I am.”

“Are—” Harry stopped and bit his lower lip, not wanting to be rejected.

“Vhat is it, child?” the woman asked kindly.

Harry averted his eyes.  “I’ve never had a mother,” he whispered softly.

Silva hesitated, closing her eyes briefly, before going back to washing the boy’s hair.  As her fingers gently massaged his scalp, she was careful to lift his messy fringe from his forehead, and was only half-surprised to see the legendary scar marring his skin.

Viktor drew in a quick breath at the sight, and Silva smiled sadly at him.  “Yes,” she said simply in Bulgarian.  “It appears you brought home the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry looked between them, puzzled at their switch into Bulgarian, but said nothing, preferring to soak and be taken care of for the first time in his life.

After half an hour, he was finally out of the bath and wrapped in a set of Viktor’s robes—which still confused Harry.  He had never seen clothing with cloaks or such ornate fastenings and he was wondering how they suddenly fit him.  He didn’t say anything, however, and merely smiled at the kind lady who was towelling off his hair.

“Now, dear,” she said softly, her English accented, “do you think you could speak vith me and my husband?”

Harry glanced at Viktor who had walked up beside him and was now holding his hand.  “Are you going to send me back?” the English wizard asked, fear lacing his voice.

Silva looked at the child sadly, remembering the bruises she had seen on his arms, shoulders, and hips when he had stepped into the bath.  Who could do that to a wizard? Who could do that to a child?    “No, I don’t think ve vill.”

Within two hours, the Krums, with their new “son,” had packed all of their belongings magically and had left England using the International Floo System.  As a foreign diplomat, Damyan Krum’s movements were nearly untraceable and thus the Boy-Who-Lived’s departure was unknown to the British authorities. 

When Harry had exited the bath, his smaller hand clasped tightly in Viktor’s, Silva had quickly approached her husband and whispered all that she knew in Bulgarian.  The wizard looked down at him sadly, and had inquired what his name was.

“Harry Potter, sir.”

“And vhere do you live, Harry?” Silva had questioned.

Harry had hesitated.  “In my cupboard.”

“Cupboard?” Silva asked her husband, clearly confused at the English word.

Damyan had not answered, though his face had darkened in anger.  Kneeling down in front of the small boy, he inquired if he lived with Muggles, only to see Harry’s own small features furrow in confusion.  Within a few minutes, he gathered that the saviour of the wizarding world knew nothing of magic, had been told he was a freak by his own relatives, and appeared to be bullied at the very least. 

His decision was made.  He had already claimed Harry—or Henrik, now—was his son, and his son Harry would be.  It was only a matter of political finesse to have him legally adopted (He had initially suggested blood adoption to his wife in Bulgarian, but Viktor had oddly vetoed the idea, though he stated adamantly that he wanted Henrik to remain with them.) and given political asylum by the Bulgarian Ministry. 

Although Damyan was not close to the current Minister for Magic, he knew that having the Harry Potter even as a secret ward of Bulgaria would be the political coup of the last five centuries.  Many countries would sell their most precious state secrets for such an opportunity.

Henrik sighed into the darkness.  He had been in Bulgaria for a little over a month, and was already grasping the fundamentals of the language.  His command of the language was halting and he often mispronounced words, but Viktor would simply smile at him before quietly correcting him when they were alone.

Viktor.  He sighed and hugged himself.

Viktor was everything to him.  At first he had been hurt when the older boy wouldn’t refer to him as his little brother, but he only had to look into the boy’s eyes to know just how much he meant to him.  He knew he was Viktor’s, although he wasn’t certain what that meant.  All he knew was that he was loved and wanted and that his father and mother were slowly introducing him to magic and everything it could teach him. 

For whatever reason, though, he couldn’t sleep.  Viktor was going off to Durmstrang in the morning and would be gone until Yuletide.  Harry smiled.  He liked wizard words, wizard customs.  Yuletide was only one such example. 

His door creaked and Henrik quickly sat up in the darkness.  The pale moon shone through the window and its moonbeams illuminated a figure standing in the doorway.

“Viktor?” Henrik asked, his voice slightly husky with exhaustion.

“Harry,” he answered quietly.  He only ever called Henrik by his birth name when they were alone.  It was private, their secret, his special term of affection.  No, Henrik might not be Viktor’s brother, but he was his Harry.  He was still the small, scared child who knew nothing of magic, hiding in a tree in Muggle London.  And Viktor loved him for it.

The older boy sneaked into the room in his pyjamas.  Quickly, he climbed into Henrik’s bed and the smaller boy turned toward him.  Viktor stared into startling green eyes and, without consciously thinking of it, brushed aside the other boy’s fringe.  The jagged scar shone dully in the moonlight. 

Viktor sighed.  He knew many saw the scar as a sign of power, making its bearer an object.  Muggles most likely believed that it marred his Harry’s skin.  However, to the young Bulgarian wizard it made his adopted brother perfect.  It made Harry Harry.  It silently proclaimed that the young boy was strong and a survivor.

During the day Silva covered up the lightning bolt scar with magical cosmetics, whispering to Harry that as soon as his hair grew out a bit more, he could keep it out of sight that way.  Harry had smiled at her, tentatively calling her “Mother,” so happy that his Aunt Petunia was no longer trying to cut his hair unnaturally short.  To his new mum and dad and Viktor, he wasn’t a freak.  He was special.  He was a wizard and they loved him for who he was and actually wanted him.

Henrik sighed into Viktor’s touch and quietly closed his eyes. 

The older boy repeated his name and green eyes slowly opened again to see that Viktor was holding something out to him.  His nose scrunched in confusion, and Harry reached out to clasp a soft stuffed animal.

He smiled.

It was his first present, his first toy.  Looking at it closer he saw that it was some kind of round—bird was it?

The creature looked magical to him, small and golden in the dim light.

“Snidget,” Viktor said quietly to the unasked question. 

“Snidget?” Harry repeated dumbly.

“Yes,” the Bulgarian responded, moving his tongue tiredly through English, wanting the boy to understand.  “Snidget used before snitch –” A look of comprehension passed across Henrik’s features.  Snitch.  He knew what a Snitch was.  Viktor had begun to teach him how to fly and had happily babbled on in Bulgarian about Quidditch before Damyan took pity on his younger son and quickly explained the rules of the magical sport in English so that he might understand.

“I luff Quidditch,” Viktor said quietly.  “I luff Henrik more, my Harry.”

Henrik couldn’t help but smile in the darkness as he pressed his face into his snidget.  “Thank you,” he whispered in accented Bulgarian.

Viktor reached out again and pulled Henrik close to him.  He was glad that he had saved up the rest of his pocket money to buy this small gift.  He didn’t want to leave Henrik alone when he went to Durmstrang, so he gave Henrik a reminder of himself.  In such a short time Henrik had become his everything, his world, and nothing could compare with it.

He smiled happily as he heard Henrik’s breaths even out.  And with those happy thoughts, Viktor drifted off to sleep.

Five. New Divide.

Quidditch World Cup, Summer 1994 (Viktor 17, Harry 14)

Henrik couldn’t help but smile as he followed closely behind his best friend, his everything, through the campsite.  He couldn’t believe that he had actually managed to convince his mother and father to let him accompany Viktor. 

They had been so overprotective of him since he was a small boy, rarely letting him out of their sight except when he went off to Durmstrang.  When other pureblood children were permitted to wander around Wizarding Bulgaria on their own, Henrik always had to have one of his parents present. 

Of course, he understood why.  He still had nightmares about the large man and the human pig that would chase him and beat him up.  “Harry hunting,” he remembered it was called.  He was called Harry once, he thought to himself.  Just Harry.  Never Henrik.

He smiled to himself.  Only Viktor called him Harry now.  “My Harry,” he would whisper in the young boy’s ears whenever the older wizard pulled him close.  His Harry.

And Henrik knew that was the way it was supposed to be.

Before he had gone to Durmstrang, he would impatiently wait for his Viktor to come home every holiday.  He would stand in his wizard robes, a small smile on his face, and the soft snidget clutched in one of his hands.  His green eyes, which had been magically corrected by his father, would stare, shining, at a point in the distance, waiting for his savior to return to him.  And every night, after their parents had gone to bed, he would quietly get up and sneak into Viktor’s room, his snidget left behind as he didn’t need it when Viktor was home.

His Viktor, he thought to himself with a smile.  Always his Viktor.

Henrik took a few quick strides forward and grabbed the crook of Viktor’s arm.  The Bulgarian smiled down at him, before leading him past even more tents.  Henrik couldn’t help but smile when he noticed the banners of his “brother” around them, the grim visage that he presented to the public scowling magically out at him. 

Viktor never liked attention, even though he was a master duelist and the youngest professional Quidditch player in the International League.  He would grumble when he had to pose for photographs and would always scowl at the cameraman, though his eyes would flash in amusement if he caught sight of Henrik somewhere in the crowd. 

It was a joke at Durmstrang that all photographs of Viktor Krum would smile slightly whenever Henrik came into view.

Fortunately, Henrik thought in amusement, the mass-produced posters of Viktor held less magic and, thus, would never smile.  Viktor said it would ruin his image.  This only made Madam Krum sigh in resignation and Henrik snigger behind his hands.

Shouldn’t you be in the changing rooms?” he asked his adopted brother again as they made their way toward the stadium.

Viktor smirked.  “I promised Mother that you would never be alone on this God-forsaken island.”

“You only want to cause a sensation in the stands so that you can laugh about it later,” Henrik accused gently, knowing that although Viktor disliked his fans, he couldn’t help but stir things up occasionally, primarily for the youngest Krum’s amusement.  He seemed to do anything and everything he could to make Henrik smile.  He even went so far as dressing up as a Muggle and sneaking Henrik into Muggle Sofia so they could purchase Muggle music.

“Well, what else would you have me do?” he teased back.

Henrik could only smile and shake his head.

When the pair entered the stadium, Viktor snaked an arm around Henrik’s waist as he pulled him forward.  Viktor was dressed in his burgundy Quidditch uniform, his cape flailing behind him, and his new Firebolt clutched in his other hand. 

Henrik was momentarily confused by the rapid English being spoken around him.  He had rarely spoken the language since he had mastered Bulgarian, a few months after Viktor had first started at Durmstrang.  His father, Damyan Krum, had occasionally spoken to him in English during his first year in Bulgaria, but when the wizard discovered that Henrik wanted no reminder of his past life with the British Muggles, even the use of his native language, he had promised to never speak it again around his youngest son.

“Now,” Viktor said, “Minister Obalonsk will be in the box with you.  He has assured me that apart from one guest of some large family, everyone will be a pureblood.  You have nothing to fear.” 

He looked down and saw the worry crease over Henrik’s innocent face.  Ever since he had first seen and loved the small boy, he had developed a distrust and hatred for Muggles.  No matter what his parents said to try and curb his distaste for the entire race, he could not forgive them for what they did to Harry Potter, an innocent child, just because he was magical.

He had held Henrik through too many nightmares to do anything but dislike them, and he had sworn to Henrik that he would protect him from Muggles for the rest of his life, even through unwanted connections with Muggle-borns.

Henrik, after he had learnt that he was in fact a wizard and not a “freak” as the large man had often called him, had in his childhood naivety feared them. Then, when he began to understand that wizarding children were loved and adored by their own kind and should always be treated as the treasures they were, had begun to despise Muggles as well.

If his own relatives had done such dreadful things to him, how many other children were suffering a similar fate?

He had spoken with his father often on the subject, and Damyan Krum had urged compassion upon his son, stating that they were ignorant and fearful of wizards.  He was pleased, however, when Henrik expressed an interest to follow his father into politics so that he could campaign for stricter statutes of secrecy as well as laws that would take magical children out of abusive – and later all – Muggle homes. 

“Who will be there?” Henrik asked as he ignored the wizards and witches who were now staring openly at his brother. 

A rumble was slowly making its way through the crowd as more and more people caught sight of Viktor Krum and his friendly behavior toward the young man in his arms.  He was known internationally for being stoic and unapproachable, although Henrik tagging along to games was a common enough sight in Bulgaria.  Viktor had even negotiated in his contract for Henrik to be given the same rights as any team player, including exclusive access to the Bulgarian team’s parties.  It was unheard of, but then again, Krum was a Quidditch prodigy and one of the highest paid players in the world.  If Krum wanted Henrik to be there, then everyone would bend over backward to make sure it would happen.

“Krum, Krum, Krum, Krum!” the crowd began to chant and Henrik could only smile as he looked up at his protector.

Viktor smirked at him.

“I’ve asked your godfather to inquire before we arrive.  I believe he said that he already knew that a family of high standing – the Malfoys – would be there.”

Henrik nodded.

They have a son about your age,” he added softly, before he pushed away a fan who had attempted to grab his free arm.

Henrik sighed as he glared at the offender.  The boy had flaming red hair and looked star struck.  Thank the gods nobody knew he had once been Harry Potter, he thought wryly.

As the Krum children climbed the stairs up to the highest stands, they noticed a family above them.  The youngest, a wizard who did look about Henrik’s age, turned around when he noticed a flash of red hair, but his eyes widened when he spotted Viktor Krum.  His expression, otherwise, was unreadable, and Henrik couldn’t help but admire him a bit for it.  As they were nearing the top box, he wondered if this was perhaps Malfoy.

When they emerged into the stands, Henrik couldn’t help but gasp slightly.  He had never seen so many wizards in one place before, and Viktor kissed his head gently at the sight.  “Like it?” he asked quietly in accented English.

Henrik was so stunned by the sheer size of the stadium that he barely even noticed when he answered in the same language, “Yes, Viktor, yes!”

“All for you,” Viktor vowed solemnly and Henrik glanced up at him questioningly. 

Viktor only looked softly at him.  How could he tell the wizard whom he was supposed to love like a brother that he dreamed they would one day form a life together after Henrik had graduated from Durmstrang?  He had loved Henrik for so long that it was now like breathing to him and sometimes, just sometimes, he thought he caught a similar emotion in Henrik’s green eyes, behind the fringe that skillfully hid his faded scar. 

Henrik smiled hesitantly before whispering a quiet “Thank you.”

The Krums glanced up as they noticed the Bulgarian Minister for Magic approaching them.  “Godfather,” Henrik greeted as he embraced the older wizard.  As he pulled away he felt someone shove him from behind and he glanced over his shoulder to see a young witch with bushy brown hair.  Viktor pulled him away from her possessively and his dark eyes glared at her accusingly.

“Sorry!” she squeaked as a girl with bright red hair stopped at her side.

“Oh my, oh my!” a wizard in a striped set of wizarding robes and a bowler hat said as he came over.  “Let’s not start an international incident, please.”  He looked, slightly awed at the Bulgarian Quidditch player and the younger wizard who had similar ebony hair.

Nom?” Obalonsk, the Bulgarian Minister, asked, switching into French as he did not like the English language. 

Fudge, who was the wizard in the striped robes and incidentally the English Minister, paled slightly and then looked expectantly at the young witch.  “Your name?”

Her eyes widened even more.  A group of redheads had surrounded her and the father of the brood answered, “Hermione Granger, Minister.  She is friends with my youngest children.”

Is her family of good standing?” Obalonsk addressed the ginger-haired wizard even though he knew the man couldn’t understand him.

Viktor gruffly repeated the question in English.

“Her parents are Muggles,” the wizard responded as the Muggle-born looked too shocked to form a response.

Obalonsk’s eyes widened as he knew how strict the Krums were about their charge.  Muggle-borns were barely tolerated in Eastern Europe and although the Krums were considered extremely tolerant in general, the safety and state of mind of Henrik was their first priority. 

Viktor’s eyes bore into her briefly before turning again to Henrik’s godfather.  “Would you introduce Henrik to the Malfoys, Minister?”

Fudge and the wizard who had spoken earlier traded wary glances as the Bulgarians ignored them.

“Of course.”  Switching into English he approached the eldest Malfoy.  “Mr. Malfoy?”

After Lucius nodded regally, he beckoned the Krums forward.  “Might I present my godson, Henrik, and off course, Viktor Krum.  I thought that perhaps he vould be liking to vatch the game vith your son as Viktor vill be playing.”

Malfoy Senior bowed politely to the younger wizards.  “A pleasure,” he drawled.  “My wife, Narcissa, and our son, Draco.”

Viktor nodded before glancing down at Henrik once more.  “Vill you be okay?” he asked.

“As long as you catch the Snitch,” Henrik responded in unaccented English, surprising the Malfoys and the red-haired family.

Viktor couldn’t help but chuckle.  “Don’t I alvays?” he responded before kissing Henrik’s head again softly.  “I leave you in capable hands, my Harry.”  And with one last smile, he mounted his broom and flew off from the stands.

“Wow,” one of the redheaded wizards said in awe, “that was Viktor Krum.”

Henrik stared at him, perplexed and wondering why exactly he was stating the obvious when Viktor had been in their midst for several minutes already. 

When he finally came to his senses, his big eyes swiveled toward Henrik and he held out his hand.  “You know Krum,” he stated happily and Henrik wondered if perhaps the English lacked all sense.  “I’m Ron Weasley.” He didn’t wait for Henrik to respond, before continuing.  “Sorry about Mione, mate.  She meant no harm.  And she’s a good egg, all in all.”  He didn’t sound quite convinced about this last bit, however.  “So how do you know Krum?”

Henrik stared at him with cold green eyes before stating, softly, “I do not speak to strangers,” and then quietly left and took a seat beside a smug-looking Draco Malfoy. His eyes never left the players that were now coming onto the pitch.

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