Chasing You (Viktor Krum X Reader)

Chapter 32: I Make a Fool Out of Myself

Chapter 32: I Make a Fool Out of Myself

My first game comes quickly.

It's a muggy afternoon when I finally arrive at the quidditch pitch, clad in my black uniform, my Firebolt tucked neatly under my arm. There's a soft breeze that blows stray strands of my hair around my face from where they're escaped from the braid that Nat wove this morning.

I am so incredibly nervous.

I am nervous that I will underperform. I'm nervous that I will overperform. I'm nervous that I'm going to get too angry, and I'm nervous that I'm not going to get angry enough. I'm nervous that we're going to lose, but more than anything, I'm nervous that we're going to win.

It's been strange to be in the spotlight since the tournament. I don't like that people know who I am when I don't know them. I don't like that people point and whisper when they see me. I don't like that people know all of the things that I've done, the good and the bad. I'm nervous about what being on this team will mean for me.

But I'm already here, and I know deep down that this type of fame is different from the kind I got from the tournament. That was infamy, the kind of fame that lurks behind tragedy like a shadow, the kind that manifests in whispers and pity, not in inspiration and admiration. This can be a new beginning.

It will be a new beginning if I can just get this right.

My family has come to watch the game. Dad, Nat, Ced, and Viktor.

"We'll be rooting for you," Dad says and squeezes my shoulder. "I know you'll do great."

"Yeah, go get 'em, killer," Cedric says with a smile.

"Play your best," Nat adds with a hug.

"Thank you, guys," I say and try to calm my nerves. The stands are full of people already, some dressed in the same colors as me and some dressed in the colors of the opposing team.

I know that this game is important. That it could mean everything. I know that this is my chance to prove myself. That I need to prove myself to truly be a part of the team. I know that, if I can get through this without screwing everything up, then I can prove to my teammates that I'm worth the tension that I may have caused. This can be an icebreaker for me. This can be my new beginning.

Viktor promised me he would come, but he had practice earlier this morning, so he said he wouldn't be able to see me until after the game. He wouldn't be able to make it before they ushered family and friends off the pitch.

I join my teammates and listen to our coach give an inspirational speech about kicking off the season right, and I nod along with everyone else even though I'm not quite listening. I can hear the cacophonic murmur of the crowd over everything else, and I wish I could just block it out. It's making my heart flutter uncomfortably and I don't know why.

Soon enough, we rise into the air on our brooms, and the sound of the crowd grows louder with their excitement. I wish I could feel that same excitement like I used to. But all morning, I've been feeling sick with worry. I want to prove myself. I want to do well.

I want to be back on the ground.

And I don't know why it's all coming back right now. I don't know why I'm thinking about

the uneasy murmur of the crowd, and

'Harry. He's in trouble,' and

'Someone get Madam Pomfrey!' and

pain shoots up my arm to my shoulder, and

'He's back!'

But not Harry like I thought in the moment, was it? No, it was never about Harry because it was Harry. Harry shouted because he knew in that moment that the Dark Lord had returned.

He's back he's back he's back.

My arm. My arm.

My breathing is erratic, my arm is obliterated. Torn to shreds, pulsing with pain, spewing hot, sticky blood down my hands, staining the wood of the broom. Tears roll down my cheeks and I have to get to Harry. He's in trouble and it's all my fault, and he's back. Voldemort is back and it's all my fault, and I know that he's going to come, and my arm.

Someone grabs me, their hand closing around my bicep, so close to where my skin is shredded, so close to where the blood won't stop. I jerk away and almost lose balance. I'm on a broom. I'm on a broom?

"Don't touch it," I choke out, tearing my arm away again when the person tries to steady me. "My arm."

"What? What's wrong with your arm?"

"It's—I—"

A swarm of people surrounds me, and all I can do is sob, and then I can feel myself brought to the ground, and soon I'm sitting in the grass. There's a medic there and my coach is there too, and everyone is shouting and I'm crying, and a woman with a clipboard dressed in the other team's colors throws her arms in the air and rolls her eyes before she calls her team down from the sky. People are asking me what's wrong, and I'm trying to explain, but no one is getting it. They're just looking at me like I'm crazy, and I might be but my arm.

And then I see him jogging over, dropping to his knees in front of me, and he asks quietly, "What's wrong, my love?"

Viktor.

"My arm," I choke out, flinching when he extends his hand to touch me.

"Let me see," he says. His voice is so soft, so filled with care that I don't care if he hurts me a little as long as he makes it better.

I hesitantly hold my arm out to him, and he takes my wrist in his hand, gentle as ever. I watch his face as he gazes at my arm, the soft set of his mouth, the shallow furrow of his brow, the familiar hook of his nose. I tense up when he hovers his other hand over my arm, but his fingers brush light as a feather, tickling over my skin, warm and delicate.

"Looks fine to me," he says, meeting my eyes. I bring my free hand to touch my arm, the skin bumped with whirling scars, but healed.

"It's—" I blink down at my arm before I meet those warm brown eyes, confusion drawing my eyebrows together.

"All healed and better now," he says softly, running his fingers over the scar again. "You're okay. You're safe."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought—I don't know why—"

"You're okay," he says.

"I'm sorry," I say again, but this time, I'm talking to the group around me, looking up at the faces that surround me, each one displaying some ounce of shock or fear. "I'm so, so—"

"Yeah, yeah," Rae says, schooling her concerned expression into one of nonchalance. "Well, Sweets, are you ready to play or are we sending the other team home over an imaginary broken arm or something?"

I blink up at her and look at each of my teammates in turn. "No," I say, trying to force the tremor from my voice, not entirely successfully. "No, I can play."

"Well then," Rae says, clapping Monty on the shoulder. "Let's."

She kicks off into the air as my coach jogs over to the other team's, and Viktor helps me from the grass.

"You do not have to play today. You have nothing to prove if you are not ready," he says.

"No, I'm fine," I decide even though my knees are shaking and I want to throw up a little bit. "I just—I got confused."

"For a long time, I had nightmares about the tournament," he says. "It helped to talk about it, and it helped to let other people help." He presses a kiss on my hairline before he allows himself to be led off the pitch by the referee.

I think over his words as I rise into the air. Haven't I shared everything with enough people? I told my dad and Nat and Ced most of it, and Viktor knows most of it, too. I've done all I can do, haven't I? And nothing makes it better. Sometimes it feels like it, but then something like this happens and I'm right back where I started. I don't know what else I can do.

But I do know what distracts me.

When the whistle blows, I switch off my brain, forcing thoughts about the tournament and the crowd somewhere deep within.

And then we play.