Before anything else, Viktor was a Quidditch player. And he guessed this made sense, because it would be rather difficult to be a player on a professional Quidditch team and not be wholly devoted to the game, let alone go to school while still playing. There were rules, of course, as to how many hours of practice he could put in with the team, how much time he had to spend on school. But he wanted the game so bad, it hardly mattered.
It was, of course, why he became so close to his headmaster. Because of the work he did with Bulgaria, private tutoring was a must to keep his magical abilities up, and he had to keep his grades up so he could stay on the team. The first idea was that his parents would pay for a private tutor, but when one could not be found Karkaroff smiled, put his arm around Viktor and led the boy to his office, saying how he could spare enough time to give him extra help where needed. Viktor couldn't remember learning a whole lot besides exceedingly difficult spells that gave him a headache while opera played in the background, the German singing muddling up his Latin incantations.
“Life is like an opera, Viktor,” Karkaroff would whisper, rocking back and forth in his chair. Viktor was sure this was the only luxuriously padded chair in the entire castle, the red scales glistening brightly in the dim candlelight he practiced by. “Sometimes harsh. Sometimes heart breaking. Always beautiful. This is why we listen to it, because it cuts open our souls and pours out the liquid inside. And most importantly, it needs confidence to be performed.”
At this point he could come behind Viktor, whispering close in his ear.
“Will you be ready when the time comes?”
The next thing Viktor knew he would be on the ground, stunned. Karkaroff would snicker and step on his head, kicking it lightly with the heel of his boot.
It wasn't until the day before the first task that Viktor was able to sense when Karkaroff was going to hit him. He turned around and stunned his headmaster first, the soprano hitting his highest note in the crescendo just as he screamed out the Conjuctivitis Curse. When Karkaroff finally recovered himself after wailing to rival the alto's, he wore the same knowing, intimidating grin he had been wearing when the entire mess started.
“This is what you will use tomorrow,” he said simply, opening the door to his cabin in the boat. “Goodbye.”
Viktor was more than done with Hogwarts by the first challenge. He was tired of everybody staring at him in the halls. He knew that everybody thought he and his fellow Durmstrang students to be evil, dim-witted boys, which was what he despised the most. The Beauxbatons students knew even less English than they did, but because they were beautiful girls it was perfectly fine. He was not stupid. Viktor had seen the Hogwarts students and how immature, ignorant and boring they were. Few of them hardly seemed to care about their schoolwork, which was enough to drive Viktor mad with anger.
Not as much as the outcome of the first challenge. He had been nervous, Wagner's Der Ring Des Nibelungen practically shouting in his head as he cast the spell. He later thought it was nerves that messed him up; instead of getting him a quick and easy win, he ended up with points taken off because the dragon was perhaps a bit too angry. Much like the dragon, he walked up to the stands to watch the famous Harry Potter perform his task. Bitter, he idly fantasized images of the young boy's head being bitten off by the beast. At least then, Viktor wouldn't be last.
Instead, he witnessed the most beautiful display of flying he had ever seen in his entire life.
It was this that had Viktor up until the night sky was slowly receding, the midnight clearly covering the sky to the east, splashes of pink and light blues still grasping on to the mountains in the west. He watched the sky from the window in his room, both wanting to embrace the peace and because he was hiding from Karkaroff, who he was sure was ready to continue his berating lectures any time he found his “star student.”
Just as the last pink was vanishing from the sky, however, a silhouette started to streak across the sky. It took Viktor a few moments to realize that it wasn't his imagination and dwelling upon the Potter boy's amazing flying abilities and that it was, in fact, the real boy. The moment he realized this, he grabbed his coat and tore from his room, grabbing his broom and running to speak to Harry Potter.
By the time he reached the Quidditch Pitch, which was a fair walk from the lake, he was only just in time to see the boy slip into what was clearly the locker rooms. He was about to give up and go back when he saw the other Hogwarts champion – Diggory? - follow the boy in. Curious, Viktor ran across the field, stopping by the door to listen. Maybe they were exchanging secrets about the next task.
“Cedric!” he heard the boy gasp. He heard something drop, and he supposed this was probably Potter's Qudiditch jersey or something of that sort. Viktor didn't suppose he had much time to undress yet.
“Hey, Harry,” the other boy said. Viktor heard his pause, then take a few steps forward. “Stressed out?”
Viktor imagined the boy nodding, yes I am so worried about the next thing we will face, which I have undoubtedly already figured out slash been told, as I am a spoiled boy.
“Er, what?” is what Viktor heard, which was decidedly less intelligent than what he had imagined.
“I just mean, uh, I fly when I'm stressed out. Clears your head, you know?” Cedric said. Viktor heard the nerves crackling in his voice, something he was sure the young Potter boy would not catch. He probably didn't know how to listen for such clues.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I do that loads of times. Right now, actually. Well, not right now, since I'm talking to you, but you, uh. Get it.”
“Right.” Cedric coughed a bit, and Viktor began to slowly go into a crouch, moving his body so he could barely peek into the room. It was dark outside, so he knew they wouldn't be able to see him, but he couldn't be too careful. “Look, I never got around to thanking you. For telling me. About the dragons.”
He knew it! The two Hogwarts champions had been helping each other! He knew that, with this information, he could be back in Karkaroff's good side.
“It's nothing,” Harry said, laughing. Viktor could see him now, shirtless, one arm covering his chest and the other on the locker behind him. He was obviously trying to look casual, but he just looked even more dwarfed and nervous next to the taller, older boy. Viktor almost felt sorry for the awkward Potter, who had turned out to not be an in your face, brave leader like he had always pictured the boy, but rather a very human, very nervous little man.
“No,” Cedric said, staring to advance on Harry. “I wanted to, to thank you. Properly.” By this point, they were very close indeed, and both sharing deeply flushed faces despite how cold they must have been.
Unsurprisingly, Cedric pushed Harry fully against the locker, reaching up and holding the side of his face as he kissed him, hard from what Viktor could tell. Unsurprisingly, Harry tensed for a second, then finally relaxed and moved his arm from his chest to Cedric's back, right behind his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Cedric moved in closer, moving his hand to rest behind Harry's head and moving the other lower down Harry's back, letting out a little groan along the way.
What did surprise Viktor, however, was how beautiful and musical they looked. It was an andante, both of them moving through the steps. Cedric's shirt was off in a matter of moments, and their lovemaking seemed almost cliché in its strong, forward movements. Their heads rolled against each other desperately, the sounds coming from their mouths muted and eager. Harry was the alto, prominent and enthusiastic, and Cedric was the tenor, confident and fast. They were fascinating, beautiful.
He almost didn't notice when one of his hands strayed from the wall for balance and went to his crotch, pushing his palm against the hardness in his pants.
Cedric's hand went into Harry's pants, squeezing the boy's ass underneath the tight, Quidditch pants. The hand moved around to the front, grasping the already very hard, very ready cock that waited there. Harry let out a stacatto gasp, head rolling back to rest against the locker. Viktor felt the movement change. Allegro, and Cedric was laying very quick, very marcato kisses to Harry's neck, moving to pull first Harry, then his pants down. And suddenly, everything was moving so fast, Viktor's soul gasping in time with them.
Harry's arms around Cedric, Viktor's neck, mouth reclaiming mouth.
Viktor's hand moving fast against his, Harry's groin.
The three of them, their sweaty bodies moving against each other, friction, the dissonance of the chords moved more and more dangerously towards minor keys, putting everybody ill at ease.
The sound of Harry's body pushed against the metal of the locker by Cedric and Viktor, both claiming the boy.
Their sweaty hands on each other, gripping and slipping and moving against each others' cocks, everybody so close.
Cedric and Harry, fallen to the floor, holding each other close.
Viktor outside, the wind against his face, hand still touching the dampness in his pants.
He moved away quickly, around the side of the lockers. Within a few minutes, one of them was gone, running back up to the castle, followed a minute later by legato footsteps, slow and pensive.
Viktor walked back to the ship very slowly. The two weren't Mozart, because they were predictable. They weren't Bach, because they were too easy, simple. They were closest to Wagner: memorable, something that he knew wouldn't leave his head for days.
When he got back, Karkaroff's door was open, opera pouring out of his door.
“We'll talk tomorrow,” he said, shutting the door in his pupil's face.
Viktor thought it was just as well. And as he lay down to sleep, finally, he pictured Harry and Cedric in his mind, putting their batons down and turning to face him, bowing deeply.
It was a glorious performance, indeed.