The Year Of Beginnings

Chapter 1

"IRELAND WINS!" screamed the voice surrounding the stands. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH - BUT IRELAND WINS - good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"

The Quidditch World Cup, the tournament my brother and I had been looking forward to so much, was over... and we'd lost. I didn't blame him for catching the snitch. Our whole team had been panicking, forgetting their tactfulness, using anything they could as desperately as possible. I didn't think they would have been able to play much longer without falling even more behind. Viktor, my brother, the seeker of the Bulgarian quidditch team, had tried to let his team lose as graciously as possible. They were only ten points behind, and that was bearable.

Besides, now everyone would remember this tournament. Catching the snitch usually guaranteed a win for the team, but not this time.

My (adopted) parents and I were standing along with everyone else in the stadium clapping and cheering. Mama had tears in her eyes, while Tatko stood smiling proudly.

"Ve showed them," Tatko said. "Da, I suppose ve did not vin, but ve caught the snitch. And, really, that's all that matters."

"Whatever you say," I told him, chuckling. I was just relieved that Viktor was alright. He'd played in other games, more violent games, and it had been so bad before that he had been knocked 50 feet off his broom out cold. This time he only sported a very possible broken nose and some bruising.

He and the other players from both teams were making their way into the top box to meet with the two ministers and the announcer, who'd done a splendid job.

"Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers - Bulgaria!" he shouted.

"Ve aren't losers," Mama said indignantly as each of the players were called up to shake hands with the ministers. We all pointed our Omnoculars toward the top box to see everyone. I winced as Viktor stepped up. He had managed to hold his own, and it was one of his better games, but that didn't stop the two black eyes from flourishing on his face, which was covered in blood.

"A varrior," Tatko said appreciatively as the stadium applauded Viktor with a deafening roar.

My parents, both stubborn, and not very good sports, refused to clap when the Irish team came up. Once everyone from their team had been acknowledged, they held up the Quidditch cup and jumped on their brooms to fly another lap of honour around the field. All of the people surrounding me were already making their way out of the stadium. They were all Bulgarian supporters, and were scowling fiercely.

I heard a few negative comments ("...not vat ve paid for...", "...stupid teenage hotshot, thinks he can actually bring Bulgaria some pride...") and had to stop Tatko from starting a fight by pushing him along with Mama in front of him and myself behind him. Eventually we made it back to the campsites and to the tents of the Bulgarian team, despite the leprechauns flying around.

"A toast!" Tatko announced, handing both Mama and I a shot glass of firewhiskey. "To celebrate our son, the famous Qvidditch seeker!"

I almost pointed out that drinking to Viktor when he wasn't here was stupid, but I stopped myself. I didn't want to make the evening any less enjoyable.

I meandered around our tent until I heard the unmistakable cheers of the other Bulgarian supporters welcoming back the Bulgarian team. Several campsites down I heard the Irish team return. They would be having quite the celebration tonight.

I stuck my head outside of our own tent and grinned when I caught Viktor's eye. He didn't smile back. He turned to Clara Ivanova, a chaser on the team, and spoke to her for a moment before making his way over to me. I stepped out of the tent and caught him in a hug before he came in.