InsaneJournal

How To Stay Warm At Durmstrang (Without Even Trying) (Charlie/Viktor, R)
Title: How To Stay Warm At Durmstrang (Without Even Trying)
Pairing: Charlie/Viktor
Rating: R
Word Count: 3710
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.
Summary: Charlie goes to Durmstrang to share his love of dragons, and Viktor shares how the boys keep warm on cold winter nights.
Notes: Thanks to mariamme and nedsagirl for the beta work, and super duper extra mega thanks and love to freckles42. (She knows why.)

Originally posted to LJ on 4/13/07



Durmstrang was certainly nothing like Hogwarts.

Maybe that wasn't the deepest or particularly the most observant thought Charlie could have had, but really, the two institutions were nothing alike. Even in his winter cloak, even inside the castle, the cold was what Charlie noticed first. It took no heed of layers, of cotton and wool and old Weasley jumpers, but pierced through, racking him with bone-shivers. Charlie made a mental note that he'd have to cast some extra warming spells when he pitched his tent if he was going to make it through the night.

The castle itself was different, too—well, of course it was, it was an entirely different castle, but that wasn't it—for a school, it was exceedingly quiet, the corridors not filled with the whoops and shouts of passing students, but with the dull thud of heavy boots and a low, constant murmur that Charlie might've expected elsewhere—in a library, maybe (not that he frequented those) or at a wedding before the bride arrived (or those, come to think), but certainly not at a school.

The suits of armour in the corners were just that, plain old boring suits of armour—none of them moved, as far as Charlie could tell, and even the wizards in the dreary baroque paintings on the walls seemed reluctant to stir, as if any movement would disrupt the barely-balanced quietude of the school.

And then there were the students. Charlie shifted his bag from his left shoulder to his right and watched a regimented line of boys march steadily past, eyes ahead, into what he assumed was the Durmstrang version of a dining hall, whatever that entailed.

"You vill be seat in here," said his guide, a short, severe woman with shoulders nearly as broad as Charlie's own. He hadn’t a clue what her first name was; she had introduced herself only as Veselý, and had frowned at him when he'd made a joke about their half-shared surnames.

Charlie hadn't smiled since then; but set his face into what seemed to be the requisite grimly efficient lines and followed Veselý through the castle, taking long strides to keep up with the quick click of her no-nonsense low heels.

"You vill be seat in here," Veselý said once again, indicating the doors through which the line of boys had just disappeared, and Charlie nodded and took a few steps towards the doors. When he realised she was going to lead him no further (which she indicated by turning sharply on her heel and marching away, her robes swirling noiselessly around her), Charlie took a breath and entered the hall.

It was smaller than the dining hall at Hogwarts, and darker, and the exposed-beam ceiling was much lower. Rough-hewn wooden tables and benches had been pushed back against the walls to make room for several smaller tables, most displaying an assortment of pamphlets and posters, some festooned with banners, and each (save one) with a representative of a different wizarding career in attendance. Charlie spotted the only empty table and made for it, but was stopped just short by the commanding presence of a wizard sporting a monocle and a distinctly displeased air.

Oh, brilliant. The headmaster.

"You are the dragon keeper?" the headmaster asked.

"That's me," Charlie replied. The headmaster did not speak for a moment, only stroked his goatee, staring, and Charlie's hand flew nearly of its own accord to the two days' worth of untouched ginger stubble on his own chin. He rubbed at it sheepishly. He was late, he knew it, and he felt as if he'd regressed years back to his own school days, when being called up on the carpet was a regular occurrence for him.

"You are late," the headmaster finally said. He wasn't chastising Charlie; it merely sounded as if he were stating a fact, and Charlie nodded. The headmaster held up one bony hand before Charlie could explain, then gestured to the empty table.

"You vill be here," he said, "Do, now. The students already begin to come in."

As Charlie unpacked the flyers ("So You Want To Be A Dragon Keeper", "The Keeper's Keep: How You'll Live") and pamphlets ("Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Chinese Fireballs But Were Afraid To Ask", "Yugoslavian Yellowtails and You!") from his bag, he was certain he felt eyes upon him, but when he turned to look, he saw no one.

Probably that weird old monocled bloke, he thought, checking to see if I'm arranging everything at precise angles or some rubbish, and he set down the last of his pamphlets just as the first boy stepped up to Charlie's table.

"Dragons?" the boy asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow and running a finger over the pamphlets, and Charlie nodded, grinning, and pulled out his photo album. An entire afternoon wooing young minds to the pursuit of dragon keeping—Charlie thought he might be all right with this idea after all.

By the end of the afternoon, the Durmstrang students had depleted Charlie's supply of pamphlets, and more than a few had signed up to speak further with him in the morning. All in all, the day had been a success, Charlie decided, and he began to sweep his papers up off the table as most of the students and more than a few of the career representatives took their leave of the hall.

"Excuse, please," came a halting voice, and Charlie looked up to see one of the students who had stopped by the table earlier, a young man who had not taken a pamphlet or signed Charlie's contact sheet or even deigned to peruse his photo album, but had only stared hard at Charlie with deep-set eyes before moving past and onto the next table.

"Hi," Charlie said, "What can I do for you?" He knew the boy somehow, of this he was certain, knew that frame, that hair, those cheeks that threatened to stain red with the slightest whip of wind across his lean face, but Charlie couldn't place him.

"My name is Viktor," said the boy, extending his hand in an overly formal fashion, and suddenly the cogs in Charlie's brain clicked, and he took the young man's hand, smiling, and shook it.

"Nice to meet you," Charlie said. Of course this was Viktor bloody Krum, hadn't Charlie just seen him play in the Quidditch World Cup, hadn't Ron gone on and on about him until the twins threatened to pound him, hadn't the very same face that now regarded Charlie so solemnly been plastered all over the papers for a week after the Cup?

"Yes, and for me," said Viktor, and Charlie couldn't help wondering exactly where all this was going.

"What can I do for you?" Charlie asked again.

"I vould like to speaking with you," Viktor replied.

"You don't seem much in the market for a career," countered Charlie, and a corner of Viktor's mouth curled into a near-smile.

"No," he replied, "I do not vish to speaking about a career. I vish to speaking to you of other things. Vere you stay tonight?"

"Um," said Charlie, pausing with the last fistful of flyers halfway in his bag.

"You do not sleeping in the castle," said Viktor, his voice low, "Do you sleeping in tent?"

"Yes," Charlie managed, "I've brought a tent—I'll stay at the edge of the forest tonight. But—"

"I vill come," said Viktor, and he turned and marched away.

Charlie raised an eyebrow and watched him go.

Okay, that was a little weird.

What in bloody hell did a world-famous Quidditch player want with Charlie Weasley? If it was what Charlie almost dared hope it was—well, but he didn't dare hope it, though the boy was gorgeous, though the boy had stared at him so appraisingly. He shook himself and stuffed the papers in his bag, then swung it over his back and left the hall.

***

If the afternoon inside Durmstrang castle had been cold, the night outside it was positively hypothermic. Charlie usually wasn't one to complain about the temperature—he'd spent enough nights outside at the preserve during hatching season, after all, and had learned stoicism—but bloody hell, this was ridiculous.

He pitched his tent quickly, exposing his hands to the freezing air for as short a time as possible, then dove inside and cast a warming spell before he lit his candle. The blankets were already heaped high on the bed, and Charlie crawled underneath them and arranged them around his body, grateful for the warmth of each one.

Charlie wasn't tired yet, but dinner was long over (and no wonder those boys were built the way they were; the food was phenomenal) and the headmaster had not-so-subtly indicated it might be time for Charlie to find his way to his tent.

"In the morning, you may speak further vith students," the headmaster had said. Charlie rummaged in his bag and extracted the list of young men who'd signed their names, hoping he'd be able to pronounce the names somewhat close to correctly. He took up his reading glasses, an aid which vanity prevented him from using except when he was certain he was alone, and he pored over the sheet of names.

"Stanislav Perec," he said out loud, "Easy enough…Juri Po-go-re-lov. Right. Pritbor, er, Neh…jeh…go…bloody hell…"

"Njegojević."

In a fluid movement that took no more than half a second, Charlie had leaped out of bed and whipped out his wand, pointing it at the tent door.

"Who's there?"

"Viktor Krum."

Charlie exhaled and dropped his wand, then opened the door of the tent. Viktor stood outside, nearly lost under a fur cloak and hat.

"I am sorry if I haff frightened," he said, "I did not mean."

"It's all right," said Charlie, his breathing and his heartbeat returning to normal. The two regarded each other for a moment, until Charlie shook his head and moved aside.

"Will you come in, then?"

"Thank you." Viktor stepped into the tent and Charlie closed the door again behind him, then watched as Viktor surveyed the space, turning slowly around, taking in the few possessions Charlie had brought, the bed, the heaps of blankets, the solitary candle.

"Cold night," said Charlie by way of conversation, and Viktor nodded, turning back to face him.

"Is alvays," he said, then he said no more.

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. "I—sorry, why are you here?"

"Oh," said Viktor, his eyebrows going up just a fraction of an inch, "I think you vould like—you are alone?"

"I—yes, I'm alone—" Okay, it was getting a bit weird. "What is it you want, exactly? Only I'd like to get some sleep tonight, and it's bloody cold in here—out here—"

"Is not what I mean," Viktor interrupted, shaking his head, "You are—alone. Not vith." The young man waved a vague hand, shook his head in frustration, then tried another tactic.

"I like you, how you look," he said, pointing to Charlie, then to himself. "You like me?"

What?

"What?"

Viktor furrowed his brow and ploughed onward.

"You like me?" he repeated, nodding his head, and after a moment, Charlie nodded, too.

"Yes, okay," he said, "I like you. But you didn't really just decide to—didn't come all the way out here for—" Charlie really did not want to finish that sentence, on the (seemingly very slight, from the way Viktor was staring at him) chance he might have somehow got the wrong impression.

Viktor nodded once again and removed his cloak and hat, then the lighter cloak he wore underneath the fur one, then began to unfasten his woollen robes.

Okay, there was no doubting Viktor's intentions now—was there?

"Wait—" Charlie said, reaching out a hand to stop Viktor, "You mean to—have—that is—" Charlie gestured towards the bed, and Viktor looked there, then back at Charlie, and nodded, then spoke deliberately, as if Charlie was perhaps a little slow.

"You…me…in…bed…" he said, and if there was anything else for two men, strangers, to do on a bed in a tent in the middle of a frozen night, Charlie had yet to learn what that was.

Viktor had stripped to his long underwear before Charlie could react properly, and when he did manage to move, he brushed a hand across his face to rub at his eyes and knocked his—

—oh, shit, his sodding glasses—

Charlie ripped the specs from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table. Viktor made a face at him.

"Vhy you haff take them off?" he asked, "I like."

Charlie mumbled something about not really needing them, but Viktor didn't seem to believe him. Before Viktor could say anything further, though, Charlie interrupted.

"Let me just ask you one thing before do this," he said, "Are you—" Charlie paused, thinking the idiom might not translate, then tried again.

"Do you like blokes—men?" he asked, and Viktor paused, then gestured in the direction of the school.

"Is boys," he said, "Ve haff no girls here."

"No, I know—I know. But what I meant was, do you fancy men—that is to say—" Communication had never exactly been Charlie's strong point, and he felt he was failing pretty miserably. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, reckoned he should probably just come right out and say it, and gave it another go.

"Do you have sex with men?" he asked, and nearly cringed. That was not the sort of question one generally went around asking of international Quidditch stars.

Viktor nodded fervently. "Ve haff no girls here," he repeated, and that was when Charlie finally understood.

Charlie supposed that was as good an explanation as any. He knew firsthand what desperation would do; the lack of women on the preserve was what had led him to sleep with a bloke the first time (and the second, and the third, and the forty-eighth, but he really didn't need to be thinking about that right now).

"Okay," said Charlie, peeling off his jumper and shuddering when the night air hit his skin, "I'm going to get into bed, then, because I'm bloody freezing, and you—" Charlie looked Viktor up and down, finally allowing himself to really appreciate the boy's athletic frame and subtle good looks. "And you, Viktor, are welcome to join me."

Ron would go wild if he knew.

Charlie snuggled under the blankets, then thought maybe he shouldn't snuggle in front of someone like Viktor Krum, and then he didn't sodding care because it was cold and the blankets were heaven, and—

—oh, and Viktor was naked, then, and crawling in beside Charlie, and lifting off Charlie's overshirt, undershirt, vest, and tracing his fingers down Charlie's naked chest.

Charlie shivered and did the same to Viktor, tugging a little when his fingers found the patch of dark curls on Viktor's chest.

"This is it, though," Charlie said, "Just a one-off, right?"

Viktor furrowed his brow.

"Just tonight," Charlie said, and Viktor looked at Charlie as if he were a particularly idiotic specimen.

"Yes, only," he said, and began tracing no discernible pattern on Charlie's chest, his other hand stroking the back of Charlie's neck, then lower.

"You haff dragons," Viktor said then, and it took Charlie a moment to realise that Viktor's searching fingers had found one of his tattoos, the Romanian Longhorn that had been his first.

"Yes," he said, "I have lots of dragons. All over."

Viktor pressed his palm flat against Charlie's chest, and the dragon there—a replica in ink of Cosmina, the first dragon Charlie had ever touched, the first dragon who had ever hurt him, the first who had ever trusted him—writhed and curled around herself, flicked her tail once, twice, then settled.

"She likes you," Charlie said, smiling, and suddenly this was not weird at all, being in bed with a strange young man in the middle of a frozen foreign night, and Charlie pressed forward and kissed Viktor soundly, all the while unbuttoning his own trousers with the hand that was not still curled against Viktor's chest.

Viktor's touch moved down, over Cosmina, over the eight-inch scar the real Cosmina had given him just prior to the tattoo, and—

"Mmm," hummed Charlie, and he kissed Viktor again.

***

Like all his siblings, Charlie was an ungracious early riser.

Viktor, apparently, was a morning person. When Charlie finally blinked his eyes open enough to remember where he was, why it was so bloody cold, and who was weighting down the edge of the mattress, he was treated to the sight of Viktor, in all his glory, sitting and stretching forward.

Charlie moaned a little and shut his eyes against the strengthening sunlight, but a tent wasn't much of a place for a lie-in, and Viktor was making even that unthinkable notion ever more unthinkable with his stretching and his nakedness and bloody hell it was cold. Charlie yanked up the blankets and snuffled a little, and Viktor stood and began to dress, apparently heedless of the ridiculous temperature.

"You can stay if you like," Charlie mumbled. Sometimes one-offs took a bloke up on that offer, and it was nice while it lasted, but then there was always such awkwardness later when day was really day and there were hungry stomachs to be dealt with and suddenly-remembered appointments to be late to. And though Viktor was a little different from his usual pull, Charlie was still relieved when the boy—er—man?—hardly a boy—Viktor, anyway—turned down the offer.

"I haff to be at schooling," he said, donning his outer cloak, "Also hungry." Charlie blinked up at him, slowly getting used to the idea of being awake.

"Hmm," Charlie said, "All right," and he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Viktor put on the hat that obscured much of his face and turned up the collar of his cloak to hide most of the rest.

"Maybe we'll meet again someday," Charlie said then, stifling a massive yawn.

Viktor smiled. "Is nice to say," he said, heading for the door of the tent, "But I am not think."

Charlie remembered something then, in the way one does as sleep leaves the brain, and he bit his lip to keep from giving everything away.

"I do think," he said, "And maybe sooner than you know."

Viktor only gave him a look that encapsulated puzzlement and pleasure all at once, then was gone.

Charlie debated snuggling back under the mounded blankets, but he knew full well it wouldn't do to be late again.

And besides, his need to piss was indeed pressing.

***

"But I don't want to talk about Harry anymore; he's being a bloody idiot and that's all that is." Ron lay on his stomach on Charlie's bed, swinging his feet in the air. He stuffed another sweet from Charlie's ever-present supply in his mouth and spoke around it.

"Have you heard about Krum?" Ron asked, and Charlie couldn't stop himself from whipping around a bit too quickly.

"Krum? Viktor Krum?"

"Yeah, he's in the tournament, you didn't know?"

Charlie's mouth stretched into an easy grin and he sat upon Ron, half-crushing his little brother and ruffling his hair.

"I had a feeling he might be, actually," he said, ignoring Ron's shoves and protestations and overdramatic gagging noises. Charlie finally slid off him and sat on the floor with his back against the bed just as a blast of fire from one of the dragons outside illuminated the interior of Charlie's tent.

"He's bloody amazing, Charlie, can't believe he's only a few years older than us—well, than me and Harry—he's always running, down by the lake, you know, and half the time with his shirt off, and all the girls are mad about him, of course, it's ridiculous, even Hermione, and—Charlie, did you know he's got a big tattoo on his arm? It's brilliant."

Charlie tipped his head back towards Ron and tossed another sweet in his direction, a peppery little concoction shaped like a Chinese Fireball.

"A tattoo? Of what?" Charlie didn't remember any tattoos from that night, or, more properly, the next morning, which was when he'd seen all of Viktor's body, the pink and pale expanse of his skin marked only by patches of dark hair and a mole in the centre of his lower back, right on his spine, one that Charlie had very much wished he'd discovered the night before, as he would have liked to lick Viktor right there, and—ooh, not a good idea to go thinking about that right now, he admonished himself.

"Of a dragon," said Ron, holding up the sweet Charlie had just tossed to him "Like this one, actually. Big and red, and it moves, like yours do. Hermione won't shut up about it; sometimes I really wonder about her…girls are stupid, seriously stupid…"

And as Ron babbled on around his mouthful, Charlie smiled and closed his eyes and relaxed against the bed frame. So Viktor had got himself a tattoo—it was kind of cute, actually, and Charlie was probably the only one who really understood it.

(Okay, so maybe that was a bit of arrogance on Charlie's part, but it had only been a few months since their night together, and Charlie was fairly sure Viktor hadn't run across many dragons in that time. Of course, tomorrow was certainly going to change that.)

"I mean, I'll probably get one, you know, someday," said Ron, interrupting Charlie's reverie, "Maybe I'll get a dragon, too. What do you think, Charlie?"

"You have to have experience with a dragon before you get a dragon tattoo," Charlie said, his eyes still closed, a little smile still playing around his lips, "Otherwise you just look like you're trying too hard to be cool."

"But Viktor hasn't any experience with dragons, has he?" Ron asked, digging his chin into Charlie's shoulder.

"Actually," said Charlie, swatting at Ron's head, "I have it on pretty good authority that Viktor Krum has been up close and personal with more than one."