(no subject)
Title: Pending...
Pairing: Viktor/Hermione - although it comes in at the end...
Rating: G? PG? Nothing raunchy in here. ;)
Disclaimer: Characters are of The J.K.
This is my first and so far, only, Viktor/Hermione so far. It's a bit tentative and I'm not sure where it's going. It just came out as I typed. Gentle criticism please! :)
A look of practiced noncholance marrs the dark features of Viktor Krum. In this light he looks gentle, almost soft. As though fingerprints would remain on his skin if only someone dared to touch him. Strains of conversation and snippets of drunken song push through the door that divides the players from the stadium. Viktor’s eyes are veiled in mystery - never let anyone in, never give anything away.
He listens to the people outside. The greedy rapture dripping from their voices threatens to devour him. And his head begins to spin as he realises that he is a marionette, controlled by the public, strung by the world’s expectations. Seduced by the sport he loved (he always felt free on a broomstick) and trapped by the promise of being the best.
He listens to the people outside. He listens to them screaming his name mindlessly, hungrily. And it dawns on him that when his spotlight has dimmed to a dull glow, they will all forget him. He’ll exist merely in the pages of some Quidditch book. His entirety summed in possibly no more than a paragraph. He listens to the people outside. He listens to them screaming Krum! Krum! Krum! and wonders if any of them will call him Vicky, like his mother used to. He used to hate it, but now he misses its secure familiarity.
"Hey - Top Box, look. It’s Harry Potter."
His team mate has the door slightly ajar, his head pushed through the crack. Curiosity getting the better of him, he takes the binoculars being offered to him and searches. A blur. He re-adjusts them and a pale, dark-haired boy comes into focus. There he is. The Boy Who Lived. He zooms furthur in to the boy’s forehead. He wonders if this ordinary-looking boy and himself share a familliar curse. Does the public feed off his life? Does he feel the pressure of a world’s expecations? He’s sure that Harry Potter does. In a much more intense way. And for a fleeting second he feels an affinity with this boy he’s never met. Then he loses it, like a Snitch dancing flirtatiously on his fingertips then disappearing as he makes a grab, leaving him with nothing but empty hope.
He turns his attention to Harry’s company. An eyesore of brilliant red hair, one sitting next to another. On his other side a girl. Viktor takes in her appearance. His lungs seem unwilling to permit him breath. She isn’t beautiful. Her hair is brown tangles pining to settle in curls. Even from their distance, he call tell her front teeth are slightly overgrown. But he thinks, on her they look demure. He senses a girl hiding a secret longing, buried beneath her possibly decievingly sensible demeanour.
Possibly to be continued...
Pairing: Viktor/Hermione - although it comes in at the end...
Rating: G? PG? Nothing raunchy in here. ;)
Disclaimer: Characters are of The J.K.
This is my first and so far, only, Viktor/Hermione so far. It's a bit tentative and I'm not sure where it's going. It just came out as I typed. Gentle criticism please! :)
A look of practiced noncholance marrs the dark features of Viktor Krum. In this light he looks gentle, almost soft. As though fingerprints would remain on his skin if only someone dared to touch him. Strains of conversation and snippets of drunken song push through the door that divides the players from the stadium. Viktor’s eyes are veiled in mystery - never let anyone in, never give anything away.
He listens to the people outside. The greedy rapture dripping from their voices threatens to devour him. And his head begins to spin as he realises that he is a marionette, controlled by the public, strung by the world’s expectations. Seduced by the sport he loved (he always felt free on a broomstick) and trapped by the promise of being the best.
He listens to the people outside. He listens to them screaming his name mindlessly, hungrily. And it dawns on him that when his spotlight has dimmed to a dull glow, they will all forget him. He’ll exist merely in the pages of some Quidditch book. His entirety summed in possibly no more than a paragraph. He listens to the people outside. He listens to them screaming Krum! Krum! Krum! and wonders if any of them will call him Vicky, like his mother used to. He used to hate it, but now he misses its secure familiarity.
"Hey - Top Box, look. It’s Harry Potter."
His team mate has the door slightly ajar, his head pushed through the crack. Curiosity getting the better of him, he takes the binoculars being offered to him and searches. A blur. He re-adjusts them and a pale, dark-haired boy comes into focus. There he is. The Boy Who Lived. He zooms furthur in to the boy’s forehead. He wonders if this ordinary-looking boy and himself share a familliar curse. Does the public feed off his life? Does he feel the pressure of a world’s expecations? He’s sure that Harry Potter does. In a much more intense way. And for a fleeting second he feels an affinity with this boy he’s never met. Then he loses it, like a Snitch dancing flirtatiously on his fingertips then disappearing as he makes a grab, leaving him with nothing but empty hope.
He turns his attention to Harry’s company. An eyesore of brilliant red hair, one sitting next to another. On his other side a girl. Viktor takes in her appearance. His lungs seem unwilling to permit him breath. She isn’t beautiful. Her hair is brown tangles pining to settle in curls. Even from their distance, he call tell her front teeth are slightly overgrown. But he thinks, on her they look demure. He senses a girl hiding a secret longing, buried beneath her possibly decievingly sensible demeanour.
Possibly to be continued...