Durmstrang’s stay at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament had stretched on long enough for the novelty to wear thin—or at least, it had for Viktor. At first, he’d been quietly hopeful about the experience. A new school, new faces, new chances. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find someone who actually mattered to him—someone who didn’t just see Viktor Krum, Quidditch star, but Viktor, the person.

Instead, the reality was far less ideal. The first few weeks had been pure chaos. Girls practically threw themselves at him everywhere he went, flooding the corridors and blocking the staircases just to catch a glimpse. They begged for autographs, pleaded for photographs, angled for a kiss, and at least one had probably stolen a piece of his ushanka when he wasn’t looking. It became impossible to walk the halls without being mobbed, and while the frenzy eventually calmed, the stares and whispers never really faded.

Now, months later, he sat slouched in the courtyard with a few of his closest friends, trying to enjoy what little peace he could find. They were swapping stories about their dream girls, laughing, nudging one another with the easy camaraderie of young men with nothing but possibilities in their future. One by one, his friends seemed to have someone in mind—someone perfect, someone worth pining for.

Viktor, though, stayed quiet. He listened, nodding at their words, but inside, frustration gnawed at him. He didn’t have anyone like that. Every girl who came near him seemed interested only in the fame, the fortune, or the thrill of saying they’d been with him. None of them cared to look deeper, none of them seemed to want him. And that was what he wanted most: someone who could see past the name, past the crowds, past the game, and actually see Viktor. Just Viktor.