Even after ten years of playing professional Quidditch, after two previous bids for the World Cup, Viktor didn’t think he’d ever tire of the exquisite torture that was The Draw. The Draw was the final piece in the puzzle, that made everything feel real. It was a ridiculous thought, Viktor confessed; years of training and familiarity with the process should have dulled the glamour of the moment, and yet… There was nothing like the tension as they waited for the radio to crackle to life.

The English had been much more accommodating this go around. Last time they had played here, they’d stayed in rather uninspired flats in London. They had been nice, but not quite what Viktor had thought world champion Quidditch stars deserved. He supposed that after the debacle that had been the last Cup with their sudden withdrawal only weeks before the tournament was slated to begin, they were eager to save face. The official who had showed them to the estate had explained that they had borrowed it from the muggle National Trust for the Cup, although Krum wasn’t sure what all that entailed.

What he was sure of, was that Saltram House was a [i]huge[/i] improvement in accommodation. This, he’d remembered thinking, was more of what he had expected. The house, the sprawling grounds, the full staff of House Elves, the officials popping in to ensure their comfort, the gaggle of cameras just outside… [i]this[/i] was much better. Viktor had never considered himself a materialistic man, but he enjoyed his creature comforts. Especially given the amount of work he’d put into getting here. Talented Seeker though he was, he had no intentions of letting the Cup slip out of his hands yet again. [i]This[/i] was their year, he was sure of it.

The sitting room was a bit solemn. The radio hummed occasionally, various adverts that he paid little mind to. Dropping himself in a large scarlet chair, trimmed in gold, he leaned forward, elbows draping across his knees and hands meeting. He felt a bit ridiculous, too large for the delicate furniture, all golden curls and fragile. He shared a look with Pyotr, who looked even more uncomfortable than Viktor felt, sharing a large bench with Aleksander. Ivet seemed rather at home amid the luxury, legs draped across Alexei and Ruzha, who leafed idly through a book. He wondered if Ruzha was actually processing any of the words. He didn’t think he could. His mind kept running through the list of competitors, of any one of the numerous line ups facing them. The true randomness of it was a little worrying.

Finally, after what felt like hours but had been more like minutes, the radio crackled to life.

[i]”Greetings Quidditch fans! I’m Lee Jordan with the WWN, currently at a super-secret squirrel facility off the coast of a large island that rhymes with Shmiceland…”[/i]

On his right, Sergej scoffed, visibly irritated. Ruzha looked up, tutted impatiently. Viktor shot her a look. The tension was thick enough to carve with a wand, but after a moment, it dissipated. He began to translate, opting to keep to the basic facts. He remembered the man from the last time he had been in England—he was a friendly sort, witty enough. They’d been at the wedding, he recalled, and had been sharing a drink when the patronus had arrived and everything had ended.

Alexei opted to clear a wall with a lazy swish of the wand, art dancing aside to allow for a massive parchment, a large bracket. Flags blossomed with swish and flicks as teams were announced, and Viktor found himself rather pleased when their opponents were announced.

The Japanese were flashy and quick, but they’d never managed much in the way of defence. Judging by Ivet and Aleksander’s grins, they rather agreed. Still, he couldn’t allow himself to get cocky now. Not this time. They had too much on the line.

“<We will crush them>,” Ivet purred, sitting up to drop an arm to Alexei’s shoulder, and Viktor thought she rather looked like a Nundu, her grin predatory.

“<Of course>,” Viktor had considered urging caution, but the tension in the room had turned gleeful, and he had little desire to be the one to crush it. They’d worked for years for this, trained harder than any team, had the best odds—he had to trust that.