Fic: 'Cedric Diggory and the Bloody Bulgarian.' [HP, Cedric/Viktor, R: humour.]
Written for mistletoemagic. Many thanks to thermidor for the beta, and babyofthegroup for running it!



The time is past.

Cedric feels alive; there's a very palpable energy coursing through his veins, along his arms, in his blood. He crosses his arms and tries to look suitably noble, but his left foot is tapping against the old stone of the floor. He has a responsibility to present an appropriate and polite face to any outsiders during the Tournament; for many people he will not simply represent Hogwarts, he will be Hogwarts, and Hufflepuff besides. The words of Professor Sprout run around in his head; Cedric kept his expression schooled into consideration and listening – being a Hufflepuff, and something of a leader, he's become quite used to putting on his 'this is my caring face' whenever a teacher is around, and Professor Sprout was no exception.

There was barely time to celebrate his selection as Champion; for all that Harry's name overshadowed it, well, Hufflepuff never let the facts get in the way of a good celebration. Sadly, Cedric found himself dragged off by his Head of House for most of the night; endless questions on who might have slipped Potter's name into the Goblet, and interminable lectures on responsibility. He looked humble, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, nodded at all the right places, and repressed his desire to whistle. Still, when Professor Sprout finally let him shuffle back to the dorm, hands in pockets and satisfied grin on his face, he just couldn't resist humming a jaunty bar or two, or maybe even clicking his heels.

He's a Champion after all, and rank has its privileges. His father once told him that talent excuses all human frailties, except for death, which it magnifies. He has no plans to die any time soon, and figures someone with their face on the front page of the ruddy Daily Prophet can get away with a bit of well deserved joy.

The astonishment has not still worn off, one week out from the first Task. He feels giddy, beaming at anything and everything, and laughter is at the heart of his life. His boys cannot get over it, either; this merry band of brothers can often be found wrestling or playing tag on the grass, and every day as regular as clockwork, one or two or three will reenact Cedric's name getting drawn out of the Goblet, to catcalls and congratulations and the odd slap on the back, ruffle of hair, or pat to the arse.

"There's a lot more to see, you know, than just this room," Cedric murmurs politely to his companion, and tries not sound too impatient, but then he's impatient for everything these days. He can do anything, he knows now. His father's praise was hardly unjustified; the Tournament will make sure of that, and the future beckons with every minute of promise – Cedric wants to use it all, and knows it still won't be enough.

His companion nods, and taps his heels together in a way that's far more martial than joyous. Viktor Krum is a surprisingly controlled fellow; he says little, does even less. His body language is not so much stiff as precise – a small inclination of his head here, a brief smile there. Viktor does not waste a moment, and Cedric respects it, for all that it makes him prone to giving gossipy recounts about the great Seeker in the Hufflepuff dorms after dinner.

With a similar economy of movement, Krum unbends himself, standing straight front of the display case he was examining. Hogwarts is old, and that ground it is built on is hallowed and then some, but Krum has cared nothing for that. He has not cared for the priceless tapestries; he has shown no interest in the paintings, or the history of their inhabitants. The school's facilities bore him and the stones do not speak to his soul. Cedric even gained permission from the Headmaster to show Viktor the fabled Mirror of Erised, but Viktor just gazed into its depths and snorted, like he was hardly surprised by what he saw.

Personally, Cedric isn't surprised. Personally, Cedric has long thought the fabled Mirror of the Bleeding Obvious a bit of a crock, considering that anyone with a bit of a clue probably knows what they really really want.

But always, Krum returns here, and ever the diligent host, Cedric accompanies him, to watch as Viktor's deep-set eyes gaze intently upon the trophies, ribbons, clipping and gear that owe their existence to the brilliance of Hogwarts' Quidditch alumni throughout the years.

Personally, Cedric Diggory thinks Viktor Krum needs a life: not that he would have said any such thing the last year, in part due to the life size poster of Krum that adorned his wall, and in part because he considers himself a fundamentally decent sort. But now Cedric is a Champion just like Krum; he's famous, just like Krum, and he can think whatever he damn well pleases.

"We can go somewhere else," he repeats, and absently wonders why he had to get stuck with the Bulgarian. Cho's been paired to do the same with Fleur Delacour, and she's probably better company, even if she is French. Cedric doesn't have anything specific against the French; other than they're a bunch of wine-sniffing, stuck up, baked pasty consuming types who happen to suffer through the misfortune of being French. Oh, and they also eat snails; any good Briton knows that is going far beyond the pale. Berets are clearly far too girly, not to mention considering horizontal black and white stripes as any kind of fashion statement.

Cedric remembers family holidays spent flying around Provencal, because Dad liked the wine and Mother liked the cheese. Amos would always stride into some local bistro, as English as tweed and dumplings and loudly order steak and mash and a warm beer. Nothing braised for his father; nothing broiled or sautéed or scalloped – Cedric responds well to good old fashioned English cooking because it is predictable. He never has to worry.

It's probably better he doesn't have to suffer through Fleur or her spell – of course, that's the only way a French girl could get any, be part Veela. It's not fair. It's not sporting. It probably isn't even cricket; but then the French don't know what that is, and neither do the Bulgarians, Cedric would wager.

"Do I bore you?" Viktor asks, disturbingly urbanely despite an accent so thick it should count as a postcode in and of itself.

"No," Cedric assures him hurriedly, best manners on display. "I just thought you might want to let me show you round my dorm or something," he finishes a little awkwardly, and scratches just his collar at the back of his neck. Ten points for originality, Cedric, he tells himself, and minus fifty million for lame delivery.

"Your room? I expect you want me to test the springs in your mattress!" Then Viktor gives a laugh that makes him sound like a storybook villain – Ha Ha Ha in distinct syllables, shoulders heaving up and down.

"I do not have a clue what you're talking about, mate," Cedric beams at him, because this is at least better than staring at musty trophies he hasn't got his name on yet, and he can spin this story to the boys back in Hufflepuff for weeks ahead.

"You are asking me for ze sex, are you not?"

"What!" Cedric exclaims, "No, God no!"

"It is alright,' Viktor lets him know. "I have seen you looking at Potter's arse. He has nice, tight buttocks," and then he makes a squeezing motion with his hands. "Ripe for fucking."

Of all the times the floor could open up and swallow him, sadly, it does not right at this so very appropriate moment. "Right then," Cedric attempts gamely to get back on track. "You're finished here?"

"You English boys," Viktor tuts, sounding quite amused. "In Bulgaria we haff none of this – what do you call it? – subterfuge."

"This is not subterfuge! In England we don't talk about such things."

"Yes," Viktor murmurs, sagely. "And you people think my country has problems."

"At least I don't come from a land where the cultural traditions teach me how to plat and comb my body hair."

"You haff missed out on the curling," Viktor tells him, and Cedric has no clue if he is being serious or not. "I am very upset you would insult my country's heritage this way."

"Fine then. You can give us all lessons in how to take better care of one's furry torso."

"I knew you were looking," Viktor murmurs, twinkle in his eye, and leans forward to kiss him firmly on the lips, one hand suddenly on the back of Cedric's neck just in case he wanted to move any time before the end of the year.

Viktor's lips are thick, and heavy, like the rest of him. He has a body like a brick wall and a head shaped like a boulder, but then, he is foreign. Cedric opens his mouth to protest, and Viktor uses it to his advantage – allowing him to take advantage as he slides his tongue between Cedric's lips and draw out the sort of whimpering moan that makes it very clear just how embarrassed he is by his hard on, thanks.

The kiss goes on for a sort while, and then Viktor steps back to look at him, hand moving to give Cedric's package a little squeeze through his school trousers, and he yelps in an entirely undignified and girly manner.

"Such hospitality your country has," he says, sounding dryly amused, and steps away at look at another trophy cabinet. "I must come here for holiday next year. Maybe Blackpool."

"Er," says Cedric, taking care to straighten his tie and smooth down his hair and think of Sprout naked so his willy stops being so interested in international magical co-operation, peace and goodwill and thanks to all men. "Er. Er. Er."

"Yes?" Viktor wonders, turning, eyes dark and unreadable, but the smirk is plain to see.

"CouldIgetyourautograph?" Cedric quietly stumbles over the words, and Viktor shrugs.

"Sure," he says, clicking his fingers, and there's suddenly a quill between them. "Anything for a fan."

Cedric finds a piece of parchment in a pocket; and as Krum signs, he wonders absently if Cho's having half as tricky a time with Fleur as he is with Krum. That sends his mind into a decidedly pleasing place full of mental images of Cho and Fleur enticing each other into various stages of undress, and it's certainly not cheating if he's egging it on.

By the reaction little Cedric gives at his worthy imagination, he definitely would be.

Viktor grins at him, noticing his predicament with a obvious up-down look. "You want us to be kissing again?"

"No!" Cedric all but yells, because this was getting ridiculous. "I was thinking about my girlfriend and Fleur Delacour getting it on, actually."

"Ah." Viktor nods gravely. "I have thought of this also."

Bloody foreigners. It's all Delacour's fault, probably – she is French.

There's nothing really he can say at this point, so Cedric just stuffs the parchment in his pocket and waits for Viktor to finish his trophy gazing. The signature will always be a reminder that he was here, and that Krum was here. Viktor Krum may be the best Seeker in the world; hell, Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived – but there's life beyond Quidditch, and when the war's come and gone, someone has to put the pieces back together. That's where he comes in, he knows; it's noble and true and worthy, like the sort of work a good Hufflepuff should have.

Personally, Cedric knows he's the future, just like Krum used to be, and there's nothing that can stop him.