This one-shot is set in late on in the Summer at the start of Goblet of Fire. This fic is set in Bulgaria with Bulgarian characters, who would be speaking and thinking in Bulgarian. Therefore, I haven't included the accents with JKR writes in when Bulgarian characters are speaking English.

Marionette

Since the World Cup, Viktor's spent most of his time flying. No tricks or balls or goals, just him and his broomstick and the sky. When he was little, Viktor had wanted to be a broomstick racer. A sprinter, probably. Quidditch only took over when he started school. Nowadays, Viktor goes back to sprinting when he's bored or stressed. After the pressure of the World Cup, it's calming and fun to do something simple by himself. Viktor's never liked crowds, and there were hoards of them in England for the World Cup. More photographers than ever shoving cameras in his face and journalists begging him for interviews. Viktor doesn't know why they bother. Haven't they worked out by now that he smiles the same smile in every photo and tells the same three anecdotes in every interview?

It's getting dark by the time Viktor heads home. After getting his first sponsorship deal two years ago, Viktor bought his family a mansion. It's near to the lakes and close to the Serbian border, remote enough that the hacks can't find them. Viktor lowers himself to the ground in the back garden, dismounts his broom, and goes to lock it away in the shed. Viktor's broomstick shed is goblin-designed, state-of-the-art, and impenetrable to anybody other than Viktor and the Bulgarian Quidditch team's broom servicer. Not even Viktor's coach or his parents can open it. Viktor puts his sprinting broom away in its case (all his brooms- nine in total- are kept in here, individually, each in their own case. Locked away. Viktor knows how they feel).

As he walks towards the house, Viktor tugs his balaclava and gloves off and stuffs them into his pocket. He lets himself in, toes his boots off (in their old house, Viktor, his parents and sister, and any visitors they had didn't bother to take their shoes of when they entered the building. There was mud and boot-prints on the carpets and the lino, and Viktor's shoes were scattered around his bedroom. In this house, Dad makes everyone take their shoes off when they enter so the atrium tiles don't get damaged), hangs up his cloak and walks through the atrium towards the staircase. He's taken a couple of steps, when Iliana, the housekeeper, appears.

"Good afternoon, Viktor," she says.

"Hello,"

"Professor Karkaroff is here to see you," Iliana informs him.

"Pardon?"

"Professor Karkaroff needs to speak with you. He says it's important. He owled earlier, but you've been out all day,"

Viktor has no idea what the time is. It's easy to lose track when he's darting and diving up in the sky, free.

"He's talking with your parents in the parlour," Iliana adds.

What does Karkaroff want? It's the Summer holiday. Viktor feels a shiver of nerves run up his spine. This doesn't feel like good news. Viktor's headmaster has always been supportive and accommodating to his career, although in the last year his interest has become strangely intense. It's creepy, creepier than Professor Karkaroff is usually is. Viktor's an expert is growling at people to leave him alone, and he'd like to do the same to Professor Karkaroff. However, snapping at the headmaster isn't advisable, especially given how helpful Karkaroff is with letting Viktor have time off school to train. Moreover, Viktor's seen how explosive Karkaroff's temper can be. He's not a man to get on the wrong side of. At least Mum and Dad will be there today, so hopefully Viktor can leave them to do most of the talking.

"Can I shower first?" he asks Iliana.

"I suppose you'd better,"

Viktor walks the rest of the way up the wide staircase to the first floor, then through his master bedroom to his en suite. Viktor shares shower blocks with his team-mates when he's at training, so at home he prefers to take long, relaxing baths. A few hours' flying, and then another couple in the bath, listening to music and letting his mind wander, is Viktor's idea of a perfect day. Mum and Dad have let him spend most days since the World Cup like that. Except with the headteacher here to see him, Viktor needs to take a quick shower, and then he'll have to go downstairs to be polite and accommodating. Chances are Karkaroff will want to talk about the World Cup Final, which Viktor isn't keen to do. The post-match interviews had been gruelling enough. Viktor loves watching Quidditch and thinking about Quidditch, and of course he loves playing it. But he's hopeless at talking about it. Despite his media training, he can't find the words to describe why he made the decisions he did, or what he saw, or how he feels. Media training's helped a little, though Viktor still feels foolish and tongue-tied, even when he's talking about Quidditch to his family and classmates. When the team are interviewed together, Ivanova makes a point of speaking for Viktor, or interrupting him to avoid an awkward pause when Viktor inevitably gets lost for words. Viktor knows that many reporters find that rude, although in reality it's an act of kindness and support from Ivanova.

Viktor tugs off his socks, jogging bottoms, underpants, t-shirt and sweatshirt. There's a full-length mirror beside the shower, but Viktor never looks in it. He knows that he's a heart-throb for girls- plenty of the interviews he does are for teen magazines, with interviewers who want to know what his favourite flavour of ice-cream is and what he believes is the most attractive quality in a girl (media training taught him that the correct answer to that is, "her personality"). If somebody spots Viktor in public, it's always the females who descend upon him first, from little girls to women old enough to be his grandmother. Males are more standoffish. Sometimes men pretend they don't know who he is, even though they clearly do (it often feels like everybody knows who Viktor is). Sometimes they look him up and down with disdain, asking with their eyes: You think you're better than me? Sometimes a woman who is obviously the guy's girlfriend will start fawning over Viktor, and the man will fold his arms and look daggers at Viktor. What do they expect he'll do-start kissing another man's girlfriend in the middle of the street when surrounded by people? Women may have decided that he's a pin-up, but Viktor doesn't see that himself. His male team-mates are beefy and strapping with broad shoulders and hairy chests. Viktor feels weedy when he looks at his own sinewy body, patchy with sparse sprouts of hair, and lumpy with muscles that are still growing. He's a child beside the other men on the team. Seekers are small, but Viktor was the wiriest male Seeker at the World Cup, and scrawnier than some of the female Seekers too. Girls who get flustered over him do so because of his fame, not his looks and, knowing most girls, not his skill on the Quidditch pitch. Viktor's fame is his noisy, obnoxious and ubiquitous companion, whom he is unable to sneak away from.

He turns the shower tap on, checks that it's warm, and steps in. Viktor keeps his head away from the spray as the water crashes down around his shoulders. Viktor's muddy on his hands and face, and his sweat's gone cold and stuck to his skin. It makes Viktor feel productive- he's sweaty because he's flown so hard for so far. Viktor grabs his soap and scrubs it over his torso, then rubs it between his hands to create a lather, and spreads that over the rest of himself. What Viktor dislikes most about his body is how observed it is. Viktor's coaches, physiotherapists, Healers, mediwizards, potion usage officials and dieticians all have to inspect his unclothed body. They're professional and most are discreet, but it's still humiliating. Viktor feels as if his body is taking an exam. He dislikes being prodded and scrutinised. On top of the scrutiny Viktor experiences personally, he's aware that the country and the world are inspecting him. Looking closely at his movement and his muscles. Arguing about if his arms are long enough and if he's balancing his weight properly on his broomstick. Observing when and where and how he's grown. The body Viktor isn't even comfortable in himself is Property Of Bulgaria and Property Of Anyone With An Interest In Quidditch.

Once he's clean and rinsed, Viktor turns the shower off, steps out and wraps himself in a towel. He walks from the en suite and back into his bedroom, considering with a glower what clothes he should put on. He'd better dress smartly for the headmaster. World Cup press and sponsorship events required him to wear dress robes and tight collars and shoes that pinched, so since returning home Viktor's lived in jogging bottoms and sweatshirts. Professor Karkaroff's visit requires a more formal outfit. Viktor opens his wardrobe, something he hasn't done in over a week (he usually chucks his joggers and jumpers on the floor when he goes to bed, and either wears them the next day or leaves them for Iliana to tidy). Viktor sighs dejectedly at the number of smart clothes hanging in his wardrobe, then sighs again at the sight of his school uniform. Not long until he'll be wearing that again.

He chooses a pair of black trousers and his polo-neck jumper with the Durmstrang coat of arms emblazoned on the chest. That should go down well with Karkaroff. Viktor gets dressed, towels off his hair and, because a day's flying makes him hungry, wolfs down one of the pears he keeps in his bedside table drawer. Viktor had hoped that, after the World Cup, he could have a couple of months of eating cake, chips, gateaus and pizza. However, but the team dietician insisted on players sticking to their meal plans, so it's still fruit, protein, brown bread and vitamin supplements for Viktor. He tosses the core into his bedroom bin, but it misses- Viktor isn't much of a thrower. He feels vulnerable barefoot, so he tugs a pair of grey socks on. He picks up his wand and jams it in his pocket. Just to be safe. Then, with a sigh, Viktor leaves his bedroom and tramps down the wide, curved staircase, through the atrium and to the parlour door.

"Come in," replies Mum when Viktor knocks.

"There he is, Professor," Viktor hears Dad's voice say.

Viktor cringes, opens the door and walks in, feeling gawkier than he has in days. Professor Karkaroff stands up off the sofa and holds his hand out.

"Viktor, good afternoon," he greets. It's bizarre to see him here in the parlour. Viktor's read magazines, written letters, squabbled with his big sister, listened to the radio, and slobbed around on that sofa. His headmaster shouldn't be sitting on it having a cosy chat with Mum and Dad.

Viktor wants to groan, but instead he replies, "Good afternoon, Professor,"

He shakes Karkaroff's hand. Viktor shakes hands with lots of people, which isn't the sort of thing teenagers do often, especially not with adults. Viktor has to shake hands with players, pundits, coaches, dieticians, broom servicers, finance officers, sponsors, mediwizards, journalists, commentators, and fans. Hundreds and hundreds of fans, who only want a handshake for the sake of saying they got a handshake. It's pointless and tedious, and sometimes gets so frustrating that Viktor disregards his media training and barges past a fan without returning their outstretched hand.

"It's good to see you again. How have you been since the World Cup?" Karkaroff enquires. He sits back down on the sofa next to Viktor's mother, and Viktor sits in the fireside armchair, which suddenly seems to have shrunk and become lumpy. Viktor crosses one leg over the other, then uncrosses it, then presses his fingers against the wooden arms of the chair.

"Fine, thank you, Professor," Viktor responds, then elaborates as Dad shoots him a look, "I'm enjoying getting back to normal,"

Which is a lie, because Viktor hasn't been normal for years.

"Your parents have been telling me you've been keeping up your flying practice," says Karkaroff. He is here to talk about the World Cup, then. Of bloody course.

"Yes," Viktor confirms, resisting the temptation to frown at Mum and Dad. They know that what Viktor does on his broom all day isn't practise. It's enjoyment. Everything revolves around Viktor's career so much that the pleasure he gets out of being in the air is trivial everybody but himself.

"Viktor's been revising his schoolwork too," cuts in Mum. This is another lie. Viktor hasn't looked at a textbook since May. What's the point? He doesn't need to be good at school.

"Ah," says Professor Karkaroff, "What I've come here to talk to you about today concerns Durmstrang school,"

School? Not the World Cup….he's letting him drop out? Please say that Professor Karkaroff is letting Viktor drop out of Durmstrang. There's no point in him being there. School is boring and embarrassing. Younger students' jaws hit the floor when they see Viktor in the corridors. He's constantly getting asked for his autograph- "It's for my father," or, "My niece's babysitter wants your signature," or, "Can I have just one more for my uncle's dog-walker's grandma's brother's gardener's baby". People gossip about him. Everybody at school finds out when Viktor gets a detention or flunks a test. Some teachers are harsher on him than they are on his classmates- they reckon that they're stopping him getting a big head. Some teachers go the opposite way and let Viktor off lightly for misdemeanours which would land other students in deep trouble. Either way, he feels singled-out. If a student Viktor doesn't know well starts chatting to him, he's immediately defensive that they're only after money or getting their photo in their local newspaper. Fame and money add awkwardness to Viktor's relationships with his schoolfriends, not to mention the fact that he leaves school for weeks at a time to train with the national team. His teachers send schoolwork, though it isn't the same as going to classes. Writing to his friends when he's away isn't the same as being with them every day, sharing jokes, moaning about teachers and parents, copying homework, playing games, arguing over meaningless subjects, and supporting each other on bad days. Viktor knows that hasn't been a good friend for a few years, and that depresses him. Viktor's even more academically behind than usual when he returns to Durmstrang after weeks away training. Plus, he's missed out on school news and changes, and everybody gets excited about him coming back, so the hysteria starts again.

This year will be Viktor's last year at Durmstrang. To some extent, he's looking forward to that. As the oldest year in the school, he'll be spared the torment of older boys showing off to their mates by tripping him up in the corridors or threatening to break his arms (that was so bad for a while that Professor Karkaroff assigned someone accompany Viktor around the castle for protection. The humiliation was unbearable, and it had made the bullying worse). Viktor isn't good at his lessons, so it's a relief that he'll only have one more year of desks and classrooms and essays to get through. On the other hand, all anybody will want to talk about will be the World Cup, the Final, and why Viktor caught the snitch when he did. There'll be a new batch of awestruck first-years who'll faint at the sight of him. Viktor's taking his final exams this year, which is pointless. It'll be best for everybody if Karkaroff lets Viktor leave school a year early.

"It concerns two other educational institutions," Karkaroff continues, "Hogwarts School in Great Britain, and Beauxbatons Academy in France,"

Viktor's heard of those, though he doesn't grasp what Karkaroff's getting at until Mum cuts in, "The Triwizard?"

"Yes," confirms Professor Karkaroff, "The Triwizard Tournament is being held this year,"

"Goodness me!" exclaims Mum.

Viktor acknowledges then that Professor Karkaroff had not come here to tell him that he's letting Viktor leave school.

"I assume you know how the Triwizard Tournament works, Viktor?" inquires Karkaroff.

The name "Triwizard" rings a bell, though Viktor can't recall what it means. He doesn't respond, and Mum spares him embarrassment by jumping in.

"It's a competition between us, Beauxbatons and Hogwarts," she explains, "It hasn't been held for years,"

"Why not?" asks Viktor, re-arranging himself again in the armchair.

Dad asks a question at the same time: "Where will it be held, Professor?"

Karkaroff elects to answer Dad's question. "Hogwarts will be hosting the event, so Durmstrang students eligible to enter will be relocating to the Hogwarts grounds for a year,"

Please, no. Another country?! Two new school's worth of children to gawp and girls to get themselves into a flutter. Viktor can't spend a year away from home. How's he supposed to train?

Dad must be wondering the same, because he asks, "What about Viktor's training?"

"What an opportunity," Mum breathes.

"Facilities can be made available," answers Karkaroff vaguely, ignoring Mum again.

"Each school chooses a champion to represent them in three tasks across the year," Mum explains to Viktor.

"They don't choose a champion," Professor Karkaroff interrupts, "Students can submit themselves to compete, and each school's champion is chosen by the Goblet of Fire,"

Viktor realises why Professor Karkaroff has come.

"To keep the event safe there will restrictions on the age of participants; they must be seventeen or over. There will be an additional two judges to ensure safety," Karkaroff explains, building up suspense. As if Viktor hasn't worked out what he's about to say. He clenches is jaw and grips the arms of the chair.

Finally, the headmaster gets to the point: "Viktor, I would like you to be the Durmstrang Champion,"

Viktor doesn't respond, and he doesn't look at his parents to gauge their reactions either.

"You are our best hope. You're an international superstar. You're athletic, agile and quick-thinking. You're used to being under pressure, and you can compete at the highest level against representatives from other countries. I can't imagine a better man for the job,"

As if Viktor didn't know all of that already. Does Karkaroff imagine that Viktor can be persuaded by being praised by his headmaster? If Karkaroff really understood that Viktor's an international superstar, he wouldn't assume that Viktor can be talked into stuff by hearing his headmaster slather on flattery like lard.

Viktor doesn't want to leave Bulgaria. He doesn't want to relocate to a soggy island miles from home, surrounded by idiotic kids who'll get their knickers in a twist over him. He doesn't want to be taken away from training and his team-mates for a year. He doesn't want to do the contest or be the school champion. He doesn't want the media clamour, and he doesn't want to be judged on whatever kiddie task he's doing. All Viktor wants to do is play Quidditch. But that isn't enough for anybody else. He's the best Quidditch player in the world and still everyone wants more from him.

Viktor notices that they're all looking at him. He should probably say something.

"Hmph,"

"Thank you, Professor Karkaroff," beams Mum. She smiles at Viktor expectantly, as if he's a little kid and she must remind of his manners.

Viktor looks at the carpet. "But you don't decide. The Goblet decides," he clarifies.

"Yes," confirms Karkaroff.

"So I might not get chosen?" Viktor grasps. Magical objects can sense what you're thinking; sometimes they co-operate.

"You will be chosen," says Karkaroff. He stares into Viktor's eyes, and Viktor understands that this is a command. Professor Karkaroff has not come here to give Viktor news. Professor Karkaroff has come here to give Viktor orders.

"Will it be safe?" Mum's asking.

"Completely," says Karkaroff, blue eyes lingering on Viktor's for a moment longer than necessary before they turn to Mum, "The regulations are vastly different this year to previous Triwizard Tournaments. I would not agree for Durmstrang to participate unless I was entirely convinced of the contest's safety. I will be a judge myself, in addition to Professors Maxine and Dumbledore, the headteachers of Beauxbatons and Hogwarts, and other experienced officials. Participants' safety is the utmost concern. Wouldn't want you breaking an arm, would we Viktor?"

Professor Karkaroff's eyes flick back to Viktor, and Viktor has the uneasy sense that the joke is more of a threat.

"Do you have any questions?" Professor Karkaroff asks Viktor, a hint of challenge in his tone.

Viktor squirms and shakes his head. He has no questions. If he did, what would be the point in asking? Karkaroff has made up his mind.

"Then I will take my leave of you," Karkaroff announces. He stands up and bows his head.

"Thank you for visiting, professor," says Dad ("Professor"? Karkaroff was never Dad's teacher), "Do you need Floo powder?"

"I'd prefer to take a walk first. You live in a beautiful place, Viktor. Would you mind walking me to the door?"

Yes, Viktor would mind that. Very much. He doesn't want to refuse his headmaster, but he certainly doesn't want to be alone with him. Viktor realises that it isn't only discomfort he feels towards his headmaster. It's fear.

Viktor meets his father's eye with a hard, urgent look, and thankfully Dad takes the hint. "Viktor is training," Dad says, "I will walk you out,"

Karkaroff's eyes flash with annoyance, but he nods in acquiesce.

"Goodbye, Mrs Krum. Thank you for your hospitality. Goodbye, Viktor. I will see you in September. I hope your training continues to go well," says Professor Karkaroff.

"Goodbye, Professor," Viktor mumbles, looking at the carpet again. He stands up and shakes his headteacher's hand as quickly as possible.

Dad leads Karkaroff out of the parlour and into the hall. With the groan he's been holding in since he first walked into the room, Viktor flops back into the armchair. After a moment, he feels Mum's eyes on him.

"Shut up!" he snaps at her, bolting upright.

"Don't speak to me like that," Mum shoots back.

"Don't look at me like that," Viktor snarls.

"You don't know if I was looking at you because you were concentrating on the floor, as usual," reprimands Mum, "You need to start showing some manners, young man,"

"Or what?" Viktor sneers.

She'll send him off to England for a year? She'll make him compete in dangerous tasks he doesn't want to do? Bad luck, Mum, Karkaroff's got there first.

"Or there'll be no more Quidditch for you," Mum warns.

Viktor doesn't deign such a ridiculous threat with any reply other than a scornful laugh. Dad re-enters the room, then, looking puzzled and pleased.

"I won't do it," Viktor barks, before Dad can get the first word.

"Viktor-" interjects Mum.

"I don't want to do it. I don't want to go to England again,"

"Hogwarts is in Scotland," Mum points out.

"I don't want to go anywhere! I thought he was going to tell me he was letting me leave school completely, not travel hundreds of miles to do school in another country,"

"I'm as shocked as you," murmurs Dad, sitting down on the sofa.

"More kids to stare and want photos and threaten to beat me up! And if that's not enough, he wants me to enter the contest and be the school champion. I don't want to be school champion. I play Quidditch!" Viktor shouts, "All I want to do is Quidditch! I don't want this other stuff!"

"Look at it this way," Dad poses, "If you get chosen as champion, you'll barely have to do your last year of school. Champions don't take exams. You'll spend all year testing your skill in challenges. That's got to be better than revision,"

Viktor glares mutinously and Dad backtracks. "You know we won't make you do anything you don't want to,"

But Professor Karkaroff will. He wants Viktor in this Triwizard nonsense, so Viktor's going to have to do it. Karkaroff has a way of getting what he wants. Not because he's the headmaster or because he's a powerful wizard, but because of his intimidating authority over people and the world around him.

Viktor stands up, scowls at his parents, and stomps from the parlour. Mum calls his name, but Viktor ignores her and stamps back through the atrium and up the staircase. Reaching his bedroom, he shoves the door shut and sits down on the floor with his back against the wall. He uses his wand to summon a bouncy ball from the shelf. Viktor has about twenty bouncy balls, practise Snitches, tennis balls and Quaffles around his room. Dad once said that they were for practise. That was wrong. Not everything Viktor does is about his career. His bedroom is full of balls of various sizes because he likes them. Viktor gets a thrill when he grasps a sphere in his fist, especially if he's caught it from a difficult angle. That's got nothing to do with the fact that he plays Seeker on his national team, and everything to do with the fact that catching is fun and exciting and helps Viktor feel secure in a baffling world. He isn't good at much, but one thing he can do it catch a ball.

Viktor throws the bouncy ball rapidly from one hand to the other. His head is overflowing with befuddlement and ire. This is a catastrophe. Just his luck that the year before he finishes school, some idiot decides to re-run this competition and uproot Viktor from his home. This is the last thing he needs. He's got to stay in Bulgaria to train, and to be in his own school and his own home where the paparazzi can't find him. Vulchanov won't let him go to England or Scotland or wherever that school is. Vulchanov will have to write to Karkaroff to explain that Viktor must stay here.

And as for Karkaroff's plan for Viktor to become the champion, Viktor has to admit that if anybody should represent Durmstrang School it should be him. He's an international-standard sportsman. He's the best athlete in his school and he'll be able to beat whoever represents the other institutions, too. But that's not relevant. The damn tournament is irrelevant. Karkaroff wants Viktor to win glory for Durmstrang, but Viktor's got enough of his own glory, and he doesn't care about the reputation of his school. Ten minutes ago, he was hoping his headmaster would tell him that he needn't set foot in Durmstrang Castle again. It's only a school, it's not a national team. Viktor shouldn't give himself anything else to focus on, he can't risk injury, and he won't draw even more attention to himself than usual. It's insane. Angrily, Viktor chucks the wall against the wall. It bounces off, then onto the floor, and Viktor catches it in his fist. He repeats the motion, but the third time he misaims the throw, causing the ball to hit the edge of the doorframe on the en suite and ricochet off onto the bed. Viktor swears. Bloody stupid ball, stupid tournament, stupid headmaster. Viktor's a puppet, standing and speaking and doing what everybody else wants him to do. Never his own decision. Karkaroff's made his mind up that Viktor will be the Durmstrang champion, therefore Viktor will be the Durmstrang champion. Mum and Dad don't truly comprehend Karkaroff's power. Viktor doesn't comprehend it himself. Anyway, Viktor thinks wryly, his agent will surely say that the tournament's good publicity. Another puppeteer. His agent, the coach, the manager, the broom servicer, dieticians, physiotherapists, Healers, sponsors, PRs. Mum and Dad aren't pushy, but they're so excited about Viktor's career that it sometimes feels like control. Plus, they're in charge of his finances. Then there's the hacks and the fans and the fact that the country and the whole bloody world feels ownership of Viktor. And now Karkaroff too. Status and skill grant Viktor nothing. It doesn't matter that he's of age. It makes no difference how much money he earns. Viktor is powerless; a vessel for other people's hopes and plans. Everybody dismisses Viktor's wants as "just Quidditch" as if Quidditch isn't his life, as if Quidditch isn't the reason for everything.

Last year in Dark Arts, Viktor's class learnt how to cast and defend the Imperio curse. Viktor reckons now that learning to throw off the curse was pointless, or at least belated. He doesn't have any free will to begin with. Go there, Viktor. Do this, Viktor. Say that, Viktor. Go abroad for a year and make your school famous. Don't argue and don't complain. And Viktor, do you mind pretending that nobody's controlling you in all this? Pretend it's all your own decision, yes Viktor? The grown-ups know best, but we'll pretend that you've got your own mind. Now, do this next, Viktor…

He's off to Scotland, then, or Wales, or wherever that dumb school is. Not all the teachers will be able to come, so even if Viktor doesn't get chosen for the tournament (Viktor will get chosen for the tournament) it won't be like proper school. But the people, the children, the press- the language! A year having to speak English, with its soft consonants and twisted vowels and unexpected tricks. He'll have Karkaroff breathing down his neck, too. It'll be a new place to get used to, and Viktor doubts that the other school will be as private as Durmstrang. It certainly won't be if this Triwizard thing's being held there. What kind of tasks will it involve? Probably humdrum agility stuff which Viktor will win easily. Can't be harder than the World Cup Final, can it? Viktor isn't sure if he should feel relieved, or more annoyed at the year's inconvenience for something inconsequential. It seems important to everybody else, but actually it means nothing. Just like what's important to Viktor means nothing to anybody else.

Throw off the Imperius curse? Ha. Viktor's under Imperio from everyone in his life.


Thank you for reading. Please review to let me know what you thought. PS- Cover art thanks to the fabulous Atalienart.