Chasing You (Viktor Krum X Reader)

Chapter 33: I Join the Team

Chapter 33: I Join the Team

There are thousands of eyes on me as I rise in the air, thousands of cheers, thousands of boos. Hundreds of feet below me; incomprehensible distance above me. And I take a deep breath, blocking out the sound of the crowd.

The game begins with a whistle, that shrill shriek of commencement, and then the players begin to move in time with the release of the bludgers and the first toss of the quaffle. I think I see the snitch blur past one of the opposing team members, but I can't be sure as it disappears into the sky moments later.

I am hyperaware of my own movements. I know that, because of the delay that I caused, I have attracted more attention to myself than I would have had previously. People are confused and concerned and entertained by what they saw, so they want to know more. Their curiosity and morbid satisfaction with misfortune make me a target. I think they might want me to fail.

Tomorrow, the Daily Prophet will come out, and there will be photos of me having a breakdown on the pitch, and there's nothing I can do to change that. There's nothing that I can do to change who I am and what I've done, but I hope to God that I can change people's expectations.

West is the first person to touch the quaffle—one of the other chasers on my team. He passes to Jim as they weave through the players on the other team, black capes billowing behind them. They pass back and forth, barely looking at each other, somehow possessing this otherworldly sense of where the other is. But when Jim tries to shoot, the keeper sticks out a foot and boots the ball back toward my team's hoops, and one of their chasers is quick to catch the quaffle, pinning it to her chest as she accelerates toward our hoops.

I've been subconsciously shifting my position in the sky as the quaffle moves. Not necessarily offensively, but defensively, acting as the person that the others can fall back on if a forward pass isn't available. So I take responsibility for my caution and shoot toward the chaser, eyes trained on that red ball cradled in her arms.

The chaser lets up a bit and glances around to pass as I barrel toward her, and she whips the ball toward one of her teammates. Jim is there in an instant, but he doesn't make it in time to intercept the pass, so he guards the chaser with the quaffle.

I make sure to stay close on the female chaser so that the other chaser can't return the pass, and West flies to block the last chaser, wide shoulders doing most of the work for him. We have the chasers cornered now, and it's up to us to make sure that we do the rest of the work. If we can just get the quaffle...

"Y/N!" Monty, one of our beaters bellows, shooting toward me like a boulder on a broomstick, club gripped in one hand as the other steadies his mass on the broom. I whip around and see a bludger headed straight toward me and, behind it, a beater from the other team with his eyes on me, dropping his arms as he realizes that his aim is true. I jerk my broom downward, narrowly avoiding the bludger. I can hear it zip past my ear, and then I feel wind pummel me as Monty soars by in pursuit of the iron ball. He catches it easily and sends it straight back to the other team, but it's too late. I've lost my mark. The female chaser opens up and receives the pass from her teammate, and then she sinks the shot like it's nothing.

I curse and try to find the beater among the excited huddle around the female chaser, but I can't differentiate between the two beneath the uniforms. I can feel my pulse in my skull, goading me on like the cheers from the crowd, the mocking chanting from the other team's fans.

If this is what it takes...

As soon as the quaffle hits the sky and the whistle sounds, I shoot into action, trained after the ball like it's my lifeline. Maybe it is. Jim and West fall back a bit, letting me take the offensive as I weave through the cluster of opponents that forms around me. All three chasers are on me, and one of the beaters is trying to stay lined up with me just in case he can get a bludger while the other chases the iron ball around to send it to his partner. The keeper is also tracking my movements, shifting between hoops as I change my trajectory.

I need to pass to Jim or West, but I can't see them through the mass of people around me, so I shove one shoulder forward and cradle the quaffle with my other arm, forcing my way between two chasers. 

I'm getting too close to the hoops to have a good shot and the chasers know it, so they fall back to prevent me from passing to Jim or West, the final one taking his place beside the keeper. They manage to cover all of the hoops between the two of them, and I grit my teeth in response. It may be cheap, but it sure is effective. I have no opening.

I try to remember practicing with Cedric and feint downward, casting my eyes toward West even as I lob the ball toward the rightmost hoop with my left arm. It flies hard and true, and I know it's going in.

Until the keeper zips from his spot and smacks it downward and into the covering chaser's arms. I blink as a collective moan sounds from the Bats' section of the stands.

The shot—it didn't work. It didn't—I didn't make the shot. 

I fly in pursuit of the quaffle, angrier than ever, zeroed in on the ball as it gets passed back and forth all the way to Rae, who catches the shot and prepares to send it back toward one of us. 

To my surprise, she flies further away from her post than is smart, far enough that a bad pass from her will leave our goal undefended. And she approaches me. One hand holds the quaffle, and the other latches onto my arm, the arm that I just believed to be shredded. I look at her polished fingernails gripping my skin, and her eyes rove over the whirling scars there before she growls, "Control yourself, Sweets. Control yourself or get off my pitch." Her words are low and dangerous, so quiet that I'm sure no one else heard her, and then she releases me and passes to West, who successfully catches the quaffle and sets off toward the goal with Jim in tow. Rae gives me one last hard look before she darts back to her post.

But I can't control myself. I need the anger. The anger is the only thing that sets me into this league. Without it, I can't keep up. I can't...

It didn't work, though.

The anger didn't work. My shot was sloppy, my movements reckless and unplanned. The anger did nothing for me, and it certainly hasn't made me a part of the team. I watch as West passes to Jim, and Jim then sinks the shot. West barrels toward him and pulls him into a rough hug with a triumphant laugh, and then the rest of the team closes in around them. Even over the deafening roar of the crowd, I can hear Jim shout in celebration.

Over a goal. Ten points. Over one single goal that didn't even put us ahead; it simply tied us. But he looks gleeful, and he strikes a pose for the crowd, a grin on his face that all of my teammates match.

And I look around at my teammates and their smiling faces, and I think about how I am the only one left out of the huddle, the only one not celebrating such a tiny and insignificant success. I don't feel better for it.

I feel worse.

As I watch my team laugh and jostle and slowly make their way back to their positions, I try to remember when I used to celebrate each point like that.

I remember games when I was wrapped in Hufflepuff yellow, the only spectators classmates and professors who had been to a thousand games, but still treated each one like it mattered. I remember the beat-up old bludgers and the silly commentary and the joyous laughs from players when we set the rivalries aside.

I remember an escape into the snow, cheerful music dampened by thick castle walls. Muslin wrapped around my thighs, waterlogged from the snowfall; the glint in dark eyes and snowflakes in soft hair, secondhand brooms beneath us and countless stars above us.

Quidditch can be more than a competition. It can be fun. It can be the start of something new and exciting.

It can be everything, but it doesn't have to be. It's enough just to be.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, dipping my chin to Rae. She gives me a stern look, but I force myself to ignore it, clapping Jim on the back when he takes his place beside me.

"Good play, Jim," I say and grin at him. I look over at West. "And great pass."

They hesitantly match my smile.

I know that this doesn't change everything, this little shift in my attitude. How can it? One single game, one smile, one compliment—that doesn't change the last year. Doesn't erase the tournament or the graveyard or my anger or my breakdown.

But tomorrow, among the photos of my breakdown, there will be ones of me grinning gleefully and playing with my heart.